#and i reopened one of the scars on my wrist too while on shift this morning so that's fun | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

velveticamoon · 3 years

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‘LIMERENCE IN IT’S PUREST FORM’

DAZAI OSAMU X FEM! READER

— dazai finally takes off his bandages, but with that his insecurities seem to be bubbling up to the surface, scared that his s/o’s love for him may waver because of the imprints of his past upon his skin.

WARNINGS: angst (but turns into fluff??), mentions of suicide attempts (it’s dazai folks c’mon-), self-harm mentions, implied sex, profanity

[lowercase intended]

A/N: was this fic my way of professing my love for dazai? yes no ofc not. this gets so painstakingly soft at the end even i’m not sure how tf that happened but hope y’all enjoy nonetheless (feedback and reblogs are appreciated!! have a lovely day folks)

“are you sure about this?” you asked as you held his hand gently in the palm of your hand, the two of you sat cross-legged in front of each other on your bed. he sat with his clothes off, shirt discarded somewhere along the floor of the bedroom, his trench coat neatly hung across the back of your desk chair. he looked calm, despite the storm that you knew was brewing within his mind.

he slightly chuckled, his eyes closed for a split second before reopening, allowing you the chance to bask in the pools of brown that were being illuminated by the moonlight filtered through the window, casting a shadow over his form in an ethereal manner. how he always managed to look beautiful, no matter what it may be that he was doing at that moment? you’ll never know, but you’d never pass up the opportunity to bask within his beauty.

“if i wasn’t sure, i wouldn’t be sitting here in front of you like this right now, belladonna,” he said, in a hushed manner, not wanting to break the atmosphere around the two of you. he flipped his hand that was facing upwards, gently intertwining your fingers as though he was trying to calm you down. but you knew he wasn’t trying to calm just you down, for the slight shake in his fingers gave him away despite his smile-graced face.

you sighed, shutting your eyes gently for a second, giving his hand a light squeeze before reopening them to look at him.

“it’s ok to be scared, you know?” you said, watching his expression morph from one of calm to surprise, to genuine relief. if there was someone he was willing to let his guard down with, even if it was merely one of the many walls he’s caged himself in that surrounded him in an everlasting maze; it might as well be you.

“i’m fine love, but the longer you linger on this feeble task, the more i’ll be tempted to just rip them off myself~,” he said in a teasing manner. when in reality he knew that if that was the case, he’d most definitely shrink back within himself, too scared to let you know what truly lies beneath the shield of his bandages.

he just didn’t want you to abandon him, for he believed that someone as ugly as him didn’t deserve to be cradled so gently within the innocence of your touch.

“i just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, i just.. i want you to feel safe with me,” you said, eyes looking straight into his, and he saw all the unadulterated love you were pouring into his being with merely your gaze, and he almost let his breath hitch because of how overwhelmingly in love he was with you, almost.

“i want you to do it, i trust you,” he said, his voice dripping with a sense of honesty you’d never heard spilled from his lips. that small reassurance was enough for you to finally grip the ends of the everlasting bandages layered over his skin, finally tugging at the bit that would begin the anticipated unraveling of the truth that lay on his skin.

this time, his breath did hitch, your ears caught onto it, and your eyes snapped up to meet his eyes immediately. “do you want me to stop?” you asked, concern laced within your voice, and that alone made his heart melt, the initial shock of the action fading away.

he brought his hand up to stroke your cheek with his thumb, the warmth from your skin sinking into his cool hands, a soft smile tugged at his lips.

“no, i want you to keep going,” he said, and so you did.

you slowly unraveled the rest of the slightly worn-out white bandages, to the point where the pull of gravity finished the job for you. you began gently pulling away the bandages and toss them to the side, only to look back and freeze.

scars upon scars littered his pale skin; some varying in sizes, some faded, but others still fresh. but in the end, the ones that broke your heart the most were the ones engrained on his wrists, indicating that the pain had been inflicted upon him by his own hand.

your lips parted, eyes wide, the shock was ever-so evident on your face. your fingers ghosted over his skin, as though you were afraid to touch him, which in a way, you were. not because you were disgusted, but the thought of you hurting him caused you to refrain from doing so.

dazai stayed silent while watching your movements, calculating his next movements to help stimulate you but to still manage to maintain his facade, but all his thoughts got cut off as he felt you pull him into your embrace.

“i-i’m so sorry, osa, none of- fuck- none of this should’ve happened to you,” you said. dazai could only stay silent as you held him.

dazai’s mind went blank, and he could do nothing but relish in the feeling of your arms around his being, actually getting to feel you without the bandages acting as a barrier between the two of your bodies.

“something as ugly as this shouldn’t have had to even be near your skin,” you said, but despite the sentiment that dazai knew you meant with the words, he couldn’t help the feeling of them rubbing him in the wrong way.

but he didn’t say anything, he just wrapped his arms around you too, and leaned his head atop yours, closing his eyes.

‘she thinks i’m ugly..’ the thought kept running through his head, no matter how much he tried to push it away. dazai had always been one to never let his insecurities show on the surface, but this was one of those moments where he felt as though he couldn’t possibly get more vulnerable than he already was. eventually, the thought had gnawed at him enough, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

with a sigh, he pulls away from the hug and asks “do you want me to put the bandages back on?”

you look at him confused, “does something hurt? if that’s the case, then go for it. otherwise, why?”

he shrugs, averting his gaze towards the blanket that laid beneath the two of you, and says, “i don’t know, i figured because you said that you don’t think they’re beautiful.. you didn’t want to look at them anymore.”

your heart shattered, and you couldn’t help but look at him in disbelief.

“excuse me?” you asked in an exasperated tone, you genuinely couldn’t understand where that thought came from and felt guilt pool in your chest when you realized.

‘he thinks i don’t wanna look at him anymore.. because of his scars..?’

your features immediately softened, and with the way you gazed at him with tears in your eyes, one could only describe your expression as heartbroken.

you cupped his cheek with the palm of your hand and turned his face to look at you, but his eyes remained averted.

you sighed, “osamu, look at me.” you said, voice gentle but held a sternness to it that he knew he’d be an idiot to refuse to comply with.

“what in the fucking universe gave you that idea?” you said, his eyes slightly widened, lips barely parted at the way your voice shifted.

but the thing that shocked him the most was the pure determination that was spread across your features. you gazed at him with such sincerity that he felt utterly enamored by it, almost getting lost in your eyes if it weren’t for your voice bringing him back.

“your scars, although yes, i don’t think they’re beautiful, i’d never want you to hide them from me. the only reason i don’t think of them as beautiful is because of the amount of pain i can only imagine that came with them. and it's ironic, considering i know how much you hate pain.. yet you’ve had to endure so much of it,” you let out with a bitter chuckle. “it doesn’t mean i would try to turn a blind eye and move on, as though they were never there in the first place.” you paused, forcing your throat to not close up on you as you spoke, trying your damn hardest to keep your tears at bay, to stay strong, all for him. you knew that that’s what he needed the most right now, and that became all the more prominent when you noticed the tears beginning to prick at his eyes as well.

you shut your eyes and took in a deep breath, trying to recollect your thoughts, before looking back into his eyes.

“when i told you i loved you, i meant it. every word,” you said, and his breath hitched at your words, but that didn’t stop you, no.

for nothing could stop the way your heart beats for the man in front of you. no matter how ugly the scars may be that were permanently ingrained in his skin, that wouldn’t cause you to lose sight of the true beauty that lies within his soul.

“when i told you that i love you.. i made a promise to myself. to love and cherish every part of you, the good and the bad, the quirks and the flaws, the beauty, and the pain. i promised to love all of you.. even the parts you’ve come to hate yourself.” you said slowly, with a bittersweet smile lining your features, dazai could do nothing but stare at you as you spoke your heart out to him.

“..why?” was the only word he could croak out. he internally loathed how weak and feeble he sounded in that moment, how he didn’t want it to show how much of an effect you had on him with just your mere words, but that was something that he knew he’d never be able to hide. everyone in the world knew that if there was one thing dazai would never lie about, it was his love for you.

you smiled softly, and brought your other hand up to brush the messy tuft of hair atop his head back behind his ears, and leaned your forehead against his, the one that was resting against his cheek reaching down and grabbing his hand with yours and holding it against your heart. dazai’s heart fluttered at how earnest you looked in that moment.

“because.. it’s you. it doesn’t matter to me which part of you it may be.. in the end, it’s still you, and that’s all that matters to me.” you said, and he immediately connected your lips with his, as though with the simple action he was going to be able to pour all the words he wanted to say to you at that moment into your heart and mind.

and it did. it always did.

when it came to the way he kissed you, you could always tell the meaning behind each one.

the playful kisses from when he’s running away from kunikida, always coming in the form of quick and rushed pecks, only for him to continue running right after.

tender kisses to your forehead when the two of you are in the comfort of your home where you both know that no one’s watching, the kind that makes your heart flutter in the best way.

the kisses that occur when he’s managed to come back from a dangerous mission, all in one piece and he always makes sure to come back and give you a lingering kiss, to reassure you, and him, that you’re both still there and alive.

and the soft and delicate kisses to your cheeks for when he’s feeling particularly nostalgic. whether he’s reminded of something from his past, or on the days where the remembrance of his dear friend oda becomes too much to handle.

you always knew the meaning behind dazai’s kisses, and at that moment you knew that the kiss you two shared was a symbol of both of your love being poured into one another’s souls.

the two of you parted, your foreheads resting back against each other’s, breathing slightly heavy from the kiss, but that didn’t stop dazai from murmuring the words ‘i love you’ against your lips.

and he meant it, because why lie about the one thing you’ve never been more sure about in your entire life? even if he felt as though he never deserved it in the first place.

you smiled, and he’d forever feel entranced by the way the moon now cast its glow along the features he’d always found himself to be completely infatuated with. the way your hair graced and complimented your entire being only added to that infatuation.

“i love you too, my beautiful prince.” your lips captured his once again. “let me show you just how much,” you murmured against his lips as you started to gently push him back towards the bed, trailing gentle kisses along anywhere your lips could reach.

and dazai knew, no matter how many times the world may lie to him, that if there was one thing he could always believe in, it was the love the two of you shared, for it was more than love.

»»————　　————««

dazai let his thoughts wander as the two of you laid next to each other, basking in the feeling of your naked bodies tangled up within the sheets, and he watched as you littered gentle kisses along his wrists, kissing each of his scars that your lips could reach.

his heart swirled in a sensation that he could only describe as peace. _no, _it felt like more than that.

“hey, y/n..” he quietly called out. you stopped your actions, humming in response and tilting your head up to face his, which was now staring at the ceiling of your bedroom.

“what’s a word that might describe the way i’m feeling right now?” he asked, you scooted up the bed, raising yourself onto your elbow to begin playing with his hair.

“i don’t know osa, you’re the only one that can answer that,” you said, and he hummed, shutting his eyes and reveling in the feeling of you toying with his hair. “if you want to know, there might be a word to describe how i’m feeling though?” you suggested, and he fluttered his eyelids open to look at you.

“of course, belladonna, what are you feeling?” he asked, a soft smile gracing his features.

“limerence,” you said, and he tilted his head in a questioning manner, not understanding the meaning since the word you had spoken was in english. you lightly chuckled, and said, “it’s an english word, meaning ‘to be infatuated or obsessed with another person,’ and i think it’s pretty fitting, don’t you?”

he smiled even brighter at you and pulled you closer to his body so that you were now laying on his chest.

“limerence, that's this moment.. in its purest form, no? that’s what i feel, at least,” he said, and you hummed in agreement, that’s all you felt in that moment while resting in his arms.

how beautiful is it that someone could make your heart beat so fast, while remembering the times when you didn’t want it to beat at all?

#dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #dazai x you #dazai osamu #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #osamu dazai #dazai fluff #dazai imagines

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thusspoketrish · 3 years

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Words Are Very Unnecessary

TW: Dark fic; Angst; mental illness; mention of past suicide attempt; implied self-harm; scarring; psychiatric ward; unethical medical practices/harm; inappropriate patient/doctor/staff interactions; shifting tenses

Created for the prompt Pretend for @drarrymicrofic

Title taken from Depeche Mode’s Enjoy the Silence

3.3K words. This is something that I may consider coming back to expand on in the future. READ ON AO3.

A heartwarming thank you to @starlitsilvereyes for the thorough beta!

When Healer Robins announces that Harry will not be carrying out his final rotation at St Mungo’s, he’s shocked. He’s done everything he can within the last few months to prove himself capable: he’s completed his clinical rotations with commendations, he’s saved lives, he’s brought coffee and donuts in from his favourite bakery in Diagon every Friday, and he’s even played nice with the first-year Trainee Healers. But as Healer Robins announces his fate, Harry not only feels the bottom of his stomach fall—he can practically feel the smug smile burning a hole into the back of his head from his colleague, competitor, and overall pain in his arse, Blaise Zabini.

“I’m sorry Harry, but Blaise has already proven quite successful with some of the patients in Janus Thickey. I’m afraid that if we remove him, many of the patients will respond negatively to the change,” Healer Robins says, aiming a warm smile at Zabini.

“And you have a muggle vehicle, that James Bond-looking thing, am I right, Harry?” Zabini asks.

Harry turns to face him. He hates to admit it, but Zabini looks attractive in the lime green robes—but everything about him is stylish, with his broad shoulders, his fancy clothing under his robes, his stylish haircut. Too stylish for a Healer, Harry thinks glumly, staring down at his beat-up trainers he’s had for three years now. Harry grimaces as the other man smiles widely at him. He’d wager his entire Gringotts vault that Zabini has charmed a tooth to twinkle when he smiles like that.

“Yeah, why?” Harry grunts. He doesn’t want to show just how disappointed he is over missing out on the Thickey Ward, but he’s never been that great at compartmentalising his feelings.

“You’ll need one where you’re going,” Healer Robins says.

--------

As soon as Harry pulled his sleek black ’52 Jaguar XK-120 (a result of his quarter-life crisis earlier in the year) into the driveway of St Peter’s Asylum, the 16th century estate sends a chill up his spine. He exits his car and ambles around the property for a while, wanting to gain a better sense of his new work environment. There’s a 25-mile-long anti-Apparition ward surrounding the property and no Floo Network connection. Everything about the property felt duplicitous. The beautiful large bay windows were covered excessively with sharp, pointy metal bars, stained-glass depicting religious iconography were covered in grime and spiderwebs. The columned archway framing the front entrance has cracks in them and are covered in rotting foliage. Behind the estate is a crematorium where ominous black smoke currently poured from the vents, spilling upward into the grey sky. He should have known then that something was amiss.

After a confusing meeting with Head Healer Madison, a quick introduction to the nurses and orderlies, Harry is shown to his small, gloomy office. Settled in, when he finally glanced through the files of his new patients, he nearly spilled his coffee on the pile.

He did not expect to see Draco Malfoy on his rota.

He can recall the last time he saw Malfoy, right after the trials, when Harry’s testimony wasn’t enough to save him completely from time in Azkaban, but anything after? He can’t. He does not recall exactly how much time Malfoy served—had it been three years or four? Did he receive early release or was that his father? How had Harry simply put Malfoy out of his mind after everything they had both been through? How had Zabini not warned him Malfoy would be in a psychiatric ward? Did he even know?

All these questions left a sour taste in Harry’s mouth. He had asked Healer Madison to give Malfoy’s file to a different Healer due to the conflict of interest, but there were no other Healers that would take Malfoy, and so Harry was left with a quandary: either help Malfoy or they’ll send him back to Azkaban, untreated, to serve out the rest of his sentence.

Malfoy’s file was as depressing as Harry imagined it to be.

Malfoy was considered a permanent resident on the ward, but the history is muddled as to why he’s been labelled permanent if his psychiatric care was part of his early release requirements from Azkaban. The threadbare treatment plan had no end goals or date to reintegrate Malfoy into Magical society. The file simply read of an attempted suicide in Azkaban, manic depression, and tendencies towards excessive violence to not just himself but those around him when angered—this was one of the reasons Healers refused him care. He had apparently injured the last three, one almost fatally. He’s been kept heavily medicated, but lately has been refusing treatment. The nurses have been providing the necessary potions intravenously.

Malfoy also hasn’t uttered a single word to anyone—not staff or other patients—for over two years.

From the gossip that the nurses regularly indulged in, Harry was able to learn that Malfoy befriended a young Scottish man named Ziggy and an elderly woman named Lottie that was also considered mute and antisocial. Ziggy had died exactly over two years ago under mysterious conditions and his body was sent to the crematorium instead of autopsied by the local Medical Examiner. When Harry had brought this oversight to Healer Madison, he had been scolded and suspended for three days for viewing files not assigned to him. She threatened to send him back to St. Mungos if he continued to work on the files that have been sealed by the Chief Healer, which would result in him failing his final rotation.

This, of course, further fuelled Harry’s interests.

-------

Harry began to watch Draco’s condition much more closely.

The other man still wouldn’t utter a word to Harry, and sometimes he wondered if Draco even recognised who he was sitting in front of, his eyes unfocused, body slumped in his chair with his bandaged arms wrapped around his body, his long blond hair falling to his shoulders in messy clumps.

Harry began to discover bruises around Draco’s wrists when they’d meet for sessions. When they began to appear around Draco’s neck, and finally, his left eye, Harry calmly enquired about it, and this sent Draco into a silent, violent frenzy. Draco had shoved most of the contents on Harry’s desk to the floor, thrown books at the walls, and ripped one of his bandages free to viciously dig his nails up and down his arm. Harry had to call a CODE RED as he scrambled to unlock his wand from the warded drawer of his desk to Stupefy Draco before he reopened all his wounds. It was the first time Harry had seen any kind of real reaction from the other man and quite frankly, it scared the hell out of him. He had watched helplessly as the orderlies rushed in to gather Draco’s limp body from the floor.

Later that day, he approached Healer Madison.

“I’d like the evaluation forms for any other medical treatments Mr Malfoy is having here,” Harry had demanded. She had popped her gum in Harry’s face before rolling her eyes at his request.

“Those records are private, Potter. For the Chief Healer’s eyes only,” she had said.

“Well, I need the evaluation forms as well. I should be aware of any changes in treatment methods, considering Malfoy is one of my patients.”

Healer Madison patted Harry on the shoulder. “Relax, Potter. No need to be such a bloody worry-wort. Code reds happen all the time here. You’ll soon come to realise how we do things at St Peter’s.”

-------

Harry left the hospital at 5pm every day. Like clockwork, when he’s just about to get into his car, he’ll look up to the third-floor window of the recreation room where he’ll catch Draco staring down at him through the slats of the bars. Each time, the monster in Harry’s chest that’s begun to grow with Harry’s concern and affection for Draco, roared to life. He knew it would be just a matter of time before Draco ended up dead if Harry did not figure out what’s going on in this hospital.

--------

On a particularly cold, grey day in October, one month into Harry’s rotation at St Peter’s, Harry enters the third-floor recreation room. All of Harry’s patients have been improving greatly, Draco in particular. Intravenous treatment ended a week ago as he’s now more cooperative in taking his medication by mouth. His self-harming had eased somewhat, but there were still bad days that Harry monitored closely. Draco interacts with staff and his friend Lottie again, sitting next to her to watch the Muggle telly or just holding her wrinkled hand as they both stare out the window. His grey gaze seemed stronger, more focused, determined, even. It made Harry happy to see a sliver of the person he once knew shining through, and he hoped it would just be a matter of time before Draco speaks, so Harry can help him.

Harry glances around the room. Soft music is playing from off the telly. There's plenty of places to sit, but he opts to walk over to the window where Draco is sitting and playing chess by himself. The man’s wrists are bandaged again, no doubt from picking at his scars. Harry can see a patch of blood through the gauze and wonders why none of the nurses have been around to replace them. He wishes he had his wand (which is locked in his office for safety reasons) so he can replace the bandage himself.

“Draco,” Harry starts warmly. “How are you doing today?”

Draco looks up from the board and Harry gasps. There’s another brutal black eye around his left eye, and the top of his lip is split. Harry reaches out, his fingers lightly touching Draco’s lips before grazing along his jaw. Draco remains very, very still under Harry’s touch, his lips parting slightly as his chest heaves. When Harry remembers himself, he snatches his hand back as if he’s been burned.

“Who did this to you?” Harry hisses.

For a moment, Draco’s eyes turn incredibly bright as he exhales a phlegmy breath before his gaze shutters. Harry sits on the opposite side of the board, staring down at it as Draco takes one trembling hand to move his black bishop to E5. Harry sighs.

“You can tell me, Draco. I…I want to help you. I know there’s something terrible happening in this hospital, and I know someone is hurting you. Please, Draco—”

Draco abruptly stands from his seat, startling Harry. Draco doesn’t pay him any notice as he stretches his long, rail-thin body before strolling up to the nurse’s station. He taps on the glass divider several times before Nurse Mathilde slides the panel open.

“What is it, Mr Malfoy?”

Draco mimes smoking a cigarette.

Nurse Mathilde purses her lips. “The Chief Healer has given you permission to smoke again, but not until 5pm and especially not without an orderly present. You’ll have to wait until then. No exceptions!” she snaps before slamming the panel shut.

Draco doesn’t come back to his board game, nor does he glance over at Harry.

Harry watches as he instead sits next to his friend Lottie who is staring at the only plant in the recreational room. He lifts her wrinkled hand and entwines it with his own before settling in to watch the plant with her.

---------

At approximately 5pm Harry exits the asylum, briefcase in one hand and car keys in the other. When he passes by one of the gnarled oak trees, he notices Draco leaning against it, blowing tendrils of smoke from his cigarette. Harry slows down to watch him.

Draco’s hip is cocked out, his hospital shirt bunched up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale flesh and a titillating v-line that disappears in his thin cotton hospital pyjamas. He’s properly beautiful—all long lines and sharp edges carved in delicate, alabaster marble. Harry has noticed just how clearer Draco’s eyes are now, how the grey is piercing, brimming with cleverness and an intelligence that reminds Harry of the boy he knew in Hogwarts.

Harry’s suddenly startled out of his reverence when he glances around and notices that Draco is currently unattended.

Harry decides to approach him.

“Draco. Are you out here by yourself? Where is your attending orderly?”

“He was recovering from the blowjob I gave him before I did this—” Draco says, his voice thick and raspy. Harry is so shocked to hear the familiar drawl that he stumbles forward, his eyes widening, realises too late that Draco has lunged towards him, left hand raised high to strike Harry on the side of his head with a large, jagged rock.

When Harry comes to, it’s with a sharp groan and with the sound of a string of complex Latin filling his ears. He grits his teeth as a burning sensation wraps around his wrist. He realises that he’s frozen on the ground by a particularly thorough Petrificus Totalus. Despite his throbbing head, he focuses enough to catch Draco at his side, hissing as a thin, red bracelet appears on his left wrist, the bandages now gone. Harry hasn’t seen his left arm exposed before, and he cries out as he takes in the horrific scarring over the Dark Mark, as if someone had tried to peel the Mark off with a scalpel and failed to dig deep enough. There were healed and freshly scabbed cuts from his wrist to his elbow on both arms.

Draco appears above Harry then. “Oh, good. You’re awake.”

There are streaks of dirt across Draco’s face, his hands, and under his nails.

“Please, Draco, whatever it is…don’t…don’t…”

Draco snorts. “What, don’t hurt you? Don’t kill you? Why would I harm the person I’m currently Bonded to?” Draco asks, lifting Harry’s wrist to his face. The red bracelet there matches Draco’s.

Panic seizes Harry immediately. Had he not been completely immobile, he sure he’d be shuddering. “What the hell is going on?” Harry asks, his voice shaking.

Draco drops his wrist and instead lifts a thick, taped together manila folder covered in dirt. “You’re helping me get the fuck out of here, Potter.” A smile breaks across Draco’s face then, making him look both incredibly beautiful and deranged. “It was as if you breathed life back into me, the day you walked through the doors of St Peter’s. I knew then that I had to hold on just a bit longer because surely it was a sign that my initial hard work wasn’t done in vain. You see this file here? I used to sneak out documents I’d gather from Madison, the Chief Healer, and the nurses proving the abuse. Some of the orderlies will let you do whatever you want if you can…provide the right services…and they would often leave me alone long enough for a smoke. I would hide the files here, Potter. But after Z-Z-iggy—” Draco’s excitable tone falters, a veil of sadness falling so quickly over his face Harry experiences a sense of whiplash. “They killed my friend, Potter. They treated Ziggy well before, even let him play Bowie when things weren’t so bad. They killed him during the experiments…”

“What experiments?” Harry asks, shocked.

Draco’s expression shifts once again to happiness. “I knew you wouldn’t be involved in something so gruesome.” He holds up his scarred arm. “On the Dark Mark and Purebloods who have come from Dark families. They’re trying to figure out how Dark Magic is entwined in a person’s DNA and…I don’t know…undo it.”

Harry’s eyes widens, mind beginning to race. “What?”

If the Healers here were literally using human flesh and blood to somehow recreate or understand the links between DNA and inherent Dark Magic, who knows what kind of torture and body modification they’re causing their subjects.

Draco eyes become manic. “You have to help me. You have to get me out of here in the next five minutes. My outdoor time is only half an hour and the orderly is currently passed out—”

“—Draco,” Harry whispers, interrupting Draco’s spiral. “How many others are there…how many other victims?”

“I don’t know, I swear. I just knew Ziggy personally but there would always be screams, so much screaming, so many voices…” Draco says, closing his eyes and swaying on the spot. He mutters softly, incoherently, to himself for a few moments before he opens his eyes, so grey, intense and bright. Harry is overwhelmed with shock, horror, and above all, disgust. Disgusted that the people he’s been working alongside for a month now, the people who have vowed first to do no harm, have been torturing their patients, vulnerable patients.

“Draco, I want to help you, okay? I will help you. You just have to undo the Petrificus Totalus. We’ll get in the car and just drive. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

Draco holds up Harry’s wand, points it at Harry’s face. “If you betray me, Potter, you’ll regret it. We’ll get in that fancy car of yours and you’ll drive until I say stop. If you do anything to prevent me from getting these files to the right people…if you try to get help from the Aurors or let your friends know what’s going on, I’ll off myself. And this bond here, this bond will take you with me. I’m the only one that knows the counter, and once we get to my final destination, I’ll release you. So, don’t you dare fucking try me.”

Harry bites back a gasp.

Despite his very real fear, Harry’s desire to help Draco outweighs it. He nods.

“Okay, whatever you want. I’ll do it.”

Draco’s face, dark with suspicion, slowly starts to slide towards something lighter. He bares his teeth. “I hold onto the wand. You’re not allowed to touch me, period, or else I might get the wrong idea that you’re trying to get your wand back, and I don’t want to have to hurt you, or worse, hurt myself.”

“Yes, okay.”

With a wave of Harry’s wand, Draco undoes the spell. Harry sits up slowly, so as not to alarm Draco, who has quickly scrambled to his feet, the dirty file hugged to his chest, wand still trained on Harry. Harry follows after him, head throbbing and legs unsteady.

Draco casts a healing charm his way before strengthening a Disillusionment Charm around them.

Feeling much steadier, Harry exhales. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I hit you in the first place. I had no other means to incapacitate you.”

“You could have just told me what was going on.”

Draco shrugs. “I had to make sure you were trustworthy. And honestly, I’ve wanted to knock you out for years, so this very much fulfilled a boyhood dream of mine,” Draco says, his lips tugging upward. Harry pauses to look at him. The monster in his chest is awake, thrashing about as affection and desire feeds it.

Harry knows he’s fucked.

They make their way towards Harry’s car after checking on the unconscious orderly. Once settled in, Harry starts the car and drives, past the gates of the asylum and onto the stretch of empty country road. He glances at Draco, not at all shocked to see the tears that are streaming down his battered face.

“Where to?” Harry asks softly.

Draco continues to stare out ahead of him as he answers, “the only safehouse I know. A house on Spinner’s End, Cokeworth.”

Harry draws in a sharp breath.

#drarrymicrofic #Drarry Microfic #trigger warnings #Drarry #drarry fic #Healer!Harry Potter #Patient!Draco Malfoy #unreliable narrator #Dark themes #horror elements #honestly it's not THAT dark #right?#haha #to be continued #thank you for reading

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robinrunsfiction · 3 years

Note

Hey Robin - I requested that Adam Lazzara / werewolf moodboard you reblogged on your main, and now that I see you've reopened requests, it gave me an idea! Can you write a story where Adam is a werewolf, and it's a few days before the full moon so he's wired and also aroused, so he and the girl have rough sex to get him to calm down?

Had A Little Bit But I Want Some More

Pairing: Werewolf!Adam Lazzara x Female Reader Rating: Mature (Smut) Requested By: Anon Word Count: ~1,200 Author’s Note: We are branching out folks! I know I’d used Adam as a side character in My Blue Heaven but this is my first time writing for him alone. Also!!! This is my first werewolf fic! So I’m a little nervous how it will go over, but I hope you enjoy! (btw it’s hard to find an Adam Lazzara gif on this site that doesn’t also have Frank. I so stan their friendship)

If you thought too long about it, it was sorta strange.

You’d been with your boyfriend Adam for over a year now, and while he was in a band and therefore on the road pretty often, it always seemed like there was always a day or two a month where he was like a ghost. No sign of him on social media, no messages, no calls, nothing. An anxious feeling nawed at your stomach as you wondered why that was. He never mentioned taking a day to himself every month, did that mean he was hiding something? Someone?

You tried not to be paranoid as you started marking the days on your calendar, and that’s when you noticed the weird pattern. It was always on the full moon. That sent your mind spinning in whole new directions. Was he in some weird cult? What could possibly be going on?

When you asked Adam if he wanted to come over for the night, you specifically chose a date a few days before the next full moon. As you laid on the couch together, you noticed that he seemed a bit restless.

“You ok?” You asked, glancing up at him.

“Yea, yea I’m fine,” he said, shifting again.

“You haven’t stopped moving since you got here,” you replied sitting up. “Is something going on with you?”

“What do you mean?” He replied, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

“I mean you disappear every month around the full moon, you can’t sit still tonight and I know it’s almost the full moon, and it all just seems really really weird ok?” You blurted out.

Adam groaned and ran a hand through his long dark hair. “(YN), you gotta promise me you won’t freak out.”

Your heart rate immediately shot up. “Why?”

“Because you probably won’t believe what I’m about to tell you.”

“Why?” You repeated again, voice cracking as your eyes grew wide.

“I’m a werewolf,” he replied, almost as if it wasn’t the most absurd thing you’d ever heard.

“Nuh uh,” you shook your head. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” he said, pulling up the leg of his jeans. “Remember this scar?”

“You said you were attacked by a dog!”

“Well I mean, sorta.”

“So when you disappear-”

“It’s for your safety.”

“Why? What happens?”

“I dunno how to describe it, I just kinda go feral.”

“Is that why you’re so restless tonight?”

“Yea, it’s coming up, I have a lot of energy to burn.”

“Oh... Oh!” You exclaimed when an idea popped into your head. “I mean, I know of one way we could burn off some of that energy.”

You could see Adam was already breathing heavier. “I could hurt you,” he said cautiously.

“Yea, and I could like it,” you retorted.

“Fuckin hell, (YN),” he muttered before practically launching himself across the couch to you, his lips crashing into yours as you fell back against the cushions. A giggle of delight escaped your lips as his hands gripped at your hips tightly as he trailed kisses down your neck.

“You up for the chase?” You murmured.

“Hmm?” He questioned as he pulled back. You took the opportunity to playfully slip from his grasp and run toward the bedroom.

You heard him let out a low growl as he leapt over the back of the couch and in a flash he had you pinned against the wall just outside your room, his body pressing against yours. You could feel the energy coursing through him as he held both of your wrists in one of his large hands above your head. You were both breathing hard as his eyes searched yours for any hint of apprehension.

“You caught me, now what are you gonna do?” You asked with a smirk.

He let out another low growl before again kissing you hard. You moaned into the kiss as his hips ground against yours. You were completely under his control and nothing could have made you more aroused. He let go of your wrists and his hand trailed down your body, to the back of your legs. You jumped up, wrapping your legs around his waist and he carried you into the bedroom. He let you drop back against the mattress and you started to disrobe as he watched hungrily with his dark eyes.

“Are you just gonna watch, or are you gonna participate?” You teased.

“You’re sure you wanna do this?”

“Absolutely,” you replied as you pushed yourself up the bed. Adam started to crawl up the bed after you and you felt your heart start to pound. You felt like prey that was about to be devoured.

He discarded his shirt and grabbed your ankle, pulling you toward him. He loomed over you for a moment, before kissing you again. The kisses quickly trailed to your neck, that turned into small bites that made you shiver. When his hands again reached your hips, he took it upon himself to tear away your panties with as much ease as if they were made of paper.

Adam pressed ravenous, biting kisses down your body until he reached between your legs, leaving marks along the sensitive skin of your thighs where only you would be able to see in the morning. You let out a gasping moan as he licked across your slit, two fingers diving within you. The feeling was almost overwhelming as his tongue moved against your clit, quickly building you up.

“Adam, Adam I’m gonna,” you moaned, but he didn’t relent as you came around his fingers. You barely had a moment to recover before he was getting up, pushing off his pants and boxers and climbing back on to the bed. He flipped you over and pulled you up by the waist and you quickly understood what he wanted to do.

You gripped the bed sheets as you angled your hips up and he slid into you from behind with an animalistic groan. “Fuck (YN), you feel so good,” he muttered as his hips began to slam into you.

The rough pace was dizzying and you tried not to moan out too wantonly for all the neighbor’s to hear, but you couldn’t help it. Adam’s hands had a tight grip on your hips until one found its way into your hair, pulling you up so your back was flush against him.

You moaned as his grip then moved to your neck, squeezing lightly. You completely lost control when he placed a bite on your shoulder and you came around him again. His thrusts began to lose pace and soon he groaned as he stilled deep within you, cumming harder than he ever had. You both collapsed against the mattress, panting messes, recovering from what you’d just done.

“Are you ok baby?” He asked, brushing the hair our of your face. “I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“No, that was amazing,” you laughed lightly, head still spinning. “Please don’t ever hide on the full moon again if it means I have to miss out on that.”

Adam just laughed and pulled you in for a kiss before you both settled in for the night.

#adam lazzara x reader #adam lazzara fan fic #adam lazzara fanfic #adam lazzara fan fiction

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ivegotthefanficinme · 4 years

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Freedom Part 9 Mandalorian X Reader

Summary: An escaped slave owned by the Hutt clan, with the knowledge of dark clan secrets. A bounty is set and the best hunter in the parsec is hired, The Mandalorian. Two vastly different paths cross. Both are scarred physically and mentally by their past. Can they ever truly be free? *SLOW BURN*

Warnings: Blood, Mentions of slavery, PTSD, Rape implications, FLUFF, Language, violence

Word Count: 3.7k

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (You are here), Part 10

EXTRA WARNING/ A/N: This chapter is bloody and violent. Also, I apologize in advance for what I’m about to do...

The Mandalorian was numb when he woke up. He was unable to decide if it was the cold, pain overload, or the fear and heartbreak that caused the numbness.

He laid there in the cold snow a few minutes more, staring up at the gray sky above him, thinking about you. About how he failed you. About how he had managed to break every promise he had ever made to you in one day.

He finally decided that if he didn't get up he would freeze to death, and that was definitely not what the child needed.

“Shit, the kid,” he groans.

He manages to get to his feet, limping stiffly back to the ship.

The pain in his chest hasn’t gone away…. In fact, that was the only pain he felt right now. He quickly realized that this was not pain that bacta could help with.

He closes up the ship, warmth starting to seep back into his bones.

Once he has regained feeling in his hands, he pulls the child out of the small hiding space, a false compartment in the floor of the cockpit. It coos expectantly, looking around the room with its big eyes. Looking for you.

Din sighs, suddenly feeling suffocated by his helmet. He tears it off, looking down at the small creature.

It’s sad eyes stare back up at him, as if asking, “Where is she?”

Din looks away from the child, “Your momma isn’t going to be back for a while.”

The child seems to understand as it lets out a sad whimper.

“I know buddy, I know.”

Din can feel his own heartbreaking in his chest, a stabbing, aching pain. He doesn’t know what to do with this type of pain. The pain he hasn’t felt since he lost his parents as a child.

He holds the child up against him, feeling his own tears slip past his lashes.

Looking down at the child, he sighs, “I have to find her.” He rises to his feet, setting the child down in the co-pilot's seat. He places his helmet back on and takes his own seat, preparing the ship to take off.

***

“Are you insane?”

He shrugs, “Maybe I am, but I have to try.”

“You’ve gone soft Mando!” Cara Dune laughs.

The cantina on Navarro had been put back together quite nicely, especially after the literal firefight it went through.

“Look, I just need you to look after the kid while I go find her. This is something that I have to do, by myself. It’s too dangerous to bring him along.”

“Mando…” Cara sighs.

“I just need you to do this… please,” Din whispers.

Cara glances over at the child sleeping in its white pram.

“Tell me about her.”

Din hesitates, “She’s… She’s unlike any being I have ever met before. She loves that kid and is willing to sacrifice herself and the rest of the universe for him. She was… is a Hutt slave. So she is just as messed up as me.”

“Is she pretty?” Cara asks.

Din’s eyes glaze over underneath his helmet as he pictures your face in his mind.

“The most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Cara suddenly stands, nearly shoving his chair backwards as she pushes his shoulders back.

“Then what are you waiting for? Go find her, womp rat will be safe with me.”

“Thank you,” he breathes.

***

It had been a week since you had been taken, and Din was starting to lose it.

He stopped at every planet, asking about Limax Hutt. Every time, it got him into a blaster battle. He would walk away with a sliver more of knowledge and bloody carnage left behind him.

Finally, on the tenth planet, he got the location of Limax Hutt. On a far outer rim planet, Tayips. The whole flight there he was jittery, nervous.

If he didn’t do this carefully, and quickly, he knew that you would either be dead before he got there or die in the escape. He wasn’t willing to risk either scenario.

When he arrived on Tayips it had been several weeks, he was worried that he was too late. In his efforts to disguise himself, he removed his newer armor, trading it out for the beskar that had long lost its integrity, but managed to make him look like a different Mandalorian. A Mandalorian that Grahvix and his guards wouldn’t recognize.

He attended court and the dinner festivities. His eyes never left your form that day, lounging uncomfortably in the crook of LImax’s tail.

He had a hard time controlling himself as he watched Grahvix’ lusting glances and the wandering hands of various court goers. All he wanted was to draw his blaster and kill all of them.

But he didn’t. It was too dangerous to do.

He saw the way you winced when you moved, barely covered by the garments provided. He saw the bruises on your hips and your upper thighs when he caught a glimpse of your leg through the long slit in what he wouldn’t even call a skirt.

And when you danced that night… he was hypnotized. Entranced by the way your body moved, the sway of your hips. How you could still move so gracefully even with the little leeway the chains on your wrists gave.

His heart broke when he saw your back. The fresh wounds from the lashes barely scabbed over. Once more he wanted to do nothing more than murder every person in that room.

Your eyes were closed the entire dance, whether from pain or trying to imagine that you were somewhere else, he could not tell.

Your dance ended right in front of him, your head thrown back, your back arched, you were close enough he could touch you, but he didn’t.

It took everything in him to not reach out and run his hand through your hair. If you’d have just opened your eyes, you would have seen him. You would have recognized him, he knows it. You would have known that he had found you, just as he had promised.

But you didn’t, your eyes stayed shut and he saw a small tear slip out from underneath one. He watched as Grahvix took you by the chain between your wrists and lead you out of the room.

He turned and left then. Going back to the Crest, changing back into his good beskar. This time when he left, it would be with you.

It was barely dark when he snuck back into Limax’ palace. He couldn’t help but jump when he heard an ear-piercing scream. He knew it was you.

He headed in the direction he heard it come from. He turned down a hallway, now the sound of a sharp crack and a weak wail was audible.

He keeps his blaster poised, ready to shoot anyone he sees coming down the hallway.

“You’ve been doing this for years.”

Crack.

“And yet you still don’t satisfy me like you are supposed to.”

Crack.

Din stops just outside of a door, the voice comes from inside the room behind it.

Crack.

“Maybe I’ll kill you this time. Save me some trouble.”

Crack.

At this, Din shoves the door open, taking aim and shooting Grahvix in the side before he could turn around. As Grahvix hits the floor gasping and bleeding, Din’s eyes land on you.

Your back was towards him as you slouched against the pole your hands were chained to. You hung by your arms, your legs having given out underneath you. The lashes had reopened every wound on your back, blood trailed down your back, down your legs, and into a puddle on the floor under you.

Small whimpers of pain left your throat as your head lulled against the pole, you were barely conscious.

Din raced to you, gently taking you by the waist, lifting you up just enough to unhook your arms. He holds you against him for a moment, pulling out the bacta spray he had brought. He sprays a thin coat over your back, hoping that it would be enough for now. The chains clang softly as he lifts your arms up over him, slipping them around his neck. He then lifts you into his arms, one arm under your knees, the other pressed as lightly as he could against your back, trying not to hurt you any more than you already were.

He catches a glimpse of your eyes as you look up at him. He sees the hint of recognition in less than a second.

“Din?” you rasp.

But before he can respond your head lulls into his chest as you slip into unconsciousness. He holds you against him for a moment, reveling in the fact that you were alive, although hurt, you were alive.

He turns, glancing down at Grahvix writhing in pain on the floor.

“You thought you could escape? With her?” He coughs, grinning. “You won’t get past that door.” He reveals a small device around his wrist with a blinking red light. A panic button.

“Shit,” Din mutters.

Guards start to file into the room.

“Take him to see Limax. And help me up off this damn floor,” commands Grahvix.

“I should have killed you,” Mando sighs.

“You should have,” Grahvix agrees.

The guards come towards him. He shakes his head.

“Just lead me there. I can’t do anything when I’m carrying her. And I’m not putting her down.”

The guards surround him and lead him back to the main room of the palace.

As he walks, Din feels you shift slightly.

“Din?” You slur, the pain still overloading your body.

“Shhh Y/N, I’ve got you,” he replies.

You moan in pain as you curl into him, your head now resting on his shoulder, in the soft space between his armor and his neck.

“Tell me… Tell me I’m dead and this is the rest of eternity… that the pain is just my imagination…” you whisper.

Din takes a breath, “No, love, it's not, but you are safe now. I’ve got you. I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”

He can feel your warm breath through the fabric around his neck.

“Why… why did you come Din? I-I told you not too…” you slur.

His grip on you tightens ever so slightly as he follows the guards into Limax’ throne room. “You know why,” he whispers.

The guards stop him in the middle of the floor, directly in front of the Hutt.

Limax’ orange eyes thoroughly examine Din as Grahvix is helped onto the platform by one of the guards.

“This Mandalorian has kept me from punishing that slave, and tried to escape with her… again,” Grahvix says to Limax.

The Hutt grumbles lowly in a language that Din doesn’t understand.

“That’s your favorite pet,” replies Grahvix.

Limax lets out an angry sound, his thin lips curling in a nasty smirk.

Grahvix grins, “I think that sounds like a wonderful idea my lord.”

Din’s mind is racing, glancing around the room, trying to calculate the chances of escape. If he set you down, he would be able to draw his blaster. Three guards surround him, two at the doors, one on either side of the throne, and then an extra shot at Grahvix for good measure.

Eight shots.

The odds were incredibly stacked against him.

“Don’t Din…” he hears you warn, knowing exactly what he was thinking, “We won’t make it.”

Your back was beginning to go numb, and your thoughts were beginning to clear as the bacta started to work.

Grahvix turns to you and the Mandalorian, his grin sending a shiver down your spine.

“You use carbonite quite often, am I right, Mandalorian?” Grahvix asks.

Din nods, unsure of where this was heading.

“Din, I think I might be able to stand now,” you whisper.

He sets you down on your feet, your legs start to crumple underneath you but he keeps an arm around your waist, holding you up as you try to get sturdy on your feet.

Barely standing on your own, you continue to lean against him for support. Clinging to him like your life depends on it, but you can tell, he doesn’t want to let go of you either.

The corner of Grahvix’ mouth twitches.

“We will give you two choices, and I won’t tell you what either outcome will result in,” Grahvix says. “You can either walk out of here alive, without the girl or stay here and test your fate.”

“Go, Din. Please,” you whisper as he looks down at you.

He shakes his head, “I’m not breaking another promise.” He looks back up at Grahvix, “I will stay.”

Grahvix grins widely now, “I was hoping that would be your answer.”

Limax laughs suddenly. An unsettling feeling descends upon you, Limax rarely laughs and when he does, it's not about anything good.

“Now on to business. The slave still has not received all of her punishment from the first escape attempt, and now she must also pay the price for a second,” Grahvix says.

Your stomach drops, unable to fathom the pain you will be in.

Grahvix thinks for a moment, “Still thirty lashes left from the first punishment, and hmm seventy-five for this attempt since you weren’t able to leave the palace. Then another Fifty for trying to kill me. In all one hundred fifty-five lashes.”

You almost pass out again, Din holds you up. That’s more than anyone has ever been sentenced to in the entire time you have been enslaved here.

“So ten per week for… sixteen weeks roughly.”

You can barely breathe, you are shaking in fear, he’s trying to kill you.

Din glances down at you, you were in no shape to take any more lashes for quite a while.

“Then let me take some of them. The seventy-five to start,” Din looks back up to Grahvix.

“That could kill you!” You exclaim, clutching Din’s shoulder.

He shrugs, “It’ll be okay.”

Grahvix smirks, “Such a hero, you can’t take them all but you can have the seventy-five.”

Din nods. You stare at him wide-eyed, barely able to suck in a breath.

“And you wait to give her anymore.”

Grahvix gives a curt nod, “Strip then, let's get on with it.”

“The helmet and my shirt stay on, I will remove my cloak and my armor, but that is all,” Din offers.

“Please, Din. Please don’t do this.”

He reaches up, pulling his cloak off with one hand, then he wraps it around your shoulders. You stand on your own now as you watch as Din carefully removes his breastplate because, although it offered no protection for his back, he feared that it may restrict his movement.

He knew that this was going to be painful, very painful, but he would rather take it than watch you in that much pain.

Grahvix hands off the whip to one of the guards, since he is wounded.

“Would you like to be… restrained… in case you pass out before we are done here?” Grahvix asks.

Din shakes his head, turning his back on them and kneeling.

“Din, please don’t do this,” you beg.

“Get out of the way, Y/N,” Din replies. “Sit down in front of me, I don’t want you to watch my back as this happens.”

You move silently, tears already pricking at your eyes. You pay no attention to the two guards moving a large rectangular object into the room as you kneel down in front of him, staring at the small patch of sand between you.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Look at me.”

His gloved hand gently lifts your chin up, your eyes land on his visor.

You jump when the first lash hits him, he barely flinches.

“Don’t take your eyes off of my visor, okay?”

You nod as another lash hits him.

The tears stream down your face as you sob with every lash. Behind the visor, he keeps his own eyes trained on yours, trying with all his might to be quiet, knowing it would only cause you more pain.

He grunts softly at thirty, taking most of them without a sound, either that or the modulator just wasn’t picking them up.

You squeeze your eyes shut, turning your head away. You jump with every crack of the whip.

“Look at me…” Din growls through his teeth at forty.

You look back at him again. His gloved hands are spread wide over his knees, clutching them tightly.

He lets out a sharp huff of air at fifty. You can tell he is really hurting now, but the lashes don’t stop, he still has another twenty-five.

At sixty-five he seems to barely be holding himself up as he sways slightly.

He audibly groans at seventy, gasping now.

Finally, the seventy-fifth lash hits his back and he falls forward, his helmeted head landing in your lap.

You make the mistake of glancing down at his back, his shirt is in tatters, and there's blood, blood everywhere.

“Oh maker,” you gasp.

Din groans, “I’ll be alright.” He turns himself over, so you don’t have to see his mutilated back. You hold him against you as he takes in shaking breaths, not caring about the blood getting all over you. His helmeted head now rests on your shoulder.

You look back up as Grahvix laughs with Limax.

This is too much for you way too much for you.

“Get him out of here,” Grahvix commands.

“What?” Your head snaps up.

“We can’t have him getting in our way, now can we?” Grahvix says.

Two guards yank Din up by his forearms, he tries to fight them off but he is too weak to pull his arms from their grip.

You whirl around to Grahvix, “What are you doing?”

“Removing a threat,” he shrugs.

The guards drag Din away to a panel standing upright on one side of the room. You immediately realize what they are about to do.

Your eyes go wide, “No! Not in the state he is in!”

Grahvix just smirks, “Yes.”

You watch in utter horror as the two guards start to lift Din into the carbonite panel. They begin trying to take his armor off, but you race over, sliding into the confusion and placing yourself between them and Din before they can reach for his helmet. You push away the guards, slipping Din’s arm around your shoulders, and one arm around his waist, the other pressed against his chest, you just manage to hold him up, but it’s quickly sapping what little strength you had left.

“The helmet stays on,” you say breathlessly.

You turn your attention back to Grahvix, “Don’t do this.”

“Y/N…” Din rasps.

Grahvix just shakes his head as the palace nurse droid tends to his blaster wound.

“What do you want, Grahvix. I’ll… I’ll do anything…” you beg.

“Y/N… don’t…” Din gasps.

You turn your face to him, “Don’t fucking what? You just took seventy-five lashes for me, you are about to be frozen in carbonite, are you trying to tell me not to risk my life for you? Damnit, this is why I told you not to come here.” Your voice softens, “I can’t lose you…”

“I can’t lose you either,” he whispers, placing his hand against yours on his chest.

“You can beg, and promise all you like, but I can make you do whatever I want. I don’t need you to promise anything,” Grahvix sneers.

He gives a nod, “Leave the helmet.”

At that, two more guards tear you away from Din, while the other two lift him into the panel. Once more Din tries to fight them, but he just doesn’t have the strength to put up much of a fight.

Both you and Din know exactly what is going to happen, having seen many beings frozen and unfrozen, but Din wasn’t prepared, and neither were you.

You struggle against the two guards, but your exhausted body doesn’t have much fight left.

“PLEASE! NO!”

They drag you literally kicking and screaming a short distance away. You honestly don’t know how you have tears left to cry.

Somehow Din finds the strength to lift his head as the guards lean him against the back of the panel. Through the visor, his eyes meet yours.

“I will figure something out… I love you.”

With that, the guard presses a button on a wireless control, and the gas engulfs the Mandalorian. He gasps when he feels it, like cold beskar against his skin,

You scream, a shrieking wail full of heartbreak and anger.

You know that even though he can’t move or see anything, Din will be able to feel the pain from his shredded back. He will be able to think, long and hard about an escape plan. He will hear your every cry, scream, and whisper, and be able to do nothing.

You break out of the guards’ grips and run back to his frozen form.

Sobs choke you as you set your hands on either side of his helmet.

“Din?” you gasp.

He can hear you just fine, and it breaks his heart. You’re so close and yet he can’t reach out to feel you or offer you any comforting words.

You collapse to the floor in front of his frozen form. Your exhausted body starting to give out on you.

“Now…” starts Grahvix, “You really are mine.”

He hudges your weeping form with his boot.

“And you…” He walks up close to the frozen Mandalorian. “You get to listen to everything I do to her and do absolutely nothing about it."

If Din could punch him, he would. He swears to himself that as soon as he is free of this frozen prison, he is going to kill Grahvix.

You stare in anger at Grahvix, if you had the strength to stand, you would have choked him.

Grahvix waves his hand. “Take them to a cell… and let them catch up for a while,” he laughs. “Oh and leave that remote with me.”

You are hauled to your feet and then shoved around corners and downstairs. Back down into the darkness of the palace you go with the Mandalorian’s frozen form trailing behind you.

To be continued...

A/N: And that’s why I apologized in advance... Let me know what you thought, and comment if you want to be added to the tag list!

Tags:

@lokilover-39 @fleurdemiel145 @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @just-a-casual-fangirl-011 @70sgubler @pascalisthepunkest @ispilledmyink @imaginebeinlovedbyme @fastidious-and-a-mess @taman-a @yumisaru @whos-too-bi @frantheseer @retrobhaddie @aeryntheofficial @renreypoe

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian imagine #mando #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x y/n #baby yoda #jabba the hutt #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando imagine #din djaren #din djaren x reader #freedom #ivegotthefanficinme

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minnochu · 4 years

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Lustrous (Pt. 17)

Hybrid!Kook x Fem!Reader AU

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3 | Pt 4 | Pt 5 | Pt 6 | Pt 7 | Pt 8 | Pt 9 | Pt 10 | Pt 11 | Pt 12 | Pt 13 | Pt 14 | Pt 15 | Pt 16 | Pt 17 | Pt 18 | Pt 19

Warning: Blood and Violence? LOL somewhat. And a spicy beginning scene :’)

Note: Hey guys! I had this ready like a few days ago but I got busy lol. Sorry for any errors or mistakes I might’ve missed, but hope you guys have a great Thanksgiving week - I have school today till Wed yikes - or week in general if you don’t celebrate that and enjoy!! :’)

Ps!!! I’ll update links tonight maybe 0-0

“This is why we never leave it up to the humans to deal with a witch’s dirty work,” Eris sighs, placing the crystal ball on a cushion held by her servant. Shooing them away, she turns towards her bed. Her dark eyes dragged over the male lying in wait on the mattress.

“Won’t you entertain me Colhen? Who knew that Minerva taught her in secret... that defect is becoming a pain in my ass,” she whispers with a curl of her red painted lips. The length of her porcelain robe brushes along the floor as she steps carefully towards the bed. Crawling onto the mattress, her slender legs shift to take place on either side of the warlock’s hips. Her back curved, bending over his body to press her forehead against his. Colhen’s hand rose to push a lock of her long raven hair behind her ear.

“My apologies, that thing is your daughter,” she hums sarcastically, sitting up to allow his hands to push her robe off her shoulders, “Usually I would have had Minerva and you be punished, but only you I would make an exception for.”

“I have no daughter,” Colhen mutters, lips grazing over the flesh of her shoulder as strands of his messy dark hair brushed over her bare skin.

“Good answer, “ she muses, hands grasping at his cheeks to adorn a kiss to his lips, “Just don’t get too sentimental when I kill her along with that stupid little mutt.”

He didn’t speak any longer, pursing his lips before erasing thoughts of Minerva and his daughter from his mind and indulging in his wife instead.

Jungkook’s eyes lowered to your neck, the skin of his cheeks flushing as you squeezed your eyes shut in preparation. You tilted your head to the side but he couldn’t help but hesitate with the way your fingers tightened around his shirt, trembling as you awaited his next movements. The warmth of his breath wafted over the expanse of your exposed neck, the sensation causing you to shiver.

Eyes softening, his hand raises to cover yours clutching on his right shoulder. The muscles twitch at his touch, to which his thumb grazes soothingly over your knuckles. Turning his head to the right, he exhales as he lifts your hand from his shoulder, bringing the inside of your forearm towards his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tongue laving over your wrist. Face burning, he gulps down the knot in his throat, guilt weighing down on his shoulders as his mouth opens to reveal his top two fangs.

“I’m so so sorry.”

A gasp leaves your parted lips, the fingers of your left hand tightening around the fabric of his shirt. The pain is a sharp pinch as his fangs pierce your skin, breeching the walls of the arteries lying underneath.

Euphoria fills him, nearly drooling at the taste of your blood meeting his tongue. The packages of pork blood had nothing compared to your sweet taste. Eyes falling closed, he savored the liquid, adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he ingested more.

More. More. More. More.

He’d almost forgotten his surroundings until you made a strangled whimper. The initial pain had subsided, but he was beginning to suck your arm dry to the point of it hurting. Fingers releasing his shoulder, you pushed weakly at his chest, “Ju-jungkook, that’s enough.”

Eyes widening, he recoiled immediately, examining your appearance. You gaze back at him tiredly, face slightly pale, breaths still coming out bated. Below, blood trickled from the two holes on your wrist.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” He chanted lowly, voice reaching no more than a whisper. Fingers curl around yours as he lowers his head to roll his tongue over the marks. You watch as the wounds slowly weave back together and heal quickly. Not a scar is left.

His eyes flit upward to regard you softly when you feel a wave of dizziness, exhaustion consuming you. Jungkook catches you without fail as your body succumbs to the events of today. Biting his lip, he can’t help the growing ball of guilt growing in his stomach as he shifted your body in his arms and continued to rush you to the cabin, now invigorated with the help of your blood.

Trees pass as he shoots past each, he finds his way to the back door where Yoongi is waiting for him with Seokjin. The warlock’s face is contorted with worry, a frown at his lips and eyebrows drawn together. Worry reeks from the magician, a scent pungent to only Yoongi with Jungkook blocking his wolf gene.

Slowing down, the hybrid comes to a halt, sharing a look with the elder wolf.

“Barrier, the Blackwells sent bounty hunters and nearly destroyed the forest… She got hit pretty hard from the explosion, maybe a broken rib or two… I can barely hear her breathing…” He spoke quickly, panic and guilt settling in his golden irises.

Yoongi stopped him, sniffing audibly with a wrinkle of his nose, “You smell like fucking wolfsbane, what the hell happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Seokjin frowns, motioning for the two men to follow after him and into the cabin, “I’ll clean up later, for now… I’ll heal you both.”

The rest of the pack are full of unanswered questions, filing into Jungkook’s room when Seokjin prompts the hybrid to lay you down before ordering him to change out of his soiled clothes. He makes quick work, with glowing palms hovering over your chest, to mend the three broken ribs, others bruised or fractured slightly, and minorly damaged lungs. Your breathing stabilizes and returns to normal soon after, and he places his palms over your neck and ankle to heal the burned skin. Not a scar is left as he finishes and leaves momentarily to grab a necessary item for the cure.

“You drank from her, didn’t you?” Namjoon pointed out bluntly as Jungkook returns from the bathroom, dressed in a new pair of sweats and a shirt. At that remark, Taehyung and Jimin sputter audibly before snickering. The hybrid glares at the two, although no denying the claim.

“Can’t believe you got a taste before I could Kookie, you sneaky wolf,” the younger smirked, “And with wolfsbane in your system, how’d you even manage?”

“He blocked his gene you stupid bloodsucker,” Yoongi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “This is becoming so troublesome.”

Jungkook frowned, glaring down at his sock-clad feet, “If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have made it home, I could’ve gone out of control again too…” Shaking his head, he looked at each of his pack members, “Trust me when I say I kept trying to push her away, but she offered and I couldn’t say no.”

Hoseok smiles softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Don’t blame yourself man, there was no other way around it.”

“I just can’t help blaming myself when all I do is hurt her,” Jungkook sighs exasperatedly, glaring down at his hands. His skin has been stained pink from the blood, a reminder of his status as a killer. He could’ve hurt you worse. He could’ve killed you.

“Stop worrying about that useless crap,” Yoongi frowns, flicking at his temple, “You’re both safe and that’s all that matters.”

“He’s right!” Seokjin hums, reentering the bedroom with a kitchen knife in hand. The image of the warlock smiling cheerily with a weapon in his grasps is not a savory one, but the others don’t question it as he orders the two vampires to leave the room and take you with them to rest downstairs. They don’t speak any complaint, but the werewolves remaining are all deftly aware of the tense smile on Namjoon’s expression that screams fear before leaving with Taehyung carrying you in his arms.

“Alright, get on the bed Kookie-ah,” the warlock hummed without fail, the cheery tone sending shivers down all four of the wolves’ spines. He clamors onto the mattress without a peep, afraid of what he was going to do to cure him. Lying flat on his back, he gulps as Seokjin instructs the males to hold him down. A spell falls from his plump lips and the hybrid’s sheets wrapped around his ankles and wrists like rope. Hoseok takes position at his right arm, Jimin at his left foot, and Yoongi at his left arm. Seokjin stands at the side of the bed, brandishing the knife wickedly.

“About that wolfsbane procedure, hyung,” Jungkook mentions meekly as the warlock grins widely.

“I’m going to need you to reactivate your wolf gene, okay?” he says, ignoring the wolf’s initial question.

He doesn’t know what to do initially, but after years of blocking his vampiric side and now lycan side, he closes his eyes and feels his body pulse. Reopening, his eyes appear blue and gold once again and he groans. The poison takes effect almost immediately upon the reactivation of his wolf side. His body grows paralyzed and he struggles to keep himself conscious with the amount of wolfsbane dosage. After how long the poison had been in his system, the effects take a turn for the worst as he begins convulsing wildly. His eyes are wide, burning brightly up at the ceiling as he clenches his teeth, fangs canines extended.

The movements prove tough for the other three wolves as blood and yellow foam emerges from his mouth. At his arms, his claws extend and he grabs wildly at the sheets to keep himself grounded while his body spasms out of control.

“Hold him tight, this is going to hurt, if I don’t do this quickly, he might actually die.”

The three try their best to steady the violent spasms of their youngest, struggling as Seokjin slices his shirt open and positions the blade over his chest. Pressing down, he makes an incision down the sagittal line of his chest down his belly. The cut opens wide and a thick and yellow smoke unfurls from inside the hybrid’s body. The wolves shield their faces from the vapor, watching as it fades slowly and Jungkook’s body soon falls lax with the disappearance of the wolfsbane.

A whispered spell brings a towel flying in from the bathroom to clean up the frothing and blood. With the poison gone, Jungkook’s body is able to heal normally and the cut down his front mends together again.

He lays there exhausted, chest falling up and down in parallel to his harsh breathing. The sharp nails of his fingers begin to recede and his eyes return to their normal mocha hue.

“I never want to go through that again.”

Seokjin chuckles as he twirls his finger, a whispered spell causing the mattress and sheets to return to normal, “Then don’t take a knife like that.”

The younger pouts, watching as his bisected shirt is mended together by the spell.

“Come on, you’ve got some explaining to do down stairs,” Yoongi says, squeezing his shoulder briefly before exiting with the other three.

Jungkook didn’t realize that after the whole fight, it didn’t change the awkwardness between you and him. You certainly didn’t forget about his hidden pasy with Hyejin. It didn’t even make it any better that he’s fed off of you. The thought brings pink hues burning at your cheeks. Neither one of you could look the other in the eyes.

Jimin and Taehyung notice this exchange and elbow nudge one another. They shake their heads at the shyness, expecting things to be cleared up after you two talked and even had to fight to survive. However, you two were proving to be stubborn.

The two opt to take a seat at either of your sides, this action doing little effort in making a growl erupt from the hybrid. Clenching a trembling fist, he sighed and relented. He took a seat with Yoongi and Hoseok, while Namjoon stood with Seokjin.

Both of you took turns explaining the sequences of events, leaving out your talk and mind meld and bloodsucking. The boys listen attentively with pensive expressions. Seokjin steps behind you to place a comforting hand over you shoulder.

“You poor thing, to get thrown into battle like that without practicing your magic practically… I’m so proud of you holding your own… Minerva would be so proud,” he says with a soft tone, “When you rest up, I need to start teaching you some self defense.”

“It was weird. But it was also empowering. I’ve never used magic like that before, outside of your training. And it just seemed to flow inside me so easily,” you reply, glancing down at your hands and amulet. Seol had abruptly interfered with your skill, you wonder what would’ve happened if you had gone through with it. Would you be a killer? That thought made you frown. Maybe you’d have to resort to that if Eris was going to keep targeting you and putting your friends in danger. You looked up. Putting Jungkook in danger.

You hated not being able to do anything. Hated that he was putting himself on the line for you. You weren’t even his imprint or whatever they called it. A fated soulmate. Perhaps Hyejin is his soulmate. Your chest tightened. That thought hurt.

“Don’t worry too much,” Seokjin smiled, “Rest up, go to school, and we’ll start teaching you how to protect yourself in fight when you feel better, okay?”

The meeting is adjourned and Seokjin leaves with Namjoon to restore the forest while the others disperse to their rooms. Glancing at Jungkook, you nearly sulk when he spares you no look. Looks like you’ll be in Yoongi’s room again. It’s not until later on when you’re about to retire to Yoongi and Hoseok’s room when the former stops you in the hallway.

“Yoongi? Is something wrong?” You ask curiously.

He shifts from one foot to another, “Talk to him, I can’t take whatever the hell is going on between you two anymore.”

“He won’t tell me anything!” You fling your hands up in exasperation, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I thought we were okay, he told me about his family, but as soon as I find out he’s got a past with Hyejin, I’m locked out once again! What am I supposed to think or feel?”

“What do you feel?” Yoongi asks.

“Hurt. Confused. All I know is that Jungkook liked Hyejin… and that he has a fated soulmate or whatever that means…”

The male winced at that. He nearly smacked his palm over his face out of frustration, ‘Oh Kookie-ah, you really need to learn how to explain and not leave your own imprint hanging like this.’

“What do you think you know about this fated thing?” He asks with pursed lips, crossing his arms over his chest as you explain how you saw in Jungkook’s memories about his father imprinting on his father and how he was fated to a she-wolf, and then the hybrid had forced her out of his head when Hyejin came into his life.

“That idiot,” he groaned, sagging his shoulders. Fingers pinched at the wrinkled bridge of his nose before he shook his head and waved you to follow him. Exiting the house to the backyard, he nodded his head towards the roof. “Good luck.”

“O-oh wait, real quick... do you mind?” You stammer, tapping on the surface of the stone on your chest. He blinks but relents and holds out a hand for you siphon from.

You manage a sheepish smile, nodding in response as your amulet resonated with a glowing hue. In a blink, you appeared atop the covering with a trail of black mist. Turning over your shoulder, you shoot the older wolf a quick thumbs up, to which he offers a quirk of his lips before shoving his hands into his pockets and heading back into the house to give you two privacy. You wonder how much privacy you two could get with their enhanced hearing. That didn’t matter, you think with a shake of your head. Right now, you needed to know the truth whether you or he liked it or not.

Climbing over the tiles, you peer over the apex to find the hybrid sitting idly and staring up at the sky.

“I know you’re there (Y/n),” he mumbled, making no move to regard you nor run away from you.

Your heart sped up, feeling nervous suddenly as you climb over and slide down and beside him. He didn’t spare you a look, and maybe that was for the best for the both of you. His cheeks burned as well as his whole body feeling as though it were up in the clouds. You breathed in, heart pounding in both yours and his ears and suddenly, it was like someone had grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him down to earth. The forest melted away, the house didn’t even feel like it was there. It was only a world where you were there and both of you watching the stars beginning to align and shine bright above you both.

He could smell your insecurity and anxiety, your sadness and worry. He hated that. Nothing mattered more than making you feel safe and making sure you were happy.

“About today—”

“Listen—”

You both start at once, turning to glance at one another simultaneously. The realization sets in and both of you turn red immediately before quickly turning away.

“I have one question,” he mutters softly, glancing down at his sock-clad feet.

Averting your eyes in his direction, you gaze in awe at the way his chestnut hair appears darker, nearly pitch black. His chin raises and he turns his eyes back up towards the night sky and you no longer remember how to breathe. The small flecks in the sky appear like diamonds in the glimmer of his eyes. It reminds you of his true eye color, a bright pool of blue with specks of gold scattered within his iris.

“Why?” He asked, eyes sliding down to gaze at you, “Why are you so persistent?”

“Why do you keep pushing me away?” You retort with a pointed look.

“Don’t answer me with a question,” He frowns, fingers twitching to flick your forehead as punishment but he knows if he touches you, he’ll want more contact.

“Sorry…” You purse your lips, “It’s just kind of unfair you know… you show me your past and it feels like I’ve gained your trust and we’re okay! And then something like Hyejin happens and you can’t bear to be in the same room as me anymore…”

It’s not that he couldn’t be in the same room. He wanted to be anywhere you were.

“I...I just don’t want to be left in the dark Jungkook.”

“Why does that matter to you?!” He snaps, although regretting it immediately when you flinch, body quivering slightly, “I… I’m sorry… I just don’t see why any of this matters to you when you’re just here to be protected until the Blackwells are no longer a threat to you. After that... you can go back to living with Yahiko, you won’t need us.”

Your shoulders sagged and the scent of hurt and sadness hit him like a train, and suddenly he felt like he was suffering the same emotions.

“Moreover that Jungkook, it’s just as Taehyung said before… I find family in you all… that’s why I care so much… I don’t know what else you want me to do or say…” You sigh exasperatedly, “I don’t even know what you want me to make of all the loose ends I’ve been getting, you just cut me off before I can get any real grasp of what’s going on… Like Hyejin? Was she a girlfriend from the past? Fated she-wolf? I just feel so—” You stopped yourself before you could say it.

Sad. Heartbroken. There was only one reason why you would be feeling such a way in response to such things and that scared you. Not because of what he was, but because of the high possibility of rejection.

“—ves.”

“What?” You ask, leaning closer to hear his low voice.

“It’s not only other wolves…” He muttered with pursed lips, turning his head to look away, “That we could imprint on…”

“So… you could imprint on humans too?” You ask, cursing the lilt of hopefulness in your voice.

He nods.

You’re almost ecstatic at this revelation, but then you remember.

Hyejin.

“You imprinted on Hyejin, didn’t you?” You stand abruptly.

His brow drew together, frowning at your conclusion, “No… that’s not… yes, I did previously date Hyejin but—”

“But what Jungkook?” You interrupt with a frown, “She’s your fated, huh?”

Just tell her, he thinks, tell her and this whole misunderstanding will be over.

But he doesn’t. He’s too afraid and he feels his heart drop at it’s result.

“Why are you getting so nosy?” He snaps back.

“Why? Because I lik— …” You trail off, knowing why you feel the way you do. Frustration settles in your chest, twisting at your heart as tears create a sheen layer over your optics. Jungkook nearly feels like he’s being torn apart when he notices the minuscule tear that rolls from your bottom lid and is absorbed into the skin of your cheek.

“(Y/n),” He whispers, but you shook your head and phase. His hand is too late as it reaches out to grab you, but only grasps at the black smoke you leave behind. Reopening his empty palm, he shook with guilt and anger at himself. A trembling fist smashes down, crumbling the roof tiles underneath.

“Fuck!”

Tags:

@twilight-loveer @reinyrei @mistytail @mygukandonlyficrecs @xanny91 @unpocodesoledadywisky @xxqueenwxtchxx @lildemonangele @gukworld @sunnyoongles @serendipity-secrets @ilaria-np @jules-park @treetops68 @mischiefmakerliesmith5 @jeonkooksgirl @coffeeismylife28 @nshitae @bookoffracturedescapes @ellsbells72 @zamirayinyue13 @hannahdearr @tiredjedi

#hi #:')#lustrous #jungkook x reader #jeongguk x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook scenarios #jungkook scenario #bts x reader #jungkook x you #bts x you #bts fanart #jungkook fanfic #bts scenario #bts scenarios #bts imagine #hybrid!Jungkook #werewolf!jungkook

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dapper-ships-herself · 4 years

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As much as I love Yosano and want my s/is to love her too, I think Jekyll! Gillian would be terrified of her at first. Given her background of being experimented on by another sadistic doctor with a healing ability, it’s take her a while to get used to Yosano. Which, from a shipping standpoint, offers some good scenarios of angst of her having to work through this trauma that wrestles with her growing fondness, y’know. Anyway, this particular piece isn’t really shippy, I wanted to write out a scene of what happened the first time Jekyll! Gillian found herself injured shortly after joining the detective agency, which as a side note is around a year before the main story starts. Also, this is a quick lil thing so I haven’t done much proof reading so excuse any typos please.

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She winced, squinting and blinking at the light hanging above her. She wasn’t sure where she was or what had happened exactly, her thoughts were still trying to wake up. She tried to move her hand to rub at her eye, but went still when she realized cold metal was keeping it in place.

Yosano looked over her shoulder at the slight noise. “Ah~ You’re awake now, hm? Poor timing for yourself, seeing as I’m about to get started, but more fun for me. Let’s see here…” she ran her fingers along her tools, gloves sliding over the cool metal. “I think I’m going to use… this one~” Se picked up a meat cleaver and flipped it in the air, catching it smoothly. “You got yourself a mighty fine injury out there, let me treat you.” She waltzed over to where Gillian lay on her table, holding the cleaver above her head with a wicked smile.

Gillian wasn’t seeing Yosano, though. No, looming over her in that moment was a different doctor, one from many years ago. The scalpel poised in her grip glinted bright in the overhanging light, kept always so pristine, not yet covered in crimson again. The doctor’s smile was that of an overeager cat, one that couldn’t wait to toy with it’s prey. The chains held her limbs tightly, she could hear them rattle with each fearful tremble of her small body. She couldn’t even turn her head to look away, for that too was chained to her table.

Yosano’s cleaver arced through the air, and the scalpel neared. Laughter echoed throughout time and memory, Gillian’s pupils growing small in her panic, frozen still in terror. She opened her mouth to scream.

“HYDE!”

That day, most everyone at the Armed Detective Agency was out working on one thing or another, meaning it was mostly empty save for a handful of office workers.

“Dazai! We’re already a full minute behind schedule! Stop lazing around this instant!”

And two men who also should have already been on a job by then.

“Hhhmmm, do I have to, though? I’m sure you can handle this on your own.” Dazai lounged sideways in his chair, legs propped up on his desk. He lay beck over the arm rest so he was looking up at Kunikida from upside down.

“While you have no idea how much I wish I could leave you here and not have to deal with your antics today, need I remind you that we work in teams. Which means, unfortunately, I have to drag your sorry ass along with me. Now, get up so we-“

Both men’s heads snapped up at the sound of metal tearing in another room, followed by a crash and a short exclamation of pain. That last noise they recognized as coming from doctor Yosano. They glanced at each other, expressions serious; they’d heard plenty of pained screaming from Yosano’s operation room, but never anything from the doctor herself.

Yosano stumbled backwards, clutching her arm, four long gashes running from her shoulder to her elbow. “What the hell?!”

Behind her, the door slammed open; Kunikda still had one hand splayed across the door, the other holding a torn out piece of paper ready to be transformed at a moment’s notice, Dazai stood right behind him, eyes instantly taking in the room.

“What’s happening?” Kunikida demanded, his voice echoing through the room.

Yosano gave no response, instead keeping her attention on the girl standing on her table.

It wasn’t exactly the same girl she’d had strapped down, that was immediately clear. Her hair hung loose around her head, and where once it’s color had been mostly a pale green with a small section of dark, the two colors had swapped places. Her skin was now a grey green, her fingers replaced by long, dark talons, and her eyes were pure, inky, black with red swirling pupils. Those eyes bored into the doctor, wild and crazed to the point she wondered if they were actually looking at her.

“… Hyde. Is this what her full take over looks like?” Kunikida said, slowly stepping into the room, Dazai right behind him. She wasn’t paying attention to either of them though.

“I knew it; I knew it was all the same. I told that naïve little fool that she couldn’t trust anybody; that the only reason you could possibly want someone like her would be to perform more experiments on us.”

“Experiments?” Dazai muttered. His gaze wandered down, and settled on her exposed abdomen, her blouse having been unbuttoned and left open by Yosano earlier to examine her wound. There, standing out amongst her skin, was a collection of neat scars. The main one’s formed a Y shape, with smaller, slightly less prominent scars branching out in some places. It looked like the Y scar had been reopened many, many times.

“Well no more.” Hyde continued. Her voice shook in unhinged, barely controlled rage. One taloned hand came up to grab at her hair, and her razor sharp smile looked about to crack her face in half. “This time, I’m going to be the one to dissect you!” She coiled her body, and in a flash sprang forward, the table skittering backwards from the force. Claws out stretched, she aimed directly at the doctor.

She would have ripped the woman’s face to ribbons, torn her open as many times as it took to finally be rid of her, had Dazai not smoothly stepped directly into her path. His hands shot up to snatch both her wrists, and from the point of contact his ability emitted a bright glow, illuminating the dim room. The light color of her hair bloomed across the surface while the dark twisted and shrank, caged once again. Her red eyes shifted back to a bright blue, the black draining away. Gillian fell to the floor with a thump, held up only by Dazai’s grip still on her wrists.

From her closed eyes, a tear squeezed out, rolling down her cheek. “Please, no…”

The other three were silent, starring down at the unconscious girl at their feet. Slowly, Dazai released his grip, lowering her to lie on the floor.

“What the hell was that all about?” Kunikida asked.

Yosano loosed a breath, bringing her uninjured arm up to run a hand through her hair. “I have no idea. I was about to get started on healing her, when she screamed in panic for Hyde. Barely took any effort for her to tear out of the restraints after that, and I couldn’t jump back fast enough to avoid getting scratched. Maybe she thought she had been captured earlier? This was her first time having me work on her. I figured the scared look was from one of you guys telling her about my treatments. Hm.” She crouched down next to Gillian, pulling her blouse aside to run a hand over the skin of her abdomen, where previously an open wound had marred the area was now smooth skin. “Either way, looks like turning into Hyde completely healed her, so there’s no need for me to treat her today. One of you carry her to a bed, let her rest for a bit.”

“I can keep an eye on her, in case she panics and turns into Hyde again.” Dazai said, bending down to hoist Gillian into his arms.

Kunikida scoffed “You’re only trying to get out of working again. Still,” he regarded Gillian “do you think that’s a concern?”

Yosano shrugged “Can’t say for sure when I’m not sure what caused it in the first place, but I think, given her talk of “experiments” that she was triggered by the setting of the operating room, if she wakes up somewhere else, I think she’ll be fine.”

Dazai and Kunikida nodded in agreement.

In fitful dreams, Gillian saw images of the past. Of chains and red, concrete walls. Of pristine tools and syringes of unnamable liquids. Of sinister laughter and cruel, excited smiles. Of a small ball of light, always hovering at her side.

#self insert #self insert character #self ship community #dapper writes #dapper inserts #dapper inserts: jekyll

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justlookatthosesausages · 5 years

Note

Do you think Elsa has scars? And if you do, could you write a story where Anna finds out? Elsa's and her reaction is your choice.

“Another tiring day again?” Giggled Anna nervously when she saw her elder enter the room.

Elsa nodded with a moan and slumped on the couch of the living room in a very un-queeny way. She closed her eyes and dropped her left hand on them, groaning in exhaustion.

“So I guess that being Queen isn’t always a fascinating work, uh?”

Elsa opened her eyes to side-look at her sister with sarcasm and amusement. Anna purposely took her own words she had at breakfast when saying how much she loved her job and duty sometimes. But now? She was so tired that her muscles felt sore, and she didn’t even step outside of the whole day. Elsa sighed again, lying completely on the couch, and Anna had a sad smile as she closed the book she had been reading to inspect her.

It had been two weeks now that the gates had been reopened, and that Elsa retrieved the throne. And all the responsibilities that went with it, including long hours of paperwork, administration, history study… Anna knew her sister had a nerdy side, so she surely was enjoying it, but the strain was there too. Those past days, she had learned to know her sister again, her personality, and all she didn’t knew about Elsa and that escaped her during the isolation. She still had a lot to learn about her. For example, Anna had no idea that Elsa would ever lay down like this on a couch. She chuckled as she observed her, and stood up.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep before dinner time, it would be a shame to miss Gerda’s chocolate cake.”

“Hmmm”, just answered Elsa, still putting her wrist above her closed eyes, tired from all the reading. “Just five minutes…”

Anna has stepped closer to her elder, and after making sure that Elsa was comfortable having her this close, she grabbed both of her wrists and put her face above hers.

“If you fall asleep, I’m allowed to eat all the cake by myself!” Threatened the redhead with a happy voice.

Elsa opened her eyes with a gasp of surprise, and giggled when she saw how close her sister was, her face upside down from the side of the couch. Anna’s hair was tickling her face and she tried to escape her, puffing her locks with amusement.

“Stop!” Laughed Elsa. “Or it’s your hair that I eat.”

“Gross!” Giggled Anna.

They both laughed, and Elsa started to sit up. Anna was right, if she remained laid down on the couch, she was going to fall asleep in no time, and not want to wake up afterwards. Also, she was trying to have a regular sleep schedule after all those years of depression and insomnia, and it would be bad to ruin it just with laziness. She sighed.

“Alright, alright, I’m—”

She couldn’t properly sit, however, because Anna still was holding her wrists.

“Hey, let go of my hands.”

Elsa waited, then frowned, as her sister still wasn’t releasing her grasp. She then realized that Anna had been silent for a while. Which was very uncommon for her sister. They may have bonded again since only two weeks, she knew that it wasn’t her style to suddenly stop talking; especially when they were teasing each other like now.

The blonde turned around, twisting her arms.

At the move, Anna dropped the wrists she apparently had been looking at, and her giggling eyes and red cheeks due to fun had disappeared. She had a pale face, and was now staring at Elsa with fear.

“What?”

“What are those?” Muttered Anna.

“Pardon?”

Anna gulped, and spoke louder. “What… Are those scars, Elsa?”

The blonde frowned and questioned her with a look, but Anna couldn’t say a word. She looked paralyzed, and actually terrified. Elsa got that no answer would come from her mouth, so she looked at her wrists to understood. And then it hit her.

“Oh…”

Anna sniffed. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

The blonde’s eyes widened. Of all the things she thought that Anna would say if she found out about the scars, this wasn’t an option she had in mind.

“Were you going to hide it or tell me one day? Talk about it?” Asked Anna, clearly, to have a firm answer from her elder, though her voice was trembling.

Elsa opened her mouth to say something, but now it was her turn to be mute. There was a long silence, and Elsa looked back at her hands, slowly folding her fingers. She couldn’t face Anna’s deeply worried eyes.

“I…”

Elsa remained silent, then took a long breath.

“I don’t know.”

Anna got a bit offended, but her anger was part worry.

“You don’t know?”

The Queen bit her lip and turned her face to her. “Anna, you have to understand… That it’s difficult to talk about it.”

Her sister suddenly retracted, her mouth ajar. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, it’s true. Sorry.” She muttered.

There was another awkward silence.

“I shouldn’t have asked. I just—”

Elsa shifted on the couch and quickly grabbed Anna’s hand, and the younger got surprised and emotional with the gesture.

“I’m touched that you’re concerned, Anna, truly. But… Do you mind if we talk about it another time?”

Anna smiled again. “I would love it.”

She then blinked and corrected herself. “I mean… I’m not… Looking forward to it, but, I… I mean… Yeah, it’s a good thing you want to talk about it. So, take your time, no problem.”

Elsa smiled softly, and her eyes started to fill with tears. Anna panicked for a second, thinking she made her upset, and was ready to apologize, until Elsa let go of one of her hands to muffle a yawn. Her eyes were only teary because of how much she had read all day.

She chuckled of relief, while Elsa was blinking with tiredness. She looked adorable as she did, and even more when she added a “Gosh, I’m so tired” with a drowsy voice.

Anna smiled wider. “I’m sure you’re gonna love what we have for dinner, and it will bring you energy. You’ll see!”

The blonde chuckled, and it was such a heartwarming moment that Anna realized that whatever those scars were, whenever they had been made, Elsa was in a whole different mood and period of her life now, and the light and happiness on her face proved that the past was in the past.

#asks #anonymous #this is one of my saddest headcanons #and tbh i'm 100% sure than jennifer lee thought about it once #of COURSE elsa had some suicidal thoughts at least once during her isolation #of c o u r s e #and it H U R T S #frozen #frozen prompts #sad #snow sisters #scars mention #frozen drabbles #frozen fanfics #elsa headcanons

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foxsdana · 5 years

Text

she’s singing to me, “glory”

rating: T pairing: bellarke chpt: 2/? summary: ancient rome!au. Bellamy’s a gladiator, Clarke’s a senator’s daughter, and they might as well be Rome’s Romeo and Juliet. (pt 1 here)

Bellamy’s sword swung down hard, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the air harshly. With a flick of his wrist, he knocked Finn’s sword to the side and stepped into him, slamming his shoulder against the boy’s chest.

His opponent tumbled to the dust, the wind clearly knocked out of him. Breathing heavily, the dark-haired man didn’t bother to follow through, instead offering a hand to his friend.

“You need to not plant your feet,” he said as he pulled Finn back to his feet. “We won’t ever be the strongest men in the arena. If we want to survive, we have to use this,” he tapped his temple with his index finger, “and these.” He dropped low and swung his foot out, swinging a circle to take out Finn’s legs from beneath him.

But this time, the boy was ready. He let out a small shout and jumped, Bellamy’s legs swinging through nothing but sand and dirt.

“Good!” he exclaimed, dropping his sword. His hands came up in defensive fists as he nimbly shifted his weight from one foot to another. His movements were sharp, precise. A light hit on Finn’s shoulder. A tap on his ear. A duck as Finn swung at his head only to rise up as he surged forward, landing a softened uppercut in his friend’s gut and swiping at his head. Before the younger boy could react, Bellamy had him in a headlock and was swinging him in circles as he clawed at his arms. A smile like a wolf baring his teeth and a harsh laugh escaped him as obscenities spilled from Finn’s lips.

“Hey!” a gruff voice called. “Are you playing or training? You boys know I don’t allow anything but focused preparation among my gladiators!”

The two friends separated immediately at their head trainer’s words. Bellamy’s eyes locked with Pike’s, his spine straightening. “Yes, doctore,” they said in unison, waiting until the trainer’s gaze shifted away from them.

Finn elbowed Bellamy’s side.

Bellamy slapped the back of his head.

“That’s cute,” a voice came from behind them.

Read More: (Ao3) (FF.net)

“Shut up, Miller.” Finn’s voice held no animosity, and a small smile escaped Bellamy as he turned to see his friend.

The youngest gladiator gave a grin, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin. “Is it my turn to fight?” he asked with sarcastic anticipation. “The Sandwalker or the King of the Arena? “

Finn tossed his sword in the air. “I’ve suffered enough humiliation today,” he said. “You have your turn.”

Miller snatched the weapon out of the air and grinned. “The King it is.”

Bellamy let out a sigh, shaking his head ever so slightly. The sun was hot and his body was slick with sweat. The wounds from the day before still ached, and he felt a small trickle of blood run down his arm where he had reopened a small scab. He crouched down, picking up the sword from where he had let it drop to the ground. His eyes found Finn’s as his friend walked beneath the overhang of the house and into the shade.

“Always leaving me out to fend for myself, aren’t you Finn?” he said.

Finn smiled. “Only because I know you can handle it.”

His right hand tightened around the sword while his left dug into the sand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miller lunge forward. A flick of his hand and sand covered the air. He ducked and rolled.

He sensed a body moving where his own had been a moment before. Instinctually, he swung his foot out, the same move he had used on Finn moments before. This time it worked. Miller’s foot caught on his calf and the boy went tumbling. He was on top of him in an instant, his knee on the boy’s back and his sword to his spine.

“Too aggressive, Miller!” Pike called from across the training yard.

“You fucking suck,” he muttered under his breath.

Bellamy laughed, not knowing if the statement was directed at their doctore or himself. He clambered off the boy and gestured for him to fight him properly, a smile still ghosting across his lips.

Their swords’ song echoed across the yard, mixing in with the music of the countless other gladiators training. A block. A parry. A duck. Even a few punches. Bellamy had to admit; Miller had gotten good. He had come far from being the beaten boy slavers had dragged in from Carthage.

He still favored his left shoulder though.

Bellamy was just about to take advantage of his friend’s weak point when Finn spoke.

“You missed out yesterday at the colosseum, Miller,” he said haphazardly, leaning against the door frame in the shade. “Our favorite viator was there.”

Clarke. My name is Clarke.

He didn’t know how he missed the arc of the sword or why his movements were slower than they should have been, but before he was fully away or what was happening, he was jumping backward, and Miller’s sword was slicing a long, thin cut across his chest.

The sword fell from the boy’s hands as soon as he saw the blood. “Fuck, Bellamy!” Miller said, rushing towards him. “Shit, are you okay? I’m sorry.”

Bellamy waved him off, inspecting the wound. It was shallow. Barely bleeding. More of a sting to his pride than anything else. “Don’t be,” he replied. “It was a fair hit.” He gave a smile, assuring his friend that everything was fine. “All that practice with Sandwalker must have made me rusty. Not enough of a challenge.”

“Well, that’s just rude.”

“Just the truth, Finn.”

“Miller!” Pike’s voice interrupted them again. All three men looked to see their trainer gesturing for the youngest gladiator to come. Miller shot Bellamy a nervous look.

The dark-haired man clasped him on the back. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “He probably just wants to work on your form.”

Miller nodded. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked once more.

Giving him a small shove, Bellamy replied, “I won’t be if you ask me that again.”

The boy shot him a smile over his shoulder before jogging to their doctore.

Bellamy picked up his sword and made his way to the shade, sitting on the ground cross-legged in front of Finn. His chest stung, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his arm and the ghost pains in the scars across his chest. It was moments like this that he realized just how much of a toll the arena had taken on his body. There had been a time he didn’t feel like this, so broken, so tired, as though each breath made his limbs heavier and heavier. There had been a time, he just didn’t remember when.

“You need to be more careful,” Finn said quietly.

Bellamy didn’t even have the energy to pretend not to know what his friend was talking about. More than that, he didn’t have the energy to have this conversation. But he knew Finn better than he knew his own self these days, and if Finn wanted to talk about something, there was no way to avoid it. So, he simply chose not to say anything.

“The viator. You have a soft spot for her.”

“You sure you’re not projecting?”

He didn’t have to turn to know that the Sandwalker was angry. The viator (Clarke) was a sensitive subject between them, one he had often been careful not to bring up. He had seen gladiators favor the same woman before, and it never ended well. They had no say in when they killed, who they killed, or how their bodies were used. The little control each still held over his own lives was guarded viciously, and love was one of the few things that could turn a gladiator mad.

“This isn’t about me,” Finn hissed behind him. “This is about you being reckless. All it takes is one man finding out and suddenly, every gladiator you’re up against is taunting you in the ring. You’ve lost a lot of people a lot of money, Bellamy. You know they’re constantly on the lookout on how to take you down.”

“It’s not an issue, Finn,” Bellamy said, his face expressionless as he gazed out at the gladiators training before him. His mind was in two places at once, both listening to Finn’s words and examining those training before him. Riley’s foot was dragging. Atom’s posture was too tense. Derek was still favoring his left knee, the one that had been injured two weeks ago. Pike was watching Miller spar with Ethan. A swell of pride bloomed in Bellamy’s chest as he saw the boy throw a handful of sand in his opponent’s eyes and sweep his feet from under him.

“You won’t think it’s an issue until death is staring you in the face, Bellamy. You never do.”

He stood, tearing his eyes away from the training yard and striding up to the Sandwalker until he was nose-to-nose with him, staring into his eyes, unblinking.

“It won’t be a problem,” he said slowly, “because we won’t be here much longer. C’mon, Finn. Look around. We’re legends. We’ve won hundreds of fights; they know our names in the streets. No one’s been able to stand against us for a long time now. They can’t hold us much longer, not without it looking like something suspicious. We’re winning our freedom soon. I can feel it. And when we do, we’re buying Miller and getting as far away from this place as we fucking can.” He reached out his hand, “You with me?”

Finn’s eyes looked into his, intensity and skepticism behind his brown eyes. Then he reached forward and clasped his friend’s forearm. “You’re just trying to save your own skin,” he said, a smile dancing across his lips.

A grin broke across Bellamy’s face. Maybe he would know life without sand and blood again.

“I always am, Sandwalker. Good thing I always end up saving you while I’m at it.”

~*~*~

“Tell me again what they’re like.” Raven flopped on the couch, a dreamy look in her eyes. “I can’t believe you actually talked to them.”

Clarke sipped her wine, trying to hide a smile as she sat in her room with her best friend. “They’re just men,” she replied. “Often men in pain when I see them. I don’t know why you seem so fascinated by them.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” the dark-haired girl replied, rolling her eyes. “You’ve met them. I, on the other hand, have neither the connections nor the clout to sneak into gladiator pits by myself, so your stories will have to satisfy me. So spill.”

Clarke snorted, almost choking on her wine. “Okay, okay, okay,” she said, placing the glass on the table and leaning forward. “What do you want to know.”

“Tell me about the Sandwalker.”

Clarke grinned. Of course she’d ask about him. “He’s probably the most charming of the bunch,” she said. “Kind. Outgoing. A little bit of a flirt. But…” she paused, hesitating for a moment. “But it’s obvious that he doesn’t enjoy it. The games, fighting. I don’t think any of them do. They always are saying things like, ‘if I leave,’ and ‘if I ever get out,’ but so reverently. As if hoping for freedom is almost too dangerous.” She paused, swallowing hard. “Raven, it’s so heartbreaking.”

Raven reached forward, her hand wrapping around Clarke’s. “Then I bet they’re all the more grateful to have you there with them,” she said softly. “If there’s anyone who could bring hope to such a tragic place, it’s you.”

A forced smile passed her lips. Bellamy’s words echoed in her ears. “You don’t get to say that,” he had told her. Was her privilege really so obvious? Gods, she hoped not. “I hope so,” she said softly. Fighting to bring brightness back into her tone, she said, “I think you’d really like them. They really seem like kind people at heart.”

The joy seeped back into Raven’s face. “Finn, definitely,” she said. “I hear stories about him from the colosseum guards and the girls who work in the ludus. They say he’s compassionate, that he doesn’t care for violence like most the other gladiators. But the King of the Arena?” she shook her head. “Clarke, I can’t believe you even talked to him! He seems so terrifying. The girls at the ludus say they never even see him smile.”

“He is somewhat of a brooding character, I will give you that,” Clarke conceded with a laugh. “But he is clever. And intelligent. And honest.” Her eyes shifted, making sure that no unwanted ears listened in. “He found out my true identity.”

Raven gasped. “He didn’t!” she exclaimed. “Clarke, you can’t go back there. What if he tells someone?”

“He won’t,” she assured her friend. “What would he gain in doing so? Besides,” she hesitated for a moment, “I trust him.”

Raven raised her brow. “Clarke,” she said, skepticism lacing her voice. “You can’t be serious.”

She felt herself bristle and fought to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. “I am!” she said. “He’s not like the other gladiators, Raven. I can tell he hates the violence, hates killing men. It wears at him, exhausts him.”

“You barely know him!”

At that, she had to blush. Her friend wasn’t wrong. She really didn’t know him that well. But still, something inside of her trusted him. He would not be cruel for the sake of being cruel. And besides, going to the gladiator pits as a healer was dangerous enough as it was. What would be the difference of one man knowing her name?

“Uh oh,” Raven said under her breath, “quick, pretend that we’re talking about something other than your dangerous hobbies.”

Clarke’s eyes looked across the courtyard to see her mother walking into the villa, pale white toga wrapped tightly around her figure and her hair done in ornate golden braids. She must have just returned from the senate meeting at the palace. She looked frustrated; a nearly constant emotion etched across her mother’s brow since she took the mantle of her husband after he was assassinated nearly four years back. Her swift stride brought her to the entrance of the house in moments, and before Clarke could form a cohesive thought, her mother was standing at the entrance to the terrace.

“Mom,” Clarke said, offering a smile. She tried to mask the caution in her voice with happiness, her mind running a thousand miles an hour, reading the situation to recognize anything awry. “How was the senate today?”

Her mother did not answer her question. “Raven,” she said sharply. “Go help Roma prepare the evening meal.”

The two girls sat in shock for a moment, caught off guard by the older woman’s harsh tone. Their hesitation clearly was not the desired reaction, because almost immediately, Abby snapped, “Now!” and Raven scrambled towards the door.

“Yes, Domina,” she said. “Apologizes, Domina.”

Raven’s figure had just disappeared out of sight when Clarke turned to her mother, livid. “You can’t speak to her like that,” she seethed, anger seeping through every atom of her being.

“I will speak to her as I wish,” Abby said coldly.

“She is a sister to me! And a daughter to you!”

“By adoption only.”

Clarke’s whole body was vibrating with anger, but her mother’s gaze remained terrifyingly stoic. She hadn’t seen her like this often, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered what the hell happened to cause this kind of behavior.

“You rejected another suitor.”

Oh. That’ll do it.

“Was Senator Cage not good enough for you?” her mother asked, anger and frustration permeating her own tone now. “Not attractive enough? Not wealthy enough? Not powerful enough?”

“Not kind enough,” was Clarke’s short reply. “He is twice my age, and I already have heard the stories of how he treats his women servants. Plus, he owns the second largest ludus in Rome. I will not marry a man who profits on the pain of others.”

“Then you will never find a man to marry.”

“Good.”

Abby let out a sigh, sinking into the recliner across from Clarke. Her hand ran over her face, and for the first time, Clarke noticed just how exhausted her mother looked. Though to be fair, she had not looked rested since before Jake Griffin died.

“He was not an ideal match, that much I will admit,” Abby conceded. “Somewhere deep in my heart I am relieved you turned him down. But I wish you would have told me first, so I didn’t have to find out about it when he was the deciding vote on a law I was trying to pass in the senate.”

Clarke bit her lip, a minutia of guilt passing through her for a moment. “The one lowering taxes for the poorest sectors of Rome?” she asked. Her heart sunk as her mother nodded. She had worked on that proposal for months. “I’m sorry,” the blonde whispered. “I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

Abby sighed and shook her head. “It’s alright,” she replied. “There was no guarantee he would’ve voted for it even if you had said yes. It would be taking money directly out of the senators’ pockets. I’m surprised it was even considered by so many in the first place.”

“You could always talk to Emperor Thelonious about it.”

Abby snorted. “Too many senators already resent the Griffin family’s close ties with the emperor. If I use that avenue, my fitness to be senator will be questioned even more.”

“It’s already constantly questioned by the mere virtue of you being a woman,” Clarke responded angrily, “even though you’ve passed more legislation in the past three years than some of those men have in decades.”

A wry smile passed Abby’s lips. “Such is the way of a woman,” she replied. “Do twice as much for half the credit.” She stood and sat next to Clarke, raising her hands to gently cradle her daughter’s face between her palms. “We must use the gifts the gods have given us,” she said softly. “Though sometimes those gifts do not translate as well for our calling.” She pressed her lips together in a tight line, studying the blonde’s face. “You should have been born a man, Clarke,” she whispered. “You have so much to give. You are such a gifted being. Such a leader.”

“There is nothing that I have that I cannot give,” she replied. “You taught me that a woman can lead just as much as a man can.”

“And I believe that,” Abby said. “It’s the rest of the world that needs to learn.”

“Then we will teach them.”

Abby laughed, a loud, genuine laugh. Those moments were becoming increasingly rare, and Clarke cherished each one. She beamed at her mother, and a semblance of the former tension dissipating like mist in the sun.

“Go.” Abby waved her hand, shooing Clarke away. “Go find Raven and steal some sweets, or beads, or boy’s hearts. Whatever it is you girls do.”

Clarke leaped to her feet and planted a kiss on her mother’s cheek before rushing out of the terrace, her eyes already searching for her friend.

“Make sure she knows I love her!” Abby called after her daughter.

“She always does!” Clarke shouted over her shoulder, her bare feet feeling the pleasant coolness of the marble stone as she ran.

Another day, another arranged marriage avoided.

Let them try to tie me down, she thought to herself. I will fly like a sparrow up into the clouds and when I return, they’ll learn a bird’s song is so much sweeter if she is free.

#bellarke #bellarke ff #the 100 #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #bellarke fanfic #finn collins #nathan miller #ff: mine #p: bellarke #f: the 100 #ya yeet chpt 2

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alastar-wyatt · 5 years

Text

Training Yard

written with @kaelenar

Staring at his sore and red knuckles, Alastar absently stroked one hand, cautiously and carefully. His whole body ached, as it did with any after fight, but this time it was mixed with lingering transformation itches, as he called them. Little pinpricks of fire jolting randomly somewhere along his body, as if wondering if he was still a giant wolf-man. He was not, of course, but it was frustrating to say the least.Ontop of that, his nose was swollen, bruised, and incredible itchy and yet too sensitive to touch. He was uncomfortable. The other parts of him that ached were familiar pains that bothered him little, especially as he down the mug before him.

He ordered another refill.

As he waited, his mind wandered back to the fight. Wandered back to the beginning of it when a man had approached him with a smile and grin and asked if he was interested in earning a bit more money.

He was. His job as a mercenary was reaching dead ends, especially since his last job showed how unpredictable he could be. It wasn’t my fault, he told himself, I did my job. They just couldn’t listen.

His eyes closed, swung the newly filled mug and felt the alcohol sting along his throat and burn in his belly.

When he reopened his eyes, finding that he was absently stroking his red knuckles again, he could help but reflect on the man he had fought earlier in the day.

With the training yard so close to the Stormwind Stables, the smell of dung permeated the air, which was arguably better than the canal districts. Training dummies lined the perimeter of the largest portion of the yard for individual combatants, while smaller rings were roped off for two or more. Restriction or reserved areas seemed absent, though most of the melee fighters seemed to be practicing as far away from the ranged area as much as possible to avoid, with good reason.

Alastar gave a rough glance back towards the entryway. ‘what exactly am I doing?' He sighed to himself as he caught a whiff of a long black trench coat behind one of the outside pillars. He spun his gaze around taking in a single roped off ring with a crowd gathered around.

Alastar made his way closer. Not finding it too easy to slide through the many bodies that were bunched up, he proceeded to head towards the stable hands whos hill was just high enough he could see over the heads of people.

A shirtless half elf and a small, dark haired woman were pacing around each other within the ring. The stable hands beside Alastar, who were young and looking pretty dirty and unkempt, much like Alastar himself but in different ways, were awing at the specula.

As the fist began flying, parries, dodges, and strikes following, Alastar caught wind of a few of the stable hands speaking; some were a mixture of awe, “Did you see what happened?” one would ask, while whispers passed on betting silvers and coppers. Eventually, he heard the name of the half-elf. Ghost. Apparently the woman hadn’t worked much of an following yet.

In the arena, the woman lunged forward with a jab, forcing the half elf's guard up before following through with a swift kick to his stomach. The half elf threw his hips back, trying to get out of range, but it wasn't enough to avoid the kick. The half elf doubled over, seeming hurt.

Alastar’s eyes narrowed at the display by the half-elf. He was bruised and bloody, clearly not his first fight of the day. A suscipion blossomed just as the woman took advantage of the fallen half-elf.

Lightning fast, the half elf's palm struck out, his feet in line with his arm as he connected with her sternum. This time, it was the woman's turn to reel back, but she didn't go quietly. With another jab, she landed squarely on the half elf's jaw. Blood and spit flew as his head got whipped to the side.

He staggered back. Heaving out each breath, the half elf straightened and had only time to wipe at his bloody mouth before the woman was on top of him aiming for another strike. Except, the half elf's fist darted in, splattering the woman's nose.

She crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Several of the spectators hopped over the ropes and went to her aid while the half elf retreated to the opposite corner.

Nothing had passed Alastar observation, and with a second of admiration of how quick and deadly this half-elf was, he was frowning; the stable hands beside him were grinning and cheering. Passing remarks of how the elf's ended the fight seemed to be a common move used by the fighter. 'It’s dirty' Alastar thought, despite that a day or so ago he had punched a man in the nose. 'but he clearly was doing more than just ending the fight on good terms'.

As the woman in the arena was being healed and then later helped out of the ring, the half-elf was crouched on the balls of his feet near one of the posts connecting the ropes and drinks. He watched the others around the outside of the ring as he brought the waterskin to his lips, swished the water around and then spit it back out. Eventually, his searching, emerald gaze traveled up to the hill were Alastar and the stable-hands stood.

Ghost, as his name was, brought the water skin up again, still staring in Alastar direction - swished some water and spit it out again. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the half-elf said, "Who's next?"

Though many seemed to whisper and tag the others around them, no one necessarily stood up or stepped forward straight away. 'Fear?' Alastar wondered dryly before stroking back his neck long hair; only a few fine edges returned to where they had been as he walked down the little hill.

He stepped into the arena, though with barely a smile or grin, he eyed the half-elf. "First time," Alastar said, "I'll match you." And with that began to discard his sword, his jacket, the leather enforced bracers upon his wrist, before finally taking off his shirt.

He patted the back edge of belt, and tossed a dagger case over with his stuff just outside the ring. His eyes laid heavily on those around them, daring them to take anything while the fight progressed.

Alastar wasn't built like most humans of Stormwind. He was leaner, held a more agile tone to his body, yet, his shoulders were thicker as if to contradict the first glance. Muscles were refined, but not bulking. Scars littered his body, focused primarily on his right arm where it seemed more tribal in appearance with straight, cut lines ranging from patterns of ones, too fours, depending, all from his shoulder down to his elbow. The rest of the scars were small and silver, short cuts perhaps from recent fights that had healed. Only two prominent scars stood out, one above his left hip, a clear sword cut that was thick and aged with years; second were the numerous lash scars that covered his back leaving very little soft skin to be shown. The tattoos on the other hand covered his entire palm, and back of his hand, depicting a scene, leaving only white skin on his fingers.

With a short flex and stretch of his arms and shoulders, Alastar took in this Ghost character. Ghost's build was that of a swordsman, his shoulders broad and strong but not overly muscular, drawing his strength from his core. The half elf himself bore a host of scars on his skin, the more recent - an 'x' across his chest and his back reaching as far as each shoulder and hip - were still pink, and a yellowish bruise discolored his forehead. The other scars were pale and difficult to see on his fair skin and the worst of them were covered by the sleeve tattoo across his right pectoral down his right arm and over the upper half his back. The ink was made to look like his skin had been ripped away to reveal mechanical parts instead of flesh.

In return, Ghost eyed him with a condescending smirk on his lips. He made no taunting or belittling remarks though; it was spelled clearly on the half-elf’s face that he thought the lad a fool.

Gracefully, the half elf rose to his feet and gave a little stretch as he looked over the many scars and Alastar's general build, trying to pick out any weak points. Motioning to Alastar's sword and having noted the way the lad disarmed himself, Ghost asked, "Are you sure about hand to hand?"

Alastar let himself have a small smile, -so you can disarm me and use my weapon against me- he mused to himself, saying out loud, "I don't want anyone accidentally getting hurt.”

Ghost arched an eyebrow - an expression he made frequently if the fine wrinkle on his forehead above that ebony eyebrow were any indication. "You mean you don't want to 'accidentally' get hurt." Ghost corrected, but didn't bother pointing out that if Alaster took too many hits, he would end up hurt anyway.

“So, who’s striking first?" Alastar returned, relaxing his position a tad, leaving most of his body open for attack. -I'll have to play smart. He'll use cunning and boasting. He doesn't fight fair. He's a street brawler, probably worse,- he thought as he looked Ghost over. Then with a small grin once more finished the thought, -but so am I, I suppose.-

The half elf rolled his eyes at the question and fell into a ready stance. "Who strikes first is whoever is fastest - even if you strike first that does not guarantee you'll actually hit me." Ghost explained as he started his slow, predatory circling of the lad.

Alastar held himself in check at the taunt and the insults. He heard a few of the men outside of the ring laugh at Ghost’s probing. Alastar snorted watching the traditional predatory circling; a thing Alastar wasn't keen on following. So instead, he kept his back at the edge of the arena, his guard appearing loose, his feet shifted apart. Only his eyes moved.

Ghost paused when the lad just....stood there. Not moving, not attacking. Nothing. "If you're not going to fight, then go home kid." The half elf growled, using the demeaning term even though he wasn't much older - if at all - than Alastar. Shadow magic collected in Ghost's palm, thinking he'd have to get vicious if this one was going to move his feet.

It would seem Alaster's initial speculation that this one did not fight fair was accurate, for in a matter of seconds, the half elf held a small shadowy dagger in his hand that he promptly flipped, caught, and then threw.

The shadow magic sent a shimmering warning within Alastar, a warning as most people would say it, but there was a lust, a need, an excitement at the feeling. For a brief second as the magic was flipped and caught, Alastar eyes glowed a faint amber hue. Then his arm began to emanate a soft blue, and as the dagger came hurling towards him, his arm reached up to meet it only to watch the dagger 'disappear' and sparkle into black dust just an inch from his palm. Alastar gave into his grin. "I thought this was a brawl," He said as he rushed towards the half-elf, a faint buzz of blue energy filling him faster than he should and went for a quick jab towards the man's wounded jaw

Ghost didn't miss the change in eye color, despite his mild frustration with the lad. He absolutely hated it when someone came to spar and then just stood there instead of engaging. The frustration faded, replaced by something else and again that eyebrow came up when Alastar dismissed the magic of the shadowblade - now this was interesting.

Unfortunately, that also meant his guard was down and despite how fast he was, the half elf couldn't get his guard up in time to properly defend against the incoming jab. The already compromised jaw creaked - and possibly cracked - the burst of pain sending spots of bright white and deep black before his vision.

Ghost shook his head and blinked rapidly a few times then swung right back at the lad, stepping in as he angled his fist from down below in an attempt to land a solid blow in Alastar's belly.

Alastar held little back in that blow and he felt the give of the man's jaw, saw the waver in his stance. Eyes grew narrow with uncertainty, a little thought making its way through the adrenaline rushing through him and the taste of magic. Instinct was what propelled him backwards from the moving arm. In response, Alastar gripped the half-elf's wrist stopping the monument of the attack going through air, drew the man in with much more strength than should have been for this young man, and brought the half elf into his own fist that was heading toward the half-elves belly in a swift counter

Ghost let out a grunt and flashed a bloody grimace as he was punched in the gut. Clearly, there was more to the lad than what appeared on the surface, if his sheer strength was any indication. This close though left Ghost with few options as he wrenched his wrist free of Alastar's grip. The force of any punches would be diminished and so he grabbed Alastar by the shoulders and head butted the lad - right in the nose.

An image flickered in Alastar head as the world grew dizzy before him. An image of a long time ago, dark shadows casting everywhere, a female worgen standing before him, hackling him with the same grin and coy remarks as the half-elf he had just meet.

As the images flickered away, Alastar felt the air escape from him entirely. Blood oozing from his nose, and the air squeezed out of him, he fell limply to the ground unaware that Ghost had kneed him in the stomach.

Except, he didn’t hit the ground. His arm stayed steady; his knee strong against his weight. Then he felt the prickle of strength begging. Alastar closed his eyes, and let that strength blossom into white, hot heat.

In a second, his transformation took place replacing skin with black, grey-tipped fur, fingers for claws, and a long snout with teeth barred. His blue eyes flickered upwards, and he lept back hoping that the half-elf was surprised enough to give him the space.

Ghost was.

The transformation made Ghost pause briefly, but he quickly picked up where he left off. The half-elf’s expression was one of disgust. As Alastar pressed an paw against his own torso, the half elf went into motion, weight placed on an anchoring leg while he spun a circle kick, aiming his foot for the side of Alaster's muzzle.

Alastar caught the blow with his arm, a low grumbling coming from his throat as he then struck out towards the elf’s hip joint with a quick strike

Ghost grunted again as he felt the sudden jolt of impact as Alasatar struck out at his hip. The half elf went stumbling forward in the direction that Alastar pushed him, but recovered his footing more quickly than the lad anticipated for when Alastar came charging head first, Ghost pivoted to the side positioning himself in a way to put himself slightly behind and to the side. The half elf came back in then, slamming his elbow down into Alastar's back.

The shock rumbled through his body, but the pain was no longer an obstacle. Alastar swiveled with a snarl and though he attempted to snap at the elf’s head with his jaws, he went for another jab towards the upper torso.

At least one, if not more of his ribs cracked, giving way under Alastar's knuckles - an injury that, unlike his jaw, he couldn't keep fighting with unless he wanted to risk having a lung punctured by a broken rib. With a broken jaw, his stomach muscles spasming from taking too many hits in his gut, knuckles bleeding and his head swimming from that headbutt he'd delivered, Ghost knew he had to yield.

The half elf made the symbol of 'yield' rather than call it out - he could hardly breathe, - and, keeping an eye on Alastar to make sure he didn't continue to attack - grumpily made his way back over to his corner.

Several disappointed groans came from around the ring from those who'd lost their bets.

Alastar didn’t move for a short time, until, the half-elf rose and began walking away.

The message had been delivered. Dirty tactics had no place if one fought honorable. Alastar backed a few steps before letting the fever of the magic burn away.

Back as a human, he clicked his tongue, rolled his shoulders, as he massaged his neck. “Good fight,” he called out of habit, dull and toneless, as he turned his back.

In return he heard, “Beginnger’s luck”, from the broken half-elf.

Happily seeing his stuff still were he tossed them, Alastar redress himself. Those that had clearly bet against him were far more than those that had, he viewed. With a glance back to the beaten combat, he frowned. -perhaps I made an enemy today, I’ll see him again most likely- he thought and pushed his way through the crowd.

While in Alastar's mind he'd made a point, it was lost on Ghost. To the half elf, it'd just been a spar and whether his opponent fought honorably or not made no difference to him. It wasn't the first time he'd been defeated and wouldn't be the last - it meant nothing.

#rp #story #kaelenar #blood #fighting

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subverbaldreams · 5 years

Text

Jason’s Boy

A side story to Eternity Rising & graphic sexual imagery

(it’s just smut)

3.3k words

Warnings!! Graphic, abusive father/son incest. Also, graphic images. You get no further warning.

Here’s a link to the uncensored moodboard on NewTumbl

****

The bedroom door was shut.

Jason frowned as he opened it. He was certain he had left the door cracked; he liked the idea of his naked son being just barely hidden away while he fucked the boy’s soft-hearted, gullible boss in the adjacent room. Michael had left him wanting, tonight...but that annoyance died out the moment he laid eyes on the prize that awaited him in his own bedroom.

The boy was where Jason had left him, wrists bound together above his head and tied to the high bedpost, blindfolded and gagged. He was only half-hard--but it had been several hours since Jason had gone to meet his “date,” leaving his son straining on the brink of orgasm and dripping precum onto the floor. He walked forward slowly, enjoying the sight of Devyn’s muscular body stretched and bound.

Devyn heard his footfalls and his breaths came faster. He shifted his shoulders. Sweat dripped down his chest. Jason watched the bead of liquid travel down to his lower belly, where it lodged against a raised scar. Such a sexy little bastard.

He checked Devyn’s wrists when he got close. The pretty, red rope was thinner than he usually used, and a little abrasive. His boy had been twisting his wrists again, and had managed to break the skin. Jason didn't discipline him for doing it. To him, the wounds on Devyn’s wrists were given by him--his ropes, his will--and so long as the boy didn't lose any fingers, he wasn’t concerned about nerve damage. It wasn't as though Devyn would ever play guitar.

Devyn flinched when he was touched. A little whimper sounded behind the gag. Jason checked his fingers for temperature, found them normal, then backed away from him.

He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it on the floor. He'd watched his boy on the security cameras for a few minutes before coming in--watched him twisting and writhing. Devyn was trying to hold still, now that he was in the room. Jason pulled his belt off slowly, careful not to let the metal make a sound. He wrapped the strap end of it over his hand once, then swung his arm around hard to whip the buckle into the iron bedpost just above Devyn's bound hands.

The crash exploded the silence of the room. Devyn spasmed in reaction, letting out a belated scream, followed by tight, frightened breaths that heaved his ribs in and out.

Jason swung his arm again, this time aiming the buckle for the bedpost behind Devyn. When he hit it, Devyn lurched away, every muscle in his body pumping and straining. Such a perfect little whore.

Jason set the belt silently on the floor and finished pulling his clothes off. Devyn's breathing didn't return to normal. He didn't know if it was something about the way Devyn's throat constricted when he was afraid, but he made the sweetest little humming sound when he was put on high alert, like he was now.

Jason knelt naked in front of his boy, getting close enough so that Devyn could feel his body heat. The boy went perfectly still, except for the too-rapid movement of his chest with each shallow breath. He wondered if the boy even knew who was with him. Jason had allowed others to use him enough times, the boy shouldn’t be surprised to feel a stranger’s hands on his body.

He grabbed his boy's right nipple and tugged it forward. Devyn stuck out his chest with a little yelp, struggling to move with him, but his bonds kept him from going any further. Jason pinched his tit hard and watched him closely. After a few seconds increasing the pull and the pressure, the pain made Devyn's breath stop. Jason let him suffer another few seconds, then released him and watched him squirm as the blood returned to his freshly bruised nipple. He leaned down and put his mouth over the purpled flesh, sucking it. Devyn's breath caught in a pained cry. He kept whimpering after Jason released him. He was fully hard again. A distinct hum came through the gag.

"Daddy."

Jason closed his eyes and stroked himself, rubbing his son's need into the flesh of his cock. "I've got you, boy," he murmured.

He dove into his boy's throat, pushing his head back to bite and suck on his neck. He ate at his son like a starving man, digging his teeth into the deltoid muscle, then licking along the collarbone. Devyn's whole body tensed at first, but his hips began thrusting as Jason coaxed him. His teeth drew muffled gasps from his bound boy, while his lips and hands drew out sighs of contentment. Pink flushed up his son's chest and neck in response to him--pain and fear, passion and pleasure.

My son. Mine.

Jason wrapped a hand around his son's throat and lifted him, kneeing between his legs so that Devyn straddled his lap. Devyn's biceps bunched as he tried to pull his weight up by his bound wrists. The exposed parts of his face darkened above Jason's gripping hand.

The urge was there--not to loosen, not to let go. Just choke his baby boy until he fell limp in his bonds...until he went quiet and still...

"Dirty slut," Jason growled, grounding himself and pushing the urge away. He wrapped his other arm around Devyn’s waist and pulled him in close, so that their hard cocks were trapped against each other between their bellies. He squeezed Devyn’s throat one last time before releasing and diving in to kiss and lick the bruises his fingers left behind. He could hear the sobs lurking just behind those uneven, whistling gasps as his son fought for breath. He licked up behind Devyn's ear and massaged his scalp through his thick hair. Devyn tensed and shivered, afraid to relax.

He could spend time soothing that fear, if he wanted to. He could bring his boy down, make him release, get him to accept the pain without tightening up the way he was doing now.

But that wasn't what he wanted. Not tonight. Tonight he wanted his sweet baby clenched and terrified. He wanted to take him screaming and fighting. He'd been lenient enough this week. He had allowed Devyn to suck him until he came and then let him swallow the cum. The night before, he had let Devyn hump his hand while delivering electric shocks to his nipples and his hole. He'd pampered the boy lately; now it was time to take his due. Time to remind him that it was only by Jason's mercy that he received any pleasures in this life.

"Who owns you?" he demanded.

"You, Sir."

"Who made you?"

"You, Sir."

"Who do you live for?"

"YOU, Sir!" The muffled groan rumbled up from deep inside his chest. Devyn's head fell back, exposing his throat. His legs widened, his hips pushed forward; even his blood-striped torso lengthened as he physically threw himself into the words. Jason basked in the sight of it, the feel of it. Sometimes his son's devotion sent shivers over his skin. Right now that feeling of godlike power rolled straight through his center, filling him with a delicious warmth. He grabbed Devyn's neck, enveloping his throat in a vise grip, and pushed him back against the bedpost.

"Fucking sexy whore," he whispered roughly. He took lube from his pocket and slicked a dollop of it over his cock. It would be just enough to get inside; he wanted this to hurt. In one swift motion, he grabbed his boy under the thighs, lifted him, and forced that unprepared young hole right down onto his rigid rod.

Devyn screamed.

Jason grabbed his hips, digging his fingers in viciously. He shoved the boy up and down on his cock, not giving him a second to catch his breath. Devyn got a few good screams out before his inability to inhale fast enough through the gag turned the screams into choked whimpers. His body's reactions became confused. His cock went soft at first, then stiffened, then went soft again. He may have been fucked recently by the house staff, but none of them were big enough to keep him ready for Jason's cock. Even Shaw's fat monster was a few inches shorter than Jason's. One week without his daddy inside him and Devyn was tight as a vise. Hot, sweaty, and howling.

Jason snarled and surged against him, shoving him flush against the bedpost. He grabbed the post and the rail respectively and slammed his whole body forward and upward, thrusting his son into the iron bar. Devyn's bound hands and ankles prevented him from gaining any traction against the assault. His thighs spasmed around Jason's waist; his clenched fists knocked into the bedpost with every thrust. He shuffled his legs uselessly, trying to escape. Jason's heart was pounding, but he could still distinguish his boy's racing pulse--a panicked, fluttering sleeve of heat wrapped tightly around his cock. Devyn lurched and cracked his head back into the iron bedpost. Jason grabbed him by the hair to stop him from knocking himself out. He bared his teeth, angry and satisfied all at the same time.

"Think that'll work, whore?" he snarled. "Think you can get away from this?" Jason punished him with harder thrusts, angling his hips forward and back, side to side, to force his hole further open, to bruise every part of him. Wild sounds, uncontrolled shrieks and sobs, came from behind the thick gag. His boy was exhausting himself quickly, thrashing and screaming so hard. It was absolutely amazing.

"Think you want to get away?... Sweet little fuck-slut...you belong to me...tight baby, fuck yeah...I think you love this..." Jason groaned random compliments and insults to his son, letting himself bathe in the pleasure of their joined bodies. He kept up his hammering thrusts until they were both glistening with sweat. The whip wounds in Devyn's chest reopened with their movement until fresh blood had run all the way down Devyn's chest and belly, between his legs, to leave a sticky smear between his ass and Jason's thrusting hips.

An electric heat was building at the base of Jason's spine. He could hold it, if he wanted to--just keep fucking his baby for hours--but his new boy Michael had left him so unsatisfied. Stupid slut, getting drunk so quickly. He should be more grateful for Jason's attention, should take better care of himself for his Master. He had to remember the boy didn't know any better, though. He still thought Jason was just some rich playboy.

But the memory came before his mind's eye: Michael shrinking away from his touch tonight, fearful as an untrained street whore. He'd never done that before.

And the bedroom door had been shut.

It was that quick. It came to him in a perfect flash. The averted eyes. The sudden reticence. His new little plaything had seen something he shouldn't have. Jason stopped moving and looked down at his captive son, then over his shoulder to the door of the room.

That was it. Michael had gone wandering while Jason had been occupied at the front. He'd opened the cracked bedroom door and seen Devyn, tied and naked.

Jason grinned. What a sight that must have been to his fresh young club manager! Had it made him hard? Was he cowering in his own bed right now, guiltily jacking himself off? A laugh rumbled up Jason's throat at the mental image. Excitement filled his hips like a cup of warm brandy. If a replay of the security feed confirmed his suspicion, then it was time to move Michael to the next phase of the game. He let out a pleased hum and luxuriously rolled his hips, stirring his cock around inside his son. Devyn twisted helplessly, speared on his thick meat.

Jason lifted his boy's hips, sliding his raw cock out of his boy's equally raw hole. Devyn screamed when the head pulled free; his legs went limp and his full weight fell into Jason's hands. He lowered the boy until he hung from his wrists, panting raggedly.

Jason moved behind his son, pushing in between him and the bed. The size of his torso forced Devyn's chest out and pulled his bound wrists backward until his shoulders were strained. Devyn's head fell back against Jason's shoulder. The timbre of his whimpers became pleading. Jason bent his head to lick the sweat off his son's throat; he smoothed his hair back and flicked his tongue across the boy's hairline. Small sounds of hurt and need came muffled to his ears. His baby sang the prettiest music to him.

"My boy," Jason whispered against Devyn's hot, sweaty forehead. "My son."

Devyn groaned. Jason took his hips and thrust into him from behind.

Devyn instantly knotted up from fingers to toes, clamping so tight around his cock it was painful. Another struggle ensued as Devyn tried to pull away from his battering thrusts. The new angle let each bruising lunge of his cockhead punch directly against Devyn's gland. The tone of those cries changed, becoming more--more fear, more pain, more pleasure. Jason used one hand on the bedrail behind them to lift himself; he held Devyn with an arm around his waist, planted his heels, and lifted his lower body to pound upward into his son's battered hole. Devyn was left with even less leverage than before; he was forced to lie back against Jason's body while his ass was reamed, unable to ease the force of the thrusts. His head fell back against Jason's neck. He turned his gagged and blindfolded face up toward Jason's, crying in exhaustion. Straining to find him. Seeking comfort.

Jason put all the power of his body into the thrusts, pounding upward as if he would tear out through the front of his son's belly. His baby boy's dick was hard again; it wagged in the air as Jason fucked him. He could just imagine Michael standing in front of them. He pictured the horrified lust on the man's face...pictured his spirit crumbling as he jerked off unwillingly, as he squirted his guilty load onto Devyn's exposed stomach, onto his smoothly shaved balls, while watching him get plowed by his own father...

"AAAH!" The orgasm rushed through his dick in a torrent. Jason pushed his hips high into the air, until his boy's feet were lifted from the ground. Devyn spasmed in pain, but he went silent, accepting his daddy's load. Jason gripped his chest in a one-armed bear hug and bit his right arm where it was raised beside him, tasting his tender flesh. He yelled his release into that jawful of shivering muscle, emptying his heavy balls into his son's bowels.

As the rush of ecstasy slowed, the roaring in his ears quieted, and his vision began to clear, he resumed his thrusts, mixing his seed around inside his baby boy. Devyn's chest rose and fell in irregular hiccups. There was a quick whistle as he sucked in a bit of air around the nub of the gag, then fell back limp onto Jason's chest. Only then did Jason notice the boy wasn't able to breathe through his nose anymore.

He lowered himself unhurriedly so that he was sitting back on his heels, his boy still speared in his lap. He held Devyn around the waist and unbuckled the gag from behind his head. He had to work the silicone nub back and forth before his boy's jaw opened enough to release it. A long stream of saliva--mixed with tears and mucus--fell out of Devyn's mouth. He sucked in a raw, ratcheting gasp, then another, and another, until his desperate breaths threw him into a coughing fit. The spasms that created around Jason's cock were interesting, but he was spent for the moment.

Jason pulled out of his son and left him there, hanging by his wrists and struggling to fill his body with oxygen, while he went to the bathroom to clean himself, then to the walk-in closet to dress. Devyn had quieted by the time he came back into the room. The boy was shivering now, teeth chattering, as the sweat and blood on his body dried, sucking the warmth from his skin. It had to be hard for him, staying on his knees after the way Jason had fucked him, but his bonds gave him no choice. Jason looked the boy over once, decided it was satisfactory, and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

~~~

Rheven was quick.

Jason barely caught a flash of her disappearing behind the door of the training room as he emerged from the bedroom. He strode rapidly after her and slammed the door open. She was just behind it; he felt it hit her, heard her fall to the floor. He stepped around the door and looked down. His daughter cowered where she fell, her head lowered. It was nothing more than an amusing annoyance, until he saw the small bottle of water roll away from her leg.

A reactive rage uncoiled from the base of his spine--but Jason ignored it, and it quickly fell away. He controlled his rage, not the other way around. Rheven had been lurking to give water to her brother. It wasn't strictly a rule that she could not; Devyn wasn't technically being punished right now. It was the hiding that had aroused his anger.

"What are you doing, baby girl?" he asked softly.

Rheven mumbled something that began and ended with "Sir." Jason's mouth quirked and again he found himself half-amused, half-annoyed.

Kids.

"Speak up when I ask you a question, girl," he snapped.

"Sir, I was waiting to see Devyn, Sir," she said, almost too loudly this time.

Jason nudged the water with his foot. "Who's this for?"

"Sir, it's for Devyn, Sir." Her voice was calm with the admission, but he could taste the fear rolling off of her. He leaned down to pick her up under the armpits and haul her to her feet. She was stiff in his hands--not resisting, but frightened. Jason wiped down her arms as though dusting her off, then tilted her chin up with his fingers. She stared at his shoulder, expressionless.

"Good girl," he praised her gently. "Always tell your Daddy the truth."

"Sir, yes, Sir."

Her voice was flat, her eyes were empty, but her lips quivered just a touch. Jason rewarded her for that vulnerability with a slow kiss. He cupped the back of her head, stroked her waist, and gently tongued her lips apart, probing just inside her mouth. His girl's rigid body softened. She subtly shifted into his chest, huddling into that moment of protection. Jason held and stroked her for a minute, giving her some Daddy time. She laid her head against his chest, but kept her arms tucked into herself. She always had a harder time releasing to him than her brother. But, as was so often the case, he had used up his night with his son, leaving himself short on time to spend with her. It was no accident, though it sometimes left him with the odd sensation that he was missing out on something.

"You go on, baby girl. Be quick, though. I won't be gone for long."

"Sir, thank you, Sir," his girl said into his chest. Jason kissed her forehead and left the room. She did not come out behind him.

~~~

Marcus was in the screening room when Jason reached the front of the house. A quick scan of the night's hall camera recording confirmed his suspicion. His little Michael had nearly fallen over from shock after he pushed open Jason's bedroom door.

Jason texted a heads up to his cop contacts and to his men at the club. His relationship with his naive lover was about to get interesting.

Finally.

#tw: incest #tw: abuse #my writing #my fic #eternity rising

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zellybelly · 5 years

Text

A New Kind of Understanding

This was not my idea! This was an idea from the awesome @adellagar Seriously, this idea was precious. It makes my heart melt and cry.

Anyways, enjoy!

WARNING: Spoilers for Episode 3, and much heartbreak for Louis Lovers.

A/N: I changed up the plot a bit so it fit for Clouis. Because, he is my boyfriend, and there was no way I’d let him get taken. Also, lots of flashbacks to show how it changed, if you’re not interested in flashbacks, just scroll past the italics.

Word Count:

ON TO THE STORY!

Clementine walked down the hall slowly. Her arms were over her chest holding a book. And a bandage around her torso. It was only a few days ago. When the bomb blew on the boat. And Louis...

She squeezed her eyes shut and she dug her nails into her arms, but not enough to draw blood. After the bomb blew... things just went to hell.

(Flashback)

“Clem! Clem!” She heard a voice calling to her, but it sounded so far away, miles even. But that wasn’t possible. The voice belonged to AJ, her little goofball. ANd he was here with her on the boat.

“Clem!” She felt a hand smack her face and her eyes snapped open. She shot up, gasping and coughing, and felt someone wrap their arms around her. Her goofball. “Clem! You’re okay!” He cried. WIth her shaky limbs, she wrapped her arms around him too, but they soon left his shoulders. The bomb had made the boat catch fire, and if they didn’t leave right then, they could be killed.

“AJ.” She spoke. “We have to go! Come on!” She glanced around and felt her heart drop. “Where’s Tenn and James?” She knew James would most likely be mad at her, or at least frustrated with her. He didn’t want AJ to shoot Lily, but Clem told him to, and thanks to that, Lily was dead. And wouldn’t be coming back.

“I... I dunno! I think I saw James helping Tenn off the boat.” He nodded off to where the school was. “But Clem, you’re hurt.” He pointed to her stomach. A large gash was right above her belly button. When did that happen? “When the bomb went off, a Lantern shattered and the glass cut you,” AJ explained and began to tug on her hand, but he quickly let go when she let out a hiss of pain. She was no longer bleeding, but the wound could open easily.

“Okay, Okay, let's go,” Clem spat through her teeth. She pressed one hand against the wall, and with AJ’s help, they managed to get off the boat.

(End)

And now they were here. Grieving in the loses that were made. Their home, half of it burned down. Their people, scarred.

But Louis... he got the worst of it all. They had cut out his tongue. And she could’ve stopped it.

She wanted to save him, she did, but she didn’t realize she had used her last arrow to shoot Violet’s attacker.

If she could take it back, she would (Sorry Violet). Violet could definitely handle herself, but Louis, he... he was soft. Too innocent.

And the good soft. He was cheerful and bright, made jokes to cheer everyone up. He helped remind the others of what the world was like, and how to still have fun. For that, she was forever grateful.

And before they went to risk their lives, Louis had asked for her help in a project. Although Violet invited her to come to do lookout with her, she went with Louis. Knowing him, there was more than just this ‘project’ he talked about. And before everything went down, she needed to tell him, about how she felt. The game they had played opened her eyes a bit, and she figured it was now or never.

And now, she was back where it all happened. The music room. She could hear the soft presses of keys, but it wasn’t for a song, rather someone just playing random keys at a random time.

“Louis?” She called out from the other side of the closed door. She didn’t knock or open the door because she didn’t want to startle him. She remembered how scared he was when she found him and how much the sound of the boat sent him into a panic.

(Flashback #2)

Her head hurt like a bitch. She should’ve known. Minerva seemed to cave way too quickly and to help her friends. Before everything went dark she remembered her threatening to shoot AJ. Who would shoot such a small child? Even in this fucked up world that was just wrong.

She pushed herself up and glanced around the room. It was the same room Minnie knocked her out in, so then-

“Louis!” Clem cried when she saw him in the corner. She crawled over to him and stopped in front of him. His head was buried in his knees, though she could see that he seemed a bit more relaxed when he heard her voice.

The boy lifted his head and when she saw his face, she felt like crying. She couldn’t tell if it was from joy at seeing his face again, or in horror. His mouth was all bloodied, the blood seeping down to his shirt, and his face was stained with his tears.

He stared at her for a moment before he crawled forward to her and all but collapsed on her. Though his whimpers were quiet, it felt like he was screaming to her. They were filled with so much pain. That was it for her. Her arms came around hand held him, while tears began to stream down her face. His whimpers turned to soft sobs, wracking his body. She instinctively held him closer and she began to whisper sweet nothings into his ear.

She let him go when he pulled back, not sooner or later. Her hands remained on his arms, and his shifted down to her wrists. She lifted one of her hands and cupped his cheek. With a soft sob, he leaned into her touch, eyes closed as more tears streamed from his eyes.

She responded with a similar sob and she glanced down, her eyes sealed shut with guilt. It shook her to her core. What did he go through? Aasim and Omar were unhurt, and then Louis was a sobbing mess. Not that she was any better.

“What did they do to you?” She whispered when she finally looked back up at him. Louis opened his mouth, and it seemed like he was trying to talk, but all that came out were noises.

“No! No, no. Don’t!” She heard Aasim shout. She turned back to where she could see them through her cell door. “They uh... they cut out his tongue. He just... kept fucking talking.” Louis looked down, seemingly ashamed.

If Clementine thought she had shed the last of her tears, she was downright wrong. She felt a sob in her throat as one hand covered her mouth in horror. The tears blurred her vision as she shook her head, “No...” She looked back up when she felt Louis’s hand covered the one on his cheek. He placed a gentle kiss to her pulse line, and it suddenly seemed like she could breathe a bit easier.

However, Louis’s moment of courage faded quickly and his sniffles returned, his body shaking from his hiccups.

She had enough of this. She took both of his hands in hers, “We’re getting out of here. We’re going home. All of us.” She said firmly. His eyes looked up at her with awe and affection. He nodded slowly, and she gave him a small smile. “Just breathe okay, we’ll be home in no time.

(End)

The door opened and it showed Louis. He looked better, though his face was hollow and his eyes were tired. He no longer had blood on his face, and it almost made her forget for just a moment about what happened. But it always came back. She would never hear his voice again, hear him sing or crack jokes.

He stepped aside for her to enter the room. Once she did he closed the door and turned to her. He offered a smile, but it was small. Not the usual big goofy smile he had on his face.

“I uh... I found something you might be interesting.” She held up the book for him to see. It was a book on sign language. “You should still be able to express yourself, and not just through a paper.” She gestured to the paper and pencil on the bench of the piano. Tenn gave him his sketchbook and pencils so that he could communicate with the others.

Louis tilted his head and then nodded. She led him to the middle of the room where they could sit on the carpet next to each other.

“Okay. I thought we could read this together, and maybe help you develop a way so you can talk to everyone.” She opened the book to where it showed all the different signs.

They spent the next two hours going over the gestures and practicing simple phrases like; “Hi. How are you? Goodnight. Bye” and others. Neither of them were experts, but they agreed to keep meeting up before going to bed to read and practice together.

It definitely seemed to cheer Louis up, now that he had another way to talk to people. She saw him smile at her, and it looked more like his usual smile. They held each other’s hand and swung their arms in sync as they walked back to their rooms. They went to hers first, where AJ should be sleeping in bed. She was about to say goodnight, but he beat her to it.

He signed it to her, and then pressed a kiss to her cheek and then signed ‘thank you.’ She smiled at him and signed a ‘you’re welcome.’ to him before she gave him a long and lingering hug. After that, they stared at each other before they started to slowly move away, Louis down the hall and Clem to her room. They waved to each other and that was it.

(Flashback #3)

They made it back to the school before morning. They had to stop often to make sure Clem’s wound didn’t reopen. She kept one arm wrapped around her stomach right where the gash was.

Even though she was no longer bleeding, her steps were weak and her head felt light. AJ wasn’t tall enough for her to lean on, so he led her through the forest by the hand. He constantly looked back to make sure she was okay.

She somehow made it to the school before she collapsed. They got through the gates and just got to the building, where they were greeted by Ruby and Willy. Ruby, seeing Clem’s injury, led her to her room and grabbed some bandages, and with Willy and AJ’s help, got Clem’s wound cleaned and bandaged.

At some point, Aasim and Omar came to see her, and they thanked her for coming to save them, and even risking her life for them, despite only knowing them for around a month. She just nodded but they left soon seeing how tired she was. They told her that Violet hadn’t come back, but Clem knew why. She assured them that she didn’t believe she was dead, but that Minerva got hurt and that Violet couldn’t leave her.

She didn’t hear anything about Louis. But she knew he was here. If he was dead they would have told her. At least, she hoped so. When she asked about him all they would say is that he was okay and was recovering.

But nothing more.

She hoped he was okay. Well... okay considering what happened. Even if he was probably one of the more innocent people left in the world, she knew he was tough. No one could be the way he was without being tough. It was hard to be the optimistic one, the one who helped others feel better.

And one night, she finally got to see him.

She had spent the whole day fighting a small fever she had gotten due to her body trying to fight infection. She slept most of it, as Ruby had advised her. It still hurt, but it also felt numb. She didn’t like it.

When she woke, it was dark, and she couldn’t really see. AJ was gone, probably off with the others. Her eyes were just barely open, and she turned her head to look around the room. Rosie was there by the end of her bed. She smiled. Rosie was now her dog, and it felt nice to have such a loyal companion with her.

She heard the door creak open. She turned her head to the door, and with a grunt, she tried to sit up. But a sudden flash of pain flared up her torso and with another grunt, she laid back down.

The door opened fully and a figure entered the room. It was too dark for her to see, but she was granted an answer when the person lit a match and used it to light a candle, sending a golden glow through the room. It was Louis. She weakly reached for his hand, but her arm fell limp.

Louis turned to her and gave a broken smile. She shifted as much as she could to allow him to sit by her.

“Hey.”

(End)

1 week later

“Hey!” Clem called out to Ruby and Aasim. “You guys wanna play?” She, AJ, Willy, and Louis decided to play a game of truth or dare. Omar and Tenn were on lookout duty, and while they still could’ve played, they politely declined.

The two came over and joined them at the small circle of chairs and couches. Louis and Clem sat next to one another, holding each other’s hand. It was clear to everyone that they were a thing, though they were grateful they didn’t make it awkward for everyone.

“Let’s do it.” Clem waved around the deck of cards, and she detached her hand from Louis’s to grab and card, before handing him the pile. He picked a card and they passed it around till everyone got a card.

Aasim got the high card, and she got the low card. “Okay, whatcha wanna see or learn?”

Aasim pushed his lips together, “Okay. What was you’re worst first impression of someone?”

That didn’t take much thought. “There was this one group I join after I lost my first one, and they locked me up in a shed overnight. I got bit by a dog,” She rolled up her sleeve and showed them all where she was bit, “they thought I was bit bit, and one almost shot me. Honestly, I could have died, but I snuck out and patched myself up.” She shuddered. Everyone was staring at her with her eyebrows raised.

“Trust me, that wasn’t the worst thing that happened while I was with them. Far from it.” She reassured though if anything that made it worse. She looked down and cleared her throat, “okay... next round.”

This round, Ruby got the low card and Louis got the high card.

Clem turned to Louis, and he took her palm and began to trace letters on her palm, slowly to make sure she got all the letters.

“What is he doing?” Willy asked though she assumed he meant to whisper.

“It’s our little way of communicating. When it’s too dark to see the signs, or if it’s too embarrassing to sign it.” Clem explained while Louis was still writing on her palm. He finished but he kept a hand on her arm.

“Okay, Ruby.” Clem grinned wickedly, a grin copied by Louis. “Marry, Flip, Kill. Me, Omar, Aasim.”

Ruby’s face flushed so much it was redder than her hair. “Okay, well I’d marry...”

2 hours later

Clem and Louis sat next to each other in the piano room. She watched him as he played a song, the song he wrote, and the one he named after her. She leaned against him, but not enough to affect his skills with the keys.

“Louis?” She asked.

He stopped playing the keys and looked to her.

She grinned and looked down at her lap. “I like-like you.”

Louis smiled at her and drew out on her palm, ‘I like-like you too.’

The two smiled to one another, in their own world, with just the two of them.

Okay, that’s really it I’m glad I got to write this, it was a blast.

And if you’re reading this after Episode 4 comes out, I still hope you can enjoy this story.

#Clouis #TWD #TWDSeason4 #TheFinalSeason #Louis #CLementine #louis x clementine #AJ #Violet #Episode 3 #Episode 4 ideas #twdg clementine #twdg louis #twdg season 4 #LOUIS LOST HIS TONGUE #MY HEART #I CANT EVEN #WHY?#Louis is mute now

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builtperil · 5 years

Text

;;with me finally rewatching ego trip ( days ago ), I thought it’d be a great opportunity to touch on my headcanons for number 12 ( because believe it or not, I have a verse for him pre! movie !!! ), & these have been gathering up for a little while -- hence, a compilation post for a few I’ve thought on.

;;NOTE: a reminder that ego trip is rather dark in comparison to the series it comes from, these headcanons are NO different -- thus, proceed with caution. there are mentions of abuse & it is heavily implied below. it also contains brief mentions on sensitive topics regarding body image.

- due to the consequences that come with any prominent error 12 makes ( ex: being ALMOST late for work -- publicly flogged with a laser whip ), his body is riddled with scars & burn marks -- among other things. turn him around, & his back is covered in the haphazard remnants of previous lashes -- varying in stages of healing, with constant fresh ones across them that often tend to reopen older ones. & along with these come the streaks of burn etched in with the scars, discoloring his back. these lash marks are rather large in size, taking up the area of back his boss aims at -- along with his shoulders, if they don’t simply graze them, or his arms & legs. & to pour salt in the wound, there’s still more: frequently struggling in the confinement he’s put up in DURING these public flogs has lead to light scarring on his hands / wrists, sometimes bruises if he goes at it hard enough.

&& not exactly a scar, but still important to note: from all the typing / work 12 has to do, his hands & fingertips have callouses that have -- in his current period, gone somewhat numb.

& to follow up from THAT, the chemical burn marks earned as a child still remain -- though faded. ( reference here. ) he can’t recall where or how he got them, but he’s assumed they might be birth marks. maybe.

- flogging is NOT the only torture method 12 has to go through if a mistake is made, but is certainly one of the more painful ones - physically. the rest of his punishments can vary, but are typically recorded live & publicly to the corporate office & are INCREDIBLY humiliating. this is to break down whatever shreds of confidence, dignity, & worth 12 could still have, as well as to turn employees against him -- if they’re not forced to through other means, this is also to make 12 as helpless & alone as possible.

- not an everyday occurrence, but after a routine flogging - or otherwise physically damaging punishment, when 12 is sent back to his cubicle, he’ll try to cover his wounds with printer paper & / or tape ( really, whatever is in his desk ) as a makeshift bandage -- because, more than likely - he’s not provided with a first-aid kit. most of the time, 12′s too wracked with pain to attempt covering it & possibly making it worse, leading blood to stain his coat -- but if & ESPECIALLY if he’s due to leave the corp / his cubicle for any task given to him, he’ll tape himself up & hope it stays long enough for him to return.

- 12′s coat ISN’T a labcoat -- but rather, a smock of sorts. ( no kidding! ) a possibility could be that, it’s sort of a uniform for his line of work - maybe even his position as a person that works with computers. due to such specifics likely not mattering anymore since executive mandark’s takeover of the corp, it’s simply been reduced to something 12 wears everyday just to be clothed.

- other than the abuse he faces by the executive, 12′s living conditions are decent ( ? ) -- treatment wise: he gets 1 meal a day, hygiene is taken care of with teeth & daily showers, clean clothes, I imagine he’s given SOMETHING to take care of bathroom needs, & while it’s maybe not the most luxurious life to live - practically staying in a cubicle for the rest of your working life, needs are met, there’s a ceiling over a worker’s head, & the rest is handled by the building itself. with mandark out of the picture, 12 could be living fine.

however, the only reason it IS that decent is possibly due to the system that takes care of these is run through the entire building, implying that, likely every other worker is treated this way -- which is due to - perhaps the previous owner of the building / company before mandark made his way in - setting it up this way to keep the workers’ needs met daily. the reason it might not have been changed much, I’m still debating.

- ( this is mostly to assist with interaction ) this AU is shifted only slightly, with 12 doing a bit more around the corp. than simple cubicle design & him being able to leave the cubicle / office under supervision - only for the sake of business.

he’s not able to freely dwell when he’s released into the public. 12 wears an ankle bracelet at all times -- which serves as a tracker / camera that executive mandark is able to watch him through - if / when he leaves the building, especially. if he should stray from his work OR the path he’s meant to go on to complete his tasks, the bracelet is set to electrocute him as a warning -- & should he somehow refuse to comply even AFTER being shocked, exe could / can easily send a drone after him to collect him & bring him RIGHT back to the building. so far, the outcome of straying has occurred only few times -- nowhere near recent times for 12.

- the neurotomic protocore has been with 12 since its initial creation in childhood ( whether or not he remembers it - spoilers, he doesn’t ) & has constantly been worked upon as he’s grown, to make it better & adapt with the constantly modernizing world. it’s a project he planned to use ( pre! exe mandark ) to change the world, presenting it to the corporate first. something happened inbetween that lead to mandark taking over before he could present it, eventually leaving 12 as.. --number 12. the protocore is hidden away in his cubicle with blueprints - revolving on how he’d use it -- which is now - he finds, his only salvation. he plans on using it eventually to overthrow mandark & change the world, saving himself from further torment in the process, but he’s NOWHERE near ready to enact it & the protocore has NOT been perfected to the point of a successful usage. it’s simply a project in the background for now, but to 12, it means his life.

- 12 is possibly a victim of a type of stockholm syndrome. discussion of this can be found here.

- 12 very much HATES his body. he’s stick thin - debatably to a point where his ribs show, his everywhere is riddled with scars, he’s got a bloated stomach that sticks out, a permanently hunched back, & despite the fact he’s taken care of hygienically on top of this, he’s ashamed of how he looks without his clothes.

- unlike his younger self, 12 isn’t as fond of sweets.

- 12 shares the same unidentifiable accent as his younger self, HOWEVER - he represses it heavily in an attempt to sound ‘ normal, ‘ ( perhaps due to mandark forcing him to do so? ) --doing this has resulted in his voice often sounding strained & weird, as he’s literally holding back his voice from sounding like how it should.

;;but yeah. thank you genndy for the movie !!!!

#;;ᵒᵘᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵃᵇ. ( OOC. )#;;ⁱ'ᵐ ᵗʸᵖⁱⁿᵍ !! ( v. 002 )#;;ʸᵒᵘ ⁱⁿᵗᵉʳᶠᵉʳᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵐʸ ᶜᵒᵐᵖᵘᵗᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿˢ! ( headcanons / observations. )#tw abuse #tw abuse mention #tw stockholm syndrome #tw body image #tw body mention #tw blood mention #tw scars #tw torture #tw flogging #// ask to tag #;;WE SHOULDN'T HAVE THIS MANY TRIGGER WARNINGS ON A SINGLE POST BUT HERE WE ARE #;;this is what I get for holding all my headcanons in #;;DO TELL ME IF I NEED TO TAG ANYTHING ELSE BC.... GESTURES AT ALL OF THE ABOVE #;;I THINK I'VE SAID EVERYTHING I CAN THINK OF -- Y'ALL JUST LET THIS SINK IN

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wynilthyrii · 5 years

Text

Cautionary Tales

They took a portal to Dalaran. Wyn was silent but did not relinquish her grip on Galdanir’s arm as she headed resolutely down the city’s cobbled streets. The mage wisely held his tongue as they moved swiftly along the broad boulevards lined with handcarts and floating pots brimming with flowers and greenery. The girl navigated those streets with the familiarity of one who might as well have been a local. The truth of it was, she’d spent enough time in the city over the nearly four decades of her life that these streets and the stones that built Dalaran were as familiar as the manor where she’d been raised and the city that was her people’s home.

The coffee shop she brought him to was tucked into the artisans’ quarter, dark-paneled with the faintest tinge of pipe-smoke lingering in the air, mingling with the scent of fresh-roasted coffee and baked goods. There was a warmth to the place, but also a remoteness, a sense of anonymity and privacy. She brought him to a shadowed corner, inclined her head slightly to one of the waitstaff. The waiter nodded and blinked to the counter, stepping behind it.

She didn’t speak until the man returned, settling a tray onto the mahogany table between them. There was a pot of coffee, two mugs full of the stuff and already steaming, and a small plate of flake rolls, savory and sweet both, artfully arranged into a pile on that tiny plate. Wyn took up her mug, stirred in a bit of sugar, and watched him for a full minute before she took a sip of that coffee.

Once her mug settled back to the wood of the table, she cleared her throat. “Thank you. I suppose I owe you a bit of an explanation.”

He answered with an arched brow as he took up his own mug, watching her in silence. One corner of her mouth curled upward, expression almost rueful.

“I have a history with the Forsaken.”

“Clearly,” he said, tempering his own coffee to his liking before taking a sip. He leaned back, watching her, and said nothing more. She met his gaze, studying him, flickers of gold and silver tangling with the last vestiges of fel green.

Then, after a moment and another sip of coffee, he said, “Certainly not those particular Forsaken.”

“No,” she agreed. “No, but I have experienced the tender mercies of ones like them.” A fingertip trailed along one of the scars around her neck, near her throat, her gaze growing distant for a few moments. “You’ve read my file.”

He said nothing, but his silence was answer enough. She picked up her cup, took a sip, smiled faintly, her gaze flicking back to his face for a few seconds before she looked away again.

“You know that they held me,” she said softly. “And now we know that I was in their custody thanks to an attack by the Eye on my family’s ancestral home, thanks to the attack a few months ago while I was there looking at my mother’s papers.” She idly rubbed at her wrist, at one of the scars there. It was a small thing, a neat, narrow mark perhaps an inch in length, long healed now though far younger than some of the other marks on her flesh. “Intellectually, emotionally, I knew that I had been tortured,” she said, her voice growing even quieter, as if someone might overhear despite their isolation there in that shadowed corner. “But it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I really started to remember—that I fought to remember—what had happened to me in their hands.”

There was only the most subtle shift in his expression, though she seemed to mark it. A moment later, she produced an object and set it on the table between them: a felsteel screw, no more than half an inch long, its point facing up, balancing on its head. Galdanir eyed it even as Wyn watched him.

“It started with that,” she whispered. “I was a volunteer to Arthamir Tyrellian’s regiment then, and I was standing in defense of his family’s lands in the marches when the Legion returned. It was before I joined the Order, when I was still just considering as a possibility. I was still a mage, then, but I’d come to know Knight-Lord Dra’zar by then and we were friendly. I don’t know how much you know about Jadoth Bloodreign, but he’s how I met the Knight-Lord. There was a sparring match at one point, probably six months, a year before the Legion assaults started, and the Knight-Lord and I were both watching it. He could tell I was concerned about Jadoth and I think in some ways he already had a bit of a soft spot for him. He took the time to reassure me and we got to talking. We kept talking afterwards and in time, it developed into a friendship that I treasured.”

She was keenly aware of the weight of his gaze but chose to ignore it as she took a sip of coffee, staring at the screw on the table between them. Then she took another sip, savoring the interplay of sweet and bitter before she continued.

“Anyhow. There was an attack and I had joined the defense on the walls. The Legion had made allies of some of House Tyrellian’s enemies, so the forces were a mix of elves and demons and other allies of that enemy house. There were gargoyles and demons and siege engines and at one point, a trebuchet took out a section of the wall near where I was helping to shore up the wards. Another of the mages and I were hit by flying debris and I broke my wrist.” She nodded to the screw. “That was embedded in the bone and came free when it was broken. Sufficient to say that my friends with the Vanguard and outside the Vanguard were concerned but at the same time, I think most of them didn’t want to think about what it could mean. I think most of them assumed that it would be too traumatic and besides, there was a war coming—we all knew it—and why reopen healed wounds, after all, especially on the eve of that?”

The ghost of a smile crossed her lips and then was gone, replaced by a determined look and a fire in her gaze as she stared at him. “No one supported me in my desire to figure out what it meant, pushed me to keep digging, like your father did, Galdanir. Everyone was afraid that what I would find might break me, or at the very least hurt more than it was worth. He knew different.” She reached out and picked up the screw, tucking it away. “I know he was worried, too. But he supported me in what I needed to do and gave me the encouragement and support necessary to learn the truth. I know he worried along with the rest of them but he recognized two things: that he could not stop me and this was something I needed to unravel in order for me to finally truly begin heal. There were more than a hundred screws just like that one inside of my body. They tainted my magic, affected my ability to wield the Light, and were put there by the bloody Forsaken.

“I was brought to the Tirisfal Glades by the Eye’s adherents and turned over to some Forsaken who promised to extracts the secrets of my House from me. They promised to break me. I know now what their ultimate goal was, at least in the attempt to break me. I still don’t fully know or understand what they were trying to do with the felsteel they left inside of me, but I suspect quite a few things, theories that will be either disproven or confirmed the day I get my hands on the worthless undead that did it to me. I will never again forget their faces or their voices because I cannot and have not forgotten what the feel of their hands and their tools against my flesh. I carry more scars than I can count thanks to their ministrations. Someday, they will pay for it—justice will come, whether from my blade or another’s, it will come.

“They tortured me, Galdanir. They used me, experimented on me. For years, I had no real idea what they did and now I know. I have a journal full of what I’ve remembered, the dreams—the nightmares—and memories from that time. I would wake in the dead of the night in a cold sweat with a scream trapped behind my teeth suddenly knowing what had happened, what had been.

“I will never trust them. I can’t. Not knowing what they come from and not knowing what they did to me and being entirely certain that I was not the only one suffering that way. The bloody apothecaries do their damnable work on whoever has the misfortune of falling into their hands. It doesn’t matter who you are, who you were—they don’t care. All you are to them are a subject for their work. That is the true nightmare—that and the fact that no one can or will stop them because they are useful and their work is useful.”

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, taking a deep swallow from her cup of coffee. “My views are unpopular, but they are my own. I keep them to myself, but no one can force me to believe what I do not wish to believe. Trust in that, brother, if you trust in nothing else. Trust in that.”

[Mentions: @darlingknave (for not-Cord), @drimmari, @worst-paladin-ever]

#fiction #Wyn Ilthyrii #Galdanir #Resolute Blades #World of Warcraft #Wyrmrest Accord #Horde #WrA #WoW #story time #backstory and more #felsteel screw

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umbralabraxant · 5 years

Text

>Frozen in Place

You’d done as much to protect yourself as you could without your powers. You’d meditated and centered yourself, you’d imbued focusing crystals with positive energy, you’d lined your pockets with purified salts, you’d done everything you could to make this journey into your Home Universe as safe as possible. Shuck could feel your anxiety, and while he wasn’t the best at being comforting, you appreciated his gestures of ensuring that your Father could get nowhere near you with him by your side.

Saro had wanted to come along but you hadn’t been sure of what was awaiting you at your Apartment and you didn’t want her seeing anything that might upset her. She’d told you she was fine, that she understood that you hadn’t been yourself the last time you were there. You’d voiced that this was something you needed to do alone. She hadn’t argued with that, or seemed offended, all she’d done was give you a tight hug and a chaste kiss to the crook of your neck before telling you to be safe. You’d promised you would be.

The Universes shift around you and before you know it you’re standing in your living room. The first thing that hits you is the smell: chamomile tea, cookies, and the warm dustiness of a large collection of books. Your mind reels for a moment as the space of non-linear quiet was lifted and the world began to seep back in. The unnatural silence of the room ebbs out and slowly the busy cars just outside of your New York Apartment start to hum and beep back into the current day. How strong had you been when you left here? You’d only known of this spell vaguely, it had been used to trap Azarath into a state of Linear Lock after Trigon’s Attack, it had been the reason there were Birds still there on your arrival despite the dimension being razed as a whole. Your arms fold across your ribs and you grip your arms above the elbow on either side. Shuck asks you if you were okay. You say yes, despite not knowing the answer.

“I just... need to gather some things. If you’d like to make yourself comfortable, I don’t feel anything wrong here.” You assure. With what you would call hesitance for the Monohound, he agrees and finds somewhere comfortable to scout from in your Living room. He doesn’t settle much, awkwardly perching on the edge of your couch with his hands folded between his knees, but he sits and gives you your space which is all you could ask for.

The first stop on the docket is your Bedroom. You wanted to gather books and clothes, possibly any kind of personal items that you’ve been missing for the past couple years. Few years? No, couple years, right? How long had it been since the last time you were in this apartment? You try not to think about it too much. There was no need to pick at that old scar, it didn’t need to be reopened.

Your feet carry you towards your bedroom without a thought. However long it had been, you still remember this place like the back of your hand. You reach the doorway to your bedroom and go to turn the handle, but the moment your hand makes contact with the metal a stinging shock works its way up your forearm and makes you yelp out in surprise.

Shuck is already behind you in the hall, asking if you are alright. You laugh, nervously, and assure him that you are. The door was enchanted at some point to keep anyone but you out, but, as you explain, it wasn’t You that had done it. There was a great power of Trigon’s Influence keeping out trespassers but you lacked the signature of his energy to get past the barricade. Shuck asks you if you need assistance in getting through the door. As much as you want to say no, you confirm that you do. He attempts to assure you that he does not care what is on the other side of the door, that he is here to accompany and help and nothing more. You thank him, and in an instant you are bathed in the supernatural dark of your bedroom with Shuck at your side.

He is about to ask if you need him to light the ethereal blackness before your finger finds the light switch and the bulb in the ceiling struggles to cast its illumination to the walls and floor. It’s dim from the magic here, but it’s more than enough to see with. You thank him for the interrupted offer, anyhow. He doesn’t seem to enjoy the thick miasma of Occult Energy in this room but doesn’t voice this outwardly. You don’t blame him one bit, it’s making even your skin prickle.

As you step up to the edge of your bed to gain access to your bedside table, you can smell the ozone in the air and it makes you freeze in place. Your eyes are drawn to your bed, and for the briefest of moments you feel as though your gaze is going to be met with glowing cyan eyes, a hacking laugh, and a sharp-toothed grin. It’s not. The most evidence of him there is are a few scattered grey-blue feathers tangled in amongst your disturbed bedding and the crisp smell of Storms in the air. You’re not sure when this happened, but this does not bring back the pining it once had. This brings back a knot in your stomach, cold and hard and slimy, and brief flashes of intimate moments shared with him and a body that wasn’t your own that you can only recall through a disoriented haze. Your hand finds the edge of your blanket and you flip it up and over the unwelcomed reminders. Out of sight, out of mind.

The next fifteen or so minutes are you pulling luggage from closets, packing away clothes that were the wrong size for you now, packing away books and phials, gathering the bits and pieces of your life that you deemed important enough to bring home with you--

Home.

That hits you almost as hard as the feathers had, but with much less shock and guilt. It still makes you feel uncomfortable, only because you had a lot of emotional baggage regarding that word. The alarmbells start going off in your head to abandon ship, to leave before you put Saro, or Shuck, or Iggy, or anyone in that house in unnecessary danger. Shuck seems to notice this spike and asks if he is allowed to touch you. Through your anxious stun, you say yes, and his body meets yours in a tentative embrace. Though you had never really been affectionate with him in any way, you let yourself melt into the embrace and his arms wrap themselves around your shoulders. His chest is solid and comforting as you press your face into it and you lose track of time while you ground yourself in the embrace.

Eventually, you feel good enough to peel yourself from him. You thank him. He assures you that it was not a problem. He asks if you are okay. You don’t lie, you tell him that being here is taking a toll on you, but that you’ll be fine. He asks if you want to leave. You tell him that you think you can handle it now. Nothing more is said between the two of you in silent agreeance. He leans against the inside of your bedroom door, locking the toes of his foot into the ground and placing all of his weight on a single leg. You’re sure he doesn’t mean anything by his observant watching of you as you move about the room and you try your best to ignore it.

The rest of your room is packed up without issue.

The final thing you grab is your Mindscape Mirror, something that seemed so archaic now that you’ve lived the past couple years without the need to such deep burying of emotion. You run your thumb over its edge and the mirrored surface ripples like water. Your brows knit. It shouldn’t be responding to you without your power, but it was. Had you imbued it for some reason before you left? Your hand dips into the looking glass and it ripples like mercury around your wrist. The cold air on the other side is shocking, but soon your fingertips meet smooth and domed surfaces, two of them. Instantly you recognize them and you nearly begin to cry. Dreamy and Lumiere. Their capsules are retrieved and you hug them both to your chest for a moment. You utter a soft thanks to the you who had fought Trigon hard enough to save the last shreds of Jade you had. You’d cry if you weren’t already numbly burnt out from being in your apartment.

Now that you were inside the room, you could open your door no problem to leave. Shuck helps you carry one of your bags of luggage. They’re stored in the living room as you move about the rest of the apartment and grab a few of your knickknacks. Due to the Linear Lock, the tea in your mug in the kitchen is still warm from the day He had left it, still billowing lazy steam, and the kettle is still hot to the touch. Your thumb skirts the rim of the mug and smears the black lipstick thereon. It’s surreal.

The cup is dumped and washed after that, wrapped in one of the many newspapers that were piled on the interior of your front door from the mail slot. You quickly sort the mail, most of which is garbage due to your mostly hermitic lifestyle. Fliers, junk mail, the occasional ‘New Tenant’ alert for the apartments on either side of you with the Landlord’s number on it in case of emergency. The only thing that’s remotely important are bills, but they served more as receipts than anything with your auto-payment through your bank. All in all, there’s nothing in the haphazard pile of a couple years worth of mail that catches your particular interest.

Once everything was organized and packed away, you returned to Shuck with the additional two or three knapsacks full of belongings.

“Is the spell going to hold now that we have disrupted it?” He asks.

“It should. It would hold even if someone came through the front door, it’s imbued into the walls and floors of this apartment. It’s... going to be something to break when I eventually move out of here entirely. I don’t... have that kind of power on my own.”

The pair of you set off with the mass of your belongings in tow. As the universe around you begins to shift and distort, you give a parting glance to your apartment, the place that held so many conflicting memories of comfort and upset; you look at the rings of coffee stains on the short table between the couch and the television, the half-crumpled throw pillows you used to lean on to look out the balcony, the slippers haphazardly cast aside and lying drunkenly by the foot of the sofa. As your eyes scan, they fall on the round mirror near the entryway to the kitchen. You make eye contact with yourself just before you vanish. You hold no expression.

Your reflection grins back at you. The Universe tilts and Home settles in around you. Shuck asks if you require assistance in unpacking. You don’t say anything.

--You only nod.

#Action!post #!drabble #mentions:#pyrogenetic #timaeuscreamsicle #aerospacegal

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Tainted Blood, Tainted Soul: Chapter Seven - Plans and Plots

A/N: Happy Sunday, everyone! Hopefully you all enjoyed last week’s steamy chapter; here’s a bit of a cold shower to help calm you down. And don’t forget to check my profile for a new holiday fic on Christmas Day!

I do not own FMA.

Chapter Seven - Plans and Plots

UNNAMED BUILDING, CENTRAL CITY

0649 HOURS, APRIL 14

Waking up felt like dragging herself bodily out of a hole filled with molasses. Weariness dragged at her limbs, limbs that were stiff and protested use. Riza forced her eyes open and then promptly allowed them to fall closed again at the faint hints of sun beginning to glimmer through the window and past the curtain. Too early…. Just let me stay here….

He lay with his back to her, the two of them having rolled apart in the night. She moved close against the expanse of warm skin, smiling as the movement awakened a fainter, more localized ache farther down. A pleasurable ache, one that spoke volumes of the night before. If they both weren't still healing — needing all the sleep they could get — she wouldn't be above waking him to relive it all in technicolour.

Just once more. One more time before we have to leave here, leave where it's safe and no one cares what we do….

But, no. She contented herself with slipping an arm across his chest, feeling his warmth seep into her as he shifted slightly in sleep. His hand found hers with a murmured noise of satisfaction, and Riza felt herself begin to drift back toward sleep…. The sweet oblivion that —

Oblivion.

Without warning, darkness welled up underneath her in a yawning abyss and gravity began its work of drawing her down, down, inexorably down. Her arm tightened around Roy, though his surprised gasp as he came awake went unheard. This was too much like the feeling in the hospital, when she had relapsed. She wanted to sleep, she had never wanted anything so badly in her life, just to sleep, to sink deeper in this comfortable bed and let the wallowing darkness claim her, have her —

"Riza, I'm sorry, but I don't know what else will work just please forgive me…."

She heard his voice and had a split second to wonder what in the world he could be begging forgiveness for… and then the slap echoed faintly in her ears as his palm connected with her cheek.

Her eyes flashed open with a gasp to find his — grey, unseeing, sick with worry — hovering over her. His hand returned to the side of her face, touching gently. "Talk to me, Riza, come on. Tell me you're okay."

"I'm okay." Her voice was so husky she barely recognized it herself. Awareness of her body and surroundings began to creep back in — she was on her back, him straddling her with the sheets tangled about them both and one hand still restlessly stroking her cheek, her neck, her hair. Blind eyes flickered back and forth as he processed the information his sense of touch gave him, his breathing rapid and shallow but beginning to settle as the panic receded. "I'm okay," she repeated, one hand reaching up to settle on his bare chest. "It's all right. I'm here."

He sat back, the hand that had been caressing her rising to rake back through his hair. "You scared the damn daylights out of me," he said, the words leaving on a rush of air. "I thought…. It felt like …." His throat worked, but stayed mute, unable to form the words 'you relapsed.'

Riza smiled ruefully, her eyes trailing down over that trim frame still sans pajamas from the night before. "Not one of my better wake-up calls," she admitted. "But then again, I wasn't trying to. I —"

A glaring scowl flashed onto his face in the space of an instant. "Don't you make light of this," he growled, leaning forward again. One finger wagged warningly in front of her nose; Riza noted that he was getting remarkably good at judging spatial awareness. "Don't you dare, Riza. You know what that was. We're getting you back to the hospital so they can look you over."

She caught his wrist as he made to move off of her, her voice calm and steady. "No, we're not. Stop for one second and listen." When she was sure she had his attention, she continued… knowing full well she was about to lie. "This isn't what you think it is. I think… I think I just had one of those falling dreams, like what happen sometimes as you're just about to fall asleep. Do I sound the way I did after the relapse in the hospital?" The glare in his eyes weakened, the scowl going slack. "I am coherent, I am awake, and I don't feel weak in the slightest. Look —"

Riza nudged his fingers into a loose fist, then cupped her hand over it and squeezed. Roy grimaced, visibly relenting. "Okay, okay. You've made your point."

He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow with the other hand finding her arm. "It's going to take me a while to stop worrying over you," he said quietly, after a moment. "I just…. Every so often, I see that moment when that sword left your throat, and…." He shook his head. "I've got to get my sight back, and soon."

Regarding him curiously, she turned toward him, nestling close. "That much was obvious from the start. But now you seem… more anxious about it. What's changed?"

His face set. "I need to see for myself that you're all right. Not touch the scars, not give ineffective little kiss-it-betters…. I have to see it, Riza. The novelty of using different senses has worn off." He paused… then his expression relaxed into his trademark confident smirk, though with only perhaps half its usually cocksure quality. "And I need to see you."

"I'd call that a good reason." Her hand slid up the back of his neck into his hair, tugging him closer. "I want you to see me, too."

14 WILDROSE LANE, CENTRAL CITY

1025 HOURS, APRIL 14

They had barely mounted the front steps before the huge main doors swung open on a dim foyer. Riza tensed, and barely had time to push Roy to one side before diving in the opposite direction. Her Colonel let out a surprised yelp as he fetched up against the stone balustrade lining the front steps, somehow managing to catch himself as a large form blurred past.

Riza whirled on the spot as their assailant took a reactive leap off the steps, grinding to a stop on the gravel path below. Her hands, balled into loose fists and held ready, hesitated before lowering slightly. "Major?"

"Lieutenant! It's so wonderful to you back on your feet after your ordeal!" Armstrong beamed below his moustache, happy tears brimming at the corners of his smiling eyes. Either a trick of the light or her own still-low blood levels halfway convinced her that pink sparkles danced behind his head for a brief moment. He placed a foot back on the lowest step, arms held wide to embrace her. "Such a brave young woman, to face what you did and come through on the other side! It's a tale of courage, determination –"

She backed up a pair of steps, beginning to circle toward Roy. "I'm sorry, sir, but I think a hug from you would run the risk of reopening my wounds… they haven't completely healed over, and –"

"Nonsense!" He advanced another step, still smiling broadly. "Think of it as an exchange of positive energy! If anything, it will help you to heal more quickly! And Colonel, welcome back! You look as strong as ever, though I doubt you've seen it for yourself yet." Another step. "Positive energy certainly won't hurt you, either."

Riza glared, taking a protective half-step in front of Roy. Her voice lowered warningly. "Major…."

"Let him have his way," Roy muttered behind her. "It'll be quick and then it'll be over. It's easier than running."

But Riza was no longer listening. As Armstrong closed, his bulk blocking the sun and casting them both in shadow, she ducked one heavily muscled arm. Staying half-crouched, she gritted her teeth and pistoned her right fist out, socking it directly into his midsection. Armstrong stopped, surprised but not hurt, and Riza kept going. A second lightning-fast punch from her left hit the same space as the first, before the right drove into him again.

Right in the breadbasket, the phrase drifted vaguely through her mind. She doubted she had injured the big man – her own strength was laughable compared to his – but he had at least stopped his attempts to hug them both.

From behind, Roy's arms circled her, pinning her own to her sides as he nearly lifted her off the ground. "Hawkeye, what's gotten into you?!" he demanded. "Settle down!"

Her blood was up, feeling like it was simmering inside her veins, feeding the anger. But at the sound of his voice in her ear, the strong arms pressing her tight against his body… it morphed almost instantly from incipient rage to rampant desire. Flashes of the night before came to her memory, as vivid as if it were happening that exact moment.

She knew her cheeks were colouring with sexual heat, but she dropped her gaze to the steps, playing it off as embarrassment. "I'm – I'm so sorry, Major. I don't know what came over me."

Roy's arms loosened on her, lowering her fully back to the floor, and she almost groaned in disappointment. The smell of him, of his preferred brands of antiperspirant and cologne, swirled around her. Heat pooled in the pit of her stomach, and Riza began to hope this meeting wouldn't take long. She needed to get him alone, and soon.

Armstrong seemed to have fully realized that his exuberance was not entirely welcome, and settled instead for patting her head with a weighty hand. "No apologies necessary," he assured her, still smiling. "Reactionary defensiveness is very common after traumatic battles." He nodded approvingly. "And while not as effective as you may have hoped, those were good strikes. Solid technique."

"You should know, Alex," a new voice drawled from the foyer. "I have no doubt you had at least some hand in teaching her."

Emerging onto the steps, Olivier Mira Armstrong regarded her guests with close scrutiny in her ice-blue eyes, taking in Riza's still-wary posture and Roy's hands resting gently on her arms. "Considering that the last time I saw the two of you," she said, voice casual but lacking warmth, "you looked like you'd gone four rounds with a Briggs grizzly, I'd call this a marked improvement."

Riza had felt Roy's fingers tighten on her arms the first time Olivier had spoken, and his grip had not relented. "I'd say it's a pleasure to see you again, but I'm afraid that's a bit of a reach for me at the moment," he answered, just as coolly.

Silence held, broken only by songbirds in the lush estate gardens, with tension rising to crackle in the air. After a long moment, Olivier turned with a swish of her long blonde hair and re-entered the house. "Come on. We've got a meeting to hold, and I want to get it over with."

The warmth of the spring sun faded as they followed her into the massive old house, liveried servants pausing to bow to the young mistress and master as they passed, breaking into soft whispers among themselves as soon as the guests were out of earshot. Roy had been seen here before, but not the pale, fair-haired woman with him, and even the most disciplined of servants had the occasional spark of curiosity.

Olivier led them to a high-ceilinged, well-appointed parlour, gesturing them wordlessly to seats on a plush sofa to one side of a bay window. Heavy satin curtains flanked either side of the panelled glass, the sun being the room's only illumination. Riza's eyes travelled around the subtle opulence of the room — lush carpeting underneath, an ornate, unlit light fixture overhead, carefully painted delicate wooden scrollwork around the top of each wall. Against one wall was a writing desk next to a glossy roll-top cabinet and a pair of tall bookcases filled to capacity. In the far corner stood a gleaming baby grand piano, its keys covered but sheet music still spread on the little shelf at eye level.

Quietly directing Roy to his seat on the couch, she followed him down as the Armstrong siblings took their own seats in a pair of large, overstuffed armchairs. Olivier regarded the pair of them for a moment before speaking. "I would have thought the two of you would have applied for transfer out of this city the moment Grumman assumed control," she commented. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but the only reason you were here was so that Bradley could better keep you under his thumb, wasn't it?"

Roy smiled grimly, leaning back against the soft back of the couch. "Is it so hard to believe, General, that I perhaps deserved my promotion to Central?"

"Not so hard to believe," she retorted. "Though it does rankle, somewhat. Still, that you were able to use it to your advantage is a good sign." She paused, watching him closely. "Much as you'll do during your time in Ishval, I expect."

Roy remained still, his fingers laced together in his lap, his eyes closed. "…Does this mean you've given some thought to the request I gave you?"

Riza couldn't hold herself back from casting him a sidelong glance. Just what was he talking about? He hadn't said anything to her about a request to the Major-General, and she was fairly certain he would rather have eaten his own flames before asking her for any favour at all.

"I have, and I have likewise spoken to him about it." Blue eyes were hard as she looked at him. "I'm not about to give up my preferred assistant to you without asking for his input first. Much as I imagine it'd taken nothing short of a Presidential order to separate you from your Lieutenant." Her gaze flicked between the two of them. "And it would seem that even then, it isn't permanent."

"Neither do I intend this to be," Roy said firmly. "If Miles can help us in getting established, teaching us the culture so that we don't embarrass ourselves, and helping the Ishvalans to trust Amestrian soldiers again, I'd be more than happy to send him back to you when the purpose has been served."

"Good. I'd hate to have to take him back by force." Olivier snapped her fingers, a servant appearing through the doorway carrying two packages wrapped in brown paper. "Miles already agreed, and had these made up for you. He said that for starting out in the region, you're going to want to forget your uniforms. Too many people there are still skittish over the sight of Amestrian soldiers."

Accepting the parcel handed to her, Riza hefted it curiously. "Local clothing?"

"Exactly."

"You'll need some instruction in how to put it on," a voice said from another doorway behind the Armstrongs' chairs. Both Roy and Riza lifted their heads sharply, her eyes widening and his mouth falling open. Stepping forward from the shadows, still moving carefully due to his wounds, Scar regarded both of them calmly. "Some Ishvalan clothing requires a trick to put on properly."

Riza knew her muscles were tensing again, expecting an attack. Beside her, she felt Roy force himself to relax. "I must be hallucinating," he said mildly. "I could swear that's the voice of what I was told was a dead man."

He didn't see the tiniest twitch of the scarred man's lips that was a minute smile. "There are plenty of ghosts in Ishvalan legends, Colonel."

Sitting back in her chair with a satisfied smirk, Olivier folded her arms. "Our friend here will also be accompanying you to Ishval on this trip," she said. "He and Miles will work together with both you and the Ishvalan remnant to ensure the continuation of religious and cultural practices, and to help the two of you understand what you and your team will be dealing with."

Roy nodded in understanding. "That will be a great help. Certainly more than I expected." He grinned. "You'll run me neck-deep into debt with you for this, General. Or was that your intention?"

"Of course it was." Her smirk widened. "Someone has to make sure an insolent upstart like you stays in your place."

Silent and still for the majority of the discussion, Alex now stirred, his bass voice a rumble in the dim room. "All this is, of course, dependent on the murder investigation's timeline," he said. "Our new Führer-President has informed me that both the Colonel and Lieutenant are to take the lead on trying to find out just who this killer is."

"It's true," Riza confirmed. "We've spoken to two of our sources already, but they haven't been able to tell us much. Whoever is behind this, they're doing a remarkable job of keeping themselves out of the sight of witnesses and the military police." She looked sideways at Roy. "We'll keep looking for anything new, but it could take a while yet."

"Ishval has waited several years for restoration," Scar said, his arms folded over his chest. "It can wait a little longer; we know it's coming, and we understand it takes time." His tiny smile was tight. "Our people are nothing if not patient."

14 WILDROSE LANE, CENTRAL CITY

1407 HOURS, APRIL 14

It was early afternoon by the time they left the Armstrong family mansion, having spent a few hours ironing out details of the trip with Scar and being pressured into staying for lunch by Alex. At last, with Riza claiming — falsely — that her injuries still required her to rest every so often, they made their escape.

Pacing up the street past the walled-off estates of Central's well-to-do, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, Roy frowned thoughtfully. "This is all falling into place much more quickly than I'd anticipated," he said, eyes open but directed toward the ground as though he could see the sidewalk before him. "I hadn't expected everyone to be ready so soon."

"We did lose a week being in hospital," Riza pointed out. "If anything, we're starting in last place while everyone else had a head start, as well as having the investigation to take up our time."

"True." He threw her a grin. "You always did work best under a time crunch."

"I seem to recall that's how you complete most office work," she shot back, squeezing his arm to indicate the remark's affection. They sobered, continuing to walk in silence for another few moments before Roy spoke again.

"…The cemetery is near here, isn't it?"

"Another few hundred metres on the left." She smiled, glancing sideways at him. "I take it you'd like to visit him?"

"Might be the last chance I have for a while." His expression was somber, his voice soft but calm. He was becoming introspective, she could see, his thoughts turning to ones of his late friend. Riza didn't reply; she merely squeezed his arm again, a sign that she understood.

There were a few more people among the graves than usual, and Riza wondered if the Promised Day had swelled the cemetery's population at all. Either soldiers with family plots here, or perhaps anyone too young, old, or frail to withstand their souls being ripped out and slammed back home. She fought a shudder, knowing it would only worry Roy.

The path to their destination was a familiar one, and Roy walked easily along the packed earth trails and over the short-trimmed grass. Almost without Riza's guidance, he found his way to the correct headstone, facing it as he drew to a halt. Silence held for a long moment, both of them taking time to look at the carefully engraved name and military emblem, or — in Roy's case — simply reflect. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head.

"Hughes, you missed a hell of a party."

Riza clamped down on the sudden urge to laugh at the off-hand remark, reminding herself sternly that this was a serious moment. You didn't laugh in a graveyard, especially not when it was Roy's obvious attempt to lighten his darkening mood. Slipping her hand from his arm, she touched his shoulder lightly. "If you want some time alone, that's fine with me," she said quietly. "I'll come back when you're done."

His smile for her was more of the lip twitch Scar's had been, before he nodded. His eyes were closed again, though in contemplation or emotion she didn't know. "Yeah, sure. Thank you."

Riza stepped close to the headstone before she left, pressing a kiss to her fingers and touching them to the smooth granite before she moved back toward the path. The gesture left her with goosebumps rising on her arms, and this time, she gave in to the shudder.

She walked slowly, her hands folded behind her, looking idly at the names on headstones and the flowers and offerings left at their bases. It had never escaped her notice how much time she and Roy spent in graveyards, at least compared to normal people. Oddest of all, it was how they had drawn as close as they had, standing in front of that lonely, plain stone after burying her father….

She gave herself a mental shake, willing the images from the past to dissipate. It didn't do to dwell on it, that was for certain. Looking up, toward the tall mausoleums at the top of the hill, she turned her steps in that direction. The few people that were about were even fewer up there, and just right now, she preferred to be alone.

Thoughts of returning to Ishval began filtering in. What would it feel like, she wondered, to walk those sands again? Not there to wound, this time, but to heal? Perhaps there would be more than one kind of healing, as well. In healing the land and the people, Riza harboured a desire to heal herself and Roy for what they had done. It seemed only fitting.

She breathed out a sigh, looking up at the name engraved over the entrance of the first mausoleum. Not one she recognized, but the sight of the scaled-down columns and pantheon-like structure brought another wave of thoughts. Did he have some crypt like this? A chill crawled up her back at the thought that the man she had spent six months fearing was somewhere close by.

Surely not, she tried to reassure herself, reading over the names on other tombs as she continued along the row. Surely he'd be buried in the military cemetery closer to Headquarters, wouldn't he? Or even on the grounds themselves….

She made it to the end of the row of crypts without the name 'Bradley' appearing on any of them, relief settling like a calming blanket over her shoulders as her tension fell away. Chiding herself for her own silliness — the man is dead, what can he do to you now? – she turned back the way she'd come… and paused.

Standing in front of the next-to-last mausoleum on the north side was a man, wearing a dark suit and matching hat, his hands in his pockets as he considered the façade with the quiet interest of someone attending an art gallery. Some sense of distaste or distrust pushed Riza to avoid him, but she ignored it. Armstrong had to have been right: following the trauma of the Promised Day, she'd let herself become needlessly jumpy. She had to have more control than this. Starting back along the path, she kept her eyes resolutely from the man, passing behind him on the packed earth.

"Such wonderful detail we put into resting places for the dead," he commented, just as she passed. "More than into our own homes while we're among the living. It seems strange, doesn't it, given that those it's for aren't around to appreciate it."

Riza stopped in her tracks at the first few words, but didn't turn, only glancing back over her shoulder. "…I believe it's considered a mark of respect to give the dead this kind of luxury," she commented. "And you can't take your wealth with you, so why not spend it on funeral arrangements?"

The man chuckled, not turning to look at her. "You make excellent points. Don't tell me you've spent time considering it all? Morbid thoughts shouldn't be held by lovely women."

Irritation flashed red-hot through her head, and Riza turned away. She had only been gone from Roy for maybe ten minutes, but suddenly she needed to be near him again, if only so strange men wouldn't speak to her unnecessarily.

She made it three steps before a hand closed on her arm. Just before it made contact, she heard the man's silky smooth voice. "Don't go away angry, Lieutenant. It was merely innocent conversation."

In the next instant, the anger overpowered the irritation and contempt, and she whirled. Her hand came up, catching the man's wrist. Far from the expression of surprise she had thought would be on his face, she found only a wide grin, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. Her eyes went to that broad smile at the same time as her palm pressed to his chest.

He jumped backward in time with her shove, lessening the impact and widening the gap between them. His free hand lifted to hold his hat in place as he landed lightly on the steps of the mausoleum, still smiling.

"Such anger in you," he commented, sounding nearly gleeful. "I always knew it had the potential to be there, but you keep yourself so ruthlessly in check, I never thought I'd see it."

Riza felt her eyes narrow, holding her place on the path but ready to bolt if necessary. "First, you know my title and now you claim you know my mind." She was beginning to wish she'd brought a gun, but it hadn't seemed necessary. "Who are you?"

The man's answer was simply to tug the brim of his hat politely. "Who I am is my own business for the time being. You'll find out soon enough. Though I'm not here to talk about myself; I'm here to talk about you." He sat down on the steps, propping his chin in one hand with the elbow resting on his bent knee. He kept his head ducked, the brim of the hat still hiding most of his face. "You were wounded recently. How are you recovering?"

She didn't answer, still standing ready for whatever this odd stranger might throw at her. Brown eyes watched him cautiously, taking time to memorize details for later identification. Male, perhaps six feet tall without the hat, well-spoken, voice well-modulated. Fashionable clothing that was obviously tailored to fit his trim frame. She turned her attention to his face as he lifted his head, to note the details there… and felt her stomach drop.

It wasn't that his pale face was utterly devoid of features. He had eyes, a nose, a mouth, ears… everything required by a normal human face. However, it was as though she were looking at it through running water that was none too clear. The features seemed to change and shift every second or so, rippling in and out of focus, changing at random. Riza blinked, confused by the apparition…. The man's smile widened.

"Is there a problem, Lieutenant?" he drawled. "You look as though something has shocked you."

She held her silence, trying to train her eyes on one feature at a time in hopes of recognizing the man behind the strange mask. Focused as she was, she did not notice the subtle shifts and tension of his body until it was too late.

The man lunged, covering the ground between them faster than she would have thought possible, bowling her over completely as he tackled her around the midriff. The air left her lungs as she landed hard on her back in the dirt; she heard it go in a convulsive gasp.

Unable to move, she was dimly aware of the sensation as the man leaned over her, one knee either side of her. Like Roy, this morning, she thought vaguely, struggling to draw breath. The shifting mask remained in place as his spoke, his lips wavering and shimmering inches away from hers.

"I met you here to explain something," he said, as casually as though he were talking about the weather. "You're going through a very special time in your life, and your body is changing. You're going to notice that some things are… different." He wagged a finger in mock admonishment. "But you shouldn't think you're all that different from all the other young ladies."

Flashbacks of her early teenage years came back. He sounds like a Physical Health teacher, came the disjointed thought. Her mind swam from lack of oxygen; she still couldn't breathe. Changing bodies, hormones, no different than other girls —

The man grinned, sliding a sensual hand down the curve of her neck. "But don't worry, Lieutenant…. All will be clear once it's over. Once you're… complete. And until then…."

His finger hooked into the collar of her shirt, tugging it away from her skin as he leaned down. Riza squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body tensing as his tongue trailed over the still-healing scar, his lips pressing to the damp patch directly after. "You can remember me by that."

A trickle of air worked its way down her throat, and Riza felt her muscles unlock from their tight posture. For the second time that day, she formed a fist, and concentrated on pouring as much power into it as she could in the short distance available.

The man moved too quickly for her to register, and her blow socked harmlessly into the palm of his hand. His smile widened. "Ah, there's that fiery attitude I remember…. Small wonder you chose to work with the Flame Alchemist. Or perhaps it's something he instilled in you over the years?" He cocked his head curiously. "Did you leave a blind man on his own to go wandering about? Such an odd displacement of character, for a bodyguard to leave such a vulnerable body. And I thought you took such pride in your work…."

"He can… look after… himself…" she gritted, still only able to draw a half-breath at a time. "So can… I…."

She pushed upward with her hips, twisting and pushing with her captured hand at the same time to send him sideways into the dirt. As soon as she felt him separate from her, she rolled quickly in the opposite direction, distancing herself.

As suddenly as he had attacked her, he pushed away and to his feet, dusting himself off in a dignified fashion. Behind the running-water mask, she saw his tongue dart out and dash across his lips. "It's been a pleasure seeing you again," he said, some dark sentiment lurking behind a sneering smile. "And I'm sure it won't be long before the next time. Take care."

Her breath was returning as he set off toward one of the high walls surrounding the cemetery. Getting to her feet, Riza drew as deep a breath as she could manage, feeling a residual ache in her chest. She forced her feet into motion after the man; instincts from her years in uniform guided her to bring him down, subdue him, then drag him to Roy.

He must have sensed her coming. Without turning around, he sprinted away, still heading toward the blank wall, one hand holding his hat to his head. He could have kept running straight, just made for the little gate in the wall, but just before he met the row of graves running parallel to the stone, he veered to the left. Gritting her teeth, Riza angled after him, closing the distance only for a moment before his greater speed drew him farther in front. A moment later, he changed tack again, heading directly for the wall, flying over a gravestone with inches to spare.

Just when she thought he would collide with the heavy stone blocks, he leapt… and she ground to a shocked halt. The man scaled the sheer surface like a four-legged spider, and disappeared over the top without so much as a backward glance.

Gradually, she began to realize she was standing here, gaping at a blank wall like an idiot. Closing her mouth, she cast a swift look around the area, but none of the grave visitors was paying her any mind; they were all absorbed in their own business, their own grief.

Her chest still ached from its long seconds without air, but that was fading. Riza focussed inward for a moment, checking for any other potential injury… and found nothing. Her breathing was noticeably slow, and shallow. Perhaps that was an aftereffect of being slammed airlessly to the ground.

Slowly, she turned back the way she'd come, eyeing the graves she had dashed past seconds before. She didn't rightly know just how long she had left Roy on his own for, but she knew from experience just how long he could spend talking to his late friend. He wouldn't mind.

Her thoughts drifted back to the man with the strange rippling effect over his face, running over the encounter again and again for new clues. He had seemed to have known her, but that wasn't unheard of. With as much press as Roy and his team had gotten following the Promised Day, and even for their work in the Eastern region, she'd had her photograph in the newspapers and her name on radio broadcasts several times over.

But no, he hadn't known of her. He had known her. That much was clear from phrases he'd used. He'd known facts about her personality — the way she kept all emotion in check when on the job, her protectiveness of Roy, the way her temper flared when she did loosen her grip on it…. And then, there had been his insinuation he had seen her before.

Frowning intently, her eyes on the path, she tried to coalesce that shimmering, half-hidden face into a recognizable one. Dark hair, she had seen that much, though with that hat, length was anyone's guess. Pale skin, but she hadn't been able to tell face shape. Had he had facial hair? Hard to say. Eye colour…. One moment it had appeared dark, then perhaps blue or green….

Sighing in frustration, she gave up the exercise for the moment. She was too rattled, too worked up to think clearly enough for an accurate summation.

Coming down the hill, she looked up, searching along the rows ahead until she spotted the figure, seated cross-legged on the ground in front of a grave, his hands folded in his lap and his long coat pooled around him on the grass. Just that sight — when he was calm and about as relaxed as he ever got — helped to settle her. The knowledge that he was alive and well and healing… and would be able to see her again with those powerful dark eyes….

She nearly tripped over her own feet, coming to a halt as something from the night before jumped forward from her memory. Nothing Roy had done, nothing she had said… something Casella had said. One hand rose to her mouth, not quite in time to catch the curse that dropped from her lips.

Reports of the killer’s appearance differed widely, because what few witnesses there were couldn't get a clear look at his appearance. That was commonplace in any investigation. But what sent a chill racing up her spine was one phrase in particular.

The guy you're looking for could climb sheer walls.

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