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safely-in-vhagars-belly · 9 months

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Dark! Aemond X OC (Snow Falls) Chapter 23: The library. AEMOND POV

You are Willa Wyldewoods, lady of Wyldecrest. After being denied your hand in marriage, Aemond murders your family and makes himself Lord of WyldeCrest, out-powering you. He claims you as his wife and spoils, He commands and goes over your home now and as you will learn right now: No one is safe under his reign. Not even you

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Aemond being a doom-tourist, Aemond being a dark tourist, Aemond being fasinated with the deaths of dozens, Aemond cursing, Aemond hating Viserys, Aemond being stabby-happy, Aemond being traumatized, mentions of miscarriages, mentions of aboritions, Aemond suffers from paranoia. Aemond is unfeminstic, Aemond is dark!, Aemond is unforgiven, mentions of non-con, rape, and other unpleasant things

Aemond's pov

In reality, Willa is still asleep. I do feel less in need of her feminine charms. I wash my hands with a sigh, rubbing the cum away with a towel. I redress myself and make my way to the library, to continue my studies. I do often so, when I can't find sleep.

I am greeted by guards and let in. I sit down on my favourite spot by the fireplace and select a few books about the doom. It always fasinates me. How far such a beautiful civilisation could fall only because of their own greed. Perhaps I have inherited some things from that old fuck that sired me. Perhaps more than I like to admit.

I hear someone approach me and instantly I reach for my dagger. I rise up from the chair, jumping up ready to stab whoever dares to oppose me. A habit I have taken from my lovely wife's home.

It is Aurelia. I put the dagger away with a annoyed groan. I would prefer assassins over her anytime. She sways her hips and smiles at me as if she won. "I told her about my child." There is nothing I hate more than a problem already solved returning to be a problem once more. And Aurelia is a problem.

"Did you?" I hum, faking interest. The only reason I am hearing her out and not dragging her off by her hair to cut her in pieces for hurting and touching my Willa, my little sweet fox and making her cry is that I want to know what she told Willa.

"Yes. How your brother forced me to give birth to my dead child." Ah yes. Aurelia was once a sweet, innocent young woman... Until she met us, that is. I got tired of her gold digging and fake moans rather fast, yet I doubt Aegon ever did. He always had a soft spot for the whore.

Even now I hear his pathetic drunk voice in my head. I am never free of that demon, so I fear. "Aemond, I don't understand why you don't take Aurelia into your bed more often." Perhaps I don't want my brother's hand-me downs. I have had plenty of those. There is one hand me down I am interested in, it is entrusted with rubies and is made of Valyrian steel. Or perhaps there are two. That, and a certain beautiful iron chair that is waiting for me downstairs. I deserve to rule this realm. Aegon never had what it takes. He spits on duty and sacrifice.

Me? I know everything about the two. I had to sacrifice my own eye for my dragon. I have never turned my back on my duties, always preformed them with dedication as a true king would. No matter how unpleasant or boring.

My blood cooks from within my veins. She wishes to scare Willa. She wishes to break us apart. I scowl. "How is that my problem, exactly? If you stayed loyal to me, you wouldn't have gotten pregnant in the first place."

She scowls now too, her pretty whore face getting ugly. I smirk, statisified with her anger. "How could I have possibly rejected him?! Your protection was nothing compared to what you give Willa!" I sigh.

Because Willa means something to me. I haven't figured out what this is, this constant need to be with her, the constant need to protect her and the bloodlust that is unleashed in my head when anyone as much looks in her direction. It makes me want to crack skulls and take heads. No one ever made me feel that strongly before. Yet a doe eyed maiden from the North? She turns all I know into uncertainty. She is the answer. But to what question?

"You are a jealous whore. Do you envy her? Her beautiful pure soul? She never had to work a day in her life. You did. Your soul is rotten from the poverty and the whoring you did. Willa eats meals you will never taste. She wears gowns made of fabrics you'll never feel. She is everything. You are nothing." I finish brutally making her tear up. Good.

I smirk, leaning in close. I smile at her, caressing her face. "You see, slut. Willa is a beautiful gorgeous and educated lady. She is my wife. You? You are a unedacted disgusting dirty little brat that outstayed her welcome already."

She slaps me, and I'll admit it is impressive for a woman. "I told her. She will see in time just how cruel you are, Aemond Targaryen." She vows as if I will allow her to be around to see this happen after what she did just do to me.

I feel my burning cheek. I do not become angry. I fake a smile but from within, I feel a hunger, only skull cracking, and blood spilling can solve. "Yes," I mutter absently. "I fear you are right about that, at least. But by the time she does, it will be far too late for her."

Aurelia is clearly conflicted as to how I feel about Willa. The stupid whore thinks it is all so black and white. So easy. That once a man falls in love with a woman, he must drop all his personality to make his conquest happy. I spit on that idea. I always have. "O... You see, I do truly care for Willa." I tell her, and for once it is the truth. I do. I wouldn't feed and cloth my little fox if I didn't care for her. I wouldn't have died for her if I didn't care for her. And I surely wouldn't have allowed her to orgasm and come as hard as she did, if I didn't care for her.

I put the books back in the shelves. They do not deserve to be dirty for what comes next. Willa is my precious little fox. I made a vow to her today, though she did not understand it. I take my vows rather seriously. Aurelia gulps.

I smile coyly before picking my dagger back up, advancing on her. "You are not leaving this room." I tell her. "You hurt my precious fox. You will pay for that with your life." I promise her before. She takes off running, to the doors. The guards do stop her for me and I smirk advancing slowly as a predator.

She is held for me. "How dare you two! I am a special friend of the king!" She whimpers. I shrug at her words.

Aegon likes her now. But love is fickle as a flame when it comes to him. One moment he promises her the seven kingdoms, the next he is ignoring her for months perhaps years. My guards hand her to me.

I take her over and for her cowardice when facing her destiny, I cut in her face drawing a ugly scar similar to my own. She cries when undergoing my torture. "Shut up, little cocksucker. Shut up. This is the beginning. Keep your voice for when the real fun begins."

She growls at me when I lay her down and start undressing her, taking my knife and slowly start petting her gigantic big tits. She made Willa insecure. I will never forgive her for making my precious fox insecure. She is above her by miles. "Aemond; your rape causes her more pain than any of my spankings. It was done to me as well. I never hurt the girl on purpose." I feel my lips scowl.

I grit out. "I don't rape her." She likes it. She enjoys it. She loves it. She would die for it. Willa enjoys what I give her and she clearly enjoys what only I can give her. I am her husband and my wife has needs only I truly understand. No other lord or man or even a god would be enough to satisfy the girl. She is mine.

"Not anymore. You did once. She has never forgotten. I see the fear in her eyes whenever you show yourself. Your real self. Not this perfect little princeling. But this rotten beast that died when they took his eye from him." I have never hidden from her who I am. Never. Not once. The little fox cried during our first few times, who wouldn't? I had murdered her family, ran them through and chopped them up in little pieces to be send around the kingdom as a warning. But her cunt...

O, her delicious little cunt. Her hardened nippels and her soft begging eyes whenever I would allow her to feel my length down her cunt, fucking it, showing her a wife's true purpose....

She loved that. I would be a fool to not notice how much my fox loves having sex with me. And none of it comes close to rape. None.

I kiss Aurelia, pretending to fuck her against the walls. "You want the beast? I'll give you the beast." I warn her.

She moans, the slut. I bite her neck first. She likes that. She always did. "You want to drive a wedge between me and her?! You want to take the one thing from me that brings me joy?! You will never leave this place alive slut." I warn her as I grab her left breast and my knife.

A whores breasts are her biggest selling points. She is nothing without it. She won't hold Aegon's attention once I mutilate her. "S-stop, Aemond..Stop. the king..I am his favourite. His special golden flower -" I spit on that nickname and her begging.

And I spit on my brother and all those who declare him king. He is no king. He is a shadow of a ruler who never will measure up to the greatness others see in him. "I will kill my brother, my damn self, in front of the entire kingdom to see if he comes close to her again. I will drink from his skull, and I will gift my Willa his eyeballs for hurting her." I whisper so the guards won't hear. Her eyes widen.

Now I don't have a choice but to kill her. She begs me, rubbing my cock through my pants. "I don't want to die..." no one does, do they? Yet if we kept every traitor alive, the world would become too full. It is good to clean away the weeds every now and then. It keeps the world healthy and a happy place.

I smirk. "You'll finally be with your daughter again. Isn't that a sweet comfort?"

"You beast!" She twists me between the legs. I choke her in return, taking my dagger and chop off her left nipple for her. I drag my dagger to her cunt and start slashing at it, watching as she cries and bleeds out on the sofa. I take no pleasure with it and start to rip her open from her cunt till her throat, as if she is a gift I am unwrapping.

What did she told my perfect little fox? I just started her lessons and she finally understands how it works. I am her husband and she will do anything for me. Tonight only confirms that my little fox loves me deeper than any cut I've given this whore that dared to touch her. I sigh. If Willa proves to be trouble once more, I will show her once more that she best behaves around me. I don't mind getting a little rough anyway. She does as well.

I cut off Aurelias head. I have plans with it. To the guards I give them a order. "Have a maid clean this mess up. Her body may be displayed on the spikes. Do me a favour, make sure her cunt is cut up lose and is impaled on a spike as well, right below the King's window. I wish him to see it."

I take the head with me and start walking to my brother's chambers.

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el-apestoso-the-first · 1 year

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The Mafia Work.

Word Count: 668

Slamming the door behind her, Enyo huffed attempting to wipe the now dried blood from her cheek as she trudged forward. Turning heel into her wife’s office, she let herself fall into a comfy lounge chair situated in the corner letting out another loud huff, as if the door slam hadn’t already garnered enough of her attention. Eyes shifting from financial reports, now sprawled along her desk as a result of the rather large door slam. Carman slowly raised her head, looking firmly at the smaller demon across from her. The sounds of erratic tapping rang filled the room, Enyo’s scarred and blunted tail furiously hit the end table to her right, annoyed but unwilling to voice her plight. Blinking a few times, Carman’s chin now rested on her hand, still looking to Enyo. “Are you alright, dear? What seems to be the matter?”, She pondered in a warm tone, calmly trying to gage Enyo’s mood. Tail slamming against the end table one last time, it slowly moved to the ground, as Enyo looked up to Carman. Letting a deep sigh escape her, she crossed her arms. “The mission, it wasn’--…“ She stammered a bit. “It wasn’t easy.” She looked to the ground. “It’s one thing having to dispatch a bunch of assholes. But when you have to deal with your own batch of assholes, it’s a different story..” The sides of her lips shifted a bit as a small smirk crept upon her face. “ But they got the picture, made sure of that.” She sneered a tad, perhaps a bit annoyed with the situation still. Carman cocked an eyebrow, slowly rubbing her eyes a bit. “Did you break one of their fingers again? Because as much as I love the way you handle things, I would like to not pay for someone’s medical bills again.” Carman sighed lightly, standing up and sauntering to the other side of the room. Leaning down to the smaller demon, she kissed her forehead lightly, embracing her not long after. Leaning into it, Enyo smiled lightly, hugging her back, head resting on Carman’s shoulder. Staying in their embrace for a few moments longer, the two eventually let go, to Enyo’s dismay of course. Picking her wife up, Carman walked to her desk to resume her work.Sitting back down in her office chair, Carman held Enyo to her, kissing her cheek as her head rested on her shoulder, her focus drawn back to her financial reports. Stiffening a bit, Enyo’s face flushed a bright red, relaxing a bit as she heard the sounds of paper on the desk and the movement of Carman’s arms against her sides, organizing her work. Resting her head on her shoulder, she wrapped her arms around her, nuzzling her head into a comfortable position. A light chuckle escaped Carman, feeling Enyo getting comfy. “Do rest, dear. It’s been quite a long day.” She spoke softly, kissing the side of her head. Exhaling a laugh, Enyo lackadaisically shifted against her. “You do too, y’know? This ain’t an exclusive thing. Just because you’re in here doin’ work doesn’t mean it’s not exhausting.” Enyo yawned out, her face digging back into Carman’s shoulder once again. “You need to take care of yourself as well, I don’t want ya to get hurt.” She spoke, her voice muffled by the larger demon’s shoulder. Carman lauged a bit as she placed another series of kisses long the side of her partner’s head. “I will, I promise.” She smiled, eyes skimming over her work once again. “Hey...Carman?” Enyo raised her head slowly, mustering the last bits of consciousness she had left. Carman steeled herself, holding herself back from laughing at her wife’s determined yet exhausted look. “Yes, Enyo?” She asked, biting the inside of her cheek to stifle the laughter. Enyo’s face rushed towards Carman’s, kissing her smack dab on the lips carefully, like a dart hitting a bullseye before falling almost completely limp to her shoulder from sheer exhaustion. “I love you.”

#original story #original writing #original fiction #gay fiction

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kailspider · 2 years

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Nightmare (Sam Winchester x Reader)

Summary: As the reader and the Winchester brothers continue their hunts, Sam constantly wakes up with nightmares and they try to put an end to it.

Warning: Scary imagery, Slight gore describing, mention of torture

AN: Thank you so much for all the likes on my last post, as a starter account that means the world. I hope you all enjoy, Im happy to take any requests!

The rumble of the impala’s tires on the road was a constant noise in the back of my head. I sat with my computer in my lap simply researching the next haunting we were headed to. I rose my head from the dimmed screen and found dean, he was fixated on the emptiness of the road in front of him. I shifted my eyes to the right and found sam fast asleep with his head pressed all the way back on the headrest. You could tell he was exhausted when his mouth was wide open.

“You know, I could switch with you so you can get some rest as well” I said almost in a hush not wanting to wake the other brother.

Dean pushed a deep breath out of his nose and simply nodded no. I can't blame him, this is how he relaxes when something seriously shakes him up. I turned my attention back to my laptop when I heard a struggling breath come out of Sams mouth.

I immediately shut my laptop and gave him my full attention. Dean just glanced as if this was a usual occurrence. The thought of waking him up was my first choice but I couldn’t help but wonder as to what he was dreaming of. The noise was heard again but louder. I slowly put my hand on his shoulder to let him know someone was there by his side, just in case he was having a bad dream;

*SAMS DREAM POV*

I was tied to a chair, my shirt was covered in blood but I didn't know if it was mine or someone else's. I was in a dim room and completely alone.

The sound of steel doors opening filled the back of my head, I searched frantically for someone to help me but not a soul could be found. I attempted to scream for help but the cloth in my mouth made it a mumbled mess and sounded more like a grunt. I was kicking and yanking my hands and legs to break the rope that bound me.

As my exhaustion got the best of me, I saw a pair of glowing red eyes staring at me in the corner. The big figure walked towards me and I knew it was a demon immediately .The long nails the entity had found its way towards the nearest wall making a deafening scratching sound.

The demon was so close in proximity that I could feel the freezing air pocket of energy it gave off. I heard someone begin to talk then right before my eyes the face of the demon morphed. Dad? no, this was more familiar. Dean. Why would he have red eyes? I wanted answers quickly.

Before I could question if this was real, Dean began saying things and hurting me physically. He wanted answers to questions I was clueless to and he tormented me when I didn't go far enough. After what seemed like years of this torture, the demon sighed and requested I give him what he wanted or he was going to go after something bigger, like (y/n).

(y/n) appeared out of thin air bonded with tape and rope. It was so hard to see them get hurt like that. I wanted to do everything in my power to make it stop but I couldn't, I was helpless. Tears streamed down my face fighting for (y/n) to get up. There was so much gore and things I never wanted to see happen to them.

All of a sudden I felt like I was being pulled out of a pool, the pressure and sense of relief filled my body when I realized I was awake and dean was shaking me.

*Y/N POV*

I had witnessed sam fighting for his life in his sleep, I was begging dean to wake him up before he hurt himself. The words that were leaving sams mouth sounded terrifying, What was dean doing to him? Why was I helpless?

I snapped out of it when I heard dean,

“Sammy! wake up kid, you're scaring the shit out of (y/n)” he said sounding worried.

I turned towards sam who had a look of relief that he was awake. He was sweaty and seemed to flinch away from deans touch, but I reached out to stop him. His teary eyes turned towards the backseat where I was, he put his head down where my hands rested and didn't say a word.

I didn't hear the whole conversation because I was so worried but it sounded like dean was telling sam he had enough of these episodes, and he needed help from us. Sam kept his head down trying to regain his composure.

We soon arrived at the motel for the night. We all shuffled in quietly not wanting to push sam over the limit with our questions. I dropped my bag on the floor and prepared the couch for sleeping. As dean stepped outside to take a phone call from bobby, I stared at a quiet sam who sat on the corner of his bed.

I cleared my throat, “hey sam I know you don't want to tal-”

but was cut off by him pushing off the bed and storming out of the room. I sighed but knew I should leave him be, I continued to get ready and even warmed up a blanket for sam in the steam of my hot shower.

After, I went to lay down when I noticed both brothers tucked away in their separate beds. I grabbed the warm blanket and softly draped it over his wide body. When I was walking away I heard sam's voice softly call out to me,

“y/n”

I turned my head to see his red puffy eyes and swollen cheeks, he had definitely been crying again. I made my way towards him and sat down in the empty space waiting for him to speak. He turned towards me and wiped his hot tears away from his nose, simply saying,

“I don't want to have another nightmare, please sleep next to me. I need to know someone is here”

I grabbed the covers and pulled them over both of us without any questions. He simply pulled me towards his body and didn't let go the whole night.

#supernatural #supernaturalpov #dean winchester #samwinterchester #fancfic #jared padalecki #xreader #pov

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smiledotdeer · 2 years

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[Following up his most recent kill, Alastor spends a couple hours thoroughly studying the sinner’s anatomy: humanoid in shape, blue skin, orange eyes, stringy black hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks, a typical demonic tail, hooved feet that aren’t too unlike his own, a scar on the right cheek, missing all but the thumb and forefinger on his left hand, lungs that have been ravaged by smoking for lord-knows-how-many years (THAT’S gonna be uncomfortable for him, but thankfully it won’t last too long), double lobe piercings in both of his pointed ears, a septum piercing, snake bites, a few tattoos on his upper arms (tribal stuff, nothing terribly fancy).

Overall? Not too difficult.

Once he’s done, he asks Cotton to retrieve the holy sword he’d recovered from Beau’s last assassination attempt. Since then, he’s had it repaired. It wasn’t as hard as he’s initially thought; once he found a trustworthy smithy, he’d been informed that it’s actually quite simple. As long as you have one pound of holy steel and slightly less than one pound of regular steel, you can melt them together and make a two pound holy sword. The regular steel doesn’t make the weapon any less holy; it merely acts as a filter, so long as there’s more blessed metal than unblessed. In the end, the blade is good as new, as well as freshly sharpened.

Alastor uses it for the first time in order to lop off this sinner’s head. Now he won’t be coming back. Good riddance.

Another hour is spent after cleaning the blade to properly butcher the permanently deceased demon now lying on his table, wrapping the pieces up and putting them away in his freezer for later consumption. While he does this, Cotton tends to the sinner’s shirt, getting his own blood cleaned off of it and dried so the evidence of his own death isn’t visible anymore. Once all that’s finished, he finally gets around to heading up to his lower floor’s bathroom and shapeshifting, taking on the sinner’s appearance perfectly. A few minutes are spent nailing his voice, raising and lowering the pitch until he finds the one he’d heard through Cotton, with a little help from his microphone as it parrots the line back at him a few times.

One final, somewhat unnerving, but still necessary touch to tie the whole thing together before he leaves: Alastor snags one of the sinner’s dismembered hands and casts an illusion on it so it takes on Beau’s appearance. Again, it’s a perfect replica...too perfect for him to want to look at for too long. That’s why he grabs a sack and tosses it in.

Then, at long last, with a steadily staining bag in tow, he heads out his front door and retraces his intruder’s steps. A little magical pathfinding leads him into Pentagram, winding down a few streets until he gets into the darker portion of the city. It’s not decrepit, by any means, but it gives off an unsafe vibe for whoever might be walking here. Alastor senses it, even though he knows he’s perfectly capable of handling himself.

As expected, the disguise works, and after arriving at a lone door in a dimly-lit alley he’s let in without question. A little harmless questioning leads him to the man he wants to see; the one who had been tormenting Beau for far too long.

Mister Beauvoir né Laveau himself.]

“I smell blood. Has it finally been done?”

"You got it, mister. Got tha proof right ‘ere.”

[Alastor tosses the bag carelessly onto the other man’s desk; normally he’d set it down carefully, but given this sinner’s demeanor, this felt more appropriate. Apparently Beauvoir Senior thinks so, as well, since he doesn’t even bat a lash at the behavior before sitting up in his chair and pulling the sack towards himself to pull out its contents.

He knows the illusion is perfect...but he still feels a small twang of nervousness.

There’s no need for it, though. The monster sitting in front of him lets out a hearty chuckle before tucking the dismembered hand—lord, it looks so much like Beau’s, Alastor wants to hold it, he’d have to do that when he gets back home—back into the bag and pulling out another one from underneath his desk and tossing it into Alastor’s arms. He catches it after a bit of in-character fumbling.]

“Well done. That’s a particularly nasty thorn out of my side.” [Then, the man turns his chair around so he’s giving Alastor a view of his back before waving his hand dismissively.] “Your work is done here.”

“Pleasure doin’ business with yas.” [With a sarcastic two-fingered salute, Alastor turns on his heel and heads out the door so he can leave the hidden office and go back home.

He’s going to give the money to Beau when he gets there. It’d be funny, he thinks, if he got to spend his own blood money on something for himself.]

#writing of a madwoman (drabble)#deerlybeloveded

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quillsareswords · 3 years

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hi <3 so this is weirdly specific but could you do a scenario with vamp reader where one of the batfam gets kinds critically injured while on patrol in outer Gotham and they can't get back to the manor so Damian is like i know a place and then takes them to secret vamp gf's apartment???? ik it's really specific but i'd really love it :)

Darling you've read my mind. There are few things I live writing more than vampire reader fics

Damian Wayne x f!Reader

WARNINGS: blood, mild gore, impromptu surgery, utter lack of medical knowledge

PROMPT LIST and MASTER LIST in bio

Tim's bleeding out.

He's bleeding out in Jason's arms, and Robin isn't taking them to the Cave.

Red Hood's been growling and barking questions and curses and orders at the youngest man's back for seven minutes. He'll admit, reluctantly, that he's beginning to panic. Red Robin's got a bullet lodged between a rib and an organ, and a bullet hole shot clean through his side. There's a graze across one shoulder, but a stitch and an ace bandage could fix that easy.

They should be halfway to the Cave by now. They should've made a break for the abandoned Bat Mobile at the first opportunity they had. Unfortunately, they'd been boxed in. The only way out was to lose the crowd of pissed off dog-fighting assholes through a winding maze of alleyways that lead them away from the only mode of transportation within two miles.

Robin has some sense of direction. He knows something Hood doesn't. That much is obvious. He hasn't stopped to look around for three turns, despite knowing they've likely already lost the crowd. Still, he's not saying anything.

The most he gave Jason to go on was a winded, "pick up Drake, I know a place," and then he took off.

Red keeps mumbling. It's getting incoherent. It's strained, and he's trying not to let on how much it really hurts, even though everybody knows. They all know first hand.

Robin takes a sharp turn and skids to a stop at a door around the back of an apartment building. He's rushing with his keyring, the jingling of all the metal clinking splitting through the shadows left cast by the broken light above the door.

"Damian," Hood snarls. "Where are you taking us? He needs a doctor."

"We don't have time for a doctor," Robin bites back. The lock finally clicks and has to use his full weight to shove the steel slab open.

Hood doesn't have another choice, so he follows Robin up three flights of cement stairs, minding the distance between Red Robin's head and the half-rusted steel railing.

Robin stop abruptly and shoves through another door. He leads them down a hallway, with faded, flattened red carpet and doors with chipped wood. He stops again at the last door on the left, keys chiming in his hands again.

The moment it swings open, Robin grabs Redhood by his arm and pushes him inside first.

A stranger peers around the corner from the kitchen, one eyebrow raised.

Hood stares back. An apartment. This must be the wrong place. There's a civilian right there–

"What's–? Who's this? Is he bleeding? Is that your brother?" Your voice raises a little higher each question. Your half full glass teeters when you all but throw it back onto the counter to lunge around the wall. "Damian?"

The door slams behind Hood. He barely registers it, brain overloading with such a tower of information being dropped into his lap.

Robin steers around Hood, mask pulled clean from his face. "He's been shot twice, I need you to help me stitch the first one and remove the second bullet."

The shock is still gleaming in your eyes, but you spin around and sweep everything from the kitchen island. It all crashes to the floor, but you hardly seem to care as you turn to another cabinet and start pulling out first aid packs.

"Put him there," Damian instructs, pulling the green glove from his left hand first.

"What happened?" You demand, ripping the zipper across the first canvas bag.

"It was–" Damian's breath catches with his right glove halfway off, "We broke up a dogfight, they were not pleased."

Your gaze jumps from Tim as Hood lays him down to Damian. His hand is blooded, knuckles blooming dark purples and blues and ugly yellows around split skin.. "That looks nasty."

He stops for a spare moment, staring down at the throbbing appendage. "It is," he hums.

You sigh, digging through the red canvas pouch. "I'll start on him, you go get the ice pack." You take a carpet needle and a spool of stitches from the bag. You glance Hood up and down. "What about the other one? He hurt?"

"Todd's fine," Damian dismisses, waving his good hand in the same manner as he ducks behind you to get to the refrigerator.

"Hey, demon? You wanna, ya know? Explain?"

Damian glances over his shoulder as he reaches into the freezer drawer. "This is Y/N. Y/N, this is Jason Todd and Tim Drake."

You're already bent over Tim's left side with a pair of scissors. He's losing the most blood from the exit wound, so you're starting there. You glance up, just in time to watch Jason pull the helmet from his head. He looks angry. "I assumed. Anyway, the good news is, he doesn't smell like death and I'll be honest, I'm really wishing I hadn't skipped breakfast."

Damian still behind you, staring down at your hands as you cut away at Tim's uniform.

It's an odd comment to make. What does breakfast have to do with any of this? And what did you mean? Smell like death?

He finally has the time to get a good look at you. He doesn't know what he expects. The exhaustion of a nurse? The collectedness of an ex-medic? The focus of a doctor?

Whatever he expected, it wasn't the borderline glowing yellow he finds in your eyes or the restraint in your stare.

A vampire. Damian brought his bleeding brother to a vampire.

"Damian–"

Damian's already staring him down. "Do not. We'll discuss later."

He refocuses on you. You've got the bloodied alcohol wipe discarded beside Tim, and your hooking the needle through skin for the second time.

You're surprisingly quick about the stitches and the bandages, but Jason nearly faints when you round the island to his other wound, where the bullet is still lodged, and plunge your fingers straight into the weeping wound. Tim, on the other hand, does pass out.

It doesn't take more than an hour for you to get him all patched up. Then you help Jason get him into a guest bedroom and set him up in there after you've had Damian dose him with morphine.

Then you boss Damian into the living room to sit and doctor his hand. You'd tried to talk him into letting you do it, but you relented and settled for at least making him sit down.

You're fixing ramen noodles in the kitchen, Damian's sitting on the edge of your couch bent over his hand, and Jason is sitting stiffly in your armchair across the the coffee table.

He's been quiet for a long time. Damian obviously wasn't going to tell him anything until he decide it was a good time to pipe up, so Jason had done what he could given the situation; observe.

Your apartment was decently put together. Humble, lived it, unprepared for company. It's dim, with only a few lamps speckled through the rooms for light and the bulbs removed from the overheads.

He's most interested in Damian, though. Despite having a likely broken hand, he's more relaxed here than he is in some parts of the Manor. His body language reads comfort. He's not looking around every few minutes for any sign of danger, even though they'd all barely escaped a small angry mob ninety minutes ago.

"So," he huffs, leaning back into your chair. He spares you a glance. Your back is to them while you stir a pot. "You wanna clue me in or are we gonna keep loitering in this poor woman's home?"

You peer over your shoulder.

Damian sighs heavily.

"Your call," you chip in, digging around in a lower cabinet.

He throws a dirty look your way. "Thanks for the help."

He draws a deep breath, reclining against the back of the couch. "Firstly, all if this stays between us," he starts, gesturing to the whole apartment with his good hand. "Second, Y/N is a vampire, and if you so much as breathe disrespectfully–"

"Damian," you warn."

"–we'll have issues."

Jason blinks slowly. Clearly unimpressed. "Why do you care do much? And how'd you know she wouldn't eat Timmy alive?"

"She's my girlfriend."

He damn near falls out of the chair. "Your what?"

#damian wayne #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne x reader #jason todd #vampire #vampire!reader #yall gont understand how much i love it #call me cringy idc #im downbad for nice bloodsuckers

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shadowsinger11 · 4 years

Text

Insomniacs In Love

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Description: Wrote this ficlet for @wand3ringr0s3 's writing challenge. Congrats on your milestone, Haley!! I'm so proud of ya and ily so much girl💕💕

Warnings: Brief descriptions of war

Tags: @spilled-prose @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hufflexpuff @neovannii @jenniweasley @theweasleysredhair @elf-punk @heart-of-tempered-steel @itseatyourdamnapples @aaannabbanana @l0ttadreamz @potter-redheads

Message me to be added!

Masterlist

The white ceiling was staring right back at you.

Your tired eyes had no strength to fight back the hot trail of bitter tears rolling down your cheeks and falling on your pillow. The heavy, cold sheets, tangled between your legs, shrivelled even more under you as you struggled to ease your anxious mind into sleep, but every blink would bring images of explosions and unmoving bodies. The intrusive smell of blood and rotting flesh had been ingrained into your brain for years; the earsplitting, violent screams of terror had become nothing more than a background noise.

Adults and children were fighting side by side, desperately holding onto whatever hope for a future they might have had. The fresh summer soil was soaked in blood, old and young; with a burning passion, you prayed to whoever could hear you, that you wouldn't spot the faces of your loved ones in the sea of corpses that stretched out far into the distance.

There was chaos, and in between - grim visions of morning light.

You couldn't fall asleep, not when you could still vividly picture that night as though it had just been yesterday. Years later, the memory didn't fail to turn you into its slave every time you'd close your eyes.

The moon was wide awake. The air seemed to not be enough for you and the buzzing silence had nearly driven you to the point of insanity when you finally jumped out of your bed. The sharp moonlight caused your silhouette to dance as you walked barefoot out of your bedroom.

It was eerily unsettling to be strolling down the hallway of Fred and George's apartment without being bombarded by cheerful laughter and occasional explosions - there was only creaking of wooden stairs as you walked down to the kitchen. You poured yourself a full glass of cold water and immediately downed it entirely, hoping it would shake off the anxiety bubbling in your stomach.

You took a refill for just in case and sat beside the small kitchen table. You let out a deep breath and rested your head in your palms, shoulders heavy as if the carried the world.

A gentle voice nearly caused you to knock over the glass.

"Trouble sleeping?"

You looked up from your lap to see George standing by the doorway, hands in the pockets of his pajamas. His spiky hair and sleepy gaze let you know he had just woken up, but his expression immediately softened when he noticed your tearful eyes.

You smiled as best as you could, "You have no idea."

George approached you and sat beside you. He moved closer to try to take a better look at your distressed face; he didn't miss the stiffness of your body and the puffiness of your bloodshot eyes. The sight sent an electric shock through him and his heart began to ache.

"You're pretty shaken up, darling. What's wrong?" He asked just above a whisper, as though he was afraid he'd scare you away. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and you leaned into his touch, seeking some kind of warmth.

How could you explain to him you were still being haunted by the past? It had been years, why were you still chained by sorrow? You hated yourself for letting it settle in your bones, for not being able to return to the person you once used to be.

George was unharmed and so was his family. You were too. There was no logical reason for you to be thinking about it. Nevertheless, your nightmares were the reason you'd wake up every night in cold sweat, limbs of lead. Yet George didn't know a thing.

"It's nothing to worry about," you assured him despite your stomach twisting at the lie you had just spat out. "Just bad dreams."

"You seem to get a lot of those lately," George stated sympathetically; he could always read you so effortlessly. The sudden vulnerability caused you to shrink further into your chair, a fresh tear rolling down your cheek.

Your friend wiped it away with the pad of his thumb and hummed.

"That's alright. So do I."

"How do you know this about me?" you questioned, more confused rather than embarrassed.

His lips curled up in a tiny, sad smile, "You're not the only one wandering the house at night, sweetheart."

"I didn't know you still dream of… of it," you let out in a moment of realization. You didn't have to say what exactly you were referring to - you shared the same tragic memory.

"Yes, I do," he murmured. "Every night."

Your eyes met his dark brown ones and your heart sank; they were just as tortured as yours, and lacked the spark they once possessed. Never had you believed George would have to feign joy in his lifetime, he was the source of joy to everyone around him. But how could you expect flowers to bloom in a garden that's been burned to the ground?

Silence fell over you. Your eyes burned again.

"You should try to get some sleep," George advised, attempting to mask his hoarse voice, shaking ever so slightly. Your face fell. "I know it might be hard, but you can't risk getting a headache in the morning, you know."

The moon was still shining brightly through the window, illuminating his concerned face and the tears that had already formed in his eyes.

You swallowed hard.

"You're right. But I don't really want to go. It's just…" you sighed. Your hands were trembling. "It feels kinda lonely up there."

George nodded in understanding; there was no judgement in the way he observed you. He himself had spent way too many cold, sleepless nights. Fighting the same demons as you.

It hurt him beyond measure to know you too were being held hostage by the weight of the past; the past which was robbing you both of your future. But what hurt him more was his inability to help you. He desperately yearned to heal you of your misery and hear your laughter, the laughter that had made him fall for you long before he even knew what love was.

The redhead was suddenly struck by an idea and his shoulders relaxed, a small smile causing his dimple to appear.

"I can go to bed with you, if that's okay with you, of course. Only until you fall asleep, that is. Then I'll go back to my room."

Your instinctive reaction was to refuse, but you stopped yourself before you could respond. Surely it wouldn't be so bad to have company, would it? It didn't seem like George was only doing it out of pity either; he genuinely cared about you and had your best interest in mind.

"You can say no, it's fine," said George when he didn't receive a reply. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"It's okay with me, I promise," you mirrored his smile. "Shall we go?"

You rose to your feet and headed towards your bedroom upstairs, George following closely behind. He couldn't recall a previous time when he had been in there, and he was pleasantly surprised to see how you had changed the design to your liking after you had moved in to live with the twins. The room looked cozy and truly felt like... you.

You were the first to climb into the bed and scooted over to make room for George's long legs. The mattress sank under his weight and he pulled the covers over the two of you, making sure he didn't take too much of them. George then rolled over to the opposite side, not wishing to invade your personal space.

Despite being taken aback by his action, you did the same - if that was the closest you'd get to being together with him, so be it.

You pulled the blanket over your shoulder and closed your eyes, but alas, your lungs constricted with anxiety. The intrusive silence let your mind wander back to memories you had been trying so hard to push away. The empty space behind your back was cold.

Less than an hour later, you were still as awake as you could be. Your friend was a quiet sleeper and thus you had no idea if he was asleep yet or if he was about to drift off. Nevertheless, you still felt guilty for whispering.

"Georgie?"

Rustling in the bedsheets.

"Hm?"

You wettened your lips and timidly asked, "Can I hold your hand?... For just a bit?"

George turned around and you expected to see him scowl for being woken up like that, especially for a thing as silly as your request. But you were met with such a fond expression, immense care swimming in his eyes.

Any sleepiness was nonexistent on his features; he couldn't fall asleep either.

"Of course," he smiled and lifted your hand to press a tender kiss to your wrist. His soft lips stayed there, pulse racing madly underneath, and the warmth lingered on the skin long after George pulled away and placed your hand on his chest. You let out a quiet gasp when you felt his own heart hammering against his ribs.

His other hand slid down to your waist and pulled you closer. You buried your face in his neck.

You could finally breathe.

He began tracing lazy patterns on your lower back. "Better?"

"Better."

George's fingers lightly grazed your skin, slow and gentle touch never once stopping its loving path. Drowsiness welcomed you much sooner than you had expected and your eyes fluttered closed. The last thing you remembered was George's lips on your eyelids.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep your demons at bay at least for just one night. George gave into slumber as well, both of you engulfed by divine serenity until the bright moon hid behind the horizon.

Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

#wand3ring1.9kchallenge #george weasley x reader fluff #george weasley x reader angst #george weasley x reader #george weasley x reader insert #george weasley imagine #george weasley fic #george weasley headcanon #george weasley fanfiction #fred and george weasley #fred and george #weasley twins #oliver phelps #james phelps #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine

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jadelynlace · 3 years

Text

Ink Drinker / Modern Vikings AU [Ivar x F!Reader], Chapter 5

catch up here!

synopsis: Ivar was only meant to be a friend with benefits, but he caught feelings for his older brother’s best friend, and co-worker: you.

pairing: Ivar x F!Reader

***content warning [PLEASE READ]: this chapter is quite gruesome, please read at your own risk. yes this is based off of a trauma call I actually went to, and yes I am sparing some of the sicker details because it truly was one of the worst calls I had ever walked in on. and yes, it actually happened this way and yes, this helps me heal from it. ok, that is all.

author’s note: I’m so sorry.

✎

A sinful noise comes from Ivar’s mouth in the exact moment you entered in through the threshold. Truthfully, the sound sent a shiver down your spine, worrisome as the twenty four hour shift ended and Ivar had chosen to go to your flat last night, not his own.

“Why are you in my house, Ivar?” You say to him, eyes scanning over his half naked body as it tangled throughout the sheets, biceps set to curling around the rather feminine color of your duvet.

“Good morning to you too,” Ivar says back with a yawn that croaks from his mouth as he pulls the covers back. “Come lay with me,” Your mind rolls ideas between your ears, behind your eyes as you calculate why Ivar willingly came to your empty place the night prior, when he knew you were working yourself to death on the back of a never ending ambulance.

“That didn’t answer my question, Ivar,” Your voices teases him as you walk about the small space, pulling pins from your collar. He goes silent after your statement, moving the blankets to cover his face out of a twinge of embarrassment, not sure how you would take to learning that he felt better here. Felt happier, even when you weren’t home it gave him that sense that he wasn’t alone. You peek your head back to make out the large mound under the duvet, Ivar rolling under it and flopping on to his stomach. Tossing the discarded blues into your hamper, the tags, keys, pins and your tactical belt are all put away neatly in their homes as you pull on a shirt that no longer has a real shape to it. Ivar’s eyes peel open when you creep the covers off of his face, the cold air rushing against his skin and you’re in his vision—not as blurry to his glasses-less eyes as you make way to snuggle into him.

“Don’t want to creep you out,” Ivar says to you lowly, voice hoarse like sandpaper, scratching in its new use and you only turn your head to give him a sideways look. “It makes me feel better to be here,” He finally admits, fingers busying themselves with the loose hem on your shirt as he still won’t look at you. “Makes me feel less alone even if you’re not here,” You want to sigh, you want to cup his cheeks and push them together like he’s a toddler who’s being too damn adorable for your undertaking, but you can’t. These are words that took him a while to finally speak, progress for what darkness seems to leech in his mind at all hours, and now only a sliver of light comes through because he’s telling you how he feels. The reasoning behind it all, the baring of his soul on the bedsheets and stark naked with his emotions.

“You can come here whenever you want Ivar, you know that.” You say back, eyes searching his and they close briefly, sighing in a moment of relief because you’re not throwing him out on to the street for his choice. “Anything that makes you feel better, you should do,” You tell him, a peck to the corner of his mouth as you settle against him. “As long as it’s legal,” You add quickly, picking your head up in haste to move your point across and Ivar only chuckles as you do.

“You know what makes me feel better?” Ivar whispers and he’s climbs over you, pressing a weight to rein over you and you giggle. Sluggish as he moves with his hair tickling your face and he’s finally made the leeway with his figure, bending his forearms to catch his weight.

“What makes you feel better?” You ask him, looking up at this man who is so hopelessly in love with you he doesn’t even care to hide it on his face.

“You make me feel better,” Ivar tells you and the words hardly escape before his lips are against yours. Languid and soft, relishing in how your nails scratch up his back, humming as they press along his skin like keys on a piano and he finally drops his weight. Laying over you as his lips find their place on your pulse point, grazing the skin like thousands of little needles and you let a breathless moan pass from your tongue. Ivar only hums in response as his mouth stays busy, splotching you and navigating the skin to make sure more of the dots will stay hidden when you put your blues back on. His forehead rests on the length of your collarbone, his hand moving around the mattress to find yours. “I’ve never been in love until I met you,” Ivar whispers against you skin, sinking the praise into your pores and it shatters your heart but repairs it just as quickly. Resting his cheek he finally looks up at you, dragging his fingertips down your nose and there’s a low light that’s dancing off of his features, paling his blue eyes as he gazes at you.

“I love you, too Ivar,” You say softly and you mean the sentence with every single fiber in your body. You’d say it until you were blue in the face if it helped to heal every demon in his mind. He smiles as you say it, like he still can’t believe his luck.

“Want you—but I know you’re tired,” He mumbles and his lips take back to the game against your skin and you know he doesn’t mean to try to turn you in his favor. But you tell him about the coffee you had—more than you should have had if you planned to sleep some of the day away and he’s moving back over you again. Worshipping you with each press of his lips, each roll of his hips as he grinds down against your spread legs. He’s not rushed with how he feels you, how he only kicks his pants off and pulls your bottoms off as you undress fully for him, his eyes just watching your skin as he kisses each knee cap and then he’s back over you. Mouth against yours as the tip of his cock brushes against your opening, how that small notion is already so heavenly and when he’s finally pushing into you, you’re holding back on to him. Letting him know you’re there as he moves slowly in the morning light. Heavy breathing and soft mews between the both of you while Ivar brings you to your peek with the rolls of his hips and his tongue on yours. And he falls with you, panting and coating your walls and humming in pure contentment because this is a sensation he never wants to forget, never lose, as long as he lives, sleeping the morning away tangled between you and the sheets.

It had rolled into another slow morning left with nothing other to do than mop the bay’s floors and terrorize Hvitserk with unruly sprays from the soap gun. Laughing as he flinched, all but made inhuman noises whenever your aim got closer to his pristine blues. You two had gone on coffee runs, stopping to grab lunch and snacking away with boots up on the benches as another unrealistic drama show flashes from the screen. It was a bright change for the days that you two had spent together, but the quietness was never welcomed completely without the slow thoughts of what was to come lingering behind it. A car into a semi-truck. Hvitserk tipped his head back and groaned so loudly he nearly fell backwards from his chair. At least you were just able to blaze through the streets of town with loud horns and bright sirens and command the authority to have everyone bow to your right of way.

It was warm, growing increasingly so in the last few hours and the sun hung well above the road. Scattered with the remains of scrap metal, tangled mess of a car and the comically unbent eighteen wheeler. The fire engine met you on the scene, already blinking with two police cars and in your maneuvering to park the rig close, you caught more of the vehicle wreck. A tangled mess of a black mustang and you could feel the blood drain from your face as your heart stopped.

“Hvitserk,” You whine and that snaps his attention from the back the rig as he’s pulling gloves for both of you. “Oh my god Hvitserk it’s Ivar,” You all but yell and he bolts from the back of the double doors to round the ambulance. And then he sees it. And you see it. Your partner takes off, no protective gear as a shield and you grab him, locking an arm to pull him back as a look of panic crosses him like a field. “Focus,” You hiss at him. “Do your job and fucking focus—you’re the best medic on the god damn team and you need to prove that right now,” But you could say the speech until you’re blue in the face, gasping as the words fall with no meaning because Hvitserk is out of control for the first time ever on a call.

“He’s awake in there,” A voice calls from the other side of the car.

“Get the trauma bag.” You call to your partner and then you take off, steel toes rounding the car and there’s no door to open anymore. Just a blown out rear view window that’s already been cut by those jaws. You see Ivar blink and your mind shuts off completely.

“Hey baby,” His voice rasps when he sees you in his sight, picking his head up while the crushed front end of the car covers his legs like a blanket. Your heart is stabbed with a knife and you can’t worry about that right now, you can’t worry about how you feel because your uniform is telling you that you’re the only hope for the man you so deeply love.

“Ivar keep your head down please, I need you to stay as still as possible.” You tell him and Hvitserk makes his way behind you.

“We need the take this side off!” Hvitserk’s voice calls to the fire department. The noise of his voice floats behind you and he pulls another fire fighter to aid him in the collection of equipment he’s sending to you.

“What’s that?” Ivar asks you and you’re reaching behind you for the c-collar.

“This keeps your neck straight, Ivar, it’s very important that you don’t move. How else are you feeling?”

“My legs feel funny,” Ivar mumbles to you as you lock the device around his neck. At his words you peek down for the first time and your stomach rolls. Churning like a great open sea as you see the mess that is before the two of you. There is no clear cut determining factor of where his legs start and the car ends.

“Ivar can you feel my hand right here?” You ask him as you have it on his thigh.

“I like it when you touch me there baby,” Ivar slurs and it’s a twist of his words drooling from his mouth as he’s trying to stay awake. Even as his body shuts down. Even with the same bastard smirk. You back out slowly and Hvitserk replaces your spot as quickly as he’ll allow; tunneled vision as he asses Ivar’s closest vein and through a shake in his fingers, hooks him up to a line. “What are you doing brother?” He asks and his voice is smaller now, like a child and Hvitserk only sadly smiles.

“This is pain medicine Ivar, so we can get you out of the car. You’re going to get really tired and I don’t want you to fight it, alright? I’ll see you when you wake up.” Are the last words Ivar registers and his world becomes dark.

The hiss of the saw catches your attention as you watch the sparks sizzle on the heated asphalt. Linens down on the stretcher and reflective gear covering you but your body is so cold, chilled and down right hypothermic as the car groans lowly once it is peeled apart. Like bark from a tree as it curls into scrap metal and Hvitserk cranks two tourniquets on each of Ivar’s legs.

“Helicopter?” You call to him and he shakes his head.

“It’ll be faster if you drive him down to the trauma center. They won’t fly—it’s too cloudy today,” He calls back and you can’t help but think of the ever going joke about how the pilots don’t fly, even with only one cloud in the whole sky. There’s yelling, screams, the buzz of machines and too much noise but Ivar is still asleep, and you find comfort in the fact that he’s not seeing what you are. Your reflective vest catches the sunlight and it bounces into your face, mixes with your tear filled eyes and you wipe them along your sleeve to smear mascara and sweat. As soon as the command comes from around you that it’s safe, the car is stable and you can reach your patient, you waste no time.

It takes you, Hvitserk and two of the largest firemen on the team to pull Ivar from the wreck. Hooking around his arms and you can still smell his cologne over the burnt rubber that takes up home in your nostrils. His legs are crushed, obliterated and shattered and you’re queasy for the first time ever on a call. They drag behind him like dead limbs as he’s sliding up the back board. Hvitserk tears what was left of his jeans in adrenaline as he tries to wrap what he can to stay sterile but the injuries are far too extreme for you two alone to treat. The mess of mangled flesh and your heart breaks even farther as you see the art work on his skin now a waste because you know how Ivar loves his tattoos. They’re smashed and bent and somehow still there and if it were any other call there would be pictures being taken and you would be exchanging glances with your partner. Treating the rest of what he can and Hvitserk pales, because you both know Ivar may never walk again.

From above his belt, Ivar looks normal—he looks like the man you saw this morning—your Ivar. Obvious contusions from the seat belt and the airbag, torn shirt cut right up the middle as you attach the stickers to his chest. The Like Pak squeezes an already bulged bicep for his blood pressure and it’s dropping quickly. The non-rebreather mask’s reservoir fills with oxygen and you watch the plastic palpate, the fingers in his left hand twitch like they do when he’s asleep. It feels like a nightmare, loud noises and beating sun with clouds that pass and every time shade greats you, you find another injury on his body. The motions come so simply because your mind has gone, sucked out the window and on a vacation because you need to focus on what you’re doing, now more than ever.

Protruding tibia bones look back at you, knee caps that are now mere powder mock you. You see his bones, you see his muscles, you see every inner part of both of his legs stabbed with shrapnel and the glass, raw and cherry colored, and you think you’re going to pass out as you pull the gurney to the machine that grabs it, sucking into the back of the ambulance. Hvitserk jumps back there you slam the doors so quickly, trying to shut that world out to focus on this one. And then you pull the ambulance around and gun it, sandwiching the peddle between your blood covered boot and the ambulance’s floor. Even over the sirens, the blare of the horn you can hear your partner praying. Praying to a God he doesn’t believe in for his brother to live through this as the monitor sings a tune that Ivar is crashing.

“Come on brother—don’t do this to me,” He curses and pulls another vile, cranks the oxygen flow and sends more fluid into his body. “Don’t do this to me Ivar. Not today. Not today, Ivar,” And the tears finally start again in your eyes as you curse the vehicle for not going any faster. For its limit of one hundred and twenty miles per hour on the open lane of the freeway because cars have spread. They’ve parted as this creature screams for them to obey and you see the cop cars ahead of you, trying to pave the way and then the flight car. Your section chief right on your front bumper and you know he can tell its you driving the ambulance. You’re the fastest driver he’s ever employed and now is the time to remember that—and your job as you all carry Ivar’s body from this battle, into a much worse one.

Ink Drinker Tags:

@smileysam13579 @dreamtherapy @heisentwerk @angelofthenightposts @ill-skillsgard @youaremyfamiliar @unbetaedimagines @kathryn-jane @readsalot73 @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @queen-sarang @anastasiaskarsgard @andmyannabellee @walkxthexmoon @flowers-in-your-hayr @peachyboneless @heavenly1927 @istorkyou @victoria-styles @quantumlocked310 @xbellaxcarolinax @mighty-ragnarssons @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @queen-of-upshur @nanahachikyuu @fandomlifeandeverythingelse @ivarhoegh @a5hl3y5ibley @apenas-mais-uma-pessoa @youbloodymadgenius @love-all-things-writing @theanxietyqueen17 @trip2themoon @tgrrose @synnersaint

*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

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a-edgar-allan-hoe · 3 years

Text

The Last Chthonian

Bucky x Reader, Sam x Reader, Zemo x Reader

Part 9

A/N: Part 9 is here y’all! Enjoy! And let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list! 💕💕💕

Summary: Imagine being Hekate, the Greek goddess of magic and witchcraft, the night and the moon, doorways and crossroads, creatures of the night, and ghosts and necromancy. You stumbled upon Earth many centuries ago and since then have resided on the foreign planet. During the recent years you created an alias for yourself to hide your true identity, and after the war against Thanos you chose to live out your days in the Scottish countryside, until a certain trio appear at your doorstep one day.

Warnings: language, slight mention of past trauma and wounds.

You had already boarded Zemo’s private jet, sitting on the seat across from him while Sam had sat beside you with Bucky across from him. Oeznik had approached you all, asking if you wanted something to eat or drink and sharing a few words with Zemo. You shook your head, politely refusing with a kind smile before staring out the window of the jet and watching the clouds. Even though you had just left your home, you missed everyone there dearly, almost wishing you had the chance to bring Kólasi along. But you knew the local people would not take kindly to a dragon walking their streets. And wherever you were now heading, you had a feeling you were going somewhere you wouldn’t find agreeable.

“So do you have a private jet?” You heard Sam ask you.

“Nah.”

“How come?”

“She has a dragon and a pegasus Sam. I’m pretty sure they are her mode of transportation.” Zemo added.

“Wait. But what if it’s raining or there’s a storm?” Sam turned in his seat to face you, leaning in as he was curious to know how you managed to ride openly through the clouds in a storm.

“Well my father was Zeus, the god of the skies and thunder Sam. A little lightning won’t hurt me.”

“Wouldn’t you be soaked though? That doesn’t sound very comfortable.”

“Yes, well if that’s the case than I can just teleport.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Are you able to teleport others?” Bucky wanted to know, if so, it would be helpful to use that, right?

“I can. But the very first time can be unpleasant.”

“How so?”

“Well try to imagine your molecules separating and joining back together.” You tried to make an example with a motion of your hands. “So that in itself is an unpleasant feeling. You’ll also most likely puke your insides out after your first time. And there are even some rare cases where you might come back......disarranged.”

“What do you mean by disarranged?” Zemo raised his brow, not sure if you meant what he thought you meant. Would you reappear, swapped in each other’s bodies or.......

“Oh you know. Your leg might end up where your arm is supposed to be. Or your head might be sticking out your ass, something like that.” You smirked as you toyed with them, seeing the terrified expressions on everyone’s faces. They were most likely praying you wouldn’t use that ability on them. “I’m kidding, geez. Tough crowd.”

“Kidding about what part?” Bucky remarked.

“The disarrangement part. But in all realness, the only side affects are nausea and vomiting and your body feeling like jello. But you’ll get used to it.”

“Sounds like a blast.” Sam noted. “Please don’t teleport us unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Only if absolutely necessary.” You promised.

“Also, what’s up with all the weapons? Were you some kind of mercenary?” Sam asked you another question as he thought about all the weapons and armor you had in your armory.

“Well I wouldn’t call it that. Mercenaries were for profit and personal interest. I on the other hand went after tyrants and criminals. But I also hunted down monsters that posed a threat to the human population. I guess you could say I dealt with more of the.....supernatural.” You tried to elaborate.

“Monsters?” Sam raised his brow. “Like what?”

“You know, vampires, werewolves, minotaurs, hydras, chimeras, echidnas, sea monsters-“ you started to list off before Sam cut you off.

“Woah woah hang on. Vampires and werewolves? As in like twilight?”

“Hell no. I’m talking vicious flesh eating monsters here that absolutely do not sparkle. I mean, there are still some vampires left that play by the rules and don’t feed on your fellow mortals. But sometimes you’ll have the few that think they can break the rules like a bunch of idiots. Werewolves on the other hand are trickier, don’t get me started on them. But don’t worry, I got a guy, a half-mortal or daywalker, in charge of the supernatural business.”

“Hold up. So you were what? Like a Van Helsing?”

“Welll, Van Helsing was a real person.”

“Are you serious?” Bucky sat up in his seat. “What about Dracula?”

“Oh he was a real pain in the ass I tell you. That slimy bastard tried to seduce me so that he could take all the creatures under my control to do his bidding. Well, as you can see, that obviously didn’t work.”

Before the men could ask any more questions your phone buzzed in your pocket, making you pick it up to see Maze’s name on the front. Your heart skipped a beat for a moment as you stared at the screen, all the negative possibilities running through your head.

“Who is it?” Sam asked you once he noticed your expression.

“It’s Maze.”

“Did something happen?” Bucky inquired, his brows were raised and his voice was filled with concern.

“I hope not.” You accepted the call, lifting your phone to your ear. “Maze?”

“Hekate! It’s Athena!” Maze spoke in a somewhat panicked voice which only added to your nervousness and suspicions.

You shot up from your seat at the tone of her voice and her mentioning your daughter’s name. “What?! What do you mean? Did something happen to her?”

The men watched you with concern, leaning forward in the edge of their seats once they heard your daughter being mentioned. They were ready to rush over to your place right now if need be.

“Well she fell from the tree.”

“She what?!” Your blood ran cold and your heart was pounding in your chest, it felt as if it would burst right through your rib cage. “Maze speak!”

“Okay! Hang on a second. What happened was, she was playing around in her treehouse and tried to climb to the top of the tree. I tried to stop her when I saw what she was doing but she fell straight down.”

You shrieked in panic at what you had just heard. Your knees felt weak and you thought you might pass out but Bucky stood up to give you support, holding you as you gripped on to his metal arm, nearly crushing it in the process. “Is she hurt? Maze you need to tell me!”

Oeznik came in upon hearing your trembling voice, asking if anything was the matter, but Zemo had explained to him that they had it under control and should alert him if anything was needed.

“Well that’s why I’m calling you. She’s totally fine.” Maze replied.

“Wait............wait what?” You shook your head in confusion, not getting what she was talking about.

“I know right? I’m pretty sure there’s supposed to be broken bones and like lots of blood after a fall like that, but she doesn’t even have a scratch on her. She even laughed the whole thing off like some kind of miniature maniac. She nearly gave me a heart attack, and demons don’t get heart attacks. Now is that normal and should I be worried?”

“Uhhh.” You were unable to form words as you tried to figure it out. Was it the protection spell you put over her or was it just her in general? You had kept such a close eye on Athena, making sure she never got hurt, that now that she has been in a situation where she could’ve gotten injured, you didn’t know how to react or what to think. But Maze did say she didn’t have a single scratch or broken bone or any kind of injury. So that must be a good thing.....right?

“Hekate?” You heard Maze on the other line again. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah everything is fine. I was just.....thrown off for a bit. How is she?”

“Oh she’s great! We painted each other’s nails today. She’s taking a nap right now though. Hey, where’s that good shit that you have?”

“Good shit?”

“You know. Your really expensive wine from Olympus that your sibling, the wine god, what’s their name made?”

“Dionysus?”

“Yeah.”

“Umm it’s in the very top cupboard above the sink.”

“Okay thanks. I need a glass after what happened, or a bottle. Bye Hekate!” Maze hung up while you stood there, still surprised to hear Athena was unharmed and feeling almost drained after the whole ordeal.

“Everything okay?” Bucky whispered, his eyes searching your face for any further signs.

You noticed how close he was as he supported you, and you couldn’t help the blush that appeared on your cheeks, averting your gaze from his steel blue eyes. “Yeah, uh thanks.” You let go of his metal arm while he let go of you, allowing you to sit back in your seat.

“So is everything okay with Athena?” You heard Sam ask while you stared at the ground.

“Athena uh fell from the tree.”

“Is she okay?” Zemo asked you, his brows furrowed together.

“Yeah she’s fine, surprisingly. There wasn’t a single scratch on her. Must be the genes.”

Bucky pulled up the sleeve of his metal arm, a surprised chuckle leaving his lips as he saw the dented hand print you left behind. “Geez y/n. What’s with the Hercules grip?”

“Huh?” You looked up at him, glancing down at his arm to see your handprint dented into the vibranium. “Oh shit! I am so sorry! Let me fix that.” With a wave of your hand and a swirl of violet around your fingers, you fixed the dent in Bucky’s arm as if nothing ever happened to it.

Once Sam saw that you were completely fine, he turned to Zemo. “So, why don’t you tell us about where we’re going?”

“I’m sorry. I was just fascinated by this. I don’t know what to call it, but this part seems to be important. Who is Nakajima?” Zemo pulled out a small leather book which looked like the exact same one Steve had.

You jolted back in your chair as Bucky charged at Zemo, grabbing him by the neck and snatching the book back.

Your eyes widened at the commotion in front of you. “Yo! Can you guys chill out?”

“If you touch that again, I’ll kill you.” Bucky threatened him before going back to his seat.

“I’m sorry. I understand that list of names. People you’ve wronged as the Winter Soldier.”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’ve seen that book.” Sam commented. “It was Steve’s when he came out of the ice. I told him about Trouble Man. He wrote it in that book. Did you hear it? What’d you think?”

“I like 40s music, so....”

“You didn’t like it?” Sam gave him an offended look.

“I liked it.”

“It is a masterpiece, James. Complete. Comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience.” Zemo elaborated to the conversation.

“He’s out of line, but he’s right. It’s great. Everybody loves Marvin Gaye.”

“I like Marvin Gaye.” James responded.

“Steve adored Marvin Gaye. And y/n likes him too, don’t you y/n?” Sam now turned to you.

“Hm? Oh yeah, he’s great! Hendrix was pretty awesome too. Saw him in Woodstock, super chill dude to jam out on the guitar with by the way. I may or may not have dropped acid there.” You added the last part to yourself, though Sam overheard it and gave you a judgmental look, to which you looked at him, mouthing how it was only one time.

“You must have really looked up to Steve.” Zemo voiced. “But I realized something when I met him. The danger with people like him, America’s Super Soldiers, is that we put them on pedestals.”

“Watch your step, Zemo.”

“They become symbols.” Zemo continued to make his point. “Icons. And then we start to forget about their flaws. From there, cities fly, innocent people die. Movements are formed, wars are fought. You remember that, right? As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon. Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull?”

As Zemo spoke, you thought about how many of your people looked up to your father and brother, and even Hera. How many of them saw them as their beloved gods and saviors, these righteous and glorious beings. But you were there and witnessed what happened behind closed doors, you were a product of that, a product of their faults and imperfections. And as those memories came rushing back to you, so did the pain of the scars it left behind. You could still feel the tenderness of the long scar on your face left by Ares, and the number of ones that were scattered on your back like a pile of jagged twigs, leaving behind a grisly form of artwork.

“That is why we’re going to Madripoor.” Zemo finished.

You lifted your head up at the mention of the place, jerking your head towards Zemo. Well you were right about how you weren’t going to like the new destination.

Tag List: @girl-obsessed-with-things @aerynchromie @sunshinepower17 @viviace @kakimakiloh @thebivirgin @gambitsqueen @spookycereal-s @lulu-yuming @mochminnie @gabitanaka47 @s00nhi @vanteguccir @tomhollandsslilslut @dracoxxyoflam @suchababie @uhhhcrypticbastard @on-my-way-to-erebor @thewinterrbucky

#bucky imagine #bucky fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #sam wilson fanfiction #sam wilson imagine #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson x y/n #zemo fanfic #bucky fluff #bucky fic #bucky x you #zemo fluff #zemo imagine #zemo x you #zemo x reader #zemo x y/n

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avaritia-apotheosis · 3 years

Text

Phantom Children Ch. 6

Hi guys! I'm back <3 (also, I'm currently looking for alpha/beta readers for Phantom Children, so if you're interested, feel free to shoot me a message!)

In Which: Danny Attempts to get Answers, Bruce Learns, and Dick Finally Learns What's Inside the Door that Doesn't Exist

AO3 | Prologue | 5 | [ 6 ] | 7

DANNY IS KNOCKED DOWN three, four, eight times on the ice. Each time made his back ache, his bones bruised and tired, and his mind burning with embarrassment and a drive to lash out. But each time he gets back up. Each time he lasts a little bit longer against Talia.

The ice still shifts, cracks and rumbles with every wrong move. Danny learned to roll with it. Move on light feet but attack with a firm stance, gauge which parts of the ice are stable and which should be avoided. Multi-tasking has never been Danny’s strong suit, but he’s good at learning and learning quickly.

Talia corrected his form as much as she beat him down. Exploited every one of his openings until he learned to defend them and praised him whenever he managed to pull one over her. The League’s martial arts was the holy amalgamation between almost every single fighting style there is, mashed and refined to perfection to become almost unpredictable to the untrained. A vast improvement to Danny’s previous ‘fuck around and see what works’ brawling and had the added benefit of meshing together with his spontaneity.

“You are doing well, Daniel,” Talia said as she sheathed her sword, hand resting just above her hip. “You have improved greatly in such a short time, as I have expected.”

It takes every ounce of Danny’s superhuman energy to not collapse to his knees, his every breath a ragged shudder as he tries to get his breathing under control. “Still can’t beat you, though.”

“Very few can boast that feat.”

“I’m not exactly sure if that’s supposed to make me feel any better or not. Do I get my prize at least?”

Tahlia tossed her braid over one shoulder with a laugh. “Come, then, let us rest in the caves. The sun is to set soon and we must make camp before we freeze to death.”

“Hypothermia is so last season. I’m way too cool for that.”

He didn’t know whether to be disappointed that Tahlia didn’t react to his pun. It was pretty clever, in his opinion.

('Puns are the lowest form of comedy,' said mind-Jazz.

Says the one who named the Box Ghost the ‘Crate Creep.’

'That’s alliteration, not a pun.')

It was kind of pathetic that even his mind-version of Jazz was smarter than him.

“What would you like to know first?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sarcasm dripped from Danny’s voice. He sheathed his sword and let it hang loose at his side. “Maybe how old this mysterious brother of mine is?” Ancients, his life was weird enough already, it wasn’t supposed to sound like the B-plot to a bad soap opera.

“Damian is younger than you by a little over four years. He will turn eleven this year.”

“Huh. Never been an older brother before.”

“Perhaps you might have been, if circumstances had been different.”

Cryptic. Great. Danny stepped over a particularly large crack in the ice and scampered over to solid ground. “You gotta give me more than that. What’s he like?”

“Prideful,” she said. “But skilled enough to warrant it. He was raised like a prince—as how you should have been.”

“And he lives with…our dad?”

“Yes. In America.” The cave was deep enough to shield them from the worst of the eventual mountain winds. Tahlia had already started building a campfire with equipment from her knapsack, embers eating away and growing into a steady flame. He sat down, legs crossed, beside the fire, hands tucked beneath his armpits.

He bit his lip, a question forming in his mind. “Do…do we have the same dad?”

Tahlia looked up at him. “Of course. Only your father has had the privilege of being called my beloved, and only he is worthy enough to have sired my children.”

Once night fell, it fell quickly. Blanketing as far as Danny could see from the mouth of the cave in a thick darkness. Snow fell from the skies in thick tufts and covered their footsteps.

“Does he—do they know about me?”

“No, they do not.”

“And you probably aren’t going to tell them anything about me, if you could help it.”

“That is very perceptive of you, habeebi.”

“You won’t tell me anything more about them, will you?”

“In due time, I will.”

Danny blew part of his fringe away from his face. Figures.

Despite the ever-present niggling at the back of his mind, Bruce had yet to see what was in the flash drive. The weeks since his strange meeting with Vlad Masters suddenly exploded with criminal activity with the recent breakout in Arkham and the brewings of another gang war in the shadows of Gotham’s paved streets. It was all hands-on deck. And Bruce, whether as Batman or Wayne, had always prioritized Gotham and its citizens over anything else.

The flash drive remained on his person despite the crisis, tucked away in one of the sturdier compartments of his utility belt to prevent the data inside from becoming damaged. Sometimes he found his hands gravitating towards it, fingers brushing against the button that would release the mystery from its confines before he realized what he was doing and steeled himself. Hands fisted to his side and attention forcibly directed elsewhere.

Eventually, the rogues were placed back into Arkham, and Gotham let out a shuddered breath of relief as it remained standing for another day.

Most of the family were out on a light patrol, cleaning up the remains of the breakout and helping where they can. Jason and Dick bickering over the comms whilst Barbara laughed in her clocktower.

(“It’s not that bad.”

"‘It’s not that bad’—shut the fuck up.” Jason spat. Bruce could hear him revving his bike. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? Certified Grade A idiot. B’s gonna kill you.”

He could hear Dick roll his eyes. “Sure, pile it all on, Jaybird. Blame the victim.”

"It was your fault.”

“It’s not my fault I didn’t see it there!”

"You tripped and got a concussion. From a stick. A. Stick.”

“Can we please just leave that out of the report?” Dick groaned. Barbara laughed. “Oh god.”

“Richard motherfucking John Grayson. I swear if you vomit on me then—”

“I’m not gonna vomit on you! You just turned the corner a little too fast. It’s nice to see you care though.”

"Fuck no, I just don’t wanna smell like regurgitated cereal.”)

Damian was benched from a patrol. Their last conflict with Poison Ivy ended with Damian sticking a bad landing and twisting his ankle. He dealt with it with as much grace as can be expected. Meaning that he spent the last few days sulking as he caught up on his missed schoolwork and shooting daggers at everyone else who came back from patrol.

Bruce flicked the flash drive open and plugged it into the computer. The flash drive contained only a single folder dated six months ago.

He clicked it, and a news headline popped up.

LOCAL TEEN DIES AFTER DRIVING OFF CLIFF

Beneath it, a picture. Blue eyes. Black hair. A familiar face.

Blood pounded in Bruce’s ears. He could hear nothing except a sharp gasp from Damian behind him.

When Dick and Jason arrived at the batcave, it was to an eerie silence. Not that it was usually loud, only that Bruce spent most of his free time down in the cave and Dick had come to expect hearing some signs of him around. Typing on keys, the clicking of a mouse, the heavy thuds of a fist meeting a punching bag or a training dummy, etcetera, etcetera. Or maybe even Alfred cleaning up around the cave, feeding the bats, or restocking their med bay.

(Dick, it turned out, didn’t have a concussion. Probably. Not a severe one anyway. What mattered most was that he managed to convince Jason to have dinner at the Manor. Alfred was making a tarte tatin for dessert tonight and those were absolutely to die for. )

One of Tim’s cases took him to the other side of Gotham. The only person in the cave was Damian, who was staring agape at the batcomputer.

“Why the hell is the demon spawn looking at old pictures of Bruce? We get it. They look alike.

“Uh, Dami? What’s up?”

Damian snapped his mouth shut. “I believe it might be best if you asked father that, Grayson.” Despite his clipped tone, there seemed to be little anger in his voice. His proud shoulders were hunched over on the chair, eyes trained on his lap.

He looked so small.

Damian clucked his tongue. “He’s upstairs, if you need him. So is Pennyworth.”

Dick shot a glance at Jason who raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’re up golden boy. Whatever the fuck the old man’s problem is this time, I’m not dealing with it.”

Dick sighed. “Fine.”

There was a door in Wayne Manor that didn’t exist.

When Dick was a child and recently adopted by Bruce Wayne, one of the first things he did was explore the manor. It’s the prerogative of every child that somehow found themselves in a large mansion—even more so given the castle-like exteriors of Wayne Manor. All castles have secret passages, and if the Batcave lay in the subterranean depths below, then surely the manor proper must have its own secrets.

Dick would tumble and cartwheel along the hallways, opening any and every single door he came across. A lot of them were just empty bedrooms or unused parlors and sitting rooms; the furniture covered by white sheets to keep the dust away. Alfred was probably magic, but even he can’t keep the entirety of the manor dust free.

The majority of the unused rooms were unlocked.

Except for one.

It was a room in the west wing, on the second floor. A couple doors down from where Bruce’s and Dick’s were. Why it was locked, Dick never found out. But he was curious since it was the only room on that floor that remained shut.

When he asked Alfred about it, the old butler only said that it was an unused storage room they preferred to keep locked just in case. When he asked Bruce about it, he’d be quick to change the subject. Usually something Batman related. Which, well, always worked, because it was Batman related. And Dick, young and spry and itching to fly under Batman’s wings, would quickly forget about that curious little mystery in favor of punching bad guys in the face and flipping over rooftops.

At some point that locked door quietly disappeared, leaving a blank expanse of wallpaper and a decorative vase where it once stood. It was never brought up again. And Dick slowly forgot that it was ever there in the first place.

Until now.

The wooden table and vase were shoved off to the side. Wallpaper sliced away to reveal the lines of a doorway. The door, covered in its faint damask wallpaper, was kicked open, the wood around the bolt splintered and cracked. He could hear voices—Alfred’s and Bruce’s—speaking softly on the other side.

He pressed his back against the wall and kept his breathing quiet.

“Three times, Alfred.” Bruce’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Three times she’s done this to me.”

“Master Bruce…”

“I don’t—I don’t understand why—” Bruce choked, swallowing a shuddered breath. “Damian, I can understand. Jason, I can too. But…This? I—” Bruce suddenly quieted. Dick knew the jig was up.

He unlatched himself from the wall and slowly slid through the once-hidden-door, a hand kept on the frame. “Um. Hi, Bruce? Alfred?” The words fell flat, stilted. Dick winced as he said them. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but, uh…” He trailed off the second he registered what was in the room.

It was large, as so many rooms in the manor were. The room was covered in peeling green wallpaper with faded pictures of baby deer and owls and other woodland creatures prancing about. There was a dresser on one wall. A shelf filled with little picture books and stuffed animals on the other. A brown teddy bear had fallen on its face on one of the shelves.

In the middle—where Bruce was hunched over—was a crib. The wood streaked and aged with time, the beddings within pristine and untouched, if not dusty. Hanging overhead was a mobile with little animals dangling on a string.

“Worry not Master Dick. It is good that you are here since it will inevitably involve the rest of the family at some point.”

Dick nodded absentmindedly, trying to lock eyes with his guardian. “B? What’s—what’s going on?” Dick took one step deeper into the room. “The pictures in the cave. I thought they were you since they were too old to be Damian—” Bruce’s hands on the crib’s railing flinched.

Dick’s breath hitched.

“They’re…not your photos, are they.”

Bruce took a deep breath in, the lines of his shoulders tense. “No. They’re not.”

In their line of work, the answer could have been anything. Clones, magical doppelgangers, alternate universe counterparts, hell, even just someone’s genetic code being coincidentally similar to another person. But…this room, this nursery, pointed towards only one conclusion.

“Who is he, Bruce?”

Bruce angled his head towards Dick, unshed tears glimmering in his eyes. “He’s my son, Dick.

“He’s my son.”

#danny phantom #batman #danny phantom x batman crossover #dp fic #phantom children.txt

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brutal-nemesis · 3 years

Text

E&T: Aftermath

Not much physical whump in this chapter or the next but that doesn’t mean there won’t be any angst or whatever so there’s that ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

←Previous - Masterlist - Next→

Ingredients: painful magical healing, referenced use of “it” pronouns

The days since the incident had been entirely uneventful, which was both a blessing and a curse. Erebus was certainly glad to have some time to himself without being examined and grabbed all the time, but just being stuck in this room with only so many things to do and no one to talk to was a little rough. He had nothing to distract him from the myriad of things he didn’t want to dwell on. Struck with a sudden urge, he picked up his pillow, walked into the bathroom, calmly sat down in the corner, pressed his face into the pillow, and screamed.

He wasn’t entirely sure why, not that he didn’t have a multitude of reasons to. Maybe he wanted to do it without anyone hearing for once. Maybe it was because that arm still took him by surprise every time he looked down. Maybe the constant itch of the collar wrapped around his throat had finally gotten to him. Maybe it was the fact that he could hardly write his name anymore, despite his best efforts. Maybe it was because the only person who’d been kind to him since this whole mess began, the only person he could turn to for comfort, was also ripping him to pieces, making him into some kind of monster. And there was nothing he could do about any of it. All he could do was endure. Endure and hope things wouldn’t get much worse.

He heard the door to the cell open, but he stayed where he was, figuring it was just someone dropping off food or bandages. It wasn’t until he heard a tentative “What are you...you’re not asleep are you?” that he looked up. Neteri was poking her head through the doorway, giving him a concerned look. She looked a lot better than the last time he’d seen her, and Erebus almost smiled before remembering that A) she was the majority of the reason he was so miserable in the first place and B) her catching him doing...this...was embarrassing, to say the least. He felt his face grow red.

“Why are you...were you just going to look in here without knocking?” Now it was Neteri’s turn to blush.

“Well-you-the door wasn’t closed so I thought...whatever, it’s not like I saw anything. What are you even doing in here?”

“I’m-it’s none of your business.” He stood up, taking comfort in the significant height advantage he had over her. “Look, can we...not talk in here?” Neteri nodded and they went and sat in the main part of the cell, Neteri on one of the chairs and Erebus on the bed. He didn’t put the pillow down, hugging it to his chest instead.

“So. How have you been these past few days? Both with your arm and after the, uh, incident?”

“My arm hurts and it’s shaky and I can’t straighten it out or make a fist and I can barely write with it.” Erebus rattled off his grievances quickly. He’d tried to keep track of everything that he noticed was wrong with it in the hopes that Neteri could fix it, going over the list time after time in his head. She nodded slightly.

“Okay, not too bad. It’s about what I was expecting, honestly, so I should be able to fix it without too much trouble.” Erebus allowed himself to feel a small bit of relief. If he was going to be stuck with this horrific arm, it was at least going to work.

“As for what happened with, uh…”

“Hjáll?”

“Yeah. I...I think I’m okay now.” Erebus looked down. “Being a person...helps.” He looked back up at Neteri. “Who is she, anyway?

“She’s...my rival? Kind of. And also my boss.”

“Wait that was your boss?! Does that mean that she can-”

“No, no, what she did the other day was completely out of line. She technically has a right to examine you every so often, but I have to consent to it and be present, which obviously didn’t happen then.” She sighed. “I...I’ll likely have to let her do it again in the future, but I promise it won’t be like, uh, that. I’ll be right there the whole time, and I won’t let her hurt you or do anything...weird.”

“So I’m just going to have to sit there and let her...look at me?”

“Well, most likely she’s going to request that you be restrained, since she seems to have gotten the impression that you’re some kind or feral beast, which is honestly hilarious. What, did you bite her or something?”

“No, I just resisted when she tried to take off my clothes. I pushed her back. And I kicked her.” Neteri burst out laughing.

“Wait, you kicked her? You?” Erebus nodded, and Neteri laughed again. “Oh, oh that’s fantastic. I love it. She’s so high-and-mighty all the time and it is annoying. For real though, if she looks at you again I swear it won’t be that bad. Ugh, she’s probably going to keep using “it” pronouns for you, but I’ll try to correct her.” Erebus hated that he was grateful that his captor was insistent on treating him with basic human decency in this one instance, but here he was. “Alright.” Neteri jumped out of her chair. “You ready for me to fix your arm?”

“As long as you’ll get it right this time,” he said as he stood up.

“Keep talking like that I just might not.” He was afraid she was serious for a second, but the mischievous smile she flashed up at him told him otherwise.

After she freed his ankle, her hand clamped around his right wrist and she began to gently pull him down the hall. He briefly entertained the thought of jerking out of her grasp and running, but deep down he knew there wasn’t much point. He had no idea where he was in the castle or where the teleportation stone was, and he’d honestly rather just let Neteri get his arm working correctly. So he let her lead him along without a fight, at least until they arrived at the lab. He stopped in his tracks upon seeing that table again, the horrors of a few days prior starting to overtake his mind. Neteri looked up at him.

“You’re going to have to get on there if you want me to fix it.”

“C-could I at least sit up or-”

“Nope, I need you to be as still as possible or else it’ll mess with the...things could get messed up, to put it in not-technical terms. You need to be lying down and secured.” She thought for a moment. “I can, like, not strap all of you down, would that make you feel better?” He steeled himself before slowly nodding, approaching the table on shaky legs. Deep breath. He hoisted himself up onto the table, every fiber of his being crying out in protest not to get back up here, not to lie down and let himself be tortured all over again. But he did it anyway, because it was either do it himself or be forced to. Neteri watched him intently the whole time, not moving even when he’d laid down.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

“You’re...you’re really brave.”

“Huh?”

“Well,” she said as she finally moved towards him, gently rolling up his right sleeve and unwinding the bandage, “I mean I can tell how scared you are, and that’s justified, but you still got up here despite that, you know?”

“I don’t think that’s...I just know there’s no point in running or fighting.” He looked away, and his voice dropped to barely above a whisper, “I think it means I’ve given up more than anything.”

“In a way, yes, but that’s not a bad thing.” She tightened the strap around his right wrist. “You just understand that resisting gets you nothing, and you’d rather make the choice to cooperate, but you’re still…” she furrowed her brow as she strapped his chest down. “You still have...resolve or...I don’t know how to explain it. Just like...something.”

“Something. That really clears it up.” She smiled.

“In conclusion: you’re brave,” she declared as she shoved the rag into his mouth to prevent him from arguing further. He halfway reached up to pull it out, but stopped himself and laid his arm back down. Maybe he shouldn’t give her a reason to strap his other arm down, since it seemed like she was going to start with just his right arm and chest secured. He braced himself, fingers of his left hand curling into the fabric of his shirt as he looked up at Zander the rat.

The pain started out quiet and slow, crackles and pops of little agonies sparking throughout his arm, preludes to the coming blaze. They steadily intensified, and before he knew it he was screaming, head arched back and knees bent as the pain ravaged his arm. A thousand flames coursed through every nerve before the sensation changed to a crawling itch, and it was all he could do to resist scratching at his arm. Thankfully, the magic stopped flowing soon after. And after a few residual twinges, the pain stopped too.

Neteri was breathing heavily, but she seemed to be in a much better condition than she had been the last time she attempted this, no blood coming out of her nose or ears. She smiled at him. “The worst of it should be over, but I might have to make a few adjustments. Can you try to make a fist? You said you couldn’t do that before, right?” Hesitantly, he did so, feeling a bolt of elation as the foreign fingers obeyed with ease. She let him sit up, having him move his arm all sorts of ways, and they were both happy to find that there were no problems with it at the moment. She cut the stitches around the now-healed spot where red and bronze skin were gnarled together, and he couldn’t help but wince as she pulled them out, despite how gentle she was being.

Once they got back to the cell, Erebus realized he could finally ask Neteri the question he’d thought of yesterday. “Does it do anything?”

“What?”

“The arm, does it do anything...special? Like how the tongue-”

“Oh, yeah, it should be able to...well, have you ever met a lust demon?”

“No?”

“Alright well basically what they’re able to do is change their appearance to suit the, ah, tastes of whatever human they’re trying to prey on. We’re not exactly sure if this is something they’re consciously able to do or if it’s purely reactionary. But there is a possibility that you’ll be able to change the appearance of your arm with enough practice.”

“Really?” Erebus looked down at his arm, imagining it changing back to look like the one he’d lost, feeling a small spark of hope.

“Mmhmm. Theoretically, at least. I can’t promise you’ll be able to do it, but there’s a chance.” She shrugged as she said this. “Oh, that reminds me of something else I wanted to ask you earlier. Is there anything you want? I...I feel bad about what happened with Hjáll, and the procedure on your arm was more painful than it was supposed to be. So, is there anything I can do to sorta make it up to you? Obviously I’m not going to let you go or stop what I’m doing, because no, but uhhh…” Erebus furrowed his brow. What did he want besides his freedom? He considered asking her to let him visit his home and say goodbye to people, but he shuddered at the thought of anyone who knew him seeing him in his current state, and he didn’t want to burden them with the reality of what was happening to him. They might blame themselves, and it wasn’t their fault. So he wouldn’t ask her to take him to Nathar, but maybe…

“Could I...go outside? I haven’t seen the sky or plants or anything in so long and I...I hate being stuck underground like this.”

“Sure! Ooh, I could show around the city! Yeah, yeah, that should work. I’ll need to get a few things in order first, so it might be a couple of days.” She got up to leave. “Until then, work on seeing if you can get your arm to change or whatever. I’ll be back with your food...at some point later today.”

After she left, Erebus stared at his arm, concentrating on the image of the one he’d once had, trying to imagine the skin fading from bright red to light brown, but it remained the same as before. Well, he didn’t expect it to work right away. But hopefully it would, someday.

Hopefully.

Tags: @dramaticcollapse @thehopelessopus @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @galaxywhump @as-a-matter-of-whump @mnmlover2002 @tears-and-lilies @yet-another-heathen @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @starnight-whump @unicornscotty @thebewilderer @kixngiggles

#i wrote something #erebus & terror #erebus #neteri #hopefully people are cool with a couple less painful chapters #we will return to horror after this short break!#so yee hjall will come back whenever i want to make erebus uncomfy again. its her job #thats right lust demons FUCK who would have thought #basically they live off of human bodily fluids...any fluids...in any orifice...#yeah #they could drink blood like vampires if they wanted to tho #but we get possible arm editing hours so this mans isnt stuck with it being red wheee #dw he will not have a good time with making it do shit #yeah thats right i will get to dump all my taiyorum lore into canon in the next chapter #after that we will return the anguish :)#but erebus can have a little break from being ripped apart. as a treat #hnng which means i have to figure out how to talk about crossbeds without calling them crossbeds #maybe i will harass someone who dont know geology #what the fuck is it with the chapters where like nothing happens being so dang long #seriously what the fuck you two stop talking all the dang time #this one is up there with ch8 in ''things that need to happen but i hate it but i want to just move on so here''#okay i dont like hate it hate it i just. blegh #yes i only finished it because i was procrastinating on my hw

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fandomstuff67 · 4 years

Text

Coming Home

A fix it fic in which it really WAS Cas at the door.

Word Count: 1.7K

As usual, read below or on Ao3:

Dean didn’t wait for Sam before he was up and sprinting down the hallway towards the bunker stairs. He took them two at a time, phone gripped tightly in his hand as he rushed to get to the door.

When he reached the landing, he hesitated for a moment, trying to prepare himself to face Cas, Cas who was here, but who was hurt, who needed him. His hand closed over the doorknob and he pushed it open to reveal a bloodied Castiel. His dark hair was twisted six ways to Sunday and his trench coat was battered and torn, stained with blood, but it was Cas.

“Cas,” Dean breathed as he reached for him.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied, his voice was raspy and he coughed, causing blood to trickle from his lips.

Dean pulled him into a hug and Cas gasped in pain, causing Dean to loosen his hold on him. “I- sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Cas said, a small smile on his lips.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Dean gently laid a hand on Cas’ upper arm and guided him into the bunker. Cas was limping and he faltered for a second as his bad leg hit the first stair, so Dean slipped his hand around his waist, holding him up.

“I got you,” he said softly.

Cas looked over at him, blue eyes searching. “Dean-” he began.

“Later,” Dean cut in. “Later, okay?”

Cas nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Dean tightened his hold on Cas’ waist and helped him down the rest of the stairs where Sam was waiting patiently, a first aid kit in hand. “Hey, Cas,” he smiled.

“Sam,” Cas nodded.

“It’s good to see you back,” Sam said.

“Yeah, speaking of, how are you back?” Dean asked as he helped Cas into one of the map table chairs.

“I’m not sure,” Cas replied through a grunt as he shifted in the chair. “One moment, I was in the empty, the next I was in a field.”

Sam set the first aid kit on the table and Dean opened it to look through its contents. He pulled out some gauze and antiseptic and then turned to Cas. “This might sting,” he warned.

Cas nodded and steeled his expression as Dean began to dab at a deep gash on the side of his face. “Who did this to you, Cas? Can’t you heal yourself?” Sam asked.

“The empty,” Cas replied. “And no, I can’t heal wounds caused by the empty.”

Dean’s movements stalled and he pulled away to look at the angel. “This whole time, you were being tortured?”

Cas’ blue eyes softened and his hand came up to Dean’s wrist. “It’s okay.”

Dean shook his head. “No, it’s not okay. You were there because of me, and I-”

“Dean, I made my choice and I was content with my decision. It wasn’t your fault.”

Dean could feel the tears fighting to spill from his eyes and he tried to will them away but they fell anyway. He sniffed and dragged his free hand over his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Cas,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for everything. Every stupid fight we’ve had, every time I left you behind, every time I kicked you out, Cas I’m so sorry.”

So much for later, he thought.

“Dean,” Cas said softly. Dean jumped as a hand came to cup his chin, dragging his head upwards until all he was seeing was blue. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Dean shook his head, dislodging more tears. “No, no I do.”

Cas’ hand shifted to cup his cheek and Dean shut his eyes against the touch, the touch he never thought he’d feel again. He took a shuddering breath and then opened his eyes again to see Cas staring at him with the same loving look he’d given Dean before he was taken.

“How can you love me?” Dean asked. “I don’t deserve it, not from you, not from the one person I’ve hurt the most.”

“That is not true. You deserve everything good in the world, you deserve to be loved, Dean.” Dean started to shake his head again but Cas tightened his grip on the back of his neck, stopping him. “I love you, Dean,” he said, with such conviction that a small sob escaped his mouth.

Hearing the words again hit him even harder than the first time and he felt a shaky breath fall from his lips. He stared into those blue eyes, his heart thudding in his chest as he tried to convince himself that this was real, that Cas really was back, that it wasn’t a trick, it was just… Cas.

His chest felt like it was caving in as the walls he’d so meticulously crafted over the years crumbled to dust. He could feel the words on the tip of his tongue, the words he’d wanted to say for so long but had been too much of a coward to speak, too afraid to be judged or to be rejected. But Cas felt the same way, and so it should be easier, right? But it wasn’t. It still took him longer than it should have to form the words, to stand in the dusty ruins of his broken walls and meet Cas’ eyes.

Cas who was so patient, so kind, so understanding.

Cas who was everything Dean wanted but everything he couldn’t possibly deserve.

Cas who had fallen in every way imaginable.

Cas who had been there for Dean even when Dean hadn’t been there for him.

Cas who was an angel of the lord.

Cas who never did what he was told, who defied all odds, who broke ranks, who gave up an army for one man.

Cas who forgave so easily.

Cas who loved him.

“I love you too,” Dean finally gasped out.

Cas smiled, it was so pure, so bright, so filled with love, that Dean could do nothing but smile back, and then he was surging forward, closing the gap between them, cupping Cas’ face with his hands and crashing their lips together. Cas kissed him back and Dean got lost in the feeling of Cas’ lips against his. He could taste blood on his tongue but he didn’t care, he couldn’t care, because kissing Cas felt so right.

How many times had he dreamed of this very moment?

How many times had he wished he could have this but thought it would never be possible?

How many times had he tried to convince himself that the love he felt for Cas was nothing more than brotherly?

And how many times had he failed when he realized he was so far gone that there was no power on this earth that could possibly take away the love he felt for the angel that gripped him tight and raised him from perdition?

Too many times, was the answer. An infinite amount of times.

Kissing Cas, it felt like coming home. It felt safe and warm and perfect. He never wanted to stop.

But eventually, he had to pull away. Their foreheads came to rest together and they drew in shaky breaths as they smiled at each other.

“Now that we’ve got that cleared up, what do you say I finish taking care of your wounds?”

Cas nodded and Dean picked up a new piece of gauze and dampened it with antiseptic before going back to work on Cas’ face.

It was just as Cas winced against the sting of the antiseptic that Dean suddenly remembered they hadn’t been alone in the room. His eyes suddenly snapped to where Sam had been standing, but Sam wasn’t there anymore.

Dean didn’t know when he’d left, but he found himself grateful for it.

“Sammy!” he called.

“You two done in there?” Sam called back.

Dean rolled his eyes and smiled at Cas. “Yeah, it’s safe.”

“Good,” Sam said as he came back into the room with Jack right behind him.

Cas’ smile grew at the sight of the Nephilim and Jack’s whole face brightened. “Cas,” Jack said.

“Hello, Jack,” Cas replied.

“You made it out.”

“I did.”

“And I think I might know how,” Michael’s voice sounded from behind Sam as he stepped into the room.

“Which is?” Dean asked.

“My father.”

“But why would Chuck want Cas back?” Dean asked.

“I do not think it was intentional, but I sense that there are other angels on earth now, ones that were once dead. I believe my father is raising an army from my dead brothers and sisters.”

“Well that’s just great,” Dean muttered. “Do we have a plan?”

“We fight,” Sam replied. “And if we go down-”

“We go down swinging,” Dean finished for him.

Sam nodded. “We’re going to try to see if Chuck might have accidentally released anyone else from the empty.”

“What, like demons?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, who knows, maybe Chuck shook Crowley loose too.” Sam replied. “It might be nice if we could get some more numbers on our side.”

“I won’t say no to that. Why don’t you three get to work on that while I finish fixing up Cas.”

“On it,” Sam said.

Dean turned back to Cas and as he raised the antiseptic soaked gauze back to his face, he couldn’t help himself from stealing one quick kiss from Cas’ lips, he loved that he could do that now; kiss Cas whenever he wanted.

“You said the one thing you wanted was something you knew you couldn’t have,” he said as he dabbed at the bloody wound. “Did you mean us?”

Cas nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Dean kissed him again and brushed his finger gently across Cas’ unmarked cheek. “You can have this. You can have me.”

Cas smiled. “I never thought it would be possible you would feel the same as I did.”

“Well I do. I love you,” he said. The words came easy now and he knew that he was never going to stop saying them.

“I love you too,” Cas replied as he pulled Dean back in for another kiss.

It wasn’t long until the antiseptic lay forgotten again and they were lost in the exploration of each other’s mouths.

This was real.

It wasn’t a trick.

They really could have this, and now that he had Cas back again, Dean was determined to never let him go.

Tag list (ask to be added or removed):

@anotherdowneyfan1 @tearsofgrace @quxxnxfhxll @rebelangel67

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theheartsmistakes · 3 years

Text

Any Other Name

.Chapter 1.

The London Institute hadn’t changed in the five years since Cordelia had last seen it. Its pointed rooftops disappeared into the alloy colored clouds that perpetually covered the sky of London making Cordelia sometimes wonder if underneath the constant precipitation the sky was purple or grey rather than blue. The arched glossy windows reflected the view of the city with the billowing smoke from the factories, the lines from the bridges, and the diamond-like flecks that glittered off of the Thames.

It rivaled the Institute in Tehran in size alone, but otherwise, the cold, steel gray of the stones had nothing on the warmth and light of the sand-colored building that she had been living in for the past five years. Already she missed the way the sun warmed the inside of the building and filled the rooms with its light that sent fractals of color off of the beads that adorned the bright colored drapes in her bedroom. She missed the smells of spices, burning applewood, and whatever flower bloomed wildly in that season as she walked the crowded merchant-lined streets.

She’d only been in London all of ten minutes and already she wanted to climb back through the portal and take her grandmother up on her offer to let her live there with her in her small one-bedroom flat.

“We are a family,” said her father proudly when he informed them at the dinner table only a week before that they (he) were offered the position to be head of the London Institute after the removal of William and Tessa Herondale. “This is a family decision. No one is staying behind. We are moving as a family.”

It didn’t feel like a family decision when he removed her bedroom door after she’d locked herself in for twenty-four hours in protest.

One year, she told herself. One measly little year in the dreary, desolate wasteland that was London, and then she would be eighteen and free to make her own decisions including where she wanted to live.

Her older brother Alastair, the bastard, had turned eighteen only a month ago and had opted to remain in Tehran to help oversee the Institute until the Clave found a family to take over. Cordelia bristled at the idea of someone else living in her room which she’d just managed to decorate according to her taste. What if they turned it into a boring old office or Angel forbid a crafts room.

Never, in her seventeen years, did she hate her parents. Not for any reason for they were quite good parents. They let her go out with her friends any night of the week she wanted, they supported her in whatever protest or interest she happened to be on even if it pertained to mundane issues, and she rather liked spending time with them when she wasn’t training or out in the city with her small, but loyal group of friends.

Her friends.

They’d only said goodbye a few hours ago, but she’d at least hoped for one fire message of encouragement to help her through these trying times.

She’d scold them for it later.

When she’d come to London as a child during her parent's annual Clave meetings, the only enjoyable part of being here visiting with the ever eccentric Lucie Herondale. They’d become fast friends when they first met at ten years old and remained in touch either through fire messages, the occasional visits, or annual Clave meetings. Until about six months, when all correspondence stopped. Cordelia sent her dozens of messages, but none of them were answered. When she attempted to call from a city payphone on the landline she knew Lucie kept, the automated message said the phone number had been disconnected.

Cordelia wondered if it was something that she had done or said that upset Lucie. That was until a week ago when her parents sat down with her and her brother and told them of the Clave’s decision to exile the Herondale’s for their demon blood.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!” Cordelia yelled when her parents informed both her and Alastair. “They’re exiled? What does that even mean?”

“It means they’re no longer considered Shadowhunters,” said Alastair from where he sat across from her at the dining room table. He was rather unperturbed by the situation which didn’t surprise Cordelia in the least. He never liked the Herondale’s; least of all James Herondale, Lucie’s older brother.

“I know what it means, Alastair, I’m being dramatic,” snapped Cordelia. “What did they do to deserve this? Will has always been an esteemed member of the Clave and Tessa as well. They can’t do this to them!”

Elias, Cordelia’s traitorous father looked to her mother Sona for assistance but her mother looked just as angry as Cordelia felt.

“It’s all to do with their blood,” said Elias carefully.

“Their blood?” Cordelia said as if he’d just announced he was infected with some virulent disease.

“Bigotry, darling,” said Sona and glanced at him over the edge of the purple scarf that concealed her hair. “I think the word you are looking for is ‘bigotry’.”

“No,” said Elias. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Why not,” said Sona, flippantly. “It’s not as if the Clave is here to hear you. We’ve always been honest with the children, it won’t do to stop now.”

“Sona, please.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was an argument that they have had before and did not side with one another. “We agreed to be a unified front.”

“I agreed to no such thing,” said Sona and turned her gaze to Cordelia. “The Clave upon hearing that Tessa’s father is the greater demon Belial, has decided that despite her angelic heritage, her blood is tainted and we cannot allow tainted blood into the community in fear that her demon-side will eventually take over and she— or her children— will be responsible for something horrendous which is the nature of their kind.”

Cordelia gapped like a landlocked fish. “That’s the most idiotic thing I have ever heard!”

Sona nodded.

“Tessa is one of the kindest, sweetest, most good-natured people that I have ever met!” Her voice inched up an octave that had Alastair grimacing. She didn’t care. This was criminal. This went against everything she’d ever believed. Tessa was someone as close to an aunt as Cordelia would ever have. “Doesn’t the angelic blood dominate the demon side anyway!”

Sona nodded. “The Clave claims they do not have enough evidence of this and therefore cannot risk it.”

“You keep saying the Clave,” said Cordelia vehemently. “Who exactly are you referring to?”

“It’s all of them, darling,” said Elias.

Sona rolled her eyes. “Inquisitor Bridgetstock, the toad, is who I am referring to and the hoard of Clave members that he has fear-mongered into following after him. This is what we deserve for establishing a democracy.”

“You’d prefer totalitarianism?” said Elias.

Sona just shrugged again. “If it meant avoiding this lunacy, then yes, I suppose I do.”

Cordelia felt like screaming to release some of the frustration building in her chest. “What about Will?”

“His mother was a mundane,” said Elias.

“Oh.” Cordelia felt her cheeks fill with heat. “So the Clave has something against Mundanes, as well. So was Sophie Lightwood, are they going to exile her too?”

“The Clave is trying to keep the Shadowhunter bloodline pure,” said Elias, carefully, but there was a note of distaste in the last word. “Sophie ascended so therefore she is for all intents and purposes a Shadowhunter. Also, Will wouldn’t abandon Tessa or his children even if it meant keeping his marks. He was very adamant about that part.”

Cordelia slumped back against her chair and crossed her arms in a way she hadn’t done since she was a child. “So what, we’re just meant to pretend like they never existed? Is that what you’re saying?”

Both of her parents averted their eyes. Sona looked down at her hands resting in her lap and Elias stared at the plate of food he hadn’t touched in front of him. “Yes,” he finally said. “The punishment for fraternizing with ‘the exiled’ or any Downworlder unless it is for official Clave business is deemed punishable.”

Cordelia scoffed, but it was Alastair who asked, “Punishable, how?”

“It depends on the severity,” said Elias and meant to leave it at that.

“Meaning,” inquired Cordelia.

“Meaning,” said Elias in a tone that implied he was finished with this conversation. “They are not our friends, colleagues, or otherwise. They are our enemies and we are to treat them as such. They are working on making this into a new law and if broken, it could mean the stripping of your marks.”

Even Alastair’s eyebrows rose at that. “It seems the Inquisitor is finally getting what he wanted after all, a cease and desist on any camaraderie with Downworlders. He always did see them as a vile group.”

Elias nodded but reached over to put his hand on Cordelia’s arm. “I know Lucie was a dear friend.”

Cordelia’s eyes swam with tears at the mention of Lucie’s name. She couldn’t imagine what Lucie was going through now. Was she afraid, angry, lonely, feeling everything all at once? At least she had her family, but was it enough? Would it be enough for Cordelia?

“I cannot stress how important it is that you obey these laws until we can come up with a way to have them disbanded,” said Elias. “I know your heart, Layla, I see its fire at any signs of adversity and I don’t want to be the one to temper it, but I need you to be careful and believe me when I saw, I will do everything within my capabilities to fix this.” He looked at each person sitting at the table with him. “I may not agree with the Clave’s decision, but for our own protection, we must comply. Do you understand?”

“You want us to be silent,” said Cordelia.

Elias’s hand slipped from his daughter’s arm.

“Sometimes words are not enough,” said Sona on the other end of the table. “Sometimes we can speak louder with our action. We have raised you to be free-thinkers, to defend the innocent, and protect the ones that need protecting. We trust that you will use your best judgement on how to do just that.”

Cordelia uncross her arms and dropped her hands into her lap. She wanted more than anything to go to her room and try to send another fire message to Lucie; to rage about how ridiculous this all was, and let her friend know that she wasn’t alone. That not for one moment would she, Cordelia Carstairs, who once painted herself red and marched through the streets of Tehran as a message to their mundane government that she did not agree with the patriarchal rules placed on women, would go along with these laws.

She thought of the Blackthorn family motto: Lex malla, lex nulla.

A bad law is no law and how she wished she could claim it is her own.

But she couldn’t message Lucie. She didn’t even have a way to reach her and maybe Lucie didn’t want to speak to her anyway if she hadn’t even attempted to contact her in some other way.

“I hate this,” she said quietly.

“I know, Layla,” said her mother. “I know.”

“What of the Fairchilds?” asked Alastair, stirring his mashed potatoes around with his fork. “How did the Clave get Charlotte to agree to this? They’re practically family. Isn’t the blond one parabatai with the eldest of the Herondales?”

Elias sighed and nodded. “He is— was. He is being stripped of his mark this week.”

Cordelia gasped and felt as if she might vomit. “Matthew would never!”

“He didn’t have a choice,” said Elias. “It was either have his parabatai mark removed or be exiled.”

“He’d choose to be exiled.” Cordelia didn’t know Matthew Fairchild all that well, but she knew he wouldn’t abandon his dearest and oldest friend. The friend he chose to tie his own life.

“He’s not yet eighteen,” said Elias. “He cannot make that choice.”

“Charlotte is allowing this?”

“Charlotte has been removed from her place as Consul for not agreeing to any of this and is being replaced by Marcus Pounceby.”

“Marcus Pounceby!” said Alastair and Cordelia together.

Their father just nodded though his expression had grown increasingly tired. “Yes, it appears that if one just bends every which way for the Clave one can achieve a lot.”

Cordelia had to physically restrain herself from flipping the table. “This is bullshit!”

“Cordelia!” Her mother hissed. “I know you’re upset, but I won’t hear that sort of language at the table.”

“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t, and saying ‘this is crap’ just didn’t justify how she felt. “I can’t believe this is happening. I thought we were supposed to be better than mundanes. This feels like its been torn directly out of one of their history books. Next they’ll have use hunting Downworlders and demons.” She couldn’t sit there any longer. She couldn’t handle any more information that made her want to portal directly to Alicante and demand they strip her of her marks. What was stopping them from exiling her family next? What if they stopped liking her hair color or decided she wasn’t fit to be a Shadowhunter because she was a woman? “May I be excused?”

“You haven’t eaten anything,” said her mother.

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Your mother worked—“ Elias started but Sona shook her head and said, “Yes, just clear your plate and you can go.”

——————

In the week that followed that conversation things progressively got worse. It helped that she was in Tehran with her friends, battling demons that terrorized the night and training during the day, until that fateful night when her father declared that they were moving to the London Institute.

The inside seemed as dark and cold as the outside. She didn’t remember it being this way when she visited as a girl. It used to be so full of light, but perhaps it was the people that occupied it that made it that way. Now, it seemed as lonely and depressed by their absence as Cordelia felt.

She dragged her suitcase up the flight of stairs to the second story and shuffled down the hall at a glacial pace as if every step was a concession to agreeing to live here. The hallway had holes in it where pictures were once hung by Tessa of her family and their lives there. Cordelia could remember a few: one of Tessa and Will on their wedding day, another of Tessa heavily pregnant while hanging a Christmas ornament on the tree, one of Will holding a baby, and one of all four of them together underneath the Eiffel Tower. Lucie was only six in the picture and resting her tired head on her father’s shoulder. James stood in front of his mum with a half-smile on his face and a baguette in each of his hands.

The barren walls seemed to groan and sigh as she walked past.

The door she knew to be hers was already opened, a dull strip of light came out into the hallway. Cordelia stood in front of the dark red wood of the door and nudged it open with the toe of her boot. It squeaked on its hinges as it slowly revealed the bedroom inside.

Memories of laughter crashed into her like a blast of icy, winter wind. Two little girls sitting on the massive bed, the covers were thrown over their heads with a witch light glowing between them, as they brought their collection of dolls to life in elaborate stories.

It still smelled like her— like Lucie. A mixture of Damascus roses, ink, and freshly printed papers.

Cordelia sighed and dropped her bag at her feet.

The bed was the only thing that remained of what used to be Lucie’s old bedroom. Stripped of the colorful coverlet and sheets that Lucie had chosen, it was just an old mattress with a plush, lavender velvet headboard. The only sign of there ever having been any more furniture were the marks in the wooden floorboard where Lucie’s writing desk sat and piles of dust in the corners.

“It’s not much now,” said her mother whom she hadn’t heard come up behind her. “But you can make it your own.”

Cordelia scoffed. “I don’t want to make it my own.” It was Lucie’s. It would always be Lucie’s.

She felt her mother’s hand on her waist. “I know this is difficult for you, Layla, but we must make the best of it. It’s what Lucie would have wanted.”

Cordelia turned. “Please don’t talk about her as if she’s dead. I did what you asked, I moved here, please don’t expect me to be happy about it. It’s not enough that I have to stay in this house, but I have to live in her room and make it my own. I won’t. My stuff may be stored in here, but it’s not mine. My room is in Tehran.” She turned back around and glared at the large space before her as if it’d done her some great wrong.

Sona patted her daughter on the waist before releasing her. “I didn’t come up here to upset you more, but I feel I should warn you. The Inquisitor and the Consul are coming by in an hour to meet us. They want to discuss a few things with your father over dinner. I was told to tell you to please be on your absolute best behavior.”

“So you’re asking me to sit there and look pretty?”

Sona’s eyebrows quirked. “We need to support your father. He is the only one in the Clave that has any semblance of reason. They trust him, we need to help strengthen that trust if he is to help make sense of some of this nonsense. Do you understand?”

Cordelia hugged herself. “I hate them.”

“Hate them all you like,” said Sona. “You don’t even have to speak to them if you don’t want to, but you do need to be present. The Consul’s son will be there.”

“Augustus?” said Cordelia with distaste. “Can’t you tell them I’m ill or tired from our travels. Jet lag is still a thing even if you portal.”

Sona tapped her wrist where a watch should be. “Dinner is at seven. Dress respectably.”

Cordelia looked down at the black bike shorts she had under the oversized gray sweatshirt she’d thrown on that morning while she finished all her last-minute packing. By respectable, she knew her mother meant nice, pretty, clean. Look how they want you to look so we can attempt to impress Inquisitor Bridgestock and Consul Pounceby because even though we don’t agree with their decisions, we still have to abide by their laws.

It made her want to punch a hole in the wall or throw something out the window.

She pulled the strap for the scabbard holding Cortana, her beloved sword, over her neck and rested her blade against the wall beside the closet door, and walked across the room to sit on the edge of the mattress.

Never once in her life was she ever not proud to be a Shadowhunter. It was as much a part of her as the color of skin, her name, or the distinct tone of her voice. The angelic blood sang in her veins and powered her limbs to protect those who could not protect themselves against the darkness and evil that threatened it. Never once did she consider that darkness and evil could ever touch or harm her community; that it would never be found there. Now, she came to realize, it was not so far away.

How could she fight her government? She couldn’t, not without consequences, but how could she stay silent either about what she knew to be wrong and unjust.

Her whole existence felt like the inside of a snow globe after it was turned upside down and shaken. Now, she just had to wait for the dust to settle, and perhaps things would not look so different then.

———————

The Consul was the first to arrive.

Cordelia stood in the bathroom mirror smoothing out the dress she’d thrown in the bag she packed while they waited for the rest of their things to arrive from Tehran. The white of the soft fabric warmed her skin and brought out the flecks of copper in her red hair that she left down and curled at the ends. Her mother would scoff at the length of the hem, falling to the middle of her thighs. It wasn’t exactly what Cordelia would have chosen to wear to this dinner either, but she’d left her Fuck the Patriarchy t-shirt and ripped jeans in the box with all of her clothes in Tehran. It may be written in Persian, but the look on her parents’ face would have been worth it, and who knows, perhaps it could have been a conversation starter.

She was pulling on a pair of dark leather sandals when she heard the sound of voices fill the foray. Her mother’s warm, but fake laughter sent a pinch across Cordelia’s spine. She knew it wasn’t sincere, but she still would rather hear the sound of her mother kicking them out of her house rather than welcoming them in.

I am not being complicit, she told herself as she turned towards the bedroom door. I am infiltrating the enemy. I will find their weakness. I will attempt to understand them so I can use the knowledge later to destroy them… And I will spit in their water glasses and lick their bread rolls.

With a practiced smile, she marched towards the door when she felt the give and heard the groan from a floorboard beneath her foot. She looked down and carefully lifted her right foot and watched as the board rose back up.

Interesting. None of the other boards did that.

Carefully, she got down onto her knees and dug her nails into the crack around the board. The perimeters showed markings of being dug out before. She pried it up enough to get her fingers underneath and it popped up with ease. She slid it away and beneath was a white sheet of paper with a garden stone sitting on top of it and Cordelia’s name written on the front.

Cordelia looked up to make sure no one was coming. The voices could still be heard from the foray and dinner didn’t technically start for five more minutes.

She reached down into the hole and slid the paper out from underneath the rock.

Sitting back on her hip, she unfolded it and read:

50 Ernest St, Bethnal Green, London

The Old Clock Tower

February 3, at 10 P.M.

Cielu Rhonelade

Cielu Rhonelade. Cordelia smiled as she mentally rearranged the letters to read Lucie Herondale. It was her nom de plume for a time when they were kids and Lucie wanted to be like the author George Eliot and claim her work under a different name.

But it was Lucie, of that Cordelia was sure, and she wanted to meet with Cordelia tonight.

A/N:

This story can also be found on AO3 if you would prefer to read it there.

Likes, comments, and reblog are always appreciated!

Next update: Friday, 5/14

#the shadowhunter chronicles #chain of gold #chain of iron #chain of thorns #the last hours #james herondale #cordelia carstairs #james x cordelia #jordelia fanfiction #cassandra clare #modern au #alternative au #thomas lightwood #lucie herondale #christopher lightwood #alastair carstairs #will x tessa #jesse blackthorn #grace blackthorn

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nightwingshero · 4 years

Text

Judgement ⚖️

I had the amazing opportunity to commission the wonderful and talented @oliviawildesjawline to do Wren Blake as Nemesis personified in the role of Judge. And OMG!!!! IT’S AMAZING!!! You’ve completely blown me away with this piece! This is just...this is way better than I imagined it, and the colors?! You never fail to amaze me. Thank you so much for making this a reality!!! It’s absolutely perfect and I CAN’T STOP STARING AT IT!!!

Joseph always told John that his sin would come around in another form. But the cycle never broke, and Wren’s sin comes around in the form of one she thought as a friend. Wren faces her first Judgement as Herald of Eden’s Gate, and the scales aren’t tipping in Jess Black’s favor. .

It’s hard to breathe sometimes, I found. Wasn’t anyone’s fault in particular, but I could feel the weight of something in my chest. And whether it's my own sin curling its hand around my lungs or the guilty that refuse to answer for what they had done, one couldn’t say. It was just so heavy.

Facing your demons was something people preached about, insisted on, despite how utterly terrifying it could be. Confront those feelings, the dark and long-legged spiders that formed cobwebs in the back of your mind to whisper the poisonous thoughts you believed to be your subconscious. They’re traitorous things, always sticky and malicious, knocking the angel off your shoulder with utter disdain. Crooked smiles taunting as you fall down and down until you can’t even tell that you’ve fallen into the pit of Tartarus itself. But yes, face your demons, darling.

And I’m face to face with her now.

Die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Forgive and love or watch as your sin comes around in a new form. The words were meant for both me and the man I spend my nights with, both of us on the different sides of the same coin. It makes me contemplate, hearing a clock tick, but there is no clock here. No, not down here.

I tilt my head, careful not to allow my own wrath to consume my very being, igniting something that would burn out of control. My own test. And I realize the ticking is coming from my jaw, the words finding refuge there to avoid the sharp tip of my silver tongue. My words are like bullets, and I always preferred the personal touch of a blade over the gracelessness of a gun. Guns didn’t teach lessons.

I guess you could say they never got the point across.

My burgundy lips are twisting, a dark sneer that I had learned from the best of the best. And I feel as if it is his hand that’s guiding my actions, his tattooed digits tracing the coolness of my skin as if I was a marionette, but I am so much more. I am my own being, my own actions, my own existence.

I am my own Herald.

I wonder if that makes her heart beat faster, knowing that no other will interfere, she’s in my domain. Joseph wouldn’t even dare to put his hand upon the scales, refusing to taint the will of God because Judgement is sacred. A ritual that must be done right or else we pay the price. A soft hand or the steel of my knife, each calculation is accurate and precise, one wrong call and it unravels the bonds we weave for ourselves.

Rolling my neck, I can feel the tightening of an imaginary snake around my neck, it's comforting hissing and flicking tongue in my ear, and I swear I can feel just the slightest scratch of his beard. He’s not here, but I feel him.

You must always face your demons.

There’s hesitation within me when I swore that there would be none, a slight sliver of doubt piercing the insides of me, because I’m not sure if I can do this clearly. Fairly. A delicate line between revenge and vengeance and it has woven itself around my fingers, arms, entangling all the way down my spine. There should be metal there, but I fear that it’s only the thread keeping me standing straight.

I am alone.

Doing this on my own is an important feat. A necessary one that I take seriously. Perhaps a rite of passage, but I feel like I’m on the precipice of falling, or diving, and it steels my resolve. My dark heels click against the concrete floor, echoing against the harsh walls that match the harsh glow of light. I remembered my first time in this room, my shirt ripping apart as if it were nothing, fear pumping into my veins with just enough adrenaline. A toxic cocktail of endorphins, but I can practically taste the bitterness of her anger as she glares from her chair.

It’s exciting, almost. Oh god, the absolute thrill and I return her glare, because I am alone. Nobody is coming to save her, and I am the only way out for her. It doesn’t sway her actions, her feelings, for she is still so encompassed with loathing. She can’t see what is in front of her. What her pride has done to those around her, and I’m suddenly ready to pass my Judgement by just the slight reminder of her horrid actions. I still feel the warm blood on my hands and the tears that flowed that night. I want her blood in return, eye for an eye.

I swallow and shove what I can to the side, keeping what remanence of the control I had left. I rub my hands against the tight black pants, a wishful thought of them helping to hold me in place as I take another step forward. Her eyes follow, and I’m sure she means to be threatening with the look in her eyes, but I feel like laughing at her. The poor thing is tied and gagged, what threat was she? I fight the urge to rip the tape from her mouth just for the satisfaction of causing some sort of pain.

Reaching her, I rest my knee on her chair next to her leg and she jerks away. I have to fight the laugh because she’s ridiculous. Always acting like a child, always so damn selfish. I click my tongue, the organ finally rising to the occasion because I am done being silent. The words are screaming, clawing at the insides and I’m shocked that I have yet to spit blood upon her face out of spite.

I grab her face instead, and god, the relief I feel for it. The black nails pressing against her flesh, indents around my fingers. I feel the sweat, and I’m not shocked. This room was always a bit hot, and I was ready to remove the black button up to cool the hot skin underneath, but I thought better of it. It was almost a relief to feel the sponge against my chest so long ago, John showing me he was willing to give, but I won’t give her the blessing of reprieve. I am not merciful; I am not here to love her.

“I heard you refuse to Confess.”

My words, finally freed, are low and oh so soft. Had it been anyone else, my voice would have been a caress, comforting enough for them to come closer. But she knows better, and I can tell that from the way she’s looking at me, that I am nothing but a demon to her. A traitor who hid her horns so well that it was her sins that had to reveal them. And that’s fine. I’ll be whatever she wanted me to be.

I’ll be what I had to be.

A demon for her, a righteous Judge for them.

A whore of Babylon or The Baptist’s wife.

Nemesis.

So many crowns, thrones even, and no matter how heavy, I stood tall with my head held high as they all fell to my feet with praise or with blood in their mouths. I would protect my flock from the poison of those who slither in the shadows, spouting lies upon lies and destroying whatever was in their path. I almost pitied them.

Almost.

“You know that my Judgement comes after the Confession, don’t you dear?”

I’m taunting her and her eyes burn brighter. It’s answered with my nails piercing through her skin, blood pooling just a bit, and I hear her grunt of pain. She’s underestimating my rage, her betrayal. Her actions have spoken more than her lips ever could, so it’s fine. But the urge to make her feel something, to show just how scared she should be, is getting the better of me. Perhaps my wrath wasn’t contained, and I find it hard to feel regret for it. But I just smile, baring my teeth.

The scales have tipped, even if they were just a bit crooked to begin with.

Lowering myself, my lips find her ear. If I listen closely, perhaps I could hear the ghost of her beating heart pumping in her empty void of a chest. A falsity to make her seem more human than puppet, but we both know that it's wood underneath this skin. She was nothing but a mere tool at his disposal, and I had every intention of breaking it.

“That’s alright. Your silence is enough for me to pass Judgement, and oh dear, the sins you’ve committed…you should start praying to your God for forgiveness, honey. You won’t find any here.”

#I'm in love with this #my heart 😭😭😭😭#look at HOW GORGEOUS SHE IS #red and blue #deputy wren blake #wren seed #the judge of edens gate #nemesis #greek mythology #john seed #jess black #wrath is a sin #oliviawildesjawline #Far Cry 5 #far cry oc #far cry 5 art

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