#its not broken or anything i think i just pulled a ligament but there was an audible pop while inwas climbing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

adorethedistance · 3 years

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Down For the Count - Charlie Gillespie x Injured!Reader

JATP cast masterlist

Requested: via these Injury/Hiking asks.

Warnings: Swearing I think, injury, falling/accident, hospital

Words: 2004

Summary: After a hard fall resulting in a bad injury, your boyfriend Charlie comes to the rescue to be your care taker at the same time as he has a Live with Owen.

A/n: A filled request? On my page??? It’s more likely than we thought! This one has been a long time coming (sorry act that). I have an exam coming up so I don't know how much I’ll write until then, but after I might have a shit ton of free time so I might be able to continue filling requests.

“What happened?” I hear Charlie practically screech upon seeing me sitting on the dull blue colored vinyl of the hospital examination table. He’s still dressed in his muscle tee, athletic shorts, and he’s got his hiking bag on his back, which lets me know he didn’t take it off as he sped over to the hospital.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” My emotionless assertion makes Savannah laugh. “I fell down a few stairs wrong and messed up my ankle pretty bad.” And luckily my phone was in my back pocket pre-fall. Knowing Charlie went with Chevel for a morning hike in nature with no service, Sav was the only other person close enough to my space of living to come scoop me up. I sat on the stairs for the solid 15 minutes it took her to drive over here, just waiting. The way I fell and the pain that came with it was unmistakably reason enough to not even try and stand. And I was right to do so because, after a standard hospital visit, I’d been informed that I had torn a ligament. Go me!

“Well, are you okay now? Is it broken? Are you okay to go home?”

“Charlie, I’m fine. It’s a mild tear, I just need to stay off it for a little while.” I gesture him closer mid-sentence so I can pull a leaf out of his long hair. He catches my hand in his as I release the lock of his hair.

“How long is a little while?”

“Six weeks most likely.”

“Six weeks?!”

“I’ll be fine, Charlie.”

“As much as I love you, I do have to leave so-” Savannah interjects Charlie’s moment of panic, whilst collecting all three items she had brought to the ER with me. “Charlie? Please keep an eye on her. Don’t let her try and tough it out like we know she will.”

“I’m fine, Sav.”

“You’re on crutches, Y/n.” She mimics my tone and inflection before double-checking with Charlie in a single look, and promptly exiting the hospital. I look at my hiking trail dust-covered boyfriend in annoyance but his face doesn’t waver from its determinedly firm expression.

“Do you need help off the table?”

“No, but I’ll probably need help getting into the car.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

__________________________

“Okay, you’ve got the remote, pillows, blankets, pain killers, water, a juice box, a healthy snack, an unhealthy snack, and a charger. That should be good, right?”

“It’s good. I’m sure it’s more than enough, Charlie. Thank you.” Charlie looks at me with a proud smile, knowing he’s doing his best to help me out. My confirmation is the last thing he needs before telling me that he has a Live to do, for the millionth time. It takes some reassuring that I’ll be okay if he resides in the room next to me, and eventually he leaves me alone.

I puff out a short breath as a symptom of convincing Charlie first and foremost, but second, the eventful day I’ve had all before 11 AM. Sitting in a static silence for a bit piques my curiosity as to what Charlie is doing, but it doesn’t last long and I reach for the tv remote. No time like the present to watch the newest show everybody’s raving about. Does anyone even care about Bridgerton anymore? Do I really wanna watch a series about homicide and Mormons? I figure it can’t hurt to watch something made by John Mulaney. Even if I’ve already seen it six times…

When I open the program, I’m met with the Netflix logo which is far too quiet for me to hear anything. As I’m about to turn up the volume, I hear Charlie’s voice carry over from the next room.

“Y/n’s injured so I’m taking care of her for a little bit.”

“Wait, what happened?” That sounds like Owen’s voice.

“She fell and messed up her ankle real bad.”

Real bad. Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.

Returning my attention to the undetermined John Mulaney special, I hesitate for a minute before eventually choosing Kid Gorgeous and letting it play from the beginning. Although the special is still as entertaining as the first time I watched it, I find myself fighting sleep. Thankfully, I frontloaded my week with most of my responsibilities, so I can afford to take the day to myself. It is more of a need than a want, but still. I ultimately give in to my desire and let myself rest after the eventful morning. Sleep quickly consumes me in the best way possible where I’m not in so deep that I’ll wake up miserable, but still fully unconscious and resting.

When my eyes flutter open, I’m confused as to why I’ve woken up until I feel it. I drank all of my full water bottle and a juice box and I have to pee.

Fuck. What time is it? I haven’t been asleep that long, but it’s been long enough that the special is over and Netflix is hounding me to watch something else. Where is my boyfriend?

“Charlie?” I sleepily call into the abyss. It’s less than a second later that Charlie appears in the doorway, breathless from having sprinted from what sounded like the kitchen.

“Are you okay? I thought you were sleeping. How long have you been calling for me?”

“Shhh,” I attempt to simmer his worry, “I’m fine. Can you just help me get to the bathroom?” I set my good foot on the ground and attempt to stand, but my body, still not fully awake, nearly gives out on me whilst my vision is overtaken by a cloudy headrush. Charlie is by my side in an instant, catching me by pulling my torso into his more stable one.

“Hey, wait, you should just sit for a sec and give yourself some time to wake up-”

“Charlie, I have to pee so bad.”

“Okay, okay.” Despite verbally agreeing, Charlie doesn’t allow me to move any further. I look at him in confusion to see he’s eyeing the crutches on the floor by the arm of the couch. “Yeah, you’re not stable enough yet,” he says to himself, but our close proximity allows me to hear him anyway. Before I can process what’s happening, Charlie sweeps me up bridal style and begins carrying me to the bathroom.

“Your workout’s been paying off,” I mumble into the fabric of his t-shirt. The fool laughs lightly, his cool breath dusting the top of my head and his chest vibrating against me. It’s so comforting to be in his arms that I nearly fall back asleep on the way to the bathroom. Charlie notices and presses a kiss to my forehead to keep me awake.

“Hey. You gotta pee first and then you can go back to sleep.” I groan as a reply, causing him to laugh again. “Will you be okay moving around the space or do you need my help?”

“The bathroom is not that big, Charlie.”

“Okay, okay.”

My bathroom visit goes seamlessly, and the warm water of the tap wakes me up enough to talk to my hyper-cautious lover through the door of the bathroom.

“How was your Live?”

“It’s been good so far.” At his response I freeze for a moment, looking at my own reflection as if I’m face to face with Charlie.

“So far?”

“Yeah, Owen’s babysitting the Live right now.”

“You didn’t tell you were still on. I would’ve managed on my own.”

“I’m not gonna let my seriously injured girlfriend struggle her way through my house!” He cries, sounding legitimately offended, but knowing Charlie, he’s not being 100% sincere. I unlock the door and swing it open to find him pouting. He doesn’t speak again until after he scoops me back up into his grasp. “Do you want to go back to the couch or come sit with me or…?”

“Will you sit on the couch with me?” I feel him nod above me and feel my eyes begin to droop as they had on the way to the bathroom. Should I let myself sleep more? I want to be able to sleep tonight, but I’m still so exhausted that I’m convincing myself everything will turn out fine.

“Okay, let me go grab Owen and I’ll come sit on the couch with you.” A hazy smile rests on my tired features as Charlie sets me down on the sleep-inducing cushions of his couch. I can hear he’s already back after a quick second when Owen’s voice sounds through the speakers of his phone. To my surprise, he doesn’t sit down right away, and when I crack my eye open to investigate why, I’m met with Charlie staring down at me in awe. I don’t even need to ask what he’s thinking and the sheepish boy wordlessly takes his place on the couch next to me. He’s leaning back against the pillows he set up and beckons me to lay my head against his shoulder. Mindful of my pain, he helps me prop up my injured leg for elevation.

“Hey, Y/n!” I hear the familiar voice that I don’t have to open my heavy eyes to identify.

“Hi, Owen.”

“How you doin’?”

“I’m-”

“Hey, that’s my thing!” Charlie cuts me off to whine at his best friend.

“What?”

“Only I can ask Y/n ‘how you doin’?’” He says in the iconic Joey Tribbiani fashion. I exhale as much of a laugh as I can muster before resuming the conversation Charlie childishly interrupted.

“I’m doing alright. It’s only day one and life already sucks, but nothing is broken, so, could be better and could be worse.”

“I feel so bad for you.”

“Aww well, at least I have Charlie here to take care of me.”

“I feel so bad for you,” Owen pointedly parrots, earning a harsh glare from Charlie.

“You know what? If I had it my way, you wouldn’t be in this Live.”

“Don’t be mean!” I scold my nuisance of a boyfriend, gently tapping the back of my hand against his chest. Charlie grabs the offending hand and interlaces our fingers, bringing it up to place a sweet kiss on my knuckles.

“Siiiiiiiiimmpp!”

“You’re just jealous you’re all alone in Oklahoma.”

“Uhhh, correction: I have Eaton here for the week, so ha!” I roll my eyes at the childishness that is Owen and Charlie, but laugh all the same. It’s never-ending with these boys, and the chaos, though exhausting, is humorous more often than not. I’m happy to be with the boys again, but the harder it gets for me to keep my eyes open, the more I realize I wasn’t fully ready to be awake yet. As Charlie’s shoulder becomes the most comfortable spot in the world, I look at the two of us in his window on the Live to see he’s looking right back at me on the screen. He ignores the fact that I’ve caught him and absentmindedly lays his head on mine. The position only lasts for a brief second before he’s back to his animated self when Owen asks him a question.

My eyes fall heavier and heavier with each blink before they refuse to open. In and out, my breathing slows to an even draw and I can feel my weight slowly relax onto Charlie’s shoulder. It doesn’t seem to affect him at all as he sits off the back of the couch.

“Is she asleep?”

“I don’t know, let’s ask. Y/n, are you asleep?”

“Charlie, you’re such an idiot, leave her alone.”

I feel the infinitesimal pressure of his breath against the top of my head when he leans down to press a loving kiss to where my hair has parted on his shoulder. He then traces the knuckle of his index finger down the side of my exposed cheek before resuming his conversation with Owen about weird fan mail they’ve gotten. How I love this idiot.

***

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be-gay-do-heists · 3 years

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OKAY finally finished with eliot hand pain hurt/comfort fic, and i couldn’t actually decide whether i preferred it in second or third person POV. this is the version with the third person POV, otherwise nothing is different from the other version !

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Contrary to what the four crazy people he spent his time risking his life for nowadays thought, Eliot didn’t like the pain.

There was nothing cleansing about it, nothing satisfactory. A ringing hit to his jaw didn’t feel like penance. The actual protection aspect was a different story. Standing like a wall between your people and danger, there was nothing that made Eliot’s ribs ache with pleasure like that; a wall didn’t feel, didn’t think, it was just an immutable fact. He was an immutable fact. The problem was that the wall-as-Eliot, or perhaps the Eliot-as-wall, had to become human again sometime after the last man went down and the last dollar bill was stuffed into a duffel. To hurt was human, and not just to hurt but to remember the wound long, long after, for it to live in your knees and wrists and between the vertebrae in your spine. Some days— and this was a product of how long after a job it had been, how hard he had pushed—some days were worse than others. The fact that some days the first sound out of his mouth wasn’t even a groan, but a whine, or worse the half-awake pleading for please please make it stop i’ll do anything just make it stop—

No, Eliot didn’t like the pain.

Comparatively, today was a good day. Today, he could get out of bed. His head and body were blessedly in agreement that it was in his best interests to swing his twinging knees to the side of the mattress, push himself up onto legs that were sore but stable, with arms that shook only slightly. But compared to Eliot’s best days, the ones where except for the old shoulder injury which would never let him forget it and the scar on his hip that put a falter in his giddy-up in all kinds of weather, the days on which except for those he sometimes even forgot the pain, this didn’t hold a candle. Today his hands were so beat and weak that the ache radiated up to his mid-forearm, settled into him all familiar-like and made its home in him.

In the bathroom, Eliot used his wrist to turn on the faucet and stuck his mouth under the water to drink. Holding a cup was off the agenda. His morning routine was interspersed with winces, not unusual for his post-job bathroom adventures, and if it took Eliot longer to shimmy on the sweats he knew he wouldn’t be getting out of today, it made him appreciate the comfort of wearing them a little more.

Going handless was fine until he was face to face with the fridge, and resisting the urge to growl at it, like that would solve anything. Taking a deep breath, he put a hand on the stainless steel handle, testing his grip. A light flex had Eliot drawing it back like the metal had burned him, like someone had snapped a tight clothespin onto each ligament. He took a moment to pace a couple steps, let out a loud but cathartic expletive, and then wedge his hand between the handle and the door so he could open the fridge with his elbow strength. The feeling of triumph behind his collarbone faded quickly as the hitter scanned its contents and realized there was nothing he wanted to eat, or at least nothing he wanted to hold and eat. The thought of grasping a fork brought another growl to his throat, and he slammed the fridge door to stomp to the couch and throw himself down, cradling his hands in his lap.

Eliot knew the drill: in an hour, he would grit his teeth and get to up to try and fumble open his bottle of painkillers, and if he succeeded, he would wait another hour for them to truly kick in so he could handle the tv remote, put on whatever game was on, and vegetate on the couch until further notice. The phone he had left on the nightstand rang loudly, fully audible from the other room, blaring out the chorus to “Macho Man” that Hardison had put as his ringtone and Eliot hadn’t figured out how to get rid of yet. If it was important, whoever it was would call again, so he ignored it. His ire rose when the same noise sang out from the bedroom a couple minutes later, a bit-off groan escaping from his clenched teeth as he levered himself up to get to it as fast as he could, awkwardly accepting the call and maneuvering the phone between his shoulder and ear. “What?”

“Man, we haven’t heard from you since we split yesterday, I thought we were gonna get a beer downstairs last night?”

He rubbed his eyes with his wrist, frustrated that he had forgotten he was supposed to get together with Hardison the night before. Getting home, washing the sweat and blood off, and falling into bed had seemed like the only goal in his mind. “Look, sorry, I’ve been busy. And if this ain’t important, you—“

“Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, you’re using your tough-guy, bullshit voice. And you actually apologized, so something is double wrong.”

Eliot snarled. “I don’t have— Hardison, I don’t know what you’re talking about, just leave me alone.”

“Too late, we’re already at your place.”

Before he could open his mouth, his doorbell rang, drawing a groan from him. If he was correct about who the “we” was, it seemed silly to even ring it. His suspicions were confirmed thirty seconds later as the door clicked open anyways and Parker and Hardison came in, having the decency to at least look slightly sheepish. Eliot had already moved back to the couch, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” he growled.

“Excuse us for being worried about your wellbeing, Mr. Suffer-In-Silence,” Hardison scoffed.

Parker leapt onto the couch cushion next to him. “We thought you might have been captured by ninjas.”

“You would know if I had been captured by ninjas,” Eliot muttered. “It’s a very dis— look, you’ve seen that I’m not kidnapped, it’s our day off, can you please leave and let me rest.”

“You still owe us a hangout from last night!” Parker chirped. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay long.” She vaulted back over the couch to go rummage through his snack cabinets, getting into the granola bin by the sound of it. Eliot made a note to restock it before she came back next.

When he next opened his eyes, Hardison was lightly sitting on his coffee table, looking at the hands still resting in the hitter’s lap. “What’s up with your hands, Eliot?”

Eliot’s first instinct was to deflect. He trusted his team, sure, but this was different. They weren’t supposed to know that he had these days. That he wasn’t invulnerable. “Nothing’s wrong with them, stop sitting on my coffee table.”

“Mhm mhm, sure,” Hardison said. “Go like this for me?” He wiggled his fingers in a “hey sailor” kind of fashion. Before Eliot could tell him just what he thought about that, Parker’s ponytail swung into the side of his face, the thief reaching down to poke one of his hands faster than he could stop her.

By the time Eliot was able to refocus and pull himself back from the whiteout of pain, Parker and Hardison were looking at him with open concern, the hacker leaning back slightly, a little pale. Eliot thought he might have howled; he wasn’t sure. Both his hands were clenched tightly to his chest, wrists together, arms outward, wishbone shaped. He felt just as brittle as one, with their stares on him. He summoned the anger from his throat, the only weapon at his disposal (only half-expecting that it would work, always defenseless when it came to their prodding).

“Can you leave me the hell alone now?”

Hardison looked at him, taking his time formulating his thoughts, but it was Parker who spoke. “Nope.” Eliot turned to her where she was perched on the couch. “You get hurt taking care of us. Now you let us take care of you.”

Eliot looked at Hardison pleadingly, hoping he at least would take pity on him and let him wallow by himself. The hitter wanted to hide like the trap-escaped, half-dead badger whose den he had accidentally put his foot into half a lifetime ago in the Italian Alps, earning him an earful of hissing that scared the shit out of him. He wondered if he seemed as belligerent as that now.

Hardison just shrugged and smiled gently. “Hey, you heard the woman.” He leaned forward slightly, just enough in Eliot’s space to let him feel his warm presence without crowding. “Couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

He didn’t want to try, was the thing. It was only that it wasn’t their job to take care of him. It was his to take care of them. They just seemed to be wholly unaware of this.

“You taken anything for those yet?” Hardison asked, pointing at his hands. He hummed at Eliot’s slight head shake. “Thought so. Which ones?”

“White bottle, red pills. Only need a half,” Eliot mumbled, slouching. Parker was already up and heading to the bathroom.

“We need to get something you can actually open when this happens, some kind of spring-loaded catch maybe,” Hardison mused. “Alright, let me see them.” He patted his legs, frowning at Eliot’s growl. “C’mon, none of that. I know they hurt, I’ll be really, really gentle. I won’t even touch without asking.”

Eliot looked him in the eye for the sincerity he already knew would be there, the eagerness to help that (damn him) was one of his favorite traits of Hardison’s. Hesitantly, he extended his hands, rolling his eyes at the hacker scooting forward to offer his knees to rest them on.

“I assume you got antiseptic and ointment on these knuckles already, so totally disregarding those, even though it sucks. Nothing broken?”

“No, just. Aches. Like a son of a bitch. Can’t make a damn fist. Happens sometimes.”

Parker bounded back in, armed with a glass of water and half a pill in her open hand. “So no jobs for a while. Easy, I’ll tell Nate. Open up.” With a scowl, Eliot took the medication from her fingers with his teeth (gently, gently), and let her raise the glass to his lips, nearly choking as she tipped it a little eagerly, and choking for real when Hardison said, “Whoa, woman, let him swallow.”

“It’s not just the last job, Park, it’s jobs two years ago, or five, or ten,” Eliot managed, once he had his breath back. “Part of the package that comes with the lifestyle. It just happens sometimes, don’t matter what schedule we’re on.”

She frowned. “Still. We shouldn’t be doing jobs if you’re hurt. Nate should know that.”

Hardison leaned forward a little more while he was distracted trying to find the right response to that, that they wouldn’t be doing any jobs at all if that were the case, that Nate trusted him to get the job done no matter what, reaching out to his forearm and stopping just a hair’s breadth shy of touching. The hitter froze, and Hardison did too, meeting his eyes. “It’s ok. I’m just trying something out. Is it alright if I touch you here?” At his tiniest of nods, the hacker placed his fingertips on his arm, rubbing circles so lightly that Eliot almost couldn’t feel it. “Let me know where it starts to hurt, okay?” Hardison applied the slightest pressure as he added his other hand and lightly started rubbing down his forearm. When he got to his wrist, Eliot couldn’t help the strangled noise that partly escaped through his nose, high and strained. Hardison moved away from there immediately, going back to tracing soothing, gentle patterns. “You’re ok, you’re ok. I can work with this, no problem. Where do you keep your hot pads, man?”

“Bathroom, lower right drawer,” Eliot grit out. Parker was zipping off to get it and warm it up before he could even process. Hardison applied a little more pressure with his fingertips, rubbing the meat of his forearm. Eliot breathed out long and slow at how good it felt once the initial ache had ebbed.

“I want to try giving you a hand massage, but I don’t wanna hurt you more than it would help,” Hardison said, pausing slightly. “You up for it? I’m not gonna pressure you either way.”

Eliot’s thoughts stuttered, and then bolted in different directions. The feeling that he didn’t deserve this, that this was too much to ask, which had been simmering this whole time leapt to life again. It joined with the wounded, snarling animal part of him that still wanted to hide, burrow down with the covers over his head until his pain faded into the muted background noise of the world. He didn’t even know if a hand massage would work, might make the pain worse.

But it might be nice, a small, hopeful part of him murmured. Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he had been offered something like this, let alone the last time he had taken the person up. If there was anyone he trusted to do it, if there was anyone he wanted to receive it from, it was these two. How could he refuse them even he wasn’t fully on board with what they were suggesting?

“Sure, just…” Eliot said as Parker returned with the hot pad, pausing from tossing it hand to hand like a hot potato to fix her stare on him. He licked his lips, swallowed around a dry throat. “Just be gentle.”

“I will,” Hardison said earnestly, taking the hot pad from Parker to gently maneuver it under Eliot’s hands, resting on his knees. Eliot tensed slightly as the thief leapt up onto the back of the couch, perching above his head, but otherwise relaxed as the warmth of the hot pad started to loosen the ache in his hands. Hardison started where he had before, applying the slightest pressure to the hitter’s forearm. Parker ran her fingertips lightly through his hair, humming.

“Your hair is kinda wonky,” she said, fingers catching on a tangle. Eliot winced.

“That’s what happens when you go to bed without brushing it properly, you know that,” he grumbled, breath hitching as her fingertips grazed his scalp. His breath stuttered again as Hardison’s hands started working towards the sore meat of his wrist. Eliot’s hand began to shake.

“It’s ok baby, I got you,” Hardison murmured under his breath, more soothing sound than words. Eliot cracked open an eye to see him looking between his hands and his phone, playing a video where it was propped on his thigh.

“Man, are you watching hand massage tutorials right now?” he gritted out, doing a poor job of masking his genuine amusement with frustrated disbelief.

The hacker tapped his index finger against Eliot’s arm lightly. “I’ve been watching videos dude; think you’re so slick, tryna hide your hand pain from me. I just wanna make sure I get it right in real time.”

Parker’s fingers running through Eliot’s hair more boldly silenced any follow-up thoughts he had, mind going fuzzy with how good it felt. Without thinking, he insistently pushed his head up further into her touch, making her laugh. The sound reverberated in his chest, leaving him longing to hear it again. Instead a half-whine left his throat as Hardison probed the bottom of Eliot’s palm, the ache drawing him back to full awareness.

The hacker backed off for a moment. “Sorry, sorry. You still cool to keep going?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eliot breathed shakily.

“Just tell me if there’s anyplace else that needs to be handled more delicately, or you don’t want me going at all,” Hardison said, putting his clever hands to Eliot’s again and taking up his gentle, slow pace. Parker’s fingers had paused in his hair a second, but went back to running through it again, scratching his scalp on every other pass.

Slowly, slowly, the vice of pain on Eliot’s hands started to dissipate, bone by bone, finger by finger. He don’t know how long he sat there in a haze, as Hardison and Parker patiently touched him, fixated on the single task of caring for him. The thought made the tender space behind his breastbone twinge. When he surfaced from the half-asleep contentment of their efforts, the television was on, Star Trek playing at the lowest volume. Eliot grunted, lifting his head from the couch to look at the two of them sitting beside him, grinning at his movements. Hardison’s warm hand was still in his, but instead of massaging he was just holding it softly.

“Hey sleepy,” teased Parker, throwing herself over Hardison to get closer and forcing an “Oof!” out of him.

Eliot looked down to his hands, flexing one experimentally, in disbelief at how the ache had faded to an almost imperceptible hum. With the other he tightened his fingers around Hardison’s hand, moving his thumb lightly over his.

“Hey,” Eliot simply said back, a real smile rising to his lips.

#leverage #miko speaks #fic #my fic #ot3 #check og post for more notes

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lesetoilesfous · 3 years

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For DADWC: from the Florence + The Machine Prompt List list > "And the heart is hard to translate, it speaks a language of its own". You're my favorite fenders writer 💙, so fenders fic, pretty please!

Aaaaaaaah so I got this twice and I love it SO much so thank you both! @contreparry - I really hope you enjoy it!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders

Tags: canon-typical graphic depictions of violence, Anders was right, anti-chantry, fluff

Rating: Mature

“And the heart is hard to translate It has a language of it's own It talks in tongues and quiet sighs And prayers and proclamations in the grand days Of great men and the smallest of gestures In short shallow gasps”

- All This and Heaven Too, Florence + The Machine

It started on a beach in 9:30 Dragon. It was raining, and Fenris, Hawke and the rest of their companions were hot and sticky with blood when the clouds had burst. They’d left a litter of broken slaver bodies in the sand dunes behind them, stumbling down to the grey waves of the Waking Sea beneath a cloudy sky.

And then it had begun to rain, and the mage: a foolish, willful man utterly ignorant of his own privilege, had yelped and begun to take his clothes off. Fenris can still remember the way the sand had felt between his toes, and hear the buzz of insects in his ears as he’d stared at the tall, blonde man, and the sand between them had grown dark with water.

Anders had stripped down to his smalls, blood streaked up his forearms in long vivid slashes, and dropped his staff carelessly into the long, stiff silver reeds. Admittedly, it was a cheap thing: clearly scavenged or stolen, and nothing that any self-respecting magister would have been seen dead with. Still. Fenris had never seen a mage just drop their staff like that before. Just to the right of Anders’ chest, half hidden by thick red-blonde hair, was a deep and jagged scar directly above his heart. His belly was almost concave, hip bones jutting in a way that could only be unhealthy. There were more scars, but Fenris barely had a chance to see them before Anders was running at the freezing sea.

From behind, Fenris saw that his long back was latticed with more scars than he had previously imagined. The mage yelped as he got into the waves, feet hopping as if the water were burning hot, not freezing cold. And then he got past the shallows, and dove in beneath the cresting waves. Behind him, somewhere between the beach and the horizon, seabirds leapt squawking into the grey sky. Anders had burst up out of the blue water, laughing, tossing his hair back from his face in a whip of antique gold, tipping his long, crooked nose back and shutting his eyes as he raised his face to the watery grey sunlight.

And then Isabela and Hawke, laughing, had pulled each other’s clothes off and followed him, and Fenris had been left standing uncertainly on the beach, watching them, unable to decipher the ache in his chest as he waited for them to rejoin him on the shore.

It started in the Alienage in 9:30 on Wintersend. Anders had just delivered triplets, which was a labour that was exactly as harrowing and arduous as he had worried it would be. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, and for weeks after he’d ascribed the events of that night to a waking dream. The elvhen women whose children he’d delivered had attempted to press what silver they had into his hands, and Anders had pressed it back into the mother’s wife’s hands, dizzy with the expenditure of his magic and the sheer weight of fatigue. Then he’d taken his staff, more as a cane than anything, and slowly left the narrow confines of their home.

His knee had been blistering with pain: and he’d known before the first kiss of snow that the weather had changed. His worst scars always warned him before the sky broke. Still, the coat he’d armoured over the years with reinforced leather and what other supplies he could scavenge provided little warmth against the night, so Anders was shivering as his breath fell in white clouds into the dark. Around the Vhenadahl, candles flickered against the wind in a way that only magical fire could, and Anders sent a silent half-hearted prayer to the Maker that the templars would stay inside their barracks tonight, and not make any midnight excursions into Lowtown.

The last person he had expected to see leaving Merrill’s home was Fenris, and he certainly hadn’t expected to see the elf wrapped in a mossy green, knitted woolen scarf. For a second the pair of them stared at each other, caught like apprentices out of bed past curfew. Then Fenris had flushed, ruddy against his dark skin, and marched past him. Anders had expected it to end there, but when Fenris got to the foot of the steps to the alienage he stopped, greatsword strapped like steel lightning to his back.

He turned on the steps, and frowned at Anders. “Are you coming?”

Anders had followed. Fenris said nothing for the whole journey, but he walked Anders to the door of his clinic, and when Anders swayed as he tried to heave open the heavy doors, Fenris had caught his elbow. Anders had stared at him, more startled by the unexpected gesture than he would have been by the Darktown floor, and Fenris jerked his hand back like he’d been burned. In one of the undercity taverns, a chorus of festival goers were singing. Fenris gave him a short, sharp nod. “Good night, mage.”

Anders nodded back, speechless. Through the broken walls of Darktown, snow drifted in silent clouds and disappeared into the blue ink of the Waking Sea. Anders was convinced for years that he imagined it when Fenris stopped again, on the staircase outside the clinic, and spoke in a murmur. “Happy Wintersend.”

It started on Sundermount in 9:33 Dragon. Fenris had fallen, feet slipping in the mud, right calf failing him thanks to a slice to his leg that felt like it had split a ligament. His leg was a screaming burn and the rest of him was little better. The fog on the mountain was thick and white as dragon’s breath, and much colder, seeping through his armour and into his skin, and making the lyrium sewn into his flesh numb the veins around it in a bruising ache. Fenris couldn’t see Hawke, or Isabela, and he did not trust the mage to be anywhere than at Hawke’s side, for all that she had clearly long since promised her heart to Isabela. It was with a grim certainty that Fenris had looked up into the bloody, snarling face of his would-be killer, even as his mind ran through every formal strategy and dirty tricky he could think of. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt for mud to throw into his eyes, but his fingers were weak and stiff with the cold. The slaver’s sword fell.

Which was when six feet two of mage tackled him. Fenris stared as Anders charged at the slaver who would have killed him, throwing him down into the dirt. The mage’s staff was nowhere to be seen, and his hair was almost brown with the rain. His pale face was streaked with blood, and his coat and shirt were torn and scorched in places, exposing his bare, newly healed skin. Fenris stared as Anders tackled the slaver down into the mud and then reared back and punched him, hard, breaking his nose before punching him again, and again, and then taking a dagger from his belt and slitting his throat with brutal efficiency.

When the act was done, Anders dropped the knife into the dirt and scrambled to his feet, long legs skidding in the wet mud like a newborn colt. Fenris almost laughed, but in the absence of mortal peril his injuries were attempting to set his nerve endings on fire. His efforts to sit ended in him collapsing back onto the hill and praying to a Maker he struggled to believe in that Hawke and Isabela had dealt with the rest. And then Anders was there, face covered in blood and mud, hair clinging like kelp to his newly freckled and faintly sunburned cheeks. “Oh no you don’t.”

Magic fell over Fenris’ ruined leg like holy fire, and Fenris’ pain evaporated, washing away from one heartbeat to the next until it was merely a distant, terrible memory. Slowly, stiffly, Fenris managed to sit up, and for the first time in three years, Anders gave him a warm, honest smile. “There you are.”

Then he’d stood, and Fenris had been dizzily reminded exactly how tall he was. And then there was a long, calloused hand, red with blood, fingers crooked with breaking, thrust into the foggy air between them. Despite himself, Fenris took it.

It started on the Wounded Coast in 9:33 Dragon. Aveline was attempting to woo her soon to be husband, Donnic, and Anders was struggling to understand exactly why that required Hawke and her friends to put their lives on the line. But the summer was late and hot, and the days were long, and Marian’s eyes were very blue. So he’d found himself in the shifting, midge-ridden dunes of the Coast, killing slavers and Tal-Vashoth, and only occasionally cringing with second hand embarrassment at Aveline’s attempts at flirtation.

They’d dispatched most the ne’er-do-wells stupid enough to show their faces between the sand dunes, and were waiting for Aveline and Donnic to catch up in an appropriately concealed spot beneath the hissing reeds. Soon enough, their voices came down the path, not quite smothered by the close crash of the ocean and the whistle of the wind.

“So I think it’s always best to start with a quick downward slash, and then follow up with a parry. It’s predictable, sure, but I think it’s good to get recruits started on what’s tried and trusted.”

Fenris had laughed, and for a second Anders thought the wind dropped. The elf’s voice was rough and low, and his laugh was too. He’d curled his lyrium-twined fingers at Isabela, and Isabela had rolled her eyes and presses a silver into his waiting palm. Fenris had pocketed it. Then he’d caught Anders staring, and cleared his throat, colour rising to his high cheekbones. Isabela had leaned across him, and Fenris’ flush had risen up the back of his neck and into the tips of his ears. Anders had tried very hard not to stare at it.

“Do you want in? Fenris thinks it won’t be until the third path.”

Anders had spoken, as he so often did, without stopping to think. “I wouldn’t have figured you for the romantic type.”

Fenris had met his eyes, then, and the elf’s were deep and green and beautiful. “There is a great deal that you do not know about me, mage.”

Anders had not been able to think of anything else for the rest of the night.

It started in 9:37 Dragon. They were in The Hanged Man, and Fenris was staring at the monster that wore the face of his nightmares. Corff was nowhere to be seen, nor were Maraas or any of the tavern’s other regulars. Fenris was trying to beat back the tide of cynicism in his mind telling him that he should have known they would betray him, all of them. That he should never have trusted anyone but himself.

His sister stepped back, and his blood roared so loudly in his ears that he barely heard what Hawke said. But he heard his domi - Danarius - talking about his affection and his skills. It took everything Fenris had not to vomit on the tavern floor, and his mind revolted in a dizzy kind of horror as the impulse conflicted with memories of merrier disasters on these same stained floorboards. Then there were demons, and his mouth was thick with sulphur, and Fenris was fighting for his life.

It was like being back in the Provings again. Danarius had found his way onto the wooden staircase of The Hanged Man: the staircase that led up to Varric’s rooms, the staircase on which Fenris had once kissed Isabela and been pleasantly surprised by her response, the staircase where he’d found her kissing Hawke and told them it didn’t matter. Danarius had desecrated this place that despite the best efforts of Fenris’ anxieties had become like a home to him. Danarius had stood there, and watched, and Fenris had heard his friends’ screams as his master’s demons had ripped into their flesh.

Fenris had lost track of time, arms burning with the searing remnants of dismembered spirits, hands slippery with sweat and blood. But at some point the familiar relief of healing had disappeared, and he had belatedly looked up through sweat-stinging eyes to see Anders’ body arched in a translucent prison of blue light. Danarius had been watching the mage with an expression of terrible curiosity that Fenris knew well and feared more. His expression had been almost impassive as the mage shuddered and spasmed, blood oozing from his ears and flowing from his nose and down over his chin.

Isabela was clutching a gash in her side that was turning her white canvas tunic cherry red, and Hawke was dragging a mangled leg through the broken furniture as she made her way towards her. Fenris stood frozen in the smouldering wreckage, trapped like the butterflies his master liked to collect on pinned boards in his study. Anders had collapsed in a heap at Danarius’ feet, and Danarius had stepped forward. Fenris’ heart lurched.

But then Anders had surged abruptly to his feet and punched Danarius in the balls.

Fenris laughed, a shocked bark that was too loud in the tavern following the battle, and Danarius had wheezed, and blood had spun about his fingers, and Anders had grabbed the back of his head with one hand and slammed his knee into Danarius’ nose with a jarring crunch, chest heaving as he panted.

Then he’d picked up Danarius with all the strength promised by his tall, muscular frame, his training as a Grey Warden and the hearty meals Varric had spent nine years coaxing him into. Anders hurled Danarius down the stairs, where he landed in a heap at Fenris’ feet. Anders had looked at him, beard red with blood, body trembling with fury or pain or both.

“He’s all yours.”

And just like that, Fenris was free.

It started in 9:37 Dragon. Hawke and Isabela had fled across the sea, and Anders didn’t blame them. The Chantry was gone, and he was still getting used to the idea that he was meant to survive this. He still wasn’t entirely sure that he should, and Justice had been all too silent on the subject. So he spent his days in a waking dream, trekking for days and then weeks into the Vimmark mountains in the vague direction of Nevarra.

He hadn’t seen another living person for three weeks when an elf emerged from the fog, wreathed in white light like a ghost. Anders had stopped. His body and mind had long since become stretched too thin with hunger, horror and grief. Fenris’ countenance, for all its grim finality, came as an abrupt relief. At least he could stop running, now.

He’d dropped his staff, slowly, and held up his hands. “If you’re here to kill me, I won’t stop you.”

Fenris had not drawn his sword, but he hadn’t let the light die in his lyrium, either. When he stepped closer, he didn’t make sound, and for a moment Anders thought perhaps he really was a ghost, summoned by his imagination and too many nights in a decade spent longing for a man he couldn’t have.

Around them, birds had sung in the early morning, and not far off a stream made its laughing way down the cliffs. “Why did you run?”

Fenris asked the question as if it held the secret to the restoration of the Golden City itself. Anders laughed, stepping forward and stumbling over his own feet and the thick mass of pain that was his long since ruined knee. Fenris moved toward him through the long, dew-soaked grass, but didn’t quite breach the space between them. Anders swayed into a mostly intentional sitting position on a moss-covered boulder. “Does it matter?”

Fenris had met his eyes, and his own were dark and green and beautiful. “It does.”

Anders shrugged, and shut his eyes, leaning his head back and up into the fog. Water kissed his cheeks, and he thought: it would have been worth it, for this. It would have been worth it, to feel the weather again.

Something skittered in the bushes, and Anders opened his eyes and watched Fenris turn, bristling, to scan the trees. After a moment Fenris’ shoulders lowered, fractionally, and he turned back to Anders. He’d asked the question again, patiently, persistently. “Why did you run?”

Anders shook his head. “Because I didn’t want to bring you down with me.” Fenris’ eyes had widened a little, and Anders hurried on. “Any of you. I knew what I was doing, but the consequences were mine alone. I wasn’t going to subject you to them.”

Fenris had tilted his head, and the lyrium in his skin had sent shimmering refractions of light dancing iridescently through the fog. “I did not think you bore me so much good will.”

“More like I didn’t bear you so much ill.” Anders had corrected, before sitting forwards, feeling abruptly the weight of too many decades of exhaustion lying heavy on his aching shoulders. “It’s alright. I think killing me is the best decision, too.”

The glass had rustled, then, and Anders thought it must have been deliberate. But then Fenris’ feet were in front of him, stained green with the grass, and the light of his lyrium faded, leaving them both wreathed only in the sunlit fog. Anders looked up at Fenris, and he looked like some ancient king, backlit by the bright sky, skin dark and olive against the shimmering silver of his lyrium. “I’m not going to kill you, mage.”

And then there was a dark, calloused hand, silver with lyrium, fingers slender and elegant, thrust into the misty air between them. Anders stared at Fenris, and Fenris’ poker face cracked as he gave him a small, crooked smile. Despite himself, Anders took his hand, letting Fenris pull him easily to his feet.

“I’m going to help.”

It started in 9:40 Dragon, when the Circle of Dairsmuid was annulled, and over five hundred mages between the ages of six and seventy were murdered because they were allowed to see their families. It started in 9:40 Dragon, with the rebellion of the White Spire. It started in 9:40 Dragon, when Lord Seeker Lambert declared an end to the Circle of Magi.

It started in a tavern in Nevarra, at a meeting of former slaves and runaway mages. It started with elves, and second-hand weapons, and an apostate with a Fereldan accent who looked like an Ander. It started with an elf from Tevinter with white tattoos that looked like Vallaslin.

It started with rebellion. But that isn’t where it ended.

“No, words are a language It doesn't deserve such treatment And all my stumbling phrases Never amounted to anything worth this feeling All this heaven never could describe Such a feeling as I'm healing, words were never so useful So I was screaming out a language That I never knew existed before.”

- All This and Heaven Too, Florence + The Machine

#dadwc #fenders #da2 #fenris #anders #my fic #barbex #contreparry

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shiftytracts · 3 years

Text

Stop Wanting More, part 1 of 2 (T/M/A fic)

In which season-four Jon tries to quiet his hunger for live statements by gorging himself on paper ones, and Daisy tells him what she used to do when she got shaky between hunts. Part two here.

…For almost ten thousand words (~5.1k in this half, ~4.3 in the other), beeeecause of course I did.

Content warnings:

Disordered eating (mainly of the statement variety, but mentions also the literal kind)

Nausea, and brief descriptions of prior vomiting

Brief but not-ungraphic description of Jon’s (canon) Boneturning incident—so, injury, very mild body horror

Vague discussion of Daisy’s passive suicidality (in part two)

Animal cruelty and death: Daisy talks about hunting rats for sport (in part two)

—

Jon paused the tape recorder, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. A statement’s second-to-last page was the hardest to get down. The dull ache that had begun under his ribs twenty minutes before now stretched down far enough to converge with the one in his stiff hips. His pulse throbbed in his stomach; he could feel it swell and recede beneath his hand with every beat. Nausea boomeranged up from somewhere under his navel. He reminded himself he could stop for now, finish this later—and, as always, that thought made him feel even colder than the sludge of other people’s fear pooling in his stomach. With his free hand Jon pressed Record again, and turned to 0101702’s final page. Oh, god, there was barely anything on it. Just the rest of this paragraph and then one more. He kept his eyes on the page, didn’t stop speaking its words, but fumbled blindly for another statement with his fingers.

“Knock knock,” Daisy said as she entered. “Christ—you’re still recording?”

In a flash Jon folded his hands on the table, sat up a little straighter, tried to suck in his gut. “Er—”

“Thought you said you were gonna do one more.”

“I’m almost done.”

“You’ve got another one right there.”

“I…” he considered I’m sorry, but then she’d say For what. “I don’t know what to tell you. It is my office.”

“Yeah, and your home,” Daisy scoffed—“and mine. Sort of.”

“D—did you want…? You’re welcome, to. Sit down, or….”

She did, on the arm of his couch. “I know, Jon. That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay.” To show he’d meant his welcome, Jon pushed his chair back from his desk and turned in it to face Daisy. Hopefully she’d remember he couldn’t ask What did you mean.

“I mean, don’t pretend this is work. How many statements have you had today? You don’t think that one can wait til tomorrow?”

Seven? Or would this one be eight. Jon forced himself to exhale out the portion of gut he’d been holding back since she arrived; it hurt too much to keep sucking in anyway. “A lot. I’m just.”

“Hungry, yeah.”

“Even when I’m stuffed I’m hungry.” He snarled a laugh, and set a rueful hand over his stomach like a fig leaf.

At first he’d tried sating the hunger with garden-variety food. That didn’t help much. Way back when he’d first transferred to the Archives Jon had fallen back into the old habit of forgetting to eat—which, yeah, not great, but, it did mean he remembered well how amazing it used to feel to cram down even a stale biscuit after too many hours’ inanition. All the hidden notes he’d found in yogurt and dry toast. He even remembered tearing up once at the taste of a banana, early in 2016. Before that he’d been sure he didn’t like bananas; afterward, for a short while he’d eaten one nearly every day, hoping vainly to recapture the ecstasy of banana after 14-hour fast. No luck, of course. After a few weeks he’d concluded he still didn’t much like banana as final course of healthy lunch. He’d especially disliked peeling them: how sometimes the stems bent without breaking, and the more times you tried the warmer, softer, more flexible they got. How little strings of peel still clung to the banana after you peeled off its main body, like static when you pull off a jumper. Or like the lint it leaves behind on your shirt. And the way bananas bruise, like people do. All these vestiges of its previous life—reminders it had lived to feed itself rather than him.

Since the coma, all people food—er. That was, all food intended for human consumption—tasted like that chase after a faded spark. Cloying and mushy and… organic, reminding him too much of the garden it came from. And the way it landed in his stomach was far worse. The original banana, the one Martin had pressed on him in the Archives in April 2016, had gone down like nectar, ambrosia, manna from heaven, &c.; the ones afterward, like an unwanted dessert always does. (Cloying. Mushy. A biology lesson mildly tapping its watch.) These days, though, eating regular dinner on a stomach empty of other people’s trauma felt like trying to fill up on cake. Not like cake after fourteen hours of nothing; Jon was pretty sure his 2016 stomach would have welcomed that. But like cake at dinner time. When you’re expecting, you know. Dinner. It gave him the brief, fake-seeming energy of a sugar high, and made him sick before it made him full.

Especially when he was otherwise ailing, for some reason? After Hopworth he’d treated himself to a lie down and a sandwich. The rest had helped, but he’d squandered most of the energy it gave him on the effort to keep the sandwich down. At that moment nothing, not even the coffin, had scared him so much as the thought of what it would feel like to throw up when you had only ten ribs on one side. He hadn’t expected losing them to hurt, at least not for long—had expected the rib to flow out of his skin into Jared Hopworth’s hand like an ice cube through water, which in retrospect was stupid given the testimony of Mr. Pryor in statement 0081103, but he hadn’t had time to reread that one beforehand and at the time Jon remembered only that Hopworth didn’t break his victims’ skin when he pulled out their bones. Turned out that wasn’t much comfort: he’d still had to break the ligaments attaching Jon’s ribs to his spine and chest. It had felt like a bad dislocation (four of them, technically), only instead of the feeling of bone pressing on things it shouldn’t there was an equally violating sense of tissue wallowing in holes that shouldn’t be there. He’d had this horror that if he were sick the flesh would crumple and pop where his ribs used to be, like when you try to suck the remaining water out of a near-empty bottle.

A few months after that he’d caught cold. (A point in the still-human column, Daisy had called it.) You know the first day or two of a cold, before the encroaching mucus takes out your ability to smell or taste properly, how innocuous olfactory phenomena like cheddar and laundry soap suddenly become Bad Smells, on par with the olive bar at a posh supermarket? Well, in a similar way, this one seemed to sharpen the dichotomy in his body’s opinions of people food and monster food. His lack-of-ribs had mostly healed by then though, so either vomiting with only ten ribs on one side did not cause the anomaly he’d feared, or, if it did, it hadn’t hurt enough for him to notice it in the cacophony (pucophony?) of other sensations.

(Daisy liked to play on words, so he’d been doing it more lately. This project the Eye seemed happy to help with, though in this case the suggestion arrived in his mind at the exact same moment as a reminder that, technically, the word cacophony can apply to sensations other than sound only by synecdoche.)

And then, a few weeks ago, when the whole Archives went down with norovirus… well, it wasn’t a fun time. He’d at first mistook the lethargy, weakness, trouble concentrating for signs of hunger—the new kind of hunger. Ms. Mullen-Jones’ statement about the Divine Chains cult hadn’t seemed all that bad, when he’d first recorded it. Scarier than if he’d read its events in a novel, of course; that was just how statements worked. He experienced them more vividly than stories, though less so than the events of his own life. (Because the people they happened to thought they were real! he’d told himself when he first took this job. It’s empathy, that’s all. Nope, sorry—evil magic.) When he read a paper statement these days, though, the knowledge it wouldn’t give him nightmares never quite left him. And he’d thought he was growing desensitized to the kinds of horror most people came to the Institute to report. Coming back up, though—maybe it was the fever, but god, the visions he got on that statement’s way out, of Agape and the soft, sticky hivecorpse of Claude Vilakazi’s followers—the way it made the donut he’d shoved down that morning (in a show of team spirit, god help him) come back up tasting like rotten rice wine—it was worse than the dreams. Worse, he could have sworn, than even the first time he ever dreamt Naomi Herne’s empty graveyard.

While hanging over the bowl of the Archives’ toilet waiting to see if he’d got it all up or if there was still more to come, Jon remembered thinking again of the banana Martin had given him. A few days earlier Daisy had made him watch the video of the I don’t understand this meme and at this point I’m too afraid to ask man vore-ing a banana; Jon had confessed to her, in a conspiratorial whisper-laugh, that for him vore itself had been one such meme until that very second, when the Eye had seen fit to inform him. But when applied to a banana, the term apparently just meant eating it peel and all. In 2016 Martin had broken the banana’s stem and pulled back a section of peel before handing it to Jon, so as to brook no argument. Was it really the banana itself he’d cried over? Not the gesture of friendship, when Jon deserved it so little? The thought of someone caring for him enough that when he got hangry at them they handed him a snack. Martin had been living in the Archives then, like Jon did now. Sleeping in Document Storage—a guest in a room owned by pieces of paper. Those bananas may have been the only thing that felt like his.

A Guest for Mr. Spider was about vore, technically. Not an uncommon topic in children’s literature. Some surmised that was where the fetish came from, though others maintained kinks like that were inborn, and the stories merely alerted their hosts to them for the first time. Red riding hood, three little pigs, little old lady who swallowed a fly. The Leitner touch was only the part where he drew you to his real-life lair and real-life ate you.

Looking back, that was probably the first thing he’d ever admired about Martin—how easy he’d made it look to skin a fruit. Not at the time admired, of course, but in those weeks afterward, when every banana Jon ate made him claw at the peel til his finger joints throbbed.

That stomach bug had struck the Archives with serendipitous timing, though. If he’d not found out how thin abstinence from the Hunt had made Daisy on the same day he’d barfed up a statement, Jon might not have pieced together what their combined evidence meant. Until then he’d put down his own post-coma weight loss to the fact he rarely ate more people food than a donut in twenty-four hours. Lots of avatars were scrawny, after all. Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew, Justin Gough, Annabelle Cane, John Amherst, Simon Fairchild. Jude Perry and Jared Hopworth could mold their respective fleshes however they wanted, so he didn’t count them as exceptions. True, Trevor Herbert’s bulk had struck him as odd; surely a homeless man wouldn’t waste cash on food his body no longer wanted. And what about Breekon and Hope? Did butterflies and a quartermaster’s pen and tongue sustain them? But maybe, Jon had told himself, it was like with alcohol. Maybe the avatars with more flesh on their bones had worked to develop a tolerance for (air quotes, heavy sarcasm) people food, for the sake of their physiques, or. So they could, he didn't know, eat socially? Without feeling sick, like Jon did whenever one of the others brought donuts.

Preposterously stupid, this theory seemed in retrospect. The truth was much simpler. It was like Jude Perry’d told him. She was strong and he was weak, because she fed her god with her actions, while Jon’s had had to resort to eating his flesh.

He wasn’t going back to live statements! That wasn’t an option; he knew that. He couldn’t feed his god with his actions. But he could have more paper ones. Maybe they were like the candles poor Eugene Vanderstock used to bring Agnes—the ones she’d sat over for hours. Hours and hours, inhaling the suffering that made them. They’d kept her strong enough, right? At least in body. All those people in charge of her care, all so much in her thrall—if she’d looked hungry one of them would’ve mentioned it in a statement.

During Jon’s school days, back when he was still trying to learn how to be a girl, this brief window had opened up right around age thirteen where the girls around him had enough self-consciousness to start developing eating disorders? But not enough to keep them secret. Thirteen had been this phase of, like, I’m a teenager now, see? I’ve got the teen angst now—SEE?! Where after they’d finished the day’s maths assignment, or while setting up microscope slides, one could overhear girls swapping self-harm anecdotes and tips for how best not to eat. Anne, whom he’d been almost friends with, went through two packs of chewing gum a day for a while. She would shove three or four sticks at a time in her mouth, then spit them back out into their wrappers as soon as they lost their flavor. Eventually they made her sick, and she switched to chain-sucking butterscotch discs. (Most artificial sweeteners, as the Eye now informed him, had mild laxative properties—including those used in gum.) Other acquaintances had brought comically large thermoses of coffee to school every day, and scurried to the toilet between classes. But it was another polyurious crowd that Jon kept thinking of, these days—the kids who would chug water every time they felt hungry. Trying to fill up on paper statements felt just like that.

He’d never understood that urge until now. Hunger was already a bad sensation; why would it help to add the further bad sensations of nausea and stomachache and cold? But now it made sense: feeling better was not the point. The point was to stop wanting more. He couldn’t get rid of the hunger, exactly—not in a way that mattered. Not the shards of glass in his belly, not the itch in his esophagus like a finger tapping behind his gag reflex, not the way simple motions like soaping his hands made his whole body ache. Not the sharpening of his senses to such a fine point that he jumped whenever Thérèse in the office above him shut her desk’s sticky drawer. (He hadn’t known that was what made the squeaky noise until a few weeks ago when the Eye decided he might like some office gossip. Even now he didn’t know which of the faces he sometimes passed up there belonged to Thérèse. She had no statements to make.) Nor the fog in his mind, though he tried sometimes to blame that on the Lonely. He couldn’t sate his hunger with paper statements—couldn’t make himself full, in the rosy way we usually connote that word. All warm and carefree and pleasantly sleepy. But he could cram the hole inside him with enough stale horrors that the temptation to chase down a fresh one momentarily left him.

And that was the new plan—to stuff himself with paper statements.

Tomorrow would mark two weeks since the day he’d first tried it. Brian from Artefact Storage had a statement to give him, Jon could feel—either Stranger or Spiral, it was hard to tell quite which. Something that caused paranoia. Not a great fit for that department. Good fit for a temple of the Eye, Jon supposed, remembering Tim and Michael Shelley. But Artefact Storage? God help him. He wondered if Elias had done it on purpose, hiring a paranoid man to work in a room full of objects that wanted him hurt. If so it must’ve been this one—this purpose. And on Wednesday mornings Brian manned the place all alone. Poor soul was already clinging to this job by a thread, though (so, Web…? That could cause paranoia too, as Jon well knew). Surely if Jon made him relive his trauma that would break it. Though perhaps that’d be a mercy. And but besides, two weeks ago Melanie had still lived here, and sat all morning between Jon’s office and Artefact Storage. Until she went to lunch. But by that time the woman whose laugh Jon could sometimes hear through the walls (Pooja, the Eye had since told him her name was) would have joined Brian. And it’d just be too weird, too risky, to go in and ask him about it with a third person in the room. Even if it wasn’t also evil.

So he’d read 0132210—the statement of Sierra Talbot, regarding a swimming pool whose depth changed every time she entered it—in hopes that’d make him quit thinking about the paranoid man down the hall. It didn’t, not really; paper statements didn’t take up as much of his attention as they used to. But he couldn’t get up and walk to Artefact Storage in the middle of one. When he finished and still couldn’t think of anything but Brian, he dug out another statement (this one from 1938, regarding a bad penny). Just to keep himself chained to his desk til lunch. And then a third (Liza Ho, attack of the killer seagulls). And by the end of that one he felt too heavy and cold inside to want to go anywhere but the couch. It made his stomach swell until it hurt to sit up straight, and the thought of shoving anything more inside made him feel sick—exactly like chugging water every time he felt hungry.

Basira had said maybe the Web just wanted to keep them so afraid of their own impulses they sat and did nothing so they couldn’t be puppeted. Maybe she was right. He’d never felt more like a spider, with his weak, skinny limbs and bloated stomach. Lying on the couch massaging other people’s horrors into more comfortable shapes inside him. Thank god he’d already given up tucking in his shirts, when he came back after the coma. Jon had worn the same trousers for three days in a row, now—shucked them off at the end of the day, hoping if he left them on the floor that’d convince him they were too dirty to wear again, and then slipped them back on over clean boxers in the morning. They were the only trousers he had that stayed up with the button left unfastened.

(Technically, the noun bloat refers to the feeling of weight or tightness in the abdomen. To describe a belly which has expanded beyond its typical size, one should use the word distended. Though these phenomena can occur separately, most people conflate them under the single word bloated. This trivia had seemed worthless when Beholding told him of it. But now he knew better. Every morning he woke up feeling like he’d had his whole torso replaced with the aching void of space, empty but for silver glints of pain that were the stars. And then he’d look down and find his belly still distended.)

Melanie and Basira didn’t know—at least not officially. They both seemed to have noticed how much more often lately they’d walked in on him recording, but Jon was pretty sure they suspected him less of bingeing on statements, more of pretending to record so as to avoid talking to them. He welcomed this misapprehension.

It was also possible they knew but declined to comment, since. Well, it was kind of a pathetic habit? Physically, a bit pathetic. Morally, though, such a big improvement over compelling statements by force that maybe they figured they ought to let him have it. If so he should be grateful, he reminded himself. Their pity, after all, was humiliating only in principle; Daisy’s teasing and concerned questions embarrassed him in practice.

“Enough navelgazing,” Daisy scoffed, but when Jon looked over at her he could see a smile creeping its way onto her face. “Look—finish the one you’re on, then come over here and I’ll. Tell you a story.”

“I—what?”

“Don’t know if it’ll count as a ‘statement,’” she said, with air quotes; “not much fear in it, more just.” She looked at the floor, then shrugged. “But it seems worth a try, yeah? Might make you feel better.”

“I-I, er. I really shouldn’t?” He meant in case it had a taste of human blood effect, but set his hand on his stomach again in hopes she’d think he meant he was too full.

“Yeah, you should. I want you to hear it.” Daisy shrugged again. “Think it might do you good to know.”

Jon turned back to his desk, unpaused the recording and wrapped up the statement. He’d quit bothering to record end notes on most of these—told himself he could add them in later, like he used to when he’d first taken this job. How proud 2016 Jon would have been to see how many statements the 2018 Archivist got through in a week.

He paused for a moment before standing up, to take as deep a breath as he could manage when stuffed full of paper. The end of that statement had gone down easier, since he’d had that few minutes’ break talking to Daisy, but he still didn’t love the idea of standing and walking. Especially since he knew once he got to the couch he’d be glued there by fatigue. If he didn’t pee now, he’d spend most of the night far enough into sleep to be paralyzed, but not far enough to numb his bladder. He excused himself to Daisy, promising to come right back. Then hauled himself up, with help from his cane and one arm of his chair.

Six limbs it took to maneuver this body now. Two more and he’d’ve gone full spider.

Three quarters of the way to the bathroom—that’s how long it took before the ache in his legs outpaced that in his stomach. He arrived on the toilet seat shaky and out of breath, as always. Months ago he’d given up standing to pee. When you sat you could rock back and forth, and cross your arms tight over waves of quease.

Not much came out, as was also usual lately. As far as Jon could tell, his body now required only enough water to keep his mouth from drying out while recording. Dehydration no longer made his head hurt, so, why bother. Good thing, too, he supposed—the last two weeks he hadn’t needed much non-metaphorical water inside for his body to parse that as needing to pee.

He let his trousers stay pooled around his ankles until after he’d washed and dried his hands. Then pulled up his shirt, to judge from his reflection whether they’d stay up with the fly undone. If he kept his hands in his pockets, yeah. Could you tell the difference, visually, once he put his shirt tails back down? Not for such a short distance. They wouldn’t have time to get disarranged.

It didn’t matter; Basira didn’t even glance at him on his way back, and all Institute staff who didn’t live here had gone home.

Jon opened the door to his office, said hello to Daisy but didn’t manage to look at her, and sat himself down on the other side of the couch. From the corner of his eye (or someone’s anyway) he saw her rise to her feet. “I’m gonna pee too,” she told him, picking her way toward the door; “get yourself comfortable, like you’re going to bed.”

“Where will you sit.”

“I’ll squeeze in.”

“I don’t mind leaving room for—?” Finally he made himself look up at her, in time to see her shake her head. Daisy hadn’t been strong on her feet either, since the Buried; she held herself up now with a hand on the doorjamb, elbow bent so her shoulder leant against that wrist. He regretted quibbling. “Never mind; I’ll just.”

“Really? You’re comfortable like that? You look like a sheep in clover.”

The knowledge came to him before he could ask her what that meant—complete with a nasty visual of what happens in cases acute enough to require rumenotomy. Jon swore he could feel himself swelling to accommodate this tidbit. His eye twitched in discomfort.

“Think I prefer ‘windbag,’ if it’s all the same to you.”

She made a face like that was grosser than what she had said. “You ruined my joke. I was gonna say I won’t let you have any more leaves til you look less like you might explode.”

“Sheep in clover suffocate,” Jon frowned; “they don’t explode. You must be thinking of how they cure them when—”

“Leaves. In. A. Book, Jon. That joke.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” He made himself chuckle.

Daisy sighed and shifted on her feet. “I’ll be right back. Just lie down, alright? Like you’re going to bed.”

Jon agreed to lie down, but couldn’t decide whether to face the wall (as he would to sleep), leaving her to slide in between him and the back of the couch the way she had a few times before when she’d walked in on him catnapping, or whether he should lie on his back, where he could see her as soon as she opened the door. It was important to make sure she knew he appreciated her offer to give him a statement. Or, no—to tell him her story, he meant.

Ultimately he picked the latter course.

“You sleep like that?”

“Sometimes."

“I’ve never seen you sleep like that. You always face the wall.” Daisy crossed her arms, blew hair out of her face. “That for the tummy ache, or for me?”

“Uh….”

“Would it hurt you to face the wall.”

“No, I just.”

“Turn around, then. I’ll squeeze in,” she said again.

“I-if you’re sure.”

He rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth as the cramps in his stomach swirled in new directions. What made it slosh like that, he wondered. While he fought to regain his breath Jon watched Daisy climb up onto the back of the couch on shaking elbows and knees, then avalanche down hands- and feet-first so she fit between him and its cushions. He’d never watched her do this before—always either startled out of a doze at the sound of her thumping down next to him, or simply woken up to find her there.

“You’re just like the Admiral,” he informed her.

“True words spoken in jest,” muttered Daisy. Too quietly for him to hear what she said over the couch’s tortured creaks, but half a second after she finished speaking the words appeared before his mind, in white, all-capital letters with a black background like closed captions on the news. “That’s Georgie’s cat, right?” she said aloud.

“Yes.”

Her knee jostled the cap of his; when it made him gasp she snarled under her breath. “Sorry. Can you move your leg?”

“Yes, it’s fine, just—”

“I mean would you move your leg.”

“Oh.” He did so.

“Thanks. Ugh—you’re cold,” Daisy accused him; “where’s that blanket.” He pointed behind her to the arm of the couch where it lay folded. She shook it out, and draped it over both of them. Reached around behind him to make sure it covered his whole back. Jon tried to ignore the way his stomach lurched every time Daisy’s weight shifted against the cushions. Finally she settled next to him to catch her breath. Their foreheads touched; her stomach pressed into his, though not as tightly as the last time they’d lain like this. “Can you breathe or am I crushing you?”

“Not at all, you’re fine—in fact, if the couch cushions are chafing you too much you can—”

Daisy huffed, and scooted herself in closer to him. “That better?” She set her warm hand down right where his belly diverged from pelvis. Jon tried to keep both voice and tremor out of his exhale. Since the coffin, Daisy’s hands and feet suffered at night and after any exertion from the same excess of heat his sometimes did. So the cold inside him probably felt nice on her hand, if not to the rest of her.

(Like snuggling up to a hotel mattress, she’d described it, after the first time she joined him for a nap when he’d just had a statement. Cold, hard, covered in lumps and dents, and creaks when you roll over on it. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” he’d replied, while praying her elbow wouldn’t come any closer to the crevasse where his ribs used to be.)

“Christ you’re stuffed,” commented Daisy. For emphasis she lifted her fingers, then set them back down on his gut.

“I don’t know what you expected.”

“You won’t pop if I tell you a story?”

“Not literally,” Jon said, blinking.

“Of course not literally,” she scoffed; “you know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Will it make you sick. Don’t want you throwing up on me; this is Melanie’s shirt. If you ruin it she’ll hit us with her cane, and I don’t trust you to hit as hard back with yours.”

“Mine’s shorter and thicker,” he mused. “I don’t have to hit as hard.”

“Stop. Avoiding. The question.”

Jon sighed to show her he capitulated. Then thought about it. He felt cold and sick, but the idea of saying no to a statement made those feelings worse, not better. And the sharp clusters of pain in his belly were harder to sleep through than quease.

“I’ll be fine,” he decided. “It’ll help.”

“Alright. When you’re ready, ask me what I used to do when I got shaky between hunts.”

Read part two here.

#stuffing #nausea #stomachache #hunger kink #a shifty tract #nonsearchable tma tag #other titles i. jocoseriously considered include 'divine chains' (like the cult from 153 get it?);#'too much information' and 'a movable-type feast'.#also for a long time the file on my computer was called 'statement eating: the moive' because alas i was a teenage h/omes/tuck

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extravagantliar · 3 years

Text

The Team from Kirkwall and Scars;

So I should preface this with this is something that is highly researched in a purely speculative sense, and while I am not an MD nor do I claim to be, I have worked in specialty veterinary hospitals for the last eleven years of my life. I earned an associates in veterinary technology and medicine, before working for the past seven years in a surgical and orthopedic service while assessing wounds of all kinds, scars, and healing tissue, observing and monitoring anesthesia, before transferring to one of the biggest and the busiest ER facility in the coastal Carolinas, working partially for the surgery service and the ER/ICU unit attached. I have just very recently transferred to a dermatology and holistic clinic to round out my specialties.

While I am not a licensed nurse, due to my licenseture I am required to keep up with my more than basic share of first aid. I was also a sick child, leading to my fascination with medicine -- however, my compassion for animals won out. This is also well researched with sources and grading scales cited at the end of all of this!

Please enjoy my ramblings!

Scars are normal in the healing process. Almost every system can scar, besides bone -- those we can typically break and if we get all the pieces, we can even put those back together. However, with skin -- it’s a weaker form of collagen than what makes up our skin, a fibrosis crisscrossing in pronounced alignment in one direction forming the scar rather than flat, unblemished skin that forms in a randomised pattern. Hence why your skin has the distinctive blemish that can sometimes remain red for months after healing has completed, sometimes they remain injected and flush for years.

When it comes to crew that travelled from Kirkwall, all their scars look fairly newish --- and many think they must have gotten them separately, I posit a very different theory. I believe they all got them around the same time. You see, wounds heal based on a myriad of factors from immune system to the actual vascularity of the respective site. Facial wounds heal quicker on average.

With the crew from Kirkwall I do need to state that Varric, Cassandra, and Cullen have different immune systems. While we do not know exactly how lyrium works in the most practical of senses, I’d theorised that lyrium is something that had to be stopped slowly over time to prevent terrible side effects and and rapid, dangerous detox. It would also be something that could have lingering effects, due to how it is potentially metabolised by the body, but that being said ---

i. cullen

Cullen’s scar does look one of the oldest and most well healed, which may be due to his body still having some lyrium in it, his age and general prior good health help with that, while his trauma and stress from Kirkwall being a factor against rapid healing. However, the scar is in a place of great vascularity. It does still look like a very new scar from a healed wound, done with a knife of moderate sharpness or fist with a blade holding a blade. This is a moderately shallow healed wound. It is a clean cut and straight forward, but it looks much more settled than the rest, due to no inflammation. It looks like it received excellent medical attention with the potential for an argument that a Surgeon or Healer even tended to the wound at Kirkwall. It looks like the skin could have healed on his lip own its own, but due to jagged nature down by the lip, it could have been crudely apposed in the field by a novice or by Cullen himself, however it does not look magically tended to. Scar scale: Healthy, healed, mildly jagged, weak to strong uv due to placement, could heal further with strict skin care, no inflammation 0/5, appox age: 10 mon. to 1 yr before the start of DA: I ( care dependent )

ii. cassandra

In the case of Cassandra, her scars are a little more complex, but fairly uncomplicated.

The smaller of the two does look the newest as it looks more inected than the larger one. Of course, it looks finer, a graze with a sharp knife or a very close call with a sword, more likely an axe, if not a sharp curved blade due to the placement on her cheek. It has received excellent medical attention, however it looked shallow by nature, most likely a close call that is situated in a place of good vascularity, and the wound does not look to have cut into any deep layers of the dermis or into the muscle. It could have been apposed in the field, but most likely by an experienced doctor or healer. It is not unreasonable to think that if it was a deeper wound than my estimation, that it could be cleanly healed by a very experienced mage healer. Scar scale: Healthy, 80% healed, mild inflammation 2/5, good healing, good apposition of tissue, no obvious sutures, no degranulation present, very mild scarring, could possibly heal further with strict skin care, approx age: 14 days to 1 month before the start of DA: I ( care dependent )

As for her larger scar, it l would argue that it is the oldest of the bunch. It is much more settled and much less inflamed than the other. It looks moderately cleaned, crudely. It is hard to ascertain if the apposition of skin was crude, the blade in question was dull, or if Cassandra simply pulled whatever sutured it together out with her hands. It does look like it cuts into the dermis, however with how animated Cassandra can be, it does not look like it affects her muscles at all. It still does have some underlying redness in most images, however some scars can remain red and inflamed up to a year after the wound, but I would argue that the scar is mostly settled and it could just be darker pigmentation at the site of the scar which is not uncommon to have some discolouration ( lighter or dark ) on a scar. It looks afflicted by most likely a sword or a knife pulling away, due to the length of the wound. The wound looks well healed and is healthy overall. I cannot rule out magical healing due to Cassandra’s ranks. Scar scale: Healthy, healed, moderately jagged, weak to strong UV possibly causing it to looked more inflamed, mild inflammation 1.5/5, well healed overall, approx age: 8 months to 14 months before the start of DA:I.

iii. varric

Varric’s look the most recent. When we meet Varric he’s in the middle of a brawl. The wounds on his cheek look like scruffage from the fight. The underlying rounder wound also looks very recent. It looks like it could be from hand to hand combat or being hit with something blunt. If it scars, it will because of lack of care and continuing to shave over an open wound, leaving a small amount of discolouration. It looks clean, with good circulation, it is not actively bleeding and needs no major care. As for his nose scar it looks fairly fresh as well, however sits on top of a broken nose. It seems very shallow, from hand to hand combat, most likely from someone looking to break his nose again. Scar scale: Healthy, open fresh wound, first aid required, possibility for scarring if it continuously reopened, inflamed 3/5, approx age: 15 minutes to 30 minutes before the start of DA:I

I would state that based on the way that Varric’s wound look in this image, the way Cassandra’s look in this image, and the way that Cullen’s look in this image that my best estimate is that they were obtained reasonably around 6 to 18 months before the start of DA:I.

All of these images have been captured by me and colour corrected by tinting down the red and correcting with Varric’s main PSD.

ALL OF THESE IMAGES ARE FROM THE START OF DA:I. I cherry picked these images due to the look that you get at the scar and the minimal amount of colour correction, allowing as much of DA:I gradient to be seen without the OVERSATURATION OF RED OR BLUE. I am open to questions, criticisms, and anything in between!

[1] - This is the grading scale I used alongside my own wound rubric that I would be happy to post if needed [2] - Link to the paper my department was in for our study on ligament vascularity in dogs with CCL disease ( i will try to find my PDF, it’s a cool study ) [3] - PubMed Journal on Maturation of Scars [4] - Paper on scars and healing from Yale, published in 2000. @chantlight

#.op #.text #.From the Desk Of: V. Tethras ( Headcanon )#.long post

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vannahfanfics · 4 years

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Off the Beaten Path

Category: Romantic Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Momo Yaoyorozu, Yosetsu Awase

I was going to work on other request stuff, but I was reaaaally feeling Momo x Awase lately and because of finals I wasn’t able to participate in @bnhabookclub‘s Provisional License Exam event, so… Even though it’s a little late, here’s a MomoWase story for the prompt “You’re really pretty”!

Momo’s vertebrae decompressed with a series of satisfying pops as she stretched her hands over her head and slowly bent back into a forty-five-degree angle. With a contented hum, she held the position for several seconds to ensure her lower back muscles were stretched properly before straightening back up and dropping her arms back to her sides. She did some leg stretches, priming her femoral and tibular muscles for exercise, before standing and planting her hands on her hips to admire the lovely Saturday morning. It was about nine-thirty, pleasantly warm with a consistent cooling breeze, and plenty of cloud cover to protect her from the worst of the burning sun. The birds were chirping. Car engines hummed in the distance. The air smelled sweetly of the various floral fragrances spilling out from the dormitory’s landscaping.

Really, could she have asked for a better morning to go jogging?

She ensured that her laces were tied properly before hopping down the steps of the porch, hitting the concrete pathway in a medium-paced jog. Her arms pumped at her sides as her legs kicked back in series, and she kept her breathing in a steady rhythm to ensure maximum stamina. She was determined to break her mile record today- under nine minutes. Momo wasn’t the most agile or athletic of the students in her class, but she could still attain her little victories here and there. I can do it!

There was a walking track not far from the dormitory that was always open to students and instructors. Momo jogged there in no time at all, and once she trotted through the open gate and greeted the security guard who moderated the comings and goings, she paused to take a swig of water. She took out her phone to ready her timer and then secured it to the plastic holder at her waist. The jaunt there had warmed up her body nicely, so she was feeling quite good when she walked down to the walking track proper. The spongey synthetic rubber-like material bowed slightly under her steps. U.A. spared no expense in any aspect of their campus, so Momo didn’t doubt that the material was of the highest quality and scientifically designed the erase almost all impact damage to the joints. She made a mental note to do some research into its chemical composition; one never knew when the material could come in handy.

“Right then! Nine minutes or less!” she crowed and started her timer, then took off down the track.

Most people preferred to listen to music while running, but not Momo. There was something cathartic to her about the natural world. The walking track doubled as a small nature park, landscaped professionally with shady hardwoods and flowering bushes. Momo usually ran at this time because the animal activity peaked mid-morning; the tree boughs were alive with dozens of birdsongs, melding together in one harmonious concerto. Bumblebees bobbled alongside the path, flying from one flower to the next to gather the succulent nectar. They were joined by a colorful assortment of butterflies, which elegantly flitted along with not much care of their rounder, fatter cousins. The park had a healthy population of squirrels, as well, which would scramble down from the trees to feast on discarded acorns only to fling themselves back up the trunks when Momo came jogging along. They would peer at her with beady black eyes from the boughs and would only descend back to their nutty buffet once she was rounding the corner of the track ahead.

A third of a way into the mile Momo checked her timer. Two minutes and thirty seconds! I’m making great time! She thought jovially and replaced the phone to its holster. She swept the back of her hand across her forehead to flick away the beads of sweat that were accumulating there. A few of her fluffy black strands had fallen out of her bun; she always had possessed impossibly thick hair, and it seemed like it absorbed all the heat from the atmosphere when she was exercising. Just as she was sucking a little more water from her sports bottle, she spotted someone curled up off to the side of the track a few yards ahead. Oh no! Maybe they’re injured! She thought worriedly and sped up her pace a little.

“Hello? Can I help you?” she called out to them. They were seated on the other side of a park bench so she could not see their features very well, but she thought she spied a familiar patterned headband and spiky black hair.

“Yaoyorozu?” Sure enough, that was him.

“Awase!” She stuttered to a halt past the bench to find him smiling tersely and clutching at his ankle. He had his sneaker off and sock pulled down, and she hissed at the gnarly swelling that had enveloped the joint. “What happened?” she asked and crouched down in front of him.

“Well,” he said with a sheepish smile, “I kinda surprised a sleeping raccoon and she didn’t much appreciate it.” Momo blinked in confusion. A raccoon would be sleeping well off the path; what reason did he have to go tromping off into the underbrush? When she asked him, his face took on a carnation-pink hue and he mumbled, “I, uh, kinda had to take a leak, Yaoyorozu…” In turn, her face blazed with a rosy blush and she nodded excessively in understanding.

“Oh! Right! Of course!”

“A-anyway, while I was scramblin’ to get away from her, I tripped over the tree roots and twisted it tryin’ to catch myself.” Momo frowned as she situated herself on her knees, tapping her thighs to indicate for him to prop his foot on the pillowy surface. He leaned back on his hands and grunted before hefting up his leg. A string of curse words flew from his mouth as he quickly shifted his foot from the ground onto her lap. His shoulders sagged after the pain stopped streaming through his nerves and he stared at the swollen joint through lidded eyes. “Man, this is a pain. I look so uncool,” he muttered, almost to himself. Momo gave him a bright smile and shook her head.

“These things happen! Don’t beat yourself up over it.” He flushed again and looked away with a small pout, making her wonder if he didn’t intend to utter it aloud. That’s irrelevant. His ankle is terribly swollen. I hope he hasn’t torn a ligament or even broken anything! She thought worriedly. She had taken a few first-aid lessons from Recovery Girl for use in rescue training and missions, so with a few manipulations she would be able to get a clearer picture of what damage he had done. Only an x-ray and MRI would conclusively diagnose any injury, but it would be better for Momo to have a general idea so she could determine how she should proceed with moving him. “Awase, I’m going to manipulate your ankle to see what you could have damaged. I’ll be as gentle as I can, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, do whatever you gotta do,” he grumbled, but glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes. Leaning down, she gently began prodding various places in his foot. She started on the top of his foot to see if he had damaged the tendons there.

“That hurt?”

“No.” She shifted to the lateral side of his foot, starting near the toes. “That doesn’t hurt eit- Shit! Shit! Ow!” He began to cry out once she began palpating the area near his ankle. There was both a tendon and some nerve endings there, so it could be that he either stretched the ligament or the nerves were reacting to the swelling. Still, it gave her a better picture of where the injury could be.

“Sorry, Awase.”

“S’Fine,” he huffed. His face had taken on a slight flush and sweat was dampening the bottom of his headband. He must be in a lot of pain…

“Do you know how it rolled?”

“Um… I think it rolled inward,” he answered uncertainly. Momo tutted and glanced back down at his foot. Given the method of injury, it could either be his Achilles or his peroneus brevis tendon… I’m hoping it’s the latter, because tearing his Achilles could put him in physical therapy for months! Tentatively, she grabbed the sole of his foot and pushed it upwards, flexing it such that it would stretch the muscles of his calf. He winced a little bit but did not yelp in pain like before, making Momo smile. “What? Was that a good thing?”

“Yes. It makes it very likely that you haven’t torn anything up too bad,” she responded. “Let’s see what this does, though,” she continued and pushed his foot inward. His back arched and he threw his head back with a howl of several very unsavory words, so Momo hastily ceased the flexion. He kept his head tipped back for a few seconds, chest heaving and fingers digging into the loamy soil, before he let out a long groan and wearily looked back to her.

“Fuck, that hurt.” When she apologized again, he frowned slightly and shrugged. “S’not your fault… I’m the one who tripped over myself like a dumbass. Nurse Yaoyorozu, do you have a diagnosis for me?” he asked with a teasing grin. She blushed brightly at the nickname and spluttered out a reply.

“O-Oh! Yes, I think so. I think you may have either injured or torn this tendon right here,” she stated and ran her fingertip ever-so-slightly along the lateral side of his foot, being careful not to apply any pressure and make his pain worse. He made a tsk sound and flexed his leg muscles experimentally, and the way his entire body tensed indicated to Momo that it would be difficult for him to walk. “We should get you to Recovery Girl. She has the proper machinery to tell for sure. I’ll text my classmates so they can send for someone to collect you. I’m sure they can get down the track just fi-”

“Ain’t necessary,” he grumped. His hand snapped up to wrap tightly around the metal arm of the bench, and he pushed himself off the ground with the other hand. He clumsily tucked his good leg under his body to get some leverage in standing up. Momo’s hands fluttered nervously around his injured foot.

“Awase! You shouldn’t move too much! Be careful not to bear any weight on this foot; I can help you to the entrance to the track, but we really should have someone get you from there so you don’t injure yourself further!” As gently as she could while moving fast, she placed his foot back down on the ground and scrambled up to grab him underneath his armpit and help him clumsily climb to his feet. Per Momo’s instructions, he refrained from moving his injured leg at all and just let it slide in the dirt and leaves as he hobbled to a standing position, but even just the contact with the ground made him hiss in agony. His arm wobbled precariously at it was forced to bear all his weight, and Momo saw that his knuckles were glaring white as he gripped the metal arm. “Here. Come to this tree,” she instructed him.

Yosetsu Awase was not by any means a big guy, but her breath still left her in an oof! as his full weight sunk against her. She slung his arm around her shoulders and supported him by the waist as she dragged him to the trunk of the nearest tree.

“How the tables have turned.” A curious “huh?” popped out of her and she looked down at him with wide eyes. He grinned wryly and explained, “Remember the summer training camp? I was haulin’ you around the woods like a sack of potatoes…” Her cheeks brightened as the blood rushed to them, and she looked away shyly.

“Oh… Yes. The circumstances are a little different here, though. You saved my life that night.” They reached the tree, and he reached out to brace a hand against the rough trunk before leaning away from her, spinning on his good foot to flop his back into the woody surface. He gave her a wry smirk.

“Hey, you never know. You coulda saved my life this morning. I coulda been out here, all alone, and dragged off by some wolves.” Momo snorted at his obvious joking.

“Awase, there are no wolves out here.”

“How do you know? Just because you haven’t seen ‘em don’t mean they don’t exist.” His relentless joshing had her giddy, and she held her hand up to her mouth as she began to giggle.

“You’re too much. Seriously, though, walking a third of a mile in your condition, even with my help, will take us half the day. I’ll send for someone,” she told him through little laughs and pulled out her phone. She quirked an eyebrow when she noticed her timer had just hit exactly nine minutes. More important things to tend to than my record, she thought and swiped out of the app. She typed up a quick message in their class group chat and sent it before returning her phone to the waist holster. “I just sent for help. They’re telling Mr. Aizawa and…” Her words trailed off as she looked at him. He was staring at her with a lidded, heated gaze and this little smile on his face that made butterflies take off in her stomach. “I…” she murmured incoherently when his hand reached out to gently cup her cheek, and she compulsively straightened up- and leaned slightly into the touch.

“You’re really pretty.” Momo had never heard a tone so full of… endearing admiration. As soon as his hand met her cheek and he uttered the words, his eyes widened, as if he realized he had actually done so instead of it being in his head. His face flushed red and he went to drop his hand, sputtering out an apology, but Momo pinned it to her face with both of her own.

“No! Don’t apologize!” she cried and took a few unsteady steps forward. Now self-conscious herself, she flushed as well and looked timidly down at her sneakers. “I-I… No one’s ever called me pretty before…” she admitted meekly. She peered up at him through her lashes to find him wearing an incredulous look.

“Really? But you’re fucking beautiful.” His use of a curse word only made the compliment more impactful, and her face grew unbearably hot as she smiled blissfully. She squirmed a little, knowing she was beginning to sweat a little against his hand cupping her face, but unwilling to let it go.

“W-well… Mina says that I’m so intelligent that boys find it intimidating,” she chuckled diffidently. He snorted in laughter and leaned back against the trunk with an amused smirk.

“You? Intimidating? No offense, but you’re about as intimidating as a wet kitten.” She let out an affronted gasp and went to glare at him, but the sultry smirk on his face made all opposition die in her throat. “Guess that’s good for me that they think so,” he said in a low voice, and she yelped as he grabbed her arm and tugged her forward. There was a slight incline in the ground, so she stumbled all the way to the tree and landed against his body with one hand splaying over his chest. The other was now being gripped tightly, and he brought it to his mouth to lay a lingering kiss to the top of her hand. How prince-like… she thought faintly. “I don’t think I could stand for having competition.” The smirk he shot her wasn’t prince-like at all, rather channeling all the devilish and playful energy of a rogue. Like a princess ensnared by his handsome charms, she could only stare owlishly at him with painfully pink cheeks. His hand dropped hers, letting it land on his shoulder, before cupping her face again and threading his fingertips into the black strands that had fallen from her bun. “Yaoyao-”

“Momo,” she interrupted quickly. She then flushed, realizing how rude it had been to do so. “C-call me Momo. Please.” He snorted slightly and his smirk widened.

“Momo,” he corrected poignantly. “Thanks for saving me today.” She was about to assert once more that it really wasn’t anything like that night, but he took the opportunity to interrupt her. He leaned forward to envelop her mouth in a searing kiss. She inhaled sharply through her nose as her breath was all but stolen from her. Whatever response she had on her tongue descended into fog, as her mind hazed until all she could focus on was the movement of his lips against hers. He lit a fire over her body as his hands roamed her curves, finally settling with a consistent blaze at the small of her back. Very distantly the thought bloomed that this was her first kiss and that she had to tell Mina about it. From how good it felt, it was obviously a hell of a first kiss. She felt like she could get lost in the kiss, in him, forever.

They broke apart with startled jumps when they heard Katsuki and Eijirou screaming her name in the near distance. She began to flutter about nervously, fixing her sports bra and jogging pants despite the fact they were form-fitted and not rumpled at all, while he reclined back against the tree with a self-satisfied look.

“Was that your first kiss?”

“What? Yes- I mean, ugh- is that relevant right now?” she huffed with a dour glare that only made his grin widen. He let out a few chuckles as she pouted at him, totally embarrassed by his unbothered attitude, then gestured with a tilt of his head at the track. She whirled on her heel to find the two boys striding up with Recovery Girl’s robots holding a stretcher between them. Laughing nervously, she cheerfully called out to them and tried to seem inconspicuous as she ran up.

“Hey, guys! Thank you so much. I don’t think I could’ve gotten him back to the entrance by myself.”

“It’s no problem, Yaomomo!” Eijirou smiled kindly. Katsuki began to gripe, and without breaking eye contact with the girl, Eijirou elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“Ow, what the hell?! Ugh, fine, whatever! It’s not a big deal!” he yelled angrily and stalked over to the boy leaning up against the tree. “Come on, loser, the sooner your ass is on this stretcher, the sooner I can get back to weight training!” Momo frowned worriedly as Katsuki helped the injured boy back to his feet, but despite his harsh words, he was gentle in helping him limp the short distance to the stretcher.

“Are you coming back with us, Yaomomo?” Eijirou asked as the robots began to trundle off with their charge in tow. Katsuki stomped along ahead, yelling at his friend to hurry up.

“Oh! No, I would like to finish my run, I think…” she murmured, her gaze trailing off to the stretcher. She pushed past him to run after it a few paces, cupping her hands to her mouth. “Hey! Awa- I mean, Yosetsu!” He glanced up, a big grin splitting his face at her calling him by his given name. “Come running with me sometime!”

“Sure thing!” he called back and gave her a thumbs-up before flopping back down against the stretcher. Eijirou walked past her, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and grinning, which made her flush pink as answer his unasked question. Momo waited until they had disappeared around the corner, then grabbed her phone to reset her timer to two-minutes and fifty seconds, the approximate time she had stumbled across Yosetsu on the track.

Hmm… Maybe I’ll go off the beaten path and aim for eight minutes! She resolved with a smile and put the phone back before taking off in a fast jog.

After all, the morning she had spent off the beaten path had already been quite interesting. She might as well keep the streak going! No doubt, there were rich rewards waiting at the end…

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork @mhafandomman

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Text

Stronger Than Blood (5)

Chapter 5: New Recruit | Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by Anon

Summary: Meeting another Force-sensitive was one thing, but having them related to one of the most formidable known duelers was a whole other story to tell. While being stranded in another planet after barely escaping the Haxion Brood, Cal crosses paths with someone who’s at a crossroads with their own identity and lineage

Also tagging @ayamenimthiriel

Also posted in AO3

Tags: Force-User! Reader, Force-Sensitive Reader, Sith-Related! Reader

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 | Previous: Part 4 | Next: Part 6 | Masterlist

5 of ?

The view of the city in the distance was new yet nostalgic to you.

You can’t remember the last time you saw the city in this point of view.

Both of you dismounted the speeders, you spotted Cal’s slightly troubled look, probably on what to do with these speeders.

“We can keep it, you know. It’s not like we’ll have someone to return it to anyway,” you casually suggested.

“The Mantis doesn’t exactly have a compartment for speeders,”

“Oh, that’s right,” you grumbled, somewhat disappointed that these were the bigger type of speeders, not the compact ones that can be brought along in ships.

With the Mantis up close, you had to step back to emphasize its size—the dorsal fin did its job is making it look bigger—and you told yourself it was a beautiful ship, past the damages of course.

Cal sighed in frustration, putting his hands on his waist as he strode towards the Mantis. He was replied with a smug chuckle from you, he turned around to see that the exact part was resting in your grasp, held up in mid-air for him to see.

“You sure about that?” you chirped.

His mouth was left agape, one corner of his mouth curling up in an impressed smile, and strode back to you. His memory brings him back to the moment where that strong energy wave—which he had no doubt was the Force—that imploded from you; meanwhile, you were there with the casual façade, failing to mask the fact that you revealed your true nature compulsively minutes ago.

Cal thought it was wise not to bring it up yet.

Later. He thought.

“Wait, what about the other parts? The suspension coil? The landing gear ligament?”

You chuckled again, you unfurled your poncho to reveal a bag slung across your back. “Well, it’s a funny coincidence I had the foresight to bring a bag with everything in it—or maybe that’s just the errand girl in me with the habit of bringing a bag anywhere, all thanks to Tundu.”

“Huh, smart girl,”

A part of Cal guessed that the Force may have guided you, in one way or another, to have such a foresight; but he didn’t doubt your habit and intuition altogether. It’s just with the way you demonstrated such raw power, he was beginning to think of all the possibilities that had to do with you and the Force.

“Oh, I guess I should let you meet my crew,”

Suddenly, your visage shifted from the perky, confident mechanic to a shying violet. Meeting new people was a bit difficult for you, especially with your nature and capabilities, and being attached to people you’re interacting with was a struggling balance between fear and desire. You tried to relax, thought of the things you could and would say to them, and what things you should try to keep from them for the time being.

The Mantis’s ramp unfolded and Cal beckoned you when the incline still hasn’t touched the soil. You followed him into the interior of the ship. It was cramped, the space could be half of a smuggler’s freighter, but the sight of the plants made you smile, it’s not every day you see a ship with flowers as decorations. You continued to survey the interior as Cal searched for his crewmates. On your left, you found the holotable and tried to guess the planets that were flashed on the hologram from the center of the ship—where you stand. To the other side, you found the galley and lounge, where the terrarium is.

You approached the potted red flower across the lounge table, your fingers felt for the petals—they ran smooth against the satin-like texture and you nestled it over your fingertips.

“Cere, Greez! This is [y/n], she’s gonna be our extra set of hands in patching up the Mantis,”

“Well now, I hope he didn’t cause you any trouble to hire you,” Cere added.

“Not really,” you shake your head while you spoke in a casual, melodic tone.

Oh lady, if only you knew. You screamed in your head while flashing a friendly but awkwardly smile, the same as Cal.

Greez didn’t mean to offend, but he pointed out your age and that you’re practically as young as Cal, he actually expected someone older.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I mean well. But I just don’t think you know the gravity of the damage you’re gonna have to fix—along with us fixing the ship too, of course,”

As a rebuttal, you squinted your eyes and slowly nodded. The desire to prove this stout, gray creature wrong burned hot in your bloodstreams—in a healthier and better way, compared to the bloodlust you had earlier.

“Yeah, I’ve dealt with enough ships to know what I’m doing. I think I can make it work,” you pursed your lips, hinting the confidence of your craft. “Just lend me some power tools, I guess?”

“We have a trunk of it that you can use,”

“Great,” you grinned. You clapped your hands. “So, where do I start?”

Having left with no choice, Greez finally caved to having a young mechanic as their extra set of helping hands. He made himself feel better by grumbling consolations under his breath as he marched to the storage compartment to fetch the tools.

He stopped in his tracks and wagged his two pointer fingers in your direction, but mostly towards you, “Do not put a scratch on her.”

“Not even a hairline,” you jokingly raised your hands in a surrendering position as you assured him.

“Okay good,” he murmured and continued to the storage.

It didn’t take long for Greez to come back out from the storage while carrying the trunk of tools. He split up the jobs for each part of the ship, he volunteered to replace the landing gear ligament and suspension coil while you were told to work on the hyperdrive compressor—and Greez personally asked Cal to keep an eye on you while he helps you.

“Don’t worry, Captain, I’ll be careful with your beauty here,”

“Yeah, she’s a beauty alright! And I hope you don’t make her ugly,”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,”

Just from the smell, you went ahead into the engine room, scaling down the thin ladder over the banister to find the damaged hyperdrive compressor. The smoke may have cleared but the odor of the cooked machinery was still harsh on the nose. From your bag, you fished out a protective mask and goggles and put them on before beginning your work.

Cal was jumping between checking on you and helping Greez, but mostly he spent his time doing the latter—since the Lateron couldn’t reach certain parts of the landing gear. You wagered the entire service would last for a few hours—given the patchwork and then the testing, and the possible redo of the repairs in case anything goes wrong—but this didn’t make you flinch not one bit. Tundu taught you well enough to know more than what goes in and out of a ship. This was the last favor that you could do to honor his name.

As you worked, your mind dwelled on what could have happened to him, the reality that he might be dead minutes after you fled was a hard pill to swallow. The sparks that spewed out of the broken compressor as you tore it off reminded you of the blinding blaster projectiles that ricocheted back and forth in the store. You tighten your grip every once in a while whenever the sensation of the Force swirls across the nerves of your palm and fingers. Only now did it sink into you that Cal witnessed you wield it—in the same way someone you once knew did.

“Hey, [y/n]?” the call of your name made you flinch. You pull away your mask and goggles to acknowledge Cal. “We’re almost done with the landing gear. Do you need some help with that?”

“Oh, I…” you stammered. “I’m okay on my own. Thanks for checking.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,”

“Well, call me if you need anything,”

You nodded, promptly wearing back your protective gear and continued with your work. As you swiftly turned your back against him, Cal didn’t actually leave the room, he only took a step back and made a sound against the metal floor. He knew that he shouldn’t disturb you, but the skirmish back at the store significantly intrigued him. He timed the apparent moment where you would pause from welding, he sucked air and said your name again.

“I… um… Is it okay if we talk later—after all this?”

Your eyebrows slightly pulled and softly nodded; you sensed the thought that bothered him, a part of you already knows what he wanted to talk about but you dismissed the thought. You continued your work anyway.

The new compressor fits like a glove. You scaled over the railing and left the room to look for Greez and Cal. They just entered the ship almost at the same time as you left the engine room, Cal met your eyes while he wipes the black oil from his one, bare hand.

“The compressor’s fit now,” you gestured at the engine room with you thumb over your shoulder. “Next thing to do is test her out.”

“Alrighty then! As soon as we get off this moon, the better! I’ll fire her up,” the Lateron captain waddled towards the cockpit, wiping the sweat off of his brow with his jacket sleeve.

Cal walked up to you, hurriedly tucking his wiping rag into the back pocket of his pants.

“So, I know this is gonna sound weird or very abrupt—or both—but, there’s something I wanted to ask you,” he stammered. “It’s about that… thing back in the city. You know, starting off with the part at Melgu’s shack.”

I knew it. You thought to yourself, but you didn’t say it in spite. You simply saw it coming.

“About that, I—”

“Oi, c’mere, you two!”

You were cut off by Greez summoning the two of you to get to the cockpit. You lightly tapped his chest, your knuckles knocking against the leather armor, as you walked ahead of him to the front; he rolled his eyes and promised himself to bring it up again later.

Upon stepping into the cockpit, you were met with screens from all sides—front, left, and right. They all flashed so continuously that they almost looked like starlight if you squint your eyes. Greez pointed to the monitor on the upper dashboard, where your eyes followed.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“The new compressor is still trying to integrate with the ship’s main power grid,” you explained.

“Yeah, that’s right, I knew that,” the captain shrugged.

Greez checked the monitors again, he looked at the same screen where the diagnostics of the hyperdrive compressor reflected. It was now blinking green, the computer flashed the details of the compressor’s status.

“Well, one thing’s for sure, the Mantis likes the new toy,”

You smiled to yourself. Satisfied with a job well done.

“How long until we take off safely with the new compressor, captain?” Cere interjected.

“I’m prepping her up already, approximately twenty minutes,” Greez replied.

Cal stole a glimpse of you, still smiling to celebrate your successful handiwork on the Mantis, but he watched that smile melt away and you turn back without even looking at him. He caught up to you in the lounge, collecting your bag and cloak that you dumped onto the sofa.

“Wait,”

You erected from your hunched posture to the sound of your name.

“Where will you go?”

You exhaled bitterly, thinking of the right words while planning your new life at the same time.

“I got nowhere else to go. This was the only home I’ve ever known, ” you cracked, fiddling with the cracked leather of your mechanic’s gloves. You dug your nails into the chipping material to fight back tears—remembering that you’ve lost your home to that Quarren scumbag and his men. No use in going back to your original home planet either.

“Why not stay with us?”

You jerk your head to Cal, startled by the sudden offer.

“We could use a good mechanic like you,” he added.

Color flushed and burned your cheeks. You averted your gaze from Cal to your things and pretended to rummage your bag for things you might haven’t packed yet.

Look at yourself, you bumbling mess! You scolded yourself as you blindly pawed through your bag. Quit the bag act—he’s not buying it!

“I… I’d love to stay but…”

“But?” Cal hummed.

He’s got you there, you don’t have a follow up for that. When he sensed that you were worried about warming up to his crewmates, he assured you that they know you mean well—your heart skipped a beat for various reasons, both good and bad—and it wouldn’t hurt to have an extra in the headcount.

“You’re really sure?”

“Of course,” Cere politely and warmly cuts in, even though the question was for Cal. “We take Cal’s word on it, but you have to earn our trust.”

“I have no problem with that,” even though you technically do, with your capability as a Force-sensitive, they’re bound to know sooner or later—you’re already mentally planning it in your mind when to tell them, or at least prepare yourself once they bring it up.

You actually enjoyed the warmth that this crew exuded, even with all their eyes on you, not once did it feel like they’re harshly piercing into your soul—rather, it felt like they were hugging you with their gazes. It was so nice, too nice in fact that it almost made you tear up. With a hopeful, deep breath, you shake your hand on it and joined the crew.

“Welcome aboard, [y/n]!” Cal beamed as he returned your handshake. At this point, you didn’t care anymore if he saw the pink hue burning in your cheeks.

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jadekitty777 · 4 years

Text

Transmission Error

Fun fact - I have written two stories within four days. Even funner fact - the other one is much cuter than this one but I can’t reveal it quite yet as it’s for the Qrow shipwreck fanzine.

Word Count: 4k

Pairing: Qrow/Clover

Ao3 Link: Transmission Error

Summary: With the end of the world on the horizon, nothing is certain. Loyalties and ideals clash as Qrow and Clover fight between what is right and what is just. With a city threatening to crumble around them, something has to win the day. But will it be their individual interests… or the one thing holding them together?

Note: This is a What-If scenario for the events in the plane right after V7C11

In the wake of the transmission, the air in the transport was tense and heavy. Stiflingly, so.

Robyn acted first, jerking around and pointing her weapon at him. Clover looked between the crossbow and her unshakable gaze and saw the huntress he’d had a chance to watch grow into her own. She was several years his junior, who’d entered the academy strong-willed and defiant, with high opinions and a disobedient attitude that truly didn’t mesh well with the militant attitude of her peers. He’d been granted the chance to be her corrective tutor, once upon a time, but he knew within five minutes of them meeting that there was no hope changing her. Nor was she someone who needed to be. She was a shining example of the incoming generation, those with big ideas on how to better the world and willing to take the risks to make those ideas happen.

Now, staring down the barrel of her weapon and understanding that she was seeing him as a hurdle to cross to that better world, Clover had never felt so betrayed.

The minimal tang of moving metal made him look slightly to the right, where Qrow sat with his hand on Harbinger’s hilt – not extended but threatening to.

Okay now he never felt so betrayed.

He kept his hands right where they were, resting on either thigh. While he had luck on his side, he didn’t bet his chances on winning a fight against two skilled fighters in the middle of a closed area wherein his own weapon was ultimately useless. So he used the only one he had left – his voice. “Let’s just take a second and calm down.”

Robyn scoffed. “I think we’re way past calm, shamrock.”

Back to that old nickname? That was a bad sign.

“We’re not.” Clover insisted. “Look, we don’t know what’s going on and-”

“My niece just told us what’s going on.” Qrow butt in. “Your boss is going off the deep end and my kids are in the crossfire.”

He almost reminded the other huntsman that General Ironwood was, technically, his boss as well. He couldn’t imagine how scandalized he’d be if he dared.

He took a slow, steadying breath and tried again “The general wouldn’t suddenly switch tactics like this without reason. We need to get back to the academy and-”

“And what?!” Robyn was on her feet now, the crossbow nearly touching his nose. “How does this end? Mantle has been the sacrifice this entire time and you’ve done nothing but blindly stand by it! Now Ironwood’s signed its death warrant, so why should I believe you wouldn’t betray your own home now?”

Few things could get him to surge to his feet, but that accusation was too much. “I never-!”

Anything more he wished to say was interrupted by a round of screams from the cockpit, before an explosion rocked the airship, fire and heat blasting from the front. There was no Elm or Weiss to catch them, so the four of them were tossed about the cabin like ragdolls. Clover cried out as his spine impacted the bench with enough force to hurt, only for another undulation to throw him to the floor, his shoulder and head smacking in quick succession.

Somewhere, he heard Tyrian’s maniacal laughter. “I knew she’d come for me!”

He struggled against his fuzzy head to lift himself up, blinking away the haze in his vision to truly take in the unbelievable sight before him. The entire front of the airship was just gone, nothing but a gaping hole where the cockpit once was, opening up the view to the stomach-dropping site of Mantle below. The edges of the metal that had been torn off were still super-heated and glowing orange, smoke filling the cabin at an alarming rate and choking the air.

As the aircraft rapidly started to nosedive, he grabbed onto the leg of the bench to ground himself. Between the dark clouds and his watery eyes, he saw Tyrian go slipping out the front. Heard his psychotic giggling as he disappeared over the edge. Another shout made his gut twist, and he saw Robyn going next, nothing to catch her.

He scrambled for Kingfisher, swung it desperately – but the line caught nothing.

“Clover!”

Under the tumultuous noise of the failing craft and the screech of the winds, it was a true wonder how he managed to hear the yell that had him looking to the back where the last occupant was. Qrow had his sword embedded in the wall, using it to anchor himself in place. He reached out a hand for him, which Clover didn’t hesitate to take, feet scrambling for purchase as the other huntsman yanked him over. His hand curled partially over Qrow’s as he grabbed for a hold on Harbinger.

“The door!” The huntsman cried, indicating with a jerk of his head towards the hatch at the rear of the vehicle.

Clover nodded, planting his heels in so he could slide himself back against the wall, and slammed his fist into the door. Nothing happened. Without the cockpit, there was no tech to control them into opening.

Qrow was coughing. They were suffocating on smoke. The buildings of Mantle were rapidly getting closer.

They were going to die if they didn’t get out now.

He shut his eyes. Focused everything he had into the hatch beside him, willed his semblance into opening them, and slammed his fist back again.

It didn’t just open – it entirely detached, breaking off with a screech and getting lost somewhere in the night sky.

Clover spared Qrow a look, just long enough to make sure he would be able to get out on his own, before he grabbed onto the edge of the frame and yanked himself out. Suddenly, he was flying, the rooftops of Mantle rapidly stretching up to meet him. He swung Kingfisher in a wide arc, catching around a chimney stack behind him and using it to propel himself backwards so that he was over an alleyway. Another swing and another hook, this time around a fire escape, had him swinging into his fall, controlling his descent.

The ground still came up quickly and hit hard even as he tucked and rolled into it. He didn’t get up immediately. His back was screaming, despite his aura miraculously still holding, and his head felt like one big ache. He gingerly pressed his palm against his temple, feeling the knot growing there, as he pulled out his scroll to check his teammates’ statuses.

Robyn was in the yellow, which meant wherever she ended up, she’d landed okay and in one piece. His own was on the verge of snapping, though he could feel that.

But his eyes were quickly drawn to the pulsing red meter over Qrow, panic rising. With all the other noise, he hadn’t heard the alert. The other man must have collided with something too hard during the explosion, and with his aura already taxed from battling waves of Grimm and Tyrian, it was no wonder it gave in.

He should have helped him out of the plane.

Clover quickly got to his feet, hissing as he did so. He ignored it in favor of searching the area. He couldn’t have landed far, right?

It was hard to see anything. The area was pitch black, most of the district’s electricity having been knocked out during the attack. But a light caught his eye and he started to jog down the alley towards it – only to quickly ease up into a quick walk. Once he’d stepped onto the sidewalk, he looked around, but saw no sign of Qrow anywhere.

But just as he was about to head down the street, something out of place caught his eye.

A falling feather.

He watched it flutter to the ground, before craning his head back, spotting a crow clinging to the only lamppost still on. “Qrow?” He called to it hopefully.

It cawed back, before hopping from its perch. Clover saw the problem immediately as he tried to flap with just one working wing, spiraling out of control. He rushed to catch him, raising his cupped hands towards the sky and biting down on his tongue when his shoulder protested loudly against the movement. Still, it felt worth the pain when the nearly weightless bird landed in his palms. He knelt down, setting him on the floor.

A second later, Qrow was next to him, stifling a groan as he held his right arm tightly. The elbow was at an odd angle.

He could have kicked himself for not noticing.

“Is it broken?” Clover asked, reaching out for it.

“Don’t think so – Ah, careful!” He hissed, fingers twitching. “Think I just knocked it outta place.”

Upon further inspection, he found the assessment was correct. A full dislocation. It was a wonder how he’d managed to keep hold of his sword with such an injury. Though, experience told him it was probably just pure adrenaline.

Clover looked up, meeting Qrow’s pained gaze. “I can set it, but it’s going to hurt.”

“I know.” He turned his face away. “Do it.”

“Okay.” He held onto his wrist with one hand, and the bone of his protruding elbow with the other, carefully pulling his arm into a 90-degree angle as he tried to guide the joint back into place as he rotated the wrist.

The worst part was how slow the reduction maneuver was, dragging out the pain. Qrow did his best to hide it, only short, sharp exhales escaping between his teeth. Until there was a click as the bone finally snapped back into place; then he doubled over and let out a wordless cry.

Clover guided the arm down, resting it in Qrow’s lap, before reaching out to run a soothing hand through the other man’s hair. “Any other injuries?” He asked once it seemed he’d had caught his breath.

He shook his head, straightening up. He tested the movement of his arm, flinching as the torn and swollen ligaments undoubtably objected. It didn’t appear to weaken his resolve though, as he used his good arm to help him get back to his feet, turning towards the sky. Towards Atlas.

Clover felt like his soul and body were pulling in different directions, because as he got to his feet, his heart sank. “You’re going?”

“Where else is there to be?” He questioned emptily as he walked forward.

As if Kingfisher’s line was tied between them, Clover found himself surging after him, grabbing onto his shoulder. “Wait!”

In all the time they’d gotten to know each other, Qrow had never looked back at him so spitefully before. “Going to stop me?”

What? Clover tried to work his jaw into the word, but nothing escaped him.

Because… that’s what he was supposed to do, wasn’t he? He was Atlas’ top Ace-Op, meant to protect the people and his Kingdom. Tasked in securing the deeper secrets of Remnant and protecting his General’s interests. Above all else, it was his duty to subdue anyone intent on hindering or delaying those interests.

When had Qrow become such a liability to him that the thought of stopping him didn’t even cross his mind?

“I-” He pulled his hand back, staring at it as if it had betrayed him.

“I get it, you know.”

He looked up. “Huh?”

Some of the heat in Qrow’s eyes had gone away. “Back when Beacon started to fall, I forgot too. I ran to Ozpin’s office, more intent on the relic and the maiden then I was on the people being torn apart in the streets. Oz didn’t even hesitate – actually he seemed pissed I was there at all.” He chuckled, a bitter, hollow sound. “He ordered me to leave, because even though he knew it was a risk, to him the people always came first. There are those in this world far better than me who never forget that. And those are the people I choose to follow.” He looked back, towards the city floating in the clouds. “And that’s what’s different between Oz and James. Oz always protected the people first. James always protected his ideals first.” Before he could formulate a retort, Qrow was looking at him now. “And from how you talked back there, it seems your ideals are what come first too.”

Clover curled one of his hands into a fist. “It’s not about ideals Qrow!”

“Isn’t it?!” He shot back, gesturing towards the buildings around them. “How else can you justify leaving an entire city to die?”

“How can you justify risking the world for one city?” He shouted right back.

Qrow got right in his face, eyes ablaze. “Because a huntsman always puts his life on the line for the people in need! Even if costs him his life.”

“Not when we could fail so many others!” Fury boiled up in him as well. “Do you think it’s satisfactory enough to say ‘Well I might be dead, but at least I did my best?’ Death isn’t an apology!”

“Neither is sacrificing the few for the many!”

“It’s not just the many! The numbers can’t even compare.” He jabbed his finger towards the sky, at the city he used to stare up at with wonder and jealousy. “If Salem gets that staff, that city will fall. Mantle, Atlas. All of it will be destroyed! So instead of saving who we can, we will lose everyone.”

“That makes it okay!?”

“Of course it doesn’t! I’d never say that.” His words trailed off into a rasp from his smoke-irritated throat. “This is the worst possible scenario and if I could go out there and stop Salem myself, I would. I’d give everything if I could do that. But that’s not an option and we have to make a decision.”

“You’re right. We do.” That red-eyed glare hardly lessened, even as Qrow took several steps backwards. Held up his arms like an offering. “So stop me.”

The challenge caught him off guard. “What?”

“You’re so certain about your path, right lucky charm? Then stop me.” He let his hands fall back to his sides, expression immovable. “Because I promise you, I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure James’ plan fails.”

Clover was sure if his jaw tightened any more, his molars would crack. “I’m not going to fight you Qrow.”

“You’re gonna have to. You can’t have it both ways.”

He squared his shoulders and rose his chin up, granting the first punch. They’d played too many rounds of poker for him not to know the signs when Qrow was bluffing. “You first.”

Something shimmered across the other’s face, a brief second of regret, before his expression hardened once more.

But he didn’t move.

As the seconds passed, the tension eased out of him, until Clover’s heart broke open into something softer, warmer. “Qrow…”

The utterance of his own name erased his resolve and he lowered his head to scowl at the sidewalk. “Just, stay out of this one, okay?”

“You know I can’t do that. But we can figure this out together.” He stepped forward.

The gesture only made Qrow back away further. “Now who’s spouting off idealistic bullshit?”

Clover snorted. “According to you, it’s still me.”

That actually cracked a smile, though it was fleeting. “Look, you have to understand, this isn’t just about Mantle or Salem or any of that. It’s about those kids. My kids. I have to go.” He looked up, his imploring gaze begging him to understand. “I have to.”

“Qrow,” He started, reaching for the man – but something moving in the shadows behind him drew his attention.

“I know you don’t get it, but-”

The words faded into background noise, Clover turning his head to get a better look at the figure slinking towards them.

Glowing gold eyes gleamed back at him.

His heart stopped.

Knowing he was spotted, Tyrian sprinted forward to clear the rest of the distance, wrist blades aimed for Qrow’s unprotected back.

Clover didn’t hesitate, reaching for Kingfisher and extending it in one quick movement. “Qrow!”

“What are you-?!” Misunderstanding, Qrow jerked back in sudden alarm, hand reaching for his own weapon, but his injury made him slow.

It was also the thing that saved him, as Clover managed to hook his line around the other’s torso and yank him to the ground by his side just as Tyrian’s blades cut through the air where he once was. The murderer’s malicious grin glinted like fangs in the light as he changed targets and struck towards him. Clover ducked under it, twisting the fishing rod around and jabbing the pointed end towards his face.

The iron grip of the other’s metallic tail closing around his wrist cut his attack short.

Tyrian cackled at the trembling end of the spearhead that was just centimeters from his now violet eyeball, looking at him almost gleefully. “Nice try. How about I return the favor?”

The words registered with the swing of the weapon at his face. In desperation, Clover threw himself as far back as he could go – expecting resistance from the hold on his arm.

But it let go.

Unprepared and unsteady, his feet fumbled for balance – and it was just the mistake Tyrian was looking for.

The other’s hand clawed down his front and he felt his aura rip at the seams as if made of paper.

And then all that was left was burning agony as the knife-edged point of the scorpion tail sliced across his stomach up to his chest.

Clover stumbled backwards, hands shakily pressing against his body as bright red blood flowed from the wound. His blood.

All he could think was, That’s not right.

He couldn’t breathe.

His legs started to shake.

A weak whisper of his name made him look to his right.

“Clover?”

The last thing he saw was Qrow’s horrified expression as he collapsed to the ground and everything went dark.

“Clover!!”

“So, how d-?”

“I don’t-”

Voices. He heard voices. They were distant and muddled, like he was hearing them from underwater. But as he grasped for them, fighting through the fog in his head and the numbness of his senses, it slammed awareness back into him violently and he became acutely aware of the searing pain roaring across his torso like fire.

A noise escaped him, a choked off cry.

“-ver? Clover?”

Qrow. He tried to focus on his voice, on the hand gripping his own. He squeezed it, maybe too tightly, feeling like it was the only thing grounding him.

“-Needs a medic.” Someone else’s voice faded in again, but he recognized it too. Robyn. How was she here? He felt her more dainty fingers pressing down against his wrist. “His pulse is stable, but he’s losing a lot of blood.”

“That poison’s no joke either.” Qrow sounded panicked. “How are we even going to find anyone right now?”

He wanted to reach out to him, to reassure him he was going to be fine. He’d had worse, surely. But when he tried to speak, the air was punched right out of his lungs as another wave of agony rolled over him.

He only noticed the hand running through his hair once it subsided and the sensation encouraged his eyes open. Everything around him was fuzzy, except the bright red orbs staring back at him.

Had he ever told Qrow how pretty his eyes were?

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re gonna be just fine.” His voice flowed like honey and was just as sweet. He wanted to listen to it forever.

“’Row.” He slurred around his heavy tongue.

It was worth the effort, as it rewarded him a smile.

“I’ve got him.” Robyn. Right she was here. Somewhere to his left. “You need to get going Qrow.”

“What?” Those eyes turned away from him. He wanted them back.

“If Ironwood knows Clover’s down here and that he can’t get back on his own, he might hold off. Might even restart the evacuation efforts.”

The memories resurfaced slowly. Right… Right. Mantle. Atlas. Salem. What happened to Tyrian? Did they-?

Unaware of his worries, the conversation continued around him, unhindered. “But I can’t just-” Qrow tried to argue.

“I won’t let him die. I promise.”

He frowned at that, deadpanning. “You were going to shoot him in the face twenty minutes ago.”

“Only if he pissed me off enough.” Her face finally came into view as she leaned over, peering down at him. “He’s an idiot. But he’s also part of Mantle. He just needs to be reminded of that sometimes.”

He made a weak protest in the back of his throat. He wasn’t ready for Qrow to know any of that.

Luckily, she didn’t elaborate further, turning her gaze back to the other huntsman. “Get out of here. At this point, you’re our only hope.”

Qrow stared between them, before he sighed in defeat and his hand slipped away.

“No-!“ Clover gasped, blindly trying to take it back and latching onto his wristband. His body shrieked in protest from the sharp movement, but he didn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” Qrow soothed. “I’ll be back.”

He shook his head, or at least he imagined he did, using what strength he had left to shakily pull his arm up until his fingers brushed over the clover always stuck to his chest. He couldn’t find it in him to speak anymore, so he just stared back at him, pleading for him to understand.

It wasn’t enough. “What? I don’t-?”

“I think he wants you to take it five o’ clock.” Robyn translated, voice uncharacteristically gentle. Until she added, “You can use it as proof.”

Had he not been bleeding out on the streets of his old hometown, Clover might have laughed.

No, he knew his commander wouldn’t halt his path. Not even for him.

But, at least this way, if Qrow made it out of here, he’d have something left of him to remind him by.

If the other man’s twisting expression told him anything, it didn’t seem that meaning was escaping him. The badge was carefully unpinned, Qrow looking down at it as his fingers closed over it securely.

Good.

Clover’s eyes slipped shut.

Good…

He felt something warm against his forehead. Qrow’s voice was closer than ever. “This isn’t goodbye lucky charm. I swear it.”

He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or not when he felt the tender press of lips against his own. He felt the loss of their warmth all the same when Qrow backed away. Heard his rapid footsteps that turned into wingbeats as he took off down the street. Almost faded away completely, when Robyn pulled him upwards and the agony wrenched him from blissful unconsciousness.

“Stay with me a bit longer shamrock.” She told him, securing his arm around her neck and letting him rest most of his weight on her. “Can’t die now when you just fell in love.”

“M’not n’love.” He mumbled disjointedly, head lolling against her shoulder.

Her smug smile was only highlighted by the glow where her hand met his wrist. The color caught his attention as seamlessly as Qrow’s eyes.

For they were both red and, in a way, wonderful.

His laugh left him in nothing more than a sharp but joyful exhale.

So, Qrow was that kind of liability huh?

Well now.

Lucky him.

#clover ebi #qrow branwen #Fair Game #RWBY #RWBY 7 #RWBY spoilers #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

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dragonrajafanfiction · 4 years

Text

Dragon Dancer IV: The Creche

Mr. Gattuso carried me down the hall, whistling and far to bouncy in his step. I was supposed to by lying limp in his arms, completely overwhelmed to fainting by his prowess as a lover apparently. He had to cut me free of my restraints to take me to the monastery infirmary, so the story was supposed to go.

I tried not to think about it. It was simultaneously gross and hilarious.

What irritated me at the moment was that he was bouncing too much. My limp arm slid from my supine body and was bouncing in a way that pulled at my muscles and ligaments and made things more uncomfortable than they had to be. The gravity pool my blood down into my fingers and they were starting to tingle.

By the time I heard him address the nurse, it had gone numb. I stared at an invisible point behind my eyelids and tried to think silent unconscious thoughts.

“Ah... I see you’ve worked the nightshift,” came Pompeii Gattuso’s silky deep voice. “I’m in luck...”

I heard a breathy giggle and had to concentrate to keep from rolling my eyes. He laid me on the exam table.

“I’m not certain what happened. By the time we’d finished, she was out cold.”

“Well... “ A moment of silence. “She will probably wake up soon, perhaps she has an underlying medical condition that got triggered by things being a bit...”

“Well, I can explain further...”

“That’s not really...”

“Or demonstrate...”

There was a long pause. “...now?”

God, I could see why Caesar hated him. Caesar was always this stalwart night ready to defend a lady in all manner of distress, but his father...

Before all of this he explained that the best disguise is to act the way you act all the time. Because if you’re behaving in a predictable way, even when you do something unusual, people will explain it away in their head as normal.

I concentrated on staying as still as I could while the sounds of lips locking filled the exam room.

“Wait... she might wake up...”

“There’s another room down the hall...”

The door shut. I sighed, puffing out my cheeks. Part of me wondered if I was going to actually was going to wait while he made another conquest.

But fortunately, he wasn’t gone long. Within a few minutes, he’d returned with the woman’s scrubs and labcoat.

“Hurry up and change. The clock is ticking.” He tossed the clothes to me and I caught them. Then he drew the curtain. “You’re a good actor.”

I couldn’t tell him I had studied ballet because the curtain was drawn and I still couldn’t speak.

He gave an appreciative whistle. “Have you been scouted?”

I laughed scornfully. It came out like a hissy snicker.

“No? But you’re obviously talented. I’ll have to change this.”

I stepped around the curtain, feeling oddly emotional at being reminded of my lost passion. I hadn’t thought about dancing in ages. I was too busy running for my life, fighting for my friends lives. Protecting my daughter. How could I think about dancing?

“Don’t bother.” I whispered.

“Don’t give up on your dreams, Miss Lu.”

“I said forget it!” I snapped.

After a moments silence, he said. “It’s a pretty good fit.” He looked me up and down. “Okay... After this, I’ll see about getting you back to your career. You can’t just be a dragonslayer...”

I saw a box of medical masks on the shelf and grabbed it, covering my face. I glared at him.

“Alright.” He led me out, shaking his head sadly.

I was stunned that he was still in a robe and hadn’t considered changing. He walked non-chalantly to an elevator and pressed the down button. The elevator dinged and we entered it.

“Where are we going?” I asked, removing the mask.

“There’s a special area for new high-purity Gattuso offspring. If they’re taking her as a bride of Caesar’s then she’ll have to be sanctified.”

“Sanctified?”

He didn’t look at me, gazing at his reflection. “You know how certain rituals and customs have their roots in the secrets of the dragon clan?”

“Yes.”

“There are a variety of holy rituals regarding newborns. Some of these are rooted in the early days of Hybrids. Here we strip away the human fables associated with these rituals to get to their true nature.”

He had armed himself with two pistols before we left, filling them both with anesthetic Frigg bullets and keeping a magazine of more lethal ammunition just in case. These pistols he drew, as the elevator doors opened. He stepped out and pointed them, one on his left and one on his right. He pulled their triggers once, instantly felling two guards who stood at the elevator entrance.

He jerked his head, indicating I should follow. I carefully stepped over the men and hurried after him.

we were in a dark basement area. The walls were stacked round rock and the floor was uneven stone. The electric lights were clearly a new addition. Carved dragons stuck out from the walls where they once held torches to light the way. The space ahead of us was oddly dark and the darkness shifted

Two glowing eyes blinked open. The dark shape took on a draconic form baring its teeth and letting out a frightening hiss of threat. Energy pulsed down its body in bright blue bioluminesence. It’s body filled the entire room. It had what appeared to be the stumps of broken wings on his back.

It’s tail lashed, banging against the wall.

They kept these monsters down here! I should not have been surprised, but I was.

Pompeii’s expression darkened and he handed me a pair of dark glasses he was keeping in his robe. “Put these on... to protect your eyes.”

I backed away, unable to use my speaking spirit to defend myself. I slipped on the dark glasses.

Pompeii Gattuso strode forward. I could only see his back, the length of his blonde hair, tied in a loose messy braid. Everythiing else as shrouded in dense gloom.

But I heard his voice, the draconic ringing loud and reverberating like a loud bell. The echoes of his voice in the underground took a life of their own in my ears. They took on an insane, fervent chant, like monks praying for a miracle.

As the hall filled with this unnatural sound, bright tendrils of light whipped from Pompeii’s body and began crawling up the walls. My hair stood on end and my ears filled with the crackle and buzz of electricity.

The monster charged him but only made it half the distance before it was stopped by a burst of electric light, like a explosion of a power grid. The monster let out a squeal and collapsed into convulsions.

I covered my nose against the smell of burning flesh. The arcing electricity was still cycling around Pompeii. Behind that beast, others were awakened and I could hear their claws scraping the stone floor. Their eyes bounced as they ran towards him.

The battle happened in flashes and silhouette. The strobe effect stunned and disoriented the beasts in the dark of the underground. They were helpless to defend themselves. Pompeii was bare handed and every time he threw a punch, the space between his fist and his target burst like a supernova sending a grotesque monster to the ground, stiff as a board. He grabbed another around the neck. It wheezed, breathless and twitching. When he let it go, it didn’t get up again. He was a living taser, killing his enemies in a single devastating electrocution.

He didn’t wait for me, running down the corridor. I scrambled to catch up, careful not to step on or trip over the corpses of the beasts.

We came to a large ceremonial chamber. Ru’Yi’s blanket was there, clean and white on an altar, but she was not. The altar was surrounded by dead bodies. Each one had their throats cleanly cut, their bodies lay in crimson pools.

“What?!” Pompeii looked around, stunned. “Search the bodies! See if you can find a phone!”

He started rolling them over, patting them down.

My throat closed in terror. I remembered this scene. It was similar to what happened in the basement of Genji Heavy Industries! The murderer who killed countless Hydra elites in a matter of seconds now had a name, a face.

Shinnosuke!

Pompeii found a phone and immediately dialed a number. He grabbed my hand and yanked me out of the chamber.

“What’s happening? Where’s Ru’Yi!”

He looked at me but he didn’t say anything.

“Please tell me!”

He hissed. “Damn it Caesar! Pick up your phone!”

We hurried back to the elevator and stopped. The men that Pompeii had put the sleep were laying on the ground. Bleeding out.

“Shit!” Pompeii pressed the elevator but it was on the top floor. It would take minutes to come down. He looked at me in a panic. “He killed the priests... why would he kill them?! What happened?”

He started to search the phone for information while it rang endlessly on Caesar’s end of the line.

He stared at it. “They’re sending agents to Japan... and Tibet?”

“What?” I squeaked. “Tibet? No! Nonono! This isn’t possible! How did they find out Mingfei was there?”

“Mingfei’s alive?!”

“Yes! I just came here to find out their plans and get in touch with Caesar!”

“What else haven’t you told me?!”

The elevator opened and a beast, one of the servitors, leaped from the cab. Pompeii pushed me out of the way and the claws dug into him. The cellphone slammed to the ground, the screen shattering.

A voice like a bell, and then a loud crack! I had barely enough time to look away and saw stars, blinded.

I rubbed my eyes. The phone was still ringing on Caesar’s end, but he couldn’t hang up or dial again.

Bleeding from his chest, Pompeii shoved me inside. “I should have known you were hiding something from me.”

“I’m sorry... but I was afraid someone was going to listen! I did-” I shut my mouth at his glare.

But then he sighed, the phone still ringing at his ear. “It doesn’t matter.”

The elevator was moving entirely too slow. Every second that passed, Ru’Yi could be in danger or dead. The possibility made my knees collapse under me.

Pompeii steadied me with one arm. “Easy. I’m not going to turn around now. If Caesar has taught me anything, children need their mothers.”

#Dragon Raja #Fanfiction #Writing #Caesar

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 5 years

Text

[Untitled] [Solas & Lavellan]

For @buttsonthebeach and @dadrunkwriting

Tags/Tw: blood, injury, graphic injury, major character death, harm to Solas, post-Trespasser

Words: 2.6k

Rating: Mature

===

“Hahren.”

Elara’s voice is clear, if tired–and far too close. Solas turns and slips, falls to his knees in the mingled mud and gore of the battlefield. Fire ratchets up his wounded leg, a bespelled arrowhead still embedded deep into his thigh from an earlier injury. It festers without his permission and pays his objection–and spells–no mind.

“Solas, it’s time for this all to stop.”

“Is it, Inquisitor?”

He bows with exhaustion over his knees, hand straying to the wound. A myriad of others pepper his skin–a crossbow bolt that grazed his shoulder and tore off the pauldron on its way, a bloody gash across his cheek where a lucky knife had struck. Solas can count four broken ribs on one side alone and knows the ligaments in his left knee have been torn beyond repair. His vision swims without focus in a way that only heralds head injury.

He takes an aching breath in and breathes out a healing spell whose cool mana plays over his skin to little effect. The only thing he can do now is to ignore the injuries, to focus on anything else.

She comes, sword in hand. Her vallaslin glows an unearthly green-gold from her face, the light straying down her throat. Elara bears the evidence of heavy battle; her flesh arm runs red from the elbow, blood seeping through the seams of her vambrace and gauntlet to drip down her fingers. Her chest-plate is covered in dents and abrasions beneath the mud and viscera that clings to the metal. Elara tears off her helmet and tosses it between them. Her hair, matted with blood, sticks sickly down her brow and cheek. Solas can smell death on her, following her footsteps.

Elara stops before him, a scant thirty feet separating them.

“Hahren,” Elara says again, and only this time does he hear her desperation.

Ichor drips from her sword’s fine edge. Falon’din’s grace wreathes through her aura; the geas has seeped into her skin like a puppet’s strings pulled by an invisible hand. Solas has no doubt that it is Falon’din’s compulsion that propels her forward with jerky, halting steps.

“Elara.” Her name falls from his lips on a sigh. “We’re too late, I’m afraid.” Solas sweeps his gaze toward the heavens; the scars of the Veil are hardly visible here, on this no-name plain in some human empire, but they’re there. Solas can feel them in the way his heart beats erratically in his chest, in the way his shoulders are the lightest they’ve been in thousands of years.

The Veil has fallen. The freed Fade permeates every rock and tree and creature of this world anew, casting the old world aside.

Solas coughs, covering his mouth with belated politeness, and is unsurprised when his palm comes back stained an angry, wrathful red.

“You can stop this.”

She always believed in him, despite the coolness that grew between them, verging on distrust. Elara had trusted him, once, tentative and wary. Solas barks out a wheezing flash of laughter. What good had it done either of them?

“I don’t think I can,” he murmurs. “Though I will admit to wishing for just that.”

She’s closer now, an arm’s length, maybe two, away. Elara’s hand is clutched tight around the hilt of her ironbark sword. Her arms shake–all of her shakes. Solas can briefly see the child panicking beneath her stoic, blank-faced mask.

Something in him folds like leaves in a storm and Solas buckles, an intangible gale battering against him to rend him immobile.

“Calm, now, Fen’Harel,” Elara says, but it is not her voice, they are not her words. “The time for reaping is at hand.”

His eyes shut for but a moment. “Lethanivir.” Solas huffs, and everything in him aches. He would not be surprised if he were actively consumed by an invisible fire; every inch of him burns from the inside out. “It’s been some time. Tell me, how is life in the Blackened City?”

Falon’din’s smile curves across Elara’s face, sinister despite her own warmth. It’s gentler here, on mortal lips. “She trusted you, you know,” Falon’din says casually, “in the beginning. But you never warmed to her, not as you did to the others, even as you stuck by her side.”

He closes the distance and crouches at Solas’ flank, the creak of Elara’s armor barely heard above the din of the fighting around them. He drops her sword to the ground without a care. The way he tilts their head is so quintessentially him, but the motion is foreign, alien on Elara’s frame. It’s jarring in the worst ways.

“That’s simply the way of it, isn’t it?” Falon’din sighs, brows pinched with feigned concern. “Who could trust the Dread Wolf? You never were a good friend, Pride. Not before, and not now.”

“If being such meant allowing the continued subjugation of our people, then no,” Solas wheezes. “I am glad to have never been a good friend.”

Falon’din only regards him, Elara’s dark eyes glowing with the same green-gold of Falon’din’s magic. Their mouth twists. “We could have had it all,” Falon’din says lowly. His gaze softens. He brushes their fingers errantly over the torn edges of what remains of Solas’ blood-streaked fur mantle. “We were meant to rule. We still can, the two of us,” he says, like a secret, like an oath.

In his peripheral vision, Solas sees the ocean-blue glow of power at his fingertips. “That we did was an accident of fate, nothing more,” he grits out. His voice booms through the plain. “No one desiring power deserves it–us least of all.”

“The great and powerful Fen’Harel, so self-loathing.” Falon’din’s lip curls with disgust and he pulls away. “You were created to rule. You are a God, called to this world to lead. Come, Pride, rise from the muck. We will take our rightful places, you and I. Think of what we could do together.”

Solas shakes his head. “You know I cannot.” He looks up to Elara’s face, the mortal mask of his immortal kin. “Is she still there?” he asks. “The Inquisitor?”

They smirk, sick and thin. “She is,” Falon’din says with a gleeful nod. He flexes their fingers and studies their hand with exaggerated fascination. “This one is mine, completely.”

“She didn’t know what it meant when she chose your sigil, Reaper–you could have been any of us. Your being here is an accident, not an act of fate.”

“And the results would have been the same, would they not? You still would have cast down your precious Veil, and we still would strike the moment you sundered the chains you had wrought. No matter whose symbol this one wears, she will always be your doom.” Falon’din pauses. “You always did have a soft spot for the broken ones, but you rarely broke your own toys.” He flicks the fingers of their prosthetic hand idly.

Solas snorts, and Falon’din’s smile slips. “You know what happens next,” Solas says. His blood pulses with magic and the immortal poison that corrupts it as he struggles to his knees. “I killed your last avatar. I will destroy this one, as well.”

“You always did like wrecking my things.” Falon’din sighs, heavy and put-upon. He shrugs their shoulders. “But I think, dear Wolf, that this time will be different. Even now, even with the Mother’s grace, you wane–and when you finally fall, I shall be the one to take you.”

Falon’din’s magic flutters erratically around Elara’s frame, just out of mortal sight, and Solas sharpens his gaze on her face, past the veneer of the god that wears her visage. “Elara,” he says, quickly. “You are Elara Virenehn, of clan Lavellan. You are Lavellan’s knight. You are–you are the pride of your people. You must remember.”

Their aura lights in bursts of magic. “What–what are you doing?”

Solas leans forward, reaching for her, hands scrabbling at Elara’s vambrace and the enchanted prosthetic that rebuilt her left arm–the hand he had to take, the hand he had unwittingly poisoned with his plans, her hand the symbol of his continued failure.

He can’t give her much, but he must try.

“Remember your clan. The lessons of your Keeper. You can fight him, Elara. You must.”

Their hands spasm. Their flesh arm twitches, clenches, as if pulling against an unseen force. Sweat begins to bead along their shared brow.

“Good,” Solas whispers. “You’re strong. Remember that, Elara–you are strong, stronger than most. You must close your mind to him. He is but a spirit, twisted by his delusions of godhood.”

Falon’din screeches. Their sword-hand opens, agonizing in the slow-motion movement, and he stretches to reach Elara’s discarded sword. “She is mine, Pride! You will not take her!”

Solas grits his teeth, hands sinking into the edges of Elara’s vambrace to hold her back, but Falon’din shoves him back with a backlash of magic, strong enough to bring Solas to his knees in the muck.

With a pained, drawn-out groan, Falon’din drives their hand to the earth and finds purchase around the leather-wrapped handle of her sword. He rises to their knees clumsily, as if fighting for every inch. The oppressive compulsion for stillness temporarily lifted, Solas comes to his feet with a clatter of his own armor.

“My friend,” Solas whispers. Falon’din fights for control beneath his gaze, rising to their feet, hand gripped so tight around the handle of Elara’s sword that it bleeds. Solas trails his fingers over Elara’s temples, fingers glowing with the weight of the spell that would break her bindings.

His mouth has barely shaped the first syllable of the blessing when the sword drags through his armor to pierce him. It digs into his ribcage as it passes.

“Pride,” Falon’din pants. Sweat drips freely down their face, clinging to Elara’s dark lashes, drawing clear tracks in the dirt that mars their cheeks. “You always thought–ngk–that you had the upper–upper hand.”

Solas’ hands flutter. He reaches deep within himself as blood wells in his mouth. Mythal’s grace lay dormant in his chest; she was the better healer of the two of them, and her storm-tossed ocean of power is as calm as a dead sea where it beat in time with his own heart just a moment before.

But, as loathe as he is to claim it, Fen’Harel is his own god.

His dwindled power courses through him, a wellspring quickly running dry as it races to pour out from his fingers. The world falls away and still, with trembling lips, he shapes the spell. Solas brushes the holy fire over Elara’s face, tracing the brand that tethers her to the fallen Evanuris, and watches as the thick, black lines of her vallaslin begin to evaporate into smoke. The scream that tears from her throat is a deafening, multilayered chorus.

Her poisoned blade rips through Solas’ gut as Falon’din flails in his attempts to escape.

Solas fights to keep his hands on her, scrabbles for every point of contact. It’s not complete, not yet. If any mark of her brand remains she could stay tied to the god for as long as he wishes, unable to counter his commands. Solas repeats the blessing and wrings more of himself out with the spell even as his blood falls freely to color the earth beneath them.

Falon’din’s shrieks echo over the land and buffet against Solas and his magic like a great storm. He kicks and punches and slaps at whatever he can reach with Elara’s hands, leaving her blood upon the dirty, worn metal of Solas’ armor.

Solas dips his hands along the column of her throat, the little of it that lay exposed by her armor. He’s close, he knows; Elara’s vallaslin drips from her brow to her collarbones, and it’s almost burnt from her face. Solas grunts when Falon’din pulls the sword out only to slice into him again, and again, the enchanted ironbark bolstered further by Falon’din’s magic.

Solas falters. Falon’din’s compulsion sweeps over him once more, demanding his submission. It floods his mind and bears down enough to break his concentration, and in his fumbling, Falon’din stabs him once more.

“If you will not yield, Pride,” Falon’din pants, “I will tear out your heart and scatter your form to the winds. I will rend your power from your bones!”

“No–nnnng–need.” Solas grips Elara’s shoulders and pulls himself up the blade of her sword. There’s not much left–he must be quick, he must–he must—

Solas curls himself into her in a mockery of a lover’s embrace and lets the spell burn through him. Holy fire courses through every cell of his being; it scalds like the lava fires of the Deep Roads, bursting from his chest. Falon’din screams in his ear.

The world whites out, and Falon’din’s voice fades.

“Solas. Hahren, Solas, please. Wake up, please wake up.”

He wavers in and out. The Fade colors the edges of his vision when he blinks his eyes open. Elara hovers over him, her face blotting out the sky.

Elara is free of the vallaslin. She is bloody and torn, but she is free.

“Inquis—” A wracking cough interrupts him; his hand comes back covered with blood and spittle.

She shifts where she kneels beside him. “Don’t talk. By the— Don’t talk.”

“There is… so much… to say.”

“No,” Elara says. Panic rises in her voice. “Stay, please. You’re a god, one of the Creators.” She traces her fingertips over the mangled wolf’s head on his chestplate; he watches her expression morph to dismayed grief when they are stained red with his blood. “You–you can heal yourself.”

“Too powerful, Lethanivir… But not for you.” Solas chuckles weakly. “Surprised me again.”

Elara keens and bends forward, covering him with a curtain of dark curls. “I have to save you. I have to. If I cannot fulfill my duty to my people, then what good am I?”

“That path… leads to destruction. I… should know.” He coughs and something in him snaps. Solas sags, boneless, into the biting edges of his mangled armor. It will be soon, he knows. Will the Fade recognize him in his true form? Will he be remembered?

“What happens now?” Her voice lies muffled against his armor. “If the gods aren’t truly gods, then where do we go? What happens when we die?”

“I am not sure,” Solas admits, “but… I go knowing you are here… and that is enough.”

“Solas—”

“Pride of the Elvhenan. Elara of the Dalish.” His laugh is barely a stuttered breath. “I had broken our people… and you brought them together… once more… to fight me.”

“To save the world,” she says fiercely. Elara mutters under her breath, a prayer or curse or both, her voice shaking. “Solas… He called you Pride…”

“Yes.”

“Does… Does that mean you were a spirit of wisdom once, or of pride? In the days of Arlathan?”

“The distinction… is not so simple,” he grits out. “Pride and wisdom… friend and enemy… many are both and–and neither.” His vision swims, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. “Before, when the Song… was everywhere… the Mother called me. She gave me gifts… asked for my counsel.” Blood foams at the corner of his mouth and drips down his chin.

Elara’s hand is blazing hot against the cold of his cheeks. “I forbid it, Solas,” she says, the long-dormant authority strong as silverite in her words. Her tone offers no argument but her own. “You must stay. I order you to stay, Creator or not. You bound yourself to my Inquisition.”

And see where it got us, he thinks, chuckling inwardly. “Don’t cry, lethallin,” he says, though he’s not sure it comes out as such. “Spirits are… never truly gone.”

The green of the Fade spins merrily in his mind’s eye, and he can feel the Song flooding over his skin, sinking into his bones with a soothing familiarity.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” Elara whispers. “Be free, Solas.”

Ma serannas, Elara, Pride of the People. Solas sighs and lets the Song lull him to sleep.

#Solas #Lavellan #Solas & Lavellan #not shippy #Elara Lavellan #series: Lavellan's Knight #post-game #post-trespasser #fen'harel #falon'din #cw: blood #cw: injury #cw: major character death

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be-gay-do-heists · 3 years

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OKAY finally finished with eliot hand pain hurt/comfort fic, and i couldn’t actually decide whether i preferred it in second or third person POV, so i’m going to put the second person POV under the cut here, and make a separate post with the other version so folks can read which they prefer. nothing is different between the two besides the POV !

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Contrary to what the four crazy people you spent your time risking your life for nowadays thought, you didn’t like the pain.

There was nothing cleansing about it, nothing satisfactory. A ringing hit to your jaw didn’t feel like penance. The actual protection aspect was a different story. Standing like a wall between your people and danger, there was nothing that made your ribs ache with pleasure like that; a wall didn’t feel, didn’t think, it was just an immutable fact. You were an immutable fact. The problem was that the wall-as-you, or perhaps the you-as-wall, had to become human again sometime after the last man went down and the last dollar bill was stuffed into a duffel. To hurt was human, and not just to hurt but to remember the wound long, long after, for it to live in your knees and wrists and between the vertebrae in your spine. Some days— and this was a product of how long after a job it had been, how hard you had pushed—some days were worse than others. The fact that some days the first sound out of your mouth wasn’t even a groan, but a whine, or worse the half-awake pleading for please please make it stop i’ll do anything just make it stop—

No, you didn’t like the pain.

Comparatively, today was a good day. Today, you could get out of bed. Your head and body were blessedly in agreement that it was in your best interests to swing your twinging knees to the side of the mattress, push yourself up onto legs that were sore but stable, with arms that shook only slightly. But compared to your best days, the ones where except for the old shoulder injury which would never let you forget it and the scar on your hip that put a hitch in your giddy-up in all kinds of weather, the days on which except for those you sometimes even forgot the pain, this didn’t hold a candle. Today your hands were so beat and weak that the ache radiated up to your mid-forearm, settled into you all familiar-like and made its home in you.

In the bathroom, you used your wrist to turn on the faucet and stuck your mouth under the water to drink. Holding a cup was off the agenda. Your morning routine was interspersed with winces, not unusual for your post-job bathroom adventures, and if it took you longer to shimmy on the sweats you knew you wouldn’t be getting out of today, it made you appreciate the comfort of wearing them a little more.

Going handless was fine until you were face to face with the fridge, and resisting the urge to growl at it, like that would solve anything. Taking a deep breath, you put a hand on the stainless steel handle, testing your grip. A light flex had you drawing it back like the metal had burned you, like someone had snapped a tight clothespin onto each ligament. You took a moment to pace a couple steps, let out a loud but cathartic expletive, and then wedge your hand between the handle and the door so you could open the fridge with your elbow strength. The feeling of triumph behind your collarbone faded quickly as you scanned its contents and realized there was nothing you wanted to eat, or at least nothing you wanted to hold and eat. The thought of grasping a fork brought another growl to your throat, and you slammed the fridge door to stomp to the couch and throw yourself down, cradling your hands in your lap.

You knew the drill: in an hour, you would grit your teeth and get to up to try and fumble open your bottle of painkillers, and if you succeeded, you would wait another hour for them to truly kick in so you could handle the tv remote, put on whatever game was on, and vegetate on the couch until further notice. The phone you had left on your nightstand rang loudly, fully audible from the other room, blaring out the chorus to “Macho Man” that Hardison had put as your ringtone and you hadn’t figured out how to get rid of yet. If it was important, whoever it was would call again, so you ignored it. Your ire rose when the same noise sang out from the bedroom a couple minutes later, a bit-off groan escaping from your clenched teeth as you levered yourself up to get to it as fast as you could, awkwardly accepting the call and maneuvering the phone between your shoulder and ear. “What?”

“Man, we haven’t heard from you since we split yesterday, I thought we were gonna get a beer downstairs last night?”

You rubbed your eyes with your wrist, frustrated that you had forgotten you were supposed to get together with Hardison the night before. Getting home, washing the sweat and blood off, and falling into bed had seemed like the only goal in your mind. “Look, sorry, I’ve been busy. And if this ain’t important, you—“

“Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, you’re using your tough-guy, bullshit voice. And you actually apologized, so something is double wrong.”

You snarled. “I don’t have— Hardison, I don’t know what you’re talking about, just leave me alone.”

“Too late, we’re already at your place.”

Before you could open your mouth, your doorbell rang, drawing a groan from you. If you were correct about who the “we” was, it seemed stupid to even ring it. Your suspicions were confirmed thirty seconds later as the door clicked open anyways and Parker and Hardison came in, having the decency to at least look slightly sheepish. You had already moved back to the couch, tilting your head back and closing your eyes. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” you growled.

“Excuse us for being worried about your wellbeing, Mr. Suffer-In-Silence,” Hardison scoffed.

Parker leapt onto the couch cushion next to him. “We thought you might have been captured by ninjas.”

“You would know if I had been captured by ninjas,” you muttered. “It’s a very dis— look, you’ve seen that I’m not kidnapped, it’s our day off, can you please leave and let me rest.”

“You still owe us a hangout from last night!” Parker chirped. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay long.” She vaulted back over the couch to go rummage through your snack cabinets, getting into the granola bin by the sound of it. You made a note to restock it before she came back next.

When you next opened your eyes, Hardison was lightly sitting on your coffee table, looking at the hands still resting in your lap. “What’s up with your hands, Eliot?”

Your first instinct was to deflect. You trusted your team, sure, but this was different. They weren’t supposed to know that you had these days. That you weren’t invulnerable. “Nothing’s wrong with them, stop sitting on my coffee table.”

“Mhm mhm, sure,” Hardison said. “Go like this for me?” He wiggled his fingers in a “hey sailor” kind of fashion. Before you could tell him just what you thought about that, Parker’s ponytail swung into the side of your face, the thief reaching down to poke one of your hands faster than you could stop her.

By the time you were able to refocus and pull yourself back from the whiteout of pain, Parker and Hardison were looking at you with open concern, the hacker leaning back slightly, a little pale. You think you may have howled; you weren’t sure. Both your hands were clenched tightly to your chest, wrists together, arms outward, wishbone shaped. You felt just as brittle as one, with their stares on you. You summoned the anger from your throat, the only weapon at your disposal (only half-expecting that it would work, always defenseless when it came to their prodding).

“Can you leave me the hell alone now?”

Hardison looked at you, taking his time formulating his thoughts, but it was Parker who spoke. “Nope.” You turned to her where she was perched on the couch. “You get hurt taking care of us. Now you let us take care of you.”

You looked at Hardison pleadingly, hoping he at least would take pity on you and let you wallow by yourself. You wanted to hide like the trap-escaped, half-dead badger whose den you had accidentally put your foot into half a lifetime ago in the Italian Alps, earning you an earful of hissing that scared the hell out of you. You wonder if you seemed as belligerent now.

Hardison just shrugged and smiled gently. “Hey, you heard the woman.” He leaned forward slightly, just enough in your space to let you feel his warm presence without crowding. “Couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

You didn’t want to try, was the thing. It was only that it wasn’t their job to take care of you. It was yours to take care of them. They just seemed to be wholly unaware of this.

“You taken anything for those yet?” Hardison asked, pointing at your hands. He hummed at your slight head shake. “Thought so. Which ones?”

“White bottle, red pills. Only need a half,” you mumbled, slouching. Parker was already up and heading to the bathroom.

“We need to get something you can actually open when this happens, some kind of spring-loaded catch maybe,” Hardison mused. “Alright, let me see them.” He patted his legs, frowning at your growl. “C’mon, none of that. I know they hurt, I’ll be really, really gentle. I won’t even touch without asking.”

You looked him in the eye for the sincerity you already knew would be there, the eagerness to help that (damn him) was one of your favorite traits of his. Hesitantly, you extended your hands, rolling your eyes at him scooting forward to offer his knees to rest them on.

“I assume you got antiseptic and ointment on these knuckles already, so totally disregarding those, even though it sucks. Nothing broken?”

“No, just. Aches. Like a son of a bitch. Can’t make a damn fist. Happens sometimes.”

Parker bounded back in, armed with a glass of water and half a pill in her open hand. “So no jobs for a while. Easy, I’ll tell Nate. Open up.” With a scowl, you took the medication from her fingers with your teeth (gently, gently), and let her raise the glass to your lips, nearly choking as she tipped it a little eagerly, and choking for real when Hardison said, “Whoa, woman, let him swallow.”

“It’s not just the last job, Park, it’s jobs two years ago, or five, or ten,” you managed, once you had your breath back. “Part of the package that comes with the lifestyle. It just happens sometimes, don’t matter what schedule we’re on.”

She frowned. “Still. We shouldn’t be doing jobs if you’re hurt. Nate should know that.”

Hardison leaned forward a little more while you were distracted trying to find the right response to that, that you wouldn’t be doing any jobs at all if that were the case, that Nate trusted you to get the job done no matter what, reaching out to your forearm and stopping just a hair’s breadth shy of touching. You froze, and he did too, meeting your eyes. “It’s ok. I’m just trying something out. Is it alright if I touch you here?” At your tiniest of nods, the hacker placed his fingertips on your arm, rubbing circles so lightly that you almost couldn’t feel it. “Let me know where it starts to hurt, okay?” Hardison applied the slightest pressure as he added his other hand and lightly started rubbing down your forearm. When he got to your wrist, you couldn’t help the strangled noise that partly escaped through your nose, high and strained. He moved away from it immediately, going back to tracing soothing, gentle patterns. “You’re ok, you’re ok. I can work with this, no problem. Where do you keep your hot pads, man?”

“Bathroom, lower right drawer,” you grit out. Parker was zipping off to get it and warm it up before you could even process. Hardison applied a little more pressure with his fingertips, rubbing the meat of your forearm. You breathed out long and slow at how good it felt once the initial ache had ebbed.

“I want to try giving you a hand massage, but I don’t wanna hurt you more than it would help,” he said, pausing slightly. “You up for it? I’m not gonna pressure you either way.”

Your thoughts stuttered, and then bolted in different directions. The feeling that you didn’t deserve this, that this was too much to ask, which had been simmering this whole time leapt to life again. It joined with the wounded, snarling animal part of you that still wanted to hide, burrow down with the covers over your head until your pain faded into the muted background noise of the world. You didn’t even know if a hand massage would work, it might make the pain worse.

But it might be nice, a small, hopeful part of you murmured. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been offered something like this, let alone the last time you had taken the person up. If there was anyone you trusted to do it, if there was anyone you wanted to receive it from, it was these two. How could you refuse them even when your heart hoped so badly for what they were offering?

“Sure, just…” you said as Parker returned with the hot pad, pausing from tossing it hand to hand like a hot potato to fix her stare on you. You licked your lips, swallowed around a dry throat. “Just be gentle.”

“I will be,” Hardison said earnestly, taking the hot pad from Parker to gently maneuver it under your hands, resting on his knees. You tensed slightly as the thief leapt up onto the back of the couch, perching above your head, but otherwise relaxed as the warmth of the hot pad started to loosen the ache in your hands. Hardison started where he had before, applying the slightest pressure to your forearm. Parker ran her fingertips lightly through your hair, humming.

“Your hair is kinda wonky,” she said, fingers catching on a tangle. You winced.

“That’s what happens when you go to bed without brushing it properly, you know that,” you grumbled, breath hitching as her fingertips grazed your scalp. Your breath stuttered again as Hardison hands started working towards the sore meat of your wrist. Your hand began to shake.

“It’s ok baby, I got you,” Hardison murmured under his breath, more soothing sound than words. You cracked open an eye to see him looking between your hands and his phone, playing a video where it was propped on his thigh.

“Man, are you watching hand massage tutorials right now?” you gritted out, doing a poor job of masking your genuine amusement with frustrated disbelief.

He tapped his index finger against your arm lightly. “I’ve been watching videos dude; think you’re so slick, tryna hide your hand pain from me. I just wanna make sure I get it right in real time.”

Parker’s fingers running through your hair more boldly silenced any follow-up thoughts you had, your mind going fuzzy with how good it felt. Without thinking, you insistently pushed your head up further into her touch, making her laugh. The sound reverberated in your chest, leaving you longing to hear it again. Instead a half-whine left your throat as Hardison probed the bottom of your palm, the ache drawing you back to full awareness.

The hacker backed off for a moment. “Sorry, sorry, you still cool to keep going?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you breathed shakily.

“Just tell me if there’s anyplace else that needs to be handled more delicately, or you don’t want me going at all,” Hardison said, putting his clever hands to yours again and taking up his gentle, slow pace. Parker’s fingers had paused in your hair a second, but went back to running through it again, scratching your scalp on every other pass.

Slowly, slowly, the vice of pain on your hands started to dissipate, bone by bone, finger by finger. You don’t know how long you sat there in a haze, as Hardison and Parker patiently touched you, fixated on the single task of caring for you. The thought made the tender space behind your breastbone twinge. When you surfaced from the half-asleep contentment of their efforts, the television was on, Star Trek playing at the lowest volume. You grunted, lifting your head from the couch to look at them sitting beside you, grinning at your movements. Hardison’s warm hand was still in yours, but instead of massaging he was just holding it softly.

“Hey sleepy,” teased Parker, throwing herself over Hardison to get closer and forcing an “Oof!” out of him.

You looked down to your hands, flexing one experimentally, in disbelief at how the ache had faded to an almost imperceptible hum. With the other you tightened your fingers around Hardison’s hand, moving your thumb lightly over his.

“Hey,” you simply said back, a real smile rising to your lips.

#this is one of those times where i am like WHY cannot i write like [insert fandom greats here]#but. its good enough to post i think #plus this frees me up to write the next part of megverse which is SO vivid in my mind #stay tuned #miko speaks #parker leverage #fic #my fic #ot3

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fiftyshadesgrl · 5 years

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He saved me/ part 2

Summary: reader is in a avusive relationship. When things take a turn for the worst she finds help in the winchesters.

Warning: this story has torture, smut, laguage, violence, abuse. If youre triggered by any of these i suggest not reading. Feedback is always welcome.

When i woke i was in a hospital bed. I heard the distinct beeping of several monitors to my side. Wires and tubes were attached to me seemingly everywhere. I opened my eyes a little and the bright light above me made me shut them quickly. I groaned as the pain in my head started once again. I felt a warm hand on mine. I turned towards the touch and opened my eyes again. I blinked several times to clear my vision. A man sat beside my bed a worried look on his face. He had short hair and the most beautiful green eyes i had ever seen.

"Hey, youre awake." He said in a rough voice. I looked around confused and fear started to settle in again.

"Where.... where....." i tried to ask but my throat was so dry. He stood then and walked across the room to retrieve a cup of ice water. He placed the straw to my lips and moaned as the cold liquid soothed my dry as sand throat.

He waited patiently as i drank my fill. When i was done he placed the cup on the table beside the bed. He sat back down beside me. "Dont worry sweetheart. Youre safe. Youre in the hospital." He spoke softly and i could tell by his eyes and voice he was kind. I felt safe for some odd reason, i didnt even know him.

"Who are you?" I rasped out weakly.

"Im dean, me and my brother sam brought you here. What the hell happened to you?" He asked in a serious tone.

My heart beat started racing as the machine started beeping more and more. My breath started to get shallow thinking about parker and what he done. Not to mention what he will do when he finds me.

"Hey, hey, calm down. Its okay you dont have to talk about it now. Whats your name?" He said soothingly.

"(Y/N)." I croaked. "My boyfriend did this." I motioned to myself. His jaw clenched and i saw the muscle working overtime. His eyes changed from caring to fury. I felt fear creeping up my spine as he looked into my eyes.

"Whats that bastards name? Was he in your house? Ill kill him." Dean said standing up from his seat beside my bed. He started pacing back and forth until i spoke.

"Can you please sit down dean?" It came out as a whisper. I expected him to shout at me. Telling me i had no right to ask him of anything and worse. I expected him to hit me. After all thats what i was used to. Dean seemed to notice where my thoughts were at. He held up is hands in a surrendering motion and walked slowly back to the chair beside the bed.

"Dont worry sweetheart, im not going to hurt you. I promise no one will ever hurt you again." I sighed a relieved sigh and relaxed back into the bed. Sleep was pulling heavily at me and i didnt want to fight it. I was just to tired.

Before i closed my eyes i heard dean say. "Im not going anywhere."

"What do you want to do about him?" A strange voice asked.

"I want to rip him apart with my bare hands. You heard the doctor, everything that happened to her." That was deans voice. He was talking to another man about me.

"I checked the house and hes not there. Probably cut and run when he realized she had escaped." The other man said.

"I dont care sam, hes around here somewhere. I wont stop until he gets what he deserves." Dean said, he tried to keep his voice restrained but i could tell his anger was getting to him.

I heard the other man sigh. "What about cas? Cant he help her?" This must be sam, deans brother.

"I havent asked her about it yet. I dont want to put to much on her. Shes under enough stress as it is."

Who is this cas theyre talking about? What could he possibly help me with?

I grrunt and open my eyes the pain in my head isnt as bad as it was but i was sure feeling it everywhere else. Dean is sitting right by my bed where he was earlier. Across the room i see a massive man sitting in the other seat. He has long brown hair that touches his shoulders and a massive build.

Dean notices that im awake and grabs my hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Like i was run over by a 18 wheeler several times." I say weakly.

Dean give a remorseful smile and then points over to the seat being occupied by the large man. "Thats my brother sam. Hes been trying to track down your boyfriend."

I swallowed hard at the fear that crept up at the mention of parker.

"Did...did you find....parker?" I stumble over my words as i begin to shake. Sam shook his head as deans grip tightend on my hand.

"Sorry, he has either left town or is hiding somewhere local. He more than likely knows someone will be coming for him now that you escaped." Sam said with a shrug.

"Hes not gone. Hes somewhere close. He isnt scared of the cops or anyone." I say with tears building in my eyes.

Dean wipes them away with his thumb. "He doesnt know real fear but ill make sure to take care of that. He will beg for death before im done with him."

I smile kindly at dean, "you dont have to put yourself in harms way for me. Hes smart, hes dangerous and he has connections all over this town and probably several more across the state. Hes not going to stop until he has me back. Hes not going to stop until im dead." The words just spill out for no reason. Im guessing its because i held it in for all these years that it felt good to actually talk to someone.

"Thats not going to happen. I meant what i said when i told you no one will hurt you ever again. We will protect you. I will protect you." Dean growled but said the last part softly. Just then the doctor decided to walk in.

"Hello (Y/N) im doctor gram. How are you feeling?"

"My head isnt hurting like it was but im really sore and hurting everywhere else."

The doctor nodded and checked the monitors. "Thats understandable considering all your injuries. Can you tell me what happened?"

I sighed hating to actually have to tell the whole story in front of dean and sam but im sure theyll find it out sooner or later.

"I was in a abusive relationship for the past two years. My boyfriend did this. He raped me, he cut me, he stabbed me and smashed my head into the walls and floor. He tied me up and ripped something in my leg. He choked me and bit me. Punched me until i couldnt see straight." I took a deep breath in and the doctor just nodded and held up his hand. The fury that was coming from dean was scary.

"Yes you tore your ligaments and muscles in your leg. Youll have to have surgery to fix that but we want you to be a little more stable to do that. Gentlemen if youll excuse us for a few minutes while i examine (Y/N)." Doctor gram said to dean and sam. Sam nodded and dean sat still for a moment. He kissed the back of my hand and that surprised me. "Ill be right outside the door. Im not going anywhere." Dean said as he stood up, him and sam walked out the door shutting it on their way out.

"So (Y/N), your skull is fractured in two places. Your nose is broken, you also have three broken ribs. Torn ligaments and muscles in your leg. We stitched up the cuts and stab wounds that was inflicted. Your vagina also had major lacerations that needed stitching. I need to check those if you dont mind." Dr gram said in his no nonsense doctor voice. I nodded and he lifted the blanket and my hospital gown as he examined me.

I shut my eyes and felt the bile rising in my throat as he was looking at me. I just had a uneasy feeling with him or anyone being that close to me. He lowered the blanket back and began writing on his clipboard. "Your stitches look good. Parker did a job on you didnt he?"

#dean x reader #deanwinchester #dean winchester #supernatural

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starstruck-thirst · 5 years

Text

She Wants Revenge

Part 3 Chrollo Lucilfer: Out of Control

Series title is after the band of the same name. The chapter is named after this song.

Part 1 of series is here.

Warnings: PTSD flashbacks, NSFW, mental manipulation, fem dom, slight bondage

“One large caramel macchiato!”

If someone wanted to make a lot of money fast, all they would have to do is open a coffee shop near the business square in Swardani City. The constant flow of foot traffic in and out guaranteed that the owner's child wouldn't have to take out any school loans. You’d put money down that they could all become doctors without debt.

You were staring into your coffee, fingers of your right hand relaxed against the warm ceramic, enjoying a moment of pure content serenity. The sensation of the heat stabilized your nerves while your other hand gently caressed the book, flipping a page and getting a whiff of the paper and ink smell as you did so. Each movement was so familiar that it almost made you feel completely relaxed. The smell of freshly baked goods filling your nose, the sound of the bell announcing customers, the feeling of the table under your arms, the taste of the coffee in your mouth. It was all a part of a life you knew once, something that used to make up part of your daily life.

But, you hadn't read a single word. Eyes scanned each line as if you were engaged, but there was no comprehension to it. Just an empty masquerade as you waited like a patient fisherman for the lure to bob. It all was just a part of the setting of your trap.

The city had taken you back so readily two weeks ago. It was like you had never left, nothing was different. Businesses were the same, the streets had the same smell and landmarks. Like the world had stopped and waited for you to come back. Held its breath and watched for your anticipated return.

The grocery store you used to visit once a week hadn't even reorganized their inventory.

Moving into an apartment in the same part of the city as before had been the simplest thing you had done in months. The hardest part had been filling the apartment with things. When you had left the city, you had sold off all of your possessions minus a few items that could fit into a suitcase. But now it was a chore to stock the kitchen with dishes and silverware. Creating a television set of life around you.

As you sat a bowl of fruit on the kitchen island you wondered when this had stopped being ‘normal’ for you. Would it ever feel normal again?

But there was no pain. Whereas before you had felt an ache in each muscle, ligament, and joint from basic living now you felt… nothing. The level of excitement that rose into your chest as you placed the last of the freshly washed dishes was new though. The excitement of what this was all for.

The prize that was to come.

Even coming to the coffee shop where you used to come daily had been so easy.

Why had any of this seemed so hard six months ago?

The bell on the door chimed probably for the millionth time, but this time it was different. If asked you'd never be able to explain to a non-hunter why. It was just part of having hunter senses. You could feel it in your soul when a target had come into your range. Feel it in every nerve when they nipped at the bait.

“Good morning, Mr. Hill! Your usual?”

“It isn't still morning is it? Goodness. Will this Monday ever end?”

His voice was jovial. Light hearted and warm. Sweet nectar for unsuspecting butterflies in search of nourishment to suck from, before being consumed by the carnivorous plant underneath.

Your heart picked up just a little, but you kept calm, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and artfully tilting your head to one side as you “read”. For a moment you wondered if your makeup had been perfect enough, and you had to fight the built-in urge to touch your lips and make sure that you hadn’t gotten even the slightest smear outside of your lip line.

Maybe some things were built in so deep that they hadn’t changed either.

Pariston finished his transaction at the register and began looking over a nearby painting that was marked as sold. Somehow this was the part you found the hardest. The waiting when your hunt was within sight. But you were determined to stay steadfast in your plan.

Another page turn.

For whatever reason this drew his eyes toward you at last. You could feel his gaze like a weighted blanket heavy on the shoulders, threatening to crush you if you breathed incorrectly.

He called your name and your heart pained in want. First you looked up with just your eyes, as if to be annoyed by the distraction from your reading. But upon realizing who had called you, you sat up straight and viewed him full on. It was all part of the act, but you had done it so beautifully. “Pariston! Or er… Mr. Hill… good morning.”

He smiled and lifted a hand in greeting. “Good morning. May I sit with you?” All of this was so in place with everything else that it made some part of you want to be sick, but the part of you he had trained was absolutely aching to please.

Shuffling coffee cup and book, you made room on the small café table as Pariston sat across from you. “Oh sure. If you have the time,” you responded, though he hadn’t waited for your verbal affirmation.

“I can always make a little bit of time for an old friend, right?” He asked as one large hand came across the table and rested on your own.

“Is that what we are?” You asked with a trace of obvious hurt, looking to the floor.

His hand gripped yours tightly, just shy of enough force to hurt. “Of course.”

Slowly you looked up at Pariston, allowing your power to activate through his touch. It was just a trickle, but you clearly felt his surface level desires. He was interested in your bait. He was nibbling.

You wondered if a broken toy had ever recovered and managed to not shake apart in front of him. Like you had the first time.

A long sigh escaped your lips as your thumb brushed one of his fingers before you jerked your hand away, catching yourself. That spark in his eye that had been so dim six months ago was getting brighter already. “Sorry,” you apologized. But what exactly you were apologizing for wasn't clear. Pulling your hand away? Having tenderly stroked his finger?

“It's perfectly fine,” he said sitting back with an unreadable smile.

“Here's your coffee, Mr. Hill,” a friendly male barista said as he sat a to go coffee cup on the table. “Also, we sold two paintings. Could you take this to her for us?” The barista produced an envelope for Pariston to take.

“Not a problem! I'll take it over this afternoon. She'll be thrilled,” he chirped, taking the envelope and putting into his breast pocket.

The barista nodded and as he left you looked at the large canvas that had a tag under it boldly stating “SOLD” that Pariston had been looking at earlier. “You deal in art now?”

He laughed. “After that little gallery trip I grew interested. The artist that puts her work up here is very talented and needed a patron, so I thought I would give it a shot. I'm hoping to set up her with her very own show soon. Small at first, but still.”

“And what of… your ingenue?” With the question you shyly looked back to him, breaking eye contact to look at your coffee cup before seemingly forcing your gaze back to his again.

The right corner of his lip ticked. It was almost unnoticeable. “Sadly, she moved departments and works out of the city now. So…” he sighed dramatically as he opened his hands to show them empty. “Might be why I decided to try help out. Since I am once again unattached and slightly less busy.”

You bit your lower lip, staring at him as if lost in thought before finally responding, “I see.”

Pariston’s phone rang in his pocket and he stood up with a new smile in place. One that held interest and secrets. “Duty calls. You really do seem to be back to your old self. Let me know if you have any interest… in art.”

With a sincerely pleased smile you nodded. “I promise to let you know.”

He waved goodbye and left the shop as he answered his phone. You felt that pang of want again, and as you sipped your coffee you imagined stepping on Pariston's smug face. Squashing the man who instilled such disgusting desires inside of you while simultaneously squashing the desire itself.

You wanted to ruin him so badly.

The chime of your own phone pulled you out of your pretending to read- not wanting to leave immediately after Pariston- and you opened to reveal a message.

[I believe I have someone that you will want to meet. ♡]

[Oh? What makes you think I want such a thing?]

[You said you needed resources. ◇]

[You have my attention. Where to meet?]

[I can't just give you information for free you know. ♡]

You laughed under your breath.

[Who said anything about expecting free information? Send me an address.]

You finished your coffee and stood but stopped when a thought came to you.

[And bring some rope with you.]

[Yes, ma'am~♡]

You stopped at a canvas that hung near the entrance to the shop. It had the same artist name as the one Pariston had been admiring. The paint on it was pained, there was no other word for it. It cried to you and absentmindedly you reached forward and touched the label that boasted the artist name, price, and the name of the piece.

“SNARE”

The sound of your phone chiming from Hisoka responding with an address brought you out of your thoughts. Perhaps some fresh artwork was exactly what your new apartment needed, you decided.

~*~*~

“Hisoka, you are such a needy slut, aren’t you?”

A shaky, excited grumble came from the man, but nothing more in the way of response. The fact that he couldn’t even muster words, even though his mouth was completely free to respond, made you grin in joy.

The rope he had so dutifully brought with him was tied around his wrists and anchored to the headboard of the hotel room he had chosen The shame of the situation was you were making him kneel on the bed, so his head was bowed, and you couldn’t see his facial reactions as you ran a gloved hand down his back, lash marks glowing red against his pale flesh. The sensation of the velvet glove rubbing against the tender marks must have been too much for him to focus an answer.

“You were so talkative earlier,” you purred, as you pressed your chest to his back and wrapped your arm around him to run your naked right hand over his chest, sipping in a bit of his intoxicating desires. The familiar dark tendrils of his desires wrapped up your arms like friendly snakes and you felt refreshed. His lust for sex and pain was too tempting to not taste. Your senses felt like they literally shivered as the urge to cause him more pain made your other hand twitch against his back.

Your body was pressed so close to his that it would be far too easy to overdose on his desires if you weren’t careful. Testing with Hisoka had taught you that you could use your abilities with any of your flesh, but only after they had been initiated by your right hand. And the commands and sensations would be weaker than what you would get if you used your right hand. You had to focus your ability into contact points so as to not overdose.

Keeping your body wrapped around his so that you could continue to bring your fingers lower on his body in an agonizingly slow gesture, you egged him on further. “I thought you said you had a new playmate for me?”

Your pinky brushed against the tip of his cock that was already so hard it was standing at firm attention. He sighed and titled his hips to encourage your hand to sink just a little lower. “Not yet, Hisoka,” you chided with a laugh, “I want at least something. Give me something to praise you for.”

A low growl like noise rumbled in his chest and you wondered how much he was tempted to break the ropes and take over. But that was part of the game. Since you weren’t using your strongest power on Hisoka he was free to do what he wanted, which included not breaking free. He took in a breath, turning his head between his raised arms to grant him a peak at your face.

“Fine,” you sighed pulling away and picking up the crop once more. Shifting to the side you brought the leather down on his back with a satisfying smack and Hisoka looked to the bed again, groaning. You hit him one more time before laying down on the bed so you could look up at his face. His face was flushed, and eyes closed as he took in the various feelings of lust and pain. “You’re being very stubborn today.” Your tone was light, playful. A sign you were having fun.

A sly, arrogant smile came to Hisoka’s face as he opened his eyes to look down at you. “Maybe you just aren’t trying hard enough.”

You frowned. “I suppose that is also a possibility.” Why weren’t you more excited to hurt and push Hisoka around? After having seen Pariston again you thought you would have been much more excited to do so, but… part of you still felt off. That feeling of him lingering just behind your consciousness had returned.

His muscles were tight above you as his body heaved lightly with each anticipating breath. Just seeing him straining like this, the appearance of him being unable to move or truly react was enough to get you wet. But it wasn’t enough.

Reaching next to the bed you produced a bottle of lube. Not looking at Hisoka, you spread some onto your right hand. “There is something else I want to try today. You’ve been such a good Guinea Pig so far. Let’s experiment, shall we?” Closing the bottle, you dropped it to the floor carelessly as you moved your fingers against your palm to completely coat your hand in the slippery fluid.

With a lewd grin you looked back up to see Hisoka watching your every move with blatant curiosity. His own excitement at being played with betrayed his usual air of confidence as a hungry need to be dominated displayed plainly on his face.

With a single finger you ran a slippery tip around his cock and you could see his breath catch. His skin was a bright pink under your touch, so hard it had to be painful. Starting at the tip you rubbed your forefinger and thumb slowly down his length, pressing your thumb against the underside with extra stress. Hisoka’s head lifted as much as he was able, each of his muscles tightening with strain. “Don’t cum yet. I haven’t started,” you said from your much more comfortable laying position on the bed.

“I can take your desires, feel them,” now you gripped his dick with your entire hand and began to pump it along him. “But… can you feel mine?” you asked as you altered the amount of pressure each finger applied while continuously moving. Focusing on your surface level desire, absolute /need/ for the information Hisoka was promising you imagined it flowing from your hand into his skin. Your desire to take Pariston down. To make him scream.

Hisoka hollered, eyes shut tight once more as his hips rocked against your hand. “Do you feel my desires, Hisoka?” you asked.

“Y-yes,” he managed shakily, body practically shivering under your touch.

“So it does work. Fascinating.” Hisoka mumbled something, and you shifted so you were half under him now and looking up at him would be easier while your hand worked. “What did you say?” As you asked you released him, pre-cum already coating his tip.

“Chrollo,” he said with a gulp of air.

“Chrollo?” you parroted, not following him. “This is the name of the person you think will be of use to me?”

His eyelids slowly slid open, amber eyes staring down at you completely clouded in desire. You had left him so close to a climax. “He leads the Phantom Troupe.”

Your heart clenched in your chest, eyes wide at his words. “They’re real?”

Your shock gave Hisoka a place to stand on high and mighty once again, and that arrogant grin came back. “Very much so.”

The pitch-black spider on Hisoka’s back had been impossible to ignore when you had tied him to the bed. It had seemed familiar in the way a vague bedtime story brought up memories you didn’t exactly have. The possibilities of this revelation washed over you and you gently cupped Hisoka’s dick once more. “You can help me meet Chrollo?”

Just the feeling of your touch was enough to warrant another noise of pleasure as Hisoka nodded. “Easily.”

Now you felt true excitement again. Gripping his dick you moved slowly, staring into Hisoka’s face with a cat like pleasure. “Good boy, Hisoka.”

His eyes managed to stay open this time and you watched his face relax in pleasure as you quickened the pace. Again, his hips moved in time with your hand and you squeezed him tightly picking up the pace.

It wasn’t long before he came, long white ribbons rushing free as Hisoka moaned with his orgasm above you. Admittedly, you hadn’t thought about your position when you had laid beneath him to watch, and his cum landed on your chest in warm pools. You sighed, releasing his flaccid dick to look at your hand covered in lube and cum. “I suppose I should have expected this. Look you made a mess of me.”

“I can do worse than that,” Hisoka laughed, already a hungry look growing in his eyes.

Your body clenched at his words, and you contemplated waiting for Hisoka to be ready for another round of games. But time was ticking. This wasn’t really a time to be fucking around.

Sliding out from under him you wiped your hand onto the bed before untying Hisoka’s hands. “If this Chrollo is as useful as you claim, maybe you will get the chance.” Your words held a teasing promise that Hisoka was quick to react to.

Once his hands were free he sat up and wrapped his arms around your body. “Or maybe I’ll just take my chance now.”

“But that won’t be as fun,” you pointed out brushing your chest against his so as to smear his own mess back onto him. “Will it?”

He thought about this, bright eyes eating up the view of you in just a bra and panties, covered in his cum. “How about a compromise?” you asked leaning your face close to his, “come clean me off in the shower.” One of his eyebrows raised as you kissed him, running your right hand over his bicep to feed your desire into him again.

As you pulled away his arms somewhat reluctantly released you and you slipped off the bed towards the bathroom. “I suppose a compromise will have to do,” he responded behind you. You only laughed in response.

~*~*~

Hisoka had been good to his word and set up a meeting with Chrollo that same day. He might have already done so before the fun time in the hotel, it was hard to be sure. But either way, that evening you met Hisoka on the edge of town so he could lead you to the elusive leader of the Phantom Troupe.

Out of the city you had been cautious, but now you were downright paranoid. Pariston had a lot of enemies, but he still had supporters. Each time you left a building you went first to a logical place for you to visit, a store, home, anything that could be considered in the norm. And then you had to slip away from that building, using all of your nen training to be sure you weren’t being tracked or followed.

Even if you were sure you weren’t being followed you took long, complicated routes to where you were going. It was a bit annoying, but you knew it would be worth it.

In your bag you had a mask with you, uncertain if you should bother putting it on at this juncture or not when you met Chrollo. He might not trust someone he couldn’t see the face of. And the odds of him reporting back to Pariston of all people was dirt low. But it made you feel better to have it with you.

Hisoka was patiently waiting for you at the agreed upon place just outside of town, playing with his cards as he tended to do. “You really did take your time,” he commented, putting his cards away when he saw you.

“I try not to be sloppy,” you joked, earning a smirk from the magician as he began to lead you down the road.

The walk was long, but pleasant. As the sun sank the insects started to buzz and chirp their mating songs. The air was cooling off with each inch of sunlight lost, but the growing chill didn’t make you uncomfortable. The slight nip of chill always made you feel more alive, and even this meager amount helped you feel more awake and alert.

So far it hadn’t felt like you were being followed or watched, and Hisoka saying nothing helped you to feel more secure in that. Even if he didn’t have a chip in your game with Pariston, it served his personal interest to help you for the moment. That was as much guarantee as you could ask for from the man.

As if hearing your thoughts, he spoke, “We’re entering their territory.”

Almost immediately after he spoke you could feel eyes on you, watching your approach. If Pariston’s gaze earlier in the day had been a weighted blanket, this feeling was a heavy mutter. You could feel it because you had been working so hard to sense such things, and even then it was hard to catch. They were better than you.

Good.

It took a few more blocks, but finally Hisoka stopped outside of an old home. What had once been a finely painted home with ornate handrails, was now a looming dark presence of peeling paint and darkened windows. Yet even now, a shadow of its former glory, it was beautiful. Even if the style was a bit outdated.

Some part of you realized Pariston would hate it. This old, dirty house. He had always been one in favor of modernism. Despite the fact that he had managed to intrude on your mind again, the realization made you smile.

“Go on in,” Hisoka instructed, gesturing with one arm across his body in his usual theatrical way.

Without reacting to Hisoka, you walked past him, feeling the eyes that had been watching you slip away. Either they were on the move, or they didn’t feel the need to continue observing once you were close enough to the house. It didn’t really matter to you anyway. Boldly you opened the door to the house and entered, Hisoka following in after you and shutting the door firmly behind.

The inside of the house was much the same as the outside, wallpaper that had been decorated with a pattern of scroll work was peeling and had lost color with time. Carpet that had been plush and loved now full of dirt and grime. A spider ran across the door frame to your right and out of sight, fearfully escaping the presence of humans. “If I didn’t know better Hisoka I’d think this was all a set up,” you mused as you moved down the hall on instinct.

“It’s a good thing you know better.” His tone had been his usual teasing one, and you couldn’t help a quiet laugh.

A broken set of stairs spiraled up to the second floor, but you took a right into a sitting room instead of going up, again purely moving on some sort of intuition. The sitting room had red wallpaper, and even with its age you could still get a sense of the deep burgundy it had once been. It probably had complimented the dark hard wood of the house beautifully.

But none of that mattered as your eyes landed on a figure sitting behind the abused desk. A candle lit his features as he read a book, the title obscured due to the shadow. You stared at him a moment, admiring his beauty. His aura was that of someone that should provoke caution, much like Hisoka, and yet you felt curiosity as you noticed a cross like tattoo on his forehead, perfectly displayed since his hair was slicked back away from his face.

So far everyone you had met on this revenge war path was extra as hell, but you were kind of enjoying that fact. They were all so different from Pariston’s perfect suits and well-maintained environments. Maybe that type of insanity had been part of the draw of the hunter’s association when you had joined years ago.

Maybe you had just forgotten.

“Chrollo, I presume?” you asked, not waiting for some sign from the man to speak.

He looked up from his book, face passive and showing no sign of displeasure of the interruption. “You presume correctly,” he replied, straightening his back in the chair. “And you must be Adra.”

You nodded taking a few steps closer to the desk, enough for the candle to help illuminate your outline. You weren’t sure if he could clearly see your face, but you weren’t yet in a rush to make it more apparent to him. “I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You meant it sincerely. If this really was the leader of the famous Phantom Troupe you were coming into contact with a ghost. The pleased tone of your voice seemed to come across as intended because a faint, enigmatic smile appeared. “I was led to believe that you might be interested in a business deal.”

The book shut with a soft snap and long graceful fingers placed it upon the dusty desktop. “I’m not so sure that you will have something of equal value to offer. Although, Hisoka informed me you used to work for the Hunters’ Association.”

With a chuckle you spread your hands open in front of you, and immediately dropped them. Pariston had done that same action at you today. “I have no love for the association. My information is yours.”

Chrollo sat back in the chair, a creaking sound coming from the wood in protest as he rested his face on his hand while watching your every move. The way the warm candle light flickered across his face made shadows dance around his eyes, it was almost entrancing the way he looked. “I’ll need a way to verify your information.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it viable.”

“You seem eager.”

“I have a specific goal in mind, and I will stop at nothing to see it complete.”

This retort made Chrollo fall silent, his dark eyes moving from you to Hisoka behind you. If Hisoka made some gesture, you had no idea. He made no sound if he had done so. “Would you go as far as to kill for what you want?” As he asked his eyes slid back to you and away from Hisoka.

Counting to five you breathed in, held for two seconds, and released. Confidently, you took another step towards the desk but stopped as a gun was suddenly aimed at your temple from your left. With a roll of your eyes you lifted your hands to the sides of your head. “You can search me for weapons if you want. But I’m not here to fight.”

“It’s okay,” Chrollo said, and the gun slowly lowered, silver flashing in the candle light as it was dropped back to the person’s side.

You chanced a quick glance at the person who had threatened you, only seeing that it was a woman with blonde hair. “Thank you,” you stated, as your gaze slipped back to her boss. Even you weren’t sure if you were saying it to her or to Chrollo, but it didn’t really matter.

The high stakes were already starting to make the familiar swirl of desire build inside of you. A line of lust already starting to run through the back of your mind. While it wouldn’t be noticeable on the outside, you still tried to push it to the back of your mind so you could focus.

With another two steps you were within the glowing pool of light the candle provided, the warm yellow lighting your face completely. Chrollo hadn’t looked away from your approaching shadow the entire time, so now that he had a clear view of you, he looked directly at your face, taking in the details. “I’m willing to do whatever necessary to get what I want,” you finally responded.

“Your help can make my plan a secured success, but even if you turned me down I would still find a way. I know the rumors and reputation your troupe has. If you want something, you take it. So I am sure you can understand the weight of my resolve.”

“I do,” Chrollo responded, his hand falling to the arm of the chair. He thought in silence for a moment before leaning forward and snuffing out the candle on the desk. The loss of the light made the room especially dark while your eyes adjusted. “Pakunoda, would you please?”

As the room came back into focus you clearly saw the tall blonde woman approach you from next to the only window in the sitting room. Her face was deadpan and unreadable as she came to your side and placed a hand on your shoulder. Instinctively you wanted to pull away, but the fact this was obviously a test kept you still. “Do you still work for the Association?” she asked.

You looked back to Chrollo, locking eyes with him. “No.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“You’re better off telling us yourself.”

The way she had phrased that made your arm muscles tense. Perhaps her nen power gave her the ability to detect lies? Could she dive into your mind and find the truths? Had she already? If she could she was doing you a kindness by letting you say the answer yourself. Potentially such a power could hurt.

You sighed. “Someone hurt me, he hurts a lot of people. I want to hurt him back.”

“Pariston Hill.”

Even though you had seen Pariston yourself almost twelve hours ago, someone saying his name with the level of certainty the way Pakunoda had made your stomach twist into an angry, sickening knot. “Yes. He is vice president of the association.”

“Do you want to kill him?”

“I don’t know yet.”

A pause. “You don’t.” The tone of her voice had a tint of shock in her realization.

It wasn’t a question, but you felt spurred on regardless. “I know pretty much everything up to that point.”

“You’ve been thinking about this very deeply for a while.”

“Almost every minute of my life for six months.”

“That’s enough, Pakunoda,” Chrollo said. “For now.”

Her hand squeezed your shoulder once before slipping away and you wondered if it had been a warning, sympathy, or something else.

“Satisfied?” you asked sensing Pakunoda returning to her previous position.

He smirked and stood up for the first time. “I’m sure you know already, I am never satisfied. That is why we do what we do. Once you have that which you were lusting after, you start looking for something else to become obsessed. The need is never satiated.”

You couldn’t help but to frown at his words. “I can’t say I am the same,” you said plainly, and Chrollo looked at you with apparent intrigue.

“To work together I’d like to know your abilities. I’m assuming you can use nen?”

“If I tell you would put me at a disadvantage, though yes. I can use nen.”

With a collected sense of ease, Chrollo rounded the desk and leaned on it, palms resting on the wood. Nothing about his body language made you feel the need to be tense, but everything about the situation and the knowledge of who you were dealing with did. And that level of intensity made that swirling lust tighten and grow. You fought to shift your weight so your thighs would push together more firmly and provide a bit of pressure on that growing sense of need. “I know the abilities of everyone I work with.”

“Do they know yours in return?”

“Yes.” If the constant badminton game of conversation was annoying Chrollo, he wasn’t showing it.

“Then, I will tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“You aren’t one of us.”

“No, I’m not. I have no guarantee that you won’t dump me dead by the side of the road in an hour. I have no promise that you will even help me, even if you say you will. But they do. They know exactly how they stand in relation to you. They know your rules, and they have earned your trust. There is no way I could ever have that level of rapport like they do. So, this is the least I can ask and the least you can give me to reassure me of any level of comradery.

Even if it is temporary.”

Chrollo looked to one side of the room. You couldn’t be sure if he was looking at Hisoka or someone else as you had kept your attention on him entirely. You could feel other people in the room, but they each had made an effort to blend in with the environment as best they could.

“Hisoka.” The ‘hmm’ in response let you know instantly that the person Chrollo had been looking at was indeed Hisoka. The tone was too iconic. “Do you know Adra’s ability?”

“Yes,” he responded with a tone of pleasure, and despite yourself you couldn’t help the tiniest of smiles. “I think you’ll find it…. Interesting.”

There was a suggestion in his tone that you didn’t quite follow, but now wasn’t the time to mull it over. “Leave us alone for a moment,” Chrollo ordered the room at large.

You assumed that he hadn’t meant you, so you remained planted in the same place as quiet footsteps filed out of the room around you. The absence of the faint feeling of other people in the room made the sitting room feel larger, and Chrollo somehow more threatening. “I hope this is a positive sign,” you half joked and Chrollo gave you an entertained smirk.

“It is. While I know all of my associate’s abilities, they do not all know each other’s. If they choose to tell one another, that is their business. Otherwise they only find out once they have a job together generally. I figured it was the least I could do to, how did you put it? Give you a sense of comradery.”

The pure realization of that action made you pause. Stupidly you hadn’t thought about that. If asked you wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to find out about your ability, every good hunter knew you kept that to yourself as long as you could. And even if you used the ability around others, it didn’t mean they always understood it. Verbally explaining an ability was much more detailed. “Thank you.”

“You first,” he instructed with a nod of his head.

This you hated, naturally. He could go back on his word to tell you his ability. But, you had come this far. Even if he turned on you, at least you could say you tried. “I can sense the desire of others through touch. The more intimate the touch, the deeper I can reach.”

“That is interesting. And?”

Your intuition was sparking, like little pops of low flowing electricity along your neck. He would know you were completely lying if you said that was all. Besides it wasn’t a very useful ability on its own. “I can make people feel my desires and wants.”

In an attempt to cut off any further questions you reached your right hand towards Chrollo. Why he stood and put his hand into yours, you weren’t sure. But you took advantage of it, turning his hand so that the palm was down so that you could grasp it and lovingly run your thumb over the top of his hand. Even this didn’t seem to bother him in the least.

More of a test, and a bit as a tease, you focused on how Chrollo was making you feel. The surface level desire of lust and interest. Mentally you thought about what it would feel like to push him onto the desk and straddle him. Through your ability you fed more of the desire that fueled such thoughts and Chrollo’s eyes widened as the feelings slipped into him.

You took a half step closer to him, running your hand up his arm to his shoulder. As the level of intimacy grew, you could focus on your desire for information and aide. Something that you didn’t want to express in words, or really at all, in fear of coming off desperate. But it was now or never to convince him.

The fire in your very soul burned so brightly when you thought about how much further your plan could advance with the help of the troupe. The perfect plan you had been thinking about endlessly in the dark for more hours than you had bothered to count.

A long, low sigh slid from your lips as you imagined a flow of these needs go from your hand into his creamy skin. Suddenly you snapped back into the moment and remembered yourself. Your goal. You had moved closer to Chrollo at some point in the exchange, only two feet of air kept you apart. “It’s a manipulator ability,” you muttered, as if he wouldn’t know that on his own. “Won’t you tell me your ability now, Chrollo?” you asked, with an underlying hint of a command.

On your power scale, it would only be a level one command, something he would never realize was a command and could ignore if he so chose, unless any part of him wanted to tell you. Then he would be prompted to tell you more easily than before. And potentially the feeling of your own desire to know would help to spur him on as well.

“I am a specialist. I take abilities,” he replied with a low, somewhat distracted tone.

Your hand snapped back and with a single step you were halfway across the room from the man. Retreating like a cat from a predator that was bigger and potentially too dangerous to face. A low rolling chuckle came from Chrollo as he slipped out of the slight mind fog of your projected desire. “That’s a smart reaction.”

If he had taken yours, you weren’t sure how you would know. As a test, you surrounded your index finger with nen, and felt a bit more assured as a faint glow shimmered. But it still wasn’t certain you had your ability. It was hard to know what to expect when you didn’t know how his own ability to take worked. “Don’t worry,” you looked up to Chrollo again as he spoke, “I didn’t take yours. Not yet anyway.”

Subconscious, you gripped your right hand with the left. “Not yet? That is rather threatening, don’t you think?”

The amused look hadn’t left his face as Chrollo relaxed against the desk once more. “It can always be returned.”

“Excuse me for not finding comfort in that.”

He chuckled again. “Even in the face of uncertainty,” he mused. “What is it you had in mind for my troupe?”

~*~*~

“What are you doing here!? Wow I haven’t seen you in…”

“A year,” you replied with a smile to the bubbly teal haired woman that was working the reception desk of the Hunters’ Association. You had barely remembered her name, but luckily a little name plate on the white counter proclaimed her Eix just in case you hadn’t remembered. “Yeah I had to take some time off to recover. I’m sure you heard about the whole ‘overworking’ thing. But I think I’m ready to have a job again. Something… lower though maybe.”

Eix nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! Did you bring in your resume with you?”

“Naturally,” you responded with a joyful laugh, sliding the thick paper item towards the woman. “I saw on the Hunter site there was an opening in the mail-room. That is pretty low down, a bit further than I had wanted, but if that is all there is I’d even take that.”

“Man, mail-room. I never had to do that job, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be that bad, right?” she replied looking over your resume. “Don’t worry I’ll make sure this gets to the right people. Maybe we’ll find somewhere more suitable than the mail-room.”

“Thanks, Eix. I appreciate it.” You were being so sincere that it almost physically hurt, but you weren’t sure how much more of the normalcy of the conversation you could keep up for much longer.

In some level of fortune Eix’s next words were cut off as someone else approached the desk to ask a legitimate question, and you took the opportunity to wave a goodbye and head for the glass doors out of the building. A sense of someone watching your every step curdling your stomach as you went.

The apartment had been easy. The coffee shop had been easy.

The association had been torment.

It was taking everything inside of you, every trained mental coping mechanism you had built up to enter the building and not fall apart. The memories of Pariston holding the door open for you. Talking with you all the way to his office. His hands sliding up your skirt in the elevator as you protested, fearful that someone would see. But he had never heeded your concerns and fears. Even when he called you to his office in the middle of the workday and you emerged half an hour later, praying no one noticed your knees were red.

As you pushed the final door to freedom open the sun on your skin made you realize just how cold you had been standing inside. The fresh outside air on your face felt like life itself and you truly never wanted to go back into that building again.

But you would have to.

It was part of the plan.

The commute back to your apartment was almost enjoyable, even though your stomach still felt like it might join you in your sunshine revival. Purposefully you hadn’t eaten, but even so it threatened you.

As your front door shut behind you, all you could dream of was tea. Some soothing jasmine to cure your ill and ground you once more, mentally secure the fact in your mind that you were safe. That you were in control.

But you hadn’t gotten further than taking your shoes off in the entryway before you were stopped again, seeing a figure in black staring at the freshly hung canvas in the living room. “I didn’t know you ever went out in the day time,” you commented to Chrollo, moving directly to the open kitchen to put the kettle on for tea.

Somehow you knew your audacity to make such statements amused Chrollo and he didn’t respond to the comment as he continued to stare at the painting. “Interesting piece. What is it called?”

“Snare. A local artist made it,” you answered honestly. “Do you like jasmine tea?”

“I do, in fact,” he replied, and you set out two cups next to the teapot. “I can see why you are drawn to it.” You licked your lips and turned the stove top on silently before putting leaves into the tea basket. “Pakunoda can see the truth to any question she asks. I’m sure you’ve surmised as much for yourself.”

“I did. So,” you started as you set the kettle on the burner before swiveling around and leaning on the kitchen island to look at Chrollo, who was still observing the painting, “am I to assume she told you all my dirty little secrets then?”

Finally, Chrollo stopped looking at the painting and turned to look back at you. You noticed his hair was down. Brushed, but left to naturally fall around his face. It did make him seem more ‘everyday’, and you could only assume that was why he had done it. An attempt to be less iconic as he moved about the city in the day time. Hunters were frequent in Swardani, and they all were the kind to be eye catching. Blending into the common man was useful in avoiding their gaze as well as avoiding being noticed by normal civilians. Even his attire was average.

“She told me what was necessary.”

You wanted to ask what that was. Had she seen Pariston tie you up in his bedroom for a week? Had she seen how he had driven you to almost literal insanity? Had she seen all the times before that when he had physically hurt you?

And what of all that had she told Chrollo?

“When I saw you two days ago you said you would consider my plan and let me know if you would be a part of it. I guess you’ve made your decision since you’re here then?”

He nodded, making his way to the kitchen island. “I believe we have enough to gain from helping you to make it worthwhile.” You couldn’t help your heart picking up its pace in complete joy. Something must have changed on the outside as well because Chrollo smiled. “My only condition,” your heart sank at the words, “Is that it will have to wait a month.”

“A whole month?” you asked as Chrollo came around the island into the kitchen and you straightened to face him. “Why?” Honestly it didn’t bother you, but the curiosity as to why Chrollo had picked that time frame specifically was almost palpable. Though you weren’t quite sure why.

“I have a previous engagement to attend to,” he stated, stopping in front of you.

Just to use the ‘inconvenience’ as a bargaining chip in the future, you pretended to think it over for a few seconds before nodding. “I can make that work.”

Chrollo extended his right hand to you and you stared at it. “Then it is a deal.” You didn’t move to take his hand, knowing that most likely however he took abilities, it required his right hand. Most specialist abilities did. “If we’re to work together, you’ll have to trust me at least a little.”

His smile in this every day look was charming. He was almost another person entirely. You could feel he was the same, but visually it was such a change that it made you want to trust him. You had very little choice if you wanted his help, charming looks or not. With a firm grasp you clasped your hand into his and he shook it once solidly. But his fingers remained curled against yours tightly after. “I want you to use your ability again,” he said, with amusement when you had looked at him in confusion.

For the first time you felt a bit intimidated. Before you had been cautious, knowing Chrollo and his associates could derail your plan- or kill you but, that hadn’t been as concerning. But as the Phantom Boss stared into your eyes, hand clasping your right, you experienced the first feelings of intimidation you had felt in a long time.

He didn’t know about your specialist ability- or at least if he did somehow know, he had heard about it from Pakunoda and not yourself, which would be more concerning- but perhaps the intimidation stemmed from that knowledge.

But you had already had a nerve-wracking day, and spite was welling up in your heart. “Surely you have enough desires to fill ten people. Why do you need mine?”

“I’m intrigued. Feeling someone else’s desire was… new. I’m sure you know already how strange it can be. We go our entire lives only knowing our own wants and minds. But you can peek inside a human’s dark place with a touch. We’re selfish creatures, and we tend to keep our desires in furthest depths of our hearts. I want to see that again.”

Somehow Chrollo just talking about desires that way had gotten you excited. Had you activated your ability on accident while he spoke? Was it just that twisted part of you that had grown from your trauma that found the entire concept of what Chrollo said unbearably sexy?

You swallowed and nodded. His fingers relaxed so that you could move your hand again. “Can I touch you however I wish?” you asked. He merely nodded, observing your calculating gaze.

Idly, you wished you had seen Hisoka the night before. Taking just a sip off of his crazy brazen desires always made you feel bold. Figuring that Chrollo would have to do, you instead took your hand from his and seductively slid it to his neck. His flesh felt cool compared to your warm palm, but it was a pleasant contrast.

By now you were accustomed to how quickly the sensations would slide along your arm and to your brain. The rush of desire felt like a dizzy spell that washed over you when you stood up too fast. So far you hadn’t stumbled from the effect, but every time you wondered what it would take to knock you down.

This time was no different. As you drank down some of Chrollo’s desire the feeling of dizziness pricked its way up your arm and into your head in the form of a creeping deep blue. His immediate desires came to you and they were all tinged with a lusty need. Lust for knowledge, lust for objects, lust for thrills, lust for so many things.

Lust for you.

You blinked in slight shock as you felt that desire wash over you and Chrollo tilted his head forward a little. “I don’t feel anything.”

Had you planted that lust there two days ago when you had shared with him your desires? Or were these his own wants? It was impossible to tell. “Put your hands on me first,” you instructed.

Amused once more he placed both hands on your waist as you slid your free hand to his chest. A small wave of excitement rushed from your toes up as your eyes closed so you could focus.

Imagining it like images passing from your mind, through your hand, to his mind you thought about the burning inside of you to hurt. The pain you wanted to cause the one that had hurt you. Even just thinking about it made you excited. Your breath quickened, and a feeling of throbbing lust twisted to life between your legs.

Not controlling the thought process, you were back to your desire to take Chrollo in your excitement. Pushing your kitchen island free of clutter and feeling his hands on your body. His hand cupping your ass and pulling your hips into his. The feeling of his erection against your pelvis as his mouth covered yours in a hungry need.

His hand dug into your hair, pulling it so hard that the pain made your eyes immediately open to realize that your day dream of desires was mostly reality. His hand was actually gripping your ass and pulling you into his body, his mouth moving against yours in a way that left you pressing against him in delight.

“Chrollo, I want you to fuck me,” you muttered, hands going to his pants and undoing the buttons.

His eyes slid open and you could tell he was already under the influence of your ability, though you had issued no command directly. Was sharing your desire enough to cloud his mind and open him to your orders more easily? The slight dazed look in his eyes said it was. “Take my panties off,” you commanded and reluctantly his hand released your hair and ass.

Both hands slid down the sides of the skirt you had worn to give a professional appearance just hours ago. “On your knees,” you commanded when he came into contact with your skin. Obediently he dropped to his knees immediately. “Now take them off.”

Long, dexterous fingers slid up to your hip, gripping the band of your panties and dragging them off. You were too hot, too ready, it felt agonizingly slow. You lifted your feet so that the underwear could be freed and moved to the side. As your feet touched back down Chrollo slid a hand up the outside of your leg and you shook under his touch. “I can still feel your desire in my body,” he mumbled.

“Yeah? What does it feel like?” you asked as he coaxed your legs to spread by pushing against your inner thighs with both hands.

He was quiet, watching his fingers slide against your labia and slowly they grew wet from that tame level of contact. “It feels like I’m not awake or asleep. Some half dream,” he finally responded. Admittedly he sounded half asleep, his voice was low and distracted.

“Does the feeling of touching me seem like a dream?”

“No. This feels real.” As if to emphasize the point he pushed his fingers up to touch your wet clit and you bit your lower lip. “Perhaps as my… supplier you are my anchor,” he said, standing to his feet with the energy of someone who was drunk and had an idea they very much wanted to try, but with less swaying. “My anchor to reality in the dream.”

Your hips rocked against Chrollo’s steady hand. Already you were sure you could climax like this, but it wasn’t enough. You could feel your body beg for him to be inside of you. Focusing up you brought your hand against his face, brushing his hair from his eyes as your palm rested on his cheek. “Chrollo, tell me what my desires are making you want.”

He looked almost frustrated- brows furrowed, and eyes narrowed. “I want to please you,” he finally said, moving so close that he felt like he was looming over you, one hand still cupping you and moving his fingers in some pattern you had yet to figure out but was causing your breath to quicken.

Your left hand gripped the counter behind you as you leaned backwards into it. Chrollo’s words were rolling around in your head, “I want to please you.” The memory of Hisoka’s low and seductive voice asking, “Did I please you?” The fingers of your left hand were so tense, gripping the granite countertop so hard that they were starting to ache. ‘Yes, I want you to yearn to please me,’ a voice said in the back of your mind. ‘I want your body to ache for my touch so badly you beg me.’

The kettle behind on the stove screamed and you felt your mind snap awake, like you had been dreaming with Chrollo before and now you were back in reality.

But it didn’t feel like reality. Your senses felt sharp, each press of Chrollo’s body to your own was distinctive and different, the smell of his skin was sharp enough that you could pick him out from any other human in this moment. His eyes were still dreamily looking into your face, open and ready for commands.

“Stop,” you told him without using your power. Your voice had been strong, but not reprimanding, and his hand immediately went still. With a gentle guiding push, you moved his wrist away from your body before moving around him to turn the stove off, taking the kettle away from the heat of the stove.

You didn’t have to look at Chrollo to know he was watching you, curious where things were going to go next- possibly suffering as he waded lost in his and your desires that swam through his head. But you left him to suffer as you poured the hot water into the two waiting cups and the teapot.

“If you please me, I’ll make sure to return the favor,” you said while picking up the two cups of pure hot water. Chrollo lifted his head up just a fraction, and you could see it was a sign of interest. You shot him a look over your shoulder as you walked past him towards the living room, trying to urge him with a look to follow you.

With a soft clank you sat the teacups down on the side table before sliding the coffee table to the side of the room. It was obvious by the way he watched you that Chrollo had no idea what you were up to, and that was fine by you as you beckoned him with one index finger to come closer.

You ran both hands over his chest, over his shoulders, then clasped them behind his neck. As you sidled your body up to his, he instinctively put his hands on your hips. Your heart felt steady in your chest, though you couldn’t be sure how it was maintaining its steady pace, and every one of your nerves still felt sharp. This had happened with Hisoka too. Was this what you had heard some hunters call ‘hunter space’? Where everything seemed so clear, each move of your prey was as easy to determine as your own breath?

Chrollo kissed you, pulling your body into his like a gentle lover. You brushed your fingers on the nape of his neck, each of the desires he had been feeling were just as strong. The temporary break from your touch hadn’t yet diminished anything.

Good.

Rubbing the base of his skull with your fingers, you encouraged those feelings. Your desire and want for him to please you. How you wanted him so badly to do what you wanted.

“Adra,” he mumbled when you pulled away.

“Yes, Chrollo?” you asked with an air of superiority, like one would respond to a sweet child.

You busied yourself pulling his shirt up and over his head, making him break contact so you could complete your task. “What have you done to me?” he asked when he could see your face again. He put his right hand to your face and your heart squeezed in fear again.

“Exactly what you asked,” you responded. “Chrollo, you won’t take my power, right?” As you asked you ran your hands down his back, staring into his dark eyes before turning your face to kiss his palm sweetly.

It had been a command in disguise of a question, and he responded, “I am not sure I would want it.”

You laughed. “Finally something you don’t want, hm?” A small, lazy smile came to his lips. It really was as if Chrollo was still dreaming or perhaps intoxicated. “Do you still want me?” To emphasize the question, you pressed your pelvis into him again.

A heavy breath answered, and you smiled. Earlier you had gotten the button on his pants open, but they had remained on his hips until this point. Easily you zipped the front open and knelt while you pulled his remaining clothing off. It was tempting to lick his dick, just to get his reactions, but you had another game in mind so instead you pressed your palm to the underside of it and rubbed against the sensitive extremity on your way to standing up once more. His hands gripped your shoulders as if he needed steadying. But perhaps it was just how he was still anchoring himself in his ‘dream’.

“Lay on the floor,” you told him, giving him a reaffirming squeeze before letting him go. He managed a curious look at you before he did as he was told, while you retrieved the two teacups. They were much more tolerable to touch on the outside now, but the water was still uncomfortably hot.

With a foot you pushed Chrollo’s right hand out to the side, then standing over him- one leg on each side of his body- you carefully kicked his left to match. “Perfect,” you praised with a ghastly lewd grin. Chrollo looked from one hand to the other and by the time he looked at you, you were on your knees. You kept your body high enough so that while your thighs touched his sides, your slick pussy didn’t brush against him at all.

You were still dressed, other than the panties he had already removed, so as you leaned over him to gently place the warm tea cups in each of his palms, he got a nice shot down your blouse to your breasts. “Here is my game,” you announced, keeping your body low over his as you looked down into his face. “I’m going to ride you, and you must keep the teacups exactly as they are right now. If they spill, I’ll stop. And if that isn’t punishment enough… well I can always think of something extra. But if you can keep them on your hands without spilling any of the water, I’ll ride you until you come. Does that sound fun?” Teasingly you slid a finger down his chest, swirling it right over his heart as you waited for his response.

“I’m interested,” he confessed, lifting his fingers on each hand up then back down in sequence as if testing the cup’s balance. “This shouldn’t be very hard.”

“Hm,” you replied as you sat up once more and took his dick into hand. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Your skirt had slid up to accommodate the spread of your legs, but it still hugged you in such a way that your pussy was just peeking out from below the fabric, and Chrollo could barely see what you did if he strained his neck. Slowly you rubbed his dick along yourself, using your hand on the top side to keep him steady. Naturally you were using your right hand to hold his dick still, just in case you felt inclined to add a few desires or commands for extra fun. Your left hand was on his lower stomach, helping to steady you as you rocked your hips.

His eyes slid closed, and you wondered if the only thing that felt real to him was your body rubbing against him. He couldn’t grip anything to stabilize now. His hands pinned by the weight of the warm liquid would help to aid in his feeling of listlessness. He was powerless to help himself regain control or a sense of security as he drifted through the sea of desire he was still lost in.

As a test, you lifted your hips and positioned him at your opening before tilting your body and sliding him against the outside of your body once more and his right hand flexed around the tea cup making the liquid wobbled inside of it, but none escaped to the sides. “Careful,” you warned raising your hips once more, “You got close that time.”

A very apparent frown let you know he was not amused by your double meaning and with a low chuckle you at last slid him inside of you.

The feeling of being filled as you moved your hips down made your fingers dig into his stomach. Intentionally you let out a groan of enjoyment as you lifted up and down a few times, not falling all the way into his pelvis just yet. Chrollo wasn’t watching, whatever he was feeling in his daze was too distracting for him as he kept his eyes closed while you moved. Only his fingers gripping the teacups tightly in both hands let you know he was feeling each movement.

“Come on now, Chrollo. Won’t you make some noise for me?” you half commanded, half requested as you leaned down and ran your right hand over his throat.

His eyes slid open to watch your expression as you moved your hips down completely with a decisive bounce. A noise that you decided sounded something like a ‘gah’ finally escaped against his will and you felt pleased. “That pleases me,” you praised, pressing your thumb to his throat and running it down. “And you said you wanted to please me, right?”

Quickly now, you bounced your hips up and down earning groan from Chrollo as his eyes closed again. A warm building sensation grew with every noise he made, no matter how small or slight it was. You sat up again and moved your hips against him, coming down fully with each grind of your body. Every time you felt a rush fill you, again and again.

Before long your own moans of pleasure added to Chrollo’s. His grip on the teacups never lessened, but as you came down particularly hard one started to tilt towards the ground.

“Careful now. You’re about to spill,” you said in a husky voice. Sincerely you hoped he didn’t spill now, you were so close.

The hand corrected itself immediately and you mumbled a word of praise as you kept your pace. Chrollo was close too you were sure, as he started to lift his hips just a few inches to meet your thrusts and you could feel that tiny movement help him hit a spot that almost made your legs buckle under you the third time he hit it.

You groaned his name as you watched his face while you came, pressing into him and holding it for a moment while the feeling of pleasure exploded inside of you. Each nerve felt like it released some tense feeling that had been coiling up tight. The surge of dopamine in your mind was a special high and you relished it.

But as you held still and enjoyed your orgasm, Chrollo tried to move against you as best he could, begging you with his body to keep going. “I didn’t forget you,” you said sweetly, taking a fresh breath. “You’ve performed my game this long, you will get your prize.”

Using both arms to support you on either side of his body you situated yourself in a way that would allow you to move quickly and clamp your inner wall as much as you could while you came down. You had been so distracted with your own pleasure that his watching you had escaped your notice. It wasn’t clear when he had started to watch your every move, but now as you moved him inside of you again and enjoyed the feeling of orgasm being dragged out by your movement you were painfully aware.

The warm water shook in the cups as Chrollo fought to control his hands while you moved. You were sure the thought of dumping the cups and grabbing you was strong, but the knowledge you would stop was too close to the front of his mind. But as he lifted his hips again you could feel his release inside. You let out a low sigh as you waited out his orgasm, feeling the muscles in your legs twitch with the pain of stress which caused them to tremble.

As you leaned to take the cups from his hands, you lifted yourself off of Chrollo’s dick, and the air against you made you shiver.

Chrollo sat up once freed, which startled you as you held the two cups carefully, so the well-preserved water wouldn’t spill. His eyes were bright, aware, focused. Had the completion of his desire freed him? Was it the fresh hit of dopamine? You weren’t sure. But as your bare ass rested against his lap you did your best not to feel exposed since he had returned to his competent self.

“Was it what you expected?” you asked, unsure of what else to say.

“No. It was… nothing like what I expected,” he confessed. His eyes were no longer clouded, but he was staring right at your chest while he thought, though it didn’t seem like it was intentional. Your chest just happened to be in his thinking space. “I think you lied to me.”

You gripped the cups tightly. Had he figured out that you could issue commands? He shouldn’t have been aware of that as everything you had done fell within a level one power level. You never had even breached a level two surge of power. “Lied to you about what?”

The dark of his eyes looked so directly into yours that it made you feel pinned down. “If what I felt of your desires are to be believed, I do not think that you can be satisfied. In this, or in your revenge.”

#long post #star fic #she wants revenge series #hisoka morow//#chrollo lucilfer//#hunter x hunter//#Dark Fic

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cuthie · 4 years

Text

Omru: Fabled City of Gold?

A mild cyclone of sand and wind ran across the entrance of a small rocky burrow, masking the sounds of a dozen people chatting, bartering and playing games within. A trio of black furred vulpera were making the most noise, a middle aged woman squeezing a young man hard enough to make his eyes bulge. This, naturally, was followed by ten to fifteen squishy mushy loud wet kisses, “Mwua mwua mwuah!”

Omru gasped for air, “Leggo, leggo!”

Finally, his mother released him from their embrace, “It’s been too long, Omru. I’m just glad you came to see us before going off on this grand adventure to Django or wherever.”

“It’s Durotar. Lush tropical paradise home of the Orcs.”

A snarky teenage girl’s voice cut in, “More like Uratard. Cause you’d have to be some kind of stupid to follow those brutes home. They probably spend all day smashing their heads with rocks- Actually Om, you’ll fit right in.

Om rolled his eyes at his younger sister. This had been his reception for the last hour or so. They’d chat, catch up on things, say hi to nosy vulpera who continuously interrupted their reunion, then his mother would grab him and start kissing and hugging. To be fair, he hadn’t seen her in a few years. In fact, he hadn’t recognized his sister initially. It was almost like looking into a gender bending mirror. Before he always had a height advantage, but now she had finally caught up to him. “Yeeeah. Of course I had to come visit. Oh, where did you say Pops was again?”

Om’s sister, Elni, pitched in again, “Oh, he went out to get some candles for my birthday cake mom made.”

Om winced, “Oh. Uh, happy birthday El!”

Elni’s face dropped, “Are you serious? That was seven months ago.”

Mom placed a hand on either side of Om’s face, squishing it, “I’m so glad you came. I was worried that those awful Faithless might have got you. You know there’s a curse on this family, so I never know when we’ll see one another again.”

“A curse on the -men- in this family.” El stuck her tongue out before giving a cheeky grin. “Us women don’t get lost when we get up from bed to pee. Only the boys.”

Om scratched at the back of his head. He had every intention of reaching Dazar’alor when he had last left Keni and the ‘babes’. Yet somehow he had found himself here, surrounded by family and friends. Heh, there definitely was a family curse; it was the only thing that made sense. It all went back to his no good, dirty, rotten pig stealing great great grandfather. And if his mother found out that the Faithless actually -had- captured him, he’d never hear the end of it. “Yeah, well, curse or no curse, I’ve got a life debt to a goblin that I need to repay.”

“A life debt?” Mom raised a single brow.

“Yeah, I uh, I got trapped in a chasm. And, uh, you know, if it wasn’t for him, I would have died of dehydration.”

El leaned in closer, her eyes squinting with suspicion, “Are you suure that’s what happened?”

“Yes, I’m sure!”

El pulled her left eyelid down, sticking out her tongue as Omru made the same expression right back at her, “Nyah!” Their mother wasn’t even annoyed by the childishness. It was an expression of fondness for one another, so far as she was concerned. As the pair continued poking at one another, she took the opportunity to host a rare family dinner. It really was a shame their father was out there in the dunes, lost, but it really had been a recurring theme for several generations now.

Om and El had long quit squabbling by the time food was roasting over the fire pit. The scent of the buzzard meat had the whole cavernous hideaway bringing out their plates and utensils. People would offer their seasonings, wines, desserts, you name it. That was one beautiful aspect of caravan life. People always seemed to come together at the end of the day. One didn’t just have a mother and father. They had a host of ‘aunts’, ‘uncles’ and ‘cousins’, a whole network of friends and family who bonded over the trials and tribulations of the sands.

For Omru, it was the last such caravan night he would experience in Vol’dun.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

Omru pressed his back against the cold stone wall, shivers coursing down his spine. His breath rose in a fog before him as he tried to quiet his breathing, his large ears twitching, listening. For a moment there was nothing, only silence. Then came the jagged clattering steps of the skeletal troll, searching for the little fox that had dared defile the resting place of kings and queens with his presence.

Not that Omru had disturbed the tombs intentionally. At long last he had made it out of the desert, had climbed literal mountains of vivid green moss and vines, and made it to a Zandalari city of gold. It was beautiful, but it was also kind of a shithole. A city made of pure gold, with the bodies of trolls, dinosaurs and oozing puddles of shadow, decay and vomit. Exploded spiders clung to steps with their still attached legs twitching, and as Om descended golden step after step, not a single sign of life stirred.

That should have been a wake up call, but how many golden cities could there be in the jungle, right? And so the vulpera had explored, poked and prodded. Some of these corpses weren’t native to Zandalar. Large horned bipedal beast men with hooves, slack jawed soldiers that had been dead for ten years at least, and the odd orc or goblin were scattered throughout the streets. Eventually Om found himself deeper and deeper within the city, the temperatures dropping despite lit fires in each room. Cobwebs hung from ceilings and spilled ink blacker than any darkness Omru had ever seen threatened to swallow the entire floor.

The pacing of the long dead Zandalari echoed through the corridors like the slow rattled ticking of an old clock. Somewhere behind the rotted creature, Omru’s pack lay on the floor ripe for the taking. It mattered only slightly less than his own life did, but what meaning would his life hold if all his stuff was gone, left behind for any passing grave robber to collect?

A shimmer caught his attention, light dancing atop something long, flat and sharpened, risen and resting atop a stone pedestal. A steel sword with emerald baked into its center. Two feet long, a peculiar shape curving in four different slices, two on the top, two on the bottom. The blade seemed to emit a purple aura around it’s sharpened edges, and like any good Trader slash Explorer, Omru knew exactly what that meant. Magic. Enchanted or cursed? Did it really matter? Would it really make sense to store a cursed sword in a tomb of emperors though?

The clunky clinking steps seemed to grow louder and louder, perhaps only a few feet away from Omru as he debated. He knew that his stealth magic was no good here. This thing had spotted him an hour ago and he had barely gotten away with his life. What had happened to this city that had risen the dead to unlife? What were those shadowy pools, what was that dark ink? Om shook the questions from his mind as the towering skeleton stepped in front of him, dwarfing him three times over.

A rusted blade clanged, biting into stone as Omru disappeared from his hiding spot. Somewhere in a realm between worlds, voices called out, shrieking in eternal torment. Those voices were muted and forgotten in the nano seconds between the fox’s disappearing reappearing trick. In a little poof, Omru was behind the skeleton, kicking at the back of it’s kneecap with a furry foot. The skeleton did not even buckle.

“Shit!”

A trio of small throwing knives were sent into the rib cage of Omru’s enemy. Literally, slipping right through the bones, bouncing within the sloshing interior of bones and guts. Wait, guts? No, this thing was too dead to have any guts. Why would- Omru barely ducked out of the way of another sword slash. No time for thinking here, only doing.

Running as fast as his paws would take him, Omru ran to the shining enchanted-or-cursed sword, gripping it by the hilt with two hands and pulling it free.

‘You wield de dagger of Isgi, daughter of de Assassin Queen o’Zandalar. Continue my work an slice de troats of de unworthy.’

Omru’s eyes widened. Continue the work of, wait, dagger? This thing was almost as big as him, how was it a dagger? Still, it was light enough to be held in a single hand comfortably. As the skeletal troll rushed forward, Omru squinted his eyes at his enemy and concentrated. His legs bent at the knee, then shot him up forward with the slight aid of supernatural force. The skeleton attempted to parry, only for Omru to disappear, reappearing behind the creature, airborne.

In a series of attacks, Om would strike the skeleton with his new glowing weapon, then disappear, four, five, six times in a row. Each attack hit harder than the last, emphasized by vulgarity, “Fuck.”

“You,”

“You”

“Piece”

“Of”

“Shit!”

The last strike sent the skeleton sprawling onto the ground, falling apart. Literally, with no muscles, ligaments or fibers connecting anything, all the bones just kind of clattered to the ground, the skull landing upside down with broken tusks digging into the dusty stone floor.

Omru rotated his right shoulder backwards, making a popping sound, as he caught his breath. For good measure he kicked at the skull with his foot, half expecting it to levitate or explode or something. Nope, nothing. Bright orange eyes fixated on his new enchanted weapon. There was something here, alright. He didn’t know what, but he could feel it in his gut. He hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary during the fight. He was, after all, an experienced scavenger of Vol’dun. Staying alive was an art form there, and he had picked up a dozen tricks. Perhaps the magic was just in how light the blade seemed to be. Sometimes magick was just that obvious and simple. Purple glowing aura? Makes the blade a quarter of its original weight. Boom, easy. To be certain, he would have to call on an expert. Before he could do that, he had to grab his stuff and find the -REAL- city of Dazar’alor.

#wra rp #wra #Wyrmrest roleplay #Warcraft Roleplay #vulpera

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hookaroo · 5 years

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Vocivore, Ltd. (34 of 41?)

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, @courtorderedcake, @facesiousbutton82 <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL, HEARTBREAKING, and BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE and HERE!!!!!!!!!*************

***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!!!!!!!**********

***LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************

**POOR STABBED KILLIAN falling into the sheriff station! Ch. 7 & 23 art!!**

****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!! CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********

*NEW CHAPTER 34 ART THAT SETS THE PERFECT TONE FOR THIS UPDATE!!! A DEFEATED KILLIAN, HEAD BOWED BEFORE HIS MASTER!!*

***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

Present (Friday, continued…)

“This is crazy.”

Jones heaved the steering wheel into a sharp right turn as he answered. “Emma, I didn't mean to make you feel as if you have to do this. I know you have Hope to think about.”

Emma gave him a look. “You're going to do it either way, aren't you?”

“You’d have to come up with something pretty damn convincing to talk me out of it.”

“What about this: the cat’s out of the bag now, so there's no reason to keep things a secret anymore. We could get more people involved and go in as a group.”

“We could,” he agreed. “But then we would be right back where we were a month ago. A bloodbath. The Master is likely distracted enough for the two of us to sneak in, but anything larger would pull his attention away and he would certainly direct his focus on controlling the battle.”

The car screeched to a halt in front of the sheriff station and Jones killed the engine, but he turned to face her. “We have a unique opportunity here, Emma, and I feel we'd be remiss if we didn't take it. The slaves are accustomed to seeing this face around. I don't think they'll stop me. I can get in close and blow the Master’s bloody head off, and then everyone can come home. But it's entirely up to you whether you want to accompany me or not.”

With a resigned sigh, Emma opened the car door and clambered out.

“You're not protected from his mind control,” she pointed out, but didn't wait for him before marching up to the office door.

“I won't be in his presence for very long,” he replied as he followed her inside. “However, that is a tick in the ‘pros’ column for having a partner who's immune.”

“What if the slaves frisk us for weapons?”

“Well, then we may just have to improvise. But really, how likely do you think that is? These people are firmly convinced of their peers’ total devotion to their Master. Do you think it would even cross their minds that one of their own would smuggle in illicit weapons?”

They had reached Emma's office. Tossing her bag on a desk, she headed straight for a box in the corner. When she lifted the lid, Jones could see a pile of ragged burlap shoved inside; presumably, they were the garments removed from hospitalized slaves to be stored as evidence. She pulled out a smock, shook it, and tossed it at him, saying,

“Get changed, slave. I'm going to see what I can do about a collar and wrist ring for you.”

Jones stripped down to his boxers as quickly as he could, even removing the attachment for his prosthetic hand. After he slipped the sackcloth over his head, he tucked stun gun and pistol into the waistband of his undergarment, praying that the shapes weren't too noticeable underneath his overly large slave costume. Emma returned shortly with an unlocked collar and a coat hanger in hand. Without a word, she opened the collar and approached, lifting it toward his neck as she avoided meeting his eyes. Jones held himself still, and as she snapped it closed and fastened the padlock, he found himself breathing faster with instinctive panic at the unpleasant sensation. Emma stepped back and surveyed him critically.

“You could maybe have passed for the Killian of three weeks ago. I’m not so sure about now.”

“Not much to be done about that on short notice,” replied Jones, struggling to resist the urge to tug on the metal encircling his neck. “The collar’s camera has been disabled, I take it?”

Emma nodded absently, still caught up on how healthy he looked compared to Killian, despite the gruesome facial wound.

“Maybe some makeup will up the gaunt factor.” She began twisting the flexible hanger into an arc resembling the ring attached to Killian's wrist.

“It's quite a bit thicker than this,” she admitted, “but maybe they won't look too closely at it.”

After snipping the shaped end to an appropriate length, she begin to unroll an Ace bandage. Jones moved closer, extending his arm to allow her to wrap the ring in place.

“It's not a bad likeness,” he remarked as the replica took shape. “Who would have guessed the skills honed by creating such impressive Halloween costumes for Hope would be called into service like this?”

Emma tightened the last knot. Jones now sported his very own wrist ring, wrapped in a bandage as it had been when Killian had left the hospital… minus the impaling stake attachment point, of course. The very idea made him shudder with revulsion. As idiotic and reckless as Killian and Emma’s plan had been, as much pain as it had brought those closest to them, with as much loss of integrity as they would face once the truth got out, they had both certainly paid enough of a price for it.

Emma had already moved on. She opened the zipper of a pouch she had brought from home, having shoved what sounded like the entire contents of her vanity inside. Reversing the process now, she dumped tubes and bottles all over her desk in an attempt to peruse the options quickly.

"Turns out I've had less practice at the more macabre Halloween costumes," she muttered but grabbed a small container of something dark. "Close your eyes."

Jones remained patiently still while she brushed, daubed, and smeared onto his face whatever colors she thought would lend to the deception. Working with extra caution around his bruises, she finally murmured,

"We're gonna need to be in control of our thoughts and emotions. Even... occupied... we have to assume the Master would notice two hopeful people coming into his presence. Think you can pull off a convincing despair?”

“No worries on that account,” Jones replied quietly. “I have lifetimes of experience to draw off of.”

“Yeah,” was Emma's response. Jones was relieved when she steered clear of the gash under his eye. “I guess you do.”

She paused, thinking and studying her handiwork. Deciding to add more shading to the hollows of his cheeks, she added,

“A little bit of fear is probably okay, which is good, because I don't think I could…”

Emma froze and didn't finish the thought, and Jones could sense her alarm before she even drew a sharp breath. His eyes snapped open to see her staring into the distance, obviously listening intently to her hidden earpiece. Tears balanced on her lower lids and she seemed to be holding her breath.

“Emma? What's wrong? Is it... Is he…?”

Emma, a statue of apprehensive horror, did not answer for the longest time. Jones balled his hand into a fist. Waiting. Steeling himself for the worst.

All the air left Emma's lungs in a long, shuddering breath. Half-strangled sobs became quiet sniffles, she shook her head, wiped tears on her sleeve.

“He's still there,” said her lips. Still screaming, said her eyes. And Jones snatched his keys from the desktop.

“Let's go.”

*****

The thud of flesh and bone striking solid wood reverberated through the sanctuary, followed shortly by a weak cry of pain. The echoes faded as uneasy pigeon comments drifted down from above.

Killian could not draw a full breath. The blade between his ribs felt like a continual stream of molten lava, filling his chest cavity and scalding his lungs with each feeble twitch of his diaphragm. He was dimly aware of the dagger he still clutched in his trembling hand, and when his Master moved closer, he attempted to ward the monster off, but his damaged shoulder would not allow significant movement of his arm. The wide, crooked-toothed mouth formed into a derisive sneer. Looming, Killian’s Master blinked down at its treacherous slave lying helplessly where he had been flung, bent and bleeding against the broken altar.

Scornful eyes turned upon the useless dagger, and Killian could do nothing to prevent clawed fingers from tearing it out of his grasp. His wrist, still encircled by the half-tentacle, fell slack over his abdomen.

“In case you’re tempted to move…” growled his Master in haughty explanation. It yanked its tentacle heavenward, roughly hauling Killian’s arm up with it. His displaced shoulder ground against the wrong part of the socket, further aggravating overstretched tendons and ligaments, but Killian’s shout of pain was cut short by a lack of air. He lurched sideways in a desperate attempt to reduce the movement of the injured joint; his Master only pulled harder.

“I’ve been missing out,” hissed the Vocivore over Killian’s feeble vocalizations. “All this time, I have enjoyed your service, gleaning exceptional pleasure from our Sessions, thinking your emotions genuine. How could they not be, as nuanced, complex, and delicious as they were?”

It shoved Killian’s wrist and hand against the front side of the altar, just above a break in the gold filigree that revealed solid wood beneath. His restrained wrist was directly in line with and not far from his right ear.

“But now,” continued Killian’s Master as it pried open his curled fingers, one by one, “I taste your true despair. And it is exquisite.”

A bout of violent tremors seized Killian then, jolting his injured shoulder and the dagger embedded in his chest. His Master sneered as he gulped small, unsatisfying breaths.

“It would be a pity for your condition to finish you off before I get a chance to enjoy you one last time. But I suppose that is up to the fates to decide.” It examined the weapon in its hand, rocking it back and forth between two of its seven fingers. Then it tightened its grip on the handle and turned the point toward the front face of the altar. Occupied by his misery and the struggle to breathe, Killian had no attention to spare.

He heard it before he felt it. The thud of the dagger burying itself deep into the wood of the altar. Then the searing agony of the blade plunging into his palm, through his hand, and out the back. Pinning him brutally in place against the symbol of sacrifice.

Killian’s screams were short and muffled and quickly became erratic groans between panicked gasps for air. Instinct drove him to reach for the injury with his handless arm, only to be stopped by a warning surge of anguish in his chest. Gleefully watching the writhing, his Master uncurled its tentacle and scuttled back to admire the view.

PERFECT.

All support for the limb now removed, the entire dead weight of Killian’s arm hung from the impaled hand. He shivered uncontrollably, each tremor only heightening his unbearable pain. A buzzing, prickly numbness already flooded his fingertips as compressed nerves and a weakened circulatory system took their toll. In stark contrast, the blade burned within his flesh, cutting a minutely wider path with every wiggle. Should it not become lodged against one of the delicate metacarpal bones nearby, Killian could imagine it continuing to slice through muscle, tendon, blood vessel, and skin until it finally exited between two fingers and freed his arm. But in all likelihood, he would be long dead by then.

And that was the bottom line. Ordinarily, he would be fixated on the damage to his only hand, terrified that it could not be repaired, leaving him permanently helpless. But that didn’t matter now. Not on his death day.

Killian’s Master listened to his moans become soft whimpers, then fade to labored breaths. It lifted his lolling head and was rewarded by a renewed flash of pain visible on the tear-streaked face. It cupped his chin through another round of involuntary spasms. Then it let go.

“You will remain here while I get cleaned up.”

It couldn’t have been expecting a response. The fraud uncovered, there was no motivation for an obedient Yes, Master. And none was forthcoming. Instead, Killian shuddered and wheezed,

“Z… is dead…”

He didn’t know what compelled him to make that statement. Maybe some part of him wanted Emma to know, although there wasn’t a lot she could do with the information. The Vocivore simply smirked.

“Your concern for my well-being is noted. However, I am not limited to crude human methods of healing.” It lifted the stump of its severed tentacle, which had stopped bleeding and appeared to be causing its owner no great discomfort. “With some luck, my Tripod, you will provide the screams I need to complete the process.”

Killian closed his eyes, beyond caring. Of course this beast possessed accelerated healing abilities. Just one more reason it could never be defeated. For an instant, he felt a pang of regret. If only they would have vetoed this doomed mission from the start. They might still be in the same predicament, but Killian could be spending his final moments among loved ones. Not alone, skewered to a broken altar inside a crumbling church while he slowly suffocated, bled to death, or succumbed to whatever other malady might eventually claim him.

The monster clicked its dignified way down the center aisle toward the front entrance. Two guard slaves heaved the crooked door open for their Master. And Killian gave in to tears of pain and despair.

#ouat fanfiction #killian jones #emma swan #wish realm killian #whump #stabbed #impaled #despair #going undercover #Vocivore ltd

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