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rcksmith · 3 years

Text

Desire — Kaz Brekker

(Photo not mine)

Requests: “Hello there! I've been around this blog for a bit now and you are an amazing writer! I was wondering if you would be ok with doing something with 21 28 & 29 from the smut prompts and kaz brekker? If you are uncomfortable please just ignore this!”

“Kaz brekker Smut prompts 28 66?? Love you💖!!”

“I can request Kaz smut prompts 29?❤️”

Smut prompts:

21. “Look at you, I’ve only started using my fingers and you’re already shaking.”

28. “Such a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

29. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

66. “You know I don’t like to be teased.”

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, mention of shot, mention of desire, desire, mention of smut, explicit smut, NSFW.

Word count: 3k

A/N: All smut requests for Kaz must follow these rules.

I hope you like💕 English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

— — — —

There was something about you. Something impossible to decipher, with a glow hovering around you like a electrical energy. Wrapping your whole body in a cloak of magnetism. There was something about the way you spoke, walked, laugh. Something about what it was like to be you, in your beauty and mysteries like a sphinx.

Something that made Kaz Brekker completely furious.

You couldn't be more distorted from the image, in Kaz's mind, than what was to be a peaceful woman. Calm, controled, with steel emotions and wit in eyes. Someone who, like him, knew how to dance the waltz of negotiation, manipulation, who could blend in with the shadows and know the best time to listen more than speak.

You were not like Inej, you were not like Jesper. Hell, you were like nobody Kaz has known in all of his 28 years.

Nothing reminiscent of calm and control would be used to describe what it meant to be you.

Your soul are stormy, loud, obstinate, too stubborn and too talkative. You needed to speak loudly, laugh, move, expose your opinions to the seven winds and to whoever listened the most. You needed to question, inquire, doubt and test the limits of any situation. A direct order for you would be an affront to your free and independent spirit. A command that would curtail your freedom or tame your strong genius was almost like an invitation for you to do exactly the opposite of what they had ordered you to do.

So, for a man of trained reasoning, subtly balanced world, and who was used to his every command being followed vehemently and promptly in blind obedience, such a personality like you was like introducing a disturbing factor capable of shaking all his judgments. Sand in a watch, or stone in a shoe, would be no more a nuisance than a strong nature like your.

The extraordinary stubbornness and mania to counter his orders - when, in your words, they were unreasonable - had made you different from all the women Brekker had ever met. Kaz liked challenges and responsibilities, a good puzzle, but you were on a level far beyond that.

You were a danger to his peace of mind. And you knew that. All his aversion to your indomitable spirit only served as fuel for your own mission in to piss him off. Few men were like Kaz Brekker, you knew that, with a strength of character too powerful to be ignored. He was not just comfortable in his position of authority as he was obviously unable to act in any other way than as a leader. His stoic figure and always so contained in a wall of indifference made you want to ruffle his hair to see if you could remove any emotion. And being a girl who hasn't always liked leaders, Kaz Brekker was a huge temptation. Few moments had been better than those that you managed to piss him off beyond what he could handle.

However, all the reasons why the two of you were so exasperating for each other, did not explain why the air crackled in ambiguity when your eyes met. The hemisphere was adorned in a thought-provoking, poignant veil, like a warm honey flowing down its throat, and there was something else in the way blood flowed like flames of fire through veins of you two.

Jesper said that the sexual tension between you was so tangible that it could be cut by one of Inej's knives, but you refused to think of Kaz that way. At least until that moment.

Not pure images of what the infamous Brekker could do to you between four walls swept you like the strong Arabian wind. Making you be surprisingly breathless. Kaz was not a man whose private life was exposed, nor was he involved with many women, but you have heard two or three of them when they were drunk saying that Kaz Brekker in the room could be incendiary.

Everyone knew that his touch reserve didn't limit him to anything, but that his job was at the top of the priority list and that sexual encounters were almost never on that list.

"It was not my fault!” Jesper defended himself one night, slightly drunk, sitting at the club's round table next to the other crows “I didn't know he was married to another man! That damn pretty face seduced me!”

"Did he seduce you?" You asked, skeptical and playful.

"I swear to God! And it had been a long time since I had sex with anyone, and I went… ”

“But you did sex last week." Inej laughed, chocked.

"Exactly!" Jesper said, as if he were obvious.

You laughed with your beer glass in your hand, taking another sip.

“Is a week a long time to not sleep with anyone?" Matthias retorted, trying not to laugh.

“Are you going to tell me that is not?” Jesper and Nina spoke at the same time.

“If a man has time for sex more than once a week, he clearly doesn't have much to do. And I'm sure I gave Jesper a lot of tasks that would keep him busy.” Kaz narrowed his eyes at his friend, and Jesper hid his guilt behind the rim of his beer glass, looking to the side.

"So you are saying that you are a very busy man?" You teased, trying not to laugh at the scathing look Kaz sent you.

"I disagree. The values of hard work and discipline cannot match the hot body of a woman in bed.” Matthias said, exchanging a brief conspiratorial look with Nina, who winked at him.

"There are more important things." Said Kaz.

"Like what?" You rested your chin on the back of the hand whose elbow was on the table, the playful look of a rebellious student.

"Progress." Kaz held your gaze.

He wasn't going to take your bait. But you didn't give up easy.

"Tell me, if God gave you a deal: all the hunger in the world would be extinguished in exchange for you never being able to have sex again, what would you choose?" your eyes had a teasing feline glow.

At that moment, Kaz felt a shiver up the back of his neck, like a warm breath of autumn. Something crawled, like a snake, across his rib cage and down to his groin, pumping blood like fire through his veins.

He held your gaze, but the feline glow in your eyes promised to contain the most ardent sins. Suddenly, Kaz's mind was flooded by the wave of obscene images of you, on his bed; moaning, squirming, shouting his name and being very obedient with every order he gave you.

He would make you such a good girl...

"I don't believe in God." He replied succinctly, the predator's eyes still in your eyes audacious feline's.

A big, satisfied smile spread across your face, and you said: "As I thought. Bad luck for hungry people.”

Realizing that he had fallen right into your cunning trap, Kaz got rid of your diabolical magnetism and cursed.

“I didn't say…” he stopped, impatient “It doesn't matter. I have more important things to do than waste time here.”

But the smile you hid behind the glass was noticeable to Kaz.

After that night, the crackling, gasping flame that circled the two of you intensified to alarming levels. Kaz could feel you holding your breath when he was too close, and you could see him squeezing his cane harder when you sweetened your voice for him.

However, regardless of Kaz's wanted to fold you at a table and put an end to your brat girl pose, enjoying the groans he was sure you would let out, the two of you still fought like dog and cat.

Just as it was now.

“What do you mean, I'm not going?!” You looked at Kaz, amazed, when he told you that you would not participate in the robbery that week “I know that security system like the back of my hand!”

It was true, what you had of stubbornness, you had of technological intelligence. There was no computer that you would not hack, a program that you would not hack, and a system that you would not unlock. Your genius with technology made up for all your lack of obedience.

But Kaz ignored. “I've already told you. It's a more dangerous mission than you're used to and we don't have time for the plans you come up with right away.” He needled you.

“Are you referring to Switzerland?” You were never anything short of direct and inquiring. It was logical that you would question every orden. “But I already told you that when the alarm went off your plan didn't work anymore! I was more useful inside to deactivate the alarm than waiting outside.”

And stubborn. Holy God, how stubborn you were!

"And it cost you to get shot."

"But it was just a shot!"

Kaz looked at you, puzzled. “Just?! And wasn't it enough ?! You put the whole team at risk!”

“But if I hadn't deactivated the alarm, we would all be arrested! And only I knew how to do that!”

"My fucking God, isn't there a speck of common sense in you?!"

But you answered boldly: "Not when you impose clueless plans on me."

Mortified would be an understatement to describe how he was now. What an unbearable creature! Kaz felt the anger spread from his neck to his face, igniting his breath and squinting his eyes in annoyance.

Why was it so difficult for you to follow a simple goddamn rule?!

“Besides, your initial plan was flawed and there was no reason for me to be out when it was necessary inside and...” And you kept talking!

If you had noticed Kaz's completely enraged state in front of you, you would have been scared, shut up and ran. But, truth be told, Kaz suspected that even if you knew how to read the murderous humor in his eyes, you wouldn't have left that office. Much less be afraid. You could argue with the demon. And you would probably beat him out of tiredness.

However, regardless of the desire to shake you up, to see if that put any good sense in you, in that second, watching you gesture with your hands, defending your point of view as if it were the england queen's crown, something swept Kaz's body from the top of his head with dark hair to the tips of his illustrated boots.

The sound of the world was drowned out by the flow of blood itself in his veins. His heart hammered hard in his chest and, in that instant, a sharp sting in his groin and the pit of his stomach set him on fire.

His gaze went down to your mouth, which kept moving. And when it came up to your eyes, your stubborn and defiant gaze sent Kaz's rationality into space. He dropped the cane abruptly, which toppled to the floor with a hollow crack, and advanced towards you in firm and determined steps.

Gluing his gloved hands to your face, Kaz silenced all your protests with a strong kiss. Hot, fiery, domineering. The kind of kiss that held years of camouflaged desire, years of irritability, years of an unnerving desire to make you shut up with all the perverse forms that existed.

You weren't afraid of him. But you should. You should if you knew everything he wanted to do with you.

However, as if you have been burning in the same desire for years, you responded to that kiss with the same urgency. The same hunger. Kaz slipped his hands into your hair, closing his fingers there and deepening the kiss with ferocity. He felt beside himself, like a hungry wild animal that had been denied food for years and that only now had its teeth set on its prey. You moaned against his lips, bringing your hands to his lean, strong biceps, squeezing your fingers there.

You both needed air, but neither seemed to give a damn about that. Misted of desire that burned like a fire in their bodies, Kaz pushed the two of you backwards, slamming your back against the wall and swinging a frame beside. You gasped, and the gesture made it possible for Kaz to invade your mouth with his tongue, hunting every piece of hot meat. You two fought the same battle in that kiss: invade, dominate, conquer.

They both wanted to take the waltz, but Kaz would never let you conduct the show.

He pulled your wrists up, pinning them with one hand against the wall, leaving you immobile while sinking his mouth further into yours. Kaz felt you try to get rid of his tight grip, but he was stronger than you. And much more when he have a objective.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He murmured against your mouth, the tip of his tongue playing with your bottom lip. “You know I don’t like to be teased.”

Was impossible for you to control the loud moan that escaped. Your body trembling with desire, your legs wobbly, your wet core vibrating with his words. Kaz Brekker was a fallen angel. With a beauty and charm you've never been immune to.

How can you think you'd win the dominance game with him?

And, like the fallen angel he was, his smug and arrogant smile painted the corner of his lips when he saw what his lines did to you.

“I didn’t know you were so sensitive.” Kaz mocked “If I knew it was only necessary to do this for you to shut up...” he brought his lips closer, his voice hitting yours “I would have fucked you like the naughty brat you have been a long time.”

If his caustic and maddening kisses hadn't been enough to break you in half, that statement would have done all the work.

In that second, you hoisted your white flag, biting your lip in a needy moan and closing your eyes for a second by the overwhelming vibration of your core. God, you needed more. Whatever he gave you. Anything he wanted to give you. You just needed more.

"Are you going to be good?" He played with the dough you were in his hands, his devilish mouth going down your neck, leaving a trail of fire and debris wherever he went.

You agreed, desperately. “Yes, Sir."

That title seemed to do things with Kaz. Because in the next second, his mouth was back on your. More urgent, more needy, more dominating. You shifted your hips for more friction with his, and Kaz rewarded your obedience by pulling one of your thighs forward, making your skirt go up, aligning your thigh on his hips and giving access for his member to fit perfectly against your pulsating core.

You moaned louder this time. Fingers clenching, heart pumping frantically. Kaz pulled his lips away from you for a second, taking his hand off your thigh and bringing it to your mouth.

“Pull.” He ordered, referring to the glove.

You murmured a low, excited moan, bringing your mouth to the glove and clenching your teeth on the cloth at the top of his middle finger. Satisfied, Kaz pulled his hand back, watching the alabaster skin peel away from the leather fabric. As soon as he was free, he removed the glove from your mouth, replacing it with his own and stealing all your breath in that fiery kiss.

His free hand wandered over your thigh, touching you for the first time with a touch that promised to show you all the most delicious and secret sins in the world. His tongue wrapped around your again, and the moan you let out was even greater when his long fingers brushed against your wet, throbbing core.

"S-sir!" You sobbed, your hips rocking against his hand, desperate for more.

"Look at you." His fire voice beat against your lips, the tightness against your wrists getting stronger, more possessive "I’ ve only started using my fingers and you ’re already shaking"

Your body cried out in unbridled desire, sobs mingling with loud moans and heavy sighs as Kaz tormented you with his fingers. He touched you, slid, opened and sank, increasing the volume of your pleas.

“P-please" You begged, the body in need, the urge too urgent.

Kaz looked you in the eye, a dark, malicious gleam burning in his Egyptian blue irises. "Such a needy little thing, aren't you?" He teased you.

But you no longer cared about his teasing. With your lips swollen and red, your heart racing and the core pulsing in despair on his experienced fingers, you were already surrendered.

"Please. I n-need." You mumbled submissively, rummaging your hips in his hand.

"I bet if I wanted to fuck you against my desk, here and now, you would be very happy to do it, wouldn't you?"

He was foisting all of his dominance on you, bending you to your knees for him. And you knew that. You knew he was taking years of anger out on you. But you couldn't care less. You wanted him. Ardently. Desperately. And if it was a good girl Kaz wanted, damn it, you would be a good girl for him.

You readily agreed, your eyes shining in supplication.

“Good.” Kaz pulled you brutally off the wall, turning you over to the table and pushing your chest against the icy wood, pulling your hips at him. “Because that's exactly what is going to happen.”

Suddenly, desire and hunger roared like a wild beast. Kaz watched you, bent over his desk, obedient, surrendered, offering every inch of your body to him.

His breath was burning in his throat and it was no longer possible to order his thoughts, contain his euphoria. He would fuck you so hard that it would make that memory the only thought when you remembered him. When you dare to rebut his orders.

Kaz pulled you skirt up and your panties down, letting out a groan that sounded more like a growl as he saw your wet core. Pulsing and desperate for him. For anything he wanted to give you. It sparked a fervent desire that Brekker had never felt in his life, devastating any possibility of thinking about anything other than fucking you.

Playing with your fingers in your slick, wet folds, you whimpered again, the core pulsing whenever he teased you inside, pressing his fingertips there but never entering.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" His voice came over the top of your shoulder, hoarse, animalistic, full of profane desires.

"Please." You were quick to beg “I do what you want! But just...please, please… ”

You already felt your eyes watering from over-stimulation, your heart burning so hard it was beating, your core aching from emptiness.

You sealed the end of the game between you. Kaz had won. In a triumphant checkmate.

And you didn't have to beg again. Barely seeing when he unbuttoned his pants, you just reasoned his hard, hot, pulsating member by opening your from the inside. Claiming everything that was yours as his in a strong, desperate, hungry lunge.

"S-sir!" You screamed, your nails scraping the wood from the table, the core pulsing overwhelmingly around his rigid member.

In a more badly lunge, Kaz sank completely into you, moaning loudly as he hit rock bottom. The gloved hand slid over your shoulder, propelled you to him while the bare hand tightened on your waist, hitting you at a steady, raw, animalistic rhythm.

The sounds were pornographic, dirty and loud, echoing off the walls. The air was hot like molten lava, pungent and muffled, driving you two lost breath. Their bodies clashed as if the world was going to end tomorrow, in aggressive, rough thrusts. These were thrusts that made half of his things on the table fall to the floor, mixing in a mess that would serve as a reminder later about the sinful activities you two did.

You screamed when Kaz took on more force, his fingers squeezing you so hard that they would leave you with marks on your shoulder and waist the next day.

"Fucking hell!" Kaz snarled between his teeth, feeling your flesh throb around him, squeezing he with such desperation that he knew you were close.

You sobbed, tears streaming down the corners of your eyes as you pushed your ass towards him, trying to bring him as deep as possible, as deep inside you as possible. But every time his pelvis smashed into your ass, a loud moan and the feeling of being completely full drowned you.

You begged, pleaded, for something you didn't know. But Kaz seemed to know. Taking both hands to your hips, your pace became even more unperturbed, pushing you to the limit until you cum in a scream in his name, your lungs on fire. Kaz came close behind, sinking as deep as possible and pouring all the hot liquid into you. Almost like a brand.

The air was filled with sex, lust and desire, filled only by the sound of their ragged breaths that struggled to stabilize.

You were still panting when Kaz's voice came after you: "Whatever I want, don't I?"

A deal with the devil.

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sockablock · 3 years

Note

hey are requests still open bc I am still FULLY CRYING about Molly coming back to life holy SHIT. I have a thing I want to request and that’s Molly having to come to terms with whatever changes his body went through - new blood hunter abilities, longer hair, the much larger scar from Lucien’s v gory death - after he comes back to life.

Molly doesn’t ask what happened to Nott. He doesn’t ask them where they are. He doesn’t even ask who Essek is, and only gives Caduceus a friendly pat on the shoulder before turning away and wandering off.

His feet are bare on the soft teal grass. This time of year in the Blooming Grove, faint glowing insects hover around his ankles. The leaves of the old blue wisteria trees hang like a sheet across the sky. He is wrapped in a cloak of quiet moonlight, grey on the graves as he passes by.

Eventually, he comes to a lone headstone. It is long, and flat, and smooth. He sits down.

If he is different in any way, nobody says. It’s taken him a few days to find his words again, and it’s clear that his memories are still trickling back. Veth had joked that he used to be more entertaining, but they all know that his returning in any capacity is already nothing short of a miracle. To the Mighty Nein, he is still as miraculous as before.

To himself—to Mollymauk, he thinks he’s a bit leaner. He’d never really been one for rigorous training—not aside from what it took to throw a sword and catch it—and yet, this body seems hardened, now. It’s still a bit sore in some inconvenient places, and the tall one, Caduceus, mentioned that he shouldn’t do anything too strenuous to avoid opening his scar. This newest mark runs like a seam down his shoulder to his navel, making the rest of his scars look like paper cuts. He isn’t exactly sure how to feel about that, yet. Beau offered to help him design a tattoo to cover it, and he isn’t sure how to feel about that yet, either.

A faint breeze runs through the Grove, tousling his hair. It’s longer now, and Molly might have liked that more if he’d been around to enjoy it. He suspects that he might have been, in one way or another, though not nearly present enough to make the executive choices. Otherwise, he might have tried braids. Maybe hair dye. Not only that, but the...what had Caleb called him? The “previous occupant” had taken off Molly’s horn charms and necklaces. For the second-life of him, Molly can’t remember if he’d kept them. He can’t remember much about the last ten months—which might be alright. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

(He does remember some things, though. He remembers taking his shirt off the first night at the Grove and seeing the other scar left behind. It is closed now, and healed well over with blood magic, but when Molly reaches up and traces it down, he can feel how the cut drips into his abdomen. He remembers how it felt to have the blood pouring over, to boil with fury and die of shock, under the stars.)

He looks at them now. They haven’t changed a bit.

Another wind kicks up. Molly isn’t sure exactly what time of year it is, but he shivers. The Clays are kind, but the whole family towers over Molly, so their spare clothes fit him poorly. Firbolgs are also—well, furred—and Molly suspects that this borrowed tunic is on the thin side. His tail curls inward as he realizes he’s going to sneeze. He feels his muscles tense, he breathes in—

And suddenly, something warm is draped across his shoulders. He glances up.

“Oh. Yasha?“ His voice is strained. It feels as if Molly hasn’t spoken in a year, but at the same time, he feels like his throat is worn. Almost like he’s been giving frequent speeches with wild abandon. Now that he’s had some time to recover, the combined effect sounds like someone trying to remember how to talk, but only being allowed to do it through a rusty pipe.

“Come to join me in my musings?” he still says, stubbornly.

“She’s not the only one. ‘Sup.”

Molly doesn’t have to turn to know that Beauregard has walked into the rows of graves just behind Yasha. The two of them have been pretty attached to each other lately, except for when Yasha comes to check on Molly. The strongest part of him, the part that hung on the longest, is privately quite pleased by this.

“And you’ve given me your cloak.” He grins, but just at Yasha. “How kind of you, my dear.”

Okay, so not that privately.

“I was worried you’d be cold,” Yasha says, concern endearing. “Sorry your old coat wasn’t doing better. Jester says she can probably Mend it, or try to paint you a new one—“

Molly waves his hand. “No, no need, dear. I should do it. It’ll give me a thing to work on.”

Yasha nods. “I’ll let her know.”

Distantly, Molly can hear footsteps approaching. He counts four, maybe five pairs, if one of them is lighter. After a moment, there’s the sigh of cloth, and six pairs are walking.

Movement joins Molly on the headstone. He turns, and now Beau is seated beside him. Yasha stands like a guardian at his back.

Both of them are much, much wearier, Molly notices. Even though it’s been less than a year since his “death,” Beau is riddled with new scars from combat, and Yasha’s tattoos have gotten much bolder. Oddly, that’s reassuring.There’s something in the fact that Molly’s body changed, but theirs did too. And even if he can’t remember it, that’s something they have in common.

On the other hand, though, it makes him feel...he shakes his head. He gazes outward.

He asks, “Why did you follow me, then?”

Beau responds first. She does so with a snort. “Of course we’d follow you, you idiot. You were our friend—or...okay, technically, at the time you’re actually a crazy cult leader—“

“No, I meant—“

She cuts him off. “Right, yeah, details. Not important. Listen, it...it was a whole long thing, and it was complicated, but the important part is that we really, just really wanted you back. That’s why we did any of it. All of it. And why nothing could stop us.”

“Not even me?”

“Hell, no. Since when could you stop me?”

Molly chuckles at that. He glances at Yasha. “Is that true?”

“Which part?” she says. Then she says, “Yes. It is.”

He matches the tiny smile on her face. Then he turns back to stare at the woods past the graveyard while behind him, the rest of the Mighty Nein come to a halt.

His smile widens. “What I was actually trying to ask, though, is why you all followed me here. Just now. I thought you were going to prepare for dinner?”

“My parents took over,” Caduceus says. “They told us to take a break.”

“Besides!” With a burst of jewelry and her flouncing skirts, Jester squeezes onto the other end of Molly’s headstone. “We wanted to spend more with you!”

“Now that you’re interesting again,” adds Nott, taking a seat at the base of the stone with Fjord. He reaches up to wink at Molly, “Hey, roomie.”

“I thought I should get to know you as well,” says the new voice. Molly remembers that his name is Essek. “We, ah...we are both purple, so that is something we already have in common.”

Molly laughs at that. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Caleb. “It’s like there are two of you now. Like your shadow. Or a duplicate.”

“I am still the funny one,” Caleb says. “I plan on defending that title. Even from you.”

Molly laughs again, and this time, he does turn. He can see that the whole group have gathered around him now, sitting beside him, standing behind him, in the grass.

They are all so tired. They are all much stronger. Molly has gathered from the scars on their bodies—as well as from the scars on his own—just how powerful they must be now. He knows that he isn’t the same, either. Sometimes his blood feels like its boiling. Sometimes he is moving, and he can swear that it’s through snow.

But the Mighty Nein are here. There are nine of them, now. And that, he thinks, in and of itself, must be a miracle. And as he looks at them now, drinking their presence in, he thinks...

Maybe some things haven’t changed, after all.

—

✨ Ko-Fi Link in Bio! ✨ | Requests are OPEN

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hermiones-amortentia · 3 years

Text

This is for people who think Ron and Hermione had no intellectual debates or Ron can't stimulate her intellectually. Here their intellectual debates in the books-

1. House elves

“They’re hats for house-elves,” she said briskly, now stuffing her books back into her bag. “I did them over the summer. I’m a really slow knitter without magic, but now I’m back at school I should be able to make lots more.”

“You’re leaving out hats for the house-elves?” said Ron slowly. “And you’re covering them up with rubbish first?”

“Yes,” said Hermione defiantly, swinging her bag onto her back.

“That’s not on,” said Ron angrily. “You’re trying to trick them into picking up the hats. You’re setting them free when they might not want to be free.”

Ron is the only one that confronts Hermione about SPEW and really engages into it (So that its clear: Hermione defends that the elves should be free at all costs, Ron says they should be aware and included in this choice = two points of view, both defended = intellectual debate)

2. Discussing the ministry

“It could be a frame-up!” Ron exclaimed excitedly. “No — listen!”

he went on, dropping his voice dramatically at the threatening look on Hermione’s face. “The Ministry suspects he’s one of Dumbledore’s lot so — I dunno — they lured him to the Ministry, and he wasn’t trying to get through a door at all! Maybe they’ve just made something up to get him!”

There was a pause while Harry and Hermione considered this.

Harry thought it seemed far-fetched; Hermione, on the other hand, looked rather impressed and said, “Do you know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that were true.”

Ron =shows how it could have been a frame-up and presents evidence; Hermione =considers his side and changes her mind; they were discussing something and reached an agreement over facts = intellectual

3. In the creation of the DA, we see Harry behaving quite emotionally (understandable but this does not qualify, using your definition, as intellectual). Ron and Hermione make their case for why he should be the teacher and basically organize the entire thing themselves

“Let’s think,” he said, pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. “Uh . . .

first year — you saved the Stone from You-Know-Who.”

“But that was luck,” said Harry, “that wasn’t skil —”

“Second year,” Ron interrupted, “you killed the basilisk and destroyed Riddle.”

“Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn’t turned up I —”

“Third year,” said Ron, louder still, “you fought off about a hundred dementors at once —”

“Ron and I have been sounding out people who we thought might want to learn some proper Defense Against the Dark Arts, and there are a couple who seem interested. We’ve told them to meet us in Hogsmeade”

Hermione and Ron recruited and organized everything for the DA

4. Discussing Dumbledore and Snape

“I did think he might be a bit better this year,” said Hermione in a disappointed voice. “I mean . . . you know . . .” She looked carefully around; there were half a dozen empty seats on either side of them and nobody was passing the table. “. . . Now he’s in the Order and everything.”

“Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots,” said Ron sagely.”

“Anyway, I’ve always thought Dumbledore was cracked trusting Snape, where’s the evidence he ever really stopped working for You-Know-Who?”

“I think Dumbledore’s probably got plenty of evidence”

5. Sirius death

They stayed together in the Hospital Wing for weeks and it can be correctly inferred that this was discussed given their behavior towards Harry

“Ron and Hermione left the hospital wing completely cured three days before the end of term. Hermione showed signs of wanting to talk about Sirius, but Ron tended to make hushing noises every time she mentioned his name”

6. Mad-Eye’s death and the 7 Potters mission

“Oh, Ron’s mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me to change the sheets yesterday,” said Hermione. She threw Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other.

“We were just talking about Mad-Eye,” Ron told Harry.

7. Hermione’s parents and the Ghoul (they planned and prepared for the mission together)

“Didn’t realize that Ron and I know perfectly well what might happen if we come with you? Well, we do. Ron, show Harry what you’ve done.”

“Nah, he’s just eaten,” said Ron.

“Go on, he needs to know!”

“Oh, all right. Harry, come here.”

8. How to destroy Horcruxes

“Hang on,” said Ron, frowning. “The bit of soul in that diary was possessing Ginny, wasn’t it? How does that work, then?”

“While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don’t mean holding it for too long, it’s nothing to do with touching it,” she added before Ron could speak. “I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself incredibly vulnerable. You’re in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux.”

9. Hallows x Horcruxes

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” sighed Hermione. “Even if he was being honest, I never heard such a lot of nonsense in all my life.”

“Hang on, though,” said Ron. “The Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be a myth, wasn’t it?”

“But the Deathly Hallows can’t exist, Ron!”

“You keep saying that, but one of them can,” said Ron. “Harry’s Invisibility Cloak —”

10. Formulating a plan to keep Hermione safe

“Ron glanced at Hermione, then said, “What if purebloods and half-bloods swear a Muggle-born’s part of their family? I’ll tell everyone Hermione’s my cousin —”

Hermione covered Ron’s hand with hers and squeezed it.

“Thank you, Ron, but I couldn’t let you —”

“You won’t have a choice,” said Ron fiercely, gripping her hand back. “I’ll teach you my family tree so you can answer questions on it.

Hermione gave a shaky laugh.

“Ron, as we’re on the run with Harry Potter, the most wanted person in the country, I don’t think it matters. If I was going back to school it would be different. What’s Voldemort planning for Hogwarts?” she asked Lupin.”

11. Off page discussion

“What’s happened?” Ron asked apprehensively. He and Hermione had been poring over a sheaf of scribbled notes and hand-drawn maps that littered the end of the long kitchen table, but now they watched Harry as he strode toward them and threw down the newspaper on top of their scattered parchment.”

12. Off page (2)

“You can’t tell me you’ve stopped having funny dreams,” Hermione said now, “because Ron told me last night you were muttering in your sleep again. . . .”

Harry threw Ron a furious look. Ron had the grace to look ashamed of himself.

“You were only muttering a bit,” he mumbled apologetically.”

Yet another evidence of their connection and off-page discussions

“Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke, but Harry felt sure that they were looking at each other behind his back, communicating silently.”

Ron and Hermione have emotional AND intellectual discussions throughout the series. So if you think Ron can't stimulate her intellectually you havent read the books. 😊

#ron weasley #hermione granger #romione #harry james potter #harry potter #ginny weasley #luna lovegood #draco malfoy #ron×hermione #harry potter memes #harry potter marauders #harry potter fandom

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bumblesimagines · 3 years

Text

Green Thumb

Part 15

Request: Yes or No

Nebula and Tonys friendship was v cute and we deserved to see Tony be a dad to her. This feels v short so I'm sorry

"Maybe some company will do you good, (Y/N)." Natasha said softly, rubbing your arm. You stayed silent, staring at the table. Rhodes had offered you your old room back but you couldn't give him an answer. Your gaze shifted to the glass of water, brows furrowing when the water in the glass began to move. Natasha followed your gaze.

"I'm not doing that." You said softly, glancing at her. Steve entered the room, heading towards the exit.

"Something's coming." He called. Rhodes and Bruce quickly followed him out. You stood up, doing the same. You walked out onto the field, seeing Pepper staring up at a ship. You watched the woman set it down, looking back at you all. Steve ran forward, helping Tony off the ship. Pepper sobbed, running forward as well. You turned, walking back towards the facility.

"Great, the douchebag survived." You muttered, opening the door and sitting back down. You knew loss would come with trying to save the world but you didn't expect to lose everyone you loved. Clint and Natasha were still around but they were grieving as well.

"(Y/N), this is Carol Danvers, a friend of Fury." Natasha said as she entered the room. You turned to look at the blonde, giving a small nod. You watched as Rhodes pulled up images of everyone who had been lost to catch Tony up. Your gaze dropped onto the table when you saw your friends images appear.

"World governments are in pieces. He did.. He did exactly what he was planning to do. He wiped out.. 50 percent of all living creatures." Natasha explained, voices getting softer. You took in a shakey breath, sitting up and glancing at everyone. You made eye contact with Tony. He was skinny and weak but he held sadness in his eyes.

"Is Barton..?" Tony trailed off.

"Clint survived... Laura and the kids are gone." You told him, voice threatening to crack. Tony inhaled deeply, nodding.

"Where is Thanos? Where is he now?" Tony asked, looking at Steve. Steve frowned.

"We don't know. He just.. Opened a portal and walked through." Steve said, staring down at the floor. Tony hummed, turning to look at Thor.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's pissed. He thinks he failed. Which, yeah he did but so did the rest of us." The talking raccoon, Rocket, said. You didn't have enough energy to question how a raccoon ended up in space, much less question how it could talk.

"Honestly, until this exact last second, I thought you were a build-a-bear." Tony said, looking at him.

"Maybe I am." Rocket muttered in a tired and defeated tone.

"Thanos has been missing for three weeks now. We've got nothing. Tony, you fought him."

"Who told you that? No, he wiped my face with a planet while the magician gave away the stone. That's what happened. There was no fight-"

"Okay, okay.. Did he give you any clues?" Steve asked. Tony blew some raspberries, shrugging. You sighed at his childish response.

"I had a vision. I didn't want to believe it.. Thought I was dreaming-"

"Tony, I need you to focus."

"-And I needed you. As in past tense. That trumps what you need. You know what I need?" Tony knocked over some glasses, standing up from his wheelchair. "I need to shave."

"Tony, Tony, stop." Rhodes approached him as Tony ripped off his IV needle.

"What we needed was a suit of armour around the world! Remember that? Whether it impacted our precious freedoms or not." Tony looked over everyone.

"Your project got Sokovia destroyed and ruined." You reminded him, finger running over the rim of the glass cup. Tony began stumbling as he argued with Steve, stumbling towards him. He ripped off the Arc reactor, putting it in Steve's hand before falling to the ground. He fainted afterwards so Rhodes and Steve got him to the medical unit.

"This is such a shitshow. I'm going home." You said, standing up and picking up the glass. Natasha turned towards you.

"Stay for a little longer-"

"For what? So I can be told nothing's gonna bring back by family? My best friends? I had nothing then I had something and now I have nothing again." You flinched when the cup shattered, pieces of glass and water landing on the ground. You sighed softly, taking the shards stuck in your skin out.

"Sorry. I'll clean this up." You mumbled, using your other hand to get the water off the floor. Carol blinked, watching in surprise. You opened one of the cabinets, pulling out the first aid kit. You turned your head when Carol stood beside you.

"Hey." You breathed out, running your hand under water to wash away some of the blood. Carol picked up the antibiotic cream, using a cotton ball to dab it onto your cuts. You didn't really feel like healing yourself.

"I'm sorry you lost so many people." She said quietly, picking up the bandages and wrapping them around your hand.

"Well, shit happens." You looked at your bandaged palm, sighing softly.

"I lost two best friends." Carol said, leaning against the counter.

"Nick and Monica, the daughter of a good friend." Carol looked at you, arms crossing.

"Sams' sister calls nonstop and I don't know what to tell her. She has two toddlers, both parents passed away, and she's a widow. How can I tell her that her older brother turned into dust and I couldn't do anything to save him? Dad and I can't even look at each other without noticing how empty the house feels. I wake up everyday hoping it was all a nightmare but then I don't hear Laura telling the kids to get up or Clint going on about teaching Lila archery." You looked away from her, eyes watering. Carol placed a gentle hand on your arm, giving it a light squeeze.

"You did what you could. What you have to do now is be there for the people who are still here. Your friends sister needs you. She needs someone familiar. Someone close to Sam and someone who was there in his last moments." Carol said, watching you.

"You'll never get back up if you keep knocking yourself down." She said softly. You let out a shakey sigh, nodding and sniffling. Carol offered you a napkin, patting your back before she walked away. You wiped away your tears and splashed some water on your face, patting your face dry. You turned and grabbed the broom and collector, taking care of the glass. You put the first aid kit away as Carol re-entered the room with Natasha and Steve following.

"Hey, we usually do things as a team here." Natasha said as Carol spun around to look at her.

"We realize up there is your territory but this is our fight too." Steve added.

"Do you even know where he is?" Rhodes asked, head tilting. Carol shrugged lightly.

"I know people who might."

"Don't bother." You looked at the blue android girl, Nebula.

"I can tell you where Thanos is." She revealed. The humans glanced at each other before gathering in the office to hear what she had to say. You leaned against the doorway, semi interested.

"Thanos spent a long time trying to perfect me. When he worked he talked about his great plan. Even disassembled I wanted to please him.. I'd ask where we would go once his plan was complete. His answer was always the same." Nebula turned her head to look at everyone. "To the garden."

"That's cute. Thanos has a retirement plan." Rhodes mumbled as Rocket climbed onto the table, making a hologram of Earth appear.

"When Thanos snapped his fingers, Earth became ground zero for ridiculously high cosmic proportions. Nobody's ever seen anything like it." Rocket said, making the hologram change to a different planet.

"Until two days ago on this planet." Rocket motioned to the planet shown. Nebula nodded, leaning forward.

"He used the stones again." Natasha whispered. Everyones attention shifted onto the planet.

"You can count me out. I have a therapy session soon." You called, turning around and walking down the steps.

"You go to therapy?" Rhodes asked, brows furrowing as he turned to face you.

"Yeah, it's called napping."

~~~~~~~~~~

You entered the house, taking in a deep breath. Neither you or Clint dared clean up the place. Everything was left exactly how it had been left after Thanos snapped his fingers. You entered the livingroom, gaze landing on the metal on the ground. You sighed softly, picking up the monitor. Clint had broken it. Clint not following the rules of his house arrest was probably the least of the governments problems. You tossed it onto the couch, walking to the kitchen and opening the fridge.

"Beer, beer, beer, leftovers, beer." You mumbled as you sorted through the fridge. You shut the fridge, looking at the drawings and pictures pinned to it with magnets. You swallowed, leaving the kitchen. You stepped over the Legos on the ground, going to the front door. You watched as Clint drew an arrow, shooting it at a target in the distance. All Clint did was practice. Probably to get his mind off things.

"Should I head into town for food?" You called out. Clint stayed silent so you took it as a no. You took out your phone, looking at the contact.

Sarah Wilson

You watched it ring, guilt creeping into your heart. You sighed, licking your lips and answering.

"Hello?"

"Oh, thank god! I've been trying to reach you for the past few weeks. I haven't heard anything yet about Sam and the others. How is Sam? Is he with you?"

"Sam.." You started, biting down on your lip as you shut your eyes. You let out a heavy sigh, taking a seat on the stairs.

"I should explain everything in person, Sarah. I'm not gonna make you wait until I get to Louisiana. Sam.. He, uh.. He didn't make it. I'm s-sorry." You sniffled, hearing a soft gasp leave Sarah.

"Oh, God.." She whispered.

"I-I'll stop by. I tell you everything but.. Sam.. Sam was a hero until the end." You said softly, hearing the kids in the background. You were relieved she wasn't completely alone.

"C-Could you just stay with me on the phone?" Sarah asked softly.

"Yeah, of course." You replied, answering her softly cry.

"What the hell am I gonna do now? Half the folks in town are gone and.." Sarah sniffled. You listened to her soft sniffles and sobs, sighing softly.

"I'm not gonna leave you, Sarah. Sam would have my head if I did." You smiled softly, hearing her chuckle.

"Thank you."

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natasha-romanoff-deserved-better · 3 years

Text

The Day The Music Died

Summary:

“This’ll be the day that I die,” Yelena had sung those exact words in the car that day, and no lies were told.

Natasha never wanted to hear that song again.

Word Count: 3437

Also on Ao3 here

~~~

Natasha stares at the bandages wrapped tightly around Clint’s left wrist, eyes locked in on the red spots where extra blood had been soaked up by the gauze. Clint’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, softly drumming along to the song playing from the radio as he maneuvers the car around a bend in the old back road.

“I can feel you staring.” He says, snapping Natasha out of her trance. Clint takes his eyes off the road for a second to catch her gaze. “Nat, I’m fine. I promise.” It’s not going to change what happened, but he still tries. These types of missions were always hard on Natasha, and it’d only been made that much worse when one of the target’s bodyguards had managed to catch Clint’s forearm with a knife, dangerously close to critical veins. There had been a lot of blood and although Nat was easily able to stitch his skin back together, the close call had scared her - even if she refused to admit it out loud.

“I know you’re fine, idiot. It’s impossible to get rid of you.” She snorts and sends him a small smile. The radio cuts into a commercial, advertising their station and morning talk show before launching into another song.

A long, long time ago

I can still remember how that music

Used to make me smile

Natasha frowns at the song as an alarm bell begins to blare in the back of her head at the notes that drift out of the speakers. She furrows her eyebrows at it, a sinking feeling coming over her. Images from another time threaten to overtake her, and she’s too weak to stop them.

And I knew if I had my chance

That I could make those people dance

And maybe they'd be happy for a while

A blonde little girl, only five years old, prances around the front yard. She’s barefoot and wearing her pink sparkly sundress, hair pulled up into pigtails as she tries to catch a ladybug. Natasha watches from her perch among the tree branches. Mom Melina is kneeled on the ground as she works on the garden in front of the house, planting new flowers to replace the dead ones. She’s brought her portable stereo out, sitting it on the porch and playing at full volume. Natasha isn’t even aware of what song is playing until Yelena is running up to the porch, begging her to play it again. Mom Melina does. And then plays it again with an amused smile and quirked eyebrow when Yelena asks for a third time. Yelena cheers with joy as it starts again and rises to her tip toes as she begins to twirl and dance to the music.

Nobody knows what it is about the song that Yelena likes so much, but she loves it. She constantly asks for it, so much so that Melina loads it onto a cassette tape and keeps it in the car just for her. Natasha doesn’t quite understand what most of the lyrics are talking about, but she decides she doesn’t mind the song for Yelena. In a way, it fits- Yelena is the picture perfect little all american girl, apple pie personified.

Natasha’s frozen in her seat. She pleads with herself to move, to turn off the radio. She doesn’t want to hear this. She knows what verses are coming next, and her breathing catches in her throat as they start. These words hold no comfort for her anymore.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry

And them good ol boys were drinking whiskey and rye

Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die

This’ll be the day that I die

Her sister’s high-pitched voice singing the words, a beat behind as she moves her hands cheerfully, lost in the rhythm of the song. She’s buzzing with excitement- ready for her promised big adventure, too young and oblivious to notice their parent’s anxiety or her sister’s internal crisis happening in the seat next to her. Natasha can’t look at her sister, she doesn’t want her to see the panic she knows is written over her face. Instead, she keeps her eyes locked out the window, trying desperately to commit everything to memory. The red, white, and blue lights that light up the night, the football game where a band plays and people cheer, the abundance of restaurants where families are sat enjoying dinner. The normalness of it all makes her angry - how can all these people be so casual when her world is falling apart at the seams? Yelena begins to sing the verse about dying, and it takes everything within Natasha to not snap at her. She can’t bear to listen to her little sister singing about dying, so blissfully unaware of the possibility of the verse becoming true at any moment now. Natasha should say something to her, tell her to stop, tell her what was happening. But the lure of pretending one last time is too great for her to give away. She doesn’t say anything.

Did you write the book of love

A photo album, thick with pictures of them all sit on the shelf. It’s Natasha’s favorite thing in the house, and she often sneaks out of bed to stare at the photos. Realistically, she knows they’re all fake. But if she tries hard enough, thinks long enough, she swears she can recall the events. Thanksgiving had been fun; the food had been the best she’d ever tasted. Their summer vacation had been at the beach, and she swears she can feel the sun warming her face and the sand between her toes.

And do you have faith in God above

If the bible tells you so?

She and Clint had gone to a church once, as part of an undercover mission. She’d ended up having to walk out in the middle of the service. It had been too much. She could never believe in it, even if she wanted to. No loving God would ever create the horrors she had seen before her 13th birthday or give her a family purely to steal it all away so violently.

Can music save your mortal soul

And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Natasha’s feet hit the ground, still en pointe, as she lands the perfect Grand Jete. She tosses her arms out in the landing pose and holds it for a second before excited clapping breaks her concentration. Yelena sits there, smiling wide as possible, clad in her own black leotard and pink tights. She’s in the younger classes, not as advanced as Natasha yet, but it doesn’t stop her from trying. Yelena scrambles to her feet, crossing the floor to stand next to her sister.

“Teach me, teach me!”

It’s a complicated step, and Natasha knows she’s not ready for it just yet. She doesn’t want her to get hurt.

“I’ll teach you when you’re older, okay?” Yelena nods, and turns to the mirror, copying Natasha’s arm positions.

Natasha tries to force another breath into her lungs, but it’s harder now, her throat and chest constricted. She squeezes her eyes closed, trying to block out the flashbacks that continue to assault her.

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own

And moss grows fat on a rolling stone

But that’s not how it used to be.

Fifteen years. It had been fifteen goddamn years since Natasha had seen her sister for the last time. She refuses to let herself think of what might have happened to her. It pains her to think of her baby sister, who had once been so full of life, in such a horrid place.

Natasha wraps her arms around herself, arms holding each other tightly. She digs her fingernails into her skin, attempting to give herself something else to focus on and ground her. It doesn’t work.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the Levee but the Levee was dry

Them good ol boys were drinking whiskey and rye

And signing this will be the day that I die

This’ll be the day that I die

Natasha doesn’t know how long they’ve been stuffed into this shipping container, crowded against a hundred other little girls. They’re all dirty, all starving, all terrified. The scent of sweat and urine threatens to suffocate them, the air hot and heavy.

She has tugged Yelena into her lap, arms protectively crossed over her torso to hold her close- hasn’t let go of her since the second they were put into here for fear of losing her amongst the other girls. She’s so tiny, and Natasha doesn’t trust any of the others.

Yelena stirs, a small whimper falling from her lips. Natasha tries to shush her gently, but it doesn’t work, and her sister keeps squirming. Her cries are starting to grow in volume, and one of the girls next to them sends them a dirty look.

“Yelena, Yelena. I’m here. You’re with me.” It’s the only words of comfort Natasha can offer her. She wishes she could tell her they were okay, that she was safe, that they were going to be fine. Instead, all she can do is assure her that her older sister had her. Yelena had stopped calling out for her mom a while ago, after her calls went unanswered and she finally realized no one was coming to rescue them. Natasha shifts them around, turning her back towards the others and away from prying eyes. Natasha turns Yelena on her lap, so that Yelena is facing her. “Yelena, look at me.”

Yelena shakes her head, so Natasha gently cups both sides of her face, titling her face up so that she has no choice. Yelena doesn’t resist, just locks her tear-filled eyes onto Natasha.

“I’m scared,” Yelena sobs through hitching breaths as her body trembles.

Natasha clutches her tighter and brings her closer, so close their noses are almost touching. “Don’t cry, Lena. Just sing with me.” Yelena frowns at her in confusion, and Natasha starts to sing under her breath, quietly, so that Yelena is forced to quite herself down and focus to hear the words.

She starts with the chorus, the part that Yelena knows and likes the best. “Bye, Bye, Miss American pie,” Natasha sings. The corner of Yelena’s lips quirks up in recognition. Nat pauses, prompting Yelena to sing the next line herself.

Her voice quivers, but she sings it anyways. “Drove my chevy to the levee…” Natasha nods in encouragement and joins her for the next verse. “But the levee was dry.” They sing the next few lines together. They near the last two lines of the chorus though, and this time, Natasha can’t allow her to sister to sing the last line. They hurt too much, they’re too real.

So she interrupts Yelena, skipping forward past the “Day that I die” line and jumping right into the next verse. Yelena doesn’t even question it, just follows her sister’s lead and allows herself to be completely absorbed in the whispered song.

Natasha sings almost the entire song to her sister, doing her best to remember as many lyrics as she could, and then starts over. She keeps singing, over and over again, until her voice starts to crack, and Yelena’s eyes are slipping closed in exhaustion.

“Tasha?” Clint calls, picking up the tension in his partner. She doesn’t respond, just stays frozen in her seat, locked in her own little world. “Hey,” He calls, a bit louder this time. He takes one hand off the wheel and places it on her shoulder gently. “Nat. What’s going on?” She’s shaking.

Instead of answering, Natasha claps her hands over her ears and leans forward, bending at the waist so she can rest her head atop her knees. She’s shaking her head, muttering something under her breath.

We all got up to dance

Oh, but we never got the chance

“Teach me, teach me!”

“…When you’re older.”

Natasha never got the chance to teach Yelena that ballet move. She wonders just how many other promises to her baby sister she’s broken.

“I’m going to pull over, Nat, okay?” A male’s voice comes from somewhere close by. His hand moves from her shoulder onto her back, to rub small circles on it.

Do you recall what was revealed

The day the music died?

She had never felt so stupid. Standing on that airway strip, holding a gun out in front of her, blocking Yelena. She had let her fall into the lie, childishly believe that maybe, just maybe Dad Alexei loved them like he said he did. As Alexei kneels before them, showing no sympathy to his daughters tears, she realizes that had never been the case.

The chorus starts again, and she feels bile rise in her stomach. “Bye Bye Miss American Pie” Natasha remembers how she had stolen that gun from a solider, shoved her sister behind her and threatened to kill numerous grown men for touching her. How desperately she had clung to Yelena when they’d been ripped apart. She hadn’t been ready to give up her sister, not ready to say goodbye to the American dream lie they had built side by side. “Drove my Chevy to the Levee but the levee was dry” The memory of Yelena’s face during those few days had haunted Natasha’s dreams for years. It had frightened her- even more so than the men with oversized guns. She had never seen her sister, who laughed at everything and loved the world with everything in her, look so despondent. She had tried telling her jokes to pry some kind of smile out of her. It didn't work. “This’ll be the day that I die” Yelena had sung those exact words in the car that day, and no lies were told. That day, when dad Alexei handed them back to Russians soldiers, they had both died. Died only to be remade and ruthlessly forged into something new, nothing more than weapons of mass destruction and trained killers.

There’s cussing to her left that pulls her back halfway to the present. She’s in a car, and she’s covered in vomit that runs down her front and onto her chest and lap. Clint has a hand on her, and he’s telling her just a second, Nat.

“Clint?” She asks, still slightly confused. She can still feel the weight of a smaller body on top of her, feel the soft blonde curls against her chin.

“I’m here, Tasha. Hold on.”

Oh, and there we were all in one place

A generation lost in space

With no time to start again

Countless little girls standing in a straight line, blank expressions, awaiting their next commands. They’re all mirrors of each other, no identity left for any of them to cling onto. Natasha scans over each girl, searching for the blonde waves she knows so well. She can’t find her.

The song drags on as Clint navigates the car off the road, coming to stop. He jumps out and jogs around, flinging Natasha's door open. She doesn’t move, so he reaches in and unbuckles her before slipping his hands into her armpits and pulling her out of the car. She tumbles to the ground, falling onto her knees.

And as I watched him on the stage

My hands clenched in fists of rage

No angel born in hell

Could break that Satan’s spell

Natasha catches Dreykov’s eyes on them, and she tightens her hold on Yelena’s hand. Her sister makes a small noise - she’s going to have bruises with how tight Nat is holding her- but doesn’t pull her hand away. Natasha curls her free hand into a tight fist, ready to swing if need be.

Dreykov says something to the men with guns next to him and points a finger at them. The soldiers start moving forward, and Natasha backtracks, tries to back up but Yelena stumbles at the sudden change in direction.

I saw Satan laughing with delight

The day the music died

Natasha screams her sister's name, gripping onto her as tightly as she can. Soldiers have hands on them both, ripping them away from each other. Dreykov is standing several feet away, a tiny smile on his face. Yelena is shrieking, hands desperately trying to keep her grasp on Natasha with all the strength in her six-year-old frame.

They lose their grip on each other and are dragged apart. Yelena’s voice dies out as they carry away the only thing Natasha had left.

Bye Bye Miss American Pie -

“Turn it off!” Natasha pleads, before promptly vomiting even more onto the ground. Clint’s hands support her head, keeping her from falling. “Off, please. I can’t. Turn it--” Clint’s hands leave her for a second as he scrambles over her, reaching through the open passenger door and slamming the power button on the radio.

Natasha lets out a breath, thankful for the silence. With the song no longer playing, her head is beginning to clear, the painful images retreating somewhere she could lock them away again.

“All done?” Clint asks her. She spits out one last string of bile and nods her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as Clint helps her sit up and lean against his leg. He doesn’t rush her, just allows her to sit and try to regain control of her breathing as he combs his fingers through her hair.

When Natasha can finally think again, she frowns at herself in disgust. “Sorry,” She apologizes.

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” he tells her. Clint reaches over and opens the backdoor, grabbing his go bag and digging around until his fingers find one of his clean T-shirts. He yanks it out, closes the door. “Can I help you change, or do you want to do it yourself?”

He’s honestly not even sure if she could change herself right now, with how much she was still shaking, but he gives her the choice anyways. She shrugs her shoulders, her way of accepting help without actually having to accept. “Okay, arms up.” Natasha raises her arms, and Clint carefully tugs her shift off her by the collar, making sure the filthy outside never touched any of her skin. He crumples up the shirt into a ball and tucks it in a bag. He bunches up his shirt at the neck hole and slides it over her head before gently guiding her arms through. It takes a lot for his partner to get to this state, and his concern grows with every passing second that goes by and Natasha is still out of it. He fixes the shirt over her torso, making sure she’s completely covered and then sinks down to the ground, leaning his back against the wheel of the car. There’s a soft breeze in the air, the slight chill nipping at their skin a welcome distraction. “C’mere,” he says, and guides Natasha into his side. She tenses for a moment, but then lets her head drop onto his shoulder, allowing Clint to take her weight. He wraps an arm around her to hold her close.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha repeats, and this time Clint doesn’t say anything. He knows she’s not apologizing to him, but someone not in their presence. He doesn’t push it. She’ll tell him when she’s ready, on her own time. He has guesses though. Clint had an older brother, and he knows what a protective but burnt-out older sibling looks like. He’s seen the way her eyes linger on certain little girls in public before snapping back, caught the way she had once brushed her fingers over a fabric doll with pink hair on a store shelf, heard the way she is able to understand children’s speech without any effort. She’s never mentioned a younger sibling before, but sometimes in her sleep, she mumbles a girl’s name, her hands clenched in fists as if trying to hold on to her.

He presses a kiss to her temple, a silent promise. He won’t push her- He doesn’t need to know exactly what happened. He knows how to support her and how to take care of her when she needs it and for now, that’s enough.

Years later, Natasha will press her forehead to an adult Yelena’s, both panting from the fight, Yelena upside down and laying in the wreckage of the red room. Dreykov is finally dead, by Yelena’s hand. Yelena cracks a joke, and Natasha smiles. They’ll never again be those little girls they once were, but they’ve finally found each other.

#natasha romanoff #yelena belova #kid natasha romanoff #kid yelena belova #songfic #black widow 2021 #black widow fic #angst #natasha centric #marvel liho #mcu #mcu fanfic #Clint barton #he's here too #look i actually wrote something

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purrincess-chat · 3 years

Text

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s Spite Playlist: Remix CH29

The plans are in motion! Just a reminder, after I post CH30 next week, I will be taking a break through the month of September to finish up the final edit. I’ll probably be scarce around this blog as well during that time cause I’ve got to work on my BB piece as well, but my queue is loaded through like January of next year, so it’ll be like I’m not even gone.

Previous First Next AO3

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Chapter 29: Take Cover

Marinette and Adrien stared at his phone, jaws hanging agape. The silence stretched on until Chloe sighed, and Marinette blinked out of her trance.

“I’m sorry. We’re going to what now?” she asked.

“Ugh, just get over here.” Chloe hung up.

Marinette and Adrien exchanged bewildered looks, and he shrugged as if to say, ‘I have no idea what just happened either.’ Chloe wasn’t one to keep waiting, so they gathered their things and piled into Adrien’s town car. On the drive over, Adrien laced their fingers together, tracing patterns on the back of Marinette’s palm with his thumb. She smiled up at him, that familiar, fluttery feeling spreading through her chest.

She’d dreamed of being Adrien’s girlfriend since they day they met. To her surprise, she was calmer about the whole situation than she’d expected. She wasn’t planning their wedding or naming their future pets, and she’d only daydreamed about his soft lips twenty times that day. They knew each other better now and had grown more comfortable with one another.

Adrien was a true friend and a stable rock in the middle of a storm, always there for her to fall back on if she needed. If it weren’t for him, she would be drowning in her own anguish. Lila may think she had the upper hand, but Marinette and Adrien were the perfect team. Nothing could stop them when they worked together.

Chloe was staring out at her balcony when they arrived, a pensive frown wrinkling her forehead. She turned to them, pursing her lips to mask her expression as they approached. They eyed each other in tense silence until Marinette spoke up.

“So,” she started, “what?”

Chloe rolled her eyes and rubbed her temple with a sigh.

“Look, don’t go getting any ideas. This isn’t about you; it’s about revenge,” Chloe said. “Lila seems to feel the most threatened by you, so I think it will have more of an impact if your name is associated with all of this charity work, and the only way to make anyone else care enough to report about it is to make you someone worth talking about.”

“What makes you think Lila is threatened by me?” Marinette asked with a disbelieving grunt. “All she ever does is toy with me.”

“And why do you think that is?” Chloe rolled her eyes when Marinette still seemed lost. “When someone like her feels threatened, they lash out and try to bring you down.”

“Is that why you were always so mean to me?” Marinette’s eyes narrowed, a smirk curling on her lips.

“Don’t lump me in with her! I’m mean to people for the sheer entertainment of watching them suffer. Totally different.” Chloe scoffed.

“Okay, so how exactly do you plan on making Marinette famous?” Adrien asked.

“Easily.” Chloe shrugged. “The dumb brat has already started making a name for herself, and more and more important people are starting to notice her talent, if you want to call it that.”

“I will ignore the insult in favor of the compliment.” Marinette crossed her arms over her chest and cocked a hip.

“Look, even my mom has complimented your work, so I think we should—as disgusting as this is—ask my mom to help you launch your fashion career.” Chloe cringed as she said it.

Marinette stared at her for a long moment, and Chloe shifted her weight with a moan.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“You’re being serious right now?” Marinette asked.

“I know. Even I’m shocked.” Chloe wrinkled her nose.

“You want to help me start my fashion career? Now?”

“It’s the only way to take down that brat for good,” Chloe said, cheeks pink. “After this, I will go back to hating you and thinking you are a talentless nobody.”

“This is uncharacteristically nice of you, Chloe,” Adrien said with a smile. “I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Dupain-Cheng. I’m not going to be caught dead wearing your trash, but my mom wanted to train you, so I think it’s our best shot.” Chloe shrugged.

“So, what? We’re just going to walk up to your mom and ask her to work with me?” Marinette scoffed as if it were the most absurd thing she’d ever heard. Because it was.

“Pretty much.” Chloe marched past her.

“Wait, we’re going right now?”

“We want to take Lila down this century, Dupain-Cheng,” Chloe said pointedly, crossing the hall to her mother’s suite.

“But…wait, Chloe-” Marinette rushed after her as she barged into the room across the hall.

Audrey was in the middle of a hot stone massage, and Marinette curled her shoulders.

“I don’t think we should disturb her-”

“Mommy,” Chloe said, and Audrey gave some groan of acknowledgement. “You remember my dreadful former classmate, the one who designed the feather hat for Adrien?”

“Vaguely,” Audrey said.

“Well, Clara Nightingale walked the red carpet in one of her designs, and I think you should back her brand,” Chloe said.

“I thought you hated this girl-”

“You and me both,” Marinette grumbled.

“-now it sounds like you’re being nice.” Audrey choked on the word.

“There’s a nasty girl at school that I want to get rid of, and I need to make Dupain-Cheng famous to do it.” Chloe explained.

Audrey moaned as the masseuse worked a knot in her shoulders.

“Get me a portfolio by this time next week, then we’ll talk,” she said.

Chloe clapped her hands together. “Thank you, Mommy.”

“Wait, I’m sorry, a week?” Marinette blanched.

“Fashion moves quickly, dear, so if you want to be relevant, you’ll get me your portfolio with a pitch by next week,” Audrey said more sternly.

“She’ll have it ready,” Chloe promised.

Marinette shot her a look. “I’m not so sure she can-”

“Enjoy your massage.” Chloe grabbed Marinette’s arm and dragged her from the room.

“Chloe, I don’t know if I can-”

"Oh, shut it." Chloe clamped her hand in a mouth-shutting motion. "You are annoyingly persistent when you want to be. I've seen you accomplish way more in less time, so don't you even say you can't do it because if anyone has got what it takes, it's you, and if you tell anyone I said that, I will destroy everything you love."

“A week? To come up with an entire line,” Marinette said. “Not to mention it has to impress your mom—the queen of fashion!”

“And?” Chloe shrugged. Did she hear herself? What was so hard to understand about the absurdity of the situation?

“Chloe’s right, Marinette, you can do this,” Adrien took her hands and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

“But what if I can’t?” Marinette asked. “What if Audrey hates my designs or if I can’t come up with a whole line in time?”

“Then your fashion career is dead, and I’ll just get rid of Lila my way.” Chloe sauntered back to her suite. “Toodles!”

Marinette leaned her face into Adrien’s shoulder with a moan, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly.

“I know this is a lot of pressure, but you are the most amazing girl I know. You’re an incredible designer, and I know you’re going to crush it.” He pressed his forehead to hers, those green eyes shining with a confidence she wished she felt.

She took a deep, centering breath and nodded.

“Okay.” She pressed her lips into a firm line. “Let’s do it.”

♪♫♪ Misery Business ♪♫♪

Lila glared down at her phone screen, her laptop playing Clara’s acceptance speech in the background which only made her blood boil hotter. As if that stupid bakery brat needed more attention. Marinette pulled a couple fast ones on her, but Lila always got the last laugh. She stared down at Adrien’s Instagram post again with a scowl.

“So proud of @marinette-dc! I’m so lucky to have such an amazing girlfriend like you.”

Most of their classmates had already liked it, but it didn’t matter. Lila would figure out a way to spin this back on Marinette. The cracks were already forming in her little good girl reputation. Lila just needed to apply pressure, then everything would come crumbling down.

♪♫♪ Look What You Made Me Do ♪♫♪

The next day at school, Marinette was quite the hot topic after her big debut. Everyone was buzzing about Clara’s dress, and she received compliments left and right, though she found it hard to enjoy her moment with Audrey’s deadline looming over her.

She’d spent all night brainstorming ideas, but so far she had nothing. Nada. Zilch. No ideas. No inspiration. Nothing, and she was a sweaty ball of nerves. Numerous times she’d tried to give herself pep talks. She saved the city on a daily basis, fought ten-ton monsters and tricky magicians. How hard could it be to design a few dresses and coats?

Infinitely hard, as it turned out. In fact, part of her wished it was as easy as fighting an akuma. That there was some clever shortcut to her end goal, but there were no such things in this case. Just her own imagination and the wall between it and her sketchpad.

“Why so glum?” Macy asked as Marinette shoved books into her locker. “Shouldn’t you be excited about your dress? Everyone loves it. Things didn’t go bad with Adrien after we left, did they?” She cupped her cheeks in horror.

“No.” Marinette assured her with a laugh. “Everything is fine, but I just… Another amazing opportunity has fallen in my lap, and I don’t think I can do it, and I’m stressing out over it.”

“Yeah, you are breaking out a little.” Lisette pointed out, and Marinette covered her chin with a groan.

“You’re amazing, Marinette, and you always find a solution,” Macy said, but when Marinette seemed less than convinced, she pursed her lips. “Tell you what, Lisette can help you cover your zit, and we’ll help you get your mojo back, okay?”

“Okay,” Marinette said, allowing Macy to tug her to the bathroom where Lisette managed to completely erase any signs of her stress. Honestly, she was a wizard with a tube of concealer.

“There they are with the lady of the hour,” Eliott said when they met up for lunch. “How did your alone time go with a certain model last night?”

“He gave me this necklace.” She pulled it from under her collar with a soft smile.

“How romantic!” Lisette said.

“How sparkly.” Macy added with a longing look until Eliott nudged her with his elbow.

“We should double date this weekend. The weather is going to be nice, so we could go golfing.” Eliott suggested, and Macy shot up.

“Oh! Can I come? My parents are part-owners at one of the courses so my dad can play whenever he wants.” She bounced excitedly.

“Fine, but you have to bring a date,” Eliott said.

“I’ll just bring Martin again.” Macy shrugged.

“That’s cheating.”

“How? You said to bring a date, so I’ll bring a date.”

“You didn’t even ask him!”

“Fine! Martin, will you be my date?” Macy turned to him with pleading eyes, and his cheeks flushed.

“Uh, sure,” he said.

“Ha!” Macy stuck her tongue out at Eliott.

“That’s all fun and everything, but I’ve never played golf,” Marinette said. “Besides, I have a lot to do.”

“Oh, come on, Marinette. We can teach you,” Macy said. “Please?”

“I-” Marinette hesitated when they all gave her pleading looks. “We’ll see.”

“What’s so urgent that you can’t come out, Marinette?” Eliott asked as they took their seats.

“Does it have to do with that girl?” Martin lowered his voice.

“Kind of…” Marinette took a deep breath before explaining the entire situation—the plan, her deadline, all of it.

“Whoa, you’re really gonna pitch to Audrey Bourgeois?” Lisette whispered, eyes wide.

“I’m gonna try,” Marinette pushed her peas around with a spoon. “I’m kinda running on empty right now.”

“If you need any help let us know, okay?” Macy reached out to place a hand over hers.

“Yeah, we know tons about fashion and starting charities, not to mention handling drama queens.” Eliott echoed. “We’ve got your back.”

Marinette smiled, though the sentiment didn’t reach her eyes. It wasn’t their fault that Marinette was never going to make it in the world of fashion. When she inevitably failed, Adrien would probably dump her, Lila would take over the world, and she’d be left selling stupid little trinkets off of a cart to tourists. Why did she let Chloe talk her into this?

♪♫♪ Yeah Right ♪♫♪

“Good morning, Lila! I have your geometry homework!” Sabrina greeted on the front staircase the next morning.

Lila feigned a smile. Sabrina was annoying, but she did all of Lila’s homework, so she usually didn’t complain. After that brat Marinette scored a point against her last night with the award’s show, Lila wasn’t in the mood to deal with clingy girls with dependency issues.

“Thank you so much, Sabrina. You’re such a sweetheart,” Lila said.

“How is your ankle feeling? Do you need anything? Aspirin? A hot compress? Foot massage?” Sabrina offered.

“Well, it feels much better than it did a week ago, but if I walk around a lot, it gets a little sore. Would you mind taking my bag to my locker for me?” Lila slipped her bag off her shoulder and held it out.

“Of course! You rest that ankle,” Sabrina said without hesitation.

Lila smirked as she trotted off to the locker room. At least Sabrina was easy to get rid of. Some of her other idiots would have insisted on walking her to class—a commitment Lila didn’t have time for today. She needed to figure out her next move against Marinette. Everyone was still conflicted over the stairs incident from the Louvre. That stupid goody-goody built up a reputation over the years that wasn’t so easily collapsible. Even still, every shred of doubt Lila could cast would pile up in the end.

“I see you’re still walking around like you own the place.”

Lila stopped a few steps into the school, jaw clenching. Adrien was leaning against the wall just inside the door, and he pushed away when she narrowed her eyes, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I do own the place,” she said. “Or I will soon enough.”

“I’ve warned you before, Lila, but you didn’t listen. What you did to Marinette was not okay,” he said darkly, green eyes narrowed into slits.

“Oh? And what are you going to do about it? Call another one of your celebrity buddies to call me a liar? Go ahead, it’ll help me win these losers over even faster.” Lila crossed her arms over her chest and cocked a hip. “You can’t beat me, Adrien. You’re too nice to get your hands dirty.”

“If you do anything else to Marinette, you’re going to learn how nice I am.” He glowered down at her, sending a shiver down Lila’s spine. “You hurt someone I love, so enjoy your reign while it lasts. Pretty soon everyone is going to see you for who you really are, and I won’t feel sorry for you.”

He brushed past her, and Lila rolled her eyes. He was bluffing, and even if he wasn’t, Lila could handle anything he threw at her. Whatever they were plotting, Lila wasn’t going down without a fight.

#mdcspr #marinette dupain-cheng's spite playlist remix #my writing

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liptonsbabe · 3 years

Text

Havoc [Thomas]

A Maze Runner fanfiction

Summary: When the reader, the second-in-command of the village goes out into the maze looking for a way out, the last thing she hopes to find is a whole new community on the other side of the walls. Much less, when it seems to be inhabited only by boys her age.

Warnings: none

A/N: Hey! This is my very first fanfic here and i decided to start with some tmr stuff ;) English not my mother language so please let me know if something is wrong. Anyways, enjoy!

Chapter one: Leaving home

YOU WAKE UP THAT DAY WITH AN INCREDIBLE MOOD, although things in the village were not encouraging at all.

The dew hadn't fallen yet when you were already in front of the maze, impatiently waiting for the doors to open. You were carrying a backpack with the breakfast on your back, the belt resting on your hips, and an awl strategically hidden in your back pocket.

You didn't understand why your heart was beating so fast even if the night before had been the worst of all. The disease was progressing, it was devastating the village and the parents were leaving their children alone. You trembled in your place. You've never seen anything like that before. The illness, the confusion, the tiredness, the agony. The desease was ending with all of you. If you and the trackers didn’t find a way out as you had promised, then the village would be devastated.

You couldn't allow it. You weren't going to give up. Maybe the answer was out there, waiting for you and you weren't going to keep it waiting.

Maybe the feeling of your restless heart was a good sign. Maybe your heart was sensing things that you could not know and, with a little bit of luck, get it right as he almost always did.

The village had exits from its four points, so, as the sun was in the west that day, you decided to start with the east gate, considering it a good sign. You pulled your hair up in a high ponytail, ate an apple as fast as you could, and waited for the doors to move.

A curtain of dust and pebbles rose in front of your face as you listened the doors opening. That day the main corridor to the maze had a strange smell, but you thought that your nose was already damaged by the medicines and infusions that you had been smelling in the nursery, so you ignored it. You adjusted your boots waiting for the stench to disperse when a strong pull carried you backwards, scaring you.

“What the hell...? Asenat! "You muttered releasing the grip on your shirt. The girl smiled haughtily, crossing her arms over her chest “How many times do I have to tell you to not pull me like that? I hate being pulled!

“You can do it as many times as you want, I honestly don't care, I'll keep doing it anyways”

“You're an idiot”

“Where do you think you are going?” Cassidy asked, standing next to Asenat, both of them staring at you with their arms crossed over their chests and frowning. You rolled your eyes

“To do my job, the same as you should be doing right now”

"You are no longer a tracker”

“I am the leader, I can give myself that position”

"Second leader," Asenat corrected you, "After Richard, and he was the one who gave you the order to stay in the village, remember?"

You clicked your tongue as the trackers were already leaving to the maze. Asenat caught your shirt between her fingers again preventing you from running. Cassidy sighed, shaking her head. If something was clear to them about you, it was how stubborn you could be.

“Yes, I remember”

"Do you still have those headaches?"

"No," you lied. You'd been feeling terrible headaches for a couple of weeks now, before Richard fell sick from what the villagers called the glow. The man, who was also a tracker, had found you in the middle of your section with a terrible bruise on the back of your head and a pool of blood surrounding you. He carried you to the village, and when you were sufficiently recovered, you mentioned having a terrible pain and falling unconscious hitting the stone. Richard didn't need to know more to remove you from your job, forbidding you to return to the maze until your headaches were better. Until the night before you hadn't felt any pain, so you assumed you were fine “I'm great, don't worry about me. It was an accident”

"Yeah, are you sure?"

“Completely”

"Even if it were so, you are not allowed to go out," Cassidy said, determined. "We need you here, my friend."

"I'll be back before dark”

"Things don't work that way anymore," Cassidy replied, looking at you with a frown. "Richard hasn't died yet." His rules are still ours and since when we can do whatever we want?

“Don’t say it like that”

"You know Richard is not going to survive" Asenat lowered her voice preventing any other villagers from hearing her "he will die like the rest of the infected and when that happens all this will be over. We can continue with the rules that he made, but that will not be enough. There are families dying every day, our duty is to take care of them. We have a pact, okay? Treat the disease first, look for a way out later”

"How long are we going to keep waiting?" You asked, taking a step forward. Asenat sighed, "Three? Four? Another five years? This place is falling apart. If we really want to help the remaining villagers we need to find a way out, take them home, give them a better life, heal them "

"Nobody assures us that we will be better out there than here"

"Let's take the risk, we won't lose anything just by trying"

"We have kids in here, even babies. Their parents have died and they depend on us.

"This time it will be different" you said looking at them pleadingly "It's crazy, but something tells me that today we will find the answers we have been looking for. I could assure you that. Do you believe me? Do you trust me enough to believe in what my heart feels?”

Cassidy and Asenat looked at each other. Richard was still sick, confined to his cabin with the doctors trying to keep him alive. The night before he had lost part of the skin on his arms and his uncontrollable anger had made them tie him to the bed, however, that didn’t mean that in his small lapses of serenity he did not realize what was happening in the village.

Asenat shrugged her arms, leaving the decision to Cassidy. In her role as a teacher, she had no say in that situation and she didn't really care too much. You were reckless and almost always clumsy, but you had good ideas and that had helped you become te mainstay of the village. However Cassidy as the third in charge represented the third head of the monster. She would be the leader at Richard's death and if you didn't get back from the maze in time and that terrified her. She was not afraid of responsibility, nor making important decisions, but that represented visualizing a future where the three of you were not together and she preferred not to think about it.

"You know we do," she replied. "There hasn't been a single day when we doubted in your good judgment, but ..."

"It's different," Asenat said rubbing her chin. "The village doesn't feel like it used to. We are used to death, we can handle it, but the feeling of having it lurking over our heads is unbearable. The maze is not better. It is changing. I listen to it every night. The steel lobsters clattering through the halls. The giant woke up and will not go back to sleep”

"Cassidy," you called her, squeezing her hands. The girl sighed, thinking of the possibilities you guys had. Staying with your arms crossed was not an option, but neither was breaking the trust Richard had placed in all of you. Asenat watched you. The three of you shared the same fear, the same confusion and the same dread of losing the entire village. There were children who required the presence of someone capable to guide them, men and women waiting in fear to be infected with the glow and babies crying to feel the arms of their dead parents. You clenched her hands tighter. You needed to be covered for a few hours only and, in return, you would find the way out. You could do it, you trusted your instincts “Please...”

Cassidy sighed.

"We'll cover you until lunchtime, that's all."

"I only need that”

"Come back in one piece, will you?" She begged, looking at a small boy approaching. You leaned down, taking him in your arms letting out a groan as you picked him up. George was eight years old, he didn't weigh the same as five years ago. You kissed his cheek, returning him to the ground “The boy would go nuts if something happened to you”

"Are you going back to the maze?" George asked looking at you with his huge brown eyes. You nodded. Then you were hit by the little boy's suffocating embrace “the lobsters will hurt you!

"They are asleep now”

"They can wake up!"

"I doubt it little one. Don’t worry, I'll be fine. I'll be back at noon and we'll have a snack together, what ya think?”

“You promise?

“I promise”

"Okay, you can go," he said. You laughed, ruffling his hair

"Thanks, puppy. Stay with Asenat, okay? She can scold you while I'm gone”

"Ya’ heard it, boy," Asenat said, rubbing her knuckles at the top of his head. George complained, "You will stay with me the rest of the day and help me teach the little ones how to count to ten.

“That's not fair!”

"Life isn't fair, brat." Come on, maybe we can grab some chocolate from the kitchen later, huh?”

Asenat held out her hand and George took it enthusiastically as they walked together towards the largest cabin that you used as a classroom. George spun on his feet saying goodbye with a bright smile on his face. You blew him a kiss and Asenat turned to show you her middle finger. You smiled

"Take care of him, will you?" I highly doubt that Asenat will do it properly”

"I'm going to watch her. Now go before I regret it. And (Y/N)” She said, stopping you as you walked towards the main corridor of the maze. You turned around, waiting for his words “Don't die out there. The maze stinks enough to add the stench of a corpse” You nodded. It was a fair deal

“No prob”

You finished your run in your section faster than you expected. The meal would not be until three hours later so you decided to make a stop to rest. You sat on the floor against a wall. Hot sweat was running down your neck and the fucking headache was back. You closed your eyes, tired. It was terribly hot, and the stench of rotting meat numbed your nose.

You drank water, the little sip you had left, and put it back in your backpack. You were going to eat some of the apple slices you took with you, but the pain in the back of your head kept you from even chewing. You stood up wanting to continue your hike when the headache went down your neck and then numbed your spine. You leaned against the wall. It was covered in vines, moss, and fungus. You wiped your palms on your pants and started walking again.

The migraine erased your sight. For a second the world around you seemed to move in luminous spirals forcing you to close your eyes. The sound lightened and you swore you heard a static signal on your eardrums.

The floor spined over and over again. You dug your nails into the palms of your hands feeling the blood pour out from the sides, staining the stone. You heard the drops hiting the floor and suddenly everything stopped.

You were sweating. Your soaked shirt stuck to your body, your hair matted on your forehead and you opened your eyes. Pushing back the hair you noticed that this was not your section, that in some inexplicable way the maze had changed drastically and there was no way to return home.

Your heart beat madly. You fell to the ground on your knees, your head aching every second screaming in agony. You crawled down the corridor without understanding its course, but recognizing small fragments of leaves pointing a path to the north.

was that the way out? You, without being aware of the pain, could you have operated some kind of lever, changing the composition of the maze, leaving it unrecognizable? You weren't sure.

You kept crawling. The leaves spreading across the path, turning into a corridor covered in dust and dirt. You complained in pain and in the confusion, you managed to hear voices from the other side.

You buried your nails in the stone rising up. You pulled forward slowly approaching until you reached the exit (or the entrance?) of the maze. The wind ruffled your hair. Then your hands touched the green grass and the pain stopped.

You stayed alert. Your senses fading little by little from fatigue. Your head ached, your hands ached, your back ached. You heard the clear voice of a boy and, unaware of it, you got up as best as you could.

You got up with the help of the leaves on the wall. You narrowed your eyes focusing on the meadow stretching out in front of you. It was not the village, it was not the exit. The walls of the maze were surrounding the meadow and you could only think that the pain had caused you allusions.

Then the torture returned. You clenched your teeth. Your vision became blurry, however you could distinguish completely unknown figures in the mist. Your ears recognized voices, men's voices, and, unable to bear another second, you fainted.

#the maze runner #thomas #dylan obrien #tmr #cast #the scorch trials #the death cure #newt #gally imagine #minho x reader #thomas x reader #dylan o'brian imagine

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simplive · 3 years

Text

you will become a memory.

manhunt au! dream team, badboyhalo. general hunter mini headcanons

caution. death, insane sapnap per usual, maybe hints of yandere

DREAM.

─ “to hunt or be hunted.”

to be the hunter when he is usually the hunted is uncommon, but it is welcomed all the same ─ dream will revel in your fear from start, to finish as long as he possibly can. confident enough in his abilities to let you roam about in the world for a lengthy period of time because the direction of this compass will always point to where you resided. he’s not even worried when you reach the nether. whatever pace you decide to go about, will he respectively follow a suit, choosing to be calm and calculating. you don’t hear him ever speak from the ear piece, only the sounds of his shoes crushing the leaves below him as he gains closer, and closer towards your way. letting the impending dread crawl in.

he’ll let you have that sense of security, before tearing it all away.

to strike fear in others... it is what he does best.

sometimes you can get him to have conversation, just not for long. no larger than five minutes because he always returns to the same withdrawn, quiet self everyone knows him by. maybe smart, funny comments here and there to fill in the initial silence, but they are all disregarded by the fact that dream is coming to kill you regardless. there’s nothing he wants to change about that, you both signed yourself for this situation... he’s simply going to honor what it takes to be a professional, merciless hunter. an unofficial title he silently wears like an emblem. so you were doomed from the very start the moment it’s been heard who’d be tracking you down exactly.

out of everyone, they send out him, making you wonder as if the whole world wanted you to perish.

death is to be expected. you can still be good friends and still die at his hands. you’ll let him, won’t you? it’s destiny, your destiny, and everyone knows nobody can escape it once their future has been set, written in stone. what is there to have hope for? a painless death, maybe, depends on how dream feels that exact moment ─ their pain is what makes up a part of the amusement in the chase. although, it’s not like he’s going to drag it out unlike a close friend of his. do not fret, you’ll go down in history as the first prey he’s bothered to open up to... isn’t that good enough?

so why does his heart still pang at the thought?

no no, these are just mindless feelings, barely skin-deep. they’ll go away within seconds if he pays them no attention, just getting his objectives over with and moving onto the next victim. he’s doing this all for survival, and who knows... you’d do the exact same if you too wanted to live. this is a dog-eat-dog world, you either kill someone, or get killed. in fact, because you’re inflicting these unknown emotions on him gives dream more motivation to follow through with these objectives.

he’ll have you until your last breath.

GEORGE.

─ “love me until you die.”

george wants you to be comfortable and scared at the same time, he doesn’t want you to think of him as only a monster like the others. see? there’s still a bit of mercy in him to let you slide at times, shaking it off as a ‘silly little mistake’ of his, but it’s all planned. always has been. he doesn’t like to say this much, but, he pities your situation. the game cannot end until one completes the objectives... and by the looks of it, you’re nowhere as close to the finish line. be free to ask for tips or pointers whenever, he’s generous to share what he thinks will benefit you. it’s up to you whether you trust him or not, there is no offense to be taken, he’d have a hard time believing in your situation.

you can try to talk him out of this for a chance, but a job is a job, someone has to get this done.

and who knows what’ll happen to him if he doesn’t follow through.

your moments together were only meant to be full on bittersweet. you hate that he still tries to be nice against all, as if your life wasn’t placed in his hands to begin with. it would’ve been so much easier to despise george if he’d been vile, heartless, cruel even... but he isn’t. he’s kind, too kind, and you’re starting to think that maybe this was just your unescapable fate. something that transpired during your blurred life was apparently unacceptable for you to live on, it’s starting to finally make sense. no one can elude destiny as much as they pray. of course, when given a chance to slip from death, you’d take it without hesitation... but if all doesn’t go well, then that’s alright too.

everything should be okay if george is here, with you.

will you tell him these sentimental views, especially when you’re lying carelessly on the verge of death? absolutely not. he’d start to feel bad, and that’s the last thing you’d want from him. he’s only doing his job like anyone else, this is somewhat normal despite a few circumstances. you’ll keep reminding yourself anytime despair tries to reach out to you, pulling away from its tantalizing vicinity. don’t go back on this choice, don’t let the sadness take you.

don’t let him regret.

with your head perched comfortably onto his lap, blood spilling at your lips as you try to confess multiple things all at once, then failing miserably. they come out as a garbled mess of sounds unsurprisingly, rather faint to the ears, but there’s enough affection to get through him. you’ll squeeze his hand weakly in hopes of delivering a message, certainly woozy and content nonetheless. he smiles, smiles sadly at the result of his success, but this is what george had desired the whole time.

a chance to spill out his true feelings for you.

SAPNAP.

─ “look at me in the eyes.”

perhaps the most happiest one of the bunch to end someone’s life for the fun of it, quickly that is. he doesn’t want to waste time chasing after you endlessly all over the world, takes too much energy and patience... sapnap prefers to have you right in front of him so he can get right into action. there’s no point in running, everyone knows this. you do too, but such fact could never stop you from trying anyways ─ why not take advantage of that ten percent chance survival rate than do nothing at all? even he somewhat agrees with this new knowledge. there’s no fun in having a compliant little mouse. despite the obvious frustration of tracking you down, he knows it’ll be worth it in the finale when seeing you beg.

always, always looking forward to new targets. everyone is unique: their reactions, their struggles, every part of them. it’s good to have a taste of something refreshing and new. for being the type of person he was, having the same type of people to play with is completely boring, hunting would’ve became a tedious chore at that point. sapnap is ecstatic to hear about you. not much information was disclosed about you, there must be something intriguing then for the lack of story.

he hopes you won’t disappoint him.

sometimes he’ll let his ‘guard down’, sometimes. it’s only to get you motivated again because hopelessness will begin to bore him exceedingly. “don’t give up completely, little [name],” sapnap coos sickeningly, “maybe you’ll have a chance if you actually try for once. should i be nice like george, and give you another head start?” his encouragement, if you could even call it that are down right patronizing, doesn’t try to hide any malicious undertones because he’s confident his words will affect you just the way he wanted.

the fun can’t go on forever. he wants you to suffer for everything you’d put him through. sapnap did not waste three full days trying to corner you, shedding sweat, effort, and time in doing so for you to try and come up with some other excuse for him not to kill you. no, you’re misunderstanding, that’s not what he’s here for. money? no. fame? absolutely not. if it wasn’t any obvious,

he’s here to feed on your fear.

BAD.

─ “forgive me.”

like george, does manhunts because he has to, and it is quite absurd. bad has a huge problem with others having a foul mouth, but happens to not have any qualms raising a blade at someone’s throat. what kind of morals were those? he too questions these actions like any sane person would, however, does not do anything to change his ways because... it’s not in his power. what good would it do to suddenly just switch mindsets all of a sudden, superiors will start to question him and everyone he’d grown to love would suspect. to quit then would be breaking the code, and that’ll be like breaking someone’s trust. bad shouldn’t do it, he’s always reminding himself.

he shouldn’t...

and still, he’s probably the only one who has the hearts to let you go.

for first impressions, bad certainly doesn’t strike you as a hunter. he takes the time to introduce him properly, salutations and a heartfelt apology. you ask, why apologize so suddenly, we just met. he can’t do anything other than sigh, letting the silence answer your question. well, you’re currently the first one on his list, the first to die at that. he’s just here for warnings, letting you gain a huge head start...

calls you muffin as another form of affection. strikes to be strange at first, but you slowly get used to the nickname as you do him, able to enjoy the situation because it’s starting to feel like a nice game of a fusion of hide and seek, and good ol’ tag. he hasn’t been able to physically hurt you once, or at least is trying to make it seem like a mistake ─ missing opportunities, or forgetting to. whatever the case may be, you’re not complaining one bit. in fact, you too haven’t tried to raise a blade at him either.

why would you even?

your kindness is limitless, and it proves when bad cannot fathom hurting you under any circumstances. most of his victims were very aggressive, always cussing at him no matter the context, maybe that’s why guilt hasn’t officially hit him until now. the you who still manages to laugh despite everything, thank you for letting him see the horrors of his actions. “will... i’ll be able to see you again?” you murmur, unsure if you should turn your back on him and leave.

“... maybe some day! for now, you should go. be careful though, some might recognize your face as well.”

he never tells you that his life would be of no more, and he lets you go, the oblivious one, with a bittersweet smile.

#dream team #dream team x reader #dteam #dteam x reader #dream #dream x reader #georgenotfound #georgenotfound x reader #george x reader #sapnap #sapnap x reader #badboyhalo #badboyhalo x reader #manhunt au #[ everyone is chillin n #then theres bad ]

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hournites · 3 years

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Hournite Week Day 1: Light vs Dark - Hoax

Summary: When a distraught Beth visits the Farmlands one late night, Rick offers his support.

(read on ao3)

~.~

At the end of the day, Rick prefers to sit alone. There’s a chair in the living room, the room he used to play and sit with his parents in on the couch. The room he’d opened gifts on birthdays, watched television with his mother and sat by the window, looking out at the field for his father to come home. Matt has claimed that couch now. Rick doesn’t care to use it except when he’s forced to clean. It’s stained with beer and food that’s fallen through the cushions. His uncle brings women there, rarely ever the same woman twice. Rick knows it’s dirty and defiled and as beat up as the rest of the furniture Matt touches.

Rick prefers his father’s old recliner, shoved in the back dark corner where he can get the best bandwidth for the internet connection. Behind his uncle, it’s almost like Matt forgets Rick’s there. He studied those chemistry textbooks there, half-assed homework there, and fell asleep on rare occasions too. Outside of locking himself in his upstairs bedroom, it’s the closest to being invisible Rick gets. The closest to peacefulness he knows.

It’s on a Saturday night like that the doorbell rings, interrupting the tense quiet they’ve carved to share space.

Matt lifts his head from his phone, half-slouched on the couch, disgruntled when it rings twice more. “The hell?”

Rick stares ahead at the front door from the hall, startled by the foreign noise. “Um.”

Nobody uses the doorbell. They don’t even get visitors. The mailman drops parcels and bills off at the mailbox half a mile down the dirt walkway.

He looks at Matt.

“Ignore it.”

Rick stands. “It’s probably some real estate agent or something.” He’d notice a lot of the property nearby has gone up for sale. If he said they weren’t interested in buying, then they’d know not to come again.

“Exactly. So, leave it be.”

But the doorbell rings again just as he turns to walk away. Rick makes a move to the door.

“I said ignore it.”

He rolls his eyes. Well, now Rick was definitely going to do it. He glares at his uncle over his shoulder, twisting his wrist to unlock the door. “You can’t just tell me to—”

The door swings open and his eyes flit forward to address the figure at the arch. “Beth?”

Dressed in a dark purple cardigan and light-wash jeans, she’s clenching the rubber bars of her bike, fingers scrunched up like she wants to scratch it off with her nails. Like she’s moments from ripping it off entirely. She’s holding herself too stiff, head raised and chin jutted out. Rigid like she can’t move, twitching like she wants to fight. The irises of her big brown eyes skip from left to right, pleading.

“Can I stay here with you?”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Please —” she begs, voice cracking. “Can I stay over with you?”

“Tell them to fuck off!”

Rick glances back awkwardly over his shoulder, wary of his uncle, not sure what to say.

“Rick, please—”

Rick steps outside and shuts the front door behind him.

“Why are you here? Are you okay?”

Beth drops the handles and her bicycle falls to the porch with a clatter.

His eyes widen when she lurches forward, catapulting across the creaking wood. Rick grunts softly at the force of her hug. He stumbles back with her, wrapping her arms tight as they stand in the doorway.

Her body shudders and whatever storm she had been withholding inside releases with a bursting sob. Beth sniffles into his shirt, the angle of her round glasses pressed into his ribs. Rick looks down, at a loss.

“Hey,” he rasps out, taking a firm grasp at her shaking shoulder. “Beth. Okay. Shh. Jesus, don’t cry.” Matt’s going to hear this. He’s going to hear and come and see and make this a mess. The thought makes his blood run cold. Rick peels her off. It hurts and is jarring and she seizes at the rip of comfort he just tore away that he knows she needs, but hair stands up on his arms, hyper-cognizant. It’s not that he thinks Matt will—Rick doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’d do and that’s been why he’s avoided letting the girls show up here.

“This can’t happen right now.” The last thing Rick wants is for Matt to find out about the hourglass or the JSA. The girls are his tether to that and he can’t risk Matt taking advantage or robbing anything he has no right to. Again.

Beth recoils. He’s quick to pull her back in, panicked. It’s not that he doesn’t care. “I didn’t say that right. We just can’t do this here.”

“What do you mean?”

He leads her off the porch by the hand to around the side of the house. Rick can tell she’s biting down her lip to stop from asking another question, but it becomes clear where they’re going when they reach his parked car and she relaxes. He hops onto the hood and makes room for her. Beth looks reluctant, but joins him there, still brushing close, wanting him near.

“You don’t want me to stay?”

“It’s not that,” he promises. “I just don’t know how he’s going to react.”

Her wet eyelashes get stuck against the wall of her thick lenses. “Your uncle Matt?”

“I’ve told you. He’s not a good person.” His tone edges on sharp. “There’s a reason why I don’t want—” He pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting down his belligerence. Rick takes a breath. This isn’t going to help her. “He doesn’t treat women right.” He pauses, wanting to say more, but can’t bring himself to say the words.

She stares at him. “You think he’s a racist.”

“Well.” That too.

Beth slides off the car.

“Beth. Wait.”

She rubs at her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan, turning back in the direction they came.

“I’ll go home.”

“Tell me what’s wrong first.” He follows her along the muddy grass. “You wanted to stay overnight.”

“You don’t want me here!” She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. “This was stupid of me. I shouldn’t have come. I should’ve asked first.”

“Beth, that’s not true. I do. I always want to see you. It’s just...” His implication is obvious, but it came out worse than he’d meant it to. The point is, she could’ve gone to anyone else. She could’ve gone to see Courtney.

She should’ve called Pat. They trust Pat. He’s safe and is a good problem solver as annoying as his methods are.

She came here instead. And yeah, he does wish she could’ve texted or called, but the fact she’s now thinking it was wrong seems strange.

Rick knew something wasn’t right the moment he saw her in front of his doorstep, but now he’s very worried as he hears her curse herself and blinking back more tears. Beth has always been so confident in herself, regardless of how others perceived her. He had never heard Beth call herself dumb or pathetic or stupid. He didn’t believe she had ever seen herself that way either. Why would she?

According to their high school, she might be a loser, but there had never been a day she wasn’t unapologetically proud to be herself. There’s nothing wrong with being outspoken or bold or self-assured, trusting or smart and self-sufficient. She’s all of the above and maybe that had intimidated or even annoyed Rick sitting across from her to overhear, but it didn’t make it less true.

Doesn’t Beth know that?

She looks at him again. “I thought we were—”

“We are.”

She lets out another long breath and swallows.

“We are. It’s not that I don’t… My uncle is a real asshole. That’s it.” He grabs her hand. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She lifts a helpless shoulder, glancing back at the mustang. She lingers on it like she wants to go in.

“What?” Rick asks.

“Do you wanna leave Blue Valley with me?”

She doesn’t mean a road trip. The question throws him. Not because it’s terrifying to hear that from her. Though it fucking is. It throws him because he’s had the same thought pass through his mind at night a thousand times. A thousand times a week. Everything could be better, away. Without the memories or the roads or the trees and the people who’ve made this town an awful place. But their perspectives on Blue Valley had always been Rick and Beth’s stark difference. What happened to her unwavering devotion to caring about the town and everyone in it? It’s what Rick liked so much. The light from within her pushed her bravery, eradicating her limits.

“Beth,” he speaks carefully. “Why are you running away?”

Beth turns her face towards the farms, letting go of his hand. “I love my parents so much.”

Rick’s face softens. “I know.”

“No. They’ve been my inspiration my whole life. How can—I can’t fathom how…it’s all...”

“What are you talking about?”

Beth tugs her fingers into the sleeves of her cardigan crossed over her chest, refusing to meet his gaze, miserable. She takes so long to answer, but Rick can see the fight in her mind in the way she sticks her jaw. Whatever it is she’s torturing herself with it, Rick can feel it just by standing nearby. “Beth?”

“It’s the ISA, Rick. I didn’t want to believe it but it’s been them all along. My—” She chokes on her words.

Dread sinks to his gut. “Which one?”

“Both.” The blankness that shadows over her face, Rick has seen it before. The ghost of Yolanda’s detachedness after she was betrayed. The shattering shake in Henry’s voice moments before he was gone. “Chuck found out a while ago but I kept pushing it back and pushing it back because it wasn’t true? It wasn’t true and I couldn’t accept that until...They’re close with Richard Swift.”

He touches her arm, lets his hand slide down the expensive sweater to reach for her hand when she cries again.

“Can’t we just go?” When she asks Rick again, he understands. The slimmer of hope she’s threaded through her request. What it’s costing him not to say yes.

“Come inside,” he whispers instead, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. It's a dead weight like a stone in his hand. It shouldn’t be like this. Beth shouldn’t be like this. She’s not okay. “You can stay.”

She shoots a nervous glance at the house. “I don’t want to if it’s a problem.”

“I’ll make sure it’s not a problem,” he cuts in, sharp.

Beth mutters something, but Rick doesn’t catch it. He jogs back to the front porch and bends over to pick up her bike and lock it in the shed.

He returns, awkwardly holding her school bag, leaning against the wall.

“Stay here,” Rick says, “I’ll come to get you.”

He goes back inside and stands in front of Matt.

“My friend is staying over.”

“You have friends?” Matt scrolls on his phone with a snort. When he realizes Rick isn’t joking, he glances up. “No.”

“I’m not asking.”

“I babysit enough after you—”

“Is that what you call it?” Rick snarks.

Matt’s eyes flash at him. They say Don’t test me.

Rick steps away. He won’t. The plan isn’t to piss him off. He wants Beth to survive the night here. “She’ll stay in my room and I’ll sleep on the floor or something. It’s just for today.”

To Rick’s horror, Matt leers. “She’ll stay in your room?”

“Don’t.” Rick makes it clear. “Don’t. Don’t talk to her. She’s upset enough. She doesn’t need you in her business.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m serious,” Rick says. The flippant way Matt goes back to his phone has him unnerved. If it wasn’t for the fact he has the hourglass tucked away in his room, he’d walk right out and drive Beth to Pat’s instead. It’s not worth it.

But Rick can take Matt on now. If that’s something he ever needs to do.

“What’s her name?”

Rick doesn’t even want to tell him. He turns around and brings Beth in.

She wipes at her face and sucks in her hurt, attempting and failing to gather her emotions. “Sorry, Mr. Harris. I’m—”

“—No.” Rick pushes her past the living room before she could even finish her sentence. “Nope.”

“Is that any way to speak to your father? ” Matt yells after him.

Rick rolls his eyes hard and shuts the door to his room pointedly.

Beth sits gingerly onto his unmade bed. “You could’ve at least let me introduce myself. I’m in his house.”

“This is not his house.”

“Oh.” Beth picks at his linty sheet. “Right.”

He waits as long as he can before he can’t help himself. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she mutters. Beth reaches into her bag for Chuck and hands him over. “It’s all there.” Next, she pulls out a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. “Sorry. Can I change?”

“Uh. Sure.” Rick moves. “Tell me when I can come back in.”

Rick leans against the wall, waiting, wondering what he should do. Chuck is in his hands, half-lit. The last time he learned the truth through green hue, his life had changed for good. Was this what it felt like for her?

The projection skittered across the off-white peeling walls.

James Chapel. The American Dream. Hired by Jordan Mahkent, January 2006. James Chapel, MBA Keynote Speaker - Geopolitical Realignment in the Pursuit of an American Dream. Funded by Richard Swift. The Theoretical Abnormalities of Frontal-Cortex Reconfiguration published by Blue Valley Medical Centre Press. Authored by Henry King Jr, Bridget Chapel et al. 2000. Scholarship funding provided by Swift Inc.

It is followed by grainy photographs of a tall slender woman in a blue and red polymer jumpsuit with the youthfulness of Beth’s face. The pixels dissolve away and return with one that resembles her father. There’s more evidence, hard core pictures. Records of Henry Jr’s faked autopsy. Medical records on Joey Zarick. Notes on the political numbers in William Zarick’s campaign.

“I’m sure this comes as a great shock.”

“How didn’t you know?” It feels ridiculous to hiss accusations at a piece of tech no matter how special. He does it anyway. The damage, it’s done. He has half the mind to smash Chuck against the floor. He doesn’t hate Chuck, he knows how important he is to Beth. It’s just the gratification Rick craves to break something that hurt her.

“A glitch in my system. The Gambler had scrambled their affiliation well. It’s not until I’ve reloaded my servers and Beth brought me into Dr. Chapel’s work office that she uncovered any peculiarities.”

“This is going to break her.”

“Bruise,” Chuck corrects. “Not break.”

Rick shuts it off when his door cracks open.

She stepped out looking as cozy as one could with red-rimmed eyes.

Rick tilts his head up from his crouched position in the hall, passing Chuck back to her. She hugs the goggles close.

“Where are you sleeping?” she asks. “I won’t let you on the floor.”

“I have a chair.”

“Where?”

“The living room?”

She considers it, peering down the stairs. “Isn’t that where your uncle passes out?”

“I can bring it up here.”

“We shared a bed at Pat’s cabin.”

“That was before…” Besides, Barbara was there checking in like every two hours.

“Rick,” Beth whispers. “I just want you near.”

~.~

She is near, nestled in his arms. The sheer closeness makes his heart jump, the solid feel of her body beside his. Beth trusts him, confides in him. Looks up at him when he hears her.

“I don’t believe they’d ever hurt me,” she says at last. Rick bites his tongue. Physically? No. Indirectly? He’s seen the way she’s vied for their attention. Idolized herself after their values. The dependency they’ve fastened to leech onto their ideals of transparency and complete openness from her side when they don’t return the favour. Some of their FaceTime calls at lunch had been flat-out weird. Rick assumed it was his irritability flaring out whenever they bothered to check in on her. What if it was surveillance?

Beth catches his hesitation and frowns. “I know what you’re thinking. My parents are different. I know they’re…on the wrong side but they’re not like Tigress and Sportsmaster.” She’s defending them. Naturally, and in spite of her grief. He squeezes her arm, unthinking.

“I didn’t think they were.”

She turns and pulls on the sheet, staring up at his ceiling. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“Ever since I found out, my mind always circles back to you.”

“Me?” Rick’s brows crease against his pillow. “Why?”

“I was wrong about you too. I thought you were this unfeeling aggressive person that sat next to me at lunch all those years because you were indifferent.” She glances at him. “That’s not true.”

“It was a little true.”

She ignores that, carrying on. “But I wanted to be wrong about you from the beginning so I fought against my feelings to prove myself right that night. And I was. There’s so much more to you.”

He props his elbow up to study her quietly.

“I thought if there was more to you, there has to be more to my mom and dad. I didn’t think they could just leave me in the dark. That’s why I didn’t say anything for so long.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

He knows that she knows they’ll be talking to Courtney and Yolanda and Pat soon. That the world as she knew it was gone now. For now, Rick listens, being there for her.

Beth might’ve been left in the dark, but she navigates well in it. Her heart and wisdom are a bright light in themselves. And she’s touched him with it, seared him with her brightness and truth in a way he can’t ignore. Beth lightened him in a way he’s only more drawn to. And if she loses it now, if it dims out of her, Rick swears he’ll find it. He’ll find it and bring it back out if he has to.

#hournite week 2021 #hournite #stargirl #dctv #rick x beth #angst #hournites fic #day 1: light vs dark

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angstyaches · 3 years

Text

Drop

Again, this is quite heavy for this blog. Please heed the warnings! DM me for a summary, if you don’t want to actually read it because of any of the tags (I’ll make a post if anyone asks on anon). Stay safe, friends.

CW: disordered eating mention, alcohol, heights (inc. character struggling with fear of heights), angsty and dark thoughts, relationship problems being discussed, very brief but intense death ideation, mention of gore/injury (described by character, not real), danger of falling, mention of broken glass, emeto, food mention, blood mention

___

Shayne had hoped the bad thoughts would take longer to find him, but they were waiting for him just on the other side of his bedroom door in the townhouse. For the past two weeks, he’d eaten three meals a day with Charlie at his parents’ house, even if some of them were small, and he’d been imagining himself keeping it up once he got back, but now that he was alone, the shame and the feeling of helplessness that had always surrounded food came flooding back.

When dinner time rolled around that evening (he knew it was dinner time because his stomach remembered), he felt Madelyn’s phantom breath on his neck and ignored the hunger. He crawled into his bed and tried forcing himself to sleep before his body could realise it was being deprived.

But god, he was just a needy, greedy little black hole of a creature, a sap on the world so long as you’re not fulfilling your duty, an insult to flesh and bone, nothing but darkness and hunger and waste and –

Shayne sat up in bed and squeezed his head between his hands. He’d gotten so used to Charlie’s constant presence and warmth, that he was already feeling unbearably lonely without him.

Stupid Charlie, he thought, feeling a flutter of affection in his chest as he pictured Charlie’s head resting on his shoulder. And then, a sinking feeling.

In the absence of Madelyn’s voice in his head, Shayne realised how… quiet everything else was. Ryan and Nancy were probably still travelling in Europe, but Elliott and Felix should have been here.

He’d half-expected Felix to come pounding on his door around this time, raving about whatever he was cooking and asking questions about Shayne’s Christmas. But the fact that the townhouse was this silent was extremely unpleasant.

Shayne let himself into the hallway, pausing and holding his breath, scanning for any signs of life. He could have done this easily if he’d been in a forest, but houses and urban settings were always trickier. He picked up a flash of something, a thrum of a heartbeat, but it sent his head spinning and he had to stop concentrating. It seemed to be coming from Elliott and Felix’s room, even though he hadn’t heard a single stir in there since he’d gotten home.

“Hello?” he asked softly, pushing the door open slowly.

He wasn’t surprised that it was cold in the bedroom beyond, but a breeze took him right in the face. Papers had been gently blown across the floor, and a vase holding a fake rose had been knocked from the windowsill onto the floor.

Nobody was in here. This wasn’t where he’d sensed somebody.

The view of the town was incredible from this height, four storeys up. It was around dusk, so there were lights blinking to life in houses and office buildings even as Shayne stood by the open window and rested his hands on the sill.

“Elliott?” he called out quietly, leaning his head outside. The distance from his face to the street below was dizzying.

“The fuck do you want?” came a curt reply, which made Shayne look to his right. The moulding on the outside of the building was about a metre wide, enough for Elliott to slump against the brick wall with a glass balanced on his knee and a bottle grasped in the opposite hand.

His hair was loose of its usual ponytail, as well as being greasy and dishevelled from having fingers constantly dragged through it. He was scraping it back with his left hand at that very moment, eyes glazed over as he looked up at the sky.

“When’d you get back?”

“Uh, today. Earlier.” Shayne could hear how high-pitched his voice had gotten, but what could he do about it? He couldn’t stop wondering how Elliott’s weight wasn’t forcing him to slink further down, legs pulling him over the edge. “El, what are you doing? Someone’s gonna see you out there.”

“So?” Elliott shrugged. “Maybe I’ll become a Reddit legend.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Shayne sighed. “What’re you doing out there? Are you okay?”

Elliott blinked, the motion slowed by the darkness and an unknown amount of whisky. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”

Shayne would have really preferred not to, but it didn’t look like Elliott was coming to him anytime soon. He turned around and sat up into the windowsill, slowly shifting his legs around so his feet touched the moulding. He breathed hard, tried not to look at the fall below, and told himself that if it could hold Elliott’s weight, it could hold his.

“You know, inside, there are floors and – and chairs,” he stammered, edging closer to Elliott before lowering himself to a seated position. He didn’t slump like Elliott though; his hands were pressing the concrete, stiff as pillars. “Lots of nicer and safer places to sit and drink whisky.”

“Mmph.”

The words barely seemed to reach Elliott’s ears.

“So, what’s up?” Shayne asked.

When Elliott smiled, it was a sick thing that twisted the lower half of his face without touching the rest. He looked past the rim of his glass and out across the town. Shayne wouldn’t have been surprised if his glare had caused a sudden flash of lightning to tear through the clouds.

The silence seemed to press in further, the sound of traffic fading away as though a bubble had descended on the rooftop.

“Where’s… Felix?” Shayne already had the feeling that the answer wasn’t going to be good.

“I don’t know.” Elliott pursed his lips. “Think he’s left me.”

A cold stone seemed to drop through Shayne’s stomach. He couldn’t begin to imagine what the equivalent of that felt like for Elliott. “What? Why?”

After a slight roll of his eyes, Elliott reached into the pocket of his trousers, fidgeting with something before pulling out a ring. He twirled it between his thumb and his figure, examining it up-close for a second before holding it out.

“Oh.” Shayne eyed the ring for a moment before reluctantly lifting one hand – one of his supportive pillars – and letting Elliott place it in his palm. “I take it he said no?”

“No, he didn’t say no. He didn’t say… anything.”

“Is that – is that better, or worse?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Sorry, El.” Shayne gulped and stared at the ring, only managing to hold onto it for a couple of seconds. Elliott had already taken his eyes off of it, his attention snagged by his drink again. A slight breeze across his skin made Shayne shudder, as though it could possibly throw him off balance. Mostly, it was just cold and unpleasant. “Here, take it back. I’m gonna drop it or something.”

“Why would you drop it?” Elliott asked with a grunt, reaching to pick up the ring. His fingertips lingered a moment as he realised how badly Shayne’s hand was trembling. “Fuck, man, are you okay?”

“Mmm.” Shayne put his hand down next to him again, fingers aching under the pressure he was putting on them.

“What’s up?” Elliott scoffed lightly. “You gonna hurl?”

“Maybe,” Shayne admitted. “I’ve never been up this high before.”

“Jesus, you’re such a drama queen.” Elliott planted a hand down and pushed himself to his feet. His movements were as swift and graceful as a panther, even while drunk, and he seemed to tower unreasonably high over Shayne as he straightened his back and stretched his arms over his head. He almost reached the roof tiles that jutted out over the top floor. A strong gust of wind could probably have toppled him, especially considering how much whisky was probably flooding his system.

Elliott’s feet made a scraping sound on the concrete as he lowered his arms, laughing deep in his chest.

“Elliott, stop! Just sit the fuck down.”

“Why?” Elliott’s voice was no stronger than a breath. He closed his eyes for a worrying amount of time, his shoulders swaying slightly as his arms hung by his side like weights. “Would you care if I fell?”

Shayne got a sinking feeling, for what seemed like the hundredth time in ten minutes. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you think I’d die, actually?” Elliott perked up again, unnervingly so. He opened his eyes and lifted his glass slightly. He craned his neck to look over the edge of the moulding. He hummed, like he was pondering whether he should buy a pair of shoes in black or in brown. “I’m fairly sure that fully-developed vampires can only die if they’re burned alive, but… I wonder how thoroughly that’s been tested.”

“Elliott –”

“I’ve had a decent run. In human years, I’m almost seventy, you know? That’s longer than a lot of people end up with…”

Shayne didn’t know if he should have been trying to grab Elliott to stop him from teetering so close to the edge, or if that would make everything worse. He could barely breathe, let alone think.

“It’d still fucking hurt either way, though.” Elliott threw back the last mouthful of his drink and smacked his lips. “Bones poking up through my organs, probably bits of me exploding on impact –”

“Elliott, seriously, you’re just being an asshole now, just sit down!”

“Would it make him come back, if I was injured like that?” Elliott demanded, his golden eyes piercing and intense. He was beginning to lapse into clumsy arm gestures, his voice rising higher with emotion. “Would it put everything into perspective, Shayne? Would it fix everyone’s problems if I was maimed? Or if I was completely and utterly de–?”

Shayne’s stomach turned, his hands flying to his face, as the whisky glass shuddered and dropped out of Elliott’s hand. It disappeared from view, faster than the sick grin could fall from Elliott’s face.

The shatter was tiny; Shayne had to really strain his ears to hear it. He watched Elliott blink tears down his face and slowly lower himself to his haunches. He opened his mouth wide, like he was going to scream, but no sound came out.

“Hey,” Shayne whispered, letting go of a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He stretched out one hand, trying to gently catch Elliott’s attention. “El. Elliott.”

Elliott didn’t move. He stayed crouched, one hand gripping the edge of the moulding, his face hovering over the side. When he blinked, tears fell and missed the building completely, dropping straight to the sidewalk that was four storeys down.

“El, come on.”

All the way down to the sidewalk –

“Elliott.”

He turned his head, swaying a little, and for a moment Shayne thought that was it, that he was gone, he’d lost his balance. Shayne sat forward on his heels, instinctively making an uncalculated grab for his cousin’s hand, but luckily Elliott was reaching back too; two fumbling hands happened to fumble in the right directions at the right time.

“Fuck,” Elliott whimpered, steadying himself on his feet again. Shayne could feel both their pulses in their joined hands, Elliott’s almost explosive. “We should… We should probably get off this thing.”

“Oh, you think?” Shayne snapped, though he clung to Elliott’s hand like a toddler to a parent as the two of them edged back over towards the window. He hopped in through the window first, turning to make sure Elliott was following him. The taller man hit his head on the open window, making the frame shudder as he shut his eyes and winced.

“Shit, are you okay?” Shayne held out a hand to help him make it the rest of the way.

“I’m fine, get off me,” Elliott growled, shoving Shayne away from him and storming over to the bed.

“Fuck heights,” Shayne murmured, pulling the window shut with more force than was probably necessary. It released some of the fear that had been pinching his nerves though, and his head felt clearer. “We should probably go down to the street and clean that glass up before someone –”

“Shut up.”

Shayne shrugged, gazing at Elliott as he sat at the edge of his bed, head resting in his hands. “Is – is your head okay, or –?”

“What’d I just say?”

“You said to shut up, but how the fuck do you expect me not to ask you if you’re okay? You almost fell off the fucking… roof!” Shayne smacked his hand on the bedpost as he walked by, partially on purpose. “Fuck you, Elliott.”

“Calm down, man,” Elliott snarled, his head shooting up from his hands. “Come on, you seriously think that’s the closest I’ve ever come to dying?”

“You can’t…” Shayne stopped by the door to the hallway, eyes lowered. “You can’t do shit like that, you can’t talk like that. I don’t care if he’s left you, if the world’s falling to shit, if you think nobody cares about you being around, you can’t…”

A sob broke the air, and Shayne froze, turning to watch as Elliott hunched over at the edge of the bed, his head ducking and disappearing from his silhouette.

“I’m… sorry.”

Having never heard such a heart-wrenching sound from Elliott before, Shayne found himself hurrying back to the bed. He sat down next to Elliott and let him sink his head against his shoulder and cry, his body convulsing with what seemed to be days’ worth of pent-up agony and sadness. Shayne felt utterly useless; he couldn’t guarantee that everything would be alright with Felix, because how the hell could he possibly know that?

“Ugh, fuck,” Elliott exclaimed, his shoulders jerking forward with a sob so deep that it sounded more like a hiccup. He clamped a hand over his mouth, the other lifting to tentatively cover the front of his head, where he’d hit it on the window.

“You okay, man?” Shayne asked hoarsely.

Elliott shook his head, face paling even in the dull light.

“You gonna hurl?” Shayne murmured, wondering if the irony would be lost on Elliott in his current state. He was already getting to his feet, remembering that Felix kept a metal bin under his desk.

“Mmmph.” Elliott nodded furiously, only releasing his mouth from his hand once Shayne had thrust the bin at him. Saliva glistened on his lips as he hovered, breathing heavily. His eyes were red and swollen and he was still gently kneading his head.

A deep retch rolled his shoulders and made him duck his head further into the bin. Shayne grimaced and almost put a hand on Elliott’s shoulder before remembering that that would have been a terrible idea. He stood by the desk instead, arms folded around his waist, flinching in time with Elliott’s horrifying gagging.

When Elliott’s face resurfaced, he was gasping and spitting out mouthfuls of thick bile and saliva, tinged only slightly with the golden hue of the heavy liquor.

“Jesus,” he choked out. “How hard did I hit my head?”

After a disbelieving glance towards the window, Shayne scoffed. “Your head? What about the god-knows-how-much whisky in your system right now?”

“Alright, whatever,” Elliott groaned. He pawed at a thick strand of his hair that was stuck to the side of his face and trailing into the bin itself, tossing it over his shoulder. Just in time too, since the next retch was deep and abrupt and dragged a rumbling belch up alongside a gush of foamy alcohol and stomach acid.

Between gags, Elliott let thick liquid drip from his mouth into the bin, body shivering with the effort it took to bring everything up. It went on for so long that Shayne was certain Elliott was going to fall asleep with his head in the bin.

Eventually, Elliott sat upright, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand and dragging it across the lower half of his face. He tossed it into the bin and reached for another one.

“Want me to get you some water? Or, like, blood?”

“No.” Elliott sighed deeply, dropping the second tissue into the bin before he began to scoop his hair back from his face and neck. “I’ve been drinking on an empty stomach for two days. I wanna go get chips.”

“Chips?”

“Yes. Can you grab one of Felix’s scrunchies from his side?”

Shayne did as he was asked, mostly in a daze, rounding the bed to get to Felix’s bedside locker. There was a pile of hair ties sitting alongside a handheld cassette player.

“Can you even eat?” Shayne asked, leaning across the bed to hand one of the hair ties to Elliott. “You know, with all of your full-vampire shit going on?”

“Seriously, you little asshole?” Elliott snapped, his voice scratchy and weak. “My life is falling down around me and you’re trying to deny me chips?”

Shayne quickly shook his head, a little bit grateful for the bloodcurdling glare that Elliott was currently treating him to. He got up from the bed again as Elliott tended to his hair. “Let me just grab a jacket.”

#idk how I originally wanted it to end but I can't look at it anymore #Swallow the World #StW Thicker than Blood #vampire emeto #emeto #emeto fic #emeto sickfic #angst fic #angst #death mention #death ideation mention #alcohol #alcohol mention

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the-lady-writes-what · 3 years

Text

23. Hitoshi Shinsou

Theme: Haunted mirror, dark spirit

Kinks: Mind control, fear play, bondage, non-con, cum play, fingering, possession

All underaged characters are aged up. Hitoshi Shinsou is 18+, plus this is a demon AU so he's technically way older than that. Don’t come for me unless I send for you.

Warning: This contains very graphic and dark material including but not limited to non-con, unwilling bondage, and forced orgasms. Reader discretion is advised. Scary ending.

Masterlist

Your friends noticed it first. The way your new mirror behaved strangely. Mirrors don’t misbehave; they’re mirrors. That didn’t stop your friends from talking about the weird vibes your mirror gave them. Images shifted or wavered in its reflection. Fog appeared out of nowhere. Handprints appeared when no one touched it; puffs of air clouded the surface. It was as if someone invisible lived on the other side of the mirror. Despite all their warnings and misgivings, the mirror stayed in your hallway.

“Okay, Y/N, that mirror has to go,” said Jiro.

You furrowed your brows. This wasn’t the first time Jiro, and others, suggested it. The massive antique mirror with its ornate frame continued to hang in your hall. You rolled your eyes a second later.

“What did you see more handprints, or was it a ghost this time?” You asked half-joking.

“It was a whole-ass face is what I was looking at!” Said Jiro.

“A face, really?” Your brow shot upwards. “The next thing you’re going to tell me is that you saw a deadman in my rearview mirror.”

“Jiro’s right, Y/N. I saw it too,” said Momo.

Ochaco shuddered. “It was so creepy. Its eyes were staring into my soul.”

“Not you too.” You sighed.

“Get rid of that mirror!” All at once, your three friends shouted.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just a mirror, you guys. I’ve never seen anything weird. It’s just your imagination.”

Your friends didn’t appreciate you discounting their concerns. In truth, you didn’t see even half of what they claimed. The mirror was old, gathered a lot of dust, and was slightly warped. It was a unique piece that you got for a steal.

A steal alright. That should have been your first red flag, you remember Jiro a week after you purchased it. Why would anyone sell an antique mirror for so cheap?

You ignored her jab and polished it up. You ignored Jiro’s warnings now too. Your patience was growing thin with your friends because of their ghost stories and things appearing in the mirror. It was borderline ridiculous. The joke had lost its punchline a long time ago.

“There’s somebody I know who can tell you we’re not crazy. If you don’t believe her, fine. Suit yourself. But if you’re wrong, you have to pitch it.”

You shrug your shoulders. While everybody else snuck past the mirror, you were the only one to stop and look at your reflection. Just out of curiosity, you stared at it and hoped to see an apparition like your friends said you would. There was only you in the mirror. No spooky handprints, no breath fogging up the other side of the mirror, no eyeballs piercing through your soul. It was just an old mirror. You rode in the car with your friends to a metaphysical shop on the other side of town.

“Baba Yaga, this is the girl I was telling you about,” said Jiro as she gestured towards you. She was speaking with an elderly lady who wore a dark blue velvet dress and a floral shawl. “Tell her that she needs to get rid of her cursed mirror.”

She padded over to you, strolling with her knotted cane. The woman adjusted her glasses and squinted up at your face. Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits as she examined your pores. Suddenly, the woman grabbed your wrist and splayed your fingers outward. Wrinkled fingers caressed the palm of your hand, bent and examined your fingers. She shook her head from time to time and hummed to herself.

Your fingers were curled back towards your palm. The older woman pressed both of her hands around you and held on.

“You have a dark presence hovering over you, that’s for sure. It’s subtle, which makes it that much more evil. You can’t see the spirit in the mirror because it doesn’t want you to. You are in grave danger, young lady. Its power washes over you. The longer you keep that mirror, the more powerful it becomes.” You smiled politely. “I think I’ll be just fine, ma’am.”

“No, you won’t,” the old woman snapped. “You are in danger.” She repeated.

“You harbor a wicked spirit in your house. It will come to you on the night when Selene is covered by Zeus’ dark and stormy shroud. You must get rid of the mirror!”

You snatched your hand away and spun on your heels. You didn’t wait for your friends. Instead of going to the car, you called for a cab. Your phone vibrated with the text messages they sent you, but you turned your phone on silent. You arrived home just as gray clouds settled across the sky. You didn’t think much of it until you heard rain on your windows and on your roof. You barely made it inside when the storm hit.

It’s just a stupid coincidence, you told yourself.

You walked into the hall to set your jacket and purse on the hanger placed in there. You couldn’t resist stopping by the mirror. You looked into it again. You stared into its depths until your eyes began to water. There was still no sign of the ghost your friends warned you about.

You climbed up the stairs, took a bubble bath, and spent the rest of the night curled up in bed. You turned off the lights before slipping under the covers. Lighting peeled across the sky while thunder rolled. The rain helped you fall asleep, and you were warm underneath your blankets, safe and secure in the knowledge that nothing about the mirror could hurt you.

The sound of shattering glass woke you. You sat up in bed. Your hand instinctively reached for the lamp on your bedside table and tugged on the cord. Nothing. You pulled again, and your light refused to turn on. You checked your phone only to realize that your battery died despite still being plugged into a charger. You swore as you bolted out of bed. Testing the overhead light, you were again disappointed.

You pulled your door open as quietly as possible and hoped your footsteps were light enough to avoid alarming the burglars. You grabbed an umbrella by your front door. It isn’t much, but the umbrella did have a pointy end. You crept softly, pushed forward by fear to know who was in your house. But as you tip-toed, something in the hallway sparkled and grabbed your attention by the throat. You stepped closer only to realize that they were mirror shards. Pieces of glass were shattered over your floor. The mirror’s frame was bent and split apart. It held together with only a couple bits of wire.

Bile rose in your throat. You didn’t hear any footsteps or voices. You growled under your breath and glared at the mirror shards lying at your feet. No longer was it burglars you had to fear.

“That wasn’t funny, you guys!” You called out.

No one answered. You rushed back to the front door and reached for the lock, only to find that the lock was still set. Then you realized that nobody had a key to your house. Undoubtedly, your friends wouldn’t stoop so low as to break in just to smash your antique mirror.

Floorboards creaked. It was in the living room. All your bravery sank like a stone. You dropped your makeshift weapon and scrambled for the stairs. All was cloying darkness. Your hands wrapped tight around the banister as you raced up the stairs. Once you were safe on the second floor, you ran to your room and slammed shut the door. Your fingers groped in the dark for the lock and twisted it. You pushed your desk in front of your door and slowly backed away.

You walked backward to your bed then stopped dead in your tracks. You quit because you felt something tangible collide with your back. An arm like a redwood trunk snaked around your waist as a hand clapped across your mouth.

“Don’t scream just yet, little thing. Let me enjoy the smell of your fear first.” A voice husked against your ear.

A tongue dragged along your earlobe. The deep chuckle following after laughed at your shudders as they ripped through your body. You clawed at hand on your mouth, but no amount of scratching could deter him. Whoever he was, he bent his head and pressed his nose where your shoulder and neck met. A hoarse grumble vibrated in his chest, which was bare. You felt his cold, clammy skin press against your back, solid as stone. You felt him through your nightshirt in all his muscled glory. Cold beads of sweat ran down the side of your face as you realized that there was no way you could fight him.

“That’s a good girl. You know I’ve been watching you. All this time, I’ve been watching you. You must have really liked my mirror,” said he.

Your brows furrowed into a deep V-shape. Thunder clapped overhead. The old woman’s words rang in your head like funeral bells. It will come to you on the night when Selene is covered by Zeus’ dark and stormy shroud. You felt your blood throb in every vein in your body. Your heart palpitated inside your chest.

“Ah, yes. There we go. I love more than just a little bit of fear. I want you to live in terror of me. You’ll taste that much better for me.”

An orange tongue of flame appeared out of nowhere. It hovered over your desk. Your eyes took a moment to get used to the sudden light. The arm at your waist loosened only for a pair of hands to grab your biceps and squeeze. You hissed as you felt bruises form on your skin.

The man spoke in your ear again.

“Go over there and fetch the light, but do not look back at me. You may only look at me by the light of that candle, do you understand?”

You didn’t. You only saw a tongue of flame flickering while it hovered over your desk. He released you. You padded over to the desk, which blocked your only exit. You reached out just below the tiny flame. In the blackness, your fingers grazed on some warm wax. Your fingers ran up and down along a long slender black candle that appeared in your hand. Your hand trembled as you took it up.

“Good, good, you’re so wonderfully obedient. Now, slowly turn towards me and look upon the face of your new master.”

You didn’t want to, but your legs move of their own accord. You strained against the intangible threads pulling at your muscles and tendons. You felt the lower half of your body move separately from you, and you watched in horror as your feet turned to face him. You shut your eyes tight.

“I said ‘look at me.” The man’s—no. The creature’s voice dropped several octaves, and it sounded as if multiple voices erupted from his throat. Your eyes snapped open against your will. Tears made their way down your face as your eyelids were peeled open so wide. Your pupils strained in the darkness briefly. By the lighten of the orange flame, you saw him.

He was tall, muscled, and inhumanly pale. His skin was the color of moonlight on a grave. And his face gods his face. Belying his otherworldly, unearthly beauty lay the heart of a beast. Gray-purple crescents like grotesque dark circles hung under his eyes. Indigo eyes matched his hair, which he left in a mess. Like he just woke up from whatever hellscape he crawled out of. All of his muscles were taut and lean, further proving that you had no chance of fighting him off. Your feet padded across your bedroom floor towards him. An invisible hand held your chin high so that you met his gaze more clearly.

“My name is Hitoshi, and I was trapped in that mirror for four hundred years. I’ve been waiting for you. The incarnation of the witch who banished me there in the first place!” The creature spat.

Your blood turned icy cold.

“Please, please don’t kill me. I’m sorry. Let me, l-let me make it up to you. I promise I won’t hurt you ever again!”

“My plan was never to kill you.” Hitoshi reached out with his stony hand, grabbed your waist, and pulled you flush against his body. “I plan to make you mine. Forever. Then you will know the horror of being trapped against your will.”

“What? NO!”

The candle was snatched from your hand. Hitoshi turned and threw you unto the bed. The candle reappeared above your head and several other candles that melted into the bedroom’s shadows, cleaved through the air. Blidnign tongues of fire flickered above your bed.

Your clothes were ripped off you, and the torn remains bound your hands together to the bedpost above your head. The same was done to your ankles. Hitoshi stood from the bed to admire his work. The black silken pants he wore slithered off his body, revealing his proud, jutting member and the bead of pre-cum on the blunt head. Hitoshi climbed on top of the bed. The bed dipped under his weight. You thrashed about in the vain hope to yank the knots undone. Hitoshi merely laughed at your efforts.

“I suppose I’ll let you resist the first time. It’ll be more fun getting you to moan while I corrupt you.” His hands dragged upwards along your thigh. “From the inside out.”

You shook your head and cried aloud. No amount of protesting was getting you out of this. Hitoshi licked his lips and stroked his cock as he sat on his knees. He straddled your waist. He was fucking his hand right in front of you. You tried to look away, but a force held your head still, and your eyes peeled open. Hitoshi stroked long, fast, and hard.

“I-I need…to get my scent all over you. To make sure anyone else who might cause me trouble…FUCK! Tries coming around. You smell…so good!”

Hitoshi came and sprayed your face, chest, and neck with his cum. The substance was sticky and hot on your skin. He didn’t waste time smearing it all over your breasts, palming your chest, and teasing your nipples. Your body acted on instinct, not out of your desire, and bucked against him.

“It’s working, isn’t it? Just having my cum on your flesh…makes you fucking wet for me!” He wore the triumphant grin of an incubus who just seduced the most stubborn prude in the land.

“No, I’m not!”

“Oh?”

Hitoshi reached behind him and drove two fingers inside your pussy without warning. He stroked your clit before sliding between your folds and plunged as deep as his fingers could go. Your inner walls spasmed briefly against him.

“What’s this, then?” Hitoshi chuckled.

“Stop!”

Far from it, your command made him want to do it more. Hitoshi pushed a third finger inside of you and pumped faster. With his free hand, Hitoshi stroked his cock. Your eyes widened with horror at how quickly he could get it up again.

“Don’t be surprised, little thing. You can’t comprehend what I am and what I can do. Or more importantly, what I’m going to do to you.”

Hitoshi jerked off while sitting on top of you, his balls against your breasts. His fingers filled your cunt and stretched you open.

“I’m putting in another. Then after you come on four of my fingers, you get the honor of taking this cock.”

You tried shaking your head, but invisible hands grabbed your hair and pulled. They kept your head still and forced you to watch Hitoshi stroke his own cock and come all over your chest. Again.

He gave you no warning and very little prep. Hitoshi added that fourth finger. One or two satisfied you, but your pleasure wasn’t on Hitoshi’s mind. He wanted you to come while he stretched you painfully wide. He thrust in deep, almost hitting your cervix. Your cheeks burned a dark bloom at the sound of the wet squelches that your pussy made. Hitoshi pumped faster inside you just while he used his cock as a brush to smear more come on your chest.

Your hips bucked against him; your knees locked in pain. Hitoshi tied your legs so far apart that they burned, but that didn’t stop him from shoving his fingers all the way in. Your head crashed against the pillow while everything below your neck writhed and shuddered. Hitoshi watched your eyes roll into your skull as you gushed around his fingers. He waited until your body stopped humping him before pulling his fingers out. Fluid leaked out of your cunt where his fingers had prevented it from staining your bedsheets.

You whimpered and begged as Hitoshi shifted down your body. He nestled himself between your spread legs. He swiped his fingers across his tongue, put them into his mouth, and sucked them clean. His head rolled back. He groaned from deep in his throat.

“You taste like ambrosia. I’m going to enjoy fucking sense and humanity out of you.”

There was no warning. No pleasantries. Hitoshi did what he wanted. He stroked the head of his cock against your clit then aligned himself with your slit. It took one thrust to be buried deep inside of you. His hands grabbed your hips and pulled your lower body close to him. He sank on his knees and pulled his cock out, then plunged it back in. Your legs were stretched to the point of pain, muscles screaming. Hitoshi ignored your pleas.

You screamed and moaned as his cock pounded you. Your insides were being battered by some unearthly creature that escaped a cursed mirror. There was nothing you could do to stop this. His cock was long and hard and reached deep to kiss your cervix over and over. Your walls clenched around him. Hitoshi poured unwanted pleasure into your body and made it sink into your bones. Your hips thrust in time with his; your body writhed like a snake beneath him.

“Tell me you’re mine. Tell me who you belong to. Say it!” Hitoshi drove himself harder into your quivering body.

Your toes curled until they ached. Every limb of your body was shaking with effort.

“Y-you,” you cried aloud.

“What’s my name?” Hitoshi slammed his hips down, and your body violently shuddered with each of these movements.

“H-H-Hitoshi!”

“Who is your master?”

“You are. You’re my master. P-Please fuck me, sir!”

“Good girl. You’ll be my new favorite pet in no time.”

The room sweltered. How could someone whose body felt so cold make you pant and sweat? Your body writhed against him. You wanted to touch him, feel him, be able to look at his cock plunging inside your cunt. With his supernatural powers, Hitoshi kept your head forward and your eyes glued on him. You couldn’t watch his cock enter, retreat, and return deep inside your walls again. Your thighs were slick with sweat and cum.

More, more, more.

You needed more. Hitoshi smirked down at you while you slowly lost your mind. Your eyes became blank spaces as his control over you seeped deep into your mind. His essence filled you, just like he was going to do with his cum in just a second. Your walls fluttered and spasmed at his provocation. A light flickered in your eyes. Somewhere in your subconsciousness, you must be screaming with rage. Your body no longer belonged to you and at this moment, neither did your mind. It was mere child’s play for Hitoshi to reach inside and flip the switch. Your dulled eyes rolled into your skull again while your mouth opened wide, and your tongue lulled out. Drool dribbled down the sides of your mouth. He commanded your body to climax around his hard length. You obeyed.

You gushed, spilling everything you had. There was so much of it that it dripped to your bedsheets and on Hitoshi’s thighs. The tight clenching of your walls was enough to push him towards his own climax. Hitoshi groaned like an animal as he spilled his cum into your womb. Rope after rope warmed your lower belly until it was seeping out of your body. Hitoshi pulled out with little regard for how much it hurt. He remained on his knees to marvel at his handiwork.

You were covered in him. His white semen staining your skin and made it glisten. The light slowly returned to your eyes. He watched madness creep in as you realized just what happened to you.

Jiro knocked on your door three days later. She stood shocked at the sight of you in the doorway, appearing as you were. You’d grown a bit pale since the last time she saw you. Your neck and shoulders were covered in purple kiss marks. Bruises formed at your wrist that looked suspiciously like handprints. Dark circles hung under your eyes.

“Y/N, what happened to you?”

“Oh, I met someone recently. Let’s just say he’s really ‘fun.’” The words felt so unnatural coming out of your mouth—both to Jiro and yourself.

“Fun, you say?” Jiro looked at you up and down, unconvinced.

Hitoshi appeared behind you. He wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed the side of your neck.

“I’m sorry, but we’re awfully busy right now,” he said. Hitoshi began to close the door on your friend. “Call back some other time.”

Jiro stood on your porch, dumbfounded.

It couldn’t be, could it? She thought.

She saw it with her own two eyes but didn’t want to believe it to be true. Those eyes which stared through the mirror were the same ones that looked at her with disdain just now. The thing in the mirror was loose.

#my hero academia #my hero academia fanfiction #mha fanfiction #mha smut #reader fic #horror #non con #kinktober #kinktober week #shinsou #Hitoshi Shinsou #hitoshi shinsou x reader #minors begone

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fatiguing-thoughts · 3 years

Text

“Natural” - Chapter 19 - Embry Call x Reader

Please Wake Up

Embry’s POV

I looked at (Y/N)’s seemingly lifeless body. Though I still heard her heart beating, it was slower; it was quieter. It had been ever since the day she was bit-- almost three days ago now.

Leah, Paul, Quil, Jacob, and I haven’t left her side since it happened. She’s currently in a hospital bed in the Cullen household. Carlisle stopped in every once in a while, just to take notes of what was happening.

All of our eyes red and puffy, waiting for her to wake up. Waiting was agonizing, one of the Cullens coming in every once in a while to give us food, though eating was very difficult for me to do. I tried to force myself, but my appetite was scarce. Everyone else was similar, we all were having a difficult time waiting. None of us leaving her side since we got here.

We were quickly approaching the three day mark. It was currently 76 hours into the possible transition, the sun would be rising soon. Carlisle’s soft footsteps brought me out of the trance I was in, Alice was following closely behind him with some stuff to clean (Y/N) up some more, she had already changed her clothes the other day.

“Why won’t she wake up if you got the venom out?” I ask, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen anything like this happen.”

“But you got the venom out, right?” Leah interjects.

“Yes, but barely in time. The transformation had already begun by the time we got to her and managed to get it out.”

“So what does that mean exactly?” I ask, concern threading my voice.

“I’m unsure, unfortunately.” Carlisle’s face softens at me, knowing that this is killing me, it’s killing us all.

“So will it work?” Paul asks, his voice cracking as tears brimmed his eyes.

“I thought so, but the fact that she still hasn’t woken up yet is making me question it.”

“Well you can see the future, so what’s hers looking like?” Jacob asks, looking at Alice.

“I… I can’t see her future anymore.” She confessed, eyes looking sympathetically back at all of us, it was like the air was sucked out of the room-- everyone’s breath hitched in their throat.

“What?” Paul asked, a tear falling from his eyes.

My eyes found (Y/N)’s body once again, my hand still holding hers tightly. She was colder than she always was-- but not cold like someone who was dead. I felt like someone had just reached into my chest and squeezed my heart. It’s not possible, it couldn’t be… My little bean had to be okay. My mouth instinctively fell open at Alice’s confession, tears rapidly falling from my eyes. I couldn’t breathe.

“She’s not dead, she can’t be dead. Right?” Jacob asked, raising his voice.

“No, she still has a pulse. We can all hear it.” Carlisle assures him.

“So she’s still stuck in this weird limbo?” Quil inquires.

“It appears to be so. I’ve never seen one like this, though.” Carlisle sighs.

“She better not wake up a vampire.” Jacob mumbles.

“I don’t know what will happen. I have blood bags, just in case.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t need them.” Leah asserts.

I was at a loss of words, I couldn’t even believe what I was hearing. My (Y/N), my sweet (Y/N) was possibly going to become a vampire. The thought of it left me shuddering, though it beat the alternative. Losing her forever, especially so young. As long as we were phasing, we were not aging. I knew that was one of her concerns, but the idea was that I would eventually stop phasing, but staying behind her in age. Maybe us having an eternity together wasn’t the end of the world-- I just didn’t want it to be like this.

“Her temperature is moderate, a little colder than when she was human, but nowhere near what we’re at. Her skin isn’t stone like ours, but it isn’t human-like anymore. It’s almost like your human forms.Much more resilient than any human’s.”

“So she’s in the process of changing, it’s maybe just starting?” Quil wonders.

“No, if it was like that, this is stuff that would’ve happened earlier. This is all so late for these things to be happening. The three days is pretty much coming to an end.” Carlisle answers, flipping through the notes he had been keeping of (Y/N)’s transformation.

“If she’s taking the same amount of time for the transition, maybe we should be assuming that she’ll wake up a vampire of sorts.” Quil speculates.

“It’s definitely possible.” Carlisle nods, looking around at all of our faces before he and Alice leave the room.

Now it was just time to wait. I look around and observe the distress painted across my friends’ faces. Only time will tell, I guess.

(Y/N)’s POV

I begin to wake up from my sleep-like state, almost feeling… weightless. I felt stronger than I ever have. I blink my eyes profusely, adjusting to the lighting around me.

Everything was much clearer than before, I could see more detail than ever before. I could hear the sounds of nature outside, seemingly an owl hooting. I could smell so much more, both the Cullens and the pack’s scent invaded my senses, I was surprised to understand what everyone meant.

My eyes widen when I come to the realization of what this meant. The sudden fear of everyone I loved beginning to hate me, the fact that I would have to fake my death for my poor father. The reality of the situation dawned on me. I very quickly fell into a panic, only a mere few seconds of my exciting new abilities.

I look around the room and take in everyone’s somber, zombie-like states. Embry’s hand holding mine. I sit up and look at all of them.

“Carlisle! She’s up!” Jacob shouts out.

Nobody moved, everyone too afraid to see what I would do.

“Embry…” I whispered.

“Baby.” His warm hands move to my face.

“Your eyes are still (Y/E/C).” He whispered breathlessly.

“What?” I ask, surprised at why they weren’t red.

I quickly get up, running over to the mirror to look at myself.

My skin color didn’t pale and grow ashy, my eyes were still the same. I didn’t look like the stereotypical newborn vampire.

I felt much more durable, much more alive. I felt stronger, faster even. How was this possible?

Carlisle and Alice quickly enter the room and look directly at me in surprise, quite like everyone else.

“(Y/N), do you feel any burning in your throat? Are you thirsty?” Carlisle questions.

“Not really. I have a much stronger urge in my stomach than my throat. I don’t have the urge to tear into any of them.” I admit.

He observes all the physical appearances that didn’t take to me, like the eyes or skin color change. He made me test both appetites, to see which I can handle.

“You barely made it, the transformation almost completely took. I guess we pulled it right before it finished-- leaving you as a very unique hybrid. You could survive off of regular food or blood. You’re must faster, stronger. You’re quite similar to their human forms.” Carlisle smiles softly.

I look around, everyone’s faces glowing more with happiness and relief.

Embry’s tearful face rushes over to mine, pressing a happy kiss to my lips. He picked me up, spinning me around. He laughed in happiness as he pressed his forehead against my own. I made my rounds, hugging all my friends who waited for me to wake up for the agonizing three days.

“But, what does this mean for my mortality?” I ask Carlisle.

“I’m unsure. I don’t know.” He sighs.

“I can see your future again.” Alice smiles.

“And?” Leah interrupts.

“Well, you’re going to be here for a long time. You’ll have an eternity.” She smiles.

We then make our way outside, testing all my new abilities and limits. I felt the weight of the world lift off my shoulders. I wouldn’t have to fake my death for my father, we didn’t have to leave. I didn’t want to destroy the entire human population. I’d have to of course figure out what to do when the time comes and my dad notices that I wasn’t aging, but maybe he would just accept that I couldn’t give him an answer. Things were good.

“I love you.” Embry whispers to me, pulling me in for a kiss.

“I love you, too.” I smile into the kiss.

This was the beginning of forever for me. For Embry and I. For everyone I cared about.

Being a part of this world was eye-opening. Things fell into place, things all made sense.

It came naturally.

Loving Embry was natural.

And thankfully, I had an eternity to spend with him.

______________________________ A/N: Thank you all for reading this to the end. I never expected so much support on this fic! You’ve all made me so happy when you comment on it or talk to me about this and I hope you enjoyed the ending. This story was a fun little thing :)

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#embry call #embry call x reader #embry call fanfiction #embry call imagine #paul lahote #jacob black #leah clearwater #seth clearwater #jared cameron #quil ateara #sam uley #brady fuller #collin littlesea

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shootybangbang · 3 years

Text

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

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claudiarya · 3 years

Text

Hey guys, I’ve written a post RoW fanfiction. I warn you that it has a death trope in it, so beware.

You can also read it on Ao3 as well.

Count words: 5990

Hope Suite

They didn’t know the moment when it all went wrong. Had it been when Kaz had accepted the job? Had it been when Inej had left Pekka Rollins alive, or when they had kept going despite all the adversities, they had encountered? The events of the last days were starting to become a blurring reel, that had done nothing but confuse them. What had started as a fairly easy job for the queen of Ravka, it then had turned out to be a major standoff with their enemies, which was putting not just one country, but the whole world as they knew it in peril. Maybe it had all gone downhill when Jarl Brum had managed to escape his prison cell at Hellgate, aided by one of his most trusted Drüskelle, his mind already too corrupted by the former General’s manipulations.

By the time he had been set free again, and had sought revenge against his detested neighbors, specifically against the witch queen and her monstrous husband, Inej, Kaz and his crew had already been too involved with their task to worry about it. How could they have known that once out, Brum was going to use everything in his power to bend Ravka? The Fjerdan man was aware that he couldn’t compete with its ruler, so he had worked out a different strategy entirely: if he couldn’t hope to win in a direct confrontation, he was going to annihilate her and her subjects from within, even if it would cost the destruction of his own country and more…

They didn’t know how Brum had gotten the information, but he had travelled to the mountains and had somehow liberated a certain shadow summoner from his sacrifice of eternal of pain, well before Zoya could do as she had planned. The shadow summoner in question had disappeared without a trace, only the Saints knew where he could have gone to hide away.

Needless to say, the darkness and its vampiric actions had started to spread again, at twice the speed. It looked like a ravenous beast had been set lose. It had extended in other countries as well, a silent and unannounced menace ravishing everything in its wake, that terrified even sailors at sea. If that wasn’t enough, Brum had also found out about Dirtyhand’s ‘involvement’ with the queen, and had made an ally with an ex Barrel boss, who had lost all his fortunes and power to a teenage crippled kid. Two powerful and dangerous men driven by their thirst for revenge had revealed themselves to be even more unstoppable than any of them had originally believed.

***

Inej remembered when Kaz had asked her to take a short leave from her sea voyages, to run one last time with him and the other crows in this task in which her skills at gathering information were going to be fundamental. Jesper had, of course, already accepted his friend’s proposition, and if at first Wylan had been skeptical, he had ended up joining the crew for the job. Perhaps for his natural instinct to follow wherever the gangly sharpshooter went, or maybe for the fact that he had made friends with the King consort, their shared love for science and ‘infernal gadgets’, as Kaz would call them, a fertile ground for common understanding.

“I won’t force you to do anything,” he had rasped to her while sitting on the roof ledge at the Slat to watch the tepid Ketterdam sun slowly blinking into existence in front of them; their intertwined fingers a testimony of how far they had already conquered together. The only thing that hadn’t won yet was their insomnia.

“Your particular set of skills is needed for this job, but I understand if you don’t want to be dragged into this,” Kaz had continued, and she had known he had slightly turned his head in her direction, as she had kept her eyes on the dawn.

After a while and still no answer from her he had sighed.

“Inej, what I’m trying to say is that we need you. I need you. I don’t think I can do this without you, so please tell me now, so I can send back a definite answer to Her Royal Pain.”

The Suli girl had marveled at his words: she didn’t think she had ever heard Kaz admit out loud that he couldn’t do something without the help of someone else.

“I’ll do it,” she had exclaimed, now turning her gaze on his stone-carved features. “But on one condition: I want Queen Zoya to help me fight against the slave trade in Ravka, and I want her to promise me that human traffickers are going to find the justice they deserve in her country.”

Kaz had squeezed her hand, the look in his eyes an oath to himself as well as to her.

***

Inej clutched her hand on her injured arm. She could feel the blood on her palm, as she watched Kaz keeping at cane point the last of the men who had tried to kill them. Their lead for the relic of Santk Feliks’s heart had taken them here, in an obscure abandoned, or so they thought, monastery on the Ravkan coast, right on the border with Fjerda. They had found out that centuries before, the order of religious men inhabiting the place had been the resting place of the only remaining part of the Saint. An easy reconnaissance job, an easy trail to follow. But ever since the spreading of the blight, of the Kilyklava, nothing had been easy. It was as if for every movement they made, their enemies were ten steps ahead of them. Inej had never seen anyone outsmart Kaz like that. Usually, he was the one who had everything under control, who could predict every outturn, every maneuver his opponents were going to make. But instead, everywhere they had attempted to gather information, they had encountered a setup of sorts: mainly the place they had intended to scout, burnt to the ground. Had they a spying traitor in their mix? Inej had never seen him more on edge than she had in the last month, but now they had passed the pretense of this being another job. It had stopped being that when the world hab been threatened by an unstoppable force and Pekka Rollins had entered the picture. It was personal. And she suspected that he was also trying to keep true to the promise he had made her.

Inej had thought they had planned this out so carefully, she was sure they would not encounter any unpleasant surprise this time. After the too many (not) coincidences, they had started scheming their way for the hunt of the heart with only the four of them and Nikolai and Zoya, who had had to, although begrudgingly, leave out the Triumvirate and their closest friends from this particular matter of international importance. How was it possible then, that their traces had been tracked even here? Kaz and Inej had offered for the job, a quick break in into the abandoned archives of the monastery, while Nikolai, Jesper and Wylan would wait for them on the Volkvolny to pick them up and leave after they had completed their task. Perhaps a smaller party was going to attract less attentions, their rouse of a devoted young group of people had served them well in the little town around the old holy building, and they had played their parts too well that Inej had forgotten for an instant that they had a bigger goal in mind. She was never going to forget the easy talk, the laughs they had shared around the table of the little tavern they had resided in, her hand clasped together with Kaz as a sort of lifeline for the both of them; her head resting delicately on his chest as they were lying down on the little bed they shared.

The four men that have been sent to kill them had caught them by surprise. Again.

Kaz had just uttered “We’ve got what we need, let’s go,” when the first thug that had tried to sneak up on him. Inej had made a quick work of the assassins, if her knives embedded in two of the men’s throats were of any indication. Despite that, one of the others had managed to graze her arm with a bullet, when she had momentarily lost her focus because the remaining one had kicked Kaz’s bad leg, eliciting a sound of pain from him. If only Jesper and Wylan had been there with them.

As she hobbled to where he was standing, Inej realized that Kaz was shaking from the effort of not to keel over in pain, his hand gripping the crow’s head of his cane so tightly, she feared he was going to snap it in half.

“Kaz...” she started

“You’re bleeding,” he rasped, diverting his gaze from the man to her, for the briefest of moments.

“It’s nothing,” she said. But she could see that he wasn’t really convinced, and with a soft grunt, he fished from his pocket a handkerchief and handed it to her, before asking to the person on the ground.

“How did you know we would be here?” his eyes two unforgiving coals.

The hired assassin didn’t answer at first but gave away in a little chuckle instead. Suddenly Kaz, still balancing his weight mostly on his good leg, brought down his cane on one of the man’s own legs. His scream of pain echoed around them in the old room.

“It doesn’t feel good, does it?” he said. This was Dirtyhands himself, any trace of the young man he had been with her at the tavern, vaporized.

“Now, tell me how you knew we were here, or I’m going to break every bone you have, and we both know how pleasant that is.”

The man chuckled again, but then he started talking.

“At times one shouldn’t look for spiders,” he said with a sickening grin. “At times, it’s the little insects nobody sees or cares to check because they’re believed to be harmless that tip the scales.”

Inej could see Kaz’s mind trying to figure out the man’s words, his gaze distant.

In that moment she realized that she was never going to tire to see that look on his face. Nor any other looks for that matter. Wobbly, the boy in question turned to her, he took the kerchief she had been pressing on her wound from her hand, and before she could realize what he was doing he tore it a bit and tied it around her bloody arm.

“Let’s get out of here,” he stated, wincing visibly as he made to move towards the door.

The man started laughing again as if Kaz had said something so funny he couldn’t control himself. Inej was on him before she could think. A knee on the thug’s sternum and her blade pressed to his throat.

“What’s so funny?” she inquired, looking down at him with disdain. She was tired, and she wanted to bring Kaz back to the Volkvolny, to get his leg looked properly after.

“In the end, you really are nothing but two delusional kids,” the man said, and Inej could feel his voice reverberate from under her knee.

“Stop speaking in riddles, or I swear to all the Saints known I’ll cut your throat right this second.”

He raised one hand in a gesture of mocking surrender. “Let’s just say that nobody is leaving this place alive,” he conceded.

“What do you mean?” asked Kaz from somewhere behind her, his tone menacing yet on guard. The tip of Inej’s knife scraped the man’s throat when he didn’t immediately answer back, two droplets of blood slid down the blade.

“This place and the whole town are about to be razed down by bombs and cannons. General Brum’s ships are approaching. They wanted to make sure our precious king consort and his flying machine didn’t leave this place unscathed. There’s no escaping your tragic fate now.” He snarled. His voice couldn’t conceal the hate he had for Nikolai, so he must have been one of those Ravkans from the West, unhappy with who was ruling over them now.

“No,” Inej said softly, and shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re lying!”

The man’s eyes lit with a manic light. “The world shall end in flames and darkness before being ruled by Gri –” He never finished his sentence, as Kaz brought down his cane once again, this time on his head.

The silence that followed could have lasted a minute or an eternity, Inej couldn’t be sure.

“Kaz,” she started again while standing.

“You need to leave. Now. I can’t walk, I think my leg is broken, but you need to leave me here and run from this place.” Kaz said, turning to look at her, the desperation palpable in his voice

“I’m not leaving,” she approached him. “We need to warn Nikolai. Tell them all to leave.”

“Inej – ”

“Either pick up the comm and call them, or give it to me, Kaz. We’re only losing time like this.” Her tone was unmovable.

Without any more protests on his part, he took out the little ingenious device Wylan and Nikolai had come up with. It permitted them to communicate even from quite long distances.

“Crow 1 and 2 to Too Clever Fox, do you copy?”

For the briefest of instants only there was only the sound of static, but then.

“Too Clever Fox here, I copy you. Kaz? What’s going on?” came the king’s voice.

“Nikolai, listen to me: you have to leave. Now. Get the Volkvolny and depart. This monastery, this town is about to be razed down by bombs. They knew we would be here; Brum’s ships are approaching. You – ”

“We’re coming to get you,” Nikolai interrupted him.

“No, there’s no time for that. You have to leave here now, or it will all be for nothing.” He looked at Inej then, his eyes searching hers in the dim light of the room with evident resignation.

“No! Kaz, Inej, no, we’re coming and we’re all surviving this.” Another protest from a different voice, Jesper’s.

“No! You have to listen and be quiet. I know where the thing we’ve looked for is. It’s hidden somewhere under the little place you train your soldiers. I also know how they’ve been able to predict our every move. Bugs. Check the war room for devices of the sort we’re using right now.”

“I will,” was Nikolai’s response.

There was another brief pause of static, Kaz spoke again, before he could be interrupted

“Jesper, Wylan,” he said. “The Crow Club and everything else is yours and Nina’s. You’ll find all the documents in my office back at the Slat. Do with them whatever you think it’s right.”

“Kaz, please we still have time, we can come and get you.” It was Wylan’s voice now that came from the other side.

Inej got closer and circled the hand in which Kaz was gripping the device with her own. “Wylan, you have to leave. Right now, ring the alarm bell of the town and go.” She started and then said:

“Guys… find my parents, tell them – tell them what happened, and that it was all for something better. We love you.”

Another anguished call for their names echoed around the room they were standing.

Inej took a breath a finished what she meant to say. “Nikolai the Wraith… take good care of her, and don’t forget our promise. When you see Nina and Zoya tell them – ”

She couldn’t finish the sentence the threat of tears pricking her eyes. Luckily the privateer answered back.

“I’ll tell them, and I promise everything we did by far will not be in vain. Thank you, my friends. We will never forget what you did for Ravka and for all of us.”

Kaz and Inej could also hear the subtle sounds of distress of their friends, their family. She realized in that moment how much all of them meant to her. Funny how life had a tendency to remind you how deeply you loved someone when you’re about to lose everything.

Kaz brought the device back on his lips and in a clear voice said: “No mourners…” and before they could hear an answer coming from the other side, he had already thrown on the ground the device and smashed it with the tip of his cane.

The movement made so that he lost his balance. He would have crashed on the ground if Inej hadn’t been there to prevent the fall. She brought his arm over and shoulder and steadied him.

Kaz looked at her intently, his face turned in her direction, his eyes scanning her features and she knew what he was about to tell her even before he spoke the words.

“Inej, you can still make it, you’re fast, you have to run and save yourself.”

“I knew you were going to say this, but if you think that I could ever leave you behind you’re sorely mistaken.”

He did not relent, and as stubbornly as ever he removed his arm from around her shoulder, he gripped his cane with all his might so as not to fall again and faced her.

“Inej, please. Run now. Live. You have so much you still have to give to this wretched world.” Kaz Brekker never said please, never. Yet here he was, a broken boy standing in front of the girl he had grown to love.

“I can’t do that,” Inej simply replied while shaking her head in denial.

“It was all my fault, and you can’t pay my foolishness with your life, I won’t allow it. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it.”

She took the short distance separating them and put her hand atop his on his cane.

“None of this was your fault, you have to get that straight. We’ve done something good, we helped our friends, our countries. And you’ll always be worth it to me.”

At her words she felt his breath hitch, but still his eyes held behind them a strange resolution.

“I can’t be the reason why you die here today, why can’t you understand that?” Kaz’s voice cracked, perhaps with the effort of holding back his desperation. Inej brought her free hand up and gently cupped his face with her palm. Her thumb grazed his cheek in a loving gesture.

“I’m not afraid to die, Kaz. But I’m terrified at the idea of a life without you in it. So, no. I’m not leaving, not now, not ever.”

***

As they stumbled outside the musty room of the monastery, Kaz with an arm draped around Inej’s shoulder for support, the Autumnal sun had started its descent. The soft orange and purple hues of the rays reflected on the sea surface, and the waves created a gentle melody. Inej couldn’t help but think that this was the Saints’ way to lead them onto their next job, their next adventure…

They dragged their feet until they were near the shore and lowered themselves down. For a moment that felt like an eternity, they gazed to the horizon, the sheer but peaceful resignation palpable in the air.

When Kaz clasped her hand and looked at her, she remembered a conversation she had overhead between the boy and Zoya.

They had adjourned their meeting after having gone over their plan again, everyone had stepped out of the room except for Kaz and Zoya, who had prevented him from exiting with a question. Curious as to why he hadn’t joined her outside, she had stayed behind the closed door, waiting in the long corridor. She had known that Kaz, and probably the queen too, were aware that she was there, but she hadn’t cared much.

“Just out of curiosity, why are you doing this Mr. Kerch rat?” she had asked, her voice reverberating even outside.

“I thought it was pretty obvious, Your Highness. It’s for the reward.” He had replied in that wry tone of his that she knew drove Zoya crazy.

“Oh, but I don’t think it’s just that.” Even without having been inside, Inej could picture the other woman taking one of the positions she had learned the queen preferred. Arms crossed and a frowned expression to better look down on him. In the crows’ time at the palace, the two Suli women had formed an easy and quiet friendship. The captain of the Wraith had helped her queen to reacquaint herself with her Suli heritage and Inej had even told Zoya that once the situation was over, she was going to bring her to her family caravans, to spend some time amongst their people. They had become sisters at heart and by blood.

“Enlighten me with your glorious knowledge then.”

Kaz had always liked playing with fire, but he was always walking a fine line with the sovereign of Ravka. Perhaps he wanted to see how much she could take before she decided to strike him out of existence on the spot.

“When you saw that this was getting dangerous, that it wasn’t going to be an easy job, you could have easily dropped everything and return to Ketterdam with you crew. Why didn’t you? Why stay when you knew the risks?”

Inej had heard genuine interest in Zoya’s voice that didn’t bore any resentment.

“I don’t know what you want me to answer.”

“Try with the truth, I know it’s hard for you, but indulge me. I know you’re not doing this just for yourself and your own benefit, as shockingly as it may seem. You’re still here for Inej, for the promise we had sworn to keep.” The queen had said as if she had found out the deepest secret of the man standing before her.

“Let me get this straight,” he had rasped. “I’ll always do what’s best for me, but I’m also a man of my word and I made a promise.”

There had been a few seconds of absolute silence, in which probably Zoya had studied him with those piercing blue eyes of hers.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but under certain aspects we’re not that different you and I. Your prickly behavior can only last so long, Kaz, but eventually you’ll have to let go. I’ve learned that even the thickest thorns have their purposes.” The queen had said with a wisdom that at times made Inej wondered how many lives the queen had already lived.

“Ah, but here’s where your wrong, Your Excellency. In this scenario you’re comparing me to thorn wood, while actually I’m just barren land on which nothing grows.”

His lapidary answer would have been enough to render speechless anyone, but not Zoya the Grisha queen of Ravka. In her spectacular talent at having always the last word she told him: “You’ll realize that you can’t keep up this cold demeanor forever. I just hope it won’t be too late when you do.”

***

Inej squeezed Kaz’s hand tighter and looked him straight in his brown eyes, a shade lighter in the orange sun. From a distance they heard the sound of bells. Their friends had managed to give the alarm, she only hoped they were already on their way back to the palace. The tolls were shortly followed by another sound: propellers guiding the Fjerdan ships to face the town and the monastery. With a small smile grazing her feature she told him said.

“You were wrong. You were wrong that time when you spoke with Zoya.” If at the beginning of her sentence he had seemed confused, now she could see he understood what conversation she meant.

“You’re not just barren land, Kaz. You managed to build something from nothing, you survived all those terrible things in your life and in the process, you managed to grow, to thrive, to do something good for Ravka and your friends. I’m sure your brother would be proud of you. I know I am.” He didn’t reply.

The rumbling of the aircrafts was almost cacophonic, in contrast to the peace they had basked in not a few minutes ago. Despite that, it was as if the two of them had been placed in a protective bubble of their own, in which not even those machines of war could destroy.

Perhaps it was the lightening, but Inej swore those were unshed tears glinting in Kaz’s eyes. In all the years she had known him, she had never even seen him get emotional or choked up about something, but here, now, on this shore with her, Dirtyhands was doing just that.

“I’ve never wanted for it to end like this – his shoulders shook as he held back a sob – for us, to end like this. Inej, believe me when I tell you that if I could go back, I would do so many things differently. If I could go back, I would start to show you how much I admire you, how much I love you so much earlier than I did.”

Inej’s hand found his face again. The tip of her fingers skimmed his lips in such a tender gesture that they parted under her touch.

“There’s no need for that, Kaz, I already know. And it doesn’t matter how early or late you started. You show me you love me every day.” Her limb continued on her exploration: she touched his brow, his eyes, his cheekbones. “I propose a deal: I’ll find you in the next life Kaz Rietveld, and even there I’ll be waiting for you perched on your windowsill feeding the crows.”

Still looking at her straight in the eye, he let go of her hand, removed his gloves discarding them on the sand and rubbed her disheveled braid between two trembling fingers.

“The deal is the deal. I’ll find you there then.”

The rumble of the ship cannons had reached a deafening peak as their beams struck mercilessly on the monastery in an unescapable trap of fire.

Before the very end, the two held themselves up on trembling knees and embraced the other. A small smile of resigned happiness on both of their faces.

“Stay with me,” Kaz whispered, and unlike another and far time her answer was clear.

“Always.” Inej swore.

Saints protect us both, was the last thing she thought.

And then there was nothing but searing light.

***

In Os Alta the feast on Sankt Nikolai was fast approaching, but even if she was the queen Zoya didn’t feel much festive. The white, still landscape of her country at this time of the year was an accurate representation of what she had been feeling ever since they had managed to find the heart of Sankt Feliks, save Ravka from the plague and its enemies with another peace treaty and bring the Darkling – or Aleksander as he insisted to be called – back to the little palace where they could control him. She knew they were taking a risk, but it was safer to have him closer than not knowing where he was. It had been a hard decision, but she wasn’t going to murder him in cold blood, she was not going to turn into a monster, as he had in his lust for power. In his loneliness.

When everything had come back to a pseudo- normality, when she had had time to think and just be, it was then that everything she had been holding back for the sake of her country hit her with tenfold the force.

Zoya had understood that keeping emotions bottled inside you, was going to eat you alive in the longer run. It was something she was learning every day, and that she was willing to change, if only a bit. She had started letting go in the small gestures of affection she shared with Genya, in the loving words she had with Nikolai, in the playful banters she occasionally allowed herself to have with the rest of her friends. Her family.

And so, as the Grisha queen strode towards her garden, the winter sun barely a strip on the horizon of a new morning, she couldn’t help the tears that fell down in two cold streaks down her face. Zoya brought an arm up to dry them, the sensation of the thick wool of her winter kefta both prickly and a reassurance.

She opened the door of the little corner of her world. Nobody entered this sanctuary except for Nikolai, since she hadn’t allowed anybody else to see her soul from that close. The structure her king had built for her always managed to leave her speechless. The glass and iron were combined in perfect harmony, and when Zoya worked in it by day, the sun would cast and create a series of little mesmerizing rainbows. However, what would always speak to her were the walls, painted by Alina. The roaring dragon flying, the little fox, the ship resembling the Volkvolny mastering the sea, the colors and symbols of the Grisha orders were her most trusted companions during the solitary hours of her gardening.

It was there where Nikolai found her, tending to her plants and flowers. She heard him enter her safe haven, and she supposed he had come out to her when he had awoken and hadn’t seen her resting beside him. He approached her and kneeled beside where she was on the ground, a rather small pot between her hands. Nikolai knew that when she was working here like this, he would have had to let go of his privateer side, and just be the man she had fallen in love with and married. In short, he needed to be her anchor.

“Those are nice flowers,” he said, pointing to the little thing with red petals. A genuine interest coloring his voice.

“They’re wild geraniums.” Was Zoya’s noncommittal answer. Her eyes hadn’t looked up at him.

“And what is that other sprout beside the flowers?” Nikolai prompted her again, indicating the smaller, yet visible plant growing alongside the geraniums. It looked like it was enveloping the geraniums in an embrace, its green leaves a stark, yet so right, contrast with the red of the petals.

This time she raised her gaze, and her blue orbs found a pair of comforting hazel ones staring back at him.

“It’s ivy.” Again, she didn’t let herself go into any sort of explanation.

“I remember you with a vase like this when you left for the Suli caravans.”

So, he had noticed, of course he had. Zoya was always taken aback by the fact that when it came to her, Nikolai was even a closer observant than he already was.

As soon as everything had settled after the whole ordeal, she had decided that she was going to be the one to bring the news to the Ghafas. Her and only her with no escort and no Nikolai in tow. She had told him that she had to do this particular thing alone, and he had just hugged her and encouraged her to go. It had been a spiritual journey of sorts; one she had promised her other Suli sister they would take together…

“Yes,” she said in a whisper. “They were Inej’s favorite flowers. I brought a pot to her parents when I visited the camps. It was the least I could.” With her hand she showed him other three little vases with the same brightly colored flowers and green little sprout of ivy on the side. “Those are for Nina, Jesper and Wylan. It’s their present for Sankt Nikolai.”

“Zoya,” he started. She knew they’ve been over this before, and yet she couldn’t seem to let her sense of guilt leave her.

“They knew what they were doing, it was their choice.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t make it any easier, Nikolai. When I met her parents – she shook her head – they treated me like their own. Like I was family. I’ve never felt so accepted, so… seen in my life, except for when I’m with you. And yet I’m part of the reason why their daughter has been taken away from them. They both have been taken away from them.” A small moment of silence, and once again she couldn’t stop the little tear escaping the corner of her eye.

“I just don’t understand how there can be such kindness after so much loss.” Zoya wondered out loud.

“It’s the nature of human beings, and also our strength.” Nikolai said. “Even after losing everything, we find it in ourselves to get back on our feet and fight for something new, something worth all the suffering.” He dragged himself closer to Zoya with his arms and then raised a hand to cup her cheek, gently steering her face in his direction. His thumb brushing away the stray tear marking her face.

“As long as there is life, there is happiness, Zoya. There is hope for a brighter future. And that’s exactly what Kaz and Inej had brought us: hope to build something better from the ashes.” He paused and behind his eyes she could see the same emotions that had been haunting her, testimony of the fact that he too had been grieving his friends.

“Don’t let your sorrow squander the hope they enabled with their sacrifice, because you wouldn’t be honoring their memories in that ways.”

“Oh, Nikolai,” she exhaled before throwing her arms around him with such a force he momentarily lost his balance. “Thank you!”

“Any time, my queen. I’ll always be here.” He promised.

“And besides, you know how much I love when I’m being all smart and wise. I couldn’t let this occasion to show it to you slip by.” He finished with a much brighter tone. Zoya softly chuckled, something she hadn’t thought being capable of mere months ago and told him with fake exasperation.

“Of course, you couldn’t. It’s your modesty I fell for after all.”

They remained in each other’s arms for an indefinite amount of time. The only indication of the time passing was the sun which har finally risen, and now was beating on the glass panels of the garden. Zoya continued tending to her plants, all a part of her in some capacity, as Nikolai watched her in a comforting silence, seated on the ground and with his back against a small tree.

“Why the ivy?” he asked her all of a sudden. His eyes returning once again on the pots near him.

“It can grow even in poor soils and although it requires more time for it to bloom than other plants, when it does its resilience it’s unmatched.” Zoya saw Nikolai nodding in understanding.

“I also found the meaning behind it fitting,” She added.

“What’s the meaning?”

“It symbolizes the constancy of love.”

There was a brief silence in which she saw him taking in the information.

“It is as fitting as it is beautiful,” he said, while he rose to his feet and brought her closer once again, placing a soft kiss on her dark mane.

As they left to go back to the palace, hand in hand, Zoya thought to herself that in life there were people whose souls were connected and strung in ways that couldn’t be explained by logic. She looked at Nikolai walking alongside her and smiled softly to herself, sure she had found the missing piece of her complicated puzzle in the golden boy beside her.

Her gait hadn’t felt this light in months.

In a glass garden, in a country ruled by a powerful Grisha queen with the heart of a dragon, a plant of geraniums and ivy grew stronger by the day, forever entwined in their embrace of constant love for the other.

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alfredosauce50 · 3 years

Text

What makes me human [Cyberpunk! America x reader] 16

Wordcount: 4, 869 Rating: M for strong language, moderate sexual references, violence, and gore The reader is referred to as she/her. "God knows. Maybe you have a greater purpose to serve. Why else did he make you?" Chapter synopsis: And you never considered yourself trigger-happy. But the shots have been fired. They're dead before you can interrogate them. Allen is eager to convince you it was the right thing to do, but even he can't deny the horrors that will follow. The war rages on. Alfred stays ignorant for the meantime, and you revel in his bliss of it. You share one last peaceful night with him before the fearful unknown.

16 - Nothing breaks like a heart

The reader is referred to as she/her.

An ear-splitting bang echoed in the pool room. Blood and small chunks of flesh landed on the tiled floor in a splat. Tearing his hand away with a shaky gasp, he held the wrist and hunched over to writhe in agony. "Ergh... Fuck!" He spluttered, feeling a violent tremble seize his wounded hand. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

He lifted his head to glare at you with the utmost betrayal. "What the hell did you do that for?!"

A sizely hole formed in his palm. The exposed flesh was still oozing out blood like a full sponge, dripping onto the ground in generous puddles. A whole section of his bone was missing. And you did it. You shot Alfred. You paled in horror for a few moments, but as he panted before you with tears streaming down his red and enflamed face, it became apparent that your guilt was unfounded.

"What I did that for? You aren't Alfred!" You exasperated, raising the gun shakily to point it between his fearful eyes. "You're a clone!"

A sour flavor was left in your mouth as you spat out the word. His origins were no mystery.

Nobody else could have been responsible or capable of such a heinous crime. To grow an abomination from whatever DNA was left in their lab. You only imagined them to be created for one purpose, and one purpose only. To torment, kill, and replace Alfred. As the thoughts raced through your head, you tightened your finger around the trigger—"Wait, wait! Don't shoot!" He begged, throwing his arms up.

"I know you're freaking out right now, but I have no idea what's going on either!"

Gritting your teeth at his excuse, you were determined to not let it get to you. But it was easier said than done. "Shut up! Don't think for a second you can fool me!" Despite the cutting conviction of your voice, you took on a terrified expression at the thought of shooting him. "I'm gonna do it. You're nothing but a freak of nature! And you'll never... Never..."

As you trailed off, you realized you indeed couldn't pull the trigger.

Not when the barrel was aimed at a face that looked just like Alfred's.

It was contorted with so much fear and despair, pleading silently for you to not hurt him. The fact that he was a spitting image of him made it even harder. How he moved, talked, acted—seeing it chipped away your resolve, leaving you all but paralyzed. The gun was left juddering furiously in your hands in light clacks, holding him hostage at the moment before death.

"Please. Please don't do it." He whispered, bringing his hands down to shield himself. "You gotta help me, (F/N). I don't know how, but I woke up in this body. That's... That's all that happened."

How painfully familiar it sounded.

I woke up in this body.

The similarities were so uncanny, it was cruel. Giving your head a quick shake, your lips quivered as you uttered this.

"You're lying. You're not real."

Creases formed between his brows. "I'm not lying! And I am real! I'll prove it to you, I swear! We went through so much shit together, like uh—" He pointed at you and laughed nervously as he sifted through the scanty archives of his memories. "—I kidnapped you. Ha! See? I know something! That's how we met! And you hated my guts at first."

You swallowed thickly as uncertainty slowly overwhelmed you. If he could remember that, he had to be real, right? No. You had to fend off the feeling. "That's not good enough!" Your finger stayed on the trigger, and the barrel, on him.

He tensed up as panic caught him in a chokehold. "Okay, okay! Well, er..." His heart was pounding harder and harder with every second he failed to say something. "... Oh! Remember the time I nearly got murdered by a cult leader? He had a whole kabuki mask get-up and everything—just like, like Professor Callaghan from Big Hero 6. You know that movie right?"

You sucked in a sharp breath. The title didn't ring any bells, but what he said had you second-guessing yourself. Was he not lying after all? Lowering the gun at that, your motion was slowed by slight hesitance. "... How... How do you know those things?" You asked faintly. "What are you?"

Before he could formulate an answer, footsteps thudded down the hall. Your thoughts came to a complete standstill.

Then, you heard a voice.

"(F/N)!" They shouted. Was it Allen? Your heart sank when you realized you couldn’t tell—it sounded too similar to Alfred. Or were you just imagining things? The sheer amount of panic was too incapacitating that you couldn't think.

So you did the unthinkable.

Raising the gun once more, you fired a shot into his abdomen.

The second you let the bullet fly, you regretted it.

Both your ears rang as the next few moments occurred in silence. And they would unfold in painstakingly slow motion. Dropping the gun to the ground in a soundless clatter, you watched him stumble back a few steps with his eyes popping out of his skull. Blood was spreading around the flaps of his kimono from a new hole in his chest. But the gore couldn't compare to his look of betrayal.

Of a heartbreak so deep, it destroyed you.

"Oh my God..." You raised both hands to your mouth. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed on the ground in a bloody heap. "I just—I just killed—" Tears streamed relentlessly down to your chin as you stood frozen.

"(F/N)! I heard gunshots. What the fuck happened?!" Allen appeared in the doorway. His loud voice derailed your train of thoughts, forcing you to turn to the man. When you did, your heart clenched at the realization you made a mistake. It wasn't him. Alfred was never down the hall, and you panicked.

He never even had a chance to explain himself.

When Allen caught sight of the corpse by your feet, he dug his hands through his hair. Terror ran deep in his expression as he processed what he was seeing. "Shit, (F/N)." His nose scrunched up in shock. Never did he imagine the day would come where you would take someone's life. At least, not so soon.

But it arrived as an unwelcome surprise, unexpected and uninvited. "Did you kill that guy?"

You nodded profusely as a sob racked your body.

He scrambled over and shielded you from the grotesque scene. "Hey, hey, hey! Don’t feel bad! I’ve killed loads of people too, so welcome to the club!" The man rambled frantically, rubbing away your tears with his fingers. But who was he to tell you these things when he felt his own tears come?

"I’m sure he deserved it, and you were just protecting yourself, so don’t worry!" Allen forced a wide, manic smile.

His efforts to console you were in vain as you cried even harder. Pulling you into his chest, he rested his chin on your head that trembled to your coughs. "I'm so sorry..." Allen screwed his eyes shut and squeezed you tighter. "... I’m sorry I left you by yourself. This is my fault, not yours. It's my fault."

The string of apologies he spewed out was on your behalf, but he meant them with every fiber of his being. He had failed to protect the single most valuable thing to him.

And the blatant lie he forced you to accept was the last resort to preserve it. But it was time that stopped. "No, I killed him." You asserted shakily. He had nothing to do with this, and his eagerness to shoulder the blame only rubbed more salt into the wound. If you let him have his way, you would never live it down.

Without removing yourself from the hug, you pointed at the motionless body with your head turned away. "Look at him. I could never lie."

Allen lingered his gaze on you before obliging, albeit reluctantly. Nearing the corpse cautiously, he kicked its chest to roll it over. It revealed the dead man’s face in all its glory. Alfred’s face.

"..."

What the fuck.

When he thought he couldn’t be any more disgusted by the tyranny of technology, he was proved wrong yet again. This was clearly your father’s doing. And it was a declaration of war. But perhaps, it was just the continuation of the one that never ended.

Arthur was completely shit-faced downstairs. Slamming his beer mug down on the counter after he downed the whole thing, he gasped.

"Bwah! That hits the spot." His cheeks and ears were redder than a tomato, a stark contrast to his companion who was stone-cold sober.

Alfred raised a brow. "Sure looks like it. Dude, you gotta lay off the booze. You’re gonna regret it first thing tomorrow." Once he sighed that out, he rested his cheek on his hand. Then, he glowered at the hallway where you and Allen disappeared to.

"How long does it take to piss? They’ve been gone for ages. Twenty minutes? Thirty minutes? I don’t fucking know," The mechanic let out a low chuckle and slapped him on the back. The force made his torso bounce, much to his annoyance. "What’s your deal?"

The other hummed mischievously. "I was just thinking about what you said." Arthur squinted almost suggestively, causing Alfred to do the same, but only out of being appalled. "Maybe... Maybe they aren’t pissing. Since they’re gone for so long at the bathrooms at that—so maybe, urgh... They’re doing the nasty together." The Brit practically howled with laughter, having figured he was probably right.

It was a plausible assumption. As he humored the suggestion Alfred heated up more severely than his intoxicated friend. You having sex with Allen? His chest whirred and nostrils flared. He'd never been this enraged before, but behind the mask of anger was a deep hurt and toxic kind of jealousy.

"Shut up! You’re drunk and slurring your words. You have no idea what you’re talking about."

Arthur snorted. "Sorry to break it to you, brother. But the only time I’m this honest is when I’m drunk, so."

Alfred’s eyes went round. Without a moment’s hesitation, he shot out of his stool and made a beeline to the hall. Before he could make it far, he bumped right into the very subjects of his conversation. Much to his relief, they were in no state that indicated they did anything sexual by nature; you were in his arms and fast asleep. Not that he was happy about it. "Woah. She's out like a light."

"Yeah, so keep your voice down." The other grumbled, bouncing you lightly. "I think it's about time we head home. How drunk is he?"

The blonde blinked. He wasn't expecting him to catch on so quickly. "Off his ass. He's red as."

Allen clicked his tongue and brushed past him. "Called it." Alfred would have dismissed it as something he always did. But since he was carrying you, it made him feel like an extra. So when the man walked off, he followed with a scowl. "Can you get a cab? I'm gonna sit in the corner for a bit."

And sit in the corner he did, laying your body across his lap so you could rest. Alfred narrowed his eyes into a dark glare, lingering on the sight as the club music pounded away in his ears. And he told him to keep his voice down? "Yeah, I'll call you a damn cab."

You pretended to be asleep the whole ride back to Arthur's. It was easy with Allen's shoulder at a perfect height for your face to bury in. For half an hour, you were stuck in that position. There, you listened to the symphony of a trip home from the club: the automated voice of the taxi A.I and the drunken warbles of an intoxicated friend. Without seeing it, you could feel Alfred watching you for the whole duration of the ordeal.

Fortunately, you could escape any interaction with him as Allen carried you to the bathroom upon arriving.

"Oi, where are you taking her?"

The redhead kicked the door open. "What does it look like?"

"Shouldn't you wake her up, at least?"

"Yeah, yeah. Quit breathing down my neck, already."

"Dude—"

The door locked. Setting you down on your feet, you held onto his arms to regain your balance. Once you did, you glanced up at him with the utmost panic. "I can't face him." Digging two hands through your hair, you let out a shaky gasp—"Oh my god, I don't know what to do! I shot him, Allen. I fucking shot him! What's he gonna think of me when he finds out?"

He sighed and gripped your shoulders firmly. With his brows furrowed in a stern expression, he corrected you. "You didn't shoot him. You shot another version of him." Allen couldn't stress that enough. But there were many things he needed to shed a light on in this emergency bathroom meeting. "And it was kinda my fault that happened. If I was there, I woulda' shot him for you."

"That's not the point, here! And it's never gonna be your fault. It's mine, and mine alone. End of story." You swiped a hand across his face for emphasis. While he groaned in dismay, a brief pause followed as you regained your breath.

At least an hour had passed, but you still couldn't wrap your head around it.

"I can't believe I did that. I don't even know how I could! I panicked. I thought Alfred was coming down the hall, but—"

"—but it was me. Doll-" Allen exasperated, dragging out the pet name. "-you can't blame yourself for what you did. Shit happens. And who says what you did was wrong, huh? You probably just saved us all from a bloodbath. And you know that!" Rocking you gently back and forth to shake some sense into you, he leaned in to peer into your wide eyes staring into space.

"That's why you shot him. You did the right thing."

As he blurted that out, the memory replayed in your head again and again like a broken record. Intrusive thoughts were a bitch. And there was one particular detail of the event that you would never forget. "Was it the right thing to do, though?" You murmured, lowering your doubtful gaze to the tiled floor. The betrayal in his eyes was so genuine, you came to regret everything you've done.

"What if he was real like he said?"

You were asking some hard-hitting questions, that was for sure. Everything else was shrouded in a fog of uncertainty.

"Well, it wouldn't matter if he was real. Cuz' he's dead."

Allen's expression morphed into a dark glower.

"But if he was still alive, there'd be two of him, and not for long. They'd kill each other, for sure. I mean, if I found out there was a second-rate version of me farting around out there, I'd kill that poser for sport. Hunt him down like game." Lifting up your chin so you'd look at him, he flashed a grin.

"So don't feel bad. You killed him and saved Alfred the trouble."

Softening your gaze at that, you pulled him into another hug. Allen was always amazing at comforting you in the direst of situations.

"... Maybe you're right."

He chuckled and patted your back. "I'm always right."

But there was still one concern he could never address.

If your father made a clone of Alfred, a real and legitimate copy, there was no saying he could make another. Hell, you even expected him to. He could keep churning him out so long as he had his DNA. The only way to end this threat was quick to cross your mind, but you didn't want to think about it.

You would have to kill your father.

Allen figured. But today suffered enough bloodshed.

Before he left the bathroom for you to use, he held onto your cheek.

Flickering his striking scarlet eyes over your troubled expression, he caught you in a quiet gaze. You could easily translate the untold fondness he watched you with. We can still run away together.

He pulled away slowly, reluctantly. Then, the door closed behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts. It never crossed your mind the first time he brought it up earlier tonight, but you finally understood what he really meant by running away. Allen wanted to share his life with you. Heat flurried in your chest as you considered the idea.

Tears threatened to return once you realized how much you wanted to do it, just not with him. The desire was there, but it happened to be stronger for someone else.

Alfred had been waiting outside with his back against the wall, arms crossed with a frown. It only deepened when Allen walked out.

"What're you lookin' at?" The redhead mumbled.

"... Nothing. Just wondering why you two spend so much time in the bathroom together." Alfred pointed out, glancing down at the cigarette between his fingers. He would have been jumping for joy if it weren't for wanting to look serious. "What were you doing with her in the penthouse?"

The other felt a spell of irritation hit him. It was always jealousy with this one, wasn't it? But he couldn't be a hypocrite. "None a'ya business, bub." He hummed, slotting the cancer stick in between his teeth. A sly smirk widened his lips as he saw the blonde tense up. "You saw how tired she was. So don't even think about it."

Don't even think about it, he'd said. How come everything coming out of his mouth sounded like a euphemism for sex? Don't keep her up with stupid conversations would've sounded better. Alfred huffed and stormed back to the guest room. Or was it just his mind that was in the gutter? He blamed Arthur for even bringing it up.

Hanging his clothes on a chair, he curled up under the covers. His chest was whirring again, and the discomfort was akin to something you've gone through before. Separation anxiety. When you did show up ten minutes later, he rolled over to the door to watch your form. Hearing the fabric shuffle in your direction made your heart skip in panic.

He was awake.

"Arthur's puking his guts out, so if you hear coughing, it's him."

Hopefully, some light-hearted banter could keep you from acting up. But that was easier said than done.

The blanket lifted briefly so you could get under it. Once you got comfortable, he didn't hesitate to pull you in by the waist to spoon you. Ever since he saw you sleep in the club, and on Allen no less, he'd been dying to do this. "... I tried telling him." He murmured into your ear. "But I've slept through worse. You flop and roll a lot."

The feeling of his breath on your neck and the sound of his husky voice made your heart ache. Every night was spent like this, warm and snug in his arms, but tonight was different. Inside, you were still agonizing over what you had done to him, even if it wasn't exactly him. So to feel his chest rise against your back, then his legs rub against yours, you just couldn't take it—it was all too much.

Rolling over to him, you caught his neck in your arms and pulled it down for a tight squeeze. What you uttered next captured your deepest and most inexplicable desire. To truly be alone with him.

"I can't take it here anymore." You muttered furiously, hugging him around his neck to start crushing him.

He let out a shaky breath at the sudden pressure.

"Hey, hey, calm down. What's wrong?"

"I can't calm down. I need to talk to you. Alone." Sitting up at that, you pulled him along. It came especially easy as he stood up, eager to understand your spontaneity. "And in someplace that's not here. There's just... Too many people. Four is too many."

Alfred lit up, but his growing smile did his emotions no justice. He was ecstatic. Things were always simpler when it was just the two of you. Maybe you were finally getting sick of these cramped living conditions, the scrutiny. At least, he knew he was. So it was almost as if you read his mind. "Okaay. Are we going on a midnight adventure?" He piped.

But then again, you always seemed to be walking on the same wavelength as him.

He followed you around the room like a puppy as you collected some things—your jacket, then Alfred's phone to shoot Allen a text. We're off to the nearest no-tell motel to talk. We'll be back in the morning. Setting the device onto the desk, you threw him his belongings. His gun and trusty coil of tools. Catching them wordlessly, he shot you a quizzical look. "Well, aren't you mysterious? Where are we going?"

Little did he know, your decision to leave the house for the night had only so much to do with random selfish impulses. From the outside, it looked exactly like that. Up and going without a care in the world, without care for Allen, and becoming unreachable for the next several hours. But after what happened, you just needed time to recalibrate.

"Where we always used to go." You threw your jacket on. Dragging him out into the hall, he caught a brief glimpse of Arthur passed out over the toilet before he found himself in the garage.

Handing him his key, you opened the car door next to the driver's seat. "We have to be quick before Allen tries to stop us."

The said man was sitting on the roof when he heard the rumbling of the garage door. Immediately after the sound stopped, a car sped out of it with an aggressive vroom and disappeared into the night. Narrowing his eyes at the rear window, he stood up and tossed his cigarette over the edge. Where the hell were you going this late at night? And with Alfred, no less?

He could feel hot jealousy prick him all over again. But it was warped with a harrowing kind of sadness. No matter what he did or what he said, he couldn't seem to get in between you two. Allen sat back down and lit up another cigarette. Giving that a few puffs, he surrounded his head in a cloud of grey smoke. Maybe he did know you for too long.

For eight years, he'd been a brotherly figure in your life. Now, he was afraid that was all he was ever going to be.

~~~

Parking the car in the courtyard after the most thrilling joyride, you pulled Alfred into the reception to book a room. Given his inhumane strength, your efforts to drag him down the hall were to no avail. Peering down at you with a warm smile, his face contorted with an amused look as you tugged at his arm as hard as you could. "Easy there, tiger. This is a motel, not a five-star hotel."

Between two walls littered with cracks was a dimly lit interior. Everything smelt like vomit, piss, and alcohol to boot, and yet, you were bounding beside him in excitement. "I know! But doesn't this feel nostalgic? We lived in these places for ages." You exasperated, scanning a keycard to unlock the door.

Alfred didn't think he was a sentimental person, but hearing you reminisce the past so fondly was enough to change his smile into a bittersweet one. "I guess." He couldn’t remember everything like you, but for now, he could pretend he did. "Motels are economic and discrete, so where was a better place to go?"

Once you both got inside, he felt your hand let go of his. For a moment, he felt just the smallest dash of loneliness—it was the emptiness of not feeling you somewhere where you should have been. Fortunately, it faded when you gleamed at him while you explored the room with child-like curiosity.

"I think I did a pretty good job at converting you." Alfred mused.

You flopped onto the bed to lie on your back. "Converting me to what?"

The mattress dipped to your right, so you rolled over to face him. "To a commoner. Or maybe something lower than that." He grinned devilishly. And for that comment, he would earn a strong shove on his chest. Despite nearly falling off the edge, he merely scooted back in. "I've never seen someone this happy staying in a dump like this."

"Don't give yourself too much credit. I just miss it." Pausing briefly at that, a small smile spread to your lips when you saw his, wide and as endearing as ever. If there was one thing you wanted to see before you died, it was this. Alfred's warm smile. As you lingered on the thought, you realized you were completely smitten with him.

But most importantly, at peace.

This was exactly why you even dragged him here in the first place. For some quality alone time, backtracking, and a good, long talk without interruptions. "I'd know all about dumps." You murmured, reaching out to play with a lock of his sandy blonde hair. "Zao and I tend to find our best friends in them."

He chuckled airily. "Is this me?"

"... Well, sure. But I was talking about Allen."

Things got dark pretty fast.

You both laughed it off. He didn't have great memories of motels, but laying here with you reminded him of what you said about them. A lot of good things happened in these tiny rooms, apparently. And they were what you two talked about until three AM in the morning, standing together out on the balcony. From here, the heart of the city could be seen, from the aerial roads of spinners in the distance to the endless hills of skyscrapers and blinking lights.

"I was thinking," Alfred murmured quietly, turning his head to you. The right side of his face reflected the glow of the city. But it couldn't quite compare to the hope that lit up his eyes, as subtle as it was. "Is everything finally over?"

You turned to him, gaze softened. For just tonight, you would let him bask in his ignorance. And yourself, in his hold. "Not yet." You whispered. The feeling of his hand on your waist was a feeling you could get used to. Reaching out to his other one on the railing, you guided it to your side so he could hold you properly.

Alfred squeezed you eagerly, pressing closer to your body.

Taking his face into your hands, you gave him one last gesture of untold affection. It was a culmination of raw emotion free from your own better judgment. A means to communicate without talking.

You pressed your forehead against his and closed your eyes.

At that very space in time, a singular thought occurred to both of you—I wish this moment would last forever.

"But we'll make it... Just like we always do."

What would you do if I killed you?

Nothing, because I'd be dead.

What if you survived? Or left behind a soul?

Then I'll come back and find you.

The club was still pounding away, much like the headache in his skull. Sucking in a sharp breath, he suffered the worst wake-up call in his short life—he was still bleeding, and in terrible pain. He shakily felt around his wound while hyperventilating on the ground. How he hadn't kicked the bucket yet was beyond him.

"Get your ass up already. I know you're not dead." A man growled in disdain, giving the body on the ground a light kick.

"Gh—!" He let out a pained gasp and clung onto the ground for dear life. It had been years since he felt this alive—ironically, it was when he was inches away from death.

His perpetrator had their dark eyes fixated on him like a stain on the floor. Their pupils were as red as the blood his victim bathed in. But they always had a strong stomach for gore. "What am I gonna say when the owner finds out I'm the reason you even got in here? You're bleeding into the pool." They murmured, raising his leg to keep tormenting the other like a new hobby.

With a few more kicks, the body rolled onto its back.

"Ugh... Fuck... How am I not dead?" He coughed in agony.

The other shrugged, flicking their ponytail over their shoulder. "God knows. Maybe you have a greater purpose to serve." As cryptic as that sounded, it was nothing but the truth. He had more to his life than dying in a nightclub. Dying could be a part of it, but this couldn't be the location to do it, nor could it be by your hand—the closest kin to his creator.

"Why else did he make you?"

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