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crossbowking · 3 years

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More Than Anything (Part 2)

(Click HERE to read More Than Anything Part 1)

Summary: (Set mid-season 6) The reader’s feelings towards the archer evolve, but a supply run that goes south threatens to destroy it all.

Request: “I’d love to see something w protective Daryl and some angst, maybe set at the start of their time in Alexandria w an established relationship?” - @pulplorrd

A/N: See, you'd think I would've learned after making you guys wait a year and a half for No Way Out Part 2, that I should probably FINISH my stories before actually posting the first part...yet, here we are, one month later lol I'm sorry for the wait but hopefully it's worth it!

Happy reading and let me know what you think :)

xx Jess

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Previously...

But as its grasp slipped away from around Tara’s arm, the walker’s deadweight, in turn, collapsed against you.

You lost your footing and fell backward.

Except the solidity of concrete never rushed up to meet you.

Instead, you were embraced by water, the tarp that’d laid across the motel pool coiling around your body as you sunk deeper and deeper into nothingness.

Now...

When the world ended, you’d accepted the idea of death — your death, specifically.

You knew that one day, your life would undoubtedly end — most likely at the hands of the dead, ripped to pieces, torn to shreds, the way so many others before you had been taken. But you’d always hoped your death would at least mean something — maybe laying your life on the line, sacrificing yourself so the people you loved could survive.

Something noble, something brave.

Not like this.

Before the fall, you’d managed to inhale a sharp breath — though once you’d submerged into the grimy pool water, the coldness, the darkness, the shock of it all, had zapped the air right out of your body. You were becoming increasingly aware of the tightness in your chest, the burning in your lungs as you struggled against the walker pressed against you, its weight sinking you further into the depths of the pool.

Then, the panic set in — your heart pounded against your ribcage, right alongside the immense pressure crushing your lungs. Glimpses of sunlight hung just above you, peeking through parts of the drifting tarp you frantically attempted to push aside. You were completely disoriented, your vision obscured by the murkiness surrounding you, floating specks only visible beneath the shattered light above.

When your back connected against the bottom of the deep end, you managed to wriggle out from under the dead’s listless body — though the tarp remained twisted around your limbs. No matter how hard you fought, how hard you struggled, you couldn’t free yourself from the suffocating material. You could’ve sworn you were caught in a dream, your movements lagging and sluggish as you thrashed beneath the surface.

It felt as though someone had reached their hand directly through the center of your chest, squeezing your insides in a vice-like grip. A tingling sensation crawled down your spine, settling atop your churning stomach as the throbbing behind your ears began to slow.

You were listening to your last heartbeats.

It became unbearable, the water threatening to force its way past your clamped lips, the simple need to breathe. A sharp stab of pain shot through you as the blackness in your vision intensified, pulsing reddish-white around the edges as the fire in your chest consumed you at last.

Then, with nothing else left to do, you inhaled.

You weren’t sure what happened next — everything felt faint and fuzzy and quiet. The darkness that lingered no longer struck fear in you — instead, it was warm, enveloping you in its arms like a long-lost lover. The silence was soothing as you drifted in the emptiness, like careless whispers and forgotten melodies. You were weightless, you were freed, you were everything and nothing all at once.

You were dying.

That you were sure of.

Yet much to your surprise, you weren’t afraid — no, instead…you felt at peace.

But the brevity of calm didn’t last as you were suddenly aware of a vague pressure, though it wasn’t all-consuming nor constant. It was distant at first, a feeling you could’ve easily brushed aside had it not begun to gradually grow in force, in vigor — a steady pounding, coming from the center of your chest, over and over again.

The warmth around you began to splinter, shattering like shards of glass, the fallout piercing your skin as it collapsed around you. The pain was deep and burning and you longed for just a moment ago when all you felt was the sweetness of oblivion. The pressure pounding against your chest increased, becoming the sole thing you could feel, the only thing you could focus on, the unwavering thuds drawing you back from whatever place you’d drifted off to.

In the next moment, you were awake.

Your body flailed, jolting upright, but you’d only managed to get an inch or two off the ground before water began to suddenly spurt from your mouth. Your eyes squeezed shut as you choked on the liquid, every nerve ending in your body red-hot. You were vaguely aware of hands, rough and calloused and familiar, gripping onto your arms and forcing you onto your side, the motion allowing the water leaving your lungs to flow easier.

You gasped a constricted breath, coughing harshly on the exhale, completely and entirely disoriented as to what in the fuck just happened. Your chest tightened as you spit up more water, your throat closing around the sensation as you fought for control of your breathing, the feeling of concrete against the side of your body grounding you.

When your coughs finally died down, the same hands from before grabbed onto your arms, pulling your deadweight upright, maneuvering your limp body as if you were a rag doll. You blinked your bleary eyes open, wincing from the sunlight directly above as you drew in shaky breaths.

And then you saw him.

Daryl knelt in front of you, his ragged breathing mirroring your own, soaking wet from head to toe. Strands of hair stuck against his forehead, droplets of water still dripping from the ends as he stared at you, wide-eyed, his expression a mixture of horror and shock — something you rarely witnessed when it came to the archer.

He was mouthing something — no, he was shouting something — but you couldn’t hear him. You couldn’t hear a damn word he was saying as you sat there, dazed and confused, wondering if what just happened actually happened.

His hold around your arms slipped away, his hands cradling either side of your face instead, tilting your head up and brushing your drenched hair back. He leaned forward a fraction, frantically studying your features, his haunted eyes bouncing back and forth between your own as though making sure you were there — really there.

The silence was becoming a little less resounding, the world around you gradually seeping back, though muffled and dull — but the way Daryl was looking at you, the apprehension in his gaze, shook something loose inside you. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You wanted to tell him it was okay — that you were okay — but damn it, why couldn’t you speak?

So instead, you slowly lifted your hands, weakly grasping onto Daryl’s wrists, the small motion all you could muster — you had to let him know you were here. He glanced down at your hands, a small huff of relief escaping him.

But when he looked back up, you noticed the moisture that’d built in the corners of his eyes.

Daryl’s hands slipped behind your head, holding you still as he leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently against yours.

You, on the other hand, silently thanked whatever God or higher power was out there for giving you one more moment like this.

When the archer pulled back, you spotted a red streak smeared across his forehead that hadn’t been there before. Your brow knitted together as he sat back on his haunches. You tried clearing your throat, the sensation burning the rawness that’d spread. “You’re —” you croaked, your voice sounding foreign. “— you’re bleeding, D.”

Daryl’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he lowered his gaze and unsheathed his hunting knife. “It ain’t mine,” he rasped, suddenly slicing a long strip of fabric off from the bottom of his dampened shirt and balling it in his fist, ringing out some of the water.

Before you knew what was happening, he was reaching forward, pressing the material gingerly against your forehead and wrapping it behind your head, tying the strip into a knot to keep it in place. You were surprised at the sting of pain you felt, unsure when you managed to cut your head open in the midst of what had happened — everything was still sort of…fuzzy.

The sound of a car door slamming drew your attention. You peeked out of the corner of your eye, spotting Tara jogging towards you, the car you’d driven to the motel running idle in the parking lot.

“They’re coming!” she called out, motioning towards something just behind Daryl.

You craned your neck, attempting to get a look, but before you could, the archer was looping his arms beneath your armpits and hefting you up to your feet. The world tilted unsteadily around you, and had it not been for Daryl’s hold, the ground would’ve surely rushed up to meet you.

“I got ya,” he rasped, slinging one of your arms across his shoulders, his grip snaking around your waist.

Tara appeared at your opposite side, slightly out of breath. “Welcome back, chicka,” she shot you a slightly strained smile before following Daryl’s lead and winding your other arm across her shoulders, keeping you propped upright between them.

You wanted to tell them you were fine, that you were more than capable of walking on your own — but your strength had depleted, your legs shook beneath you, and the shock was beginning to wear off, making all the little aches and pains in your body alarmingly obvious.

Then, you were moving.

They half-dragged, half-carried you across the stretch of concrete, hurrying towards the parking lot where Tara had left the car. You peeked over your shoulder, managing to get a glimpse of what you were leaving behind — the small herd from earlier had been taken down, their bodies splayed out sporadically on the other side of the pool. Some sporting knife wounds, others bullet holes. The pool itself was rippling, the water sloshing back and forth, air bubbles visible at the surface.

Some of the dead had followed you into the water.

Just beyond the pool, you spotted exactly what you were running from — another herd, three times the size of the first one, ambling in from the woods behind the motel, most likely drawn in by gunfire.

When you reached the car, Tara slipped away and jumped into the driver’s seat. Daryl flung open the back door and maneuvered you carefully inside. You grimaced as you inched further into the car, only stopping once your back was pressed up against the opposite door. The archer quickly slid in after you and slammed the door shut, grabbing onto the back of the driver’s seat as Tara peeled out of the parking lot.

The silence that followed rang heavy.

Your heart hammered against your chest, your breaths coming out slightly wheezy, almost like there was still some water left in your lungs. You met Tara’s eyes in the rearview mirror before she focused back on the road — you noticed then that the sleeves of her shirt, up to her elbows, were wet.

She’d helped drag your body out of the pool.

You glanced over at Daryl, the archer’s grip on the driver’s seat white-knuckled as he stared at the back of the headrest. Waves of tension rolled off him, the feeling nearly palpable. But his eyes flickered towards you a moment later, as though he felt you watching him, and some of the rigidity faded.

He wordlessly shuffled closer, grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the door you leaned against. You were too tired and too sore to object, your body slumping against his side as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders — you thought for a brief moment that he was hugging you.

But instead, he wound your seatbelt around your body and locked it in place.

Daryl fell back against the seat beside you with a huff, keeping his gaze focused ahead, staring straight through the windshield. He didn’t look at you again — he remained still, like he was carved from stone. You weren’t even sure he was breathing. His arm just barely grazed the side of yours, but despite whatever hidden turmoil was surely happening inside of him, he made no effort to move away.

He needed time to process what happened — what almost happened.

But so did you.

You shifted, closing the small gap between you and resting your head against his shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffened. The material of his shirt was still damp and smelt like a mixture of chlorine and mildew from the murky pool water, but you couldn’t find it in you to pull away either.

You hadn't realized you’d dozed off until the archer gently shook you awake, the car now parked outside Alexandria’s makeshift infirmary.

You still felt weak and lethargic, but you managed to make your way inside without any help — although Daryl, silent and stoic as ever, remained at your side, his hand hovering over the small of your back.

The infirmary was quiet as Denise checked you over — Tara had gone to update Rick and the others on what happened, as well as distribute the supplies you’d managed to bring home. Daryl, on the other hand, paced — back and forth, like a caged animal, on the opposite side of the room. Almost like part of him desperately wanted to run, but a bigger part of himself needed to be there.

“Are you feeling any nausea? Confusion? Loss of basic motor skills?” Denise suddenly asked, breaking the silence that’d stretched on, looking up from the textbook she was reading from. She’d never dealt with an ‘almost drowning’, but had been able to scrounge up some old medical textbooks for help.

“Uh,” you cleared your throat, shaking your head once. “No. No, nothing like that.”

“Okay, good. Yeah, that’s good…” she murmured, mostly to herself, before flipping to the next page and skimming the stretch of words. “Besides your forehead, any other lacerations?” she looked up at you once more, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t —” you shot Daryl a look, but he was too busy pacing to notice. “I don’t think so,” you shook your head again, your fingertips ghosting over the bandage Denise had patched your head up with.

“Good, good. We’ll want to keep an eye on that in case of infection,” she informed before flipping to the next page, mouthing the text to herself. “Okay, and any soreness?”

You grimaced as you sat up a little straighter. “Just — just right here mostly,” you admitted, motioning towards your center, below your chest.

Denise shut the textbook and placed it on the metal table you sat on top of. “Can you show me?”

Your brow knitted together but you obliged, sliding off the table and grabbing the hem of your shirt. You fought back a wince as you rolled the material up, stopping just below your chest, exposing your skin.

The first thing you noticed was the way the room suddenly stilled — you glanced up, spotting Daryl standing frozen across the way, pacing no longer. But he wasn’t staring at you — he was staring at your midsection, a look in his eyes you’d never seen before.

When you lowered your head, getting a good look at yourself for the first time, you realized exactly what he was seeing.

Bruises. Dark and discolored. Scattered down your sternum and along the center of your ribcage.

Your head snapped up at the sound of the front door slamming shut.

And Daryl was gone.

You tried to ignore the pinprick of tears that grew, the hurt that settled across your chest as you lowered your shirt back in place — but when Denise suddenly reached out and placed her hand on top of yours, patting it softly, your features crumpled.

Everything that happened seemed to catch up to you in that moment — the fear, the shock, what Daryl must’ve felt pulling your unmoving body out of the water. You’d nearly died. What would’ve happened if he hadn’t been able to bring you back? Would he have been the one to put you down when you undoubtedly turned? Or would Tara have done it — the act far too painful for the man you loved to follow through with.

The man you loved.

Denise wrapped her hand around yours, squeezing gently and drawing you back. “Hey, it’s okay,” she soothed.

You quickly swiped at the tears that slipped down your cheeks, huffing a hitched breath. “I know, I’m just —” you glanced up at the front door, hanging onto the foolish hope that it’d swing open once more. “I don’t know,” you finally mumbled, albeit defeatedly.

Denise followed your gaze, scoffing slightly. “Men suck,” she finally shrugged.

You sniffled softly before shaking your head. “Not that one,” you murmured fondly.

Denise squeezed your hand once more, shooting you a sympathetic smile before she pulled away. “It could’ve been worse — most people who have CPR done on them end up with broken ribs or punctured lungs. You, my friend, are one of the lucky ones.”

You inhaled a deep breath, fighting back a wince, the motion stretching your bruised body. “Thank you. For everything.”

Denise nodded before taking off her glasses, using the hem of her shirt to clean the lenses. “Y/N, I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but,” she paused, sliding her glasses back on as she regarded you seriously. “You smell like a sewer rat.”

You faltered, completely caught off guard by her statement before remembering that you were still wearing damp, swampy, pool water clothes. Then, despite everything, a laugh slipped past your lips, breaking the tension. You let out a hiss as the movement sent a wave of pain through you. “Ow, fuck, don’t make me laugh,” you bit back another chuckle, lightly swatting her arm.

Denise smiled before motioning towards the door. “Go home, shower, get some rest — Doctor’s orders,” she grinned, turning away and beginning to clean up her workstation.

You thanked her again before hobbling out of the infirmary.

As night drew near, most residents of Alexandria were already in their respective homes — you were grateful for that. You didn’t want to see anyone right now, their worry and endless questions something you were more than happy to put off until tomorrow.

When you made it back to the apartment you and Daryl shared, you were, yet again, fighting back feelings of disappointment — he wasn’t home. You felt a pinprick of worry, but knew he needed time and space to process whatever it was he was feeling.

And when he was ready, you would be too.

You walked through the kitchen, the morning you’d shared earlier feeling like a lifetime ago — the pan he’d used to make eggs, now dry, remained sitting on the counter. The bedroom was untouched, looking exactly how it had this morning, just the way you’d left it. You grabbed a fresh set of clothes before making your way into the master bathroom attached, ignoring the bone-deep tiredness settling over you.

Showering was a good call — the warm water rained down as you scrubbed your body of the muck that clung to you, being extra careful not to get the bandage on your head wet or make any sudden movements. When you were finished cleaning up, you stood beneath the shower head for a few minutes, eyes closed, inhaling the steam around you with deep, calming breaths.

You were okay. You were alive. You were here.

You shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and dried yourself off, gingerly patting down your chest and around your ribs, before slipping into clean clothes. You wiped away some of the steam that’d collected on the bathroom mirror before hanging up your towel, combing out your knotted hair, and brushing your teeth — the same routine you did every night.

The normalcy was soothing — you were already beginning to feel better, more like yourself. You were ready to put what happened behind you and move forward, sure to never take another day for granted.

But when you opened the bathroom door, ready to curl up in bed and doze off, all of your feelings from earlier came rushing back at the sight of Daryl.

Once again, he’d been pacing the length of the bedroom, only stopping after you’d entered the room, his gaze snapping towards you. He shifted his weight back and forth, opening his mouth before clamping it shut. You could feel his energy, rolling off his body in waves — tense, rigid, wild. He was struggling to say whatever was on his mind, only furthering his evident frustration. He flicked his hair away from his eyes, turning to face you head-on, clearly gathering up the gall to speak.

You took a small step forward. “Daryl —”

“Ya were blue,” he suddenly rasped, a fire in his gaze that wasn’t there before. “Tara was shoutin’ for ya an’ I — when I went in an’ pulled ya out, there wasn’t — I didn’t —” he huffed a breath in frustration, his face tinged red. “God, damn it, Y/N, ya were fuckin’ blue,” he finally growled, chest heaving, hands balled into fists at his side.

His anger wasn’t directed at you, but the situation itself, you knew that. But still, his words — or more so the emotion, the truth hidden behind them — had you recoiling from him, your heart breaking at the thought of what he’d seen, of what had run through his mind when he realized you weren’t breathing.

You couldn’t imagine how scared he must have been.

And that was what was beneath his outburst — not rage, but fear.

But he wasn’t finished with what he needed to say — if anything, he was just getting more and more worked up as he began to frantically pace once more. “This is why — I fuckin’ told ya — I didn’t need ya comin’ out there. I didn’t need ya on that run but ya — ya didn’t listen ta’ me an’ then —”

“I love you.”

Daryl stilled, mid-stride, his gaze widening as if all of the air had been sucked from his lungs.

You felt your face flush, the air between you so thick it could be cut with a knife. You hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but the words just sort of…tumbled out? And now, there they were, hanging between you. Part of you wondered if the archer could hear your heart pounding from where he stood — or maybe it was his heartbeat, synched up to yours.

You sputtered a soft breath, shaking your head in disbelief, trying not to panic because the last thing you wanted was for Daryl to look at you the way he was looking at you after telling him you loved him. “I’m —“ you took a breath, regarding him earnestly. “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. And I promise — I promise — you do not have to say it back. Hell, you don’t even have to feel the same way,” you huffed an awkward laugh, but the noise hitched somewhere in your throat, betraying your words. You grew serious once more. “I just — I couldn’t have another night going by without you knowing. Not after what happened today,” you swallowed the lump in your throat, shrugging a shoulder up meekly. “So, I love you — I love you more than anything.”

You weren’t sure what sort of reaction you were expecting from him. But you absolutely refused to acknowledge the tiny part of you that secretly wished he’d swoop you into his arms, pull you close, tell you he loved you too — because that wasn’t Daryl. That wasn’t the type of man he was — and you were okay with that.

Because you hadn’t fallen in love with that type of man.

You’d fallen in love with the man standing shell-shocked in front of you.

You cleared your throat and stepped forward, moving away from the bathroom doorway. “The shower’s all yours,” you murmured, needing to break the uncomfortable silence that carried on.

You sidestepped around his frozen form, ignoring the way your legs shook like jelly beneath you as you made your way towards the bed. You took a seat on the edge of the mattress, keeping your back towards him, staring ahead at the blank wall in front of you instead.

After what felt like forever, the floorboard squeaked beneath the shifting of his weight, his footsteps growing faint as he slowly walked away and entered the bathroom, closing the door shut after him.

You strained your ears, listening for any movement beyond the door he’d disappeared behind — but you heard nothing. It was like you could feel him through the panel of wood between you — you could almost picture him, just standing there, trying to process whatever the hell was going on inside that mind of his.

A moment later, the shower turned on.

And you released the breath you’d been holding.

Exhaustion swept through you, the day’s events wearing you down. You carefully maneuvered yourself into bed, pulling a thin sheet over your body and settling onto your side. Your eyelids grew heavy, the sound of the shower lulling you to sleep despite the strange, sort of freedom your admittance had brought you, the feeling buzzing through your veins.

You didn’t regret your vulnerability — he needed to know he was loved, damn it.

When you heard the shower turn off, you snapped your eyes shut. You listened to the archer move about the bathroom until the door finally creaked open. He seemed to be just standing there, and you could’ve sworn you felt him staring at the back of your head as if he was gauging whether or not you were actually asleep. But a moment later, you heard his footsteps padding across the bedroom before the mattress dipped beneath him.

You held your breath, covers drawn to your chin as Daryl shifted in bed, eventually lying down beside you. Another beat of quiet passed, neither of you moving, nor breathing it seemed.

But then suddenly, you heard him speak, so softly you almost missed it. “I know ya ain’t sleepin’,” he rumbled.

The corner of your mouth quirked up — because of course he knew.

You sighed, shifting gingerly onto your back, the sheet pooling at your waist as you looked over at him. He laid on his side, facing you, propped up on his elbow. He was dressed in clean clothes, his hair still wet from the shower, pushed back out of his face.

He really was rather beautiful.

“Busted,” you smiled, though the archer’s expression remained solemn.

Ever so gently, he reached towards you, his fingertip grazing the material of your shirt, over your ribcage, below your chest, hovering the bruises that lingered. “Does it hurt?” he rasped, the mouth turned downward into a small frown.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

Daryl’s eyes met yours, his expression skeptical and knowing.

You never were a good liar.

“At least you didn’t break a rib?” you offered sheepishly, your lame attempt at a joke falling flat given the current audience.

But when Daryl’s features fell, a flash of what looked like guilt settling over his face, you placed your hand on top of his, resting them against your stomach. “Don’t do that,” you murmured, reading him like a damn book as you rubbed circles with your thumb over the back of his hand.

The archer grumbled something indistinct, staring down at your intertwined hands.

Your grip tightened around his. “I mean it,” you spoke, an edge to your voice, only softening when he looked at you instead. “You saved my life, D — that’s it. You can let go of anything else you’re holding onto.”

Daryl’s lip twitched as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, seemingly mulling over your words.

You were sure he’d hang onto whatever unnecessary guilt he carried — because that was just who he was — but eventually, he nodded once and settled down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. You were too tired to press the subject further so you curled into his side and rested your head against his chest, winding your arm across his midsection. His arm automatically wrapped around you, his fingertips trailing absently up and down your spine, sending shivers through your body.

You weren’t sure how long you laid like that, melting into the warmth he exuded, the steady pounding of his heartbeat easing you to sleep.

You’d nearly faded away when Daryl suddenly spoke.

“Did ya mean it?” he rumbled, the noise vibrating from deep within his chest. “What ya said before?” he grunted, his hand pausing at the small of your back.

You could’ve imagined it, but you almost felt the slight tremble of his fingertips against your skin.

You slowly pushed up onto your elbow, your faces mere inches apart. You searched his uncertain gaze, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Of course I meant it,” you whispered. “Every damn word.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, as though not entirely believing what you said could be true.

So you leaned forward, closing the remainder of space between you, and pressed your lips gently against his. He returned the kiss, a quiet desperation growing as one hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb sweeping back and forth across your cheek. You broke away from the kiss, brushing his hair back before meeting his lips once more, settling your hand on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your touch.

When you pulled back, you noticed his skin flush, surely mirroring your own. He looked up at you, slightly breathless, a fondness in his gaze that sent your stomach somersaulting. He cleared his throat, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “Well, alright,” he finally resigned, accepting your answer to his question.

You snorted a breathy laugh, leaning forward and kissing his cheek before burrowing against him. A soft sigh slipped past your lips as Daryl’s hold tightened around you, as though afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t.

You closed your eyes, reveling in the feeling of contentment, unsure how many more moments like this you, or anyone else for that matter, had left in this kind of cruel and harrowing world.

But for at least tonight, you could be at peace.

“I love you,” you murmured groggily, beginning to sink deeper into unconsciousness.

Right before sleep came, long after Daryl thought you’d drifted away, you heard him whisper three, simple words.

“More than anythin’.”

Then he pulled you closer and the world dimmed.

A/N: Aw...a happy ending! (I figured I owed ya after putting y'all through Honey & Whiskey lol)

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452 notes · View notes

americxn · 3 years

Note

hi can i please request a kai x female reader imagine where the reader dies in his arms and its just pure angst with him screaming and crying and clutching her dead body? and him telling her he loved her.

kinda like your other imagine (his darkness) but instead she dies.

okay thanks <3

Too Late (Kai Anderson x GN!Reader)

a/n: this is basically just an alternative ending to an older fic:

https://americxn.tumblr.com/post/648019215903784960/his-darkness-kai-x-reader

and I hadn’t realised how much my writing had changed until I changed the original fic but damn, my old writing was so messy (it still is but you get my point).

wordcount: 2k warnings: angst, death (idk what that’s like so this is definitely not accurate), grief, bullet wound, blood

The gun shot echoed through the large warehouse, Kai’s shout falling on deaf ears as time seemed to warp and slow. You paused, blinking stupidly, your brain seeming to fall utterly silent as Kai sprinted for you, his face a contorted mix of fury and terror as the bullet cut through the air, right at you. The pain didn’t register at first, just the sickening impact as flesh and tissue was shredded, the small piece of metal burrowing itself into you, ripping through sinew and slamming into bone. Your breath rushed from you as you looked down, your hands seeming to move in slow motion as they raised to cradle your stomach, your legs giving out beneath you. Finally, with another blink, the world became coherent again, time righting itself once more as the concrete of the floor rose up, up, your body cold as it slammed into the hard ground. Another series of gunshots notified that you your assailant had been shot down, too, Kai abandoning his troupe of cult members as he hurtled for you, lunging just in time to shove his hand between your head and the hard floor as you fell. “Holy shit, y/n?” He cried frantically, moving to support your head in his lap, his own hands batting yours out of the way to press over the perforation in the lower quadrant of your stomach.

He yelled something over his shoulder, the words inaudible to you as you blinked up at Kai, your own breaths too loud in your ears as your hands fell limply to your sides, the slipperiness of your own hot blood coating your fingers making your head spin and your chest constrict. “Y/n?” Kai spoke down to you a shade quieter, his face just as gaunt as yours as he yelled another order to his followers across the large space of the warehouse before glancing down at you once more, his eyes wide and teary in panic. “Hold on, y/n, you’re okay. Just give me a minute.” He half instructed, half pleaded as he removed his hands from your wound momentarily to tear off his shirt. Suddenly, another somewhat familiar face appeared before yours, but you kept your eyes on Kai, feeling sickeningly helpless as he pressed his shirt to your stomach in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. “Kai,” you whispered, panic creeping into your tone as the pain finally began to register, a splitting, burning sensation beginning to work its way from the site of the bullet outwards. His wide eyes found yours, one of his hands leaving your stomach to rest on your cheek, his own palm clammy against the thin sheen of sweat coating the skin there, some of your hot blood being smeared onto the side of your face. “I’m fine.” You gritted out on a sharply exhaled breath, trying to convince yourself as prickling alarm began to work its way into your consciousness at the pain unfurling within you, hot and searing. “I know. You’re absolutely fine.” Kai said, glancing to his frantic squad of cult members to ensure that they did as they were instructed. You nodded shallowly, the back of your head rubbing against his thighs. Gasping, your forced yourself to relax, clenching and unclenching your fingers as Kai continued to bark orders above you. “But it hurts.” You whimpered, beginning to shiver. A tear fell onto Kai’s cheek and he turned his head to wipe it away hastily on the shoulder of his shirt, praying that you wouldn’t notice the single salty droplet. “I know. It’s okay for it to hurt.” He reassured, his voice softer than you had ever heard it before. In the midst of your pain your heart warmed as his hand began to rub your cheek. After all the shit you and Kai had done and said to one another, it sometimes amazed you how much he still cared for you. Blinking slowly, you opened yourself up to him, allowing him to behold your gratitude and the care that you had for him, too, your eyes gleaming with wordless emotion. A stabbing pain radiated from your core as your shivering began to get more aggressive and you yelped quietly, you head titling back as you forced yourself to breathe through the pain. “Y/n? Please, just give me a minute, help is coming.” You groaned lowly in response, nausea unfurling in your stomach. Kai’s voice seemed to get quieter, as if he were getting further away and your eyelids began to feel heavy. How long had you been lying here? How long did it take for life to evade you if the bullet had torn through something vital? “Y/n, keep your eyes open.” Kai instructed, his tone still so painfully gentle but firm, his hand patting your cheek softly as your eyes drifted closed. Opening them again, you met his gaze, your fingers going utterly cold. “I’m tired.” You muttered. Kai nodded, a single tear falling as he blinked harshly, his voice breaking as he reassured you that feeling tired was also okay but “you have to stay awake until help gets here.” When your eyes closed again, a wrenching gasping breath sounded from above your head, Kai bending over to rest his forehead on yours. Hot tears fell onto your forehead as Kai sobbed over your body, the hand on your cheek patting your face again as he composed himself, lifting his face slightly from yours. “Please.” He begged. Your eyes opened in answer, fighting against the devastatingly strong urge to give into the black void calling your name, begging you to let go and give yourself to the darkness. Your teeth gritted as you focused with all your might on Kai’s hand on your cheek, allowing his touch to ground you. Kai whispered soft words of encouragement as you forced yourself to gasp one breath after another. “I’m not ready for you to leave me yet.” Kai admitted in a whisper above you, his tears hot as they continued to roll off his chin, landing on your clammy forehead. Words evaded you but your eyes locked with his, blinking slowly up at Kai, a surge of icy panic washing through you as you felt your grip on consciousness beginning to slip, dangling over the yawning void that opened up beneath you and whispered quietly, beckoning you to let go of the man cradling you and fall into it’s endless depths. Your chest rattled as you sucked down another hitching breath, your heart pulsing firmly within your chest, it’s rhythm faltering, struggling to sluggishly continue pumping your life source through you. The void whispered to you again, calling your name, louder this time. Your body was falling numb. Kai’s name was poised on your dry tongue, struggling to fall from your lips as the pit of nothingness opened wider beneath you, it’s tendrils of darkness reaching for you, weaving through your fingertips and licking softly at your face with cool flames. You had so much to say to him. To the man leant over your body, his eyes bright with tears as they desperately scanned your own, watching in terror as the light slowly dissipated from your gaze, irises glassing over. But you couldn’t push any of the words from your tongue, a hot tear of your own leaking down the side of your face and disappearing into the hair at your ear as the ribbons of velvety blackness crept further over your body, whispering sweetly to you as they snaked over your limp frame. A weak grunt was all you could muster, your hand too heavy to place over the one he used to stroke your cheek, your heart splintering as all energy evaded you. You couldn’t even say goodbye. You had left it too late, his desperately spoken words having convinced you that you could remain with him, filling you with cruelly false hope. What little grip you clung onto him with faltered, sending you toppling into the void that sang with warm delight, welcoming you as you fell. Kai’s lips moved as you watched your body sag completely in his hold, his face crumpling with raw, undiluted panic as you chest fell, never to rise again. Time seemed to slow, allowing you to drink in the sight of his face one final time, his scream of agonising anguish quiet to your ears as you fell and fell and fell before being swallowed entirely by the cocooning darkness.

His face contorted into a broken cry, dread like he had never known taking him in it’s grip as he shook the body draped limply across his lap. He couldn’t bare the sight of the blood crusted hands, once so lissom and soft, falling away from the body, their backs colliding with the blood smattered concrete floor of the warehouse, utterly lifeless, all colour draining from the face that he had grown completely smitten for, the eyes cold and staring unseeingly back at him. It felt as if his chest had been cleaved in two, shredding and ripping a chasm cutting through his being, taking away his ability to do so much as take a full breath as he folded over the vacant body, his forehead hot as it rested against the one which was rapidly cooling. The small group of cult members had fallen quiet, going utterly still as they watched their leader collapse over the body, his rasping screams chilling them to the bone; they had been too late. Help hadn’t arrived in time. And now it was all that they could do but watch as their divine ruler was ripped apart by anguish, the trembling of his fingertips that clutched onto the body evident even from across the large, cold space as he gathered the corpse to him, rocking pitifully back and forth and sobbing hoarsely into the limp strands of hair. His tears were hot as the dripped onto the absent face, frozen in wide eyed unease, a declaration of love still poised on the cooling lips, parted slightly from the final breath that had been pulled from the stony air in a futile attempt to cling to the life that had been torn from the ailing fingertips. He, too, struggled to heave down hitching breaths of air, a mumbled string of words tumbling from his quivering lips as he continued to shake the body beneath him, clinging to the little warm still staining the dull skin, barely audible over the hoarse cries breaking out of him. A terrible nausea settled over his tremoring body, so full of overbearing emotion in comparison to the husk clasped into his warmth. He willed the body to hear, to listen to his voice and take one more gasping breath, if only so that he could offer the faded life the parting words that he hadn’t had courage to say when the body glowed with feeling. “I love you.” He moaned into the body, his chest igniting in agony as he struggled to push the words out past the sobs racking through his body. “I love you.” He repeated, groaning in despair, choking on his own anguish as he murmured those three words over and over, each repetition growing increasingly abhorrent on his tongue; if only he had been struck by that bullet. If only he could take the place of the body clutched in his grasp. If only he hadn’t been such a coward and had told the body the same words that now poured from his cracked lips when it was still occupied by life. They had to pry the body away from him, his fingers grappling with the clothes hanging limply around it in an effort to take it with him, to find a way to breathe the life back into it and tell it what he hadn’t been daring enough to tell it before. That he loved them.

taglist: @kitwalker02 @three-eyed-snail @forevercountess @kitwalkerangel @milly-louise @thecountessesglove @undeadcortez @kitwalker64 @samsassinparvismagna @xmaximoffic @divineruler @liandav @tatesweaterweather @evanmybeloved @tatelangdonsupremacist @ikkleroniekins @ananad1 @shlutnutt @sanni333 @mossybank (dm to be added or removed <3)

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fics-by-caroline · 3 years

Text

Bloodlust

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Magical!Reader

Summary: You and Loki are part of the Avengers, but the pair of you have different ideas of what justice entails than the rest of the group; i.e., more horror, more drama, an eye for an eye. And man, do you two ever look sexy covered in blood.

Category: Smut (18+ only, please!)

Warnings: Smut (blood kink, oral sex -- f receiving), rough sex, porn with some plot), language, graphic descriptions of violence, gore, smoking, alcohol consumption, mention of human trafficking.

A/N: This is my first time writing smut, so please be nice 🥺

Taking a drag from a cigar in the corner of the dimly-lit speakeasy, your target looked you up and down. Even without tapping into his thoughts, you could tell that he liked what he saw; how the black dress you wore hugged your figure, how you had crossed your legs in a way that allowed him to catch the red bottoms of your heels, red that was reflected in your lipstick and nails. You turned to make eye contact with him, and were immediately hit with hearing him imagine you on your knees sucking him off in one of his fancy cars and afterwards kicking you out onto the street.

Typical, You thought with disgust, finishing your martini. You could feel his eyes on you, burning into your back. Feeling him get up and walk towards you, you shot a knowing look at Loki across the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” The man’s voice was dripping in disgusting salaciousness. He sat beside you, reeking of the over-application of cologne, whiskey, and cigar smoke.

You shot him a demure smile. “A dirty martini, drier than the Sahara.”

The man waved down the bartender before leaning closer to you. “Michael Ashbourne.”

You suppressed an eye roll, taking instead to lighting a cigarette. “I know who you are, Mr. Ashbourne.”

“And what is it that you know of me?” Ashbourne stroked your hair with a drunken finger.

Uncrossing your legs, you turned to face him. “That you are one of the worst Midgardian men alive today. You cheat people out of their winnings in various casinos around the world, making yourself and your friends — no doubt the ones who surrounded you in that corner over there — some of the richest men in the world, while managing to operate under the radars of your enemy governments. You sell weapons and drugs because you always want even more money on top of the billions you already have, not caring about the damage you cause. You drink the most expensive liquors, sleep with all the women you please, and leave people eating the dust in your wake. But what brings you to the epitome of disgusting actions is your engagement in the trafficking of girls, once again, for even more money.” Even though you kept your voice low, you made sure to lace every word with biting poison.

Ashbourne pulled back in shock, unmoving and speechless.

You smirked at his silence. “Your cunningness is almost impressive, especially for a human. You manage to remain one step ahead of the mewling mortals who are left to crawl in your fading footprints. Bravo. Unfortunately for you, however, I am not one of them.” You waved a finger, from which a small ribbon of white magic followed.

“Who the hell are you?” Ashbourne hissed.

“A hero in the eyes of the people you have crossed, and the villain in yours.”

Ashbourne scoffed condescendingly. Stupid bitch, you heard him think. “Speaking in mysterious riddles just makes you look stupid, missy. I don’t know how you know what you know, but it’s a bit too much for my liking.” He raised a hand, beckoning over the large men who had accompanied him.

You sighed, unimpressed. Before they could so much as reach for their belt, you pulled the pistol from your garter stockings and fired silenced shots in between their eyes, before holding a dagger against Ashbourne’s throat. The speakeasy froze in horrified silence.

With a small chuckle at the sudden shock and fear in Ashbourne’s muddy eyes, you called to Loki. “Darling, are there others?”

“No darling, not here … but we can’t have witnesses, can we?” Loki sauntered up to you, kissing you on the head. He looked around at the few bystanders in the bar, terror keeping their feet rooted in place.

“Loki, is that really necessary —”

You were cut off by Loki launching towards the horrified bystanders like a cat pouncing on prey, his daggers slicing through their necks gliding ease. He finished off by throwing a knife into the bartender’s skull, silencing his terrorized mind that shrieked in your own so annoyingly. Loki looked back at you with an amused glint in his eyes, blood on every surface of the speakeasy, including Loki’s own body. Gesturing around him, he noted dryly, “They were dead in seconds, no suffering.”

You rolled your eyes before turning your attention back to Ashbourne, who sat with eyes wide and mouth agape. You smirked and applied a bit more pressure to the blade in your hand, drawing small beads of blood. You snuffed out your cigarette and stood up, toying with his bowtie as your heel dug into his foot. You could taste the fear that drenched his mind. “What’s this?” You cooed. “Feeling scared?”

“Ah, you’re so right, my love,” Loki smiled, looking around the room at the bloody mess he created. “Not using magic is so much more fun. I missed getting my hands dirty.”

You chuckled lowly. You couldn’t help but stare at him hungrily; there was something in the way the blood splatter stood out against his pale skin that awoke an arousal in you. Shaking your head, you turned back to the man under your knife and cocked an eyebrow. “How do you think I should do this? Stabbing is too classic, going for the neck is too neat.”

“Unzip him, dear,” Loki hummed. He shot a bolt of green magic towards the man, binding him in glowing ropes that wrapped around his pitiful body. Noticing your dry look, he shrugged. “I want a proper view of your handiwork, and I can’t have that if I’m holding him.”

“Fair enough,” You said. After a moment’s thought, you waved your hands, making Ashbourne’s shirt disappear in a white flash of your own magic.

“Wait, wait, stop. What do you want? Money? I have money. What do you want?” Ashbourne pleaded.

“I want ...” you said coldly, “to hear you scream.”

You stepped forward and sunk your dagger into his lower abdomen, slicing upwards smoothy, careful as to not sever any major blood vessels. Ashbourne screamed in agony — music to both yours and Loki’s ears. You grinned at the blood that spurted out to meet you, and tossed the dagger onto the surface of the bar. You looked at the open mess in front of you and sunk your hand into the open cavity, making Ashbourne wail.

Loki smacked Ashbourne’s face with a deadly glare. “Stay awake, you.”

You reached farther into Ashbourne’s gut, quickly finding the pulsating aorta. You looked up at Ashbourne’s paling face, cheek now sporting a bloody handprint from where Loki had slapped him, and pulled on the artery, which snapped and spurted hot blood all over you. Loki released his magic binds, leaving the body of the man to collapse like a rag doll onto the floor, very much dead.

You could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears as you discarded the shred of aorta in your hands onto the lifeless body. You turned to look at Loki, who was smiling back at you with a familiar, blazing fire behind his eyes. He reached over and picked up your discarded dagger from the tabletop. He looked it over once, then swiped his tongue up one side of the blade. You groaned in arousal at the sight.

“The taste of justice, my dear,” He said, licking his lips.

He turned his fiery gaze back on you, holding the knife out for your taking. Without breaking eye contact, you licked up the other side, the metallic taste of Ashbourne’s blood spreading through your mouth only adding to the wet ache between your legs.

“Fucking hell,” Loki breathed, the large bulge in his dress trousers clearly evident.

You took the dagger, swiping away the rest of the blood that stained it on your finger and licked it clean. A deep rumble escaped from Loki’s lips before he smashed his lips onto yours, your tongues trading the tastes of blood and saliva. With a sharp tug, Loki tore your dress down and pinched your nipples between his bloodied fingers as he backed you up onto the bar. While normally, he would take his time with you, tease you at a torturously slow pace, make you plead and squirm beneath him, he now was fuelled purely by an animalistic flame, his lips and teeth marking your lips, jaw, neck, shoulders, collarbones. You broke apart only for you to render the pair of you naked by way of a flick of the wrist and a flash of white light. You stared at each other, both of you breathless and admiring how the blood that drenched your clothing had stained your bodies in a beautiful pattern of death.

“I love you so much,” You whispered.

“I love you too,” Loki said, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip lightly.

In a flash, the momentary gentleness was gone as Loki pushed two fingers inside of you and curled them. You shouted out in pleasure, then gasped when you felt Loki’s tongue on your clit.

“Fuck, Loki!” You hissed, throwing your head back and grinding deeper onto Loki’s fingers and tongue.

The most audacious and obscene sounds filled the speakeasy as Loki twisted his fingers inside your cunt and attacked you with his mouth. You moaned unabashedly and Loki in return groaned against your body. His nips against your clit were anything but gentle, his fingers fucking your cunt so deeply, so gloriously, that your entire body sparked with invisible electricity.

“You’re going to cum for me,” Loki growled, “you’re going to cum for me and make me drink it as you do.”

You nodded into the air, gasping, panting, writhing under him. You clenched around his head, locking Loki into place, and came on his face, rolling and thrusting your hips against his mouth. Loki held your hips and drank your release until your orgasm finally finished washing over you.

Before you could begin to catch your breath, Loki seized your neck in one large hand and pushed himself inside of you in one fluid motion, causing the both of you to moan loudly. He started moving his hips immediately at a quick and relentless pace, splitting you apart in pleasure. You reached up to wrap your arms and legs around him desperately. As he hit that sweet spot that no other could, you brought your nails down his back, no doubt drawing blood. All thoughts had disappeared from your minds, pure animalistic pleasure and arousal clearing everything else out. Your combined energy made the lights spark and flicker, furniture going flying as your grip on your magic became weaker. Loki slammed into you, your walls tight around him, his pelvis grinding in such a way that he moved against your clit. You were only barely registering how you clung onto him for dear life, the most indecent noises pouring from both of your mouths, bodies slick in blood and sweat sliding against one another. Your connection into each other’s minds let you both know that the other was just as close to their climax without speaking. Expletives punctuated your shared groans and screams, Loki’s grip on your body so tight that bruises were sure to follow, your teeth and nails marking his skin.

“Loki, I — fuck — Loki!” You cried as you felt your body begin to tremble uncontrollably.

“I know, I — ah! I know —!” Loki groaned, biting your neck.

You exploded again with a scream and you slammed your hand onto the table, releasing a huge pulse of magic that levelled the room around you. Green explosions set off around you as Loki lost control and spilled into you with a stammering thrust and deep groan. Even though your eyes were both closed, you could see each other in your minds, totally blissful and exhausted, chests heaving. Loki’s lips found yours in a loving kiss.

“We should ... we should clean up here before the others come by,” You said, still out of breath.

Loki nodded wordlessly. He pulled out of you, causing you to whimper. We waved his hand, and the speakeasy righted itself in a glow of green light. Tables and chairs fixed themselves, light fixtures hung back up on the ceilings, blood and bodies disappeared, until the only remnant of your activities was the gore that still covered your naked bodies. You stood up and cricked your neck before cleaning yourself and Loki up, and dressing the pair of you in the dress and tuxedo you two were wearing.

“What will we say to the others when they ask about the sudden disappearance of everyone here?” You asked slowly.

“Don’t worry, love,” Loki grinned, “we can tell them the truth. We’re both too valuable for them to kick us out of the group.”

You laughed and took Loki’s outstretched arm, walking out into the cool night.

#loki #loki x reader #loki x you #loki x f!reader #loki x female reader #loki fanfic #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #mcu loki #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fanfic #loki smut #loki oneshot #smut #mcu #mcu fanfiction #smut fanfiction #smut fic

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mea-laetitia · 4 years

Text

remus lupin finally snaps

CW: some bad language

---

It was cold, and his bones were stiff. When he walked up the stairs to the dormitories it was a slow and painful experience that wasn’t helped by his mood. Every time he stumbled or took too long to take a step up Remus Lupin grumbled. He was not in the mood to deal with his lycanthropy tonight, and why the fuck couldn’t he manage a flight of stairs for Godric’s sake? It had been two whole days since the night of the full moon, a particularly bad one judging from his aches, but nonetheless he didn’t see why he couldn’t manage the stairs. He had been in bed for the entirety of those days and taken every unnecessary potion Pomfrey shoved in his face. So why was he still in pain?

By the time he reached the door to the marauder’s dorm he was thoroughly pissed, and in the mood for a fight. He knew that someone behind that door would most likely oblige him if he only prodded enough, and so, using the last of his energy he kicked the door open dramatically and stalked inside.

Three heads turned to him briefly, noted his expression, and then promptly turned to face each other once again. Remus could practically smell their confusion, it almost made him laugh. He sat on his bed and shut the curtains violently, laying down and stretching his entire body out.

And then he waited.

He knew it was only a matter of time before one of them tentatively peeked through the curtains and tried to ask him what was wrong. If he wasn’t in such a bad headspace he would recognize how nice that was of them, and that really, he had some damn good friends. But now, he thought it annoying, and an invasion of his privacy. He prepared to shout at whoever opened the curtains just that point.

Anxious whispering could be heard from James’ bed, which Remus rolled his eyes at. God they were so fucking nosy. A few minutes passed and the voices rose to a crescendo, though Remus couldn’t make out any individual words. He heard the dorm room door open and swiftly close, but the presence of one person remained, Remus could smell him.

A few seconds of tense silence lapsed between the two boys. One who was nervous and had clearly been left with the job of talking to Lupin, the other waiting for him to do so, and ready to rip him to shreds no matter what he said.

Not the healthiest of arrangements really.

If Remus was to take a guess at who was behind the curtain he would probably say Peter. If it was James then he wouldn’t have hesitated this long, and he probably would have been the one to start the fight, telling him unless something very wrong had happened he was being a dramatic prick. If it was Sirius he would also not have hesitated, and probably would have just hopped right in and started fighting with him.

Plus there was the added fact that if James and Sirius both didn’t want to talk to Remus there was nothing stopping them, and Peter would be left to sort the mess out almost one hundred percent of the time.

It was because of these assumptions that Remus forgot about his anger for a moment when he saw Sirius of all people peer through the gap in the curtains.

Why had he hesitated?

When Remus didn’t immediately bite Sirius pulled back the curtains more and sat across from him.

He attempted casualty at first. “Alright mate?”

“Yes everything’s peachy.” Remus snapped.

Sirius didn’t immediately respond, which Remus found to be strange. Normally he would have an almost instantaneous retort and then the fight would begin. Why was he being so cautious?

“Did something happen or are you just grumpy from the moon?” He pressed, resting his chin in his hands as he watched his friend.

“‘Just grumpy from the moon’?” Remus growled. “Have you ever transformed into a fucking monster and lost your mind for hours on end and then been in horrible pain for days afterwards?”

He was shouting already, but Sirius seemed unfazed. He actually chuckled at this. “Yeah fair point I guess.”

Remus felt like he could turn into the wolf again he was so pissed off. He wanted to reach forward and throttle Sirius but at the same time he looked so beautiful in the soft lamplight of their room that an equally strong desire to just kiss him overcame him too, and it made him angrier while also making it hard to stay angry.

“Why can’t you take this seriously?” He snapped. “And don’t you fucking dare say you are Sirius or I swear to Godric-”

Sirius laughed. “I actually wasn’t going to say that but now you’ve done it for me. Nice one!”

Then he had the audacity to reach for a high-five. Remus glared at him and he promptly lowered his hand. “Wow your knickers really are in a twist tonight.”

“My knickers are perfectly fine thank you very much! And stop changing the subject.”

“What?” Sirius smirked. “Trying to stay angry are you? Looks like you’re struggling. What are you even mad about?”

“I’m mad that I’m a fucking werewolf and that I’ll probably die young because of it and that my life won’t even be fulfilling in the meantime because everyone will be unable to see past what I am!”

Sirius opened his mouth to speak but Remus wasn’t finished.

“And it hurts EVERYWHERE and I’m sick to death of you!”

Sirius blinked at him. “Me?”

Remus didn’t know why he added that last bit, but he knew for sure he was now bordering on dangerous territory. If he wasn’t careful he might just let his feelings for Sirius slip and he would finally have something legitimate to complain about.

But he couldn’t deny that the fight was already making him feel better, and he was still angry enough that any common sense was long gone. He tightened a fist around the bedsheets they sat on and stared Sirius dead on.

His voice grew dangerously quiet. “Yeah. You.”

“What did I do?” Sirius matched his tone. Any trace of laughter was gone and he finally looked concerned.

“Godric you still haven’t fucking noticed have you? You’re so blind and oblivious it actually hurts. Do you have any idea how infuriating you are?”

Sirius clearly still had no clue what he was saying, though he looked almost scared to admit it. “Very?”

Remus threw his pillow at the boy, who swiftly caught it and returned it to its place on the bed without breaking eye contact.

“You know what? I thought you might have finally caught on this year but you’re still prancing around like nothing’s changed. It’s been four years, Sirius how ignorant are you?”

“Four years since what Remus? Clearly I have no idea what you’re talking about so just tell me!” Sirius said, finally losing his patience with the werewolf.

But Remus wasn’t listening, he was on a roll and he didn’t feel like stopping anymore. Any punishment that ensued would be worth it because he was finally voicing the anger that had been building up for years.

“I couldn’t have made it more obvious if I tried! Honestly I drop at least a hundred hints a day, you haven’t seen me with anyone literally ever, despite the fact that I’ve been asked out numerous times.”

Sirius was speechless.

“But worst of all is that you just haven’t noticed. If James was in my place you would have figured it out the day it all began but with me you just didn’t see. Like it made sense for me to be acting weird around you all of a sudden and flinch at your touch and blush at your gaze. And then when I gained enough confidence to attempt flirting with you for fucks sake you still didn’t notice. ‘That’s just my Moony, best friend, telling me I look beautiful this morning and stumbling over his words.’ I thought that even if you didn’t feel the same way you might have the decency to pull me aside and tell me rather than letting me flounder in my love for you but as time went by I started to realize that the problem wasn’t your lack of reciprocation but rather your complete and utter obliviousness. Even now I bet you still haven’t fucking realized it have you?”

He was finally done, and rather than the soul sucking fear he anticipated he might feel when he finally told Sirius his deepest secret he felt relief. It was over. No matter how he responded now at least there were no more secrets between them. Sirius was staring at him with a look that even Remus couldn’t decipher. There was either a complete lack of emotion behind his eyes or there was too much going on that they looked utterly glazed over.

And then Sirius spoke.

“What?”

He was shaking his head in confusion and Remus felt like screaming again. What did he mean ‘what’? Did he need more fucking clarification? What else could he do to make it clear?

Before he even finished thinking that he knew, and he decided to do something very stupid indeed.

Without thinking about the consequences Remus suddenly lunged forward, ignoring the stabbing pain in his body, and grabbed Sirius’ face, pulling it towards his own. Their lips crashed together forcefully and all of a sudden nothing else mattered. Remus’ anger disappeared, replaced by nothing short of joy when he felt Sirius kiss him back, fisting his shirt and pulling him desperately closer to him.

Remus chanced a brush of Sirius’ hair, tentatively reaching up to run his hands through the messy waves, and heard a tiny hum of pleasure from the boy in response. He smiled into the kiss and deepened it, and he faintly realized that he should be in pain right now from crouching so awkwardly in front of Sirius, but in fact he was far from pain. Holding Sirius in his arms and having him hold him back was better than any healing potion Pomfrey had ever given him. It was addicting, he was getting high off its effects.

All too soon they broke apart for air, both panting slightly but grinning nonetheless.

“Is that clear enough for you?” Remus raised an eyebrow.

And Sirius actually blushed, looking almost apologetic for not realizing until now. “Clear as day.”

#wolfstar #wolfstar fic #wolfstar oneshot #marauders #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius x remus #wolfstar fanfiction #marauders oneshot

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yandere-wishes · 4 years

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Eight Tries //Obey Me Yandere! Asmodeus x reader //

Thank you so so much for this wonderful prompt @feedmestraycats. Icon made by the lovly @bbelphie!

TW: attempted suicide, mention of rape/noncon, gore, murder, cheating

This was getting old, he still wasn't home and there was no point in pretending that he was just running late. No, you knew that your husband was not coming back home tonight, maybe if you were lucky you would find him passed out on the couch sometime in the late afternoon once you returned from the marketplace.

There was no reason to spend the dreary and dull night alone. If that spoiled hero you called a husband could be spending such a gorgeous night, out with some prostitute from the slums then you could also be having some naughty fun~

--To call your current like a nightmare was an understatement. People awake from nightmares, they could open their eyes and be back in the safety of their warm beds, next to the person they loved. But the second your eyes opened you entered a hell on earth, there wasn't any escape, no freedom...and the worst part was that there was not a single soul to comfort you--

Five red candles set in a circle each one a blase with a tiny passionate flame. Two twigs inserted parallel to one another, caging in the dried corpse of a scorpion. Next is the demon's sacred seal written in the summoner's blood, elegantly and delicately. Sprinkle it with salt and state the ungodly words. "Oh, great Asmodeus lord of love, aviator of lust, I become thee come forth to me, I offer you my body and soul"

--You had been born to a noble family in a small and rather poor town. Despite the town economical standpoint, the natives were tremendously kind and neighborly. Everyone shared whatever little of anything they may have had. Your family, in particular, was the most charitable. Giving and giving as much as humanly possible. When it came time for you to chose a husband, your father requested you marry someone from the town, someone you truly loved disregarding how poor or wealthy they may be. Marry for love he insisted but keep it in the family. Regardless to say that's what you did. You found a man and fell in love, married a month later in a joyous celebration in which the whole town had been invited to....but then HE came along--

The circle in front of you puffed with a cloud of thick pink smoke. It invaded your sense, plunging into your mind and sending waves of ecstasy. It was a rush pure lust was infected into your entire body...

but then it stopped, neglecting your corpse and leaving you you confused and sweaty. It was in that eerie moment that the demon decided to manifest himself. He stood tall in all his glory, petite bat wings spread out. If it weren't for the dark shadow and uncharacteristic bitter frown spread thinly across his face, he would have looked as beautiful and perfect as the first miserable night you played eyes on him.

--In the dead of night Asmodeus had murdered your husband in clod blood. He had made you watch as he shredded your lover's corps leaving only a messy pile of blood and organs on the bed. But that had not been enough for the lord of lust. On that same blood-soaked bed he had defiled you, raped you and stolen what was meant for the man who's blood you now laid in, a weeping mess reeking of that demon's stench. Your parents had found you the following day. They were sent into an accentuated frenzy. How could such a horrifying thing happen? By the following year, you'd been wed again, only for Asmodeus to return on the night of your marriage and decimate your new husband. By the fourth accurations, the townsfolk had deemed you cursed, at first they tried all that they could to save you from this dreadful beast. But all too soon it had turned into a competition. "Who could marry the nobleman's daughter and survive the next day." Desperate to wed you off your parents accepted any challenger who arrived....and each was dead by the morning of your marriage. By the sixth time, the townsfolk had already tried to kill you on multiple occasions. The sweet and caring town you knew had been annihilated replaced by this bitter, angry village of unkind and untrusting residents. And Asmodeus? Well, he'd made a game out of this, each time he'd find a new grisly way to slaughter your new husband and a new repugnant way to rape you. By the seventh husband, you'd already attempted four suicides. All resulting in fallierur, by some black miracle that dreadful demon was always able to save you and keep you alive. All hope was lost or so it seemed.--

"He's out again..." Was there any need to explain why you'd summons him. Over the last two years since your wedding to the "hero", these summonings had been almost routine.

"Of course he is darling~ did you really think you were enough to satisfy him? hm?"

The words stabbed your heart like a million needles at once, the reality was all too fragile and could come crumbling down at any given time. You had never been enough, this was a well-known fact at this point. You had never been enough for your lovers, parents or town's people and now you weren't even enough for your own husband, the man that had saved you from all your miseries.

"Love, he's a hero. Hero's don't settle down and live domestic lives with their loved ones and children. They need the torture of missions and anguish of journeys to feel alive. When they leave it all behind they wind up as hollow husks filling out the rest of their existence with alcohol and street women."

--After having prayed to God for too many days and nights to count, he's finally sent you a hero. Tobias was sent to vanquish the demon Asmodeus and merry you as a reward. At the time you'd all thought he had succeeded, that the avatar of lust was really dead. The thought had brought you joyous days and depressing nights. A part of you was beyond thankful that he was finally gone. The other half missed and longed for his lips on yours, for his hands brushing against your skin, the feel of his honey-colored lock tangled in between your fingers. You missed your tormentor...

At first, you and Tobias had been like any young couple so in love to notice the conflict of the world around you, so in love to disregard each other's sharp edges. So in love, until you were no longer. The first year had been sweet and peacful, every day was a harmonious dream...but then Tobias started coming home late, neglecting your presence. Some nights he wouldn't return at all and you'd run into town finding him in some pub drunk and with some random woman clinging to him. You spent those nights crying yourself into fitful revolting dreams of happiness and death. The old pre-suicidal habits had returned. One night the blade slipped and slashed a vain to deep, mentally exhausted you simply laid there waiting for the blood to run out. That's when you saw him again. Over the years he hadn't changed one bit, flirty smile and reddish-yellow eyes still playful and dark. He'd brought you back again and stayed with you until morning. The occurrence repeated it's self like clockwork until one night it was no longer dying and talking but summoning and...more. It felt right to feel him all over you again. His toxic presence made you feel complete, filling up holes in your soul.--

Asmodeus stalked closer, arms slinging in that all too causal way. You didn't dare take a step back, having played this game enough times to know every result before it even sprouted.

"(Y/N) why won't you listen to me! How dense do you have to be to repeat the same mistake eight times! Eight freaking times before it dawns on you that you are wrong! You will always be wrong! No worthless human or "holy hero" can ever love you as I do. I'm the only one. I'll always be the only one!"

Your brain screamed that he was wrong, that you could have had a prouspoures, dazzling life had he not killed your first husband or second or even third. Ir was his fault that your beloved town had been plagued with riots and corruption. He taught your people to sin, to ignore the words of God and his angels! Yet your cracked heart knew that he was right, no man would ever love you again... hey all married you for some selfish obligation or another. And Tobias....Tobias was the worst of all. He was forced to marry you by the holy on. Thrust into a loveless marriage with the suicidal "beauty" he was forced to save. Why couldn't God have just killed you all those years ago? Given the poor "Miss wanna die" her sole wish. He was right, this MONSTER was had always been right! No one loved you. You were less than the rubble under people's feet. Even noble god had turned his back on you...but he, this evil demon...Asmodeus had always come back for you. Hw stole your innocence, your purity, your life! your destiny was forever ruled by him. Maybe that's what you were so constantly in pain and isolation. You were trying to outrun your furutre. Why? What was the point of escaping your inevitable faith? Let it go, submit, your miserable life would finally become less of a burden. Give up, hand over the crumpled misery you called life to Asmodeus, let him take over. It would all finally be over. No more pain, loneliness, the misery would come to a sweet end!

In a daring, insanity driven moment you lunged yourself forward gripping Asmodeus' toned shoulders with all your strenghth. Fingernails digging deeper and deeper into his creamy skin. Crashing your lips onto his, trying to let the kiss speak for you. Begging he would comprehend your actions, praying he would accept your submission. In no time he took over, dominating the kiss, slipping his wet muscle into your mouth. Running his larger hands to your lower back. Dipping lower and lower, squeezing anything he could get his hand on. He was the one to (shockinly) break the kiss. He slowly pulled away leaving behind a thin string of saliva. His lush lips were pulled into a smug smirk, his eyes were lightening up with the most joy you'd ever seen. Forcefully he pulled you closer to his chest. Holding your head where his heart would have been.

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embyrinitalics · 3 years

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Calamiversary: Link’s POV II

Here’s some more scenes from Link’s POV—about 2.4k worth! (I rly hope this makes up a little bit for the fact that I haven��t updated in two months omg)

But you know how I said that reading through my old stuff makes me cringe? Yeah this is like, way worse. It’s all unedited, and I wrote these in December 2018, so it’s all old. It’s all embarrassing. 😬 But with that disclaimer, I’m going to put my personal feelings aside and let you guys read it if you want 😂

Also now that I’m looking at this I feel like they’re not in chronological order, like that scene with Revali stabbing him should have come after these ones with Mipha, but o h w e l l

Here u go!

Drowning

At first, all that registers is the pain, white and hot across my throat, and the numb realization that I’m going to die.

Of course, it’s not that simple for me.

The half of me that I’m always suppressing senses my weakness, slamming frantically against my defenses in the span of a heartbeat. I have to choose between saving myself and containing it. So I pour everything I am into holding him in, dragging him down with me in a white-knuckled grip. But he fights back.

The pain is agony, a thousand heated needles covering my entire body and then being driven down to the bone in nauseating synchrony. He thrashes in my hold, tendrils of his hate whipping out in places, and my vision blotches white. I feel the deathstroke across my throat heal; the earth quaking beneath my feet; the malice seeping out of me like blood oozing out of a wound.

I can hear myself screaming beyond the war, part agony and part fury. Part man and part beast. It’s slowly tearing me in two, ripping ligaments and shredding flesh as it claws deliriously towards escape. I grapple with him, desperately trying to hold on even as he starts pulling my limbs apart. But I know it’s only a matter of time.

Then I see her. Her light cuts through the pain, through the fear and the hate, brilliant and pure as the sun. I can’t speak; I can only stare, imploring her with my eyes to end me quickly.

She takes my face in her hands and I suck a sudden breath. Her glowing touch is warm and soft, comforting, and not the violent end I had been expecting—the touch of a goddess, and for a moment I can breathe.

Then her light engulfs everything—the woods, my body, and soon my mind. The relief from the pain and the peace of it is so indescribably jarring that I don’t resist, falling headlong into it.

And then I’m drowning. Drowning in the sensation of her between my hands, of the softness of her lips under mine, of the closeness of her. Drowning in sensations that are brand new and millennia old at once. I’m drowning, burning from the inside out, and even though it aches I don’t want it to end.

I remember myself, haltingly, and muster the will to let her go. I drop my forehead against hers, grappling with how much I want her—and with how far I’ve let myself fall. There’s no amount of leniency on her part that could possibly excuse this. But I’m not concerned with the consequences for myself; only with how my lack of self-control must have affected her.

“Forgive me,” I breathe. “That was—”

But she silences me, her soft, delicate fingers brushing my mouth with a feather-light touch that sends another pang of want rippling through my middle. Her eyes pierce into me, unendingly blue and so powerful I can’t help but wonder if it’s her magic. Then she exhales, drifting closer, her eyes falling heavy-lidded to my mouth just before they close completely. And the feeling of her lips meeting mine, electric, breathless, so warm, sends me diving under the surge of sensation again.

I draw her close, losing myself in her. There’s nothing even close to this—her touch, her taste, the sound she makes when I angle her head to deepen the kiss.

And I don’t know why I’ve denied myself for so long. I’ve always wanted her. And now that I’ve tasted this, tasted her—even all the armies in Hyrule couldn’t keep me from her now.

I smile against her mouth. Slaughtering them would be easy.

Through the intoxicated cloud swirling in my brain, the thought snags unpleasantly, like a potent flicker of light in a comfortable darkness. It’s enough to slow me down, enough to make me think.

Enough to make me realize this can’t possibly be real.

I stop, pulling away slowly to search her eyes. So familiar. So beautiful it makes my heart ache.

But she’s been dead for 10,000 years.

I want to ignore it, dive headlong into the illusion of her. But I can’t unsee it. I murmur, breaking the spell, “This isn’t real.”

She blinks, and suddenly she’s different. Still familiar. Still beautiful. Still alive. And then the pieces are snapping into place, and the woman in my hands isn’t the one I loved so many millennia ago. It’s the Zelda of this era, the one who only knows me as I am—as the Calamity. And we’re reliving one of her memories—one of my memories—

And it’s agony. All at once the peace is gone, the gentle, tremulous bit of happiness the memory had lent me and I had been nursing in my heart like a single spark in an endless night, and the hatred is flooding in. The anger. Everything the illusion had been strong enough to veil.

And I remember what I am. I feel the evil pouring through my veins like a poison. I feel it making my heart pound stronger. I feel it coloring my vision and filling me with desires I must never obey.

And it’s agony.

I’m quaking on the inside, partly from fury and partly from shock. And then I erupt.

“What are you doing here?”

She looks as lost as I feel, green eyes glittering with shock and fright. “I—I don’t know—”

“Is this some kind of a joke to you? You think that just because you have her memories that they’re yours to do with as you please?”

“No! I didn’t mean to do this—”

Oh, I want to break her. I want to hold her down and force her to taste some of the pain I have. I want to hear her scream. But I push her away instead, unwilling to give the monster the edge.

“Well undo it!”

She stumbles into the mantel, turning back with that pretty face covered in tears. And the satisfaction and the guilt churning together in my stomach makes me feel sick.

“I don’t know how!” she tries to reason. “It was an accident!”

I turn away and try to breathe. That glimmer of humanity, after 10,000 years without—and then to have it just wrested away—

“This how you operate when you don’t get your way, then?” I bite out before I can rein it in. “Prick the Calamity, see if he bleeds?”

“I told you it was an accident,” she says again, more quietly.

She sounds so miserable. A very small part of me wants to comfort her. But I’m so furious I can hardly see straight. Forcing me to relive this moment—with her—

What was she thinking? What in the name of the gods made her think she had the right? Hadn’t I been through enough? Hadn’t I endured enough torture over the last eon? Did she really have to reach down into my most private, most intimate moments and drag them into the daylight, too? The last, precious fragments of who I was, that I hold onto so fiercely, lest I lose myself completely—

Why?

“Magic doesn’t just materialize out of nothing,” I growl, closing the distance again, propelled by a fresh wave of anger. “What did you want to know? If it would hurt me to relive this? If I could even tell the difference between you?”

She winces like my words had been a slap. “No!”

“Then what?” I grab ahold of her, desperate for this to be over. Desperate to just—just feel nothing. “Do you want me to admit that you remind me of her? That I’m in agony every time I look at you? Is that it?”

“I don’t want anything! Let me go!”

“Would it please you to know that I am?” I murmur, my voice dangerously quiet, and she goes still. “Every time.”

And now, I realize numbly, it will be worse.

Because now she doesn’t just remind me of what I had with my Zelda.

Now I’ve tasted her, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to again.

Frightening

“I’m sorry about what happened with the Champions,” she says quietly, catching me off guard. “I imagine it was… frightening, losing control like that.”

Yes. Yes, it was. I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid of anything in my life as I was in that moment, so close to rupturing, so close to tearing her apart with a thought, so close to losing myself completely and destroying everything I love in the aftermath. I want so badly to tell her, to unburden myself. I know she’s hoping I will. And that just… makes the temptation worse. She’s staring through me with unseeing eyes, full of the desire to understand, to heal even a little bit of the damage. I want to pull her closer, taste her again, thread my fingers in her hair and indulge in the warmth of her. I want to lose myself in her touch, in her lips, lose myself to her instead of to the monster working to claw its way out of me. I want to—

Gods!

“You were right,” I manage, finally. “They weren’t to know.”

“How have you been since?” she asks. So eager. So earnest. So gentle. It’s infuriating. “Any lingering effects? Urges to explode?”

“I always feel the urge to explode,” I scoff, grateful for the levity. “But no. The seal is as strong as it ever was.”

The Zora Princess

We stop to rest and I quietly remove myself. So I can breathe. So they can breathe.

The air tastes clearer once I put some distance between us, like grass and wind and the malice in my mouth instead of the honeyed flavor of their adrenaline. The pressure in the back of my mind eases somewhat without the constant temptation, but the hollow gnaw of the hunger is just as strong as it ever was. I lower myself into the prairie grass, beating back a groan.

The Gerudo and that bird creature are arguing about something. It makes Zelda laugh.

That’s good.

Then the wind shifts and the air tastes of sugar and salt, and I turn towards it slowly. It’s the Zora girl. She’s so short the grass is up to her knees, and her trident has become more of a walking stick than a weapon. She’s so quiet it’s easy to forget she’s there—but she’s one of the Champions, and royalty, if the headdress is any indication. I’m sure she’s stronger than she looks. The fact that she’s confronting me on her own is evidence enough.

I tilt my head at her as she draws close, feeling after that gentle spike in her heart rate as I fix her in my stare. It makes my spine burn.

“Princess,” I greet her quietly. “To what do I owe this honor?”

She leans on her staff, remarkably calm, and I can feel the tendrils of power wafting off her.

“You’re in a great deal of pain,” she says.

My lips move towards a frown as I draw the inevitable conclusion. Just my luck. “You’re a healer.”

“Yes.”

And her magic is a peculiar brand. Very strong, almost magnetized in the way it drifts towards injury. It’s what brought her to me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could bring someone back from the brink of death.

I contemplate her usefulness for a moment; but I need to go much further than the brink, and that’s well beyond even her abilities.

Dreamcraft

I carry her up to the campsite, lay her near the fire and rouse it a bit so she isn’t freezing, and then grudgingly lift the sleepweb from the Zora girl. Her eyes open and then drift upwards, like she’s watching the spell float away.

Her eyes settle on me, finally, all golden and rippling, and she says, “You seem better.”

She’s a strange one. No demanding what I’d done, or where I’d gone, or what had happened. But she’s also sharp. Sharp enough that her bold-faced concern makes me feel manipulated. But she’s not wrong. I had been caught up in feeling terrified to notice, but the hunger had faded into background noise. Throbbing, like something swollen. I frown, trying to puzzle out how that had happened.

I finally admit, because it’s too easy to admit things when I’m with her, “We shared a dream.”

“And that helps?”

I can’t be sure if it’s the emotional implosion that follows one of her illusions merely drowning the hunger out, or an actual, measurable, residual effect of her dreamcraft. Either way, it’s worth studying. Which is horrifying.

“Maybe.”

We sit by the fire in silence for a while. That’s easy, too. Almost like we had been friends once, in another life. I’m watching the flames, and she’s watching Zelda, and then so am I.

“Could you enter her dreams now? While she sleeps?”

The idea of sauntering into her mind uninvited worms unpleasantly in whatever scrap of my conscience is left, vaguely reminiscent of guilt. But she’s plowed headlong into mine more than once, so it seems only fair. For some reason that reasoning doesn’t make the worming stop. I still haven’t answered, and her eyes glide to the side of my head. I call up the fire more, loosing a taut, tired sigh at her persistence.

“Possibly.”

It’s noncommittal and non-revealing, which I assume will grind her advance to a halt. But she slips around it like water in that infuriating way she does.

“You should try it sometime,” she says.

I tilt my head at her. “You don’t find the idea of trespassing on her mind morally objectionable?”

She shrugs. “Not as objectionable as you tearing a swathe of Hyrule up by the roots.”

And that’s logic I can hardly argue with. Her eyes say she knows. And suddenly I find the image of her pretty crimson skull smashed against the stone and its contents spattered everywhere very appealing.

“You need her,” she adds, too simply, too condemningly, and I have to swallow down fury and terror.

Because she’s right.

The night drags and drags and drags, dread and disgust whipping me into a tumble of disquiet and every quiet tremble of fear or pleasure from her tempting me into her head.

#Legend of Zelda #Zelink #Fanfic #Calamiversary #Calamitous #Link's POV #Calamity!Link #snippet

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sorcererinthestars · 4 years

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The Wolf Inside

In the hellstorm we are currently living, the RT Writers Discord called off their Secret Skeleton event. However, I was almost done with my piece and I thought, since it has nothing to do with The Offender, I would still share it. Maybe we need to be revitalized in our work, in our love of those who we still have. Trigger Warning: Suicide Mention. This is sort of dark/angsty, but no major character death. It’s for spooky season, after all!

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994361

Michael is a werewolf. Gavin begs to see that part of his life, and nearly pays the ultimate price. (Ragehappy/Mavin.)

As he presses himself farther into his closet and shoves his fist in his mouth to stop the gasping whimpers that are ripping themselves out of his chest, he knows this is the end. It’s curious, knowing when you were going to meet your death. He had hoped he would go out in bed, surrounded by family, but no.

He was going to meet his death hidden in a closet behind a load of clothes, a balled fist in his mouth to stifle the sobs and a bent metal coat hanger in his hand to use as a weapon.

The noises outside were muffled, but easily heard when he was straining to locate them. A scuffle, the sound of a chair moving and hot, labored breathing. A small whine and then — crash! — the sound of something glass shattering.

It was Gavin’s idea. He had pressed for this, he had said it was okay. He had honestly begged, wanting to know what happened when the transformation came. It was always a secret between them, a gap. It was something Michael never wanted to talk about, always kept hidden. Once a month, he would leave their home, disappear somewhere for a few days.

Gavin never knew if the other was safe. He could never know for certain if this would be the time that Michael would never return to him, would be gone forever and he would be left waiting alone at home, checking his phone for a call that would never come.

So he had begged. Take me with you, he pleaded. We can rent a cabin. I can stay inside, safe. You go do what you need to do, but at least I’ll be near if you need me.

Michael had protested and as Gavin shrinks farther back against the wood of the closet, trying to hide himself and his scent under moldering blankets, he finally fucking understands the reason for that protest. Michael was dangerous. He guesses he must have not fully comprehended that, not really. Yes, Michael was a dangerous creature who transformed once a month, but he was also his fiancé. Almost his goddamn husband. And the fact that Michael tried to keep a part of himself so integral to his being away from him made Gavin upset.

As the sounds came up the stairs and the snuffling grew louder, along with the panting and the growls and sound of sharp claws ripping its way through the wood, Gavin knew he should learn to leave some things the fuck alone. If he had time after tonight to worry about anything.

Michael had got bit as a child, he had admitted to Gavin over a year into dating. He had been playing in the woods under the light of the full moon and he had gone to the wrong place at the wrong time. Thankfully, he had managed to get away. Most people who got bit didn’t have to worry about the transformation. They were eaten first.

Gavin couldn’t help but think of the scenes Michael had described to him. Of bodies ripped to shreds, of nothing left of people but pieces of their clothes. The thing that Michael became was not him. He had pleaded with Gavin to understand that. He had little to no control over the beast. It overwhelmed him, terrorized him, and when he came back, he had a full belly, a raging headache, and only sensations and fear where there should be memories.

But Gavin had insisted he wanted to be with Michael during this months’ transformation. He had done the stupid puppy dog eyes that Michael pretends to hate, pouting lower lip and all, and had threatened to follow him if he went alone. So Michael had taken him. They’d rented a cabin deep out in the woods, far away from any civilization. It had been almost an hour drive on empty dirt roads to get out here to this hunters’ cabin.

The man who had rented it to them had scoffed. Warned them of what lurked out there this time of the month. A creature, he had said. Something bigger than anything ought to be. Something that disappeared, something they couldn’t catch.

Michael had just shifted awkwardly. As they sat side by side in their Jeep, he had turned to Gavin and turned a bit red, as if he was trying to fight back his anger. Again, he had tried to get Gavin to go. He had pressed his credit card into Gavin’s hand, asked him to get a hotel room back in the city. He would pay and he would join Gavin there as soon as he could. It was dangerous, he had insisted, among other choice words.

Gavin always knew his stubbornness and blind loyalty was likely going to get him hurt or killed, but didn’t realize how literal that was going to be. Now, as he stared at the ceiling of the closet in order to try not to cry, he kind of wanted to throw himself off the roof to stop the guilt. If something did happen and Michael came back and realized…

It was funny, how the mind fixated on the lesser of two problems in a bad situation. Here he was, about to die at the hands of a creature from a fucking fairy tale or a bad dream, and he was worried about how Michael was going to take it.

The first night at the cabin had been fine. Michael seemed tense, but they had set up safeguards around the front and back of the home. They made dinner, just pasta over a hot plate, and watched the stars. The moon was almost but not completely full. Gavin had learned that Michael knew a great deal about the night sky. Maybe he even fell a bit more in love. There wasn’t any electricity for video games. Turned out they didn’t need any.

There were times when they were sitting and chatting that Michael would go quiet and stiff. A breeze would come by and distract him, or he would shift and grunt like he was uncomfortable. It was the beginning of the shift, Gavin theorized, but Michael wouldn’t talk about it and Gavin knew better than to press him. He was lucky to even be allowed to be here, to share this with him. He wouldn’t ruin it by getting in the way.

He would share more than the experience with Michael now. The creature — the thing — was nearing the second floor now. The bedroom wasn’t even a bedroom, really. More like a walled-off loft. And he was sitting in the back, trapped. Like a rat in a cage. Ready for the cat.

When the howl came, Gavin almost wets himself, cowering even farther back. It sounded close, but it also sounded anguished. Like he could hear the pain of the creature, the rage and frustration by being able to smell its prey, but not chase it.

Michael had been nearly certain that when transformed, he would leave the cabin and get distracted by deer and bear and whatever the hell else was out here at night. But he couldn’t be certain, so as the day started turning dusky, he had taken the truck out into the woods. No argument could be made here. Michael was adamant that this was as far as Gavin would go. And as much as Gavin wanted to see the beast with his own two eyes, he had agreed to keep the peace.

They hadn’t counted on the senses of the Creature to be able to smell Gavin’s scent from miles away. Michael had only been gone a couple hours before Gavin started hearing the sounds of something heavy in the woods. The moonlight was like liquid silver as it washed across the clearing. Something was out there.

Gavin had at first wanted to see it. Maybe Michael had changed his mind, maybe he had come back to share this part of himself entirely with Gavin. But as the Wolf, in all its glory, smashed out of the clearing, Gavin’s bowels nearly failed as he stared down at the animal.

Michael’s werewolf form was eight feet long and at least five feet tall. It was thick and furry, with sharp teeth and yellow eyes. When it snarled, all razor rows of teeth were shown. This thing was a predator, plain and simple. There was nothing of Michael left.

Now, sitting in the closet and waiting to be torn to shreds by the man he loved, Gavin considers his options. They were slim to none. He could try to stab the eye of the beast when it broke in, but that would potentially hurt Michael as well. Maybe even blind him. Could he live with that? It would certainly be better than the alternative — death — but what if it didn’t even stop the Wolf?

He could try to run, but the idea of that thing chasing him when it was faster, could see better, and was stronger than him was less than appealing. He shivers from fear and shrinks down even deeper into a ball.

Why the fuck had he decided to go? Why had Michael let him?

Because, a stupid voice in his head had whispered, becuase he wanted to be loved and accepted for all of him as much as you wanted to know all of him. You’re both idiots.

Love made you do stupid things, but this had to be among the stupidest.

But he didn’t have time to think anymore as the door to the room was shoved inwards with a harsh slam that shook the house. The Wolf roars and Gavin bites through the skin of his finger to keep himself from crying out, blood hot and iron and red against his lips.

That was his last mistake. Like an arrow loosed from the bow, the Wolf whips around and hyperfocuses on the hot scent of fresh blood in the closet. And without another moment of hesitation, the door rips open and there the Wolf is.

Gavin forgets to breathe. For a moment they sit there, staring, the giant Wolf’s breast heaving with every garbled breath, saliva dripping out of his mouth. And Gavin, small, human, and breakable, staring back with wide eyes.

Then Michael roars, a loud agonizing sound that reveals rows and rows of sharp teeth, and Gavin knows this was where he dies.

A paw whips out faster than can be seen and clobbers Gavin in the shoulder. His arm supernovas into pain before immediately going numb, causing him to shriek and fly forward into the room and out of his shelter. Claws rake across the skin of his back in the process, blood immediately wetting his t-shirt. If anything, it was like a shark, enraging the beast further, who snarls and paces as it surrounds him.

Panic driving him to lengths he never would have considered, Gavin tries to stab with the coat hanger and all he manages to do is glance the flimsy piece of metal off of Michael’s iron hide. This refocuses the beast, which Gavin notices seems to be… pacing?

It stalks around him, snarling and spitting, but … not attacking. Like some invisible forcefield was keeping the beast away. Gavin risks trying to move.

Bad idea. The Wolf lunges, capturing Gavin’s ankle in his jaws. He yanks and Gavin slams unceremoniously down on the ground, dragged a few feet away from the closet until he’s exposed in the middle of the room. Blood drips from the teeth marks in his legs, but Gavin almost doesn’t notice as the Wolf hovers over him and teeth, saliva, and bright yellow eyes become all he can see.

His breath is ragged. What do you do when you see your death? Gavin’s lower lip starts quivering and he tries to bite it as tears well in his eyes. “M-Michael,” he gasps. “P-please don’t.”

And the Wolf… doesn’t.

A beat of silence between them, the heaving hulking form pinning Gavin to the ground, blood pooling under the man from the cuts and scratches along his back, one arm limp and obviously dislocated. He could rip his throat out, but he… doesn’t.

Michael.

Michael is inside the Wolf. With a gasp, Gavin realizes. Somewhere inside this beast is his boyfriend, his fiancé, and despite claiming he had no control, something is stopping the beast from killing him. Gavin can almost laugh with relief, but — the Wolf isn’t moving. And sooner or later, Michael is going to lose to the Will of the Beast.

“Michael,” Gavin whispers. “Michael, if you’re in there, please. It’s me. It’s Gavin, your boyfriend. I love you, please….”

The Wolf actually whines. It’s a terrifying sound, but its the sound of confusion and not rage. Progress. He just needed to keep talking. “Michael, baby, please. You’re in control. Just… get it to go. Turn around and go catch deer. P-please, god, no…” The Wolf lowers his head and takes a big sniff of Gavin’s face, the teeth agonizingly close, the saliva smearing across his cheek. Gavin doesn’t dare to move, as if the slightest extra sound or movement would break this spell that they are weaving together over this rabid animal.

Then, every millisecond drawn out to the longest amount of time possible, the Wolf rears back and steps off of Gavin. It looks at him and roars again furiously, shaking the house, and Gavin screws his eyes shut. He fucked up, this is it…

But then he hears the sound of claws on wood and the large form of a Wolf shoving its way through the cabin and then blissful, complete silence.

Laying on the floor, bleeding and in pain, Gavin finally allows himself to weep. Not in fear, but in relief. In love — Michael knew him. Michael wouldn’t allow that demon to kill him, no matter how little control he claimed to have. Tomorrow they would talk, tomorrow they would atone for their many many sins that came about that night, but tonight…

Tonight he would lay here and cry until the sun warms the trees and his fiancé comes back to him.

Some things are better left a mystery, after all.

#secret skeleton fic #supernatural au #werewolf au #ah #my writing

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is-it-art-tho · 4 years

Link

Summary: Tim Drake gives his all for the city he loves.

“Some great people have worn this uniform. It’s more than a name—it’s a legacy. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to have to work hard,” Bruce said, holding a new Robin uniform in his hands. “I’ll accept your all. Nothing less.”

Young Tim Drake nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The Batplane dipped and swerved towards skyscrapers as Tim, now several years older, fought to keep it above the Gotham skyline. Beside him, Bruce, his cowl torn to shreds, worked to keep the other set of controls in line. A damaged wing on the left side threatened to break free from the rest of the craft. Sparks flew up from the panel as the cockpit filled with smoke. Tim glanced at the countdown on the control panel: 8 minutes.

“What’s this?” Tim asked turning a slender weapon over in his hands.

“I call it a batarang,” Bruce explained. “Give it time. This will become one of your best friends.”

“Tim, bail out!” Bruce yelled over the blare of the alarms going off in the cockpit. “Now!”

Tim leapt from the seat and ran to the back of the plane. “There aren’t any parachutes!” he shouted.

Bruce cursed, made sure the rest of the sky was clear, then hurried back to join him. He instantly found a dark backpack. “There’s one right—”

Tim slammed the button to open the doors and shoved Bruce toward them. Bruce, dangling halfway out of the plane, grabbed Tim’s arm.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“I don’t understand!” Tim shouted, “Why are you so mad at me? I was just trying to help!”

“You were reckless— you could’ve gotten yourself killed. Never disobey my orders in the field like that again.”

“I thought we were supposed to look out for each other.”

“No, I look out for you. I protect you. Not the other way around. If I ever catch you putting yourself in danger like that for me again, you’re done. Is that clear?”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Tim!” Bruce barked, his voice being dragged away by the wind. “What are you doing?!”

Tim’s hand went to his belt. “I’m sorry,” he said, then whipped out a batarang and stabbed Bruce’s hand, forcing him to release. Tim peered out of the plane and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the parachute open in the distance. A massive clang followed by the screech of metal signaled the loss of the left wing. The plane started to dive.

“Computer!” Tim yelled, leaping back into the pilot’s seat. “Emergency stabilizer! Left side!” A flimsier, secondary wing folded out of the plane, taking the other one’s place. Tim forced the aircraft back into the air.

A few moments later Bruce’s voice crackled over his earpiece, furious. “Tim! Get out of there now! That’s an order!”

“If I leave now it’ll never make it.”

“Tim--”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Silence. Then, “This wasn’t the plan. It was supposed to be me.”

“I know. But there can always be another Robin. There can never be another Batman.” Tim glanced over his shoulder at the payload of explosives at the back of the plane. The timer on the cockpit was at 3 minutes. He took a steadying breath as he soared over the city, headed towards the bay. “Bruce?” he asked, his voice lighter as he changed the subject suddenly.

“Yes.”

“You remember the first time we went on patrol together? My first night in the uniform.”

No response.

“Bruce?”

“I do.”

Tim laughed half-heartedly. “How many times did you have to show me which side my grapple was on?”

“It was a rough start, but you caught on quickly.”

“I had a good teacher.”

Another pause as the plane rumbled out over the water. “Do you remember what you said to me that night? When we got back?” Met with silence again, Tim continued, “It was almost dawn. I had taken a pretty good shot to the face and you were patching me up. I was upset because I thought it meant I wasn’t good enough. But you said—”

“‘Bleeding isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of strength. It means you’re willing to take the hit when it counts,’” Bruce finished. “I remember.”

“Yeah.” Tim swallowed hard, his heart pounding. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “I’m trying to be strong now, but I’m getting kind of scared.” His voice cracked, betraying his practiced calm.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Bruce urged. “It’s okay. I’m here. Just breathe.”

Tim nodded, taking a breath. “Yeah. Okay.” One minute. Tears continued to fall as he stared out towards the horizon.

“Focus on my voice,” Bruce continued. “You’re doing great. You’re a hero, Tim.”

The boy laughed wryly. “I don’t feel like one.”

“No one ever does. But it’s true. This city owes you everything.”

Tim didn’t know what to say to that. He pivoted again: “Tell Alfred I said goodbye. And that I’m sorry about the stain on the curtains.”

“I will.”

Thirty seconds. “Dick, too,” he added suddenly. “Tell him I…” Tim’s voice caught. He tried to clear it.

“I will,” Bruce said gently, understanding.

Tim nodded. Fifteen seconds. It was almost time; he felt like he was watching himself from outside of his body. Everything around him had begun to take on a surreal, almost dreamlike quality. Suddenly something occurred to him. He spoke quickly, “This wasn’t your fault, Bruce.”

“What?”

“I chose this, okay? Promise me you won’t blame yourself.”

Back in the city, Bruce was perched on a rooftop, watching the plane through high powered binoculars.

“Promise me!” Tim’s voice was panicked, almost desperate.

Bruce took a trembling breath. “I—” The line went dead as the small plane exploded in a sudden, dazzling display of fire and smoke miles from the harbor. When the black cloud cleared, there was hardly a trace left. Bruce lowered the binoculars slowly and slumped back, numb, his eyes fixed on the water yet seeing nothing. For the first time since he could remember, his mind was entirely blank.

Suddenly, his earpiece crackled back to life. “Bruce? I saw the explosion from here— are you okay? Why isn’t anyone answering?!” It was Dick, frantic with worry.

“I’m here,” Bruce said.

“Oh thank God. Where’s Tim? He isn’t responding. Bruce?” A beat. Then slowly, his voice pitching and cracking awkwardly, “Tell me he didn’t do what I think he did. Tell me I’m wrong, Bruce. Please.”

Bruce couldn't find the words. He let the silence fill in the gaps. Dick cursed violently. "God damn it--!"

“Hello?” the young voice was weak, but clear, cutting Dick's tirade short. Bruce froze. “Are you two talking about me again?”

A broad smile cut across Bruce’s face as a relieved chuckle escaped his lips, turning quickly into a full-throated laugh. Through the earpiece he could hear Tim Drake laughing along with him, the sound mixing with the splash of waves. “Little help out here?” he asked.

"I'm on my way," Bruce said, standing. He fired off his grapple and swung away.

Down below, Gotham trudged on, never once acknowledging the disturbance on the water and completely oblivious to the immense debt they had almost owed to a sixteen year-old boy who had been willing to pay the ultimate price for them -- a city of people who didn’t even know his name.

#tim drake #robin #batman #bruce wayne #tim drake fanfic #tim drake fic #batman fanfiction #batman fic #whump #tim drake whump

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razaks-wheel · 3 years

Text

[Milia finally talks to Vivec about her PTSD from getting killed/vestiged. Content warning for depictions and discussions of self-harm.]

---

Talvini was finishing making dinner when Milia arrived at home. Despite her exhaustion, Milia put on a smile for her girlfriend. She did not want to burden her with the weight of the day she'd had.

"How was work?" Talvini asked. "You went on a raid, right?"

"Yeah, it was fine," Milia said. "I died, but no big deal."

She immediately regretted disclosing even that much when she saw Talvini's response: the falter in her preparations, the softened expression with the raised eyebrow, waiting for more, but not wanting to press. As much as she appreciated the concern, it was really the sort of thing she would prefer to forget. Still, she knew Tal would worry until she talked about it.

"I was trying to scout ahead, but I messed up. Got sort of...gutted by one of the cultists. My squadmates got me to safety, but I was still bleeding out. I tried to tell them to just stab me in the heart and get it over with so that I could reform, but those s'wits didn't have the stomach. Took the better part of an hour in a haze of agony and spitting up blood before I finally died."

Her hand floated down to her stomach as the pain came back to her.

"Anyway, I need a few minutes to get changed."

She tried to avoid Tal's gaze as she headed upstairs.

The emotions finally reached her once her armor was off and her fresh clothes waited for her in a pile on the bed. She wanted to fight it, but instead lowered to the floor and wrapped her arms tight around herself while the tears reluctantly flowed.

Why am I so weak? Why can't I handle a little pain? I deserved it! I messed up! What if it had been real?

She squeezed tighter. Her nails dug deep into her shoulders. It stung, because she was weak. Because she couldn't handle the pain she deserved for her carelessness. She dragged her nails across her shoulders and onto her arms, noticing only after a moment that she had imbued them with burning magic. That was fine; she deserved to hurt, She bit her lip as the new wounds pulsed with pain.

She would have to get back downstairs soon before Tal got worried and came up to look for her and saw her like this. She quickly bandaged the wounds, not bothering with any burn salve—she needed to feel the reminder of her failure—threw her clothes on, wiped her eyes, and headed back down for dinner.

The following day at work was a normal one, standing guard in Vivec's palace. At the end of the day, Vivec asked if ze could speak with her in hir quarters. This was not an uncommon request; sometimes there was business to deal with outside of the public view. She followed hir inside, and they sat down among the cushions on the floor.

"May I take a look at your shoulders?" Vivec asked.

The panic quickly rose within her. Why would Vivec ask about that so directly? What happened to offering vague conversational hooks that she could easily refuse?

"It's nothing, really," she said with a wave of her hand, suppressing a wince as she jostled the wounds. "Just a scratch. Not that bad. Nothing to worry about."

Vivec shook hir head. "I have permitted you to lie about your well-being before, Milia, because you knew that I knew the truth. But the time for that has passed. I am no longer going to pretend that I believe you when you say you are fine. You are not fine."

"Really, it's—I mean, I know I messed up, but I can handle it. I...need to handle it."

"On the contrary, you need nothing of the sort. I will not order you to talk to me about everything that is on your mind—though I would welcome it—but I am ordering you to have your shoulders healed. So, you can let me apply this burn salve and then heal the wounds, or I can send you to Ayem who can bypass the first step and heal you through your cuirass. Which would you prefer?"

"I'll stay here," she said quietly.

She had no issues with taking her cuirass off in front of Vivec—ze was a god; she knew ze was entirely unfazed by it—and when feeling vulnerable, she would prefer to be in the presence of her patron rather than a less familiar god. Still, she cursed herself for getting into this situation. She supposed it was her punishment for letting it go too far. At least Vivec wasn't chastising her.

The salve stung for a moment, until Vivec incorporated an analgesic effect with hir other hand. She almost wished ze would let her feel the full weight of the pain, but part of her was grateful nonetheless.

"Do you want to talk about what led you to this point?" Vivec asked as ze went.

"Want? No," Milia said. "But I know I should."

She tried to gather her thoughts, but there were too many.

"I don't know where to start. Are you sure you don't want to just jump into my head and pull out my thoughts?"

"I am sure," ze said. "I would like to hear your story in a way that can only come from being shaped by your voice. Why don't you start with what happened last night, and we can work backwards?"

"Right." She took a few more moments to prepare, and then said, "Last night, I...got overwhelmed. I felt betrayed by Daron and Felil for not just killing me when I asked them to, and more than that, I was angry at myself for slipping up again, and getting killed, again. I thought maybe they were right to let me bleed out in agony. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I still deserved to hurt. I noticed myself clawing at my own skin and I thought, 'Yeah, that's fine. That's good, actually.' So I let it happen. Then I realized I was using my Burning Embers spell, and I figured, all the better."

"They were not right, and they will be chastised for this mishandling of the situation. The ease with which they kill cultists, contrasted with their unwillingness to even temporarily kill an ally hints at concerning truths about how they conceptualize the humanity of their enemies," Vivec said. "But I digress. You believe you deserved pain for letting yourself get hurt?"

"Well...yes. Sort of. I can't seem to learn otherwise."

"Learn what?"

"Learn to avoid getting myself killed," she said. "I'm supposed to be better than that."

"You also put yourself in dangerous situations for your squadmates' sake because you know you can safely die if need be."

"I know but...but I hate it so much. I get—forgive me, I shouldn't admit this, but I get nightmares about dying all the time. I have ever since the first time. I promise my faith is true, even if I'm showing signs of soul sickness. And I know I should be grateful! I should be glad that I have the ability to get back up when I'm killed. But every single death is another failure, another instance of me not being good enough. Not strong enough, fast enough, smart enough, whatever.

"For the first seventy-two years of my life, I would pride myself on being able to handle myself against whatever dangers I would realistically face. Now? Every week, month, whatever—it feels like it's always happening—something finds a way to kill me. And then it's one more thing to add to the list of dangers I can't withstand. The list is getting pretty long.

"And one of these times is going to be the last time. I'll be a little too far from a soul gem, or my body will reject the resurrection, or something. And I won't be able to get up. Because I'll be dead. Dead dead. And the last thing I do will be to fail."

Vivec placed a hand over her right hand, and she realized she had been digging her nails again into her left arm. She tried to mumble an apology, but her voice broke and the emotions that she had been putting off by continuing to talk spilled over now that she had taken a moment to pause. She instinctively went to wipe her eyes, but remembered that her shoulders were currently being restricted in their movement.

"I'm sorry," she managed to get out after a moment. "I know none of this sounds like a good reason to...do what I did. Maybe I'm just weak. I know I'm weak." She exhaled. "I understand if you think I'm not qualified to be an Armiger."

"Do you really think you could get out of my service so easily?" Vivec asked with a shred of levity in hir voice. Ze returned hir hand to her shoulder and continued in a more serious tone, "You already explained: you hurt yourself because you were overwhelmed. The rest is context."

"Oh," Milia said. "Is it really that simple?"

"I would not call it simple. It is life, woven into story. It can be shorn down to an essence, yes, but do not let that mislead you into discounting the complexity of your full experience." Ze pulled hir hands back. "Your shoulders are healed."

She wiggled her arms a bit, and indeed, there was no more pain. She put her undershirt back on and turned to face Vivec.

"Thank you," she said. "And I apologize for my weakness."

Ze shook hir head. "Shame will not help. You are a Vestige, Milia. Few know what it is like to go through what you have been through, and fewer still respond by regularly throwing themselves at death to help others. You are navigating a strange and frightening territory, and your response is understandable. I will ask you this: Have I earned your trust?"

"Of course. You're my god."

"Have I truly? Will you come to me in the future, before you find yourself overwhelmed?"

"I will...try harder," she said. "It's just difficult."

"I know. But I hope I have proven to you that you will be safe. That I will not lash out, punish you, fire you, re-educate you, anything that might worry you. That I will simply offer my aid as your god. And even if you do become overwhelmed, and you do hurt yourself again, I still will not be angry. I would not order you never to do it again; that would do more harm than good. I will instead ask that if you find yourself in that situation again, try not to use fire. And either way, come to me—or to someone—for a heal. Deal?"

She nodded slowly. "Deal."

Vivec stood up and helped Milia to her feet.

"Yes, you may have a hug," ze said, reading her mind.

She felt a warmth in the hug, as though ze had meant everything ze had said, as though ze truly cared about her well-being. She supposed ze had really earned her trust, as much as her anxious mind could allow.

When the hug was finished, Vivec opened a portal.

"You should get home before Talvini worries. More than she already has, that is."

#milia #razak's ocs #all my tribunal-loyal kids get a hug from their respective patrons at some point; it's the law #self harm cw

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touchstarvedsam · 4 years

Text

warning: major character death, set during when the levee breaks, demon blood detox gone wrong, based solely on dean’s “then at least he dies human” line

The banging on the walls stopped completely and Sam’s screams and cries for Dean died down to silence. After hours of Sam’s agonized crying, the silence was deafening. Dean and Bobby shared a look of concern before the two of them rushed down to the panic room, booted feet thunking heavily on the wooden steps. The metal door creaked when it opened and Dean pushed past Bobby to get to Sam.

His little brother was lying on the floor, drenched in sweat, convulsing. Sam’s mouth was agape as he tried to gasp for breath. It was one of the most terrifying things Dean had ever seen in his life, second only to watching Sam get stabbed right in front of him. The day he lost Sam in Cold Oak, South Dakota was like losing a part of himself. Watching the color drain out of his baby brother’s face as he bled out on the muddy ground in Dean’s arms, his head lolling against Dean’s shoulder, is not something Dean will ever be able to forget. He hasn’t felt worse pain since.

Until now.

Getting torn to shreds by the hellhounds couldn’t hold a candle to watching Sammy die right before his eyes, right in his arms. But this… this was something completely different. This was like watching someone you know become a stranger. A part of Sam that Dean has never seen before; this broken little boy sweating through his clothes, violent tremors wracking his frame. Sam felt like a stranger to Dean the past several months, drinking demon blood, sneaking around with the demon skank Ruby and becoming everything he swore he wouldn’t. Sam was becoming everything he made Dean promise to kill him for two years prior and Dean didn’t want to think about right now. Dean couldn’t think about that right now.

Sam grew up a good kid; kept his nose clean, did his homework, only got into fights when he was sticking up for himself. He never gave in to peer pressure, never did drugs or drank alcohol. Dean couldn’t account for the four years Sam was away at Stanford, but Dean had always had faith in his little brother to make the right choices.

He lied that day, in the historic inn they stayed at in Connecticut when Sam was drunk and begging Dean to promise to kill him. Dean lied when he made that promise, but here he is lying to himself because Sam is dying right before his eyes, again, and it’s all Dean’s fault.

The only thing Dean could honestly admit to himself that he loved, with his entire heart and soul, was his little brother. He’s never said it aloud and he regrets that now. He regrets the words he said to Bobby a little more than an hour before this.

No. I’m not giving him demon blood.

And if he dies?

Kneeling beside Sam’s trembling form, he cups the back of Sam’s head. He’s soaked to the bone, hair matted to his neck, stuck to his forehead, clinging to his sweaty cheeks. Dean pushes it away gently, cradling Sam’s head in his lap as he shushes him. Pets his hair. Holds him.

He closes his eyes, tries to block out the last thing he’d said before this. Bobby is somewhere behind him, saying something that Dean can’t hear over the sound of his own heartbeat and the lack of Sam’s.

Then at least he dies human!

A cool, wet cloth is handed to Dean as a tear falls from his eye and lands on Sam’s flushed cheek. It starts to trickle down but in the end just evaporates with the heat coming off Sam’s body. Dean’s logical mind tells him that Sam’s already gone, that what’s happening now -- the wretched croak fighting its way out of Sam’s throat -- is just a death knell for the inevitable. Sam’s body is too hot, his fever has to have gone well above 107 degrees. Even if they could cool him down…

“Ice bath,” Dean croaks, gripping tighter to Sam’s still shoulders. The heat radiating through his shirt tells him everything he needs to know, yet he refuses to stop fighting.

He can fix this. He can fix Sam.

“Son,” he hears Bobby’s voice -- next to him but distant, so close but coming from a completely different dimension -- as a hand lands on his shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do, son. He’s--”

“Don’t,” Dean growls. He sits Sam up and pulls himself and Sam’s dead -- not dead -- weight to their feet, supporting his little brother like he should have been all this time. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he coos into his brother’s unhearing ear, smoothing his sticky hair from his face. “It’s okay, baby boy, I got you, okay? I got you.” He half carries, half drags Sam through the panic room door, ignoring Bobby’s pitying look as he passes him. “You’re gonna be just fine, kiddo.”

Half of Sam’s weight is taken from Dean as Bobby slips Sam’s other arm over his shoulders. At Dean’s astounded look, he says, “You’re gonna need help carryin’ him up the stairs, ain’t ya, ya idjit?” Dean’s so grateful he could start crying. But he’s going to save the rest of his tears when he yells at Sam for scaring him like this.

Together, they haul Sam up the stairs and to the bathroom, his feet thunking against each step as they pull him. Dean sits Sam on the toilet, keeping a hand on his shoulder to steady him against the wall then lets him go once he’s sure he won’t fall. “Get some ice, Bobby,” he says gruffly, bending down to turn on the faucet of the bath. “We gotta cool him down.” The water is already cold, but he needs to get Sam’s temperature down. He can’t be too careful here; if he doesn’t cool Sam down now…

He shakes his head and turns back to his completely still brother. Sam’s no longer trembling, his shivers ceased entirely and Dean’s in denial. He refuses to believe he’s losing Sam. He won’t lose Sam. Not today. Not ever.

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” Dean says, “Big brother’s gotcha.”

Bobby returns with a gallon sized bucket of ice; it’s not a lot but it’s better than nothing. They don’t have time to hit a convenience store for 10lbs of ice. As Bobby dumps the ice into the bathtub, watching Dean with a look of sadness and pity on his face, Dean continues talking to Sam. “See? You’re gonna be just fine, kiddo. Right?” He wraps an arm around Sam’s waist and hoists him back up. “C’mon, Sammy, into the bath. You never liked ice baths, did you?” he muses as Bobby steps in to help Dean on Sam’s other side. “Remember when you were little, maybe about 9 or 10, and you had a fever so high… Dad was on a hunt about eight hours away and I didn’t know what to do…

“God, Sam, I broke the lock off the ice machine at the hotel we were in and filled the ice bucket probably about six times -- just goin’ back and forth running with that bucket, sweatin’ my ass off -- and when I put you in that bath you started screaming… I felt so bad, baby, but I needed your fever to go down.” They each grab a thigh and swing Sam’s legs over the edge of the tub before gently lowering him into the ice cold water. Sam doesn’t make a sound. Not a whine, a whimper, a sigh. He doesn’t cry like he did when they were kids and Dean frowns, knowing but refusing to acknowledge it out loud.

He can’t.

“Dean--”

Dean knows. He does. But he- he can’t.

He knows that Sam’s fever had already gone down, well before the ice bath, his body rapidly cooling with the lack of blood flow. Sam’s heart stopped pumping before they even got him up the stairs. Sam’s gone, and despite Sam being in a bath of ice water, Dean’s the one that’s cold all over.

“Dean,” Bobby repeats, strangely soft for a gruff man of his age. This whole scenario is reminiscent of Dean sitting beside Sam’s dead body on that dirty mattress in that husk of a house. Sam looked like he was sleeping then; Dean was able to pretend he was, until he couldn’t anymore. But here- here Sam doesn’t. His cheeks are still red from overexertion, from the detox, from his body being literally put through the ringer. They left him alone in that room, in pain, locked up like a prisoner and forced him to go through something none of them knew anything about.

Dean had forced Sam to go through that. God, if he had only listened to Bobby.

No telling how long it’ll take. Hell, or if Sam will even live through it.

His eyes sting and he furiously wipes at them. This hurts more than Cold Oak, because this one is all on Dean. He’s never going to forgive himself, never going to get over the pain.

“I’m sorry, little brother.”

He stands on shaky legs that feel like they’ve never been used before. Bobby hesitates behind him, whispers, “You’re not gonna--”

“Make a deal?” Dean asks bitterly, a sarcastic laugh bubbling out from his chest. “No, I’m not. I’m gonna go kill that demon skank, and any other black-eyed sons of bitches that get in my way.” And then I’m going to drink myself into oblivion and hope to meet Sam on the other side, if he’ll have me.

He doesn’t tell Bobby goodbye, but then again, he thinks Bobby already knows that this is goodbye. Let Lucifer rise, he thinks, let some other sad bastards fix the world. Sam’s dead, so Dean might as well be, too.

#wincest #long post #major character death #demon blood detox #padaleckie #um #hurt sam #i guess #in denial dean #then suicidal dean i guess #this is written terribly and i am sorry #i just wanted dean to hurt #he deserves to hurt #kiri wincest #putting this post on a schedule because posting at 4am is not a good idea #hope someone likes it anyway #tagged padaleckie because she knew i was writing it #hope it doesn't disappoint you my friend #i tried my best

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lu-undy · 4 years

Text

Chapter 7 - SBT

Here is Chapter 7!

Lucien pushed the door and entered. It was now past midnight. He neatly removed his shoes and went straight to his bedroom. The Frenchman changed for his pyjamas, throwing the map that he had bought off Joe on the bed and slid between the cool satin sheets. He adjusted his pillow against the bed head and sat against it. He wasn’t tired, neither was he sleepy, but given the local time, a bit of rest would help his body melt into the new timezone.

He slid a hand under his bed and retrieved his briefcase. After switching the night lamp on, he read through it again, his eyes lazily following the letters but not really getting the meaning from the words. Lucien raised his nose off the file and looked around him.

“Oh…?”

He hadn’t seen that piece of paper on the night table, next to the telephone. He took it between his long and slim fingers and read through it. It was a list of phone numbers for various services offered both by the hotel themselves but also by some shops around it. Lucien’s eyes scanned through it quickly until his eyes stopped at the last line.

Extra pillow - 99

He smiled. An extra pillow in the context of a hotel was not an extra pillow. Although it does get one to a more comfortable state to sleep, some would argue, and it most definitely warmed up one’s night…!

Non, number 99 called for some company to distract one of his daytime troubles and ease him into Morpheus’ arms after a bit of, well, physical satisfaction.

“Pfff…”

Lucien tossed the paper away. He didn’t need that. Non actually, it wasn’t that he didn’t need it, but rather that he couldn’t remember the last time he had needed it. After that woman disappeared off his days, he had lost any shred of life in his body and his mind and accepted his new companion. Her name in French was:

La Solitude.

Like with anyone else, he usually didn’t need much for her to fall for him. However, the other way around couldn’t be further from the truth. The Frenchman had grown a heart of stone over the years and was now desensitised to softness, in any form that it came. But that’s exactly what made him fall. She was the only one slim enough to slip into his heart and finish to seal it completely. Any hope, any ray of light, any candle that shyly shone, she blew away and extinguished.

Lucien had lived a long enough life. He had suffered enough and had seen it all. Yes, yes, it was all so good to love, feel the flutters of the heart and whatnot but, it all came at the dearest price. So he had taken the reasonable, some would argue inhuman, way out.

He remembered that day. Lucien had put anything he owned with as much as a shred of sentimentality in it and put it in a cardboard box. He put the cardboard box in a tin one. He didn’t have much so the box wasn’t much bigger than a dictionary. He didn’t take a coat and stepped out of his parisian flat. The Frenchman had walked in the streets, under the rain, the lamp posts showering him with their lights irregularly. He had walked and walked until he had found himself in front of a gate. He pulled it but it didn’t move a jot.

Merde…

Lucien put the tin box down at his feet and noticed the chain and padlock on the gate. He shook his head. His hair was stuck to his forehead as he was entirely soaked and the rain trickled down his face. He didn’t want to do it. He had sworn to himself he wouldn’t anymore.

Pfff…

He sighed and the metallic sound of the drumming of the raindrops on the tin box pushed him to make up his mind. He put a hand in his pocket and retrieved a couple of pins. In a few seconds, the padlock fell to the ground and the chain slid lazily to the floor.

Lucien entered the park. It was the middle of the night. He walked until he didn’t know where he was anymore. Everything was dark and he could only see the tall and menacing silhouettes of the trees surrounding him.

Bien…

He dropped to his knees and dug a hole with his knife. For every stab he gave to the ground, he could feel his heart rip further apart. When the hole was big enough, he lowered the box to the ground and covered it back with the dirt he had carved away with his blade and his naked fingers.

Voilà.

Lucien had now buried his memories, pictures of happier times, objects that rhymed with affection, passion and love. They were now under the ground, as was his heart.

When he got back home that night and switched on the lights in his lonely flat, she was waiting for him. La Solitude. She congratulated him, she was proud and applauded him into his new life. That night was the first that he shared with her, and she never left him since.

La Solitude.

That was his extra pillow and had been so for decades.

Lucien shook his head. Why did he have to think about it again? He had made up his mind. He had left her at the airport in Paris. Or did she follow him there? He turned his head to look and sighed.

“Fallait-il vraiment que tu me suives?”

[Did you really have to follow me?]

There she was, lying on the bed, as naked and raw as she could get. She gave him the impression that his bed was an ocean and him, stranded on a narrow plank, the result of the shipwreck of his life.

He lit a cigarette and smiled, as if he was mocking his own poor old self before opening the map on his lap and holding the list of his contacts in his hand. He spread the map completely and methodically went through the names on his list, trying to locate the addresses precisely.

“Ah, j’ai besoin d’un stylo…”

[Ah, I need a pen...]

He got off his bed and soon came back with a pen and an ashtray. He resumed his position on the bed and after an hour or so, he had circled the positions of all his contacts.

“Très bien.”

[Very well.]

Lucien read the file and tried to remember who did what. This one was an undercover agent, this one a beggar, this one had a convenience store, this one was a tailor… He leaned back a bit and realised that the circles were reasonably well scattered across the city. He nodded to himself and exhaled the smoke of his expensive menthol cigarette.

As soon as the day came, he would start and meet them. But for now, a nap would do, even if it was short. Lucien crushed his cigarette end in the ashtray, folded the map back and put his file neatly away in his briefcase before sliding it all under his bed. He then pulled his pillow down and laid on his back. He looked to his left, she was staring at him, with her big dark eyes. Lucien switched off his night lamp and closed his eyes.

The next day, the Frenchman went to Victoria’s restaurant.

“L!” She came to his table.

“Good morning, V.”

“What can I get you?”

“A black coffee, please and what pastry would you recommend to me?”

“I’d go for a bit of lemon tart, you seem like the lemon tart type.”

He smiled and nodded.

“Your instinct is right, I like lemon a lot, Victoria.”

Her eyebrows jumped.

“You know my name? What are you, a spy or something?”

“Maybe.” He smiled. “Actually, what would you like to have with me?” He asked.

“Oh, uh, not sure I can.” She looked around her and indeed there were no other clients. “Alright, get me some hot chocolate, maybe!”

“Fine, add it to my order.”

“Thanks, L! I’ll be a minute!”

And in a minute she came back with the man in a suit’s order.

“Pray take a seat.”

She did as she was told and they shared their breakfast.

“So…” She said between two sips. “You know my name but I don’t know yours.”

“And it is better this way, so I shall remain L.”

“Fair enough. Have any plans for today?” She asked.

“I need to visit a few people.”

“Friends?”

“More like professional contacts.”

“Oh, I see… What’s your job anyway?”

“I am looking for one.”

“What kind?”

“I used to be a singer back in France. I hope I can bring a bit of the classics of my country in the local musical landscape here.”

“Hm… Not a lot of places where you could do that. Also, by the looks of you and the way you talk, you aren’t a pub singer, are ya?”

Lucien shook his head.

“May God protect me against it ever…”

Victoria laughed.

“I can give you a few suggestions. There are a few restaurants posh enough for you.”

“I would gladly appreciate that, thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“But tell me, V....”

“Yeah?”

“Why help me?”

“I don’t know. You’ve just landed here and if I’d just landed in France I feel like you’d have done the same.”

“Not a lot of people would think as you do, or agree with you.” Lucien said.

“Well then, only a few people aren’t idiots, which is common knowledge, isn’t it?”

Lucien chuckled.

“You speak the words I would expect from someone much older than you.”

“Maybe. Maybe that’s why you’re offering me a hot chocolate.”

He nodded with a smile.

“Maybe indeed… But what about you? Do you have any plans for today, apart from serving an old man his coffee before he starts a long day?”

“Well, hopefully serving him his lunch and his dinner…?” She pushed her luck.

“You might be lucky enough for that, who knows…?” He mysteriously answered and they both chuckled.

“Cool. But yeah, apart from that, not much. I’ll go running tonight, some dinner, I’ll try to revise for my exams and hopefully not fall asleep too soon on my book!”

“Ah, what do you study?”

“Spanish. It’s a correspondence course.”

“Oh, I see. What would you like to do once you pass your exams?”

“Who says I’ll pass them? This job takes me most of my time. And then I need to go help Joe and a few other folks before I can hit home.” Victoria’s look saddened.

“But you like what you study, non?”

“Yeah, I do. I’d like to pass my exams and then I can start looking for a proper job, one that I really want.”

“What would that be?”

“Teacher. I’d love to teach Spanish to people. Pfff, I wish I had more time and energy to study.” She lowered her eyes.

“I can help you if you want.”

Victoria frowned as she listened to the Frenchman continue.

“You help me settle in Australia, and I help you with your Spanish, what do you say?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Wait, you know Spanish?” She asked.

“Por supuesto, Señorita.” He nodded.

[Of course, Miss.]

“Wow, wait, how many languages can you speak?”

“Enough to survive, I suppose.” He answered. “But that does not answer my question. ¿Quieres aprender el español conmigo? Puedo enseñarte si quieres.”

[Do you want to learn Spanish with me? I can teach you if you want.]

The Frenchman extended his hand to her.

“I have no money though…” She protested.

“Do I look like the sort of man who needs money?” He raised an eyebrow with a smirk and saw her eyes jump from his jacket, to his vest, and his watch.

“No, true…”

“As I said, let us make this a trade: I help you conquer Spanish and you help me conquer Australia. So…?”

She shook his hand firmly.

“Alright then! Thank you so much!”

“De nada. Do bring your homework with you at work and I shall help you with it.”

[You’re welcome.]

“Will do! Thank you so much again…!”

“My pleasure. Now, about those places you could recommend. I have a map that I have bought from Joe’s. He sends his regards to you by the way.”

Lucien splayed the map on the table.

“Oh, that’s nice of him. I’ll bring him his pills tonight, I didn’t have the time yesterday…”

“Here is the pen…” He handed her a black biro. “Show me where and I will go.”

“Right so, what kind of experience d’you have? Cause I feel like some places have the right style for you but you might not have the CV for it.”

The Frenchman couldn’t hold back an arrogant scoff.

“Oh, V… Pardon my impoliteness.” He cleared his throat. “Ahem, well, I have sung in the most prestigious places in my native country. By that, I mean the most sought after restaurants. Places where you would only meet people that you hear about on the television.”

“You shittin’ me…?” She asked.

“You will discover that I am not a man of many jokes, V.”

“Well then, let’s see…” Her eyes eagerly scanned the map. “Your first port of call could be this place at the corner between this street and that one. It’s relatively new so they can’t really afford to turn anyone down.”

“V…?”

She raised her eyes off the map to meet his light blue ones.

“Yeah?”

“Come on, let’s be ambitious here. What is the best restaurant here? One where not everyone can get a table and if you do, you have to know someone who works there already?”

“Wow, wow, wow, L…! No offense but they don’t take a newcomer just like that there?!”

“Leave that to me. Just point it on the map.”

“You’ll never get the job, even if they were lookin’ for someone!” She exclaimed.

“And I can wager anything you’d like that not only I will try, but I will obtain this position.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow and pouted. Her eyes darted left and right. Lucien stared at her arrogantly, he spoke with such self-confidence...

“Alright. If you get the job, you get me a table there for dinner.”

“Consider it done.” He answered.

“Hahaha! So, yeah, that’s the place you want to go…!”

The young lady placed a cross on the map and the Frenchman bent forward to take a better look at it.

“It’s bang on the center of the center.”

“What’s the restaurant called?”

“The Queen me!” She answered triumphant.

“The Queen you?” He answered.

“Yeah, the Queen Victoria!”

“Ah, well, then I just need to tell them that V herself sent me and I should get the position, non?”

“Pfff, you can try…!” She chuckled. “I know a lot of people in this city, but no one who goes there.”

“Not yet…!” Lucien added with a wink.

“Yeah, well, don’t forget your bet, old man. You get that job and you owe me some good dinner there, eh!”

“I shall not forget, do not worry.”

A voice cut them in the background.

“Victoria? Where are ya? We need you back here!”

“Oh, sorry, I’ll have to go.” She stood up and took the empty cups and the plate.

“Ningún problema, Señorita. I shall retire too. I have a long list of people that I shall visit.”

[No problem, young lady.]

He folded the map back neatly before putting it back in his inner pocket. Lucien followed her back to the counter and she took his payment.

“V?”

“Hm?”

“Muchas gracias.”

[Thank you very much]

“Oh, uh, de nada?”

He nodded.

“Victoria?!” The voice called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah, can’t you live without me for a second?!”

The Frenchman laughed and left. As soon as the door of the restaurant closed behind him, he started his itinerary. The closest one was the beggar. Lucien walked in his direction. The path was clear in his head such that he could pay a bit of attention to his surroundings. The streets, the walls and shop windows rolled before his eyes and like the reel of an old movie, they slowly changed to older wood, and older colours, washed out and sometimes blackened by the years.

He lit up a cigarette and walked, looking up left and right. Lucien could feel the eyes of the people on him. Who was he? Clearly a foreigner, a madman, someone who didn’t know where he was, he was clearly lost. And look at him, he was smoking in his expensive light beige suit, the light sheen of which shone delicately. Ah, he finally stopped. Wait, did he drop a yellow note to that beggar?! Bloody hell…!

Lucien could almost hear the whispers of the million eyes on him. He didn’t mind it.

The homeless man saw a pair of polished brown italian shoes stop in front of him. He lowered his head and extended his plastic cup. When he saw the fifty-dollar note land, his eyes opened wide and his bushy eyebrows unfrowned like the Red Sea to let Moses through.

“Thank you good Sir…” He said, his voice weak and fragile. Lucien understood that he was a much heavier smoker than himself.

“Je t’en prie, mon ami.”

[My pleasure, my friend.]

The beggar raised his eyes.

“Je viens pour discuter.”

[I have come to have a chat.]

“Who’s the good Sir?”

“L.”

“L’s stopped for years, Sir. He’s out.”

Lucien chuckled and was about to answer when a child came running to them both.

“Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack!”

“Told you to not come when I’m in business Nick….”

“But they said it’s urgent…!”

“Who?”

“Them above! They sent this!”

The child extended a piece of paper to the beggar.

“‘Scuse me, Sir. Urgent matters apparently.”

“Take your time.” Lucien answered and put the cigarette back between his lips. He looked at the young boy. He mustn’t have been more than twelve and behind him, a few of his friends were waiting on the pavement.

“Bloody hell… We’ll all be damned… Nick, get Tommy to replace me.”

“Alright!” The kid darted away and the beggar stood up.

Lucien realised that he was taller than him now that he was standing.

“‘m sorry to not have believed you, L. Follow me.”

The Frenchman nodded and did as he was told. After a few minutes’ walk, both men found themselves in a dead end.

“Right, now we can talk… Vous pouvez m’appelez Maurice.”

[You can call me Maurice.]

Both men shook hands and Maurice removed his large hat to look his colleague in the eye.

“Enchanté, Maurice.”

[Pleased to meet you, Maurice.]

“How can I help the legendary L?”

“Introduce me to your trade and to your city first.”

“Ah, here we go then…”

“But before we dive into the matter, allow me to say that your accent is perfect. I cannot hear a shred of French in your English.” Lucien said.

“Well, I had a good accent to start with and now I’m perfectly transparent.”

“As all beggars should be.” Lucien added and his friend nodded.

“Yeah you’re right. So yeah, my trade? I’m the king of the street, posh or dirty. I hear the wind and the word that it carries. You need to know something or pass on a message? Come to me.”

“How shall I find you?”

“The kids. See one with green on the soles of his shoes? He’s mine. You tell him what you need and you’ll get it.”

“What can you provide?”

“My business is mostly intel’, but I can also arrange deliveries for letters and reasonably small packages.”

“What about the children?”

“They’re all orphans. We pay them and teach them how to use their money. Most of them find a job as early as they can and we encourage them to. Some of them even go to University.”

“We?” Lucien asked.

“There are a few adults of course. I can’t manage all those kids on my own. But of course because they’re kids, they’re hard to find during school time.”

“Who shall I go for then?”

“Same code.”

“Green soles?”

“Yeah, green soles. We’re a fairly big network now.”

“Understood. Anything you can tell me about my target?”

“Not much beyond what you know. We were the ones to spot him here. I had a hard time believin’ it so I went and checked myself.”

“So we are confident?”

“More than a hundred percent. It’s him, the bastard.”

“Any idea of what his main activity is?”

“Not precisely. But things are on the move. Big wallets are landing in Oz, more and more by the day. He’s preparin’ something big, don’t know what yet, but we’ll know it soon enough.”

“Fine. Keep me posted.” Lucien walked towards the exit of the dead end.

“Will do.”

“You know where to find me?” The Frenchman asked.

“Yeah, and thanks for the money.” Maurice added.

“Bah, I just needed your attention.”

“Not the one in my cup.”

Lucien frowned.

“Bastian’s got new shoes now.” Maurice winked.

It took a second but the spy remembered the shy, young man who worked in his hotel.

#tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #sniperspy #SBT

9 notes · View notes

grandcollections · 4 years

Link

by myashke

Summary:

When Arthur pushes Merlin away to protect him, what lengths will Merlin go to to remain in his life?

Comments:

I read this seven years ago. And although I couldn’t remember much about the fic, seeing the name struck a chord in me— so cliche, but it felt like an electric shock. Instant recognition. I remembered it was one of my favorite fics ever. I remembered images of freezing cold and bonfires, and lots of delicious hurt/comfort, probably the best you’ve ever read, my mind told me. And I remembered the tale centering around Merlin, on how much everyone loves him— I saw more images, snippets of the knights and Arthur trying to protect him— one of my favorite parts of the show and something I love to see in fics.

Arthur laced his gloved fingers through Merlin’s bare ones and lifted them up to his lips. “They’re gone,” he said, lowering their hands to rest on his thigh again, hoping Merlin’s ice cold fingers would warm beneath his own.

Merlin took a deep, shuddering breath, his chest pressing tightly against Arthur’s back. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he whispered, squeezing Arthur’s hand.

“Yes.” Arthur looked down at their joined hands, wondering if it would always be like this, Merlin touching him, their attraction sparking and being smothered over and over under the weight of duty for as long as Merlin stood at his side.

I am so, so glad I decided to reread this now. I needed it. I took my time with it, watching the page count anxiously, not wanting it to ever end.

To be able to read something like this is a gift. Truly. This fic is not only one of the best merthur fics I’ve read, but one of the best pieces of writing.

TLDR: Merlin risks his neck to save Arthur without thinking, of course, nearly freezing to death afterwards. Along with the knights (who play a very active role), they revive him and nurse him back to health slowly. Merlin and Arthur’s feelings come to the surface, along with plenty of angst and big sacrificial energy from both boys. Featuring: hurt/comfort, magic reveal, angst (so much angst) the best characterization of every character, Ealdor shenanigans, wonderful smut and delicious sexual tension, the whole gang of knights and a smattering of mergwaine. And my goddamn favorite thing, the best way I’ve ever seen it: Arthur recognizing everything Merlin has done and truly, truly valuing him.

the rest of my long-ass review below the cut lol!

Everything I said in my first review holds true. It’s beautiful and heart-wrenching. It’s pure, sickening hurt/comfort— if that’s your jam (and it sure is mine), oh boy you’ll be in heaven. It’s full of tenderness— the way Arthur, Gwaine, and Lancelot care for Merlin, the depth of Merlin’s feelings for Arthur, the supremely physical nature of this fic— the first half is a mess of tender touches and skin-to-skin, bodies trying save Merlin’s, described in excruciating detail.

"It’s just me,” Arthur whispered, brushing his hair back from his forehead, his hand slowly rubbing down Merlin’s neck and back, fingers ghosting along his spine, settling finally on his hip.

Arthur held him tightly in place. He brushed slowly, gently back through Merlin’s hair, whispering in his ear, soothing him. “Shh, it’s alright, Merlin. I’m right here. You’re safe. Sleep now... you’ll feel better in the morning... I promise I’ll be right here...”

This is the stuff of hurt/comfort *dreams*. It’s achingly tender and beautiful and full of angst as Merlin stays near death, ice cold, goes through fever, and says and does things as his mind isn’t fully presence in his fever-addled state.

Arthur whispered prayers to God Almighty, to the Gods of the Old Religion, to Merlin himself. Be alive. Be alive.

He’d give up his right to the throne for a blood curdling cry from Merlin right now.

Arthur spends so much of this part of the fic panicking over Merlin, desperate for him to be alright. (One of my favorite merthur tropes)

“Trust me, he’ll thank you for it tomorrow.”

“Gods allow he has breath to thank me with tomorrow,” Arthur whispered, shaking his head as his own words stabbed into his chest. He lowered his cheek to Merlin’s again, whispering,” Gods allow he has breath to rant and rave, if he wants.”

I really love the characterization of everyone in this fic, but I want to focus on Arthur. The entire time I was reading I believed it was him, I believed I was reading about Uther’s-son-the-prince-of-Camelot, First Knight, all of it. I felt his burdens and his pain, the weight of the heavy choices (and one specific heavy choice, the main plot of this fic I suppose) he made.

Arthur pressed Merlin harder against the tree and he opened his eyes, gasping.

“I’m choosing Camelot over you, Merlin. An entire kingdom’s welfare. My bloodline’s future. My gods-damned destiny. And yours, if you stand by me.”

This sort of realism may not be every shipper’s cup of tea, but god is it mine. Because it doesn’t lessen Arthur’s love, need, longing for Merlin. It just incorporates the rest of Arthur into that, alongside it. And produces so much goddamn pain.

Arthur is not always gentle, he is possessive and jealous, but always quick to bury those feelings— unless he can lash out with his authority at his back. And if he does that, he apologizes.. sometimes. If he regains control quickly enough. If it’s one of the knights. (Not always if it’s Merlin). He misunderstands things often and is quick to believe the worst. But he never fails where it’s important— he tries, and that’s key. But he can be intuitive, too— I love how the magic reveal is handled, how it marinates in his mind for a while. How he knows before the reader even knows he knows, and long before anyone else does. It’s a credit done to Arthur we don’t see often— sometimes he reacts badly, or is shocked above all else.

“I thought you’d want rid of me,” Merlin said... “Someone who lied about who I really am.”

“Who? Oh, you mean the Merlin that is actually brave, intelligent, and loyal to the death?” he heard, low and close to his ear. “I’ve known him for a while, too.”

This is JUST.... everything I’ve ever wanted. The way Arthur values Merlin and sees everything he’s done post-magic reveal is one of the primary reasons I love this fic so much, as I’ve said, and I’ll talk about it more later. But another result of the magic reveal is Arthur becoming so protective of Merlin once he does realize. It’s the backbone of this fic.

Merlin grinned as everyone laughed, the light in his eyes a gift Arthur wouldn’t soon forget.

He would have to extinguish it, he knew, but he wouldn’t ever forget what Merlin had looked like in that moment, so entirely at peace with himself and everyone around him....

Pressing his leg harder against Merlin’s, Arthur clenched his jaw on the scream of frustration that welled in his chest.

^ this is Arthur’s reaction as he watches Merlin practice magic, glowing and happy and powerful and whole, because he is afraid that magic is the reason Merlin will die.

Had Merlin watched the executions and thought of himself tied to that post? Had he thought he would be able to escape before the fires were lit beneath him?

The very image of Merlin bound there made Arthur’s stomach curl into a tight knot.

The way Arthur would doom himself to be the villain, to deny himself happiness and even SAFETY— because now he knows he’s only lived this long because of Merlin— to protect Merlin, to prolong his life.

Merlin backed away as Arthur stepped forward again, reaching out to him. He didn’t know how to do this, to push Merlin away when his body felt half-empty with the desire to touch him.

The way he uses his authority as prince and what he is to Merlin to ensure it. (The way Merlin refuses to comply.) I love it so much.

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reigning in his anger. “You’re right. I would defy my father and my king to protect you... but it wouldn’t be enough.... it makes me ill to think of how close you’ve come to the pyre.”

“I don’t care. I belong in Camelot, even if I end up a pile of ash.”

excuse me while I scream

“I have my company of knights to protect me.”

“They follow you, they don’t protect you,” Merlin whispered, letting go of Arthur’s arms and worrying the edge of his tunic, then looking into Arthur’s eyes, pleading. “Please don’t ask this of me.”

He’d expected a fight, defiance, but not this, not what amounted to begging.

DELICIOUS. ANGST. Arthur’s protectiveness coupled with Merlin’s stubbornness means we get a whole lot of angst and longing. They have to stay away from each other, but they can’t.

“I should never have let you,” Arthur whispered, shaking his head, “You’re enough of a distraction as it is.”

As they stared at one another, Merlin felt as if something irrevocable was slipping between them. “Arthur, I--”

“Enough,” he breathed, the word a plea more than a command. “We cannot-- I’m not free to--” Arthur sighed, brushing his thumb across Merlin’s lops, shaking his head. “This cannot happen again. Do you understand?”

... “Yes, sire.” Merlin pushed at Arthur’s arm, unwilling to wait for Arthur to let go, unable to lie there, so close, touching, when Arthur was already through with him.

.. Like a bucket of cold water, Arthur’s words had shocked him back into reality, holding up in front of him what he’d tried so hard to forget.

He was a servant, and he would obey.

excuse me?? do you see why you have to go read this fic right NOW, do you SEE?!!

“I knew. I knew and it still feels like I’m splitting open,” Merlin whispered.

ugh.

If anyone else had put that look on Merlin’s face, Arthur would have laid them out flat.

ughHH

“Your life is worth more than this,” Arthur said, smoothing the pad of his thumb across Merlin’s kiss-reddened lips...

Arthur clenched his fists and stared after him, desperate to follow. They couldn’t keep tearing each other to shreds like this. Something had to give.

God this fic is full of GOD-TIER PAIN. It’s genuinely baffling. amazing. groundbreaking, never been done before!!!!

And now I must, I must, discuss the clowning glory of this fic. The thing I wanted most from the show, that pained me the most when I was denied, that frustrated me most about the ending. Arthur seeing Merlin as the hero he is, the powerful sorcerer who did so much for Arthur, Arthur’s family, Arthur’s kingdom. But more than that. Arthur seeing and valuing Merlin, the man. Gaius, Hunith, Gwaine, Lancelot, the knights— they don’t value Merlin because of his magic, or because what he has done or can do for them. It isn’t gratitude they feel. It’s love. And it’s the same for Arthur, here. And I can’t tell you how dear that is to me. How lovely it is to read.

And despite knowing him so well, Merlin had believed in his ability to become a better man from the beginning. Arthur wasn’t blind; he could see that Merlin had reshaped his attitudes over the years, had taught him to think for himself instead of blindly following his father’s example. He learned from Merlin to see beyond pride and the nobility, to be a servant to the people instead of ruling them as his father did.

From the very first moment they’d met, Merlin had encouraged him in gentlest, surest way to seek out the right thing and do it, say it, help it to happen if he could.

again:

Merlin listened even when Arthur couldn’t say a word. Especially then, in fact.

and again:

“I’ve never know someone like him. He’s so... selfless. How many times has he saved us without our knowing? He never asks for reward or recognition. He’s a servant when he could-- he could do anything. Does he not want anything for himself?”

Gwaine chuckled softly. “He wants one thing with all of his being, but you and I both know he would never presume to ask for it.”

and again:

Being alone with him was Arthur’s escape, his sanctuary, no matter where they were.

and again:

“This isn’t negotiable,” he whispered, stepping closer, wanting to comfort Merlin but knowing it would neither be welcome nor fair, given what he was ordering. “You shouldn’t be a servant, Merlin. You shouldn’t have to give up your gift and you shouldn’t waste it on a kingdom that would murder you for it.”

There, he’d said it. Camelot wasn’t worthy of Merlin.

I can’t even react to that line— it’s too wonderful. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted from Arthur. and oh, Merlin returns the favor tenfold. Arthur is Merlin’s existence.

“Please, Arthur,” he begged, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please don’t do this.”

Hands sliding up to either side of Merlin’s neck, Arthur leaned closer, not quite daring to press their foreheads together. “I won’t watch you die.”

“Then close your eyes, but let me... stay with you.”

One of the most GORGEOUS, pain filled lines I’ve ever read!!! The way Merlin swallows his pain over and over again and does what’s best for Arthur is so hard to read but so Merlin. But I do love how this fic balances all that classic devotion and sacrificial energy with a few instances of Merlin taking a stand, standing up for himself and being selfish, without sacrificing the integrity of the character.

Now, let’s talk about mergwaine. Because it’s definitely a side-ship in this fic and I have NO problem with it!!! It’s so well done, and only adds another layer of pain. First of all, Gwaine is just perfect in this fic— shameless, cheeky, all-about-Merlin. A good friend to both Merlin and Arthur— and I loved every time he called Arthur out on Merlin’s behalf, while also saying nothing but good and reassuring things about Arthur to Merlin— but he shines in his scenes with Merlin. His presence allows Merlin to show his pain, something he desperately needs as he can’t always do it with Arthur. I love this depiction of them; a close friendship, one Merlin feels completely comfortable in and full of trust and safety, one that could be something else, but. But. As Gwaine himself puts it, he’s not Arthur. That doesn’t take away from the extreme tenderness he displays with Merlin. It’s truly touching.

Emotions stripped too raw to accept either without the tears starting again, Merlin closed his eyes and pleaded softly. “Don’t let go of me.”

“Never,” Gwaine swore. He laid his forehead against Merlin’s inhaling deeply before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, my friend.”

and:

“Arthur is hurting too, and he is alone.”

“And I have you,” Merlin whispered, tears threatening to spill from his over-full eyes. “I always have you and he always had me.”

and:

Gwaine kissed his shoulder and hair, arms tightening around his chest. “You deserve him, Merlin. Don’t ever believe that you don’t,” he whispered, drawing out the tears that Merlin had been desperately holding back.

and, for a bit of levity:

“But we’re all better off with me clothed,” Merlin said

Gwaine shook his head disbelievingly. “You really have no idea how handsome you are, do you?... Ah, well, it’s probably for the best. You’d be impossible to live with if you did know.”

There’s so many more wonderful parts of this fic. Arthur and Hunith’s lovely, heartbreaking scene (I was thoroughly crying throughout). Arthur’s loneliness upon return to Camelot. The incredible explicit scenes between Merlin and Arthur. But just do yourself a favor and read it. We’re so lucky to have it.

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

the small intestines squirm like eels

[Tour!verse]

TW: Period talk

——————

Joan wasn’t feeling good in the first place.

She groaned before her eyes were even open that morning. She cringed when she rolled over, feeling hot slickness between her thighs, and didn’t even want to look at the crime scene that she already knew was lying beneath her blankets. Remaining in the mess, however, was plain gross. It was going to be painful to stand, but if she lays in bed for too long then the fabric will stain, so she has no other choice but to haul herself up and save the bedding.

As if it were that easy.

Joan liked to describe the feeling she just went through as “the floodgates opening” because that’s exactly what it was. She was forced to kneel when the pain flares up, which only seemed to strengthen the flow when her knees parted and her vagina seemed to feel the need to open like a window during a hurricane. She prayed for her ruined undergarments and pajama shorts, which are sticky and wet around her legs, clinging tightly to her skin like they had been glued there.

Eventually, she gets herself to stand and, with trembling hands, carefully and quietly strips the sheets of the bed, relieved to find that the blood hasn’t soaked through to the mattress. She stumbles out of her bedroom, trying to keep the bloodstained part of the sheets angled forward and away from the rest of her body, but her groin was already sopping wet with what was probably twenty-five percent of her body’s blood, so hygiene didn’t really matter in the long run. On the short walk to the washing machine, she feels a slow drizzle of blood ooze its way down her leg and she had to suddenly urge to cut off her entire bottom half just so she wouldn’t have to feel her liquidated shredded uterus tickling against her skin.

Walking is uncomfortable, carrying fish-smelling sheets covered in her own blood isn’t any better, and the wet fabric of her shorts chafe horribly. It only gets worse when she has to stand up on her toes to grab the bottle of detergent on the shelf and she feels her stomach cramp, just to add it to it all.

Joan braces herself up against the washing machine once she starts it, trying to breathe through a particularly bad bouts of cramps. When she finally steps backwards, she cringes at the gross squelching from between her legs- her thighs are so wet she’s sure they’re going to be permanently stained red.

She awkwardly hobbled to the bathroom with fresh clothes and cleans herself up. She considers burning her shorts and undergarments, but she just throws them in the hamper for now (was it good to put them with the other dirty clothes? She didn’t know).

The hot shower she takes helps some, but only when she laid back on her back and let the scalding water patter against her pale, aching abdomen. However, the moment she moved, the cramps seized her lower stomach in a vice grip once again.

All she really wanted to do is curl up in a ball and cry.

But alas. She had a show to run, so she eventually hauled herself up, got ready, and walked to the theater.

In just a few minutes of her trek, the sharp cramps in her stomach had become violent spasms and the dull aching in her back turned into an intense, radiating burn. She was both sick with hunger and too nauseous to eat the granola bar she put in her bag two days ago. Her bladder and bowels ached. She was sweating from the pain of it all, but also shivering and weak from anemia. And, to top it all off was the gross, hot feeling of her uterus being filled to the absolute brim with blood and pressing uncomfortably up against her lower stomach with so much pressure she thought she would burst if the fluids weren’t deposited.

Needless to say, Joan felt like death warmed over with an extra pinch of suffering.

Somehow, she still found herself at the theater thanks to pure muscle memory alone, despite how sick and horrible and disgusting she felt. As much as she wanted to spend the whole day curled up in bed while cuddling her pillow close to her stomach, she knew she couldn’t skip out on rehearsals just because it was her time to suffer the teeth of shark week. The queens and other three ladies in waiting, as well as the female crew members, all suffered through their own every month- hell, they could be bleeding right now as well- and they were able to function just fine, although Bessie does have a tendency to not talk or move around too much, or simply not go out at all. Joan didn’t want to be that girl, especially since the director didn’t like it when someone chickens out just because of a little leaky vagina and stomach pain.

Though, that sounded like an impossible feat with the way that her frame shook from the exertion of standing alone. Joan’s whole body was as heavy as lead, everything in her entire being hurt, and it was all swirling in a kaleidoscope of pain until all she could focus on was how bad she felt. She was sure she could faint- could already feel the faintest numbness slowly creeping in on the edges of her consciousness, but she held strong until she just couldn’t anymore.

One of the worst cramps she’s ever felt in her entire young life hit her when she was in the middle of playing Don’t Lose Ur Head. She had been doing good at giving her usual commands during rehearsals and playing the first two songs, however, her concentration was rudely interrupted when the ovaries at the end of her Fallopian tubes seemed to morph into claws and viciously stab her from the inside, causing her to slam her hands down on the keys of the keyboard and completely ruin the song.

Joan didn’t feel the hot embarrassment that filtered through her- the pain in her stomach overpowered every other sensation in her body. She could, however, miraculously still see through the raging storm of black spots across her vision and saw Anne on the other side of her keyboard, looking absolutely annoyed and confused, like she could see the invisible ovary-claws goring their way out of Joan’s abdomen. The way the queen’s mouth opened and closed as she searched for something to say to the clearly-distressed MD might have made Joan laugh if it weren’t for the fact that laughing pulled the muscles in her stomach even tighter until it felt like they would snap.

“What happened?” Anne finally said.

“Nothing,” Joan grits. She hopes they can’t see the way she’s clutching at her stomach with one hand. “I’m fine-” Nobody has asked if she was okay. “Just- Just give me a moment.”

Anne frowned, probably from annoyance, but nodded and started to converse with Jane.

Joan swallowed thickly and only then realized how thirsty she was. Her water bottle was in her dressing room (she never brought liquids anywhere near her keyboard). She would have to stand up and go get it herself because there was no way she would ask one of the others for help. Not like they would say yes, anyway.

She took several deep breaths and then stood up- too fast. She stood up too fast and now the room is spinning and she needs to regain her balance but there’s nothing to brace herself on.

Joan ends up tottering awkwardly to the side, not seeing all the amused looks she gets because of the stars that flit across her vision. After a moment of awkward floundering, how to walk properly comes back to her and she exits the room, not saying where she was going or why she was walking out on rehearsals.

The theater hallways felt like they were closing in on her. They seemed to be shifting and swaying and crushing her until she couldn’t breathe. Upon stumbling into her dressing room, however, they release her trembling body.

Joan staggers over to her desk (which she careens into on accident) and picked up her water bottle. For once, she wasn’t drinking coffee. In fact, the thought of caffeine repulsed her. All she wanted was the coolness of the water, so she raised the bottle to her lips and-

Hot.

She was hot. She was so hot, so she tips back a bit further and pours the water over her face. She instinctively sucks at the moisture spilling out over her skin, desperate to quench her thirst, but her brain was now more set on cooling her body before it got cooked inside of her skull.

When most of the water is gone, only then does Joan realize what she’s doing. She jerks up, agitating her stomach and sending a wave of queasiness over her. A hand slaps over her mouth and she holds perfectly still until the nausea recedes, only to be replaced with a horrible cramp. She whimpers and hunches over her desk, feeling simultaneously burning hot and freezing cold. Shivers start to wrack through her body- or had she been shivering this entire time?

There was no time to dwell on this, however, because footsteps were approaching. Joan tried to push herself up and act like she was about to walk out, but she couldn’t move. Not that it would have mattered, anyway. She didn’t have a good excuse for why her face and hairline and shirt were all wet.

“Joan?”

The slightly Welsh-tinged accent lets Joan knew that it was Aragon she would have to face. She liked to think that she and the queen had a good relationship, but she didn’t know how she would manage against the frightening lady while like this.

“Joan.”

Her name was said louder this time. Not as a question. It was a call- a demand.

“I-” Her voice breaks off. If she tried to speak again it would come out as a whimper. And Aragon hearing that was really not something she wanted to have happen.

Footsteps approach her desk- Aragon is walking towards her. She held her ragged breath, hoping the queen would just go away. But then there’s a hand on her tense back and a tutting noise above her and she knows she’s in for it now.

“My, are your muscles tight.” Aragon crooned from above. She began to massage the area between Joan’s shoulder blades with the heel of her palm, eliciting a sharp gasp from the music director. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m sorry.” Joan instinctively blurted.

“That’s not what I asked, Juana.”

That was her name in Spanish, wasn’t it? Oh dear. She was in for it now.

Joan shyly looked up at Aragon, who had a surprisingly patient look on her face. Usually the queen would blow her top if someone didn’t reply to her within seconds. Why wasn’t she snapping?

“Well?” Aragon raised an eyebrow.

“I-I...” Joan swallowed thickly. Her cheeks are growing hot by the moment- she wouldn’t be surprised if any water left on her face turned to steam with how hard she was blushing. “I just- I need a moment, that’s all.”

Suddenly, the back of a hand is pressed to her cheeks and she squeaked in alarm. Her blush darkens from hot pink to deep red.

“You’re very warm.” Aragon murmured, concern leaving her voice. Her hand slide up to feel the girl’s forehead. That’s exactly when she notices one of Joan’s hands gripping at her stomach.

A smirk spreads across her lips.

“Oh.” She tittered. “I see.”

Joan froze. Red really didn’t go well with her platinum blonde hair.

“I’m sorry.” She stuttered out. Shame overpowers the cramps. She doesn’t know which one she hates more.

Aragon chuckled and started to walk for the door without another word. The fear of her telling the others sends Joan scrambling after her and latching tightly to her sleeve.

“W-wait!” Joan cried, her voice raising up a few octaves. “P-please don’t tell them! Please, Aragon, I’ll do anything!”

Aragon blinked before she realized what Joan meant. She gently cups either sides of her the girl’s heated face.

“Hush, darling.” Aragon told her. “I’m going to get you some medicine, alright? Just lay down on the couch and wait for me.”

Joan opened and closed her mouth before relenting and nodding. She slumped over on the couch after Aragon left, and that’s when the cramps decide to make themselves known again.

Aragon is only gone for a minute and a half and Joan’s delirium-riddled mind has already began to hiss horrible words of abandonment. Things like: Aragon had lied to her and was telling everyone else or she was just acting like she cared and won’t come back for her. Tears start to brim in Joan’s eyes as the degrading thoughts grew louder and louder. She couldn’t even hear the door to her dressing room open back up again due to how much they screech.

“Juana, Juana, sweetheart,” A hand is gently pressing on her shoulders. “I’m right here. It’s okay.”

Joan’s glossy eyes widen. She saw that Aragon kneeling there, expression twisted with worry. She tries to get to her, but the queen pushes her back down.

“Don’t move.” Aragon scolded lightly.

“Aragon-”

“Shh, shh,” Aragon hushed her, stroking the girl’s messy, wet hair. “I’m right here, darling. You’re alright.”

“No, no-” One hand moves to grip back at her stomach as Joan shook her head. “It hurts too much, Aragon. I think I’m dying...”

“Don’t be daft,” Aragon said. She notices the embarrassed flush that flames on Joan’s face and she gently caresses her cheek to quell her shame. “Eve’s curse is a terrible one. But I have some medicine here for you.”

She has two pills of Ibuprofen in her hands. She looks back at Joan pitifully.

“I assume you didn’t take anything.”

Joan shook her head slowly.

“Oh, you poor thing...”

“I-I forgot to buy some.” Joan stuttered out weakly. She couldn’t remember if that was true or not. Maybe she just didn’t care enough about her body to by medicine for herself?

“We’ll have to change that whenever you feel better. We can get you proper groceries.” Aragon decided. “For now, take these.”

With minimal difficulty, Joan manages to swallow the pills with the water bottle Aragon she also provided (and this time she didn’t pour it all over herself). She slumped back down on the couch, panting. Heat flashes are becoming more common by the minute. She wants to peel her clothes off, and then her skin, but even then she probably won’t be cool.

“I don’t think- I don’t think I can go back to work.” Joan whispered hoarsely. “I’m sorry, Aragon. It- it hurts too much. And I’m so hot... I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Shh...” Aragon murmured. “I understand, pumpkin. I’ll let the others know, alright? You just stay here and rest up.”

“Y-you’re leaving me?” Joan squeaked.

Aragon frowned and she gently strokes Joan’s hair to calm her.

“I have to get back to rehearsals. But I’ll come check on you soon, alright? Then I’ll take you home.”

Joan nodded begrudgingly. She couldn’t hold Aragon back. Besides, a nap sounded nice, anyway...

—

Joan doesn’t really remember drifting off. Nor does she remember being woken up and escorted out to a taxi by a golden angel, but, somehow, she’s in her flat when she wakes up and the wonderful smell of something is wafting through the air.

When she tries to sit up, a cramp stabs at her and she collapses back down with a hiss. Dizziness washes over her and she waits for the world to stop spinning. There’s a face peering down at her when she opens her eyes again.

“There’s my sweet girl.” Aragon purred, smiling lovingly. She chuckles at the way Joan blinked up at her adorably. She helps her sit up. “Have a good nap?”

“Mhm...” Joan replied sleepily. She looked around. “How...?”

“You don’t remember coming home?” Aragon tilted her head. “You really were tired, huh?”

“I guess so...” Joan said, then winced. She squeezed her aching stomach tightly. “Ow ow ow...”

Aragon quickly retrieves some more painkillers and a glass of water, which Joan gratefully takes. She also notices that the queen is offering her a tampon and she blushed shyly.

“Oh, I- I don’t use tampons.”

Aragon furrowed her eyebrows.

“They scare me.”

Aragon blinked. Joan quickly jumped up and hurried to the bathroom. She heard laughter from behind her and she couldn’t help but smile giddily at the fact that her flat with filled with such a sound. She wasn’t alone.

So, when she came out of the bathroom, the first thing she did was hug Aragon from behind as she was preparing lunch and whisper her thanks. Aragon replied by setting her hands over Joan’s own and squeezing lightly and, from her soothing touch, the dull pain in Joan’s stomach ebbs completely.

#six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six the musical tour #uk tour six #tour joan on the keys #tour catherine of aragon #tour anne boleyn #tw: period talk

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keeroo92 · 4 years

Text

Truce

Hi, guys! This was my contribution to the INVICTUS zine. Thanks again for having me, it was such a pleasure to work amongst such talented people. Enjoy!

Word count - 1,627

________

---Vergil---

The shattered remains of the Qlipoth stood vigil as the two brothers circled each other on the already brutalized terrain. Their heavy breath fogged the chilly air of the Underworld, not a breeze to be found. Splashes of his kin’s blood stained his normally immaculate vest; his own was almost invisible on Dante’s crimson leather.

Vergil smirked. He’d drawn more blood.

My victory approaches.

Yet the thought lacked the satisfaction he expected. It didn’t make sense, defeating Dante was his goal for years, it was what drove him to split himself. Where was the sense of achievement? The glory? What changed?

Irrelevant. He tightened his grip on the Yamato and growled, setting his stance in preparation for a lunge. Dante followed suit, dropping into a low crouch and holding his blade defensively. No matter; he’d target lower. Perhaps a feint?

Ha darted forward and despite his adjustments, steel struck steel as Dante blocked. The flesh of his arms trembled from the reverberations. Icy crystal met stormy depths as their eyes locked and for a single heartbeat Vergil wondered what his life would look like if not for that one terrible night.

He blinked and the strange thought dissipated. Now wasn’t the time to get nostalgic, what was wrong with him? With barely a thought, he flashed away to regain his bearings.

But Dante didn’t relent. A streak of red and a familiar battle cry warned him just in time as the legendary devil hunter attacked with a flaming series of punches that would’ve shattered his ribs. Another perilous thought pierced his mental barricade as he guarded his core and dodged what he could.

What happened to us, brother?

A flash of cold steel; Vergil stepped to the side as Rebellion crashed down, forcing his attention back to the current moment. He raised Yamato and targeted Dante’s exposed rib cage.

A clang rattled up his arms as Dante blocked his calculated blow with his gauntlet. He pushed against it, using the red-clad man’s resistance to propel him a safe distance before he had a chance to retaliate.

You will never understand what I have endured. How could you?

The roads they walked were too different. Dante’s smooth and unblemished. Vergil’s, cratered and treacherous at every turn. Perhaps once they had a chance to walk the same path, but no longer.

If only it were that simple.

---Dante---

Damnit Vergil, I’m so sick of this!

Dante glared at his twin and sighed. He was so tired, all he wanted was a nap but stupid Vergil wouldn’t stop trying to kill him. It was nuts, didn’t he realize they’d never actually be able to kill each other?

Not with our heritage...

At this point, he attacked out of habit alone, lunging forward to strike at Vergil’s red-splattered chest. He knew the hit wasn’t going to land; it rarely did. His brother was too clever to fall for such a simple move and as expected, by the time he reached his target a slim blade blocked his way.

“Too slow, little brother,” Vergil taunted, darting to the side to aim a slice at Dante’s throat.

But what has trying to kill me ever gotten you?

The man in red ducked, dodging the blow with barely an inch to spare. Familiar spite and anger tinted his brother’s eyes, the same look as when he tried to pull the jerk to safety on the Temen-Ni-Gru. The same stubborn pride that kept him from accepting his twin’s hand. The same arrogance as when he chose to fall deeper into the Demon Realm instead of coming home at last.

When will it be enough? Just get over yourself!

Red leather danced out of the Yamato’s path as it searched for his flesh. It whistled through empty air, Vergil’s annoyed snarl echoing a beat later.

Dante spun on his heel and switched gears, pulling out his latest acquisition, nunchucks imbued with the power of Cerberus. He couldn’t resist letting out a few stylistic whoops as he flung the icy end right at Vergil’s knees.

A sharp hiss slipped through his brother’s clenched teeth as the blow landed. Once, they would’ve laughed over Dante finally managing to hit him.

Will we ever get back to that?

In a single fluid motion, the legendary devil hunter switched weapons once more to one of his favorites. Rebellion hummed in his grip as he swung it with a mighty grunt at the same kneecap.

Is it even worth trying to?

Sparks flew from where the brothers’ blades met, their minds battling as fiercely as their bodies. Red and blue leather rose and fell with every strained breath, sweat dripping from matching brows to mix with the blood soaking into the dirt. Neither would back down, not with the stubbornness they shared.

“Ready to admit defeat?” Vergil spat.

Dante barked a laugh, his eyes hazy with fatigue. “Heh, never… got ya right where I want you.”

The younger man blinked and his brother vanished, as if he never existed at all. Dante lowered his guard, turning in circles with confusion plain in his eyes. Vergil was fast, there was no ignoring that, but to vanish entirely? That was a new trick.

“We playing hide and seek now, or what?”

His panting breath hitched as a cacophonous ringing erupted nearby. Thin lines of sharp steel flashed to and fro in a dance of death on all sides. Dante cursed and lowered the walls within his mind, letting demonic power flood his senses as thick armor blossomed across his body. Ash tainted his tongue but he barely noticed as he felt an answering surge of power.

Shit! He’s right behind me!

He tried to react, but it was too late. A scorchingly hot hand latched onto his shoulder and held him still. A heartbeat later, the all-too-familiar caress of metal sliced through his body as Vergil drove the Yamato home, embedding the family heirloom deep in his side. Copper overwhelmed the ashen taste in his mouth and Dante spat, a thick gob of crimson to join all the rest. No matter how many times he got his sorry ass stabbed, it never got any less painful.

But he wasn’t considered the best in the biz for nothing. His lips split into a feral grin, teeth stained red as he drew his oldest friends and angled them through his own shoulders as the Yamato vacated his body, already angling for the next jab.

This is gonna suck…

Dante tensed and squeezed both triggers. Ebony and Ivory sang in his grip, bullet after bullet aimed through his body at his brother. Agony rippled across his skin as his scapula and ribs shattered and a howl parted his lips.

Vergil’s barely audible gasp marked his success, his hand falling from Dante’s shredded shoulder. The pain was unimaginable, but he shoved it aside. First things first.

Dante turned to find his twin on his knees, riddled with holes. His vest darkened as the man in blue took a wheezing breath, glaring promises of death at his brother. Pained gasps forced unnatural pauses in his words, and with each breath his icy eyes flashed with rage.

“I should've expected such... foolishness from you. You never needed... to learn tactics, after all. Not with the life you’ve lived.”

Oh, he cannot be serious.

“What, you think I had it easy just cuz I didn’t end up like you? Do you have any idea how many people, how many friends I’ve seen die?” he snapped back. The wounds in his chest itched already, healing every second he stayed in demon form. He couldn’t hold it much longer, just long enough to keep himself alive.

Vergil scoffed, a derisive sneer twisting his lips. “You weren’t left behind.”

You fucking dumbass.

Dante growled, the urge to strangle Vergil a powerful temptation. But maybe there was another choice.

He shuffled his feet in the bloodstained dirt, fingers twitching by his weapons in case Vergil made a move. This was a terrible idea, he knew it. He was just going to get stabbed again.

But he had to try.

Someone’s gotta go first. For Nero.

“Yeah, I was! She hid me in the damned closet and ran off to look for you,” he cried. “She never left you behind, Vergil. You’re the one that left us, asshat.”

The moment stretched into eternity. Emotions tugged at Vergil’s expression, none fully revealed but if you knew what to look for… A twitch of the cheek, a tiny furrow in the brow. The smallest of signals, but enough.

Damnit, this is weird. What do I do now?

He didn’t have a clue. All he knew was that he was tired of fighting, tired of bleeding and really tired of getting stabbed. Enough was enough, and Vergil sure as shit wasn’t going to spontaneously not want to murder him anymore. It was up to him.

Leather rustled as Dante stepped closer, holding a hand out to his brother despite the jangling warnings screaming at him to attack, finish him off while he had the advantage. He might never have a better chance.

Yeah, for Nero.

Instead of striking Vergil down, Dante spoke. “How about we take a break? You can kill me later.”

Vergil’s conflicted gaze darted to his own, a triumphant curl to his lips. “Are you finally surrendering?”

“You wish, jackass. Consider it a truce.”

Hesitation colored those blue eyes so like his. Suspicion and hope mixed into guarded acceptance as a trembling hand extended to grasp its twin. A heave later, and the two Sons of Sparda stood eye to eye.

“This isn’t over,” Vergil growled, carefully sheathing the Yamato.

Dante rolled his eyes and snorted. “I know.”

But maybe someday it will be.

#fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #one shot #DMC #dmc dante #dmc vergil #devil may cry #invictus #invictus zine

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geffbob · 4 years

Text

First short story I’m proud of part 2

I don’t really like having to deal with many things at once. When I was just starting out, it was simple. You go to the guild, you flirt with the lady behind the counter, she gives you your mission and you go on your way to kill x amount of goblins or clear the road or arrest the cultists that are trying to summon a black god or help the farmers rid the land of pests. Now things are more complicated. More complicated than I want them to be.

It wasn’t long until we arrived at the portal. Most places around the kingdom have little gateways to other cities, this helps for travel time as most people really don’t want to walk for 5 days to get where they want to go. The problem was, the sept wasn’t stupid. They knew that we knew what they were doing and trapped the portal. I don’t know why we didn’t see this coming. I was just talking to Herah (the elf) and noticed that the portal was slightly darker than usual. It was getting to about twilight and I didn’t really think much of it. We soldiered on and walked straight into it. Huge fucking mistake.

Portals are usually over in half a second. You go in, you feel immense force on yourself and you’re out. It’s slightly sickening the first time, but you get used to it. What’s not normal, is when it lasts for more than half a second and you feel something worm its way inside your head.

The first thing I noticed was the pain. Like a ringing in my hears like a thousand children screaming all at once. Next was the imagery. Images of torture and violence aren’t uncommon in these types of spells, but they never get easier to see. I saw everything. My mother being slaughtered and desecrated. My father having his skin removed. My brothers being burnt on crosses. My sister being ripped to shreds by trolls. And the screams. They wouldn’t stop screaming the entire time I was in there. It took me a while to realise that the screaming I was hearing was them screaming. My father, mother, sister, brother. All of them yelling at the top of their lungs while they get pulled apart and torn into the most horrific sights that plague my worst nightmares. Again, and again. And I can’t close my eyes, because they’re just behind my eyelids. Hellish fiery landscapes of pain and destruction, with my family being the centre point for all of it. Every time I look away, they’ve had something worse done to them. Things that would kill normal humans, being done to them time and time again. It was unbearable. Unimaginable. The amount of torture I saw just in the space of 10 seconds felt like forever. And then I remembered what they taught me at the guild.

“You’ll be given visions of pain” – my old teacher said. An old orc, in his late 200’s. He probably only had a few years left in him and he was probably the best psychological combat teacher I’ve ever had. I remember being cross legged, in a circle around him, as I sat down with about 20 other kids as we listened to whatever he had to say.

“They’ll attack you at your most weakest because your brain does it for you. You think about things you love all the time, that’s what keeps you going. And yet, you can’t stop them from attacking those memories because that’s exactly what the spell does.” – he turned over his sword while saying this – “It attacks your most vulnerable part. The thing you have to remember is that it’s not real. Tell yourself that. Again. And again. And again. Figure out what’s wrong. Something’s always wrong in them. Focus on something that’s different than reality and use that to pull yourself out of it”

He’s never let me down, old Gog. Never.

I search for it. I don’t want to look at what they’re doing to my family, but I can’t help it. I need to see. I need to watch for a sign, something different. Something that’s not right. Clothing. Faces. Eyes. Hair. Weapons. Something’s not right about this and I need to see it.

Father being skinned. Screams. Mother being stabbed. Screams. Brothers cutting each other apart. Screaming. Sister being pulled apart by trolls. Screaming. Screams. The screams. My sister doesn’t scream like that. My sister hasn’t screamed in her life. That’s not her scream, that’s a baby’s scream. The baby of that old lady I spoke to yesterday. My sister doesn’t scream like that. She’s never screamed. My sister doesn’t scream. “MY SISTER DOESN’T FUCKING SCREAM LIKE THAT YOU FUCKING CULTIST BASTARDS”

I yell, pushing towards the image. The troll looks at me now and drops her body. Walking towards me. Thumping with every step he takes.

“I KNOW YOU’RE NOT FUCKING REAL, GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HEAD” I scream, louder, over the sounds of my other family members. Over the sound of everything. Make my voice louder than theirs. Show them that I’m not afraid. The troll bends over to look at me and reaches down.

“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU” I scream. Loud. Louder than I’ve ever screamed before. My throat is on fire right now, but I have to hold on.

“DON’T TEST ME COWARD”

“JACK”

I snap myself awake. I look down and realise I’m holding Herah by the neck, up in the air, with my knife drawn and next to her face.

“Herah!” I gasp in surprise. Shit. “Are you okay?”

I drop her to the ground and crouch down, trying to see if she’s okay. She coughs and pushes me away

“I’m fine! Human! I’m fine! Over there!” -she says between coughing- “Behind the- the fucking – behind the rocks!”

I turn around. Noticing for the first time where I am. It’s a small village, slotted in-between a few grassy hills with some roads leading up and from it. The portal took us out onto the top of a hill next to the village. There’s farmlands around us but all the livestock is dead with flies buzzing around. Trees sway slowly in the breeze, in different directions. Air current is off here, the wind doesn’t work like it. I get this overwhelming feeling that something is wrong. I look down at the village and notice that some shapes are coming out of the houses. I don’t really have time to see what they are, as I spot something shuffling next to the rocks.

I leap over. I’m not a very good magic user, but I know enough propulsion force to leap across the ground without letting the enemy get a chance to react. And she didn’t have time. I draw my greatsword and hold it over my head, looking down on her, stepping on her chest. I notice what she’s wearing before anything. She’s plain. Nothing’s off about her, save the eyes. She’s wearing a loose fitting brown cloak with inverted 5 pointed stars on it. Her head’s shaven and her eyes are black. I don’t know if it’s make-up or soot from some sort of fire. They stare back at me with fear, like she’s genuinely terrified to see me. I don’t blame her; I’m wearing loose fitting black plate armour with black leather pants and jet-black boots. My hands are covered by black fire-proof gloves. The armour, however, is a little special. I tried to get something arrow proof and invented by elves because it’s very light weight and very practical. I’m holding a greatsword over my head with both my hands and have my knife on my belt, ready to be drawn at any moment. And while I don’t look too bad when I’m walking down the street, as a black cloak usually covers everything. When I’ve got my weapons drawn, it’s nigh impossible to not be afraid of me.

I slightly lower my guard, doing a feint. She sees me do this and snarls, chanting quickly and without hesitation. Of course, her fear was a ruse. It’s always a ruse. I don’t bother with the rest of the feint. I drop my greatsword down with barely any force. It impales her neck and pins her to the ground without any effort. I would have sworn these people were armoured, as most cultists usually are. But this one was basically naked under her robes. Her spell gets cut off before the good part. I see her hands were outstretched. Could have been a fireball. Could have been poison. Could have been another vision of pain. Who’s to tell. Either way, it’s over.

“I’m sorry…” – I begin. Walking towards the elf. But Herah stops me.

“Don’t be. I expected a human like you wouldn’t be able to stave off the spell. The second we went into the portal I knew something was wrong, so I quickly cast a protection spell without even thinking about you. I should’ve known you wouldn’t have noticed” “But I did notice” – I retort “I managed to pull myself out of it”

“No, you didn’t. You were about to cut my face into ribbons. I was able to cast a small nox spell over by the rocks to stop the visions briefly” “And I then pulled myself out of it. I noticed that my sister’s screams weren’t real” “Ah the old ‘it’s not real’ tactic” she stops and thinks for a minute. “Well, I suppose you might have got out of it. My spell was only just starting to work, and you were slowing down. That probably explains your yelling about wanting to kill me”.

I pull my sword out and re-sheath it. “Well, we know they’re here. Do we head back for reinforcements?”

“No” she says. Looking at the sky. “Too late now” “What the hell do you mean too late?” I reply, getting angry now

“I’m saying it’s too late”. She turns and looks at me. “I’m not stupid, neither are you. You see it, too can’t you? They’ve started early. The wind’s wrong. The sky isn’t blue. It’s too dark. Too quiet. And the town’s gone. Everyone in it is dead. A sacrifice to their ‘great lord’” she says, holding her hands to hear ears. I think that’s how elves do their bunny fingers thing when they’re being sarcastic. “It’s too late. We stop them here. Ourselves.”

I look up at her. She’s quite funny looking, a librarian in a town of the dead. And yet something about her makes me think that she knows what she’s doing. Probably the fact that her eyes are glowing, and her hands are smoking. Elves wield very powerful magic, the strongest out of the 4 magical races. Humans being second. Dwarves being third and orcs being fourth. Elves barely even fight up close if they don’t have to. Why would anyone need to stab someone when you can just fly over them and shoot lightning down?

“Fine”. I say. “Where do you think they are?”

She looks up to me and points at the map inside her book. “Here”.

Underground. In the middle of the town. Of course, it would be underground. The one thing I hate the most about the guild. Most of the monsters come from underground. I’m not good with tight places. I’m not good with underground places. And I’m certainly not good with underground tight spaces. But I can’t tell her that. So, I just nod.

As we walk closer to the town re realise what we’re dealing with. These cultists aren’t even remotely considerate with how they deal with the dead. Bodies are everywhere. Strewn in the streets like roadkill. Families hang out of the windows with holes where their hearts would be. Cut with puncture wounds all over themselves. A city of about 30 or so people, no guards, no protection, away from all the fighting. These people thought themselves to be the safest people on the continent. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s people lining the streets with their bodies cut into little pieces. Arms, legs, heads. Some are cut up. Some are desecrated. Some are just left upside down, with all the blood leaking out of them like a butcher’s shop. The blood itself is still fresh and moving. Moving?

“Why is the blood moving?” I say “Watch. It’s all going into the same place isn’t it. Straight into the centre. Follow it”

We walk for a few minutes before finding the spot. They’re not even trying to hide themselves now, this is their last ditch effort. They knew they would be found and they’re trying to finish everything as fast as they possibly can. I don’t know if a portal will be opened, or if they’ll be saved, or if they’re just trying to sacrifice themselves to the god so they get eternal salvation in their next life, but they’re trying everything they can in order to finish up. And they’re doing this fast. And sloppy. One of the villagers is still breathing. As I rush over to help, I start hearing something.

Chanting. And it really doesn’t sound human.

“Are you okay old man?” I say, bending over to help the man. He’s clearly damaged. Under a lot of stress and badly injured.

“I’m fine” he whispers back. Looking around. There’s tears in his eyes. “Everyone’s dead, aren’t they?” “Yes.” I reply. I don’t know what else to say. “We need to get you to a hospital”

“Do you see a hospital around here boy?” he says, barely. “I’m not getting out of this alive. And if you jump down there, neither are you.”

“Then should I just kill you now?” I say, drawing my sword. He’s not wrong. The only way he’s getting out of here is if a mage appears out of nowhere and picks him up. And it’s more likely that the sun will explode before that happens. Mages barely leave their blasted guild.

The elf.

I turn to her, and she shakes her head. Fucking useless. One would think elves could at the very least cast a small teleportation spell to the nearest town. But when you think about it, the shock alone would kill him. Organs tend to bounce around in portals created by the magical races.

I look at her and mouth ‘he’s not gonna make it’. She closes her eyes and looks away. Looking for an entrance to the underground part.

“What can I do for you then old man?” I say.

“Are you going to kill them?” “I’m going to stop them.” “I don’t want you to stop them. I want you to kill them” – he coughs – “send a message to all the other psycho bastards.”

“I’m not getting paid to kill them”

“In my house, there’s a safe. If you kill them. I’ll give you the password. – he looks up to me. “They killed my daughter. She’s lying there, on the ground next to your elf. They gutted her like a cow. Make them suffer. Please.”

I think it over. Our goal is over when we stop the ritual. If I jump in there and the elf blows up the book, they’ll scatter and escape, and then we can let the hunters after them. Mute bastards, the hunters, with their large fucking dogs, they’ll find them in the next few hours, and we’ll be fine. But they’ll just be arrested and put to trial. Probably rot in some gaol somewhere. But they won’t die.

“Okay.” I say. Without thinking. “I’ll try”

I stand up and look at the elf. She heard it all. Of course, she did, big eared fucks constantly listen in to things that don’t concern them. She looks at me and starts to open her mouth”

“Don’t” I say “Don’t what?” “Don’t say anything”

“You humans make promises you can’t fulfil all the time, thinking you’re all heroes or saviours. Do you honestly think he’ll still be alive when you get back? Do you honestly think you’ll kill them all? You’re going down there and making them scatter.” She’s yelling now. “The ritual will be over and your silent humans with their big dogs can come and pick them up later. If you fight them you will die, don’t think for one second that you’ll make it out of there alive if you start swinging your sword around spilling blood. Just stop them.”

I stop and look at her. Before I say anything, I draw my sword, flip it over my head and look at myself in it. There’s blood on it from that girl I killed just before, but I can still see myself. Blue eyes, blonde hair, small facial hair. I haven’t shaved yet. And I’m fuming. I’ve never been good at expressing emotions, so whenever I get upset or I’m feeling down, I look at myself and find out what I’m feeling from that.

I feel angry. And not because she’s still talking

“And another thing, if you get yourself killed you can’t pay me for your time. I’ve given you hundreds of secrets regarding daemons and you KNOW I can’t give you them for free. I’m charging you for services rendered…”

“I’ll kill them”. I say. Looking at the old man. He’s breathing slower now. Looking at his daughter. Slumped against a house, blood all over him. He probably has a few more minutes left in him.

He remind me of dad.

“Fine.” She says. “But if you get hurt, I won’t save your ass. I’ll just take your sword and armour. It’s elven anyway” “Fine by me”.

#fantasy short story

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