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sixeyesgojo · 3 years

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jjk characters handling your period

Summary: “What do you mean, no baby this month either? Okay, suffer then.” - your damn uterus

Pairings: Gojo/Megumi/Nanami/Naoya/Toji x Reader

Content warning: the monthly bloody nightmare your uterus puts you through and the whole shebang that comes with it, language warning, suggestive themes, explicit warning for Toji (you’ll see why)

A/N: purely self-indulgent because I suffer. @megumifushi and @sukirichi , my gals, I gotcha. Also dedicated to all readers who suffer from the same fate (may it be right now or not). Also: Yes, absolutely open the video I linked in Megumi’s part (it’s safe, I promise).

Gojo Satoru

You turn and turn in bed uncomfortably. Something isn’t right, you think and it’s not the fact that Satoru is missing next to you. Not knowing immediately irritates you. All of a sudden you become painfully aware of your lower region. Yes, of course it had to be that time of the month. You just knew you already stained your panties and perhaps the sheets haven’t been spared either. Getting out of bed, then realizing it was already past noon, you sprinted to the bathroom. Fuck, moving fast was not a good idea.

Having changed the sheets and your stained panties, you made your way to the kitchen. Your stomach growled, signaling you were hungry, but at the same time you feared. Smelling food, let alone tasting too much of it, was a slippery slope – either your nose would protest or your stomach, no in-between. Regardless, you had to eat; or were you supposed to starve to death because of this? Not in this lifetime. “I AM BACK!” an annoyingly loud voice rang through the apartment. You groan and turn around. “Fuck off, Satoru,” you say. Your irritation flaring up for seemingly no reason. “Stop being so motherfucking loud. My head feels like it’s going to split in two and my pussy is fighting the crimson war right now,” you snarled at him.

“Oh honey, seems like I called the right shots then,” he declared proudly and held up a bag filled with... snacks? “I already called in sick for you for the next few days,” Satoru continued to explain as he wrapped his arms around you, “and I’ll be by your side 24/7 for the next two days. We’ll do fun stuff. How does movie night with lots of cuddling for tonight sound?”

“Why are you so nice to me right now?” you mumbled, tears welling up in your eyes. “Simple: I don’t want to be castrated by you,” he whispered back and planted a kiss on your cheek. “Fair enough. What will we do tomorrow?” He stayed silent but pulled out a black card out of his sleeve. You gasped.

Fushiguro Megumi

Ping. A notification. Quickly, you scrambled to get your phone to see what that was about. You desperately needed some distraction right now. The pain was too much. Your boyfriend Megumi had gone somewhere you didn’t know. All you knew was that your boobs were sore, the sensitive nipples rubbing against the fabric were already too much. In addition to that, you also experienced period cramps, resulting in back pain as well. Life was not easy at the moment but at least you could lay in bed for today, doing absolutely nothing.

Unlocking your phone, you saw a new message from Yuji: “omg look at this???” [Video link] It was a video of 42 seconds. There was a cute seal – probably the cutest and fluffiest seal you have ever seen – and background music. It may have only lasted 42 seconds but it definitely triggered some happy feelings inside you; it was so pure and you loved the energy of the clip. Perhaps these feelings were a bit too intense and overwhelming. Tears streamed down your face and you started sobbing uncontrollably. Why were you like this? It wasn’t even a sad video, was it?

You buried your face in the blankets, weeping as if someone just broke up with you. Through your loud crying, you did not notice the door opening. A jangling noise could be heard from your nightstand. Instantly, you shot up to check for intruders but luckily, it was Megumi. A frown spread on his face. “What happened?” he asked as his thumbs wiped your tears from your cheeks. You showed him the video, still sobbing, “Look at the seal... It’s so c-cute. I just... got emotional because it really t-traveled the world. This cutie deserves the whole world...”

“And so do you,” he bluntly stated, “now take the ibuprofen I brought you for the cramps and rest up.” As a matter of fact, he not only brought you painkillers but a hot water bottle and food as well.

Nanami Kento

“No, give me that. Lay down and rest. I can dust off the shelves on my own,” his deep voice commanded. If there was a man that screamed “male wife” it was definitely Nanami Kento, particularly when it came to you being on your period. You weren’t allowed to do anything in the house, except for very light chores. With good reason. “Kento, I can do–” Yeah, no, it wasn’t possible and Kento knew it too well.

You weren’t lucky when it came to period symptoms. Besides excruciating back pain, extremely sore breasts and headaches, you also had the luck to suffer from dizziness every single time you experienced the monthly nuisance. The first time you even passed out. In fact, it had happened several times. And that was precisely how Kento decided to not let you do anything. Still, you felt bad to leave everything to Kento. His work already demanded so much from him and here you were, being babied and even spoon-fed. You didn’t even have to cook your own meals or wash and iron laundry.

You had barely said those words when the unwelcome whirling sensation took you over again. Your feet wobbled, you were in danger of crashing to the ground. In a flash, Kento was by your side to steady you. “I told you not to overdo it.” He cupped your cheek with his warm hand. “Sorry, Kento. I’ll... just rest for a minute.”

Zenin Naoya

Period pain? Laughable. Naoya thought it was pathetic. A woman – these already weak creatures – having period symptoms was a mystery to him. What could possibly hurt about bleeding a little? He couldn’t understand. Your pitiable and sorry state was only another inconvenience to him. Not that you hindered him in any way – you were obedient enough to be quiet and complain as little as possible – but he absolutely despised seeing that annoying expression of pain on your face every time he had to look at it.

Hell, he didn’t even want to engage in sexual activities with you during that time, even though he had randomly picked up somewhere that it might help. Not that he wanted to help you, it was your problem and yours only, not his. “Stop looking at me with those eyes. It’s disgusting,” he remarked condescendingly as he got dressed for wherever he had to go. “When will you be back?” you croaked out but he totally ignored you.

“Women are so damn weak. It’s so fucking pathetic, I almost want to give you a hug,” Naoya gagged. He was about to leave the room but stopped in his tracks. Looking over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of your face that was contorted with pain. In long strides, he made it to one of the cabinets, fished out a tiny box and threw it on the bed. “Tsk, you better get well soon so you can serve me again, dumb bitch.”

Fushiguro Toji (soft)

Work hadn’t been treating him kindly: not yesterday, not today, not ever. Although he was highly capable and never failed to exceed himself, all Toji truly wanted to do was to go home. When he finally made it through the door, he called out, “Am home.” Usually, you would come running to greet him but when nothing but silence greeted him, his hand instantly moved to the cursed creature lingering on his shoulder. It was suspicious. Did enemies manage to find this hideout? Where were you? His hands started sweating.

Stealthily, he approached the kitchen. To his surprise, he saw your form in front of the counter, hunched over in pain. Dropping his offensive stance immediately, he quickly strode over to check on you. “Hey, what are you doing there?” he asked, hesitatingly putting a hand on your shoulder. You looked at him, grimacing with pain, “Oh, Toji. I didn’t realize you were home yet. Sorry, I’m not done cooking dinner yet, I just feel so nauseous, exhausted and my entire back and shoulders hurt so much. It’s so sore.” “I see.” He nodded, understanding what was happening. Suddenly, he lifted you effortlessly. You squealed, “Toji!! What are you doing?!” “Taking care of you,” he promised. “But dinner!” “Don’t care.”

Making his way to the bedroom, Toji laid down with you on top of him. Something about his warmth already made you feel better but as his large palms rubbed your back in circular motions, you felt as if you were in heaven. Toji’s ministrations soothed the pain so well, you almost let out a moan. Now that the pain didn’t overshadow all the other symptoms anymore, the drowsiness took over. “Toji, ‘m tired,” you mumbled; eyelids fluttering already. “Then sleep. I’ll take care of dinner later,” he whispered. You only hummed in response, already far too gone. Slowly but surely, his steady heartbeat lulled you to sleep. “Sleep tight.”

Taglist: @megumifushi @gojos-mochi @assbuttbaek @bleueluna

#gojo x reader #megumi x reader #nanami x reader #naoya x reader #toji x reader #gojo satoru #fushiguro megumi #nanami kento #zenin naoya #fushiguro toji #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen naoya #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #tw: period talk #tw: periods #tw: menstruation

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rentsturner · 3 years

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Bruised Knuckles | Mark Renton

Warnings - Reader has punched a wall, mentions/descriptions of injury, mentions of (non-specified) scars, alcohol and drugs, content that some people may find as very similar to self-harm, reader is paranoid and insecure. If any of this triggers you pls don’t continue to read. I’ve tried to note all the possible triggers.

wc - 1.7k

a/n - I’ve had a pretty shitty few days tbh and I still feel the lowest that I’ve felt in months. So I’ve channeled all of that into this fic. It’s quite angst heavy but there’s fluff at the end (what can I say, hurt and comfort is my shit). You may find the reader’s emotions a bit dramatic but I’ve basically self projected on to this and I’m not rlly arsed. Read the warnings and if you don’t like it, don’t read it. I don’t want any shit over this

It’s a cold day in Edinburgh, the skies grey and cloudy over the city.It’s been a long day without Mark. He’s been out since the early hours with Sickboy, no doubt dragged into another of Si’s infamous schemes, leaving you to spend the day alone in your tiny apartment. As much as you don’t want to admit it, the isolation has gotten to you - you slipped, more than once. Yeah, you regret it, but also there’s that nagging need for more at the back of your mind. You try to push it out, to forget about it, but the cold in the air doesn’t help to ease the ache in your knuckles.

The door to the apartment shuts with a click and a jangle of keys, footsteps heading towards the door. He’s back. A wave of relief, before you remember and your chest clenches in panic.

‘Alright, love?’ Mark flops onto the bed with a lazy grin, stretching his arms up over his head.

‘Yeah, fine, you?’ Keep it simple. You busy yourself with a stack of books by the bed, straightening the pile of novels so it’s not about to topple over. Keep the hand busy.

‘Yeah, alright. Si led us on a fucking wild goose chase but we got there in the end, y’know?’

You didn’t know, but you nodded along anyway and let him recount the story. You’re admiring the way his lashes flutter against his pale skin and how his arms flex as his hands come to rest behind his head, when you realise that Mark’s stopped talking. And you’ve stopped moving.

‘Your knuckle...” his eyes dart down to the hand you’ve been trying to hide ever since he walked through the door. Busted.

‘Oh.’ You move to get up, anything to get his eyes away from your swollen knuckles, red lines criss crossing over the flowering purple bruises where your hand collided with a solid wall. Multiple times. The open cuts are still weeping, even though it had happened hours ago.

‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ You offer a small smile, but it doesn’t fool Mark.

‘No.’ He moves as you do, standing in front of the bedroom door to block your escape. His arms are crossed over his chest, stance serious , but the worry in his blue eyes betrays him. ‘Love. Let me see it.’

He holds out his hand, pale fingers reaching out to you, his skin just as scarred as yours - different actions, same result. He knows how to help. The hand reaching,an offer of support, reassurance, love, all those things that you crave but can never admit. Emotions aren’t your forté - never have been.But Mark knows that. There’s no secrets between you. You almost laugh out loud at the thought. No secrets, but you won’t even show Mark your hand.

Mark would do anything for you, you know that - he tells you all the time. Days spent in bed chatting shit to each other.

‘I’d run to John O'Groats and back for you, y’know?’

‘Would you now, Mark? What about down to Land’s End?’

‘In a heartbeat.’

Bright eyes, wide smile. Your Mark. He’s joking, of course, but his tone is so serious, his answer without a second of hesitation. Your heart skips a beat.

So now, you give him your hand (and your heart).

He takes it tentatively, one cold hand underneath, the other poking at your raw knuckles gently. When one of his prods reaches a tender spot, you wince and he moves his finger away, meeting your gaze in apology.

‘You punch something?’ His brow creases, a hand running instinctively over his closely cropped hair, before scratching at the back of his neck. He refuses to grow it out, no matter how much you try to persuade him, still getting his razor out every other month like clockwork.

‘It’s easier this way.’ He insists. Less hassle in the morning is what he means.

The sting in your hand brings you back to the present.

‘No.’ You look away from Mark’s gaze, knowing that in doing so you’ll give yourself away, but not having the energy or willpower to stop yourself. Much like the ‘incident’ earlier in the day.

‘I’m going to take that as a yes.’ Mark huffs, not in anger, but in frustration - frustration that he wasn’t there to help, to calm you down. ‘Let me clean it up, give me a sec.’

His hand rubs at his eyes, scrunched shut for a moment. There’s dark bags marring his pale skin there - he’s tired too. He goes to move to the bathroom, but you grab his arm with your good hand, gripping it as tight as you can. Don’t leave.

‘No, Mark, it’s alright, I’ll sort it.’

But he shakes his head. He doesn’t look happy. Not that you’d expect him to, but...he’s frustrated with you, you can tell.

‘You can’t clean yourself up with one hand. Just wait here, alright?’

The inkling is worming its way in now, from your subconscious to your conscious, until its at the forefront of your mind. He’s angry, he’s disgusted, he’s going to leave. He’s not going to the bathroom, he’s going to the front door so he can get out of here. You’re sure of it.

‘I’m sorry.’ The whisper escapes you and you have to bite the inside of your cheek so no tears will spill. The words are almost silent, your hand dropping Mark’s in defeat.

But Mark turns his head at your weak apology, stopping in his tracks.

‘What? Why -‘

With a jolt, he notices the way you’ve changed - unable to look at him, arms beginning to wrap around yourself, one fist clenched. He knows what’s happening.

‘No, no, love, I’m not angry.’

He’s back at your side in a heartbeat, bringing his hand up to your chest, thumb carefully wiping away the rogue tear that’s tracking a salty path over your cheekbone.

‘I love you. I just want the best for you, alright? I don’t like seeing you hurt, just like I’d fucking hope you wouldn’t like seeing me hurt.’

His face breaks into a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you realise he’s right - of course he is. You don’t want to see him hurt, he’s been through enough, but that’s what you’re doing. He’s hurting just from seeing your hand, it’s obvious from the crease in his brow, the blue of his eyes dulled and flat. Mark’s got too much to deal with already, you’re just one extra problem to add to the mix. You don’t want to be his problem.

And suddenly it’s all coming up to the surface, ready to combust, explode, these emotions that you never really have a grip on. You bottle them up and push them down, so far down that the only way they can escape is through a rush of anger, jagged and uncontrollable.

But instead of that, you bury your face into Mark’s neck and let it out as slowly as you can.

‘I’m sorry, I was angry, I just wanted to feel something. Some pain. I don’t want to make you feel like this. I’m sorry.’

You’re clutching onto the worn fabric of Mark’s shirt like your life depends on it. You can’t possibly let go of him, the only one you have left.

Mark is steady, your rock in a storm of emotions. He listens, stroking your hair, pale fingers threading through the strands to knead at your scalp, knowing it tends to calm you down.

‘You’re alright, I promise. I promise you, love. I know you get angry. I know you. And I know what it’s like to want to feel something, trust me. We can get through it together, or we can be a mess together. I don’t care, as long as we’re together, honest. I’m not going anywhere.’

And the sincerity in his eyes, those familiar bright blue eyes, it convinces you. He means it.

You stay like this for a few minutes, your good hand clinging onto Mark’s ratty jumper, the other grasped tightly (but not too tightly) in Mark’ grip. His right arm is around your waist, pulling you closer, as if in doing so he can pour all of his reassurance, all of his love, directly to your heart. He knows it’s not possible. But he tries anyway. Because he’ll do anything for you. Your Mark.

Mark helps you clean your hand later, shushing you everything you wince (though that isn’t often). His hands are steady and practiced as he dabs at the cuts with alcohol, wrapping the gauze over your knuckles and securing it with some tape, humming to himself as he works, the steady tune in time with his deft movement. He doesn’t look up until the job is done - and a good job it is too. He knows what he’s doing, probably after years of wrapping Sickboy’s hands up in the same way - late nights out in the rough streets of Leith, fuelled by alcohol and amphetamines (and worse)

Mark kisses the bandages gently when he’s done - a silent ‘I love you. I care for you and I love you.’

And you smile, a smile that fills your whole body with warmth, a smile that drowns out the demons, if only for a little while. Because how can you not, when you have Mark. He tries his best and so do you - neither of you can ask anymore. You’ll be a mess together.

‘Let’s order Chinese and watch Dr No, eh?’

Or you’ll get through this together

*~*~*~*

@callmearwen @ohhellokenobi @darthserling @stardancerluv @goldenkenobi @lunarthoughts @saintlaurentkenobi @million-dollar-legs @i-am-i-am-obiwankenobi @letmybabysleep @haydens-moles @alideetoo @all-hallows-evie @junkieboyfriend @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @star-whores-a-new-hoe @arianalilyblack @sigynragnarsdottir @funkytxwn @drinksomecoco @darlingkenobi

#mark renton imagine #mark renton x reader #mark renton #mark renton headcanons #trainspotting #ewan mcgregor #ewan mcgregor x reader #fic recs #my writing #scotland #mark renton blurb #mark renton one shot #alex law

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ourladytamara · 4 years

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Utah Beach

by tamara - 2020

Content warnings: blood, violence, NC, watersports, drugs, war crimes

Red. Weeping gusts of deep, vicious scarlet, twisting in the air like ribbons. Poison - no, something worse. The shells bled without a moment of reaction time given to their victims.

With the defense of Mobile Bay a complete bust, the crew of the USCGC White Lamb was ad-hoc conscripted into the infantry. Armed with service pistols, a few spare rifles, and a shotgun looted from the trunk of a wrecked car, they marched like shorn sheep, twitching and nervous, into the ferocious wind and sweltering heat. Their mission: provide enough of a distraction to cover the last of the refugee caravan heading Westward. Whatever the method, however they achieved it - upper brass, what remained of it, wasn’t very clear on the specifics. Should they fail to provide a suitable distraction, human civilization East of the Mississippi was in serious jeopardy.

With a few moments of rough water off the shallow coast of the Florida panhandle, the small defense ship was blown ashore.

The beach they’d run aground was clearly the back of a resort’s more luxurious offerings. Driftwood, hardy grasses, and stones dotted the coarse soil, not an inch of it developed or prepared. Beyond it, a small parking lot, dotted with the husks of the vehicles unlucky enough not to escape the maelstrom of carnage that was the Atlantic seaboard. The sky above shone an ominous shade of gold as the sun struggled to filter through the clouds of ash drifting westward. Rays of jaundice yellow crashed upon the pale sand and blistering asphalt, an uneasy serenity engulfing the women, already on edge.

Little time to spare. Using whatever implements available, they immediately began constructing a temporary landing shelter to plan at attack. Blair, the field medic, directed her compatriots to build sand berms, a task they began eagerly. Driftwood would make improvised shovels - it had to.

A crash and the turning of necks. Gasps and retches as the fumes gushed forth from the steel canisters like thick, syrupy blood. Each twisted steel shell was embedded into earth like engorged ticks. What little they had to show of their entrenchment efforts were dashed to the winds in an instant; many of the women were simply blown across the craggy dunes by the force of impact, weapons discarded and utterly dazed.

Amanda was the first to crack, sucking down a lungful of the stuff before she was able to find anything close to a respirator; in this case, rather, a leftover facemask from the pandemic a few years back. Flimsy cloth gave little respite, of course. The spice, tingling in the back of her throat in a way she’d never felt before, was the first thing that belied just how fucked she was. Choking, capable of little more than a whine, she fell to the ground.

She’d foam at the mouth. She’d clench her stomach, her throat, her chest, the cruel fate of chemical warfare - that’s what they feared, at least. Somehow, though, the image of her shaking, terrified body beginning to unfasten her belt and rip away her service uniform had managed to scare them even worse.

Because if this wasn’t poison, their enemy wasn’t going to simply kill them.

The others joined her an instant later, the sound of the remaining few guns clattering to the ground and the stifled screams of a half-dozen functionally-innocent women. Whatever it was, the air of musk and incense brought an inescapable paralysis. Not one brought from a direct stoppage of nerve activity, of course; it was readily apparent by now that Demonic strategy was less about efficiency and more about maximally traumatizing the populace of Earth, and this gas was evidently part of the same grand strategy.

Lust was a haze beyond impenetrable. It ate them whole. Every panicked lungful only worsened their condition, their bodies heating up, burning like brimstone and spilling forth from the inadequate, meaty forms they inhabited. Too hot, much too hot; one by one, with faces of indignity and fright, uniforms were tossed aside. Some were more modest, choosing to crawl into the trenches where they might not be as visible - only to fall chest-first into the more highly-concentrated pockets of the gas.

Moans became sobs and sobs became moans again. Under the din of war it was hard to make out the lewd sounds of hasty masturbation, a minor blessing as it was. Artillery roared overhead, jet fighters shrieking before their untimely end in the flak-saturated skies above. Wreckage fell to Earth like dead and dying angels. Amanda, by now, was fist-deep in her cunt. Tanya, the girl from Memphis - she said she worked in a bakery before the draft was reinstated - was on top of her, lapping aimlessly at the other woman’s face. Mud held to tear-soaked skin.

Not one of the six mariners-turned-marines spared a thought in their mind beyond indulging in every excess the foul chemicals offered. It was a heavy, throbbing ache, inescapable and thick behind the eyes; with it came the tingling, the burning, the itch - it was over, after that.

Joann, first mate and first body up against the asphalt, was too busy fucking herself on the butt of her pistol to notice the mass of infernal might moving towards her. Demons. At least four, with a few possibly lagging behind them. Towering forms of malice and hardened vermillion skin, muscles barely concealed beneath layers of angular-cut black silk and heavy Hellsteel armor; yet despite the inhumanity of their size, they were eerily reflective of Joann’s own kin. Two legs, angled at the knee and terminating in blackened, heeled hooves. Two arms, of course; each section of their bodies were covered in the thick, red, plate-like skin, yet around joints and tender areas they bore black and reflective skin that shone in the vermillion light like iridescent puddles of oil. A head, adorned with long, curling horns, black and ribbed like charred bone. What little could be seen of their skeletal faces bore crude resemblance to Joann’s own: six eyes, each glowing red, sat inlaid in their sockets where, in terms of human anatomy, a singular eye sat. Bony cheeks terminated in a bony chin, ribbed with bizarre indentations and notches the human’s addled mind could barely begin to understand the purpose of.

Adorning them, black silk, reflective in the dimming light like nothing of Earth. It clung tightly to their forms, cut away in places to more easily allow salacious gazing at their toned bodies. Unlike the humans, they bore no rank, no insignia - save for a single black-and-white sigil across their breast, each was dressed almost identically. Heavy Hellsteel armor rattled around as they moved, the angles of the metal complementing the Demons’ physique. Imposing, near-black shone along the ridged steel, and a deep rusted umbre in others. Spikes and rough edges menaced like the grinning teeth of some ancient and forgotten beast.

The Demon at the front of the line fired a burst of warning shots from her enormous squad weapon into the berm beside Joann, to which the brave patriot responded with a whimper and an uncontrolled bladder release. Staring back at her, a particularly angry-looking one of Lucifer’s bastard children; her red form towered nearly eight feet, draped in black hellsilk and human leather, slender and delicate like a finely-crafted blade.

Joann did little to fend for herself. Her mind conjured a million methods of escape, not a single one even remotely possible while so heavily intoxicated. By the time her grand plans had been reduced down to simply ‘scream for help,’ the unholy thing was practically on top of her - and, a few seconds later, physically on top of her. “Reporting full neutralization, my Imperatrix. This one is mine.” the Demon spoke into the walkie-talkie mounted on her chest, her tone belaying her excitement. To her human onlookers, guttural hissing and harsh syllables, their animal ears unaccustomed to the tongue of their masters. A hand wrapped itself around Joann’s throat and threw her to the ground while the invader tore away her baggy uniform pants.

Laughter, of course, transcended all language barriers. The Demon at the front began to cackle the sick cackle their kind seemed so fond of, clearly enraptured by the terror on her captive’s face as she pulled her twin cocks out. A few more soldiers would emerge from the brush, weapons readied - and quickly lowered, as the state of the so-called ‘resistance’ was found. One of them smiled behind their steel visor and licked their supple lips, eager to join in ruining the freshly-captured Joann. They’d yet to try both of their cocks on a single human...

Few of the human women writhing on the ground could be called conscious, but those that did found resistance more than troubling. Where their limbs could move - a task made progressively more difficult by heavier exposure to the gas, still leaking - they made little effort beyond that which scratched that deep, burning itch. In their most desperate hour, their very minds would be the ones to betray them. The gas took incoming impulses for self-preservation and fear, and twisted them into motions of lust and debauchery. Basic movements became Sisyphian tasks, the labor of those condemned to the windy depths of Incontinence.

Tanya, the communications lead, was the last to try and muster resistance to the oncoming Demons. She rose defiantly, trembling limbs beating like the wings of a mighty phoenix as it soared from the ashes. Her khakis’ location around her ankles and the slickness of her pussy wouldn’t stop her - triumphant, hand shaking, she pulled the stock of her rifle from between her wet thighs, bringing it to aim...

...and as swiftly as she rose, she was thrown to the floor and mounted by a Demonic auxiliary. The hulking thing cast her pistol aside as she dug her clawed hands into soft flesh like a predatory animal. Tanya was never the most voluptuous of women, her petiteness only accentuating the already-large disparity in their sizes. With a disgusting squelch, her stomach bulged outwards, reflecting her abrupt filling; the hot breath of Hell licked and kissed her neck with sharp teeth and sharp tongues.

With a quick motion of its high-heeled hooves, the Demon mounting Tanya kicked her rifle away. As the scraping of steel across concrete ended, so too did the crew of the White Lamb’s hope for resistance. Distant anti-air rattled off another burst of flak, and wordlessly, fighter pilots turned back, turned West - away. Communications were shuttered, bridges were blown, and they, along with the lives of everyone still East of the Mississippi, were left behind.

And fend for themselves they would not. Steel hoof plates dug into the mud, bloody fog swirling. Emerging from the foliage is the unit’s commanding officer. While an imposing mass of flesh herself, she tends towards the more voluptuous side; her body is soft, tender, rounded, unlike those of her Sisters. Each of her breasts rival the size of her long-horned head, hidden beneath the black helm of authority. On her black-clad hip, a pistol - and a whip, the tips flayed and bloodied.

Dry lips curled into a smile as a gloved hand slipped a flask back into its Hellsilk pocket.

“Another flawless victory, Sister-Cadres.” hissed the Imperatrix, taking a sip of her bloodwine. “Your commendations shall reflect this.”

With her declaration, the cadre let loose. They hissed, cackled, giggled to themselves in delight; the women found themselves pressed against a dirt hill and the sea, boxed in by the encroaching Demonic lines. If chaos hadn't been the word to describe the battleground prior to the looting, it most certainly was now; Demons wantonly gripped and tossed their captures like cheap sex dolls, striking them when their gas-saturated minds managed a scream.

To the bleary and intoxicated volunteers, time came in scattered, disconnected pockets. Human minds were fragile. At once their visions would fill with horrifying, devilish things, unintended for the eyes of mortal men; an instant and a deeper breath of the crimson air later, and the horror disappeared into clouds of ash. A grunt and a moist slap. Twelve inches of Demonic cock pulled out of Tanya’s throat and slapped her cheek, a thick strand of saliva connecting it to her puffy lips. In her eyes, hues of red and black swirled into incomprehensibility, all dissolving like fairy floss in water before the hegemonic will of the gas. Lust was a solvent more potent than any others, eating her mind down to the nub.

“Their throats are so tight, by the Empress!” hissed the auxiliary, barrel-chest rippling as she gripped Tanya once more and braced her for another few slaps into her esophagus. “It’s like I’m about to break it…”

She cocked Tanya’s head upright, and a moment later, the girl’s nose was buried in her crotch. Every inch of it was buried in the human’s throat, triggering her gag reflex and yet offering no hope to dislodge it. What little oxygen was available to suck down in the second or two she was given to breathe only forced more of the gas into her lungs. Clearly, the suffocation was delighting her tormentor, as every time she wheezed for air the auxiliary would snort in satisfaction.

“I want tighter.”

A clawed hand wrapped itself around Tanya’s neck and squeezed, stroking the auxiliary’s cock through her throat. Little if any concern was given to the girl’s wellbeing or the potential fragility of her trachea - the auxiliary, after all, was horny; pumping a few cups of pearlescent, disgusting Demon seed into her stomach was more important than any of the human’s weak protestations. Gurgling, mustering every ounce of her fading strength, the poor girl moved to try and break the demon’s grip… only to find herself weakly fondling the pair of taut, full balls dangling in front of her.

Tanya’s throat-breeding was hardly the worst of the volunteers’ fates - far from it, indeed. Amanda, the first to go down, laid broken and half-nude upon the ground. The poor girl had collapsed nearest the canister, getting the heaviest dose of all of them; whatever they were being exposed to was cumulative, and now, she could do little more than flutter her eyelids and drool as the gas wrecked absolute havoc on her mind. Thought beyond the desire for more pleasure was all but eradicated. Lacking external stimuli, she’d simply revert to a suggestive, inviting pose, waiting for the next Demon in the cadre to help themselves.

Help themselves they did, indeed. Evidently growing bored of sampling their other fresh captives, a Demonic gunner fancied Amanda a urinal. Torrents of brimstone-yellow piss cascaded across her unconscious chest, gushing from the Demon’s rigid, imposing cock and seeping into the ruined earth. If nothing else, it helped to wash away the thick, half-congealed layer of cum and dirt that clung to the remaining scraps of her uniform. Urine spattered up onto the gunner’s legs, the flow slowly ebbing; with a deep sigh and a grunt, the gunner gripped her temporary restroom by the throat and pulled her onto her shaft. There was, of course, no response.

The same couldn’t be said of Joann. As it turned out, there were seven demons to only six women - which meant one of them had to share, and none of the shock troops on deployment were horny or stupid enough to try and get the Imperatrix to give up the raven-haired field medic, Blair. Hastily, they tore at Joann’s jumpsuit, easily shredding the fabric in their feral claws.

Her nude form was hoisted a few feet off the ground by the arms of the twin Demons who’d picked her. She was bent between the arms of the muscular machinegunner, head forced downwards at a painful angle with her arms bound behind it. Gripping her hips were the black talons of another, slightly smaller Demon. This one held Joann’s legs, contorting the limbs to allow easier access to her pink, vulnerable pussy.

Gunfire ripped through the sky as Joann dropped her rifle, the weapon misfiring. Another hot slug of lead in a sky full of it; the noise alone set her skin on fire, a firestorm of stimulation raging in her already-overstimulated mind. The furthest from the canisters, she’d not fallen victim to the stuff’s more insidious mental effects - and thus, faced the horrors of Hell alone, head-on and sober.

Leathery Demonic skin rubbed against Joann’s scarred and sand-caked flesh. She’d begun to wish that it had taken her mind, had taken her out early and painlessly like her comrades - but it was a mercy she would be forever denied. A mouth full of shark’s teeth grinned back at her harrowed face, six-and-none of its eyes… blinking, perhaps.

“What do you think of this one - fertile?”

Behind her came the rattle of belt buckles and sick Demonic laughter - and even in her state of panic, she’d realized that Demons didn’t wear belts. At least, not regularly.

“Heh - it matters not for me, does it, Sister?”

They shared a chuckle. A pause, the wind howling in the silence.

“I’m going to take it’s ass anyway.”

The girl’s cries fell upon deaf ears. Thirteen inches of Demonic shaft forced their way into her throat before beginning to piston in and out. Behind her, hammering her asshole, ten ornately carved inches of some kind of Hellish ivory, twisted into a lewd facsimile of a Demonic penis. It was lubricated with the Demon’s cum-thick spit and a bit of blood seeping from Joann’s cuts. Neither did a good enough job, but hopefully the pain would get the thing to tighten her throat.

Both enormous Demonic forms completely overshadowed her, their sweat dripping down on her body and practically signing her comparatively-frigid skin. Joann was little more than a sex doll to them - one highly, painfully aware of its predicament.

Despite the agony of her own consciousness, Joann got off relatively easy - especially when compared to her other compatriots, Hannah and Kim. Kim was a short woman, the youngest by far out of the ragtag group; cum-slathered, pixie-cut blonde hair stuck out like patches of snow on a frigid peak of cum, blood, and uncountable other substances. She had been in the Air Force before “emergency reassignment” gang-pressed her onboard the White Lamb a day before it was scheduled to launch. Hannah, on the other hand, hadn’t so much as held a rifle in her life. They’d picked up the tall and fiery-haired woman in the open ocean after her yacht had capsized, apparently shelled at random by Demons on the mainland. As any adult capable of handling a gun, Amanda deemed her fit for duty on the spot.

They were tied together. Kim was arranged so that her face was all but swallowing Hannah’s cock, kept out of her mouth only by her limp and exhausted jaw refusing to close. The poor redhead was arranged as Kim’s opposite; blood trickled out of her broken nose as Kim’s pussy ground against it, seeking a relief to the deep, insatiable itch ignited by the aphrodisiac.

Binding them were several layers of reflective Hellish leather, slick like some awful polymer. Fresh sweat and blood made the uncanny softness of it all the worse, every inch that touched them practically overstimulating them from its mere presence. Across the leather stretched barbed wire sharp enough to dig through thick hide straps and pierce the skin; every inch of them was dotted with repetitive cuts and wounds, the jagged pattern of crude and mass-produced steel clearly reflected where it depressed and bit their skin. The slightest flinch would send shocks of pain through each of their bodies, each instinctive thrash like another volley of punishing spikes in their flesh. Fresh blood, vibrant crimson, swirled beneath the blackened leather and coated their constricted skin in coats of their vitality.

The constant discomfort would ensure they kept moving.

Each woman was gripped tightly and angrily by a muscled Demon, pumping away into them with the abandon one reserved for cheap sex toys. One laid on the ground below Hannah, bucking her hips upwards into the makeshift human fleshlight. Thick ropes of cum coated the inside of her thighs, the lewd squelching almost drowned beneath the rhythmic pistoning of the other Demon’s equine cock. Neither captive was held in a regard higher than that of dirt, the two once-vibrant and independent women reduced to warm, quivering holes. If their minds were still capable of rational thought, the two of them would be screaming.

What screamed instead was the sharp tongue of a whip as it slammed against raw flesh, Demonic hushing and reassurance below.

“That’s it, you’re learning. Your eager performance excites me, meat - perhaps there is hope for your kind yet.”

With half-lidded eyes, Blair lapped at the Imperatrix’s steel-toed hoof. Each alien syllable of Demonic that graced her ears rattled her brain, yet she understood not a word of it.

Out of the myriad women of the White Lamb, Blair remained the only one to be personally chosen by the Imperatrix - a dignity even the animal’s underevolved mind recognized the importance of - to lead her astray comrades into the welcoming arms of the God-Empress. She’d been chosen!

It was a strategy that worked again and again. Poor Blair was no different, it seemed; the Imperatrix’s personal collection of subjugated human concubines was growing, in no small part thanks to her deceptive use of restraint. Even the human’s impaired mind could still find horror in the things the shock-troops were doing to her comrades - and find solace in the protection the Imperatrix offered. With a relatively minor amount of coaxing, hatred and fear became undying devotion in the primitive minds of humans. Blair was to be a serpent twisted around her finger, unaware of just how tangled with her Owner its body had become.

Gloved fingers wrenched themselves around Blair’s tender throat, dragging her away from the spit-polished hoof and up towards her pussy. She knew the combination of panic and impairment would do wonders on the underevolved mass of grey matter between the human girl’s ears, accelerating the tiring work of breaking down the remaining vestiges of her dignity; indeed, the Imperatrix did revel in the carnal side of slaving, but Blair’s new role wouldn’t be that of a sex slave. No, indeed, she had something far greater planned for the human girl.

Keeping captives in line once the drugs wear off is always a difficult process. Without the sedation and aphrodisiac promoting submission, the often deeply-embedded fear of Demons in the human psyche begins to set in - but not if one were to give orders through a surrogate human slave-driver. Blair, the one they’d entrusted so much to, would make a wonderful puppet in the Imperatrix’s latest show.

A now-familiar black-gloved hand wrapped itself back around her throat, and with a gasp half-excited and half-mortified, she was dragged back into the heat of war. In her delirium she’d hardly noticed the Imperatrix speaking into her walkie-talkie

“At attention, slave.” she barked, twisting the girl’s head to the side and snapping a loose Hellsteel collar around her throat. “The front is moving - and you’re being promoted.”

With a quiet chant and the sudden, searing burn of an Anguish flash-welder on her neck, Blair’s collar was sealed shut around her throat. Fear wasn’t given a scarce second to set in before the scarlet air catalyzed it to a breathy moan, her lips twisting themselves into a weak smile. Contempt left the Imperatrix’s face unchanged.

A carved sigil upon the side of the now-permanently fastened collar indicated her status; it was tiny, almost imperceptible, yet stood as the sole barrier between her newfound role as slave-driver and the fate of her former colleagues. Pride, sickly-sweet like decaying fruit, mingled with the build of orgasm in Blair’s rapidly-beating heart. It did little to truly replace what the gas and degradation had stripped from her - but that didn’t matter.

She would be saved. Not Amanda, not Joann, not anyone else - because nobody else mattered. Not to her, and from the scene of absolute depravity surrounding her, not to her new Owners, either. Her pussy twitched.

The Demons had retrieved the mounts. Hellish beasts as they were, Blair’s intoxicated mind spiraled deeper and deeper into horror with every passing second she spent looking at them. Roughly horselike in form and size, the beasts had rippling, muscled skin. It shone a deep burnt umber that glistered in the dying sunlight like freshly-spilt blood. Bone plating covered their intimidating forms, and the bones too sat beneath heavy and well-formed Hellsteel plate armor. Pointy, needle-sharp hooves adorned each spindly limb, the tips white-hot and smoking like newly-cast bronze. Whatever unseen and arcane power source warmed them also coursed through its thick, gnarled veins, flickers of scarlet glow beneath the flesh.

Steam hissed from the nostrils of the beasts as they bit down on their reins. On their sloped backs sat small, metallic cages, round and uneven like spider eggs. Tight, cruel things; they were constructed of rusted, bonelike struts, a seam running through the center of each, facing the ground. Concealed cords of sinew within them allowed the whole thing to pop open at the turn of a winch, spilling their cargo across the ground.

Behind the other nightmares stood the Imperatrix’s steed. It was an imperious beast compared to the gnarled and sickly-looking mounts of her subordinates, standing tall and seething with white-hot blood. Instead of a cage, the Imperatrix’s bore two finely-decorated seats, the rear smaller than the primary rider’s. A thick, knobby dildo adorned it, crafted by a mind palpably sadistic. Blair’s breathing hitched as her eyes traced the lewd contours of it, salivating hungrily from both sets of lips. The Imperatrix- her Owner - gripped her by the shoulder.

“Your hand.”

Clawed fingers locked themselves between tender human digits.

***

“Hurry up. We want those commendations to actually matter, don’t we?”

“Fuck off. I’m backed up.”

Machinegunner Vahaqash furrowed her brow and tightened her rifle sling. Marakh, the auxiliary, was taking her precious time with Amanda. Sun-dried cum and sand stuck to every inch of the latter’s bronze skin, reeking enough to smell from the parking lot beside the beach. Despite her cohort’s distaste, Marakh continued pumping in and out of the human’s loosened asshole. Each thrust drove the auxiliary crazy, her forked serpentine tongue hanging limp and drooling from her open mouth.

Amanda’s holes had been thoroughly ruined by the dozens of other loads dumped inside her, and took the auxiliary’s shaft without trouble. Eighteen inches of equine Demon dick, hard like infernal basalt, pistoned in and out of Amanda’s worn-out, gaping asshole. Her pussy had been stretched far beyond the point of usefulness; humans had yet to evolve suitably elastic orifices to compensate their new masters, unlike their Demon superiors. Syrupy yellow-white seeped from her destroyed cunt, providing a bit of much-needed lube for her slightly-tighter asshole.

The gunner, on the other hand, had already slaked her carnal thirst in Tanya’s throat. A delay like this was unbecoming of her fellow sister-cadre; time spent getting sloppy sevenths in an unconscious slave’s holes was time that could’ve been spent incinerating the innocent for the glory of the God-Empress.

Clouds of ash from faraway fires and atom bombs drifted like tendrils of inky night overhead. The other Demons sat upon their steeds, ready to depart - all but Marakh and Vahaqash. Blair writhed giddily on her dildo, wrapping her meager hands around the strong waist of her Owner. Excitement continuously bubbled up within her, teased and never released. She hated to doubt her superiors, but the delay was beginning to puzzle her.

Wrought iron dug into flesh. None of the cages were intended to be comfortable, and any little relief given was promptly taken. Black leather isolation hoods covered their heads and concealed their identities, a dildo gag lodged in their throats keeping them nice and quiet. A temporary measure before the primary slave sorting facility. That was a problem for later, though. Fronts were moving, villages were being looted, virgins were being taken, and currently, none of the shock troops were getting in on it.

With one last triumphant slam of her hips against Amanda’s ass, Marakh was finally spent. Her hot breath left her lips as arid gasps, broiling like the thick ropes of Demonic sperm filling every inch of the poor girl’s bloated stomach. Ropes of it... squirmed, almost; the large, overactive sperm cells within her ejaculate moved constantly within the opaque white wads, like all Demons’ cum. Each cell fought eagerly and vigorously with countless others for a chance to impregnate her broken body; it might’ve felt like being filled with Pop Rocks, if she still had the capacity to remember those. For a moment, Marakh knelt in the sand between Amanda’s legs, grinning eyes trained on the visible annoyance behind Vahaqash’s Hellsteel visor.

“Mind your manners or I’ll have to fuck some into you, Vahaqash. Disrespectful bitch.” Marakh spat, gripping her still-erect cock and sliding it out of Amanda with a wet pop, yogurt-thick seed seeping out behind it.

“Marakh, on your steed. Leave the human.” the Imperatrix shouted.

Marakh’s smug and satisfied eyes widened at her superior’s voice. A gulp broke the stiff silence between the two Demons. Few things in life could manage to frighten Marakh into line, and it just so happened that the voice of her typically-reserved Imperatrix was at the top of the list. Her asshole never quite felt the same after her the first time she’d tried to push back - but she couldn’t simply leave without something to fuck! It was unthinkable - how would she go so much as the next hour, let alone the time it would take to reach the front?

Vahaqash finished tightening her shoulder straps and hurried back to her mount, bowing submissively towards her mounted commander and fellow sister-cadres.

“What!? This one is mine - I’m not leaving without meat for the road.” Marakh stammered.

No reply. A scowl spread across the Imperatrix’s brow.

“I - y-yes, Imperatrix! Give me but a moment to… c-collect myself.”

From her position atop the gnarled dildo lodged firmly in her ass, Blair furled her brow. It wasn’t Marakh’s insubordination that enraged her, but Amanda’s. The human had been given every opportunity to behave, to obey the orders she was given - and instead she lay tits-up in the sand, festering in the sun and sex that slithered across every inch of her battered skin. She clenched a fist. Ingrate - insubordinate! Amanda was offered the ability to stand on her two feet and she refused.

An odious smile crossed the Imperatrix’s dry lips as she over her shoulder, six red eyes curling upwards with unsated cravings and misintent. Blair rolled her hips.

“What do you see when you see defiance, human?” she asked, in English, speaking almost silently in the wind.

She wasn’t sure. Her Owner would want an intelligent answer! Blair racked her scarlet-choked mind as best she could.

“I… I see fear. I see fear and hesitation. I see foolishness, fear, and hesitati-”

“Really?” the commander growled, refusing to let Blair finish. “I see weakness.”

Blair gulped. In the distance, Marakh made a flimsy attempt to grab a slightly less cum-soaked patch of Amanda’s arm. Clearly she wasn’t trying, squicked out by the wretched lump of meat she’d just blown a load in. Weakness. Did she answer incorrectly? Her pussy betrayed her fear of punishment, clenching around the cock inside her.

Somewhere beneath the endless miles of bright red anger that now composed her mind, Blair recognized the Imperatrix fiddling with her holster.

“Weakness is a sickness,” the knife-toothed woman continued. “And it is your duty as a slave-driver to purge this sickness. On the ground.”

Legs trembling, Blair removed herself from the girthy phallus and dismounted the Hellbeast. Her bare feet hit the hot pavement, stinging where her Owner had struck her soles for speaking out of line. Pain didn’t phase her - showing weakness was not an option. Not now, not ever again - her Owner demanded it, expected it! To show weakness was a dereliction of her righteous, chosen duty. Pain was a gift which she was given freely.

Blair took her Owner’s whip.

“Prove yourself.”

The wind above howled louder. Every inch of Blair’s skin was lit angry red by the uncaring sun above, filtered through the ashen and choked sky. Moistness clung to her thighs and ran down her legs. All five fingers clenched the hardened leather like a vice-grip. She would perform her duty with delight, honor, and orgasm. Despite her fear, she marched across the blistering asphalt with resolve of steel. Whatever bravery had existed within her bosom was now galvanized by the flames of Hell into unrepentant zealotry.

Beyond the black pavement, shells of cars, and the detritus of sudden flight, Marakh was standing with her hooves in the sand. She was busy grunting, mid-piss, a stream of pungent gold cascading across the damp sand. Black-grey gauntlets, slick with half-dry cum, wrapped around the base of her equine shaft. Marakh turned to the human with a delighted expression, one that fell grim the moment she noticed the whip in her hand.

“What do you think you’re - ”

Blair struck the Demon across the leg with the whip, single tail flailing with an amateur’s devotion. Her pursed lips stayed silent, contrasting the started yelp from Marakh’s; caught off guard by her own submissiveness, the muscled auxiliary put up little defense as Blair reeled the whip back and prepared herself for another blow.

“Insect! How dare -” the Demon hissed in her mother tongue, cut off again by another strike of the veritable blade of cured leather. Angrily, she lunged for the holstered pistol upon her belt, nearly gripping it completely before the commander, from her steed upon the blistering asphalt, spoke.

“Unless you want to replace her at my heel, auxiliary, you will stand down immediately. You’ve wasted far more than enough of our time - get on your fucking mount,” dictated the Imperatrix, sighing as she finished. The depth of her voice was impressive. Echoes of it wafted through the vermillion fog of sunset and rang like a gunshot inside Blair’s empty head.

“Besides, your punishment is mine to dispense - the human wants the blood of it’s kin, not you.”

More silence, more tension - but in the end, Marakh relented.

“This Cadre is fucked.”

The auxiliary pulled the wet shaft back under her kilt and stuffed it into her tactical garter. Whatever retribution was certainly about to befall her wouldn’t be helped with sore knees, the smaller Demon thought to herself. Her reluctance was audible with each heavy footfall as the auxiliary, at long last, started her way up the beach and back to her steed. Blair watched her as she moved, sucking air through clenched teeth. She’d tasted vengeance, savored the tang of discipline. Weakness - weakness was to be rooted out!

Below her laid Amanda’s unconscious form and the source of her righteous anger. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what to say. Should she spit on her? Reprimand her? Her digits clenched around the whip until they turned white, her face flush. Blood pumped through her veins like molten lead. How was weakness best dealt with, she wondered? Drops of her own slickness fell from her snatch upon the already-saturated sand. This would be her first true test - the first time of so many that she’d be given the chance to prove her Owner’s judgment correct. Doubt’s tenebrous tendrils wormed their way into her mind before shattering. A crooked smile broke the enmity upon her face.

Blair unloaded a flurry of strikes with the whip against her fellow animal’s exposed chest. It wasn’t long before long lines of vibrant red began to glow through the fog of filth and dirt, the same hue of the sun as its dying rays trickled across Blair’s sweaty skin. In the low light, she bore little resemblance to a human at all. Once, she’d been the proud field medic of the White Lamb, a patriotic vessel of the US Coast Guard. Her shipmates - Amanda amongst them - entrusted their health, their lives, to her. In a sense, she still held that trust. It would still be her duty to carry them when they could not carry themselves.

Red. The sky above shone the red of war and freshly-spilled blood. Whatever embers still burned in the smouldering wreck of the USCGC White Lamb were now thoroughly snuffed out, darkness engulfing all but the light of the sun as it filtered through the cumulative ash of nuclear incineration, drenched blood-red as it sank to the earth.

A twitch. Another crack of the whip before the slave-driver realized what was happening, forcing her to stay her hand. Amanda’s bloodshot eyes cracked open.

Above her stood the towering crimson figure of a demon, whip in hand and contempt in its eye. It bore little resemblance to its adoptive siblings. Much smaller, with such diminutive horns - did it have horns? No, not this one. It was familiar, somehow. A word came running to her from the fog.

“Blair?”

Another crack pierced the silence. Twin demons smiled.

6 notes · View notes

yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

Weep Little Lion Man (you’re not as brave as you were at the start)

lol it says man even though all the characters are girls (title from Little Lion Man by Mumford & Sons)

I’ve been sleeping on Maria for too long, so enjoy some Maria suffering!

I hate the words belly and tummy so much but I had to use them both once and you can see me cringing when they come up

Tag list (just because Quinn asked- if anyone else wants to be tagged normally for fics, let me know!): @three-amongst-these-tens

TW: Vomit, like a lotta vomit

———————

It was two in the morning when Bessie woke up. She lied still in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, then finally moved. She walked with purpose down to the bathroom and found the source of her sudden wake up call- Maria hunched over the toilet, shivering.

“You okay?” She asked quietly.

Maria shudders, gasping out a small, “Yeah,” before she gags again, this time ending with a gurgling retch as she throws up again. “Sorry.”

Bessie stepped inside, closing the door behind her, then went to Maria’s side. She set a hand on her arching spine.

“Not feeling too great, huh, sweetheart?”

Maria shook her head and stifles another gag as she reached up to flush the toilet, not really wanting Bessie to see her in such a state, and tries to push herself up off the ground, but she can already feel her mouth flooding with saliva again, vomit crawling up her throat, and no amount of swallowing seems to be pushing it away.

“Just let it out,” Bessie said softly, as though she could read Maria’s mind.

“‘M not even sick,” Maria muttered thickly, but hangs her head over the toilet anyway as a hiccup rolls through her body.

“But you did eat whatever that meal Aragon made was,” Bessie reminded. She almost found herself chuckling at how many spices were added into the dish, but then winced when she thought about how that was probably tearing Maria’s poor stomach to shreds. “You have an acid reflux, Maria.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Maria said harshly. Her annoyance quickly dissipates, replaced with regret and pain. “I’m- I’m sorry.”

She heaves painfully this time, throat aching, tears forming in her eyes, back arching into Bessie’s hand with the effort, and a voice in the back of her head whispers of her about how very shameful this was.

“Shh, shh,” Bessie hushed her when she tried to apologize again. She reached around and felt her forehead. “Oh, sweetheart...”

Maria was on fire, which wasn’t a surprise given how she was soaked in a glistening sheen of sweat. The drummer sways for a moment before she’s eased against Bessie.

“I’ve got you, Maria.” Bessie told her. “I’ve got you.”

Maria shut her heavy eyelids. Everything burned, but especially her stomach. It was like she had swallowed a fireball or something. She couldn’t help but lean into Bessie’s cool hand when she strokes hair out of her face.

“I’m going to run you an ice bath, sweetheart.”

Maria blinked a few times to clear up the haze in front of her eyes and looked up at Bessie.

“Wh-what?”

“An ice bath,” Bessie repeated. “To try and cool you down. You’re burning up, Maria.”

“No,” Maria whined weakly. “It’s gonna be cold...”

“That’s the point, my love.” Bessie said patiently. She carefully extracted Maria from her arms and propped her against the wall. She turned on the bathtub, making sure the water was running cold, then turned back to the drummer behind her. “Can you take off your clothes yourself or do you need help?”

Maria’s face turned bright red, although it was a little hard to tell because of the dark, feverish flush that already coated her cheeks. She stammered shyly, but managed to squeak out that she could change on her own. Bessie nodded and went back to preparing the water.

Maria managed to get herself free from her sweaty clothes, but it wasn’t exactly easy. Her limbs were clumsy and heavy from fatigue, and she was afraid too much moment would agitate her stomach again. But she was able to wriggle out of her pajamas and stepped into the bath when it was ready.

A chill immediately ran up her legs and to the rest of her body. An unbidden whimper escaped her pale lips as she laid down in the tub and the icy water embraced her.

It did not feel good.

“Bessie,” Maria squeaked. “I don’t like this...”

“I know, darling,” Bessie said. She had her eyes closed- thank god. Maria loved the woman to death but she really didn’t want their relationship to stretch to seeing each other naked. “But it’ll help your temperature drop. And let’s not forget the time you dunked me in cold water when I was little.”

That got a giggle out of Maria when she remembered dropping little twelve year old Bessie into a tub of freezing water when she had been running a fever and not letting her out until she was cleaned of the sweat that coated her body.

“You had Yellow Fever.” Maria said.

Bessie rolled her eyes. “I did not.” She said. “You thought every sickness was Yellow Fever.” She stood up. “I’m going to go get some clothes for you, alright? And I’ll go prepare the bed. You’re gonna be sleeping with me tonight so I can keep an eye on you.”

With that, she was gone, leaving Maria to soak in the cold water.

For a moment, she thought the bath was actually helping, but then Maria’s stomach roiled. Her eyes snapped open. She whimpered, balling a fist over her exposed, quivering middle and willing the growing pain to go away, but it didn’t. It just kept getting worse and worse and worse, heating up like a volcano or geyser until-

Maria moves faster than she would have thought possible considering she was confined in a bathtub, hand clamped over her mouth as she clambered out of the tub. She crashes in a very ungraceful way, sprawling out on the floor, sloshing water all over the hardwood in the process, but she could care less. She scrambled up to her knees, vomit spewing from her lips, which she only half manages to get into the toilet.

She groans, resting her head on her arms over the toilet, trying to take a few deep breaths to steady herself. She’s shaking uncontrollably, mouth flooding with spit, and after one swallow makes her nausea worse, she opts to let her mouth hang open, saliva slowly dripping into the toilet bowl.

“Maria?” Bessie called tentatively from the doorway. “You okay?”

Maria hiccuped in response before retching painfully, the contents of her stomach crawling halfway up her throat before going down again. She hiccups again, groaning when it does nothing to ease her discomfort.

“Just let it up,” Bessie said gently, settling beside her on the floor to place a hand on her back. She grabbed a towel and draped it over the sick drummer’s bare body.

“I’m t—” She’s cut off by a hiccup that brings up a torrent of sick, and she can barely catch her breath before she’s throwing up again, throat burning.

“There you go,” Bessie soothed, rubbing her back gently.

Maria hated that Bessie was seeing her like this, but she can’t deny that it feels good to not be alone. She’s about to say as such when her whole body lurches with a heave, followed by another, then another, until she’s left dry-heaving, nothing left to bring up.

“Breathe,” Bessie reminded her.

Maria takes in a deep, shaky breath as Bessie reaches over her to flush the toilet, and a shudder runs through her body as she gags unproductively again.

“There’s nothing left,” Maria groaned, collapsing back into Bessie’s arms.

“I know,” Bessie soothed, running her fingers through Maria’s soaked hair.

“So why won’t my stomach get the memo?”

As if on cue, she gags again, and Bessie eases her back up and over the toilet just in time for her to bring up a mouthful of discolored bile. She stays there, head hanging over the toilet, eyes closed, Bessie holding her up more than she was actually holding herself up, long after her body’s stopped trying to purge everything from her system.

Maria tried to breathe again, dipping her head low, and it was in that moment that she realized she was still naked. And that she had vomit splattered on her knees. Humiliation ignites through her and she whimpered pathetically.

“B-Bessie, I’m s-sorry-”

“Shh, shh,” Bessie grabs a rag from the cabinet under the sink and wets it with the bath water. She began wiping away the sick on Maria’s legs, wearing the most nonchalant expression one could have while doing such a thing.

“B-But you’re having to c-clean-”

“Hush, my love.” Bessie said. “This is nothing, trust me. Nothing grosses me out anymore. Not after I offered to clean up Aragon’s bed of birthing fluids and placenta after she gave birth to Mary.”

Once again, Bessie makes Maria giggle at the memory. She had warned the teenager to leave it to the midwives and maids, but the girl insisted, wanting to be important. She quickly leaned her lesson when a slimy blob of placenta slipped right out her hands after she attempted to grab it and ended up getting birthing fluids squirted on her face.

“Right...” Maria managed to rasp out. Her stomach cramps, but, luckily, nothing comes up.

“I’ve got your clothes right here. Do you need help changing?”

Maria shook her head and Bessie stepped out so she could get changed. Once she was finished, Bessie guided her to her bedroom and they laid down in the bed, with Maria instantly curling up into a ball.

“Here, sweetheart,” Bessie said. She gave Maria a pink tablet of medicine that was supposed to help with her stomach problems and then let her have a few sips of water. She pulled it away after a second or two, however, earning a whine of protest. “Ah, ah. You’re going to upset your stomach.”

Maria glared at her weakly before curling back up again. She clenches her hands against her aching stomach and scrunched her eyes shut.

“It hurts so much, Bessie,” She whispered weakly.

Bessie frowned. She wrapped her arms around the quaking frame of the drummer and held her close.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” She said.

That’s when an idea sparked in her mind.

She slid her hand down to Maria’s midsection and slipped it under her shirt, causing the girl to flinch slightly in surprise.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Maria squeaked, embarrassed.

“Hush.” Bessie merely said.

She began to rub circles against Maria’s stomach, causing her to gasp softly in surprise. Then, she was melting into the touch and letting her eyes flutter shut. It was like she was in a trance- how could something so embarrassing feel so good?!

“This...this does feel nice,” Maria said softly. “No wonder you like it.”

Bessie wrinkled her nose and pulled her hand back. Maria latches onto it instantly.

“N-no, wait-” Maria pleased. “I’m sorry.” She guided Bessie’s hand to a certain area on her belly, just slightly below the very center. “C-can you do it here?”

“Is this where it hurts the most?” Bessie asked and Maria nodded. She complied and began to rub again.

Despite the action being soothing, Maria kept squirming slightly every time a cramp would seize her in a vice grip. Beneath her hand, Bessie could feel how tightly the poor drummer’s stomach was clenching around practically nothing. It was also alarmingly warm to the touch would occasionally roil or writhe, as if eels were trapped beneath her flesh.

Slowly but surely, Maria began to relax, even with the off and on pain. Consciousness began to slip and she floated in a state of wakefulness and peaceful sleep. The hand massaging her stomach stopped eventually, meaning that Bessie had probably drifted off, too. Maria let out a soft sigh and finally slipped into complete darkness...

But then she stomach started to burn.

Her eyes snapped open.

The fireball in Maria’s stomach blazed- burning her, searing her, melting her from the inside out. She wrapped her arms around her abused tummy and whimpered, curling into Bessie’s side. With one hand, she manages to tug at the bassist’s shirt.

“Bessie,” She croaked weakly. “Something is wrong, Bessie, something is wrong.”

But Bessie didn’t stir. She was fast asleep, and all Maria could do was crying against her nightshirt until she woke up.

Or until her stomach ejected itself once again.

———

Bessie wakes to the sound of Maria dry heaving beside her, body half hanging off the bed, face buried in the trash can beside it. She doesn’t even think before reaching across to rub her back, scooting a little closer, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“Fuck,” Maria gasped, a shudder running through her whole body before she hiccups.

“Did you drink some water?” Bessie asked, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Why the fuck do you think my head’s in a trash can right now?” Maria snapped, voice shaking with ragged breaths.

Unphased, Bessie continues rubbing Maria’s back soothingly, and after a few moments of stuttered, heavy breathing, Maria hiccups again, and a torrent of liquid splashes into the trash can.

“You should know better,” Bessie tutted softly, realizing Maria must have drank the entire glass without testing how her stomach would take it first.

“Shut up.” Maria bites out around a barely-suppressed gag, and before Bessie could even think to respond, she was retching again. “Just— Shut up.”

She was crying, now, shoulders shaking with the weight of her sobs and heaves. Bessie sat up fully and wrapped an arm around her stomach to support her. The other gathered her hair out of the way.

“Oh, my poor baby,” Bessie murmured. “You’re okay, my sweet girl. You’re going to be okay.”

“N-no-” Maria choked out. “G-gonna die- I’m gonna die, Bessie...!”

Bessie knew what she was referring to- they both heard the stories of people with acid refluxes getting cancer or getting holes burned in their esophagus from all their vomiting. Maria has every right to be scared of such a thing.

Bessie leaned over and grimaced when she saw trails of vomit dribbling from Maria’s nostrils.

“Oh, baby girl...” She got up, despite Maria’s whine of protest, and retrieved a wet rag from the bathroom. She used it to wipe off Maria’s hot face when she finally finished throwing up.

“I-I hate this,” Maria wheezed out. She was starting to shiver, despite her raging temperature.

“I know,” Bessie frowned. “I’m going to dispose of this and then I’ll be back. Get comfy, okay?”

Maria nodded shakily and laid back down. Bessie returns to her rather quickly and bundles her up securely in her arms. She nuzzles into the bassist.

“B-Bessie?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“C-can you rub my stomach again?”

Bessie chuckled. She hoped Maria couldn’t see her smirk.

“Of course.”

Maria sighed in contentment when her stomach was rubbed. She swore Bessie’s touch was magic because the pain eased the longer she massaged out tension.

“I-I love you, Bessie,” Maria whispered as she began to finally drift off.

“I love you too, my little lion cub.”

———

When Maggie woke up, she was surprised to find Maria in Bessie’s room. Or, rather- Maria in Bessie’s room and practically laying on top of Bessie. Bessie herself had one arm around the drummer’s back, the other stroking her messy hair soothingly. She had a loving smile on her lips as she watched Maria sleep peacefully.

“Morning,” Maggie said.

Bessie turned to her and her smile widened.

“Good morning, dear,” Bessie hummed. She only paused petting Maria’s hair momentarily, but it was enough to make the girl squirm and whine. She resumes stroking with a chuckle, pressing a quick kiss to her head.

“Guess I’m making breakfast then?” Maggie grinned.

“Yup,” Bessie laughed slightly.

“Sweet. How do pancakes sound?”

“Wonderful.” Bessie said. “And something light for Maria, please. Maybe oatmeal?”

Maggie nodded.

“Is she okay?”

“She is now,” Bessie said. “Poor thing had a rough night.”

“Oh, I know,” Maggie said. “I heard a lot of it. I just didn’t want to say anything.”

Bessie blinked and then laughed slightly.

“Don’t let Maria know that.”

“I won’t. For now.” Maggie winked. “Alright, I’ll be downstairs!”

Bessie nodded and her turned her attention back to Maria, who was still snoozing peacefully against her chest. She pressed another loving kiss to the top of her head.

“You are never eating anything spicy ever again, young lady.”

#six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musica fanfic #six fic #six fanfic #bessie on the bass #maria on the drums #maggie on the guitar #tw: vomit #tw: emetophobia

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bbrandy2002 · 5 years

Text

The Fall of Cordonia

Chapter Three

Trigger Warning: Infant mortality mentioned, suicide, sexual assault and murder.

A/N: Im a little shook from writing this 😬

Word count: 2342

Characters belong to Pixelberry.

Thanks to my girls @burnsoslow and @emceesynonymroll for prereading snippets.

Tagging: @khakie4 @jemrmax2love @princess-geek @rainbowsinthestorm @annekebbphotography @ao719 @texaskitten30 @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @lodberg @romanticatheart-posts @duchessemersynwalker @cordoniansqueen @burnsoslow @kimmiedoo5 @innerpostmentality @sirbeepsalot @emceesynonymroll @janezillow @cordoniantrash @jovialyouthmusic @dcbbw @moonlightgem7 @polishchoicesfan @jessiembruno @lovemychoices @mallorycortez @angi15h @hopefulmoonobject @gardeningourmet

Nikolas had not stopped crying since being placed in Marguerite's arms many hours ago. She sat on the edge of her bed with him, thrusting her nipple into his mouth, attempting to feed and soothe him; disregarding the fact her supply dried up months ago. Each time he suckled desperately, his tiny mouth released into an erratic fit, fingers balled into tight fists, unsatisfied with his continuing thirst.

Her scent was different, the sound of her voice unfamiliar, and the beating of her heart did not have the same rhythmic tune that usually lulled him to sleep.

The Princess continued her attempts to feed and bring comfort to him, however, the baby refuses her breast. After the night she had, all the crying, Nikolas refusing to bond with her, sleep deprivation, she wasn't sure if her plan would be plausible, if this child would ever accept her as his mother.

She rose from the bed and gently laid him in the bassinet that sat directly next to her, staring at his swollen, bright blue eyes, that were full of rage and fear. Those same eyes were similar in color and form as her own newborn son, except his had been void of any emotion...there were no tears, no blinking, no pain, just stillness.

Her own eyes began to mist as she thought about that day, privately delivering a stillborn child, two months before her due date. She knew the minute she saw the soft, downey hair of blonde that covered his small head, the father was not a current King, but, rather, a former prince.

Nikolas was the closest thing she now had to keeping her miserable reality a distant memory. Nearly the same blood that coursed through his tiny veins, was the also the one that burned with desire and passion for her almost a year ago. Would Leo ever accept this child as his own? He had been so relunctant to before, but, now, just maybe, if he held their baby in his arms, would she be able to entice him back into her world. Except, this wasn't their sweet baby, she wasn't his mother and Nikolas was making damn sure, without a doubt, she knew it.

Feeling depleted, she plopped back down onto the bed, the sheer volume of his ever continuous crying, driving her to the brink of insanity. She was positive, at that moment, all of Monaco could hear the weeping of the young prince of Cordonia; it was almost a symbolic gesture of his first duty, to share the downfall of his country and to share his displeasure.

Her hands began to shake uncontrollably and an intense pressure started to rise in her chest that caused breathing to become laborious.

She had to silence him somehow and quickly, to end the nightmare of her own enduring agony.

With her first real attempt at being a mother, seemingly failing, she called for her maid servant, unable to take it any longer. She hastily wrapped Nikolas in the blanket he arrived to her in, which bore a tiny phoenix in the corner, the crest of his mother's house. Marguerite dropped the child in the arms of her servant, at which time, his crying began to subside. She made explicit instructions to rid her of the reminder, that once again, her failure to secure an heir and the man she lusted for, would be in vain.

The servant bowed and shuffled from the room with Nikolas nestled in her arms.

Marguerite turned to face the wall opposite of her, the one that held the sword of generations of Monacan monarchs, her tiny hands releasing it from its mount.

Gripping the pommel, she held it in front of her, and with a deep breath, thrust the blade into her gut and twisted. She fell back onto the bed as pools of hot blood flowed at her sides. The Princess ran a finger down the cool, shiny, silver blade, embracing her pending death and inevitable peace.

******

Liam directed Paul to take the remains of his step mother back her quarters and placed with dignity in her bed. He then ordered the other guard to lay the Countess with her, until proper arrangements could be made, if it ever could at this point.

With Regina and Madeleine's death happening within the walls of the palace, he was wrought with nausea, pondering who else had succumbed to this senseless atrocity. He wanted to believe Bastien's words that it was possible, Riley and Nikolas were safe, yet, the Auvernal army was able to breach the guard and protection of the palace. They had successfully taken out two of the most powerful women in Cordonia, the Queen and Prince was sure to be a bullseye in this sick game of wit and intellegence.

It was exactly one year ago yesterday, when against his better judgement, his new bride was beckoned by Queen Isabella, to visit with her in Auvernal, while they were in Texas. In a rather hostile move, Isabella, without hesitation, put on a troublesome display of the military might of her country, in what could only be construed as intimidation.

In a rather bold move, she tested Riley's ability to literally withstand the heat, a test he wasn't surprised she accomplished flawlessly. Would Liam really be able to outwit his opponent without his queen by his side? If Bradshaw was the man Isabella described him as during that trip, obviously weak and vulnerable, she could potentially be far more dangerous than he was.

When Nikolas was born three months ago, both Riley and Liam agreed their son would not be part of a marriage agreement. They both felt that what they shared and their experiences together, was far more important than any political alliance. A healthy relationship built on love made the monarchy stronger in their opinion.

They both knew the reprecussions of their decision, yet never expected an all out war for it. He presumed the greatest threat to Cordonia would be an embargo on trade with one another and political alliances, that he in turn would render economic sanctions against them. Would he have changed his mind had he known this would be the fate of that conclusion? He didn't know, not yet, it would depend on the personal cost to his family and his people.

Last night, Liam was sure that he had lost everything that truly mattered to him, but, something in his heart gave him a sense of peace. He had always told himself that he didn't exist without Riley, yet, here he was, living, breathing and feeling. Liam could sense her in his soul and he was prepared to move heaven and earth to bring her and their baby home to him.

He sat down at his desk, eagerly awaiting word from the Italian officials, to give him an update on the retaliatory attack. Francesco was already working tirelessly to gather other allies together and provide security and assistance for Cordonia.

Bastien found an unbroken bottle of scotch in the cabinet and poured two tumblers of it, handing one to Liam. They eyed one another, both in understanding of the calamity that would be ensuing, knowing it had to be done.

Bastien raised his glass to the King, gesturing for one last toast, in light of the situation.

Liam swirled the contents of his glass before tapping that of his head guard's.

"To my King and Queen, long may they reign"

Liam nodded in kind to Bastien, then downed the liquid, "To My Queen...".

*******

Leo dropped to his knees, clutching the hole that burned in his stomach, with a mixture of shock and remorse scrolling across his face.

"You were saying?", Bradshaw asked, before Leo fell face first to the floor, his head bouncing from the surface.

Bradshaw casually placed the gun back into the safe, pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket, and wiped the moisture and soot from the palm of his hand.

He strolled over to Leo, dropped to one knee and lifted his lifeless head up by the back of his hair. "Leo, Leo, Leo....it appears we both have something in common....we never miss our targets". He mused, thinking about Marguerite and her lost baby, that neither he, nor, Leo wanted anything to do with. He releases Leo's head and it thuds to the ground.

The King's informant ushers into the room with fervor, asking permission to speak about grave information.

"Your Majesty....intelligence from Rome has informed me of an impending attack on our city by the Italian's in retalliation of Cordonia".

"How much time do we have?".

"Just under an hour, sir".

Bradshaw furrowed his brows, preparing to unleash his next plan earlier than anticipated, but, it was, afterall, his ace in the hole.

Bradshaw leads his guards, dragging a bloodied Leo behind them, leaving a crimson trail out of the dining area. They walk briskly down the corridor and to the room where he is holding Riley hostage. He directs his men to throw her brother in law on the bed next to her.

Riley is barely conscious, she has a few broken bones and extensive bruising throughout her body. She watches groggily as they enter, then lets out a blood curdling scream as she catches sight of Leo's gunshot wound. Its then that she realizes she was a hostage. Recognizing Bradshaw immediately, she makes a concerted effort to move, to run, to fight back, however, the pain is too great.

Bradshaw orders everyone out of the room, his guards, the nurses and servants. He checks the video feed and when he is sure it is ready, he sends a direct link to Liam's email; time was of the essense.

As he waits for Liam to respond, he eyes Riley, admiring her petite frame and curvacous figure, just as he had the day she was first introduced to him at Valtoria. He licks his lips, as lustful thoughts take hold of him and he trails an unwelcome finger down the length of her cheek and across her neck. She was his prisoner, completely dependant on him and he wanted nothing more than to hear his name screaming from her lips.

He leans down, licking her face and across her tightly closed lips, feeling greatly aroused by her whimpers and powerlessness. He runs a hand across her flattened stomach, only covered by the thin white gown the nurse changed her into.

He grabs her cheeks with one hand and squeezes harshly until she can no longer keep her mouth closed; he immediately thrust his unwanted tongue into her own as she tries to pull away. His mouth catches her every groan with the deepest pleasure and he inhales her barely escaped breaths.

"Get the fuck off my wife!", an irate and panicked Liam yells as Bradshaw pauses his assualt.

He looks behind him at the laptop, set up for this particular moment, seeing the ire and disgust on Liam's face. Bradshaw curls his lips into an evil grin, this was more satisfying than he had anticipated.

"Riley! Love...can you hear me...I'm right hear...I'm right here", his voice cracking with relief at her survival.

Bradshaw lets out a small laugh, "And she is right here.....I assume you will be calling off your minions....or is it boom boom for...your love".

"Liam....I love you", Riley forces the words out of her lips with a horrendous sob.

"Sweetheart, oh god, I love you too....is Nikolas with you, is he alright?".

Bradshaw interrupted, rolling his eyes, "Oh please, spare me of the sickening declarations of love.....are you calling off the Italians or what Liam?".

Liam motioned for Bastien, giving him directions to contact the Prime Minister at once to halt their sssault immediately.

"What do you want Bradshaw?", he asked, while Bastien made his call.

"You know what I want."

"A political alliance and a marriage contract between our children...do I still have a child, Your Majesty?".

"You do....not that you'll benefit much from him".

Liam let out a shaky breath, closing his, thanking God for the knowledge that his son and wife were still living.

"I'll ask again, what do you want then?

"Surrender Cordonia to me".

"No Liam, don't!", Riley yelled out, before Bradshaw turned, smacking her harshly in the face.

"DAMN IT BRADSHAW!". Liam screamed in anger and frustration, feeling completely helpless.

"I give you your wife back, tell you where your son is, and all you have to do is surrender your reign and country to me".

There was no question what Liam's answer would be, however, it wasn't that simple, "I can't...not without consent from the council....this isn't something I can control alone and I presume half the fucking council is dead".

Bradshaw shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips, "Then I have no choice but to force your hand further".

"What do you mean?", Liam asked, knowing he did not want to know the answer to his question.

Bradshaw, still positioned next to Riley, reached over, gracing one of his hands up her thigh and the other cupping her breast over her gown. Riley began to cry out, begging him to stop.

Liam stood from his desk, watching the exchange, "I'LL DO IT....I'LL DO IT.....JUST LET HER GO!!!".

Bradshaw ignored Liam and Riley's cries, immensly gratified by his complete control over them...he was the puppetmaster.

Liam had both hands clutching his hair, tears streaming down his face, his whole body shaking, "You fucking peckerhead, so help me, I'm going to rip your throat out".

Bradshaw tugged on Riley's panties and he groped himself through his pants, slowly pulling down his zipper.

With Liam still screaming in the background, Riley turned her head, unable to look at her husband as Bradshaw prepared to defile her.

She stared at Leo, whose head was only a few inches from hers, his eyes starting to flicker open. She let out a fearful gasp, as her legs started to slowly part and Leo could see the trouble in her brown eyes.

Inhaling deeply against the pain he was wracked with, he bolted up, grabbing Bradshaw around the neck with such force, the King thought it would pop off his shoulders.

Bradshaw hit Leo in his wound, while trying to tear the powerful grip he had around his neck.

Leo took his other hand, placing it on the jaw of the man before him, and twisted as hard as he could., until he got the desired snap he wanted.

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melissatreglia · 5 years

Note

⭐️

Oooh, author’s choice, huh? I guess I’ll do a commentary on “Living on Fire”.

Check the link if you want to read it first.

Spoilers for the “Living on Fire” fic are ahead under the cut, and there will be sensitive subjects discussed. So, if you’re triggered by talk of depression and the treatment of such (and by that, I mean in the legitimate psychological pain sense), then you might want to skip past this post on your dash.

Okay, so as I stated in the warning of the fic, the setting is a psychiatric ward. Now, what some of you currently reading this might not know is that I’d undergone treatment in a psych ward back in August 2012, following a bout of suicidal ideation and years of untreated trauma. I had checked myself in, and stayed for just 8 days. I was completely committed to making progress on my own healing, and I got past the worst of it in record time through a combination of willpower, learning new coping strategies and good medication.

This does not mean those who need more time in a mental health clinic are in any way “weak”. You’re fighting a very hard battle the best way you possibly can, and you deserve all the hugs and good things in the world for doing your best.

That being said… the basic concept of this story was actually the brainchild of @weepingredwillow‘s daughter. Willow, as you may or may not know, is a pint-sized bundle of sunshine with a deep, abiding love for her “dad” Mr. Darkiplier.

Willow had pointed out that Darkiplier abandoning her would make her feel like her head is on fire… and her mother took that comment and gave me a prompt inspired by it.

And I promptly took it and ran with it.

Again, because of my prior experience in a psych ward, it wasn’t too difficult to stay true to what being in a modern psych ward is actually like. Although, keeping in mind, it is nonetheless a dramatisation.

When Dark visits the POV character, she’s at her absolute lowest and feels like no one understands what’s going on inside her head. Her symptoms, at first, seem consistent with schizophrenia (hearing voices), but she is not.

Our POV character is actually a psychic. A telepath, to be specific. And constantly hearing the noise going on inside other people’s heads is driving her bonkers.

“You’d leave every session with Him feeling emptied. As if your insides had been scrubbed clean of all the pain, the hurt leaving something astringent that stung but reminded you you’re still alive. The voices were gone. The only voice you heard now was His.”

Dark’s sessions with her have Him essentially draining her mind of other people’s psionic refuse, so that she can be alone inside her head again.

“In the group art therapy sessions held by the hospital staff, you reclaimed your old passion for drawing and painting. Your works were an abstract mix of dark and light – the light being presented as harsh and unforgiving, and the dark as cool and welcoming shadows.”

They say “write what you know.” Well… this line is a portrait of myself, the artist/author, in a nutshell. I’m drawn to dark things because I find comfort in them. I’m a night owl, because I have the most energy (creative and physical) at night. Some of what I consider my best work focuses on the dark side of the human mind.

It’s the net result of dancing with my demons. The music is sinister, but beautiful, in it’s own way.

“It had been weeks since you’d taken your medication – any medication at all. Weeks since a psychotic episode had flared up. You were not sorry not to be a walking chemistry experiment anymore.”

A lot of people undergoing psychiatric treatment have to take a lot of medications to deal with the wide variety of symptoms they undergo. Many people who suffer from mental illness (including myself) would love to have an alternative to pharmaceuticals. But, at this point in the evolution of psychiatric care, the drugs are a necessary evil. And, if you feel good, it’s because you’re taking the right balance of medications.

“Around nine p.m. your chest started to hurt, as if there were a roaring fire in it, blazing out of control. You huddled in your bed in a tight ball, arms thrown around your legs, weeping uncontrollably. You instinctively rocked back and forth in a vain attempt to soothe yourself.“

This was the mental image that had initially come to mind upon seeing the prompt. Our protagonist in agonising pain, trying to comfort herself because her living crutch – Darkiplier – was gone.

Of course, the payoff is that Dark returns… as Himself. His aura fully present, rather than being held in check. So our POV character sees Him as He is, without pretense or concealment. He’d shown her what He could do for her, and now all that was left was to offer her a choice.

(Because my Dark is big on choice, both the having and the lack thereof.)

“A choice must be made. Either you embrace this gift, and all the pain and responsibility that comes with it, and I will aid you in honing and controlling it. Or I can take it from you, leaving you content… but empty, and never reaching your full potential.”He gave a shrug of His broad shoulders, as He gazed at you unblinkingly. “The decision is yours alone.”

And here it is: the choice. Pain and the freedom of humanity, or bliss in the enclave of a demon lord. Our protagonist feels her choice is clear; like any victim of psychological torment, she simply wants the pain to stop.

So did I.

So did one of the girls I met when I was inside (let’s call my fellow patient Samantha, to protect her privacy). We clicked, and I found that Samantha was a drug addict trying to get clean, after completely ruining her life up to that point with her pill-popping addiction. It hadn’t been Samantha’s first time in a psych ward, but it was the first time she’d entered herself into one voluntarily. And, I’m happy to report, she’s been clean ever since, and now is happily married and a mom to a beautiful little boy.

It does get better. It got better for me, it got better for Samantha. And if you’re struggling? Just know it will get better for you too.

Our POV character is in a happier place now, and I’m working on a future plot for our psychic friend, the girl who was living on fire.

#ask me anything #director's commentary #markiplier fandom #darkiplier #fic: living on fire #tw: depression #tw: mental health

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wolfandwild · 6 years

Note

1, 33, 35

For prompts: 1, 33, and 35 - ‘wounded’, ‘death’, and ‘insomnia’. Some cheery choices there, Anon!

I thought about writing three pieces, but then in a stroke of inspiration at 4:00AM, I kind of had an idea to do all three prompts in one. Set somewhere between ‘Lion’s Triumph’ and ‘Lion’s Rise’. Content warnings for torture and panic attacks.

Unbroken

Auriana dreamed.

She was somewhere cold and dark; a place that the light had never truly touched. Blood - her blood - seeped into the cracks of the rough stone floor, mingling with the stained tears of a thousand prisoners before her. Her entire body felt as if it were burning and freezing all at once, and she could barely move an inch in any direction without a wave of seething agony ripping through her body. Worst of all, arcane shackles bound her wrists, cutting off the flow of her precious magic and leaving her entirely without hope of respite or escape.

In a strange way, the loss of her magic hurt Auriana more than the physical pain. Without it, she felt hollow; an empty shell instead of an actual living being. Her magic was light, and life, and everything about her that was worthy or special, and the sense of loss that hung over her was enough to break her heart as she cowered lost and alone on the cold stone floor. The arcane shackles had revealed the truth of her; had revealed the dark terror that lurked in the very depths of her soul, and she had nearly worn her wrists down to the bone in her frantic attempts to get free.

But no matter how much Auriana struggled, no matter how much she fought, or screamed, or begged for the sweet release of death, the pain never ceased. It lay over her like a dark shroud; a cruel and eternal companion who refused to leave her side. Everywhere hurt - from the flayed skin on the tips of her fingers to the vicious slashes across the delicate tendons of her ankles - but worst of all was the grotesque, ragged hold in her chest, just above her heart. Auriana didn’t know how she could possibly bear such a wound and still be alive, but there it was; a giant, gaping hole of darkness that could never, ever be filled….

You will always be wounded…

Auriana jerked upright, awake, her hand reflexively closing over her mouth as she bit back a scream. Her thunderous heartbeat was so loud in her ears that she was sure the entire Keep must have heard, but the night air around her was as still and silent as the grave. Her lungs ached as if she had just run a hundred miles, and yet her limbs shook with the kind of desperate energy that made her feel as if she must run a hundred more.

Beside her, Varian stirred, grunting slightly as he rolled onto his stomach. He was a tangible link to the real world, a stark reminder that Auriana was safe in their bed and not bleeding out in a torturer’s dungeon, but in that moment, it made little difference. She could have woken him, she knew, but she hated to see the look of fear and helplessness in his eyes as he tried his best to comfort her. It was not his fault that she still had nightmares.

It was not his fault that she was so utterly damaged.

Try as she might, Auriana could not fight back the choking panic rising in her throat. For a lesser nightmare, she might have simply curled up against Varian’s side and allowed the steady rhythm of his heartbeat to lull her back to sleep, but tonight was different. The room around her felt suddenly stifling, as if the walls were closing in from all sides, and Auriana found herself in the grip of a powerful, inexorable instinct that screamed at her to get out.

She stumbled out of bed, shivering as her bare feet met the cold stone floor. It was a chilly night, but Auriana did not care. All that mattered was the seething, sickening pressure devouring her heart; the uncontrollable sense of dread threatening to drown her from the inside out. Her chest seized, as if being crushed by an invisible hand, and she fled for the door.

Varian dreamed.

He was standing on a battlefield, somewhere, though he could see no landmark that he recognised. The air was thick with blood and sweat and the screams of soldiers, and Varian knew instinctively that this was a battle that had been lost. His muscles ached with fatigue, even though he couldn’t remember fighting, and Shalamayne’s blade ran red and sticky with blood.

Torn Alliance battle standards were scattered all across the field, though Varian could see no flag or sigil that may have indicated who they had been fighting. Discarded weapons lay everywhere, alongside what remained of several once-mighty siege engines, and he had to watch his footing carefully to avoid tripping over the debris.

Curiously, it seemed that Varian was the only man still standing. Soldiers lay dead and dying as far as the eye could see, but not a single one had managed to regain their footing, or even sit upright. It was not only their wounds - and indeed, most were horrific - but also that a pervading sense of dread hung in the air, crushing spirits and forcing even the bravest of warriors to accept defeat. Even Varian could feel it, leeching away at his strength and sense of purpose, and yet he grit his teeth and pressed doggedly forward.

He could not have explained why, but he was driven to move; driven to pick up his feet and continue even when his every other instinct implored him to lie down and surrender to the darkness. On and on he walked, past weeping men and severed limbs and scattered bones, despair growing in his heart with every step. Varian was a hard man, but even the hardest man in the world could not possibly remain unmoved by the the sight of so much death and destruction. Each fresh cry of agony all but broke him, but Varian thought that if he could just keep going, if he could just keep moving, he could perhaps find some last lingering bastion of hope…

And then he saw her.

If not for the fact that she were laying in the midst of a slaughter, Auriana might have looked like a painted fairytale maiden, sleeping on her back atop a throne of scattered rubble. Her hands were folded neatly across her stomach, and her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders in a dark, delicate halo. She was completely and utterly still, too, as if she had been carved from stone, and never in his life had Varian seen something so pale, and perfect, and timeless.

There was nothing perfect, however, about the monstrous, gaping wound in her chest.

Varian let out bellow of sheer, unrelenting agony, and the sound was so loud and so raw that it felt as his throat had been torn out. He charged forward, his limbs suddenly suffused with a frightening energy, and he tripped and stumbled his way desperately up the mound of debris to Auriana’s side.

Up close, the damage to her chest was far worse than it had appeared from, and Varian let out a low, keening howl as he staggered to his knees before her. Shalamayne tumbled carelessly from his fingers as he fell, the metal of the blade clanging loudly as against the rubble, but Varian could hear nothing save for the roaring of blood in his ears.

Auriana’s body felt as limp and lifeless as a ragdoll as Varian pulled her into his arms, and clutched desperately at the pale skin of her wrists and throat. It couldn’t be real, he thought, she couldn’t possibly be dead; not her, not his fierce, precious mage…

But there was no life there, no hope; only the ice cold, clammy skin of someone long since dead. There was no healing to be had, no escape or trick that might bring her back. Auriana was simply gone, her brilliant light extinguished from the world as thoroughly as if it had never been. She had died alone, and in pain… and Varian’s heart broke as he realised that he had once again failed to protect a woman he loved.

You can never save her from death…

Varian’s eyes flew open, and he let out a strangled cry as he came crashing back to reality. The room around him was almost pitch black, lit only by the faintest beam moonlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains, and yet Varian saw movement and threat in every shadow. His back and chest were slick with perspiration, his body thrumming with enough energy to fight a thousand battles, and while he could no longer smell the sickly, metallic reek of drying blood, he found himself practically choking on the heady musk of his own panicked sweat.

The bed, at least, was firm and real beneath him, as were the soft cloth sheets tangled around his ankles, and it was by focusing on those small details that Varian managed to regain some sense of control. He was in Stormwind Keep, he reminded himself, in his chambers, and most certainly not standing on a desolate battlefield with Auriana’s corpse laid out before him. She had fallen asleep in his arms, wonderfully warm and alive, and all he had to do was reach out and touch her…

Instead of the comforting softness of Auriana’s flesh, however, Varian felt a fresh wave of blind terror overtake him as his hand found nothing but rumpled sheets and emptiness. He sat bolt upright, his every instinct screaming as he peered into the blackness, but she was nowhere to be seen. Varian was alone, and in a dim part of his mind he wondered whether he had always been alone, and whether Auriana had never been anything more than a figment of his desperately lonely imagination.

In his panic, it took Varian a few moments to realise that the bed beneath his hand was still warm, suggesting that she had been there not too long ago. He glanced towards the heavy door, noting that it was still closed - though realistically he knew a door meant very little to a woman who could reappear on the other side of the world with a mere thought. He also could not think of a reason why Auriana would feel the need to vanish in the middle of the night without a word, though admittedly, it wouldn’t have been the first time.

Of course, in the end the reason mattered very little. Auriana was gone, and all Varian really cared about was finding her and bringing her home. He very much needed to hold her close, to feel the warmth of her skin on his and the precious beat of her heart thrumming beneath his fingertips, and he would not be able to rest until she had been returned to him.

With a shaky sigh, Varian swung his long legs off the bed, and reached for the loose linen pants he kept hidden beneath his matress. He generally preferred to sleep naked, though he always had a pair nearby in case he needed to wake unexpectedly during the night. He now yanked them on with little fanfare, and had just started to make his way to the entrance of his chambers when he heard a very faint sob echoing toward him from somewhere outside.

His brow furrowing in concern, Varian turned away from the door, and took several tentative steps towards the balcony. Most unusually, the door here had been left open, and with a short sigh of relief he realised that Auriana must have been a lot closer than he had initially feared. The sound of her crying was decidedly less comforting, however, and he quickly stepped out into the night to find her.

The air outside was bracing, but in a way, Varian welcomed the cold. The chill breeze did much to slake the fearful heat surging through his veins, and provided him with a much-needed shock of clarity. The moon above was also so huge and so close that it almost seemed to be perched atop the spire of the Stormwind Cathedral, bathing the entire city in a soft silvery glow. Another time, Varian might have paused to admire its beauty - but tonight was not a night to be distracted.

He found Auriana sitting with her back against the balustrade at the very end of the balcony, her knees curled up to her chest as she rocked back and forth. Her entire body was trembling violently, and her eyes were squeezed firmly shut as if she were trying to block out the world. Of greater concern, however, was the fact that her slender arms were ablaze with light as she clutched frantically at her own knees. It was an instinctive, defensive reaction; but also one that could potentially have very dangerous consequences for the people around her.

Evidently, Varian was not the only one who had been having bad dreams.

“Auri…” he murmured, keeping his voice low and calm, “Auri, look at me…”

Varian was keenly aware of his size as he crouched down beside her, and how easily he could appear threatening if he were too move too quickly, or in the wrong direction. This was not the first time he had found Auriana breathless and distraught after a horrific dream, and he was sadly well practiced in dealing with the aftermath. He moved with glacial slowness, and it was only after she opened her enormous blue eyes that he dared reached out to place a careful hand upon her shoulder.

“Auri…” he repeated softly, “Can you hear me?”

His own nightmare seemed distant and unimportant in the face of her visceral distress, and he banished his own fears to the back of his mind as he focused entirely on her. She needed him, and as far as Varian was concerned, that was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“V-varian…?”

Auriana was clearly struggling to focus, though she let out a strangled gasp of recognition as her hazy gaze found his. She reached for him blindly, her nails scratching against his bare chest as she made an awkward, fumbling attempt to pull him close. He caught her gently by the wrists to prevent her from doing him any real harm, still moving slowly so as not to send her spiralling downwards into a further panic. Even then, she started at his touch; though she nevertheless allowed him to slide one hand around her waist so that he might lift her off the ground.

Auriana’s legs were shaking wildly with fear and effort, and she staggered as her bare feet found purchase on the cold stone floor. She was utterly freezing, her flimsy little nightgown offering little protection against the chill air, and Varian vaguely wondered how long she had been outside, weeping alone in the dark. It hurt him like a physical blow to see her in such distress, and he gathered her swiftly into his arms in the hope that the warmth and strength of his body might provide her with some small measure of comfort.

“That’s right, Auri, it’s me,” he murmured, stroking the length of her back and burying his face into the silken tangles of her hair. “I’m here. You’re safe with me, I promise you…”

The words rang somewhat hollow, in light of the utter failure Varian had suffered in his dream, but it seemed that for once, he had said the right thing. Auriana pressed herself tightly against him, and her tiny hands gripped his body with the desperate strength of someone three times her size. Her body was both rigid with tension and alive with magic, and it wasn’t long before her quiet whimpers devolved into harsh, racking sobs.

Varian felt almost as if he were trying to hold lightning in his arms, such was the strength of the arcane power coursing through Auriana’s body. His skin prickled everywhere they touched, and he couldn’t quite shake the ominous feeling of being only inches away from a very powerful explosion. She was not actively channelling, but he knew from experience that she was holding an enormous amount of magic in reserve. At this distance, Varian also knew he would be vaporised in an instant if she were to lose control - and yet oddly, he felt no fear. He trusted Auriana absolutely, and if she needed to cling to her magic in order to feel secure, then he would not deny her.

It was only once her shaking had fully subsided, many long minutes later, that Varian attempted to talk her down. He very gently prised her away from his chest, and ran his hands along the lengths of her shining forearms.

“Auri,” he whispered. “You can let go.”

For a moment, Varian thought she might resist. A brief flash of rage flickered deep within her eyes, as if she thought he were a threat to her magic, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She shook herself ever so slightly, and for the first time since Varian had found her on the balcony, she seemed to truly remember who and where she was. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and as she exhaled, the fierce glow about her arms and eyes slowly faded away into nothingness.

“Auri?”

“I… I’m a-alright,” she muttered hoarsely. “I’m in c-control.”

“What was it this time?” Varian asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“Foundry.”

She didn’t say anything more. She didn’t have to.

A spark of anger kindled in Varian’s chest for all the pain she had suffered, and if not for the fact that Blackhand was already dead, he might have been inclined to charge off to Draenor to avenge her agony. Such a thing would do very little to soothe the trembling woman in his arms, however, even if it may have made him feel much better, and he instead settled for comforting her with soft touches to her cheeks and neck.

Moments like these always made Varian feel helpless and somewhat awkward. He wanted to help Auriana with every fibre of his being, but he could never quite shake the feeling that he just wasn’t very good at it. He wasn’t as naturally empathetic as Anduin, and often had a hard time expressing his more intimate emotions. He wasn’t as wise as someone like Velen, nor eloquent like Jaina. Hell, he’d even caught Genn Greymane, of all people, being soft with Mia in a way that he wasn’t quite sure he could imitate.

For some unfathomable reason, however, Auriana had chosen him, and he was fiercely determined not to disappoint her.

“Auri… I…”

“Am I broken?” she asked roughly, cutting Varian off before he could say anything more.

She turned her head away, unable to look him in the eye, and he could tell that she was still fighting back tears.

“I th-thought it would pass with time,” she confessed, “But some nights it’s like it happened yesterday. I can feel it in my bones. I can feel what they did to m-me…”

Auriana’s voice cracked on the last syllable, as she buried her face into the crook of Varian’s arm once more. Her suffering cut into him like a thousand knives, and his desperate hold on her became so tight that he was sure it had to be suffocating. She was so brave, and brilliant, and capable, and yet there would always be a part of him that wanted to lock her away somewhere she could never be hurt ever again.

Such a thing was not possible, of course, as much as it may have pained Varian to admit. As he had learned from Anduin, seeking to control those he loved would only serve to drive them away. It was a difficult thing to do, given that Auriana was obviously in such a hurt and needy state, but Varian had long ago sworn to himself that he would be a better man - both for her, and for his son.

You cannot control her, he told himself firmly. You can only support her.

He closed his eyes, and with a great effort, he forced himself to release some of the painful tension in his hold upon her body.

“You’re not broken, Auri. You’re strong,” he whispered fiercely. “The strongest person I’ve ever known. I don’t know anyone else who could have survived the kind of things you have survived with such… grace. I certainly couldn’t have done it.”

Auriana sniffled quietly, and she turned her face even further into the safety of his chest. Her frantic breathing had at least slowed, however, and while she had given no outward sign, Varian knew she was listening.

“For what it’s worth… I’ve spent a good part of my life wondering the same thing. Wondering whether I was… damaged. Fractured beyond repair…”

He rested his chin on the top of her head, and stared out at the twinkling lights of his city below. There was always something comforting about Stormwind at night. The city was peaceful and at rest, and it reminded Varian that for all his flaws, he was a king who protected his people. Maybe not the king they deserved, but a king who would keep them safe.

“But… I don’t think that’s true,” he added, letting out a long sigh.

“No?” Auriana mumbled. “What changed your mind?”

“Anduin has made a great deal of difference. More than he knows,” Varian explained. “He’s so… good. If he’s my legacy to this world, then I can’t have been all bad, don’t you think?”

The faintest ghost of a smile crossed his face as his thoughts turned again to his son, and he felt some of the heart-rending pressure in his chest lessen.

“And then… there was you.”

“Me?” Auriana asked, the pitch of her voice rising in surprise. “What did I do?”

Varian paused for a moment, unsure how to put his thoughts into words. He knew exactly what it was Auriana had done for him, the many ways she had changed him and made him better, but he found it a difficult thing to express out loud.

“You… you saw me,” he began slowly, “Not just Varian, or Lo’Gosh. Not half of me. You saw the gladiator and the king, the good and the bad… and you saw me whole. Unbroken.”

He caught her chin between his long fingers, and turned her face upwards so that he could look her in the eye.

“You and I are of a kind, Auriana,” he whispered. “We were forged by fire. We bend. We crack. But we never break. It isn’t how we’re made.”

For a long moment, they simply stared at one another in silence, neither blinking or even so much as breathing as a thousand unspoken things passed between them. Auriana was luminous beneath the light of the full moon, and despite the pallor of her skin and the unshed tears glistening in her eyes, Varian thought she looked beautiful. More than that, she was still alive, and safe, and his.

A low growl rose in his throat, and he lowered his head to capture Auriana’s mouth with his. There were no words for the things he truly wanted to say to her, but in kissing her, in holding her, he could give her all his strength, and his courage, and his love. In a single, breathless moment he laid every part of himself bare, the passion of his embrace silently urging Auriana to take whatever she needed from him.

When they finally pulled apart, Varian’s cheeks were damp with Auriana’s tears, though her expression was no longer quite so haunted. He knew from past experience that it would take some time her to fully recover from her nightmare and the subsequent terror that had gripped her heart; but for now, at least, she was calm.

“It’s cold,” she murmured, hugging her arms around her body against the breeze. “We should go back inside.”

“Agreed,” Varian said, nodding, “Though I don’t think I’m going to sleep again tonight.”

Auriana frowned, and rested a gentle hand on his forearm.

“You never told me what woke you. Did you have a bad dream, too?”

“Yes,” Varian said stiffly.

He once again saw Auriana’s pale, unmoving corpse in his mind’s eye, as clearly as if she were laying right in front of him, and he shuddered.

“I take it you don’t want to talk about it?” she observed.

It had taken Varian some time before he felt comfortable showing Auriana any vulnerability whatsoever, and even after all they had been through, it was still not something that came easily to him. Deep down, he had always feared that she would scoff at him - or worse, pity him - but he had come to learn that she would offer him nothing less than quiet understanding. Tonight, however, there was something about his dream that left him far more shaken than usual, and he had no desire to relive it a second time. Not even for her.

“Not tonight,” Varian muttered. “You’ll have to forgive me.”

“Varian… there’s nothing to forgive,” she said softly, reaching up to caress his scars. “I just… worry about you sometimes, is all.”

“You worry about me?” Varian snorted.

“Always.”

Auriana tilted her head to one side, and a small, tentative half-smile pulled at the corner of her lips. Varian could still see the strain of her nightmare lurking behind her eyes, but it seemed that she was determined to be stronger than her own fear. It was one of the things he loved most about her, and he more than willingly allowed her to pull him down for another slow, tender kiss.

“I’m no healer,” she murmured, her breath warm against his lips, “But I think I know something that might help with your insomnia…”

“Oh…?”

Auriana brushed the last tears from her eyes, and nose crinkled shyly as she stared up at him through wet lashes. She then looped her finger through the drawstring of his pants, and took an inviting step back towards the warmth and comfort of their bedroom, away from the cold and the lingering echoes of their nightmares.

“I need you,” she said simply.

“I need you, too,” Varian admitted, his voice low and throaty. “But…”

“Please don’t argue with me out of some kind of sense of gentlemanly obligation. We both need this,” she countered.

She slipped her hand into his, and stared up at him with eyes like fire.

“Come make me feel whole…”

#panic attack warning #torture warning #prompts #warcraft fanfic #warcraft fanfiction #varian wrynn #auriana #lion's love #thank you for the ask!

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imfrozentrash · 7 years

Text

Helsa One-Shot: “What Could Have Been”

Author’s Note: Dedicated to the one and only PrincessPeasentDee for being a great friend and overall amazing human being. Thank you, love, for your endless amounts of kindness! ♡

Elsa is opposed to her little sister, Anna, from marrying a man she just recently met. She has no experience with love and doesn't know what love is. But Elsa longs for the same sense of security, because of herself as well, wants to experience love. How does a young Prince that's 13th in line for the throne persuade her to do the unthinkable?

Elsa stands there in disbelief as her sister and some random stranger hug each other in earnest. What in the world is Anna thinking? She is so naive...

"Anna," Elsa starts sternly. But she is ignored as the young Princess fantasizes about her wedding day with the young Prince. By this time, Elsa's gloves grow cold. "Anna," she starts again, trying to hold her composure.

"We can invite all of your brothers to the wedding!"

"Whoa, slow down," Elsa raises her voice as she tries to compose herself. "No one is inviting any older brothers to this wedding. There won't even be a wedding, Anna," The new Queen holds her ground as she witnesses her little sister's face shift from excitement to disappointment.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"May I please talk to you? Alone?"

"What? No, whatever you can say you can say to both of us," her heart shatters when she sees Anna stand beside to this stranger other than next to her older sister. Anna... But with years of holding up a facade, she stands her ground.

"Fine. You can't marry a man you just met,"

"You can if it's true love!" Elsa looks over at the young Prince and notices how he looks at her; yearning for a young love like Anna to marry.

"Anna, what do you know about true love?" Elsa asks in annoyance.

"More than you! All you do is shut people out!" Anna backfires. Elsa takes a step back and feels her heart breaking, knowing that she's oblivious to why she shut her out all these years. She glances at Hans and wonders to herself, how can you possibly take care of Anna when I've been absent all this time?

With a soft sigh, Elsa explains, "You asked for my blessing, but the answer is no. Now, excuse me," The Queen walks past the naive couple, unable to continue this much longer.

"Your majesty," Hans starts. Elsa's heart skips a beat but refuses to turn around. Damn it, Elsa... "If I may ease your-"

"No you may not," Elsa blurts out. "A-And I-I think you should go," with a small glance behind her, she notices Hans' appearance. Although sad, it's intriguing. She forces herself to walk away as she hugs her arms around her.

Alone in solitude, Elsa replays last night's events at the castle. With a disappointed sigh, she waves her fingers through the frozen air and watches crystal blue snowflakes dance bellow her balcony. As the Ice Queen enjoys her freedom, she can't help but feel lonely, if not more, than she was in Arendelle.

"It's beautiful," Elsa quickly turns around and holds her arms up in defense. Her heart skips a beat when the said Prince stands near the doorway, admiring the architecture. But her face holds a cold glare.

"What are you doing here?" she warns.

"I decided to come find you," taken back from his unexpected response, Elsa lowers her guard. Came to find me? Why? "I just felt the need to find you, I suppose," Hans says, seemingly reading her mind. Inspecting his coat, she sees no visible weapons. While on her toes, she decides to calm down enough for them to talk.

"Well, you're just wasting your time," Elsa quietly admits, turning back towards her balcony. From the corner of her eye, she sees Hans step up to the railing and leans against it beside her. The two of them look off at the frozen landscape.

"This entire place that you've created... It's truly something that I've never seen before,"

"Well, it's certainly something no one's ever seen before," Elsa chuckles followed by Hans' own. "I had no idea of what I was capable of all this time. I never knew my curse could be something so beautifully awful,"

"If I May, you're definitely wrong about one thing," Hans looks over and chuckles when he sees the Queen raise her eyebrow with a smirk.

"And what would that be, Prince Hans?"

"It's definitely not awful," Elsa's smug expression drops by his sudden compliment. With a defeated sigh, she turns away.

"You shouldn't be here, Hans. You're in love with my sister," Elsa coldly turns her shoulder and walks into her frozen ballroom.

"I can tell she isn't the only one yearning for it either," Hans calls out, following her inside.

"You don't know anything about me," with a stern voice, she turns towards him with irritated eyes.

"Then open up to me," Hans starts to close the gap between them. Elsa now on edge, feels the room growing even colder. "You don't deserve to be alone like this. You're not a monster, Elsa," meaning to avoid him, her feet are bolted to the ground. Suddenly not being able to move, she stays in his trance.

"No, you're wrong," her voice cracks. "You don't know what I've done. I deserve this,"

"Even so, no one deserves to be alone. Especially if it ends up hurting the people you care about," Hans stays quiet and respects the Queen's vulnerability. She stands there poised yet tears uncontrollably stream down her face. "Come back to Arendelle, your majesty. There's no need to hide anymore,"

"I can't," Elsa weeps. "I don't know how to stop this eternal Winter. All I do is hurt everyone around me!" Hans looks over at her with sudden empathy.

"That's not going to happen, your majesty. We can fight through this together," he holds out his hands for her to reach.

"No! Don't touch me!" she cries out, stepping back. "I don't want to hurt you either, please..."

"I'm honored for your concern about my safety, my Queen. But there is no need," he smiles, taking steps closer.

"Hans please," Elsa addresses him by his first name. "You're the one who my sister loves. I can't hurt you either!"

"And what about you?" Silence fills the ballroom. "I know what it's like to feel alone. You don't have to feel so alienated anymore. I understand," Elsa stares at the young Prince awestruck. "I trust you, Queen Elsa. You're not going to intentionally hurt me," not able to take it anymore, Elsa runs over and throws her arms around him. He holds her steady as she cries on his shoulder.

"Why..." Elsa sighs. "Why was I cursed with such a horrible gift? I don't want to hurt you because of it. Or Anna, or anyone ever again,"

"Trust me, okay?" Hans pulls back and gently strokes the side of her face. "Together, we can control it. The proper way. You'll open yourself up to Anna; be honest with one another. There's no reason to be afraid of your little sister," he wipes away her tears as she nods, understanding what she needs to do. "And then, once we've established that between the two-"

"Hans," Elsa interrupts. He cuts his thought short and listens. "Why?" she asks. "Why are you being so kind to someone you just met?"

Hans contently sighs. "After years of isolation, no one deserves to ever feel that way," he explains. Elsa softly smiles and leads the two of them out of the palace made of ice. "Besides, it's not like I can love someone I just met, right?" he smirks. Elsa laughs and covers his head with a blanket of snow.

You idiot. Elsa watches as Hans shakes off the snow and catches up to her. They both look into each other's hearts then walk down the North mountain hand in hand.

Thank you for supporting my writing and making it this far! But more importantly, thank you PrincessPeasentDee for being such a sweetheart towards me. I hope I have paid your kindness forward with this fanfiction. ♡

Want to submit a prompt request? My inbox is always open! ♡

#frozen #fanfiction #helsa #iceburns #prince hans #queen elsa #imfrozentrash

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gyrlversion · 5 years

Text

British mother arrested in Dubai arrives back in the UK

The British mother arrested in Dubai for branding ex-husband’s new wife a ‘horse’ on Facebook told how she was ‘really happy’ to be reunited with her daughter Paris after flying back into London early this morning.

Laleh Shahravesh, who’d faced being held in a Dubai jail another week over the post made three years ago in the UK, told Mail Online as she met her crying family upon her arrival into Heathrow: ‘I’m just really happy to be reunited with my daughter.

She sobbed with 14-year-old Paris and held her close as she continued: ‘I’d like to thank my team in Dubai who helped me a lot and I’d also like to thank my lawyer who did everything in her power to get me my passport back.’

Laleh Shahravesh, wearing dark shades, a black waistcoat over a black-and-white striped top over black trousers, in a tearful embrace with her family this morning at Heathrow

Laleh Shahravesh, (pictured right) who’d faced being held in a Dubai jail another week over the post made three years ago in the UK, told Mail Online as she met her crying family upon her arrival into Heathrow: ‘I’m just really happy to be reunited with my daughter’

In tearful scenes the family embraced at Heathrow airport this morning. The single mum-of-one had been arrested when she’d arrived in Dubai a month ago over the country’s strict cyber crime laws

Shahravesh sobbed with 14-year-old Paris and held her close and said she was ‘really happy’ to be reunited with her daughter (pictured right)

The family finally reunited today. Laleh’s daughter Paris – who’d been staying with family throughout their ordeal – had earlier described her mum’s release as ‘the best day of my life’.

Wearing dark shades, a black waistcoat over a black-and-white striped top over black trousers, while shielding her face with her long dark hair and her hands, she held her daughter close and they whispered to each other as they cried.

Her family, including one of Lelah’s sisters, had stood waiting at the airport terminal barrier for over an hour with flowers awaiting her arrival and had refused to talk to waiting journalists.

The single mum-of-one had been arrested when she’d arrived in Dubai a month ago over the country’s strict cyber crime laws. She was eventually released yesterday after paying a £600 fine and getting her passport returned to her.

Her daughter Paris – who’d been staying with family throughout their ordeal – had earlier described her mum’s release as ‘the best day of my life’.

Laleh Shahravesh, who’d faced being held in a Dubai jail another week over the post made three years ago in the UK in an emotional embrace with her daughter this morning

Laleh Shahravesh lands in the UK with her expectant family awaiting her arrival

Laleh Shahravesh (pictured after being released with a fine) was barely able to speak to her daughter as she sobbed uncontrollably to tell her that she was now a free woman

Paris (pictured) previously said that she plans to celebrate her mother’s return by going to eat her favourite food

Laleh Shahravesh, 55, was facing jail over the post made three years ago while living in England, and was seen sobbing outside a Dubai court earlier yesterday before she was eventually released with a £600 fine.

The British legal group Detained in Dubai, which supported Laleh Shahravesh, has written to the FCO calling on them to update UAE travel warnings to UK tourists and warn about online postings.

The organisation’s head, Radha Stirling said: ‘We have frequently called upon the FCO to provide more accurate information to Britons about the many risks they face in the UAE which the current advisory does not cover.

‘A British citizen can be prosecuted if they ever visit the UAE, for posting material online in the UK which anyone inside the UAE may deem offensive.

‘It is vital for British citizens to be aware before traveling to the UAE that their entire social media history must adhere to UAE standards of acceptable content before they risk entering the country.

‘If anyone in the UAE is offended by someone’s online content, even if they do not know that person, and even if that person posted the content in a different country; a criminal case can be made and an arrest warrant issued. It is an enormous threat to free speech well beyond the borders of the UAE.’

Speaking to MailOnline previously, her daughter Paris said that she could not stop crying and screaming with joy after her mother rang to say that she was coming home following the court hearing.

Paris, aged 14, said: ‘I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It didn’t seem real. This is the longest time I have not seen my mum and it’s been 30 days of hell. But hearing she is free and coming home is the best day of my life. Nothing beats this.’

Paris revealed that her mother was barely able to speak to her as she sobbed uncontrollably to tell her that she was now a free woman.

Laleh had been arrested on an outstanding warrant on March 3rd when she arrived in Dubai with her daughter. Paris was left to stay with her aunt in Kent.

Paris said: ‘My dream has come true. The call from my mum was very emotional. All I’ve been thinking about these past 30 days is when my mum will come home. Now that it’s going to happen, it still doesn’t seem real. I have to keep pinching myself.’

Paris added: ‘I do everything with my mum. We are incredibly close. We are the best of friends. When I see her I’m going to give her the longest hug ever that will probably last a month to make up for the time we have lost. I’m just going to cover her with kisses and keep telling her how much I love her.’

Paris said that she plans to celebrate her mother’s return by going to eat her favourite food.

‘Mum loves Iranian food and we’ll go to her favourite restaurant. She also likes going to museums so we’ll go to as many as we can. I don’t think she’ll be back until early next week but I’ll be at the airport with the rest of the family. We’re going to have a big party.’

Paris revealed that she could not have got through the past month without the support of her family. She has been staying with her aunt Ledan in Sheerness, Kent and spending time with her cousin Soraya.

She said: ‘ When I got the call from mum, the first person I hugged was Soraya. She has been my rock. I was really worried that my mum might go to prison for a long time but Soraya really helped me through it all. I shared everything with her.’

Ms Shavravesh (pictured, left, with her daughter) insulted her ex-husband and his wife (right)

Paris revealed that she has endured a difficult past 18 months, losing both her father and grandfather and dealing with her mother’s arrest.

‘I feel as if I’ve matured because I’ve gone through a lot for a 14 year old. I can’t wait for mum to get back and for school to start after the Easter break because I want to get on with my life and put all this behind me.’

A judge earlier ruled that even though her mother Laleh had been convicted, she was free to leave the country and has ordered that her passport be returned.

The 55-year-old, who had earlier collapsed outside court after being told her case was being adjourned for a week, was left virtually speechless by the decision.

Weeping tears of joy she said: ‘I am just so happy and relieved that this terrible ordeal is over and I can go home.

‘I just want to see my daughter Paris and give her a big hug. I have missed her so much and she has been so brave. I was distraught when told I had to stay.

‘This has been the most awful month of my life not knowing what is going to happen and if I will be stuck here and kept apart from Paris.

‘As soon as I get passport back I will be on a plane home. I cannot wait.

‘The thought of going to prison for something that happened three years ago while I was not even in Dubai was unthinkable.’

The single mother, who wrote insulting Facebook posts about her husband’s ex wife, was convicted of a misdemeanour under Dubai’s cyber crime laws.

Shahravesh was earlier inconsolable when she thought she could not go home. So much so that she missed the call from her lawyer telling her she was now free.

Speaking exclusively to Mail Online at her Dubai hotel she said: ‘When I got back from the court I was distraught and just collapsed crying.

‘I turned my phone off for a couple of hours and no one could get hold of me. When I turned it back on there was a message from my lawyer telling me to call.

He told me I was free to go. I just burst into tears. I was in shock and could not believe it. My mind was all over the place and so many emotions.’

The British mother (pictured outside court) broke down when she thought she was facing jail. But she has now been released with a £600 fine, and landed back in the UK to be reunited with her family this morning

Laleh said she telephoned her daughter Paris and broke down in tears as she broke the news that they will soon be reunited.

‘We were both in tears, and I cannot wait to see her,’ she said.

‘I just want to get back home as quickly as possible. My mind is spinning over what has happened. I really thought I would be stuck here another week or even longer, and now I can go.’

Officials do not believe they can get her passport returned before Friday when all Government offices are closed.

Judge Mohamed Mustafa Ibrahim Khalil fined her 3,000 Dh – about £600 – and said she was free to leave the country.

The fine is seen as a symbolic amount. Shahravesh’s lawyer is understood to have already paid it in full.

Her lawyer Michel Chalhoub had earlier asked for the case to be resolved speedily and the judge said he would make a decision later.

The campaign group Detained in Dubai, who supported her during the month she was held, welcomed the court’s decision.

CEO Radha Stirling said: ‘We are elated that Laleh will be allowed to return home to be reunited with her daughter Paris; but serious concerns remain regarding the many risks for foreigners in the UAE.

‘When cases like this are resolved either through the charges being dropped or through a governmental pardon, or a light sentence after a concerted campaign in the international media, while the situation for the individual victim is over, the system that caused that victimisation remains in place, and abuse is inevitably going to occur again.’

Ms Stirling said Dubai’s cybercrime laws were far too draconian and punished freedom of speech on the internet.

She added: ‘We maintain that the case against Laleh should have been dismissed at the outset, and while we are immensely pleased that her nightmare is over, nevertheless, her conviction on such an absurd case does set a dangerous precedent.’

Last night, the single mother’s daughter Paris, speaking back in the UK, had spoken of her hope that the case would be dropped, adding: ‘Every day I come home and I just cry.’

Her mother was at the time facing being held in the UAE for another week before any decision was taken over her fate by breaking the country’s strict cyber crime laws.

Her passport was confiscated and she would have been forced to continue staying in a hotel while on bail.

After recovering from the shock Laleh told MailOnline at the time: ‘I just feel so sick and don’t know how I am going to cope with more time here.

‘I really had hoped that the case would be dropped and I could go home to my daughter Paris.

‘I know she is going to be devastated like me when she finds out. I’m not sure how we will both cope being apart.’

As Laleh was helped into a taxi sobbing she cried out ‘I’m going to die’.

She was so upset that a local woman who had been attending court and never met her before walked her to a taxi. The bystander said: ‘She was in a terrible state and I just had to help her.’

During a short hearing Ms Shahravesh was told that a lawyer representing the woman who has filed a cyber crime complaint wanted more time to study the case and asked for a delay.

The lawyer representing Samar Al Hammadi told the court she is new to the case and needs time to study the complaint file.

The judge said he would make a decision later but after Ms Shahravesh’s lawyer told her it will be a week she collapsed in tears.

Laleh had been charged with insulting behaviour over a three-year-old Facebook post where she called her late husband’s second wife a ‘horse’.

Ms Shahravesh (pictured outside court today) collapsed as she was told she could be held for another week

She is the first Briton to be charged under the UAE’s cyber crime laws that make it criminal offence to write defamatory and insulting words and post them on social media.

In keeping with Sharia Law, Ms Shahravesh sat on one side of the court with other women while her lawyer sat on the opposite side with the men.

After being told that the delay could be up to a week she began sobbing and her lawyer said: ‘I told you this was going to happen.’

Laleh fled the court and was offered a bottle of water outside but was sobbing so much was unable to drink.

Court officials called for a wheelchair and she was taken to a side room used by lawyers.

It was only about 20 minutes after the case had ended that she emerged shaking and weeping as she was ushered to a waiting taxi.

She has been staying at a city centre hotel since being arrested and has run up bills of over £5,000 on lawyer fees and her hotel bill.

Al Hammadi was not in court for the hearing that lasted less than five minutes. Ms Shahravesh’s Michael Haloub told the court the case should be resolved quickly as it was attracting international attention

He told the judge the two women should meet for settlement.

The judge had said he would make a decision later today but Laleh fled the courtroom in tears after being told the adjournment would most likely be a week.

She stood weeping on the steps of the courtroom being comforted by local women.

Al Hammadi had claimed she was the victim of a hate campaign waged over email and social media by Ms Shahravesh.

She first complained to police about a post written in October 2016 on Ms Shahravesh’s own Facebook page where she was described as a horse.

Ms Shahravesh had no idea about the complaint and was arrested on an outstanding warrant on March 3rd when she arrived in Dubai with her 14-year-old daughter Paris.

They had travelled from their home in Richmond, south-west London, after her ex-husband Pedro collapsed and died from a heart attack aged 51.

Speaking to ITV on Wednesday, Paris said: It’s incredibly difficult. Every day I come home and I just cry. Neither of us deserves this, we had to deal with losing my dad; all we wanted to do was say goodbye.

‘We weren’t even allowed to go to his funeral. I don’t think that’s asking too much.’

‘Everyday I feel so empty without you’: Daughter of British mother facing jail writes of her sadness

I miss you mama—so, so much—and everyday I feel so empty without you.

Exhale a breath to relieve life’s dismay. Feel the stars burn far away.

A dandelion sits in my heart, it falters between my valves.

A derelict stream of pain sparks through the circuits of my memory as I gather events like electric shocks.

Parachutes cling to their embroidered stem, but they release their hold as they pound into the revolving atmosphere.

Appealing to Al Hammadi to drop the case, Paris added: ‘Show that you have a heart and that you loved my dad.

‘Every day feels a little harder. I’ve never been without my mum for so long. I hadn’t seen my dad for a while before he passed away and it just feels like my life is repeating itself.

‘It’s incredibly difficult, she’s like my rock. She’s who I lean on, she means a lot to me, more than anything.’

Even though the insulting Facebook post was written while Ms Shahravesh was living in the UK the UAE’s cyber crime laws meant that as the ‘victim’ was in Dubai a prosecution could be brought.

Her passport was seized and she was warned that if the case went to trial it could be several months before a date was set for a hearing. If convicted she could have been jailed for two years and fined £50,000.

Paris was informed of today’s adjournment by her aunt Ledan Perry, who she is staying with at her home in Sheerness, Kent.

‘Paris is absolutely devastated. She cannot even speak at this moment, she’s so upset,’ she said ‘She’s more worried now than ever that her mother could end up in jail. She’s not able to sleep, she’s constantly crying and this adjournment has just made things worse. Paris is under an enormous amount of pressure and anxiety.

‘Paris has lost her father, she’s not been able to mourn him properly. And now she’s worried sick about her mum, which is going to go on for at least another week if not longer. Its heartbreaking that a 14 year old child is having to go through this.’

Ms Perry said that Paris has been spending a lot of time with her 12-year-old daughter Soraya and writing poetry to cope with her ordeal.

She said: ‘Laleh’s situation has affected the whole family but obviously, Paris the most. She hasn’t seen her mum for almost a month. We really hoped the matter would have been resolved today but our pain is continuing.’

Ms Shahravesh claim that the case is being prolonged because of financial matters, accusing her ex-husbands new wife of trying to claim a greater share of his estate.

Ms Perry said: ‘Under Sharia law the bulk of a father’s estate goes to the children. Paris is an only child and stands to get the most from what her father left. His new wife wants more. That’s what this is all about.’

The British mother (pictured) previously broke down over the ordeal. After recovering from the shock Laleh told MailOnline: ‘I just feel so sick and don’t know how I am going to cope with more time here’

The family claim that Ms Shahravesh has already spent around £15,000 on legal costs and her stay in Dubai but have so far raised only £1000 through go fund me.

Ms Perry said: ‘Laleh desperately needs financial support. She could end up losing her flat. We need the British public to get behind her and contribute to her case. We really need their help because my sister and her daughter are suffering, not just emotionally but also financially.’

Samar Al Hammadi told Mail Online she did not attend court as she was working.

Asked if she wanted to reach a settlement with Laleh she said: ‘I have not even talked to my lawyer. I have to find out what was said in court.’

Her husband is believed to have converted to the Muslim faith for his marriage three years ago.

Under Sharia Law the estate of her late husband Pedro will be shared between her and his surviving relatives, with his teenage daughter getting the biggest share.

Legal sources in Dubai said it was likely Samar will seek compensation from Laleh over the insulting posts.

In her statement to police she is understood to have mentioned being compensated. The amount that is paid could vary from £3,000 to £5,000.

Radha Stirling, CEO of Detained in Dubai, who is representing Laleh, said: ‘It appears that the complainant may be prolonging the process; making it all the more torturous for Laleh and her daughter.

‘There have been ever changing signals by Ms Hammadi since this debacle began; once saying she would withdraw the complaint out of respect for her late husband’s love for his daughter; then saying she would drop the charges if Laleh apologised; and the latest reports are that she is seeking monetary compensation.

Now, she has brought in a new lawyer and caused a further delay. It is frankly shocking that the court is allowing this frivolous use of the Cybercrime laws instead of dismissing the case outright.

‘There is no public endangerment here, no hate speech, no incitement to violence, no threat; the complainant had the remedy available to everyone else who uses social media and takes offence at someone’s remarks: block and delete.

‘It is patently absurd to escalate such a trivial matter to criminal charges, and the court should use this case as an opportunity to clarify that the Cybercrime laws were not enacted to criminalise the pain of a newly divorced mother who has been financially abandoned.

‘Rather than leaving Laleh’s fate in the hands of Ms Hammadi, the court should dismiss the case on its merits, and let her go home to her daughter.’

The post British mother arrested in Dubai arrives back in the UK appeared first on Gyrlversion.

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aalt-ctrl-del · 6 years

Text

09 _ Straw Spun to Silk

Graphic Content Warning - Gore, Mutilation, child death. Hey, enjoy!

First - A Gentleman in a Coat

Chapter 09 - When You Weep and Sew

For what must’ve been the fiftieth time, Chad made an effort to walk on the side of the sloping channel. The water sloshed through his sodden shoes, hit footwear was practically liquefied by now, brimming with debris and water else surged beneath the surface. He kept the leant flashlight elevated, to prevent a view of that putrid swill.

Again, he almost slipped on the oily slope, and abandoned all attempts until he reached a zone of elevated terrain or dry ground. He didn’t need to go breaking his only light source, and getting soaked all in the same go. His clothing had a greasy texture by now, from splattering and the humid air heavy – the particles of air swarmed thick like cake in the flashlights acrid beam. He turned the light towards Tucker and Neil; their back and forth the only reverberation shredding the darkness abundant.

They were arguing. Nothing new there. Tucker insisted he stay on point, Neil was convinced they were going in circles and were going to keep going in circles unless someone else decided which routes to take; that individual being him.

“I know where we’re going,” Tucker insisted, in a roar. “I’m keeping track of where we’ve been – I have it all memorized.”

“That’s obviously not working” Neil shot back. “Every turn we take, keeps leading us deeper into nothing. None of this looks familiar – none of this adds up.”

“Just ‘cause your Papi worked the sewers, doesn’t mean you know jackshit! I’m telling you we keep going on my lead, or we’re gonna wind up getting turned around worse. Too many chefs in the kitchen spoils the pot—”

Usually, Tucker was more level headed than this; open to advice and receptive to input. But they were exhausted and thirsty; roaming the various tunnel channels seemed to sap them of liquid and energy. Chad smacked his lips, and swung his light towards the ceiling and the grungy ravels of moldering substance. He leaned on the shortspade, the spade braced to a wall to spare Chad from touching the fould surface.

“A man out to sea, water as far as his eye can see, but not a drop to spare,” Chad murmured.

Hugo was not far from his position, but he didn’t intend to be heard by him or anyone. Hugo had gone oddly quiet as they wandered aimless, and Chad was certain he was crying at some point. Hugo’s eyes were puffy, his face reddened. His misery probably amplified by the fact he wasn’t the one arguing it out with Neil; his whole spark was extinguished.

Hugo laughed. It was so sudden and unexpected, a distinct length of time following Chad’s proclamation.

“We’re fucked.”

“I feel like I’ve been here,” Chad offered. “Maybe dreamed something like this.” Hugo giggled again. “It’s not funny!”

“Sorry.” Hugo took a breath, and regained some semblance of sanity. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“We’re kind of lost.” Chad picked up his feet, and proceeded to follow the other two. Apparently, a decision was made, but it was unclear who won. “We weren’t supposed to leave the line. Hugo?” He stopped and waited, until Hugo began moving.

Chad noted they were followed the current, presuming that the water would let out somewhere, possibly the Barrens. They already tried that scheme some time ago, even go so far as to crawl through the large sift grates clogged by flotsam. But, as before it was determined they were going in circles somehow, and tactics changed up.

“Still hoping to find your brother down here?” Hugo mentioned. Chad whipped his head up towards his taller friend.

“I – uh, no. He wouldn’t be down here,” Chad fumbled. He knew Sterling wouldn’t be caught dead in this place, but… he distinctly recalled a yawning place in his mind where he once believed that his brother did sneak down into a sewer. He recalled the conversation he and the others had earlier when they felt lighter, jubilant with the prospect of using the sewer as a ‘secret highway’ to go between their homes undetected. Sterling had built several homes-away-from-home around the surrounding woods, utilizing spare materials left over from construction. No way he’d be down here.

“I don’t even get why we didn’t just turn back,” Chad murmured. “This was stupid. But, I think Neil’s right. We should’ve seen something more familiar, like some kind of plate with directions or a marker.” Hugo shrugged.

“Could be an area that hasn’t been modernized.”

The argument between Tucker and Neil didn’t diminish in the slightest; the two boys constantly bickered on forks in the path and the occasional intersecting corridor the group came upon. Somewhere between the harsh words, Chad came between the two and fought to dissuade the brunt of the rage. Throughout the heat and the shoving, Hugo became more and more withdrawn.

“We have to stick together!” Chad howled. He managed to squeeze between Tucker and Neil and keep them out of arms reach; the two starting swiping and taunting, a sure lead up to punching and brawling in the chunky water. The runoff was not too deep in this length of the sewer tunnel, but it didn’t smell any better. “We have to sit down and think! You can murder each other later!”

“We’re not sittin’ here and twiddling our thumbs!” Tucker boomed. He backed off at Chad’s doggedness; not that Chad had any strength on his older companions, but Tucker knew he was far from the cause of their suffering. “If we start that, we won’t get anywhere.”

“He’s right,” Neil conceded, still panting from the hollering. “We keep moving. I don’t know how long our batteries will hold up, and it’ll be far worse trying to navigate in the dark.”

And so it went for an undetermined length of time. The four friends didn’t have the stretch of shadows of the peak of sunlight to determine how long they took tunnels and channels. Chad felt the distinct certainty that some of the areas were in fact familiar, but he said nothing. That was his fever stupor, and for a short time they were making progress. The fighting let up, and Hugo came out of his somber retreat of silence to talk and suggest a course of action. Up until, something became very clearly off to Chad. He couldn’t quite place what it was.

The three deduced which passage to turn into; a corridor intersected further down, but they had an immediate fork on the right side. It hit Chad as he swung his light between the two routes. He spun in place, flabbergasted.

“Where is Tucker?”

Hugo and Neil winced. They shared a look, then turned to Chad, flashlights bounding across thick current and debris – as if Tucker would rise from the diseased shallows.

“My god,” Neil breathed. “When—”

“He was right here!” Hugo yelped. His pitch reached panicked levels. “Right here! I swear, I didn’t lose track of him.”

“We must’ve gotten separated—” Neil choked. He brushed past Chad, gripping the other boys shoulder before he could tumble – the water was up to Chad’s thighs. “He fell, or sat down – my god. No-no, this hasn’t just happened!”

“He was right here!”

The reduced group reached the end of the channel, where the ark hung low with ravels of unidentified plant matter and the walls glistened against the light. Water spewed from a pipe higher on the wall, enriching the walls with gurgling and sorrow. The path extended ahead, and there was a bend, but another channel opened to their left.

“How are we going to find him? How?” Neil moaned. His light winked down – he prodded at the remains of a stuffed animal.

Chad sucked in a stale breath. It looked just like a teddybear. His hand snapped up and caught the satin tie tied around his neck; he felt the weight of the mask drag on his neck, where the tie wore.

“Which way did we come?” Hugo whispered.

“I don’t know.” Neil stamped his foot on the toy, and water sobbed from its sawdust torso. He moved to the path with the churning water, ahead.

The contradiction spun in Chad’s head, as they attempted to retrace their steps. Treading deep water, and sometimes on soaked silty pathways. It was apparent they had not gone the right way to locate their friend. It was equally possible they would all die, lost and forever missing in the sewers. But he was right there; Chad saw Tucker… he couldn’t recall exactly when, or what the background looked like. No specifics. Everything. Looked. The. Same.

Chad was reduced to uncontrollable tremors, and Hugo was crying.

“Hugo,” Neil snapped. They were squeezing through another of the grate dividers; Chad and Neil were already through, but Hugo just stood on the other side, face a mess of grime and snot, he kept choking and sucking on the foul air. “Keep it together! C’mon!” Neil reached an arm through, as if it would be easier than escorting an elderly man through a doorway. Hugo burbled and coughed, his words a mess.

“I’m sorry,” Hugo babbled. “I’m so-so sorry.” He heaved another agonized breath.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Chad uttered. He joined Neil at the grate, reaching through. “Hugo, please. We do better when we’re moving.”

It was lie, of course. There was no progress being made, they just went in circles. The three (four?) were trapped in this hellish loop, lost in a nightmare of decay. Nothing would come if—

Chad wasn’t certain if Hugo and Neil had heard it. He withdrew his arm and twisted back; his light glint over Neil’s struck features. He heard as well. The recognition despaired Chad instead of relieve.

The sound was a muted but evident shriek.

Neil tucked through the gap in the grate and snared Hugo by the upper sleeve. “Hurry!” Chad turned his light onto the tunnel yawning ahead.

“This way! I’m certain it came from here!” Chad heaved. He was leaping over chucks of wreckage, clambering to a small access chute on a walkway. “Are you coming?” It was obvious they were, but it didn’t slat his panic. The added lights of Hugo and Neil swarmed his figure, as they tucked down the relatively clear access.

Another barked ring tore out. Chad never stopped in his tracks, but Neil caught him from behind and urged him onward.

“Good-good,” Neil gasped. “We’re here. We’ll find him.”

“That doesn’t sound like Tucker,” Hugo whined. He kept repeating this, over and over.

The ceiling of the passage curved down low, and the trio collided with a level of water with a submerged dip. Hugo went toppling face first into the murk; the torch he carried doused immediately.

“Up! Hurry!” Neil urged. He grabbed Hugo and hoisted him, waterlogged and gasping, back to his feet and hauled him along. The two fumbled at the other, the water frothed around them. It was unclear if they were making progress or struggling on the spot not to go down once more in the viscous swell rising.

“No-no-no!” Hugo wailed.

Neil punched through the sorrow and struggles, “We have to find Tucker! You hear him too!”

“Noo!” Hugo bellowed.

Chad detached from the two, and wadded forward. He thought about swatting Hugo over the head with his shovel, but Neil was getting him under control. The two were a mess of slimy reeds, clinging to one another for dear life. Chad kept moving, using his light as a guide. Somehow, Neil’s torch hadn’t suffered in the tsunami.

“I think it opens over there,” Chad called, in way of encouragement. He found footholds beneath the shallows, with each step the liquid thinned. He moved toward an angular slot in the bricked wall, the texture beneath his shoes was lumpy and course. “D’you hear that?”

Collectively, the trio stalled movement. The steady drip-plip of their sodden clothing hammered on the confines of the knobby walls. But the utterance and pitiful, inhuman rambling was unmistakable. It didn’t stop Neil, disturbed and shaken, from speaking up:

“What is that?”

Chad ignored the rhetoric’s, and scooted into the narrow opening. Upon entry nothing immediately was apparent, aside from the floors and walls that Chad’s light snatched up in miniscule segments; the dark was a formidable barrier the puny tool could not pluck at. Along the base of some nearby walls waded drain access, gurgling thick boiling mucus. The utterance claimed his abrupt focus:

“Tucker!” Chad bolted toward the figure, but halted in two strides.

Behind Tucker stretched a ribbed, rippling pool – the light of Chad’s torch alit on the crescent slates that glided behind each wave. The water broke and rolled, sloshing – though Tucker was a good five feet from the shore, with a sizable brick slope between him and the shore.

Neil and Hugo nearly collided into Chad – they had not been far behind, and with one light between them it was easier to become misguided. The inky mar hovered tight to their drenched figures, as if inspecting the new arrivals and sniffing deeply. Neil’s light dipped, and found Tucker’s blanched face.

For several seconds, Tucker gawked at the three, blinking at the sudden radiance to bombard his face. At first his expression seemed terrified, and then confused. Relief never took the pliant mold of his skull.

“I can’t—”

It was like a switch was flipped. Chad didn’t know why, but he retreated backwards from the despairing face of his best friend – full on propelled his body backwards, and nearly threw Neil and Hugo down in the process.

Hugo began screaming. White, blinding peels of unrestrained, scalding screeching. Within seconds, he was rasping on dusty, pulverized lungs; barely wheezing.

Neil alone launched himself forward. He reached Tucker in five bonds and stooped down, and stopped abruptly. His eyes turned up as a large mass descended to the shore, or more accurately to Tucker’s legs. Neil spun his light up, the beam caught glittering orange eyes, sprawling shawls filled with dozens of interlacing and blazing threads. It clicked and warbled, long ears twitching atop its crown.

Tucker was shrieking, long before it buried its jaws into his shoulder.

Chad hit the wall and dropped to his butt; the shortspade clattered over his feet. He stole in ragged, pained breathes; each one more shallow than the last. Spots pulsed across his eyes, blurring out the intense blaze of the flashlight in his lap. He couldn’t see what was happening, he couldn’t see anything. He heard Neil yelp something, and a strange, nasally snort.

“I’m sorry! God, I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” Hugo whimpered. “I didn’t want— I-I-I—” On he went, blubbering and begging. “I didn’t want to die! I DIDN’T!”

A breathy grunt heaved out of Neil. “Help me!”

“No!” Hugo barked. Then he was mewling, once more, but for a different cause.

The eyes in the winged mass blazed – a light from within the skull burned unnaturally. Chad could define the splayed nostrils, the tall ears, and the jaws filled with rows and rows of teeth. A wild woosh filled the cavern as it lifted, the water at its mercy sighed in reverence of Its might. It was not unlike an aquatic bird descending on the water’s surface to pluck up a fish, except that the force was a turbulent ahilstorm, and the gust shoved Chad roughly against the wall. The winged thing screeched suddenly—

Something distinctly metal snapped.

“Run! Run-run-RUN! Move!” Neil charged into view, with Tucker hanging off his side. Tucker’s legs dragged, he looked more dead than alive. Tucker’s shirt was torn through, his bleached body soaked scarlet; Chad almost believed this was a corpse Neil stole. But Tucker’s head lolled, and he met Chad’s distraught stare. In Tucker’s eyes was no relief, or panic, nor pain – there was a kind of light, but it was cast far back into the depths of his mind, and very cold to look at.

“Jeesus, Hugo! On your feet!” Neil snarled. He was barely on his own feet, stumbling and losing grip of Tucker.

Chad broke from his paralysis. He snatched up his shovel and the flashlight, then, lunged for Hugo.

“Hugo!” That wasn’t what Chad meant to say, but saying his name did break Hugo from his blithering apologizes. Chad winced when Hugo took his upper arm, and used his shorter friend to stand; Hugo did begin pulling Chad along after the other two, but Chad suspected he needed the light more than anything. Chad’s feet slipped over the glossy stone with each step, his pace fanning out wider with the bolstered speed Hugo undertook.

A noise from across the chamber stole Chad’s focus. It was a powerful wallop clapping midair, pulverizing his eardrums. Right as Hugo heaved himself and Chad through the narrow gap, Chad tore his flashlight back and drenched a pair of eyes and yellow gaping teeth in shreds of a blaze. The eyes were an ugly yellow, the kind of yellow bones turn when the grease of sun-bleached skin bakes into the ivory. Chad was certain it was a bat – he’d seen pictures of bats in Aesops Book of Morals – it had all the characteristics of a giant, monster bat. But the jaws were set wide and broken, the inner cavity of the mouth lined with dozens, maybe hundreds of tiny teeth. Or, he could have been mistaken.

Chad toppled backwards as the creature slammed into the outer wall of the barrier – there came a sound of crackling, and chittering garble. The light of the torch went out briefly as Chad and Hugo tumbled, panicked and confused. A sharp hook snared Chad by his ankle and yanked him backwards, he would’ve been skinned by the narrow opening of the pass.

If Neil hadn’t sprung in. The light from Chad’s torch glint over… a blade. Hugo’s katana!

With a battle cry, Neil brought the blade down. The sickle released Chad, and a ratty squeal cut through the angular passage. There was sounds of scuffling and snuffling, and perhaps more, but Neil had already coiled an arm around Chad and hoisted him up.

“Hugo!” Neil frothed. The other beam from the surviving flashlight found the other boy, still sprawled on the rocks. “Get it together! You can’t do this here!”

Chad regained his bearings and slung out of Neil’s grip. “I’ll take him. Hugo. Please.” Chad pinned the shovel underarm, and pried at Hugo’s shoulders. “Tucker. We have to carry Tucker.”

Somehow, for a meager few minutes, good fortune sided with the group. They made it out of the channel, and found their way back to the network of sewer system that was vaguely familiar at best. But they were still lost, wandering with two flashlights between them now, and a gravelly injured friend. Hugo was not much help in sharing the weight of dragging Tucker; he stumbled in a haze, still grappling with apologies that collected into dead air. For the most part, they were silent. Barely would they discuss a path or route; it fell to the one that began shuffling their feet edging with Tucker. No more did they care where they were headed, that no longer mattered.

No one uttered a word about the creature they encountered. But Neil did carry the snapped Katana still. Somehow, he kept the light forward, held Tucker’s ragged body, and held the light steady; the sharp illumination strong beside Chad’s.

The only one that actively spoke, was the broken Tucker. He mumbled about his demise, how he was lost and wandering the dark. He saw light – sunlight, but he couldn’t catch up to it.

“Stay with us, Tuck,” Neil heaved. “We’re getting out of here. We’ll find the way out.”

Chad blinked hard, the copper fumes burned his nostrils and stung his eyes. That was what he insisted to himself. The back of his throat was salty and dry, with each swallow he lost a little bit of control of his resolve. They were going to die. They were going to die. They were going to lose their minds and die.

“I’m sarr-eh. Suur-y. Kidd-el. Keh-ded… us. Ded. Ded.”

“No Tucker,” Neil rebuked. “We’re getting out of here. All of us! We’re— Hugo! Take Tucker for a bit. Get over here!”

Reluctantly, Hugo shuffled through the shallows and relieved Chad. After a short spell, Hugo looked at Chad. “You did a good job.”

That statement made no sense to Chad. He almost expected an apology, and perhaps that was what Hugo meant to do – apologize again. Or something in Hugo’s head had snapped, like a thread of muscle bearing too much weight. Something in their plucky, sarcastic amigo had shattered completely.

The thought made Chad tremble harder than he was before. His light trailed on the back of his friends; he got a good look of Tucker, legs grating through layers of rotted mulch. He put the light ahead of Hugo’s legs and began to follow.

“ChaAAaddy.”

Chad froze. If he looked back, moved a muscle, he would be taken. No scream, no resistance, he would simply cease to exist. That knot in his throat became a blackhole, tearing at his voice box and lungs. With delicate precision the such to master threading a needle, he shifted in his rooted spot and guided the flashlight back.

Melded with the sharp forever of the corridor, a pair of legs. Something tingled in the back of Chad’s mind; the silken texture of the knees, and the skirt… was too familiar. Bells hummed a gentle rhythm in the back of his mind, nearly superimposing the silhouette of an enormous, ravenous bat. But the face that met his, directly too close and not as distant as Chad had expected, was blinding white. Chiseled marble with red slashes—

The figure was gone within a blink, and Chad was certain he made up the foggy impression. A mad hallucination in his brittle thoughts. But the tears felt real. Hot and salty, tracing exact counter designs down his cheeks and converging on his chin. Big, swollen, haunted dollops.

The cry that bolted from Chad’s lungs was barely human. He whipped about on heel and staggered towards Neil and Hugo. They had dragged their friend onto the slope and rubble of the channel’s flow; Neil was covered in blood, and juggling the flashlight in the crook of his arm. He was trying to fix a slab of flesh that peeled back from Tucker’s arm.

“You’re not dying,” Neil groaned. “We have to—”

Chad’s bleat cut Neil off. He pulled Hugo by the arm, screaming, “We have to move! We can’t stay!” It didn’t require further convincing; the utter turmoil was palpable. Neil and Hugo situated Tucker between them, and more or less kept balance as they plodded along. Fast. The tender tow that was adapted was now discarded; the group put energy and focus on moving, and never looked back.

Not until the toppled out of a narrow drain chute, and barely collecting themselves discovered Tucker hung up in driftwood.

“Ah! God no!” Neil coughed. He was on his knees in the sludge, up to his waist and fumbling to unhook Tucker.

Chad was there, his flashlight nearly dissolved in the water had he not plopped in face first; hands above his head as he took in a mouthful of foul liquid. It occurred to him that Tucker’s skin might’ve unraveled, and a chunk was wrapped in the sleek texture of old reeds.

To his revulsion, that was not held Tucker.

Clumps of heavy memories swelled in his mind, overwhelming his taxed senses. There came the runoff drain from the ditch; the dank and endless corridors twisting and looping back into each other; the aroma of sultry sweets topped by putrid rot.

And then there were the eyes. The teeth. And gnarled, emaciated hand latched to Tucker’s leg. Tucker bawled and floundered, choking out more water than air.

“I d-n’t,” he wallowed, between gurgled gnashes. “Don’wan ‘ie!”

Neil huffed and thrashed in the water beside Tucker; the whole time being swatted mercilessly. “I can’t,” Neil gulped, “He won’t. It won’ let! Hugo! Chad! You’re light! Over here!” As he screamed, Neil craned his head up and over the lip of the pipe chute.

Neil was a mere four feet away from the heap of coat, crouched over Tucker’s lower half. But Neil pressed his gaze into the tunnel. Chad found his voice.

“Spate?”

A swarm of dark dust spread through the elegant spear of the torch light. In a second, Chad recognized his error. He recalled the coat was worn, but this thing protruding with odd angles where the fabric – in near ravels – wove over shoulder joints and ribs. The skull was not chiseled graffiti, but stained and yellow on one portion whereas the other half was bleached – a few whiskers stuck from the canines.

From a tunnel off to the right of the group, a second coat and skull barreled in; the tails of its coat swirled over the surface of the water – the hat was distinct and different from the similar creature holding Tucker fast. Chad tried again, screaming the name this time. Hugo gave a sharp glare.

“What are you saying? Get a grip Chad! Hugo, get his waist. I’ll check his leg.” Neil’s response was a haggard growl, frustration butchered by grief. Tucker was being dragged away, and with him Neil and Hugo. “What the FUCK!”

The narrow brim of the skulls hat tilted back, the light in the pit of its eye sockets flittered with the glean of the flashlight. To Chad’s dismay, the skull fiend that held Tucker was drawing his body toward the channel they came from. Tucker wailed and flopped his arms out, though weak; he smacked Hugo and Hugo relinquished his hold with no further argument.

Hugo lunged to his feet and charged off into the dark, his shape dissolving in the murk. His screams came back, but softer as the seconds ticked away.

“Hugo!” Neil wailed. “You bastard! You bloody bastard!” He shoved his heels into the water, but found no purchase.

Chad was narrowly on the edge of taking off to. He held the shortpade in his hands like a bat, but all the same disjointed and hesitant. This time, he uttered the name must softer.

“Spate?”

This time, the other fiend rolled its snout down but neglected to focus directly on any individual – Chad of Tucker. The tenure in its sentence was brittle, and gritty, “This is time for you to run. You have your client.”

“God… damn! Chad!” Neil sobbed. “Help me get him!”

“This one,” the creature hissed. “He stays.”

Chad wrenched his gaze toward Spate, the slope of water rolling cued his ear. The rims of Spate’s eye sockets smoldered – Chad thought briefly Spate would assist Neil, and throw aside this intruder. But Chad was to be disappointed same as before. He didn’t need a word to understand.

“No-NO!” Chad dropped beside Neil and took Tucker by the shoulders. His hands slipped in the fresh spill of blood intermixing with the remains of his shirt. Chad swept out with the shortspade, but h creature dipped back out of range. “You let him go!”

“One. Or all,” the creature rasped. It shook Tucker out of the hold of his friends, and effortlessly hauled the body backwards into the access they originally tumbled from. Neil was screaming, fighting to claw his way back up onto the lip of the pipe. It became apparent after the miles and miles of tunnels navigated, Neil could give no more. Soon Tucker slipped beyond visibility, the last that Chad could make of the fiend was its haunting sulfuric eyes, winking out.

For a long time, Chad couldn’t move. Was Tucker—

“Wick,” crooned the skull. He was beside Chad, a hand clasped to the boys shoulder. “You should not have come here.”

A somber reprieve cradled the tunnel entrance. Somewhere else, a thin stream of water cut into the endless rivers. Neil was sobbing; he finally made it onto the edge of the tunnel chute, but his light cut into the passage. Nothing was revealed. It was vacant. Tucker was gone.

Chad dragged in the foul air. “Give. Him. BACK!” He twisted to Spate, shortspade and flashlight held at arms-length. He would use one or the other, or both. “Find him!”

“I can’t,” Spate wheezed. “He was taken. I can’t change that.”

Chad’s mind whirled. He had to collect the pieces, make sense of the madness. He couldn’t bear Neil’s wallowing. “Find him.”

“It doesn’t work that way.” The creature swung on the spot, and really examined the area over. “Your friend is gone. And you will have to accept that.”

“I won’t,” Chad growled. “Your friend took him.” Spate cocked his head, and directed his gaze back toward the passage that Tucker – and the other skull fiend – had vanished back within.

“Stay here then. Die.” Spate moved away, the water babbled beneath the tail of his coat. “Your friend was dead. Dying. He wouldn’t have made it. You can in the least not waste that sacrifice.”

The lapping slurry retreated from Chad; his light slipped over the side of Spate’s coat, but he only got a glimpse of the ravels he didn’t recall from before. But his memory of the events, of everything, were not reliable.

With a sniffle, Chad gathered his resolve, and tentatively moved towards the edge of the tunnel entrance. “Neil. Neil,” he whispered. “We can’t stay here. He’s gone. We have to leave too, before… we have to find Hugo. Hugo ran off.”

“Fuck Hugo,” Neil choked. “He left us. That son of’a bitch left us.” He groaned and rubbed some of the excess filth from his faces; the soft shimmer of the flashlight Chad carried, offered clarity of his friends features.

“We have to go,” Chad repeated. “Maybe when we get out, they can send a search party in to find him. Please Neil, I’m scared.” Chad met Neil’s gaze – Neil’s eyes bubbled thick, the mud caked to his face had the thick tear streaks. He held Chad’s attention for a long time.

“Okay,” Neil conceded. “We have to – have to try, right?”

It was physically difficult for Neil to stand on his own two feet; he leaned hard on Chad, and somehow Chad kept him upright. The water rolled and odd bits of wreckage bombarded Chad’s shins, but the two managed to stay upright. At the furthest end of the corridor, Spate was waiting beside a small duct. Somewhere, Hugo was out there, without a flashlight. The boys had only one torch between them, and one lone opportunity to liberate themselves from the depths of madness.

“I accept your offering.”

“Nu-nuhhh.” Tucker moaned. He bled and bled and bled, the soil beneath his parched skin crimson. “D’n wun… ‘ie.”

“And you shan’t,” Burr rumbled. And Tucker wouldn’t die. Not here. Not this way.

The lad mewled and fumbled, but found no hold; weakened by blood loss, he hung limp from the grip that hauled him through the corridors and wreckage left by decades of flooding. A thick haze hung through the low buckle of the ceiling, roots dangled from patches of earth tearing through blisters of brick and mortar. This span of subterranean sewer network was increasingly claustrophobic. In the distance, around a clunky chunk of cement emitted a light. Burr shuddered to dwell what the source was, but he crept toward it.

There was a steep incline working upward, from the narrow space that admitted Burr into the vast cavity. High above and nestled in the above terrain, rested large rotund openings, shielded by a thick grate with narrow openings. A way out, apparently; he dragged the young lad behind him; the ground was earthy and soft, cluttered with large debris, clothing, some toys, and other personal effects. Despite the illumination offered by the world above, the overall length of the chamber was gloomy. Depressed and infectious, the sunbeams validated the misty pools and patches of terrain they plodded upon.

Burr snapped his snout toward a far and vague crevice, and the entry pipe high above it. A snide nasally cackle, and a chime of… Something shuffled within the opening, and he caught the whiff of an obscure herb he was long ago acquainted with. His hand snapped loose of Tucker’s leg, and he stepped back – a low, coiling hiss rattled up his ribs.

Tucker whimpered.

A flutter of movement, but was it nothing after all? He was positive something moved, and was closing in on their position. No! Not his. Not the coat and bones, left in the forgotten dust of an unmarked crypt. Not he. The color and scent approached the miserable child.

“Pleaz,” Tucker moaned. “Halll…p.Hull— hello?” He edged his head toward the side, onto a bundle of rotted coveralls. “H’ey. I neehhh….” The lethargy in his words burned from his throat, and his eyes rolled up, and up. He saw exactly what was scuttling towards him – clicking and giggling.

Tucker screamed with renewed vigor. That might have been the child’s end there, but not while Burr lingered near. He tucked into his coat and submerged his body in a pool of inky water. The shrill of the boy held strong for a full fifteen seconds, before the noise cut off. Then, followed the gnashing and snap-snap-snap of sinew; muscles pulverized, unraveled in hot chunks, exposing the fresh ivory. There wasn’t much left for a voice, nothing but guttural sobs and wet dying. None of that was quick, or merciful.

Burr couldn’t identify what was there; if not for teases of a shroud, something like human in shape but nothing and never was once human. Ever. The suggestion of form he settled with was an arched and jagged back, teeth – grinning teeth like needles – everywhere, and ravels of silken hide, folded. He didn’t understand what was there, since the lurker wouldn’t show itself except to Its victim. And It didn’t care of him; he was ignored.

This wasn’t a matter of debate, regardless how Burr constructed his tact. He wasn’t clear if he should be upset or despaired in some manner. He recalled what Spate confessed to him, and how damning the situation was. But, that was the pact which Burr partook in.

The skull bowed and Burr took flight. He tore from the chamber, out of the natural light and back into the catacombs of the blighted sewer labyrinth. It would not stay preoccupied for long, and would quickly recall the others.

Next - A Thread Unravels

#nanowriter #crossover #fanfiction #horror #mystery #suspense #literature #dark fiction #straw spun to silk #fairy #fae #monster #mystery suspense #gore #sewers #cryptid #chadwick k spencer #bone cloak #grim fiend

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annoycd · 7 years

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was he weeping? he wasn’t sure. he felt clean, sated in his anger. any tears he might have had dried up with his body. he was burning, seething. he was everything his mother had taught him not to be and all for her. that was the irony of it. for so long kihyun’s mother tried her best to keep him locked in a bottle thinking no one would try to shake him up and see what pours out. she would lock it with expectations and her idea of love until he was breaking the glass himself. he would whine and weep and wither at his own wishes and maybe once upon a time he wept at the words. maybe once upon a time when someone mentioned his mother he would cry and he would sniffle and snivel at their feet.

his mom wouldn’t like that. but then again he’s not sure what she would like or what she would approve it. she’s always been so careful so particular with her words and her teachings and he still has trouble grasping it, still has trouble becoming it. expectations are suggestions and orders are possibilities. kihyun never stayed completely on the path laid out before him and he knew she despised it but she also allowed it. if kihyun were to come home bleeding from a fight at school she didn’t coddle him and ask him if he was okay, but she didn’t smile when he said he’d won. it was all his fault and nothing could ever be perfect. he could win and get scolded for being ungentlemanly, he could lose and be scolded for ruining reputation. there was no dancing around just disappointment. she might smile if he came home clean but he wasn’t a boy who came home clean. she might smile if he said he didn’t throw a punch but kihyun wasn’t a boy who didn’t.

once upon a time she did let her hand linger on his cheek, young and bruised and sporting a fair pout. at that time kihyun decided his mother liked parts of it. that’s the problem. she only ever seemed to like the parts not the whole, the shoved and the leaking but never the full or the bare. kihyun was tired. visibly tired. he wasn’t weeping he was breaking.

“I’m not asking for take backs. I’m telling you to take it back before you can’t.” there’s something so ironic about the position here. kihyun has always been violent after someone provokes him but he always makes sure that he isn’t the only one looking wild, he makes sure it looks like two animals and not one and that way he can lose himself even more. it’s not because he’s concerned about onlookers but because he can’t stand the thought of being too different from anyone else. he can’t stand thinking he’s some ticking time bomb while everyone else is content. everyone has discontent in their hearts, everyone has something akin to what he feels. he’s not the only one and he can’t be. he’s not that different! so he struggles he keep his grip on the lighter, his teeth digging into his lips and effectively the threat doesn’t die out. it’s simply subdued.

“Compose yourself. Bear your troubles. Stand tall.” he repeats it as mockingly as possible. he spits it past his lips and his fingers curl even tighter against his side. knuckles turn white, vision turns red and for a moment kihyun isn’t sure why he bothers listening. he is composing himself, this is him composed! any other day he would have launched himself at the female but it’s been a long day and he can’t keep up with what he should do and what he would do and could do. he’s tiring out second by second. “who are you talking to?” it doesn’t click as quick as it should, that she’s ordering him around and treating him like a kid as everyone else does. usually it clicks immediately and he’s got a fire of a response to give people but that’s when kihyun’s body starts to move in sync with everything around him.

he’s composed and that’s not him. he’s concealing his troubles in his palm and that’s not him. he’s slouching, curving his anger in his body like a disease. that’s not him. kihyun’s going against all her words because he’s used to it. he’s used to going against everything thrown at him because that’s how he survived. here is someone asking him to strip himself bare for the first time in years and who is he to deny? he’s been pulled so tight, woven so deep that he almost forgot who he was.

the white dies down. the red spreads through his body and his hands shift out his pocket. the movement is nonchalant, he’s got this silly smile on his face, something like freedom in his eyes. wild. primal. he wonders what his mother would say if she saw him, taking steps to the woman with the lighter now brandished in his hand, spray can in the other. would she smile? laugh? reprimand him? for the first time he has time to think and he chooses not to, let’s his body and words work on their own.

“you want me to compose myself? bear my troubles? stand tall.” he does. he holds both items up for her to see. he’s standing straighter than he has in weeks and the strength is from adrenaline pulsing in his body. all he is is before her and all his cares are out the window. the tip of his index finger dances around the can with a promise but his thumb? his thumb flicks against the lighter, baiting, waiting.

“be very careful what you ask for.”

The world is full of hostile magic and it cannot survive much more. It wears disguises like him and her; both of them in their self-involved phases. When one seems to get away with it, it rebounds twice more. It’s an illusion that ricochets in physical existence. Just as it was happening to her. Now it had decided to take its toll after decades of exploitation; decades of misuse and abuse. Now, after taking its time, it had ruled to use Arabella for her own ends. She, and everything she cared about, has and will become ashes. What sunders between herself and everything else will come to be incredibly permeable.

She knew the weight of her words. She knew none of it was a game. She knew she can’t hurt someone without harming herself, otherwise she doesn’t really understand magic, or reality for that matter. Opening up to the spirit realm and attempting to command forces for a negative cause meant opening herself first to all harm that will be caused. At the end of it all, it becomes herself that she seeks to harm as the true danger was on the impact it has to her soul; the karmic debt she’d accumulate in just the few remaining moments of her life.

Regardless, he shouldn’t have said such a thing. No matter how much she spits and hisses, he shouldn’t entertain it. Yet what was he to do? How should he comply with an unannounced rule? His downfall isn’t to blame on himself. The fault was in his unfamiliarity of the hazard that she is. A fight would mean disaster, and the reason she wouldn’t want it happening was because she’s lost all control.

Her semblance had slackened, unwilling to be triggered: it unleashes without warning or precedent. There was no guarantee of safety for anyone, not even for her. The destructive force comes through her. It fills, and becomes her, before it can go anywhere else. As much as she had less and less of a concern for her own welfare, it’d mean taking another life along with her, and if not, maybe leave equal damage, or damage on an immense scale that could last a person’s entire existence. As much as she didn’t care for the boy who carelessly threw taunts and what seemed like empty talk at her, she couldn’t let it be. For despite her recurrent bad habits and false virtues to the eye, guilt wasn’t something she could live with, much less bear to her grave.

It wasn’t him or anyone else, it was for her peace of mind. How much more selfish she could get at this point would deem immeasurable. She swore to never live with regrets. Having to commit atrocity before her inevitable death would put thousands of years risking all that she had to waste.

She shivered despite the clammy warmth building under her quickly heating hands. Her stomach began to sink. A familiar odd feeling crept into her belly, and she realized it had been rising, slowly and gradually, for some time. It started as an itch, then became a dull ache, and now that ache was sharpening then amplifying. Only something had temporarily plugged all of her senses; a mysterious thing that had magnetized her hand into a grip on the telltale bulge of her concealed weapon and tuned the bounds inside her to his scornful gaze.

Her conscience reaches to her, warning her of the repercussions, repeating them over and over, chanting: do not drink your own poison of grudge. Without any more spiteful words to send back, instead she shoots a menacing stare, triggered by his indifferent, albeit perceived slightly arrogant, behavior and diminishes right when she slinks into a decisive stance. Her hold on the weapon looses with her eyes closing solemnly and a sigh escapes her. Once the eyelids flutter open, she summons a projection of her aura, fueling what manifests into a duplicate of her yet in a form of a tangible shadow. She charges forward with haste, chopping his arm forcefully with the blade of her hand to send the lighter slewing away. Behind her, the shadow becomes engulfed into flames and dwindles into ashes. She grabs his face before brutally raising him above her height and slamming him to the ground once, but it was enough to cause debris to fling around.

Lost in her unwarranted and uncontrolled fury, the male became trapped under her weight as she slams his head against the hard concrete once more and it was only then that she had realized Kihyun was already unconscious. Her hands trembled in subdued rage mixed with remorse. It consumes her, little by little. She sat rigid and paralyzed. With all her will, she prevented herself from choking out of her own breath. Through her parted lips, she drew only tiny gasps. She couldn’t stand to see what she had done. In her guilt, she resorted to sparing a few drops of her healing potion, the exact potion she’d literally and figuratively die to run out of, pouring it into the small gap between his chapped lips.

As soon as his skin grows warm, she takes the chance to flee from the ruin she had caused before he could wake up again. She leaps out the window accessible as it is with its glass broken, and falls to her knees the next moment her two feet touches the ground. She could feel herself weaken in each step but she’s lost enough of the concoction brewed by a friend so hard to reach in just a day. In the small deed that follows a catastrophe, she still hopes at least to be able to sleep with ease in the night. Only this way would she not attempt another act of self-destruction.

#tags on tags #on tags

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