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0bticeo · 21 days

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lurk | feyd rautha

part 3 of five. (part 1.) (part 2.) (part 4.)

summary:

the baron is chuckling. you feel it coming, the sense of doom, in the way the court holds its breath, in the flash of uncertainty in the na-baron’s eyes.

“i have another gift for you.”

“her.”

you.

wc: 4k.

tw: blood, gore, possessive feyd rautha, bene gesserit shenanigans, determinism but make it sexy, bit of knife play, blood play, wound fucking, fingering, oral (fem recieving), somewhat sub feyd, breeding, inkpie, brief mention of cockwarming.

you’re kneeling. or rather, two guards are forcing you down on your knees, fingers digging in the meat of your shoulder until they reach the bone. you hold back a wince.

you fail.

your breath is heavy, stuttering little gasps leaving your lips with droplets of blood. your left side is on fire, each inhale pure, agonizing torture. use the voice and they’ll kill you.

you’re kneeling before baron vladimir harkonnen in his personal chambers, in a tattered robe. it’s filthy, the way he looks at you like you’re prized meat.

you bare your teeth.

“such defiance, atreides.” from the murky depths of his bath, he tilts his head. volutes of smoke escape his parted lips, slithering towards you. “tell me, why should i let you live?”

careful.

plans within plans within plans. you can’t let your feeble control over the situation escape you. inhale. choke on your scream - like hell you’ll show him your pain.

“if i weren’t useful to your plans, i would be dead.”

an image flashes in your mind’s eye. a spider woven out of human flesh, the mangled bodies of harkonnen prisoners frankensteined together. barely alive. an eternity of torment.

the baron laughs, a deep, cavernous rumbling. it fills the penumbra, fills you with dread. your shoulders tense - nervous impulse. you’re not in control.

“fair enough.” he inches forward, the gigantic mass of him rippling through filthy waters. “where is your brother?”

pain. it ripples through you, sinks its claws in your chest and freezes there, a sinking weight. you can’t breathe. you push through.

“he’s already given his last breath to the sands of arrakis.”

“how would you know?”

“dreams.”

the answer escapes your gritted teeth with frightening rapidity. good. let him think pain clouds your judgment. let him see you as weaker than you really are.

one of the guards tightens his hold, forces you to stand straight. blood drips down your lip. you will not scream.

“dreams?”

the subtle narrowing of his eyes. a quirk of his lip. disbelief. intrigue.

“i’ve followed my mother’s footsteps.”

“ah, lady jessica.”

keep her name out of your mouth.

he leans back in the bathtub. silence settles. stretches. stretches. he’s pensive, the baron. his lips wrap at the end of the pipe, mouth like a maw swallowing it, releasing acrid smoke that burns you. spice.

(visions. shai hulud deemed your brother worthy. on they go. march south or die. maybe the sands haven’t consumed him yet.)

nervous exhaustion settles in. they haven’t treated your wounds. it takes every ounce of energy to remain conscious, every inch of pride to will your muscles to stop trembling. your vision blurs at the edges.

“i’ll ask again, atreides. why should i let you live?”

bastard. you’re on your last legs. he has you cornered.

“because you’d have to kill your heir if you don’t.”

now that catches his attention.

“go on.”

careful. there’s a thin line between usefulness and danger. do not step on the wrong side.

“he’s recognized me in the arena."

the ghost of his touch against the wicked scar of your forearm. the flash of a grin, black teeth like a promise inked at the back of your skull.

you fought well, atreides.

behind your back, your nails dig into your palms.

“he’ll ruin you.”

“is that so?”

skepticism. amusement.

“do you think it wise to try and find out, baron?”

silence. fate looms over you. spins its web in the calculated gaze of the baron, gaze like cold steel cutting through you.

your life is in his hands and he relishes in it. in having you, half bare before him, chest heaving with each stuttering breath, red darkening the black of your dress.

you watch him lick his lips and shiver with disgust.

“do you think it wise to threaten me when i have wiped your house from the surface of the known galaxy?”

oh, right on a silver platter.

your mouth drips shadows as you bare your teeth in a grin.

“only because you were backed up by the imperium and its sardaukar.” you cough. blood drips on the ground. “you were a pawn, and that scum of an emperor could deem you a threat, too.”

a beat.

he’s smiling.

“you’ll be of use, atreides.”

a wave of his hand.

the guards move. drag you up until you’re standing on faltering legs. defiant, still. breath ragged, panting, blood pooling at your feet. you feel soiled, with the way the baron looks at you, eyes dragging down to your womb.

there’s a commotion behind you. you still. in your state, you’ve neglected to analyze your surroundings, only focusing on the biggest threat in the room. you didn’t take into account the harkonnen court behind you. atreides. the baron practically signed your death.

shit.

your vision is darkening in the corners.

“i ought to drown you in that tub.”

feyd-rautha, voice a low growl borne out of primal fury. feyd-rautha, in dark robes, shadow among shadows. you catch the slow twitch of his pale hand, the instinctual gesture of nerves calling for a familiar blade. to kill or protect, you do not know.

the guards freeze. you’re left there, struggling to stand, sweat dripping down your back with the effort of staying upright. how utterly humiliating.

“do not be hasty, my dear nephew.”

a ripple. the baron is chuckling. you feel it coming, the sense of doom, in the way the court holds its breath, in the flash of uncertainty in the na-baron’s eyes.

“i have another gift for you.”

“her.”

you.

one step, two, until he’s facing you.

he snarls at the guards. they let go of you. you collapse, only stopped from slamming upon the marble floors by two strong arms.

he’s pulling you in his chest, arm wrapping around your waist. you shudder, nerves alight with the instinctual need to get away from this place, from the baron’s lecherous’ stare, from the court’s bloodlust.

i must not fear. fear is the mind killer. fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. i will face my fear-

you don’t realize you’ve been shaking until a hand settles at the back of your head. warm. comforting. rubbing small circles in your scalp until you relax, if only by a fraction. he won’t let them harm you - you know it, deep in your soul.

“yes, her.” dismissive. “and a bigger one. arrakis.”

you feel it, the way the na-baron’s body tenses, the ripple of the hard planes of his chest under the soft silk of his clothes. anticipation. unease. you press your cheek to his heart, listen to the erratic pulse of it.

“what about rabban?”

“he has failed to protect the spice production.”

paul. your fingers clench in your palm, piercing the skin.

“tame arrakis feyd. free the spice, and i’ll make you emperor.”

you still. he who controls the spice has ultimate power over the known galaxy. power is power. knowledge is power.

“how?”

“use me.”

they still. rapt attention falls upon you. your fingers dig into the na-baron’s forearm like a vice to remain upright.

“if the great houses were to learn that the emperor ordered an entire house to be wiped out, they would question his authority. rebel. wage war until one comes on top.” you swallow blood. “you’ll have me as a living witness and weapon.”

“a weapon, huh?”

feyd-rautha looks down at you. there’s something awfully calculating in the way he assesses you, in the way his fingers curl over your hip - possessive. protective.

the baron rises by a fraction, mephistopheles bargaining.

“will you side with us, atreides?”

you let out a shaky breath. laughter. you’re laughing at him, at the absurdity of the situation - you, last of your house, striking a deal with the devil for revenge.

“i will. i only ask for one thing in return - the emperor’s head.”

the baron’s gaze is riveted to you. he nods. bargain sealed.

“this must not leave this room.”

feyd-rautha springs into action, blades drawn out of their sheaths before the baron finishes his sentence.

bodies fall.

carnifex. the butcher. oh, he’s gorgeous, feyd-rautha, twin blades slicing through gaping throats, droplets of blood landing on his pale cheek.

the baron immerses himself in that wretched bath, until it’s only you and the apex predator that is him.

you take a step forward. two. three. until you’re facing him, slowly raising your hand. the motion alone has you gasping for breath. still, you persist, until your fingers settle on his cheek, thumb wiping away at the gore sprayed there.

he leans into your touch, eyes half-lidded, nuzzling in your palm. his own hand cradles yours, warm, smearing blood on your skin. his lips press against your palm, against the many half-moons your nails have left in their wake.

“come, my little atreides,” he mutters. “you need medical attention.”

his eyes sink into yours, magnetic, all consuming. they dart to your parted lips, to the blood coating them. he leans in, breath like fire upon your soul, upon your awaiting mouth.

your breath stutters.

oh.

“catch me, feyd.”

you fall.

fall until you stand in the desert of arrakis. paul has his back turned to you, silhouette burning bright in your retina. corpses. they’re burning, all of them, and with the stench of sun-charred flesh rises a litany. lisan al gaib.

lead them to paradise.

you want to scream. you want to reach out for cruel fate and rip her asunder with your bare hands until that twisted future is no more.

you do not know whether your brother is the kwisatz haderach. you do not know if there is a kwisatz haderach, what’s with the missionaria protectiva’s wretched tale.

warmth seeps in your womb, the gentle press of a lover’s hand. you do not know if the child you’ll bear will be the one.

desert sands slips from your fingers.

you just want your family back.

feyd doesn’t expect it, the moment you collapse in his arms with a whispered plea. still, he catches you. slides his arms under the back of your knees and pulls you close, where he knows no harm would come to you.

who would possibly dare to cross him?

warmth spreads across his hand. blood, he realizes. your wound, that vicious strike of his hasn’t been treated. fury washes over him, gaping maw sinking in his heart. it is vicious, too, that fury.

it tells him of blood and death and destruction. death to the baron. death and misery upon those who’ve wronged you - doesn’t matter if he has to face the sardaukar, for he is legion.

the hallways are empty. servants have long deserted the baron’s quarters, knowing not to disturb him. good. no one must know of your presence here.

he looks down at you, at your wan face, at the blood dripping down your chin, spreading, spreading down your throat.

he cannot let you die.

he cannot compromise himself more than he already has by threatening the doctors to kill them should you die in their hands. he leaves you in their care and strides back to his own chambers. they’ll notify him of your condition.

you, last atreides left standing. you, with your sharp wit, sharp blade and sharper smile. you, feral, snarling at him in the arena. you, hands dipped in ink darker than black, spreading it over his back.

he had felt your warmth, back then. felt the softness of your skin on his, shivered as you ran over his deltoids, down to the rib - lower. each and every one of his nerves, raw, exposed, yearning for your touch.

there had been a beat, a split second of hesitation on your part. blood calls for blood, and his house has spilled so much of your blood. it would have been easy for you to take a hold of his blade and sink it in his exposed back.

he almost wanted you to do it.

(he had tilted his head, back then, a low growl leaving his lips at the mere thought of it. he could almost taste it, your sheer want.)

he, na-baron feyd-rautha harkonnen, lets his guard down, as if waiting for you to strike. why is that?

his steps do not lead him to a place of honor. too much blood has been spilled in this palace - a tribute to harkonnen nature, really. verses upon verses of hymns interwoven with gore and the acrid scent of enemies torn asunder by their blades. hellish epics to those who died bloody.

retribution is second nature - and he expects it from you.

then why is he so soft around you?

you’re still an atreides. your only worth to his uncle as of now resides in this precise fact - that you remain a witness to your house’s demise. a hidden blade, ready to be sunk in the emperor’s back.

his steps slow.

there’s something.

you, standing in the arena, raising your head, voice distorted and hoarse, thousands of your foremothers screaming in righteous fury.

you will not perceive me as i am.

he hadn’t, not until his fingers met the jagged ends of your scar.

a bene gesserit trick.

“are you lost, my lord na-baron?”

a silhouette in the shadows, shrouded in veils. he can only make out a smile - sweet, charming. not enough to conceal the sharpness beneath. witch.

he remains silent.

“what will you do with lady atreides?”

his resolve weakens. here, in the dead silence of the hall, he speaks:

“she will be mine.” a beat. the nervous twitch of his fingers, aching for a blade. “is it not what you intended, witch?”

he knows she is smiling, the bene gesserit facing him.

plans within plans within plans. atreides, harkonnen, corrino, dozens of great houses and they’re none the wiser.

“it was.”

none of it is real, it is all an illusion - your touch is wrong, your judgment unjust, faltering. dreams have meaning, this must be one. you can still taste the sands of arrakis, hear the screams of the billions of people starving, begging-

you rise in your bed - information flashes.

a bed. bandages wrapped tightly around your side. harsh, cold walls. antiseptic. blood - a medical wing.

feyd rautha.

you startle. he’s watching you, head slightly tilted to the side. assesses you still, gaze raking over the thin fabric of the covers.

his gaze is free to roam the expanse of your bare throat, to trail down to the dips of your collarbones, to the swell of your naked breasts. you shiver.

“is the sight to your liking, my lord na-baron?”

a chuckle like a rattlesnake. he steps closer, until he’s all but hovering above you, hand lightly pressing down on the mattress below.

“will you have me, my wife?”

you blink.

“we’re not-”

his fingers run up your wrist, press against the long scar marring your forearm.

“does it truly matter? you were made to be mine.” slowly, he sinks to his knees, glacier eyes smoldering in the penumbra. “and i was made to be yours.”

generations of prefect planning for this - you, last atreides left standing, and him, feyd rautha harkonnen, alone in the same room, bred for one another, for the kwisatz haderach to be conceived.

you raise your hand, cradling his cheek.

“have me, feyd-rautha.”

he presses a kiss to your palm, your inner wrist. he grins, black teeth like a gaping maw ready to sink into the marrow of you. your pulse jumps at that, rabbit-quick against the thin skin of your wrist. he feels it, with the way his thumb presses down on the delicate flesh.

his hand slithers under the covers, drags them down, until your side is completely exposed. he presses a kiss there, too, on the stitched up wound at your side. it’ll scar. a living, breathing reminder of him, of the kiss of his blade on your skin. the weapon is in his hand before you know it, slicing through bandages.

you feel his breath before you feel the press of his lips on your side. you gasp, fingers reaching for him, digging in his nape.

his tongue meets raw flesh, teeth worrying at the stitches until they snap. his nail rakes the cut, spreads its edges apart until liquid warmth blossoms at your side, trickling down your ribs.

you scream.

his lips slam against your own. warm. scorching. bruising. he presses himself to you like he wants to sink in the marrow of you and taste.

your hand raises to his chest, a meek press against his heart, fingers weaving with the velvet shadows of his jacket.

closer.

he growls. low, primal, needy. pushes his fingers in the gaping wound at your side - white hot pain surges through you. your mind grows blank. agony never felt so sweet.

your lips part in a cry - he swallows it down with greedy laughter.

you feel him smile against your lips, tongue reaching out for yours. heavy. you bring him closer. his hand twists, index curling up. you think he wants to reach your heart and never let go.

“feyd-”

he stills. nips at your lip one last time, backing away. a spider-web string of saliva links you both. he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you with a low hum. desire curls inside your lower belly.

“more,” you beg.

“where?”

you take his hand, bring it between your thighs, face heating up. he’s laughing, feyd rautha, the tip of his blood-soaked fingers brushing your cunt.

you gasp at that, at the way he spreads you apart, sinks into you with shameless abandon. you whine as you feel his fingers curl oh so sweetly.

he’s watching you. leaning closer and closer, until you can feel his breath on your inner thigh, until-

until his lips press against your heat, tongue lapping at you. you mewl, hand pressing him closer, nails sinking into his nape. you feel him growl against you, a low, needy sound as he tastes you, consumes you, tongue flicking against your clit.

something’s building in you, agonizingly warm, blistering fire spreading over your skin. a low vibration.

he’s purring, you realize, eyes closed in bliss as he laps at you, tongue delving into you, your essence running down his chin. you bite your lip until you taste blood.

it’s all too much.

the way his fingers have you keening his name like holy prayer. the way his tongue burns a path of desire over your slit, skilled little licks having you thrash in his grip, the low vibration of his purr having you squirming in his grasp. his free hand tightens around your thigh, pulls you closer.

his gaze flits to yours, glacier eyes melting under the weight of his desire.

you cum with a whine of his name, a plea for him to stop, to give you more, to please please please, keep touching you.

his eyes roll in the back of his skull at that. at the sight of you, lips parted in sinful euphoria, head thrown back under a tidal wave of pleasure. more. he needs more.

he grasps your hand, presses it against the length of his clothed cock, hard, throbbing, yearning for your touch.

“will you have me?”

“yes.”

as it was meant to be. him and you, bodies pressed so close nothing could come between the two of you, your nails digging in his back as he eases himself into you with a low hiss of pleasure.

him, pressing his lips in the crook of your neck, teeth nibbling at the tender flesh as his hips slowly rock into you.

“mine,” he growls, forehead against yours, picking up his pace until you’re gasping for breath. “mine.”

you close your fingers around his. press a kiss to his lips - you’re so full, so delectably full, your legs crossing over his lower back, driving him closer still.

his teeth break your skin, your lips painted over in blood. the sight has him moaning, reaching out between your legs to rub at your clit until you’re keening his name.

his release follows yours - he groans your name in the crook of your neck, hips stuttering madly against yours.

your breaths mingle - two pieces of the same puzzle slotting against one another. complete. you’re whole, pressed against the broad expanse of his chest, his cock settled snugly in your pussy.

you can almost feel it, the satisfied smile of the reverend mother. an heir has been secured, deep in the confines of your womb, growing, second after second. a boy - the kwisatz haderach.

that wretched eons long plan doesn’t matter. not now, not when you run your knuckles against the sharp edge of his jaw, marveling at him.

“mine,” you mutter.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @jaiuneamesolitaiire

#feyd rautha x y/n #obticeo writes #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #dune #dune x you #dune x reader #dune smut #feyd rautha smut #bald freak supremacy

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yandere-sins · 2 years

Text

Stygiophilia

A/N: Stygiophilia is a sexual arousal from thoughts of hellfire and damnation. It’s easier than I thought to find strange phobia and philia ngl. But this one fit sooo damn well.

Fandom: Obey Me! One master to rule them all Pairings: Yandere!Belphegor x GN!Darling!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Actions (Non-Con, Cumplay, Penetration, Mention of Finger/Toys used on the reader, Mention of Public Sex, Bondage), Violence (Branding the reader, Burning large parts of their body, Blood Mention, Pain Mention, Putting Semen into the wounds), Mention of physical abuse, Mention of Death/Hell/Damnation, Restraints (Silver chains)

Prompt: @sintember Free Day Friday: Philia - Got a kink or a paraphilia? Is there never enough content for it? You know what to do.

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

It was in his nature, wasn’t it?

To be aroused by his burning fingers dragging down your skin, leaving marks to scar you with his fingerprints embedded in them. The loud gasp followed by helpless flailing as Belphegor burned his initial into your back only spurred him on more. As was the rattling of your chains as you began to squeal and cry out loudly in pain. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” he sighed, faking sympathy for the situation he put you in. And as you nodded, sobbing, glancing at him over your shoulder, he pressed his whole, blazing palm on your back, right above your hips.

You made the loveliest sounds as he tortured you, hellfire having so much more bite than regular flames. This wasn’t a punishment. It wasn’t even a reward, even though being branded with his name was, in his opinion. Belphegor merely felt like doing it. Because he loved you squirming under him while he sat on your ass, the silver chains hurting him when he put them on you and would hurt even more when he released you from them. But they were glittering so lovely in the nightlights around his bed.

Just like the fire did as it kept burning into your flesh.

Hellfire had the painful ability to keep burning even when severed from the source, and if he didn’t put it out, it would have probably burned through you. An enticing thought. One that made his cock rock hard. Because as much as he loved your quirky human-ness, there was not a day he didn’t image you damned in the same way as him and all the other demons. Hellfire was a surefire—hah!—way to damn someone, and then you’d be just as fucked up and hellbound as him.

God, he loved the image of your pure soul corrupting. Burning away with the hellfire, he licked off his fingers, letting it dance on his tongue, with the picture of your soul turning into black ash in his mind. You didn’t even know how much Belphie yearned to inhale your essence, have you all to himself and unreachable for anyone else but him, even his brothers.

But maybe this mark would dissuade them.

Not like you’d ever get rid of it. This one was going to last like a bad tattoo job would. Even if you’d cover it with other signs, ink, or clothes, it would always be there, burned into your body and etched into your soul. It might even save you some trouble when it was actually time for your descent to hell, as anyone would recognize you as Belphegor’s property, making you too precious to hurt. The demons down there would put you on a pedestal and pamper you until Belphie waltzed in and ‘save’ you from them, binding you to him forever once he had a taste of your delicious soul.

At the thought of it, he could have cum in his boxer instantly. It was hard to believe that there could be a human that would shake the hatred he had for them. One whose lips had been so alluring he couldn’t resist kissing you and running his hands over your body, feeling free and aroused by every curve and every inch of skin he could grip. Had someone told him he’d fall for a mere human just a year ago, he’d probably killed that demon. But now, he was eager to claim all of you.

Slipping further back and on the back of your thighs, he placed his tip to your hole, the sounds of agonizing pleasure you made, nothing short of a sinful melody in his ears as he pressed inside. Clasping his hands over your ass, the heat remaining on them even after the hellfire vanished, was enough to release steam as it came into contact with your flesh. Two more beautiful marks on you of his hands on your ass as he pulled the cheeks apart, allowing him to see more of you with your legs already spread from the restraints.

Wet and ready, you welcomed his cock so well, doing a fantastic job wrapping him up in your warmth and sucking him in like the good little slut you were. Belphie took great pride in not being too lazy to prepare you for this, teasing you with vibrators and his fingers all day long under the tables, at RAD, and with his tongue during naptime. If he licked his lips, he was still able to taste you.

You two truly were one hell of a couple, not scared to dare your luck in public even though he had to convince you with his skills before you gave in to his wishes. But maybe after that night, with his initial burned into your back, you’d stop resisting him and give in to his infatuation with you. Allow him to properly love you by reciprocating his feelings, just like when you let him fuck you.

It was like you were someone else entirely with his cock stuffed between your legs. Even with the tears in your eyes, you never missed a moan in the beat of his pounding. Wet and eager and so ready to receive his load, your body knew better than to resist as he rutted you into heaven before dragging you back to hell with him. There was nothing lazy about fucking with him, sloppy maybe, in terms of places he liked to sully you with his cum. But when Belphie was dedicated to something as intensely as he was to you, he was determined to see it through. And there’d be no rest until you properly came, shaking and clawing at the pillows.

Other than his brothers, he had standards.

And you had not been able to resist them since the first time he forced himself on you with much persuasion.

Where in the beginning he had played with you to gain your trust and help you, he was now a complete mess for you too. Someone who’d do anything to get you all to himself, hogging your every thought just like you did with him. And fuck, as he took you roughly, his hips pumping his cock in and out of you, he did not feel sorry for taking you from his brothers, your life, or your sanity. Belphegor only regretted not doing it much earlier.

Because where you are, there’s heaven. At least for him. Perhaps that’s why that little part of him that knew what he was doing was wrong, wanted to corrupt you so badly. Because when you hit rock bottom, there would only be him waiting for you. Dirty, sinful, Belphegor, ready to pick you up when you wanted to get out of the hell he’d sent you to.

The thought of you crying from relief about seeing him made him shudder.

He unloaded his jizz deep inside of you, joining your symphony of moans with his own before pulling out, rubbing the last spurts out and onto your back. You flinched and complained in sobs as the fluid stung in your fresh wounds, but he didn’t care, picking up the smooth cum and rubbing it over you as if it was the ointment you needed. Now he really was inside you, even your blood and cells.

There wasn’t much further you could fall into his greedy, selfish hands. But it wasn’t enough for him to stop yet. Belphie would never stop, not as long as you were alive. And even beyond that, he didn’t think he could let you go after all you did to change him. For better or for worse, you were stuck with him now. To be sure, though, he inflamed his hand once more with the hellfire spell, bringing it back down to your back. There was still enough space there to write his name over and over just to make it absolutely foolproof to see who you belonged to.

Belphegor, Belphegor, Belphegor.

Belphegor and his beautifully ruined human. Ready to descend to hell together.

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pigeonp0st · 3 years

Note

Hi :,) love your fics so so much and I have so many requests so you’ll be hearin from me a bit as long as your requests are open lol! Hope that’s ok❤️ I was wondering if you could write a Nat x reader fic where reader was kidnapped by hydra and tortured and the team finds her and bring her back to the tower but she’s different now she has powers and is extremely mentally scarred?

Natasha Romanoff x Reader #7

Words: 2,565

Warnings: Depression, trauma

Notes:

Thank you! I don’t mind at all, thank you for requesting and wanting to in the first place. I think this is my longest fic? Or at least one of...I did it fairly quickly though so sorry for any spelling mistakes and grammar errors.

———

Natasha is scared.

She is more scared than she has possibly ever been, and she’s reckless, and she’s determined, and she’s stupid.

But she finds you. She saves you, and everything else she’s come to regret about the ways she did it, and the way she handled it, doesn’t matter.

She pushes open about the fifteenth door she’s looked through and she sees you, trapped and bloody but alive, tied to a chair, and she’s so full of relief and happiness she doesn’t notice the new haunted look in your eyes.

She rushes towards you, feet pounding on concrete and uncaring of how loud she’s being, and feels tears rush to her eyes.

You’re okay. She saved you.

——-

Natasha is the last person to realize you’re not okay, but perhaps she’s the first to realize the depths of that truth.

She watches you, for the hundredth time since you returned two days ago, and the first ‘wrong’ thing she notices is the way your hand shakes around the spoon you’re eating with.

Then, a couple of hours later she realizes that you’ve hardly spoken.

She hates herself for not noticing sooner, but she has now so she tries to say something, not just about this but about all of the pieces of the broken image Natasha hadn’t allowed herself to see in the relief that she had felt after she had found you.

You’ve always been open and honest with her and she hadn’t thought there’d be a reason for that to change now, but when she asks and reaches out for you you jerk away so fast you almost fall off the bed.

“Don’t touch me, Natasha.”

You growl it out so venomously Natasha is momentary struck frozen. She wonders in the second before you speak again if she has done something wrong.

Then, you release a shaky sad breath and lower your head. “I’m...i’m sorry.”

Natasha says nothing, and so you leave.

—-

“Y/N...she’s not here.”

The mug of coffee Natasha’s holding drops from her hand and shatters violently on the ground. The room is deathly silent, with nothing but the beep from the finished microwave to fill the quiet, and Natasha see’s nothing but you tied and bloodied in the hydra base and hears nothing but the quiet and broken way you had told her you were a “monster now.”

And then she feels nothing but sorrow because this is her fault. She made you pull away, Natasha made you need space from the compound (she asked too many questions again earlier), but she also can’t let you have it.

She is scared again, and she hates how it’s becoming a regular feeling. She’s afraid you're going to get hurt again, so she can’t let you go. Not without her. Not yet.

“I’ll find her,” Natasha grits out, abandoning the glass on the floor and rushing to grab her keys from the kitchen cabinet. “If I don’t in an hour or two i’ll call so you guys can—” Natasha pauses, feeling stupid, “did you...did you call...or text?”

Wanda nods slowly, eyebrows furrowed together. “She answered.”

Everyone waits for Wanda to repeat what you had told her but she doesn’t. Not for a long enough moment that Natasha just considers leaving anyways.

It’s dark out, and it’s thundering, and you didn’t tell anyone you were leaving, so she’s worried. Natasha is worried.

“She said that she needed to escape for a couple of hours, to not come after her, to tell Natasha that she was still breathing.”

A pause. Natasha sets her keys back down.

“She said she was lost, and that she was tired.”

“Lost?” Natasha repeats, her heart stopping for a moment and then leaping into her throat.

“Mentally,” Wanda clarifies, huffing out a sigh.

But you said that you don’t want her to come looking for you, so with all of the will power Natasha can summon she stays, and she waits for you to come home.

——-

Lost, you had told Wanda, but can you be lost when you don’t even remember what you’re searching for anymore. When you don’t remember what it was like to feel ‘home.’

The rain pounds hard on your back, it soaks you wet and makes your clothes stick to your skin the way it did when they were soaked with blood, and it drowns out every noise that isn’t the beat of your heart and the downpour of rain

Hydra had experimented on you and tortured you, and you came out with nothing left of the old you and flames on your hand.

They gave you the power to control fire, to summon fire, to be resistant to it.

That’s what they gave but they took too much more.

The fire you’re supposed to master feels like it’s in you, like it’s burning you away bit by bit and leaving nothing but ashes in its wake, and you’re trying. You tried so hard. You tried to put it out, to stop the change, to reverse it, but you can’t. You can’t so you continue to burn and okay—that was manageable—but it wasn’t supposed to burn Natasha.

It wasn’t supposed to burn your friends.

They look at you now and they see it, Natasha is starting to see it, and you know, you know, you know, they can never love this new you. They will only ache for the loss of the past you—and you never meant to hurt them with change.

There is nothing you can do. All feels lost and hopeless, and you're helpless, so you sit in the rain and shiver with the cold seeping into your skin, and for the first time since you were kidnapped your heart and mind releases itself from the burden of its suffering.

For a moment, looking up at the sky, you’re the old you.

At peace.

——-

You walk into the living room, soaked and dripping water everywhere, and you see Natasha curled up on the couch sleeping.

It stops you in your tracks and has you looking around to check if anyone is there and then moving to crouch by her side to study her.

Even though it feels like every bit of you has changed the love you have for Natasha and the others is still the same. You hadn’t taken time to realize it but it’s such a great relief that you almost release a sob before you manage to bite it down.

The love you have for them is the same, they’re the same, the compound is the same.

As you think about the compound you glance around to see if it truly is the way it was and then you spot a shattered glass mug left on the floor.

It’s Nat’s favorite mug, you realize with a bit of sadness on her behalf.

It isn’t broken too terribly…it’s still recognizable, perhaps it can be pieced back together…

Like you. Maybe. If you still love the way you had, if you still have the memories that you had, maybe it’s enough to make your pieces recognizable enough to be pieced back together.

Or maybe it’s storming outside, and you're soaked to the bone feeling too poetic.

Thunder strikes outside and you jump so violently from both the sound and the images that flash through your head that you almost wake up Natasha.

God, you’re still so pathetic.

With an agonized sigh you push yourself up right again and try to remember where the Avengers keep the super glue.

——

Natasha wakes up slowly then abruptly when she remembers that you’re missing. Fuck, had you not come home last night, Nat wonders, are you hurt, did something happen—

“Y/N fixed your mug,” Clinton says from besides her on the couch, gesturing to the mug on the coffee table. Natasha settles back down. “She said that it probably can’t hold liquid in it anymore, but that if you want to test it and it breaks she’ll fix it again.”

“Where is she?” Natasha asks, ignoring the surge of warmth in her chest in favor of her worry. “Did she look okay?”

“In her room,” he answers, then winces, “or yours.”

“How is she?” Natasha repeats.

Clint thinks about it for a moment. “Physically? I think she’s coming down with a fever. Apparently she was out there in the rain for hours,” He sighs, running a hand through his short hair, “emotionally—”

But Natasha doesn’t let him finish before she’s jumping off the couch and rushing towards your room. You don’t go to hers anymore so when she doesn’t find you in yours she worries that you’ve run again...this time she really can’t let you go. Not while you’re sick.

She can’t—

There’s a note on your bed.

“Stop worrying. I’m in your bed...it’s more comfortable than mine.”

She wishes she could hate how much you know her.

———

When Natasha enters her room it’s to the sound of your raspy coughs and then an out of breath; “i’ve been expecting you.”

Natasha laughs unexpectedly and shakes her head at your ridiculousness. “You’re lighter than usual, despite circumstances,” she says quietly after her laughter dies down.

“Usual,” you repeat, the light in your eyes darkening in an instant. “Usual meaning the past week? Is my...is this me your new normal?”

Natasha doesn’t know what to say, and it seems to make you frustrated.

“You should expect more,” you tell her bitterly, “you should ask for more. You deserve more.”

Natasha steps forward and you physically jolt back. She stops. “You got tortured. What did they do to you?”

You shake your head, once, twice, “stop talking Nat. Stop.”

“You asked me to ask for more. You said I should.”

“I meant other things!” You shout angrily, fire in your eyes. Literally. “I meant you should expect more care, you deserve more than me avoiding you, you—”

“I just want to understand,” Natasha whispers, her shoulders dropping. “I don’t care about anything else, I don’t care if you need to avoid me to deal with things by yourself, but I feel like...like I'm lost too. Like I don’t understand the person I've always understood.”

“Natasha, I'm not ready for you to know me,” you whisper, the weight of her words and your sorrow wrapped around your throat and squeezing out secrets you’d rather keep in.

“You’re not a different person.”

“Yes I am.”

“Hold out your hand.”

You blink at her in shock and confusion but do as you're told. Natasha moves towards you, strides towards you, and you try not to wince, you try not to let the sound of her footsteps bring you to places you’d rather not be.

Her hand reaches for you, you close your eyes—expecting pain because it’s all you ever knew in your haunting week with Hydra—and when you open them again it’s because Natasha has interlaced your fingers.

Her hand...her hand looks the same against yours. It feels the same. She’s touched you since you’ve been back but you were too busy trying not to move away to remember that this used to be the only thing you wanted back when she was just a crush. To hold her hand...then when she became your girlfriend it was a comfort that you thought you’d always seek.

“Is your favorite color still the same?” Natasha asks, voice strong and almost as intense as her eyes.

“Yes.”

“Is your favorite song the same, is your favorite movie the same, is your—”

“All of those things don’t make me who I am,” you stutter, unable to hold her eyes. Where Natasha is strong you are weak. Her strength is the sun, and yours is just a dying light bulb.

“They’re small but they matter,” Natasha insists, looking at you so softly you wonder what she sees.

“Are you still trying?” She asks quietly, “do you still care too much?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in pain,” Natasha notes, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and despising the world for the things it’s done to you when you wince. “You’re scared, traumatized, you leave the room when people are being too loud, you constantly look around, you don’t like people being too close,” she stops, tilting her head. “Care to add?”

“I’m...tired. I don’t even want to get up in the morning for fear of what I'll face through the day—just while doing mundane things. I'm so weak it makes me furious.”

Natasha nods, closing her eyes, “you need to run sometimes, you try so hard to look okay around the others sometimes your jaw physically shakes with the effort, you’re hesitant in everything you do now—”

“Okay.” You cut her off, words shaky. “I get it.”

“I love you. Not loved. I love you. I loved you two weeks ago, before all of this, and I love you in this second just the same,” she cups your cheek and you don’t wince. “I hurt for you. I want to know what you’ve been through, I want you to open up to me, but you’re still Y/N, aren’t you? You’re still the woman I fell in love with.”

“Why are you so sure of that?” You ask, eyes watering.

“You fixed my mug,” Natasha says, breathing out a short huff of laughter. “Thank you.”

“You loved it, Nat.”

“You hated it.”

And okay. “I need time,” you whisper, “time to process and then slowly maybe I can…maybe I can heal.”

With all of the certainty in the world Natasha says; “you will”, and you believe her. “And if you need time then you have it.” She moves to step back, to drop her hand, but you don’t let her.

You grasp her hand where it is on your cheek and with your eyes you beg her to stay, and then you do with your voice too; “not from you. Just please don’t ask me questions about what happened yet. Can we just…” you sigh, glancing down. “Can we just exist together?”

Natasha looks at you, really looks at you, and she sees how vulnerable you are in this moment, how strong, She sees it in the way your hand shakes against her, in the way—

“Say something,” you beg, exasperated, “please.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, chuckling at the glare you give her. “I just love you so much sometimes I need a moment,” and then, she says, easily like there is no other option, like she would want nothing else, “Of course i’ll stay.”

And the sorrow wrapped around your throat like a rope only getting tighter, and the trauma burning away at your insides like an imperishable flame, and the anxiety like boulders on your shoulder only keeping you down, it all goes away.

For a moment, you suspect, just like when you were outside in the rain, but the fact that you can feel this way here, with another person in the room this close to you, with nothing there to drown everything out, it gives you hope.

It’s the first time you’ve seen the light in the darkness, but you think that maybe it was always there.

“Thank you, Natasha. For everything.”

She smiles, softly and full of love. “Thank you for everything, too,” and what she’s really saying is; “thank you for giving me you.”

——

For Part 2 click here

(Takes place about a month later)

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blue-mood-blue · 3 years

Text

This time, the shot goes through his heart.

It feels... catastrophic. Like the end of everything, tearing through him in one breathless moment that promises he will never be back in one piece. It’s the slamming of a book, the screeching of a bow against strings, and it should happen too quickly to hurt but there’s still plenty of time to hurt.

Time slows down as Juno absorbs the full portrait of his last moments of life. There’s a burning in his chest and a ringing in his ears that almost muffles the strangled sound coming from where he last remembers seeing Nureyev. Juno feels flushed and cold in flashes, like his body doesn’t know what to do in the aftermath of the impact, and the shock fights to shield his mind while his eyes look for anything - anyone - familiar. He’s falling slowly, but it’s not such a long way down this time, just to the ground, and the thought that this isn’t how it’s supposed to end is ricocheting through his mind. Someone said something profound about the best laid plans and what to expect from them, but Juno is fading too quickly to remember. It doesn’t matter.

Everything surrenders to silence.

The pain is far away and getting farther. Everything is getting farther. Juno is getting farther, sinking into something, clinging to the last thought left to him: someone’s waiting on him, somewhere. He has to get up. He can’t afford to get stuck in his bed today with that heavy weight pinning him in place - he has to go find... someone.

Are you sure? It’s not really a question and not really words; it’s an idea in his head about a decision he might make, if he’s sure he wants to wake up. It would be easier to go back to sleep, he tells himself, maybe, without words.

I have to get up. They’re waiting.

So be it.

Juno is suddenly, hideously awake. His heart throbs like someone squeezes it, and again, and again - agonizing rhythm, a fasimile of a heartbeat that stopped when Juno wasn’t paying attention. He gasps for breath against lungs that won’t expand to accommodate him, drowning on nothing, mouth gaping. There’s a pressure in his chest, and it’s building, expanding...

He isn’t dying anymore. There’s no quiet dark waiting for him at the end of this. He’s dragged, gaping and struggling, back to life.

Three hours after being shot through the heart, Juno Steel gets to his feet.

~~~

He counts the steps of the guard, the seconds until his opportunity, the twirl of the knife they don’t know he has. Everything has narrowed to the count. The count keeps him still, in the moment, focused - the count, repeated steady as a dancer’s steps, is the only thing with the power to drown out that echoing sound of gunfire.

No. No. Don’t think about that now. It will be over soon.

Nureyev counts down the moments until he makes his move. It would be too much credit to call it a plan - more accurate by far to call it one last, desperate bid to sow a little chaos before he can just stop thinking.

Someone drops something on the metal floor nearby, and the sudden noise almost makes him drop the knife. He loses the count. The images crowd back in: Juno appearing like the answer to a prayer, furious but still looking for him, so close to reaching him... a guard behind Juno, blaster at his back... the noise... the blood.

Nureyev squeezes the handle of his knife, and he doesn’t stop until he feels the pinprick of pain on his palm where his grip is just a little uneven. Only a little while longer, and he’ll stop seeing it. He’d thought he wanted to know everything about Juno, but he never wanted to know what Juno’s face looked like when -

File it away.

(How is he meant to file this away - that sound, the sight of that blood - it shattered him. How can he file Juno away like he’s a distraction -)

Nureyev counts. It feels like all he’s capable of, or he’ll fall to pieces. Or maybe this is what he looks like, in pieces: one last clockwork part on the floor, ticking on for no one, for nothing.

He counts.

It doesn’t work.

He remembers the way Juno looked at him when the gun touched his back, the way he tried to interpret what Juno’s expression was meant to say. He remembers thinking that Juno couldn’t be here alone; even if the rest of the Carte Blanche decided he wasn’t worth the effort, they wouldn’t abandon Juno. They must be right behind him. Jet would barrel in, or Vespa would take out the snipers on the upper walkway. Buddy would demonstrate her own expert aim. Rita would cut the lights. Somehow, Juno’s family would save him, because Juno couldn’t be here alone.

So when they asked Nureyev if he knew Juno, and Juno looked at him with an expression that Nureyev couldn’t parse, he only wanted to give them more time.

We’ve never met, with a sneer perfected from a lifetime of playacting roles.

And then -

The knife is spinning frantically in Nureyev’s hand. It feels more like he’s trying to keep a hold on it, calm it and keep it falling back to him, than that he has any control over its movement. Soon. Soon he’ll kill as many people in the room as he can manage with a single knife, and they’ll kill him, and he won’t have to think about Juno dead on the ground anymore.

Nureyev thinks, I miss you. And at the sound of a blaster, he begins.

The damage he can do with one knife is considerable, and either he’s more adept at dodging blaster fire than he gave himself credit for, or the person firing has terrible aim. It’s a small blessing, and he’s not grateful for it. He’s ready. He would kill them all for Juno, but more than that he’s ready to be done and he hopes Juno can forgive him for that. His hands are bloody, he’s lost in a dangerous rhythm, and he thinks it’s nearly over when a hand reaches out and spins him around too quickly for him to ready his knife fast enough and -

And everything stops.

“Juno?” Nureyev doesn’t know who says it, but it couldn’t have been him - it couldn’t have been Nureyev, who feels like the air has been punched out of him. Nureyev is as still as a statue, unbreathing and unmoving with his knife in front of him and something impossible at the end of it, and maybe this is a blessing he can be grateful for. One more look.

But the hand that reaches up and lowers his knife is warm and familiar, and that voice is unmistakeable. “I don’t... I’m okay. I’m okay, Nureyev, but we have to go now.”

“How... are you...” How are you standing. How are you here. How could Nureyev possibly deserve another chance.

“I don’t know.” But his face says he might know something.

What Nureyev hates most of all is that he wants to believe it. He wants it so badly that he paws at Juno’s shirt before he’s found the words for a denial, looks for proof past bloodstained fabric before he demands it from Juno. He finds smooth skin. He finds smooth skin in a star-shaped pattern of scar tissue that interrupts the scars around it, the sign of a devastating wound that might have happened months ago.

It’s been hours.

Juno was dead.

Nureyev saw it happen. Nureyev saw the life leave his eyes.

“I lost you.” His voice shakes.

“Not yet.” The feeling of a calloused thumb wiping away a tear Nureyev didn’t know was there is the most real anything’s felt since seeing the blood. “You didn’t lose me yet.”

He wants to say more - there’s so much he thought of to say, after - but Juno doesn’t give him the time. He takes him by the hand and leads him through corridors, along a route that seems familiar to him. Sometimes he stops, breathing heavy and leaning against the wall, clutching his chest where that smooth scar is. Nureyev tries not to think about the possibility of losing Juno again. Nureyev counts their footsteps instead, counts the florescent lights they run under on their way to escape, counts the times he must lose his composure because he feels Juno’s hand squeeze around his.

When they reach the Ruby 7, Juno falls to his knees and Nureyev falls with him. A woman Nureyev doesn’t recognize stares at the bloodied shirt, the lack of wound... and then hauls Juno into the backseat. She doesn’t protest when Nureyev crawls in after him, just arranges Juno’s head on Nureyev’s lap while Juno gasps and writhes.

“Stay with me, love,” Nureyev whispers. He gives up holding Juno’s hand to hold his wrist instead. He counts the heartbeats. “Stay here with me.”

“Not going anywhere,” Juno grunts out, and it’s a testiment to his strength of will that he finds it in himself to smile up at Nureyev. “This isn’t what dying looks like.”

Nureyev leans down far enough to rest his forehead against Juno’s. “I know.”

#tpp #the penumbra podcast #jupeter #juno steel #peter nureyev #junoverse #tw character death #(but only for a little while!)#tw suicide ideation #(but also! temporary!)#season 4 speculation #listen what if the cmp gave Juno FUCKOFF regeneration abilities #I just think that would be tasty #I am going to speculate about the cmp for the rest of the hiatus and you cannot stop me #‘were you inspired by re8’ you may well ask and listen. yes.#’do you have an au of that type also planned’ MAYBE BUT YOU CAN’T PROVE ANYTHING

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gentlemancrow · 3 years

Note

Ohh prompts! Maybe 21 and some shippy JonTim?

OK I know I agonized about this one but NO REALLY THANK YOU IT WAS GREAT <3! It was a GREAT exercise for writing in so many ways for me! Also I know the prompt "Maybe you should sit down" sort of implies getting bad news or something more than what popped into my brain, but this is what popped IMMEDIATELY into my brain so I went with it 83 Also again this is my first JonTim so be gentle with me uwu! Honestly it's my first time writing Tim in general for longer than one sentence so there's that too jfhlsajf XT Anyway enjoy!

Jon would have infinitely preferred to think of his bungled little excursion as a calculated risk that the whims of capricious probability had simply decided he had lost on that particular doomed occasion. What it truly was, however, was an infinitely predictable culmination of skipping his physio stretches for three mornings in a row, deciding a quick jaunt into the stacks to hunt for a statement to cross reference with the one he had been working on all morning did not, in fact, require the aid of his cane, and several cups of black tea on an empty stomach with their resultant caffeine jitters that had left him splayed and wobbling like a newborn fawn with one hand anchoring him in a vice grip to the handle of a file drawer. His bad leg ached in that special way it did that he knew all too well could be catastrophic if he moved it even slightly wrong, and set him back significantly on his physio progress. That oft repeated foible would also attract the ire and derision of literally every single person who knew him, never mind the physical therapists at the clinic, and he was very much not prepared to deal with that on top of everything else.

Lucky for him he wasn’t even supposed to be back at the institute in the first place, so no one would be looking for him, and he was reasonably assured that he would have plenty of time to figure out how to escape unscathed, or at least enough to hide a suspicious limp for a day or two. Unlucky for him, probability it seemed, also liked to double down.

“Alright there, boss man?”

Tim’s jovial voice echoed through the file cabinets like the worst song on the juke at the pub out of all of the hundreds of better selections just as Jon was preparing to gingerly move his spasmodic leg. He sighed and closed his eyes bitterly.

“Oh, yes, just fine, just dangling precariously from this file cabinet to try out a new stretch, it’s called the ‘mind your own business’,” he growled.

Tim chuckled, the echoes of it raising pinprick hackles of irritation on the back of Jon’s neck as he emerged from the shadows, hands on his hips and wry, crooked grin on his scarred face.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“And pray tell where, Timothy?” Jon snapped in a low growl.

Tim made a low whistle.

“Yikes! Busting out the -othy today? You must be in a bad way.”

“You think so? Whatever gave you that brilliant idea?” Jon drawled, rolling his eyes, “Are you going to stand there gawking and making me feel even more like an invalid or are you going to deign to render me aid?”

“I think I can spare a moment, just for you,” came the predictably smug retort, “What exactly would you like me to do?”

“I just need to sit a moment and massage it out, so fetching a chair from somewhere ought to suffice.”

Tim pondered the request as he strolled to Jon’s side, chewing his lower lip pensively.

“Well, I could do that for you, but seeing as you’re not actually supposed to be here yet I am a little concerned that dragging a chair randomly down to the archives would attract… unwanted attention? You know Martin would have a conniption.”

Sighing heavily, Jon pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

“Good point.”

“How about my lap then?” Tim continued without missing a beat.

Jon choked on his own tongue as the tips of his ears burned like cinders.

“TIM! Is this really, truly, and honestly the appropriate moment to be… making a pass at me?”

Unfazed, Tim pressed a dramatic hand over his heart.

“Jon, I’m wounded! Ordinarily I’d be deeply offended you’d think my flirting skills so inelegant and crass, but I was actually being sincere this time.”

A dark brow slid skeptically, pointedly up Jon’s forehead.

“Beg pardon, but how could that possibly have ever, in any situation, been construed as sincere?”

“Well, we’ve determined a chair is too risky, the floor isn’t going to do you any favors, and I know you won’t let me carry you back to your office, so I won’t even bother to ask, so where does that leave us, hmmm? Plus, if you recall, I had much the same physio you did, I know the massages and the stretches, I can have you patched up and out of here in no time,” Tim elaborated, counting off on his fingers.

Jon hated it when anyone other than him was making the most sense in the conversation, and he gnashed his teeth and growled his begrudging acquiescence.

“…Fine.”

“Brilliant. Alright to touch?” Tim asked brightly, hands hovering a respectful few inches from Jon’s hand and shoulders.

Eyes narrowing to smoldering brown slits, the last embers of a dying fire, Jon made him wait a few moments for the wordless nod of approval.

“Okay, just taking your hand there, my other hand’s got your other arm, and easy does it…”

With surprising finesse and gentleness, Tim took Jon’s hand and eased him onto the ground with him and into his lap, taking great care to keep his seized-up leg straight and comfortable. Jon melded against his assistant, looping his arms loosely around Tim’s waist while he tipped his head against his shoulder and let his twisted-up bones and sinew go slack against the radiantly warm aegis of him. His shirt was screamingly loud and his hair was freshly pink and he always smelled crisp and free and wild, like a sea breeze on a sun-soaked twilight. Jon liked the way he smelled, and the self-assured posture of his broad shoulders and the heartening solidness of a body meant to be shirtless as often as possible holding him so secure in the humming powerlines of his care. Just to be touched was a visceral melody of nerve endings and synapses, to be touched by him was a blinding symphony of electric light and sound perfectly in tune to the aria of his core where so few dared to go.

“Not so awful right?” Tim teased, squeezing his affected knee with care.

“Get on with it, Stoker,” Jon murmured languidly into the crook of his neck.

“Ohoh, last name now. I’m on real thin ice, aren’t I?” he chortled in reply, pads of his fingers feeling out the ridge of a patella and skating down his calf.

Jon winced, opening one eye to glance guiltily up at the ever-chipper mien of Tim.

“I-“ he stuttered, his protest melting into a sigh, “No, you’re not. I’m sorry. You’re being helpful and I’m being an ass.”

“Mmm, that’s a smidge hyperbolic. You’re being snappish because you got caught being naughty, and you’re in pain, and you also got caught being in pain, which is probably the worst offense out of all of them.”

“I suppose…” Jon conceded, closing his eye and letting his body go slack again.

“Okay to roll your cuff up? Or would you prefer trouser leg down?”

“You can roll it up, I don’t mind.”

Tim promptly, neatly, folded the cuff of Jon’s trousers up only to just above the knee, baring the cratered mares of his leg. His fingers felt them out, felt the places where the worms bored holes in him that had forgotten which way to mend and pulled and tugged in a confused riot of fibrous muscle and scar tissue, and rolled through them with slow, deliberate tenderness. Jon hissed softly in pain, but Tim’s fingers knew the weft and trail of his muscles, and he squeezed and massaged and tilled them with expert care. Unhurriedly, painstakingly, Jon’s knee unlocked, and it bowed gratefully outward with the sigh of relief into a Hawaiian print collar.

“You’re allowed to hurt you know,” Tim whispered at length, fingers just stroking idly now.

“Everyone’s allowed to hurt,” Jon replied automatically, “It’s only that those of us who can bear it have the duty to do so for those who can’t.”

Tim chewed his lip in the wake of that, weighing his feelings against his words carefully.

“And what god decides who is who?”

Only silence from the clinging, boneless and wounded creature in his lap.

“I’m just saying. I was right there with you, the same thing happened to me, so maybe share a little of this one, hmm?” he tried again, nudging at Jon’s temple with the tip of his nose, letting the silvered chestnut hairs tickle.

The strings of Jon’s body wound taut again around Tim’s fingers still tracing blind patterns on his shin, and he glanced up, daring to ensnare his irises only for a moment.

“I’ll try.”

A soft, breathless laugh whisked past Tim’s lips as he shook his head fondly.

“I guess that’s the best I’m going to get out of the high and mighty head archivist,” he huffed, “But I’ll take it. Now, where can I kiss it all better for you?”

It took Jon a full cycle of pouting, scowling, and digging vengeful fingers into Tim’s back before he could conjure an answer.

“Forehead, please.”

“You got it.”

Jon ducked his head to receive Tim’s lips pressed against his creased brow, and while he knew he bore a burden too great to be carried away with velvet kisses and frank words, for a moment at least he could feel just a bit lighter.

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #JonTim #jonathan sims #Tim Stoker #Crow Writes #Ask Drabble #wordsintimeandspace

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whump-tr0pes · 3 years

Text

Honor Bound 5 - 33

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Masterlist

Content warning: self-hatred, death threats, discussion of death, gun

“Isaac!” Sam cried hoarsely as he opened the front door.

They came barreling into his arms, burying their head against his chest and squeezing him tight. Isaac’s eyes pricked with tears as he wrapped his arms around them and pressed a kiss to the crown of their head. He released them a moment later. He could barely breathe. His blood pulsed beneath his skin, his heart pounding in his chest, every nerve throbbing.

Tomorrow.

I’m going to get him back tomorrow.

Isaac looked up at the others, all crowded into the kitchen. Finn and Ellis had their arms wrapped tightly around each other, huddled in the corner, their faces pale. Vera stood beside Tori. Her mouth was set, her gaze steady on Isaac as he walked in, tucking Sam beneath his arm. Edrissa shifted her eyes away, standing on the opposite end of the kitchen as Zachariah. Zachariah’s face was haggard. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the month and a half since he’d reached the family. Deep circles were carved under his eyes, and his hands shook at his sides. Gray stood in the middle of the others, eyes wide and focused on nothing. Isaac thought he saw the glimmer of tears as they blinked and looked up at him.

“Um… h-haven’t made the call yet?” Isaac croaked.

“No,” Gray said weakly. “Wanted to… w-wait on you.”

Isaac’s throat tightened as he glanced around at the others. Every second they waited, Gavin suffered. Every inch of Isaac’s body ached with terror, with the unending pulse of hatred that burned through him with each heartbeat: my fault. My fault. My fault.

“L-let’s get it done, then,” he rasped. He felt like he would jump out of his skin if he had to wait another moment. His hand twitched for the gun he had tucked in his waistband. Vera’s eyes caught the motion. Her mouth twisted.

Silently, Gray pulled the cell phone out of their pocket and flipped it open. They hit redial and put the phone on speaker. They held the phone out in the middle of the group. It trembled in their hand.

It rang once. Twice.

There was a muffled clatter on the other end, and a harried voice sounding slightly out of breath answered. “Hello?”

The voice was unfamiliar, but it still sent a chill down Isaac’s spine. This was the firefighter that was going to walk into the town hall tomorrow and lead Isaac to Gavin. This person was going to help save Gavin tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

The possibility of failure didn’t even cross his mind. Gavin was at the town hall; Isaac knew it with every fiber of his being. He was going to save him. The only way he was not going to have Gavin in his arms tomorrow night was if he was no longer breathing.

“H-hello, Vanya,” Gray said with a shaking voice. “The whole gang is here. You’re on speaker.”

“Good, good,” Vanya said distractedly. A shuffling sound. “Sorry, I’m trying to get somewhere where I can talk.”

“Take your time,” Gray said breathlessly.

There was the whisper of movement, the distant sound of a door closing. Vanya’s voice seemed more muffled than before. “Alright, I can talk. Let’s, uh… let’s go over things.”

“What’s the plan?” Isaac said, unable to keep silent any longer. He bit his lip and clutched Sam tighter. They leaned against him and squeezed him back.

“Well first I… I’m, um, sorry for the short notice. This was the soonest I could schedule it and I felt like you’d want to—”

“Yes,” Isaac choked. “Y-yes.”

There was a deep breath over the line. “Okay. Okay. Good. So here’s my plan, the way I have it: I’m going to go to the town hall tomorrow to do a simple fire inspection. I’ve done half the town by now, and the town hall is right in line with the pattern I’ve been taking from east to west. There’s no reason for Schiester to suspect I’m doing anything out of the ordinary.”

Isaac nodded as Vanya spoke. His skin felt like it was buzzing.

Vanya continued. “I’m not going to do a complete fire inspection, because honestly, that would be a waste of time. That building is old enough that it might not even have a fire suppression system. But it’ll probably have an alarm system. There will be a room with an alarm panel that I can check. Sometimes there will even be a premise map that’ll give a detailed map of every floor… but I doubt it.”

“If DFS has been keeping captives in the basement, I doubt he’d leave a map up,” Vera said harshly.

Isaac huffed out a breath. Come on, come on…

“Yeah. Sorry. Anyway. There will be an alarm panel that will probably give me a good idea of how many floors there are. We have to consider the fact that there might be more than one underground floor.”

Isaac’s breath rushed out of him. He hadn’t considered—

“Isaac, this is where you come in,” Vanya said.

Isaac’s body went rigid. Ice crawled into his veins. “Y-yeah?”

“I’m assuming you’re going to be the one going in after him, based on what I talked about with Gr—”

“Yes,” Isaac snapped. His arm tightened around Sam. “I’m going in.”

“Good. Okay. Well, if there are any floors that show up on a premise map or on the alarm panel that the mayor won’t let me access, I figure there’s a pretty good chance that’s where to search. So… once I get a good idea of where Gavin is being kept—”

Isaac sucked in a breath. To hear someone else say Gavin’s name, someone Isaac didn’t know and couldn’t be sure he could trust, made his skin itch.

“—I’m going to get a message out to you. A call or text, probably, so I can send details. But I’ll figure it out. If there is a premise map, I can even give you turn by turn instructions.”

“I’ll find a way in,” Isaac said darkly. “I will.”

“Okay. Well… that’s where my part ends, I guess. I can really only get you the info on whether or not he’s there.”

“He’s there,” Isaac ground out through his teeth. “He has to be there.”

There was a long pause over the line. Then, “Yeah. It would make sense.”

Gray cleared their throat. “At that point, I’ll already be there with the car for my shift like normal. I’ll help Isaac and Gavin to the car.”

Isaac met Gray’s gaze and chewed his lip. Gray’s eyes shone with tears. Their face hardened into a look of agonized determination. Isaac blinked as he realized there were dried tear tracks on their cheeks. He swallowed hard and looked again at the phone in Gray’s hand.

“I’ll be waiting in the car,” Finn said. Their voice broke. “With my, um… med kit.”

Everyone was silent for a long moment. Then Vanya said, “I’m still working on gathering supplies for making a functioning fire department with… maybe a transporting ambulance soon. What are you planning on taking? I… You’re welcome to whatever I have.”

Finn’s throat bobbed as they swallowed. “Basic trauma stuff,” they said in a monotone. “Suture kits, tourniquets, trauma dressings, ten-gages, SAM splints, then…” They counted off on their fingers. “Fentanyl, ketamine, fluids, dextrose, epi, IV and IO kit, benzos, blankets and heat packs, vital signs stuff, my, um, airway kit w-with the surgical cric kit…” They shuddered, their face going paler by the second. “I’m thinking about packing some IV antibiotics just in case… Let me think, um…” They wet their lips. “Should I pack anything else?” they said in a quavering voice.

There was the uneasy sound of Vanya clearing their throat. “Um… not anything I can think of. That was, um… a lot more than I thought you’d be packing. I… if you need all that…” They fell silent. “Um… d-do you… have a hospital in mind if he, um… needs that?”

“No hospitals,” Finn said dully. “Whatever is wrong is something that… I n-need to fix.”

Isaac raised his head to look at them. His heart sank at the look of overwhelm overshadowed by flat determination on their face.

They feel as responsible for them as I do, just… different. He felt a swell of gratitude in his chest that threatened to choke him.

“Well… alright,” Vanya said softly. “If you need a restock before you head north again… just let me know. I’ll do my best to get supplies to you.”

“Thank you,” Finn said brokenly. Their eyes filled with tears. Ellis clutched their arm and they hugged Ellis tightly.

“We can’t bring too many people,” Vera said, her eyes unfocused. “Otherwise I would… I… would go.” She nodded slowly and looked up at Isaac. “You know I—”

“I know,” he said gruffly. He shivered like a chill had just gone through him. Sweat prickled under his shirt. “That means that… I… should probably be down there already when Gray arrives.” He rubbed his wrist against his hip, barely feeling the scrape of his belt against the scars that itched there. “I’ll head back into town after this, get a ride south. I’ll make sure no one sees or follows.”

“Where will you stay?” Vera said softly.

“In a fucking tent,” Isaac snapped. “On the sidewalk. In a dumpster. I don’t care. I’ll figure it out.” Before the words were fully out, Isaac ducked his head. He looked up at Vera beneath his lashes, already shrinking with shame.

A muscle ticked in Vera’s jaw. She stood perfectly still beside Tori, looking at Isaac evenly.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac whispered. “I… I’m…”

“It’s okay,” Vera said, and Isaac raised his head again. “I’m just… trying to work out the details.”

“I would offer my place, but… we really shouldn’t risk you being seen with me,” Vanya said, sounding apologetic.

“I could ask Mathias,” Isaac said. “He might say yes.”

“We’ll figure it out as soon as we hang up with you, Vanya,” Gray said. For the first time since Isaac had left to search the north, Gray sounded… not quite hopeful, but like there was a little bit of life in their voice again. Their fingers were white where they clutched the phone. “Thank you, Vanya. Truly. I… can’t express how grateful I am for your help. How grateful we all are.”

“Y-yeah,” Isaac croaked. “Thank you.”

The others all murmured their thank yous. Even Edrissa, speaking for the first time. She still leaned away from Isaac, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Well… I’ll, um, get going. If you need anything, call me back on this number. Also, the inspection is scheduled for ten AM, so…”

“I’ll be there,” Isaac said with iron in his voice. His hand itched to hold his gun.

“Okay. Well… good, um, good luck, everyone. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or not, maybe. Either way…”

“Good luck,” Gray rasped.

“Yeah,” Vanya mumbled. “Alright… take care.”

The line went dead.

Isaac let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He rocked forward, his arm squeezing even tighter around Sam’s shoulders, his eyes burning with tears. His heart felt like it would leap from his chest.

Tomorrow. Ten AM. Tomorrow.

His hands felt numb. He swiped at the tears running down his cheeks and into his beard. He felt something shift inside him, like something was about to snap. Blood pounded in his ears.

“Something we have yet to discuss in detail,” Gray said softly, “Is that… once we… have Gavin, Schiester will most likely come after us.”

“Let him fucking come,” Isaac growled. “I’ll rip that motherfucker’s head from his fucking—”

“If we kill him,” Gray said gently, “We risk facing the anger of the entire north.”

“If we kill Schiester, then we tell the entire fucking north what he’s been doing to kids and innocent people with shit fucking luck when they come through Crayton,” Isaac spat back. Edrissa drew away from Isaac, closer to Tori’s side. Tori’s hand went to her shoulder and stroked back and forth, soothing.

Gray was silent for a moment. Then, they murmured, “We could do that anyway.”

Isaac froze mid-breath, rage crawling under his skin, solidifying into something like vicious hope. “Y-yeah?” he croaked.

Gray shrugged jerkily as they slid the phone back into their pocket. “Even if he took those pictures down, they’re probably still in his office. If I see an opportunity – Gavin is the priority, he’s the only priority, but if I get the chance – I’ll grab them. Find a way to disseminate them. Those…” Gray’s voice twisted. “Those people… Their families deserve to know what happened to them.”

“But Gavin first,” Isaac said brokenly. “I… I need to get Gavin out first.”

Ellis wet their lips and spoke. “Guys… Hate to be the guy to point this out, but he might not be—”

“He is!” Isaac cried, whirling on them. His arm loosened from around Sam’s shoulders. “He is! He… he has to be there. H-he has to be… alive.” His chest tightened with a sob. “He’s there,” he whispered through numb lips. “He has to be.”

Sam wound their arm around his waist again. Their hand brushed the gun tucked in Isaac’s waistband. They froze and looked up at him, their eyes wide. There was a hint of fear in their gaze. Isaac pushed down the feeling of guilt that rose in him and looked away.

“All the same,” Gray said, holding a placating hand out towards Isaac, “We should pack tonight, and be prepared to move. Regardless of how the plan goes.”

“It’ll work,” Isaac said fiercely.

Gray’s head fell forward. “Regardless,” they continued softly, “We should be ready to move. Finn, Ellis, if you’ll—”

“We’ve been ready to go for weeks,” Ellis said, and shifted their feet. “We never really unpacked. Let’s be honest… we knew this was going to get ugly. But once we have the idiot back…” They shrugged and stared at their shoes. “We can settle in then. Wherever it is we end up.”

Isaac’s throat was tight. “And I should get going,” he murmured. “I need to get back home, find a discreet ride south. I, um… I need to figure that out.”

Sam’s arm tightened around his waist again, and he looked down at them. They stared up at him, tears welling in their eyes. He pulled them close and crushed them to his chest.

“Isaac,” Sam whimpered against his shirt.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Isaac murmured against their hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow, with Gavin. I’ll have him tomorrow.”

Sam shuddered and clutched at him. “I… I know.”

Tears burned in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and kissed their forehead, trying to ignore the tears than ran into their hair. “Love you,” he whispered. Dread ached in his stomach at how much the words sounded like goodbye.

He swayed with them, realizing for the first time how much he’d missed this. He missed his little sibling in his arms, clutched tight. He’d barely seen them at all for the past…

The past thirty-five days.

They sniffled and pulled away. Vera was at his side, and she pulled him into a hug as well. He wound his arms around her waist and nearly lifted her off the floor with how hard he squeezed her.

“We’ll get our boy back,” Vera mumbled, her face pressed against his shoulder. “We’ll get him back.”

Isaac said nothing, only nodded. After a moment, he loosened his hold. She stepped back, and Tori took her place.

They all embraced him, one by one – Gray, Finn, Ellis, Zachariah. Even Edrissa walked up to him and stiffly stuck her hand out for him to shake. He could feel her fingers trembling. He kept his gaze down and bowed his head apologetically, only too aware of the rage that boiled inside him, just beneath the surface. When she drew back, she wiped her hand on her skirt.

When he turned to leave, Gray held out the phone. “Take this,” they said. “In case we need to contact you.”

Isaac tucked it into his pocket. “Sure thing.” His voice was hoarse. “I just need to grab some things.”

He turned and walked down the hall to the bedrooms. When he stopped in front of the room he’d shared with Gavin, his stomach dropped. He placed his hand on the doorknob. It was cool under his fingers. He drew in a deep breath and turned it, pushing the door open.

His breath caught in his chest. It was exactly the same as he’d left it, the morning he’d discovered Gavin had been taken while he slept. The bedspread was rumpled, the drawer of Gavin’s nightstand still slightly open. The curtain was drawn, but the last rays of the afternoon sun lit the purple fabric, casting the room in a strange, dim light. As he caught his breath again, he was nearly brought to his knees; he could just barely catch a hint of Gavin’s scent still in the room.

Isaac forced down his tears, forced down the way his hands shook, the way he wanted to collapse to the floor and sob his heart out. He went to the dresser and opened the bottom drawer. He took only the knife that lay tucked along the side, the handle sticking out from under a pair of pants. He strapped the sheath to his belt and turned to go to the bed.

He didn’t even have to look as he reached for the knife he had tucked between the mattress and the bedframe all those weeks ago, so that when the time came to protect Gavin from the threat he’d known, somehow, was coming – he could. His fingers wrapped around it and it felt dull in his hands. Heavy. Useless.

Useless. Useless. Useless.

He shoved the thought away and straightened up.

As he walked through to the front of the house again, he looked at his family, still all gathered in the kitchen, huddling together as if for warmth. Tears moved silently down Gray’s face, now. Isaac bit down on his tongue, holding back his own.

“I’ll see you all… tomorrow,” he said, feeling the weight of the gun against his lower back.

“See you,” Vera murmured.

“I’ll call you with any updates,” Gray said, wiping their face on their shirt.

“L-love you, Isaac,” Sam said softly.

“Love you, too,” Isaac croaked. He turned to go. His hand curled around his knife as he pushed open the door and walked out into the golden afternoon sun.

Continued here

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#honor bound 5 #rescue mission #aftermath of kidnapping #Vanya the firefighter #Zachariah: a boy who needs a nap #Isaac's self-loathing #death threats tw #death discussion tw #gun tw

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wickedshank · 3 years

Text

Whichever faded first

Thominho Week 2021・Day 4・Scars

The scars on their bodies formed a map of the journey they’d traveled together, and Minho could remember how he got each one. Sometimes he wished he could forget.

Also on AO3. Enjoy!

・・・・・・

After two years of living in the Glade with its artificial sky and another two weeks spent crossing the burned earth of the Scorch, the Gladers weren’t very used to the feeling of cool rain on their skin. Even now, a year into their lives in the Safe Haven, when it rained, some of them would stand out in the open until water soaked their clothes and dripped from their hair.

Minho was usually among the first in and one of the last out.

(Except for lightning storms. No one went out in a lightning storm.)

“Minho.”

He turned. Thomas stood in the open doorway to their shared hut. They’d both been out in the rain until just now, not saying a thing, simply enjoying the cool evening. Minho followed him inside.

“You’re going to catch a cold if you stay in those wet clothes,” Thomas warned.

Minho grinned. “If you want me to take my shirt off, all you have to do is ask.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, I’m just dying to see you shirtless.” As if to make a point, he tugged his own shirt over his head and hung it over the back of a chair. He went to pull a dry one from the drawer, but before he could put it on, two freezing hands gripped his shoulders.

“Minho!” he shrieked. Thomas tried to turn around but was held in place.

“What’s this?” Minho asked, his index finger moving gently over a tiny spot high on Thomas’s shoulder blade, like he’d been pricked with a needle. He found another one in his side, and one just beneath his ribcage.

“What?” Thomas tried to look over his shoulder. He could only turn far enough to see the one in his side as Minho pointed it out. “Oh, those. They’re from when I got Stung.”

Worst idea you’ve ever had, Minho thought. And that’s saying something. He let his fingers trace from one pinprick scar to the other. Thomas shivered a little under his touch, bringing a smile to Minho’s lips. He splayed his hand against Thomas’s back, thumb touching one of the marks. “It’s weird I’ve never noticed them before,” he said.

Thomas shrugged, his shoulder blade moving beneath Minho’s hand. “Maybe it’s because I’ve tanned a bit. Makes them stand out more.”

Minho hummed. He put his arms around Thomas’s neck to hug him from behind, pressed a kiss to Thomas’s shoulder, trailing up his neck. He didn’t want to remember those times in the Glade, those agonizing days Thomas had been going through the Changing. It was over. They were here now. They, at least, had made it out together.

Thomas’s fingers came up to curl around Minho’s forearm, running across the branching lines of his own scars there.

“Do you think we’ll ever,” Minho started to ask, when Thomas turned his head to kiss Minho’s arm, his bicep, whichever bit of skin he could reach.

“Yeah?” he prompted Minho to continue as he turned in his arms so they were face to face.

Minho’s eyes darted down to the nasty scar on Thomas’s shoulder, left by the rusty bullet that had almost killed him.

“Earth to Minho?”

He had to clear his throat. No point to dwell on the past. No way to make it undone, either. “You think we’ll ever forget how we got all these? Or any of these?”

Thomas cocked his head, not quite understanding.

Minho took his hand and walked back, leading them to sit on the edge of the bed. He breathed in deep as he got his thoughts in order. “Not the big ones, not the lightning strike or being attacked by Grievers, but…” He pulled up his leg to show the faintest scar on his kneecap. “Like, this one, I got tripping over a shuck root in the Glade. And this one”—he showed a line running across the palm of his left hand—“I cut myself helping out in the kitchens, the first month we were there. Frypan banned me after that. I—I’d expected them to disappear by now, but every time I look at these scars, I remember the Glade, the kitchens. All the different smells. Coming back from a long day of running the Maze and never finding an answer.”

It still weighed on him, sometimes, the years they spent running around like a bunch of lab rats, day in day out, with no end in sight.

He felt it in his body, too. The thrill of a feeling that he needed to be moving, that he couldn’t afford to sit still. Like the world might come crashing down if he wasn’t running.

They all had their own ghosts haunting them long after they’d escaped to their little piece of paradise. So sometimes he needed to rest, and have Thomas by his side to make sure that they both stayed put and took a break.

“I know what you mean,” Thomas said. He glanced at the scar on his shoulder before pressing his fingers to another one, a long line running down his lower arm. He didn’t explain where it’d come from. Instead, he pulled his legs up on the bed and turned toward Minho.

“How’d you get this one?” he asked, fingers featherlight against Minho’s collar bone.

“Angry Crank with a sharp knife, I think.”

“This one?” He tapped the back of Minho’s hand.

“Rope burn from the vines.”

Thomas touched a spot on the right side of his jaw. “This one?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

Minho shoved his shoulder, but there was little force behind it. He sighed. “Falling out of a hammock when we first got here,” he admitted.

Thomas bit his cheek to keep from laughing. It didn’t work, a chuckle escaped him. “Why didn’t I know about that?” he asked.

There was no easy way to say why. Minho lifted his shoulders, avoiding. Then, eventually, “You weren’t really… here. Those first few days.” He could probably point to half a dozen scars on Thomas’s body that originated in the day of their final escape. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to remember them now.

“Oh,” was all Thomas said, and it was better left that way.

Some scars faded. Some would stay on their bodies long after they, somehow, managed to forget how they’d gotten them.

Some scars weren’t physical, either. Those, too, might fade with time and care. But not all.

Minho had come to accept that. All he could do was be there, and let Thomas link their fingers together. Let him press a kiss to Minho’s hand, to the scar on his collarbone.

Thomas gripped the hem of Minho’s shirt and pulled it over his head.

“I thought you didn’t care to see me shirtless,” Minho said as Thomas dropped it on the floor.

“I don’t particularly,” Thomas said. “But it feels unfair that I’m the only one without one on.” His eyes scanned the scars littering Minho’s torso.

Minho looked down and took inventory of his own. Cuts from where those Bulb Monsters had got him. Burns from when his clothes had been on fire in the lightning storm. But also a bruise, fresh and purple, on his ribs from where Thomas had accidentally elbowed him in the middle of the night. A plaster covered a nick on his thumb he’d gotten trying to help Gally saw some planks. Trying, because he was consequently banned from coming near any construction ever again.

(Minho had a terrible track record handling sharp tools.)

“I guess they’re not all bad memories,” he said.

Thomas had his eyes on the bruise. “I swear didn’t know I moved so much in my sleep.”

“Oh, I knew. Just always thought you were weaker.”

The soft punch to Minho’s shoulder did little to disprove that. “Keep talking like that, and you’re sleeping alone tonight.” Thomas stood to finally get a clean shirt.

“Oh no, how will I ever survive having a peaceful night’s sleep for once?”

Thomas not-so-accidentally threw said shirt in Minho’s face.

#thominho week 2021 #tmwd4 #scars #post-canon #thominho #tmr #tmr fanfic

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un-cadavre-exquis · 3 years

Text

past and forever (arthur/eames)

originally posted to ao3.

Like all good things, it starts in Paris.

It’s late July and they’ve just finished a job; the extractor and architect have both flown off to god-knows-where, and Arthur and Eames (arthurandeames and eamesandarthur) are passing a bottle of vodka between themselves in celebration. Eames thinks vaguely that it might be around three in the morning, but he can’t be bothered to check.

They are sitting on the bedroom floor of Arthur’s ridiculously large flat, and of-fucking-course Arthur owns Parisian real estate in le premier arrondissement, and Arthur is at the moment drunkenly ranting about the superiority of cashmere to merino wool. Eames is struck, as he has been countless times before, with the realization that Arthur is exquisite. He says so, and Arthur frowns petulantly at him but blushes a little all the same.

“I could kill you with my left pinky,” Arthur mutters.

“Of that I have no doubt, Mr. Last-Name-Redacted,” Eames smirks. “Pass the bottle?” Arthur does, fingers lingering the barest fraction of a second too long against Eames’. And Eames thinks, too drunk to stop himself and not drunk enough to forget it in the morning, This is home.

Which perhaps does not bode well for Eames’ psychological well-being, seeing as he has witnessed Arthur kill a man twice his size with a plastic spork. Arthur is, well, Arthur. Half of dreamshare is terrified of him, the other half wants in his extremely well-tailored pants. Arthur, who once lived through his best friend throwing herself off a building and still managed to pull Dominic Cobb out of the deepest pits of despair, Arthur, who is dangerous and deadly and oh-so sharp around the edges. Arthur, who Eames is madly in love with.

(He blazes incandescent and hotter than all hell. So bright that it hurts to look at him sometimes. Red-hot, don’t get too close.)

The thing is, Eames has loved Arthur before dreamshare was anything more than a fleeting idea in the collective minds of the US army. Before he began to hide his youth under bespoke Tom Ford and permanent hair gel, before the Cobol clusterfuck, before the Fischer job. Eames has loved Arthur since the first time he laid eyes on him in a dimly lit bar in Paris, fresh out of some ultra-classified government program, jaded and caustic and looking like he wanted to light a fire and watch the entire world burn to ashes.

Which is to say, Eames has loved Arthur since he first knew how to love. And Arthur has just stopped talking and turns his head and the first strains of daylight filtering through the windows catch his face just so, and he is so beautiful; a modern day Adonis. Drunk and loose and happy, perhaps as happy as he has ever been and ever will be. Eames suddenly can’t breathe; his throat seizes at the ephemerality of this moment— come morning Arthur will yet again be buttoned-up and frowning and hiding his misery behind the barrel of a silenced Beretta 92FS.

And really, it’s okay that Arthur doesn’t love him back and never will. Eames came to terms with that long ago.

It’s October now, and Eames is so alone. Sure, he has Yusuf, who texts him a cat picture everyday, and Ariadne, who calls sometimes to check in on him, but he is so alone. He has not heard from Arthur since that time in Paris, when Eames woke up cold and hungover and in an empty bed. He learned two things during that job: one, that the Russians don’t fuck around when it comes to alcohol, and two, that it’s time for him to let go of Arthur. He’s growing a little too old for unrequited crushes.

(It’s anything but a crush, his love burns a hole straight through his chest and sends fire through his veins.)

So Eames trawls bars and clubs at night, burning through slim, dark-haired boys who absolutely do not look like a certain pointman-criminal-killer-thief. He fucks them and forgets them. None of them are beautifully deadly and none of them carry thirteen different concealed weapons at any given time and none of them are Arthur.

It’s December when Arthur, burning like a goddamn supernova, shows up at the door of the London flat Eames has been staying in for the past month with a brand new bullet hole (Medium caliber, Eames thinks) in his thigh and a deep cut (serrated knife) across his shoulder. He smells like cordite, sickly sweet, and something darker, blood and steel and rage. What can Eames do besides open the door wider to let him in and watch as Arthur wordlessly lowers himself onto Eames’ sofa?

Arthur stays. He stays after his wounds heal, after his scars begin to fade, after he starts to lose the tension in his shoulders and the fury in his eyes. They start to take jobs now, always together, arthurandeames and eamesandarthur once again. Barrel against temple, one, two, pull the trigger. They’re something of a package deal, Rio to London to Tokyo to Paris. The best of the best. You want someone to disappear? Hire Arthur and Eames. You want to steal something? Hire Arthur and Eames.

You want a secret? Well, they are the best at that.

But they spend their days with their veins weighed down by Somnacin and desperate dreams, always looking over their shoulders for angry marks or turncoat clients/extractors/architects.

“How do you feel about a vacation, darling?” Eames asks Arthur, a few months in.

So they stop taking jobs and start to move around, safehouse to safehouse, dropping aliases left and right, but always together.

(They avoid Germany like the plague, though, the polizei are still unreasonably upset over a very small incident that maybe involved a couple bombs. And a helicopter.

And possibly the Prime Minister’s Aston Martin.)

Beaches and forests and skyscrapers at night. And Arthur must know how Eames feels. He never says anything, just smiles that brilliant, beautiful smile and says frighteningly domestic things like could you pick up some milk today? Or we’re out of eggs, want me to buy some more?

It’s agonizing and wondrous and Eames has never been more content, but he can’t help the way he dreams of Arthur and watches him (the line of his throat and the cut of his suits) and still wishes for something more.

(It’s not enough, never enough. In the same room yet worlds apart at the same time.)

It’s July again, and they’re in Mombasa. Yusuf is out on a job, so they’re staying in his flat with his morbidly obese cat. Arthur found a shady off license somewhere in the city, no doubt through his truly impressive criminal connections, and brought back a bottle of vodka. At least Eames thinks it’s vodka; it’s a murky hue and tastes a little like Satan’s asshole.

“Just like old times,” is what Arthur says as he shoves the cat off his lap and cracks the bottle open.

They are on the road to well and truly sloshed when Arthur says, out of nowhere, feigning offhandedness, “You know I’m a little bit in love with you, right?”. Eames chokes on his sip of maybe-vodka, and says, “What?”.

Arthur just smiles (brokenly, he looks fucking shattered, and Eames would do anything to put his pieces back together) and says something along the lines of “I know you don’t feel the same, but I had to tell you. I just- I couldn’t-”. And Eames stops listening about then because, what? Something inside him aches when he processes what Arthur just said, and really, how can Arthur be so oblivious? Eames can only laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of that.

Arthur’s face closes off, goes cold and empty; the fire is shielded behind icy eyes. “I see,” he says, and stands up to leave.

“Wait, no,” Eames catches his wrist, still laughing. “You don’t understand, darling. ‘I don’t feel the same way’? Are you- and I mean this in the best possible way- stupid?”

“What the hell do you mean,” Arthur says, feelingly, slumping onto the bed.

“Arthur. Darling. I’m in love with you. Arse over tits in love with you. Have been since, god, well, forever.” Eames says this soberly and very quietly, but it rings deafeningly in the silent room. Arthur’s mouth opens. Closes. The best pointman in the business, assassin and messiah and thief all at once; sharp, collected Arthur, speechless.

“We’re a couple of dumb bastards,” he manages eventually. “You- really…?” Eames doesn’t answer. He stands and steps towards where Arthur is sprawled across the bed. Sits on the edge of the bed. Presses his lips carefully to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, feather-light.

Arthur is the kind of motionless that only comes with years of training, but when Eames’ breath ghosts across his cheek, he reacts, lightning quick. He flips them over, straddles Eames’ waist, and slams their lips together. As far as first kisses go, it’s probably the best Eames has ever had (and ever will have). Hot and dirty and wet, tongues and teeth and teeth and tongues. But it’s undeniably sweet all the same.

And it feels like coming home; they melt into each other, as easy as breathing, like the last puzzle piece fitting into place. Arthurandeames and eamesandarthur.

(Forever, Eames thinks, this will last forever and in the end we’ll go up in flames and die holding hands.

Immortal until death takes us both.)

#YES I KNOW IT'S 2021 AND I'M STILL THINKING ABOUT INCEPTION #time is an illusion #inception #arthur x eames #fic

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jusananimehoe · 4 years

Note

dabiten x reader threesome?

The only way I ever see this happening is as a punishment for reader, Geten is way too possessive otherwise. So warnings for v rough sex and dubious consent.

You weren’t sure how it happened; but one thing was very clear, your boyfriend was obviously furious with you. Geten wasn’t overly adventurous, didn’t like people all that much, and hated the person standing behind you more than anyone else, as far as you were aware, and yet, he sat placidly on the bed, stroking his bulge through his pants slowly, watching as you jerked and moaned, body pressed tightly against Dabi’s chest as his thumb continued a vicious assault on your clit, listening to you whimper and sob softly from the overstimulation. How many times had you cum now, five, six, more?

Dabi rubbed against your behind then, dick pressing against your cheek and you squirmed uncomfortably, eyes locking with Geten, pleading with your boyfriend silently as the fire user continued to grind against you, fingers thrusting back inside your clenching hole, dragging a choked moan from you. Geten just stroked himself harder, and then finally stood up, pulling pants down his legs instantly, cock springing up against his stomach instantly, rock hard and already dripping precum.

From behind you, you felt, rather than saw Dabi also shed his jeans, cock rubbing firmer against your ass now, and you whimpered fearfully, already able to feel how enormous he was, cock as thick as your wrist, hard as a rock, he’d better not think that thing is going inside me. Not like it would ever fit, in any hole of yours anyway, you struggled enough with Geten, though his was mostly the length. You were whipped around then, Geten’s cock pressed against your cheeks instead as Dabi pressed his huge length against your dripping folds, rubbing the monster back and forth through your juices, across your sensitive clit, watching with half-lidded eyes as you moaned and leaned back into your boyfriend.

“On the bed, now”, a sharp slap to your ass sent you falling forward onto the mattress on your hands and knees, a soft groan from behind you telling you they were enjoying the show. “Which hole do you want”? The question made you shudder, Dabi’s raspy voice was surprisingly sexy, or maybe you were just biased because his tongue ring had driven you to four or five orgasms in an hour, maybe. A snort of amusement was the response from your boyfriend.

“There’s no way you’re getting that in her ass, trust me patchwork, I’d know”, Geten sounded more amused than anything, and you whimpered from your position as his finger slipped into your tight back entrance, pressing forward slowly. “You can have the pussy”, he confirmed calmly, moving into position behind you even as you sobbed softly, no way can I take both of them at the same time. Geten slapped your jiggly cheek in response, voice harsh even as he soothed with a gentle rub, “maybe you shouldn’t have been acting like such a little slut, this is what you wanted isn’t it? Filthy, little cum dump”. You sniffled, but pressed back against him in response, wanting more of his touches, he sucked a bruise into your lower spine in response, humming contentedly.

Dabi climbed into the bed then, positioning himself underneath you carefully, and you finally got a good look at his cock. It was huge, as thick as your wrist, defintley, maybe thicker. The tip was massive, meaty, and glistening. He grinned at you as he started to pump it, and your mouth dropped as you noticed the row of piercings in his shaft. “You’ll like them, don’t you worry doll”, his husky voice had your pussy clenching as he lifted you carefully by the hips, holding you steady as he lined up with your entrance. “Now don’t fucking tense up, or we’ll be here all day, doll”. He started pulling you down then and you cried out as the tip started to press into your way-too tight hole, he was barely managing it, and that’s just the tip. He pulled out slowly before repeating the action, thrusting shallowly, slowly, until finally you started to stretch steadily around him. It burnt horribly, you felt like you were splitting in two and you sobbed loudly when he finally managed to get half of it inside you, trying to press backwards into Geten, desperate for anything that wasn’t pain.

His mouth latched onto your neck a moment later, fingers moving to play with your nipples as Dabi continued to thrust into you, before finally, with a groan, he sheathed his whole cock inside your pussy, dragging a scream from your throat with the harshness of the thrust. He stilled for only a moment before pulling out all the way, and then slamming back inside again. It hurt, but pleasure was starting to mix in as the metal bars in his shaft rubbed your walls.

Behind you something cold and wet was drizzled over your asshole, and then a moment later Geten was shoving his long cock inside your back entrance, dragging another agonized cry from you, the lack of prep making it painful as hell. He gave you a few shallow strokes before bottoming out, groaning softly in your ear as he did. “Fuck, your pretty little ass is always so tight for me”. As if planned, they both started to thrust, Dabi pounding up into your pussy as you cried out and squirmed desperately, Geten thrusting harshly forwards to impale you with his cock, your hole burning around his throbbing member.

Your pussy was on fire, your ass was on fire, and then a scarred hand found your clit and pushed you through another screaming orgasm as you came around two cocks. Dabi groaned as you clenched and tightened around him, swearing softly under his breath, cock continuing to rail you desperately. Geten’s balls were slapping against your cheeks now, he was so deep inside you, and every time one of them would thrust into you, you’d be forced further onto both cocks, feeling like they might end up tearing your insides apart.

Dabi was panting, pace becoming slow and jerky, his hips began to stutter, cock driving deeper inside you even as your pussy practically split around him, and then he came with a loud groan and a swear, cock buried to the hilt in your tight heat as his seed spurted out inside you, just as Geten gasped softly and came as well, deep in your ass. You slipped sideways instantly, sobbing as you accidentally pulled yourself free from their cocks too quickly. You were exhausted, felt empty, your holes more stretched than they’d ever been, your clit swollen from cumming so many times.

Dabi left almost immediately, clearly not interested in afterglow or snuggling, or anything really expect ruining your pussy, apparently. Geten, on the other hand, dragged a finger cruelly over your clit, enjoying your flinch as he pressed up against you in the bed, head buried in your neck. “Next time you want to act like a slut around him, maybe remember that I’m fucking happy to treat you like one”.

The hissed words in your ear were nearly enough to have you start sobbing all over again.

#geten #bnha geten #mha geten #geten x reader #dabi #bnha dabi #dabi x geten #dabi x reader #smut #geten smut #dabi smut #myheroacademia #meta liberation army #league of villains

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waywardrose13 · 4 years

Text

Falling Stars

Masterlist

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Angst, cheating, heartbreak, mentions of divorce and past break-ups

This fic is loosely based on Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” Lyrics are in italics and in bold.

A/N- This fic is un-betad, as per usual. So all mistakes are mine and there is not nearly enough editing to satisfy me but here we are.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I'm begging of you please don't take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Please don't take him just because you can

Your hands were gently cupping your kneecaps. You sat cross legged on your bed you shared with Dean. You stared down at the picture, tears welling in your eyes.

“I thought you should know.”

You sniffled softly. It felt as if your heart had broken into a million little pieces. You had originally tried to catch them all, piece by piece as they fell, hoping you could put them all back together again.

But you eventually gave up as the heart began to crack and break more quickly as everything set in.

“Don’t ask me why I care about you, but I do. I know you don’t trust me, but trust this.”

A shaky sob sighed from your parted lips. The betrayal you felt was greater than anything you’ve ever felt. It felt worse than the time you were nearly clawed to death by a werewolf. It felt worse than the time that vampire sunk its teeth into your neck to rip a chunk of flesh from you. Because this pain was straight to your core. It tore itself through your heart, all the while ripping each string along the way. It was an internal pain that burned so brightly, it set you aflame from the inside out.

Your beauty is beyond compare

With flaming locks of auburn hair

With ivory skin and eyes of emerald green

Your smile is like a breath of spring

Your voice is soft like summer rain

And I cannot compete with you

Jolene

You had to admit, she was gorgeous. Her body was tall and lean, with slender, yet round hips, and full breasts. Her face was simply glowing. Green eyes shined behind dark lashes, waves of liquid fire hanging to her waist. Perfectly manicured hands, full rows of pristine teeth, skin like the purest milk.

You hated her.

She was ethereally beautiful. You understood why Dean would want her. You were nothing special, not with fuller hips than you wanted, hip dips, and a squishy belly. Scars littered your body from years of hunting and battling your own demons years before. You used to be ashamed of them. That is, until Dean came along.

“They tell a story,” Dean had said. His cheek rested against your bare stomach. He relaxed as your hand gently ran through his hair.

“Of how I was weak?” You whispered.

Dean shifted, kissing the skin of your belly, lips brushing every so softly against your scars.

“Of how you were strong.”

He looked up at you then, hand cupping your cheek, face inching closer to yours.

“You’ve fought battles and won. These scars show me how strong and brave you are. They tell me you’re here and alive with me.”

Maybe Dean got tired of seeing them. Maybe he missed the feel of soft, unmarred skin beneath his hands.

He talks about you in his sleep

And there's nothing I can do to keep

From crying when he calls your name

Jolene

Crowley’s information simply proved what you’ve thought for months now.

Dean had become more distant, pulling away from you. Your relationship had begun to feel strained, like it was hanging on by a thread, ready to fall apart in any second.

Once upon a time, your name would fall from Dean’s lips as he slept. Sometimes he’d murmur sweet nothings within his dreams of you, whispering how he loved you, how he couldn’t live without you. Now, it was the same, except for the name.

“Jolene,” he would whisper, the phrases in which he used to say about you following after the alien name. You didn’t know a Jolene, hoping he made a mistake. Maybe it was an actress he had a crush on. Or maybe he was remembering an old crush. Whatever it was, you simply hoped it wasn’t what you feared.

But it kept happening. Your name never again slipped from his lips during his sleep. It was always “Jolene.” You never asked him about it. You figured that if you did ask about it, it would make the whole thing real. That your fear would be proved correct, and then you wouldn’t know what to do.

And I can easily understand

How you could easily take my man

But you don't know what he means to me

Jolene

Not only were there pictures of her and Dean together, wrapped in a lover’s embrace, cuddling on a couch inside a foreign home. But there were text exchanges. Somehow, Crowley had obtained all of this information, and you didn’t want to know how. Just why.

Jolene had told Dean to leave you. She wanted to be with him. She thought it was sexy for awhile, sneaking around behind your back. She liked to mock you.

Dean would respond with worse insults about you.

But now, she had her fun, she wanted to settle down with him.

Ha.

Been there, tried that.

He didn’t know what to say to that. She wanted him to say ok, drop you and be with him. He simply changed the subject.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I'm begging of you please don't take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Please don't take him just because you can

You carefully gathered each of the photos, arranging them in a neat pile before reaching over to your nightstand drawer, placing the stack of photos inside and closing it.

Dean had left hours ago, not telling you where he was going, simply muttering something about needing a different atmosphere for awhile. Of course, you had your doubts as to where he was going. You wondered if he was going to visit “Jolene.” You wondered if the places he disappeared to were with her.

Dean came back after only moments of being gone with a small package addressed to you. There was no return address, and Dean warned you not to open it, but you ignored him. For some reason, your gut told you that you needed to see what was inside. So you wished Dean a good night and went back to your room.

And here you were.

You could have your choice of men

But I could never love again

He's the only one for me

Jolene

Crowley had included a letter inside the box, amongst the photographs and printouts of text messages.

Chipmunk,

I hope you’re well, darling. I know this may be hard to believe, especially coming from me, but I hope you do. Don’t ask me why I care about you, but I do. I know you don’t trust me, but trust this. Squirrel is seeing someone else. Before you toss this letter in the rubbish and ignore my existence once more, hear me out. I’ve also included some photographs in the box. I’ve had a few of my men keep an eye on your beau. I suspected something was off in our last meeting and I needed to figure it out for myself. I know this must be hard for you, and know that I am deeply sorry you had to find out this way. But I figured it was important, and I know it would be difficult to speak to you without your guard dog breathing down our necks.

The texts were a bit more difficult to obtain. Nothing I couldn’t handle though, darling. Don’t ask how I got them. Don’t even ask why. I have a soft spot for you, Y/N. I thought you should know. You deserve to know.

Crowley.

You read over the letter a few more times. You believed him. Dean had been acting suspicious for some time now, and the photos looked so real. You knew it was real.

You just didn’t want to lose him.

How were you supposed to confront him? Were you even going to? Would you stay with him? He obviously wasn’t in love with you anymore, or else he wouldn’t have branched out.

I had to have this talk with you

My happiness depends on you

And whatever you decide to do

Jolene

You sighed deeply. Turning off the lights, you settled down under the sheets, curling into a fetal position. Your heart was broken. Dean Winchester had been the first and only man you had loved. He was your first everything. He was the only man you ever let into your bed, your heart, your head. The love the two of you had shared was epic. It consumed you so greatly, twirling you up into the air and into the infinite sky, allowing you and Dean to dance amongst the stars together. It hit you so fast and so hard, and you fell before you could comprehend it.

An agonized cry sounded in your ears. It didn’t take long to realize the sound came from your own mouth.

The pain in your chest resonated throughout your body. It seared your heart and burned your soul. It crippled your limbs and set your mind aflame. This was why you pushed everyone away in the first place. This is why you didn’t let people get close to you.

This is why you never wanted to fall in love.

You had witnessed enough heartbreak in your family and friends. Everyone around you since you were little. Love was never something you strived to have. Sure, you were lonely. And yes, sometimes you envied your sisters or your friends for the love they would have. You were happy for them, beyond happy. You were ecstatic when one of your sisters told you she was getting married, or when your older brother announced his girlfriend’s pregnancy, or when your mother finally found a man that was so good and loving to her. You were happy for them all.

However, before that happiness, you also knew they experienced profound heartbreak.

You watched your parents’ divorce happen before your eyes. You watched your sister break down after her first love left her. You watched as your brother had to lift himself up again after his girlfriend of five years broke up with him. And yes, they were all happy now. But you never wanted to experience that loss, that pain. Especially when in your line of work, that loss would most likely be death.

It wasn’t long after you had settled into bed that Dean came into the room. You froze at the sound of his footsteps. He let out a deep breath, changing quickly, and then slipping into bed behind you. He got comfortable and then slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you tightly into his chest.

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear.

You knew you needed to confront him. You knew you should’ve been angry.

I’ll do it tomorrow, you thought to yourself. You closed your eyes, snuggling deeper into his arms. You allowed yourself the peace of falling asleep in the arms of the man you loved so dearly. Let me have this one last time.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

I'm begging of you please don't take my man

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene

Please don't take him even though you can

Jolene, Jolene

Enjoyed the story? Let me know here! Feedback is loved and greatly appreciated! If your names is crossed out, tumblr won’t let me tag you:(

Jensen/Dean beans:

@dean-winchesters-bacon

@polina-93

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@all-will-be-well-love

Forever Lovlies:

@jennalyncarrigan1230

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#dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean x y/n #fanfiction #supernatural #waywardrose13 #cheating #angst #fic

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writeangstime · 4 years

Text

Changing your destiny (Eskel x Reader)

Title: Changing your destiny Fandom: The Witcher (All media) Pairing: Eskel x Reader Genere: Angst (well, it’s supposed to be..) Word counts: 4007 Warnings: Blood

A story that I wrote for @lovermrjokerr‘s challenge - go check it out because I think it is super fun to do something like that and it is so nice that a fanfic writer is doing something where others can try themselves!

It was read and checked by wonderful @mindowe that took some of her time and fixed all the mistakes for me (and apparently had the patience of the angel doing so)! She is also a wonderful artist - her drawing is amazing, check her tumblr and other social media for it!

The wind ruffled through your hair, bringing the tiny mites of sand to your face, forcing you to turn away and, spiting the dirt on the ground the mere seconds before the hove of your horse made its mark on the uneven path. Melitele must have overlooked this place when she was blessing the country because, as far as you could see, there was only a yellow plain of dry and broken grass that was being covered by sand with every stronger gust of wind. Yet, you could understand why it was a perfect hideout for any creature that would like to have some privacy - or for basically anyone who would seek solitude for something mischievous.

Your mount seemed to agree with your unspoken words, shaking its chestnut mane with what could you say was some kind of concern – under your legs you could feel the horse muscles tensing from something more than a weight on his back as his uneasy breath joined the cracking of the straws and the hitting of the hooves on the trodden path. Swirling reins around your left hand, you reached the other one to pat the animal’s neck, trying to ensure him of the safety of both you and him, though you had to admit it got you a little worried. It was no surprise that domestic creatures were more prone of being influenced by the magic – both good and bad, both strong and weak. Both new and old.

But you could tell that you were getting closer to the place you have been looking for the past few years – at first it was only a distant shape on the horizon, being so thin that one would think it needed only a blink of an eye to disappear in the thin air. But as you were riding closer toward it, the shape began to grow, climbing towards the sky and shifting into the central point in the wasteland. After what seemed to be a long, stretched hours but in reality couldn’t be more than a few minutes, you reached your destination and had to admit, that being present in this place brought to you more uneasiness than actual joy.

If anyone called you a scavenger, hunter or a raider you couldn’t care less. And sometimes fixing them a stern glare, sometimes completely ignoring their person and from time to time even going with some kind of the mean comment in return, but you never got yourself into the discussion. It took some of your precious time that was always in short. Or at least you felt like it was. It felt tiring in certain moments, knowing that your destiny was forged for you long before you could even set the foot on this world. But you weren’t going to sit idly and wait for the curse to swarm you and entrap you in your own body like a prison.

Stopping your mount in front of the entrance you couldn’t help a smirk crawling on your lips as you noticed how small the door in front of you were, left in good condition - though the tower looked like it could collapse in any minute, with the stones almost turning into dust right in front of you. But it was still holding, supported by what you could only guess was the magic that lingered here long after the mage who waved it had long been gone. Well, you hoped he was – meeting undead wasn’t exactly the plan for today, tomorrow and till the end of your life. Sadly for you, whoever inhabited this place decided that windows were not in their taste. If there was anything awaiting you in the tower, it had a lot of the advantage.

Swiftly gliding off the horse, you reached to your saddlebags, cursing under the breath as you hardly tried to memorize where you put the very thing you needed right now. After a while, you managed (or rather struggled) to pull out the small lantern, gently straightening the paper walls and making sure that the candle inside didn’t break during the journey. After you decided that it won’t be any better, you reached to retrieve the flint and tinder from your pocket, bringing a small flame that soon warmed on the candle and glowed in the warm but timid light. Well it had to be enough, you didn’t plan to linger in this place anyway. Pulling out your sword with a small cling sound, you moved to the entrance, holding the light in front of you.

It turned out that the doors were in much worse condition that they looked and, after a moment of trying to force them to open with your body weight, you practically barraged yourself inside, coughing strongly as the clouds of dust were brought to the air with your entrance. The doors slowly moved back to their original position, shutting that small amount of light that you brought from the outside. You managed to calm your breath down, though you still had the feeling that your lungs wanted to escape and you decided to look around as it seemed that there was no unpleasant surprise waiting here especially for you.

The interior of the tower looked less gloomy than you expected and to your surprise you could actually imagine yourself seating here in some kind of future when your bones are too old to move in proper way. You just could sit by the fire, not worried about anything that was happening outside. Though the area seemed small, mostly because being cramped by the horrendous amount of books and parchments, the unfitting furniture added some sort of cosiness. But it wasn’t the time to get some sightseeing and you had a job to do, so placing the lamp carefully on the table, you moved to search through the books for any information that you could use to your case.

You planned to start with the book on the wooden podium that seemed different from the others, but to your surprise the moment you touched the surface it vibrated under your hand, sending the wave of heat so warm it bordered on burning. Quickly retrieving your fingers, you furrowed your brows, deciding to leave it to the last in case you didn’t find anything in the other volumes.

The flame of the candle lowered, lantern brightened the room from a different angle and casted a longer shadow from your figure as the pile of the things you have searched through had grown bigger and bigger, the same as your frustration. What you by far stumbled upon was a very interesting research, some information about housework and even a bit of the poems, but yet nothing with your family surname or even the slightest mention of the magic. You were sure that this was the place, that there lived the person responsible for it all, and yet there was no a single clue that you could cling to. With every paper tossed aside, your doubts were rising and the feeling of anger creeping in your soul replaced the patience with bitterness of doing something in vain.

You reached for another book but stopped with the stretched hand as you heard scream so loud that it rang inside your thoughts, echoing unpleasantly. Whatever it was, there was no way a human being would sound like that. So that meant you definitely should find your way out before this thing plans to break inside, but as you reached to the door, the loud and agonizing scream of your mount froze you in place. With a beating heart you listened for any noise from outside and after what seemed to be only a mere second something started to push the wood, the crackling of the planks from the force causing the feeling of pure terror and panic.

Jumping away from the door, you hit the table and knocked over the lamp. It smashed on the ground and the scent of the wax burning the paper filled the air. Backing from the entrance in the complete darkness, you pulled out your sword once again, not at all feeling prepared for whatever insisted on getting inside but also not going to sell your soul for nothing. If you could put up the fight, you planned to do it for good. Hiding yourself in the element of the surprise, you stumbled once more upon the wooden podium. Deciding that now or never, you grabbed the strange volume, hoping that it would be at least some kind of weird defence.

But as soon as you raised it from its place, the cover opened, the pages going so fast in front of you that you didn’t even have a chance to read its contents. A blue light burst out and soon the darkness swallowed you, tossing you to what seemed as an endless fall.

***

The shivers were forcing your body to jolt, sometimes giving you the feeling that every inch of your skin is burning only to switch into paralyzing freeze of your veins – it was like every inch of you was torn apart to be once again build in the same way. From what you could say basing on the delusional state you were in, your body was laying on some kind of stone, but at the same time it felt like you were drowning in it, looped in endless falling that neither ground nor the very deepness of the earth could stop.

You weren’t alone though – from the bleakness of your surroundings you could catch the glimpse of the face. Though the scars covered most of it man’s yellow eyes were completely soft and caring, almost like nothing you ever saw in your life. Though the circumstances were more than unusual, you didn’t feel fear, maybe because you could find only a compassion in the way he kneeled beside you. Opening your mouth you searched for the words, but he gestured you not to speak, turning away to search for something you couldn’t see.

“Shh, it’s okay. I got you.”

***

You had no idea for how long you remained unconscious with your body still paying the price for a sudden teleportation, but for sure you realized after waking up that there is no more pain and you could get up as easily as if you just took a refreshing nap. The daylight didn’t shine in the cave but the small fire gave enough light for you to see the man sitting in front of it. He was the very same person that you remembered from your fever dreams and just as you moved up you noticed the cape sliding down on your lap – he must have covered you with it while you were sleeping. Your movement must have caught his attention, as he turned away from you, reaching for something to his right.

“I see you are feeling better now. Is everything well, do you feel you can sit up properly?” He asked with the hearable amount of concern in his voice. You could see him pouring something to the small wooden bowl before he moved closer, handing it carefully to you. Using your sleeves as a protection from warm surface, you nodded in a silence gesture of gratitude.

“Yes, I feel much better now. I assume it is thanks to you, mister…” you asked, rising your head from above the warm soup. It smelled delicious and you felt the clench in your stomach that reminded you that your last meal was probably a long time ago.

You could hear him laugh a bit at your last word, a pleasant, low vibrating sound that seemed friendly and yet strange at the same time coming from the man whose scars were for sure mark of some encountered hostility in his life.

“Eskel, just Eskel, without any mister. And you are?” The man now known to you as Eskel allowed himself to lean on the saddle. With small amount of shame you noticed that there was no other bed than the one you have been sleeping on, so it meant you had left him to sleep on the bare stones probably.

“I am [Your name]. I don’t know how can I repay you.” Well, you felt like you should. He could kill you or rob you. Or both. The list could go on but you got the idea. But as soon as you asked that question, the more urgent matter came into your mind. “Do you mind asking me how long I was blacked out and…well, where exactly I am? We are.” You corrected yourself almost immediately.

“No need to mention that, I was here anyway. And for the former, we are actually in the mountains near the Oxenfurt. We stayed here for a two days.”

You cursed loudly, causing him to give you a surprised look as you quickly shook your head in some sort of explanation.

“My apologies, I must admit you caught me here by surprise. My last position and the one I thought I would be is actually on the opposite side of the mountain.” You fell silent, wondering on the book that was a last object you’ve touched. The feeling of sadness woke inside you when you reminded yourself of a lost horse that you got used to and the saddlebags you will probably never retreat. Well, it didn’t leave you completely broke as you had your small savings in the bank but you still had some valuable knowledge in your personal things. At least, the sword survived with you as you glanced at it, resting by your side. You sipped the soup carefully, but overall the situation wasn’t bright at all.

“I can help you reach the town if you want, I will need to refill my supplies anyway” Eskel offered, breaking the silence between you two. Rising your lips in the smile that you weren’t sure he could see from his place, you nodded once again in thanking.

“I think I will accept the offer. And I insist, when we reach the town I want to somehow reward you for your help. You saved my life, and I don’t want to be in someone’s debt.” Placing down your bowl with a small knock, you stretched a bit, making sure that your muscles fully recovered. One more thing popped in your mind and you turned your face towards your saviour once again.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly are you doing up here?” You didn’t take him for a lost traveller and his equipment showed he was more than a mere shepherd – such person would not take two swords with themselves just to lead sheep up the mountains. He didn’t seem to be offended by your question, taking up your empty bowl and putting it away together with his own.

“I was culling some harpies in the area. Nothing too extravagant for a witcher, I’m afraid.” He laughed once again, slowly putting away the fire. These words made you look at him at more interesting angle as you were thinking over what he’s just said. Coincidence or that damn volume you touched, maybe this was exactly what you have needed – if you could convince him to come with you, of course. Slowly standing up and handing him his coat, you were taking your sweet time to start the proper topic as you attached the sword to your waist.

“Say, aren’t you maybe in a need for a work right now?” Trying to sound as innocent and not as clingy you slowly started to make your case. “Because I might have one on the hand.”

“Well, for sure there is a vacant for me right now, though I am afraid I would need more details.” He answered carefully, raising the saddle to strap it on the black horse that was calmly standing there.

“Let’s say there are not many…?” You half asked half stated, fixing yourself rather quickly when he raised his eyebrows. “I mean, I know this thing is strong, can catch the horse by surprise and kill it in one swing and has a scream so loud that you want to plug something in your brain just not to hear it anymore. It is the only thing that I’ve noticed before that damn book decided to threw me far away. Please, I will pay you as much as you want, but this is really important for me.”

He went silent for a while, focusing more on preparation for the journey than the reply to you but you knew he had to process it. Standing there rather silently, you stared at the ground, not saying a word not to seem too insistent. Finally, you heard him sight quietly and he turned to you.

“It will be much faster if we skip a visit to the town.”

***

Much to your pleasant surprise, it turned out that Eskel was a great travel companion, not only allowing you to ride the Scorpion (that, even if he loved his owner, decided to switch for the person he was nagging for extra snacks) but sometimes even leading you on it as you travelled through the sides of the mountains. It took little for both of you to unwind and tell stories about your lives, sharing a funny on embarrassing moments. He told you a few things about his job and you’ve never pushed too much for the things he barely mentioned. In return, you briefly told him what you were doing though you have never explained to him the true nature of your curse. It was for your knowledge only.

The small camps you were making on the way seemed a lot easier than you had remembered from your previous journeys – or maybe having two pairs of hands was working miracles. Not that you have ever avoided the company of others, but it was always easier to pack and take care of only yourself and your horse. At least, that is what you thought until now, knowing that you are going to miss the moments of building the campfire as Eskel was shocking you with his sense of humor, sometimes being even cheeky.

But all good things must come to an end sooner or later and that was no different case. As you arrived in front of the tower, your mood drastically dropped to the point your own voice lowered like you expected something to jump right in front of you. To your quite visible surprise, there was no trace of the horse blood, any of your things or even scratches on the door, like the events from your last visit have never taken place. But you were sure that this was the exact spot, the same tower and there was no way you could take the wrong way, memorizing the map so well you could draw it in your mind even while in deadly battle.

You had the feeling that the witcher that kept you a company had doubts himself but even if he did, he didn’t share them with you. He helped you to get off the horse and led him right behind the building. You watched in awe as his hands moved to the certain position and the marks you didn’t know before shone on the ground, gently surrounding the animal. He caught your surprised face with a hint of smile and took one of the swords with him.

“This is for protection. After all, I like him quite well.” Giving you reply for the question you have never asked, he moved to the doors and you helped him to push the old oak. Inside, you could actually see the marks of your last visit – the burned lantern, the books tossed in the pile and that stupid volume that laid where you’ve must dropped it after teleportation. The door behind you slowly shut with a loud creak and you could almost feel your heart beating faster.

“I was there. Sitting and reading. It is hard to tell what was happening and I knocked over the light. I tried to hide, grabbed the book…” You stopped, realizing that in this darkness he has no way of telling what you meant. But before the man could say anything, loud scream rang in the air once again, making you flinch and Eskel reach for his sword.

“If anything happens and I tell you to run, do it.” His voice was stern and calm and you were wondering if he was feeling confident, or he could actually cover his feelings and push them to the side.

“Yes” was the only word you were able to say before the loud noise came from the horse. This time, there was also a loud grunt, something you didn’t catch the last time. Maybe the thing wasn’t happy that the additional meal wasn’t so easy to get. Once again the door started to creak and you moved back a bit as you heard the witcher shifting from his place. Both of you didn’t say anything while you were waiting for this thing to come in.

Eventually, the wood gave in and the creature burst inside. It was like nothing you have ever seen – a humanoid and yet a wild creature, casting the ghastly light but being made of the swirling shadows. It had no eyes and yet, when it moved its head, you could feel it was gazing right into your deepest part of soul. Monster did not waste time, jumping so quickly you barely raised the sword that you held – and even that didn’t help.

The steel shattered like the sword was made of glass, not standing even one blow. The tearing pain went through your whole body as the claws cut through your clothes and the blood poured with you falling on the ground. The beast raised its paw once again, but this time the other sword stopped it from taking your guts out – Eskel’s weapon withstood more power than yours. Such resistance was bestowed with un unhappy growl from the monster that now focused on the man.

You could only watch the battle in front your eyes with amazement as the witcher moved in the way you wouldn’t believe anyone could. He was like a water, shaping and shifting in the recognition of the another blow, so the angry creature was either grasping the air or clinging to his sword. But the monster was quickly adapting to the fight, following soon after and learning things while it was mercilessly beating its opponent. You would be dead for sure if you didn’t open that volume earlier…

The volume! Looking around you, your eyes found it lying close to you. You felt pain in every inch of your body, the air on your open wounds giving you shivers, but despite pain you moved, reaching your hand towards it. It felt like you were moving at disgracefully slow pace, especially when you heard the battle sounds becoming more and more aggressive. You finally managed to place a hand on the book and it shoot the wave of heat to your skin once again. Taking all the strength you could gather right now, you grabbed it and tossed it with a swing of your hand.

The pages shifted when the book flew towards ongoing battle and you could see Eskel jumped out of the way. Bright blue light burst in the room once again, blinding you for a while before it all disappeared, taking the whatever attacked you with itself as the volume hit the floor. The adrenaline burst you got seemed to slow down, as the blood pumping in you seemed to run outside in a scary tempo. You laid down your head, closing your eyes as the pain was becoming stronger with every passing second. There was no option you could move, even when the witcher called your name. At least, you heard him well before you passed out.

“Shh, I am here. It will be okay.”

#Lovermrjokerr8kchallenge #eskel #eskel x reader #the witcher #mindowe #lovemrjokerr #writeatingtime #angst

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aki-draws-things · 3 years

Text

NaNoWriMo 2020 #08

Following yesterday’s prompt here the ending of the fic with a much more proper word countfor the challenge. i have great expectations for this year and I’m doing my best to succeed. The only proble is that I end knee deep into new AUs every time I write something so Now I really want to make those little details a canon for some of the others fics.

Also that means there will probably be more Wen Zhuliu angst too. And i don’t feel sorry.

Have fun reading~ And let me know what you think!!

Day: 08/11/2020

Prompt: enemy to caretaker

Ship: None official

Word Count: 1912

Wen Zhuliu knew the meaning of loyalty ever since childhood.

“Take care of your brother. Don’t stray from the righteous path. And remember, when the world will turn against you, and believe me, it will, your brother will be the one who will never betray you.”

Wen Zhuliu gave his outmost loyalty to his brother, and his brother did the same. Until the day he saw it for the first time, his father’s golden core. People around him thought he was greedy, and ambitious, and craving for power. People thought he killed his father and brother because he wanted to be better and stronger than them. His brother was only seven. Wen Zhuliu kept the truth hidden so well over the years that he almost began to believe the words going around, but none of them were true. He reached out when he saw the golden core shining bright, fascinated by its warmth, he wanted to brush his fingers on him, he wanted to hug his fatter and press his cheek against the bright light . But when he touched it, it changed. He felt power, a surge of energy rushing inside of him, burning and painful. He screamed and his screams covered his father’s. When his legs decided to work again he stood and ran dashing past his sleepy brother, with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. The pain subsided slowly, it took him three agonizing days before the superfluous energy dissipated and by then he couldn’t turn back and return home. So he wandered. Everywhere he went there were people with bright golden cores, every time he brushed against one he felt pain and energy flow from the person to him. It was Wen RuoHan who explained what he could do. Wen RuoHan who took his frightened hand and raised him to walk next to him. Wen RuoHan who gave him the Wen name. Wen Zhuliu knew that day where his loyalty now lay. There was a little seven years old boy back at home, scared and weeping in a dark room begging the wind to bring back his older brother.

When his eyes laid on Nie ZongHui he thought it was an illusion, an hallucination, because in the end the little, scared boy grew up resembling their father more than he could probably remember. But he was real, he was there, and old loyalties sparkled brighter than ever. “Your brother will never betray you.” Once their father said and he chose to believe. Blood called loyalty and he let him go. He almost reached out, not to his golden core, but to his face. He believed to a lie for so long that he wanted to feel it real. He let him run.

Looking at Nie MingJue forced on his knees and held by three soldiers, Wen Zhuliu wondered what ZongHui saw in him. He knew the Nie history, of course, just as he knew the history of all the Main Sects, Wen RuoHan taught him carefully and well before he went mad with power and poisoned the world around him, included his children, leading his wife he once claimed to love more than everything to take here own life. Wen Zhuliu wasn’t a murderer, he had never killed, not that he was aware of it. She grabbed his hand and pressed it on her lower abdomen before he could even think of what was happening, when he tried to move away, eyes wide in horror, it was too late. His power, the energy residing in his fingers, latched around her golden core and grasped it, pulled it, twisted it until it was his together with every drop of her spiritual energy. She fell and the door slammed open, his hands still glowing softly, his body readjusting at the new wave of energy.

Wen Zhuliu knew loyalty, and he knew fear and pain. He was unconscious before the hand of his Master reached him.

“What’s so special?” He used to be curious, he used to ask more questions than normal, he used to ask three questions, and then two more before the first one had been answered. He pushed this side of him deep deep down the more he lived in the Wen sect, the more he served a power hungry Wen RuoHan and his younger son. But Wen Chao wasn’t in the Unclean Realm that night and he could allow himself to wonder. “What does he see in there?” He looked over the bed Nie MingJue laid, his spiritual energy blocked and preventing him to heal faster, sweat covering his body as he fought through the pain and the infection from the branding mark.

Nie HuaiSang was on the bed closer to him, he leaned over and passed a soothing salve over the mark before covering it again, he moaned and opened his eyes, immediately trying to get away from him.

“What do you want? What have you done to us? Da-ge…?” He turned and looked at his brother before jumping down from his bed before Wen Zhuliu could advise him not to move too much and climbed next to him inspecting his not yet healed wound and the heat coming from his body.

“Your brother will never betray you. The world will. The world will be set on fire one day, and your brother will be the only one who would never throw in it to save himself.” His father had been right, in some way. He knew what he was talking about, a bond between brothers, no matter what, was always stronger than any loyalty. “I want that.” He thought surprised at how childish his voice sounded in his mind. “I want that back.” Still wen RuoHan had saved him that day. But he wasn’t the same Wen RuoHan he was now. “Maybe… Maybe I can ask. Maybe he would come with me. Or not. Maybe his loyalty to the Nies is more powerful and means more than me. Than the one who left. Maybe —”

“What have you done to him? His Qi —” Wen Zhuliu blinked, bringing the room back in his focus. No point in dwell on possibilities and past.

“I just blocked it. Wen Chao asked me to burn his golden core, I—” Disobeyed. That wasn’t going to end well. He swallowed and looked again at Nie HuaiSang who was now holding an empty cup as his only weapon. Wen Zhuliu smiled. “What are you going to do? Throw it at m—”

The cup flew next to his head before he finished the question and shattered on the wall behind him. He sighed.

“It was rhetorical. Believe me or not but I’m not planning on harming any of you. Your wind is almost healed, it will scar but there is nothing I can do to prevent it. His — I’m good at healing, but not enough apparently. Can’t unblock his energy, - “Yes, you can.” Nie HuaiSang pointed out and brushed a cold cloth over his brother’s forehead. “You don’t want to.” - Wen Chao will notice I didn’t follow his orders.”

He took a moment longer to think of what to do next before making up his mind. It wasn’t going to end well, why wasn’t he scared? He should have.

“But there is someone who will heal him for sure.”

It took Nie HuaiSang a couple of hours and many sighs before finally agreeing with Wen Zhuliu reluctantly. Carrying him to Yiling unseen wasn’t as easy as they hoped. Wen Zhuliu tried to block out the soft whispers coming from the back of the carriage, the movement had probably woke Nie MingJue up, his voice rough and low, pained; his breath hard.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe. To someone who can heal you.”

Nie MingJue hummed lightly.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m dead already.”

“That’s not true, Da-ge. It’s the fever talking, and we both know you don’t control your mouth when ill.” He tried to sound light, almost joking, Wen Zhuliu imagined his smaller arms wrapping around his brother and holding him closer.

“ZongHui… Where’s ZongHui?”

He tried, he really tried not to listen.

“I’m sure he’s safe to. You told him to go ask for help, remember?”

“Lotus pier… yes. Ah! No… no, we can't leave Qinghe. If he comes back and doesn’t find us—”

Lotus Pier. Wen Chao talked about the place. It was their next target. Maybe he could get there before him. He could try.

“He will be fine, Da-ge. You need to think about healing first.” The carriage fell silent for the rest of the ride.

“Why?” Wen Qing simply asked. He looked at Wen Zhuliu, and then at the Nie brothers, the older one slumped unconscious on the younger.

“They’re wounded. And you’re the best medic in Qishan.”

“Is it some kind of trap? Take them here, bring Wen Chao - She snarled the name in hate. - here and have him destroy everything? Great plan. It’s not going to work.” She was starting to turn and shut the doors when Wen Ning's voice attracted her attention.

“Jie… I don’t like his fever.” Blood was trickling down his lips.

“He won’t come. I’ll make sure he won’t. Just… Just take them in. - It was risky. That would forever compromise his loyalty. Wen RuoHan will certainly kill him. - Heal them. Keep them safe.” And with that he turned on his heels and ran.

He ran and he flew to Lotus Pier hoping to be on time. Hoping to arrive before Wen Chao did, before ZongHui could explain and set off to reclaim Qinghe.

He was on time, by mere minutes.

“They’re not in Qinghe.” It wasn’t the usual greeting, it wasn’t too ideal either, not after years of not even seeing each other. “You’ll have to prove you’re one of them, Wen Qing is not the most trusty woman. But she’s a medic, and she’s trustworthy.”

“Why?” Why? Why what? “Why are you doing that? Suddenly, after bursting into our sect with that Wen dog. After calling yourself a Wen. Why should I believe you.”

“You shouldn’t.” He thought.

“Because you’re the one I would never lie to not even if I wanted to.”

Nie ZongHui had one of his sabers in hand, still pointing at him cautiously. Maybe that was the way to keep his life. To make things right. It was worth a try.

“Stab me. Make it look real and then run.”

“What?” He widened his eyes and almost let go of the saber.

“You heard me. Stab me. There.” He walked closer, the point of the blade touching his chosen point. Nie ZongHui tried to take a step back. “They will think the Jiang attacked me. They won’t even see you escape.”

“But— why?”

Wen—Zhao Zhuliu caressed the side of his head and pushed the blade ZongHui still held deep in his body giving him a bloody smile before falling.

“Go. Go now. Go, g—”

Nie ZongHui ran for the second time in days. He ran to Yiling like he instructed him, he found the door being knocked shut in his face three times before HuaiSang came out and finally convinced the Wen girl to let him in. His sword’s blade still wet with blood.

“Zhuliu? Wen Zhuliu!” He blinked his eyes open tiredly, he stopped the bleeding almost as soon as the blade slid out of his chest.

“It’s fine… I just need some rest. I’m— fine…” He closed his eyes again.

#wen zhuliu #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #nie zonghui #zonghui and zhuliu are brothers #enemy to caretaker #the untamed #cql #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #mdzs fic #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #founder of diabolism #fanfic #nanowrimo 2020 #angst collection in cultivation #aki writes

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army-of-mai-lovers · 3 years

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Arthur I’m writing my Jetru fic and I got sad because I started thinking about how Jet must’ve felt after the failed attack on that village. Like maybe at first he was mad that it failed, that the Fire nation is still around and probably hungry for revenge. But after some time he probably started questioning himself. He probably started thinking about what Katara told him afterwards, about what Sokka said, Aang said. Jet probably starts feeling such incredible amount of guilt. He probably asks himself at night whether he’s doing the right thing or not, if he’s doing this for the good of his people or himself. He probably agonizes whether he’s a bad person. And you know Jet he probably doesn’t talk about this at all. He probably keeps it to himself and doesn’t say a word to Smellerbee or Haru or Longshot. And they could all tell he’s not doing so good but he just won’t ask for help. He refuses to ask for any clarity on whether what he did was right and wrong. He feels like a bad person for not knowing whether his actions were right or wrong, he probably feels like he doesn’t have the best moral compass in the world and feels guilty for that too. He tries and tries his best yet the world has shown him it’s not enough, or rather that it’s not the right way. At this point he just seriously doesn’t know what to do, he’s never had guidance before, he’s always been the guide to his kids. All he’s ever had are ashes from burned down homes and scars from too many enemies. He probably doesn’t feel like he has anyone to talk to. SLFJDK DONT MIND ME IM JUST SAD WHILE WRITING.

To write fic about Jet is to constantly angst about him and you’ve just given me a whole new angle from which to angst about him. I think he probably spends a lot of time thinking about what he did and whether he was right or wrong, and it probably cuts into his sleep (because during the day, he can’t angst about whether he’s a good person or not, because he has mouths to feed and he’s always putting the other Freedom Fighters’ comfort and happiness over his own.) And then there’s the question of what the other Freedom Fighters believe, because while we know that Smellerbee and Longshot went with him to Ba Sing Se, it’s less clear how they felt about the cause between the time we saw them in Book 1 to the time we see them again in Book 2 (to say nothing of Pipsqueak, the Duke, and Sneers, from whom we have no information about how they felt about Jet after that point because the comics aren’t canon what’s bryke gonna do send me an anon? I dare them) So everybody’s probably wrestling with their internal conflicts about their cause and whether they were actually right to do what they tried to do, and keeping it inside because none of them know how to actually talk to each other in a healthy way. I imagine that’s why the Freedom Fighters broke up--they were united by a common cause, and when they started to question that cause, they questioned each other. The impression I get from Jet, Smellerbee, and Longshot’s appearances in book 2 is that it’s right after they hit rock bottom, right when they’re trying to put themselves back together after the makeshift lives they built for themselves fell apart, right after they lost their family again. And that’s what makes what happened in Ba Sing Se such a tragedy.

Also, I’m sure you told me that you’re writing a Jetru fic but I forgot and now I’m just so excited to see what one of my favorite fic writers is going to do with two of my favorite characters. But yeah, writing fic about Jet tends to make you pretty emo. He has that effect.

#longpost #jet #abi tag

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secret-engima · 4 years

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I HAVE QUESTION ABOUT NOX'S SHIELD. What was the first time, that he like....got between Nox and THINGS that were actually causing an issue for him, and like....just. Gave Nox a heart attack. (You know, like Nox has just done to Axis for forever). Basically what I'd like to know if the first moment of HEART ATTACK Axis gives Nox. Or the first time Axis realizes "hey. That inner dragon rage of this king? It's on my behalf too"

Oohhhh.

OOOOOHHHHhhhhh.

Lemme think-.

I’m feeling a battle. A battle that’s like- unexpected. Probably after about a month or three of Axis perpetually running into Nox, just after he starts helping Nox and Ardyn fight Nifs. Ardyn ... probably isn’t there? He wanders a lot. Anyway. It’s probably either one of those thrice-cursed dropships that always show up in the game- no wait. Daemon attack there we go. They took too long on a Thing and are hauling butt for the nearest Haven when they hear the agonized groan of the earth giving way to Starscourge goop and suddenly there are WAY too many Daemons all around.

-They have no choice but to fight and fight hard, because while Nox could warp them a short distance, the daemons are EVERYWHERE. It’s one of the rare huge mobs that Nox remembers fearing most during his road trip. The ones with at least two Fire Giants (or whatever they’re called I can’t remember) and like- a dozen Goblins or Imps. Maybe a few Bombs.

-Nox usually has the power to Deal with this, but it’s dark and he physically exhausted from raiding a base and all his scars ACHE and it slows him down-.

-It’s not the Giants that do it, Nox and Axis are trying to stay well away. It’s one of the Bombs. It charges Nox from behind, right in that perpetual blindspot he has and Axis is MOVING before he knows what he’s doing. He tanks the hit, uses his weapons to try to deflect it before it goes off but it’s not enough and suddenly he’s on the ground, ears ringing lungs gasping, torso and arms THROBBING with the pain of the explosion.

-Over the ringing in his ears, Axis hears something scream. High and FERAL, like a Coeurl or a dragon or something else that wasn’t a daemon but wasn’t HUMAN either. Even as he struggles to get to his feet (never stay down or you’re dead, never, ever stay down), the screaming gets LOUDER past the ringing and he feels magical pressure EXPLODE.

-Now by this point, Axis has felt Nox using his magic before. He’s felt it overwhelm and decimate a Nif base with cold precision and old anger. This isn’t like that. Not at all. The magic around him BUCKS and ROARS like a physical entity, rushes around him and turns the whole world blue with fury-denial-grief-not-again-NOT-THIS-TIME that almost flattens Axis again from the sheer force of it.

-Nox is suddenly at his side, crushing a Hi-Elixir against Axis’s chest to repair the damage but Axis can’t say thanks, can’t even think it because Nox’s eyes-

-They’re the color of blood, so bright they glow in the dark, gleaming pinpoints in skin that looks almost like cracked ash (like Nox is burning from the inside out, like he is fire and his body is wood about to become charcoal) and it’s TERRIFYING to see.

-Then Nox looks around at the daemons still left, bares his teeth and holds a hand toward the night sky as he reaches down with his other (hot-hot-hot) hand to grip Axis’s bicep. Nox screams.

-The sky screams back.

-And Axis can feel his heart stop as he looks UP into the looming face of Ramuh the Fulgarian. Keeper of Justice and Favored Astral of Galahd. Ramuh picks them up in a hand that is lightning made flesh, lights up the night with his staff as it crashes to earth and the daemons far-far below all scream.

-Nox stays curled protectively around Axis through the entire thing, there in the palm of an Astral’s hand until Ramuh gently lowers them onto a Haven and fades away.

-Axis gets maybe half a sputtering word out past his general levels of WHAT and his heart that is trying it’s level best to keep beating before Nox is hugging him tight. Clinging to him with shaking hands as he whispers “Don’t you dare do that again, don’t you dare, don’t go. You can’t just leave me like that, sacrifice yourself like that I’m the one supposed to be protecting you-”

-Nox actually passes out like that in Axis’s arms. But Axis- Axis remembers that moment for the rest of his life. The moment this exiled princeling called down an ASTRAL just to protect ... Axis. A nobody. An illegitimate child.

-A friend.

#SE asks #wolfsrainrules asks #Nox verse #Melodies and Manuscripts

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flaredarkstormwrites · 4 years

Text

Pain is Real

Author’s Note: Here’s a little story about my main OC Xavier “Flare” Blackscythe. He’s a deeply disturbed man with a long and complicated past mostly consisting of sad things and pain. I hope you enjoy him and his sad edgy life. If you want to request a story with him or any other characters my inbox is open. I’ll write more stories about my other characters as time goes on!

tw: blood, torture, intense gore, murder

My body aches with the scars of every wound. Every injury I’ve ever recieved searing my nerves as if they’re fresh. Long healed scars burned into my mind. They say being burned alive is the most painful way to die…and they’re almost right. The worst though, the worst is when you’re skinned alive. Because when that’s done right, you don’t die right away. Lacking skin won’t kill you by itself, especially if they stop the blood loss. If that can he halted then you won’t die until the infection sets in. A full body infection over all of your muscles.

Not to mention the air burns your every nerve as if you’re being electrocuted. And of course, you must touch something. The ground, a bed, the wall, something will touch you besides the air. And that something will give the sensation of fire, a gunshot, acid, think of the most unbearable pain and you may come close to what it feels like to stand up with no skin. Of course whoever did this doesn’t just want to leave you. They will torture you. All they have to do is run a fan. The air will burn you, even if it’s cold. They will pour salt on the ground so you cannot avoid it, throw acid on you, spit in your face. Everything hurts. I’ve been through it all, and I can feel the pain, even now.

They decided the torment of sitting in a dirty cage with no skin wasn’t enough pain for a teenage me. They sent people in to beat me. A punch with no skin is like being stabbed, except your nerves stop screaming after the initial stab. The pain subsides over time. When you have no skin this never happens. You lie there in agonizing pain. You wish for death, but they aren’t done with you. They let the infection set in. After about a week your body will leak liquid of colors that should never come out of your body. Infection means inflammation, and inflammation means the same burning feeling as the initial stages of being burned alive. But this is prolonged.

When you’re being burned alive then eventually you suffocate, and pass out. An infection caused by not having skin gives no such solace. Sleepless nights and days pass by, the pain too great for you to even think about laying down. My captors at least stopped beating me at this point, but that was because the last time someone hit me they got puss in their eye. I simply stood there, trying to stop myself from crying. Tears contain salt, and salt causes even more pain.

I think that’s why my tear ducts stopped working. I’ve cried maybe two times in the years since this happened. Even if I want to, my body simply refuses to produce tears anymore. If you ever see me produce a tear, then something is terribly wrong. I didn’t cry when the man that raised me died. I didn’t cry when my best friends were slaughtered in front of me. Even in death I cannot cry. The last time I was in Hell I didn’t make a sound. If I could stay dead I wouldn’t mind Hell. It’s an eternity of torment, but at least I know I won’t make friends that will inevitably die and leave me behind.

Death and I are intertwined, in more ways than one. My business nowadays is to murder the scum of the earth. It’s my way of trying to leave the world a better place. I clean up the trash you normal people don’t even bother to think about. The people you can’t confidently call human. The ones that try to satiate their depravity with things you wouldn’t like to imagine. I get in close with them. I find their groups. I blend in with these scum, and I end them.

My favorite way to kill a man is to force him to feel what I feel. A simple trick, when you can reach into someone’s mind, or make them reach into yours. I make them feel what I feel simply by looking at them. Nobody lasts long. The pain is so unbearable they will do anything to make it stop, even die. Having them kill themselves is so much easier to explain than a murder. And the fuckers I deal with deserve nothing more than to live their last moments regretting the day they were born.

I don’t enjoy what I do, but it’s all I know at this point. I am tormented by the screams of every innocent being I’ve ever witnessed the death of. I am Fear itself, a symbol of torment. I am the embodiment of Wrath. I inhabit every nightmare ever dreamt, and I feel your fear just as you do. When you wake with a cold sweat in the middle of the night, know that I am waking with you.

Sweet dreams…

#oc #horror #writing #oc writing #original story #edgy vibes #so edgy #edgelord #xavier blackscythe #flaredarkstormwriting

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