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imarealnugget · 2 months

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Choso Kamo comforting you after a break up

Feat. Choso Kamo, female reader and her ex boyfriend.

TW. fluff, memories with ex boyfriend, comforting!Chosoxfemale!reader after a break up

Words Count: 1.1k+

Synopsis: Your heart is shattered by a painful breakup. As you grapple with the devastation of lost love, you seek refuge in the comforting presence of your best friend, Choso. Choso, who harbors secret feelings for you, becomes your anchor in the stormy seas of heartache. He offers solace and understanding, his unwavering support a beacon of hope in your darkest hour. As you lean on Choso for support, you begin to realize the depth of your connection to him. His comforting embrace and reassuring words slowly heal the wounds left by your former relationship, igniting a newfound spark between you. Despite the fear and uncertainty that linger in your heart, you find yourself drawn to Choso in ways you never thought possible. Through his patience and unwavering devotion, you begin to see him in a new light, recognizing the love that has been quietly waiting in the wings.

You journey back into the maze of memories, where pathways intertwine and overlap until you find yourself facing a moment you thought buried forever. It's a summer day, the sun shining high in the sky, but you and your ex-boyfriend were immersed in a conversation that echoes an impending storm. He gripped your hand tightly, trying to convey reassurance with the mere touch of skin, but you felt a knot of anguish tightening in your stomach. His words were sweet, sugary, but you know that beneath that veneer of affection lied something wrong, something that has left you with a sense of emptiness in your chest. "I love you," he used to say, and your heart leapted in your chest, but not with joy. You know it was not true, that his words were just a clumsy attempt to keep you tied to him, to hold you in a gilded cage made of lies and falsehoods. Yet, you were not able to free yourself from that grip tightening around you ever more tightly. You found yourself spending hours upon hours with him, desperately trying to fill the void you were feeling inside, but the more time you spent with him, the more you realized that there was nothing to do to fill that void. His caresses were empty, his words were false, and you felt increasingly alone, increasingly lost in a maze with no way out. Yet, you continued to hope that things would have changed, that he would finally be able to understand how much pain he was causing you, but with each passing day you realized that his presence in your life was just a weight dragging you further and further down, further away from the happiness you so desperately desired, but you were soso in love with him, you didn't want to break up with him. Then, one day, everything changed. You woke up with a broken heart, tears warm on your cheeks, but that time was different. That time you knew you had to let him go, to free yourself from the chain that was holding you prisoner for too long. The phone kept ringing, a dissonant melody reminded you of the emptiness now occupying your chest. "It's over," you repeated to yourself, as if uttering those words could make them less real, less painful. But it was futile. Reality was there, relentless, squeezing your heart with its icy hands. Without a second thought, you sought comfort in the only place you'd always considered a safe haven: Choso's arms. Your best friend, your confidant, the only person who had always understood you better than anyone else. And in that moment of despair, it was to him you ran, like a castaway clinging to a raft in the midst of a stormy sea.

When Choso answered your call, his voice was calm and reassuring, a beacon in the dark night of your soul. "I'm coming," he assured you, and you felt a knot of gratitude tighten in your throat. You weren't alone, not yet. And as you waited for his arrival, you tried to gather the fragments of your dignity scattered among the tears, trying not to let the pain overwhelm you completely. Finally, you heard him knock on the door, the familiar sound of his footsteps approaching. Then, the door opened and he was there, with a look full of concern and affection. You threw yourself into his arms, seeking refuge in his secure embrace, and he held you close, gently, as if he wanted to protect you from the whole world. "Hey hey, it's okay, shh, you'll be fine," he whispered, and you felt his words penetrate your wounded heart, like a caress on your skin. He stroked your hair delicately, as if he wanted to erase every trace of sadness from your troubled mind. And as you listened to him speak, you felt a sense of calm spreading within you, as if his words were a balm for your soul. "You're not alone," Choso continued, his voice an anchor of salvation in the storm. "I'm here for you, always. Never forget it. He was an idiot to leave you like this, without an explanation but just with a stupid call, and for that he deserves to see you happy without him, because you deserve much better, he must suffer for letting you go like this." His words resonated within you, like a sacred promise to protect you from every evil. And you believed him, because you knew that his love for you was sincere and deep, deeper than any ocean, wider than any sky. You stayed there, in his arms, until the tears dried up and your breath returned to normal. Then, without saying a word, he gently laid you down on the couch and covered your body with a soft blanket. He looked at you with eyes full of affection and concern, and you felt enveloped by a sense of warmth and security that warmed your soul. "Rest," he said, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself be lulled by the sound of his voice blending with the sweet silence of the night. Sleep came soon, taking you away from the pain and chaos of the outside world, letting you sink into a sea of peace and tranquility.

When you woke up, he was still there, next to you. His face was serene in the darkness of the room, a guardian angel silently watching over your dreams. You turned to him, your heart full of gratitude and love, and you smiled at him, knowing that you couldn't ask for a better friend than him by your side. "Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible in the quiet of the night. "Thank you for always being there for me. I felt really bad when my now ex-boyfriend left me before. I loved him, maybe I still do. But maybe I never realized what I felt for you, I didn't know how to love you enough, but now I think I'm doing it." He blushed "What are you talking about-". And you kissed him without warning, a sweet kiss that neither you nor he would ever forget. When you opened your eyes, his were wide open, his face red and his lips semi-open. You approached him, placing your lips on his again in a sweet and passionate kiss, a tribute to the bond that united you, indissoluble and eternal. "I'm telling you that I love you too; dummy," you whispered, laughing softly, your face as red as his. A small smile formed on his face, expressing all his happiness: finally after months you would have become his, his girlfriend and the person he could kiss without having to hold back like he did for all that time that passed since he began to love you with all his heart. "Are you serious?…" "I couldn't be more serious than this, Choso" and you kissed him again. This time he also closed his eyes while his hands caressed your cheek while you two lost yourselves in that sweet moment between you two.

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nirikeehan · 11 months

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kicks down door DID SOMEONE SAY YOUNG CULLEN & SAMSON KIRKWALL SHENANIGANS

ahem. I mean. I'm so normal about this.

aNYwAy, give me those two hooligans with: 'a mage’s staff, splintered in the center' and/or 'templar armor, marked by lightning', please??

Oh my God, Mer, this one got away from me.

As in like, I sat down and banged out 4k in the course of a week.

So I decided to post the whole thing to AO3 here and post the excerpt that fills the prompt here for @dadrunkwriting.

Set up: Cullen and Samson are tasked with bringing in a runaway mage named Danyel. They track him to Darktown, Samson tries to negotiate, but things are about to go sideways.

WC: 1515

CW: Canon typical violence, PTSD, Samson is a shady mofo as per usual

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Cullen held his breath. This was the crucial moment, when the apostate had to choose between surrender and a less pleasant alternative. Danyel seemed reasonable enough, and Samson made the Gallows far more appealing than Cullen thought he could, especially on the fly. The boy scraped a knuckle against his eye, thin chest heaving. Samson waited, keeping a steady gaze on Danyel.

Danyel’s face scrunched up, and with a frantic cry, he twisted out of Samson’s grasp and dove for his staff.

“Fuck,” Samson growled, but Cullen moved faster.

He leapt forward, drawing his sword. The mage swung the staff toward him, summoning a magical barrier along the way. Cullen’s sword clashed with the shimmering shield, its energy crackling and vibrating under his steel. Cullen dug his feet in, throwing his weight against the barrier while he summoned a dampening effect from the lyrium in his blood. He raised his off-hand, spreading his palm wide, and the barrier stuttered. Danyel gasped from the effort of trying to maintain the spell, going pale as the blade broke through.

Cullen’s sword bounced off Danyel’s staff. The staff splintered in the center, but did not break in two. The force threw them apart — Cullen recovered and assumed a defensive stance, while Danyel backed up into the far wall.

By now Samson was at Cullen’s side, blade drawn. Unlike Cullen, Samson favored his left hand when fighting, and the two of them stood before the mage like a mirrored image.

“This is a bad idea, Dany,” Samson said, advancing on him. The mage threw a ball of lightning that he dodged, and Samson darted to Danyel’s left and thrust.

The boy stumbled out of the way, herded closer to Cullen. Cullen tried to make a grab for him, but Danyel ducked and spun behind Cullen.

“I’m not going back!” Danyel spun his staff and slammed it into the ground, chain lightning rippling through the air around him.

The electricity was so close Cullen felt his hair standing on end. He fell back beside Samson, waiting for his friend to make the next move. Samson had an enviable fluidity to his sword work; what he lacked in brute strength he made up for in dexterity and creativity. He saw openings that eluded others, and wasn’t afraid to take risks that templars of noble stock, having been trained in more gentle dueling tactics in their youth, tended to avoid.

Samson feinted to the right, then pulled away when Danyel aimed his next spell there, sliding past the mage and delivering a blow on the boy’s shoulder with the flat of his blade. Danyel cried out in pain, nearly losing control of the staff.

“That was a warning,” Samson said. “You ought to rethink this, before I lose my patience. You stand down, we stand down.”

“You won’t.” Danyel turned to follow Samson’s trajectory, giving Cullen a shot at his back.

Cullen summoned another wave of dampening energy. He delivered it on the boy’s dominant hand as he tried to hurl a lightning ball in Samson’s face. The spell fizzled, and Cullen managed to grab Danyel’s wrist, holding tight.

“Let go,” Danyel cried, but Samson had already seized his other arm, twisting the staff from his grasp. Together, they wrested the boy to his knees.

“Didn’t want it to come to this,” Samson muttered. “You know that.”

“Would you like to shackle him, or should I?” Cullen asked quietly, while Danyel continued to fight against them. He hoped Samson would volunteer, that maybe if someone familiar did it, that might calm him.

Samson let out a haggard sigh. “I’ll do it.” But as he reached for his belt pouch, Danyel wrenched his arm free and, with a heart-wrenching scream, aimed a crackling fist at Cullen’s breastplate.

Cullen did not have time to react. One second he was leaning over the mage, the next he was flying backward through the air. He hit the wall with a stunning force; the air escaped his lungs as he slid down to the floor.

I’m dying, he thought, struggling to breathe. He lie prone on the ground, unable to stand, unable to move.

Above him, Samson and Danyel circled each other. Samson had his sword sheathed, his hands in the air. “Listen, Dany. Listen. It’s not too late. I know a guy, all right? I can get you in touch with him. He can get you out of the city. I just need you to calm down. Just calm down, and you and I can walk out of here, forget this ever happened.”

They’re leaving you. Leaving you to die. The voice slithered through Cullen’s mind, and it sounded so much like Uldred’s that he began to shake. That’s what everyone does to you in the end.

Samson had his arm around Danyel. “Hey, look. Where’s your staff?”

The boy turned, searching for the fallen weapon. Cullen coughed, gasping for air. Samson looked up, his deadpan grey eyes meeting Cullen’s own. Samson inhaled once; without breaking Cullen’s gaze, he raised his mailed fist and slammed it against the back of the boy’s head. With a sickening crack, Danyel crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Samson stepped over the mage’s body, kneeling beside Cullen. “Easy does it now. Slow breaths. You just had the wind knocked out of ya, is all.”

He gripped Cullen by the shoulder and helped him sit up. Cullen tried to listen and not let the panic win. With each inhale he seemed able to get more air into his lungs; he felt his pulse, at last, slowing. Samson knelt nearby, keeping silent, waiting him out.

“I’m all right,” he whispered shakily. “Sorry.”

“’S nothing to apologize for.” Samson inclined his head. “You’ve got a wicked souvenir, though.”

Frowning, Cullen followed Samson’s gaze. His breastplate had a scorch mark snaking through it, slashed diagonally through the flaming sword emblem.

“Shit.” Cullen let out a desperate, manic laugh.

He climbed slowly to his feet, relieved that his armor had absorbed most of the impact and nothing felt broken. He’d probably be bruised for weeks, but it could be worse.

Samson returned to Danyel’s motionless form, staring down at him with a tired look on his face. “Poor blighter.”

“Is… he going to be all right?” Cullen asked uncertainly.

“Yeah, yeah. I think so. He’s got a nasty crack on the head,” Samson said, as if he wasn’t the one who had put it there. “But once the healers look at him, he should be fine.” He prodded the boy’s torso with the toe of his boot, searching for pockets full of contraband.

Cullen leaned against the wall. He still felt out of sorts, not entirely stable. He licked chapped lips and wished he was back in the barracks, in his bed, where he could be horizontal for about a month. “What… what was all that about?”

“What was all what about?” Samson didn’t look up.

Cullen wondered, suddenly, if he’d perhaps hit his own head without realizing. “Didn’t you tell him… you know someone who could get apostates out of Kirkwall?”

Samson raised his chin sharply, eyes narrowed. “What — and you believed me?”

“Well.” Cullen felt as though he were back on that awful ship that had sailed him to Kirkwall, with the ground unsteady beneath his feet. “You sounded very convincing.”

In the growing silence Cullen feared Samson might be angry with him, but then a smile broke on his lips and he let out a sly laugh. “And a bloody good thing, wasn’t it? I was worried for a bit he’d take us both out and we’d never see him again.”

Cullen could not share his friend’s mirth. The encounter had been too fraught, and the calls too close. Samson was right — it could have broken bad in far more ways than it had. Cullen felt a little ill, seeing the undignified way the young mage lie there, having his person rifled through. He looked away and cleared his throat. “Well. I suppose we ought to figure out how to get him back to the Gallows.”

“Right. At least we’ll be able to collect that pat on the head from Meredith.” Samson strode to Cullen and leaned companionably beside him, crossing arms over his chest. “You think she’ll make good on the lyrium bonus?”

Despite everything, Cullen felt the warmth of gratitude spreading through him. He bit back a wry laugh. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Nah, I guess not. I swear that hag must have a good cackle every time she denies my requisition requests.” Samson shook his head. “Fine, then. We’ll have to go out for drinks to celebrate. Don’t even think of refusing, I can see it in your face that you want to. I think we deserve it for surviving the mage’s onslaught, don’t you?”

Cullen let out an exasperated breath, but Samson’s enthusiasm was infectious. He smiled wanly. “I guess you’re right.”

“Damn straight I am. Now c’mere and give me a hand. I have a feeling this kid’s gonna weigh more than a sack of Carta dwarves.”

#cullen rutherford #raleigh samson #cullen & samson hours #fics #dragon age drunk writing circle #did i spend an hour learning about swordplay just so i could deem it canonically plausible Samson is a left-handed fighter?#all for one dumb moment of imagery and symbolism?#YOU BET I DID #i'm normal about samson

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the-pale-goddess · 10 months

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I'm new to the fandom and have been enjoying your work. I wanted to know what is your hc for Ethan and his mother? Did he forgive her or cut her off for good? If you have any fics on it, can you let me know? Thank you. 🙂

Omg, hi! It’s so wonderful to see a new member joining our little OH circus! Welcome to the fandom, dear, hope you’ll like it here ❤️ I’m beyond honored that you’re enjoying my fictional corner, especially since I’m not too active anymore. Thank you for giving my writing a chance and sending this amazing ask 🥰

I don’t think that I have ever discussed Louise and her role in my canonverse before 👀 So I don’t have any fics to share, sorry! It could be due to the fact that the HC changed a few times along the way 😅

Before I settled on the canon endgame for E&T, I had a couple of different ideas that were messier (just like life itself) and less conventional. But I decided to go for the scenario that comforted me the most: our past and the mistakes of our parents don’t define us and even the most damaged individuals are capable of breaking the pattern. I picked this direction because I wanted to give Ethan and Tiffany the kind of love and warmth they didn’t have growing up. I’m embracing hope through Ted Lasso’s idea of rom-communism ksbskbsk However, it’s important to acknowledge that healing takes different forms and there are many ways to approach it!

Now, let me elaborate on my take on Ethan and Louise…Or do not let me, I can never shut up lol

Ethan was very conflicted. On the one hand, he despised her and what she did to him and Alan, he didn’t see the point of their reconciliation. He didn’t want to reopen old wounds and was afraid that his father might get hurt again. That he might get hurt again, inevitably dragging Tiffany down and breaking her heart. On the other, though Louise was a complete stranger to him, she was still his mother, someone he used to care about more than anything in the world, and deep inside his long-drawn-out rage and pain there was some basic human compassion. Eventually, he realized that her decision to leave was actually the best gift she could offer given her issues, the necessary evil so to speak.

As a doctor, he obviously recognizes addiction as a chronic condition that needs to be managed and resolved through a highly personalized medical treatment. He was willing to ensure her medical assistance, but would it be possible with zero involvement? Was he ready to open the door and accept her apology?

Ethan relied on Tiffany’s generous support and advice. Her insight was particularly important to him—her mother-daughter relationship has always been a sort of psychological Cold War, so she could certainly relate to the complexity of the situation. She encouraged him to embrace the emotions swirling inside and focus on what’s best for him. Even if Louise didn’t deserve forgiveness, it was essential to his own healing: he could finally truly move on and allow himself to be free of the burden he carried for years. She reminded him that he deserves a peace of mind and no one will find it for him—he’s not a helpless child anymore and he’s in charge of his own life. With Tiffany’s limitless patience and love guiding him through the mess in his head, Ethan gathered his strength and faced the emotional challenge.

After serious consideration, Ethan chose to forgive his mother. Even though he had every reason to cut her off for good, every right to be selfish and unforgiving, he picked the more difficult road of sympathy, proving that he’s actually nothing like Louise—they may share a few personality traits, but he’s so much more than a bitter conclusion to a broken past.

But of course, just like he said in the playthrough, it didn’t mean that things were suddenly okay between them—quite the contrary. I don’t think that they would ever come close to forming any kind of deeper bond. Still, they keep in touch and check on each other every few weeks. As long as Louise sticks to her recovery journey, Ethan makes an effort and allows her to be a part of his life to a small extent he’s comfortable with. Not for long though: I imagine that she’s going to die rather young, soon after E&T’s middle child Letty is born.

#Q #ethan ramsey #louise ramsey #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x mc #i didn't proofread this

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morocosmos · 2 years

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Returning - Urianger

Intro chapter | Thancred

Warrior of Light & Urianger Augurelt.

Takes place during Endwalker, just after the end of 6.0. This is a series of vignettes on each of the Scions’ relationships with my Warrior of Light, Moro’a as he’s recovering after the end of the Final Days.

“Is that the Spire?”

“Perhaps the effects of this one will provide a more tempered succor, as opposed to the first...”

“Ouch!” Moro’a winces as a sharp pain lances through his outstretched leg, through the top of his hips all the way down to his toes. His body protests against the bolts of aether, and he doubles over as it forces the breath from his lungs. Though he knows that the aether channeled through the cards would have a healing effect on him regardless of what was drawn, to have the magic quite literally shock his stiff limbs into movement sits far below his preferred sensations. Urianger’s previously played card had been no better – the fires of the Balance had placed more of a searing than soothing effect on his body.

By the bedside, star globe floating in one hand, Urianger feeds the card back into the spinning deck with the other, consternation and guilt written plain on his face.

“Thou art the most-equipped to clarify the precise severity of thine pain," he frets. “Should this tax thee overly, we need not proceed at thine detriment.”

Urianger means to reassure, Moro’a knows, but he fights against a wave of impatience all the same. One week and six suns into the conscious portion of his stay at the Sharlayan recovery ward, the wide limits of Moro’a’s patience are finally beginning to wear thin, and he finds his tail twitching with increased frustration through the long, idle bells. Give it another day and he’ll want nothing more than to be hale enough to leave, if not at least to step beyond the confines of his room to stretch for an hour or two under the night sky.

And so, knowing that his body has been recovering remarkably well – against all odds – since he’d first collapsed onto the floor of the Ragnarok, he’s determined to get through this latest session of physical therapy…even if it means suffering through the whims of the stars.

“I will be fine,” he counters. “Please, carry on. I think I can bend and stretch out this leg further than I could before…see? So it’s working.”

Moro’a’s demonstration proves satisfying enough to assure the other astrologian. “If thou believeth so. Prithee, turn thyself towards my hand once more, as gently as thou canst.” Moro’a complies, trying his best to angle his body towards the elezen with minimal movement. Pain still flares in his limbs, but not so badly as before.

The elezen nods. “Very good. Now, let us pray that this time, the heavens will bequeath thee a less troublesome…ah.” Urianger stops short, frowning at the card he’d plucked from the star globe’s circling orbit. Curiosity winning out against Moro’a’s better judgement, he cranes his neck to see what result is, and pulls a face at the sight.

“The stars are not in our favour today.”

“Verily…’tis the second Spire in three draws.” The scowl on Urianger’s face is so keen, as though he were the one in physical pain and not Moro'a, that the Keeper can’t help but worry for him.

"Perhaps arcanima would serve as the better school of magic in this endeavour,” the elezen relents, resting his hand against his forehead in defeat. “I fear that mine struggles to devise a means through which this method would aid in thine physical recovery would only bringeth thee further discomfort.”

Switching out meant having to return to his quarters to fetch his grimoires, further extending the duration of Moro’a’s treatment…the miqo’te shakes his head firmly, trying his best to put on an optimistic face. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the potency of Urianger’s healing spells; far from it. Rather, it’s in the application of said spells that Moro’a suspects an oversight.

“I think you should persist regardless. Let’s see…what are you picturing or channelling in your mind’s eye as you cast your healing spells on me?” he asks.

Urianger tilts his head. “What doth I picture?” He pauses and takes a moment to consider the question, before answering, “‘Tis less of an image than it is the sensation of a current, flowing from the card in mine hand through the point of contact, this being thy back.”

“Could that be why? What I felt was very much akin to…well, a minor levin bolt, quite literally. What if you were to exchange what you were envisioning for something else?”

Urianger’s eyebrows raise in a mix of curiosity and interest. “Art thou referring to the school of thought wherein an astrologian’s memories have a subjective influence on the beneficial nature of their cards, thus altering facets of their properties?”

Moro’a nods. “You and I both know that two astrologians never cast their cards in the exact same way. I’ve not had the chance to see many of us at work, but I have noted some differences between your astromancy and mine when we’ve fought together. When you play the Bole with a strengthening effect, for example.” Moro’a picks the card out from Urianger’s star globe, turning the outstretched boughs on the card’s face towards them. “The feeling I get from yours is distinctly ‘lighter’ than anything I’ve felt from my own casts. At a stretch, I would almost describe it as…“playful”? Almost like…”

“The fair pixies of Il Mheg.” There’s a smile on Urianger’s face now as he follows along Moro’a’s train of thought. “And thou may well have a point, for the Bole was the first card I felt I understood during mine long years of study on the First.” The elezen takes the card from Moro’a’s hand, examining it as he sifts through his memories. “Whilst I worked in the cottage, I would often be surrounded by no fewer than a dozen pixies, who would share with me anything from remarks on my practice to sprigs of meadowbloom from the outdoors. The memories of which I now associate with this card.”

Urianger returns the Bole to the deck, before looking at Moro’a. “And so in like manner, thou propose that I seek a more specific memory with which to channel mine healing magicks – one that wouldst aid in thine physiotherapy with enhanced propriety?” Moro’a nods again. “Very well. I shall endeavour to do so with the next card.”

With renewed focus, Urianger casts Draw, this time pulling out the Ewer. As he speaks the spell into existence, Moro’a tries his best not to worry – should the Scion’s attempt fail, he doesn’t know what sort of sensation this card might put him through. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath as he waits for Urianger’s spell to take effect.

The sound of magic being channelled through the card is followed by the sound of rushing water – but no pain, Moro’a notes with relief as he opens his eyes. Instead he’s filled with a refreshing feeling – one that’s full of confident energy, like the steady downpour of a waterfall. Emboldened, he experimentally lifts one leg up, finding it far easier to do so than before. He’s able to stretch it all the way out with little discomfort, and then once more with his other leg, before placing them back onto the bed.

“That’s it – that was much better,” he tells Urianger, who blinks twice, looking as surprised as he feels.

“I had not expected such drastic improvement from a single attempt,” Urianger admits, after a short pause.

“If I were to be honest, neither did I. Just what did you…” Urianger glances away, wearing a strange expression, and Moro’a’s suddenly convinced he shouldn’t ask further, for fear of embarrassing one or both of them. “Nevermind.”

After a moment’s pause, Urianger clears his throat, clearly grateful for his restraint. “‘Tis plain that we still have much to discuss with regards to our shared disciplines,” he remarks thoughtfully. “Understandably, we have had precious little time to do so, owing to our duties as Scions. Perhaps we might converse further on the subject over the coming days…”

“Of course. But only if I can be let outside first, even if it’s not until the next Firesday,” Moro’a insists, leaning back into his pillow with a sigh. “I fear I might not be much of a conversation partner if I’m to be cooped up in here for much longer.”

#kae scribbles #two nerds discussing how to make the most out of their gacha pulls #series: returning

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aslitheryprinx · 2 years

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if you're up for it, could you write a little ficlet or drabble of the shooting stars au? I would utterly adore a drabble from the POV of the aliens or humans during the period before they figured out that the humans were an intelligent species 😊💕

I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!! Seriously, I think it's been actual months by now. I wanted to do the prompt justice though! Thank you for the ask, and your patience! ^^ I hope you enjoy.

CW: panic, dehumanization, accidental fearplay, fear of dissection, fear of death

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Cages

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Ranboo woke up to Tommy's hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He'd long since grown accustomed to being woken that way; usually if someone was getting too close to their current hideout. It used to mean they had to pack their meager belongings up quickly and bolt. It used to be a warning so they had time to react.

Now? When he bolted upright, stomach twisting with anxiety, there was nothing he or Tommy could do but wait.

He sat up, scanning their prison nervously. There wasn't anything dangerous inside at least. But very quickly, he realized why Tommy had shaken him awake.

One of the aliens, the terrifying massive beings that had kidnapped them, was walking through the door. It wasn't the goat looking one, the one who'd captured them at first. It was the other one. The much more terrifying one.

Tommy's hand was gripping his arm hard enough to hurt, but he didn't blame his friend. Not when his hand was clenched so tightly in the other's shirt the fabric was probably close to ripping. As the alien they were less familiar with walked closer to their container, both he and Tommy instinctively moved backwards. Their backs hit the clear wall, and they froze with nowhere else to retreat. Ranboo's heart was beating wildly; Tommy could probably feel it through his arm.

While the goat alien looked close to human, this alien was unmistakably other. It was even taller than the first one, something that made Ranboo feel dizzy even thinking about. Its skin was a grey that sometimes looked blue depending on the angle. At parts, the alien's limbs were transparent- all four arms. Its eyes were pure black, and teeth like needles protruded from its mouth.

The insect-like eyes were turned toward them; without visible pupils it was impossible to tell for sure, but Ranboo was certain it was looking at them. It walked directly towards their glass cage, and he flinched, feeling Tommy do the same beside him. The younger teen might have drawn blood with how hard he was holding on, but Ranboo was too worried about if the alien was planning to eat them, experiment on them, or just stare that he couldn't bring himself to care.

He barely noticed the other, slightly less terrifying alien walk into the room. When the goat one spoke, he jumped, glancing briefly over. As always, whatever language they were speaking was completely indecipherable, unlike anything he'd ever heard. Not that he expected anything different from an alien race.

"𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕪'𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕤𝕜𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕚𝕤𝕙, 𝕎𝕚𝕝. 𝕊𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕀 𝕕𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕥?"

Ranboo wasn't sure for a moment if the goat alien was actually talking to the other. The taller alien didn't react to the words, it just kept staring at them. He jumped again when the second alien spoke.

"𝕐𝕖𝕒𝕙 𝕀 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥. 𝕄𝕒𝕪𝕓𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕓𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖'𝕤 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝕀 𝕕𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣'𝕤? 𝕀 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕙𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕣 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕟."

He wished he knew what the aliens were saying. It felt like something was being decided, but he couldn't even begin to guess what. He glanced at Tommy, who seemed just as lost.

"𝕋𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕣𝕘𝕖𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕟." The smaller alien said. The pure black eyes shifted slightly, suddenly focusing on Ranboo. His mouth went dry, and he felt Tommy's already painful grip tightening even more.

"𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕞𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕤 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕘𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕧𝕖," the goat alien continued. "𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕓𝕚𝕥 𝕞𝕖 𝕒 𝕗𝕖𝕨 𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕒𝕘𝕠."

There was a loud noise from the bigger alien, and he heard a sharp inhale from Tommy beside him. The sound was sort of like a laugh; Ranboo hoped it was something else. He doubted the possibly-an-evil-alien-scientist laughing was a good thing.

"𝔽𝕖𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕪, 𝕙𝕦𝕙?"

One of the hands shifted slightly, and Ranboo choked back a yelp. Tommy froze, not even breathing until Ranboo shifted to squeeze his arm. They were both staring at the hand, although he didn't know what they'd do if it did move again. But they couldn't seem to look away. The hand was almost twice as big as the goat giant's hand, and the fingers were tipped with sharp looking claws.

"𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕪'𝕣𝕖 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕒 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕖𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕," goat alien said, the tone something Ranboo couldn't decipher.

A pause. A whooshing noise that had to be a sigh.

"ℕ𝕠, 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕓𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕪 𝕟𝕠𝕥. 𝕀'𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕥."

And then the hand was actually moving, and Ranboo couldn't hold back the yelp. Tommy was pulling him to the side, trying to get them somewhere safe, but there was nowhere to go.

He cried out as fingers pinched his leg; not tight enough to hurt, at least not yet. He kicked at the fingers with his other leg, but the fingers just shifted, trapping his legs completely with only three fingers.

Tommy was screaming obscenities so quickly Ranboo couldn't even understand him anymore.

"T-Tommy, Tommy h-help, please," he babbled, breath coming in short spurts. Tommy was doing the best he could, his arms an iron grip on Ranboo's. He was pulling so hard Ranboo wouldn't be surprised if his shoulders ended up dislocating. He clawed back, digging his nails into Tommy's sleeves.

"Don't you fucking dare you bitch!" Tommy shrieked. "You aren't fucking taking him!"

Ranboo felt a fresh wave of panic surging as another hand appeared behind his friend. For a horrible moment, his voice caught, the warning he wanted to give dying in his throat

"To- l-look out!" He managed to choke out. Tommy looked around, but Ranboo had been too late. Another pair of clawed fingers pinched Tommy's torso, lifting him partially off the ground. The alien started pulling him backwards, and they tightened their grips.

Ranboo's arms felt stretched almost to the limit, but he refused to let go. Tommy's fingers dug into his shoulders, until the force pulling them apart became too much and his hands slipped.

Tommy practically clawed up Ranboo's arms trying to keep hold of him, but they had no hope of overpowering the giant. He left red marks on Ranboo's arms, but eventually Tommy was pried off.

"Ranboo!" He screamed, clawing and biting at the hand that was keeping him back. Ranboo tried again to escape, pushing at the fingers that had his legs trapped. The grip on him loosened, so suddenly he nearly fell over, but then the fingers were wrapping around him once more. This time the hold was over his whole body, pinning his arms to his sides.

"Tommy!" He said, voice trembling, as he was lifted off the ground.

"Ranboo!" Tommy cried again. He was still struggling, making no more progress than Ranboo was.

"No! No, you can't take him! Stop!" Tommy screamed.

The hand holding Ranboo rose, and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling dizzy from the sudden movement. It was like the worst possible elevator ride, one he hadn't agreed to get on. When the motion finally stopped, he slowly opened his eyes.

He froze at the sight of the terrifying alien's face, far too close for comfort. His eyes were locked on its mouth, full of terrifyingly sharp teeth, each as long as Ranboo's arm. For a few petrifying moments, the insect-like eyes were focused on him, feeling like they were piercing him in their intensity. Finally, they shifted, focusing below Ranboo, who slumped.

He could still hear Tommy screaming, and he tried not to cry. God, what was going to happen to them? Would he ever see Tommy again? He hoped to Prime the alien wasn't about to dissect him or something. He didn't think he could handle that and still be sane at the end- if he'd even still be alive.

He jolted as something moved in the corner of his eye. The goat alien was walking forward, towards their prison. From up here, it looked more like a terrarium than a cell, and Ranboo shuddered at the reminder that they were just animals to the aliens.

His heart dropped as the goat alien began to reach into the glass box towards Tommy. He stared with a thudding heart, terrified his best friend was about to be hurt. Before he could see if Tommy was ok, he was being moved, just quickly enough to make him dizzy.

The alien holding him was turning, and Ranboo squirmed, trying to see what was happening. The alien was walking away, and he couldn't see. He didn't know if Tommy was going to be ok, and he started fighting again, pushing at the fingers that held him.

The grip around him tightened slightly and he froze. The alien could just squeeze him with a fraction of power and he would die. He was as fragile as a hamster, or a bird in the alien's hands and the helplessness crashed over him.

Ranboo sniffled a little, refusing to let the tears burning behind his eyes fall. He trembled, but stopped fighting, knowing he'd never get out of this unless he was let free.

The hold on him loosened slightly, and his panic faded somewhat. Then, everything shifted, the fingers opening up. He scrambled for purchase as he slid, eventually coming to a stop in the alien's open palm. The fingers of two hands rose around him, and he realized he was being held in cupped hands. It was better than his arms and legs being trapped, though no less terrifying.

He was jostled slightly with each step the alien took. The motion was less disorienting than it had been when he and Tommy were trapped in a jar. Still, Ranboo thought he might prefer the slightly nauseating ride to this. At least then, there was a layer of separation between him and the alien. At least then, he'd still been with Tommy.

As the alien walked, it would occasionally glance down at him, as if checking to make sure he was still there. Ranboo shrank back every time, although the attention never stayed on him for long. The insect alien seemed more focused on where it was taking him.

Far too quickly, they stopped in front of a door. One of the alien's hands came up, punching something into a tablet-like keypad, and the door slid smoothly open.

Heart pounding, Ranboo quickly scanned the room. He wasn't sure he liked what he saw. No matter how he looked at it, it was a laboratory. Oh god, oh god, he was going to get experimented on, maybe dissected. As he was carried towards a table, his breathing started to hitch.

The alien's hands tilted, and he was slid off onto the table. He registered for a split second how cold it was before he scrambled to his feet, sprinting away as fast as he could. He knew it was pointless; he didn't even have a destination in mind, but the terror made it hard to think straight.

He only got a couple of feet before the alien dropped a massive clawed hand in front of him. He skidded to a stop, and a second later fingers were wrapping around him again, keeping him still.

The giant alien wasn't even looking at him. It was digging through… some sort of high tech storage box. Ranboo watched it's hands with wide eyes, half expecting it to take out a scalpel. Instead, it pulled out a small band. At least, it looked small in the alien's hands. When it set the band down a few feet away from him, Ranboo realized it was as thick as his torso.

He jumped as he realized the alien's black eyes were focused directly at him again. It tilted its massive head, and he shrank back as much as he could while still trapped by its hand.

"𝔸𝕝𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥, 𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕘𝕦𝕪. 𝕎𝕖'𝕣𝕖 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕒 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕒 𝕗𝕖𝕨 𝕞𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕤, 𝕠𝕜? ℕ𝕠 𝕟𝕖𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕡𝕒𝕟𝕚𝕔."

The alien said something completely indecipherable, and then the fingers around him started to move. Ranboo yelped as his arms were pulled away from his body. He started kicking, trying to wriggle out of the grip, until another finger pinned his legs to the counter.

His chest heaved with panic. He stared with wide eyes as the alien picked up the band again, bringing it towards him. He squeezed his eyes shut as the strange device was wrapped around his chest. There was a soft click, and his arms were released. His hands flew to the band, pulling at it, but it was fastened securely around him.

The alien brought up its finger and tapped twice on the band. Suddenly, a massive holographic interface appeared several feet away. It was being projected from the band, and Ranboo stared at it in shock.

The alien tapped a few things on the holograph, and suddenly the band began to move. It started tightening around him, and he gasped. Was it going to crush him?! Slowly but surely, the band got tighter. After a couple of seconds it got hard to breathe. Tears pricked at the corner of Ranboo's eyes.

Just as he thought he was about to die for sure, the tightening stopped. He took quick shaky breaths, hands trembling. The pressure around his chest stayed steady for several moments before suddenly releasing.

He knew that sensation, he realized with a jolt. It had been a while for him, and it was on a much smaller scale, but that was what happened when doctors checked blood pressure. A hysterical giggle bubbled out of him, turning into a half sob seconds later.

He barely reacted as the alien removed the band, too busy recovering from the horrible rush of adrenaline. He didn't want any of this. He just wanted to go home, back to wandering the forest with Tommy. It wasn't easy in the forest, but at least it wasn't so terrifying.

"𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕨𝕖 𝕘𝕠. 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕤𝕟'𝕥 𝕤𝕠 𝕓𝕒𝕕, 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕚𝕥?" The alien said. A finger touched Ranboo's head. He flinched, but it just brushed his hair before moving.

The fingers curled around him again, lifting him off the table. Ranboo didn't even bother fighting this time, simply curling up and letting the alien move him where it wanted.

The next several minutes were stressful, but at least it didn't seem like Ranboo was getting dissected today. He was placed on something that seemed like a scale, held down and measured with a weird holographic measuring tape, and worst of all, the alien cut out a giant chunk of his hair. It was horrible and humiliating, but at least Ranboo was alive.

Through the whole process, the alien held some space version of a tablet in its hands, obviously taking notes on him. He stayed quiet, not reacting to anything aside from the flinches he couldn't control. He didn't want to give it anything extra.

Or maybe he should be trying to be more interesting. He still didn't know if he was eventually going to be dissected. Models and skeletons of strange creatures he'd never seen before were scattered around the room. He was trying not to look, but it was giving him a very bad feeling.

The alien was carrying somewhere new. Faint hope fluttered in his chest. Maybe he was being taken back to Tommy? Then he saw another enclosure, almost identical to the one he and Tommy had shared, and his stomach dropped.

"No, no, no," he muttered, pushing uselessly against the fingers. This whole situation was bad enough already. If he was separated from Tommy, if he was alone? He couldn't do it, he couldn't. A sob caught in his throat as his horror began building. He might never see Tommy again.

He was slowly lowered into the glass enclosure, and he stumbled backwards once he was released. Yet again, his breaths were coming far too quickly.

"𝕁𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕖𝕤𝕥, 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕘𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕘𝕠 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕, 𝕠𝕜?" The alien said. It placed a lid on Ranboo's prison, as if he had any hope of climbing out using the sheer glass walls.

"𝕃𝕖𝕥'𝕤 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕙𝕠𝕨 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕘𝕖𝕥 𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕖." More alien language; Ranboo still couldn't understand, but the alien's tone sounded familiar. It was the type of soft speaking you might use to calm a frightened animal. That's probably all he was to these aliens.

It turned and left the room, and the last of Ranboo's composure broke. He sank down to the floor, leaning against one of the glass walls. Tears streamed down his face. He was probably light years away from earth by now, held captive by giant aliens who saw humans as just animals. And now, he was separated from his best and only friend, maybe permanently. Hell, he didn't even know if Tommy was alive.

His life had become nightmare after nightmare, and he didn't think he'd be waking up anytime soon.

Link for anyone who can't read the alien text!

#mcyt g/t #tiny!ranboo #tiny!tommy #shooting stars au #giant!wilbur #giant!tubbo #g/t #giant/tiny #g/t fearplay #aslitheryanswers

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yandere-daydreams · 3 years

Text

Title: Palliate.

Pairing: Yandere!Witch/Reader.

Word Count: 3.7k.

TW: Emotional Manipulation, Amnesia, Obsessive Mindsets, Mentions of Violence, Blood and Bruising, Mentions of Death.

Mint, to settle your nerves.

That was the first thing he’d taught you, before you were strong enough to do anything more than sit on the edge of your bed and listen. Three leaves if you were desperate, two if you weren’t, and one if you just needed something to focus on, to take your mind off your own hazy thoughts and the places they tended to lead, when you let them wander freely. He said that was normal, that it should be expected. You’d spent so long incapacitated, it was only natural you’d be a little unsteady, once you finally got back on your feet. He said that it’d get better, over time, but you’d have to fight through it. You’d have to give yourself time to let it get better, even if there were little things you both could do to help.

The mint helped. Most of the time, at least. More than most little things did.

You tried to concentrate on the flavor, now, letting it distract you from the sun beating down on the back of your neck, from small bruises forming on your knees as you kneeled between rows of rue and sage and rosemary just far enough apart to let you tug at the weeds invading his otherwise pristine garden. It was a little odd to be outside the small cottage you’d become so closely acquainted with, even if you were only a few paces away, still hesitant to venture beyond the clearing you’d spent so much time observing while you were bedridden. You were still injured, technically, and you’d been told time and time again not to test your own limits. He said you should… You were sure you should be doing something, but—

“Didn't I ask you to rest?”

Right. That made sense.

You weren't supposed to get out of bed, just yet.

A hand came to settle on your shoulder, and reflexively, you glanced towards the man now lingering behind you. You really didn’t need to, though. His voice would’ve been enough, a calm drawl strung out into something playful, fondness coming easily and anger still a long ways off. He’d never gotten mad at you before, but the threat persisted. You didn’t want to be more of a nuisance than absolutely necessary, especially after he’d been so kind to you.

“There’s only so much sleep I can take,” You replied. You didn’t want to be a nuisance, but you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life in bed, either. “I’m starting to think that’s your only trick, uh...”

“Eden, love. Just Eden.” There was a pause, his sly smile turning sympathetic. “Is your memory acting up again?”

“It’s not as bad as it used to be.” You were telling the truth. For weeks, you’d barely been able to hold onto your own name, let alone anything about your eternally patient host. But, Eden (you tried to remind yourself of that, to make a note of it, Eden) was kind enough to give you time. You needed time. You needed patience. “I found the door, didn’t I?”

“And it’s nearly been a week since the last time you wandered into the forest,” He noted as he crouched at your side, earning a small, offended noise and an elbow to his bicep, just forceful enough to warrant a hum, a slight pout, something between a whine and a chuckle. You didn’t want to stare, but you let yourself watch as his expression softened, as his gazed flickered towards the sprout of basil at your feet and a shock of white hair fell over his eyes. He looked like he was going to reach towards you, like he was going to touch you, but he stopped himself, letting his hand slip down to the satchel at his waist, instead, calloused fingers running over the well-worn leather.

You wondered what he kept in it, sometimes. You’d never seen him without it, not willingly, and he spent so long in the forest every day, he kept himself so busy with so many traps and snares and spots of ink littered across hand-drawn maps, it would’ve been impossibly to guess what he thought was worth keeping by his side. He brought enough of it back, bundles of assorted feathers and glass jars full of golden pollen and other things, stranger things, things you could barely catch a glimpse of before they were shoved to the backs of cabinets and forgotten about, on your end, at least. Eden didn’t forget about such important things as quickly as you did.

“It’ll get better,” He went on, finally, just when you thought he’d stopped talking altogether. “And, if it doesn’t, we’ll find a way to make it better.”

He sounded so sure of himself. You wanted to believe him, when he sounded like that. You did believe him.

You couldn’t remember a time when you hadn’t.

Ginger, to alleviate migraines.

It wasn’t for you, luckily. Of all the ailments you suffered from, you’d been left mercifully exempt from headaches and vertigo and all those minor, awful things that would make your life just a little harder than it had to be. If anything, your head was always a little too light, a little too empty, especially after so many hours of following the same unpaved road with nothing to think about but the passing scenery and Eden’s vague instructions, little more than a list of names and goods. Little to go off of, despite his insistence that you be the one to go.

You’d asked why he didn’t just go himself the first time he sent you on your way with a basket of herbs and roots, but Eden had only frowned, shaking his head. He said he wasn’t welcome, not in the marketplace, not in a village that’d already come to know him by name. He said that, if you cared for him at all, you wouldn’t subject him to a full day of haggling in hushed tones with women who refuse to sell mediocre incense for anything less than a small fortune.

And since you did (foolishly) care for him, you went. Not that you were anymore wanted in the marketplace than he was.

You hated it, compared to the cozy isolation of Eden’s home. You hated how crowded it was, how alien it felt to have to navigate the cramped stalls, how the merchant in front of you scowled as he weighed small bags of the exotic, colorful spices Eden was so fond of, the ones that you could never seem to taste the way you were supposed to, judgingly by how liberally Eden used them. He didn’t try to hide the disdain in his voice as he spoke, aged weariness mixed with a self-righteous reluctant. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t used to it, that constant trepidation from people who didn't understand you, from people who didn't care for Eden. At least he was kind enough not to hide it. “Running errands for the witch hermit, again?”

“Eden’s not a hermit.” You tried to smile, to brush it off as if was just another misconception. He wasn’t. You weren’t sure what he was, but he liked people, he liked having someone else around. Or, he liked having you around, at least. He didn’t seem to care much about company, beyond that. “He just enjoys his privacy. We both do.”

“Only a witch, then.” There was a pause, a gruff laugh that didn’t match his grim disposition. Something in the back of your throat tightened, and silently, you wished he’d be a bit more wary of you. Just enough to keep him from speaking so openly. “I’d take what you can and go, if I were you. He takes after his father, and that man spent his whole life makin’ a monster of himself, playing with things no one should. His son ain’t much different.”

It was your turn to laugh, now. “He cries whenever he finds fawns separated from their mothers. He takes in tadpoles he finds puddles. I don’t think Eden is capable of cruelty.” He was a kind man. You’d never seen him be anything but kind. If he had an ulterior motive, if he had a single sadistic bone in his body, you had yet to find it. “He took me in, too, when I was injured. He might be the only reason I have a roof over my head, now. That’s not a kindness I can say very many people have showed me.”

His lips pursed, the barest hints of confusion crossing his expression. It was gone in an instant, and you tried not to linger on it. He thought poorly of Eden, but the mere fact that you were alive – walking and breathing and alive – was enough to earn him your gratitude. Regardless of what a merchant and a marketplace worth of gossip thought. You knew what you believed, you knew what was true, and you wouldn’t let a few rumors convince you otherwise.

Although, you’d be lying if you said that belief didn’t waver, as he went on. “Cruelty isn’t all you have to worry about.”

You opened your mouth. Then, you closed it again, keeping your eyes on the basket still hanging limply on your arm. He wasn’t done yet, not with the spices, not with his poorly veiled warnings, but you didn’t want to listen. You could listen, you would listen, but you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to believe anything you heard in such a crowded place, in such an awful place.

You just wanted to get back to Eden.

Willow bark, to take the pain away.

It’s more of a comfort than a necessity, by now. You used to need it, rely on it, and you still liked to keep a bundle nearby, just in case, for days where the soreness was worse than it should be and you needed something to take the edge off, to suppress that overwhelming ache back into a steady throb. But, you never needed it, not like you used to. Not like you had when your injury was a defining feature rather than an afterthought and Eden’s medical expertise was more of a experimental artform than a practiced skill.

His hands didn’t shake, anymore, as his fingers skirted over your bare skin, following along the outline of your wound, the trail of stitches that stretched from the bottom of your shoulder bone to the center of your rib cage and repeated itself, carrying over again and again and again, forming neat rows of tender flesh and scar tissue that refused to stop any higher than your hip bone. He wasn’t hesitant, not with the needle, not as he pushed it through the long-suffering spots where he’d first messily laid your stitches months ago, and he didn’t have to look at you to recognize the way you shifted, the soft string of expletives you let out, to notice your little attempts to turn your head at just the right angle, flinch at just the right time to—

“Eyes on the ceiling,” He demanded. With a small huff, you obeyed, turning back towards the furthest wall. “It’ll only get worse, if you look.”

You knew that. He’d said as much as thousand times before, once for every day he'd tended to your lasting wounds. You were tempted to try, to insist it was only fair that you got to know what was going on with your own body, but you trusted Eden, and it was easier to tilt your head back than to argue, to search the cluttered room for something more interesting than the boy sitting at your side and your own, nagging discomfort.

You were in his workshop, now, an area separated from the rest of the cottage and filled to the brim with the tools of Eden’s trade – blooming flowers permanently encased in blocks of amber, the shells of insects hollowed out and ground into a fine powder, pots, everywhere, some empty and some not, the largest placed over a smoldering hearth that never seemed to grow dimmer, despite how often Eden forgot to tend to it. There was something inside, a substance you didn’t recognize, bubbling and black as a starless sky. It was already solidifying around the edges of its cauldron, crystallizing into rows of jagged, silvery edges slowly creeping along the coaction's surface like an infection. Like a parasite. Like something that shouldn’t have existed but continued to, regardless.

Eden must’ve caught you staring. The needle stilled, and instead, he took to dabbing something cool and smooth around the edges of your scars. A rag, or a balm, or a dozen other possible remedies. You didn't try to look. “It’s for you,” He explained, as if that made it any better. “One of my father’s incomplete recipes. He never figured out how to stop it from hardening once it’s exposed to open air.” Eden clicked his tongue, pulling the thread he was working with taut, and you cringed, tying to ignore the slight pinch. It didn’t hurt, not really, not like it used to. It didn’t hurt at all, if you were being honest, but it felt like it should’ve. “The color isn’t right, either. And I’ve already fed enough dye into the damn thing to poison a small village.”

You should’ve laughed. You wanted to, you knew it was the reaction he was looking for, but it was all you could do to avert your stare, to let your fingers curl around the edge of the table he’d perched you on. "They really don’t like you.”

“I’ve noticed.” A blunt response, not abrasive, but not encouraging, either. Not as dismissive as you would’ve preferred. “And yet, they manage to stomach my cures regardless. It’s funny how quickly pain softens the heart, isn’t it?”

“They say it’s unnatural.” You were pushing, now. You should know better than to push. You never found out anything good, when you tried to push. “They say your father used to dabble in things that shouldn’t be.”

Eden sighed, pushing himself to his feet. There was a short silence, interrupted only by the sound of glass knocking against glass before he dropped what he was holding, stepping in front of you and cupping your face with both hands, instead, forcing you to face him, to meet his dark eyes. Black eyes. Lightless eyes. A contradiction when compared his tanned skin and warm smile. A contradiction you tried to overlook as he bent down, kissing the top of your head so gently, you could almost bring yourself to ignore it altogether.

“My father was a toymaker and a healer. My mother died in childbirth. He did what he could to take care of me, and there is nothing unnatural about that.” He took a moment to laugh, to hold you, and you couldn’t be help but be thankful for it. Only weeks ago, he’d been afraid to touch you, afraid to watch you break all over again. Now, it was all he could do to let you go long enough for his arms to fall to your waist, for your face to find his chest, his tunic, a place to hide yourself away from the rest of the world. You didn’t want to go back, not to the village, not to the marketplace, not to the lonely, hurtful, desolate world outside his cottage. You didn’t want to go back to a place filled with so many people so determined to separate you from Eden. You didn’t want to return to a life you couldn’t remember, one where you wouldn’t have the man who’d saved you by your side. “He loved his family, just as I love you.”

For once, you didn’t have to convince yourself to believe him.

Witch hazel, to stop the bleeding.

You’d need it. You’d need a lot of it, more than you should for such a small cut, a jagged line drawn from the corner of your eye to your opposite check, thin but deep and bleeding, pouring out, washing over your hands as you tried to clutch at your face and rub away the damage, like a child trying to blink away a bad dream. Your legs might’ve been bleeding, too, the sides of your ankles, the backs of your thighs, your skin scraped raw in all the places you’d hit the ground as you tripped, falling over your own feet at your stumbled backward, but you didn’t check, you didn’t want to check, you didn’t want to see how bad it was. You didn’t want to take your eyes off the man in front of you, his towering stature, his grim expression.

His sword, silver and unsheathed and pointed at your heart, as it had been from the moment he first caught sight of you.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one was supposed to be here, in Eden’s forest, only minutes away from the cottage you’d come to think of as your safe haven. He hadn’t asked for your name, he hadn’t mentioned Eden, he hadn’t said a word to you, not before there was a dagger flashing across your line of sight, a weapon quickly discarded for something more intimidating, something that’d let him stay at arm’s length while he approached you, his stare holding yours, his lips pulled into a thin frown. “I—” You tried, but your voice gave out quickly. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had threatened your life. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been so scared. “Please, I didn’t mean to get in your—”

“Stop talking.” His tone was flat, apathetic, the barest hints of rage seeping through a weathered veil of neutrality. Immediately, you fell silent. “Who said you had the right to use that voice?”

You opened your mouth, but you thought better of it, biting down on the inside of your cheek as you bowed your head. You wanted to get back to Eden, back to his cottage. You wanted to be anywhere but here. You wanted to run, but you wanted to get out of this with your head on your shoulders, too. “Are you going to kill me?”

“It will not be a true death.” There was a pause, a reluctant hesitation. You pulled your knees into your chest, your hand still pressed to your wound, but the gesture didn’t seem to earn you any pity. “But, I am going to make this—”

He stopped, abruptly, his head attention towards something behind you. You heard it a moment later – measured footsteps, barely making a sound against the dead leaves and branches that littered the forest floor. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

Not when there was only one person who’d ever bother to save you.

“Adam,” Eden called, already positioning himself at your side. His hand was already on his satchel, toying with the buckle. Like he’d done this, before. Like he already knew it wouldn’t resolve itself peacefully. “There are easier ways to introduce yourself. If you put that sword away, I’m sure (Y/n) could still find a way to forgive—”

“Do not call it by that name.” He was focused on Eden, now, leaving you to fade into the background, to observe as his hands began to shake and he glared, baring his teeth, as Eden had done more than try to play peacekeeper. “That is not (Y/n). It doesn’t deserve to pretend it is, none of your abominations do. It won't bring— It can't—” He trailed off, his sword falling back to his side, his eyes clenching shut. You almost felt bad for him, your would-be murderer, but Eden’s expression remained cold, unbothered. Slowly, almost idly, he reached down, taking you by the arm and helping you to your feet, letting you tuck yourself against him as Adam finally found his voice.

“(Y/n) is dead. Nothing you do can change that.”

A moment passed in silence, still, deathly, frigid silence.

Then, Eden spoke.

“I can handle this on my own.” He didn’t deny it. He wasn’t denying it. Why wasn’t he denying it? “I need you to brew tea, Chamomile. Gather as much lavender as you can on your way home, until your pockets are full and you can’t carry anymore. Can you do that for me, love?”

You nodded, but you were still shaking, still unsure, still so, so confused. You weren’t dead. You could breathe, and you could think, and you ate and you slept and you weren’t dead. “I’m not.” You didn’t know who you were talking to – Adam, still clutching his sword, still ready to behead whoever his blade could reach or Eden, your Eden, the gentle protector who hadn’t looked at you once since his arrival. You just wanted someone to say it wasn’t true. You just needed someone to say it wasn’t true. “I’m not. I’m alive. I’m not de—”

“I’m in love,” Eden said, his voice soft. As if he hadn’t heard you at all. “Why does everyone act as if that’s so monstrous?”

You didn’t want to hear Adam’s response. You didn’t want to hear anything, not from him, not from Eden, and certainly not from your own frenzied thoughts, racing and only growing louder as you ran, sprinting, stumbling through the forest in any direction your legs would carry you. A crooked sob racked over your chest, and reflexively, you moved to brush away the tears blurring your vision, but you couldn’t feel yourself when you should’ve, it wasn’t flesh that met your cheek. Your eyes darted to your hand, a sneer already playing at your lips for whatever mud or decaying foliage had plastered itself against your skin, but…

But, you found a small trail of crystals, instead, silvery-glass that coated your palm, rows of jagged edges that hadn’t been there before, that shouldn’t have been there, where your blood had stained your skin only minutes ago. Or, where you thought your blood should’ve stained your skin. You hadn’t looked.

You hadn’t looked.

You froze dead in your tracks.

Slowly, our raised a hand to your face, to the cut carved into it, to what should’ve been a bloody, bloody wound. Something jagged met your fingertips, but you ignored the slight sting. It didn’t hurt. Not as much as it should’ve. Not as much as you wanted it to.

By the time you pulled away, your hand was covered with it. Thick, cool, forming webs between your fingers as you spread them apart. Dark. A kind of dark you’d only seen once.

As black as a starless sky.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere prompts #yandere imagines #yandere oneshots #yandere scenarios #yandere oc #male yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere ocs #yandere witch #yandere fantasy #yanderecore #yancore

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dirtyoatmeall · 3 years

Text

Mad Dogs (Kyotani x Reader)

A/N: soft kyotani is on my mind, luv that angry boy. anywayz I'm working on a long Osamu fic to satiate my burning desire for the onigiri man, it'll be out eventually so enjoy this for now :)

Pairing: Kyotani Kentaro x gn!reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: None ! My run on sentences

Kyotani could count the times he was genuinely confused on one hand. The time he asked his sister if she was being such a bitch because she was on her period and she responded by threatening to push him down the stairs, the time in first-year when the teacher introduced moles during chemistry, and now, you.

Ever since the beginning of second-year, your actions have never failed to leave the spiker in a state of confusion. One day you sat next to him at lunch, smiling kindly before opening your bento, talking about your day while occasionally asking questions. He never answered them, and you just shrugged and continued on.

He didn’t speak to you for the first week, and when he did, he snapped at you, telling you to leave him alone. You just rolled your eyes and told him “Eat your lunch Kyotani-san, you’ll be less cranky afterwards.” (he did feel better, not that he’d ever tell you.) You’d even bring him food every once in a while, usually when he had a game (not that he ever played). Even when he told you that, you’d just shrug and smile softly, “You never know, so you better eat up, just in case.”

He even thought that Yahaba had possibly put you up to it, in some weird attempt to get him to be a better teammate, but when he brought it up to the setter he just looked at Kyotani oddly and asked, “(Y/N)? Is that the person with the earrings? I’ve never talked to them.” So you just apparently just decided one day to befriend him. (Wait, befriend? You’re not actually friends… are you?)

Another odd thing about you, your accessories. While Aoba Johsai is a private school, it is rather lax on its uniform policy. As long as you had some semblance of the uniform on, you were golden. It gave Kyotani the freedom to cut and dye his hair and wear eyeliner, and it gave you the freedom to wear your… earrings? He asked you about them one day, what they were.

You looked at him bemusedly, “Um, they’re earrings Kyo-san.” When he continued to look at you deadpan, you playfully rolled your eyes, “I was joking! I make them myself, see? Today I’m wearing my beetle ones, and I wore my frog ones yesterday! I just get plastic figures and…” He half-listened while you explained your process, but he found himself focusing on you and not your words. He took in the dopey smile on your face, the way your eyes brightened, and how your hands were more animated while talking about your interests. It was… cute. (Wait, cute? When did he think you were cute?) If you saw the slight blush on his face, you didn’t say anything, which he was thankful for.

After months of eating lunch together, and occasionally accompanying you to the train station, Kyotani found himself coming to the confounding conclusion, he liked you. And not in the ‘I tolerate you’ way. He liked you in the ‘almost got in a fight when someone made fun of your hobby’ way or the ‘I get this weird feeling in my chest when I’m not with you, but when I’m with you I get a weird feeling in my stomach’ way. He had no idea what to do, so he turned to one of the only other people he respected, putting his pride aside to ask for help.

“What did you just say?” His sister looked at him like he had just grown another head. He rolled his eyes, patience thinning. “I said, how do I ask someone out?” It took her a few moments to snap out of whatever daze she was in, a Grinch-like smile appearing (at least, that’s how It looked to him), and she leaned forward. “Aww, does Kenta have a crush? Why don’t you tell me about this mystery person and I’ll tell you the best way to ask ‘em out.” He grits his teeth as he begrudgingly obliged.

After a very painful conversation with his older sister that ended with a “Get them something they like, but not something obvious, something that would show you’ve not only listened, but retained what you know about them.” Kyotani grumbled at the memory, he can’t believe he had to go through all that just to be told something he already knows. He shook his head and got back to the task at hand. He looked at the shelf in front of him, pursing his lips as he contemplated on which one to buy. He thought back to what you’ve worn in the past and decided on one, grabbing two packs and going to the checkout.

It took him three days to do it. The first day he forgot them at home, the second day you had a club meeting, and yesterday he just couldn’t do it. He got in his own head and chickened out. But not today. Today as soon as you sat down next to him in the courtyard, in the shade of one of the many trees on campus, Kyotani thrust the packs toward you, refusing to make eye contact as his cheeks dusted pink. You eyed him warily, but took them nonetheless. When you opened them, you gasped softly.

“Kyo! You got these for me?” You took his silence for an answer and he was glad he glanced at your face at that moment. You had the dopiest smile on your face, eyes big and bright, filled with an emotion he knew all too well. His cheeks darkened and he moved his gaze to your earrings, giraffes. You clutched the packs of plastic figurines to your chest before placing them in your bag. He took the moment to take a deep breath, finally able to think with your eyes off of him. He nodded determinedly to himself and when you turned back around you were surprised to find him closer, gaze unwavering.

“(Y/N).” You raised an eyebrow, “That’s me.” He took another deep breath. (Why was this so hard?) “I like you.” Your cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, to match his own, and your smile this time was softer, yet held more emotion behind it. You stared at him for a moment, and he tried, and failed, to not freak out. (Why weren’t you responding? Oh god did he make a mistake? He was going to kill his sister, why did he think she would have good advice she never dates any-) His spiralling thoughts were cut off by the feeling of soft lips on his cheek. It only lasted a moment, the spot you kissed burning as his gaze snapped to yours, finding your face much, much closer than before, noses almost touching.

You whispered his name, breath fanning across his face as he tried to keep his gaze level with yours, to not look at your lips. Though when your eyes flickered to his own his only thought was, fuck it. And so he closed the very short distance between you two, cupping your cheek gently as he kissed you. Your hand circled his wrist lightly as you reciprocated, tilting your head slightly, deepening the kiss. Your lips moved against each other a little messily at first, but quickly finding the right rhythm. You gripped his wrist a little tighter, moving to scoot closer, wanting to eliminate any and all space between you two when-

“MAD DOG-CHAN IS THAT YOU? OH MY GOD ARE YOU KISSING SOMEONE” You broke apart with a gasp, turning toward the noise to see four figures about fifteen feet away, when your eyes focused you could see they were the third-years from the volleyball team, Oikawa standing with his hands on his hips, wide grin ever-present. Kyotani growled, eyes focused on the third-years. You squeezed his wrist, turning your face to kiss his palm. He looked at you and you smiled. You took his hand from your face and intertwined it with your own before turning to the ones responsible for the interruption. You waved with a big smile and the third-years laughed and waved back before continuing on towards the school. You turned back to Kyotani, kissing him lightly again before pulling away, a playful smirk on your face. “Mad Dog-chan?” He groaned, hand not intertwined coming up to cover his face as you laughed.

BONUS---

Practice was just ending when you walked into the gym, having just finished your own club activities. You waved in greeting as you passed other players, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend as you pecked his lips, pulling away slightly with a smile. His arms wrapped around you as he pulled you closer, smiling softly. You pulled away fully after a few moments, allowing him to pack his bag. Oikawa came over while he was changing shoes, throwing an arm over your shoulder casually. “Ah (Y/N)-chan! I see you finally turned in your manager application! Don’t worry, it was mostly for formalities, not just anyone can calm down Mad Dog-chan like you- wait, what are those!” He gripped your shoulders as he manoeuvred you in front of him, looking intently just below your ear, you smiled mischievously. “Do you like them? I was inspired by your nickname for Kenta!” You cupped your earring gently as you showed Oikawa (and the other third-years who wandered over to see what earrings you had in today). They laughed as they took them in, dangling from your ears was a pair of blonde colored dogs, each with exaggerated eyebrows pulled down into a ‘v’ shape crudely drawn on, making the dogs look comically angry. “They’re mad dogs!”

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shinkun · 4 years

Text

bloom: part 2/2 (18+)

aizawa shouta | eraserhead x student!reader

[ read part 1 here ]

word count: 1.8k

genre: alpha/omega, m/f, afab reader, student/teacher, smut with little plot

A late-blooming student finds herself trapped in the school, yearning for someone to ease her unfamiliar, painful urges.

warnings: 18+, smut, omegaverse, rough sex

notes: Thank you for the support on my first piece! Make sure you read it before starting this one.

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You couldn’t tell if his words were supposed to be patronizing, or if it was just the product of being a full-time instructor, showering you in praises to assure you that you were doing things correctly. Either way, it put your mind at ease and although it was hard to believe given his brooding persona, it was very endearing.

Aizawa watched as your chest rhythmically rose up and then fell with each guided breath as you began to lean up to catch up with your surroundings. He couldn’t help but feel enamoured by this new-found beauty you emanated that he hadn’t quite seen before, though it was always in front of him. The way your plush lips parted in the center, the way your eyes so innocently and curiously darted around the room, the way your breasts fell gracefully across your chest, so puffy and swollen from the hormones that proceeded to contaminate the space. You noticed a gentle blush creep across his face that hadn’t revealed itself before.

You took this reaction as an invitation to lunge towards the man. The flame in your core that had temporarily been dulled, had already reignited and was raring to go tenfold. It felt as though something primal had awakened in you, causing your mind to blur and the only way you could find relief, or come back to reality, was to catch that intoxicating, pleasurable high once more.

You locked your arms around Aizawa’s neck as your mouth immediately meshed with his. You closed your eyes and bit down on his bottom lip before exploring his mouth with your eager tongue. His tongue returned the favour, violating your mouth with thick saliva, spreading the remaining flavours of your slick into your own. It was hot and so sloppy.

Aizawa didn’t hesitate before readjusting himself on the bench so that both his legs hung over one side. He grabbed you by the waist with him; his large, calloused hands sinking it’s tips into your sides, but refusing to depart from your mouth. Hot little breaths, fluttered against his face while he effortlessly picked you up and perched you on his lap. You clumsily fiddled with the bottom of his shirt, not wanting to abandon his lips for even a second, but reluctantly parting to attempt to pull it off. He dragged his head back for a moment, that devilish smirk still finding its way to his face before aiding you in ridding him of the top.

Your mind caught up with yourself, if only for a moment, relishing in the man’s physique. Eraserhead’s hero costume did such a good job of disguising your professor as this lanky, grieving figure, ready to pass out at a moment’s notice; of course if he was going to wear the title of hero not only did he have to dress the part, he would have the body of one too. You placed your hand on his chest, gracefully trailing your hands downward; your digits inspecting every ab, every scar, the way that trail of fur lead from his belly down passed his belt. Oh... You paused.

“Ohhhh, no ya don’t.” His eyes narrowed in on you. “Don’t get all shy on me now, sweetheart. Isn’t this what you needed me for?” He teased, lacing his fingers through yours to force your hand to descend farther, causing it to rub up against the stiff, girthy rod pulsating beneath his trousers. You gulped. Any patience Aizawa had pent up for you was long gone by now. “Undo it.” He commanded, eyeballing the utility belt, trailing around his waist. Without hesitation you complied; a subtle tremble flowing through your fingers as you fidgeted with the buckle. The weight of it pulled through the loops of his pants and fell to the floor with a heavy, thud. “Go on…” He persuaded. You let out an eager sigh as you continued, sliding your pretty fingers along the edge of his waistband before pulling it towards you. It didn’t take long for his length to escape from its fabric cage on it’s own accord, his member dripping and twitching with thick, translucent precum.

Aizawa planted his hands on your bare ass, gripping your cheeks with some force to ease you even closer to him. His head cocked back slightly when he felt your naked, well-prepped entrance, slide up against his shaft. His fingers pressed hard into your flesh, as he released a few impatient pants from behind clenched teeth, the feeling of your moist folds rubbing against him made him quake.

This unfamiliar reception escaping his body made your core melt even further. You couldn’t wait anymore and quite frankly, neither could he. You delicately planted a hand around the base of his cock, the other on his stiff abs to keep you steady, curling your fingers around the hot flesh, before slowly straddling his length. Aizawa’s fingers dug into you in anticipation, you knew there would be marks left there later. You rose up on your knees, aligning the top of his reddened head with your entry. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you as you hesitantly began taking it in.

“Fuuuuck..k..” Aizawa let out a long drawn out groan as you sunk on top of his member, relishing in the way your tight, heated walls were able to engulf him. The guttural sigh of approval exhaling from his mouth made you shudder more than anything he’d done up until this point. He bit down on his lip as his hands worked their way up your spine, one above the other, blissfully pulling you down against him; his rut now beginning to overtake his mind. He pulled you against him so that your chests were touching, caging you against him with his muscular arms.

A shriek escaped from your mouth as his cock prodded deep into you suddenly; the position you were in causing it to violate parts that you’d never been able to reach. It was thick and painful yet somehow equally exhilarating. On any normal day you were sure his cock would’ve felt like it was ripping you in half, but this heat made him slide right into you almost effortlessly, as if your dripping cunt was made for him. He held his position for a moment, his hesitation making you squirm impatiently beneath him.

“Haa..zawa…” was the only thing you were able to stammer out in protest as your little hands explored his back, reaching up, twirling and pulling through his dark locks, nails baring into the skin on his back. You couldn’t keep them still and were only able to whine and pant in plea for him to keep moving. It was almost torturous, being stretched out around his girth, feeling the heat and the occasional twitch from it melt your insides but not being allowed to move. God, he loved to tease you.

He gave your temple a soft but reassuring kiss before pumping his hips up and into you, slowly but rhythmically. You grasped him, a little less frantically now, as he finally began to cradle you into him.

Aizawa’s breath began to pick up in time with his pace, pulling out a little more of his member before thrusting it back in each time. The noises coming from your lower halves were lewd and wet, echoing throughout the vacant locker room.

“H..How’re you doing, baby?” He asked between grunts, his pelvis making contact even harder than before.

You were basically salivating by this point, his cock curing those aching pains that once plagued your gut. You’d barely noticed that his voice acknowledged you, you were so clouded by your overwhelmed senses.

“G..ood..it’s so good…” Your voice belted out amidst shaky whines, eyes rolled back. “Good.” He grumbled while quickening his stride even further, skin viciously slapping against skin. His hands trailed down your body, stroking down your silky, sweat covered skin before settling beneath your thighs. His hands gripped on to them as he suddenly rose up to his feet, using his height as leverage to drill into you even further. Almost instinctively, your legs locked around his midriff, aiding in holding you in place. It didn’t take long before you felt an intense heat build up in your stomach, making your insides flutter. Shouta huffed as your messy walls clenched around him, sensing the edge of your climax. He kept his consistent cadence, slamming into your tight hole, as your body arched in his arms.

“‘Atta girl, show me how much you love it.. Sing for me.” He praised, his own breath becoming harder to keep under control. Your toes curled as you let out a series of orgasmic squeals, the powerful rush of pleasure overtaking you. Aizawa leaned in, his scruffy chin rubbing against you as he littered your neck with gentle kisses, never once slowing down. “Mhnn…” He groaned up against your throat as you panted inconsistently, riding it out as cum slid down your backside.

“..Now it’s your turn to make Sensei feel good. You think you can handle it?” You swallowed hard, barely having recovered from the sensation that just shook through your body. You were already overwhelmed by his cock sloshing around your newly sensitive pussy, but refused to decline and could feel he wasn’t close behind. You merely let out a quick nod as you buried your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his intoxicating sweat mixed musk for support.

Aizawa turned to his side, shoving you up against the wall; your frame hitting it a bit too carelessly. Your fingers tangled through his raven hair, grasping on to it and his back as if for dear life, his hips relentlessly bucking up against you.

That’s when you noticed it, the way it felt like your entrance was having trouble keeping up with him. The bottom of his cock was beginning to swell causing you to wince and writh beneath him. “I warned you.” He could feel you cringe as the bulbous base of his dick forced itself inside. You let out an unexpected gasp at the pressure, trying to make room for his feral member. Shouta pinned you against his pelvis before relieving himself with a final few pumps, precipitously allowing his cock to paint the inside of your swollen snatch, locking you both in place.

Everything burned, and tingled, and before you knew it this feeling of extreme fullness made you escape to your own final climax; his cum making your head spin as another shudder and wail slipped from between your lips. You shivered in his grasp as each other's juices mixed deep within you, occasionally bubbling and dripping down your thighs.

“Mmm…” He gently stroked your scalp while supporting you with one arm, his mouth creeping up beside your ear. “We’re going to be like this for a while.” The air from his voice alone causing a chill to ripple through your body and a soft whimper to emerge in reply as you sunk into his chest.

#bnha #bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #eraserhead x reader #teacher x student #omegaverse #a/b/o #alpha x omega #bnha smut #mha x reader #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #boku no hero fanfic #myfic #bnhabookclub #this is 100000% sex #you asked for it

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tomtenadia · 3 years

Text

My warrior queen

Rowaelin month day 7 - Fairytale AU

So, this is a bit a strange fairytale. I am not a fan of Disney style princesses so I went for something different. I wasn’t even going to write this prompt but then inspiration hit and honestly I had to rein it in because otherwise this was going to be a 10k words one shot.

To be honest I am not even sure if it follows the prompt but here you go...

I hope you will enjoy it.

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

In the northern part of Erilea there stood a land of unforgiving winters and majestic mountains. The place was called Terrasen and it was ruled by a queen. Her name was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. It was rumoured that she was the most stunning woman in the whole continent and that she had a long line of suitors trying to win her hand. So far, no man had ever accomplished the task. No one seemed to be a match enough for the fiery woman. She had standards, very high apparently and rumour had it that she rejected many potential rich men from other kingdoms as soon as they mentioned they would cover her in gold, lavish dresses and fine jewellery.

She liked her luxury, fine dresses and jewellery, but she if she had to settle down she would not to do that with a man who would treat her like a prize to show around at parties.

No, she was looking for a man who treated her as an equal, and was not scared of a woman who could defend herself and have a high skilled competence with knives, swords and bows.

Far too many men had been horrified by her past times.

Tough. She was not going to give that up, because they thought it was very un-lady like. Screw it. She was the queen.

It was a balmy afternoon and she was in the training yard with her sword master Brullo, practicing her sword skills, when Ress, one of her guards interrupted them. At his side stood a tall man with silver hair and clothed in a dark green cloak. The stranger was broad-shouldered and incredibly tall. Definitely close to 2m. His eyes were a beautiful pine green and the man emanated a certain air of danger. She could tell he was a born and bred warrior and that sparring with him might be quite amazing if he accepted. A rival with a challenge. Brullo was skilled but she had a feeling he was not pushing her as much he could just because she was the queen. Truth was, she wanted to be pushed to the limit. Wanted a sparring partner who ignored her title and just treated her as an equal warrior.

“Your majesty,” said Ress, kneeling in front of her “I present you with your new captain of the guard.”

Aelin sheathed her sword at her side and took a step closer, circling around the new arrived and taking stock of his frame.

“What’s your name, captain?”

“Rowan Whitethorn, ma’am.”

A gasp surged from both Brullo and Ress for the lack of use of her title, but Aelin smirked, loving that already. Maybe he was the one.

“Ress told me you come highly recommended.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She is your queen,” shouted Brullo from behind her “show some respect, you oaf.”

Aelin turned and glared at her master at arms.

“Brullo, Ress, leave me alone with the captain.” Not a request but an order.

“Yes, your majesty.” They both bowed and walked away.

Aelin grinned then once they were gone sat on the edge of the fence and grabbed the knife she kept on her thigh and started peeling her apple “you must excuse them. Brullo might kill in the name of lèse-majesté.” She explained, taking a bite of her fruit, “I would just recommend you to use my title in public. When we are alone and in training you can call me ma’am or Aelin.” She stared at him and saw surprise in his stark features “in training? I am your captain of the guard, ma’am.”

She got off the fence and walked to him, flipping the knife in her hands and Rowan approved of her skills. Maybe that assignment would not suck as he feared. It looked like he did not have to guard a weak queen who mostly used him as an errand boy, but one that appeared fierce and capable of handling a sword probably just as much as him.

“I know, captain, but I am looking for a sparring partner who would actually present a challenge. One who is not afraid of inflicting a few bruises to his queen. Brullo is good but he holds back a bit too much for my tastes.” She looked up at him, meeting his green eyes. Gods, the man was stunning as well.

“As long as you promise not to put me in irons if I scratch your esteemed highness.” His eyes glinted with mirth and she laughed hard.

She walked away and then turned and threw her knife at him.

Rowan grabbed it with a very easy gesture.

Gods, he was all of a sudden drawn to her. She threw a knife at him and his male nature found the gesture a turn on. He could not deny that the queen in front of him was stunning, probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“Good reflexes,” then she threw the apple, Rowan grabbed it and took a bite, never averting his gaze.

“Meet me here tomorrow at nine, captain.” And she walked away swaying her hips on purpose.

Rowan looked at her walk away and thought that his new assignment was not bad after all.

Back in her quarters, Aelin shed her boots and started removing all the weapons stashed on her body.

“Do you really need all that metal on you?” Asked a voice at her back. Aelin turned and saw Lysandra, her lady in waiting.

“You never know who is ready to attack you on the streets, I need to be ready to defend myself.”

And threw a few knives on the bed.

“Maybe if you actually stopped wandering around Orynth on you own and used your guards? They are here to protect you, you know? That’s why you pay them.”

Aelin shedded her fighting leathers and remained in her undergarments while Lysandra held out one of those horrible gowns she hated so much.

“And where’s the fun in that?”

“You are the Queen.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. She loved Lysandra like a sister but the woman was a proper lady and had been trying for years to teach Aelin to be less wild and more approachable to men. As the queen it was expected of her to marry and then sire heirs to the throne. She had no patience for all that crap.

“Rumour has it that your new captain of the guard is quite hot.” Lysandra tied the corset and Aelin whimpered at the damn cage “Elide has seen him with Ress.”

“Hopefully he is not scared of sparring with me like a true warrior.”

Lysandra was about to reply but Aelin lifted a finger “I don’t care.” And walked away. Ready spend another afternoon in a tedious council meeting.

The next morning she almost ran to the training grounds. Once at the site she noticed Rowan was already there, sitting on the ground and sharpening his sword. He had trousers tucked in his high boots and a white shirt with the first three buttons open. The sleeves were rolled to the elbows and a stunning tattoo in the old language swirled around his left arm and she could notice a hint of it on his chest as well, from the opening in his shirt. She stood in silence staring at his powerful arms running the wet stone on the length of the sword and her treacherous mind pictured those powerful hands on her body.

She cleared her voice and saw Rowan raised his head “Good, you are here.” In a powerful move he stood.

“So, captain. Where do we start this morning?”

“We’ll do some conditioning to strengthen your muscles a bit, then we can choose sword or knives. The choice is yours.”

In private he did as she had told him and didn’t use any title and she was grateful for that.

“I’ll take the sword.”

For the first hour he put her through a gruelling series of exercises that, according to him, would reinforce the muscles in her arms, her core and her legs. She was not a frail lady. After years of training she had build her body to be quite toned and alethic but apparently she could do a bit better.

“Good, take a break.” He sat at her side and she drank from her canteen.

“So, how did you end up here in Terrasen?”

He looked at her quizzically.

“Your accent. You are definitely not from here. Wendlyn, perhaps?”

Rowan nodded “Born and bred in Doranelle.”

“I visited a few times. Very hot place.” She looked at him “why Terrasen?”

He was silent for a moment as if to ponder his answer “I needed a change of scenery. I have been here a few years already. Mostly worked as a hired guard for some rich lords. Then I saw that the palace was looking for a new captain of the guard and here I am.”

Aelin knew there was more to the story, but she didn’t push.

“Let’s go, captain.” She said standing up again “show me how to fight like a real warrior.”

And Rowan did not hold back. For over an hour they trained relentlessly and Aelin was now sporting some cuts on her arms, a bruise and a limp from when she slipped on the ground after Rowan disarmed her for the umpteenth time. She realised at the end of the session that she was not even remotely skilled as she thought.

“We better stop here for today.”

“No,” she grunted, still sitting on the cold ground exhausted.

“Aelin,” and the way he said her name made her heart race “You need to rest for the day and have a healer see to those cuts.”

“Thank you for not holding back, for not treating me as if I was made of glass.”

Rowan placed his hand on her shoulder to steady her as she tried to stand, when a jolt went through both at the contact.

Their heads snapped up in surprise and their gaze met.

Aelin’s heart started to race madly. What had just happened? Was that the bond? She heard about that. All the girls dreamed of eventually find their mate, to look a man in the eye and feel the bond snap into place. She thought it was just a kids fairytale but as she looked at Rowan’s expression she knew he was thinking about the same thing.

They were mates.

He was her mate and she was his.

As she limped back to her quarters she could not stop thinking about what had happened with Rowan. How was that possible? And how was she going to solve that? According to the stories, once the bond was in place it was difficult to resist and painful to ignore, but what if Rowan didn’t want to be her mate? He’d be tied to a queen, making him king consort. It was far too much to force on someone. It was in moment like this in which she wished her mum was still alive. She’d need her support right now.

“Your majesty, what happened to you?” Said a horrified voice at her back. She turned and saw Chaol, one of her guards.

“Oh, I had an amazing training session with the captan.”

She saw disgust in his face “did he hurt you?”

Aelin rolled her eyes “No, well technically yes, but we were training so it’s okay.”

“You are the queen. He cannot treat you like that.”

Aelin was fuming when a familiar figure joined them in the courtyard.

Chaol drew his sword, pointing it at Rowan’s throat and Aelin felt a surge of rage in her “Put the sword down.” She commanded.

“Majesty, he hurt you.”

“It’s called training,” said Rowan, moving Chaol’s sword aside in a bored gesture. His eyes on hers, ignoring the man in front of him.

“She is your queen.”

“She gave me an order. I followed it. If she wants to punish me for hurting her during training I will take anything she will inflict upon me. Until that moment I would order you, as your captain, to go back to you patrol, or I’ll have you scrub the stables.”

Chaol stormed away back to his post and Rowan and Aelin remained alone.

“Rowan, we should talk—” he shook his head.

“Not here.”

Aelin nodded “let’s go to my library. No one is allowed in there. We will have privacy.”

He followed her and once in the room she locked the door for good measure and then collapsed on the sofa exhausted.

Rowan looked around the room and stared amazed and the astounding collection of books. The bookcases where floor to ceiling high and there must have been thousands of books.

“The perks of being the queen. I have unlimited funds to gave in in my obsession for books.” Then he turned and saw a piano against the window “do you play?”

Aelin nodded and he moved a step back in her direction “Rowan…”

“We are mates.” He said in a gentle tone that disarmed her.

“You don’t have to…” she had no idea how to tackle the issue “Rowan, I will not force you into something you don’t want.” She sighed “I thought it was just a fairytale mothers spun to their daughters before bed. But I felt it. The power of the bond, curse through me when you touched me.” She stood and took a step to him “and when Chaol had his sword at your throat I was ready to rip his head off if he touched you.”

“Aelin, it’s up to you, I am your subject and if you decide to follow the bond I will not reject you.”

She looked at him and for an instant she had a glimpse of another Rowan, one that under the warrior face was in fact a loving and caring man. Her heart ached. She could not force something on him that he didn’t want.

Rowan went on his knees in front of her and bowed his head “If I accept the bond I will be your king consort.” He looked up at her “I am just a warrior, with no power or gold to offer or alliances. Accepting me would be a very bad move for a queen. I have nothing to offer you.”

Aelin kneeled in front of him and took his face in her hands “For the first time, I found a man who is willing to fight me like a warrior. A man who treats me like an equal, something I have been searching for a very long time. A man who is not afraid of me or who does not feel the need to tame my wild side. You are that man, Rowan.” She caressed the stark lines of his face, the gesture feeling natural all of a sudden “It’s your decision. Not a command from a queen.”

“It would be political suicide.”

She laughed “you let me deal with the council and the politicians. It’s my life. And I think my citizens might like the idea that I choose one of them as their king.”

Rowan nodded.

“This is new, for both of us. We barely know each other, but if you want I would like to get to know you better.”

“It’d be my honour, my queen.”

She smiled at him “but we are not stopping my training. I am not giving up on that. You keep your territorial male nonsense at bay.”

He nodded and Aelin kissed his forehead “thank you, captain.”

Two weeks had passed and Aelin had continued her life as normal. Rowan had been true to his words and kept training with her and she realised that under his supervision her skills were improving, to the point that once she had even managed to disarm him. She had celebrated by jumping into his arms for a hug. One that he did not deny her.

They had also started to spend time alone in the library and learn about each other. He had told her the real reason why he moved. A raid had attacked Doranelle, setting the city on fire. He was not quick enough and his family died in the huge fire and some of his friends too. So he had decided to help for a while, but as soon as the worst was over he had left Doranelle.

Aelin had heard about the raid. She had contacted the royal family there and offered her help, but they had been proud and replied with a no thank you.

Slowly they had also been getting closer, feeling the bond between them getting stronger with each passing day. And with it its side effects.

Aelin one day had almost put a woman called Remelle in irons when she saw her flirting with Rowan while he was guarding the throne room. He had ignored her but Aelin had felt jealousy spread like a wildfire. Through the bond she felt the same from him during a meeting in the throne room. As captain of the guard he was at her side on the throne and he had to suffer through a parade of men walking to Aelin and promising her riches beyond imagination and power.

You’d better look interested he had mused through the bond. A nifty trick that had appeared very recently.

I am disappointed that no one so far had offered me a unicorn

Aelin threw a sneaky glance at Rowan and saw him fighting the smirk threatening to appear on his face.

She tried not to smile either, it was not polite.

They hadn’t told anything to anyone about them being mates. It was all still too new and they needed time to adjust, so she had to suffer the tedious courtship from men who were as interesting as a bowl of broth with no salt. But they had decided to tell soon. The solstice ball was almost upon them and she was going to announce that she had found her mate and that all other men could just fuck off for all she cared. Her council was going to kill her, but she couldn’t care less. Rowan was her mate and even if they hadn’t even kissed or been intimate, she could not deny how strong the pull between them was becoming. Even being away from him was getting hard.

While she left the throne room, Rowan stepped at her side, taking his place as he usually did. Two more guards were trailing behind them at a distance.

“Are you getting me my unicorn, captain?”

“I’d do everything in my power to make you happy, but I think they really are a legend.”

“Everything?” She looked at him with a wicked grin “well, I need more training, captain. And it’s an order.”

She said the last sentence out loud and Chaol looked at them in disappointment. Her guards and maids had not appreciated the marks that training left on her. Lysandra complaining that a lady should not turn up for court with a bandaged arm and a limp.

Aelin ignored the protests relentlessly.

During training Rowan never gave her special treatment. Not even now that they were mates and she respected him so much for that.

They had been training with knives and close contact when she did manage to win an encounter and Rowan lost his balance and they both tumbled on the ground. Aelin on top of him. Her face had smashed on his chest and she inhaled sharply his scent of pine and snow. Rowan smelled like home, like Terrasen. She looked up at him and his expression was curious. That was the closest they had ever been. Rowan had been a proper gentleman and always been respectful of her, especially when alone in the library.

But now… now she wanted him to grab her in his arms, rip off her clothes and make her forget her name.

Some of her thoughts must have trickled through the bond because his stare grew lustful. Her eyes landed on his lips and a moment later he was kissing her. And rutting gods, she almost combusted on the spot. The kiss was not gentle, she could taste the desire in him. Aelin’s hand were in his hair and pulled him closer and felt his arms tighten around her back.

Rowan had tried to be respectful and not to give in to the instinct that had slowly been taking over him recently. With the passing of days the bond between them had become much stronger and he found himself needing her. To wake up in the middle her smelling lemon verbena and feeling an insane need for her. He knew that was the downside of a new mating bond. It would drive him insane until he could finally claim her. But he would not rush her.

He was still of the opinion that he was her worst choice, he had tried again to convince her that choosing him was a political mistake. That as queen she should think about alliances. But Aelin had always refused to listen, saying that she was not going to marry a stranger just for the sake of an alliance. She was not a romantic and kept repeating her that they were mates and the council could not stop that. She had told him of her plan of announcing their bind at the solstice ball. The idea scared him but he would follow her.

***

Solstice was upon them and the castle was buzzing for the celebrations. The guests had started to arrive and to gather in the ballroom.

Rowan was posted outside Aelin’s quarters, ready to escort her to the ballroom.

Two weeks had gone by since they kissed on the training grounds and since then they had been barely able to keep their hands off each other when they were alone.

Rowan would go as far as to admit that feelings had started to develop for her. Deep, strong feelings.

“So, who is going to be at your arm tonight at the ball?” Asked Lysandra while dressing Aelin. She had chosen a deep green gown with laces in silver to match Terrasen colours. Her hair was tied in a braid that was then tied in a complicated fashion on her head. And on top of it her tiara. She was not going to a ball with her crown. At her neck Lysandra had clasped a necklace with a pendant a kingsflame. Her mother had left that for her and Aelin would wear it on special occasions.

“It’s a surprise,” replied Aelin with a wicked grin. She had managed to convince Rowan to agree to dance with her.

“Oh, is it one of the lords?”

“Are you going with Aedion?” She changed the topic.

“Yes, as soon as you are ready I will join him. If you are okay.”

Aelin turned and hugged her friend “of course. I want you to enjoy the evening and if you end up spending the night in Aedion’s quarters I will not complain.”

Lysandra blushed “you are ready.”

Aelin stared at her image in the mirror and was looking forward to Rowan’s reaction.

Rowan heard the door open and jumped to attention, then saw Aelin step away from the big doors and he was sure his heart stopped for a moment. Her gown matched his uniform in shade of green. She was stunning, she was the most perfect creature he had ever set eyes on.

Stop staring, captain. We need to maintain the ruse a bit longer.

Rowan looked at her and nodded briefly “shall we go, my queen? Your court awaits you.”

While they walked she could see Rowan scanning the area “relax, captain.”

“Aelin, my job is to keep you safe. Both as your mate and your captain. And might I say that your idea of inviting the citizens to the festivities is a dangerous one?”

Aelin sighed. He had raised his concerns every single day since she had explained to him the tradition. On the solstice the castle had always been open to everyone. The ground would host a fair with vendor and some stalls. The ballroom and the banquet hall were the only two room open to everyone. She had explained that her father had started the tradition and that the solstice was a big thing in Terrasen and she had continued such celebrations as a legacy to the late king.

Rowan had yielded but she could feel he was nervous.

“Have you given your guards rotations so they can enjoy the festivities as well?”

He nodded “and I told the vendor selling alcohol that they are not allowed to sell it to any of the guards. If they do I’ll take their licence.”

At the door of the ballroom he saw Chaol and Ress and Rowan nodded to them and the two men opened the doors.

The ballroom was incredible. Metres and metres of fairy light adorned the walls instead of the big candelabra. Snowflake shaped decorations hung from the ceiling and spruce and holly adorned the big windows.

Aelin stepped inside and everyone pulled aside and bowed. In the crowd she spotted aristocracy and citizens alike.

Once in the centre of the ballroom she turned and Rowan stepped at her side. Hands behind his back and back straight.

He was nervous. His life was about to change but as he looked at her smiling at her people, he realised that if his life had her in it, maybe it wasn’t going to be so scary after all.

Aelin stared at all the people gathered around her and tried so hard not to stare too hard at Rowan. He had his uniform of captain of the guard, the one reserved for special occasions. The deep green of the fabric matching his eyes and the silver of the trimmings at the hem accompanied his hair. He was stunning.

No improper thoughts, my queen.” He told her, sensing where her mind had wandered.

As if you restrained yours a few minutes ago when you saw me. I must admit that the sparring room surrounded by weapons is a massive turn on.

Rowan cleared his voice at her side and she tried not to laugh.

“Good evening dear citizens of Terrasen and thank you for joining us tonight for this solstice celebrations. Like every year we follow the tradition started by my father and gather all together here and have fun. This year, however I have a special announcement that I hope will make this day a bit more special.” She then spoke and noticed her council member look at her with a puzzled expression. Lysandra was holding Aedion’s hand and looked curious. Her cousin was downright terrified.

I am at your side was all that Rowan said through the bond.

“I want to use this night of festivities to announce that I have found my mate.” A chorus of gasps echoed in the room.

Aelin took Rowan’s hand and pulled him closer to her side “Captain Rowan Whitethorn is my mate. We have accepted the bond a few days ago.”

They had discussed the whole thing in the library. Both had confessed that feeling were starting to appear. The attraction was definitely there and Aelin had confessed that the idea of not having him at her side pained her. Rowan had made the same admission. She then had explained to him that if he was going to accept the bond he’d become king consort and he’d have to drop his job as captain of the guard. Rowan had accepted with the condition that she would keep on training with him. Aelin had, of course, accepted. And after that they had officially accepted the bond and that night he had claimed her and she claimed him, body and soul. They were now one and there was nothing separating them.

“My queen,” said Darrow, the head of her council, bowing to her “you should have consulted the council before making such an important decision. Also, may I suggest that the captain might not be the most suitable candidate?”

Aelin was raging, but as queen she had learned to restrain her wild side. In public, at least.

“Darrow, thank you for your concern but this is my life. Who I choose as my king consort it’s not your concern. I told you all before, I will not be sold in marriage for the sake of an alliance. Rowan is my mate. You cannot ignore the bond.” Aelin looked at Lysandra and saw that the woman was sobbing happily.

Then cheers erupted from the crowd, the common citizens, the ones who approved their queen choosing one of them.

“All hail the queen,” shouted one of them “all hail the king,” chanted another one and slowly everyone joined in, Lys and Aedion included. Her councilmen were the only ones who stood silent. Oh well, that was a battle for another day.

Rowan went to his knee and took her hands, bowing his head at the same time “my queen, I have no riches, no power, no land to offer you. All I can give you is my loyalty and my love. Until my last day. To whatever end.” He recited out loud for everyone to hear.

Aelin squeezed his hand and pulled him up. They were equals, something she had told him over and over again. She would not allow him to bow to her or to feel diminished. He was her world.

“To whatever end .” She whispered back while holding his face and kissing him deeply in front of everyone.

Her buzzard.

Her equal.

Her friend.

Her mate.

#rowaelinmonth #day 7 #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction

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pitviperofdoom · 3 years

Text

Me: I’ve got some time and motivation on my hands! Maybe I should work on one of my immediate projects, like putting the finishing touches on my RQBB piece, or making some headway on my TMA BB piece, or editing the next chapter of the DND AU...

Me: *writes a 5k opener for an au that’s basically The Owl House*

------

“Again.”

Jon held still and kept his eyes shut. Everything ached, his head most of all; the slightest movement sent lightning bolts of pain through his skull. Even now it throbbed like a quiet threat behind his closed eyes.

“Get up, Jon.”

He couldn’t. He was done. Wasn’t that obvious?

“I don’t have time to indulge you. I know you can do more. Now get up.”

He couldn’t.

“Open your eyes, Jonathan.”

That was a simpler request, at least. He could do that much, couldn’t he? He could open his eyes. It barely counted as moving.

Dutifully, Jon forced his eyelids apart. Punishment was swift; this time the pain was so intense that he couldn’t even scream, only curl up tighter on the floor with a strangled whimper. The polished tiles were cold against his face, but they did little to soothe the ache. Warm liquid trickled from his closed eyes; when had he started crying?

Across the room, Jonah sighed. “Already? We’ve barely scratched the surface, Jon. I expected another hour from you, at minimum.” Footsteps echoed against the floor, and Jon tensed in spite of the pain, but the hands that picked him up were gentle. “Come now. Our work is too important for me to indulge you like this. For Titan’s sake, your endurance was better when you were a mere child.”

Jon kept his eyes shut, and hated the part of himself that wanted to curl up again, apologize, and promise to do better. The ache was beginning to recede, just barely, but he kept his eyes shut. If he opened them too soon, then Jonah would take it as a sign that he wasn’t as tired as he behaved.

“Can you make your own way back?” Jonah asked, steadying him by the shoulders. “Or do you need help?”

Jon’s blood ran cold. That was a dangerous question. If he chose to go under his own power, then Jonah might change his mind about letting him stop. But he didn’t want help. His limbs felt like wet clay, and there wasn’t a single muscle in his body that didn’t hurt, but at least they were still his.

“I—” HIs voice cracked in his dry throat. “I can—I can make my own way. Th-thank you, Jonah.” He held his breath.

After far too long for comfort, Jonah sighed again, heavy with disappointment. “Alright, Jon. Get some rest. We’ll do better in the morning.”

“Yes, Jonah,” Jon replied, faint with relief, and waited.

He was met with silence.

“Have you changed your mind?” Jonah said, after a moment. “If you’d like to continue…”

“No,” Jon replied. “No, I’m—thank you. For letting me stop. Just…” He held his hands out in a blind plea. “It’s my eyes, so I need…”

“Ah, of course, how could it have slipped my mind?” He heard a faint rustle from Jonah’s robe, before warm, smooth wood was pressed into his waiting hands. Jon swallowed another sob of relief. “There you are, then.”

“Thank you,” Jon repeated, and turned toward where he hoped the exit was.

The shape in his hands shifted. Smooth wood became downy softness, before the feeling left his hands and landed gently against his face. Soft wings brushed his cheeks, tiny legs grasped the bridge of his nose, and the world returned to him.

He hadn’t opened his eyes, but he could see the room once more: the library’s main room, a vast space where he and Jonah did most of their work. He could see Jonah as well, watching him with the weary patience of a parent indulging a child’s tantrum.

Jon looked away, muttered his thanks again, and limped out of the room.

Even with a closed door between them, the weight of Jonah’s scrutiny never left. Not helping the matter was the wallpaper that, currently, was openly tracking his progress through the countless eyes hidden in the intricate pattern.

That was the downside to navigating with these eyes; when he used his own, he couldn’t see the Beholding that soaked every nook and cranny of the manor. At least then he could pretend that closed doors and distance meant something.

It was a long way from the research wing to his quarters—their quarters—and Jon had to pause several times for a moment’s rest. By the time he reached the last flight of stairs, he was shaking from exhaustion, and strongly considering the benefits of simply curling up in a corner of the hallway and falling asleep on the floor. Jonah certainly kept the carpets plush enough.

His borrowed vision went hazy for a moment, and soft wings beat gently against his face. Jon braced himself against the wall as another powerful headache washed over him, closed eyes be damned. His face was wet with tears again.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Alright. Just a bit farther.”

The mask of wings left his face in a sudden flurry of beating, leaving him blind again. Jon bit back a cry of alarm and stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. He wouldn’t leave—surely he wouldn’t. He’d be back. Maybe he was just…

Before he could work himself into a proper panic, he heard the door at the top of the stairs creak open. Familiar footsteps came tumbling down the steps.

“Fuck, Jon,” a familiar, wonderfully welcome voice breathed out, and Gerry caught him before he could fall.

Jon made the rest of the journey leaning heavily against him, blind and trusting. He could feel gentle puffs of air against his face, fluttering wings that didn’t quite touch, and smiled gratefully.

Eventually Gerry deposited him in a chair and went to retrieve something—from the potions stand, going by the clatter of glass vials. Less than a minute later, one of them was pressed into his hand.

“Here. Need help drinking?”

Jon shook his head. “I can manage. Thanks.” He downed the potion and was rewarded by a receding headache. His eyelids were so sticky that he had to massage them open, and his vision came back in blurry patches, one piece of the room at a time: A single table and chair by the kitchenette. Two beds shoved together in the far corner. The sparsest alchemy array on the Isles. Gerry's face, watching him with open concern.

"Do you know how much you lost?" Gerry asked.

"What?"

Gerry gestured to his face, and Jon mirrored the motion until he found rough, sticky stains streaked down his face. He was confused until some of it crumbled off at his touch, and he looked down to find flecks of congealed blood clinging to his fingertips. "That's probably not good."

"Yeah, Jon," Gerry sighed, short and forceful with held back anger. "Probably isn't." He moved off to the kitchenette, and returned moments later with a damp towel.

Jon cleaned his face, sighing in relief at the coolness against the lingering ache. He put the now-soiled towel aside, eyes finally clear, and caught the briefest glimpse of amber eye spots on coppery wings before their owner alighted gently on the side of his head.

"Yes, of course," he said, reaching up to stroke one of the moth's large downy wings. His familiar nuzzled his finger in return. "Thank you, Atlas."

"He alright?" Gerry asked grimly, already checking the moth for any sign of damage.

"Jonah had him for the entire session," Jon replied. "No overt threats today, he just… didn't let him go until we were finished. So. Could be worse."

"Could be a lot better," Gerry muttered.

It will be, he carefully didn't say. Soon, it will be.

It wasn't safe to talk like that. Not here. Not yet.

After Gerry coaxed food into him, Jon crawled beneath the covers and curled up as small as he could manage. Patched and mended blankets didn’t offer any more protection than the walls of this place, but huddling in the dark made it easier to pretend that Jonah couldn’t see him here. It was the only way he could make himself sleep, these days.

When he awoke to Gerry’s gentle shaking, Jon found that he hadn’t moved so much as a finger in his sleep.

Without a word, he slipped out from under the blanket. The light in their quarters was dimming as twilight approached. Gerry barely glanced up from the book he was reading at the table as Jon shuffled to the kitchenette and the kettle.

Casting the spell was a simple matter of well-practiced sleight of hand, disguised beneath mundane activities. One spell circle traced idly by Gerry’s finger against the page as he turned it, the other drawn in the air as Jon waved away the steam. They never did it the same way twice, nor with any regularity by day or week or month. If it became a pattern, then Jonah might catch it.

The spell slipped into place smoothly, with none of the clumsy ripples of their earliest attempts, and Jon let out a shaky sigh. They had to assume that Jonah was always watching—but now, if he was, all he would see was Gerry reading at the table, and Jon drinking tea at the kitchenette. It was a routine they had set long ago. It was exactly what Jonah would expect to see.

Titan willing, it would be enough. They couldn’t afford to slip up now.

“It’s almost ready,” Gerry assured him. “Everything’s in place. All we have to do is wait for the moon’s alignment to power it.”

Jon ran his hand absently over his arm, scratching at the pockmark scars that dotted his skin. Some of the ingredients had cost them dearly to procure. They likely wouldn’t get another chance on any of them.

When he looked at Gerry again, his friend was watching him with something indescribably soft in his face. “It’ll work, Jon.”

“And if we’re caught?” Jon blurted. “We can’t hide this ritual behind false visions. He’ll sense it no matter what his eyes tell him.”

“Once it’s cast, it won’t matter,” Gerry said with grim satisfaction. “We’ll have our out. And where it leads, Jonah won’t have any of the power he does here.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, nails digging deep into his palms.

Gerry’s eyes never left him. “What’s on your mind?”

Swallowing against the thickness in his throat, Jon struggled to find an answer. “Is it—is it wrong that I’m afraid?”

“Jon, no—”

“I didn’t want to be here,” Jon went on. “I never wanted—ever since I came here, I’ve wanted to leave. And now we finally have a chance. Why am I afraid?” Gerry opened his mouth like he was about to reply, but Jon couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. “It’s not like I’m safe here. Today wasn’t even that bad, compared to… it wasn't that bad.” A bitter, ragged laugh tore itself from his throat. "He pushed me until I bled from my eyes, and he was happy to keep pushing, and all I can think is it wasn't that bad. Why am I afraid to leave?" His voice trailed off. Atlas’s wings fluttered against his head, mirroring his agitation.

Instead of answering, Gerry held out his arms. Jon walked into them without hesitation.

“You were a kid.” With his head on Gerry’s shoulder, his hand to his heart, and Gerry’s arms holding him close, Jon felt surrounded by his friend’s voice.

“I was nearly eighteen,” Jon protested. “Hardly a child.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve been here too long not to be scared of what’s out there,” Gerry reminded him. “And it’s not like we’re escaping out the front door. We don’t really know what we’ll find on the other side.”

Jon’s hand curled into a fist against Gerry’s chest, and his other arm tightened around him. If they did this right, then their exit strategy would dump them into an entirely new world, of which Jon had only ever read old books or heard second and third-hand stories. A fresh wave of apprehension seized him.

Not for the first time, he let himself be desperately, pathetically grateful that he wasn’t doing this alone.

“Can you keep it together?” Gerry asked, still quietly gentle. “I just—I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But I can’t do this alone. This is a two-person job at least, and—”

“Of course.” Reluctantly, Jon pulled back to look him in the eye. “I’m not going to give up at the last moment. You can rely on me.”

Gerry smiled. That was a rare thing, these days. All the more reason not to lose his nerve. Once they got out, Jon was going to spend the rest of their lives giving Gerry every reason to keep doing it.

“I know,” Gerry replied. “Now come on. Let’s finish prepping before we run out of twilight.”

***

“You know,” Gerry whispered late at night, as Jon settled himself into the curve of his body. “By the time I left home, I’d passed up five chances to escape.”

Jon listened in silence. He was never quite sure what to say when Gerry talked about how he grew up. Nothing felt like the right thing to say. Luckily, Gerry never seemed to expect him to say anything at all.

“Those are just the ones I was looking out for, at the time,” Gerry went on. “Couldn’t tell you how many I just didn’t see.”

“You were a kid,” Jon murmured back.

Gerry scoffed into Jon’s hair, and Jon smiled. “Don’t you turn my words back on me. How dare you.” A moment later, “But… you’re not wrong. I was a kid. She was all I knew. I didn’t know who I was without her.”

Safely out of Gerry’s line of vision, Jon allowed himself a thoughtful frown. It was different for him, wasn’t it? Gerry had been born his mother’s son, but Jon had been someone before he was Jonah’s… whatever he was. Student, research assistant, test subject, prisoner.

Before, he’d been the son of parents he barely remembered. He’d been the grandson of a woman who did her best until he drove her to give up on him, and a coven leader came to her with a kind smile and a promise to take away her burden. And now…

And now he wasn’t any of that. Because there wasn’t anything for him to go back to. The only way out was forward, into the unknown.

“I figured it out in the end,” Gerry told him. “You will too. I know you will.”

“I might need help with that,” Jon admitted. “I could use your expertise.”

A soft huff of laughter jostled him. “I’m gonna be in the same boat as you, you know? I’ve never been to the human world.”

“You still know more about it than me,” Jon pointed out.

Gerry was quiet for a moment. “He didn’t tell you anything?” he asked eventually. “It didn’t take much to get him talking, when I was running around with him.”

“Only a few things. His family, his brother, some of his favorite foods. It was all we had time for before we parted ways.”

“Ah, that’s a shame,” Gerry sighed. “The human world sounds amazing—if even half the things he told me about were even real.”

Jon laughed softly. “I know what you mean. Can you imagine someone actually swimming in the ocean? It would strip the flesh clean off your bones.”

“Not if the water’s cold and non-corrosive. Which it apparently is. People swim in the ocean all the time. It’s a thing. They take their kids and everything.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Jon stifled a yawn.

“It was weird, you know?” Gerry went on. “The things he’d talk about like they were nothing. Sometimes he’d say just the wildest thing, and he’d look at me like I was crazy when I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”

“Like what?”

“Hmm… trying to think of one I haven’t told you before…” Gerry hesitated. “Did I tell you about how mornings in the human realm just… make water?”

“You mentioned something about the rainwater being cold,” Jon replied.

“No no, this is different. Titan, how did he explain it…” Gerry hummed thoughtfully. “Something about how, when it’s cold enough, everything’s covered in little droplets of water in the morning. The air just… does that. Makes water out of nothing.”

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

“Can’t remember,” Gerry admitted. “He showed me a picture, though. Water droplets on a spiderweb. Looked like tiny little diamonds. Dunno what kind of face I was making, but he laughed at me.”

“Rude,” Jon murmured.

“Still not sure I believe it.”

“Maybe we’ll see it for ourselves. One day.” One day very, very soon.

Gerry’s only reply was to run gentle fingers through Jon’s hair, again and again, until Jon finally fell asleep.

***

The moon sat at its apex, round and bright and wreathed in blue fire that seemed to dim the stars around it. It was the first thing Jon saw when Gerry gently shook him awake.

He stirred, wincing when his movements jarred his injuries. Most of the day had been devoted to Jonah’s experiments, and Jon had fresh wounds to prove it. The burns on his face would heal without scarring, but his right hand was still wrapped in liniment-soaked bandages. Jon avoided putting any weight on it as he rose to a sitting position and pushed back the blanket. The sight of the moon, burning brightly in celestial alignment, chased away any lingering weariness.

They cast their usual cloaking spell with less caution than usual. It was only a stopgap measure at best, a few minutes’ safety to get everything in place. The table, chair, and alchemy set were pushed aside to clear the floor. With steadier hands—Jonah had been focused on Jon today, leaving Gerry a day of respite—Gerry borrowed Jon’s staff to draw the circle. Atlas alighted on his place at the top of the staff, colors fading as he shifted back into wood, and the symbols glowed brighter. Jon fetched each component from their hiding places around the room, and began laying them out amid the lines that Gerry was tracing.

They worked quickly, not speaking, barely breathing. For all their planning, there had been no time to practice. They would get only one chance, and no more.

And so, there was no time or opportunity to brace themselves before Gerry drew the last line, and Jon poured the last drop of Titan blood, and the circle caught the moonfire blazing through the open window.

The spell ignited, and the sheer force of clashing power nearly knocked them both off their feet. Their flimsy cloaking spell shattered, exposing them to Jonah’s sight, but it was far too late to turn back.

Jon had barely regained his footing when his own magic, coursing through the spell circle alongside Gerry’s, was caught in the moonlight’s amplifying effect. For a single, glorious moment, for the first time in years, Jon felt magic—wild magic, covenless magic—coursing through him. He smelled fire and earth and sea air, felt wind against his face, sensed the distant light of stars above them, tasted blood in the back of his throat as drumbeats pounded in his ears. Every sensation rushed him at once, melding together into a storm of color and music. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever felt.

And then the coven brand on his arm blazed, burning away the storm until only the Beholding remained.

It seized him mercilessly, knowledge clamoring its way into his head all at once. It was a confusing mess, so many sights and sounds and thoughts that he couldn’t have picked out a single one among them. But in the end he adjusted, the stream became more focused, and his mind was his own once more.

At the center of the circle, a seam formed in the fabric of the world. It split neatly down the length of it, opening wide into a ragged doorway.

Jon’s heart leapt. They had been planning this for years, researching in secret, sneaking and lying and stealing to get the components together, and yet—only now did he realize that he had never expected it to actually work. The fact that it had, that freedom lay only a few steps from where he stood, was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

Jonah was on his way, he realized absently. It wasn’t just the inevitability of it; even without his focus on the river of knowledge flowing through him, he couldn’t help but catch a few drops. One of them showed their captor flying up the stairs toward their quarters, wild-eyed and intent.

“Gerry,” he said. “We have to—”

Another scrap of knowledge slipped into his mind, like a dagger between his ribs.

“Jon?” Gerry’s voice sounded far away. Everything was suddenly muffled, even the portal. Even the Beholding, swollen with moonlight, felt far away. The whole world was contained in a single, inescapable truth.

“We can’t.” The words slipped from Jon’s mouth. His hand closed on Gerry’s arm. “Gerry, we can’t.”

“Jon, let go, the portal’s right—”

“It won’t work.” Jon squeezed his arm. “It won’t—there’s not enough power. It’s not stable enough for both of us. As soon as one of us goes through, the spell will fall apart and the portal will close. It won’t work.”

Gerry stared back at him, face suffused with dismay.

Dismay, but not surprise.

Jon’s heart sank like a stone in mud. “You knew.”

“Jon, there’s no time for this, now let go—” He was pulling away, prying Jon’s fingers from his arm, and the portal was within his reach, and Jonah was so close to their door.

“You knew,” he repeated. “How long have you known? How long have you been lying?”

“I had no choice!” Gerry shouted over the crackling, ringing din of the spell. “There was no other way! What was I supposed to do, sit here while both of us wasted away? What other chance was either of us going to get?”

The worst part was, Jon couldn’t bring himself to be surprised, or even all that angry, really. Of course this was going to happen. It was simply the culmination of his entire life, thus far. His parents, his old friends, his grandmother—and now Gerry.

Maybe it was just his lot to be left behind.

Across the room, the door rattled. Jonah called to them from the other side. Jon barely heard either.

“I…” His throat grew thick. “I understand.”

“Jon, I’m sorry,” Gerry said desperately. “I wish there was another way.”

“No, I—” He really shouldn’t be crying. This was a happy thing, after all. Gerry was going to be free. “At least—even if it’s just one of us—”

Gerry smiled through his own tears. “I’m really gonna miss you,” he said.

“It’s not fair,” Jon blurted out. “We were supposed to go together. We were supposed to see it together!”

“When has any of this ever been fair?”

Tears gathered in his eyes until Jon blinked them away. His last sight of Gerry should be a clear one. “Please don’t forget me.”

The door rattled again, and Gerry choked back a sob. “Fuck. I could never. You’re not the sort of person anyone just forgets.”

Before Jon could reply, Gerry lunged forward. Not toward the portal, not toward freedom, but to Jon. The kiss was fast and clumsy with desperation, but the hands against the sides of his face were ruthlessly gentle.

“I love you,” Gerry whispered. “Don’t look back.”

Jon blinked back his tears, confusion cutting through the grief. “What?”

Gerry curled Jon’s hands around the staff and threw him into the portal.

He fell through the riot of color and music, too shocked to scream as the image of Gerry shattered into pieces above him. The light winked out, and Jon fell into the emptiness alone.

***

Jon landed hard, though not nearly hard enough for how long he must have been falling.

He lay in darkness and silence, wheezing softly as he regained his breath, gripping his staff until his fingers went numb and his injured hand screamed in protest. The air was cold and smelled stale. The light show from the portal was gone, but he could still feel its power humming beneath his skin, threatening to burst free.

After a while, Jon gathered himself enough to roll over. The floor felt like stone beneath his hands, relatively smooth but unpolished. With a grunt of effort, Jon planted his staff on the ground and pulled himself to his feet. It was too dark to see well when he opened his eyes, so he felt along the length of the staff until he found the shape of wooden moth wings at the end.

“Atlas?” His voice rasped in his chest. The wood turned to soft chitin, and Atlas took off from the head of the staff to flutter in frantic circles around his head, buffeting him gently when he flew too close. “Yes, yes—it’s alright. We’re alright.”

Atlas landed on his shoulder, and Jon’s eyes adjusted.

Was this the human world? For all he knew, the portal might have simply dropped him elsewhere in the demon realm. He was in a room, possibly a basement, judging by the clutter. Boxes sat in stacks and piles, some of them too full to close properly. Indistinct objects sat against the walls—an old mirror, frames wrapped in thick brown paper, a tall wooden clock that didn’t seem to be working. A thick layer of dust blanketed everything, untouched by fingerprints or footsteps.

He was alone.

Of course he was alone, he’d seen the portal break apart as soon as he fell into it, with Gerry still on the other side. Jonah had been seconds from breaking the door down, and now—

A harsh sob took him by surprise, and tears blinded him all over again.

Jonah had never set a clear punishment for escaping. And now, whatever it was, Gerry was facing it alone.

They weren’t supposed to be alone, they were never supposed to be alone. It shouldn’t have been him going through the portal, it should have been Gerry, why couldn’t have been Gerry, why couldn’t Gerry have been selfish for once in his life—

A distant scream rang out, shocking him out of his tears. Jon stared around, wide-eyed and searching, but the room was still. Then the ceiling shook with a crash, drawing his eyes upward.

“It’s above us,” he murmured. “Stairs—we need to find stairs.” Atlas took off from his shoulder, eye spots glowing in the gloom.

With an extra set of eyes, Jon found the stairs within a minute. He ran up them, his brand warming as he loosened the leash on his swollen magic. The door at the top of the steps was locked, but he Knew within seconds where to find a key. Atlas vanished from his side and returned moments later, clutching it in all six of his legs.

The door opened to an unlit hallway. Jon hesitated, took one last look back at the dark and cluttered basement, and hurried on.

He could hear more, now that he was really listening for it. Running footsteps, multiple sets by the sound of it. Shouting, always muffled and bitten-off, as if whoever was doing it was trying very hard not to. There were people in trouble—this was the human world, wasn’t it? Was it as hostile as the demon realm after all?

The hallway ended and took him up another flight of stairs. He expected to see light at some point, either artificial or from the windows. The last time he saw the moon, it had nearly blinded him. But instead, the darkness of the stairwell only seemed to grow thicker as he ascended, and reaching the door at the top did nothing to abate it.

At the very least, what he could see of the room he stepped out into looked more like the ground floor. There were proper floorboards, high ceilings, and windows that only showed faint outlines of trees against a dark, starless sky. The house was unlit, and his eyes refused to adjust. Jon drew a quick spell circle on his forehead with one fingertip, and magic poured into his eyes to light the way.

Shouting rang out again from somewhere above. Jon raced to follow it.

Around him, the house was in the slow process of falling apart. Ornate wallpaper hung faded and peeling, shreds of old rugs showed the ragged remains of color and embroidery, and broken shards of wood protruded from walls and doorways alike, as if any ornamentation set into them had been ripped out long ago. This must have been a fine-looking house once, but now it was a crumbling wreck.

Eventually the hallway opened up to another dilapidated chamber, this one a rotting front hall with its doors still standing ajar. Opposite them, the sagging remains of a grand staircase led up to another floor.

Jon had nearly reached the foot of it when he spotted movement at the top of the steps, and his vision went black.

For a split second he thought he’d lost consciousness, but the floor remained firmly beneath his feet. His breath came in short bursts of alarm as he drew another spell circle for sight in the darkness, to no avail.

Jon settled his grip on the staff, wincing at the pain in his burned hand. The bad news was, nothing that simple was going to let him see through this darkness. The good news was, it meant he knew what he was dealing with. He should have figured it out as soon as he left the basement and saw how dark it was. Stupid.

He could hear the others. Their running footsteps had fallen still, but the sound of panicked breathing was unmistakable. Someone was whimpering in pain with each breath. Someone else was whispering frantic reassurances. The darkness swallowed up everything else.

Jon hardly had to reach for his magic. It was brimming all the way to the surface, swollen from the storm of half-wild magic that had brought him here. When he drew a spell circle in the air with a tight whirl of his staff, it all came boiling up and out like a geyser.

Eyes opened everywhere—in Jon’s face and neck, along the length of his staff, in Atlas’s wooden face and wings, and in the choked air all around him. The darkness burned away as quick and clean as thin paper, revealing the scene before him.

There were three people now at the foot of the stairs, in such a state of panicked disarray that Jon could hardly tell whether they’d run or fallen down them. The larger of the two men had the others pushed behind him, backing away from the creature that menaced them, all three of them too frozen in terror to even attempt to cast a spell.

In spite of the glowing eyes that lit the room, a single wriggling mass of darkness remained, crawling and twitching toward its prey with wispy feelers that reached out to touch them. Sour air wafted from its body, filling the room with the smell of rot.

An acid shade. Nasty, hateful things that hunted prey by blinding it, then dissolving it while it was still alive. One touch was enough to melt the skin off your hand. Gerry still had scars from his last encounter with one.

Gerry.

The eyes blazed, and for the first time the brightness touched the shade’s slick hide. It recoiled, convulsing with a sound that was not a scream, but close enough.

Jon didn’t remember crossing the room, but he stood between the writhing mass of shadows and its would-be victims, so he must have. Fear warred with wild, directionless anger. He missed Gerry and hated Jonah. He remembered the feeling of lips on his, and the sight of his only friend weeping as his image shattered. Jon took all of it, gathered up every last drop, and poured it all into the merciless light of his swollen magic. He gave it all of himself, until it was blinding, until he could See every part of the room he stood in, down to every last crack in the walls, down to every convulsing wisp of darkness that made up the shade.

It let out another not-scream as it was utterly, agonizingly Seen.

And then it was gone, and Jon’s last drop of magic trickled out and left him hollow.

The darkness returned—not a demonic creature this time, but regular unconsciousness creeping up on him. He fought it as he turned and looked back at the faces of the people he’d saved. A round-faced man, so pale that his freckles stood out in his face; a woman with wide eyes and dark hair in disarray; and the second man clutching a corrosive burn that covered his arm, whose face—

—whose face Jon recognized.

“Danny?” Half-blind, Jon struggled to focus as the world grew smaller, and the darkness overtaking it nearly obscured the look of shock on the man’s face. “You found your way home?”

He lost his grip on consciousness before he could hear the answer.

#the magnus archives #tma #jongerry #tma fic #tma isekai au #fanfiction #tales from the pit

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

Note

*slamming fists on table* Possessive Geralt in the shifter verse! Please! Maybe with some nibbling? That back of the neck thing really just Activates My Almonds and I'd love to see more. - Bouncey

@bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher Sooo.... this is less nibbling and more biting. 👀 But I already told you this.

Part of my shifter verse but this is pretty much plotless so you don’t need to have read the rest.

CW: 18+, soul-bonds/mating bites, biting to the point of breaking skin, anal fingering, blow jobs, hand jobs

___________

Jaskier nudged their bedroom open with his snout. Geralt had gone up to their room after dinner whilst Jaskier stayed behind to cuddle with Eskel by the large open fire. Geralt was sleeping sprawled out on their bed, furs draped over his bare back, leaving his arse delightfully on display. Jaskier’s tail wagged and he let out a happy bark before springing onto the bed. Geralt groaned and rolled onto his side, golden eyes glaring up at him. Jaskier snorted and then licked at Geralt’s face.

“Fuck off, Jaskier.”

Jaskier whined and nipped at Geralt’s ear. He flopped onto the witcher’s back and rested his snout of Geralt’s head, effectively crushing the witcher under his weight. Geralt huffed but let his head drop back down onto the pillow.

“Needy bastard,” he muttered.

Jaskier yapped, his tail thumping against Geralt’s legs. He licked again at Geralt’s shoulder and buried his nose in Geralt’s neck. He let out a low rumble of contentment, Geralt still smelt like him. It didn’t matter so much in his human form when his senses were weaker but when he had a better sense of smell, he enjoyed knowing that Geralt was so clearly marked as his. He wasn’t sure if the possessiveness was a shifter thing or just him… but he wasn’t going to argue. Geralt was his mate, his lover, his best friend.

He closed his eyes and let his magic loose. Fur melted away to bare skin and he felt the vibration of Geralt’s medallion against his chest. He hummed in contentment and continued his attack on Geralt’s neck, licking and nipping at the pale skin.

“Jask,” Geralt whispered breathlessly.

“Hmm?” Jaskier smirked, winking up at his lover. He was now straddling Geralt’s waist, naked as the day he was born, heat already creeping down his spine and prickling over his skin.

He sucked pretty little bruises into Geralt’s neck, regretting that they would be faded by morning. “Insatiable bastard,” his boyfriend chided.

Jaskier giggled as he rolled his hips forward, dragging his hardening cock against the swell of Geralt’s arse. Geralt let out a low moan and pressed up against Jaskier’s cock before pushing off from the bed and rolling over before Jaskier could protest.

“Oi!” he grumbled as fell back onto his heels, pouting down at his boyfriend.

Geralt smirked, grabbing the oil from the dresser and making quick work of coating his fingers. He pulled Jaskier down for a messy kiss, his clean hand cupping Jaskier’s nape, making him shiver. He was always more sensitive there. He whined into Geralt’s mouth, a mess of tongues and gasps as Geralt’s hand wrapped around the head of his cock.

“Hmm… s’good,”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s as his boyfriend stroked him to full hardness. Gods, he would never get used to this, but he wanted more. There was an itch that he’d never quite managed to scratch. They’d made love and fucked in so many ways but something had always been missing, an instinct he’d been scared to act on. He wanted to bite. Not the little love bites and bruises that always littered the witcher’s skin… but something more, and more importantly… he wanted Geralt to bite him, scruff him.

He was just scared. He didn’t want to see the disgust in his lover’s eyes when he made his request. He didn’t want Geralt to see him for the monster he really was. He whined again, writhing under Geralt’s touch. “Fuck, Geralt…”

“Get on your front,” Geralt ordered and reach for the oil again. Jaskier pouted but reluctantly shuffled on the bed, flipping their positions so that Geralt was above him. He closed his eyes as he felt Geralt’s finger press inside his hole, moaning wantonly.

“Hnng…” he spluttered and buried his face in the pillow.

A hand gripped the back of his next and he relaxed under his lover’s touch. It wasn’t a full scruff, but it was enough for Geralt to push a second finger inside him. He whined again. He already felt full, but it wasn’t enough. He pushed back into Geralt’s hand. Geralt chuckled and swatted at his arse, the sting quickly turning to pleasure and he moaned.

“Hurry up, you bastard,” he gasped, rutting helplessly between Geralt’s hand and the furs beneath them.

“Patience, love.”

“No…”

Geralt’s grip on his neck tightened and he melted into the bed, pleasure flooding his senses almost as intense as an orgasm. He was left feeling utterly blissful, he’d never felt anything like it. “Oh fuck….”

Geralt released him quickly as if he’d been burnt and Jaskier panted as he regained control of his limbs. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Do it again,” Jaskier breathed, feeling rather fucked out but still desperate for his release. He rutted against the bed as if to make his point, letting out a wanton moan. “Please, Geralt… bite me, scruff me… fuck,”

Geralt growled and pushed his fingers deeper into Jaskier’s arse, brushing against that sweet spot. He cursed, a litany of swears and Geralt’s name falling off his lips like a prayer, and then Geralt’s lips were on his neck. It started out as a kiss, making Jaskier shudder. He panted and begged for more. Geralt hummed and nipped him gently, simultaneously pressing a third finger inside him.

“Oh cock!” Jaskier panted.

Geralt just laughed, another kiss to Jaskier’s neck. “Not yet.”

“Oh fuck off,” Jaskier panted. He had half a mind to roll them back over and fuck himself on Geralt’s delightfully large cock, but before he could Geralt bit down.

He keened, the pain shooting through him and he once again melted into the bed, a mess of limbs. He babbled wordlessly as Geralt fucked him with his fingers, teeth still latched on to his neck. He completely blacked out, overwhelmed with the sudden burst of pleasure that hit him, knocking him flat.

He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but he couldn’t have been long, Geralt was still nuzzling his neck, fingers trailing down the length of his spine. The bed was a mess underneath him, the furs matted with his cum…

And Geralt hadn’t even touched him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, shivering as Geralt continued to stroke patterns onto his back.

“Hmm, you’re back?” Geralt teased.

“Mhmm…” he hummed and rolled over, narrowly avoiding the mess he’d made. There was a smear of blood on the corner of Geralt’s mouth, but the witcher looked unbearably smug. Jaskier rolled his eyes and pulled Geralt into a kiss, the taste of his blood on his tongue mildly off-putting but he didn’t care. “You enjoyed that too much,” he murmured against Geralt’s lips.

“Hmm… like seeing that you’re mine.”

Jaskier grinned up at Geralt. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

Jaskier’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips. Then it was his turn to attack. His teeth sank into Geralt’s neck, earning a long, drawn-out moan from his witcher. Something shifted inside of him, like a dam breaking, and emotions flooded through him. He could feel a pain in his neck shadowing where he was biting Geralt, and his cock ached, desperate for release. He pulled off with a gasp. Geralt was staring back at him wide eyed.

“What was that?”

Jaskier swallowed, wincing as his fingers brushed the bite on the back of his own neck.

“I bit you?”

Geralt shook his head roughly. “Not that.”

“I. I don’t know?” Jaskier stammered, licking at his lips. Geralt’s erection was starting to soften and Jaskier growled, not wanting to leave his mate wanting. “Talk after?” his fingers brushed against Geralt’s nipples and he gasped as the sensation echoed on his own body. He grinned and kissed Geralt’s chest, licking and nipping at Geralt’s nipples, his hands gripping into Geralt’s arse.

His own cock twitched as Geralt filled out once more. He pushed his mate back onto the bed and continued his quest to cover as much of Geralt’s body in kisses. Every scar was caught under his lips, giggling as Geralt’s abs flexed under his lips. “So beautiful, my darling mate.”

He could feel Geralt’s arousal as if it was his own, and oh wasn’t that fun! He had no idea what had happened but… he was rather happy with the results. “Jask,” Geralt gasped as he bit into the sensitive flesh of Geralt’s thighs.

After years together he had a pretty good idea of what his boyfriend enjoyed but this was different. He could feel it. He let the tingles of pleasure guide him as he licked a stripe up Geralt’s cock and then took him into his mouth. He hummed as he worked, sucking and licking at his lover’s cock until Geralt was a panting mess underneath him. Geralt’s hand pulled at his hair and he glanced up to wink at his mate without stopping. He was driven by the desire to please his mate, his lover, his Geralt, he couldn’t stop. His own cock was already hard and leaking, Geralt’s pleasure rippling through his body. He moaned loudly and took himself in hand, stroking himself as Geralt bucked off the bed and came. Jaskier pulled back slightly, swallowing as much as he could. Geralt’s orgasm triggered his own, less intense than before. He gasped, biting down into the soft scarred skin of Geralt’s leg as he came over his hand. Geralt collapsed under him and Jaskier buried his face between his mate’s thighs.

He hummed happily, shifting without thinking into a cat. He stretched out, his tail flicking out behind him and padded up Geralt’s chest. He nuzzled at the bite mark on Geralt’s neck that was already healing, a pink scar forming where the skin had knitted back together. Jaskier nipped gently at the scar, feeling a swell of warmth and love in his chest.

Geralt petted him lazily. “Still need to talk, Jask.”

Jaskier meowed, clawing at Geralt’s chest before flopping down. He wanted a nap first. They could talk later.

_____

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier smut #shifter!jaskier #shapeshifter!jaskier #established relationship #does this count for monster march?#possibly #wolfie's witcher writing #Anonymous

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kai-writes-fan-fiction · 3 years

Text

In Hiding Part 6

Author’s Announcement: Hey guys! I really appreciate all of the recent feedback and the patience. My life has been pretty hectic these last few weeks, so as a reward for your patience, this is the longest part yet, and I’m really proud of it! I hope you all enjoy it!

P.S. Doctors scare me so sorry if the “medical” part of the story is shitty.

Word count: 2567

Warnings: mentions of blood, bodily harm, non-consensual medical treatment, reader is StRaNgLeD, tiny OCD routine, slight language, non-descriptive violence, and grammatical/spelling errors.

The Avengers were everything you hated. They were destructive, they took whatever they wanted without a thought about anyone else, and they loved behind a façade. You’d seen who The Avengers truly were; they were menacing, inhumane, and lacked empathy. They could’ve just left you alone; you weren’t hurting anyone. You may have been doing some illegal things, but they were minor offenses! You’d never killed, and you were against terrorism of any kind. You just wanted to go home, wanted to be left alone. Your freedom had been stripped away after you’d made your final decision. You wouldn’t fight with The Avengers; you’d do everything in your power to get away from them.

You looked up from the floor of your cell, into the eyes of Steve and Bucky, and you could tell they knew what was coming next. You were stronger than them; you could easily overpower them. They’d seen it earlier when you grabbed their wrists, and every second you sat in that godforsaken cell, you became more immune to the effect of the material blocking your powers around you.

You intimidated them, and you knew it. You knew that your time in this compound was running out, and soon you’d be free. Free. Free. Free. Free. You repeated the phrase in your head five times to lock it in.

You felt that you were ready to share your decision. “I’d never fight for you people, never. Never. Never! NEVER! NEVER!! You people are killers; you take everything for yourselves! You’ve destroyed cities, taken the lives of so many innocents. How can you live with yourselves?” You yelled. Your eyes had begun glowing, and your hair was lifted off of your head as your volume increased. “How?!” You questioned, your eyes shining brighter.

Steve and Bucky were backing into corners of your room, staring down at you. A blue aura began to form around you, illuminating the room in a vibrate blue. Your crossed legs began to levitate off of the ground, and a strong wind began to sweep through the room in a circular motion.

You didn’t want to fight, this trick took all of your energy, and the two super soldiers were helpless, so you decided this would be the perfect time to escape.

As soon as you turned to the wall farthest from the room, which you hoped would lead outside, a particularly strong wave of fatigue hit you. The wind and your aura began to dim, but Steve and Bucky knew not to lunge at you yet.

A string of mumbled curses fell from your mouth, and you let your feet descend onto the ground. This might conserve your energy so you could put more into escaping this wretched complex.

Being back on the ground and looking less powerful, Steve decided to go for it. He jumped forwards and wrapped his arms around you, pressing you into him; you could only wiggle your hands.

Lifting you off the ground, he tried to make it so you couldn’t use your feet as any leverage.

“Fucking dick!” You yelled, thrashing in his arms.

“Language!” He yelled.

You’d had enough of his bullshit and began thrashing more. His grip only tightened, but you were still stronger. There was a vent located right above you, so you flew out of his arms.

You tucked your legs into your chest after he tried to reach out for them and stretched your arms, reaching for the vent. You swiftly pulled it off its hinges and forced yourself into the circulation system.

The tunnels weren’t dissimilar to a maze, you tried to go in one direction, but after 20 or so corners, you have turned around. The alarms blaring throughout the compound, warning everyone of your escape, were bringing about an awful migraine, and you were becoming more and more fatigued by the minute. You wouldn’t stop, though.

You had heard a few voices in the tunnels with you, as well as footsteps. You made sure to avoid them, and after 10 minutes of wandering through the ventilation, you found an air vent to the outside. You pushed hard, and with the last bit of strength you had left, the vent became dislodged. You tumbled out and plummeted about two stories before hiding the ground with a painful ‘thud.’

You crumpled into a ball on the grass, and you felt blood trickle down your forehead. You could also no longer feel your right foot, meaning it was broken. Everything hurt, but your ribs were also a very obviously damaged part of your body. Every time you moved, you felt a shooting pain.

You slowly sat up and wiped the blood from your face, and the amount of blood on your hand was startling. You looked around other parts of your body to assess the damage and found that your knees and elbows were also bloodied, as well as a few scrapes here and there. You lifter up your blue scrubs to get a better look at your side, where a wide purple and blue patch was starting to form. Hesitantly, you placed two fingers on your side, looking for anything broken. The shooting pain was the response, and you pulled your hand away. It was most likely broken, as was your right ankle. It was also a swelling purple and blue mess, and the pain was begging to hit.

You let your eyes fall away from your body to look at your surroundings. You were greeted by vast green forest on all sides, and behind you stood The Avengers compound. It loomed over you, and you could still hear the alarms blaring from the inside. You struggled to get up, and, to no avail, did you.

So, you lay on the ground, your tribulation had failed, and you were doomed once more. You tucked yourself into a ball and cried.

‘How could you be so weak?’ You thought to yourself. ‘How could you let people like the Avengers-like HYDRA-control you like this?’

It would be best if you found somewhere to hide, and quickly. You wouldn’t let The Avengers control you anymore. You couldn't.

You pushed yourself up, so you were on your hands and knees, but you were weak, and I’m so much agony. You kept pressing on, though. You crawled your way to the forest and let yourself fall behind a tree. You must’ve hit a tripwire or a perimeter alert, as a new set of sirens went off and an automated voice yelled your location. You cursed, but you couldn’t go on much longer. With your injuries and your temporary inability to shift, you had to surrender.

—————Avenger POV—————

“We’ve got a location!” Tony yelled through the team's comms. “Kid’s headed East, and it looks like she’s stopped behind a set of trees. I can see her on cams.”

“Who should we send out there? You saw what she did to Steve and Bucky.” Implored Natasha.

“She looks pretty tired. We could probably take her if we needed to, but I don’t think a fight is in store.” Bucky advised.

“How about we all just go out there?” Steve added sarcastically.

“Oh yeah. Good idea, capsicle.” Tony agreed. “Everyone grab your things and meet me in the common room; we’ll all go out and surround her. Bucky, Steve, you go from the East. Natasha and Clint, you guys, take the North. Strange got here a few hours ago, so he and I will take the West. Loki, you’re just going to ignore me, so Thor, go with him and make sure he doesn’t do anything rash. And Bruce? You stay inside; we don’t want a code green, big guy.”

‘Okay’s and ‘mhm’s sounded through the Comms, and three minutes later, everyone was gathered in the common room, looking at one another surreptitiously, not knowing what would greet them on the other side of the doors. They didn’t know whether or not you’d be putting up a fight, but they were about to find out.

“We’re all here? Let’s go then.” Tony commanded. His suit's helmet fell over his face, and he strode forward, everyone else in close pursuit.

—————Your POV—————

You were weaving in and out of consciousness, and you still lay crumpled on the ground in your ball. You felt weak, and you couldn’t think straight. The world was a spinning vortex, and you almost thought you heard voices and feet. You opened your eyes and were met with the face of Tony once more.

SNAP! SNAP! In your face again, but with metal fingers instead of flesh. Tony likes snapping, it seems. You, however, did not. You attempted to growl to ward him off, but you couldn’t produce any kind of sound.

You turned your head slightly to face the rest of the team. They towered over you, weapons drawn and aimed at your face. Typically, you wouldn’t fear them, but in your fragile state, they were pretty threatening.

This wasn't very pleasant. You, one of the most powerful enhanced humans ever, were lying on the ground, bloodied and broken, at the will of The Avengers. They stared down at you, pity written all over their faces. Pity, not a feeling you wanted to be affiliated with.

Two metal arms reached out and wrapped around you, hoisting you up. A sudden rush of adrenaline caused your limbs to begin thrashing about, and the pain from your ankle and ribs subsided. Your sudden movement caused the metal arms encasing your body to pull you closer to the body they attached to. You felt the metal chest and put two and two together. You were in the mostly impenetrable arms of the Iron Man.

Tony picked you up carefully and began walking back into the compound, and the team followed suit. You tried to summon the adrenaline once more, but it didn’t want to come.

Feeling completely vulnerable, you decided to surrender. Yes, it was the cowards’ way out, but did you have another option? Your body was giving up on you, you couldn’t use your powers, and your opponents happened to be the killers of Thanos, another very powerful being.

There was no hope, so you just closed your eyes and allowed the sleep that had been creeping up on you to take over. Your vision faded into black, and the last thing you remembered was the mechanical hum of the Iron Man's suit.

——————————

You awoke to quiet chatter, and a beeping machine you could only assume was a pulse monitor.

As soon as your eyes fluttered open, your senses were flooded with a bright white and the smell of rubbing alcohol.

You looked up from your supine position to find yourself strapped to a table once more, but stronger and additional restraints were added this time. You still felt weak, and your side and ankle were aching, as well as your head.

An IV was embedded in your forearm, and as your eyes traveled the length of the tube up to the bag supplying it, you found it contained a thick blue substance. It must’ve been combating your powers because you couldn’t shift.

You took in your surroundings and found various members of The Avengers watching you. Creepy.

“Welcome back to the land of the living (Y/N).” Chuckled Tony, “You gave us quite a scare.”

The rest of the team went silent, and Bruce, dressed in a white lab coat, whipped around to face you and ran to your bedside. He whipped out a flashlight and shoved it in your face, his fingers following to hold your eye open while the flashlight shined in.

“Pupils are dilating, so no concussion.” He hummed, moving to your other eye.

He moved to pull a stethoscope from his neck and pressed the bell to your chest. You bit your tongue to stop from yelling out when the cold metal touched your bare skin. You must’ve bitten it when you fell because you sensed a metallic taste in your mouth. Bruce was in spitting distance, so you let the blood and saliva pool in your mouth, and you prepared to launch it towards him.

As soon as he lifted his head, you released your spit bomb. Bruce recoiled and began incessantly wiping his face with gloved hands. A hand flew around your neck, preventing you from spitting again.

Blood dribbled down your chin, and you looked up to the face the hand belonged to. It happened to be the winter soldier, and you grinned up at him, blood coating your teeth. He stared you down, and you did the same. The rest of the team just stood by, wearing “What The Fuck Just Happened” expressions.

Bucky finally released your neck, and Banner walked back over, blood-free and with duct tape.

“Shouldn’t have done that.” Tony mocked from behind Bruce as he and Bucky taped your mouth shut.

You tried to shake him off, but your movements were no use. Barnes had a firm grip on your head that prevented you from thrashing about, and Bruce was wrapping your face.

‘Duct tape is the best they can do?’ You thought to yourself. ‘Do they know that duct tape loses its stick when wet?’

You laughed to yourself, and Bruce and Bucky ceased their actions and looked up at you, as did the rest of the team.

“What’re you laughing about?” Bucky snarled.

You only shook your head and rolled your eyes. If they didn’t know, why tell them?

Banner ripped the tape and stepped back. Bucky released your head, and you stared up at the ceiling, hoping they’d all leave.

“The rest of you can go. Bucky, you stay here. I need help controlling her.”

“You got it, Banner.”

The rest of the team reluctantly left, leaving you, Bucky, and Bruce. You looked over to them and stared them down with undeniable murderous intent.

“So, uh, what’re we doing next?” Bucky turned to Bruce, who was still staring you down.

Bruce snapped out of his trance and looked over to Bucky. “She’s still got some injuries from her fall; I need to check those out. Do you have any medical training?”

Bucky nodded. “A little bit, from when I served. Just basic stuff.”

“We can work with that.” Bruce crossed his arms and walked in the direction of your injured ankle.

You tried to get away, but the power suppressors and restraints prevented you from doing anything, so you just wriggled around uselessly.

Banner pressed two fingers to your swollen and bruised ankle, and you bit your tongue to stifle a muffled scream. He moved his fingers to another part of your ankle, and you hit your head against the table to suppress another outcry.

“Bucky, can you grab some Ace bandage? I think the Talus is fractured. We’ll need an X-Ray to make sure, but I doubt she’ll cooperate.”

“I can make her, or we could try sedation.” Bucky offered.

Bruce seemed to rather like that idea, as his brows raised, and he procured a metal syringe.

Forcing it into your arm, you let out a muffled, yet surprised yelp. Immediately after the syringe was removed from your arm, your world began to darken, and you became dizzy.

You tried and failed to resist, but your body gave in, and the last thing you saw was Bucky and Bruce watching you.

To be continued…

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when-they-write-stuff · 3 years

Text

SOMETIMES, STILES THOUGHT he understood Derek Hale.

Other times, he thought he never would.

The man was a million things tucked into a leather jacket. Stiles remembered the first time he’d seen Derek in the preserve; scowling, grey-green eyes hard, with an air around him that made younger Stiles a little bit terrified and a little bit intrigued at the same time. And honestly, if he would’ve known then that one meeting would turn into a whirlwind of chaos afterward, the younger version of him might have turned right back around and walked away without thinking twice.

Or maybe he would’ve just grinned. Grinned, knowing that one little meeting with the grumpiest werewolf in Beacon Hills would one day turn into a little bit more.

If he just had the patience to wait, that is.

But that was then and this was now. Sitting in the loft with the rest of the pack, some rom-com that Lydia had picked out playing on the TV, though most of them were only half paying attention. Scott was all wrapped around Allison, Erica had fallen asleep in Boyd’s lap, and Lydia was scrolling through her phone while Jackson snored at her side. Stiles sat on the floor by himself and watched the TV silently, his brain not even caring what was happening onscreen at the moment.

From somewhere in the kitchen behind all of them, he could hear the faint sound of running water and clinking dishes.

The movie changed scenes— the main couple was kissing. Stiles sighed and pushed himself up.

Isaac made a sound of protest as Stiles accidentally blocked his view, craning his neck to see around. And honestly, the beta seemed to be the only one of them that actually cared about what was happening. Had it been any other time, Stiles might have made fun of him.

But instead, he just rolled his eyes and moved around the couch.

There was a stack of empty pizza boxes on the counter as he entered the kitchen and a line of clean plates next to the sink. Stiles paused in the doorway for a second and stared at Derek literal Hale standing in front of the sink with a towel thrown over his shoulder and an apron wrapped around his hips; a rare sighting of the man without his jacket on.

Then, like a wild animal caught on camera, Derek turned the water off and turned around, giving Stiles an unimpressed look.

“What.”

Stiles hoped his face didn’t look as red as it felt as he snapped out of his thoughts. Forcing himself to just shrug, he moved further into the kitchen and pulled the fridge open, staring unseeingly at the leftovers that he really didn’t care about.

After a long moment of silence, Stiles heard Derek turn the water back on and waited for a few more seconds before stepping back and shutting the fridge again.

“So…” he said, desperately trying not to pay attention to how utterly domestic Derek Hale looked. The man glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

“So.”

“Uh. Do you need any help?”

Derek shut off the water again and Stiles noticed for the first time that there weren’t any more dishes left— Derek finished toweling off the last one and gave Stiles a flat look. “No.”

Internally, Stiles cursed himself. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

Derek pressed his lips together, still looking unimpressed. And before he could continue making a fool of himself or Derek could make him feel any more judged, Stiles nodded again and quickly exited the kitchen. Isaac glanced up from the couch as he moved back over, a definite smirk on his lips.

“Nice one, Stilinski. You call that flirting?”

Stiles’s heart skipped at least three beats and he threw a look over his shoulder back toward the kitchen— but all he could hear was the sound of cabinets opening and closing. Derek didn’t seem to have heard the beta.

Clenching his jaw, Stiles gave Isaac the darkest death glare he could muster. “Shut up, Lahey, or I swear to god, will strangle you with your own scarf.”

Isaac smirked wider. “I don’t think Derek would like that very much.”

“I really don’t care what Derek would think.”

“Yeah, we all know that’s not true.”

Stiles glanced over at the others but nobody was even paying their conversation any attention. Well, nobody awake, anyway. Stiles glared back at Isaac, who looked even smugger.

“What, Stilinski? Do you want me to talk a little bit louder?”

“Okay,” Stiles said, shoving himself back up. “You’re an asshole and that’s my cue to leave.”

And just like that, Derek materialized in the doorway of the kitchen. “You’re leaving?”

Stiles blinked at the man, pretty sure his heart had skipped another few beats. Because Derek hadn’t been listening in to any of their conversation, had he? “Uhm, yeah. I’ve got… stuff to do. Important stuff. To do.”

Isaac snorted loudly and then covered it up with the fakest sounding cough Stiles had ever heard. Grinding his teeth together, Stiles reminded himself to throw all of the beta’s scarves into the toilet the next time he came around.

Derek looked at him for a moment longer before nodding. The man turned around, disappeared back into the kitchen, and Stiles gave Isaac one last furious look.

The beta just smirked and Stiles hated him even more.

Except, as he turned back around to make for the door, Derek came out of the kitchen again. This time, the man approached him with something in his hands.

“Uh,” Stiles froze, blinking at the container that Derek pushed into his hands. He looked down at it, glanced back up at Derek, and then carefully pulled the top off, realizing with a start that it was the rest of the leftover pizza. Blinking again, he gave Derek a confused look. “This is pizza.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Stiles didn’t know how to react. “You know my dad will eat this the moment I bring it home, right?”

For a moment, Stiles could’ve sworn he caught a touch of red in Derek’s cheeks; the man almost looked flustered. But then Derek just shrugged, turning back away, and Stiles was left gawking at the werewolf’s back.

Isaac made a strange noise from the couch. It sounded a little bit like a strangled groan.

Shaking his head, Stiles shoved the lid back onto the container and threw one more confused glance toward the kitchen before heading for the door. And, leftovers in hand, he honestly didn’t know what to think.

It was times like this he didn’t think he’d ever understand Derek Hale.

The night Stiles was stuck out in the preserve with Derek, it was raining.

He figured that sounded about right. They’d all drawn straws to decide who would be on watch for the omega that was running loose around Beacon Hills, and Stiles had immediately drawn the shortest one. And then, just because it was his luck, Deaton called Scott, his watch-buddy, in for an emergency shift.

So Stiles was going to have to go out on his own. But then Derek stepped in.

Which really wasn’t so bad, right? Stiles had been alone with Derek Hale before. Like… literally the first day after they’d met. When Stiles had been driving the near-dead werewolf around for a full day while Scott attempted to infiltrate the Argent’s house.

So yeah, he could handle one night. Easily.

But then they got out in the preserve and it started raining. Stiles thought that would make things a little less enjoyable.

“So,” he said, trying not to shiver as his hoodie stuck to his skin like wet paper. “This is nice.”

Derek shot him a sideways glance, not even looking the least bit bothered by the cold as raindrops rolled right off his leather jacket. And Stiles thought the entire world was unfair sometimes. Running a hand through his hair, he attempted to pull up his hood, but it was already soaked through, doing nothing but making his hair even wetter.

He groaned. “Yeah, this isn’t nice at all.”

To that, Derek paused and looked him up and down. Then the man sighed— like Stiles was the ridiculous one— and stripped off his jacket, shoving it into Stiles’s chest.

Stiles froze, not even daring to touch it for a second.

“Er, Derek?”

“Put it on,” Derek said, letting go. Stiles barely managed to catch the jacket before it dropped into the mud and he blinked as Derek started forward again, head slightly bowed against the rain. The man’s long-sleeved t-shirt instantly started to stick against his skin.

Stiles stared after the man, looked down at the jacket held tightly in his hands, and then looked back up. Except, Derek wasn’t slowing down and he cursed silently, pulling the thing over his shoulders before hurrying after the man.

The jacket was like a portable heater. Stiles probably could have melted into it if his mind wasn’t spinning so fast, shoving his hands into the warm pockets as he stumbled after Derek.

“Dude, Derek, dude.”

Derek finally paused and turned around, giving him a pained look. Stiles fumbled to a stop and despite everything, wrapped the jacket further around himself. Even as he asked the question,

“Are you sure?”

Derek raised an eyebrow, looking from the jacket to Stiles’s face. Stiles flushed.

“I mean, if you’re not—”

“There’s nothing out here tonight,” Derek interrupted, turning his gaze to the dark trees around them. “Let’s head back.”

Stiles snapped his mouth closed, staring at the man. But once more, Derek didn’t wait for an answer before starting off in a random direction. Shaking his head, Stiles hurried after him, feet slipping and sliding in the mud.

So, Derek Hale was officially the biggest grumpy-growly weirdo Stiles had met, he decided. One who owned an incredibly warm leather jacket.

He understood that much about the man at least.

Sometimes, Stiles hated werewolves.

Mostly, he decided one day, laying in bed feeling like he was dying, he hated them for their stupid immune systems. Because honestly, how was it even fair that the assholes couldn’t get sick?

Stiles didn’t see how that followed nature’s rules in any way.

He, on the other hand, was very capable of getting sick. And approximately two days after his dad came home with a slight cold, Stiles caught the thing so hard, it felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

Sometimes, he hated werewolves. And laying in bed, his head pounding and his nose feeling like it was about to start leaking out his brain, Stiles very nearly considered calling up Derek and taking the bite.

Then, as if his thoughts had somehow summoned the werewolf, Stiles’s window was shoved up and Derek pulled himself through.

Despite everything, Stiles didn’t even have the energy to be startled. A psychotic murderer could have come through the window and he wouldn’t even lift his head to complain. In fact, he’d take a psycho murderer if it meant his headache would stop.

He was pretty sure Derek had frozen the moment the man’s feet touched the carpet, because silence descended over the room for a moment. Then, he blinked up as Derek plodded over to his bed and glanced down at him, brows knitted tightly together.

“Stiles.”

Stiles gazed up at him blearily. Derek sniffed deeply and then drew back, looking repulsed. Which— rude.

“You smell bad.”

Stiles groaned loudly, which turned into a sharp cough, which turned into a minor lung hacking, before pulling his blankets up over his head. “Fuck you too, Derek.”

Once more, the room was silent. After a long moment, Stiles peeked back out again and saw Derek was still watching him with a mildly concerned look on his face. After another long minute of literal staring, Stiles sighed.

“I haven’t showered in like two days, dude. Stop looking at me like that.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. Stiles groaned again.

“I’m sick, asshole.”

The man’s face finally cleared. Stiles noticed for the first time that Derek had the bestiary in his hands— and there was no way in hell he was doing research right now. But then Derek set the book on his bedside table and tucked his hands into his pockets, looking a little awkward. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“What can I do?”

Stiles blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“What do you need?”

And that was the last response he’d expected to hear from Derek Hale. Ever. “Uhm, nothing? It’s fine. I’m just going to lay here until I wither up and die, but everyone has to go at some point, right?”

To those words, Derek definitely looked concerned. The man’s eyes flashed red for a second and Stiles startled, drawing the blankets further up to his chin.

“That was a joke, Sourwolf.”

But the man just looked at him for another moment before turning back around and heading for the window. Stiles didn’t even have a chance to protest before Derek was pulling himself right back out— and Stiles stared at the empty sill for a moment before sighing heavily.

Stupid sickness immune werewolves. Derek probably thought this was a life or death situation or something.

And honestly, Stiles didn’t expect to see the man again. After all, he smelled bad.

God, he hated werewolves.

His dad had gone back to work that morning and though it had been Stiles’s idea, telling the man he wasn’t five anymore and didn’t need anyone to ‘take care of him’, Stiles still kind of wished he had someone to complain to. Or someone to make him soup. Or even someone to bring him more tissues when he grabbed the last one out of the box.

Because honestly, the very thought of leaving his bed and searching for more seemed like an impossible task. For one bleak moment, Stiles had actually debated using the t-shirt next to his bed.

Then he realized he was losing his mind.

After what felt like a million hours had passed since Derek had left, and Stiles was right on the verge of falling asleep, his window was shoved up again. Stiles snapped right back to reality so fast his headache came back like an avalanche. In that moment, he vowed he was going to murder whoever had just interrupted his sweet, sweet escape into the darkness.

When he could make himself get out of bed, that is.

But then Stiles realized it was Derek. Derek, with a round styrofoam container held in one hand and a grocery bag held from the other. Struggling to sit up, Stiles gave the werewolf an incredulous look, and Derek approached the bed carefully.

The man was still looking at him like he was about to spontaneously combust.

“I brought soup.”

Stiles just stared.

Derek set the round container on his bedside table and then pulled a spoon out of the plastic bag. Close behind it was a packet of crackers, a box of tissues, and a white bottle of painkillers.

“Boyd said chicken noodle works best,” Derek said, still avoiding Stiles’s blatant stare as he popped the top of the container off. “It should still be hot, so—”

“Derek,” Stiles said, cutting him off. Looking pained, the man finally met his gaze.

“... I also brought crackers.”

“Crackers.”

“For the soup.”

For the soup. Yeah, Stiles had to give it to him; that was a fair answer.

But what?

Before Stiles couldn’t even think of an appropriate reaction to everything that was currently unfolding, Derek was pushing the container of soup into his hands. Instantly, the smell of warmth managed to drift into Stiles’s clogged nose and he almost melted into the mattress, mouth watering.

He hadn’t even realized how hungry he was.

“You brought me soup,” Stiles mumbled, still a little lost in his own head. Derek’s face remained carefully blank and the man nodded once.

“You’re sick.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t actually expect soup—”

Except, Derek didn’t even give him a chance to finish that sentence. Instead, as if dropping off an entire ‘get better now’ cold-care package was all he’d come back to do, the man moved back over to the window. Though still, Derek paused there for a moment, glancing back, and Stiles could’ve sworn his eyes flickered for a moment. The man pressed his lips together, looked like he was going to say something else, and then pulled himself back out.

Stiles gaped in shock at the once more empty window. Because Derek was gone. And this time, Stiles was sure the man was not coming back.

He didn’t even know what to think of the werewolf anymore.

Stiles thought it was a little ridiculous how Derek had never learned how to knock.

That’s what he assumed, anyway, when his window was shoved up on a random Friday midnight and Derek the Grumpy Werewolf pulled himself through like he owned the place. Had it been any other weeknight or had Stiles been attempting to sleep, he might have been a little pissed. But as of that night, he was completely procrastinating sleep, and honestly, what use was telling Derek Hale ‘no’ anyway?

The man never knew how to take that for an answer.

Sighing, Stiles paused whatever Youtube video had been playing and half-closed his laptop, giving Derek a raised-eyebrow look.

“Yes, oh alpha of mine?”

For some reason, the man automatically frowned. “You’re still awake.”

And wasn’t that was a creepy way to start the conversation? Stiles blinked and closed his laptop the rest of the way. “Uh, yeah, dude, I am. Now please tell me you weren’t hoping for the opposite because this isn’t Twilight and I own an insane amount of wolfsbane. Just so you know.”

To that, Derek rolled his eyes. “No, Stiles.”

“‘No, Stiles’ what?”

The man just gave him a flat look— but that had been a fair question, okay?

One Stiles clearly wasn’t getting an answer to.

“Okay, then,” he said, raising his hands. “Just be all weird and creepy then, why don’t you? Yes, Sourwolf, I am awake. And no, I don’t plan on going to sleep any time soon. So do you need something?”

Derek hesitated for a moment before pulling something out of his pocket and stepping forward. Stiles sat straighter as the man dropped a set of keys onto his blankets— and automatically balked.

“Are those my car keys?”

Derek shoved his hands into his pockets and looked a little constipated. “Your jeep is parked in the driveway.”

“My jeep is… I’m sorry, what?”

“Parked in the driveway.”

Stiles stared at the man. Then he shoved himself up and stumbled to the window. And sure enough, his jeep was there. A little bit shiny looking, the duct tape no longer wrapped around the driver’s door handle, and wearing what looked like a new set of tires.

Slowly, Stiles turned back around. “Derek, my jeep was at mechanics.”

“Yes.”

Stiles stared. “Because it wouldn’t start.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s been there for three weeks because I couldn’t afford to get it fixed.”

Derek gave Stiles a look that made him feel like the idiot. As if all of this was somehow supposed to make sense. Because…

“Derek, did you pay to have my car fixed?”

The man didn’t answer for a long moment. Stiles took a deep breath, forcing himself not to turn right back around and stare at his jeep for a minute longer. Just to make sure all of this was real.

“Dude, I’m gonna need an answer. That really wasn’t a hard question.”

“... Yes.”

For a moment, all Stiles heard was white noise. Then he stalked forward and shoved a finger into Derek’s chest, but the man didn’t even move. “What do you mean, you fixed my car? Derek! Oh my god, how much did it cost? I’m going to need to get a job to pay you back. No, two jobs. And dip into my college funds. Oh my god!”

Derek finally reacted— by rolling his eyes. “I don’t want you to pay me back.”

“You don’t what ?”

If Stiles was overreacting a little bit, it wasn’t his fault. No, it definitely wasn’t. It was Derek Hale’s fault because apparently, the man thought it was normal to go around paying for people’s car repairments and—

Stiles blinked, staring blankly at the wall beyond Derek’s shoulder. “I’m gonna faint.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up and he stepped forward; to which Stiles reacted by raising his hands and stumbling back. Ramming into the nearest wall, he closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Nope, nope, nope. Do not get any closer, dude. Don’t take one more step. In fact, I think I’m gonna need a minute.”

“I can go,” Derek said, sounding uncertain. Stiles opened one eye and stared at him.

“That… might be a good idea.”

And it probably wasn’t. No, it definitely wasn’t. But Stiles didn’t know what to think, he didn’t know how to react, and if Derek stuck around any longer, he might feel the need to throw himself out the window instead of sending the man away through it. And his dad would probably not appreciate that.

Oh god, how was he going to explain this to his dad?

Derek looked at him for a moment longer, concern still written across his face. But then he just nodded and moved back toward the window. Stiles didn’t even watch the man leave, his attention fully fixed on the set of keys on his bed. His stomach flipped.

Derek Hale had just paid to fix his car.

Stiles had never not understood the werewolf more.

It took a while for Stiles to regain the courage to go back to the loft.

The way things had ended the last time he’d been face to face with Derek Hale, he wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to expect. But stepping through the front door, it was clear almost instantly that nothing had changed.

Somehow, literally nothing had changed.

The betas were all gathered around the couch watching something on TV. Stiles caught what smelled like pancakes and heard the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen. He stood still for a moment, head-spinning, and then moved toward the noise.

Derek was moving around the room with a towel thrown over his shoulder and a line of clean dishes next to an empty sink. The man’s grey-green eyes took their time drifting to where Stiles stood, gaping, and he just raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you were coming by.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no idea what to say.

There was a stack of pancakes next to the stove.

“Are you hungry?”

And with those words, Stiles finally snapped back to reality. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he gripped his keys tightly and stepped forward, holding Derek’s gaze. Because dammit, all of this was throwing him through a loop and he didn’t know how to react anymore. It was driving him crazy.

“Derek, we need to talk.”

The man’s other brow raised and he crossed his arms; Stiles swallowed hard.

“Somewhere else.”

Because the last thing he wanted was any of the betas listening in to their conversation. Derek studied him for a moment longer before nodding and pulling the towel off his shoulder, dropping it onto the counter. Running his hands nervously through his hair, Stiles followed the man out of the kitchen, toward the loft door.

Isaac was the only one who looked away from the TV. The little bastard was smirking wide and obvious.

Stiles ground his teeth together and followed Derek out of the loft.

He’d kind of expected things to be awkward right from the start when he’d stepped foot in the loft. But Derek was acting like the entire event from a week ago hadn’t even happened. Meanwhile, Stiles could barely even look at his jeep without remembering every last word said.

Out in the hallway, Derek gave Stiles a blank look, his expression not betraying a thing. And, god, Stiles hated that about the werewolf sometimes.

“So,” he said, words sticking to his throat. “Yeah.”

Derek’s brows furrowed. Stiles cursed himself internally, biting down hard on his lower lip.

“Derek, what the hell is going on?”

“What do you mean?”

Stiles gaped at the man before shaking his head. Because he wasn’t imagining these things, dammit. “Uh, what do I mean? Derek!” He rubbed a hand over his face. “My car. The jacket. The constant weird leftovers and that one random time I was sick, you literally brought me soup? Even Scott didn’t bring me soup! And I had been complaining through text to him the entire day.”

Derek’s right eye twitched. The man didn’t say a word. Stiles’s head spun.

“I’m not going crazy,” he said. And he kind of needed to hear that out loud, even if he was the one to say it. “I just… I don’t understand you.”

Derek's face did something strange— maybe he looked a little red. But he didn’t say a word and Stiles hated him a little bit.

“I’m not going crazy, Derek.”

“No,” the man said, something in his expression finally softening. Stiles stared and Derek shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at the wall over Stiles’s shoulder. “You’re not.”

Stiles swallowed hard, desperately hoping the man wasn’t going to leave him at that. Because he didn’t think he could manage more half explanations. The silence stretched as Derek didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then the man dropped his gaze.

“I… don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

“This.”

“I’m gonna need more than that, dude.”

Derek scowled at nothing. The man literally looked constipated now and Stiles might have been a little bit worried if he wasn’t so confused. So damn confused.

“Derek, do what?”

“All of… this! All of this, dammit, Stiles!”

Stiles startled. But before he even had a chance to react, Derek was moving forward. And then there were hands on the sides of his head, desperate lips pressing against his own, and Stiles jolted, nearly yanking back, and then all but melted into the touch.

For a moment Stiles.exe stopped working. His brain officially logged off and his instincts took over, leading Stiles to press right back, kissing Derek as hard as he could.

And if this was another thing he didn’t understand about Derek Hale, Stiles never wanted to figure the man out.

He kissed Derek hard and hungry. Because how long had he wanted to do this? There was a not-so-little part of him that had imagined kissing Derek Hale. Ever since Stiles had first laid eyes on the man. And okay, maybe he didn’t understand it, maybe he didn’t understand him, but at the same time, maybe Stiles had never wanted anything more. Wanted to know something, know someone, more.

At the rate his thoughts were going, that’s what he clung to anyway.

Derek broke contact first. The man drew back almost as fast as he had moved forward and Stiles was left standing there for a moment, swaying just a little, torn between catching Derek’s lips once more or passing out right where he stood.

But when he met Derek’s gaze, the man looked terrified. The coolness of the werewolf’s expression had finally vanished and Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Derek’s expression hold so much before.

“Oh,” he said. And yeah, that was the first thing that left his mouth. If possible, Derek’s face paled even more.

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles blinked. Just like that, he didn’t understand a thing about Derek Hale all over again. “You’re… what?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, clenching his jaw. “I shouldn’t— I didn’t—”

“Derek.”

The man cut off and looked at him with what could only be called a fragile expression. Stiles swallowed hard, all of it crashing down on him suddenly.

“Derek.”

“Stiles.”

Stiles stared. Derek Hale… god, Derek Hale was an enigma wrapped up in a leather jacket. Every time Stiles thought he was getting close to understanding even the smallest thing about the man, something had to change. Soup on a shitty day or a set of keys dropped onto his mattress. And sometimes Stiles thought he understood Derek Hale. But other times, he thought he never would.

The feel of the kiss still lingered on his lips. Maybe… just maybe he could understand that much. For a moment.

Stiles stepped forward carefully. “You confuse the hell out of me.”

Derek stayed stiff and silent. Reaching out, Stiles brushed the tips of his fingers against the man’s own.

“You’re like a thousand lines of red string, Derek Hale.”

Something flickered in Derek’s eyes. Stiles couldn’t tell if it was confusion or a hint of nervousness. Maybe it was a little bit of both.

Licking his lips, Stiles tilted his chin up and searched the man’s face. “I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand you.”

This time, Derek looked a little pained. Stiles offered a small smile.

“But I’d like to.”

Grey-green eyes flickered with the faintest hue of red. Stiles closed that last foot of space between them and took Derek’s hands fully, hoping the werewolf couldn’t hear how fast his heart was racing. Because he felt a little lightheaded and a little nauseous— like if this didn’t work out, he might throw up.

Which totally was not sexy at all.

“Derek?”

The man stared at him. The barest hint of color had finally returned to his cheeks. “Stiles.”

“You should totally kiss me again.”

Derek blinked. His expression did something strange. And then it was like the tension had been wiped from his face. In the breath of a moment, warm lips were pressing against Stiles’s again and this time, there was nothing desperate about it. Nothing hard, nothing sudden, nothing rash. The man kissed him warm, careful, and it was kind of like a leather jacket being draped over his shoulders in the cold of the rain.

Stiles smiled against Derek’s lips. Because honestly, there was something about it that just seemed right. And he thought he knew what it all could become.

He'd like to, at least.

For the moment, though, Stiles kissed the man with just as much hope and decided he understood that much.

#sterek #teen wolf #sterek prompt #sterek fanfiction #ficlet #derek hale #stiles stilinski #stiles x derek #eternalsterek #prompts

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bloodfromthethorn · 3 years

Text

Sleep is the Best Cure

“Jack? What-” Mac blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision even as he automatically relaxed into his partner’s hold, trusting him to keep him up while he struggled his way back to the surface.

“Pretty sure you’re going on about 72 hours without sleep and you’ve had, what? Three? Separate traumatic situations in that time? Not much of a surprise you’re about to crash hard.”

Tag to 2x11 and 2x12. Also on AO3.

Mac’s eyes surveyed the wreck of his living room with a building sense of dread. The last few days felt like little more than a blur in his memory and he didn’t think he’d had a chance to pause for breath during any of it. Now that he had a moment to himself, he couldn’t help but worry that the world was about to come crashing down yet again, with him standing right in the middle of it.

Charlie’s attention had been drawn away by one of the team responsible for lifting the barrels out from beneath the floor, while all around them Phoenix personnel were cataloguing every item they could find just in case one of them might grant a clue as to the Ghost’s whereabouts. Mac considered moving to help them - or perhaps back Charlie up in what looked as though it might be descending into some kind of argument about proper procedure - but the instant he took a step to do so, sharp, blinding pain struck him right between the eyes like a lightning bolt.

It was there and gone in a flash, but it left him so startled he staggered back a step in surprise. A hand snatched at his arm before he could do more than sway, tugging him carefully against a supportive warm body. “Easy there bud.”

“Pretty sure you’re going on about 72 hours without sleep and you’ve had, what? Three? Separate traumatic situations in that time? Not much of a surprise you’re about to crash hard.”

“I’m- I’m okay.”

“Yeah man, ‘course you are. But maybe we should get you some sleep, yeah?”

Mac’s head still felt like it was floating some way above the rest of his body, foggy and distant, but he was still able to feel himself frown as the suggestion stuck a chime wrong somewhere. “Can’t,” he managed. “House is in clean up.”

“Matty’s got it covered,” Jack said, sure and steady. “And while she’s getting everything here sorted, you can crash at my place.”

That did admittedly sound amazing, but Mac forced himself to mumble a negative and reclaim some of his own weight, shaking his head in a vain attempt at clearing out the cobwebs taking root. “No, I need to help Charlie,” he said stubbornly.

The arm Jack had around his shoulders turned to steel, not letting him move away. “Charlie is doing just fine. He knows what he’s doing and he’s not the one dead on his feet right now. It’s okay man, it’s over. You can hand the reins over to someone else for a bit.”

With his vision steadily clearing, Mac could finally make out Jack’s worried face at his shoulder, watching him closely for any sign he was about to take another nosedive. Beyond the concern though, it was clear as day that Jack was starting to flag just as badly as Mac was, with pale skin and deepening crow’s feet emphasising the slight squint he’d picked up to combat the dryness of his eyes. “You’ve not slept either,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

Jack huffed something that might have been a laugh if he’d had the energy for it. “True enough, but I also wasn’t arrested and I haven’t spent the last twenty hours working on defusing two bombs simultaneously.” He gestured vaguely around the wreck of Mac’s living room with his free hand as though to encompass everything that had happened. “I’m good to drive us both back to mine and then I’m planning on passing out until at least tomorrow. That plan sound good with you?”

Honestly, now that Mac was aware of his own fatigue, the exhaustion felt like a physical weight on his body and the very thought of handing over his safety to Jack and drifting off for a couple of hours sounded like heaven, but he knew his job. Once an EOD tech, always an EOD tech, and there was still a lot of explosive material in his house that needed dealing with before anyone in a mile’s radius would be safe. He had work to do.

The sentiment must have shown on his face, because Jack went right back to frowning. “No, man, cut that out. Even if there wasn’t a perfectly capable bomb tech right over there, you’re in no state to be handling explosives. You’re shaking.”

Mac glanced at his own hands to confirm that yes, his whole body was indeed wracked by fine tremors that he couldn’t seem to stop. That… didn’t seem right. Since joining the army he’d had countless sleepless nights, both intentional and unavoidable, and while he knew he must be getting close to his limit of endurance, he was usually steady handed. Sort of an occupational requirement, really.

“Something’s wrong,” he murmured to himself, still looking at his trembling fingers.

With a heavy sigh, Jack tugged on him until he was pushed, unresisting, onto one of the bar stools and propped up by Jack’s warm palms on both of his shoulders. “What’s wrong is that you’ve been running on nothing but adrenaline and coffee for two whole days. Just ‘cause you’ve not been dodging bullets doesn’t mean you haven’t been going through the wringer. You’re exhausted. That’s all it is, bud, promise.”

Well, if Jack promised then Mac would believe him. Jack would never lie to him and he always seemed to know Mac’s hurts even before the man himself did. Something about it still didn’t sit right with him though. “Was dodging bullets,” he corrected, slightly petulantly, as he remembered handcuffs around his wrists and the desperation of trying to find a solution using nothing but a bullet and a ballpoint pen.

One of Jack’s hands drifted up his shoulder to cup the back of his head comfortingly in a move that Jack liked to use when he wanted to check Mac’s pulse without him knowing. “I’m okay,” he mumbled again in protest, but didn’t pull away.

“Yeah, I know you are. You’re pretty out of it though bud. Reckon you’re not going to remember this conversation tomorrow, huh?”

That was probably a fair assessment, honestly. With no witty retort lined up and thoroughly lacking the energy to search for one, Mac just hummed agreeably, blinking at him as his vision went wobbly again.

Jack sighed. “Okay, I’m calling it. I know you want to help out here, but you need rest and you’re not going to get it while there’s a Phoenix clean-up op happening in your living room. And since I’m not letting you out of my sight just yet, you’re coming home with me, yes? Good.”

He finally broke his attention off from Mac to cast a glance around the room at large and caught Matty’s eyes, gesturing to his semi-conscious partner with a small head tilt. “I’m taking this one home.” He didn’t leave any room in his tone for argument, but softened it by adding, “If you need us, call me.”

Thankfully, as much as Matty might be a hardass when her job needed her to be, she was also one of the most observant people Jack had ever met. Her eyes took them both in with a single look and recognised the exhaustion staring back at her. She nodded with a soft smile. “Take as long as you need. We’ve got this.”

He spared enough time to shoot her a deeply grateful look before his entire attention turned back to Mac, who appeared to have been trying unsuccessfully to use the brief pause to rally himself. Unfortunately for him, he was long since out of any reserves to draw off; the best his attempts got him was some slightly more aggressive blinking.

“Okay hoss, think you can stand up for me?” From the way Jack was having to keep him steady, it was obvious that Mac’s balance had completely gone to shit, but he obediently pushed himself upright and managed to at least keep his knees locked to take his weight. “Alright man, you’re doing great. Let’s get outside and get you sitting down again, yeah?”

Getting Mac outside and into the car turned out to be an exercise in extreme patience. Out of it as he was, he seemed to consistently forget where they were going and why, and made several attempts to turn himself around to go and help Charlie even though he could not more obviously be beyond that particular task. Each time Jack would nudge him back in the right direction with a soft push and a string of gentle words that seemed to more or less do the trick. By the time Mac was carefully folding himself into the passenger seat, the kid was scarcely still conscious.

“That’s right, you just sit there and let Jack get you home, yeah?”

That Mac didn’t even groan in protest at Jack referring to himself in third person said a lot for his mental state. Chuckling to himself, Jack rounded the car and nodded at Bozer who had appeared at the front door to see them off.

“I’ll get the house sorted as soon as I can,” he promised. “Make sure everything’s nice and clean when he gets back.”

“Appreciate that. But make sure you get some rest yourself, okay?” He said sternly, sending him a steady look. “Today’s been a long day for everyone, you included.”

“We’re good Jack. Matty will take good care of me and Riley. You just worry about Mac.”

Jack snorted, momentarily letting his bone-deep exhaustion show on his face. “As if I ever do anything else.”

Mac was thoroughly dead to the world when Jack slid into the driver’s seat beside him, his head tilted awkwardly against the window and his arms wrapped tight around his middle. It looked wildly uncomfortable, but the journey was only short and now that he was actually out for the count, Jack was loath to disturb him until he had to. Instead, he jammed his keys in the ignition and headed for home without another word.

Tired as he was, Jack drove more carefully than he was usually of a mind to and as a result ended up taking a full half-hour to make it to his apartment. Mac didn’t so much as stir the entire time. If it hadn’t been for his breath fogging against the glass of the window, Jack might have resorted to feeling for the pulse in his wrist just to be certain that he really was still there, still in one piece. After everything he’d been through in the last three days, the fact that the worst physical damage he would have to deal with would be a few scrapes and a hefty dose of exhaustion was something of a miracle - and Jack would still trade almost anything for the chance to go back and spare him of all of it. Mac had never deserved the shit that got thrown at him day in and day out, but it rarely came so thick and fast.

And physical condition aside, Jack knew that Mac wasn’t getting away from any of it without some new mental baggage.

But that was a problem for tomorrow, at the earliest. Right now all he had to worry about was getting 6 foot of mostly-catatonic secret agent up several flights of stairs, preferably without drawing any attention. Easy.

Mac did make a valiant attempt at consciousness after a few gentle shakes from Jack, but it was clear the window of opportunity for his ability to hold his own weight had closed some time ago. In the end, it was left to Jack to duck under his shoulder and do his best to balance them both as they hobbled unsteadily up the fire escape. The lobby would have granted them an elevator, but with them both on their last legs, Jack didn’t want the attention.

No doubt they must have looked comical - or perhaps just drunk - but they made it in the end, and without anyone falling down the stairs to boot. Jack was going to count that as a win.

“Mac, you still with me brother?”

There was a vaguely attentive hum. Mac’s eyes didn’t open.

“You happy to share the bed or are you gonna make me sleep on the couch?”

Another hum that Jack chose to take as ambivalence. In truth the question was somewhat redundant - the pair of them had shared far closer quarters than a king-sized bed before, and Mac would never turf Jack out of his own room, especially when he was just as desperately in need of rest. Asking was more of a formality than anything.

There was a second brief deliberation when Jack managed to get them both into the bedroom as he tried to weigh up the chances of him being able to bully Mac into changing into some borrowed sleepwear. In the end, he figured it wasn’t worth the hassle and just calmly battled him out of his jeans and his dust-covered henley before tipping him beneath the covers. With his consciousness waning once more, Mac offered little more than a sleepy grumble as he burrowed down beneath the blanket and went still once more.

With a weary chuckle of genuine relief, Jack ran through his own preparations as quickly as his tired body was capable of before finally, finally folding himself into the other side of the bed. After everything, the sensation was heavenly.

There was a long stretch of motionless silence, broken only by their steady breathing, and Jack felt the fiercely alert, wary section of his brain finally start to cede control to the comforting embrace of sleep. It was over; Mac was safe, the bomb was defused, no one was in prison, and Cage would be just fine after a bit of recovery time. Jack was free to let his guard down at long last.

It wasn’t an easy task. For the next five minutes he struggled with slipping into light dozes that broke off suddenly when his adrenaline spiked, bracing himself against some new danger. He knew that he needed the rest and for once it was legitimately safe to do so, but he had too many years of forcing his body through every possible hardship for it to give up the fight so easily.

Then, as he always managed to do, Mac provided the solution. After the fifth or so time Jack jolted awake, Mac let out a low, displeased huff and wriggled until he was able to reach out a hand and wrap long fingers around Jack’s wrist in a gentle reassurance of his presence. He didn’t even look as though he was awake as he did it - he’d just sensed that Jack needed his help, and had offered it without thought. Lost in his own exhaustion, Jack thought it was almost poetic.

Not that he would know, of course.

Safe at long last, and tangibly aware of Mac’s steady presence at his side, Jack finally let himself sleep.

#i'm sure there were a lot of fics exactly like this when those episodes came out #but im new #let me indulge #macgyver #mac #jack dalton #exhaustion #god i miss jack so much you guys #respect to eads' choices but the show is just not as good without him #still shouldnt have been cancelled though #fuck that

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anoutlandishfanfic · 3 years

Text

Metamorphosis Ch 28 - La Dame Blanche

Finally! An update!! Thank you all for your patience!! We’re slowly making progress -- and so is Claire!!

Many thanks to betas @thefraserwitch and @walkinginland for their help... and keeping my feet to the fire.

You can find previous chapters here on Tumblr or over at AO3.

Nearly 10pm — Still the 21st of February, 1744 Jamie.

“Talk to me, Murtagh.”

Claire’s directive reached over my shoulder and took firm hold of my godfather.

“Oh, aye?” he squirmed slightly, unsure of his task. “What shall I tell ye, then?”

Her grip on my arm tightened as she labored through another of what she called contractions, her brow deeply furrowed and her breath coming in short gasps.

“Tell her stories,” I provided for her. “Jus talk to her… anythin’ to take her mind off things.”

This was met with great approval and he launched into a tale — at my expense.

“Have I told ye of the time yer numpty there tried to teach his sister’s wee cheetie to swim?”

I could hear the unbridled mirth in his voice, could see the massive grin stretching across his face even though my back was to him. It was Murtagh’s favorite story of my youth — and I was certain he had told her already — but I honestly didn’t mind being the subject of ridicule if it brought some small measure of comfort to my wife in her agony.

“Christ, ye’ve told it a hundred times over,” I protested in jest, dipping my head to place a soft kiss behind her ear as I dug my thumbs into the place at the base of her spine as she’d shown me.

“Ye canna be borin’ her wi’ tha’ one.”

I caught the barest hint of a smile in her eyes behind the pain and my heart soared.

Murtagh harrumphed at my interjection, suggesting, “Well, I could tell her o’ the time ye ruined yer da’s—“

“Tell her of the wee gomeral, ye old coot,” I grumbled, interrupting him before he could explain just what had become of my father’s best shirt as a result of my trying to impress a particular lass in the village.

Our companion chuckled to himself as he settled in for a good tale.

“Jenny’d nursed the wee slip o’ a thing back to health, aye?” Murtagh begun slowly, savoring the memories. “It’d been the runt o’ the litter an’ it’s mam wouldna feed it, ye see, so the lass took it within the house an’ fed it milk an’ cream an’ the like…”

Claire’s breath caught in a helpless whimper as something within her changed and my heart turned over in my chest. Her fingernails dug painfully into my skin — just as the talons of that wee fiend had all those years ago.

“She’d named it Mungo,” Murtagh continued, entirely unaware of the goings-on within our nest — completely taken back to time and place of his story, “an’ the wee cheetie had complete command of the kitchen… patrolin’ the pantry for enemy mice like a braw wee soldier.”

“Show me wha’ to do, Sorcha,” I pleaded, pressing my cheek against hers.

She turned and kissed me — hard — taking me completely by surprise and stealing all the breath from my lungs. Everything around us melted away as her soul reached out for mine, tugging and pulling with all her might. I gave in readily, offering up everything within me… all the strength, the will, and drive I possessed.

I kept my hands busy, not lifting them to her face as I maybe would have otherwise, but continued my massage of her spasming muscles. My fingers traced along her spine as my palms moved up her back, giving attention to the unyielding tendons I found along my way. I found her shoulders hunched near up to her ears and I knew that could do her no good.

“Right here, mo chridhe,” I showed her with a gentle caress across her shoulder blades. “Relax your arms, lean in to me… I’ll hold ye up.”

She did as encouraged, the loop of her arms around my neck loosening as a low, murmuring groan began to bubble up from within her. Her face turned into me as she rested her head on my shoulder, curling inward as the tone of her protestations became almost growl-like.

It was a considerable change from before and I thought these were more productive… less fearful and altogether rather like those I’d heard time and time again from the births I’d witnessed in the fields and byres of home.

Christ, how she hated my comparison.

“Aye, that’s the way,” I crooned. “Make all the wee noises ye like.”

Murtagh still hadn’t noticed that I’d been having my own conversation with my wife and that neither of us were paying any attention to him… It wasn’t worth interrupting him and perhaps as the contraction eased, the noise would become a welcome distraction again, but for now —

Claire was in a world of her own.

Her shoulders now sufficiently relaxed, my hands drifted back down to her hips. She’d begun to sway them again — a helpful action, she’d informed me earlier — and the low growl had risen to a steady hum. Setting my thumbs back into motion forthwith, we moved together for quite a while before she once again fell silent.

…

Claire.

Jamie helped me turn, allowing me to sink down onto the mattress and rest against his solid chest.

He was laughing… but silently, the vibrations doing wonders to slow my racing heart. It took me a moment to realize just what was so funny, but it was soon obvious.

Murtagh.

Jamie’s godfather was fully invested in the tale he was telling, completely oblivious as to what we were doing and instead absorbed in every detail of the recalled situation at hand.

What was it?

Ah, yes. The bloody cat.

I slid my eyes shut, a soft smile tugging at my lips.

How many times had I heard that one while we were on Jamie’s trail?

But, still, he knew it was one of my favorites and by all accounts it seemed to be one of his too.

My husband’s hand lifted to my face, brushing back the curls that clung to my damp brow and cheeks. I sighed heavily and turned my face into him, placing a kiss in the middle of his palm. A low rumble of delight ran through him as he tipped my chin up for a kiss on the mouth, the last vestiges of my latest contraction melting away as he shifted me in his arms.

And, so, it was in this manner — dressed in nothing but my shift, the nearly transparent material of which plastered against my skin, my hair a riotous mess of curls around my face, and lying cradled in my husband’s arms with my legs spread wide — that the captain of the Demeter found us as he came bounding into the cabin… with half the crew hot on his heels.

Before I could so much as blink, Jamie had extricated himself from beneath me and was using his body as a barricade to block any access to my person, dirk drawn. Murtagh had done much the same and leapt towards the door with the speed of a snapping crocodile, a nasty snarl contorting his face into an expression of such ferocity that I’d never seen before.

“Ye gave me yer word, Captain,” Murtagh spat. “Ye said ye could handle yer men… tha’ ye’d no’ be violatin’ my lady’s privacy in such a manner.”

As if in confirmation that he could not, in fact, keep control of his crew, they began to speak as one, shouting over one another and lunging towards us until the room was an overwhelming cacophony of threats of violence. I couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it, save one repeating word.

Witch.

Oh, bloody fucking hell.

They blamed me for the storm.

“Throw her overboard!” A raucous shout broke out above all the others.

“Aye!” came another, “Send her to the depths where she belongs!”

The very air in my lungs vanished with these words and bright spots flashed before my eyes. I reached out blindly for Jamie, desperate to take hold of something steady — but came up with nothing but empty space.

His name rolled off my tongue, parting my lips with a scream that started deep within me and multiplied until the sound bore no resemblance to my own voice.

Lightning split the sky in two and the room was awash with an unearthly light as a mighty wave surged against the side of the ship as my husband turned back to face me, the impact of the surf sending the both of us sideways across the mattress.

Jamie managed to catch hold of me, taking the blow against the wall upon himself, and it appeared from my low vantage point that only Murtagh remained upright. The rest of the men had been bowled over completely by the might of the storm and they remained where they lay… their verbal assaults suddenly silenced.

“She is no witch,” Murtagh finally spoke, raising his voice to be heard.

“She is La Dame Blanche,” he continued. “If even one of ye approaches her out of harm, she’ll curse both ye an’ yer kin to come for many a generation… I’ve seen her do it myself.”

Jamie’s arms around me loosened, now that we’d come to a secure stop against the wall, and I struggled to sit up.

“No, Sorcha,” he commanded, his voice urgent as he scrambled over me, effectively placing me between his protection and the barrier behind me. “Stay there.”

I shook my head wildly, my eyes wide. The last place I wanted to be right now was flat on my back.

“Help — me — up,” I bit out as I tried to roll onto my side by myself.

He eventually did as told — guided by a swift pinch to a tender spot within arm’s reach — and helped me sit up against the wall. He then had the audacity to turn his back on me, settling himself into a defensive position.

My vision began to cut out again in great, black blobs and I grabbed for him. My fingers brushed against his shirtsleeve and I latched on, yanking him back towards me by a fistful.

“Aye, ye’ve got me,” he assured dryly, moving only marginally closer as his attention was still firmly affixed on the ship’s crewmen and his fingers anxiously tapping against the hilt of his dirk. “I’m right here.”

“Put — that thing — down — and help me,” I bit out, using what little oxygen I had left in my lungs as my lower half once again threatened to be separated from the rest of me.

Jamie turned and looked at me — really looked at me — and nodded slowly, moving until he was right in front of me. He lay the knife within easy reach and offered himself up to me.

But the contraction had now settled in with an intensity that shook me to the very marrow of my bones. It assaulted me from all sides: making Jamie’s touch suddenly painful, the woolen fabric beneath me transforming to needled barbs, and the ruckus of the men bent on my destruction an endless, agonizing cacophony of damnation.

“Claire?”

I had shut my eyes up tight some time ago, willing my surroundings to melt away, to be suddenly back home at Lallybroch with Jenny at my side… but it was not Jenny’s voice that called to me now.

“Mo chridhe, ye mustna hold yer breath like that.”

I felt my leg jerk in reflex, my foot connecting with something solid before recoiling and heard a correlating ooof.

“Oh, aye,” my husband muttered. “Kick me all ye like, Sassenach, jus’ open yer eyes for a wee bit, aye?”

I did no such thing, incapable of even the slightest voluntary movement.

“Christ, ye’re as stubborn as any Scot,” he sighed and I felt a small measure of accomplishment, but Jamie was not about to give up his case.

“Kick, pinch, hit… I dinna mind… do anything ye like to me, mo nighean donn,” Jamie tried a different approach. “I willna touch ye if ye dinna wish it — ye ken I willna — but I’ll be ticklin’ tha’ wee foot of yer’s if ye dinna open those bonnie eyes an’ look a’ me!!”

I cracked one eye open and glared at him with all the force I could muster, but the look of relief that washed over his face as I did so had me opening the other in short order.

“A Dhia, ye ken how to scare a man,” Jamie shook his head slowly, a rueful smile now tugging at his lips as he realized I was returning to semi-consciousness of my surroundings.

“Forget them, mmm?” He passed a look back over his shoulder towards a dwindling crowd. “Murtah’s tellin’ ‘em of all the wondrous things ye can do… they’ll be back about their business in a moment or two.”

He shifted, returning his gaze to me as he moved even closer — though making no move to touch me.

“Just focus on me, aye?” Jamie offered, his blue eyes as deep and strong as the ocean surrounding us. “We’ll take it one pain at a time.”

Lifting a trembling hand, I reached for him, my sweaty palm open and empty. He took it between both of his, squeezing it tight.

“Aye, Sorcha,” he swallowed hard. “Tha’s the way.”

Together.

He sat beside me like that, steady and calm, until my contraction began to ease.

My breath was coming easier, but still ragged as I pulled him closer. Eagerly obliging, he took me back into his arms, helping me move so that I could recline against him.

I felt a slow but steady trickle of warm fluid trail down my thigh as I shifted and quickly tried to stop my bladder.

“Fuck,” I spat, pulling my shift out of the way of the flow.

Overtaken by a hoard of men and you piss yourself.

Brilliant, Beauchamp.

Jamie grabbed for something to mop up my mess — coming up with an already half sea-soaked petticoat — and made a halfhearted comment of reassurance.

“Oh, shove it,” I hissed, eyeing our company. “I could have at least made it to the bucket.”

My husband stopped what he was doing and looked down at me with an odd expression dancing in his eyes.

“What?” I demanded.

“Well, tis jus’ that I dinna expect ye to catch all yer waters in a bucket, Sassenach,” he chuckled to himself. “Even if ye were in a room that didna sway an’ had a midwife by yer side.”

“My… oh,” the truth of what he was saying hit me quite suddenly.

Jamie’s bemused smile bloomed into a bonafide grin, having properly identified amniotic fluid before I did.

I shook my head slowly, letting it tip back to rest against his shoulder as I muttered, “Jesus H Roosevelt Christ.”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #metamorphosis au #chapter 28 #la dame blanche

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