#the sunken land begins to rise again

[sunny-mercya]

Of Nightmarish Phobias

Poly! Billy Loomis & Stu Macher x Male Reader

Fandom -> Scream 1996

Requested by -> Anon

Masterlist

Ever since the dreadful accident, sleep—something which wouldn't come easily anymore—had been deprived from the three of you, leaving you all sluggish to move through the day.

Stu would be the first one to wake up—even though he's more of a heavyweight sleeper, sleeping till late afternoon if no one would wake him up—and being a sprawler, his lanky long limps like a starfish hitting his two boyfriends every now and then, he could easily bring you into a koala hug like headlock.

Like mention before, Stu sleeps heavily—sunken so deep into the dreamland and in the comforts of bed, that he wouldn't even notice if the sky would shatter down onto earth.

Though now, besides Billy's rough way of waking him up—a slap to his thighs—the slightest hectic movement from you would bring him to a point of rise.

Turning onto his sides, towards you, Stu moves you into his arms. Holding you tight to

Where while Billy, who could sleep just as deep if wanted to—but didn't, liked to be on natural guard—would occasionally wake up on his own, checking up on you and taking a toilet break.

Billy was more the rational—doesn't mean he hadn't a soft side—person of comfort and Stu—who could be just as mean if needed—the one for emotional support. They're both their counterparts and at the same time they completed one another—like missing puzzles or Yin and Yang.

In all this you're the pull of glue which hold them both together. From the beginning of your relationship, you had giving them nothing but unconditional warm comfort of love, making sure they're happy and satisfied.

Though after the accident it all had changed and now it was their turn to shower you in unconditional love and support.

Simply because they adored you just as much as you do them and because you're their driving force—the sole motivation of reasons—why they decided to do what they do; delightful killing.

~~~

Stu groaned in pain, doubling over into a fetal position as your hand collided with his stomach in full force again. Sure, you had lost some strength in your muscles—on practically terrible days couldn't even stand on your own without having help or an aid—but you still were able to give a few good hits.

Whatever dream it was this time, it made your hand hitting down on repeat—like a cat would do when trying to catch a toy.

Another groan from Stu, had you hit his side this time. Should he try and wrap you into a blanket hug again or wake Billy up?

He couldn't tell how server your nightmare is this night. If it's just a common one—he really doesn't know the different types of nightmares and their names and neither does Billy, so they decided to give them their own ranks, for a more easily weighting out of options and methods to use against you—or one of the terrific ones.

The ranks of Nightmares goes like this; A common one means, letting you it trashing it out. Mid ones, wrapping you up into a blanket or tight hug. Terrible ones, waking you up. Terrific ones—where you're in a sense awake at the same time and giving yourself also a panic attack at the same time, without realising—would mean injecting you with a sedative.

More than often they had to use the Sedative during Common or terrible ones too.

Which they shouldn't, as the doctor said not to and only when absolutely necessary needed—the sedative was quite strong, making you sleep through a whole day and brings your mind into a state of fuzzy haze when awake again, that it turns you vulnerable and incoherent.

But when you're so immersed into your panic, they had no other options at hand, then to inject it into your blood.

»Fuck.« Billy cursed out loud when your hand landed onto his stomach, full force. Stu stifles a chuckle—serves you right, he thought, if I have to suffer so does you.

Billy sats up, blankets dropping down from him, turning his head to his boyfriends and squinting into the darkness a bit.

»Shut up Stu. Next time you wake me beforehand, when [Name] starts to trash around like this.« grumbled Billy, hissing shortly after when his thigh got slapped.

Christ, could you hit hard when unintentionally wanted to.

»Nah, make me«

»C'mon big guy, let's go to the couch to get at least some sleep.«

~~~

A few hours later, in the early mornings, your screaming woke Billy and Stu up. Like cold water being dumped on them, they tumbled from the couch and onto the floor.

Wide awake now, on full guard—you screaming was never a good thing—and ready to strike an attack to whatever intruder might have come, they untangled them from each other limps.

Bolting with quick steps back into the bedroom, switching the lights on and discovering you.

Sitting on the ground, against the nightstand. Head in hands, gripping your hair tightly—pulling at it—trembling uncontrollably in shivers.

»Baby, what's wrong?« asked Billy, voice soft and in a audible whisper. Slowly approaching you with Stu, crouching down and stretching his hand out into your view.

»He's here. He's here. He's here.« you chanted it like a mantra, rocking back and forth.

»Who's here, darling?«

»Dylan! He's here! He's back! He will hurt me again!« your head whipped up, looking at Billy with a wide fear filled face. Tears already flowing from you eyes as you pointed with a shaking finger at the wardrobe.

»Baby, baby, he isn't here, believe me.« said Stu, leaning against the wall. They know Dylan isn't here, have killed him after all to ensure your safety.

»Yes he is!« jumping up, pushing Billy and Stu aside and going to the wardrobe, you opened it wide—searching through the clothes.

You shirked in utterly disbelief. He was here, you're sure of it. You have saw him just mere minutes ago, when you woke up—saw his face looking down at you and the grin he had giving you.

It's a tragic and also a daily sight for them to see you so distressed in panic. How you destroyed yourself mentally further, with the slow rise of losing reality and growing into a paranoia.

»Nononononono« a hiccup left your lips, kneeling down, gripping your hair again and hitting your head against the floor. Mumbling incoherent words, messy nonsense things.

»Stu, get the Syringe« Billy pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling deeply. That's the third time in a row now, that they had to use the sedative. Thought they had no other choice or you would've injured yourself in your panicking state of hysteria more.

At this point they probably overdosing you with the chemical drug of calm, but what other choice had they? Sending you into therapy and they, the therapist signed you off into a mental institution? No chance.

Billy goes to you, heaving you up into his arms and moving you towards the bed. Sitting you and himself down onto the mattress, prying your hands from your head.

~~~

When Stu came back in, syringe in hand, Billy had managed to calm you down significantly, looking just a tad exhausted.

Billys grip around your body tightens, knowing well what was about to come next.

Once you took notice of the syringe in Stu's hand and the apologetic look he wore, you winced visibly in Billy arms.

You hated every type of needles. The sharp point brought a sense of pain filled imaginations. How it stabs into your skin, piercing a hole into it and either sucking your blood or letting it flow out.

Needles are a tool of something sinister.

Billy had pinned you down onto the mattress, hovering over you and this was the only cruel thing they had do to you—reminding you of the night when Dylan had hovered over you, grinning down, licking his lips in lust when he stabbed the scissors into you—so Billy lets you trash as much as you wanted.

»Let me go! Let me go! Nonono no. LET ME GO!« you screamed, trying to headbutt Billy, trying to free yourself.

You don't want the needle be pierced into your skin again, has it enough tiny disgusting holes already.

Stu joined, taking a seat next to you. Taking your arm from Billys grip, he injected the syringe into your skin.

While the drugs take their time to flow into your system, Billy and Stu had both engulfed you into their arms. Caressing you and whispering sweet nothings into your ear, till you're completely numb of panic—drowsy and calm.

»Goodnight, love«

#male reader #x male reader #fanfiction #oneshot #malereader #scream x male reader #scream #scream 1996 #poly! billy and stu x male reader #billy x stu x male reader #billy loomis x male reader #stu macher x male reader #billy loomis #stu macher #poly! ghostface x male reader #poly! billy loomis & stu macher x male reader #fluff #requested by anon #request ask

[balbigalum]

Of War & Men

pairing: Aemond Targaryen/Reader

chapter summary: Aemond’s wound is getting better but not at the speed Cole and the war needs it, reader find herself between men that don’t trust her judgment, the Maester think she is poisoning the Prince and it seems like keeping herself alive it’s not an easy task. Aemond begins to look at her.

summary: You knew war was ravishing your lands and when Targaryen soldiers came into your village demanding every healer to come with them and help the cause you knew that this war was something to be scared of. (In which reader is rumored to be a witch and prince Aemond needs her help after being deeply wounded.)

tags: war, witch!reader, ser criston cole is here, enemies to lovers kinda, prisoner of war to lovers kinda, i think reader is older than aemond because he is like 20 but is not mentioned so far, +18, word count: 2.6K  

READ ON AO3

a/n:   Hey, as always any feedback is welcomed, if anything is phrased weirdly or you see any mistake let me know and i'll se what i can do to fix it, this chapter is from aemond’s pov don’t worry we’re going back to the other format in the next, if u want to be added or removed from the tag-list let me know :P

Chapter 2 (<<previous chapter | next chapter>>)

His chest felt sunken, like his heart was being weighed down by everything dark and ugly. Guilt. Shame. Pain. He felt sorrow and a need to apologize. Why was he sorry? He couldn't remember. He felt his own mouth scream, filled with hurt, but he didn't hear it. He couldn't move his arms, and his legs felt weak. The only place where he could feel his heartbeat was his left eye, behind it, beating away, making his whole head ache, the sapphire digging painful in its place. He knew the sapphire caused him pain, that's why he had stuck it there in the first place. A reminder. But now, it felt unbearable. Everything felt clouded with a thick mist, he couldn't see any light around him.

And then, a woman.

He couldn't make out her figure clearly, but he wanted her closer, anything to not feel as alone. Her dress seemed worn out and dyed a dark color, her eyes looked at him, alert and focused, and in her hand a dagger. She was coming closer, the dagger was bright. Was that his father's dagger? Who was she? Why did she have it? Was she coming for him? Fear overtook him again. When had he become so frightened? He felt like a child. The look on her face reminded him of his mother the night he had lost his eye. With the same dagger she had demanded Lucerys Velaryon to pay his debt, everybody in court had said his mother lost her mind that night, lost her composure, even his own grandfather. But no, she was right. He had lost his eye and nobody had cared. Was this woman coming to take his other eye? Had he not suffered enough? 

He smelled burning flesh now, that was his fault. He had burned half of the riverlands, any sword that dared to stand against him, against his family. Something had hit him at some point, it was barely a scratch, at least at first. And then the fever started, he could handle the heat but it got worse, his head got a little more dizzy everyday, confusion was taking over him and he couldn't keep food down. The woman was gone now and Vaghar stood in front of him. He tried to reach out for her but she opened her mouth, rising from her throat he could see the flames. He could feel the heat. For the first time in his life the heat was too much. He tried to speak. To tell Vaghar to be calm, to obey, but he no longer had a voice. Behind the fire stood the same woman from earlier, long braid over her shoulder, and in her hands his own heart, burning from the inside out, copper and red, and still beating.

Prince Aemond Targaryen woke up with a loud gasp, his hands reaching out trying to hold onto something. He was alive. His heart was in his chest, even if the pain coming from it made it hard to believe.

He was in the master chamber of the Watch Tower he had adopted as headquarters. He could barely sit up, he tried to piece together what he was seeing. It was morning, he could hear a loud shriek coming from Vaghar, she was crying out for him. He looked around the room, the light coming from the open window felt blinding in his eye. He saw a woman sitting in the corner, long braid over her shoulder, her hands bound by irons. She was awake. How long had she been looking at him? She looked alert. Did Vaghar’s roar scare her? He tried to move again.

"Bring me Ser Criston," He said, but his voice was barely there. He needed water and a bath, and then he needed to mount Vaghar and get his army to Harrenhal. She lifted her hands, still bound. Right. He thought, She can’t. "Bring me–" He repeated, and gave up. Somebody must have been guarding the door, listening, because Ser Criston and a Maester bursted through it a second later. 

"Prince," Ser Criston said. "You're alive." The Maester made his way towards him, touching his forehead and checking how conscious he was. "My Prince," The old man said. "How do you feel?" He tried to sit up again but he was too weak to do so, the Knight rushed to help him lay against the pillows in a more comfortable position. "I feel fine." That was partially a lie, he felt… Better, but he was sure he couldn't stand up if he tried. The Maester’s eyes turned suspicious.

"What did you do?" He demanded, his voice laced with disgust as he peeled the bandage from Aemond’s chest, he was talking to the woman. He wasn't looking at her, Aemond could tell the Maester was furious for some reason. He watched as the old man touched the greenish paste he had lathered on his chest. The woman did not say a word. Maester Olwyn dug his fingers in the paste and brought them up to his nose, he gasped loudly. 

“What did you do?” He repeated loudly. “This is Red Mouth, this is poison. You poisoned him.” He was screaming at this point, yet the woman remained unfaced. Ser Criston Cole yanked her by her arm, forcing her to stand up. “What did you do?” Ser Criston asked this time, she looked at him, her eyes were deep and calm. “I did what you asked me to. I saved your prince.” She spoke and her voice sounded venomous. Olwyn was trying to find a cloth, something, anything to clean Prince Aemond’s wound. “Is not poison.” She said. “He won’t die. He will recover.” 

“No.” The Maester said. “I’ll bring boiling water and clean the wound, I will heal it in the way I was taught, none of this nonsense.” She disagreed with Olwyn, Aemond could tell in the way she was pursing her lips and staring at him. “If you break the protective layer, infection will set in.” She said, simple, making her point clear. “Free me now, he is alive.” She was talking to Ser Criston now and he looked back at Aemond. “No. No until the Prince can walk again.” She huffed. “You made a promise, have you got no honour, Ser?” She asked him mocking.

Ser Criston Cole grabbed her by the hair making her hiss. “You will attend to the Prince until he is healed. I don’t care what you do, you’ll wash his clothes or scrub his floors, but you won’t leave until he is back to his former strength.” He dropped her. Maester Olwyn was coming closer to Aemond now, he had a wet cloth in his hand. “No,” Aemond said. “Don’t.” “My Prince, I need to clean the wound.” He shook his head at how dense the Maester could be, he didn’t like the Maester, he didn’t like the advice he gave him in the council and he didn’t like his old and clammy hands touching him. “Let her do what she bids.” Aemond said, Olwyn tried to protest but turned his head down once he made eye contact with the Prince. Aemond was tired, he didn’t need to waste the little strength he had left in convincing the old man, the Maester knew better than to question him. 

“Ser Criston,” He called. “Bring me food and water, don’t let anyone but you and the woman into this room.” His voice sounded strangled, even for his own ears. He closed his eye after that. His head hurt, he thought about how many of his men had seen him in this state. He could recall landing on Vaghar, finding his way into the Watch Tower, black spots clouding his view. He couldn’t allow them to see him this way. Bare and weak. Wounded. Mortal. He wasn’t such thing, he couldn’t let them know. He was the one-eye prince, the kinslayer, he was no common man, he did not bleed.

He laid there motionless. Breathing felt easier, but nothing else did.

He was in and out of sleep after that, he figured out someone must have given him water and some food during the small periods of clarity he got, it must have been Criston or maybe Olwyn, not the woman. She was still there. They had unchained her but still made her wear the irons on her wrists, a sign, he supposed, she was not to be freed until Aemond could ride Vaghar again. He looked at her, the room was impregnated with the smell of whatever herb she was grinding on a mortar, the smell was soft… Maybe it was braavossi jasmine, the same one that grew in King’s Landing. It probably wasn’t, his home was too far for it to be the same flower, still he wanted to believe it was. He knew she wasn’t the one that had tended to him between dreams, she was no maid, he could tell that at least. 

“How long–” He began asking and felt his throat burn a little. “How long until I’m better?” He asked, she didn’t look up from her concoction, the smell was becoming stronger, he let it soak him, he could pretend to be at King’s Landing for just a second. “You are better,” She said. “You were dying and now you no longer are.” She stood up and brought him a cup of what she had been preparing. “Here, it will help you feel less sore. I know Maester Olwyn should be coming in soon, he said you need a bath and to get out of bed a little.” She didn’t sound like she agreed with Olwyn’s judgment, she put the tea next to him and didn’t try to help him sit up. 

The tea did soothe him, he asked the woman her name while she drew the curtains around the bed to keep the servants from seeing him while they prepared the tub for his bath. Her name had something foreign to it, it wasn’t fully westerosi, then again the common folk from the east coast of westeros often adopted names from the former valyrian freehold, things and words they’d heard during trading. One of his ship masters always told the tale about a young boy named Daor, the valyrian word for “Thank you”, the kid had been part of the common folk of dragonstone, his parents probably had met traders from Volantis or Pentos and the word had stuck out to them. Aemond always thought it was a foolish story, but he had to admit he liked her name, or maybe it was the tea.

The copper tub sat in the middle of his chamber, Olwyn helped him in. His muscles were sore and he felt weak, the water reached only to the middle of his chest to not touch the bandage and what she had put over the wound. The water was warm, just warm. “Wash him.” Olwyn demanded her, a resentful look painted her features. “I-” She said, and stopped herself, she looked at Aemond and then at the Maester, she was calculating her options. Aemond kept his gaze on her, she was thinking her next step carefully, she was smart. 

She kneeled down next to the tub, unhappy, and put her hand into the water. “This is not hot enough,” She said. “It is.” The Maester replied exasperated, he had found an arm chair to sit, he was too old to kneel on the floor. “It’s not.” She said coldly. “Isn’t he a Targaryen? This should be boiling if you want to bring him back to health.” “Those are nothing but gossip and tales from wet nurses who believed Visenya Targaryen bathed herself in scalding water.”

Aemond closed his eye and laid back. “She is right.” He said, his voice finally sounded like himself after so long. Hot water always made them feel better, when they were kids and got a runny nose, or when Aegon broke his hand training, or when Halaena was pregnant, they always craved the comfort of hot water, he had needed it himself when he lost his eye. His mother, raised a Hightower, never understood it, time after time they had to convince her to not listen to the Maesters about the subject. 

After some bickering she managed to shut the Maester up and boiled a small vessel over the fireplace of the room. He didn’t pay much attention after that, she changed her bandages and Cole entered the room a little while after, he brought news of their campaign. They discussed what they could but Cole was still worried, he needed the Prince to be able to march with the army as soon as possible.

So Cole asked her… again. “When is he going to leave the room? When will he be cured?” She sighed. “Twenty days and twenty nights.” “Twenty days? You’re mad, we don’t have twenty days.” She shrugged. “He is wounded, not the whole army… I don’t see why you can’t keep fighting the war.” Aemond sized her up, she knew why. Criston Cole was growing more and more irritated by the second. “We don’t have twenty days.” He repeated. “You must do something.” ”You must do something or we will feed you to starving hounds” “You must do something or we will break all of your bones and leave you to die.” He knew Cole’s commands were always held under the shadow of a threat and by the looks of her, she knew it too. 

Aemond had a growing desire to be left alone, or at least to no longer hear people quarrel. If it truly took three weeks for him to recover he needed time to think, to move the pieces on his board. Maybe he could do it in only a fortnight. Still, it was too much time to lose.

“There is another way,” She said. “But it might kill me.” “No, we won’t accept any dark ritual done to the Prince.” Olwyn was yelling now, Aemond sat there considering, maybe he needed wichcraft. “It is not a dark ritual.” She looked at Aemond in the eye, she was talking directly to him, Aemond wondered if she had ever looked at him directly all this time she had been held here. “Can we speak without interruptions?” Her shoulders tensed a little. “... My prince.” It sounded so unnatural on her voice, Aemond liked it, she was pleading for his attention. “Olwyn, the evening is getting dark, shouldn't you attend to the crows?” Aemond asked him, a small smile wanting to break through. “Ser Criston, please see him out and guard the door to this room.” 

She explained to him she needed to leave the Tower, that she wouldn’t run away but it needed to be done during the night and she needed his cloak, more specifically the cloak he was wearing when they brought him in wounded and almost unconscious. She looked agitated, maybe her life was truly at risk. “It has my blood in it.” He commented. “I know.” She replied. He found it amusing, he agreed under one condition. She was to take Cole with her, according to her she could fully cure him basically overnight but he had to let her out of the Tower, he was no fool, this might as well be a trick to gain her freedom. Cole would make sure she kept her word.

taglist: xcharlottemikaelsonx;  lol-im-done; @rosaryos ;  teddyluvs;  boofy1998;  yor72 ;  @blazeflays ;  xonsd ;  tinawhynot

She got the cloak and he called Ser Criston into the room, after explaining to him his duty Aemond dismissed them, he was tired and needed some sleep. “Go now,” He said and then looked at her. “Your Prince commands you.” It made her shudder.

(<<previous chapter | next chapter>>)

#aemond x reader #hotd #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #chapter 2

[quietlyimplode]

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 26 - You look awful

Warnings: injuries

Word Count: 1.3k (gif not mine)

Summary: aftermath of the taking of the tower. The avengers reunite.

A/N: <3

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

2014

NEW YORK

Tony feels sick.

Pulled into consciousness as he feels the air on his fall face; he twists in the wrongness of being held and flown all at once.

“Tony— no!” a male voice calls.

He feels like he’s falling even as he’s picked up again, pressure on his stomach; the movement jarring and causing him to vomit into the air.

“Oh—no.”

He looks up and sees Sam and his wings, before the ground rushes to meet him.

.

Natasha hugs Clint, taking his head in her hands and pushing her forehead to his.

“You look awful,” she whispers, her hand coming away with blood.

“Are you—“

She sees Yelena behind him and her face morphs.

“You both came to rescue me?”

She pulls Yelena into a hug.

Steve stands awkwardly behind them and Yelena looks to him.

“I’m umm, Steve,” he says waving a little.

“I know who you are, Captain America,” she smiles.

He nods, chagrined.

“How do we get out?” Clint asks looking around, “where Tony, Pepper, Maria and Sam? Have you found them?”

Steve nods, and Natasha sits back down, the sun rising, overhead.

It feels like it’s been such a long night.

“They should be on the ground now,” he replies.

“Sam will come back once Tony is safe.”

Clint looks around, Christmas paraphernalia everywhere.

He feels sad, and guilty that they weren’t here to help.

Despite all the building movements, there’s only parts of the budding where the concrete has fallen, smashed and sunken; some of it still feels untouched.

“What happened here?”

Steve paces around.

“The electricity went out, I think someone tried to attack the building - there were shadows around—“

“We killed some Hydra men,” Yelena adds helpfully.

“Oh, okay,” he pauses, “it must have been them? They must have entered the building, because Jarvis wasn’t responding, then the building shut down. I couldn’t leave, until you and Bruce came,” he says to Natasha.

“Do you think he’s okay?” he adds worriedly.

Natasha nods.

“He’ll be okay, the Hulk will take care of him,” she assures.

“We found Maria, and then Sam, and Pepper; but Tony, it took us a while to get to him, he was knocked out,” she finishes.

“What’s a Jarvis?” Yelena asks .

“AI,” Clint tells her, “but like a good one that helps a lot.”

She sees Sam in the sky and points.

They move to the edge of the building and he waves as he lands safely next to them.

“Who’s next?” he asks, offering a hand.

“How’s Tony?” Natasha asks, pushing Yelena forward.

“He’s okay, he’s with Pepper, they’re taking them both to hospital now. Maria is organising everyone well.”

The sun is brighter now, opening over the city, as it begins the day; most blissfully unaware of the commotion of the tower.

“I’ll come back,” he promises, taking Yelena’s hand, “and I won’t drop you.”

He grasps his back.

“Good, because that would be a stupid way to die,” she deadpans.

Sam nods, and takes off with her; leaving Steve, Clint and Natasha standing on the precipice of the building.

“Is your head okay?” Natasha asks softly, sitting on the edge of the open building.

Clint perches next to her.

“Flew threw a window with your sister in hand,” he tells her, “then there a building coming down around us.”

Natasha checks him, and finds a gash in his hairline.

“I think it’ll need stitches,” she winces.

He touches, and copies her face, “I guess we will see Tony at the hospital anyway.”

Sam returns and she motions for him to take Clint, who argues to take Natasha and then rolls his eyes and takes Steve instead.

“Your turn next okay?” Natasha tells him, nudging him, “otherwise I’m kicking you off the building and Sam will have to save you.”

Clint grumbles and nods, and they wait side by side as the sun continues to rise.

.

The hospital is not Natasha’s favourite place, but for her friends she’ll take it, reframe it as a place of healing, and supposed safety.

One look at Yelena’s face, though, and she can feel the anxiety roll off her.

In an instant, she grabs at her hand and squeezes.

“It’s okay,” she says in Russian, “it’s not for us.”

It does nothing to alleviate the anxiety and fear but somehow pushes her to follow Clint into the med bay to get his head stitched.

“I’ll stay with him,” she offers, watching Natasha as she looks around and tries to see any of the others.

Her hypervigilance does nothing to help calm Clint as he does the same, both of them stressed at the outcome for Tony and Bruce, even Maria and Pepper.

Steve and Sam had left them - wanting to figure out the Tower and make sure if there was anything to happen they were there to help.

Steve also reasoned that he was probably the only one strong enough to move anything and Sam had the knowledge to reboot the tower, or at the very least thought he did.

If they could do that, then maybe, they could find out who tried to infiltrate the tower.

The doctor starts with Clint and Natasha rises, Yelena stays and nods swapping positions, so she can see what the doctor is doing.

For Natasha it feels more protective than curious.

She doesn’t really know what happened between them in the hours they were alone together, but the tentative trust seems to be something that both of them had built.

Leaving, Natasha sees Pepper’s blonde hair, and almost runs towards her, her relief at finding her mostly unscathed, except for what looks like a few bruises and cuts, is explicit as she hugs her.

“How’s Tony?” she asks.

Pepper starts to cry, and apologizes for it.

“I’m sorry, I just.. The building fell underneath us and I thought he was dead. We were trapped before - his arm, was caught. He’s in surgery now, they say it’s just to make sure the bones heal right.”

She hides her face and Natasha rubs her back.

“Come with me,” she says, and leads her to Yelena and Clint, sitting her down gently.

“He’ll be okay,” she promises.

Clint says hello, and Natasha introduces Yelena, who nods but doesn’t say anything, unsure what to do with tears and a weeping woman.

“Do you know where Maria is?” Natasha asks, wanting to set eyes on everyone, now they weren’t in a falling building.

Pepper shrugs.

The doctor had finished with Clint, giving them the instructions for cleaning the wound, then looked around.

“Does anyone else need anything?”

Shaking her head, Natasha smiles.

“No thanks,” she nods, despite the bruises on her ribs where the Hulk had grabbed her, or even the headache that seemed to be building from before the day started.

The doctor checks with the others and then leaves them in the room.

“God I’m tired,” she admits, openly.

“Me too,” Clint groan, leaning back on the plinth.

Yelena sighs.

Taking a moment in the quiet, no one dares to break the silence, each in their own thoughts.

.

Tony lays unconscious, surrounded by Natasha, Rhodey, Clint, Steve, Sam and Pepper.

Yelena had left, with a promise to return, swearing to Natasha she’d be back.

Bruce still hadn’t turned up, but there’s been no reports of the Hulk smashing anything, and Fury had promised to look whilst they all waited for Tony to wake up.

Natasha stands, feeling strange and not wanting to be around anyone.

It started to feel too much.

Clint looks at her sharply before she signs she needs to go to the toilet.

He nods and leans back into his chair.

Leaving, she looks for a stairwell, a spare room, anything to break down in.

She feels the flood of emotions and the let down from the adrenaline, feels the loss of home and safety in an area that was supposed to be the safest.

She could have lost her friends.

Family.

Natasha feels tears coming as she squats in the corner of the room, obscured by chairs and lets the emotions come.

.

#whumptober2023 #no. 26 #you look awful #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #my fic #hawkeye #natasha romanoff fic #clintasha fanfiction #clintasha fanfic #Tony stark #avengers fic #marvel fic #the avengers #avengers family #clint barton x natasha romanoff #Yelena belova #Steve rogers #sam wilson

[babblydrabbly]

all-nighter || eddie munson x reader || oneshot

a/n: requested by @a-reader-and-a-writer. My first Eddie fic! As much as a adore confident Eddie, I'm a puddle for a that little sliver of self-doubt that takes over too. no season 4 spoilers!

eddie munson x gn!reader - fluff - 1.2k words - warnings: first kiss. briefest mention of drug use.

"Person A and B staying up way too late watching a movie/binge watching a show but having no regrets" 

[ I do not give permission to repost my work anywhere. ]

You don't care about small town reputations. Not when you've been smitten with Eddie Munson since you met him outside an away-game sophomore year. But he'll figure it out.

Eddie stirs when morning light finally breaches the thin blinds of his living room. He swipes at his eyes and begins to sit up, when a solid weight stops him. 

It’s a familiar situation. Eddie Munson has spent plenty of all-nighters in front of his small television instead of getting some proper rest; has almost made a whole high school career out of it, in fact. His limbs are a little sore from his position on the threadbare couch. And the rough material of his baggy jeans scratches as he shifts carefully- incrementally.

You murmur in your sleep. Half on the other side of the sunken couch and half atop Eddie, your arms wrap around his middle as you unconsciously press your face against his t-shirt covered stomach.

Eddie blinks, confused at this slight deviation, then he remembers the night before. 

It had been one monster movie. Then two. Then you both got a little hungry and went out to grab a slice of pizza. 

Eddie half expected you to call it quits when you tossed your greasy napkins and sticky trays in the trash. Instead, he watched you walk backwards toward his van with a smile, curling a mischievous finger to beckon him.

He hustled after you without any fuss. Just a wide, toothy grin. You weren’t sick of him just yet.

Eddie’s lips quirk again at the memory. 

You had made yourself look right at home on the cushion beside him as he turned the tv back on, this time flipping through the static until he landed on a rerun of Growing Pains. You slipped off your sandals and tucked your feet under yourself coyly. 

The mood had shifted then. This wasn’t a rowdy, fantasy-driven game night. Nothing like the band stopping by to turn up the rock and fill his living room with the dense curl of smoke and conversation.

The din Eddie chose to drown out any reminders of his less-than life was replaced by a new, unspoken conversation. An exchange of soft quips and fleeting glances that made him suddenly feel noticed. Eddie glanced over, drawing your attention away from the blue light of the television.

Full of good food and more comfortable with your second time stepping inside Eddie’s home, you scooched closer, sending the teen’s heart rate skyrocketing. 

It was one thing to get along with you out there- at the mall, at each other’s schools. Always in passing. Always in front of friends and decidedly not-friends. But with just the two of you, the abnormally over-confident Eddie Munson’s eyes flickered over to you, his expression a touch sheepish then. 

You make a sound in your sleep again, waking yourself up. The arms around Eddie’s waist flex as you nuzzle at the soft cotton of his shirt. 

He’s got the perfect combination going on in the middle- a little soft and a little firm. You burrow your nose against him as you exhale deeply.

“What time is it?” You drawl. And Eddie half-wishes he got to see you looking so peaceful just a moment longer. He reaches up to brush your hair back behind your ear. He shrugs.

“Don’t know.” He chuckles. 

“Jeeze.” You pull away to sit up stiffly- still tucked partially against Eddie’s lap. “My neck is killing me.”

“I’m the one that can’t feel my legs.” He teases. You blink and realize how on top of him you really are. Heat rises to your cheeks. 

Before you can scoot off, Eddie’s arms wrap around you swiftly, that wide grin returning to his face. Tsking and squirming, you shift until he has you tightly in his arms. He’s surprisingly strong. Perhaps from never putting down that electric guitar of his. Eddie’s callous fingers press into your soft skin, and a different kind of heat pools inside you. 

“Uh uh.” He chides, emboldened now. “Not yet.” 

His lips press against your neck as he speaks. You let out a soft noise of surprise as he pulls you back down to properly lie on his chest. Face inches apart, your eyes flit up to his mouth as he stares back at you, waiting. 

“I have to buy the groceries every Saturday morning.” You try. Your weak excuse makes the two of you laugh. “I should at least call my mom.”

“Let that dumb brother of yours run the errands for once.” Eddie counters. You’ve complained enough to Eddie about how much is expected of you at home. You roll your eyes. Reaching up, you drag some strands of his curly bangs down to obscure his view. “What?? You said it yourself. How much basketball practice does this guy need if he’s sooo good.”

You snort as you watch Eddie comically try to blow the fringe from his eyes without letting you go with his hands.

“Come with me.” You offer.

Eddie stills. The thought of you willingly pushing a shopping cart around in the middle of a supermarket with him in tow just doesn’t seem to click. Not even if you lived a whole town over from good ole Hawkins. Not when he was Eddie The Freak Munson any way you sliced it. Averting his eyes, he brushes it off. “How about I pick you up again tonight?”

You take Eddie’s chin between your fingers and look into his brown eyes. You catch a flash of something guarded there for a moment. It’s all you need to lean in and plant a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips. Eddie squeezes you firmer in response, eyes half-lidded. 

You mean it to be something brief. Something soft. But a thrill soon runs through you as Eddie tilts his head to the side and recaptures your lips with a quiet moan. Your knees bracketing Eddie’s thighs press together with a spark of want.

It takes everything to pull away- to catch your breath and open your eyes again. Eddie’s own pupils stare back at you, much wider now than they were a moment ago. 

“Come with me.” You say again. You give your eyelashes an over-exaggerated bat. That seems to coax the Eddie you know back out again with another chuckle. “Let’s go!”

Before you can drag him to his feet, however, he surprises you again by taking your face in both hands and pulling you in for another deep, languid kiss. This time with a swipe of his tongue teasing your mouth, licking slowly once, twice. You keen before you can help yourself. 

Pulling away hurriedly, you pat your hair back into place while he expectantly drags his nails lightly across your thigh. You ignore the way it sends jolts of electricity up your spine with every inch.

His wide smile matches yours. He was never going to say no, he realizes. Not when you’re asking him to stick around. To keep seeing him. 

He knows the time will come when you’re ready to toss him. But for now, the idea of one minute, one more meal, one more day with you is so bizarre, he can’t help but follow as you tug at his arm.

With one last moment of hesitation, Eddie’s chest heaves with a sigh. A mixed sound of relief and feigned exasperation.

 You smack his chest playfully. 

“Okay! Alright!” He laughs. “.....Five more minutes.”

“Eddie!”

#Eddie munson #Eddie munson x reader #Eddie munson x you #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #mywords* #requests #reader

[pu1itzer-a]

PROMPTS FOR ASSERTIVE ACCUSATIONS / accepting .

he's at her doorstep again . his features appear sunken , defeated , battered , bruised . the night never stops in the world of @knightwar . the call to the darkness . the protection of his vespertilian wings could only sustain so much . cast from heaven , the fallen angel lands at her feet . the world was a derelict wasteland . she offered a sanctuary . a place of solitude . peace . he's a shadow that grows at the sun rises . cast across the plains of the earth , animals cower . the darkness starts to spread . infecting the earth . fury . vengeance . creatures of the night start to plague the once fruitful earth . their teeth sharp , salivating over the blood spilled .

yet , amongst the darkness . there's one beacon of light . it's flickering away but it's there . hope . despite surrounded by the creatures , she stands defiant . hoping for the darkness to end . allowing the sun to touch her face . they'd been meeting frequently since his death . tethered to each other in the face of death . wrapped together in a black veil . allowing the darkness into her life was questionable , blinded by the night . her heart still belonged to the dead . trapped in the world between worlds . his words break through the apartment . sunken amethyst orbs glazed by salted pools . still mourning the man from the stars . the insufferable pain of his loss still present .

this was a mistake .

features wrinkle . it was a mistake . she still loves the man in the ground . bruce was something of a distraction . a distraction of pain . but yet , she longed to be close with someone again . she'd been waiting for the intensity to subside . the fear of loneliness and the guilt . she was so withdrawn from the world , scared to step back onto the streets of a city that never slept . the fog in her brain was thicker than ever , suffocating her . the inability to think straight , perhaps it was why she had chosen not to return to work . despite the painful reminders , there was also a fear she would not know how to write , to pursue a good story , the journalist within had been gone for a long time .

sunken orbs meet him . knowing perhaps the truth was laid bare . their mistake of their union . their bodies had been intertwined , almost becoming one mind . one body . she didn't love him . they had both been alone in grief , colliding with each other like comets . nothing but devastation when they decide their course is to landfall . death on impact . nothing but devastation as far as the eye could see . an earth shattered . life begins to die out . a mass extinction event . she didn't love anyone except for clark . she inhales , lungs rattling . her vocals shaken , soft . anguish laced . ❛ then why are you here ? ❜

#⸻🪐 VOICEMAIL : knightwar . #⸻ 🪐 ARC : DCEU . i just miss him . ( zsjl . ) #ehehehehe #I LOVE THE PAIN #knightwar

[kazeofthemagun]

Worth of Wolves

That's right. The monster never called itself a monster. That wretched title only fell from the lips of the mob, raising pitchforks and waving torches. That - was no name. It was an insult. An excuse, so that they may deem him an animal and feel better as they refuse, time and time again, to treat him like a person. By their definition, he was much better off dead.

[First meeting with Silver Storm. The very beginnings of the cursed one’s untold legend. Pre-series, expanded backstory drabble. 7.5k words.]

[cw: blood, war, death, child abuse, child death, trafficking, child slavery mention]

Day of the Ox. Fifth morning hour.

Windaria was waking to life. Like an animal in its own right, stirring with the earliest light. Having rested the previous day, it was time to set to work, let sleep-heavy blood flow faster, open eyes behold a new dawn. Much needed to be done before the first hour of the Sun rendered the cobblestone streets a scorching deathtrap, a forced halt in the bustle of the city. Then, when evening came, once again would the diligent animal of the city toil in blood and sweat.

He awakened along with the very first rays of morning. A boy, eleven or perhaps twelve cycles old. Ask him his exact age, and he would not answer.

In fact, the boy without a name seldom answered to anyone. The Land of the Winds was a harsh nation, prideful like the eternal golden sand. The Winds only ever danced across the heavens, paying little heed to those that dwelled in the dirt. The worm could only reach up, curiosity brought on by rain, rearing a mulch-soft head to gaze at what lay above.

Those who lived below quickly learned to keep their head down. And their hood up. A distant rustle of metal plates and the sound of kivani hooves beating against stone saw the boy's left rise instinctively to pull down the worn fabric that sheltered his features. In his right he held a small, rusted knife. All the polishing in the world would not absolve that wretched thing, reddish-umber patterns clinging closely to the place its handle met metal.

He was not alone here. Blue eyes swept slowly across the church hall, meeting a pair of orange staring back from the half-shade.

"Maru?"

Less a name, more a form of address by necessity. After over a year of living together, it became quite awkward to only call the nameless boy precisely that.

It was one of the rare moments the ever-sealed lips of his moved, stretching out into an almost shy smile, as though the smallest softness came difficult to a creature of sharp edges and hard shells. The persona of silence he had built - it protected him. The animal that made less noise was less likely to be hunted.

"Ïsta."

The foreign name rolled off his tongue in a hoarse voice - one as rusted as the knife he now carried. She smiled, and despite her sunken-in cheeks, it could well be the sweetest smile in the world.

Maruku - the boy branded wolf - lowered his gaze to stare wordlessly at the bandage wrapped over the girl's right hand. The rag was tattered from use, yellowed and reddened in places where friction had sheared skin. She noticed his attention, hiding the injury from sight.

"Hand. How?" There was worry in his tone as he spoke in somewhat broken Lahriktaarese. Granted, considering the Temple had conquered and enforced its ways upon most of the world, the language could well be simply called Windarian. "Does it bleed, again?"

"A little. But I'll be fine, I can still work." Ïsta replied. Despite their shared predicament, fiery amber eyes were as full of passion as ever. Even so, there was a sadness and worry behind them, a maturity so uncharacteristic of a ten cycle old child. "I worry, Maru. Worry that Yani..."

The other children had begun to stir as well, some cries erupting here and there as an old, overworked Priestess of Soil worked to soothe them. In total, there were about ten orphans between two and seven cycles of age. War raged on in the south, bringing refugees to the small merchant-ran city of Tonnavrel. The Wind Warriors of the capital reinforced the army on the front, hoping to secure yet more territory from the struggling nation that had for so long denied their religion. It was clear the Keep Beyond the River would not hold.

Most of the immigrants were either executed for heresy, sold into slavery or converted, still doomed to a life of poverty. Age hardly mattered. In the eyes of Lahriktaar, the people from Beyond the River may as well be animals; Only good for servitude.

Though officially of Lahriktaarese faith, some local temples still believed in the true path of Soil and goddess Alaeyra, the kind bringer of rain. Like rain, they worked to mend the land. All spirits were equal in the Soil - deserving of equal chances at life.

Ïsta was a name from Beyond the River. In the open, she went by another name, one more palatable to the Wind cult. Though she had lost both her father and her mother, her true name was a dearest keepsake. Maruku idly squeezed the wooden clan sigil he wore around his neck, and rose.

"Church is poor. No food, again." He sighed, moving to aid the priestess with the rest of the kids. Loving words and gentle touch could only help the starving so much.

They spent a few hours helping around, both with the refugee children and the building's upkeep. Through washing the tiles and preparing the main chamber for morning mass, they earned what little coin the poverty-stricken priests could spare. Most of it was spent on sustenance, leaving very little to replace the torn clothes they wore. Even that was in short supply with the Wind armies' march south, stripping Tonnavrel of both resources and manpower. The lifeblood of economy ran ill with the plagues carried by war.

Windaria was a land rotten to the very bedrock by ceaseless slaughter. The boy's young mind found it all hard to understand. Politics were a distant, hazy shadow he could hardly hope to grasp when he still sometimes struggled with forming correct sentences. Such was his unfortunate fate after being neglected throughout his earliest years, kept hidden by the Scribe. Only after his reluctant safekeeper’s death did the outside world crash down upon him with all the weight of total indifference.

It had still been better than being left for dead at one cycle old. In the end, he had survived, and met people who looked at him with more kindness than malice.

And for once, the nameless wolf's distant eyes learned to smile. Even when he and Ïsta held Yani's tiny hand as he passed on from illness. Not even half their age, a sickly forgotten son of yet another fallen warrior. It was the best someone like him could do. He could not heal him, for he was useless. Nobody could, when even Alaeyra herself failed. But he could sit there, and attempt to do what Ïsta did best. Comfort.

Even as their statues adorned the walls, chiseled stone bodies at an arm's reach, the gods were so awfully absent.

Ïsta was crying. Now that the others could not see her, emotions flowed freely past ever-strong eyes. He sat with her, unable to do the same. Was there something wrong with him? His heart wept yet his eyes could not. More than sorrow, he felt that strange gnaw again. An insidious gnawing sensation that made the bones itch, brows furrow and teeth grit, fangs on display. The feeling of someone exposed to injustice from his earliest days - to the point it was all he had ever known.

It made him angry. So, so angry.

"Maru..." She sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her dress. It was all she could say. Small hands dug into the dark fabric of the wolven boy's tattered poncho. It was alright. She could cry here, into his darkness, and he would hide her tears from the very world. A weak swallow. "When you finally get out of here, what will you do?"

Ïsta wanted to be a painter. She always said so. When she asked him, he never answered. But this time, he knew. He knew what he wanted to be.

He had seen it, that day. During the annual celebrations, when the military rolled through the city, adorned with ceremonial capes. The weapons they carried were meant to bring death, but in that moment, he was captivated by their gleam and the verses that carried on the Winds like a song of fire itself.

The creature they had called - it was named, "Phoenix." And it was magnificent.

If he were the Phoenix, so brazen and strong, he could eradicate the evil that poisoned the land. He could take flight on blazing wings and burn away the rot and corruption. He could stand against those foul beasts that enslaved children and render them all into ashes, melting accursed chains to usher the wronged towards new dawns. He could become the Sun and shine with kindness, not cruelty.

He wanted... above all, he wanted to be strong.

He was sick of being weak. Sick of being powerless.

"I'll become a warrior." Oceanic blue met amber orange. His right hand found and squeezed the hilt of the knife hidden beneath dark fabric. "I'll... fight. But now, I go." He pulled up his hood once again and walked towards the entryway. "I'll get food."

And like a passing shadow of a hawk, he was gone. A wide-eyed Ïsta wiped the last of her tears and yelled good luck.

The wounds on her hand had opened again, soaking dirtied rags.

---------

Seventh morning hour.

The thief had found himself a target.

Blue eyes observed an elderly Windarian as she opened the back door to the bakery, bringing in crates. There was a muffled hiss of pain as she attempted to lift one, and a wrinkled hand rested on the woman's spine. She remained bent for a little while, massaging her aching back. Everyone in town was simply trying to get by, small businesses hit especially hard by the nearby war. So, too, was he.

It was not personal, never was. A few pieces of pastry would help feed the starving children and the owner would not go hungry herself. Deep down, Maruku hated stealing, but he had little choice in the matter. It was best to desensitize himself.

Especially for things like him, it was a dog eat dog world. And today, the dog had its sights set on as much fresh bread as he could carry.

He waited for the woman to engage in a conversation outside before sneaking behind a barrel, then slipping inside. The smell hit him first, mouth watering in an instant as he practically sprinted towards a fresh batch laid out upon the closest shelf. Good, good - the boy snatched several large loaves, cramming them beneath his poncho, under an arm. He had what he came for - it was time to escape. Blue orbs scanned the room, weighting the pros and cons of using the back door again instead of the proper entrance.

The owner and the man she was talking to were still there, chatting idly about something. Maruku leaned against the wall, listening intently and gauging distance. Yes, they had moved closer. They were now standing close to the wall on the right side of the rear entrance, and the chances they could spot him were high. On the other hand, using the main door meant he would run right out into the crowd - someone was bound to notice his unlawfully-acquired cargo and Tonnavrel had little tolerance for criminals. Especially serial offenders. He swallowed, then decided to peek out the way he came. Just a little.

As his shit luck would have it, the man was looking directly at him. "HEY!"

All rhyme and reason to high hell. He bolted in the opposite direction.

He made it through the storage and leapt over the counter, scattering neatly stacked coin. The man was hot on his trail, fit of body and jumping the counter without much effort. Oh gods, gods - the wolf's small heart drummed loud as thunder as it thrashed wildly against ribs. The chase. In that moment, his insult of a nickname proved hardly accurate. He was no wolf. He was a rabbit, and the man behind him was the predator with gnashing teeth. The people gathered on the street gasped.

Run, rabbit, run. Your life could well depend on it.

He felt a hand clasp over and yank the back of his poncho - pulling down his hood and spilling the bread over pavement. Blue eyes went wide, feral. He had a knife in hand. A rusty shard of metal, the only claw to his name.

The man yelled something, snatching the fabric at his chest and lifting him into the air. Thin legs kicked hard at his captor's stomach, to no avail. He had a knife in hand.

He had a knife.

An ungodly sound, halfway between a hiss and a growl - and in a flash, the shabby blade found its way into the adult Windarian's eye.

The screaming was horrible. He was released in an instant, scrambling to collect at least two of the lost pastries before running like a mad wind, bloodied metal clutched in a vicelike grip of terror. He fucked up. He fucked up. This time, he fucked up. Oh gods, gods. Phoenix..! If only the Phoenix could save him now.

The shrill wail attracted the attention of a patrolling soldier. More yelling, and a set of armored footsteps followed. It was closing in, fast. Agile as the boy was, he was weak from hunger and his legs were still short. It was only a matter of time before his pursuer caught up, a-and then... No, don't think. Don't think. Be like you used to be.

Only silence. And instinct.

Like an animal.

He weaved inbetween passersbies, relying on his speed and others' shocked inaction to bring him closer to escape with each step. The civilians were too confused to stop him and deep down, most of them did not want to contribute to the apprehending - and subsequent punishment - of a thief that young.

Not when it was not their livelihood stolen. If it had been, he was positive they would be more than happy to see him bleed.

What he could not achieve with speed, he would with smarts. The redhead took a sharp turn left into a dark street, catching a glimpse of stacked boxes in the periphery of his sight. A quick assessment, and he leapt, making his way up and clambering onto a stone wall to then make for the roofs. More yelling, including that accursed word.

"The kiichimarichuril! Get him!"

His hood was down. No time to fix it, not with the food in one hand and reddened knife in another.

"He stabbed Vrynn! Medic!"

"Little fucking monster!"

"Hey! I know that one! Thief! Thief!"

His heart threatened to burst out his chest like a panicked bird. Flapping straining wings, pushing feathers like needles through ribs, searing pain surging in his lungs. He was just about to faint. But he couldn't.

No, no... He... Not only he... the others... needed...!

There was a sharp impact against his ankle. The dull sound of wood. Oceanic eyes widened, a pounding pulse skipped an entire beat.

His balance was -

A loud clatter signified his messy fall, small body slamming into an empty cart before rolling down onto the ground. Bread went flying everywhere, and so did his knife. His only defense. Maruku - Kiichimarimaruku - tried to force his body to stand, to do anything. Shaky limbs refused to move, a wheezing cough erupting from between dry lips and chipped teeth. His side...!

It hurt to breathe. Something warm pooled in his mouth, dripped onto the pavement.

The soldier approached slowly, smugly. In his hand - oh, the world was spinning - was a long, wooden object with a triangular shape at the tip. A spear. He had been got... swept off his feet by that spear.

A gloved hand reached down, and the boy could hardly fight back. By his hair he was lifted up, weak wide blues staring into the face of death itself. Such a striking visage, tempered by violence and unafraid to deliver it. He yelped, feeling his body dragged out onto the main street.

He wanted... saßu... he wanted to be strong. Stronger than this man. Never would he hurt children like so, even thieves. Surely there could be another way. If only... all that fighting stopped... everyone could live equal and never have to beg or steal.

Saßu...!

"Look what we have ourselves here." Another voice, one gruff as grinding stone. "A flea-ridden runt. Heard ya nearly killed that poor, innocent man." A kick delivered into his side. Another wheeze, and he spat warm blood. His tongue hurt like fire, he could not speak. "Oh, shit." The other soldier commented at the generous mouthful of red now splattered against cobblestone.

It was not the type of "oh shit" one would say when recognizing one's wrong. He learned that much when another kick drove a wedge of agony into his empty stomach; He let out a raspy screech. This time, he found the strength to bare his fangs, flashing wild eyes from beneath a curtain of disheveled crimson.

"Where's ya family, brat? Or are you an asiju?" Asiju. He recognized that word. Clanless. Yet another reason for them to look down on him. He replied not, panting heavily at the military man's feet.

That gnawing sensation... again. He could feel it. It dwelled deep within his bones.

"Weeell?" The warrior lifted him again, one bushy brow rising in mockery.

"Fuck... you." The wolven boy wheezed, and spat right in his captor's face.

The encroaching haze of deathly fear that suffocated him was gone. This was the growl of a living beast. He was alive. He would fight. Nothing else mattered, only the fury powered by his pain.

What blood and spit remained in his mouth all but turned to foam as he began to thrash, fingers outstretched as claws and digging into the exposed skin of the soldier's arm. Thick brows furrowed in a mixture of surprise and disgust, briefly letting go at the boy's display of madness. Maruku heaved, eyes wide those of some disease-stricken mutt. Garlands of thick, reddened saliva hung from an open mouth, teeth poised to strike.

What burst from the depths of his throat was the most inhuman scream he could muster, sending gathered onlookers jumping several feet back in alarm and confusion. It was almost as though he had caught the desert-death. Going insane with illness, striking at anyone in range before going down himself.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. If this was the end, he would go burning like a wildfire.

He could not see her with his sights set on the man before him - he could not see Ïsta as she came running to join the crowd, the old priestess in tow as they heard the infernal commotion. He could not hear their voices nor glimpse the girl's outstretched bandaged hand as she reached in vain for her friend.

Instead, all he could see was a rush of red painting his vision in a singular shade of wrath.

The dark-clad boy lunged with speed he hardly should have been able to muster, grabbing onto the man and digging his teeth into the fabric of his glove. There was a staggered yelp, a deep crease between furrowed brows that only spoke of violence in return.

"This brat is fucking insane!"

Another gloved hand buried into his hair, yanking him off his target and throwing his body ragdoll-like against the pavement. It knocked the wind out of his lungs, and with it, the mad spirit that seemed to possess him. Another cough, and the youth could only focus on the pain.

"Enough with this nonsense! You are guilty of theft as well as a violent attack with a sharp object. Now you're guilty of assault on a Lahriktaarese warrior as well." The last part was added with an ugly grin. This was it. The feeling sank in, a freezing sensation taking hold and stifling the flame that yet burned within his chest. This was it. He would be punished. He would have his hand taken off - perhaps his entire arm. And then he would die, because who would even help a wretch like him?

What fight remained inside would never save him from a grown warrior, let alone two of them. Even if by some miracle he slipped away, the crowd would surely stand wall and capture him again. The situation was hopeless and - oh, gods - he may have just killed a man over a few loaves of bread. What if he did? What if the knife went too deep and that man was dead?

Was this... justice? An innocent's life for one day of sustenance?!

He just wanted to help the church children. He just wanted... to help. For once, not be entirely selfish.

The remembrance of the Phoenix dominated his senses. The scent of soot, the warmth of fire. The brilliance of it all against the starlit sky, illuminating the night as if it were day. Summoners. They called them... summoners. Those who wielded power over those godly creatures. And the creatures were called... Espers. Each time they were invoked, it had to be done with the use of three souls.

A brief, second life before they returned to the earth with the breath of the Winds.

He remembered. He remembered the incantations well. A part of him wondered whether should he recite them, the great beast of fire would descend from the heavens to save him.

The verses... that summoner used.

The hold of the darkest earth, Mother Black.

The pyre of the gods, Fire Red.

The splendor of a living sun, Burning Gold.

The splendor of a living sun. He liked that. He would like to see it again so very, very much. But it seemed it was the darkness of the earth that would embrace him instead.

Once again he was dragged and thrown in front of the gathered crowd, a circle quickly forming. His captor’s boot found and dug into the side of his head, spilling a mess of crimson hair for all to see. He snarled like a beast as the city watched. A hunger for entertainment, eager eyes happy to witness another's agony. It was then that she registered to him.

Ïsta.

...He... had failed her. Had he? What foolish thinking. The notion that he could have even helped at all. What if they find out? That the church gave him shelter? Would they not pay for his idiocy as well? Kiichimarichuril. Little fucking monster. He mouthed her name, daring not speak it aloud.

The soldier’s boot pushed harder. He yelped, biting back tears as his arm was bent, cold steel touching his right wrist. The hand that had carried the knife - the tool of murder now abandoned somewhere in the dark alleyway. This is it. That sole thought raced through his mind, enveloping him in its entirety. He was shaking. His entire body was on fire and his battered side felt like it would split open at any moment. That damned soldier was saying something. Still quivering, with tears of pain welling up in those deep ocean eyes, he spat again.

Come on, get it over with. He fought not to beg. Do it. Spare me. He fought so hard. The metal felt frigid against tan skin.

"Hey! You there."

...Who?

A deep, grizzled male voice hollered from behind the circle of spectators, drawing the soldiers' attention. Maruku could only turn his gaze so much with the way his body was still forced against the ground.

There was a pair of... dark leather boots, the edges of a black cape. The way the newcomer stood was quite nonchalant, weight shifted to one side. "Let him go, I've seen enough. Taking this one."

There was a round of hushed, offended whispers. His captor let go of his arm, relieving the horrid pressure in his shoulder. "You what? Ohnzhejhar, you cannot possibly be serious."

"I am." The man - Ohnzhejhar, Silver Storm - affirmed, a hint of impatience in his voice. "By the law of the Wind Warriors, I choose to recruit this asiju. If he has what it takes. If not, I will return him here myself."

The whispers ceased, a stunned silence following in the wake of the strange Windarian's words. His tormentor saluted and stepped aside, side-glaring all the while but not daring to question a superior in rank. The wolven boy's body was beaten to hell and back and well on the verge of breaking in half - but he grit his teeth and rose, standing on wobbly legs to better see his savior.

The man was... monstrously tall, from this angle. Long silver hair adorned his head, eyes yellow like the Elder Moon staring unfathomable from overneath sharp cheekbones, the right of which was marked by a violet symbol of a crescent. Dark tan skin was painted with a long blue streak across the nose, seemingly sectioning his face into halves. His right arm bore some strange metal cuff - no, not cuff - a heavy engraved bracelet with what seemed to be a port of sorts.

"Done gawking? Then let's go." A gruff rumble, and the man began to walk.

...What? What did just... happen?

The man before him. His rescuer. He was more than a soldier. He was... a Wind Warrior. And what was that weapon upon his back? A gun as intimidating as its owner’s presence. Questions upon questions raced through a weary mind, but he could not help but search for her face in the crowd. Ïsta..!

There. There she was. In that moment, their gazes met.

Terror painted those orange eyes of one he had come to consider a friend. He wanted to reach out, to apologize. His lips moved, silently mouthing her name. The girl's eyes widened, and she stepped back. He glimpsed a brief flash of fear shadow over her features, and she slipped away into the crowd. She was afraid.

Afraid to be discovered; As a friend to the kiichimarichuril criminal.

No, no... he had to talk to her. Back at the church, he could go back and explain - that way, she would not have to be seen anywhere near him. No, he - saßu - he could not just leave them all like that. Even if he...!

I'll become a warrior.

His own words. His very own wish. And at some strange whim of destiny, or as a morbid joke from the gods, it came true.

I'll fight. But now I go.

He had to. Had to go. He had to catch up to that man, battered bones and lost blood be damned. His bit tongue still hurt, a dull throbbing pain seizing his entire form with each step he took. No, no - the chance he was given, he could not squander. The first real chance... in his entire life.

In those blue ocean eyes, the man named Silver Storm became as the very divine; An earthly god extending a helping hand to the wretched omen child.

Kindness, even laced with thorns, would become deified.

A single tear fell from the wolven boy's eyes; He blinked the moisture away, turning his back to the audience that had hoped to spectate his downfall. Turning his back to her.

"W...wait.." He called after the silver-haired warrior, half-running, half-stumbling after his savior. His chest felt heavy, but so long as he could yet breathe, he could walk.

The man seemed to ignore him, continuing to walk at a steady pace on those long legs that rendered his steps closer to a plains lion's leaps. For each of Storm's strides, he had to take four. Droplets of sweat rolled down a dirtied face painted with blood and grime alike. Saßu... what was up with that man? Did he change his mind? Had he already forgotten about the tiny shape following in his shadow? Perhaps he wanted nothing to do with him, after all. Saßu, he couldn't... keep up that pace.

He was going to lose him.

Or so he thought. With quite the massive delay, the warrior reacted to his request, slowing down until he eventually halted, half-turned head staring with a golden side-eye. The way he glared, it sent shivers down the young Maruku's spine. "Hmm..." That voice, powerful as a landslide. "Let me see."

He approached, and the redhead boy froze in place. His eyes sparkled with pure wonder, even as his body would much rather seize up in primal terror. Becoming stiff as a log, tense with anticipation, each and every one of his instincts trained to brace for danger.

The warrior knelt down, both hands enveloping the asiju's sides, forcibly rotating him once, then again. He could only stand there, allowing his body to be guided by that monstrous man's hands, a little inspection of his form he would endure until his rescuer was satisfied with what he saw. Moon-yellow eyes looked on with an utter absence of emotion, an all-encompassing boredom painting steeled features. Another hmm resounding, a guttural noise, as though excavated from the belly of a beast.

A hand left his side, reaching for a satchel hanging at the warrior's waist. A pinch of what seemed to be... shimmering emerald dust, set into motion by a circular movement of the Storm's wrist. "From life's ether... Evergreen."

A press of an enormous hand against his chest, startled gasp forcing its way past the wolf-child's lips as he watched the Soil itself glow and take hold of every ache in his body - snuffing them out like dying candlelight. Suddenly, his side no longer stung like so. He gawked.

The youth's awestruck expression must have prompted the mage to speak. "Close that mouth before a hornet flies in." Was that... a joke? Told in a deadpan dryer than the Sand Sea itself? "Here." A bottle of water was passed his way, snapping him out of his stupor as greedy hands immediately brought it to parched lips, chugging the clear liquid in large and messy gulps.

"Do you have a name, boy?" One silvered brow rode higher, the Storm's question hanging heavy in the air. The mage resumed walking, just a little slower than before.

A name...? A name.

The redhead lowered the bottle, staring with wide, shining eyes. The light within slowly dimmed as he finally looked down, burying his gaze into the dirt. "No... no name. They only call me Maru..ku." A pause, and the boy considered. He may as well give the full version - the brand he had carried since his earliest days. "Kiichi...mari...maruku."

The Red-Haired Wolf. The Windarian word for red was interchangeable with blood. The very blood that supposedly granted his hair that rich crimson hue, a mark of the calamity that followed in his wake.

The Wind Warrior walked in silence for a moment - weighting his words behind yellow eyes. "Kiichimarimaruku, huh? That is a curse you carry. One that runs deep in your veins. You cannot escape it. But you can fight it."

"Fight...?"

"You have iron in your eyes and fire in your heart, churil." Stated the silver warrior. "A blade is what you will make. With the Ladnajredvi as your crucible. If you want to survive in this land, that is."

Was that... the name of the Wind Warrior's clan? A word for the sea and another he did not yet recognize. Yes, it must have been. In a way, was the blue line across the soldier's face not like the calm surface of water? Perhaps, one day, he could venture out to see the sea with his own two eyes.

The lively main street eventually gave way to farmland; animals kept for milk, meat and hide alike mooing, cooing and yowling their way as they passed by. What little grassy fields clung to Tonnavrel's walls like a babe to its mother soon reclined into gravel, life-giving soil metamorphosing into rocky desert.

At the final city gate awaited the distinct shape of a wagon, a beast of burden standing in front and eating out of the basket attached to its muzzle. The kivani's long tail swayed to-and-fro as they approached, a low rumbling noise offered in greeting as Storm's left hand smoothed over its head, tracing overneath its ink-black eye and the ridged base of a horn. "Steel Shrike!" He called out. A warrior - painted similarly upon the face - turned to salute her elder. "Prepare the kivani. We're moving."

There was another quick salute and the Ladnajredvi soldier set to work; Dark eyes briefly falling on the boy in Storm's shadow. She did not question, attention focused entirely on her task; Removing the feeder, double-checking the harness. She, too, was tall. Maruku seemed to shrink further the more people drew near to greet their returning leader.

"Alihkar. Good to see ye. Who's this?" Another voice inquired, expression unreadable behind a helmet. The hefty warrior peeked around his chieftain's side - and the redhead simply walked out from behind Storm. Though uncomfortable he was, his eyes turned into a picture of conviction. Appearing pathetic in front of the people who offered him kindness was the very last thing he wanted to do. The man seemed pleased. "Oho! A brave lil young'un. What a crazy shade of hair you have there."

Maruku scowled, inciting the warrior into a bout of belly-laughter. Silver Storm let it go on for a while before raising a hand and prompting the man to stop. Hearty chuckling eventually calmed down. "Look at 'im face. What a threat display. I like 'im, Ohnzhejhar-vahree, I like 'im. Kinda bloody though, 'e aight?"

"Stabbed a man." The mage casually replied. Ah yes, knife violence. The absolute most normal thing in the world. "The hunter-zealots wrung out the kid's hide."

A head of crimson promptly whipped round, large blues staring dumbfounded at the man whose intervention prevented his own, rather untimely, slaughter. Yellow eyes looked down, quite unphased. "What’s the matter?" Storm seemed to know exactly what hid behind shocked silence. "I saw. The man will live, though short an eye."

The boy could only open his mouth like a fish, searching for words that never came. Instead, he closed it and sank lower into his tattered poncho, making a show of averting his gaze. Well, at least he had confirmation now. He was glad... he was no murderer, after all.

But.. did that mean Storm had seen everything?

The armored man whistled, head bobbing up and down before his gaze returned to his leader. "A criminal?"

The elder nodded. "Thief. Swift on his feet and not afraid to sting."

The boy's hand instinctively went to trace over his knife's handle only to find it missing. Though its condition was terrible, it was the only weapon he had ever owned. Thanks to it, he managed to peel back shells and kill small animals he would not be able to otherwise. With it gone, a part of him felt he had just lost a faithful companion. A fragment of himself. Now he truly was a wolf without its fang.

"You look proper hungry." The jovial warrior commented - reaching for a satchel to retrieve some dried meat. He knelt down and held the scraps out, a little offering of peace. It was then that Maruku's stomach growled loudly, only deepening the scowl already painting his features. The food was promptly snatched up, much to the man's amusement.

The warriors - including Silver Storm, there were four in total - quickly finished their preparations for departure. The supply cart began to move and so did armored feet, aiming to reach the nearest village before the height of the hours of the Sun. From there, they would continue westward as soon as the searing heat gave way to evening.

"You've been through a lot today. You can go sit on the wagon." It was an offer he had to accept, lest he faint from too much excitement. The wolven boy climbed up, positioning himself in the front of the vehicle, a sheet of dark green fabric stretching overneath to provide much-needed shade. From there, he simply stared on ahead, observing the slow change of the landscape and listening to the quiet crunching of gravel under hoof and wheel alike.

Before long, weary lids began to droop, and he laid upon his side, lulled to sleep by exhaustion.

---------

Day of the Rabbit. Ninth morning hour.

The journey to Keep Ladnajredvi lasted three days in total. They moved by early dawn and evening and rested by noon. The west of the province offered relatively safe passage, the only risk worth considering being wandering bandits but even they had long since moved further south to exploit the raging war. The trip was uneventful; Interrupted only briefly by a passing rock drake. Still, the beast knew better than to start a fight with four grown, armed Windarians - instead ignoring them as it dragged its scaly belly across the road and disappeared into a cave.

It was because of the long, boring hours on the march that the youth’s mind began to wander. From his earliest memories to the still-fresh scene of bloodied cobblestone and heavy boots and mocking gazes. And her. Disappointed, having learned of the violence that lived inside him. In the end, that gnawing anger shared its nest with guilt.

And from then on out, he would do his best not to dwell on the life - the lives - he left behind.

Rocky desert once again began to change; Almost as though Windaria herself was a dragon shedding scales. Sharp stone fell away to reveal a kinder, softer land, a stretch of plain peppered here and there with trees. In the distance loomed heavy, coiling spires, a special type of natural formation shaped by Soilwind.

The boy walked at Silver Storm's side, gazing in awe at the fortified Keep rising from the horizon. The longer they marched, the closer the city drew, a fortress built from chiseled stone dominated by a single circular tower.

"Welcome to Lir Hassan, churil!" Announced the heavily armored man - whom he now knew by the name Rurvakannu, Roaring Gale. "The Third Gate to the West, home to our people."

Strange-looking engines set to work on either side of the main entryway, extending a slab of metal over the dry moat that further protected the fortress-town. Storm's group rolled in, signalling for the passage to close. Stationed soldiers saluted, framing their little procession before returning to scheduled patrols. The metal drawbridge folded with the sound of turning machinery.

The town was not as big as Tonnavrel, but it could withstand an army. Ladnajredvi were a warrior clan - knowing just how to fortify their den to keep out unwanted visitors. From the very dawn of civilization, people had drawn teachings from nature. Like a rock drake piled sharp stones round its nest, so, too, did man raise walls and line moats with pikes. Lir Hassan was a city ready to meet violence with violence - it was made further evident by the various vehicles of war stationed inside the walls - rough and brutal looking hulls decorated in blue war paint.

The imagery of the sea. The boy's brows furrowed in confusion. He didn't recall seeing the Grand Blue anywhere near. Was it... a hidden sea, somehow? This made no sense. Why would the Ladnajredvi be named that if their Keep wasn't even beside water?

"Ohnzhejhar-vahree," He addressed the silver-haired mage. His broken Lahriktaarese had improved owing to his time in the church, but the phrasing could still be awkward at best. Particularly if he just blurted things out without thinking. "Why clan Sea-Risen if no sea?"

The Storm's head turned to allow a steeled gaze to fall on his pupil.

"This is not our original home. We were driven from our land, Malatuur, long ago." Unmoving moonlit eyes seemed to fill with a certain melancholy. "Ladnakutri Malatuur lies at the precipice of the Jewel of Windaria. Our ekkti and syajhiri, among other things, reflect the spirit of the waves."

"Ekkti... syajhiri?" Maruku asked, head tilting slightly to the side.

"The ekkti is the facial tattoo worn by warriors. If you do well in the eyes of Clan Elders and the Holy Beast himself, you too will bear your own." It was clear the man was not too keen on speaking this much a day - and yet, doing so was inevitable with a trainee such as the young Red Wolf. "A syajhir is a cape worn for ceremonies."

Indeed, this child was simultaneously the most ignorant and most curious one he had come to tutor. Even if something prevented him from speaking properly. A foreigner, perhaps? It mattered very little when he was already branded kiichimarichuril. "Come."

Maruku's time to awe at the city was short as the four warriors ascended up a stairway leading into the tower. The gate loomed tall, protected by twin stylized statues of mandible-bearing dragons. Their wings looked as though suns - propellers..? - had been fit into their wrists.

He could recognize the depiction of Lord Bahamut anywhere. He was the Ro Alihkar, after all. The Chieftain of the Gods, Lord of the Soil and Forge Patron of Firearms. It was this very dragon who lived within the Magun, locked in the central spire of the High Temple. Why would somebody imprison a deity? Even the God of Destruction was a part of nature.

They walked in silence. The only noise that accompanied their quiet ascent was the sound of reinforced boots meeting stone. The tower was not only tall, but wide. All around, the stairwell branched out into corridors, each leading to separate parts of the Keep. The stone walls, lit by what appeared to be veins of light carved parallel to the summit, displayed various scenes from history and mythology alike. Ancient figures and splendid creatures fought side-by-side, challenging a great darkness and its horned servants.

Eventually, however - the upwards spiral came to a stop, a singular opening remaining before the stairwell cut off with one final mural. The shape of a man holding a golden gun, with the same white dragon from before standing behind with claws perched protectively upon his shoulders. The hero's face was blurry, indistinct, and completely unremarkable. There was an ornate inscription below - not that he could read it.

Maruku's gaze was forcibly pried from the artwork when they walked out into the room sitting at the very top of the Keep.

The circular space they found themselves in was mostly overtaken by a long, wooden table of rather remarkable craftsmanship, seats lining both of its sides - some of which were already taken. The gathered Windarians' eyes fell on them in unbroken silence, awaiting for their alihkar to speak first. Silver Storm stepped in front, striking moongold gaze sweeping over his subjects, satisfied with what it was seeing.

"I greet you, warriors of Lir Hassan, my kindred. Today I return with the intention to acquaint you with the asiju I had recruited in the name of the Winds. May the Four Winds bless our Soil."

"May the Four Winds bless our Soil." Maruku caught on halfway through, reciting the greeting alongside the others. A greeting he already knew.

Once again did that same hum rumble in the Storm's throat. Before he knew it, yellow eyes fell on the gathered once again. "He is a warrior in spirit. A survivor. Henceforth, he will join the warband I mentor."

So... the man who had saved him would be the one to train him, after all. Blue eyes looked up, gazing at the warrior as though he were the Elder Moon. The wolf's very first guiding light.

He could feel Storm's hand rest upon his shoulder not unlike Bahamut’s claws did on the champion’s. A subtle, but clear enough, nudge to step forward.

So he did.

The other elders observed him with piqued interest, one that weighted heavy on the boy who had grown up always on the run. A long stare like that had only ever spelled trouble; His heart picked up the pace, adrenaline pumping to prepare the young wolf to bolt. He swallowed back instinctive alarm, remaining as unshakable as he could muster.

"What is your name?" An older, feminine voice eventually inquired, a grizzled veteran of war with a scarred eye leaning forward upon her elbows. Only one orb of green bore into his soul.

"I have none." He replied. There was no point thinking those words his name, anyway. Doing so was synonymous with granting his earliest tormentors the right to define him.

That's right. The monster never called itself a monster. That wretched title only fell from the lips of the mob, raising pitchforks and waving torches. That - was no name. It was an insult. An excuse, so that they may deem him an animal and feel better as they refuse, time and time again, to treat him like a person. By their definition, he was much better off dead.

Ïsta, she... against the odds, chose to define herself. Even in the shadows, unheard by others; Diligently did she remember her true name.

But then, why had he never defined himself..? What was his true name? Did he ever have one?

There was a round of exchanged whispers, many pairs of eyes - ones both complete and incomplete - continuing to bear into his form. Like hawks, gazing on from above upon their newest meal. Don't think like that.

"Very well, nameless child. Soon, if your strength of will and the Lord of Espers allow, you shall have one."

A name... his true name.

The Ladnajredvi elders turned towards Storm and saluted. The alihkar responded with a slight bow of his head, an acknowledgement and a thank you. As feral as he appeared, the young wolf knew better than to leave without paying respects. For the first time in his life, he found himself lowering his head alongside the man who would become his mentor. Copying his movements, learning even now from the smallest motion. Even beasts could recognize authority and he was no beast.

He was ready to define his worth.

#[[Worth of Wolves #[[drabble #[[headcanon #final fantasy unlimited #ff:u #ffu #[[Windaria - Land of the Winds #[[Does the Blade Weep ║ Silver Storm #aka before we know how much of a PoS Storm is

[fat-hedonistic-hogs]

Prompt: Windblade in a sumo match against Mistress Of The Flame/Flab

Windblade was a little nervous as she stepped into the ring. She felt the familiar eyes of her friends and fans on her body as she tightened her mawashi pulling the fabric deep between her blubbery cheeks making sure it was fastened in place. The last thing she wanted was to have a belt slip unlike Firestar she wasn't too keen on being exposed like that even if the fabric was ALL she was wearing letting her exposed chest flop free. This was a charity match no titles on the line just a hype generating bout between Windblade and Mistress. Solus was watching from her booth on the sidelines being looked after by Lifeline and her dozen or so paradron medics so Windblade could feel the pressure to perform well.

Her opponent the Mistress of the flame was guided into the ring by some medics of her own. They waved a slice of pizza infront of her to keep her moving each step she took shaking the entire stadium. She was barely able to move with her weight, ass and gut dragging along the ring arms sunken in her own flab and out to her sides.

Smacking her cheeks Windblade crouched down and assumed the traditional starting pose her ass pushed back giving the audience and cameras a good shot of the dozen or so advertising stickers plastered to her bumper. "BEGIN!" Chromia shouted the match starting with Mistress letting out a thunderous "BWOOOOOOOOORP!" Her belch slamming into Windblade pushing her back from the sheer force of the powerful gas. It was her strategy. She was barely mobile and unable to perform complex acrobatic maneuvers. She'd use her defense and bulk to wear her opponents down with powerful belches and let them tire themselves our trying to move her sheer mass. When they exhausted themselves a burst of gas or a belly flop would end the match. Windblade knew better bracing herself she dodged the next belch and tried to go for Mistress' legs. A sound strategy on paper but her leg flab was so large trying to sweep her feet out from under her was a herculean task in and of itself. She'd have to play the waiting game. Mistress was sturdy but a fat immobile blob like her couldn't stand up forever. She'd get tired and be easy to throw off her game.

"Looks like the Mistress of the flab's iron clad defense is holding up! Will our local hero Windblade be able to topple this belching behemoth? Or will she wind up pinned beneath our Mistress' cheeks like so many other fighters before her?" Chromia yelled into the mic providing commentary for the match and exciting the crowd even more.

"I can't just let her play me..." Windblade thought grunting as she side stepped another belch. Closing the distance between herself and her opponent she landed a powerful palm strike to Mistress' belly hitting a particularly delicate spot making the titan of a femme let out an even larger belch than the ones she had been using to attack Windblade. Her aim was off of course but the extra strong belch did send the Mistress sliding back a bit from the recoil of her own gas...

"Checkmate." Windblade said with a smirk as she hit that spot again getting another bassy eruption of gas moving the mound of dough back another inch. "BANG!" "Burrrrrp! "BANG!" "BWWOOOOURP~" The cycle repeated itself with Windblade forcing her opponent back inch to the edge of the ring.

"Unbelievable! Windblade is managing to MOVE the immovable mistress!" Chromia called out watching along with the crowd as the samurai turned sumo slammed her palms deeper into Mistress's bruised and beaten paunch.

"You're OUT!" Windblade grunted striking a fighting stance before with both hands she struck Mistress' gut a explosive belch rising from her opponents gut and exploding out with the force of a bomb. A Shockwave rippled across Mistress' stomach a wave of flab moving across her body as every inch of her fat was sent backwards. She tumbled out of the ring crashing to the ground and letting out one last defeated belch as she fell.

Windblade stood victorious above her opponent determined to finish the fight properly she smirked and planted her rear down onto the defeated sumo's face earning herself a long rest after toppling a near unbeatable opponent.

"It's over! The winner is Windblade!" Chromia cheered! Raising Wimdblade's arm high into the air as the crowd chanted her name.

#muse: windblade #muse: mistress of the flame #muse: chromia #sumo #massive multiverse

[rosavulpes]

He'd been drifting aimlessly for some time now , body remaining still , offering no resistance to the currents that were carrying him along with them on their journey across the ocean bed .

The desire to let himself close his eyes , and resume his sleep was strong . He'd become so familiarized with sunken lands around him that the fear of awakening in an unknown place ? It was nonexistent to him . Besides , would that be a bad thing for him at this point in his long life ?

The more that time continued to pass him by , the more that he couldn't help but feel that the world above these waves no longer held a place for him .

When he thought of home ? He thought of the earth's vast oceans , the memories of Elysion during it's days of glory beginning to feel more and more like a bygone dream .

Lightly shaking his head , he knew that such thoughts would only cause the Maenads to worry over him . As they'd talked before of the toll that their duties had taken on them , and him . Encouraging him to at least return to his true form on land once every few months as to not lose sight of who he once was .

Accustomed as he'd become to his aquatic form . " The beast of the sea " the name he'd been given in stories by the few that had been able to catch glimpses of him on the surface .

Propelling himself upwards , towards the surface of the water . The darkness around would gradually start to fade . The waters becoming brighter , more active as higher numbers of fish , and other aquatic life became more common place .

It wasn't that he disagreed with them , at times he wondered if he should simply join them in sleep within the holy crystals that still remained around Elysium . But , he knew himself too well . If he were to enter into that long sleep ? he would most certainly lose his desire to awaken from it again .

In his eyes , perhaps not yet theirs , he questioned if the one he was searching for would ever reappear .

The era of the silver millennium had ended . The world had been reborn anew , the old burned away .

The golden crystal that he guarded to this day , remained in dormancy , without it's owner to reawaken it's true power it was nothing more than just a crystal . A relic of a forgotten era , no different than he , and the Maenad .... and perhaps one that should remain buried underneath the blue waves with them .

As his head broke above the surface , he was quick to rise out of the waters , and take to the clouds .

Ascending higher , and higher still until his form was indistinguishable between the clouds , and blue skies .

This wasn't his first time soaring above their cities , the new peoples of Earth . It was different . From the sights , the architecture , the culture , and their speech . All different , but it wasn't a bad thing . It was good to see that progress continued , even if they were no longer a part of it .

They lived in relative peace , their days spent worrying over what he would deem trivial . Attaining wealth , status , love , and happiness . So who where they to intrude upon this new future ? Why not allow the mistakes of the past to remain where they belonged ?

Letting loose a loud , echoing cry . He knew that his voice wouldn't reach those below . It would be another attempt , as always , to attempt to find him .

Flapping his wings once more to remain at his current altitude , he'd continue to soar above the cities as he traversed further inland , waiting to see if maybe this time , just maybe , he'd get a reaction out of the golden crystal . To see if maybe it would be able to sense the presence of Prince Endymion whom he could only pray had been reborn into this new era , if not now ... then perhaps tomorrow , or maybe the day after , month , or another year ... still .

As day turned to night , then night into day , he would come to rest .

Tucking his silvery wings closer to his chest , his stature becoming smaller in size . Wings becoming arms , feathers and scales becoming his clothes .

At first , he'd remained knelt for some time . Even stumbling for a bit , before gaining his footing . Staring down at his hands , and shoes , and the apparel that adorned his human form . Strange to think that this body had now become so foreign to him , whereas his aquatic form had now become what he felt to be natural for him .

Curling his gloved fingers inwards into softly held , balled fists a few times over as if testing their dexterity . He'd soon feel something cold start to wash over him .

Looking upwards , towards the grey skies above . He'd close his eyes , basking in the rain that started to fall . Not caring that his clothes were starting to becoming damp in the downpour .

If memory served , the city called Tokyo was closet to him , and the best place to begin his search again if he wanted to return to the waters of the sea as soon as possible . It was the major hub for these islands , and would offer the highest chance of finding Prince Endymion .

For now however , he didn't intend to to walk the streets during their hours of daylight as it was easier to walk their streets when there were fewer numbers of them .

Seeking shelter underneath the cover of a nearby tree , he'd lean against it as he lowered himself down towards the grass . Materializing an ocarina with the aid of his magic , and beginning to play a song to help the time pass ...

@dreamlune

#dreamlune #ooc. hope you don't mind me tagging you in this drabble #ooc. this is how I used to write Helios #ooc. my major change is that I use Lugia as his alternate form instead of Pegasus #ooc. as Lugia is my favorite Pokemon ! #ooc. and I felt that their aesthetics were pretty similar

[bormgans]

EMPTY SPACE: A HAUNTING - M. John Harrison (2012)

EMPTY SPACE: A HAUNTING – M. John Harrison (2012)

I liked everything I’ve read by Harrison so far: Light, Nova Swing, the 2017 short story collection You Should Come With Me Now, and his latest 2020 novel The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again. I liked it a lot. And I plan to read a whole lot more of Harrison too. But I stopped reading Empty Space at 60% in. Not that it doesn’t have merit. The novel got glowing reviews on Speculiction and A Sky of…

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#2010s #Empty Space #Empty Space trilogy #Empty Space: A Haunting #Kefahuchi Tract trilogy #M. John Harrison #postmodern self-referential puzzle #Review #Science Fiction

[sunny-mercya]

Chasing Shadows

Percy Jackson x Male Reader

Fandom -> Percy Jackson Series

Masterlist

Percy had known, more gotten it told—rather offhandedly and in a rude, dismissive and snarky snide manner—about your mental health from the very beginning, when he had first woken up in Camp Half-Blood.

It hadn't deterred him to befriend you—the skittish, anxious and shy boy, with a sunshine like smile and an heart filled with too much joy and genuine love.

So now, when summer vacation had started again for Percy—after almost a whole year since the Battle against Kronos rising had been won and over—to be back at Camp, hopefully for some tranquility and peaceful time, the very first thing he did—besides bringing his luggage into his Cabin—was to check up on you.

You're a full time camper since birth and the only few times you had gotten even remotely out of Camp, had been during two Quests—where Percy had dragged you along for non real purpose in all honesty—and the final battle. Percy knew how cramped and suffocating you felt in camp, so he hopes the present he had brought for you—would cast a smile on your lips.

Jogging around, having a hard time finding you as you weren't in your usual spots and neither were you in the Apollo Cabin—which wasn't your Cabin to stay in as Apollo isn't your other parental half, but due an oath binding between Apollo and Zephyr—your actual parental half—you (and all other children of Zephyr, which were none thought as you're the only one) are allowed to stay in the Apollo Cabin as well.

Percy had heard from Annabeth—which was a bit surprising as the both of you are not familiar with one another at all—and Will, which was to be expected as you're his unofficial—hopefully soon officially—adopted little brother, how your mental health had taken a drastic shift into a worsen state than it had been before.

When Percy checked the Medical wing and couldn't saw in there either, there had been only more place left in his mind—where you probably could've been hiding, a small offside shore by the lake—and Percy swore, if you're not there either, he would go to Chiron and and report you missing.

~~~

Percy thanked Zeus and possibly God above with sincere gratitude, that you're indeed by the lake.

Though when Percy was almost near you—eyes widen in shock, breath caught in his lungs, once he saw your appearance vaguely close enough—he skidded into an stop, stumbling a few steps forward and landed with his knees—probably scraping them open—in the rough pebble and rock filled sand.

He crawled the last bit of way, sitting himself right in front of you. You didn't seem to register him at all, in a sort of daze you are—in your own world, lost in empty thoughts—staring with with dull eyes, void of emotions and life, at him or more like through him as if he was glass.

»Hey, [Nickname], I almost thought about to report you missing. You're way too good at hiding, seashell,« chuckled Percy, placing his hands over yours, wanting to recoil his touch back instantly—shuddering in a flinch, when feeling how leathery and boney your hand was—but didn't, giving you a squeeze and interwoven his fingers with yours.

What happened to you? Thought Percy, swallowing hard as his breath threatened again to be stuck in his lungs. Licking over his lips—slightly nibbling and pulling on the skins.

»[Name],« he called your name, in a softer hushing voice, out again. Caressing with his thumbs over your hand and again you didn't reacted.

While giving you a short full body scan, Percy engulfed you slowly into a hug—pulling you close and slowly down to the sandy and scratchy pebble rock ground.

Your skin, which had a once healthy glow to it, looked now ashen pale sickly and had a leathery grease to it. Cheekbones, chubby baby fat gone, hollowed and sunken in—so were your eyes and eye-bags beneath it, darker than ever.

Percy could tell that you had lost significantly lost weight, leaving you more than just scrawny—boney skinny, with arms so thin like toothpicks and your ribcage showing through—in a sense—your shirt.

By Zeus, you looked more like a corpse than an actual human being.

~~~

When the sun had started to set ever so slowly in the late afternoon, Percy picked you up—realising, his mind now completely catching up on the fact how, weight losses you actually are—after talking your ear off with everything he had on his mind, unconsciously making you fall asleep and carrying you back to the Apollo Cabin.

Laying you down onto your bed, Percy sat down next to you for a few more minutes of moments, while Will—who had nodded at him solemnly when he had entered the Cabin with you—passed out from exhaustion—in his arms—had drawn the curtains close around your bed as you never liked it to sleep in such open space, where everyone could watch you.

Percy examined your wrist, seizing up the freshly healed scars—which definitely weren't from a fight or sparring—he had a hunch, a fucking good hunch, to what was happening to you and leaves you in nothing but a mere unresponsive hollowed shell of decay.

Clenching his eyes shut for a second and blinking away the tears, which started to build up with a pressuring burning in his eyes, Percy looked at Will—wanting some answers, clarification and confirmation.

»How long?«

»Probably started shortly after the final battle against Kronos and Luke.«

»Why didn't you guys told me sooner?«

Will shrugged his shoulders, folding some clothes—putting them down onto the empty chair—and checking your nightstand cabinet, mentally noting down which of your medications and prescriptions needed to be refilled.

»Everyone handles Traumatic experiences differently and I've noticed it rather late, which mind you I'm still upset with myself about it, the telltale signs. Then again, you know how my brother is, never wanting to burden anyone,«

Percy swallowed, remembering it clearly—the traumatic experience, Will was talking about;

Luke in your arms, whispering apologies with his last remaining breaths to you and you reassuring him, that while you're still angry with him—about his stupidity of decision he made—you would forgive him and telling a lie of how everything gonna be okay.

And then, Percy had only walked away for a few seconds to get Will or Lord Apollo, when a piercing scream—your scream, so full of desperation and sorrow—echoed through, Percy stopped dead in his tracks.

Turning around fast, Percy looked at you with an horrific expression. You who is covered in blood and other bodily things, which he not dared to say out loud.

Lukes blood to be exact, then Luke—while still talking to you, in his hoarsely dying voice—had exploded, Kronos last dying act of breath itself, into a gruesome splattering thickly bloody mass.

So yeah, Percy knew very well what Will was talking about and a topic which had never been addressed properly with you, without sending you into a hysterical panic.

~~~

When Percy had retired back to his own Cabin, falling easily into sleep, he knew the dream—which were more a foretelling—he had, was a sign that this summer was just like the last few ones—filled with prophecies and adventures.

And in all this where you—getting dragged around, hair turning from ash grey into a snow white and leaving you more vulnerable crippled than before—losing perhaps the last part of your sanity to continue to live on.

Percy felt scared. He couldn't lose you. He just couldn't and he won't as you're his everything—his seashell to his waves.

#male reader #x male reader #fanfiction #malereader #xmalereader #oneshot #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson series #percy x male reader #percy jackson x male reader #pjo

[fairlycaught]

Don’t wait for your life to start. I was always waiting for my life to start. Everything that happened seemed like a good beginning, but it turned out to be the thing itself.

M. John Harrison, The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again

#The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again #m. john harrison #quotation

[doormouseetcappendix]

My 2020 Summer Audio-Book Log Pt 2. 

Lovecraft Country by Matt Ruff (2016) read by Kevin Kenerly 

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones (2020) read by Stephen Graham Jones 

Darkly: Black History & America’s Gothic Soul by Leila Taylor (2019) read by Leila Taylor 

The Night Land by William Hope Hodgson (1912) read by Drew Ariana 

The Sandman by Neil Gaiman (1989) read by Neil Gaiman, James Macavoy, Riz Ahmed, Samantha Morton, Andy Serkis, Micheal Sheen, Bebe Nuewirth, Taron Eagerton, Kat Dennings 

A Peculiar Peril: The Misadventures Of Jonathan Lambshead by Jeff Vandermeer (2020) read by Raphael Corkill 

I’m Thinking Of Ending Things by Ian Reid (2016) read by Candace Thaxton 

The Sunken Land Begins To Rise Again by M. John Harrison (2020) read by Max Dowler 

Frankenstein In Bahgdad: A Novel by Ahmed Saadawi (2013) read by Eduardo Ballerini & Kaleo Griffith 

On A Night In Lonesome October by Roger Zelzany (1993) read by Salome Strangelove 

#m john harrison #ahmed saadawi #roger zelzany #ian reid #jeff vandermeer #stephen graham jones #matt rugg #leila taylor #neil gaiman #william hope hodgson #the sunken land begins to rise again #on a lonesome night in october #frankenstein in bahgdad #the sandman #im thinking of ending things #a peculiar peril #darkly #audiobooks #books #literature #sci fi #fantasy #horror #essays #comics #lists #2020 #novels #reading log #weird fiction

[ahb-writes]

Traditionally, innovative writing is a reconnaissance. It confers fresh perspective on the human subject, invents a way to capture the evidence of change a little way in advance. Or does it? Perhaps it’s collateral to change, perhaps one of the things it does is to express an anxiety about change that’s already in progress: thus accelerating social processes out of its own nervous anticipation of the possibility of change to come.

M. John Harrison

#fiction #writeblr #novel writing #science fiction #m john harrison #goldsmiths prize #new statesman #the sunken land begins to rise again #fiction writing #innovative writing #evidence of change #express an anxiety #social process #nervous anticipation

[bookcoversonly]

Title: The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again | Author: M. John Harrison | Publisher: Gollancz (2020)

#books #The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again #M. John Harrison

[and-not-waving-but-drowning]

#the sunken land begins to rise again #m john harrison #goldsmiths prize #fiction #literature

[kaggsy59]

“deep and false waters” - exploring the Sunken Land over @ShinyNewBooks #mjohnharrison

“deep and false waters” – exploring the Sunken Land over @ShinyNewBooks #mjohnharrison

Regular readers of the Ramblings will be well aware of my love of the writing of M. John Harrison – goodness knows, I’ve covered it often enough here! Having encountered his Viriconium stories back when I was in my early twenties, I’ve followed his work with interest (and great joy) ever since. His books are impossible to categorise, which I love; ranging from fantasy and sci fi to more realistic…

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#m. john harrison #the sunken land begins to rise again