#like running away in a meadow until your feet are blistered and never looking back

[raekleindogpaintings]

Sometimes when I feel so consumed by anger, or sadness, or numbness and I just need to start ranting for hours about politics or the obliviousness of my nation to their extreme racism/ableism/general bigotry or about my trauma or about somebody else's trauma and I’m just too tired and can't find my words I listen to no children and it makes everything bearable

#it's so cathartic #it's unapologetically hateful and that's really validating y'know #like sometimes I just can't gather my fancy words and talk about how misogyny has affected me since I was a lil baby #or about all the animal cruelty I’ve witnessed and all the animals I saw with my own two eyes get killed #or about how every time I open my mouth to criticize something racist in some Egyptian comedy I get the weird disgusted looks and the ‘’stop #-being a twitter snowflake’’ talk #and about how the teachers in my elementary school mistreated us #and how worse they've mistreated the disabled students #I remember once when I was in first or second grade one of our fucked up teachers said: #do you want to get beaten up like donkeys? donkeys who never care and beg for more beatings? do you want us to treat you like the cripples- #-​down there? and he pointed to the ‘’special school for differently abled children’’ #the children were all cannibalizing each other and getting cannibalized and nobody cared #they encouraged it. even #and about how normalized child abuse is here #and about how I can never walk down the street without clutching my keys and glancing around #and I just need to cry ‘’I hate you. I fucking hate’’ at so many many people #it takes all of my hate and anger and turns them to something so beautiful #it's beautiful #the melody is not angry as the words are. it's cold and full of light like a winter morning #like running away in a meadow until your feet are blistered and never looking back #it's like they're saying ‘‘your anger can be this beautiful’’ #music loveposting #vent #very reliable posts #child abuse tw #ableism tw #animal cruelty

[giorno-plays-piano]

Rotten

Pairing: Steve Rogers x princess!Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, captivity, forced marriage, brief mention of child abuse, allusion to death of minor characters.

Words: 3950.

Summary: "The princess will marry the very first beggar who comes to the castle gates," the King said.

P.S. This was inspired by König Drosselbart fairytale.

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Staring at the enormously huge black gates separating the castle from the outer world, you pulled the grey cloth over your head, covering your beautiful shiny hair. Before this morning you wore a tiara of your mother, and your dresses were made from brocade, silk and cashmere, not this rough wool that itched so badly and irritated your gentle skin. But now the only posession you were allowed to keep was that little cameo of your mother laying in the pocket of your simple grey dress.

The princess is obstinate, capricious, the King said. She thinks too high of herself. She rejects and ridicules all honourable men coming to ask for her hand in marriage. She is rotten to the core. She doesn't deserve to be the crown princess of the kingdom.

Locked away, abandoned by your teachers, refused to be engaged to any decent prince or lord, you were kept confined to your chamber for several years. Occasionally, you were allowed to visit the celebrations and balls held in the castle only to be laughed at your lack of manners and education by the children of the King and their entourage. You considered them your friends once, but those times had long passed.

You were the only child of the Queen, the true ruler of these lands, who got married the second time after an unfortunate death of her first husband, your father. She didn't give the new King an heir, but he had a handful of his own children from his past marriages. All of them, except his oldest one who stayed to rule the country of his father under the watchful eye of royal advisors, were brought to your kingdom. They are your sisters and brothers, the King said.

They were the ones who would take your place once the King found an opportunity to get rid of you, the true successor to the Queen.

All the men who came to ask for your hand were told you had no desire to meet them, and then, after the brief encounter with the King, they were sent away. You watched them, enraged by this unfair treatment, and their corteges to leave in haste, disappearing behind the black gates. You were never allowed to leave your chamber at these times, forced to look out the window at those princes and lords. If only they knew.

"Bow your head in front of your lawfully wedded husband." One of the guards demanded harshly, and you snapped out of your thoughts, looking at the huge man with wide shoulders, dressed in rags, his face hidden by the hood he wore.

The stranger was twice bigger than the guards surrounding you, and you felt rather intimidated in his presence. Despite his dirty clothes and wooden shoes, he didn't look like a beggar to you. If he was truly so poor, how come his body was so big and strong? No, the man wasn't a beggar. He was a bandit.

It would only make sense for the King to get rid of you, but you hoped he would keep his word as he promised to give you to the very first beggar who came to the castle gates. Apparently, he decided against it. The bandit who stood in front of you would either kill you or sell you to a brothel. If he was paid to end you, you hoped he would at least do it fast.

You bowed your head in front of the stranger who was now your husband and moved forward when the guards pushed you to him. The man said nothing, heading to the gates as if he didn't even care whether you followed him or not. Biting your lip, you came after him, watching your ugly wooden shoes.

However, once you stepped behind the gates, you saw there were dozens of people, their clothes dirty, tattered, and heavily patched, their faces grim - many lacked teeth and some even an eye - their expression turning wicked when they saw you coming after the stranger. Who were they? Beggars? Bandits? Villagers? You didn't know, but feared for your life as they started shouting loudly upon seeing you, and then you saw them throwing something rotten and smelling badly at you.

Why were they doing it? What have you done to them?

"WHORE!" The crowd yelled. "ARROGANT BITCH!"

A boy no older than ten threw a piece of rock at you, and it struck your arm painfully, making you yelp. He was encouraged loudly by the others, and you realized they would beat you to death. Why? What have you done to be so hated? You were a prisoner in your family castle. No one loved you. No one cared for you. No one came to console you even in the darkest of days. Why did you deserve to be punished for something you had never done? Why were you the rotten one when the sons and daughters of the King were spoiled beyond imagination?

Before the next rock hit your head, you saw the stranger shielding you with a big piece of wood he had taken from some man. Holding it like a shield, your husband grasped your shoulders with the other hand and started fighting his way through the crowd as you clinged to him, afraid to raise your head. All you heard were angry shouts and screams of pain as the man crashed their bones with the shield in his hand, the sound of cracking disgusting and frightening. People tried to clench your dress, beat you, snatch away the cloth covering your head, but the stranger was quick to push people away, and soon you two were running somewhere, your vision clouded with tears.

He held your hand in his until you reached the forest behind the meadow, far away from the castle and all those scary people who dirtied your simple woolen clothes and coloured your arms black and blue. Luckily, you were mostly unharmed just like your saviour, the man who hadn't uttered a single word still. At this point you guessed he might be deaf or lacking his tongue - you heard maids talking about the soldiers of the King cutting tongues of the ones who talked against him. But maybe the stranger just didn't want to speak to you. He probably thought you were an arrogant princess, humbled by your pride and haughtiness.

"Thank you." You whispered to him, and the man turned face to you, his beautiful blue eyes watching you intently. "Thank you for saving me."

The tears had long dried out on your face, but your eyes were still a bit red, your voice raspy. Running in the wooden shoes made your feet hurt so bad as if you were running barefoot at all.

When your newly wed husband came closer to you, you flinched involuntary and made a step back, staring at his strangely attractive dirty face, his dark blonde disheveled hair and beard.

"You're safe with me."

You blinked, unsure what to say to him in return. His low husky voice made you tremble a little, but if he told you the truth, he was going to take care of you. You hurriedly averged your eyes and bowed your head again, waiting for him to continue walking. You didn't dare to talk to him once more.

Your had been travelling by foot for what felt like hours, and you felt grateful for the dress you were given as it was lighter with just a few layers of fabric. Your wooden shoes, however, bruised your skin so much that they were slowly filling with blood. Nonetheless, you kept walking even with blisters covering your feet as your husband moved forward without a stop through the forest. Was he living here? Otherwise you didn't know how he navigated through the woods.

"You're slowing us down." You winced when you raised your head and saw him furrowing at you, standing a few feet away.

"I am sorry." You muttered, knowing you could hardly speed up with your legs hurting so much as if you walked into the fire.

The stranger squinted, coming closer, "Take off your shoes."

You complied without saying a word, showing him your bruised feet. Was he going to complain you were a shirker, unable to even walk? Maybe he had it on his mind, but he stayed silent, ripping the hem of your dress when you gasped and wiped the blood away. Then he had you seated on a falling tree and bandaged your feet so gently you gawked at him openly. You felt tears shimmering in your eyes at his kindness. He cared.

"I will carry you from here." Your husband said, wiping away the sweat from his dirty forehead. "We'll make a halt soon."

"I can walk myself." You said when he loomed over you, his strong hands gripping your under your lower back. "Please!"

"No, you can't." He grumbled, shooting you a look that forced you to keep your mouth shut. "You are my wife now, and you are going to listen to what I say."

You squeezed your eyes shut when the man lifted you in the air and hurried forward, moving carefully so you wouldn't get struck by the branches. Your body ached, your legs hurt so hard you were ready to cry, your eyelids growing heavy. Oddly, the man's presence wasn't as intimidating as before, his body heat slowly warming you and lulling you to sleep since he slowed down a bit and kept going forward cautiously. You decided to close your eyes just a little bit...

__________________

When you opened your eyes next time, you were tucked in a bed that smelled like old sheep wool - your maid, a girl from the village, had the same scent when she returned after visiting her parents. Even though this bed was three times smaller and tougher then yours, you enjoyed laying there under the dark warm blanket - or whatever it was - and listening to the cracking fire inside the stone oven. Your poor feet were terribly sore, and laying on bed brought you so much comfort.

However, when you were fully awoke, you shifted on the bed nervously and glanced over the house, finding the stranger sitting near the crudely made wooden table, a clay pot in his hands. He lifted his hood, and now you could see his matted blonde hair and dirty face covered in mud and what looked like ashes. Was it his house he brought you to? It was very small and looked like it was abandoned some time ago, but you couldn't be sure. He had no servants to take care of his house, so maybe it always looked like that.

"You're awake." He said, turning his face to you. "Don't stand up. Your legs are no good."

"I'm sorry." You mumbled, knowing he was perfectly right since it still hurt you to move.

"Next time you need to tell me when you're in pain."

"Why?" Curling your lips in a grim smile, you got under blanket again, covering yourself up to your chin. "Why does my pain bother you?"

The man narrowed his eyes down at you and set the pot aside, putting his elbows on the table tiredly.

"You are my wife. Your pain bothers me, and my pain should bother you."

"I see." You averted your eyes from his face lit up by the light coming from the oven. You didn't know much about marriage since no one considered you to be ever wed. It was like this, then? Or was it because your husband was a peasant and not an honourable man? There certainly was differences, but you had never expected a beggar to be so kind.

He wasn't a beggar, though, of that you were sure.

"What name do I bear now?" You asked him, watching his face growing confused. "Do you... do you have a name, sir?"

"You bear the name of Rogers." He sounded oddly proud, but you only sighed - now you lost even the name your father gave you.

You were the beggar's wife, not the princess living in high castle - you would work hard till your hands bled; give birth to unfortunate children forced to live in poverty, who wouldn't know how to read or write; you'd starve and beg, and then die young. This is what your maid told you how the people of her village lived - despite being farmers, the lands they worked on were poor, and most of the harvest was taken away to feed the ones living in a castle.

You didn't even have the land to work on as you saw the forest through the crack in the door. This hut was in the middle of the woods, probably.

"I made a salve for your legs. Let me put it on."

When he stood up from the bench, you shivered and took your eyes elsewhere, moving higher on what you supposed was an improvised pillow. The stranger sat on the other side of the bed and moved your blanket, showing your dirty feet with dry blood covering them. Then, as if he remembered something, he went somewhere behind the oven and pulled a jug with a slightly cracked neck, soaking a rag in it. Once he squeezed it and brought it to your legs, you winced in pain, but stayed silent.

The stanger had been kind to you beyound your understanding.

"So, were the rumors true?" He asked once he wiped your feet cleen and took a little jar with what you assumed was the salve.

"Forgive me, but there are too many rumors for me to remember."

"The one that says you are so arrogant you don't want to meet any of the men who come to ask for your hand in marriage. Watching them being sent away, you sit in your room in the high tower and ridicule them all."

You wanted to laugh bitterly at his words, but the knot in your throat didn't let you utter a sound. Was this what the King and his children had been telling to your people, feeding them lies for years? The princess whose spirit was too high to look at those she deemed lower than her. The one born with a silver spoon in her mouth who didn't care whether her people starved and died from diseases. What a perfect little picture the King had constructed in the minds of others.

"If you believe it, did you take me as your wife to teach me a leason, then? To punish me?" You whispered and clenched your teeth - every touch to your legs made them burn as if the man's fingers were covered with flames.

"No."

His ridiculously beautiful blue eyes bore into you with such intensity it made you want to grab the blanket and pull it over your head to hide from him. Oddly, you thought his face looked noble behind that layer of dirt on his skin. He didn't look like any of those who you met behind the castle gates.

"In truth, I've seen you up there in the tower once, looking out the window. But you didn't laugh at us. You cried."

You raised your head and stilled, watching the man anxiously. No, he wasn't a beggar. They had never been admitted to the castle.

"How could you see me up there? My room is too high." Your hands trembled a little, and then you let out a hiss of pain when the man rubbed some salve onto your skin.

"I have a good eyesight."

"How did you know it was me, then?"

"Because I've seen you before."

Your heart was pounding loudly in your chest at his words. Who was he? Who was the man sitting on your bed?

"Were you a part of a cortege of a man who came to ask for my hand?" You asked nervously, glancing at him rubbing more of that medicine that smelled like herbs into your feet.

The stranger nodded. "Then... where have you seen me? Was it before I was locked in the castle by the King?"

"Yes. I saw you when the old King, rest his soul, had been alive."

"I see. I must have been a child, then." You gave him a weak smile, remembering those times when you were still the lovely little girl, your mother always keeping you close to her despite the royal etiquette. It was the time when you still travelled, sometimes even outside of your own country. He probably saw you during one of your trips with your parents. "Have you been a part of the court? Maybe the one who served it?"

"Yes." His answer was noncommittal, and it only steered your interest. Did he lost everything just like you? Was he stripped of his titles? It must had happened quite some time ago since his big hands were rough, work-weary. Maybe he was the knight or someone who belonged to the army.

Knowing he was becoming agitated, you decided to stop there. You had no desire to test patience of the one who had only ever been kind to you.

"I only have one question left, sir. How should I call you?"

He smirked, tilting his head to the side.

"Steve. My name is Steve Rogers."

Steve Rogers. This name rang a bell. He could see you growing confused, wracking your brains, desperately searching for any memory that could give you the answer. Steve Rogers. Steve...

Stevie. Prince Steven Grant Rogers. The little boy who was so unhealthy pale he looked like a ghost. He was skinny and small despite being older than you. You knew his mother had been sick for many years, confined to her chambers, and, sadly, her boy took after her. You remember the whispers behind your back when you visited him for the first time as he laid in bed, watching you with his enormously big blue eyes.

"It can't be." You gawked at the man who was bigger than anyone you had ever seen, his arms musculed, his shoulders wider than the ones of the King's executioner. Little Stevie could never grow so big - you remembered his thin, strange body well. "You can't be prince Steve."

"I'm not. I am King Steven now, little girl."

Oh, you remembered you called him a little boy that made him pout at you. There was no one standing close to you at the moment when you bended over to him and talked quietly not to tire the prince. But how could he become so strong? Even his father wasn't as big as him now. Why was King Steven dressed like a beggar? Why did he take you in the middle of the woods, pretending it was his house?

"When I reached the age of 18, I've met a wandering mage who cured my illness. His charms changed my body, made me what I had to become if my mother didn't fell sick before giving birth to me. Do you like what you see?"

You felt your cheeks burning when you realized you were staring at him shamelessly and averted your eyes.

"You look stronger than any man I've seen, Your Highness."

"I know, little bird." Smirking, he finally finished rubbing the salve into your skin and set the jar aside, caressing your feet. "As I fulfilled my promise to you, I came to claim what's rightfully mine."

"What promis- AH!

His gaze grew dark as you stared at him wide-eyed, and his hand gripped one of your feet painfully, making you yelp as he pressed his finger to the blister. He didn't like you forgetting about something important, but you could swear you remembered nothing of a promise.

"I gave you my word one day I'd become better and then come to ask for your hand, my dearest. You said if it were to happen, you would choose me among the other suitors. Do you remember now?" There was something dark in his voice as he spoke, and you nodded immediately to make him ease his grip on your leg. Steve sent you a satisfied smile, caressing your foot gently with his calloused fingers. "I've came to you several years ago, but you refused to see me and sent me away. I caught a glimpse of you in the window, and then I realized something wasn't right. I've sent a few of my people to become the servants in the castle to learn the truth."

Strangely, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted. King Steven knew you weren't rotten to the core. He knew you weren't a spoiled princess who refused to leave the castle to see her miserable people, suffering under the heavy taxation laws imposed by the new King. Steve took you here not to make you learn a lesson how to be behave, but to hide you from prying eyes.

As he wiped the tears streaming down your face, you realized he sat much closer to you now - King Steven smelled like sweat and pine trees.

"When the King ordered to give you to the first beggar who would come to the castle gates, I had already sneaked into your lands, my beloved. If not his order, my people would take you away soon." He dropped a kiss to your forehead, touching the locks of your hair with his fingers.

"But the King would find out who stole me." You whispered. "He'd demand you to bring me back."

"Five thousand soldiers are waiting for my command to march to the King's castle. Why would I leave him the kingdom that belongs to you, sweetheart?" Steve smiled, and you saw something dangerous lingering behind his eyes, something that made you shiver and draw a shaky breath from you. "If I gave you such an army, what would you do with it?"

For a second you felt like your body was thrown right into the fire, burning your flesh to the bones. The tears stopped as you clenched your teeth.

"Burn the castle to ashes. Kill the King. Kill his children. Kill their entourage. Kill all of them who had abandoned and humiliated me."

You didn't know when the anger rose in your chest and took a hold of your tongue, make you spit venom and imagine your brothers and sisters scream and plead for their lives, but you enjoyed it. You enjoyed every second of it when you thought of their heads on spikes for the crows to peck and the entire kingdom to see.

No one had come to your rescue for years when you prayed to be saved, taken away from a place that became your prison. No matter how much you asked God to answer you, he had been silent, and your learnt you were left alone in the world where no one wanted you to be treated fair. Then so be it. If no one took pity on a little miserable child pleading for help, you wouldn't show mercy to the ones who had been torturing you for years.

You hadn't seen how King Steven face changed as he watched you, his expression growing more sinister and poisonous, but you felt his lips on yours when he claimed your mouth possessively and his fingers clawed at your shoulders.

"I will cut the King's head off and tie it to the mane of your horse, my beloved. Would you like it to be your wedding gift?"

"Yes. Yes!" You cried as he shushed you, pressing your head to his chest and caressing your hair like a lover would.

"Then it's as good as done."

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Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   ​@helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin ​@void-hoechlin @abyssaint @navegandoaciegas @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @heeeyitskay @lovelydarkdaydream

#dark steve rogers #dark steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #yandere #captain america

[deathonyourtongue]

Willow Run | Ch. 1

Summary: On a horse ranch in Texas, life is far simpler than on the streets of Bakubah, but Syverson has a bad habit of taking in strays of all kinds, no matter what demons may be after them. Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC Word Count: 3K  Warnings: Mentions of physical abuse A/N: Dusting off an old one I’ve never quite been able to shake. Cowboy!Syverson, anyone?  _______________________________________________ Message me if you’d like to be added/removed from the tag list! @fumbling-fanfics @skiesfallithurts @pinkpenguin7@madmedusa178 @crushed-pink-petals @fangoria @bluestarego@caffeinated-writer @my–own–personal–paradise @tastingmellow​ @honeychicana​ @lua-latina​ @angelicapriscilla​ @swiftyhowlz​ @schreiberpablo​ @pinkwatchblueshoes​ @kirasmomsstuff​ @prettypascal​ @blacklotus-of-the-black-kingdom​ @nardahsb​ @playbucky​ @veryfastspeedz @queen-of-the-kastle​ @freyahelps​ @cajunpeach​ @godlikeentity​ @captainsamwlsn​ @nakusaych9@katerka88 @katerka88 @kirasmomsstuff @melaninmimii@alienor-romanova @downtowndk​ @redhairedmoiraandtheliferuiners​ @safiras​ @agniavateira​ @henryfanfics101​ @fatefuldestinies @iloveyouyen​ @justaboringadult​ @xxxxxerrorxxxxx​

Dust made up ninety percent of her body. It clung to her hair, baked into her skin, coated the inside of her nose like a clay mask drying much too fast. Her eyes stung with it, whipped up by the permanent breeze that crossed the flats of the farmland she traversed with slower and slower steps. Her hair—black with a cobalt undertone—stuck to her lips as she walked, making each step more hazardous as it cut out what little the sun hadn't taken of her visibility. Her shoulders burned even through the cream cardigan she wore to protect herself from the sun. Her water bottle empty, she let it slip from her fingers, slowly beginning to come to terms with the fact that she wouldn't see another sunrise. 

Sasha had been walking for nearly eight hours, moving from the suburbs of Austin's south side towards the dry scrub of central Texas, no final destination in mind. Her only goal was to put as much distance between her and the bungalow as she could. Behind her, she knew her life would end in a matter of days. The phone call she shouldn't have heard made it all too clear. So, she took what she could carry—what she could access—and booked it, taking the only method of transportation available; her feet. 

Her attempt at hitchhiking had been disastrous. The first car to stop had been full of men in their early twenties and her exposed legs and cleavage had made her an immediate bullseye for their testosterone-fueled desires. She'd spent an hour hiding in the women's bathroom of a convenience store, weeping softly, afraid to come out until the owner of the store knocked and told her the men had gone. Each step after that was taken with a glance over her shoulder, her tears coming back full force as her mind made a gruesome collage of images past and present, the men chasing her taking the spotlight for that particular day. 

After another hour and a half of walking, her worn shoes breathed their last and dime-sized holes in the rubber brought her in full contact with the earth beneath her feet. Step after step she felt her soles burn a little further, her once-pink skin blistering and chafing as the gravel shoulder bit into her feet. It was agony, but she wasn't about to stop when he could reach her with a simple drive down the interstate. 

Civilization had begun to die away at the three-hour mark and the only landscape markers were ranch-style homes that dotted the landscape every few miles. At the five hour mark, even the trees dwindled, providing little in the way of protection from the sun and leaving her exposed to the afternoon's rays at their hottest. 

By mile twenty, she was staggering, Sasha's body shutting down as the sun, lack of water, and exhaustion overtook her. In the sharply contrasted lights and shadows of the path in front of her, she could only just make out a two-story home encircled by old Willows, green meadows as far as her eyes could see. With a final burst of energy, she made a beeline for the home, praying that someone would be home. Sasha hit the gate before she realized it was there, her body crashing to the dirt drive, one final insult added to her already-injured body.

The farrier was booked solid for a week, but Syverson's horse couldn't wait that long. If he didn't re-shoe him today, he'd be lame come the end of the week. As much as he felt his shoeing skills subpar, Syverson knew it was better than leaving the ill-fitting shoe on longer. So, come six in the morning, he was out in the stable, cleaning, sanding, prepping, and re-shoeing Wolf. Syverson worked diligently, and when he finally looked up, it was already heading on closer to nine. With a smile, he gave Wolf part of an apple, stroking his long black mane as his horse ate the fruit happily, all four feet now comfortably on the ground.

Satisfied that his horse was in good spirits, had a fresh barrel of hay, and was no longer in any discomfort thanks to his footwear, Syverson started the trek back to the main house, his leg aching from squatting for so long. The ATV his father had given him last year for his birthday had never come in handier. Before he'd received it, Syverson had been either driving his pickup over the acreage, hoofing it up to the stables, or riding one of his horses when he felt like getting some fresh air. Now, he had the best of both worlds; out in the open, and with more than one horse to power his trip.

As he rounded the corner, Syverson caught sight of something at his front gate. From the distance he was at, it was just a dark smudge, but the closer he got, the clearer the image became and when Syverson realized it was a person, he put the ATV in full throttle.

Within minutes, Syverson was lifting the lock on the large swinging gate, the ATV still purring behind him as he crouched down next to the slumped-over body of what seemed to be a young girl. With one glance, Syverson quickly realized a few things. For one, she wasn't that young, as a small tattoo on her wrist pegged her for at least eighteen. Secondly, someone had beat her senseless, and third, she'd walked a very long way, the worn-out soles on her shoes indicating the last fact quite clearly. Most noticeable, however, was her swollen belly; whoever she was, she was most definitely pregnant. 

Careful not to touch any part of her that was bleeding or black and blue, Syverson kept his tone soft as he gently shook her, knowing she wasn't dead by the fact that her back was rising and falling at a steady, albeit shallow, rate.

"Ma'am, can you hear me? Open your eyes, ma'am, can you do that for me?"

Sasha’s eyes opened at the voice and her flight or fight response took over immediately. 

“Get the fuck away from me!” She screamed, voice raw and hoarse from lack of water. Shaking visibly, she did her best to get up, although the moment she got upright, her legs gave way, muscles contracting involuntarily thanks to her emergency exodus. 

Syverson backed up, hands up in surrender as he gave her the space she needed.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, but you collapsed out here in front of my house, ma'am. I wanted to make sure you were breathin'," he explained, still keeping his tone soft as he slowly stood, hiding the wince of pain he felt shoot down his right leg.

"Did you get into a car wreck or something? You're pretty busted up, there," he continued, looking around for any signs of a car in a ditch. While the road leading to his ranch was long, it was mostly flat so he could see all the way to the highway, some two miles down.

"Listen, why don't we go inside, get out of this heat. You can wash up, I'll grab a couple of ice packs and some ice water for ya, and we can figure out what happened," Syverson reasoned, pointing towards the main house just a few feet up the hill from the gate.

Sasha’s mind reeled as she tried to come up with a plausible explanation for why she looked the way she did. One eye black and swollen, cuts and bruises covering every inch of visible skin, and lip split open, she was quite the sight, but she wasn’t certain she could just pawn it off on a car accident, especially as she didn’t have a license. Unable to think of another reason as to why she looked like she’d gone twelve rounds with a pro boxer, Sasha decided to use a diversion tactic, ignoring the topic altogether.

“I’m fine. I was just...tired. I’ll go. I’m sorry for...fallin’ asleep at your gate.”

"You're not fine. You're not sweating, which is a problem given it's almost 100 out. You're all cut to shit, and I'll bet anything that if you try to get up again right now, your legs still won't hold.” Trying the straightforward approach first, Syverson hoped that keeping to the facts would help her process the information better, given her condition.

"Let's get you inside, get you some water, a couple band-aids and once you start seeing 20/20 again, we'll get you a ride home. Okay?" Syverson tried again, using more of his straight-and-narrow approach. If she was so hellbent on being 'fine', he'd help her along and then make sure she got wherever she was going in one piece.

Squinting against the sun despite the baseball cap he wore, Syverson reached out a hand for her, knowing full well he was going to end up carrying the poor thing inside; her shaking was getting worse and there was no way she’d be able to move under her own power.

Eyeing his hand warily, Sasha took a moment before managing to shake her head, her hand smoothing over her bump, a diamond engagement ring sparkling on her finger despite the dust that coated it.

Syverson grimaced as he looked at her in more detail, finding more and more injuries wherever he looked. Covering his mouth with his hand, he took a few deep breaths before scrubbing a hand over his face.

"How far along are you? And what in God's name are you doing out in 100-degree heat, walking in the open sun when you're pregnant?" Syverson tried to keep the worry from his voice, but he just couldn't, his eyes darkening with anger at whoever had let this woman get into the situation she was in, in the first place.

"Please, just come to the porch. Just so you can get out of the sun. I'll bring you some water, you can rest a while, and when you're ready, I'll drive you wherever you need to go."

Seeing that he wasn’t going to let up, Sasha relented, figuring that dying in the shade would be no worse than dying under the glaring Texas sun.

“Just to the porch,” she agreed, finally taking his hand, her legs only giving her enough power to get to a squat before she crumpled back against the dirt with a whimper. 

"If the mountain won't come to Muhammad..." Syverson muttered softly, shaking his head. Despite her condition, the woman was determined and prideful; something he hadn't seen with such force since being in the Middle East. It made him smile even as he plucked the ball cap off his head and placed it gently on hers, Syverson crouching down and slipping his hands under her body, picking her up with ease.

Sasha was too out of it to protest the sudden move, fighting just to keep her eyes open as Syverson loaded her up on his ATV and booked it up the gently sloping hill that led to a rather large, beautiful ranch home. 

Older than a lot of the houses that neighbored Syverson’s acreage, it nevertheless looked pristinely-maintained and had just had a fresh coat of paint put on it. As they came nearer, Sasha took in the wraparound porch, a swing hanging near the back door, looking out towards what could only be farmland of some sort, Sasha unable to see the stables or the horses with Syverson’s broad shoulders blocking the view. 

Syverson cut the engine on the ATV and hopped off, holding Sasha steady until he could pick her up again. If he limped a bit as he walked, it wasn’t noticeable to her, and Sasha felt nothing but relief when he set her down on the porch swing with a nod. 

"All right, you just stay right there, kick your feet up, and I'll be back with some water," he instructed once he was certain she wasn't about to pitch over the side of the swing from exhaustion.

Running in, he grabbed what he needed, along with two ice-filled glasses of water, hoping that she'd be able to get at least half of one down in the next few minutes. She looked dehydrated and Syverson knew it wasn't a good thing for a woman who was pregnant.

"Sip, don't gulp. Gulping will make your stomach churn and that's the last thing you want in this heat, believe me. Been there, done that." He tried for a light and jovial tone, though with his frown still firmly in place, it sounded out of place. Syverson handed her one of the glasses before setting the other down on the floor.

Doing as she was told, Sasha drank slowly, her lip stinging briefly against the cool water before relief began to wash over her. Looking at her rescuer out of the corner of her eye, Sasha felt ashamed that she’d ever doubted his intentions. Sitting next to her quietly, she could feel both patience and anger wafting off him and it made her wonder if she was about to get another talking to regarding her condition and her decision to walk in the heat. Regardless of what kind of conversation she had in store, Sasha couldn’t help but notice that he had kind eyes, something which went far in her estimation of a person.

“Thank you,” she murmured after finishing half of her first glass, her eyes already on the second, even though he’d told her to take her time.

“You’re welcome,” Syverson responded, eyeing her legs carefully. Spotting the largest area of swelling, he carefully placed the ice pack over it, a small tea towel keeping the cold gel from coming into direct contact with her skin. Strapping it down with an ACE bandage, he leaned against the porch railing across from her, Syverson’s arms crossing over his large chest. 

Continuing to study her as she drank, Syverson took note of the shape of the bruises and the distinct impressions of half-moons at the edges of some of them. Someone had been squeezing this girl a little too hard, and Syverson already felt his temper starting to flare at whoever it was that had the gall to do it.

"Did you hit the ditch out on the 474? I keep tellin' 'em to put up a sign, but they don't listen..." Syverson kept his voice light, but he knew he was scrabbling for something to say without taking the direct route and asking her who beat the shit out of her before throwing her from their car; at least that's what Syverson assumed had happened. Immediately however, he could see the discomfort his question had caused, Syverson regretting his words the moment they reached her.

“You didn’t have to trouble yourself with all this, you know,” Sasha said after a moment, trying to save face despite her pitiful condition and her obvious lack of a vehicle. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time, I promise.” 

"Of course I did. Not just gonna leave you layin’ on the ground in this heat with no one for miles. I'm not even sure how you made it out this far without a car," his voice drifted as he spoke the last few words, Syverson's eyes glancing around at his acreage. It was one of the most desolate areas in Texas and even with the highway two miles to the north, the land was about as far removed from civilization as humanly possible.

"You hungry? I was getting ready to fix up some breakfast. Had to get up real early this morning to re-shoe Wolf and I haven't eaten yet." Syverson asked, changing the subject to something a little less involved; his own stomach was churning, eager to have something for breakfast, even if it was only a bowl of cereal. He wasn't the type to skip breakfast, no matter how early he had to be up. If it meant holding off for a few hours after getting some chores done, so be it, but he needed his first meal of the day, come hell or high water.

Sasha was about to shake her head at the offer, feeling like she was already a burden on the man she’d only just met, but then he said the magic words. Eyes lighting up, she looked up at him with eager hope. 

“You have a horse?”

"Horses. Plural," he laughed softly, nodding at her question, Syverson pointing to his right at the stables that sat further back on the property. "This is a horse ranch. I raise 'em, sell 'em, breed 'em...The works. With a little help, of course," Syverson added humbly, explaining what the land was used for and how he fit into it all.

"You like horses?" he asked, his gaze intent and curious, Syverson always up for talking with people that had similar interests to him. He made no move to get up, to usher her anywhere, or do anything more than sit there and talk. He figured he had an in with the horses, but he didn't want to push too hard, lest she try to get up and hurt herself in the process of trying to be stubborn.

“I used to groom them for pocket change when I was a kid. I always found it calming, almost like meditation, you know?” Sasha nodded, her smile growing brighter with each passing moment. 

"I absolutely do," Syverson enthused, his face regressing in age right before Sasha’s eyes, as it always did when he was talking about something he loved.

"Tell you what. You stay for breakfast and I'll bring Wolf around to meet ya. He's the sweetest, and he's closer to the house, since he just got new shoes. All the others are out back and that's further than I think you'd be able to walk on those tired legs of yours," he winked, Syverson’s smile finally relaxed and open, the change in expression one that took Sasha’s breath away and made her forget her problems for a just a moment. The promise of meeting a horse for the first time in years, certainly didn’t hurt matters either.

#henry cavill #syverson x ofc #captain syverson #fic #deathonyourtongueoriginals #willow run

[general-mahamatra]

Why...

Focus: Tommy (Some Wilbur)

Genre: Dark, war, death

TW: BLOOD, DEATH, MURDER, BODY HORROR, GORE

Wordcount: 1329

Read it on AO3 here

Note: PLEASE MAKE SURE TO KEEP IN MIND THE TRIGGER WARNINGS. THIS IS A REALLY DARK FIC AND IT’S VERY IMPORTANT YOU AVOID IT IF ANYTHING AROUND THE LISTED WARNINGS ARE ONE OF YOUR TRIGGERS! (If you have any more things you think I should tag this as, PLEASE let me know!)

This is also part of the AU Somnis Veritas that can be found on the blog @in-somnis-veritas. It is Act 2 and TECHNICALLY spoilers, so beware.

War is nothing but horrible, bloody, and destructive. Especially in a battle of extremists versus the kingdom.

Months... so many months of back and forth battles. Cheating from the rebels and the Rules of War from the royalty. A back and forth MISERY only because they went too far in the beginning.

It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.

Uncontrollable, emotional, chaotically proportional.

Tommy stood at the top of a hill, taking in his surroundings. A gentle breeze swept through, stirring the otherwise still nighttime air. It messed with his hair, occasionally tousling it and sending it into disarray. Over a year since it's been cut, his hair was more of a mess than it usually was. Not ratted or tangled, but unkempt for sure.

It was finally starting to cover his ears. Even with his undercut still being noticeably short, it was clear just how shaggy it had become. And by the Goddess, it needed to be taken care of.

But if you took one good look at the boy, you would find everything needed to be taken care of.

He was paler than usual. Heavy bags settled under his eyes, the blues and purples stark against the sickeningly white skin. They made his eyes appear sunken, gaze seemingly hollow to mirror the blank expression on his face.

Red spots and scabs dotted across the oily skin, covering his cheeks and temples.  A horrible break out; acne so clearly messed with and yet never taken care of.

The boy looked horrible.

Tommy shifted his hold on the sword, letting it hang at his side as he gazed down on the valley below him.

Bodies littered the ground. Corpses of men, women, and children all sprawled in the tall grass. The stench of blood and smoke was everywhere, encompassing the swathe of land. No matter where you went you were met by the coppery tang or the sting of smoke.

A small child staggered through the bodies, crying and wailing as they searched for their parents. They stumbled as they tried to stay upright, looking lost and alone.

"Mama?" The child called. "Daddy?"

They continued to wander, small burnt hands reaching out towards different bodies. Every time they found someone, they backed away and kept searching. Tears streamed down their face as they tried.

And then their eyes landed on Tommy.

The teenager made eye contact, expression deadpan as he watched the kid.

They had to at least be six.

Their eyes lit up, hope reigniting as they spotted someone who was alive. Rushed forward, panic driving them towards the blonde.

When they got closer, Tommy was able to truly see how they looked.

It was a young girl, hands and face covered in blood, some of it smeared on her cheeks from wiping tears away. None of it appeared to be hers...but…

Half of her head was missing hair, instead replaced by blisters and horrible, horrible burns. In fact, it was her entire left side. Skin melted and destroyed, bones exposed on her shoulder, her ear completely gone…

Tommy was horrified.

She reached out for him, grabbing his shirt. "Where's mama and daddy?" she pleaded, voice wavering. "Mama and daddy, where are they??"

Tommy pulled his arm away, the first hint of emotion finally showing. Terror.

The girl stumbled when her support was yanked away, eyes growing wide. She was quiet for a moment before wailing, "Where are they?"

The boy tightened his hold on the sword, continuing to watch the child. His hand shook with tension, knuckles white.

When he didn't answer, the girl started crying.

He couldn't take it.

So he swung.

With one clean slice, the body crumpled to the ground, blood splattering everywhere and completely drenching Tommy's clothes. The head detached. Tumbled down the hill, trailing the crimson liquid behind it.

He kept watching, panic starting to set in. Wide eyes; parted lips. His grip on the blade loosened as he continued to stare.

He didn't know what to do or what to say or how to react. The child was dead at his feet and there was blood on his sword. It dripped to the ground, soon followed by the blade.

His heart raced, hands shaking as he raised them, palms up. So much blood coated them. Too much blood. It was everywhere. Across his body, his clothes, in the grass.

Too much too much too much.

Slowly, Tommy covered his mouth, unable to read his gaze away from the corpse.

Why did I do that? Why did I do that? Why did I do that?

The boy dropped to his knees. Tears streamed down his face and mixed with the blood. He couldn't look away. He couldn't look away.

A choked sob shook his body. Made him lean forward, hands now gripping his hair. He just killed a fucking child. A child. She just wanted her mom and dad… she just wanted her parents.

Why didn't I help her?

Tommy barely got a chance to move his head before he threw up. Bile mixed with saliva melded with the grass in the darkness. He could barely see it beyond the tears and his night blindness. And honestly? He was extremely thankful.

The sight must've been pathetic. A boy kneeling on the ground sobbing and vomiting.

He's supposed to be a leader. To be strong and powerful and bring them to victory… and he's just a fucking broken mess next to the dead body of a child.

Hands on the ground for support, Tommy hung his head. He felt disgusting. The tang of bile didn't leave his mouth and the tears kept coming. There was no end to the crying.

A hand on his shoulder made the boy lift his head. Through the bleariness, he managed to make out the form of a taller man. Horns protruded from his head and Tommy could barely make out faint yellow of flowers where one of the man's eyes should be.

Wilbur.

The older man helped Tommy to his feet, keeping a hand on the boy's arm to keep him balanced. They stood there for a few moments, heavy breathing the only thing between them.

Until Wilbur pulled the boy in, wrapping his arms around Tommy in a tight, comforting hug.

Tommy melted instantly, hands gripping the back of Wilbur's shirt as he buried his face against the man's shoulder. He shook, crying harder than he was before.

It was times like these he felt so small; where he was reminded of just how young he was.

The older began to rub circles on Tommy's back, trying to get him to relax. He said nothing, simply letting the blonde weep without judgement.

Seconds ticked by, turning into minutes as Tommy rode out the breakdown. They barely moved, only sitting on the ground after Wilbur coaxed the boy to let go.

Once they were sat down, Wilbur pulled him back into his embrace.

They rocked for a bit, the brunette gently running his hands through the boy's hair. It lasted for a while until Tommy finally spoke.

"I- I just… she-" A breath. "Wilbur I.. I killed a kid." He sounded so broken and distraught, his voice breaking with his stutters. He had pulled away from the hug to look at Wilbur with large, watery eyes.

Wilbur hushed the boy, now placing his hands on Tommy's arms. "I know." He pulled the teen back in, allowing him to rest against his shoulder. "I know. There's nothing you can do about it now."

There was a pause. A hesitation, almost, before Tommy asked a question

"How many did we kill?" He didn't look up at Wilbur this time. "How many kids…"

"Too many."

They watched the embers die out from the charred village, silence settling over the two. Regret gripped them both, the bloody meadow a heavy reminder of the atrocities they just committed.

Why did I bring them here… why did I let them?

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, only for them to shoot open. The image of the girl's decapitated body was all he could see when he closed his eyes. And he refused. Refused. To relive that moment.

“I can’t do this anymore, Wilbur,” he whispered.

He shouldn't have brought them. He shouldn't have brought the rebels.

He shouldn't have let this happen.

#mcyt #mcyt au #dt au #fantasy au #sv!au #tw blood #tw murder #tw gore #tw body horror #tw death #tw war #tw graphic depictions of injuries #tw graphic depictions of violence #character death #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #rpf #prince's writing

[yourdeepestfathoms]

if not by blood, then siblings by bloodshed (part two)

Part 1

Note: Kitty’s age has been changed to seven! I was writing her way younger than an eleven year old would act, so I changed it

TW: Blood and gore, violence, animal violence, death

——————

Undead Lullaby

Water.

Water was what the air in and around this part of the forest smelled like the most.

It was in the deep, earthen musk of the damp soil that lay beneath the lush, dew-soaked grass.

It was in the marshy fumes, sometimes sulfurous, sometimes sickly-sweet, of the patches of hidden swamp that lay in wait for unsuspecting feet.

It was in the carpets of fallen leaves that hid hollows between the tree roots, where pools could collect and play host to all things that crawled or squirmed through the wet.

It was in the very forest itself, coating wet leaves and bleeding from the dark, pulpy wood of the gnarled, old trees.

There was nothing dry about this place.

Fog, ghostly-grey and creeping on silent feet, drifted in low wisps over the crumbled and cold earth, painting the normally-stark outlines of the trees so pale that they faded into the sky rather than stood boldly against it. The mist had dissipated somewhat since anyone had last passed through this particular stretch of rarely-visited meadow, but not by much. Hours, though, or perhaps a day before, it had been as oppressive and thick as cold clam chowder.

Now it was slowly thinning out, listlessly lacking the eerie, almost lifelike malevolence with which it had pressed in upon the very soul before. There was a certain…uncertainty about the way it was hovering now, no longer pouring into every little hollow and alcove like milk over cereal. It was just there.

There, in a sort of in-between way. Lingering.

All was still, and- save for the rhythmic pitter-patter of falling rain- all was silent as well.

Except for herself, of course.

It was movement in the stillness that preceded the first disruption of the tranquility of the forest; the silk-thin web of drifting mist that hung in the air like lace slowly began to slide forward, rolling away from her feet like a translucent white carpet, perhaps in front of some ghostly noble attending an afterlife celebration in their name. Right from the raid the day before, her movement through this strange, still world, which her life had become, had felt alien and out of place, but it had never felt that way more than right now.

With each footstep, a narrow patch of soggy grass pressed down and sent a miniature pool of moisture bubbling up around the edges of her boots and in through invisible gaps in the leather, oozing into her already-saturated socks and settling in icy little pools in the dips where her toes went, setting the blisters on the skin alight with fresh pain. If her feet hadn’t already been numb from the wet and cold, she might have cared more. But everything from her toes to her feet and the soaked leather that clung stiffly to them was in no shape to feel anything but the dull warning stings of oncoming pins and needles.

Besides, Joan had other things on her mind right now.

Like how the old, rickety bow she had slung across her chest had its arrowheads tipped with red. And it wasn’t rust. (Could flint even rust?)

Like how the sharp, metallic tang of blood and bile and sweat was gushing off of her in waves and invading her nostrils with each breath. It was so overpowering that at times it made her want to choke.

Like how lifting her feet from the indents they made in the muddy undergrowth kept on getting harder and harder to do. Her legs felt heavier with each step and the little grassy pools made squelchy noises of protest, sucking hungrily at her feet each time they left the earth. Behind her in the grass, there was a long trail of tiny shoe-shaped lakes, like murky little grey-green cousins of the ones she had read about in books.

Like what had happened just fourteen hours before.

There was a clank-CLONK and a gentle patter as droplets of condensation came raining down from where they’d collected on the bars of the town gate. There was no real latch, so she just pushed it open. There had been one once, but it had rusted away under the perpetual wet.

…Or maybe it hadn’t.

The gate’s movement ground to a halt after a mere few inches, hindered by tufts of almost-oily grass which had been allowed to grow out of control around the edges of the compound for what had probably been years. They snagged on the metal almost as though they were alive, gripping its frame with the sort of desperation one normally only saw from a particularly needy child clinging to its mother’s arm while she was on her way to work.

A half-hearted hiss of frustration escaped her as the gate’s creaking cut off. She clenched sore and swollen fingers around the wet bars, feeling flakes of rust and ancient, now-colorless paint crumble away and stick to her fingertips, which the condensation in the air had turned pruny and pale pink, like anemic raisins. When further shoving only yielded that rubbery, elastic sound that wet wild grass sometimes got, she let out a puff of air and gave up for the moment, leaning in to rest her forehead against the cool metal as she slouched, peering through the bars at the army of houses lined up within. She was so close to a roof over her head, food, maybe even water, and a damn hunk of metal was standing in her way.

“Joan?”

Joan hadn’t even realized she was dozing until the voice snapped her back to awareness. She reared back slightly, shaking her head, then looks down at the girl holding her hand at her side.

She could tell Kitty was as tired as she was. Their legs were still sore from all the running they did the day before, the rest they got was more of a doze, and they had been walking since dawn.

At least it had been dry yesterday. And relatively warm. Summer had breathed its last breaths on the tragedy, and fall replaced its absence with quick chills and a drizzle that proved to be just as hellish as a full downpour. After walking for hours through autumn’s first wrath, the town that appeared in the distance was a blessing. Now they just had to find a way in and hope the villagers wouldn’t mind.

They’d have to squeeze their tired bodies through that narrow gap, Joan realized, and she just wasn’t ready to deal with that. Maybe in five seconds. Yes, five seconds sounded good. Five seconds was plenty of time. In five seconds, her aching legs would feel a little better, her blistered feet would stop crying in agony, and she’d stand tall, shove that gate wide open, and continue her trek with renewed determination.

But that was just wishful thinking. In five seconds, her legs continued to hurt and the gate still refused to open.

“We’ll have to squeeze through,” Joan finally said. “Think you can fit through there, Kit?”

Kitty nodded and let go of Joan’s hand.

They both suddenly felt it- the cold, horrifying feeling of letting go of one another. It took everything in Kitty to not immediately cling back to Joan, but she gathered up enough courage to slip through the small opening of the gate.

“Good girl,” Joan smiled in relief.

“Your turn!” Kitty said, smiling slightly. “You can do it!”

Joan took a deep breath and pressed her body through the gap. She gets one half to the other side, then got stuck.

Icy cold fear shot through her veins, drenching her insides like a thick, dark oil spill. She knew she shouldn’t have eaten some of that deer yesterday- now she’s going to be stuck in between this gate forever.

“Joan?”

Two small hands closed around hers, squeezing tightly.

“Joan, it’s okay. You’re almost there!”

Joan screwed her eyes shut and let out a small, choked sob. She doesn’t think she’s crying actual tears, but her chest aches like she is.

“Come on, Joey. I believe in you! I’ll help you!”

There was a tug on her hand. She pushes with her foot that was still outside and inches forward, no longer wedged completely between the gates, but then a sharp pain streaks across the back of her shoulder.

“Stop! Stop!” She cried as the sharpness pressing deeper into her skin.

“You’re almost through, Joey!”

Joan struggled, deepening the pain, but manages to wiggle out to the other side. She staggered forward, nearly falling face-first into the weathered stone pavement, but manages to catch herself. She winces, feeling warmth spread across the back of her shoulder.

“You did it!” Kitty grapples back onto her hand, smiling. “I told you you could do it! I’m so proud of you!”

Joan smiles wearily at her.

“Thanks,” She said.

The two looked forward, examining the town now set before them.

The mist and drizzle may have made it hard to see, but the streets were definitely empty. Wet wood wafted heavily in the thick air from the splintering, old houses packed tightly together along the roads and alleyways. Flies buzzed wildly around rotting food, long-abandoned by their merchants.

What happened here?

Kitty and Joan walked quietly through the town, getting enough context clues to know that something wasn’t quite right. Crumbled, cracked stone pavement crunched beneath their feet; the crackle of the gravel seemed to be the loudest sound in the world on the road, but it was much better than the sloshing stew of mud out in the forest by a mile.

“There’s nothing here,” Joan muttered.

“Do we leave?” Kitty asked.

“I...I don’t...know...”

The reply came out slow as Joan’s body suddenly became heavy. She stumbled, becoming aware of a sharp sensation in her neck. The ground rushes up to meet her as everything around her began to bleed together.

The last thing she saw was Kitty’s horrified face.

————

To say that she was dreaming would be inaccurate.

Being knocked out wasn't like being asleep, even if it resulted in more or less the same comatose state.

The dark and restless thoughts that ran through her head like little mice skittering up and over and in and out of the gaps in a rock wall were not dreams so much as memories. Or memories of memories. Or maybe they weren't memories at all, and her brain just thought they were. The images flickered across the inside of her eyelids so quickly that she could hardly make sense of them before they were gone, like flipping through the pages of a book. All of it was accompanied by a strange, twisting sensation like her whole body was twined around a fast clock, inching round and round in tiny little circles.

If she'd been awake, the feeling would have made her nauseous.

But she wasn't awake, so all it did was add further confusion to the mess of images and muffled sounds that were streaming through her brain like ancient text on a stone wall.

Then, suddenly, she wasn’t out.

The mismatched dream of patchwork, out-of-order memories dissolved and Joan was suddenly jarringly awake and aware of several things all at once: that she was lying on her back on something soft and lumpy and scratchy, that her nostrils were so plugged that she'd have had more of a chance of inhaling through her ears than through her nose, that every inch of her legs ached profoundly, and that she was very, very cold, to name a few.

But more than anything else, she was aware that something hard and slightly sharp was digging into the pouchy, tender flesh on stomach and chest. It hurt.

“...Hnnnnnnhg. H...hel...help....nnnnnn!”

Making her lips form words was distinctly harder in real life than it had been in a dream. There was a whole process to it. First she had to make them form the letter-shapes, and then she had to somehow summon the energy to make her vocal cords work, and all in the scant amount of time she had before her lips forgot what they were doing and went back to being useless and rubbery again.

The mumbled pleas went unnoticed.

Her head had mysteriously gotten heavier since the last time she’d paid any attention to it and it now weighed approximately as much as a large boulder.

It wouldn't move, no matter what she did to it. She tried lifting it, but in addition to being a boulder now, it was also apparently magnetically attached to whatever she was laying on. She tried again to move it by arching and rolling her shoulders, but all that did was send a lightning bolt of agony up and down her spine and she crumpled down with a whimper.

It's a struggle to breathe; the weight that lies on top of her is crushing her. When she tries to squirm, the sharp, hard thing digs further into her ribs. Pain pulses behind her eyes. Her neck really hurts. There's the salt tang of blood on her lips.

She forces her eyes open. Pale light stabs at her. Weak sunlight behind an unbreakable wall of grey clouds. It glints off the rings of the mail shirt worn by the dead body she lies on, and the one that lies atop her. There's a face next to hers, bloodless, mouth slack. Its helm is split in two.

The weight above her is another corpse. When her limbs stop tingling, she heaves at it with rising panic and it rolls aside like a sack of grain and now she can breathe.

As she’s gasping, someone laughs, a guttural bark, and a figure looms over her. Long pale hair, tattered furs and leather and the gleam of exposed muscle.

“Don’t squirm around too much, dear,” The skinned old woman said, “You might black out again. I may have put a little too much poison on that dart.” She laughs again, then looks Joan over, “My, your eyes went wide. Don’t worry, it’s not the kind of poison you’re thinking about. It just slows your heartbeat so the guards think you’re dead.”

Joan swallows hard. Her throat is dry and scratchy. Her tongue feels a little swollen, like it had been stung by a bee.

“Come on- get up. You must be thirsty.”

Despite her age, the old woman pulled Joan to her feet effortlessly. Her hands were unnaturally smooth.

Now that her vision was cleared up, Joan was able to see that she was in a moderately sized pit filled with dead bodies of varying stages of decay. Off to the side, there was a wooden door, which she was taken into. Inside, a bunker filled with cats and lit by a fireplace was hidden.

“Here,” The old woman handed Joan a clay cup full of water. “Drink. Slowly.”

Joan obeys and drank. The water tasted amazing to her dried mouth, and she couldn’t help but gulp it all down greedily.

“Where-” She panted for a moment, “Where’s Kitty?”

“Kitty?” The old woman blinked, “You mean that little girl? She saw me before I could shoot her. Ran off into the village.”

Fear poured through Joan, just like when she had gotten stuck at the gate, but somehow worse.

Was Kitty okay? Was she alive? These questions viciously gnawed away at Joan’s mind.

“Why did you even shoot me?” Joan asked.

“You really don’t know, do you?” The old woman said, “Although, you did just waltz into this town like you owned the place. So I’m not surprised.” She sighed, “There’s a plague going around. Viral illness. If all the bodies in that pit didn’t say anything.”

“A plague?”

“Yes, a plague. Spread by rats and something people are calling ‘Hellhounds’. Vicious dogs with deadly bites.“

Joan‘s mind flashes back to the dog at the stables.

“People are losing their minds over it. That’s why this place is under such heavy lockdown. Everyone is scared to come out of their houses and anyone caught coming in from the outside aren’t exactly welcomed with open arms.”

“What...what about you?” Joan asked.

“I had all the infected flesh stripped off of me.” The woman woman answer openly, “I hide down here, now. Don’t worry if you think I’m lonely. I have the cats to keep me company.” She gestures to the several felines roaming about the bunker, “They’re special, you see. Not your normal cats. They’re good at detecting signs of the plague. Especially the dogs. Strong, too. If you’re thinking about going back out there, you should take one.”

“I have to. I have to find Kitty.”

The old woman hums. She looks around, deciding on a sphinx with grey spots.

“Take him.” She said, waving her hand. The cat jumps onto the table and sits in front of Joan. His eyes are dark amber. “His name is Mercy.”

Joan nodded silently. She watched the cat leap with his strong, springy legs and perch on her shoulder.

“Go on.” The old woman said, “I suggest checking the church for your friend.”

“I will. Thank you.”

The old woman hums again.

“One more thing. Take that.”

————

Like the old woman said, Joan found Kitty at the church. Mercy led her up to one of the window sills so she could peek in, and she watched as several villagers through stones at Kitty, laughing at the way she tried to evade them like she was a little mouse. The sight made Joan’s blood boil in her veins.

The crashing of glass interrupted the horrible game. Joan leapt down from the window- landing from such a height sent pain rattling up her already-sore legs, but she ignored it.

“Fuck, she’s alive!” One man yelled.

“Did the disease reanimate her?” Another shouted.

“I thought she was dead!” A third hollered.

“Shit, she has a weapon!” One cried.

“THAT’S RIGHT!” Joan screeched as pandemonium broke out in the church, “RUN, YOU BASTARDS!!”

The villagers were all running in different directions, desperate to get away from the “infected girl”. A few actually attempt to attack her, which she moves a bit too slowly to evade. Her throat was about to get cut wide open when a hiss came from up above. There’s a flash of pink and grey; the man is howling in agony- Mercy has his claws driven deep into his eyes.

Joan watches as he scratches and scratches and scratches until one socket rips down in a large, bloody trench, and the other eyeball gets ripped right out, dangling from the string of flesh like the ball of a child’s paddle toy.

Joan stares, slightly stunned, before seeing a man charging at her out of the corner of her eye. His knife gleams in the torchlight. Joan lifts her axe and drives it into the side of his head.

The man’s skull shatters upon impact. Blood spurts into the open air. He stumbles then falls. Joan heaves the axe back down, carving a deep gash in his face. As she does so, words bubble up.

“NEVER—” There’s a horrible crack and crunch of bones. “EVER—” Brain matter, squished skin, and other fluids squelch wetly. “TOUCH—” The flesh splits open wide; muscle and tendon fray so easily. “HER—” Blood sprays out onto Joan’s face. “AGAIN!!!”

With one last strike, the man’s head, caved in and gored beyond belief, breaks open in two. The image of a melon being cut comes to Joan’s mind. Except melons don’t usually have a mutilated, mushed brain inside of their outer layer.

Joan’s lungs burned from exertion. She took deep, heavy breaths and raised one arm to use her sleeve to wipe away the sweat and blood dotting her face. The red fluid smears across her skin, but she scrubs it away as best as she can.

The axe wedged in a chunk of skull and brain matter squelches loudly when Joan pulls it free. It feels secure in her hand- normal. The weight of it is...comforting.

Mercy trots over. His paws and face are coated with blood. Joan remembers back to what that old woman said about the cats being different. When she saw the eviscerated body of an armed woman a few feet away, she believed the skinned lady about her statement- there’s no way a regular cat could spill someone’s guts like that.

Mercy jumps onto Joan’s shoulder. She uses her other, slightly cleaner sleeve to wipe off his feet and face. While she’s doing so, exactly why she just caved in someone’s skull came back to her.

“J-Joan?”

Joan whirled around. Mercy had to cling to her shoulder with his claws so he wouldn’t go flying off.

Kitty was huddled under a pew, shivering with tears streaming down her cheeks. Joan runs to her and immediately pulls her into a tight embrace.

“Oh, Kitty...” She whispers, holding the girl tightly. “I was so worried about you... Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“Th-they threw rocks at me,” Kitty whimpered, “C-called me a witch! I’m not a witch...”

“You’re not.” Joan said, “Those bastards don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Language,” Kitty squeaked.

“Sorry.” Joan said. She squeezed Kitty again. “It’s okay, now. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Kitty buried her face in her shoulder and Joan rocks her soothingly. The younger girl cries for a few minutes, but eventually calms down. Joan gently strokes her hair.

“Feeling a little better?” Joan asked.

“Mhm...” Kitty nodded. She looked up at Mercy, who was watching her with big eyes. “Oh! A kitty!” She giggles, “Like me!”

“That’s right,” Joan chuckles. She picks up Mercy and sets him in Kitty’s arms. “His name is Mercy! He’s gonna be coming with us.”

“Mercy,” Kitty repeated. She giggles, nuzzling her nose into the cat’s neck. “He’s warm!”

Joan smiled and stood up, taking one of Kitty’s hands. She slips her axe into her belt and the two began walking out from the church’s back entrance.

“Joan?”

“Yeah?”

“When are we going to see mummy again?”

Joan faltered in her step for a moment, then continued her normal stride. The image of Jane with an arrow through her throat flashed through her mind, but she shoved it away.

“Soon.” Joan finally answered. “Soon...”

“Okay.” Kitty nods. “Where are we going?”

“To...Catherine of Aragon.”

“Oh! She’s nice!” Kitty smiled. “She always wears pretty gold dresses. I think that’s her favorite color.” She pauses. “What’s your favorite color, Joey?”

“My favorite color?” Joan thought for a moment. “Light blue is pretty. So is grey. What’s yours?”

“Pink!” Kitty said proudly.

“Oooh, good pick,” Joan smiled down at the little girl.

“I know!” Kitty said, then gasped, which made Joan’s hand fly to her axe. “Joey! Joey, look! Flowers!”

Kitty ran forward, letting go of Joan’s hand. She set Mercy down in front of a large patch of flowers growing in the church garden, then started picking some for herself. Joan walked over, slightly less tense.

“Come here, come here!” Kitty waved her over excitedly and Joan crouched down next to her. “Look.”

Kitty began weaving several flowers together in elaborate strands until they formed a beautiful little crown. She reaches up and sets it on Joan’s head, taking a moment to fix her unruly hair, then stepped back, admiring her handiwork.

“There!” She beamed, “Perfect!”

Joan couldn’t help the blush that dusted her cheeks. She raised a hand and gently touched the flower crown as if it were the most precious thing to ever exist (and it very well may have been).

“Thank you,” She whispered.

“It’s for protection.” Kitty states.

Joan nodded, smiling softly.

“Thank you, Kit. Really.”

Kitty grins widely. She quickly clings back to Joan’s hand, nuzzling her head against her arm. Mercy leaps up onto Joan’s shoulder.

“Onward!” Kitty suddenly cried, “Catherine of Aragon, prepare for Princess Kitty and her trusty bodyguard Joan: lord of the flowers!”

Joan giggled. “Don’t forget our fierce knight, Sir Mercy!”

Mercy meows.

“Oh, of course! Of course! Princess Kitty, Joan: lord of the flowers, and Sir Mercy!”

“The most powerful band of warriors to ever grace England!”

“The most fearsome!”

“The most amazing!”

Mercy warbles a meow.

Joan and Kitty burst into fits of laughter.

(It’s strange, Joan thinks, how she’s able to laugh and play pretend like this after what happened in the past two days. After she murdered someone.)

(She likes laughing and playing pretend with Kitty.)

(She likes being Joan: lord of the flowers.)

“That Catherine woman isn’t gonna know what hit her.”

#siblings by bloodshed #tiny kat au #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six the musical #six fanfic #six fanfiction #six fic #katherine howard #joan on the keys #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: animal violence #tw: violence #tw: death

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot - “Mixed Signals” (NC17)

Best friends Kurt and Sebastian made a pact their freshman year of high school that if they haven't had sex by their senior year, they'd have sex with one another. Kurt is still a virgin, but Sebastian has already had sex - lots of sex - so he tells Kurt that he feels that makes their arrangement null and void.

It's an easy out because he doesn't want to admit just how much in love with Kurt he is, and that having him once, then never again, would break his heart.

But Kurt doesn't take it. (6263 words)

Notes: Okay, so I've been writing this one for the better part of two years. I don't know that I'm entirely happy with it, but I feel that it's done. So, here it is. Tell me what you think.

Read on AO3.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sebastian asks, his hands tightening around the steering wheel of his Lexus. “I mean, are you really really sure?”

Kurt sighs. When he’d found the nerve to bring the subject up at the first traffic light, Sebastian asked that same question. So far, he’s asked it at every light since. And Kurt has said yes every time. But this time around, Sebastian adds, “Why? Have you thought about it? Really thought about it? Because I just … I don’t understand.”

An emotionally exhausted Kurt gives Sebastian a one shoulder shrug. He thought Sebastian might have a few objections, but honestly, Kurt didn’t think it would be this big a headache. “I think … I kind of always knew that my first time would be with you anyway so I might as well, you know, get it out of the way.”

Sebastian can’t look at his best friend after that. “Gee. Thanks.”

“I … I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.” Kurt’s gaze falls to his hands in his lap, which have been strangling one another since he got in the car. It’s a grey day, cloudy overhead, a light rain dotting the windows. It’s the first rainy day of spring. Many Dalton students were bummed when it started raining, but Kurt thought that the rain, heralded by a low roar of thunder and flashes of blue lightning in the distance, seemed somewhat romantic.

And that’s what he wants for his first time more than anything else.

Ambiance.

“It’s alright.” Sebastian exhales. “I think I know what you mean.”

“Sebastian” - Kurt turns in his seat to face his friend staring intensely out the windshield at the busy intersection - “you’re my best friend. Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian says quietly, pulling through the intersection on autopilot when the light turns green. “Yeah, I am.”

“And we agreed freshman year that if we hadn’t had sex with anyone by the time we were seniors, we’d do it with each other.”

“But I’ve already had sex,” Sebastian points out, voice cracking slightly around the word sex because he’s not exactly proud of it. Having sex, for him, hadn’t been about love. It had barely been about attraction. It was more about curiosity. But once he found someone willing, he became addicted – not just to the act and the pleasure, but to the feeling of power that it gave him. He went from being Sebastian Smythe, snarky asshole, to Sebastian Smythe, sex god, and he liked the way that felt. He liked the way boys in school looked at him because of it. He liked the way the upperclassmen treated him with respect. But there came a time when he realized that he gave away something he didn’t know was important to him instead of saving it for someone special.

Someone special happens to be sitting beside him right now, asking him to make good on a dangerous promise. “So doesn’t that make this arrangement null and void?”

“I … I didn’t think of it that way,” Kurt says, his voice becoming smaller with each word. “It’s just that … you’ve had more opportunities than me. More guys want you. I didn’t have that. I still don’t.” He rolls to his right hip and stares out the window. “And it looks like you don’t want me either.”

“Kurt. It’s not … it’s not that.”

“It’s alright,” Kurt says, wiping away the fog his breath makes on the glass with the side of his hand. “To be honest, I don’t know why I thought you’d agree anyway. That pact we made … it was stupid. I should have known better than to try and hold you to it.”

“Kurt, I … dammit!” Sebastian pulls his car out of traffic, over to the nearest curb, and puts it in park with the engine running. “It’s not that I don’t want you.” He reaches for Kurt’s shoulder, but his hand remains hovering in the air just above. A second later, he returns it to his lap. Touching Kurt has always been easy – a hand on his shoulder, an arm inside his, their hands linked together. But while sitting in his car having this particular discussion, it seems condescending, much in the same way it feels when your dad claps you on the shoulder like you’re bosom buddies right before he tells you you’re not old enough to do something you want. “It’s that … you’re my best friend. When we made that pact, we were kids, not thinking about the consequences of our actions. It seemed like no big thing. But I know what sex between two people can do to a relationship. I don’t want to risk losing your friendship over this. It means too much to me.”

“It won’t ruin it,” Kurt says, not able to imagine how in the world it could. Kurt loves Sebastian. He always will. In fact, he can’t see this doing anything but bring them closer. Secretly, he hopes it will. And if it doesn’t? He’ll have had one moment of bliss with him, and he can finally let it go. “I won’t let it. I promise.”

Sebastian catches Kurt looking at him in the reflection of the window, brow pinched in the middle, blue eyes pleading for him to say yes. All Sebastian can think is this isn’t a good idea, but he can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t want Kurt to think he’s rejecting him for any other reason than he doesn’t want to lose him. But if Kurt’s promising, and Kurt always keeps his promises …

“Alright,” Sebastian says, his defeat palpable – a gargoyle sitting in his chest, weighing him down. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours.” Kurt sits up straight, folding his hands in his lap again, bubbling with excitement while, in the driver’s seat, Sebastian’s stomach rolls itself into a knot, turns to lead, and migrates to his feet.

Sebastian drives extra cautiously on the way to his house. Thank God for the rain giving him an excuse. He can’t take the long way or Kurt will know he’s stalling, but he wants to give Kurt time to back out. He begs Kurt with significant glances and uncomfortable sighs to change his mind the whole way until they reach the black iron gate of the Smythe estate. Sebastian punches in his code and drives through, praying that Kurt will change his mind, that they’ll get to his room and he’ll say, “You know what? I’m not ready for this. Can we watch Moulin Rouge instead?” and then that will be the end of that - for today, at least.

But Kurt doesn’t.

He practically skips from Sebastian’s car to the garage door, then grabs Sebastian’s hand and pulls him up the staircase to his room. Once they get there, Kurt falters a step, but only because he’s trying to decide between taking off his blazer and tie, or letting Sebastian do it for him, neither of which helps Sebastian, who has pictured undressing Kurt a dozen times, certain it would never happen.

Sebastian paces his room. He has to keep moving or else he might puke. He picks up a lacrosse trophy from his bookcase and moves it to his desk, then he moves it back, switching it out for a picture of him and Kurt taken last summer at Lake Cody. Kurt is wearing a swimsuit in the picture – a pair of unattractively boxy board shorts - but he’s also shirtless which, for the moment, adds insult to injury, especially considering the amount of times Sebastian has used that photograph as masturbation fuel. Not in a creepy way. It’s not solely about Kurt’s body when Sebastian fantasizes about his best friend. It’s about the things they have in common, the jokes they share, and the things they do together - the movies they watch, the music they listen to.

It’s about how comfortable they are around one another, how fond they are of each other, even if their relationship didn’t start off that way.

“So … did you have an idea how you wanted to do this?” Sebastian asks when he can’t see a way out of it. He needs to stop thinking of this as a prison sentence. He’s not a condemned man.

“What do you mean?” Kurt asks, fingers twisted inside the Windsor knot of his tie, having pulled it loose but not undone.

“Like a fantasy or something?”

Kurt lifts his eyes to the ceiling, smile growing and cheeks pinking as he bites his lower lip. “I’ve always imagined my first time being on a dewy meadow of lilac with Taylor Lautner.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows shoot up. He didn’t know that. He wouldn’t even have guessed that! How is he only hearing this for the first time now?

Sebastian isn’t Taylor Lautner, but maybe he can swing the dewy meadow of lilac. He glances out the window at the long stretch of grass that extends from his end of the house toward the pool. There’s a patch of something purple growing out there. Sebastian can’t see it from here, but he knows it’s there. And it’s been raining, so that might count as ‘dewy’. But a fork of lightning flashes that turns the grey sky a blistering white. The rain starts pelting the windows with tremendous force, and Sebastian decides that taking their amorous activities outside isn’t the best idea. It would be tragic if Kurt drowned during his first time … or got electrocuted. Explaining that to Kurt’s father when he showed up at the hospital would be beyond awkward.

“Uh … I’m not sure I can deliver that, Kurt.”

Kurt crosses his arms over his chest and gives himself a hug, lips pulling tight in embarrassment. “Well, what would you do if you actually wanted to have sex with me?”

Sebastian would laugh at that question if he didn’t think it would sound cruel - if Kurt didn’t look so self-conscious. The truth is Sebastian has a fantasy. Multiple fantasies, some of them so involved there’s no way he could execute them without giving himself away. So he decides to keep things simple. As far as Sebastian knows, Kurt has yet to be kissed – not one that Kurt feels counts. There were one or two first kisses with girls when Kurt tried to play it straight, hoping for more of his father’s attention.

Sebastian often wondered, if Kurt knew ahead of time that his father had already guessed he was gay, would those kisses have happened?

Either way, he’s never been properly kissed by a boy before – anything more than a chaste kiss on the lips.

Sebastian’s body shivers with want to give him that.

He takes a steadying breath and thinks, ‘Well, here goes nothing.’

“Let’s start with this.”

He puts a hand to Kurt’s cheek and leans in, but Kurt jerks away.

“Wait … what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to kiss you, Kurt,” Sebastian explains, still leaning in undeterred.

“Oh.”

“Don’t you want me to kiss you?” His gaze moves between Kurt’s lips and his eyes. He chuckles. He can’t help it. His best friend is so adorably confused by what he’s doing, it’s endearing.

But Sebastian doesn’t want to see him as adorable. Kurt is hot. He’s sexy. He’s desirable, unique, one-of-a-kind.

Unfortunately, he’s all of those things with the innocent, wide eyes of a bichon frise.

“Y-yes,” Kurt stutters because before his eyes, his best friend changes – his voice becomes sultry, his eyes go dark, the palm caressing his cheek feels hotter. Kurt trembles. This is happening. This is actually happening. He can’t believe this is happening.

And it’s happening with Sebastian.

After this, Kurt should be able to die a happy boy. “Yes. Please, kiss me.”

“Alright.”

“Wait. Should I … should I count to three?”

“Do you want to?”

“Uh … yes?”

“Then go ahead. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Okay.” Kurt nods, swallows hard. He’s excited, and though he looks mildly terrified as well, it makes Sebastian excited. This feels like a dream, one he’s had too many times to count. Except it’s real. Kurt is here, and this may be the only time Sebastian gets to have him. “One, two …”

Sebastian doesn’t let Kurt get to three. He wants to take him by surprise. He wants to make this unforgettable. If he could have his way, Kurt would want him so badly after this one kiss that he’d have no choice but to be his from this day forward.

Friends. That’s what Kurt promised – they would remain friends.

Keeping his best friend is the most Sebastian can hope for.

Sebastian wraps his arms around Kurt, sliding his hands up his back till one reaches the base of his head and cradles. Sebastian holds him close, possessively, fitting their lips together as if they had all the time in the world. This is exactly how Kurt dreamed of being kissed, how he dreamed of being held. He thought he’d have to search years, be more experienced, before he found a man who could fulfill his fantasy.

Little did he know that that someone was waiting for him behind Sebastian’s bedroom door.

Had he known, would he have come to his best friend sooner?

They part reluctantly with a breath left between them. Kurt seems stunned, unable to move as he comes to terms with the fact that he’s just been kissed – a real kiss, the first ever of his life. But something about that kiss gets under Sebastian’s skin. It motivates him. He wants this. He’s always wanted this. He longs to feel Kurt’s body against his, feel his heart beating against his chest as if it were his own. He doesn’t want power over Kurt, not like he has with other boys. Quite the opposite. He wants to give himself to Kurt. He wants a first time with Kurt. He wants to make this good for him, for the both of them. He knows he can.

He doesn’t want to rush, but he can’t wait to get started.

Sebastian kicks off his shoes and pulls off his socks. He tosses off his pants, followed by his shirt, his undershirt, and his briefs, and suddenly, as Kurt watches, it becomes too real. There are things happening, things he’s seeing, that he never anticipated, that he wasn’t prepared for. The first, and probably the most jarring, is Sebastian naked. Completely naked. And not naked like shower-in-the-locker-room naked (which Kurt never has, but which he’s definitely passed by and noticed because how can you not notice??), but aroused naked, which is a thousand percent different – Sebastian’s heavy breathing, the dark look in his eyes, the rosy flush to his skin, the hair between his legs, and his cock, hard and bobbing, leaking at the tip. Leaking because of the prospect of having sex or because of him, Kurt is reluctant to ask. But these are things that Kurt never included in his fantasies because it never dawned on him to add them.

And he especially never thought he’d see them on Sebastian.

“Are you okay?” Sebastian asks, more worried than flattered by Kurt’s drop-jawed expression and held breath.

“Wha---what?” Kurt gives himself a mental shake. “Yeah. I’m great. P-perfect. Fine. Why?”

“Well, you were so gung-ho when we got here, but now you seem stuck on stupid.”

Kurt hates that term ‘stuck on stupid’, but it’s the disappointment in Sebastian’s voice that brings him out of his stupor. Kurt doesn’t know what changed Sebastian’s mind, why he’s inexplicably so eager, but he’s definitely not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I … I just … I guess I didn’t realize …”

“Didn’t realize what?”

“I didn’t realize how …” Kurt has to stop himself from looking Sebastian over from head to toe for the eighth time. He doesn’t want to be rude, but Jesus Christ! “… how incredibly handsome you are.”

“You’re just saying that,” Sebastian replies, taking himself by surprise. He has no doubts about his looks. He prides himself on them. He’s had other boys call him handsome and more. But hearing it from Kurt, in the heat of this moment, makes it seem truer.

“I’m … I’m not.” Kurt shudders as Sebastian reaches out for him, undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. “You … you are. And I …”

“You’re handsome, too, you know.” Sebastian lines Kurt’s lips with kisses as he slips the shirt from his shoulders.

“Not like you,” Kurt admits, lifting his chin up as Sebastian moves down his neck. “I’m not as … as athletic … or as dashing …”

“Shhh. Don’t …” Sebastian hushes him as he travels down his body. He’s used to Kurt’s self-deprecating commentary, but he can’t listen to it now. Sebastian has seen boys with gorgeous bodies before. But Kurt’s is gorgeous in ways that Kurt refuses to see. Sebastian wants to show him that even if other boys at their school are ignorant enough to overlook the wondrous things about him, one person hasn’t.

One person hasn’t for the past seven years.

Kurt happens to have Sebastian’s favorite body type. He doesn’t spend hours in the gym like some guys, trying to turn into something he’s not. His lean muscles and flat stomach come from living – eating right, dancing, cheerleading, singing. But he’s soft in places, too, the way a boy his age should be. He’s not trying to grow up too quickly – today’s request notwithstanding.

But who is Sebastian to judge? He was a sophomore when he had his v-card punched.

Kurt waited till senior year.

Kurt is tempted to peek down at Sebastian as he makes his way south of the equator, peeling down Kurt’s slacks and underwear as he goes, but he’s paralyzed. He’s not scared. Anxious, but not scared, not anymore. It’s easier for him to lose himself this way, separate himself from his apprehensions and simply focus on what his best friend is doing to him. He worries about how he smells or tastes. That’s another thing he’d never considered during his fantasies, but it’s a very real concern to him at the moment. He does have one thing going for him.

They didn’t have P.E. today.

But Sebastian doesn’t go that route. He seems married to the task of getting Kurt undressed. Once he pulls down Kurt’s briefs, he takes a few moments to appreciate what Kurt has – what no one but his doctor has seen. He kisses down Kurt’s shaft, licks a few times around the head, but leaves it at that, and Kurt is relieved. Unpleasant tastes and smells aside, considering how his cock responds to that touch, had Sebastian taken him in his mouth, he’d probably shoot straight down Sebastian’s throat in seconds.

Kurt doesn’t want this to be over, not when it nearly took an act of Congress to get him here.

Sebastian kisses a trail back up Kurt’s body and finds his lips again. Sebastian’s amazing mouth occupies Kurt’s mind completely, tugging gently at his lips and constantly whispering his name – “Kurt … oh, Kurt …” Strong arms move him to the bed. He registers the sensation of floating until he lands on the mattress, Sebastian’s comforter and pillows underneath him.  

“How are we doing this?” Sebastian asks, his husky voice in Kurt’s ear the thing dreams are made of.

“Wha---what do you mean?”

“I mean - me in you, or you in me?”

“Uh … you in me? I don’t think I’m ready for the other way just yet.”

“Fair enough.”

Sebastian normally doesn’t give his lovers a choice. He’s not too fond of being entered, though he has been a couple of times. It’s nothing more than personal preference. But for Kurt, he’d do it.

He’d do anything for Kurt.

Sebastian continues kissing Kurt, pressing their bodies together, covering Kurt’s body with his own so he can be full of him. He raises Kurt’s arms above his head and pins them at the wrists, only letting go to reach somewhere out of sight and grab a condom and a bottle of lube. Kurt is curious where he had those stashed since they seemed nearby and at the ready, but he doesn’t want to be the one to break their kiss and find out. Sebastian eventually does, turning his face to the side and tearing open the condom packet with one hand and his teeth. Kurt inhales quickly in anticipation, then scrunches his nose.

“What?” Sebastian asks, kneeling to roll the condom down his length. Kurt watches, a little less mystified but eyes still glued to the act.

“I just … I didn’t think condoms would smell like that.” Kurt takes another sniff, the odor more pungent now that it’s unrolled, and giggles. “It’s sort of gross.”

Sebastian has a remark, but he holds back. This is Kurt’s first time, his first firsthand experience with anything sexual really. As far as Sebastian knows, all Kurt knows from (graphic) sex is what he saw in the fourteen-and-a-half seconds of porno he walked in on Sebastian watching one afternoon during Winter Break. Romance is important to Kurt. Condoms aren’t romantic. They just aren’t. They’re utilitarian. But Sebastian has used so many of them, a lot about them has escaped his notice. Kurt is making an observation. Sebastian can’t shoot down everything Kurt says.

He gives himself a second to think about. He takes a breath in. His nose scrunches, too.

Kurt is right. They do smell gross.

“Yeah, alright,” he concurs. “But they’re a necessary evil, so try to overlook it.”

Sebastian goes back to kissing Kurt, as Kurt had hoped, but instead of holding his wrists above his head (which Kurt kind of liked), he’s toying with the bottle of lube. Amidst Sebastian’s intoxicating kisses, Kurt’s heart starts to pound. It’s a turn on for Sebastian, feeling Kurt’s heart drum over his own, but for Kurt, it’s more of a cry.

As much as Kurt wants to have sex, this is the part he’s looking forward to the least.

There’s no amount of bracing in the world that’s going to prepare Kurt for this.

Sebastian anticipates resistance. It happens during most first times, even with boys who finger themselves in private. But Kurt’s lower half literally turns to stone. Once Sebastian gets past Kurt’s pinched cheeks, he finds Kurt’s entrance, the muscle squeezed so tight it feels like circling solid rock.

Sebastian tries everything he can think of to get Kurt to relax – kisses to his neck and shoulders, sucking on his nipples, even a few more licks around the head of his cock. But the more he tries to touch his rear, the more he massages and strokes, the tenser Kurt becomes. Sebastian sighs. All of this anxiety, all of this doubt, all of this mental negotiation and gambling, and he’s stuck right at the starting gate.

“Kurt, honey, you’re gonna have to relax.”

“I---I am relaxed,” Kurt says, his voice so taut it jumps an octave.

“Well, do you think you could get more relaxed?”

“Like … how much more?”

“Well, at this rate, maybe you should be asleep for your first time.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. Can’t you just … shove it in?”

“Yeah, if I wanted to bend my dick in half. Or tear something. I don’t want to hurt you, Kurt!”

“I know, I know.” Kurt grinds his teeth till his head starts to throb, on the brink of laughing and crying at the same time. He knew that his first time might be problematic and that it could hurt, but he didn’t know it would be this difficult. He didn’t know that his body would reject Sebastian’s attempts at entering it. It’s never like this in the movies. He’s only seen a handful of NC17 rated rom-coms, but they make it seem like, if you can get your clothes off, everything else just sort of falls into place. “It’s just … this is so weird.”

“Because … because of me?”

“No!” Kurt answers quickly. “No, not because of you! Not at all! It just … it doesn’t feel natural. Or particularly sanitary.”

“Look …” Sebastian takes a breath, biding his time to think, which is impossible when his body, for one, is ready to go. He should call it quits, convince Kurt that sex – at least, penetrative sex – isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He could just blow Kurt. Regardless of what the girls at Crawford Country Day like to tell one another, oral sex is still sex. It’s right there in the name. As far as Sebastian is concerned, if he blew Kurt, that would still count as him losing his virginity.

But he knows that’s not what Kurt wants.

In the middle of Sebastian struggling with this conundrum, Kurt begins massaging his shoulders, drawing lines between the freckles on his skin with delicate strokes of his fingertips. It feels too good. Kurt’s touch is so unpracticed but so familiar. Sebastian doesn’t want it to end. But he has to turn Kurt over, get him on his hands and knees if he has any chance of entering him. He’d given it a go with Kurt lying on his back because Sebastian thought that would be more romantic. He could kiss him on the lips, look into his eyes.

If Kurt would agree to make out with him for the next hour or so while Sebastian gave him a hand job, they could still do that. Maybe that would be a decent compromise?

Sebastian watches Kurt’s frustrated face morph into a hopeful expression. Kurt deserves more than a compromise. He deserves this, if this is what he wants.

“Concentrate on relaxing,” he says, taking Kurt by the shoulders and turning him over. Kurt complies, flipping first on to his stomach, then rising to his hands and knees when Sebastian pulls up on his hips.

“O---okay,” Kurt mutters. “I’ll … I’ll just relax.”

“Good. Deep breaths.”

“Deep … breaths,” Kurt repeats as Sebastian begins to touch him, begins to kiss him, begins to run a slick finger around the entrance of his hole and try over and over to seduce him open.

“Why don’t you try and think about someone you want to make love to,” Sebastian suggests as he sucks lightly at Kurt’s neck. “You said you have a fantasy about Taylor Lautner.”

“T---Taylor Lautner’s a b--bit out of my league, don’t you think?” Kurt asks, his voice unsteady as Sebastian finally manages to slide his index finger inside. He crooks it, then slowly works it in and out, adding another without asking when he knows Kurt is ready. Slowly, patiently, he unlocks places in Kurt’s body that Kurt didn’t know existed – places of pleasure so extreme they’re almost too embarrassing to enjoy.

“No, he’s not.”

Swirling in a mist of euphoria, Kurt laughs, bitterly considering everything he had to go through to get to this point with his best friend – the boy who was supposed to be a sure thing. “You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not,” Sebastian whispers into Kurt’s neck. “I’m not just saying that. He’s not out of your league. No one is. Anyone would be lucky to be with you.”

Kurt is tempted to laugh out loud this time, but the sincerity in Sebastian’s tone stops him. Right here, right now, Kurt is the sure thing. Sebastian doesn’t have to flatter him to have sex with him, best friend or not. “R-really?”

“Really, Kurt. Anyone. Now, pick someone and concentrate.”

There’s a pause, and an emptiness when Sebastian removes his fingers, but that’s replaced by an overwhelming fullness when Sebastian starts to enter him, inch by inch in and out, punctuated by the most sinful sounding moans in between.

In his head, Kurt scrolls through a list of the men he’s ever found attractive – John Stamos, Ezra Miller, what’s his name from that TV show The Flash, the boy who sits in front of him in math class, pre-stepbrother Finn Hudson. Eventually, Kurt settles on the boy whispering in his ear, kissing his shoulder, moaning against his skin. And when Kurt does, he feels himself melt, his overly critical self lifting away.

“Oh God, Kurt … oh God … you feel … so incredible …”

Kurt tries to respond. He opens his mouth, compliment on his tongue. But as Sebastian moves, snapping his hips in a smooth and steady rhythm, those words dissolve. What Sebastian is doing to him feels sublime. Too sublime. And a lump, like coal, forms in his chest, burning in his heart.

Kurt knows that his best friend isn’t a virgin. He didn’t ask for details, but he knew that Sebastian had been having sex with other boys from Dalton regularly up until a few months ago. It bothered Kurt, but he didn’t dwell on it. Or he tried not to. It wasn’t a part of their relationship together. Sebastian didn’t kiss and tell, so it was easy for Kurt to pretend like Sebastian’s sex life was as non-existent as his own.

They aren’t two virgins fumbling their way through this act together.

It isn’t until Sebastian starts fucking him that Kurt realizes exactly how experienced his best friend is.

“That’s it, baby,” Sebastian says. “Just relax and let go. I’ll make you feel good. I promise.”

And Sebastian does. He does things for Kurt he’s never done for any other boy. He kisses him gently, explores his body with his hands and his tongue, hugs him, holds him, never more than a few inches apart from him.

He doesn’t have sex with Kurt. He makes love to Kurt. And that’s a first for Sebastian.

But Kurt doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that this time, for Sebastian, is significant.

“God, Kurt,” Sebastian moans. “I’m going to cum, I swear …”

“M-me, too,” Kurt mumbles, not convinced he is. He feels like it, heat building up inside him the way it has on the rare occasions he’s masturbated, but he’s not quite there yet. He needs a little something more.

“Are you sure?” Sebastian asks, winding an arm around Kurt’s waist and reaching for his cock. The second his fingers wrap around and hold, Kurt gasps. His eyes pop, his jaw drops, and everything comes into focus.

“Oh, God,” he squeaks, his mind dropping out of existence. He feels like he’s levitating, the only thing keeping him from lifting away into the atmosphere - Sebastian’s arm around his waist.

Sebastian starts to stroke. He must feel the waves rolling through Kurt’s body because he begins to speed up. He braces himself with one arm against the wall and yet still manages to kiss Kurt tenderly on the back of the neck. The fact that he can do it all at the same time leaves Kurt in awe. But then he remembers – Sebastian can do it because he’s had practice. Because he’s done this before.

Because Kurt isn’t his first, and he probably won’t be his last.

And that thought nearly ruins Kurt’s orgasm.

As it is, it’s stunted compared to what he thought it would be, but it’s still better than anything he’s ever experienced alone.

Because he’s with someone who knows what they’re doing.

Because he’s with Sebastian.

Kurt has always considered himself mature for his age – more mature than his best friend by far. But now, on his hands and knees beneath Sebastian’s body, he feels more like a teenager than he has in a long time. As Kurt cums in Sebastian’s arms, his head dropping forward with Sebastian’s forehead pressed against his neck, Kurt can’t help but wonder – was Sebastian’s first time like this? Why did he do it? Why would you make yourself this vulnerable to someone? Why would you do this with someone unless you loved them, heart and soul?

Oh God! Did Sebastian love the boy he lost his virginity to? He … he doesn’t think so, but he can’t be sure. How does Kurt not know for sure?

Shame washes through him as he realizes he doesn’t know for one reason and one reason alone.

He’s selfish. Sebastian tried to talk to him about it after it happened but, childishly, Kurt stuck his fingers in his ears and started chanting, “Na, na, na, na …” He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to imagine his best friend in that position. It was the only real boundary they had in their relationship.

And it was created because Kurt is the worst friend ever.

So much for being the mature one.

Sebastian wraps his arms around Kurt’s chest and rests his head against his shoulder.

“Oh, God … oh, Kurt …” he groans, sated.

Relaxed.

Satisfied.

And even though Kurt came, he doesn’t feel any of those things.

Kurt stops breathing. He starts hyperventilating. He covers his face with his hands.

What has he done?

He thought he could do this, thought he could remove himself from his deeper feelings about Sebastian, or indulge in them safely, and get this over with, but he was wrong. He was naïve and wrong and now …

“Kurt?” Sebastian’s purrs against Kurt’s neck stop. “Are you … are you okay?”

“No,” Kurt mumbles through his fingers, nails digging into his hairline. How could he be so stupid?

“What’s wrong?”

Kurt shakes his head. What is he supposed to say? How does he tell his best friend that this wasn’t about some dumb pact? That it wasn’t really even so much about losing his virginity? That he wanted to have sex with Sebastian because he knew he couldn’t have him?

How does he look at Sebastian after today? How does he bear the pain when Sebastian finds a new conquest?

“I’m … no. I’m sorry, Sebastian.”

“What is it? Are you hurt?” He looks Kurt over, searching for any visible marks or bleeding, some sign of an injury.

“No, I’m not hurt,” Kurt lies. “I … I was wrong. This … it wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Kurt …” Sebastian puts a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, but Kurt recoils.

“P-please. Please, I … I need a minute to myself. I need to ...” Without finishing his thought, Kurt slides off the bed, avoiding Sebastian’s touch as he collects his clothes and puts them back on – underwear, t-shirt, slacks, ticking them off in his head so he can keep his mind away from what happened. When he’s mostly dressed, the rest he decides to carry with him. He’ll go downstairs and call his dad to come get him. Then he’ll wait outside and …

“Kurt?” Sebastian pulls on a pair of navy sweatpants and a white t-shirt in less time than it takes Kurt to reach the bedroom door. “Kurt, don’t … please, don’t leave.”

“I’m sorry.” Kurt grabs his blazer, worrying the fabric between his fingers, his eyes locked on the door. He’s not itching to leave. Sebastian’s room is as comforting to him as his own. But he can’t stay. “But I can’t … I can’t be here right now.”

“No!” Sebastian says. It’s not commanding. It’s disbelieving. Devastated. “I---I did what you asked me to, Kurt! You said this wouldn’t ruin our friendship! You … I …” Sebastian goes dumb, mouth hanging open, shaking his head. This is the exact opposite of everything Kurt said would happen! The exact opposite of everything Sebastian wanted! “Y-you’re the best friend I have, Kurt! Kurt, please, don’t leave! Not like this. I … I can’t lose you, Kurt! I can’t …!”

Sebastian chokes on the end of his sentence, and Kurt turns around. He looks at his friend – desperate, frantic, heartbroken. Kurt’s head tugs him towards the door, but his heart is leading him back. Kurt has always been the kind of person to follow his head before his heart, no matter how painful that’s been for him in the past.

But not this time. Not when something more important than both is on the line.

Kurt wasn’t alone in this. He didn’t spend the past hour fucking himself. There was someone else, a reluctant participant whose feelings Kurt hadn’t considered as much as he should have.

A boy who Kurt loves, who made his first time magical.

A boy who Kurt will have used if he walks out the door.

Sebastian may have started out the bully when the two of them met back in middle school, but it’s Kurt who turned out to be the jerk.

He puts his things down.

“You’re right.” Kurt sniffles. “You’re absolutely right, and I’m sorry.” He walks over to his friend and wraps his arms around his waist. “Please … hold me?”

Sebastian’s arms move in slow motion, winding around Kurt’s body, hurt feelings making him insecure. But as soon as his hands feel the warmth of Kurt’s body, he holds him tight, rocking Kurt in his arms. It feels nice to hold him like this.

It feels damn near close to perfect.

Sebastian wants this for as long as he can have it, but he doesn’t know how to make that happen.

Not when he narrowly stopped Kurt from bolting out the door.

“What do we do now?” Kurt asks.

“I don’t know,” Sebastian says. “But please, tell me you’ll stay so we can work this out? Please?”

“I will,” Kurt says. Those two words work their way into Sebastian’s soul and he holds Kurt tighter. “I promise.”

#kurtbastian #sebkurt #sekurt #frankie writes

[sevi007]

Child of light

(Excuse me, @disasterartistfangirl, but was that you who asked for more Yondad ficlets, I don't remember? =D)

Have a little, self-indulgent Yondu and Peter story, set back in the days where Peter was still a young boy.

Enjoy!

____________________________________________________________

 „I’m so tiiiired… and it huuuurts…“

„Will ya quit that whinin‘ already, Quill.“

“But, look! I have blisters!”

Yondu grunted, sidestepping as Peter all but shoved his palms at him. Not that it helped much – for someone who was only the height of Yondu’s chest, Peter could make it surprisingly difficult to escape him in any way.

And there really were some blisters starting to form on the boy’s palms.

“I said we would get ya a better blaster for next time. ‘S happened on my first blaster practice, too. Now quit it.”

“Ow,” Peter said very slowly and very deliberately.

Yondu glared down at him, close to cuffing the boy over the head. But then the whining would only increase, and he would have to endure it all the way back to the ship.

Huffing and rubbing one hand over his face, Yondu shoved the boy lightly forward. “Move yer ass, Quill, I wanna reach the ship in this lightyear.”

Luckily enough, Peter pouted for a while longer, but he had never been someone to bear grudges for long. He was already hopping and jogging through the forest again minutes later, zigzagging between the trees, running backwards to look at Yondu as he talked.

 “But I did good today, right?”

“No.

“I hit the targets! A lot!”

“A lot ain’t enough in the real world, boy. You’ll have ta hit every target.”

“But I am getting better,” Peter insisted, not letting his mood be darkened that easily.

Yondu inwardly groaned, but didn’t argue, and somehow, that seemed enough for the boy to start beaming like a sun.

Damn him, the Centaurian thought without any bite at all, watching with a headshake as Peter started jumping up and down as he went, declaring himself a Master shooter.

 They managed to walk through the forest in silence for a few minutes, Peter racing ahead, Yondu every now and then chancing a glance around to check if anything was there. He had settled on a planet without real dangers, but still, walking through a forest in the middle of the night while simultaneously having to keep out an eye for a Terran tended to make him more careful.

“YONDU!”

Especially if said Terran suddenly started screaming a bit further ahead.

Swallowing the curse wanting to leave him, Yondu reached for his arrow, feeling his shiver in its holster as the whistle already danced on his lips.

 All tension fell when Peter leaned around a tree up ahead, cheeks flushed with excitement, apparently in best health. “Yondu, come look - what is that?!”

“Quill, don’t’cha start screamin’ all of sudden…!” Yondu stomped over to the boy, arrow forgotten as he grabbed the child at the scruff of his neck, shaking him. “Don’ ever do that again, or ya’ll have an arrow in a place where it shouldn’t be!”

“Owowow, sorry!” Peter made himself limp, just dangling in the none-too-tight grip until the shaking was over. Then he blinked up innocently. “Will you come look now?”

 Letting go with a last shake, slightly satisfied when Peter stumbled, Yondu allowed himself to relax again, grumbling under his breath about crazy Terrans.

Peter decided to ignore him, instead pointing ahead to whatever he had found. “What is that?”

Yondu followed the gesture, squinting through between the trees. Slightly below them lay a meadow, a shallow plain only illuminated by the three moons above them in the sky – and by little balls of light - blue, green, red, yellow and more - floating over the dark grass.

It took Yondu a moment to understand that Peter was pointing at exactly those balls of light, and when he did, he didn’t understand the confusion. Even he knew those things, even though he had seen them through bars for a long time of his life.

Grunting, Yondu shrugged. “Lightin’ bugs.”

Peter looked up as him as if he had just told him that they were related, jaw slack and eyes wide. „You have fireflies in space?!“

Not really understanding the boy’s excitement, Yondu huffed. “That what ya call ‘em on Terra? Guess we do.”

“They have different colors,” Peter said, putting emphasis on the last words as if it was the most important thing in history.

“…Yeah.”

 At that confirmation – as if he needed it, it was right in front of him, sometimes Yondu just didn’t understand Terrans – Peter managed to rip his gaze away from the little lights, looking over at Yondu, then back again.

As the widest, brightest smile spread over the boy’s face, Yondu got a bad feeling.

“Quill, no…”

“I’m gonna get one!”

And off the child was, bounding away between the trees and out into the field behind it.

Yondu swore loudly, chasing after him, but he was slower, not fueled by raw excitement, and really, hadn’t Peter said that he was tired?

Tired my ass! the Ravager thought as he slid down the little hill into the meadow, bellowing, “Peter Quill, ya get back here, ya lil’…!”

He trailed off and stood still, watching Peter bound over the field, hooting and laughing. The boy was jumping around like a madman, trying to snatch one of the quick little lights out of the air as he went, and didn’t even care as he almost fell flat on his face a few times.

Casting a quick glance around, Yondu contemplated if it was necessary to go snatch the boy and be off. The planet was peaceful without any threats for a Terran child (he had made sure of that when choosing it for practice), and the crew would give a crap if they returned five minutes later.

Just for a bit, the Centaurian decided. A few minutes, so that he wouldn’t have to listen to the boy whining about being dragged away from his fun.

„Yondu!“

Before Yondu could even so much as huff at the overly energetic boy, Peter was right in front of him, bouncing on the ball of his feet while looking up at him with an utterly delighted expression. The boy’s hands were cupped, blue light emitting from within. The source of it was strong enough that it made Peter’s hands look almost transparent, shadows visible where the delicate bones lay under the thin skin.

For a startling, horrifying second, Yondu saw only bones, a whole cave full of them, and…

…Peter was talking, and it made him snap out of his reverie. “What?”

“Look,” Peter repeated, holding his cupped hands up.

Yondu hesitated, not sure what the boy wanted from him, since he was looking after all. Then it dawned on him that he was required to kneel to get closer, like Peter wanted.

If anybody else had requested such a thing of him, to lower himself in any way, he would have laughed at them on his best days and sent his arrow after them on worse days. With Peter and those big, hopeful eyes, he found himself unable to do either of those things.

Before he could even think about it and what it meant, he was already moving with a grumble, going down onto one knee so that he was on eye level with his charge.

As soon as he was where the boy had wanted him, Peter all but shoved his cupped hands at him. “Here, hold that.”

“Quill…”

“Just like me, just cup your hands. Please?”  

Sighing quietly, Yondu did it, deciding that this would be over sooner if he indulged the child.

Peter brightened considerably as he saw his success, waiting patiently until the bigger hands were where he wanted them. Then he slipped his hands between them, knuckles brushing over Yondu’s palms. “See, now, if I do this…”

Very, very slowly, Peter pulled his hands away, out of Yondu’s grip. And suddenly, it was the Ravager who was holding the firefly in his palms.

Yondu’s first, startled reaction was to twitch as if to pull away, but Peter’s hands were back, cupping around his, so he held still.

The effect of the blue light was dampened by the color of Yondu’s skin – where the firefly had colored Peter in an array of different blue tones, the blue Centaurian skin did not look half as spectacular in this lighting. Still, Peter beamed down where he looked into Yondu’s cupped hands, giggling merrily as he watched the little ball of light flutter around between battle-roughened palms.

The little wings and legs tickled where they touched sensitive patches of skin, and Yondu barely dared to move too much, suddenly aware of how fragile that little life in his palms was. One wrong move, and he would squash the glowing little bug.

Just like the boy.

His gaze flitted up to the child without him consciously deciding to do so. Peter’s face was threatening to split under his wide, delighted smile as he leaned over Yondu, watching the firefly with rapt attention. His eyes were sparkling, hands warm around the Centaurian’s, and for all the world, this child didn’t look like it belonged with a bunch of murderous, stealing Ravagers.

 Damn, I could snap his neck apart with two fingers, Yondu thought with startling clarity and a snarl. Boy couldn’t even blink before it happens.

And still ‘e ain’t afraid of me.

A flutter tickled over his palms, Peter let out a little sound, and Yondu looked down again just in time to see the blue firefly escape his hands.

“Ah, there it goes,” Peter watched with some disappointment as the little bug fluttered up and disappeared somewhere in the dark. “We had lots of them back on Terran, in the area where I lived. Mum could make them stay super long. She had, like, five or six between her hands, and they didn’t fly away.”

Yondu watched as that old shadow passed over the boy’s face, that one that always came when Peter talked about his late mother. It overrode the brightness from before, making something clench painfully in Yondu’s chest.

 Having nothing else to say and not wanting to think about the sudden pain, he grumbled, “Well, I sure as hell ain’t yer Momma, Quill.”

Peter blinked, turning back to look at him, and seemed to consider for a moment. Then a small, soft smile curled his lips. “Nah. You sure as hell aren’t.”

Something about the way Peter said it, about the way he looked at him, irked Yondu. It was nearly the same feeling as the pull from before, but less painful.

Not liking with which ease the boy could make him feel confusing things, could make him feel at all, Yondu frowned, whistling once.

The arrow flew out of its holster, hovering next to Peter’s temple.

“That a joke at my expense, boy?”

“Jeez, not everything is a joke at your expense,” Peter leaned back from the sharp tip, but didn’t really look concerned about the weapon able to skewer him.

And Yondu knew that. The boy had seen the arrow protecting him more often than it had threatened him, and lost his fear of it at some point.

Now Peter was trying to carefully touch the light at the end of the weapon, gently poking it.

With a roll of his eyes, Yondu sent the arrow in a wide bow over the meadow, letting it circle them in a wide arch.

It did more than he had anticipated.

Suddenly, the up until now dark ground burst with light, red, yellow, blue and many more, and a whole cloud of fireflies suddenly illuminated the night. The arrow and its light had startled them up, and now there was a whole swarm of them, fluttering over the expanse of the meadow. There were all kinds of them, myriads of colors, dipping the area around the boy and the Ravager into a rainbow of light.

“WOAH!” Peter’s eyes went wide as plates as he stared at the spectacle. A jolt went through his frame, the urge to run off again barely suppressed, and he chanced a glance at the man beside him.

Yondu whistled as he stood to call his arrow back, all the while waving his hand in a manner that could be interpreted as Do what’cha want, I don’t care.

 The flash of a brilliant smile, and Peter took off quicker as an arrow, racing straight into the middle of the spectacle. “WOOOOH!”

How did one single Terran even have such boundless energy, Yondu wondered to himself.

Peter was laughing aloud, a cheerful, childish laughter that Yondu had not heard often from him anymore, not after they had started to train the boy and make him work for his stay. The child was bouncing over the grass, twirling in his spot one second and running through the clouds of light the next, laughing and cheering. The fireflies were painting him in every color of the universe, making his teeth gleam with his smile and his eyes twinkle not only with happiness.

“Wooohooo! This is awesome!”

Watching from the borders, Yondu rolled his eyes, ready to call out to the boy to get it together again – it were only bugs, by the celestials.

He didn’t do it, though.

Peter stopped running in the middle of the swarm, instead starting one of his silly Terran’s dances, humming loudly as he did so.

Yondu would deny it to the end of his days, but as Peter whirled and pirouetted amidst the swarm of fireflies, palms facing up and arms outstretched as if he wanted to embrace the whole galaxy…

Just for one moment, Peter looked like he was dancing among the stars, as if he belonged there.

A breathless chuckle and a thump caught Yondu’s attention again. The boy had let himself fall to the ground in the middle of another pirouette, laying on his back and laughing up at the stars and the fireflies.

Deciding that playtime was over, Yondu crossed the field. The fireflies escaped from where he walked along, leaving only Peter and the borders of the meadow illuminated.

Peter was breathless from running and laughing, smile still edged onto his face as he spread his arms out and tilted his head back to look at Yondu when the Ravager came to a halt next to him.

“I’m dizzy,” the boy declared in a way that sounded utterly happy about that fact.

“No surprise there,” Yondu gave back, unable to stop the smirk flitting over his face.

Of course Peter caught it, relaxing further. His gaze strayed away from his caretaker, over to the fireflies still dancing through the air. “But it’s really pretty, right?”

“Guess so.”

“Can we… can we like, do that again sometime? When we come back here?”

Yondu didn’t look down, knowing that he would meet that hopeful gaze again that made everything more difficult. “Ain’t gonna promise ya anythin’, Quill.”

“That’s okay,” Peter hummed contentedly, the tune soon morphing into the songs he loved so much.

(And no, Yondu did not know all of them by heart, of course not, why would he.)

“Since they’re so pretty...,” Yondu mused aloud, showing off his teeth in a smirk, “Ya think I should put some of the little buggers in a jar and keep ‘em, eh?”

The reaction was instant and impulsive, “Yondu, no! They need to be free, man!”

“Ain’t serious, Quill. Yeesh, still so soft-hearted, boy.”

Peter’s put-on pout dissolved into a wide grin before he laughed heartily up at the man, with no care in the universe.

And, just this once, Yondu allowed himself to laugh back at the little Terran.

#fanfiction #my writing #headcanon #yondu udonta #peter quill #guardians of the galaxy #spoilers #guardians of the galaxy vol 2 #gotg

[readbookywooks]

CHAPTER 1 He began his new life standing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air. Metal ground against metal; a lurching shudder shook the floor beneath him. He fell down at the sudden movement and shuffled backward on his hands and feet, drops of sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. His back struck a hard metal wall; he slid along it until he hit the corner of the room. Sinking to the floor, he pulled his legs up tight against his body, hoping his eyes would soon adjust to the darkness. With another jolt, the room jerked upward like an old lift in a mine shaft. Harsh sounds of chains and pulleys, like the workings of an ancient steel factory, echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls with a hollow, tinny whine. The lightless elevator swayed back and forth as it ascended, turning the boy’s stomach sour with nausea; a smell like burnt oil invaded his senses, making him feel worse. He wanted to cry, but no tears came; he could only sit there, alone, waiting. My name is Thomas, he thought. That … that was the only thing he could remember about his life. He didn’t understand how this could be possible. His mind functioned without flaw, trying to calculate his surroundings and predicament. Knowledge flooded his thoughts, facts and images, memories and details of the world and how it works. He pictured snow on trees, running down a leaf-strewn road, eating a hamburger, the moon casting a pale glow on a grassy meadow, swimming in a lake, a busy city square with hundreds of people bustling about their business. And yet he didn’t know where he came from, or how he’d gotten inside the dark lift, or who his parents were. He didn’t even know his last name. Images of people flashed across his mind, but there was no recognition, their faces replaced with haunted smears of color. He couldn’t think of one person he knew, or recall a single conversation. The room continued its ascent, swaying; Thomas grew immune to the ceaseless rattling of the chains that pulled him upward. A long time passed. Minutes stretched into hours, although it was impossible to know for sure because every second seemed an eternity. No. He was smarter than that. Trusting his instincts, he knew he’d been moving for roughly half an hour. Strangely enough, he felt his fear whisked away like a swarm of gnats caught in the wind, replaced by an intense curiosity. He wanted to know where he was and what was happening. With a groan and then a clonk, the rising room halted; the sudden change jolted Thomas from his huddled position and threw him across the hard floor. As he scrambled to his feet, he felt the room sway less and less until it finally stilled. Everything fell silent. A minute passed. Two. He looked in every direction but saw only darkness; he felt along the walls again, searching for a way out. But there was nothing, only the cool metal. He groaned in frustration; his echo amplified through the air, like the haunted moan of death. It faded, and silence returned. He screamed, called for help, pounded on the walls with his fists. Nothing. Thomas backed into the corner once again, folded his arms and shivered, and the fear returned. He felt a worrying shudder in his chest, as if his heart wanted to escape, to flee his body. “Someone … help … me!” he screamed; each word ripped his throat raw. A loud clank rang out above him and he sucked in a startled breath as he looked up. A straight line of light appeared across the ceiling of the room, and Thomas watched as it expanded. A heavy grating sound revealed double sliding doors being forced open. After so long in darkness, the light stabbed his eyes; he looked away, covering his face with both hands. He heard noises above—voices—and fear squeezed his chest. “Look at that shank.” “How old is he?” “Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt.” “You’re the klunk, shuck-face.” “Dude, it smells like feet down there!” “Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie.” “Ain’t no ticket back, bro.” Thomas was hit with a wave of confusion, blistered with panic. The voices were odd, tinged with echo; some of the words were completely foreign—others felt familiar. He willed his eyes to adjust as he squinted toward the light and those speaking. At first he could see only shifting shadows, but they soon turned into the shapes of bodies—people bending over the hole in the ceiling, looking down at him, pointing. And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were boys, all of them—some young, some older. Thomas didn’t know what he’d expected, but seeing those faces puzzled him. They were just teenagers. Kids. Some of his fear melted away, but not enough to calm his racing heart. Someone lowered a rope from above, the end of it tied into a big loop. Thomas hesitated, then stepped into it with his right foot and clutched the rope as he was yanked toward the sky. Hands reached down, lots of hands, grabbing him by his clothes, pulling him up. The world seemed to spin, a swirling mist of faces and color and light. A storm of emotions wrenched his gut, twisted and pulled; he wanted to scream, cry, throw up. The chorus of voices had grown silent, but someone spoke as they yanked him over the sharp edge of the dark box. And Thomas knew he’d never forget the words. “Nice to meet ya, shank,” the boy said. “Welcome to the Glade.” CHAPTER 2 The helping hands didn’t stop swarming around him until Thomas stood up straight and had the dust brushed from his shirt and pants. Still dazzled by the light, he staggered a bit. He was consumed with curiosity but still felt too ill to look closely at his surroundings. His new companions said nothing as he swiveled his head around, trying to take it all in. As he rotated in a slow circle, the other kids snickered and stared; some reached out and poked him with a finger. There had to be at least fifty of them, their clothes smudged and sweaty as if they’d been hard at work, all shapes and sizes and races, their hair of varying lengths. Thomas suddenly felt dizzy, his eyes flickering between the boys and the bizarre place in which he’d found himself. They stood in a vast courtyard several times the size of a football field, surrounded by four enormous walls made of gray stone and covered in spots with thick ivy. The walls had to be hundreds of feet high and formed a perfect square around them, each side split in the exact middle by an opening as tall as the walls themselves that, from what Thomas could see, led to passages and long corridors beyond. “Look at the Greenbean,” a scratchy voice said; Thomas couldn’t see who it came from. “Gonna break his shuck neck checkin’ out the new digs.” Several boys laughed. “Shut your hole, Gally,” a deeper voice responded. Thomas focused back in on the dozens of strangers around him. He knew he must look out of it—he felt like he’d been drugged. A tall kid with blond hair and a square jaw sniffed at him, his face devoid of expression. A short, pudgy boy fidgeted back and forth on his feet, looking up at Thomas with wide eyes. A thick, heavily muscled Asian kid folded his arms as he studied Thomas, his tight shirtsleeves rolled up to show off his biceps. A dark-skinned boy frowned—the same one who’d welcomed him. Countless others stared. “Where am I?” Thomas asked, surprised at hearing his voice for the first time in his salvageable memory. It didn’t sound quite right—higher than he would’ve imagined. “Nowhere good.” This came from the dark-skinned boy. “Just slim yourself nice and calm.” “Which Keeper he gonna get?” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. “I told ya, shuck-face,” a shrill voice responded. “He’s a klunk, so he’ll be a Slopper—no doubt about it.” The kid giggled like he’d just said the funniest thing in history. Thomas once again felt a pressing ache of confusion—hearing so many words and phrases that didn’t make sense. Shank. Shuck. Keeper. Slopper. They popped out of the boys’ mouths so naturally it seemed odd for him not to understand. It was as if his memory loss had stolen a chunk of his language—it was disorienting. Different emotions battled for dominance in his mind and heart. Confusion. Curiosity. Panic. Fear. But laced through it all was the dark feeling of utter hopelessness, like the world had ended for him, had been wiped from his memory and replaced with something awful. He wanted to run and hide from these people. The scratchy-voiced boy was talking. “—even do that much, bet my liver on it.” Thomas still couldn’t see his face. “I said shut your holes!” the dark boy yelled. “Keep yapping and next break’ll be cut in half!” That must be their leader, Thomas realized. Hating how everyone gawked at him, he concentrated on studying the place the boy had called the Glade. The floor of the courtyard looked like it was made of huge stone blocks, many of them cracked and filled with long grasses and weeds. An odd, dilapidated wooden building near one of the corners of the square contrasted greatly with the gray stone. A few trees surrounded it, their roots like gnarled hands digging into the rock floor for food. Another corner of the compound held gardens—from where he was standing Thomas recognized corn, tomato plants, fruit trees. Across the courtyard from there stood wooden pens holding sheep and pigs and cows. A large grove of trees filled the final corner; the closest ones looked crippled and close to dying. The sky overhead was cloudless and blue, but Thomas could see no sign of the sun despite the brightness of the day. The creeping shadows of the walls didn’t reveal the time or direction—it could be early morning or late afternoon. As he breathed in deeply, trying to settle his nerves, a mixture of smells bombarded him. Freshly turned dirt, manure, pine, something rotten and something sweet. Somehow he knew that these were the smells of a farm. Thomas looked back at his captors, feeling awkward but desperate to ask questions. Captors, he thought. Then, Why did that word pop into my head? He scanned their faces, taking in each expression, judging them. One boy’s eyes, flared with hatred, stopped him cold. He looked so angry, Thomas wouldn’t have been surprised if the kid came at him with a knife. He had black hair, and when they made eye contact, the boy shook his head and turned away, walking toward a greasy iron pole with a wooden bench next to it. A multicolored flag hung limply at the top of the pole, no wind to reveal its pattern. Shaken, Thomas stared at the boy’s back until he turned and took a seat. Thomas quickly looked away. Suddenly the leader of the group—perhaps he was seventeen—took a step forward. He wore normal clothes: black T-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, a digital watch. For some reason the clothing here surprised Thomas; it seemed like everyone should be wearing something more menacing—like prison garb. The dark-skinned boy had short-cropped hair, his face clean shaven. But other than the permanent scowl, there was nothing scary about him at all. “It’s a long story, shank,” the boy said. “Piece by piece, you’ll learn—I’ll be takin’ you on the Tour tomorrow. Till then … just don’t break anything.” He held a hand out. “Name’s Alby.” He waited, clearly wanting to shake hands. Thomas refused. Some instinct took over his actions and without saying anything he turned away from Alby and walked to a nearby tree, where he plopped down to sit with his back against the rough bark. Panic swelled inside him once again, almost too much to bear. But he took a deep breath and forced himself to try to accept the situation. Just go with it, he thought. You won’t figure out anything if you give in to fear. “Then tell me,” Thomas called out, struggling to keep his voice even. “Tell me the long story.” Alby glanced at the friends closest to him, rolling his eyes, and Thomas studied the crowd again. His original estimate had been close—there were probably fifty to sixty of them, ranging from boys in their midteens to young adults like Alby, who seemed to be one of the oldest. At that moment, Thomas realized with a sickening lurch that he had no idea how old he was. His heart sank at the thought—he was so lost he didn’t even know his own age. “Seriously,” he said, giving up on the show of courage. “Where am I?” Alby walked over to him and sat down cross-legged; the crowd of boys followed and packed in behind. Heads popped up here and there, kids leaning in every direction to get a better look. “If you ain’t scared,” Alby said, “you ain’t human. Act any different and I’d throw you off the Cliff because it’d mean you’re a psycho.” “The Cliff?” Thomas asked, blood draining from his face. “Shuck it,” Alby said, rubbing his eyes. “Ain’t no way to start these conversations, you get me? We don’t kill shanks like you here, I promise. Just try and avoid being killed, survive, whatever.” He paused, and Thomas realized his face must’ve whitened even more when he heard that last part. “Man,” Alby said, then ran his hands over his short hair as he let out a long sigh. “I ain’t good at this—you’re the first Greenbean since Nick was killed.” Thomas’s eyes widened, and another boy stepped up and playfully slapped Alby across the head. “Wait for the bloody Tour, Alby,” he said, his voice thick with an odd accent. “Kid’s gonna have a buggin’ heart attack, nothin’ even been heard yet.” He bent down and extended his hand toward Thomas. “Name’s Newt, Greenie, and we’d all be right cheery if ya’d forgive our klunk-for-brains new leader, here.” Thomas reached out and shook the boy’s hand—he seemed a lot nicer than Alby. Newt was taller than Alby too, but looked to be a year or so younger. His hair was blond and cut long, cascading over his T-shirt. Veins stuck out of his muscled arms.

#MazeRunner