#no. 19 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ashintheairlikesnow · 6 months

Text

For She Was Afraid

CW: Magical whump, nonhuman whumpee, creepy whumper, it used as pronoun for nonhuman whumpee

"You have had this power a year," Atabei hissed as soon as the door to the study closed and the two of them were alone. Her hand around his arm felt like claws digging in to his skin, she had gripped on so tight. "And you have killed two people?"

Gilly swallowed, looking around to avoid having to face Atabei directly. The study had a large wooden desk - Eliza's late husband's apparently, from the old-fashioned design, the masculine weight and size of it. Correspondence scattered across the top, with a few books at one corner, and comfortable chairs on either side.

The walls were lined with bookshelves. There must have been two hundred books in this little room, and this wasn’t even the library.

Being the young widow of a very rich man had its benefits, Gilly supposed, and it seemed Atabei’s lady love had made the most of all of them.

“Guilford!” Atabei snapped her fingers in front of his eyes, making him jump. “I asked you a question!”

"I know! I know, my sincerest apologies-... it’s just, I didn’t kill two people…. Well, I did, but it was only one done with purpose," Gilly admitted, shamefaced, stopping to touch the spine of one particular tome. This shelf held Atabei's books on magic, carefully inconspicuous in a study full of reading material. In golden relief, the title read An Uncertain World: A Treatise on the Toa Volcano and Its Magical Properties as Befits the Pursuit of Certain Sciences. He was nearly asleep from boredom simply finishing the title. "The other was… well, very much so an accident."

Atabei stood with her back to the door, arms crossed. Here at home, her hair hung loose in its thousand braids, a glimmering waterfall of black, and she wore pants much like his own and a loose white shirt.

"An accident?" Atabei huffed an irritated sigh, fixing a glare on him he could feel even without looking up to see it. "I am not as stupid as you must think me to be, Guilford."

"No! No, Beibei, not at all. I'm not lying to you." He went to her, but she did not look at him directly. Her jaw was set with the stubborn distaste he knew so well, but had almost never seen aimed at him. "The ship's captain had a weak heart. When I commanded the siren to make him too afraid to tell what he was, it gave out. I did not mean for him to die."

“And why did the captain discover what the siren was in the first place? Hm?” Her changing accent was heavier here at her home, too, the low drawl more pronounced. Her eyes flickered to his and then away again, but it wasn’t weakness.

Not with Atabei.

“You did not keep him clothed?”

Well, no. He hadn’t. But Gilly didn’t think that was relevant. “He… misunderstood the nature of my connection to the siren. He thought it was a young man, and that…” He trailed off, face burning with embarrassment merely retelling the conversation, the captain’s sly accusations and subtle threats. “Well, the captain thought… he thought…”

Atabei’s voice was desert dry and even less forgiving. “He thought you were fucking him.”

“Beibei!” Gilly’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I’ve never heard you speak so vulgarly!”

“And yet now you have, and I am the same Beibei I was when you first made me flower crowns,” Atabei said, and there was a gentle teasing softening her voice that made him think perhaps she wasn’t truly angry, or not so angry he could not break through it anyway. She took a deep breath. "I can see now. He threatened you, threatened to expose you, and you thought the siren could help wipe his memory clean.”

Atabei didn’t need to know any of that.

“Yes, yes exactly.” Gilly leaped on this lovely lie, so much kinder than the truth. Better than telling her about the captain suggesting he might make good use of such a fine young man with such a lovely face and strong, lithe body. Better the softer lie than the truth of Gilly’s answering negotiation into sitting in the corner and watching it happen. Better than admitting that the captain had been pushing the siren down onto the bed in his quarters when the creature had sung him into fear. Or that Gilly had made sure the ship believed fully that the captain had died in flagrante delicto with a pretty passenger, which the crew had seemed… unsurprised by.

In any case, she swallowed, keeping her eyes on the windows with their heavy drapes on the other side of the room. "Fine. I can understand the accident. And the other?”

“Not an accident. The widow Neumann, who let me the rooms I was staying in?”

“Yes, the sweet little old lady.”

“... right. That one. Well, her death had a purpose. She left me everything, you see. I am… a wealthy man these days. If I had small ambitions, I would have enough to live on in comfort for the rest of my life.”

Atabei’s eyes searched over his face. “You have larger ambitions.”

“I do. This is only how I begin, Beibei. I’ll be a king, or more, before I am done.”

She nodded. There was a distant sadness in her, as if she mourned the gift he had asked of her, that she had given him. “You want that more than anything. I am happy I could help you take the first steps on your path.”

She moved away from him to sit behind the massive desk in a well-loved leather chair, leaning back and putting her feet up, crossed at the ankles. She was so very different here at home, with the coastal breezes fluttering over the drapes. So much more herself, more like how she had been when they were children. “Is there evidence? Can they trace it back to you?”

“No, no.” He waved away her concern, taking his own seat on the other side, wishing he had a glass of liquor in hand, but… Atabei was not one for alcohol here at home, and he knew there would be none unless this mysterious Eliza enjoyed it. “I was with her, but… she signed with her own hand, steady and strong. You couldn’t possibly have said it was forged. I mean, it wasn’t. I watched her sign each and every one.”

“Hm.” Atabei looked a little confused. “And then?”

“Then she drank a glass of strychnine mixed with wine, and died.”

“I didn’t know she had such a fondness for you as all that,” Atabei said, her expression of confusion deepening, although her wry humor was still intact. She even smiled, just a little, as he head tipped back against the back of the chair. “It is a great love one must feel for one’s downstairs tenant to drink deadly poison simply to expedite the tenant's inheritance.”

“Ha! I hated her more than any other soul and I daresay she did nothing but pity me, but it didn’t matter. I brought my sea creature up with me, and had it sing to her. After a while… she began to see things my way. I did her a kindness, really, if you think about it. She would have died in terror eventually, alone in her gigantic house, her little dog chewing on her toes-”

“Guilford, please,” Atabei said, face paling. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“Right. Anyway, this way she had someone she adored with her at the end, and I even gave her little dog to a friend of hers.”

“You hate that dog.” Atabei’s eyebrows raised again. “You used to joke about tossing it into the ocean for the sharks.”

“And you will yourself note that while yes, I did say that, it was a joke. It wasn’t the dog’s fault it was bred and born to drive me absolutely raving mad with its noise and that it had to be the size of a small tea kettle. The stupid thing is living a life of sheer luxury with the widow’s oldest and wealthiest friend, who has a dozen servants on hand at all times and a granddaughter who will no doubt adore the dog’s decidedly ugly smashed-up little face. And the way it breathes…” He shuddered.

“I… all right. Well, that is reassuring.” She tapped her fingernails on the desk, utterly at her ease in here. It must be her study and hers alone, now, if she kept her books on magic in here and felt them secure. “But… wait, Guilford. You said you had the siren sing.” Atabei’s eyes widened. “The siren’s song doesn’t work on women. It is well known. Only men can be fooled by their voices.”

“I know, I know, but it did work on her. And it’s worked on… three other women besides, since then. I’ve tested it.” At Atabei’s thoroughly nonplussed expression, Gilly flushed and hastened to add, “Simply to make them forget they had seen its markings, Beibei! I’m not a monster.”

Besides which, he had the siren itself to slate his lusts on now. Something about the way it still sometimes wept with his hands around its neck or dropped its human glamor to bare rows of sharp teeth without any ability to use them on him did more for his desires than any woman’s softness ever had.

The siren was a creature who should have torn him limb from limb, but Guilford controlled that power, that ferocious rage. It took real effort not to have arousal overtake him just thinking about it.

“Good. I will not aid a man who uses such a power to do harm to women.”

“I am not a man who has any intentions of doing any such thing,” He said, a little soothing, leaning forward. His elbows rested on his thighs. Downstairs, somewhere outside and presumably sitting under a tree or something, the siren began to sing. It was nonsense notes, something trifling, without any power to it.

Guilford had been pleased with it, and given it leave for the occasional making of merry tunes to pass the time, as long as it only cast a spell with its voice when Guilford commanded. He enjoyed seeing its pathetic gratitude at these small mercies, ones he could remove at any time for any reason or even no reason at all.

Sometimes he did, and forced the siren to debase itself all the more in order to earn them back.

Atabei looked over to the window, tensing slightly until she could tell there was no new magic in the air, nothing to try to override her own. Then she sighed and looked back to Gilly, nodding slowly. “Perhaps it works now because it is your will and not his? Since it’s not his magic any longer, only yours, that must go through him. Maybe that’s why… Hm. Fascinating. I will have to read more on this, try to understand…” She trailed off. “One wonders why no one has captured a siren for these purposes before.”

“Who says they haven’t?” Gilly raised his hands in question. Half-hidden by a stack of books that had never been placed back on their shelves back behind Atabei, he saw a small portrait that had been set on the floor, sticking half-out. In it he could see a woman, a man, and a little girl.

“Remember the Verenni king, a few hundred years ago?” Gilly spoke while looking over the portrait, letting his thoughts wander as he considered the family of three. “He came from the Sea Peoples, from nowhere, and it seemed like he took over every land he touched for half a century until he was killed in battle. Maybe he had a siren who sang what he wanted, and someone killed the siren first. It’s possible.”

The man in the portrait was older, hair already silvered, with a prominent beard. The woman clearly decades younger than her husband, and with the solemn look of those who must pose for hours in heavy dresses. The little girl looked very much like her, but for her nose.

“True. But why haven’t we heard of it? It should be in every history book…”

“Unless, of course, the people who come up with how we remember our histories don’t want anyone to know sirens can be so used-”

Outside, the sound of a carriage, and the siren’s song stopped. Atabei all but leapt to her feet in a sudden panic, interrupting Guilford. “Eliza! She won’t know not to talk to him-” She ran for the door and down the stairs, Gilly pushing himself up to follow her.

Atabei darted like a silverfish through clear water - he could hardly have hoped to keep up with her speed. He heard her cry, “Eliza, watch out!”

By the time he made it out the front door, huffing and puffing, Gilly saw quite the tableau.

Atabei, holding the siren’s arm with a grip so tight Gilly knew he would have lovely new bruises to appreciate before he slept tonight, was speaking in a rush to a lovely woman wearing a simple dress and tilted, wide-brimmed hat that kept the sun off her skin, with a little girl standing beside her dressed in the pantaloons and shirt common to the young.

“-was only saying hello,” The woman - who must be Eliza Howe - was saying, affronted. She had the heavy molasses accent of the northern colonies, as if she considered every word before she spoke it. “I can handle a simple polite greeting of a guest, Bei.”

There was a tremor to her voice, though, that suggested she had been relieved Atabei appeared so quickly.

“He is not a simple guest, ‘Liza,” Atabei said in return, her tone apologetic even if her words weren’t. “Remember I told you about Guilford Wentworth, and why I had to go visit him in the islands?”

Eliza turned back to the siren, who was trying subtly to pull himself free of Atabei’s grip, and failing. The monster looked away from her, confused and uncertain. Gilly felt himself think strange, strange thoughts - it has no idea what’s going on. It meant no harm. He shook himself and strode forward, catching up to the little group. The siren cringed away from his very presence, and he ignored the stir of desire that roused in him.

The little girl hid herself behind her mother, peering out with wide eyes.

“This is the thing that Guilford Wentworth captured? This? Bei, this is clearly a man,” Eliza said, and then caught sight of Gilly. Her expression pinched. “Oh, and here is another. Who... is this, then?”

“This is Guilford,” Atabei said, with a smile, gesturing to him. He bowed to Eliza, and she inclined her chin just barely to him. “Guilford Wentworth. Guilford, this is… my wife, Eliza Howe, and her daughter Sirene.”

“Siren,” The creature said, speaking words aloud for the first time. Its had an accent after losing its ocean-tongue, something that sharpened each syllable. Its eyes went to the little girl, who looked at it in something between anxiousness and wonder. Its expression was much the same. “The young are called siren?”

“Sirene,” Eliza corrected, uneasily emphasizing the differences in pronunciation. “It’s her name. She’s a girl, a-a human girl.”

“A girl, yes, this I see,” The siren said, and Guilford blinked. Had it-... used the same wry humor that he and Atabei had always enjoyed, in that sly tone? He would beat it for the pretense later tonight. Beat it black and blue and bloody and begging. “Siren is… human name, then? What I am, siren, is a name given to human girls?”

The monster stepped forward, leaning down to look more closely at the little girl even as Eliza grabbed her arm and held tight.

Its gaze reminded Guilford of his visits to the Royal Zoo, the way sometimes the great apes of the Largest Continent would watch the visitors to the zoo right back, with much the same expressions of awe and delight. Gilly thought about how deeply uncomfortable that sight made him, the bars that separated them from the people only a few feet away. The identical expressions. The reality of the strength and power the bars held in check.

“Sirene,” Eliza repeated, stepping back, her eyes flickering between Atabei, Guilford, and the siren. She looked more nervous and uncomfortable with every passing moment. “It isn’t the same.”

“Oh. I see. Hello, Sirene.” The siren emphasized the name now, too, the same way, although it didn’t seem mocking. More like it had simply decided that this was the way to pronounce the sounds, to mimic Eliza’s humanity. “I am a siren.”

“Hello,” The little girl whispered, without coming out from behind her mother's skirts. “It is very nice to meet you, Mister Siren.”

The siren’s face changed. Gilly realized, with a start, he had never seen it try to smile before. The siren tipped its head to one side. “It is very nice to meet you. Is that what humans say?”

The little girl frowned. “When they are polite it is.”

The siren made a sound - Guilford felt irrational fury when he realized it was gentle laughter, musical and melodic. "Polite is good?"

"Yes." The girl nodded, solemn as the grave. "One should always be polite, Mama says."

The siren's seemingly gentle smile faded slightly. "Mama," It repeated, voice low. "Sirens call ours mama, too."

The girl nodded, as if this made all the sense in the world. Eliza, though, gave Atabei a look of something like panic. "Bei-... What have you done?"

Atabei cut her eyes at Gilly and he cleared his throat, stepping forward, blocking the siren from the little girl's line of sight. “You don’t have to say hello to it, Miss Howe, and it is not a mister. It’s not a person. I know it looks like one, but that’s a silly little trick it plays on people. It’s more like… a dog, maybe.”

The little girl looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed. Her face - and voice - held a faintly hostile accusation he didn’t understand. “I say hello to dogs, too."

“Right. Well. Hm.” Gilly blushed, and wished he could order the siren to sing this whole moment out of existence for them all. It only made him angrier. “Perhaps not the best example…”

Eliza swallowed, stepping back, the girl moving with her in a stumble, slightly surprised. “Ah… Bei-... can you-... he’s very… very close to me, you see-... the sea thing is, I mean… but also your friend..."

“I understand.” Atabei pulled the siren backwards and shook its arm. “Don’t move. Let my wife go inside. Be still, sea creature.”

The siren stood, even without the magical compulsion, and watched as Eliza ushered the little girl away and back down the stone path to the front door of their home. She glanced a few times over her shoulder as she went, waving to the siren. "Goodbye, Mister Siren!"

"Goodbye, Sirene!" The siren called out. Guilford smacked it on the back right over some new marks from the belt he'd used on it last night and it cried out, stumbling before it caught itself.

"Silence!" Gilly hissed, and hit it again. And again. And again-

Atabei caught Gilly's arm in her hand and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Not here, Guilford. Eliza fears the anger of men. Her late husband was… unkind, when upset. Unkind to her."

“Of course.” Guilford nodded, already breathing hard. He pushed his glasses back up his nose instinctively. “We won’t trouble your beautiful wife with this nonsense. Simply show me where I can put it and it will not be seen by anyone other than you and I."

Atabei found a smile for him, and he smiled back, and for a moment - the two of them out in the grass of a front yard, with a rope swing tied to a large tree branch off to one side and a herd of cows lowing somewhere just beyond sight behind a hill - it felt like they were children again.

Atabei looked over the siren, who didn’t meet her eyes in return, staring down at the ground in the way Gilly had painstakingly taught it to. Her smile faded into a frown. “So, two deaths-"

"One by accident, remember!"

"... and wealth. What comes next? Where do you go after you finish your visit here?"

“Oh, that’s an easy question to answer,” Gilly said, watching as the siren, ignored again, crouched down and stared openly at a line of ants crawling along within the grass. “I’m heading to the northern half of the Largest Continent, back to visit my... mother. Where we will become significantly less estranged, thanks to this thing.” He kicked the siren lightly in the thigh, watching it wince without moving, attention still focused on the insects below it.

“Returning to the line of inheritance,” Atabei said, nodding, crossing her arms before her. “I see. And after she no doubt dies quite a tragic and well-mourned death?”

“Well… then maybe the next time we see each other face-to-face, I won’t be Gilly Wentworth, down on his luck sailor surgeon any longer. I’ll be… King Wentworth, or Emperor…”

“You aim high,” Atabei murmured. “You want to be like the Virenni King, the conqueror. They killed his siren, Guilford, if your theory is true. They killed the power he used and then slaughtered him as well, on his own battlefield, with one blow.”

“Right, well. I’ll be careful.” Gilly reached down, gripping into the siren's curls - he never tired of its soft hair, the way it tensed and shivered every time his fingers moved along its scalp - and pulled. It immediately tipped its head back, knowing the command by instinct without even needing to hear it by now. Its breath caught, and he knew if he touched beneath its jaw its pulse would be fluttering, like a horse about to bolt.

But it couldn’t go anywhere at all.

His mouth felt dry, just thinking about it.

“Your magic worked, it worked so well, Beibei. I can make it do anything I want, make anyone do anything I want, and no one who isn’t under its spell is ever going to know about it.”

"Except me," Atabei murmured, a strange tremulous quality in her deep voice. "Except for me, and mine."

Gilly, for the first time, looked into the eyes of his oldest friend and realized that if he could use the siren's power on women too, then even Atabei was not safe from him, not truly, and she knew it.

Atabei was afraid of him.

Gilly's eyes went back to the siren, who was looking up and watching the wind rustle leaves on a nearby tree. The creature's lips were parted, just a little, as if at any moment the song would begin.

Gilly smiled.

"Let's go inside," He said, smoothly, "And have tea."

Tag list: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings

For @whumptober prompts 19, 21, 22

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quietlyimplode · 6 months

Text

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 19 - A floral bouquet

Warnings: child abuse, nightmares

Word Count: 1.7k (gif not mine)

Summary: after Clint proposes, they both need time to recover and recuperate.

A/N: this is completely unread, forgive the mistakes bound to be embedded. I don’t have the energy to read it though.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

2011

IOWA

Recovery time is granted as a courtesy and requirement. It sets Natasha’s teeth on edge but even she can see that Clint needs it.

She wants the next assignment, the almost dying part not really phasing her. She’d almost died many times before.

If she was a cat, she would have used her nine lives by now. It doesn’t mean the panic for Clint doesn’t permeate into her dreams.

She dreams that she can’t breathe, and wakes up gasping, when she gets back to sleep, she watches Clint gasping for breath.

She performs CPR only to break his ribs and watch him die anyway.

It’s disconcerting and always results in her focusing on him sleeping into the hours of the morning.

He comments that she looks tired, but she always retorts that he does too.

There’s a cabin south of Iowa, he invites her to, she knew he had it but they’d never been able to go.

The dainty log cabin smells musty when they arrive, but as soon as it’s aired out, Natasha takes in all the details.

Surrounded by trees, the cabin is four rooms, a kitchen and main room all together, a bedroom and a bathroom.

There’s wood everywhere; bow and arrows on the walls, and a shot gun for good measure. He watches her surveil the place and stands in place, waiting for her assessment.

“Whatddya think?” he smiles.

“Did you make these arrows?” she asks in awe, touching them and continuing to look around.

“Yeah,” he nods, “the bow too.”

The wood fire sits inert and Clint promises to light it at night.

“Come for a walk,” he offers, taking her hand and leading to her to the door, “the weather is good and we can gather some wood.”

Natasha smiles and grabs her jacket as they head out.

The lake surrounds, birds chirping and flowers line the path they take.

It’s renewing in a way she’s never felt before; maybe that the air feels fresher than in the city, and whilst since they’d been released from hospital, breathing had been a little more labored, it feels like it can loosen off.

“Pick some flowers,” Clint prompts, “I’m going to get some twigs and kindling.”

It feels like an odd request, but Natasha follows it, starting with small flowers, pink ones that have tiny petals, she then finds some white ones, cutting them cleanly with her switchblade. She moves away from Clint and finds other flowers, longer ones that look like bells, the purple blending with the others as she traverses around the lake.

The yellow flowers spread everywhere, and she chooses them more selectively. Large petals, and smaller cone shaped ones.

As she heads back up the incline, Clint calls for her to come over.

“This one too?”

The delicate blue wildflowers were small, easy to pick and went well with the bunch that Natasha had picked

“They were my mums favourites,” she smiles.

She holds the bunch up for his approval and he smiles.

“Perfect,” he tells her.

They walk back, conversation easy, light gossip and commenting on the world around.

“Do you think it will storm tonight?” Natasha asks.

Clint shrugs, opening the door and allowing Natasha to enter first.

“Maybe, depends if the temperature drops, then you’re in for a chance.”

They both go about unpacking some food and Natasha starts cooking and cutting vegetables.

He sets about lighting the fire then puts her flowers in water and smiles as he places the forget me nots to the front.

“Tell me about her,” Natasha asks, “your mother? What was she like?”

There’s a beat of silence before Clint acquiesces.

“She loved nature. I think we would have got an animal if it wasn’t for him. I think she knew that if we did it would become another thing for him to destroy or use against us, but she made it up in other ways.”

He moves to the kitchen to help her, grabbing a carrot and chewing on it.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t —“

He waves her off.

“Nah, I want to, otherwise she just lives in my memories, and I’d like her to live in yours too,” he smiles, crunching down.

“She had brown hair, maybe a bit shorter than you, smart but in a clever way. Not book smart I think, as she struggled to read, but the way she could deduce and read people was easy. It always made me wonder how she ended up with my father.”

Natasha turns the portable gas heater on, and passes him the chicken for cooking.

“Did she like to cook?”

Clint laughs.

“No, not at all, we would eat the same thing over and over, meat and vegetables, or potatoes; there were lots of potatoes.”

He takes onions and places them in the pan.

“Barney liked to cook,” he says a bit more softly, “he’d take over from my mother when my father wasn’t home. He loved making sauces and mixing flavours.”

The sizzle on the chicken is loud and so the next words feel more for him than anything else.

“He found Barney once, cooking with my mother looking on, yelled and ranted that it was women’s work. He threw the hot saucepan at him and burnt him across the arm, here,” he says gesturing to his forearm.

“Barney still liked to cook, but was just more careful about how he did it after that.”

Natasha stands next to him.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him.

“It’s okay, I was telling you about her, not him.”

Clint puts the next piece of chicken on the small fryer.

“She liked stories, any stories. So I’d tell her them from school, also, Gus; he had the best stories, so I’d tell her them too. I think she liked to think about them, maybe they helped in some way.”

Natasha takes over the fryer, motioning to the cooked meat for cutting.

“She could be forgetful, and told me things usually more than once, but I didn’t mind. She had the kind of voice that when she spoke you’d listen regardless of what she was saying.”

He stops cutting and thinks.

“I think she would have liked you,” he says generously.

Natasha looks to the pretty little flowers.

“Yeah. I think I would have liked her too.”

The distinct smell of the wood fire brings Clint out of his nightmare. The disorientation makes him freeze on the spot dampening his breathing so that he doesn’t wake Natasha.

He ruminates on the images the dream produced, the dodging of beer bottles before one caught him, the way he was small and his father was big, and his mothers face, blood coming out of her mouth and the familiar bruise covering her cheek and throat.

He sorts the images and finds the truth in the lies, then separates it further, smelling and grounding himself with Natasha’s gentle breathing and the smell of the fires.

He’d hoped talking about her would be cathartic, and in a way it was. He’d just not anticipated the memories it produced.

He sighs wanting to get up but knowing it would wake Natasha.

If they get married, he’s not going to become like him. He’s not his fathers son, he is his mother’s though.

He pulls out his phone and googles how far it is to visit her and settles back down with a plan for the next day.

The grave reads Edith’s name, the date of her birth and death and words that read ‘beloved mother’.

The fact that she has a headstone at all is something Natasha can’t help but comment on.

“The circus helped us pay for it, it came about a year and a half after her death, maybe 6 months we’d both been there. We agreed to work for free to get it done.”

Gently, Natasha moves the moss and Clint pulls the weeds around it.

It takes them some time but they clear it and make it neat in its appearance.

Natasha pulls the little bouquet of forget me nots she’d picked and places them down.

Clint hugs her and they stand side by side in silence.

The ride home is comfortable, soft country music playing as Clint taps his finger to the beat.

“Do you think my mother has a grave?” Natasha asks, a question she’s never thought to think.

Clint reaches across and holds her hand.

“I hope so,” he says, squeezing it.

“Maybe she had a sister or someone to lay some flowers at her grave too,” she hopes.

Clint nods.

“Maybe she’s hanging out with my mother, wherever they may be.”

Natasha smiles, then laughs.

“They’d tell lots of stories to each other I think,” she says.

“My mother would like that,” he nods.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asks, squeezing his hand.

“I know you had… dreams last night, but do you think this will make sleep hard as well? Can I do anything?”

Clint shrugs.

“I don’t know. Maybe? Nothing you can do, but maybe we can play a game or watch a movie together before sleeping.”

He sighs.

“It’s been a long day.”

Natasha nods, opening the window then closing it with the smell.

It breaks the mood and he laughs.

“Cows are certainly an acquired smell,” he grins.

“She liked magic too,” Clint offers, the movie finishing.

“Can I show you some?”

Natasha feels a curl of excitement.

Giving him her full attention, he produces a bunch of flowers.

It makes her burst out laughing.

“Can you do it again?”

He pulls a coin from her ear and then makes the flowers disappear again.

She takes the coin and rolls it over her fingers.

Clint nods in approval.

He smiles again.

“One more.”

From her ear, he produces two rings.

“I know we were dying, and that you may have just said yes—“

She doesn’t even let him finish.

“I want to marry you Clint Barton,” she tells him, taking the rings off him and examining them carefully.

Both of them thin, one with a red ruby and the other larger in size but just as thin, the metal infused with a purple hue.

“They’re for us, like your necklace, no one has to see them.”

He loves that she puts it on straight away, kisses him again and then tries to imitate the magic trick.

“Teach me,” she requests, “show me how to do magic just like you do.”

#whumptober2023 #no. 19 #floral bouquet #natasha romanoff #clint barton #clintasha #black widow #my fic #hawkeye #natasha romanoff fic #Clint barton fic #clintasha fanfiction #clintasha fanfic #Clint barton x Natasha Romanoff #marvel fic #hawkeye fic

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oneweirdbookaddict · 6 months

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Whumptober day nineteen!

Prompt: I’m not as dumb as you think I am.

Character focus: Wild, and some Twi

761 words

Warnings for minor injuries, let me know if there should be anything else!

~~~~

They all glance around, defensive positions dropping as they realize the threat is gone.

“Everyone good? Check off.” Time says, eye finding the chosen hero- and the first in their order.

“I’m alright.” Sky says, cleaning off the master sword with a sigh.

“All good.” Four reports, watching the champion stick his sword back into his sheath with a scowl.

“No injuries.” Time says, glancing to Legend.

“Same here.” The vet says, arm around Rulie, who’s doubled over.

“ ‘m ok,” Rulie groans. “Just… little bruised.”

“Took a kick to the diaphragm, nothings injured, just knocked the air out of him.” Leg says, waving Wars away as the captain moves towards them.

“Nothing here.” Wind says, and Wars nods.

“Same.”

“I’m alright.” He continues, and Wild sighs.

“I have a small cut on my arm- nothing to worry about, though.” The champion says.

He makes his way over to Wild as the group starts slowly down the path once more, putting a hand on the younger’s shoulder.

“I said it’s fine, Twi.” Wild says, looking away from him.

“Wasn’t even going to ask, thank you.” He lies, frowning. Wild slouches guiltily. “But now I am. Let me see it.”

“Leave it alone, Rancher, I’m fine.”

“You’re being argumentative.”

“I don’t appreciate being babied!”

“All I asked was to look! You’re the one that got defensive and angry for no reason! If it’s really nothing, show me and I’ll leave you alone!”

Wild’s eyes narrow. “Or just trust me for once! I’ll have you know that I’ve never tried to walk off a mortal injury!”

“Just let me see, then I’ll leave you alone!”

Wild glares at him for a second, but yanks his sleeve up to reveal a small cut- barely a scrape, really- on his forearm.

He takes a deep breath, calming himself, nodding slightly. “Thank you.” And he walks away.

~~~~

That night is when they have issues again.

Wild makes dinner. Winces a few times, which he catches. So as they eat he quietly asks him about it.

“How’s that cut doing?”

“Fine.” Wild says shortly.

“Is it bothering you? You winced a couple times while making dinner when you used it.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“Did you clean and bandage it?”

The champion scowls at him. “I’m not as stupid as you think I am, Twi! Yes, I cleaned and bandaged it! Goddess!”

He backtracks immediately, faltering. “No! No, that’s not what I meant, I-”

Wild stands, though, walking away. “Yeah. Whatever. I’m taking a walk.”

No one argues as the champion walks off, arms crossed over his chest angrily.

~~~~

He takes a slow breath, walking up near the edge of the hill where Wild’s sitting.

“Hey. Mind if I sit?” He asks quietly.

“Go ahead.” Wild mutters, not looking at him.

He hesitates, but does. Lets the silence linger in case the champion wants to say anything, but he doesn’t.

So he talks. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply that I think you’re stupid when I ask those questions. I just… I know you can look after yourself, I know you’re capable… I just worry.” He sighs.

“I’m used to looking after younger children. It’s just… a habit. I’ll work on it, I just… wanted to say sorry. I don’t think you’re stupid or incapable.”

Wild heaves a slow sigh, nodding. “Thanks. I’m sorry I snapped so badly. I know that’s not what you meant, I just… not used to having people look out for me, you know? I was alone for so long. I’ll work on it, too.”

He nods slowly, putting a hand on Wild’s shoulder. “In the meantime, I’ll try to respect boundaries. All I ask is for a little leniency- I’ll forget sometimes.”

Wild nods, other hand reaching to meet his. “Yeah. I’ll try not to snap again.”

Silence again.

They watch the sun slowly sink into the earth, the last few rays of light vanishing.

“I… I like having people to work with.” Wild says quietly, looking at him. “It’s… like before. With my friends, in a way. It’s just… difficult. To get used to.”

He nods understandingly.

“I… feel it harder when we’re settled for the night. Everyone talking… I think that’s why I snapped. I apologize- I didn’t mean… I meant no offense.”

“There’s none taken.” He assures his friend gently, and silence falls over them again.

Then he smiles to himself. “So, Wild, tell me… do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?”

The champion looks up at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

~~~~

#whumptober2023 #whumptober 2023 #no. 19 #quote #I’m not as stupid as you think I am #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu wild #Wild Lu #linked universe wild #wild linked universe #twi lu #lu twi #twilight lu #lu twilight #twilight linked universe #linked universe twilight

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firstdegreefangirl · 6 months

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I'll Come Visit Again

“Hey,” Lucy hesitates, suddenly nervous. “Uh, remember when I went out with that guy and you said that no one ever buys you flowers? Well … you can’t say that anymore.”

She sets the bouquet down in front of the engraved granite slab, then lowers herself to sit on the grass in front of it. With one finger, she traces slowly over the letters.

Beloved son. Faithful friend. Fierce protector.

“This is weird, huh? I never had to worry about not knowing what to say to you.” Lucy takes a deep breath. “I just … hadn't visited in a while. And I’ll cut to the chase. I should leave a $20 for you too, but it’s a little windy.” She laughs.

“You, uh, you called it. With me and Tim? Yeah, that’s a thing now. We’re … I dunno. It’s still new, but it feels good. He’s good to me. We’re good for each other, I think. Sometimes, it’s a little bit like I can hear you. Teasing us, mostly. You’d like this version of Tim; it’s not like when I was a rookie.”

Read the rest on ao3 here

#katie writes #kw23 #chenford #lucy chen #tim bradford #jackson west #rip jackson #whumptober #whumptober 2023 #no. 19 #floral bouquet

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of-wounds-and-woes · 1 year

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Whumptober 2022 | no. 19: Enough is Enough

Knees buckling | Repeatedly passing out | Head Lolling

From the BEAUTIFUL Turkish series Yalı Çapkını episode 6

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

#whumptober #whumptober 2022 #Yalı Çapkını #no. 19 #this guy keeps passing out in almost every episode!#plz don’t stop!#yali çapkını

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ajpendragon · 6 months

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This is a prequel of sorts to my series Second Sight, which I don't think I ever posted here on Tumblr. You can find it here over on ao3 if you're interested.

Illusion

It was a government facility, she was pretty sure. She was equally sure that most of the government had no idea what was going on there. If they did, someone would have shut this place down a long time ago.

It wasn’t quite torture, per se. They never laid a hand on them physically. They never quite crossed the line outwardly. If any typical person walked in, they wouldn’t even bat an eye. But the constant psychological pressure, constant noise, was maddening to the telepaths they were ‘housing’ there.

According to their captors, they weren’t imprisoned. They could leave any time they wanted to. But then the psychological games started. They were helping the world by staying and participating in the tests. They would never be accepted into society if people knew what they could do. This was the only place they would be safe. Accepted. Trusted.

Loved.

It was all lies, of course. They all knew it was nothing more than a carefully crafted illusion. But those little seeds of doubt had been sown for far too long. The guards knew what they were doing, combining their spoken words, and calculated leaked thoughts to ensure that no one would ever leave. As far as she knew, no one had ever tried.

It had been years since she had last seen the sun. It had been years since she’d had an actual conversation with another human being that didn’t consist of barked orders or brusque commands.

Her days were always the same. Wake up to the same boring mush for breakfast. Someone came into her ‘room’ and escorted her to her ‘office’, a sterile white room where she spent hours every day working on puzzles, science experiments or math equations, all with a variety of psychological attacks while working.

She had thought she was pretty good at shielding before she had been brought here, but those early attacks had often brought her to her knees, incapacitating her for hours. It was better now, long experience making her able to function through most of their attempts, only seriously affected when they got particularly creative.

They had come up with quite a few new ideas recently, and she was feeling particularly raw, shields cracked and crumbling. But still she pushed through. She knew the consequences if she failed.

The math they had laid in front of her today would have been easy for her on a good day. She used to love math, the consistency of the numbers a comforting refuge. But years spent forced to continue working through the mild headaches of a weak test, or the blinding, mind-numbing pain of a new, creative attempt had drained the joy.

Today was no exception. She tried to shut everything else out and focus solely on the equations in front of her. For a few minutes, the math came easily, left alone as she was. Then they started their ‘tests’.

First, it was simple things. A random mental shout to try to distract her. A sensation of creeping dread that always made her feel slightly on edge, but wasn’t enough of a distraction to pull her from her work.

Then they escalated. The sensation of bugs crawling all over her skin. The nagging feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong. She tried to shore up her mental shields, but they were too worn to be effective. A headache started to bloom, centered behind her left eye.

She doggedly continued to work, but they continued to escalate until she started to falter. After thirty minutes of the same song over and over, the headache had grown to a stabbing pain, and she was forced to close her eyes, shoving her hands against her closed lids to try to alleviate the pain.

She knew it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t truly in pain. It was all an illusion. Nothing was wrong with her body, it was only psychological. But no one could endure that level of pain without attempting something, however futile, to help.

The pain spread throughout her skull, sending tension down her neck and back. Nausea turned in her stomach. They hadn’t pushed her this far in a long time, and she was rapidly losing control. Tears streamed from her eyes, and she screamed against the pain.

Suddenly, everything went quiet. The pain didn’t leave, that would take days, but at least it was no longer growing. She didn’t move, trying to take advantage of every moment of her reprieve, however brief.

But it stayed quiet. There were people there. She could feel their shields. But their minds were locked down tightly, not allowing even a whisper of their thoughts to escape. Not even the guards had that kind of iron control. What was happening out there?

It was a long time before anyone entered the room, and the blinding pain had lessened somewhat, to the point she could at least function. She gathered the tattered remnants of her shields into an approximation of the control she once had. Forcing herself to her feet, she grabbed the pencil from the desk and gripped it tightly in her hand, peeking cautiously though the door. She didn’t know what was happening, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.

The hallway was clear, and she tiptoed through the doorway. She didn’t know which way was out, but picked a direction at random. Any way was better than sitting there wondering.

It was quiet, more quiet than she had ever seen the facility, more empty. She moved through silent corridors for what felt like ages, hesitating at each corner to check that the hallway was clear. She was so focused on what was in front of her that she forget to pay attention behind, until the slight scuff of a boot caught her attention.

She spun around, pencil already stabbing down threateningly. The man in front of her deflected the blow easily, knocking the pencil from her hands and grabbing her wrists in one smooth motion, while still being careful not to hurt her.

“I’m here to help.” He promised gently. His voice sounded sincere, but she couldn’t be sure. Her trust had been shattered long ago, and she refused to fall for their illusion of safety ever again.

She reached out towards his mind, which was still blessedly quiet. He wasn’t lying. Which meant that maybe he was actually here to help.

“I’m with the United States government. Major Jeff Tracy. We’re shutting down this whole operation, and erasing all of the records. As soon as you have a clean bill of health from our doctors, you’re free to go.”

“Go where? The world will never accept me.”

“Maybe, if they knew what you could do, some people wouldn’t trust you. But most people are better than you give them credit for. Besides, all records from this place are being wiped. As far as the world knows, there are no such thing as telepaths. Your powers don’t exist.”

“Is it possible? Could I truly be free?”

“I promise. Now let’s get you to medical, miss-“

“Lucille. Lucille Evans.” She took his hand, following him out of the building into the sun. The light nearly blinded her, combining with her headache to bring her to her knees.

He lifted her up, looping her arm over his shoulders and leading her out of the light into the medical tent they had set up just outside the entrance. Inside, a number of doctors and nurses in white coats bustled around, their minds all carefully shielded.

Her fellow prisoners were scattered about on beds, some of them looking almost normal, while others were hunched over in pain. Jeff led her over to an empty bed, staying with her while he flagged down a doctor to help.

One glance at her and the doctor was already readying an IV line, fixing the needle with practiced hands. The relief of whatever medicine he had given her was almost instantaneous, and she let the wave of peace roll over her. The last thing she remembered was Jeff’s hand in hers, and the world faded away.

*******************************************

On her wedding day, Lucille looked straight into the eyes of the man who had saved her and promised to love him forever. She had been told for years that love was an illusion. That people like her would never be worthy of happiness. It had taken time for Jeff to tear down those walls she had built around her heart. His love was true. Jeff had finally convinced her of that.

And she couldn’t wait to spend the rest of her life loving and being loved.

For real.

#whumptober 2023 #no. 19 #psychological #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #lucille tracy #jeff tracy #torture tw

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darkkitty1208 · 6 months

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Entry for day 19 of Whumptober 2023, prompt no. 19: Floral Bouquet.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Doctor Strange (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Stephen Strange Additional Tags: Flowers, Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Character Death, Short, Ficlet, Mentioned Donna Strange, Implied/Referenced Grief/Mourning Series: Part 17 of Whumptober 2023 Summary:

Stephen buys a bouquet of magnolias.

#whumptober2023 #no. 19 #floral bouquet #marvel cinematic universe #doctor strange #fic #fanfic #stephen strange #my writing

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ssa-atlas-alvez · 1 year

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Whumptober Day 19 (Aaron Hotchner x male reader)

No. 19 ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

Knees Buckling | Repeatedly Passing Out | Head Lolling

Warnings: guns, gunshot, blood, dissociation ?

Word count: 371

You didn’t hear the shot, or feel the pain. It felt like a deep breath of cold air that burnt your lungs. You assumed you were just suddenly cold, you felt far away from your body. Your eyes managed to flick up to meet Hotch’s, confused as to why everyone was staring at you in concern. What had happened? Then you realised they weren’t looking at you, but at a growing red stain on your chest. Your eyes widened as you watched the blood crawl up the fabric of your shirt. Your eyes flicked back to Hotch, this time in alarm, before back to your chest. You were bleeding. You had been shot. Shot. As in with a bullet. Oh god.

When your eyes flicked up again, Hotch was closer and still moving forward. Good, Hotch would know what to do, Hotch always knows what to do. Part of you finds yourself wondering how Hotch knows this much about so many different situations that can happen on a case or in the field.

“(Y/N)?”

You look up at Hotch again, you were starting to feel the pain now. It hits you suddenly and you feel like you can’t breathe. Your knees buckle and you expect them to hit the ground harshly, except they don’t.

“I got you,” Hotch’s words are reassuring and you let out a breath, you give a small nod as he lowers you to the ground.

“EMTs are on the way,” Morgan says, you and Hotch both nod. You know it’s aimed at Hotch more than anything, but it makes you feel involved, less anxious about everything.

“I’ve got to put pressure on it, okay? It’s going to hurt,” Hotch doesn’t wait for you to nod (which you do, but at that point, he’s already moving) before pushing against it. You groan, resting you head on Hotch’s shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut. This was most definitely the worst part of being shot. “I know, I’m sorry,”

You want to tell him that it’s fine, but you’re in too much pain to formulate a sentence, so you just bob your head slightly in acknowledgment.

“You’re going to be fine,” Hotch gently reassures. “You’re going to be just fine.”

#whumptober 2022 #No. 19 #knees buckling #criminal minds #blood #gunshot wound #guns #Aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x male reader #derek morgan #bau x male reader #bau x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #this is a short one sorry guys/gals/non-binary pals #dissociation

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i-am-still-bb · 6 months

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No. 19

“I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.” | Floral Bouquet | Psychological | “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

Alt. No. 3

Brass Knuckles

Characters: Kili, Bolg, OCs Rating: T AU: Fast Car (formerly Dead Batteries) Words: 1619

Direct continuation of No. 18 - “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened” / Blindfold (Tumblr)

I feel like the prompt gives you all the warning you need?

Kili watched his back after that. He took the long way home. Walked past his apartment building to circle back. He did not know how much information Cameron had shared with them. Kili had moved since he had called the agency that Cam worked for. But Kili knew that it was not hard to find someone if you put your mind to it. There were property deeds, accident reports, alumni newsletters; all of which were easily accessible.

He had thrown that post-it note away in the nearest trash can after he left the El.

But he remembered all of the listed medications. Some he could have just purchased. He could have taken the medicine to the counter, presented his driver’s license, paid, and left the pharmacy with a little plastic bag containing medicine that could either be used to treat cold symptoms or to make meth, buyer's choice.

But he didn’t.

And then there were the medications that were harder to acquire.

And he did not even think about ways to get his hands on those in a way that would not get him fired and arrested.

And he did not see anybody who seemed to be watching him. He did not see the man with scars again.

By Thursday he had relaxed a little bit, only to wake up Friday morning full of tension and nerves. He went to the gym early and spent more time zoning out to an audiobook and following the workout that an app had generated for him. He felt better afterwards, but still jumpy and nervous.

And it was getting noticed.

Tauriel and Ari had noticed when he was out their place for their biweekly Wine Wednesday where they ate disgusting amounts of takeout, drank wine, talked, and maybe watched a couple episodes of whatever show they were currently binging as a group.

Kili brushed it off. Said that there were talks about a union walk out and he wondered what would happen to the people that needed their medication if that happened. That quickly led them down a well trodden path of arguing at each other about insurances, unions, nonsensical laws, and poor working conditions in a variety of contexts.

And Kili’s ill mood was forgotten.

For the first time he wished he worked for a large pharmacy. The chances of some remote CEO caring about Kili’s sex life were lower. And even if the CEO cared Kili would likely never have to see the person who had been on the receiving end of those images and that video.

Kili worked for a family owned pharmacy that was nestled into the corner of a suburban neighborhood. He knew many of the customers. He asked how people’s babies were doing. And he knew the owner, he attended the Christmas parties, and enjoyed any of the “team building” weekends. So even if he kept his job he would probably quit and seek employment elsewhere, probably in a different city, very likely in a different state.

On Friday his miscounted pills, almost gave Mr. Peterhof Mrs. Peterson’s prescription for blood pressure instead of his anti-rejection medication. He was distracted at best. He thought about leaving early, but decided against it. He did not know these men well enough to know if they would stop the store manager, Rebecca, who would be closing up if Kili was not there.

“See you on Monday!” Rebecca said cheerfully, waving to Kili as he was finishing up the last of the prescriptions that were slated for pick up over the weekend.

He worked slowly.

In November it got dark early. The large windows that faced the street now just reflected the dimmed interior of the store. Instead of letting him see the rest of the world they let him see double of the rows of pop, candy, snack foods, and baby diapers.

The hair on his neck stood on end. He felt like he was being watched. He watched his reflection as he got closer to the front doors. Locked. Just like they should be. Walking back to the pharmacy counter he stiffened; that sense of being watched had only increased.

He paused when he was filling a prescription for Oxycontin, the Albrecht kid had just had surgery on his ACL, what if he just…

No.

Kili recounted the 15 pills. Sealed the bottle. Put it in the little plastic bag and sealed that bag with its tamper-evident seal. And hung it on the rack with the rest of the As.

The stack of orders was completed.

Kili sighed. He hung his white jacket up, pulled on a bulky denim jacket and a beanie (a half-assed attempt at altering his physical appearance along with the scruff he had let grow over the last couple of days). He pulled down the metal gates, locked them, checked the front door again, before exiting into the back alley. That feeling of unease did not fade. He kept thinking that he saw things over his shoulder, or reflections in the mirrored glass windows while he did these final few tasks.

The lock clicked in place when he shut the door.

The alley was dark, red brick and dumpsters barely visible. He fixed his gaze on the light of the street where cars and people would be.

The voice was low, but clear, “Working late?”

Kili startled, hands going to the strap of his cross body bag. He felt the brief flash of a desire for something to defend himself with.

“No,” he said curtly.

“You’re normally off by 6:30,” the shadow separated from the wall between Kili and the warm glow of the streetlights. “And it's nearly 8.”

“Busy weekend,” Kili said brusquely. “Lots of work to do.” He did not stop moving. Hoping that he would just be allowed to keep going.

Then another shadow was there. This one was even larger and standing directly in front of Kili.

“Do you have my order?” the first man said, now behind Kili.

Kili turned to keep both of them in his sights. “I… I do not.”

A speculative noise, “Why?”

Kili swallowed and tightened his grip on his bag. “It’s not possible.”

“There’s always a way.” He walked behind Kili, forcing Kili to keep turning, now only seeing one, now both, now one.

“There’s not. I’ll get caught.”

“But I’d still have my order.”

Kili wanted to ask, “And what about me?” But was sure that he already knew the answer.

A distinctive click. Kili’s blood ran cold. He had not heard it in years, but he knew the sound of a pocket knife blade flicking open and locking out. A sound he knew well from years spent in the club house. Nori had a habit of flicking open a knife, closing it, flicking it open, again and again. A nervous tick, a habit that always made him seem a little menacing. He would be talking with you about different motor oils, the movie he saw that weekend, the video game he was currently playing through, but that blade would be be going snick, click, snick, click, like a metronome.

“I hate having to ask for things twice.”

Kili’s whole body tensed. Waiting for contact.

“But I will.”

Click.

The blade closed.

Kili exhaled. Relieved that he would have maybe another week to figure out what to do.

And then he was dropped to his knees. A blow slammed into his lower back, angling up under his ribs. And he forgot how to stand.

“But Jean here is going to make sure you remember to fill our prescription next time.”

Another one made his vision flash and spin.

Kili fought to throw off his back. And when he was pulled over onto his back to another fist raised, light flashing on the brass knuckles he was able to throw up an arm, blocking the blow. Kili kicked Jean’s inner thigh, just above the knee.

Jean grunted and dropped to one knee.

Kili grabbed for Jean’s arm, pulling it close, pulling Jean off balance so that Kili could flip them, giving him the upperhand. He straddled Jean’s waist grappling to get an arm around the other man’s neck. The martial arts classes he had taken for years at the suggestion of his college therapist were finally coming in handy, but his hands did not quite remember the move. His hands slipped, and Jean’s hands were free. Kili fought for control again. He was sweating and cursing the heavy jacket. His hat had fallen off. He grunted in effort as he forced Jean’s arm flat. Before he could take the hold further though, an arm wrapped around Kili’s throat, applying expert pressure, enough that Kili was lightheaded in moments, weak in a few more, but not enough that he lost consciousness.

“That was not a smart move, Kili,” the voice growled in Kili’s ear. His hot, rancid breath was the last thing that Kili remembered before there was the glint of the brass knuckles again and his vision went dark, then his hearing stopped and he knew no more.

—

Kili was stiff and cold when he woke up. He was still in the alley. He fumbled around for his bag and found his phone. It was just past midnight. He shivered and collected himself. Everything hurt. His face felt swollen. He gingerly felt for the margins of the swelling, wincing as he pressed more firmly, trying to ascertain the level of damage.

He winced, pulling his bag over his head. That was when he saw the note pinned to his chest. It was another post-it note, with a handwritten list and another date—next Friday.

Kili straightened. He had earned a reprieve of one week.

Taglist Everything@silvermoon-scrolls @metztlilua @i-am-pinkie

Fili/Kili @dubhlachen

#whumptober2023 #no. 19 #alt. no. 3 #brass knuckles #the hobbit #fic #bb writes #fili/kili #fiki #fast car au #dead batteries au

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whump-tr0pes · 2 years

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Lamia Lenis - Part 5

Or, a Carlo/Maxim/Dara/Ilya/Dee crossover AU collab with the amazing @deluxewhump

Or, @whumptober prompts no. 2 “Nowhere To Run”, no. 7 “Shaking Hands”, no. 10 “Poor Unfortunate Souls”, no. 14 “Desperate Measures”, no. 16 “No Way Out”, no. 19 “Knees Buckling”

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Maxim the vampire lives a quiet life with his beloved mortal, Carlo. That is, until Maxim’s friend Dara, an angel of the Lord, brings two creatures to Maxim’s doorstep - Ilya, a human bloodbag barely clinging to life, and Dee, their beloved demon who is willing to kill to keep them safe. Maxim and Carlo find more than they bargained for when they take in the traumatized pair.

Contents: captivity (sort of), isolation, blood, vampire whumper, muzzled, bargaining, offer of implied nsfw

Carlo put the heavy blue pot on the gas stove, waiting for the click of the gas and the little rush of flame. He took a seat at the small kitchen table beside Ilya, who was staring out the window into the blackness beyond the property.

“It's woods, out there,” Carlo said gently. “Just lots of woods.”

“And a town,” Ilya replied, their gaze faraway.

Carlo looked at their reflections in the glass. He shook his head. ��It's far. Farther than it looks from the road coming up here. And it’s cold.”

Ilya blinked, turned their weary, haunted eyes toward him. “Not in the daytime, with the sun out. He lets you wander around, doesn’t he? He doesn’t lock you in.”

Carlo held their gaze, though something made him want to flinch away. He knew that look, that feeling. The feeling of being trapped— of being prey. Like an insect in a spiderweb, waiting for sundown. How could he explain he did not fear dusk, anymore? That he waited for it anxiously, but not out of fear?

“No,” he said. “He doesn’t lock me in.”

“So you could leave.”

Carlo swallowed. “I have nowhere to go.”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed a fraction. A drop of bright blood had seeped through the bandage on their arm.

“I don’t want to go,” he explained. “I—I feel safe here.”

“Safe?” Ilya hissed.

Carlo blushed. “Yes,” he said a little too defensively. “Maxim… he took me away from another house. A….another vampire’s house. I’d been there for months. I don’t think… I don’t think I’d have lasted much longer if he didn’t take me when he did.”

Recognition crept over Ilya’s features. They looked Carlo up and down, taking in his soft cashmere sweater, his pink cheeks and his soft, clean hair. Yet they glanced a moment too long at the scars of his wrists and neck not to have noticed them.

“Those aren’t…”

“From him? No.” Almost proudly, Carlo added, “Maxim’s never left a mark on me. It doesn’t even hurt. I always…” he trailed off. It felt almost too intimate to share, though he wanted Ilya to understand. “I always let him. He doesn’t… he doesn't take it. I have to give it.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Why, then? Why wouldn’t you just say no?”

Carlo got up to stir the soup, hoping it was warm enough to serve already. He felt Ilya watching his back as he did. Because he takes care of me. Because I love him.

“Because it’s what I am,” he said at the stove, knowing Ilya was listening. “Vampires like me. They find me. And this one keeps me away from them.”

There was a creak, and Carlo glanced back to see Ilya lean back in their chair. Understanding settled in their features, hardened their mouth. They threw a glance at the demon, who stood at the door to the kitchen, as if guarding it. He wore the muzzle still.

“I get it,” Ilya whispered, nodding slightly. “I get it.”

Carlo bit his lip. “It’s not like… like that,” he said, mouth twisting. “Not like… whatever it is you’re thinking right now. I… I like being here. I like being… being his.” He hated the embarrassment that burned his cheeks, the shame that twisted in his stomach. The last thing he needed - the last thing he wanted - was Ilya’s judgment. “I w-wouldn’t be alive if not for him,” he said, weakly.

“Is he going to keep us?” Ilya said. There was something different to their voice now, a steely hardness that made Carlo shift his weight uneasily.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, fingers tight around the wooden spoon he realized he was somehow still holding.

Ilya rose slowly from their seat and took a step towards Carlo. “Is he going to hurt me? Hurt him?” they hissed, jutting their chin out at Dee.

Carlo shook his head. “N-no,” he whispered. “No. Never. I told you, he’s not… he’s not… like that.”

Another step closer. “Does anyone else live in this house? Does anyone else know we’re here?” Ilya said softly.

“No,” Carlo murmured. His head was starting to swim. It suddenly occurred to him that both Ilya and Dee were between him and the door. And the drawer just inches from Ilya’s hand contained a knife - and a few other things, but most importantly a knife, a sharp one for some specific use that Carlo couldn’t even remember at the moment. His fingers were going numb around the wooden spoon. All he had to defend himself against a knife was a wooden spoon and a pot of hot soup - at least until Maxim returned with the key to Dee’s muzzle. Something about a specific type of iron, angel power type of stuff…

Carlo couldn’t remember right now. His throat tightened, and he felt the heat of the stove against his back. “Ilya…” he said softly.

“We can’t be trapped again,” Ilya said, and their voice cracked. Their hands were shaking at their sides. “Me and Dee. We can’t. And the Vampire wouldn’t take the bait, so…”

They took another step closer. Carlo let out a soft, airy sound of fear, and smelled the back of his shirt begin to singe. “P-please,” he croaked.

Ilya slid to their knees in front of Carlo, head bent, shoulders bowing with bitter exhaustion. Dee whimpered softly and glanced down the hall. Carlo’s stomach roiled.

“Please,” Ilya breathed, and tipped back their head. Their eyes were rimmed with tears. “Please, just… tell me what you want. If you get us out, I’ll… I’ll do anything.” Their chin quivered. A tear rolled down their cheek. They raised one shaking hand and traced their cold fingertips along the waistband of Carlo’s soft woolen pants.

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