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legendaryoikawa · 3 years

Text

ares / suna rintarou / masterlist

pairing: suna x female reader

word count: 2k

synopsis: your stalker must’ve adore you so so much, he intends to kill for you.

quote: “If you're that obsessed with someone, why would you kill her? Humans are full of contradictions.” - Ai Yazawa

genre: stalker!au, caters mature themes such as manipulation, voyeurism, public masturbation, murder, violence coercion, borderline obsession.

note: i do not condone these behavior in real life. this is just a work of fiction.

minors dni

taglist: @boosyboo9206 @dokisaki (can’t tag) @godjo@flavostella02 @heykoutaro (can’t tag) @aleacarnin@licitix@katsukis-sad-angel@k-sakura @dokisuki (can’t tag) @black-water-78@throughtheinterstices @iloverarepares @newfriendjen @aizawaslovebot @ratatouille407 @midnightartist @ya-kkun @daicrie @mochipk @kanesshiiweeb @134340-cm @svgafresh @annexerca @neavil @paigypol (can’t tag) @aggressivelyshoutsokay thank you for the love and support!

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Truly an ace of all fools.

Ares, the god of war. As Homer called him, murderous, bloodstained, the incarnate curse of mortals.

Name it, Suna knows every possible if not, unique ways to kill. He prefers the crowbar as it’s efficient and easy enough to send a person to their graves. For his very own pleasure. It fuels him especially when he sees those eyes that were once full of life drown down to darkness of death.

Suna is known as one of the notorious lads at school. He never fails to leave an astonished look to every person he has passed by at school. People are stunned whenever he walks down the hallway with his school shirt unbuttoned and crumpled. His overall appearance is unruly with the noticeable scars that lingered on his face like ches. His disheveled jet black hair. Eyes that bore nothing but darkness. Chains dangling from each of his ears. His aura that is explainable and unassailable that could even strike the thunderbolt of the great god Zeus.

Suna is handsome. He looks like bad news. Wild.

He wielded an enormous influence among girls. Some swoon at the mere sight of him; others even resorted to some chase yet ended up a crying mess. Boys even fall for his charms, but one sharp glance is enough to wave them off like flies.

However, you on the other hand are not fazed by him nor his silhouette. Which made him to be drained by a pure soul like you.

Suna is so private and closed like an abandoned establishment and that could be the sole reason why people want to pry into his life. He had everyone controlled on the palm of his hand but he can’t seem to play with you like he initially plans to.

Suna has the patience of a boar. He shows signs of violence that it’s alarming. But people seem to be in love at his bad boy facade, no one dares to report him.

He is a living contradiction. Suna is a ride, a deadly one.

He comes to school with his boisterous friends that look exactly like how he presents himself. You can always hear their uproarious banters about their lives, endless wolf-whistling. They are the group of boys you wouldn’t want to mess with. Especially the mysterious Suna.

You made a promise to get the shit out of the tracks that had traces of the boisterous boy that is Suna.

Not just the boys that have brought out the never ending fiasco circulating around your highschool. There have been a high number of mysterious disappearances of students that you may have never heard of or slightly familiar to you that you cannot recall. Their skulls are cracked open with a brute force or a bullet to the head. Some are strangled, some are mutilated, and what makes it terrifying is that most of the victims are leading down to you.

You can still remember how Kang Hana spent her afternoon with you in the library for a philosophy project. You admit it yourself that Hana isn’t the preferable company. She’s too nosy, noisy and quite violent towards you as she keeps on hitting you on the arm whenever you spill something stupid. Nevertheless, you held no grudge towards the girl. And you were really stunned at the news of her sudden death.

Oh, you didn’t know someone was watching from the windows of the library outside. Irritability bubbles inside his body like a brook. He allows no one to go near you, let alone to hit you like a ragged doll. He always had a thing for you, he didn’t know when it started but by the way you looked at him like you are almost something to be disregarded. He is drawn to you like a moth to the flame.

It is always in Suna’s system. His mind is a bully, gushing him to do things that would make him thrilled, something that could awaken his fantasies.

He wants to kill. And he did.

He stood in all his glory, wearing his uninterested look while scrutinizing the other students walking along the hall. There at the lockers he spots Kang Hana awkwardly fumbling with the entangled bag straps.

His dark eyes bore into Hana’s figure. Eyeing her from head to toe. At this moment he is thinking of what he can possibly do with those limbs. Break it? Smash it? Mutilate it like how they do in the slaughterhouse? Suna approaches her figure, his switchblade ready in his windbreaker’s pockets.

He breaths, trying to muster his oh-so-charming smile. “Hey.”

Hana raises up her gaze and she is surprised that the notorious Suna is approaching her. Only if she knew his real intentions. “Oh my god. Hey.”

Suna is charming. Quite egocentric. It doesn’t take him long to persuade someone to sp with him or to go out on a date with him. If there is something you should be afraid about Suna, it is his ability to deceive people without them knowing his real motives. He has a calm demeanor but sometimes his arrogance fuels him to be so wild-driven.

He leads Hana to the abandoned establishment at the rundown part of the town. He made sure to give her a signal to meet him outside where no witnesses could see them. It’s always a step when considering crime, get rid of witnesses.

At this moment, Hana starts to get excited because she has foreseen what could happen. For her it’s sex. For him, it’s blood. Suna draws his switchblade near her carotid artery. She widens her eyes but laughter resonates in the eerie place.

She purrs. “I am a kinky person but I can try knife play.”

Suna doesn’t play. He draws the knife deeper to her neck until she realizes he is not joking at all. Kang Hana’s heart made a beeline for her throat and tried to make a f for her life but Suna had his strong hand gripping her hair.

She struggles but after every move she dares, the knife further penetrates her neck. Beads of sweat are dropping down to her cheeks. A hot sticky liquid from where the knife is trickling down her neck, dampening her collarbones down to her bra. She cries loud. “What do you want?!”

Suna smirks. He misses the familiar scent of blood flooding in his nostrils. “Your life.”

Her eyes widened in pure horror as the charming prince transformed quickly as a ruthless psychopath in just the blink of her eye. Hana tries to fight against his hold once again but Suna wants to finish off and not to take care of a wailing woman.

He repeatedly lash out the knife through her neck. The impact of his pounds set out her blood gushing out, splashing his pale cheeks. His right hand is dripping with her hot blood. Suna’s chest rose as his breathing became ragged but overall he felt so alive and content. He stares at Hana’s figure sprawled on the floor bathing with the pool of her own blood. Suna felt so driven with just crimson clouding his vision. He runs his tongue on the rows of his pearly teeth, a sinister smile tugging the corners of his lips. He did it for you.

The following days have been hell for you. No, you weren’t killed but you faced a frightening number of police interrogations for the victims were always drawing down to you. Like Hana, you were the last person she was with before her neck was slashed out like a cow in the slaughterhouse. The pulse of a blue and red strobe from the police mace being parked in the circular driveway. You stare at the officer's badge, his holstered Glock. The night air settles the eerie night, still, gauzy full of humidity.

The interview lasts about a good hour but you are deemed innocent as Hana’s whereabouts where the crime took place didn’t match your activity. Her clothes are missing on the spot but the investigators found it drenched in this liquid they believed was an oxygen producing detergent didn’t match. Since the laboratory personnel couldn’t get any fingerprints from her body, it has been declared useless for the crime.

It has been weeks since you find yourself able to breathe again but it didn’t last long when you were bombarded with unknown and creepy messages that you couldn’t withstand at all.

I know you. From everything you do, I know it all.

You belong to me, your full name.

I find it romantic to see how excited you look whenever I send these messages. Shall I start sending my pictures as well? Or the throne I made for you?

From morning you go to your mother’s flower shop to gather primrose to deliver to your grandfather that lives in the twenty second street downtown.

Your favorite thing to do is to draw, my sweet. I am right, am I? I’m always right.

I saw you talk to that small loser from class D. Now don’t ever talk to him again or you will see his head delivered right at your doorstep. I love you and I’m being the nice guy here.

Do you perhaps like the idea of your friend's limbs personally delivered to you? Your pick.

I am always watching you, your name.

Oh, you had a museum date with your friends? Don’t go, I am at your grandmother’s restaurant, she serves the ultimate broth soup. Too bad I can stop her from serving these delicacies.

I know deep down, you love me too. Don’t you ever try to date behind my back without telling me. I did kill for you.

Your parents aren’t home. Do you want me to visit?

So much love for you. Your long secret admirer :)

I love you. I will kill for you.

He isn’t joking. He knows everything about you. All the meticulous details no one knows but your family. Whenever you receive a message from him, your heart would pound against your rib cage. It terrifies you to the core that he exactly knows the precise details of your whereabouts.

You immediately reported this matter to the police, to your parents but it didn’t settle the problem. The number isn’t traceable. They keep on insisting that the number used is from an unregistered sim. You fear for your life, your personal space, everything.

You weren’t just experiencing the never ending terror of your stalker’s messages. But some of your things are now starting to disappear, from your bracelets, your baby pictures now, now, your white lacy underwear.

You are blissfully unaware of the pair of eyes that follows every movement as you exit the school grounds. He looks down on his hand, gripping his favorite underwear of you. He had a picture when you wore the garment, and it was his favorite among all.

He makes his way to his heavily tinted car, a smile never leaving Suna's face as he clutches the garment tightly on his hands. His soulless eyes stared back at him the moment he stared at the rear view mirror. And drives to the nearest convenience store.

He keeps on fantasizing about you. The way your name rolls out of his tongue while jerking out never fails to send himself to ecstasy. He can’t wait to meet you, but one thing he is sure of, he will be watching you tonight.

Suna is always a step ahead of his plans. He is meticulous and calculative. His plans never backfire for he knew what methods to use. For the days he has been killing he already knows how to get rid of evidence that could lead to him. The boy’s got a sharp tongue as well, a serpent’s, he uses lies to cover up the real Suna that hides behind the charming facade he puts front.

He wore black. Black that is a mystery. Eerie. He wears a black bucket hat that covers his beautiful features that compliments his youth. Despite the dusk ebbing its way, his moles are always as alive as the constellation. He secures his mask tighter on both ears, as appealing as it sounds, he cannot show his face to you, just not yet. He had a thing to do, he had something to accomplish.

“Just in time” he breathed into the shadows. His eyes follow your figure marching down the dim lit streets. A smirk paints his lips as you still try to swat everything and thinking to yourself everything is still normal. But no, not until he is dead. He could have easily needle out your background from Kita but you were his and it gives him satisfaction whenever he discovers something about you. Things that aren’t open for others but just for him.

He immediately hid behind a large tree, once you entered your home. He makes sure to secure a great and measurable distance from him to you, not so far yet so near. He clenches his fist, the idea of watching you undress from your windows sends him a big wave of pleasure.

He begins to scramble up trying to get a hold of the strongest branch his forearm could manage. Some twigs tried to interrupt him midway but nothing can stop a hungry predator from lurking on his prey. He finds the perfect spot just parallel to your window.

“Fuck” he hiss as he felt his phone vibrate from his pocket. “What it is now fucking Atsumu?”

“Lover boy, I forgot to place your camera in your bag, bye.”

The camera is not his top most concern. He has his phone that is full of you.

You were humming quietly. He follows your hands, removing your school blouse that left the boy’s mouth agape. His cock immediately hardens at the sight, and he cannot risk himself to jerk while on the tree. He scrambles immediately, carelessly fishing out for his phone to take a picture of you naked.

Suna is always not satisfied with the bare minimum. He records you, doing your private thing in your room. He is biting hard on his lips, his erection sticking out painfully against his pants. He has to endure much longer till you have finished your routine applying lotion to your shiny long legs. Those legs that he can’t wait to touch.

Suna left the place shortly. He’s astounded. You drive him wild and wild he is. You fuel the monster more.

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thefallennightmare · 3 years

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Dorogaya [8/?]

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Words: 1200

Warnings: Fluff, swearing, angst, and some smut.

Summary: It has been sometime since Y/N and Bucky went into hiding but now their past is returning. Can this new relationship survive the Civil War that’s about to happen?

Tags: @capstopavenger @empath-bunny @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything

A/N: Here is the next chapter!

The jet landed a few moments ago and I stood next to Bucky as he carefully chose a gun from Natasha’s collection. His shoulders tensed, the looming fight approaching, and I laid my hand on his lower back.

“Are you alright?” I questioned.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

I knew he was lying but also knew not to press him in these kinds of situations. My feet turned to walk away but his fingers slipped a knife in the pocket of my suit.

“Ready?” Steve asked once the ramp opened, the cold Russian air chilling us to the bone.

I nodded then followed behind the two super soldiers; Bucky’s gun held high and Steve blocking us with the shield. The snow crunched beneath our boots as we came to a stop in front of the door of the old building; it was already opened.

“He couldn’t have been here more than a few hours,” Steve noted.

“Just enough time to wake them up,” Bucky said.

He motioned for me to step between the two of them as we entered the building. There was a cold chill throughout the building; nothing to do with the coldness outside. We entered the small elevator, and I squeezed between the two of them. Bucky was at my back while Steve stood in front. The warmth of Bucky’s breath caused my skin to prickle and Steve watched with slight jealousy as Bucky placed a chaste kiss on my ear.

I smiled brightly at his silent cue and when my eyes met with Steve, his jaw set hard. He gave us a curt nod, making sure that we had our heads in the game. Bucky and I both nodded, letting him know that we were ready for what was about to happen.

The elevator doors opened, Steve stepping off first, and we looked around the deserted building. Everything was coming back to me in flashes, the familiar halls and corridors. Knowing what that door led to or what was down that hall.

“Doll?” Bucky looked over his shoulder to me as he led us towards a staircase.

“I’m okay,” I reassured him with a nod.

A loud bang from behind caused us all to jump, Bucky pulling me closer to him with his gun held high. Steve kneeled in front of me with his shield as we prepared for the reason behind the bang.

“Fucking Christ Tony, you scared the shit out of us,” I cursed towards the man in the iron suit.

Steve stepped forward, them having their own conversation while I stayed in front of Bucky, who still had his gun raised towards Tony. After our fight at the airport, Bucky wasn’t taking any chances.

“There’s a truce here, you can drop it,” Tony told Bucky.

I gently pushed the gun down and Bucky sighed, leaning against the wall. He motioned behind him, muttering that we need to keep moving.

The four of us walked past an all too familiar room and I had to pause, remembering the horrors.

The training room where Bucky had trained me.

“C’mon,” Bucky gently gripped my elbow to pull me along. “It’s not good to remember.”

However, as soon as we entered the main part of the building, it was Bucky’s turn to freeze for a moment. We came face to face with the chair that Bucky had a permanent residence in all those years ago.

“I’ve got heat signatures,” Tony commented.

“How many?” Steve asked.

“Uh, one.”

They didn’t notice the look of horror on Bucky’s face so with a gentle tug on his elbow, like the one he gave me, I pulled him along. He hesitated for a second before nodding. The gun was raised as we walked up to the cyro chambers.

“What the hell?” He muttered.

I could feel his own heart beat through my own chest, the cyro chambers scaring him.

The six cyro chambers had bullet holes in them; right in the middle of the super soldiers' foreheads.

“If it’s any comfort,” a voice came over a speaker, “They all died in their sleep.”

Pulling the knife out of my suit, I flipped it a few times, getting ready for whatever was coming.

“Do you really think I wanted more of you two hydra soldiers?” The voice said again, now knowing it was the doctor.

Helmut Zemo.

“I am grateful for them, though. They brought you here.”

Steve stood face to face with Zemo, who was hiding behind a chamber that could withstand a nuclear blast.

“You killed innocent people in Vienna to bring us here. Why?” Steve asked.

I could feel the regret fill Bucky’s bones so I squeezed his biceps, letting him know that it’s alright. As Steve and Zemo talked, my attention turned to them with their last sentence.

“I have lost everyone. Now, so will you,” Zemo clicked on a T.V next to Steve.

Even though the letters on the screen were foreign, I immediately recognized the date.

December 16th, 1991.

The feeling of regret and self hatred filled my veins and looking over to Bucky, his eyes dropped, refusing to meet my gaze. He walked away from us as Steve, Tony, and I started to watch the video.

It was from a security camera panning to a dirt road.

“I know that road,” Tony stuttered. “What is this?”

He demanded his question towards Zemo, who remained silent.

I watched side by side with Tony, both in horror when a car came out of nowhere and slammed into a tree. A man on a motorcycle came up, stepping off with large strides towards the car. My breath caught in my throat when I immediately recognized the metal arm on screen as it broke the necks of the two people in the car.

Those two people were Mr. and Mrs. Stark; Tony’s parents.

The Winter Soldier had killed Tony’s parents.

Bucky’s jaw tensed when we finally met each other's gaze so I left Tony’s side, walking over to him. I placed a hand on his cheek, the feeling of self hatred becoming almost too much to bear. No matter if he wasn’t that man anymore, it still pained him to know that he did it.

My heart shattered, seeing the tears welling in his eyes.

“I don’t hate you,” I murmured, answering the silent plea in his eyes.

He pulled away from my touch, not allowing himself to feel anything other than the loathe he was forcing himself to feel.

Tony’s dark eyes sliced into Bucky, lifting his hand ready to shoot. As Bucky raised his gun to protect himself, I stood in front of him, ready to protect Bucky with my life; hands sparking to life with fire.

Steve held Tony to stop him. “No, Tony.”

He looked over to Steve. “You knew?”

Steve could only nod.

My stomach dropped at that revelation.

“You knew and didn’t tell me?” I asked, dumbfounded. “You kept this from us?”

“I didn’t know it was him,” Steve started.

I shook my head. “Bullshit. You fucking knew!”

Tony remained silent, trying to process everything. Before I knew exactly what was happening, Tony had hit Steve, tossing him across the floor.

This was the one fight that none of us wanted to have.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader #bucky barnes and reader #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes and reader #reader insert #sebastian stan #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes angst

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demwhore · 4 years

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Ares | L.JN

pairing┃lee jeno x female reader genre | stalker fic, thriller, horror, angst warnings | this is a problematic fic! please read at your own risk! there is no way jeno is like this in real life, this fic is purely fictional and shouldn’t be romanticized in any way, please report any activities of stalking!! mature scenes, profanities, murder, graphic violence, manipulation, coercion, borderline obsession !! Please, Jeno is not like this in real life, this is just a work of fiction !! word count | 2,431k synopsis | He’s not beautiful like how people see him. He’s wicked. a/n | this is actually my very first planned fic and @neo-cult-ure knows about this haha love you!! and my love, @jungcity, for fixing my crap grammar xD taglist | @milkinqjungs, @nanasarea, @lovestrucked-again, @neoyoungho, @bumblebeenct, @haechaaaaaaanssi, @bedraggledsijeuni, @nakamotonikkoru muse | killing me softy, the manhwa :: killing stalking, a picture of jeno glaring :: every breath you take ( listen for maximum experience )

Truly an ace of all fools.

Ares, the god of war. As Homer called him, murderous, bloodstained, the incarnate curse of mortals.

Name it, Jeno knows every possible if not, unique ways to kill. He prefers the crowbar as it’s efficient and easy enough to send a person to their graves. For his very own pleasure. It fuels him especially when he sees those eyes that were once full of life drown down to darkness of death.

Lee Jeno, is known as one of the notorious lads at school. He never fails to leave an astonished look to every person he has passed by at school. People are stunned whenever he walks down the hallway with his school shirt unbuttoned and crumpled. His overall appearance is unruly with the noticeable scars that lingered on his face like leeches. His disheveled jet black hair. Eyes that bore nothing but darkness. Chains dangling from each of his ears. His aura that is explainable and unassailable that could even strike the thunderbolt of the great god Zeus.

Jeno is handsome. He looks like bad news. Wild.

However, you on the other hand are not fazed by him nor his silhouette. Which made him to be drained by a pure soul like you.

Lee Jeno is so private and closed like an abandoned establishment and that could be the sole reason why people want to pry into his life. He had everyone controlled on the palm of his hand but he can’t seem to play with you like he initially plans to.

Lee Jeno has the patience of a boar. He shows signs of violence that it’s alarming. But people seem to be in love at his bad boy facade, no one dares to report him.

He is a living contradiction. Lee Jeno is a ride, a deadly one.

You made a promise to get the shit out of the tracks that had traces of the boisterous boy that is Lee Jeno.

It is always in Jeno’s system. His mind is a bully, gushing him to do things that would make him thrilled, something that could awaken his fantasies.

He wants to kill. And he did.

His dark eyes bore into Hana’s figure. Eyeing her from head to toe. At this moment he is thinking of what he can possibly do with those limbs. Break it? Smash it? Mutilate it like how they do in the slaughterhouse? Jeno approaches her figure, his switchblade ready in his windbreaker’s pockets.

He breaths, trying to muster his oh-so-charming smile. “Hey.”

Hana raises up her gaze and she is surprised, that the notorious Lee Jeno is approaching her. Only if she knew his real intentions. “Oh my god. Hey.”

Jeno is charming. Quite egocentric. It doesn’t take him long to persuade someone to sleep with him or to go out on a date with him. If there is something you should be afraid about Jeno, it is his ability to deceive people without them knowing his real motives. He has a calm demeanor but sometimes his arrogance fuels him to be so wild-driven.

At this moment, Hana starts to get excited because she has foreseen what could happen. For her it’s sex. For him, it’s blood. Jeno draws his switchblade near her carotid artery. She widens her eyes but laughter resonates in the eerie place.

She purrs. “I am a kinky person but I can try knife play.”

Jeno doesn’t play. He draws the knife deeper to her neck until she realizes he is not joking at all. Kang Hana’s heart made a beeline for her throat and tried to make a flee for her life but Jeno had his strong hand gripping her hair.

Jeno smirks. He misses the familiar scent of blood flooding in his nostrils. “Your life.”

Her eyes widened in pure horror as the charming prince transformed quickly as a ruthless psychopath in just the blink of her eye. Hana tries to fight against his hold once again but Jeno wants to finish off and not to take care of a wailing woman.

He repeatedly lash out the knife through her neck. The impact of his pounds set out her blood gushing out, splashing his pale cheeks. His right hand is dripping with her hot blood. Jeno’s chest rises as his breathing became ragged but overall he felt so alive and content. He stares at Hana’s figure sprawled on the floor bathing with the pool of her own blood. Jeno felt so driven with just crimson clouding his vision. He runs his tongue on the rows of his pearly teeth, a sinister smile tugging the corners of his lips. He did it for you.

The interview lasts about a good hour but you are deemed innocent as Hana’s whereabouts where the crime took place didn’t match your activity. Her clothes are missing on the spot but the investigators found it drenched in this liquid they believed was an oxygen producing detergent. Since the laboratory personnel couldn’t get any fingerprints from her body, it has been declared useless for the crime.

It has been weeks since you find yourself able to breathe again but it didn’t last long when you were bombarded with unknown and creepy messages that you couldn’t withstand at all.

I know you. From everything you do, I know it all.

You belong to me, your full name.

I find it romantic to see how excited you look whenever I send these messages. Shall I start sending my pictures as well? Or the throne I made for you?

From morning you go to your mother’s flower shop to gather primrose to deliver to your grandfather that lives in the twenty second street downtown.

Your favorite thing to do is to draw, my sweet. I am right, am I? I’m always right.

I saw you talk to that small loser from class D. Now don’t ever talk to him again or you will see his head delivered right at your doorstep. I love you and I’m being the nice guy here.

Do you perhaps like the idea of your friend's limbs personally delivered to you? Your pick.

I am always watching you, your name.

Oh, you had a museum date with your friends? Don’t go, I am at your grandmother’s restaurant, she serves the ultimate broth soup. Too bad I can stop her from serving these delicacies.

I know deep down, you love me too. Don’t you ever try to date behind my back without telling me. I did kill for you.

Your parents aren’t home. Do you want me to visit?

So much love for you. Your long secret admirer :)

I love you. I will kill for you.

He makes his way to his heavily tinted car, a smile never leaving Jeno's face as he clutches the garment tightly on his hands. His soulless eyes stared back at him the moment he stared at the rear view mirror. And drives to the nearest convenience store.

Jeno is always a step ahead of his plans. He is meticulous and calculative. His plans never backfire for he knew what methods to use. For the days he has been killing he already knows how to get rid of evidence that could lead to him. The boy’s got a sharp tongue as well, a serpent’s, he uses lies to cover up the real Lee Jeno that hides behind the charming facade he puts front.

“Just in time” he breathed into the shadows. His eyes follow your figure marching down the dim lit streets. A smirk paints his lips as you still try to swat everything and thinking to yourself everything is still normal. But no, not until he is dead. He could have easily needle out your background from Jaemin but you were his and it gives him satisfaction whenever he discovers something about you. Things that aren’t open for others but just for him.

“Fuck” he hiss as he felt his phone vibrate from his pocket. “What it is now Lee fucking Donghyuck?”

“Lover boy, I forgot to place your camera in your bag, bye.”

The camera is not his top most concern. He has his phone that is full of you.

Lee Jeno is always not satisfied with the bare minimum. He records you, doing your private thing in your room. He is biting hard on his lips, his erection sticking out painfully against his pants. He has to endure much longer till you have finished your routine applying lotion to your shiny long legs. Those legs that he can’t wait to touch.

Jeno left the place shortly. He’s astounded. You drive him wild and wild he is. You fuel the monster more.

#lee jeno #jeno scenarios #yandere kpop #nct fanfictions #yandere!jeno #nct angst #nct horror #nct fanfiction #nct yandere #yandere!nct #nct dream #nct dream angst #nct dream horror #nct dream smut #nct dream yandere

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mordoriscalling · 3 years

Text

The Life (of) Surprise (2/4)

Jaskier lies to his family about being engaged to Geralt for the second time… and there are way too many surprises involved.

Part 4 of the Singer and the Sailor AU that no one asked for but I wrote anyway (again). This fic happens a little bit more than a year after Geralt returns home from his last deployment. Warnings: referenced alcoholism and trauma.

(Part 1)

II - A Surprise Is Uttered

The day begins with a sleepless night. For Geralt, not Jaskier. Jaskier is a heavy sleeper, so he has no idea about it until nature’s call wakes him up at half-past three in the morning. The bed is empty so, after relieving herself, Jaskier looks around the house and finds Geralt sitting by the kitchen table. His face is hidden in his hands and there’s an empty mug next to him. It’s the third night in a row that he hasn’t slept at all and Jaskier’s heart breaks for him a little.

They’re supposed to take a little trip to Brighton and return in the afternoon, before Yennefer drops Ciri off at Geralt’s after school. Now, Jaskier decides that the plan changes. In half an hour, they’re both ready to set out. Geralt drives because he already had coffee.

The drive passes in silence. Jaskier dozes off in his seat for some time but after the sun rises, it’s too bright outside for sleeping, and he wakes up slowly. They arrive in Brighton a few minutes after six. Save for occasional joggers and people walking their dogs, the streets are blissfully empty, and so is the beach.

It’s just a quiet, sunny morning like any other. In short: perfect. Jaskier doesn’t have to worry about someone photographing him, or anyone (quite) possibly seeing his proposal being rejected.

The air is slightly chilly as they stand at the shore, the waves almost touching their shoes. Geralt doesn’t say anything, only looks at the water. Jaskier watches him bask in the closeness of the sea. The delicate morning sunlight accentuates all his wrinkles in a stunning way and his white hair is lit up like a halo, gentle breeze ruffling it slightly. Jaskier takes in Geralt’s strong profile, his pretty stubble and his tired, tired eyes, and he thinks to himself that he loves this man so.

Jaskier can’t help but recall everything that happened since Geralt’s return, the good and the bad. All the times Jaskier pushed too far or Geralt was too gruff. The piano lessons with Ciri, and the adorable look on Geralt’s face when he concentrates on playing. The quiet weekends they sometimes manage to squeeze into their lives. Geralt chuckling at Yennefer’s disgusted expression after Jaskier asks her if she’s off to do “hot girl shit” again. (Jaskier knows she actually loves that phrase). How Geralt’s insecurities get better of him some days and he turns into a brooding idiot. The way the two of them are able to have a conversation without words, the way their bodies move against each other when they have sex. The smell of Geralt's sweat after he works out.

How, when they stay over at Geralt’s house, Geralt is always annoyed that Jaskier doesn’t wash the dishes right after using them. How, when they stay over at Jaskier’s house, Geralt always forgets to take his shoes off, much to Jaskier’s dismay. How Geralt is an annoyingly good cook but he’s also really shit at paying the bills on time. How he doesn’t allow Jaskier anywhere near kitchen appliances, which wounds Jaskier’s pride.

All of Geralt’s mannerisms. How he’s grumpy by default but then sees a dog. How Jaskier sometimes wants to talk very much but Geralt doesn’t. How Geralt delivers freaking sermons sometimes. That one time they managed to go out for a drink with Aiden, Eskel and Lambert, and Eskel started talking about his retirement plan involving goat yoga. Lambert nearly went batshit crazy, insisting that there was no way that something like goat yoga existed. Eskel and Jaskier tried to demonstrate how that would work, with Jaskier pretending to be a goat. Lambert, Geralt and Aiden almost pissed themselves laughing. The following day, Ciri woke Geralt and Jaskier by blasting a techno remix of Her Sweet Kiss so loud that the windows rattled. Then Yennefer made them go grocery shopping despite their killer hungover.

How Geralt holds him when unpleasant memories haunt him. How Geralt’s brutally honest when some of his songs suck. How he looks at Jaskier when he sings. His smothering gaze when he calls Jaskier his siren. How he makes sure that Jaskier eats and drinks when he forgets about it himself. How Geralt stands by him and supports him in his career, withstanding all the paparazzi nonsense even though he hates it with passion. How Geralt doesn’t want to know him for who he knows, how he’s always there for Jaskier and never asks for a thing in return.

All of this, and Jaskier suddenly doesn’t know where to start. He only knows that he wants to keep this man in his life so much that there’s hardly any air left in his lungs. His heart is hammering in his chest, his hands are sweating, and he decides to begin with what’s safe.

“Hey, Geralt,” he says, “I love you very, very much, you know that?”

Geralt hmms an affirmative and looks at him. There’s a smile on his face and warmth in his gaze as he answers, “I love you too.”

His golden eyes stand out against the blue of the cloudless sky. Jaskier slowly drowns in them, only the sound of the waves reaching his ears. It seems like only the two of them matter in the world and the reality is a safe distance away. In this state, almost hypnotized, Jaskier simply does what he has to do and gets down on one knee.

“What are you doing?” Geralt demands with a sowl.

His tone isn’t exactly a good sign. Jaskier flashes him a shaky smile and reaches for his hand. Then, he slides the buttercup ring halfway down Geralt’s finger. He didn’t buy a new ring; there’s no need for it really. He only needs to give their old rings new meaning on this seemingly meaningless April morning.

“Geralt, I-I,” he stutters out. His heart is beating so fast that he can’t breathe. He makes himself look up at Geralt, who stares down at him with a frown. Jaskier smiles nervously and forces the words out, “Will you... will you marry me?”

Geralt’s eyes widen and his mouth opens in shock. The silence drags on like eternity and Geralt doesn’t move a single muscle. When he finally does, his lips slowly quirk upwards and his whole face lights up with the tiniest, shiest joy. Jaskier is about to sigh in relief but then Geralt’s answer comes.

“Jaskier,” he grumbles, “get up, you’ll ruin your trousers.”

His trousers are white and it’s indeed a bad idea to kneel on the wet pebbles. As Jaskier gets up, his heart sinks and his head hangs low. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “This doesn’t have to mean anything, I just–”

He’s still holding on to Geralt’s hand and the ring, so he starts taking it off Geralt’s finger completely. Geralt stops him, though. Jaskier watches in amazement as Geralt’s muscular hands guide his own so that he slips the silver band back on Geralt’s finger.

When the realisation hits him, Jaskier gasps. He looks up at his fiancé, for real this time, and sees Geralt’s whole expression is alight with happiness. The sight takes his breath away. “Geralt...” he begins, but what Geralt does next takes away his ability to speak.

Geralt fucking kneels. Then, he takes Jaskier’s hand and slides the golden wolf signet off Jaskier’s finger. As Geralt looks up at him, he raises an eyebrow in silent question. Jaskier, still rendered speechless, only gives a jerky nod. Geralt grins like he almost never does, sharp teeth on display, and slides Jaskier’s ring back on.

The next moment is a blur. Jaskier, blinded by joy, wants to throw himself at Geralt. Geralt seems to want the same thing because he meets Jaskier halfway. Their bodies collide and they almost fall into the water but Geralt steadies them. Then, they’re standing up, and Geralt holds him tight, so tight that Jaskier may get bruises. Jaskier doesn’t care about that. He’s laughing and Geralt is smiling, truly smiling, and they pepper kisses all over each other’s faces.

“Please say it,” Jaskier whispers hoarsely, “just that one little word,”

Geralt huffs a laugh. He pecks Jaskier on the cheek, then murmurs into his ear, “Yes.”

It’s just one word but it’s said it the gravelly baritone Jaskier will never be tired of hearing, and his heart almost bursts with all he feels at that moment. The need to kiss Geralt stupid is stronger than ever, so he does exactly that. Burying his hands in Geralt’s hair, he brings their mouths together. Geralt lets out a pleased hum and sneaks his strong arms around Jaskier’s waist. The kiss resembles their very first one during the birthday party – it’s deep and slow, the best kind of passionate.

It takes them some time to break apart. When they do, they take off their shoes and take a walk along the shore, ankle-deep in the cold water, holding hands and talking. When Jaskier sees a little fish, he starts naming all the fish that he knows while Geralt laughs at him. Then Geralt wets his hand in the sea and puts it against Jaskier’s nape because he’s a bastard. They’re a moment away from splashing war when Jaskier’s stomach rumbles loudly. The two of them realise that they’re both hungry, so they embark on a search of some nice restaurant. Eventually, they find one and treat themselves to a big breakfast. Jaskier drinks coffee but forbids Geralt from having one, to Geralt’s immense displeasure. He steals a sausage from Jaskier’s plate as revenge but Jaskier physically can’t be mad at him today. His grumpy expression makes Jaskier melt.

The drive back passes in silence. Jaskier sits behind the wheel; the coffee Geralt had at night is wearing off and he’s too tired. Geralt sits in the front passenger seat with his eyes closed the whole way back but he’s not sleeping. His thoughts often don’t let him sleep, Jaskier knows.

They return before noon. Walking into Geralt’s house feels different somehow, now that they’re truly engaged. As soon as the front door closes behind them, Jaskier drags Geralt in for a kiss. Way too soon, Geralt breaks it... because he needs to yawn.

Jaskier laughs and says, “C’mon, my jolly sailor bold, you need a nap.”

Geralt grunts but doesn’t argue. They go to Geralt’s bedroom upstairs and change into comfortable sweats and "for home" t-shirts, stealing some kisses in the meantime. Geralt closes the thick curtains and they lay down in the bed, facing each other. Jaskier shifts closer until he can tuck Geralt's head under his chin and run his hands through Geralt’s hair while Geralt rubs his palms up and down Jaskier’s back.

It’s one of their favourite ways to cuddle. They say nothing for some time, simply enjoying the closeness. Jaskier’s lost in his head, picturing how Geralt’s family is going to react to the development in their relationship, but then he suddenly remembers what he said to his own family yesterday.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“What would you say about marrying next spring?”

Geralt opens his eyes and squints at him. “So soon?”

“I’ve always wanted to have a May wedding,” Jaskier answers. It’s not even a lie. After he and Geralt got together, he’s started fantasising about his own wedding for the first in his life and, in his mind, it always happens in May.

Geralt watches him closely, clearly sensing that there’s something he isn’t being told, and damn him for reading Jaskier so well. Jaskier tries not to squirm under the golden stare, as unforgiving as the sun, doing his best not to let his fear show. Jaskier will have to tell Geralt about the circumstances of their engagement one day, and when he does, Geralt may take it extremely the wrong way.

“I’ll think about it,” Geralt says finally.

It’s not a no but it’s not a yes either. Jaskier can’t have that, so he brings out the big guns and innocently suggests, “We could marry at sea, you know.”

A pause.

“Hmm.”

It’s definitely an intrigued hmm. Jaskier presses on, “I could rent us a yacht. Or a boat. Or a big ship, even. Whatever you want.”

There’s a moment when Geralt doesn’t even breathe. Then, he heaves a long, resigned sigh, and Jaskier smiles in victory.

“Damn you, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters tiredly, “Damn you.”

Jaskier chuckles and kisses Geralt on the forehead, earning himself a happy hum. He keeps running his fingers through Geralt's hair and begins to sing softly. It's the first song Jaskier wrote for Geralt; Jaskier knows that his fiancé has a particular fondness for it. As he croons lyrics about woods and the Fae, Geralt's breathing starts slowing. After he finally falls asleep, Jaskier lets himself doze off too.

***

“Dad!”

Jaskier jerks awake, opening his eyes just in time to see Geralt do the same. There’s a moment when they stare at each other in confusion. Then, Cirilla’s wails reach their ears, and Jaskier’s blood runs cold. In an instant, there’s pure, unadulterated terror written all over Geralt’s face. He gets up lighting fast and rushes out of the bedroom. Jaskier follows right after him.

“Dad!” she shrieks again.

“Ciri!” Geralt shouts, completely frantic, as they run down the stairs.

Cirilla meets them at the bottom of the stairs. Her face is red from crying, her cheeks wet. She falls into his arms and buries her face in her father’s chest, sobs tearing through her frame.

“Ciri,” Geralt breathes out, running his shaking hands all over the girl’s body in search of any injuries.

Ciri appears physically unharmed but still, something is definitely very, very wrong. The girl keeps bawling her eyes in Geralt’s embrace while her father strokes her head soothingly. Jaskier finds it to be a truly gut-wrenching thing to witness, and he isn’t even Ciri’s relative. He can scarcely imagine what Geralt is feeling, though a good portion of his fear and worry shows on his face. Jaskier, in an attempt to comfort Ciri and Geralt, puts his arms around them both.

“What happened?” Geralt asks, his voice hushed and gentle.

Cirilla cries harder and Geralt’s face scrunches up in pain he feels for her. Jaskier’s heart breaks for them both.

“Dara,” Ciri finally chokes out, “He wasn’t at school today and didn’t text me back and... He called me just before I walked in and told me... “ Her body starts shivering. “There was a fire at his house, dad, only he...” She trails off and wails. “His parents and brother didn’t...”

Jaskier gasps and Geralt curses.

“He has nowhere to go, dad,” Ciri adds, “no relatives in the country, he has nothing....”

Ciri weeps on while Jaskier looks at Geralt helplessly. He silently asks Geralt what to do and Geralt answers with a slight shake of his head. Jaskier purses his lips and racks his brain while Ciri slowly begins to calm down. Finally, he gets an idea.

“Sweetheart, did he tell you where he is now?”

“Yeah,” Ciri replies, her face still hidden in Geralt’s chest, “Why?”

“Well... My house has more than enough room for two.”

***

The day ends in a sleepless night. For Jaskier, not Geralt. Geralt, just like Ciri, collapsed from exhaustion around an hour ago in one of the bedrooms in Jaskier’s house. Jaskier, unfortunately, can’t say that about himself. Too much has happened for one day and he still hasn’t processed even half of it.

It’s almost midnight. Jaskier sits on the couch in his living room, strumming his acoustic guitar idly and trying not to think about the dead look Dara had in his eyes the whole day. When Jaskier pictures what kind of trauma the boy has just gone through, he wants to scream.

The sight of Dara himself snaps him back to reality. He acknowledges Jaskier with a nod and goes to the kitchen, which is open to the living room. Jaskier watches in the corner of his eye as Dara pours himself a glass of water and drinks. The air around is still, awfully so, and Jaskier itches to break the oppressive silence.

“You can’t sleep too?” he says.

“Yeah,” Dara answers quietly.

“You can sit here with me if you want.”

Dara hesitates for a moment but then comes over and sits down next to Jaskier awkwardly. He and Jaskier did meet before but they never talked much. Usually, Ciri would just say that the two of them are going somewhere before dragging Dara away. Jaskier’s aware that he’s a stranger to him and he certainly has no idea how to act around a person who’s currently experiencing the worst kind of nightmare that they can’t wake up from. Still, if there’s one thing he knows, it’s the fact that music can be a cure for many ailments.

“Any requests you’d like to make of this humble bard?” he asks, gesturing at himself theatrically.

“I like Metallica,” Dara replies with a shrug.

Jaskier smiles. “Ah, good taste!”

After a moment of thought, his fingers strum the strings and the first notes of The Unforgiven ring out in the air. Dara tenses but Jaskier decides to go on. When he sings, he pours all his emotions into it: how much his heart aches for the boy, how he wishes to ease his pain. His voice is mournful but strong and Dara listens to him carefully. During the second chorus, the boy’s eyes glaze over. Jaskier’s voice cracks. A tear rolls down Dara’s cheek, then another, and another. Jaskier plays on and Dara starts crying in earnest.

The same couch that Ciri and Geralt sat on when Jaskier met them for the first time, the same couch that Jaskier and Geralt sat on when they exchanged their rings before the birthday party, now Dara sits and weeps, his face hidden in his hands.

Jaskier almost breaks down in tears himself but he fights it – he has to finish. His voice is loud and clear as he sings the last verses, openly but unapologetically raw because that’s how the song should be sung. That’s how this moment should feel.

After the last notes of the song die down, only the sound of Dara’s sobs can be heard. Jaskier’s looks at the mourning boy, only sixteen and left with nothing, and wants to help.

“Do you need a hug?” he asks hoarsely.

Dara nods and Jaskier moves closer, putting his arms around the boy’s shoulders. Dara leans against him and cries, and cries.

As they sit there, Jaskier thinks to himself that he has lived a life of immense privilege. There were times when it was bad, like his serious health problems in childhood. There were moments when it was even worse, like when his dad’s drinking spiralled out of control when he was a teenager. The memories of that time still make him shudder. Yet, all ended well in the end. Jaskier’s a healthy man, his dad is sober. Jaskier's career pays very well. He doesn’t have greater problems than pursuing his dreams, and he realises there are scarcely any people with similar lives in the world.

People like him, Jaskier muses, should learn to put their own wants and needs aside more than anyone.

“Hey, Dara,” he says, feeling shy possibly for the first time in his life. He swallows down the nervousness constricting his throat and says, “I know this can be a weird question, you don’t even know me, but... Would you like to stay? You could live here, at least until everything, well, settles down. ”

Dara doesn’t reply for a long time. When he does, his answer is just, “Okay.”

The single word is said so quietly that Jaskier almost misses it. When he does catch it, and it feels so monumental that his breath is taken away.

#myfic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #modern au #the Sailor and the Singer AU #tw: alcohol #tw: trauma

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mscottontail-stash · 3 years

Text

The Downhill Path

All these days will pass; they will pass in crowds Over the face of the seas, over the face of the mountains, Over rivers of silver, over the rolling forests Like a distant hymn for our beloved dead.

Victor Hugo, Setting Suns

I. How it All Works Out

Paris was riveting in the spring.

With the Champs-Elysées in full bloom, the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the clear skies— it gave the heart of France an air of postcard made reality.

She couldn’t bring herself to care about any of it.

Still half-asleep, Céline turned away from the dimming lights outside and tossed in her sheets once more.

Almost a year in and she had never even glimpsed the full sun shining on the City of Love. Had never come close to exiting the Métro near its most popular stops, had not even entertained the thought of approaching the most prestigious arrondissements of Europe’s beating heart. And why would she have?

Crowds of tourists indulging in buttered pastries and snaps of the Louvre Pyramid were the exact things she tried to avoid. Granted, after five years lost in and out of physical existence, she would have thought her appetite for life would have emerged with a vengeance. And emerged it had, simply not in the way someone caged for months should have.

Eyes closed, she tried to pinpoint the exact moment the sun disappeared behind the building blocking the view of the ground floor she lived in. Slowly, her hazel eyes watched the shadows grow on the dried paint, coercing herself out of bed with the promise of black coffee and a lukewarm shower.

She used to claw at the promise of outside, of the sky under her head and the sun kissing her skin, closing her eyes to savor the heat. She would have begged for anything to smell something else than waste and despair— Until these frozen seconds, from life to dust and life once more. And now?

Now the world was just too much.

Too much noise and furious horns in the frantic traffic of the city, with delivery guys ramming their bikes around, with waiters and street vendors and people in a hurry, people, people everywhere. The sun, the heat, the voices— she drowned in it. Like a great wave pulling her under, she had quickly realized she was unable to cope with the furious pull of this sea.

So why did she crave each miserable second underwater?

Humming, she let her right hand stay under the faucet until it turned slightly red. This simple tingling made her want to stay under water until it bubbled, an ugly shade of white searing her flesh straight to the bone.

Calmly, she looked at her untouched skin and sighed.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she whispered to the empty room.

Lately, she had taken to being her main critic. It ranged from calling herself a dumb bitch close to twenty-four times a day to strongly staring at herself in the chipped mirror of her bathroom until she felt confident enough to go outside. So far, none of these highly sophisticated methods had managed to chase away weird ideas such as burning a perfectly-working limb.

The woman who had offered consultations at the free clinic down the road had called these ghastly cravings “recurring thoughts”. Invasive images or ideas that popped by uninvited. It came and went, oblivious to whatever she was doing or what state she was in.

She had tried really hard to do the mature thing and deal with her shit properly. The initial appointment with Mrs. Torpe had been okay: they had mostly dealt with paperwork, how therapy was supposed to go and what could be achieved in that timeframe. Fifty euros had seemed like a fair price for someone willing to put up with her twice a month.

By the time the second appointment had drawn closer, she had pictured herself sitting in the same room to talk about things that made no sense; wolves in the snow, mice trapped in ice and bleeding flowers creeping out of the stone cracks… she did not have the courage to think about what would come next. At best, she would be committed. Then her flimsy identity wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny and then someone, somewhere, would know. And wasn’t it how they had gotten to her the first time, the only time? When she had not known she was safe until it had been ripped away from her. Better sleep less and get crazy thoughts if it meant staying alive.

Perhaps she was just giving herself excuses. She wanted to get better, but being a coward had served her well and she did not feel ready to be brave just yet. Healing, at its root, was not a gentle thing; it was exhausting, drawing on whatever energy that was left to burn the wounds away. Did she really want to put herself through these hoops because it was the right thing to do? Nobody could ever decide when there had been enough pain.

She did not know if it made her weak or pathetic to consistently avoid getting into something that she felt was too hard, but she had decided it was nobody’s business but her own if she lacked the stomach to face the truth.

And what truth would she uncover, anyway? Hazy, drug-fueled experiments had a way of making you doubt you’d even been through the things that seared your mind. And even so, maybe it wasn’t the memories she was so afraid of, but to make them real. Using words to conjure up the Wolf and its steel rod, to spin around and feel stone walls suffocating her in the dark.

What if she was told none of it had been real? That she just couldn’t enter a lift like a normal person because she was just fucked in the head and it was no one’s fault but hers, not some made-up prison, her.

Breathing in, she forced herself to reach a spot in the base of her skull. Here, she could feel the piece of missing skin that had kept her sane, the one feeling she knew would always be real no matter what flowed in her bloodstream. There were other ways to prove to herself and the world the unspeakable things that had been done in the name of progress. Each time her mind drew closer to this truth, every muscle in her body would tightens until she cramped. She was too afraid to reach for the space that existed in the pit of her belly; either because she knew the danger it could bring, or because it was no longer here.

Beyond everything, this theft was the loss she mourned the most. They had taken many things from her over the agonizing weeks. Her freedom. Her dignity. The humanity in herself, the belief of something good in each in every person. But to feel the vacant space that once housed that spark, the great bond to something truly marvelous that had been just hers— each time her brain tried to make sense of it she would come back to that crappy apartment more shitfaced that the night before. This was what pushed her out in the streets every night: a chase for something that was gone, and that she feared would never come back.

Humans were flawed in that way; sometimes they simply mourned themselves.

Céline snorted, head facing the showerhead: being gloomy was certainly no cure. She let the water roll on her shoulders some more before slipping out of the tiny bathroom corner, her soaked feet adding to the general mold of the place. Not that she was complaining about this “lovely, cozy flat with caractère” sold by the chain-smoker lady living above her. Her flat was crappy, but it was functional. Not unlike its tenant, she often remarked.

She counted herself lucky to have a roof over her head, especially post-Blip. The surge of population had not made living in the Capital any easier. She could have fallen prey to the marchands de sommeil, sleep merchants that rented terrible holes to desperate people. The only reason she had snatched this place was thanks to some acquaintances at the GRC, citizens stuck in the same administrative limbo she had enjoyed for a while.

Real estate was a mess and no place was easy to grab, yet she had managed that one, probably because her French was good and her manners quiet enough for this neighborhood at the edge of seedier streets. Madame Bruyère had only cared about the duration of her stay, if she was employed and if she was going to bring people in to party and criminal activities of any kind. It must had been a winning “Long enough-yes-no” because here she was now, living in the antiquated building close to work.

It could have been worse. She could have stayed penniless after being processed by the Global Repatriation Council, but the overworked staff had been glad to ship her off to central Europe when she had filled out one single flimsy application. She had lied, of course. Pretended to be shell-shocked by her body turning to dust and reappearing to find herself five years in the future. It had not been a hard lie to sell.

She had come back in the same state she had vanished, a bloody mess in rags on the verge of passing out. A blond man had asked her a couple of questions in broken English, tried to check on her before getting wary of her shrieks. Once he had understood she was in no immediate danger, a nurse had simply shoved her in a corner and waited a couple of weeks to start asking questions. Looking back, she did not know if she was more ashamed by her lashing out than her piss-poor resistance.

She had had time to understand what the hell had happened. Saw the ruined Avengers Compound on the news. Processed that the tundra was gone, the Wolf was gone, and everyone she had cared for was gone. She had watched out for anyone else, friend or foe, but the mednyy devochka, the brass-skinned girl, had been the only thing to ever come back from that particular limbo. Happiness. Bitterness. It all meshed into the same blur that had been the GRC camp.

The only thing that had left an impression were the people that had blipped back alongside her. They had been from all over the world, people on planes and boats, lost and confused, swimming in the same big parenthesis that was the time after their return. Who had left with them and who had remained? What had changed and what was still the same? Five years may have been a moment for them, but it was a long time for everyone and everything else.

Oftentimes, kin would come to reunite with their loved ones. Other days, some returned would break down under the strain of this new reality. Céline had not known what had been more heartbreaking to witness. She used to have the selfish thought that at least other people eventually moved on, that the faces that came and went all around her changed. She didn’t know if she had improved much from her days in Kiev, but she liked to think so.

The girl in the mirror wasn’t sure either.

Seeing her reflection every day was a necessary pain. She needed to see, to look at herself touching her dark hair and golden skin and not have to repeat that all of this whisper of a life was real, not just a delusion brought by torment and anesthetics.

It didn’t mean reality was any kinder.

She wasn’t “just thin”. Baggy dresses and leather jackets helped to hide the hollow shapes of her body, but staring at her naked reflection had a way of bluntly highlighting her sorry state. Infrequent meals, hard liquor and poor sleep had not really helped her getting back to something more than a bag of bones. As with everything, she was trying, failing, and trying some more; little by little, one beef tacos at a time, six hours of sleep once every week, breathing in.

Her eyes trailed on the little fragments of paper pinned to the frame of the mirror. Bits and pieces of poetry, of articles, of words she liked. She let her fingers linger over John Donne’s No Man is an Island. She mouthed the words, comforting for a reason she couldn’t quite grasp: “every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.”

She didn’t like the way clothes sagged on her, didn’t like the yellow shade of her dark skin, the way climbing a few stairs left her winded. She even missed complaining about her period once every month, because the absence of blood made her painfully aware that her body wasn’t working as it should. That everything was not fine, that progress was slow. Still, she kept trying on her own.

She ended her examination with the same hopeful resignation: She would get there.

Grabbing the clothes she had selected for the evening, she finished her preparation with some makeup and a quick look at the club she had spotted a few nights ago. She had to work from 5 to 10, but the rest of her time was her own. It was easy to forget how good it felt to be able to do whatever she pleased, even if it meant doing nothing at all.

Slamming the door to her place, she exited the tight lobby at the same time her neighbor was doing the same.

An elegant, warm French-Nigerian student with pearls in her box braids, Gloria was a major in biochemistry, sold handcrafted clothes on Etsy to support an association funding single-mothers and led the singing choir of her parish on Sundays. Céline was convinced that by the time 2030 would roll, that girl would either become President somewhere or be canonized. She was simple, pure goodness. It almost hurt sometimes to be near her, to feel her compassion and strong faith in all things good and worthwhile.

They were crossing paths in more way than once; Céline, climbing slowly, on her jagged way to something slightly better. And Gloria, glorious as her name, a bright future ahead of her. That the two of them converged on a single thread in Moineaux Street never ceased to amaze the older woman.

“Hey, you!” Gloria chirped with a lovely French accent.

The onyx-skinned girl had insisted they talk English when she had realized Céline was fluent. Gloria was planning on applying to an Ivy League university next year and she wanted to “brush up” on an already flawless practice.

They exited the building together, chatting their way to the metro where they parted. Watching her disappear, Céline felt envy for the young French girl. Gloria knew without the shadow of a double who she was and what she wanted. She had plans for the next five years, and the means to achieve whatever goal she set her eyes on. No shadows had ever damaged her beliefs. It felt good to talk to someone so anchored in life, and yet it was still a curious thing, to watch life from the sidelines.

She had never been as outgoing and warm as Gloria, but she could still remember a young, hopeful girl volunteering to clean-up after global disasters and aliens fights. She hadn’t known real fear back then, only the aftermath of darkness. She still didn’t know how to feel about the Avengers, only that superheroes had been a part of her world ever since she was a little girl in a strange new place.

Céline still remembered where she had been during Tony Stark’s press conference and the revelation of his identity as Iron Man, and how they had watched the return of Captain America in her cramped dorm room not too long after that. Then the battle of New York had happened and it was the first time she had sensed the world had changed. She had been a 20-something then, fresh out of Canada and itching for a way to make her mark. Her work as a volunteer for the Red Cross had still seemed so small, the search for survivors in the rubble so daunting. Four years later and it looked like catastrophes would continue to happen, this time in Eastern Europe, and by the time she had turned 25 she had been caught into the politics of the Accords. The following years had been nothing but running, her delusions of grandeur shattered in the most painful way deep in a Russian hellhole.

Now she was supposed to be 35 and she had let her a decade slip away from her, had let shadows engulf what could have been and, much like the world in the aftermath of Thanos’ hubris, uncertainty made her stand still.

Hesitation was a byproduct of fear, but every day she dipped her toe a little further, either found her determination or foolishness to cross the confines of humanity and back. A fine mix of liquid courage, happy pills and late-night despair often helped dissolving this great uproar into oblivion.

Then it was just easy.

There were no heavy burdens. No restraints, no threats. She did not have to ponder over her own existence, wondering who she was and where she was going and if anyone followed. She was Céline, the foreign girl who enjoyed raves and fluorescent lights on plaster. Céline was easy to talk to. She wore long-sleeved shirts because she claimed she was always cold, she loved the strong smell of camellias because it reminded her of home and she fancied Florent, the owner of the youth center she worked at five evenings per week. Céline was ordinary. Céline was safe.

Sometimes even she forgot Céline was not real.

At first she had found it difficult to make a life out of thin air. People had parents and friends, credit cards and social accounts. History. But then almost four billion people had a five-year gap to fill as well, and everything could be solved by six magical little words: I was part of the Blip. In a way, it was ironic that the first thing she had truly belonged to had been a catastrophe erasing half the world population. She didn’t know a single person that the Snap hadn’t fucked in some way or other, and yet Thanos’ decimation had saved her life. And now, to figure out what to do with it…

There was definitely a market for new identities in this world that had been empty for five years. She had been given an exorbitant price for her fresh one, a blank state that would probably be useful to criminals and con-artists.

What languages had she been good at? English. French. Spanish. London had been the easiest flight to grab, so England he had been. Her dark hair, caramel skin and brown eyes had blended well with her supposed identity. She had been Tina Abbott, a shell-shocked girl from Bristol, on her way to an Asian vacation when her body had disintegrated in the commercial plane she made out of thin air. The middle-aged bureaucrat hadn’t cared to poke holes in her stories, ticking the boxes as the story unfolded.

“Tina” had ditched her papers as soon as her correspondence flight to Brussels had landed and paid cash for the next one. Tina became Sarah and Sarah became Céline, transiting from forger to smuggler without staying long enough to make a mark. With the chaos of 3 billion people simultaneously coming back to life, it wasn't like someone was bothering to check on her now that she had settled for a while. As long as she paid the outrageous rent of her borderline slum, she could be a legal alien as much as she pleased. Immigrations services and the GRC in particular had enough problems in the wake of the Flag-smashers’ uprising.

Céline didn’t have much time to ponder Karli Morgenthau’s actions when a sudden concert of shouts alerted her to some commotion inside the limestone building; carefully, she opened the door to the youth center of Belleville.

#orshidsdump #zemo fic #mcu fic #TFATWS fic #baron zemo #foul language

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tarithenurse · 5 years

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Agent of Hope - 12

Your world falls into ruin together with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcements Logistics Division when you find out that your boyfriend isn’t one of the good guys. Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents: ALL THE WARNINGS INCLUDING TRIGGER WARNINGS. A tiny bit of good in the end? A/N: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

12 - Broken people

… Romanoff’s PoV …

“This is more like it!” Stark sounds cheerful over the coms.

He’s flown ahead to scout together with Sam, eager to make sure no one escapes him and the rest of the team of Avengers as they head through the vacated part of town.

Peering down a side road, Natasha has to admit that it’s more than just a single neighbourhood that’s been abandoned long ago. The town was dependant on one industry only, not atypical for a lot of the rural mid-states, and when that went belly-up the entire town was vacated out of a need for jobs. Splintered windows beneath sheets of plywood, boarded up doors, and overgrown patios and curbs. Ghost town. But the place isn’t completely empty. A bit of hacking through Stark’s suit has proved that someone’s accessing the electrical grid and the water at one location only: a school. Perfect place for a large group of people take hunker down for a while.

“What’s the play, Nat?” Steve’s voice calls the former Russian back to the situation.

Go in, kill what moves, save [Y/N]. But it has to be more detailed than that. “Sam ‘nd Steve take the south entrance, Tony find a way in from west or make one…we take the north side.”

The man in a can is hovering far above the building sprawled out between wild grasses and shrubberies, allowing Jarvis to do its work while everyone else moves to the desired positions.

It’s a good thing. Thanks to Jarvis, they know how many Hydra-goons are waiting as the wannabe rescuers storm the place, moving methodically along the main hallways without forgetting to check each room…just in case. It’s silent work with very few surprises until they inevitably encounter the first opposition, five for each pair (counting Stark and Jarvis together, of course).

Hydra trains their people very well, forming teams with strong bonds and a capability for adapting rapidly under pressure. It’s hard to tell from the grunts or weapon-noise through the coms how the others are fairing against the enemy, but at least Natasha is a force that not even Hydra can withstand at the moment. She bears down on them like a hurricane and without any regards for her own safety except what is needed to reach the next target and the one after that.

… Rumlow’s PoV …

Grabbing the few things he needs, Brock’s mentally racing through the plan for getting the hell our of dodge. The second in command knows. Each and every Hydra member has to be ready to lay down there lives to ensure the goal is achieved, but sometimes the higher-ranking officers are part of a bigger puzzle that requires them (in this case Rumlow) to leave before it’s too late so they/he can fight another day.

“And the girl?” Crouched behind a corner at a T-intersection in the hallway to avoid the shrapnel and bullets, the man glances over at Rumlow on the other side of the hall.

“Not a priority.”

That’s it. A death-sentence in three words. The second knows what it means and there are no need to say anything else even as the two men meet each other’s gaze for a second before Rumlow twists to look around his own corner. An arrow whistles by with only an inch to spare and lodges itself in the wall behind him.

“COVER!” The last of his shout is drowned in the small explosion which makes a whole in the wall. Bloody Robin Hood.

Debris and smoke is raining down as Rumlow unfolds himself from where he’d landed on the floor. His ears are ringing and there’s probably a part of the less healed wounds that have re-opened on his shoulder, but it doesn’t matter right this second.

So she cares! The fiery hair is partially breaking free from the ponytail, floating in thin wisps around Romanoff’s face as she engages two Hydra agents simultaneously. The grey-green eyes are normally calculative, showing the same detachment that he himself has been trained to utilize during any mission. Not this time.

A second expands and stretches, slowing the embers to the point where they look like fireflies hovering in the air and the sound of fighting is a distant rumbling. There’s more than enough time for Brock to notice the snarl curling the pretty lips to show a flash of white teeth. It’s the eyes that does it, though. It’s almost funny. All this time he thought having [Y/N] would be a matter of principles and strategy for Captain bloody Rogers, that that’s the reason the Avengers are coming for the freak of an ex…but it’s the emotionless less bitch who’s invested. It’s so obvious it’s tempting to stay and watch, to be there when Romanoff finds the limb body.

Time snaps back like a rubber band, flinging Brock and the world into action once more. As he run down the hallway and away from the noise, it’s the fear – the desperation – in the Black Widow’s eyes that gives him wings.

… Reader’s PoV …

The sound of an explosion reaches you from far away, stubbornly pushing through the fluffy nothingness that surrounds and cools you. Smaller sounds can be heard too, but you just…just can’t be bothered with it all. What does it all matter anyways? Wanting to go back to the calm fluff, you refuse to open your eyes to find out what’s happening…it will only bring you pain anyways, and you’re so fed up of the constant aching from within and outside. When was the last time you weren’t hurting while awake? It’s impossible to tell. Maybe you’ve always been in pain, head electrocuting you and body ripped apart bit by bit. Or is that your soul? The dark silence comes to your rescue, quieting your brain and the world again.

…

Darkness moves in your mind, tearing your thought to pieces with pure agony. Tunnel. Running. It’s not you fleeing in the dark, but someone else. Images of landscapes and helicopters come and go together with random faces you’ve never seen together with the hot sunlight over a city you’ve never seen although you recognize the green shape tearing through the street. There’s a scream above it all, much closer and with a different quality to it. Me? Your throat is raw as the dirty tiles between leather of the real world breaks through your vision, the faded turquoise pulsing with your heartbeat in your head. The sound of yourself nestles itself over everything else, lulling you into a pained rest of brightest white before the darkness rebuilds a cocoon around you.

…

You see the slender legs (black pants covered in dust) wrapping around the neck of a man. You see the tendrils of red whip into the field of vision as the male and the entire hallway spins. The sounds you hear don’t fit that image, though. Instead there’s a metalling sound followed by a sort of oingoingoingoing and heavy boots.

“Shit!” The deep voice makes you wince, it’s much too loud this close to you. “I don’t know, hold on…”

Big hands touch your face, then neck, feeling around for something. Stop! You have to get away from the groping hands. They’ll wrap around your throat, pull your clothes aside to squeeze your breasts painfully, and tear your pants off before they pin you to whatever surface is available. Then the real pain will begin. Deep and unrelenting.

“Hey! [Y/N], it’s okay, it’s me!”

But the man’s words don’t matter. “It’s me…don’t you remember? We were good together…loved each other…look at me, baby…” Soft words whispered into your ear so many times in an attempt to stop you from struggling, promising you that the pain will go away. But it never did. He always hurt you. Or let the others send lightning through your brain until the skull would nearly split. Not again! You won’t let any of them hurt you again. Get away! And there comes the dark fuzz from the corners to save you, bring the peace and nothingness with it.

…

“Don’t let her fall.”

You spill out of the monstrosity of a chair, nearly spilling the non-existent contents of your stomach as the movement is halted by something. Someone. The broad figure has a strong grip on you, holding on so you can’t get away no matter how much you begin to struggle. Every shift in the limbs sends pain screaming through the muscles even as the shoves and pushes become weaker. No! You barely have any energy left, but this is your chance to get away. Away from Brock. Home. You know there’s no such place, the apartment you had was shared with the last man you ever want to see again. That’s not a home anymore. Tasha. Please, find me. That’s where you have to go, where you’ll be safe. Tasha. Nat!

“Easy, she’s … -er wa-” the voice fades in and out as darkness returns.

… Romanoff’s PoV …

At least she’s alive. The words running on repeat in Natasha’s head are meant to be a way to calm herself. A soothing mantra. However, as she runs down the halls of the derelict school, it’s not enough to keep the worry tugged away because this is about [Y/N], and everything she can hear the guys say on the coms is verifying the horrible fears supressed lately.

“Talk to me,” she pleads, ignoring that her body would prefer the air for itself rather than talking.

The second of hesitation is oppressing through the little earpiece, speaking volumes more than any words could.

“She’s in and out of consciousness,” Steve finally explains, “alive, but far from healthy.” Natasha can imagine the way the Captain’s jaw must be set right now. “Nat…she freaks out if we’re too close if she’s awa–“

As if on cue, there’s a strangled wail from Steve’s end and something that sounds a lot like a man in sudden pain. “Fuuuuu…she…my balls…” Sam whimpers broken.

“Almost there.”

…

The sight of [Y/N] shivering figure is like a punch to the guts. It’s not the dirt, torn clothes, or even the bruises and blood. It’s the way the woman is huddled into a corner of the deep end of the pool as far from Sam and Steve as she can possibly get and the haunted look as she tries to hold her head up in an attempt to keep track of the men while battling fatigue. But worst of all? [Y/N] is trying to hold the tattered trousers tightly closed with one hand behind a shield of knobbly knees and broken fingernails that sometimes stray to her scalp where hair has been sheared off in patches where bluish gel still sticks.

“[Y/N]…” I have to be slow, have to be calm. “It’s me…Natasha. [Y/N], can you hear me?”

Frightened eyes blink in confusion, searching for the source of the female voice echoing in the empty pool. Tears glide slowly down the poor girl’s cheeks along paths crusty with old salt.

“T-Tash-a?” Hoarse. Broken. The once rich sound has been reduced to a ghost. “Whe- Nat?”

The former spy recognises the grimaces caused by conflicting emotions that hurt more than any physical pain could ever do, and she wants to rush over to hold the woman. Keep her safe now when she couldn’t before…but one wrong move will be disastrous.

“I��m here. Can I come closer?”

Inch by inch, the abused woman unfolds enough to stretch her arms towards Natasha. One in each other’s embrace, [Y/N] keeps feelings the rescuer’s face and threading the dirty fingers through the flaming hair. A soft smile is on her lips, only wavering when Steve tries to come closer – at least he gets the point and retreats again.

“Y’ere,” the former prisoner sighs.

Unable to hold her own head any longer, she lets it sink onto Natasha’s shoulder. The redhead is thankful, that way she can allow her lips to quiver as they want to without the concern that the poor soul in her arms might see it. Fiddling with a zipper, she pulls out a syringe.

“I’m here, [Y/N].” At least her voice is still even. “I got you, go to sleep.” The needle finds its mark, unnoticed by the exhausted woman, and hot tears begin to fall on her head as the sedative enter her system. “I got you.”

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probably-writing-x · 5 years

Text

Just thought you should know (Prequel)

Request from my fave @bringmethehorizonandpizza : alright, but a super angsty prequel of just thought you should know, where they break up!! would you do it? pretty please? 💖💖💖💖

~~~

There had been an odd atmosphere around this place for the past few days - everyone seemed to be treading on eggshells around you and it constantly put you on edge. These boys were hiding something.

"Hey boys!" You smile as you waltz into your apartment where Harry and Sam had currently set up camp on the couch for the day, "What are you still doing here?"

"We thought we could have a movie day!" Sam calls back to you but you can see straight through his nonchalant nature.

"We had movie day yesterday," You roll your eyes, "And, anyway, Haz isn't even home yet s-"

You see both of them simultaneously wince at your words as soon as Harrison - your boyfriend of two years - was mentioned.

"What? What was that weird thing you just did?" You question, walking cautiously over to the twins.

"No... Nothing," Harry furiously shakes his head, curls spilling over his forehead wildly.

"Guys, come on. You've barely left this place all week and you're constantly checking up on me. What aren't you telling me?" You sigh, sitting down on the coffee table to face opposite them.

The boys exchange an uncomfortable look before Sam takes a big sigh.

"There's something we need to tell you, about Harrison," He admits, running a hand through his hair.

You sit in silence and let him proceed - a million possibilities running through your head.

"He's not exactly on a filming thing right now," Sam continues, "We told him to get away for a week or so,"

"What?" You laugh, "Why would you do that?"

Harry starts up again now, "Last week, all of us boys went out, right? Well... Harrison had a few too many to drink and ended up saying some things he definitely shouldn't have said,"

Your jaw clenches, "What did he say?"

The twins look between each other, mouths opening and closing but no words being expressed.

"What could he have said that was that bad?"

"He..." Sam takes a deep breath, "He said all of this stuff about how you two had been together for so much longer than he expected and that you made him wait so long for you two to... And that sometimes he wonders whether its worth the effort..."

The clench in your jaw changes to an overwhelming lump in your throat, one that has the power to make your bottom lip tremble a little.

"We're so sorry (Y/n/n)," Harry frowns, hand squeezing your knee in comfort, "We just thought you should know,"

"Yeah, yeah, no," You shake your head, forcing yourself to fake such confidence, "Hey, I'm glad you told me. And, you know, maybe he's right. Maybe I'm not worth the effort,"

"No, no, no," Both boys shake their head and come to sit either side of you, wrapping an arm around each shoulder and pulling you into a strong embrace.

"(Y/n) you're worth a thousand times the effort he gave you," Sam encourages, "Harrison, he just... He had too much to drink and he-"

"And he said what he felt," You mumble, finally letting the tears spill free down your cheeks - the kind of tears that wrack your body and make your shoulders shake like the whole world around you was clattering down.

~~~

The next day, Harry and Sam still hadn't left as they refused to leave you like this. You'd cried... A lot. You'd tried to eat but it all came back up pretty quickly and you hadn't got much sleep. But Harrison came home today, and it was your chance to face what you dreaded so much.

He knew something had happened. He knew the boys had told you and he was preparing for consequences... But not nearly this big.

With the twins opting to leave you two alone, it is just you and the boy you once promised you'd never stop loving.

"(Y/n) I-" Harrison begins, dropping his bag at the front door as he sees your state - cold, harsh, emotionless to him.

"Don't," You seethe, jaw clenching as you stand up from the couch to face him, "Don't start with an apology, start with a fucking explanation,"

"Baby I was drunk out of my mind!" He exclaims, "I don't even remember half of what I said and I sure as hell don't mean any of it, honestly,"

"Honestly?" You scoff, "You think I fucking trust you to be honest right now? And you don't remember what you said, then let me give you a little reminder.

"Babe please I-"

"How about telling the boys you wished you hadn't committed so much?" You step closer to him, "How about telling them you almost gave up just because I wouldn't give you the one thing you wanted? Or maybe the fact that you decided I'm not worth it?" Your words crack on that final part and you internally hit yourself for letting your emotions override this pure anger.

"Come on honey, you know that was all absolute bullshit!" He shakes his head, eyes following your every move as though he could decide your next response, "I was out of my mind and I was over thinking and I said some shit I didn't mean,"

You're close enough to him now that he can see the fury seeping from your moves, mixed with the worst feeling; disappointment.

"I thought," You begin, your voice calm and cautious, "I thought you could never, ever hurt me,"

Harrison clenches his jaw and fights back his building tears, "Don't say that," He's whispering now because the tears are threatening to spill and words will break the dam.

"I want you to leave. Just go and I'll pack up the things you've left here and get them to you soon," You sound so methodical that all emotion feels futile, "But I dont want to see you or hear from you, not for a while,"

"Darling, please," Harrison chokes and you watch as a tear falls down his cheek, still having to fight the desperate urge to wipe it away.

You look away and that's when he truly givea in to his feelings.

"No, no," He sounds angrier now, furious at himself for risking this, "I can't lose you. We can't give up on this,"

You feel cold, dried of all sympathy.

"I can't lose you," He repeats, "I can't lose you waking up and drawing silly imaginations in my chest," Harrison moves his hands to take yours, pressing a delicate kiss on each.

You watch his movements and stand rigid as he does.

"I can't lose you on Sundays when we've lost all our energy and we just want to cuddle until someone tells us we have to get up," His arms wrap around you and his face buries in the crook of your neck.

And for a moment, you really consider it. You think about being the forgiving one - telling him it's going to be okay and letting him kiss you, hold you, make love to you like everything is as it was. But every second takes you back to what he said. And you lose the possibility.

"It's time to go, Harrison," You pull his arms away from you and step back, arms retracting to cross over your chest as you realise you're now crying as well.

"Baby, please," He pleads once more, stepping forward to take your hands in his again, "I'll do anything, I'll make this better, I'll do whatever it takes to fix this mistake,"

You lift one hand away from his and cup the side of his face, thumb smoothing over his dampened cheek, "Maybe you're right," You pause and calculate your next words, "But actions don't take back what you said. And, Harrison, I can't afford to just be another one of your mistakes,"

And, with that, you drop your hands from his touch and walk away, retracting to your bedroom and crying endlessly against the closed door behind you. You don't know Harrison did the same outside of your apartment, slumped against the door like it was his last feeling of you.

What he didn't know was that, for the next six months, that really would be his last feeling of you...

~~~Four Months Later~~~

"Come on Tom you're playing like a rookie!" You exclaim, nudging him in the side to encourage him a bit more as the two of you competed in a Mario Kart team race.

His eyes are fixed on the screen but he doesn't seem aware as he drives straight off the edge.

"Dude!" You laugh, pausing the game, "Are you awake or?"

Tom shakes himself from his daze and looks at you, his eyes absent of their typical boyish joy.

"I-" He stops himself, "There's something I need to tell you, about Harrison,"

Oh damn. Those same words as his brother had spoken only months before. But what could possibly be worse than what you were told four months prior?

"What is it Tom?" You frown when he doesn't continue, "Wh- is he okay? Is he hurt?"

"Yeah, no, he's okay," Tom wipes his hands across his joggers, "He... Um, he got a girlfriend," He scratches at the back of his neck.

"Oh," You manage to respond, mentally kicking yourself for instantly worrying about Harrison instead of assuming something like this.

"It's only been for a couple of days but she's been at the apartment quite a bit. I thought I should tell you," He nods, hand reaching over to squeeze yours, "I'm sorry, (y/n/n),"

"What?" You scoff, with a gentle exasperated laugh, "You have nothing to apologise about. And, hey, I'm happy for him. He's moving on and that's a good thing. No need to keep thinking about something that's over, right?"

Your friend was evidently surprised by your strong response, "You don't need to-"

"No. No," You shake your head, "I'm good. I'm good, really. Let's carry on,"

He lets his eyes linger on you for a moment longer before turning back to the screen.

You were fine. Apart from the ache in your chest and the empty feeling remaining from feeling your repairing heart shatter once again. The temporary plasters you'd placed on it couldn't withstand something like this. You were fine. Apart from that feeling like you were falling, through this couch with the hopes that Harrison would be there to catch you. You were fine. Apart from the spilling tears.

"Oh, love!" Tom sighs when he sees you crying beside him, "Please don't cry," He throws his controller to the side and engulfs you in his arms, pulling you to his chest and letting you soak him in emotion.

"I've lost him, T," You sob, "I've really lost him,"

~~~

Tags: @imarypayne @sunshine112 @bringmethehorizonandpizza @supernatural-girl97 @vibhati123 @butithasntkilledyouyet @faefictions @carisi-sonny @trap-house-homiecide @shamelessbookaddict @tommydaspidey @oneblckcoffee @darlingtholland @fanficparker

#Harrison #Harrison osterfield #Harrison imagine #Harrison blurb #Harrison one shot #Harrison drabble #Harrison request #Harrison osterfield imagine #Harrison osterfield blurb #Harrison osterfield one shot #Harrison osterfield drabble #Harrison osterfield request #Harrison x reader #harrison x y/n #Harrison x you #Harrison osterfield x reader #Harrison osterfield x you #Harrison osterfield x y/n

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ibelieveinahappilyeverafter · 5 years

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To Land On Your Feet - Chapter 09

Oof, so it looks like I'll have to do updates once a week on Friday/Saturday where finals are kicking in at college for me. I barely survived the week, but here we are with a fresh chapter! It's more of a transition chapter, but hopefully you all enjoy it anyhow!

Also, consider donating $3 a month to my Patreon and getting access to unpublished drabbles and the Google Doc where I write this story; meaning you could see chapters and notes days or even weeks in advance.

Enjoy!

Click here to read the work on Archive Of Our Own.

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Summary: Aizawa Shouta had a good life. He was a happily married pro-hero teacher, had two cats that loved to make his life difficult, and soon, if things went well, he would have Shinsou Hitoshi as a son. Thanks to an unexpected attack by a man with the League of Villains, though, Shouta is turned into a cat. While he had a fondness for cats, that never meant he wanted to be one, especially when no one seems to recognize him and his friends and family are trying to find him when he’s right there.

He had been planning to find a way to change back, but instead he ends up following Shinsou Hitoshi to the foster home he lives in after hearing some worrying information from the teen himself. Shouta himself was guilty of venting his frustrations to cats, but hearing that Hitoshi would be locked outside in the cold if he was late getting home was just another clue among countless that something was wrong. He has to get back to normal, but he’d be a poor hero and a shit father-to-be if he didn’t follow the kid and make sure he was okay.

Besides, quirks like this usually had a time limit. Right?

<<First Chapter>> <<Previous Chapter>> <<Next Chapter>>

Chapter Nine

‘You know, you’re not very subtle when it comes to avoiding people.’ Shouta grumbled and made other odd noises he didn’t have a name for as he watched Hizashi avoid him, yet again, during the break he and Hitoshi were taking from training. ‘I know you’re not afraid of cats, ‘Zashi, so now you’re just being ridiculous.’

It was utterly ridiculous, but Hizashi was no doubt avoiding him because he reminded him so much of his ‘missing husband.’ Avoiding him, however, made it so that Shouta couldn’t tell Hizashi that he was his missing husband. While Shouta had no regrets about following Hitoshi home, especially since now he had all the evidence he needed and the kid seemed much brighter than before, it was still impossible to get Hitoshi to understand who ‘Eraser’ really was.

It was perhaps for the best, all things considered at that point. Shouta didn’t want to get Hitoshi involved in this anymore than he was in case the League of Villains realized their success and sent someone else after him. It was unlikely, but Shouta had been a pro hero for a little over a decade. Unlikely was never impossible.

His best bet was to try and convince Hizashi of the truth and go from there, but trying that was made difficult by the fact that Hizashi wouldn’t even so much as look at him. As much as Shouta would love to climb his way up to Hizashi’s shoulder and scream at him until he understood, the last thing he wanted to do was interrupt Hitoshi’s training.

The kid had a mock trial exam coming up in a couple of weeks that would determine whether he would be placed in the Hero course and, subsequently, Shouta’s class, since there was now an empty spot. It was best not to distract him, but that didn’t mean Shouta couldn’t sulk from the corner.

‘When this is all over, Hizashi, I’m going to hold this over your head until we’re both dead.’ Because for as clever and open-minded as the man was, he had a horrible time listening to his instincts in a tense situation. It was the reason they worked so well together, Hizashi’s high intellect and Shouta’s trained instincts, but sometimes it was also the reason tension could be caused.

Thoughts starting to trail off again, Shouta focused on where Hizashi was teaching Hitoshi the proper way to break out of a hold, Hitoshi intently focused and Hizashi smiling softly whenever Hitoshi wasn’t looking directly at him.

‘And you thought you’d be a terrible parent,’ Shouta scoffed to himself, flexing his paws for a moment as he stretched. It was another thing to add to the list of things Shouta needed to say and do once he could.

Hizashi was goofy and silly and loud, but he was a wonderfully kind, loving man, and Hitoshi easily adored him as much as he tried to hide it. They were both thinking the worst of what had happened to him, but Shouta couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that he was able to at least be close to them both.

‘I’ll fix this, you two.’ He didn’t want to interrupt Hitoshi’s training, and Hizashi was avoiding him, but that was all okay. Shouta had other options.

It took another full day, but never let it be said that Shouta wasn’t patient. Not even bothering to wait outside the gates, Shouta kept pace with Hitoshi, seeing the boy off to class and enduring a hug goodbye and a warning to ‘be safe.’ After he was sure Hitoshi would make it to class, he let his paws carry him to the, yet again, open window of Class 1-A.

This time he didn’t stop to listen to their chatter, jumping inside and ignoring the yelps and muttered swears from the students near him. A quick run and jump onto his desk and Shouta felt his rising hope shattered as he saw the empty seat.

‘Still out, then… Must be a nasty bug he caught.’ Kouda might not be back until the end of the week if what he overheard the other day was true. He mused that things like this never could be easy.

“The demon cat is back,” Kaminari ‘whispered.’ “Dude, do you think he’s a zombie cat, or something?” This caused a wave of reactions, a few students shuddering and yelling not to say things like that, while a few, like Bakugou, called the kid a dumbass. Shouta was on Bakugou’s side. “What?! I saw an American horror movie about something like this! He even looks evil!”

‘Keep in mind, Kaminari, that you’re on the verge of failing math and I can and will force you into a room with Ectoplasm until you understand it.’ Honestly, how that kid could be so good at English and yet so bad at Math, Shouta would never know.

“Well, I think he’s cute!” Uraraka was up and out of her seat, Shouta not having time to run before he felt her fingers carding through his fur and scratching him. “He looks well taken care of, though. Do you think he escaped from someone’s dorm?”

Oh, jeez, now the whole class was chiming in and talking about finding his ‘owner.’ Shouta had a lot of comments he could make for that one, but he avoided even thinking them, just in case. The last thing he needed was a class full of traumatized students.

“Maybe he’s a kid with a shapeshifting quirk!” The call came from Kirishima and Shouta made a mental note to give him a few extra credit points and a gold star or something because that was a brilliant idea.

While animal communication quirks weren’t rare, they were less common than shapeshifting quirks. It was far more likely that Shouta could find a student in the school who could shapeshift into a feline and be able to understand what he was saying - at least to some degree. They would at least be able to tell he was once human.

‘There should be a third year with that quirk in General Studies, but how to get to her…’ The General Studies classrooms were further away and Shouta doubted he could get away with just wandering the halls. It was possible he could just follow Hitoshi to his building, tomorrow, but the less time he wasted the better.

“-so cute!” Shouta focused back in on his students, putting up with all the touches with minimal growling. Maybe he should get them a dorm pet if they looked this cheered up over a cat. Although he wouldn’t get them a cat. A porcupine or armadillo, maybe; something that could withstand their quirks.

Before he could get too far in his thoughts, the door was opening and Nemuri was walking in with a large, dramatic sigh that she had learned from Hizashi, “Sorry I’m later than usual, everyone.”

‘Nemuri, I want you to remain calm.’ Shouta tensed the moment Nemuri’s eyes fell on him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Screw it.’ Looking towards his escape, Shouta felt his blood run cold when he saw one of them had closed the window - probably to prevent him from leaving in case he was a lost pet. ‘Shit.’

“Wait, Sensei, he’s a nice cat, we promise!” Uraraka leapt to his defense, Shouta soon surrounded by his students all whining and complaining about ‘keeping’ him.

“Yeah, come on, Sensei, he’s a really sweet cat even if he is possessed by something evil!” Sero complained, not even bothering to hide his grin.

“He’ll die if we kick him out into the cold!” The screech came from Ashido as she gestured to the outside where it was pleasantly warm and sunny.

As they all screamed, it took a moment to remember that these teenagers were in one of the most rigorous schooling programs within all of Japan. Then again, Bakugo had set Sero’s hair on fire and Todoroki had almost frozen his head trying to help put it out.

“Oh, such youthful energy!” Ah, right. ‘Midnight.’ Shouta much preferred dealing with Kayama Nemuri who snorted when she laughed and wore week-old sweaters because she was too lazy to do the laundry. “Alas, my sweetlings, I’m afraid this cat is already spoken for.”

‘I’m what?’ Shouta frowned as Nemuri walked over and extracted him from the mess of students, picking him up without a bat of her eye. Shouta would be impressed, but he had also seen her bench press twice her weight without flinching. ‘I don’t suppose you can read minds all of a sudden, can you?’

Nemuri continued without even looking down at him, “He’s the pet cat of a homeroom student of mine. The poor little kitty here gets lonely and so he follows him to school all the time. Not to worry! I’ll make sure he gets back to his proper home! Now, you all should sit down and get ready for your first class and I’ll be back very soon, okay?”

Shouta rolled his eyes at seeing some of his students look starstruck as they quickly moved to comply, a few of them just having a healthy dose of respect and fear for teachers in general.

“As for you,” Nemuri mumbled, sounding much more like herself. “Let’s get you to the teacher’s lounge, for now, and I’ll drop you off with Shinsou later.”

‘Wait, where did you hear I was- Ah.’ Hizashi. That man couldn’t keep a secret to save his life and had no doubt gushed to the entire staff about the stray cat that had taken to following Hitoshi around.

“You can spend a bit of time with Hizashi, even!” Nemuri’s cheerful tone fell flat, Shouta looking up at her and feeling his heart hurt as he did so. She looked so tired. “He could use a bit of cheering up, lately.”

‘Nemuri, come on, you know me. I know I don’t look that different and you’re always the one with the crazy theories, right? You were the one who thought our entire year was getting dosed with drugs for some government experiment! You have to at least be suspicious about all of this!’

Shouta ‘yelled’ at Nemuri, trying to get her to understand, even trying to do morse code with his eyes like he had done with Hitoshi. The only thing that happened was that he made his eyes hurt as Nemuri didn’t even glance down at all his ‘words.’ ‘I’m going to hold this over your head, too.’

“Hey, Mic!” Nemuri burst into the staff lounge as she often did, startling at least three teachers because, as usual, Nemuri seemed to forget that all of the staff were either current or retired pro heroes with hair triggers towards loud noises and sudden movement.

“Jesus, Nem, can’t you ever enter a room normally?” At the familiar complaint, Shouta couldn’t help but to let some of the tension in his body drain away, Hizashi’s voice, as always, his guiding point to centering himself.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Nemuri walked over and promptly dropped Shouta into Hizashi’s lap, Shouta doing his best to keep his claws hidden and not hurt the man. Luckily, they had two cats at home, so Hizashi was well trained in catching a cat in a way that didn’t hurt. “Found your kid’s cat in Shouta’s classroom. Make sure he gets him, okay?”

“Wha- He was in the Class 1-A room?” Hizashi frowned as he looked down at him, that same suspicion from a few days ago in his eyes that had Shouta feeling elated in an instant. “How did he-”

Nemuri was talking over him, drowning him out before he could finish, “Sorry, hun, no time to talk. Shouta’s kids can cause trouble the second you look away, but I’ll see you at lunch!”

Like a whirlwind, Nemuri was gone as fast as she had come, Hizashi left with Shouta in his lap and looking utterly lost and far too tired. Hizashi was always tired considering he worked the equivalent of three jobs - teacher, radio host, and licensed hero - but Shouta could tell he probably hadn’t slept since this whole mess had started.

‘Oh, Sunshine… You’re too hard on yourself.’ Shouta leaned up to press himself against Hizashi’s cheek, almost whining when he felt him flinch away.

“Alright, cat.” Hizashi pulled him away, staring him in the eyes with his own narrowed. “I know Hitoshi said that he saw you around the school for a while, but there’s got to be more to it than that.” Considering morse code had yet to work, Shouta was about to try sign language before he realized he was in the teacher’s lounge, which meant his desk was right beside them.

Hizashi was smarter than most people gave him credit for to the point he was a genius, so if Shouta started pulling out papers with his name on them and pointing to it over and over, Hizashi would realize in a heartbeat. Hell, he wouldn’t even need papers if he found the right objects on his desk.

Ready to at least try, they both froze when they heard Hizashi’s name called in Yagi’s voice. Shouta hadn’t even heard him enter the room; although it was possible that was due to his focus being on Hizashi.

"Yamada-san? Naomasa-san is here to see you." Nao who? Shouta watched as Yagi stared at them for a moment before floundering, hands waving around in a motion similar to Midoriya. "Ah, sorry! That is to say, Detective Tsukauchi is here to see you about the case concerning Eraserhead."

Hizashi perked up at once, Shouta quickly set on Hizashi’s desk before the man was up and heading for the door with a quick call of, “Thanks! And don’t let him out of the room!” Before Shouta could even try to do anything, Hizashi was gone, Yagi left staring at him with a small frown and curious eyes.

‘I don’t suppose you recognize me, do you?’ Shouta could feel his tired tone in his thoughts, at this point.

Across from him, Snipe sat up in his seat with a laugh, “Don’t worry about it, All Might. Apparently, that kid the two are looking at adopting soon has a cat that keeps following him. Shame Aizawa isn’t here. He’d love playing with a cat-”

Hissing at Snipe as best he could, Shouta took petty pleasure in seeing the man yelp and tumble over his chair, hitting the floor with a grunt in his haste to get away from him. Shouta watched Yagi flounder and look torn between worry and amusement as he rushed to help.

‘At least I have today’s training session,’ Shouta thought to himself, jumping to sit in Hizashi’s chair and knowing he would cry if he could at the familiar almond scent that came from Hizashi’s ridiculous hair care products. Sitting down and shoving his nose towards where the scent was strongest, Shouta closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was napping at home on their bed instead of in the body of a cat and stuck with no one knowing it was him.

Taking a steady breath, Shouta relaxed into the chair and let himself start to drift off. If he was lucky, he’d wake up with a plan to put a stop to all of this.

Somehow.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #erasermic #to land on your feet

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vertigovaines · 5 years

Text

The Doctor & The Punisher || Part One

summary: frank is experiencing side effects from the experimental drug vaines gave him. he’s not too pleased about it. but vaines is too smart to just be a sitting duck

trigger warnings: mentions of murder, violence, gore, weapons, etc. drugs, needles, and very vague science >>

featuring: @dogcfwar

FRANK: Frank knew Karen had a point. He knew Murdock, despite his many faults, was worth trusting when he told him about Vaines’ former ‘patients,’ how they had been fine at the beginning and found themselves hooked, desperate to get their next hit, the effects of Vydrate waning as the days went on. Frank’s serum was different. As time went on, he didn’t feel less powerful, didn’t feel as if the strength was draining slowly from his cells. Instead, it felt like they were growing, like he was twisting and turning inside out, and if he didn’t stop it soon, he’d grow too big for his own body.

Signing up to this shit hadn’t been a mistake, though. For all the dark, nagging uncertainty it brought, Frank knew he was better at what he did. He knew he was faster, stronger, smarter. He was himself only magnified, just like Vaines said -- but his hands still shook. His thoughts ran wild. He hadn’t slept in a week. And yeah, Karen was right. He needed to be there for this kid, needed to do the right thing.

When the hired thugs went for their shift change, Frank took advantage of the moment of weakness, choking them out and leaving them deposited in a pile outside the back entrance to Vortex. Vaines’ guards wouldn’t pose an issue to him, but that didn’t mean Frank wanted any interruptions, or someone informing Vaines he was there before he made his appearance. He walked down the hall, a little louder than he would’ve liked (this new Frank didn’t do subtlety the best, but neither had the old one) until he got to the door he knew the good doctor would be behind. Frank rapped the door with his knuckles, then stepped back, clasping his hands together as he waited.

VAINES: He had set up a lab within Vortex itself before Fish Mooney's untimely demise. And despite her protege's dislike of him, he saw no reason to discontinue its use. He made sure the guards were paid handsomely to keep his work protected and his presence a secret. It was useful, to have two labs to work from, and this basement room was far bigger than his other location.

Besides, given Frank Castle's past tendencies and the man's disposition towards him, Vaines thought it prudent to have certain security measures in place. He did not expect the decoy lab to work for very long, and he was proven right when he heard a knock on the door. Clients did not come to this location, and the guards knew better than to disturb him. He flicked on his security monitor and saw the men, slumped over by the back entrance. So the time had come, there was no doubt about it.

Vaines, however, was not frightened of the boogeyman at his door. He was always prepared, and Frank Castle would learn that soon enough. Vaines simply pressed a blue button by the door, and then the red one to open it. "Mr. Castle," he said, opening the door wide. "What can I do for you? Come back for another hit already?"

FRANK: A part of Frank had wondered whether Vaines would open the door or not, whether they would have to do this the difficult way. True to form, however, the man's arrogance had the door slide open, had him greeting Frank like they were business associates instead of what was really going down here. Frank was nothing but a lab rat to the man standing in front of him, just like Vaines was nothing but a means to an end, a way to get the results he was desperate for. After Fish Mooney went down, even more criminals were scrambling, trying to pick up the pieces. Frank had taken them all out, had made the city better, but his mission was far from over. Maybe it never would be.

"Shut the hell up," Frank muttered, purposefully knocking his shoulder against Vaines' on the way in, despite the fact that the door was opened wide enough to get a forklift through it. "Thought you said I wouldn't need another one? I'd be able to withstand it, or some shit?" That wasn't why Frank was here. He'd felt adrenaline before, he'd felt euphoria. He didn't get hooked. He maintained his focus -- that's what stopped him from becoming the psychopath the DA wanted him to be.

No, he was here for something else. He was here to kill this man, and he could do it right now, easily, but he wouldn't. Not yet. He needed a few answers, needed to secure his future, because goddamnit, the future actually mattered now where it hadn't before, not half as much. "I feel like I'm gonna crawl out of my fuckin' skin, Vaines," he said, looking over at him. "My goddamn hands, they're-" He cut himself off, holding his hands out to demonstrate how they shook. "Was that expected, huh? Just another screwed up side effect? What else is this shit gonna do, huh?" Frank got what he wanted, he knew there would be drawbacks, but he needed the truth. He could ask nicely, but he wasn't giving Vaines that satisfaction.

VAINES: "Impeccable manners as ever, Mr. Castle," Vaines quipped. His voice was cheerful, jovial even. He glanced at his watch. Yes, there was plenty of time to observe his experiment still. It was all about timing. So much of science was simply a matter of waiting for the right moment, the perfect opportunity, the exact right second. Vaines had plenty of patience, and he was masterful at seizing his opportunities.

"I also said I didn't know what the side effects could be," he said, saying the words slowly, like he was speaking to a very slow child. "The results are unpredictable. We are in uncharted waters, Mr. Castle, you knew that going in. Perhaps the effects will be permanent. Perhaps you'll crave more power. There's any number of reasons why you might be knocking on my doorstep tonight, but I assume whining about the side effects isn't one of them," he said, sneering a little.

He chuckled lightly, and casually stepped away, keeping the table between them. "Interesting," he noted, glancing over Frank's fingers. "I could prescribe something to counteract the shaking, but with your body chemistry changed, there's no telling how effective it might be. But it's only a small tremor, Mr. Castle," he said in a low voice. "You haven't lost your nerve have you?"

FRANK: Frank bit down on his automatic response - though fuck off would’ve been really goddamn satisfying - as he pushed past Vaines into the room. One door in, one door out. No windows, no areas of note that could mean some kind of escape route that wasn’t immediately visible. If Frank shot Vaines down in here, he doubted he would be found for hours, maybe even days, depending on how long it took his loyal customers to start feeling their withdrawal symptoms.

Vaines started speaking, and a muscle twitched in Frank’s jaw. “I was a marine. We don’t lose nerve,” Frank replied. For all that he was now, for all he had changed, that much was true. “It’s not just the tremor, Vaines. I’ve changed. I kill and I … I feel it for hours after. Adrenaline’s one thing, but this? This is something else.” Sometimes Frank sat down on Karen’s couch and felt as if his heart was going to bust out of his chest, like he was going into a coronary right there on the damn cushion. “I got stabbed in the neck the other night. Bled out, had to be litres, but it healed. I’m still here. You know what you did, so don’t give me this bullshit about not being able to control side effects, alright? You had to plan for this. You want to keep your lab rat alive, right?”

Both of them were profiting off this, but Frank knew it could only end one way. The second Vaines stopped speaking again, Frank took the gun from its holster, aiming it squarely between the man’s eyes. “Let’s make this really fuckin’ clear, alright?” Frank said, voice even, hand steady on the trigger -- this was the time it never shook, never had. “You ain’t in control here, Vaines. You never were. I asked for your shit, you didn’t pull me into it. So you’re gonna do what I ask, or you’re not. Piss me off, your precious brain is splattered against that wall. We understand each other?”

VAINES: "I'm sorry, do marines also whine about their hands shaking?" Vaines asked, a smug look on his face. He tutted under his breath. "What did you expect, Mr. Castle?" he asked, checking his watch again. He picked up a pen and scribbled down a few observations on his notepad before looking back up. "I didn't realize I would have to give you a history lesson," he said, smirking at the man.

"The original super-soldier serum was designed to enhance and amplify everything," he said slowly. "According to its creator, Dr. Abraham Erskine, the man, the test subject, was the most critical ingredient of the serum. He described it as 'good becomes great, bad becomes worse,'" Vaines said, in a choppy, dramatic German accent. "A bit poetic for my taste, but he wasn't wrong," he drawled. His eyes met Frank's, and they were shining with glee, with pride. "My serum does the same thing, only better. More effectively. Anything you're feeling, Mr. Castle, is not something I created in you, not something the serum put inside you. It's something that was already there, and now has been unleashed. I've unlocked your full potential, body and mind. You should be thanking me," he said.

But he was smart enough to know that would never happen. When Frank pulled the gun out, he was hardly surprised, just sighed and made another note on his pad. "Case in point, Mr. Castle," he murmured, glancing up at him. "You've always been a man who uses brute force to achieve his goals. You kill without compunction, without hesitation, so of course you think the best way to get me to do what you want is to wave a gun in my face. Has any of this really surprised you?" he asked, scoffing lightly. He set the pen down and folded his hands in front of him, smiling serenely.

"Tell me. What is it you expect me to do? I told you in the beginning there was no going back once we started. No backing out." He shrugged, spreading his arms wide. "So what if you feel your kills for hours? So what if your hand shakes and you heal better than ever before? Surely, given your profession, that's a bonus for you. Unless of course... There's some other reason you're feeling, shall we say, uneasy about the changes. Is there something you're not telling me, Mr. Castle?" he asked pointedly. "I can't help you without information, after all."

FRANK: Vaines started talking. As per usual, he started talking and he didn’t fucking stop. He just kept going, as if he was a lecturer in front of a class and Frank was the dumbass in the back row, not understanding a word he was saying -- a waste of time, a waste of resources, a waste of energy. Frank knew the opposite was the truth, that for all Vaines was talking to him like he was an idiot Frank had more than provided for him, and maybe that was what was pissing him off the most. Because yeah, Vaines did what Frank asked. He did exactly what Frank asked, even if he was irritating while he did it, even if he did have a small number of days left on this earth after this was over, after Frank was sure he was stabilised. But things had changed, since their first meeting in Vortex. Things would change even more before the year was out.

“Thanking you?” Frank repeated, the gun still firmly pointed at Vaines’ head, though his finger didn’t move on the trigger. “You should be thanking me. You want to peddle this shit out, you want to get other buyers, you think, what? You think they’ll be like me? Nah. You know that.” Frank knew himself he was the ideal candidate for this shit, even if his head left a little to be desired. “I don’t kill without hesitation,” Frank said, voice low. “I kill because there are people that will rape, murder, steal if I don’t. This -- this is my job, it ain’t my life.” Vaines’ eyes, then, seemed to cut through him, the same piercing intensity of the colour in that goddamn vial. Frank’s grip on the gun wavered, thoughts of Karen, of Amy, of the kid that hadn’t even been born coming through his mind. “I need to live,” he said finally. “I need to live, and if this shit is killing me, Vaines, you’re gonna tell me right now, you’re gonna fix it, and then I’m gonna kill you. We had a deal, asshole. That surprise you?”

VAINES: "Well, I certainly not going to tell you to shoot me, now am I?" Vaines said, a little wearily. He was growing tired of this game. But he figured he should determine whether this aggression and paranoia was normal for Frank, or an amplification from the serum. For posterity, so the next subject would be even more perfect. Because it was hard to deny how perfect Frank Castle was. How readily he took to the serum, how quickly it effected his mind and his body.

"That's true," he admitted finally. "But I'm sure I would manage. Science always finds a way," he quipped. It was the sort of thing his former colleagues would've put on a motivational poster, probably with a kitten in a lab coat. Vaines though, needed no such insipid reminders. He was confident in his own abilities, and he didn't need a man like Frank Castle to use them. "And I have given you the means to live your life very well, Mr. Castle," Vaines said, spreading his arms wide. "I fail to see the problem here."

There it was. The little waver, the hesitation, the need in Frank's eyes. "Of course I'm not surprised," Vaines replied, rolling his eyes. He sighed lightly, and checked his watch again. "A little disappointed, yes. As you said, you were a rather excellent test subject. But there are many rats in this city, and so many, many people looking for strength. Though none quite as predictable as you," he said, a smirk toying on his lips. "I always knew it would come to this. I had hoped you were telling the truth about not being compromised -- after a man who lives only to kill doesn't feel that... need to live, does he? A man who's life is killing, well, he isn't afraid to die."

Vaines laughed and stepped around the table, walking towards his door. He stood to one side, glancing at his watch once more. Any minute now. "It's a shame you aren't that man, Frank," he said, leaning against the wall and shrugging. "Luckily, I know exactly what kind of man you really are. I know you, Frank," he said, grin splitting his face. "And that's why I know, you won't be killing me tonight. Not unless, of course..." He glanced at the door as footsteps thundered down the hall. "You want to kill them, too."

The door burst open, and the first officers streamed inside. The boys in blue had arrived, just in the nick of time. It helped of course, that Vaines had alerted them the second Frank Castle arrived, warning them a few days earlier that the wanted man might make an appearance. And Vaines, at least, always kept to his word.

When he felt like it anyway.

FRANK: Vaines was good at putting on a show. If Frank didn’t believe wholeheartedly in the fact that the man was too arrogant for his own good, he might have thought that it was a front, a way to bluff Frank into thinking he had more firepower than he did -- but despite the wide gestures and the sweeping statements, he still had a tell. Everyone did, in the end. Frank wasn’t a spy, far from it, but he wasn’t an idiot, either. Vaines looked down at his watch for what had to be the third time in the past ten minutes, and Frank stayed silent, just tilted his head slightly as the other man continued to speak. He didn’t even get the chance to argue that Vaines had no idea what kind of man he was, because he could hear something above them. Footsteps, though it was clear from the way they were moving they were attempting for silence. Amateurs, then. No private army, or guns for hire. No, this was something else -- something that Vaines knew Frank wouldn’t be able to mow down with his bare hands, nevermind the guns on his belt.

“What the fuck did you do?” Frank said, cocking one of the guns, holding it so that he was exactly a beat away from blowing the little shit’s brains out over his precious laboratory -- but a beat wasn’t enough.

“Frank Castle!” an authoritative voice called out (at least, Frank guessed he was going for authoritative. It would be more believable if it didn’t waver). “NYPD! Put the gun on the floor, now!”

Frank’s lip twitched, and he didn’t drop his gaze from Vaines.

“I said, surrender, Castle! Now!”

He could see in the test tubes in front of him, and the dull monitors, that there were at least fifteen cops surrounding him, and from the sounds of it, there were more coming. If it was a year earlier, Frank would’ve pulled the trigger anyway. He would’ve taken Vaines out even if it meant he was shot dead at the same time. But now -- now he knew what Vaines was trying to accomplish here. He’d read Frank’s poker face, and called him on his bluff.

Frank let out a grunt, but bent over slowly, dropping the gun to the ground. The cops behind him let out a collective breath of relief.

“Hands up! Feet apart! Do not move, Castle!”

“I ain’t going anywhere, calm your tits,” Frank said, as one of the cops stood up. Her hands were shaking as she cuffed him, but when she read him his rights, her voice was perfectly smooth.

“Francis Castle, you are under arrest for murder in the first degree, murder in the second degree, manslaughter, aggravated assault, arson, perjury, conspiracy-”

“You son of a bitch,” Frank snapped, because it had been building and building and building and he couldn’t take it anymore, didn’t know how Vaines had wrangled it that Frank was the one getting taken away in cuffs -- but then again, Vaines had to be richer than God now, right, in money and in secrets? Two more cops stepped forward to grab him, but they found themselves taken an inch off their feet when Frank stepped up to Vaines.

Another two ran forward, and another two, and another, until eight were pulling him off him, and even at that it was a stretch to say they were succeeding. “I’ve been in jail before, Vaines,” Frank said, low. “You know how long it took me to get out. I’ll do the same this time.”

“Castle, pl-”

Frank spat on the ground in front of Vaines. “I’ll put my knife in your throat. I’m the last thing you’re ever gonna see, you piece of shit. Hope you enjoy your time as a dead man walking, Vaines.”

#discords #the doctor and the punisher discord #frank #frank: the doctor and the punisher

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tisfan · 6 years

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Discover your Soul

Title: Discover your Soul Collaborator: @tisfan Link: AO3 Square Filled: I3 -- Character is a Soldier Ship: Tony/Bucky Rating: teen Major Tags: soulmate AU, red string AU, fix it fic, not Civil War compliant Summary: Magic exists. Ask anyone with a soul mate string and they’ll tell you.

Curses exist, too. Word Count: 2,220 Created for @mcukinkbingo

Before you find your soul mate, you must first discover your soul. – Charles F. Glassman

Magic exists.

Ask anyone with a soul mate string and they’ll tell you. Magic moved the world to give them their perfect match, their mate, the person for whom they will live and die, the person that completes them and fills them up with love.

Curses exist, too.

Ask Maria Stark, whose only son was brought in to the world, barely breathing. Anthony Edward Stark almost died in his first few minutes, choking and spluttering. He uttered one mournful wail, not a baby’s indignation of leaving the womb and entering the cold, cruel world, but an old soul’s dismay.

His string, bound to him as such things were, was broken.

Less than a foot below his hand, his string ended in a puff of broken threads.

And it was bleeding.

No one had ever seen such a thing before. On the rare, and tragic states of soulmates having died before they could meet, the string was still there, indicating the broken bond, but it was black and ashy. The remaining partner would wrap it around their finger as they aged and it would slowly shrivel up and die. In some cases, a new string formed later, as their mate was reborn in a younger body.

This one, Tony’s string, bleed. Constantly, at first.

The hospital kept the baby in the infant care ward for almost a month. The blood loss affected the baby; he was weak and small and didn’t cry.

Eventually, they let him go home with his parents.

The wound clotted, but it never closed, never scarred over. The string remained brilliant red, tracing the line from the heart directly out through his finger, just like it was supposed to. It didn’t always bleed, as he got older, but if he was sad, or upset, sometimes the cut would reopen and he’d find himself with blood on his jeans, or on his desk, or eventually in his workshop.

Tony never took very good care of his hands. What was the point? People always looked at him, looked down at that loose, dangling thread, and viewed him as some sort of pariah.

Someone, maybe, whose soulmate had rejected him, sight unseen? No one knew, and the speculation was wild and varied.

Hard to maintain friendships, when people wondered. Harder, when his father was ashamed of the bleeding string, and the fact that everyone knew about it.

Tony decided he didn’t care and he made friends with the robots he built from kits and from people he met on the internet, where no one knew about his famous father or his infamous bleeding soul string.

The first time he kissed a classmate, the string practically hemorrhaged, spraying the unfortunate crush with blood.

Tony didn’t get a lot of kisses, after that story spread around.

He changed schools constantly to get away from rumors and speculations.

It didn’t help.

(more below the cut)

The first person he met who didn’t care was an upperclassman, his first year at MIT, named James Rhodes.

Rhodes and Tony.

Who became Rhodey and Tones, swapping the last letters of their names in an affectionate gesture that warmed Tony profoundly. He’d never really known the affection of friends, so he cherished the one he’d made.

The string never bled when Rhodey was around, either.

“Maybe something’s just wrong with your mate,” Rhodey speculated, and his speculation wasn’t cruel or unkind, just curious. And in some manner, reassuring. “Maybe they’re sick, or they get hurt a lot. It ain’t like this sort of thing is well studied, or nothin’. It’s all about faith and fate, and those things don’t hold up under a microscope.”

Tony wondered what his string looked like under a microscope.

Nothing, as it turned out. The string didn’t exist in the same time/space as things like photography and microanalysis, and Tony ended up getting a second master’s thesis out of speculative fate physics, while he was putting in the effort for mechanical engineering anyway.

Tony combined the two projects for his first doctorate, theoretical fate physics, and actually invented an entirely new manner of photogenesis that captured the essences of fate strings. Just after his nineteenth birthday, Tony made the front cover of Time magazine for the first verifiable picture of a fate string.

He looked, he decided, like a baby in the picture and he started frantically cultivating a beard.

Beards were wise, right? Inscrutable. Certainly not an object of pity.

Also, hot. Beards were hot.

Later, much, much later, Tony will remember the only time his fate string didn’t hurt. It wasn’t a bad pain so much as just a constant ache. If he wasn’t paying attention, he’d find himself rubbing at his finger, massaging the joint. He stopped doing that after he developed a flesh colored band to hide the string and control the bleeding.

Mostly.

And then, not quite a week before Christmas, his hand stopped hurting.

He didn’t know what to do with that information. It had never not ached before. Sometimes he could ignore it, but whenever he was paying attention, the pain was right there.

And suddenly it wasn’t.

He ripped the band off to study the pathetic length of psychic ribbon. It was throbbing; the end curling like a snake. Twitching.

The end swelled, like it was filling with blood, and then dropped, added another ten, twelve, inches to the length, until it was resting on the ground, straining.

What the hell?

He watched it, fascinated. Petted the string, poked at it. Took a photograph with his special camera.

Four hours later, the police came to tell him his parents were dead.

Six hours after that, the string bled feverishly, a stomach-turning spray of arterial blood. Tony cleaned it up, wrapped his finger. Pretended it hadn’t happened.

What the hell was a mate supposed to do for him now, anyway?

Coincidence, he told himself with a shiver.

Mourning, terrified, alone, he deleted the picture.

The Soldier sat in the chair.

He didn’t struggle. He never struggled anymore.

The string was wrapped around his wrist, several times. It had leaked out of the metal arm shortly after the Soldier had been awakened from cryo.

He didn’t try to hide it. He never tried to hide things anymore.

“Good job, soldier,” his handler said.

The soldier didn’t answer, he just waited.

“Keep him up a few weeks, I want him around for the testing.”

“You got it, sir,” one of the techs said.

“And cauterize that thing, before it bleeds everywhere.”

There was pain, when they burned the string. There was always pain. But the Soldier didn’t care about that.

Tony’s string started growing again, in the year after the Fall of SHIELD.

He couldn’t figure out why.

His own ground breaking research aside, no one still really studied the fate threads, or soul mates, or the properties therin. He was, his critics said sometimes, killing the magic.

“Magic that can’t withstand a little examination might deserve to be killed,” he snarled in response to that.

It still didn’t lead to another person, trailing along behind him for several yards like a sad kite. Useless, and he was tripping over it. There was, however, too much on Iron Man’s docket for him to actually get really into detail with his soul string. He wrapped it tightly around his wrist and ignored it as best he could.

First, arrangements had to be made for world security. Without SHIELD, without Nick Fury, there was a lot of burdens falling around, uncaught.

Then there was Ultron.

And Sokovia.

And…

The string kept growing. Twined around Tony’s wrist, up to his elbow, he ended up bundling it around his chest just to keep it out of the way.

Why was it so damn disorderly, too? Other people’s strings sort of melted away into some ethereal plane when they weren’t directly connected to the soulmate. They didn’t tumble all over the floor like a sulky yo-yo.

In fact, most people’s strings were well nigh invisible unless the person was within grabbing distance of their mates. Or, at least, from an outsider’s appearance. For each individual, they could see their string, winding off into the distance, in the direction of their other half.

Nice thought, Tony snorted, tucking an extra bit of loop into his pocket.

Secretary Ross was breathing down Tony’s neck and while he was beginning to wonder if he could, actually, strangle the man to death it it, he decided not to risk it. Not today.

“Of course you can quote me,” Tony raged into the phone. “I’m saying it, aren’t I? There will be consequences.”

God damn it, Steve.

That had been a refrain for a while now, and Tony was tired of it.

Having to send out his best friend to arrest his old man’s best friend? Officially, Tony didn’t have anything like that sort of authority, which is why Rhodey was doing it. And because Tony really, really didn’t want to arrest Steve. Things were going to shit without it.

There was something oddly compelling about the video feed.

Cap’s old friend, Barnes, having done a stint in the Russian military, or whatever. Gorgeous, sulky, long tangled hair and unshaven face, he stared up at the hidden camera like he knew it was there.

“This is what I was saying about making it worse, Steve,” Nat was complaining to Cap as they were being processed.

“At least he’s alive,” Steve said, staring back at his old friend. “What’s going to happen to him now?”

“We’ll get him help, of course,” Tony said, because that was only fair. “He’s… uh. He’s bleeding.”

There was a wet, smacking sound from under Tony’s clothing, like he’d stepped on a ziplock bag and blown the seal.

A rush of heat and wet seeped down his side.

Son of a bitch, so am I.

Tony bunched his fist up, as if he could stop his fate string from bleeding from sheer force of will. Why now, he wondered. Totally, epically bad timing.

The string was squirming, writhing, wriggling against him like it was trying to get away.

Barnes’ gaze went from the camera, over to where he couldn’t possibly see Tony trying to tip his body away so that no one noticed the wet spot on his pants, or the way blood was gushing into his shoe.

Fuck. I need to get out of here.

“I need to get out of here,” Barnes echoed, his voice a dark tremor against the air. Tony whirled, took a few steps, heedless of the bloody footprint he was leaving behind.

Look at him, trapped like an animal, Tony thought, his chest squeezing in sudden sympathy. Barnes wasn’t struggling with the restraints, but he was leaning in Tony’s direction, like steel drawn to a powerful magnet.

“Trapped, like an animal,” Barnes agreed.

Can you hear me?

There was blood pooling at the base of the restraint room, brilliant and red. Someone should die from that much blood loss.

“I hear you.”

Holy fuck.

“Stark, what are you doing--”

Tony took another few steps, then another, and his string unraveled from his belly, slithered out from under the hem of his shirt.

Touched that pool of blood under Barnes.

The world exploded in light.

The Soldier was on guard.

No one had told him that, no one had given him orders. They didn’t need to. He knew it, bone deep, blood deep.

The puddle had turned into coils and coils of string, tangling between him and the man. From the line in his heart, through the artificial arm, down his wires and servos, out the finger, and into knots and tangles, draped all over him, and then reaching for… Tony.

He’d broken out of the holding cell; nothing like that could contain him for long unless he wanted to be contained. Tony, Tony, Tony. Tony was clinging to him, sobbing with broken-hearted relief.

The Soldier knew something about that, too.

“What’s going to happen now?”

That was Steve. The Soldier knew him. A little.

Not like he knew the sobbing man in his arms. That song, he’d been denied well and too long.

Tony wiped his face, presenting his red rimmed eyes unashamed.

“I expect I’m going to be writing a new paper of fate strings physics,” Tony said.

“I meant, to Bucky.”

The Soldier bared his teeth at that name; Bucky came with knives and poisons. That name was pain. It wasn’t… safe to say.

Bucky? Tony’s voice was in his head.

It was. Who he was.

“We’ll figure it out, Cap,” Tony said. “By the book.”

“I don’t think you’re gonna like that book, Tony,” Steve said.

“Well, I’ve rewritten the book before,” Tony said. “With less solid information to go on. So… sit back, and watch me work. Don’t worry. I’ll…”

Tony stared at Bucky, his entire heart in his eyes. “I’ll take care of him.”

“And what about you?”

Bucky didn’t have to say anything. He pulled Tony closer and glared. Unarmed, held at gunpoint, the Soldier radiated threat and everyone took a hesitant step back. Message received.

“I think we got it, snowflake,” Tony said. “You can just… relax now. We’re going to fix this mess.”

“I know.”

#mcukinkbingo #winteriron #tony x bucky #soulmates AU #red string AU #fix it fic

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kivaember · 6 years

Text

Obligatory Mass Effect Crossover

(I just. wanted. to worldbuild ffxiv into mass effect setting. ok tbh this is mostly FFXIV IN SPAAAACE but y’know. whatevs. i regret nothing!)

Dalamud always looked so ominous.

It was an artificial satellite the size of a small moon, glaring red and menacingly trailing after Menpina around Hydaelyn. ‘Menphina’s Loyal Hound’, it had been called when they as a civilisation were young and ignorant, before they realised that it was a weapon of mass destruction contained within an artificial shell. The aether around it was always warped, prone to unstable flares and splutters, to the point where they had a whole institution dedicated to predicting and mapping those flare ups to warn incoming and outgoing star vessels so they weren’t reduced to superheated atoms.

It was a relic of a very ancient, reckless past – a relic that was still very much in use. Due to the way it was, ah, constructed, only a select percentage of the population could ever work on it. Only 0.01% of Hydaelyn’s population won the genetic lottery to withstand the Elder Primal’s influences slumbering within that ancient relic, and an even smaller percentage of that actually had the skill, intellect and will to be charged with its day to day running. Dalamud was, despite being a weapon of mass destruction, Hydaelyn’s only source of infinite energy.

One of those very very very lucky few in charge of such an important, vital relic… was Aza.

---

“-ing naked when the snow falls around me! Drifting closer to the edge but She won’t have me!”

Aza hummed along to the song blasting through his helmet, idly tapping along the flickering Allagan display. The live support in the control room was still down, but considering that shit was over ten thousand years old and fine tuned for heavily genetically modified Allagan, it was never all that reliable. After an unfortunately incident a century ago where some poor sod asphyxiated to death, it was now mandatory to do maintenance work like you were ready to be spaced within the next thirty seconds.

“Wake up in sweat, full of regret, try to forget, these memories, lurking beneath, lost in a dream…”

The display flickered, and Aza frowned a little when the same error cropped up for the fifth time since his shift started. It was a minor thing – a miniscule percentage rise in temperature and aether harvesting, but it was really strange. There were no solar flares or weird space shit happening for aether levels to spike, so why…

“Unchosen paths, a broken path, forespoken wr- CHIRP. CHIRP. INCOMING CALL FROM FORWARD STATION: H A L O N E.”

“Damn it, just before the best part,” Aza muttered, sending a pulse of aether to the linkpearl insistently chirping in his ear, “Yeah, whaddya want?”

“Aza,” a very pleasantly familiar voice purred, “Is that any way to greet your partner?”

“Well, if it isn’t handsome!” Aza laughed, his mood buoying as he quickly adjusted the little error flashing across the Allagan display. It resolved itself and Dalamud stopped overproducing aether. He leaned on the console and made himself comfortable, his tail lifting in pleasure, “I thought you weren’t back from New Ishgard until the end of the year? Not that I'm complaining. I missed you, gorgeous.”

“And I missed you too, love," Aymeric returned with such warmth is made Aza's heart want to burst into glittery confetti, even if the crappy reception distorted his partner's voice. Seriously, it was good to hear his voice again! The Comm Buoys were still absolute dog wank between Ishgard's newest colony and Hydaelyn, so he greedily drank up every crackly word from his linkpearl, "I returned early as Haurchefant seemed to be handling its administrative and military duties well enough on his own despite the complaints of his ‘conduct’. He was performing well above the standard, to be honest.”

“Whaaat?" Aza gasped in utter outrage, "Who’s complaining about Haurchefant? He’s an absolute sweetheart!”

“Yes, he’s also pure and ‘best boy’, whatever that means,” Aza could practically feel Aymeric's eyeroll, “Unfortunately, his appointment to a rather prestigious position has ruffled more than a few feathers in the House of Lords-”

“Is this because he’s a gay bastard?” Aza harrumphed, “Have they forgotten that their stupid Prime Minister is also a gay bastard? There’re even photos of you being one all over the Aethernet," he adopted a sly, teasing tone, "I really like the drunken one. Y’know, the one where you’re caught groping my ass during that horrible dinner party?”

“Oh Gods, I almost forgot about that,” Aymeric groaned, sounding like he was in physical pain, “Mobbed by journalists for weeks after that, demanding to know all sorts of obscene details…”

“Yeah, I remember you having to do evasive manoeuvres every time you had to go outside. Funny as shit,” Aza sniggered and swept a bit of dust off the Allagan keyboard, taking care not to accidentally input anything. These things were unpredictable. As they were created to interface directly to an Allagan’s brain implant they tended to get confused if you rubbed your grubby hands all over them without keeping a tight lid on your ambient aether.

“So, what’re you doing on the forward station? I thought you would’ve been keen to go straight home?”

“Dalamud is being a little testy today, it seems,” Aymeric said, sounding slightly sulky, “We’re held here until it either calms, or travels to the other side of Hydaelyn, before we can board the landing shuttle.”

“And, of course, you decided to abuse your World Leader privileges to talk to your lonely boyfriend via the control room's comms?”

“I may as well cash in on some sort of privileges for all the torture my government puts me through.”

Aza laughed, pushing up from the console when that annoyingly, persistent little error flickered up again. It was beginning to worry him now. Dalamud was old as shit, so it was believable that program breaking bugs could start developing in the highly complicated system. Even after several thousand years of study, the only explanation magitek engineers and aetherochemical scientists had for how it worked was a shrug and ‘Primal Magic’?

A lot of unexplainable things were chalked up to ‘Primal Magic’… or the ‘Mothercrystal’.

Aza had to spend approximately seven years in Val University to even scratch the surface of how to work the damn console. He knew enough to identify minor errors like these, and to divert major disasters like the venting systems failing, or one of the Meracydian dragons somehow breaking free of their prisons and running amok. The last one was always the hardest – he always felt extreme pity for them, but the law was firm: if they weren’t in stasis, they had to be culled due to the danger they presented to the workers and Dalamud itself. If even one managed to rouse the Elder Primal, they were fucked. End of.

But those were easy issues to deal with, well within his power, no matter how mentally or emotionally draining. But if he was asked to really get into the technicalities… he was clueless. Dalamud was a work of art that was incomprehensible to anyone not Allagan – which was everyone, nowadays. Most he could do was try and mitigate the damage by engaging its thrusters and hoping to fuck he launched it far away enough that the resulting implosion wouldn’t totally wipe out all life in the solar system.

“Aza? You still there? It's quiet.”

"Oh, sorry," Aza gave a small shake of his head to clear the sudden cobwebs, "I was thinking."

"About...?" Aymeric asked with an amused lilt to his voice.

"About..." Aza looked at the glow of the display with a small frown, hearing and feeling the whole structure around him groan and shudder. An ancient prison that held equally ancient prisoners in eternal torment. It was kind of sick they were still using this thing, really. He was struck with an odd, fleeting urge to force it into the sun - which he quickly discarded, because that would just break the Elder Primal free, who was unfortunately sun-proof (is that the word?) and able to survive in the vacuum of space. Still, he just didn't like the fact he was standing one floor above an entire hold crammed with Meracydians contorted into tiny stasis capsules, kept on the very cusp of consciousness in burning pain, to fuel the Elder Primal's existence. There wasn't anything they could safely do about it unless they broke themselves free, but it still felt all... wrong and made him feel kinda bad, more so today.

"Just thinking how horrible Dalamud is," he said honestly, because he could never really lie to Aymeric, even if his partner was hoping for some light, easy banter, "About a month ago one of the locks on a Meracydian's stasis capsule broke and opened up. I always thought it were adults in there, y'know? But it wasn't. It was some dragon pup, just squirming in that stasis goo shit, all... deformed and in pain. I got rid of it like I was meant to, I mean, it was kinder to, right? But, it's still... the... I don't know..." he trailed off.

Aymeric was quiet for a long moment, then; "...how many consecutive days have you worked?"

"I don't know," Aza said, and he felt mildly alarmed at that. He should know how many days he worked. He was meant to track that shit strictly, "Uh, seventy?"

"Long shifts too?"

"Twelve hours, yeah," Or thirteen? It was difficult to tell the time passing here sometimes.

"Is your superior still Y'shtola?" Aymeric asked, but he didn't wait for confirmation, "I saw her not too long ago on the station. I'll speak to her and have you placed on a mental wellness break starting today."

"What- no, Aym, c'mon, it's not that bad," Aza groaned, but... well, maybe his partner had a point? He had been sulking on here because he felt lonely and bored without Aymeric around, and everyone else was busy helping colonisation efforts beyond the solar system, adventuring and shit, while Aza was stuck in Horrible Space Prison. Only a certain type of person could really work here - it wasn't just the very rare gift of the Echo being a necessity, it was having the iron will to endure the strained, screeching edge to the surrounding aether as millions of lives existed in perpetual, pitiful agony all around you, it was enduring that almost sick, corrosive heaviness the Elder Primal exuded even in sleep. It was just... being able to endure. There was always a very real, dangerous risk succumbing to the Elder Primal's influence, Echo or not, if your will faltered for even a moment. While you wouldn't reach the mindless, slavish devotion most Indoctrinated people would, you were still at risk of developing violent paranoia, hallucinations and suicidal depression. Needless to say, Dalamud had a very high 'on the job' death statistic.

It did mean you had a lot of paid sick days. You were allowed to just take breaks whenever you felt you needed them, since it was proven space and time away from the Elder Primal's influence lessened its effects dramatically. But the whole thing still sucked.

"You've lost track of your days, and you're sounding a little off," Aymeric said in that no-nonsense tone of his which meant Aza had already lost, "Quite frankly, I'm amazed it hasn't been picked up on yet. How long until your shift ends?"

"Uh, I have... two more hours?"

"One hour."

"Uh-?"

"I'll speak to you later, love," Aymeric said, "I need to hunt down Y'shtola."

"Aym-" Click. "Arrrgh, c'mon...!"

---

There was something unexplainably good about having your feet firmly on Terra Firma again.

Dalamud’s Caretakers tended to live on Forward Station Halone until they took a mental wellness break. Sometimes this could be months, or even years in particularly resilient individuals, for Aza it was six months since he last set foot on it, when he said goodbye to Aymeric at the shuttle station and not expecting to see him again for another year.

That was an unexplainably good thing too, having Aymeric back.

“New Ishgard is a cold planet,” Aymeric murmured, his large, firm hands gently kneading up and down along his back. He had insisted, even though he must be tired from his long voyage, and Aza was very glad he hadn’t rejected the massage. He could just feel all the tension that had accumulated from those six months on Fucked Up Moon Prison just melting away beneath Aymeric’s gentle touch. He never wanted those hands to leave again, “It can reach -32C on a regular business, requiring specialised survival gear to range outside of the settlements, but it has rich deposit of industrial minerals and ice that we can exploit. Haurchefant is very optimistic about its prospects, despite the, ah, harsh environment.”

“Mm…” Aza could almost imagine it. The needle-sharp smell of snow, the biting cold wind, the ice crunching beneath your boots… “Ice for… nearby stations?”

“That’s right. It will be a source of reliable water if we decide to range further,” Aymeric’s hands paused at the small of his back, and… ah, a gentle press of lips between his shoulder blades. Aza arched to the touch with a low, happy purr, “Do you want to visit it?”

“Mm, yeah,” Aza mumbled, “I wanna see it.”

It wouldn’t happen. Dalamud’s Caretakers were actively discouraged from leaving the immediate Solar System, but there was always that glimmer of hope. If, maybe, they got a large influx of prospective hopefuls, so it wasn’t just ten of them, endlessly cycling in and out and battling the encroaching pressure of the Elder Primal. When Aza had learned he had the Echo, he had been so happy, thinking he could be placed on the Exploratory Team, ready to help colonists in potential First Contact scenarios if need be and acting as force protection.

But he didn’t. Bluebird got that. He was shuffled off to Dalamud’s Caretakers when his Echo scores ranked the highest they’d seen in well over a millennium. It had broken his heart. You couldn’t exactly say no to it.

“One day,” Aymeric murmured against his shoulder, “You’ll see it. You’ll see all the colonies we’ve made. You will not be at Dalamud forever, love.”

“Feels like I’ll be there forever,” he mumbled against the pillow.

Aymeric bit him, gently, but he got the message. He huffed out a sigh that slowly transitioned into a low groan when his partner’s hands started kneading along his tense back again. He melted beneath his touch, and those dim, gloomy thoughts faded a little more into the background. Aymeric was right, he wouldn’t be at Dalamud forever. There was a strict retirement age of forty.

Three more years. He could manage that.

---

Approximately thirty-three million malms away, a tiny, insignificant ice moon in orbit to Rhalgr, the Red Planet, began to shudder.

Dalamud, as distant as it was, registered a spike of unknown energy within the solar system. Automatic systems began to warm up from millennia of disuse at the perceived potential threat, the ancient, complicated machine churning through dusty old programming to decide its proper course of action. The ice moon continued to shudder with such force that its surface began to crack, and Dalamud slotted the unknown event into its targeting solutions.

This was at 2300hrs, 16 04 102018. Last logged event was approximately 10000 years ago, when a cataclysmic tectonic event shifted the entirety of Hydaelyn’s surface. Dalamud was then placed into passive-mode when X A N D E C O N T R O L T O W E R went offline and no further commands were offered. Dalamud scanned for X A N D E C O N T R O L T O W E R and received no response. No response. No response.

At 0001hrs, 17 04 102018, the ice moon violently broke apart. The alien energy spiked. Dalamud calculated and considered. Scanning anomaly. Scanning… scanning… scanning…

0010hrs, 17 04 102018, unknown alien object emerged from ice moon. Energy spikes further.

0012hrs, 17 04 102018, multiple unknown alien objects arrive into solar systems at lightspeed. Alien energy signature violently dispersed. Unknown alien objects were U N R E C O G N I S E D, therefore default to last logged behaviour when confronted with unrecognised intrusion: A G G R E S S I V E P O S T U R E.

Weapon systems were sluggish with disuse. Dalamud increased aetherical input. Elder Primal’s consciousness rose by 0.2%. Within acceptable parameters.

0014hrs, 17 04 102018, targeting solutions complete. Alien objects still U N R E C O G N I S E D, still initiating A G G R E S S I V E P O S T U R E, conclusion is D E S T R U C T I O N O F I N T R U D E R S.

W E A P O N S Y S T E M A H K M O R N R E A D I E D.

T A R G E T S A C Q U I R E D.

A H K M O R N I N I T I A T E D.

F I R I N G.

---

Dalamud, a weapon of mass destruction, built at the pinnacle of the Allagan Empire in anticipation to assist them in dominating their immediate solar system, directed a controlled Ahk Morn through the vacuum of space toward the intruders. In a blink of an eye, it travelled multiple lightyears and speared through the collected fleet of alien ships that had leapt from the unknown, alien object with devastating effect.

It was a very bombastic First Contact with the Citadel Council.

#ffxiv #fanfic #warrior of light #aymeric de borel #mass effect crossover wooooo #i regret nothing #it's mostly worldbuilding so probs boring #oops

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largehearts · 6 years

Text

still alive, who you love. || written for @madefate

exhaustion is a heady thing, when it’s all you have.

it doesn’t take a full week after they leave on the mission for you to realize you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life. it’s really – not that surprising of a revelation, in the end; you are a logical person, and when you really stop to think about it, it all makes sense. there is a reason why it didn’t even occur to you to at least put away the framed picture of the two of you from your nightstand, let alone throw it out. like every time before when takashi was in space, it is the last thing you look at before falling asleep, and consequentially, your last thought before falling asleep is him.

it’s about four days before you stop to take a moment, to realize that this is an ingrained, near-subconscious thing that may not have solid ground to stand on anymore. the comfort that let you sink into sleep was the thought that when you think of him, somewhere far away in outer space, there is a possibility that he, too, is thinking of you.

obviously, you’ve ruined that now, so why should you get the luxury of being allowed your half of the thought, the comfort?

you put the picture away.

(it doesn’t work; you still think about him every night, exactly the way you used to. you can’t make yourself stop it, even though you don’t deserve that comfort anymore. guilty, guilty, guilty. a terrible person.)

it’s the first time you have a panic attack in class when you hear the news. you are woefully underprepared for it, and it’s not like anyone else thinks to prepare you for it, either. some of the faculty knew you were together, but it wasn’t widespread knowledge (you are a private person, especially when it comes to keeping distance from your students, and your peers – takashi included – respect that), so of course the cadets would only know you taught keith, and he is suddenly missing from your class, so of course they fill you in. oh, you know what he’s like, griffin says dismissively. he probably lost his shit again when he learned that shiro’s gone missing.

your mind instantly puts the last three words on repeat like a broken record. scratchy bakelite noise included – what else could it be, that wasp-like buzzing in your ear? that bubble that tightens around you until everything outside of it is faded, frayed around the edges, muted in colour and sound. the pillow pressed against your mouth you suffocate into. the fingers around your neck, tightening, tightening.

the kids – bless them, you think later – take it fairly well. someone runs to get a glass of water. someone stands over you as you scramble into your chair and talks to you, though you can’t make out the words. curiously, you can still make out the background conversation. what’s the big deal? nobody liked keith. – he probably didn’t know about shiro, you asshole. (griffin and – mcclain? you can’t make out the voices clearly enough.)

vaguely, you think about continuing the lesson, when your head is a little clearer, but by the time the fog is starting to lift, someone has fetched ryu, and she tells you to go and rest, that she will find cover for the rest of your classes.

(ryu was always a little bit softer than anyone else you know at the garrison. you take her up on the offer anyway.)

you don’t know what you thought, really. neither people nor things die slowly all the time. sometimes it is sudden and violent. as the son of soldiers, you should know this.

it still leaves you breathless for months and months to come; you think you should know, by now, how to cope with grief – you’ve seen death before, you’ve lost people. it’s – not the same at all. you’re not sure what you’re doing wrong. all you know is it isn’t getting better. after a certain point the only time you aren’t feeling anxious is when you’re flying. you wonder how long you will be able to pretend otherwise.

it’s been over a year. you’re digging through your drawers, quietly praying you are not quite as out of medication as you think you are. instead, your fingers bump against the frame and you pull out the picture you stuffed away.

you don’t consciously realize your panic is melting away as you stare at it, sitting on the edge of the bed. but it does occur to you, vaguely and far removed from what this emotion truly could be, that this is actually, as inexplicable as that is, the first time you’ve cried for takashi since he left.

perhaps you could be self-conscious, but nobody else sees, so what’s the point? you resolutely put the picture back to its place of honour, and slowly but surely start to gain a handle on everything that’s been spiralling out of control. you don’t deserve the relief, but you are weary to the bone, and you can’t find it in yourself to care. the only person who has the right to deny you your daydreams and memories is the person you are mourning. you will take what you can get.

you don’t find out about takashi being briefly back on earth until years later.

sam’s broadcast doesn’t tell you much about what exactly happened, but you do learn that takashi survived, and that’s honestly worth the two years you’ve spent having dreams about it and nightmares about the opposite. it’s just the slightest bit awkward when you meet him to ask more questions, mostly because you haven’t seen colleen since before you broke up with takashi, but they are both far warmer and more welcoming people than you remember, and you leave with some second- and third-hand stories about the things the love of your life (and his brother) have done in deep space – and a tight ache in your chest that feels suspiciously like what you vaguely think (but aren’t sure) hope might be.

(have you seen it, is the first thing out of your mouth, and you’re almost surprised – but not really – at how you’re choking up in the middle of those four small words, because you’ve been doing fine until now. you know exactly why, though, as soon as you see camila’s smile and her watery gaze and you almost drop the bottle of wine you brought – like you always do for your regular monthly evenings together – when she throws her fierce arms around you.)

you know, somehow. it rattles you to the core, but it doesn’t matter. you know it’s a decision that shouldn’t have been made, you know what the consequences will be, you know, know, know. it doesn’t make a difference. you know you will do it anyway, because that’s what you’ve always done; it’s not your call, and honestly, that is fine. your parents taught you early what a soldier is. your dad would do the same. it stings, a little bit – not because you’ve lost hope, but exactly because you still have so much of it. it’s been six years since you last were happy, and you don’t remember what it felt like, but you know it with absolute certainty, that takashi will be back. just like you know you will die before he arrives. you don’t really mourn your own lost opportunity; you’ve done your mourning and then some. but you do think, at the back of your mind, how bitter and pointless this life is, how you’re glad you’re the one going and he will live (he has to), but now he will never get the apology he would deserve.

(objective. you used to be far more objective. you still are, but not about yourself. this is a wound you inflicted upon yourself, and did not let properly heal. it’s difficult, when the only person who could apply the salve is gone. still, these are the facts: you are going to die, and it does not occur to you that he will mourn you.)

everyone talks about your life flashing before your eyes when you’re dying. you feel cheated for it not happening to you. it’s your fault, probably; too practical of a person, you don’t have time for it when you work almost on instinct (it isn’t, though, it is something far more – skill), piloting a fighter with its comms dead, navigator dead, left wing on fire. you plummet towards the earth and you are sure of your demise because the enemy seems sure of it: they don’t follow you to finish the job.

of course the catapult doesn’t work. why would anything ever be easy? this aircraft is not built to withstand the crash. you have to time this well – jump when you’re close enough to earth to survive, but far enough not to be caught in the flames. you do the math in your head. for a brief second of madness, you wish you had a paper and a pencil, or a blackboard. you never did like using your phone for the equations.

you land on your arm and then on your stomach, and then a few more places as you are thrown back into the air by the force of impact, rolling around your axis like a badly thrown pebble across the pond. you have three seconds of respite – nowhere near enough to inventory your broken shoulder and arm and fractured pelvis and – punctured lung, maybe? no broken ribs, though, how did that – ?

the plane explodes behind you, showering its pieces everywhere. it is all you can do (and even that, barely) to curl in on yourself on the ground and hide your face in between your unbroken arm and a small rock formation right in front of you. you feel – you’re not sure what. it could either be tiny pinpricks or wide-bladed knife stabs across your back, wedging into your spine and not being pulled out. so close, you think, frustrated, as you feel the warmth of the blood spreading on your back and soaking your jacket. you had a better chance than most at survival, and yet.

and yet.

your fever dream of being carried, of wet towels against your face, of thick white scrolls of gauze, of pressure on your back that seems to push the knives even deeper – doesn’t feel much like the afterlife.

it doesn’t much feel like reality, either, though, nor anything that comes afterwards.

you are both very different. you are not sure why you ever thought anything could be like it was. you are irreparably damaged (you haven’t dared to confirm it yet, but what else could you be?), and takashi has been through more things than you think you could comprehend if he told you all at once.

except, the way he says your name is the same it’s always been, even if it’s choked, even if you almost feel like panicking again when he clings to you and begs you not to push him away.

as if you didn’t spend six years hating it that you ever did that in the first place.

you are so tired as to wonder if it’s really possible for this universe to be kind. it is undeniable, though – a gift, to the both of you, your lives, with your heart in your throat and takashi’s soft, colour-lost hair between your fingers. your lips on his cheek and his watery laugh and then yours.

it occurs to you, with takashi in your arms, that he is the one that taught you to hope. that the only real hopes you were able to hold onto were all thanks to him, about him. it’s impossible not to hope now, when he tells you he wants this, wants you, that you both want the same thing.

(belief may yet to come, but hope will do just fine for now.)

he picks up the picture from your nightstand. i didn’t dare think of you, your heart shatters with the impact of his words, and you pull him with you onto the bed. they might have taken it.

you can do that now. still a strange concept. a future.

(you already know you want all of it with him. whatever’s left, all of it. maybe eventually you’ll have the courage for it. among other things.)

he wraps around you as he falls asleep. you wake up with your bones hollow like a bird’s.

there is more than one way to take flight.

#hhh do i tag this? okay #adashi #vld adam #drabbles #madefate #!!adam

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unwoundvisions · 4 years

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Cayla (1974)

How well does your muse deal with stress? Do they do anything in particular to help them deal with it, and if so what do they do?

If it’s a stress I personally have to deal with like work, I focus on it way too much. I use the stress as this horrible motivator to do whatever needs to be done. I’m a perfectionist so stress is not really my friend. I’ll easily break down and angry cry over it. However, I’ve yet to find a healthy way to manage stress.

What are their immediate views on romantic love?

I don’t really have a lot of experience in that depart but I’m not opposed to it. It’s something everyone should get to have in their lifes if they want to.

Do they react well when they develop feelings for someone and if not why?

Again, this doesn’t happen often so I wouldn’t know. I mean, if I did, I think I would handle it...okay? I’m just very hesitant to open myself up to someone.

How do they show affection nonverbally? Are they likely to show affection with their words as well?

I’m more verbal than physical because I’m hesitant to invade anyone’s space with my touch. However, if I know they don’t mind, I’m very physically affection. Holding hands, hugs, all that sugary sweet things people do I like as long as I know they don’t mind.

Are they the friendly sort or do they prefer to let others start off interactions with them?

I let others come to me. I’m not very confident in my people skills so I never seek interactions out right away.

Does your muse have any sort of verbal tics or impediments?

I have a bad habit of saying legit, like, uh and apparently. I sometimes do stutter when I’m nervous but usually only at the start of the sentence.

Is your muse apt to stab someone in the back in any way? If so, would they admit to doing so or would they lie to cover it up?

Not really. I’m pretty loyal but I could see myself maybe doing it accidentally. If that was the case, I’d probably admit it.

How devoted are they to their loved ones? Would this devotion delve into the obsessive side?

I am very devoted but not at all obsessive.

What sorts of things would they be willing to do for friends? For family? For their significant other(s)?

Just about anything. Those are the people I love the most so of course I’d do anything for them.

Are their nights plagued with past memories or nightmares in general? What do they usually entail if so?

Dreams in general are very rare for me to remember. However, on the off chance I am having a nightmare, it’s always going to be something about a very gory or dangerous situation. I don’t have nightmares about monsters but about horrible real life things happening to me.

How do they usually sleep, in what position? Do they like plenty of pillows, blankets and/or plush toys?

I usually sleep on my stomach but will wake up on my side or back. I only really need one blanket and of course, I have Pooh.

Are they adept at using technology of any kind or do they typically need help with it?

I’m pretty good with most technology. Just don’t try to get me to figure out the lights for boy’s show. So many buttons. So many lights. I just can’t. I’m also not very good with cars. I can drive one but lord forbid I ever break down or get a flat tire.

Is your muse good with their hands, or do they tend to be fairly clumsy?

I am good with my hands in the sense that their steady and I can draw very basic things. I can be a bit mildly clumsy though. I drop shit all the time.

Do they prefer to think ahead or to leap right in and wing things?

Think head. I’d plan out everything if I could.

What kinds of things inspire your muse and does your muse tend to inspire others?

I’m inspired a lot because of the people in my life. I’m inspired a lot by the boys music. I’m really inspired by movies and plays. I suppose I technically inspire people? I’m not sure why but I’ve had songs written about me and I’m honored. If I had any talent I’d make something for them.

Does your muse think they’re mentally or physically strong?

I’m mentally somewhat strong. I think I’m capable in that aspect but physically strong, no way. Freddie’s helped me learn about about physical strength but just the basics.

Do they believe in luck? If so, would they consider themselves lucky or unlucky?

100%. It happens alll the time. People can work their entires lives at their dreams and simply never get anywhere unless they are magically seen by the right people. That takes luck.

If they had the opportunity, would they prefer to know what’s going to happen in the future or not? Why?

No. It’d give me way to much anxiety and that is saying a lot because not knowing freaks me out too.

How strongly do they listen to their intuition? Is their intuition usually correct or incorrect?

I think I listen to it 100%. Thankfully, it’s never led me wrong. I got a tarot reading once and they said one of my strongest capabilities was my intuition..

What kind of things get them frazzled or anxious? Do they tend to handle them well or get swept up in the moment?

Having too much work and too little time to do it, crowds in tight spaces, loud music and bustling people. Sometimes, I can handle all of these pretty well. Other times, I’ll get very anxious and start crying just because I’m overwhelmed.

Are there are any items they own that have sentimental value to them?

Pooh has sentimental value to me. I didn’t get him at a young age, but I did have a sentimental attachment to the character from the books. I’ve also got Cinderella snowglobe that I got as a kid. I don’t even like the character too much but it’s such a nice snowglobe and plays such a nice song that I never gave it away. I also keep movie tickets. I keep them in jar. I really don’t know why but it’s become important to me.

What kind of clothing and accessories do they prefer to wear? Are there are any particular reasons outside of general comfort that they like wearing these?

I prefer to be comfortable for the most part unless the occasion calls for something else. I stick to jeans, t shirts, leather jackets, nothing really extravagant. I’ll happily dress up for a party and I don’t really mind dressing up for business meetings either but I’ll always prefer comfortable clothes.

Can they withstand manual labor? Do they avoid manual labor as much as possible, and if so, why?

I can do it but I fucking it. I’ll avoid it but eventually I’ll force myself to do it.

How good is their memory? Has it always been like this or did something happen to make it this way?

I think it used to be good but as it’s gotten older, it’s not that great. I think that’s common though.

Are they sickly or get sick often?

I think I get sick easy. I’m not sure why either. Usually after being around a ton of people, I always end up having some type of cold. It’s annoying.

What sort of medication, if any do they have to take, if any? Do they refuse to take it, forget to take it, or do they prefer to keep on it?

I don’t really have any and I’m thankful for it.

What kind of textures (e.g. silky, rough, slick, etc) do they prefer?

I’m not really picky when it comes to clothing texture. I would prefer it to feel comfortable and soft but it doesn’t have to. The only thing I hate is when cotton t-shirts feel really thick and dry if that makes sense.

How ambitious is your muse and what are their current goals? To what ends will they go to to make those wishes a reality?

I’m pretty ambitious but I try to make sure whatever goals I have are reachable ones. But at this point in my life, I’m really happy where I am and don’t really have any goals other than do more creative things when I can.

How well do they manage their money?

Pretty good for the most part but if I’m ever around Freddie or Elton, I’m in trouble and will spend far too much.

What sorts of things bring your muse comfort in trying times? Are there any habits they have when things get difficult to help cope?

Candles, ice cream, bubble baths, tv and Pooh.

Are they pessimistic, optimistic or somewhere in the middle? Was there anything that happened to them in their life that caused them to think in this way?

I’m pessimistic when it comes to myself but optimistic for other people. But if it’s about me, I automatically assume the worst will happen. It’s just always been that way.

Is your muse the creative type in any way? How do they usually express their creativity?

I’m pretty creative. I love writing, acting and stuff to do with film making. I usually expres my creative with writing though.

Do they have any sort of outlet they use as a means to cope (e.g. writing, drawing, playing music, etc.)? How’d they get into it if they do?

Writing for sure. When I’ve been really upset, I’ll write my feelings out to try to understand them in the moment and later.

Do they have anything that they have natural talent in? If so do they enjoy doing it or is it something they tend to forget about?

Acting, I suppose? That was something no one ever really taught me to do.

Are they a passionate person or do they tend to be more down-to-earth?

I’m passionate depending on the topic. But for the most part, I’m down-to-earth.

Are they the sort to wear their heart on the sleeve? If not, why?

In a way. I can’t control my emotions for the most part and usually if I’m upset or angry it pokes through. But when it comes to eagerly accepting love, no. One bad experience sort of made me hesitant to wear my heart on my sleeve.

Are they able to multi-task or do they prefer to keep at one thing at a time?

One thing at a time. I can multi-task but I understand everything a lot better if I can fully focus on one thing.

How big is their imagination? Do they tend to share these ideas or keep them to themselves?

I have a pretty big imagination but I keep it to myself unless I know someone really wants to hear what ideas I have.

Do they tend to get lost in their own thoughts/daydreams?

I can if things are dreadfully boring. But I can usually force myself to remain focused.

#( 1974 is like the golden year for these )#╰ curvy cayla ╮#♫ play the game (queen fic)#✧ modest musings ✧

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pinktatertots99 · 7 years

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nanbaka Halloween week day 3: the jaws that bite, the claws that catch

Title: hot as hell. Author: pinktatertots99 (tates. taylor) Character(s): qi. Liang. Pairing(s): qi x Liang Rating: T. Warnings (if there are any): mentioned religion. language. Summary: it's a scorching hot day at church for father qi, and it can only get SO much better once his nuisance of a visitor comes by.

Qi slammed the door shut, exhausted. Today was not that great of a day. Not only was it blazing hot as hell outside, the church's forced air central system went out. Which meant he had to go through the entire ceremony sweating like a pig in his coat. Speaking of which, he took off his crucifix setting it on the coat hanger by the door, then taking off his outfit and setting it on the coat hanger.

Grabbing his crucifix and putting it back down he left to his desk and plopped down on the chair sighing. God he hoped the repairman would come soon or so help him! He had heard that they'd come tomorrow, which meant that he still have to suffer through a scorching day AND night.

“having problems, priest?~”

oh crap not this he thought, taking his arm off his eyes and sitting up to find his no good uninvited guest. Said guess wore a tight spandex like crop top with a square neck, a matching short pencil skirt, and black leather boot legs crossed over the other. With raven hair that was tied tight in a braid and split in half halfway down it and peach colored eyes that were filled with sin and lust, he glared at the familiar entity and it's tail swishing around casually.

Liang was it's name. And it was a demon, incubus to be more specific. He didn't know how or why but somehow he had summoned this demon and no matter what he did the pest wouldn't leave. Not unless he were to have sexual intercourse with him, which qi very clearly confirmed that THAT was never gonna happen. Unfortunately liang is unable to leave due to this and now harasses him daily. And it seemed that he was right on schedule.

“is something bothering you?” he asked in a condescending tone. Qi continued to scowl at him, and liang turned his head in mock curiosity. “hm? You don't look too well. Rough day?”

“as if you haven't noticed it's hotter than HADES!” he snapped at him. Liang was taken aback by the sudden outburst as he decided to look around. “hm actually I haven't noticed.” “...your kidding me right?”

“well, I am able to change not only my physical form but also change my form to fit comfortably into the environment i'm in. and if your saying it's hot out than that means I changed myself to where I'm able to withstand the heat and not be bothered by it.” he babbled. “so, therefore, I feel nothing.”

“great.” qi groaned. “good for you. Meanwhile, i'm getting first hand experience as to what hell's flames will feel like.”

“psh, oh please now don't be so over dramatic. Their actually much worse than this.” liang dismissed. Qi layed back on his chair and groaned in annoyance again, closing his eyes. God please spare him. Both from this heat AND this no good shitty demon.

His nerves though started to dwindle as he felt the relief of cold wind blowing on him...wait wind? He opened his eyes and looked up to see liang had turned his back on him and was fanning him with his wings, flapping back and forth. This was so...sudden to him.

“is this better?” he asked. Qi took a minute to process before nodding and then remembering liang's back was towards him. “uh, yeah. Thank you.” he replied. Liang nodded and continued to fan him. Despite him being the occasional little shit, qi had to admit he did have some nice moments. After a while he opened his eyes in realization of something.

“hey liang.” the demon looked over his shoulder to him. “you said you can change your body to fit with the environment right?” he asked. Liang nodded at him, trying to keep from the priest seeing his pink hued cheeks. “so that means you can change your skin to be cold or hot right?” liang raised a brow at this question. “i believe so yes-” he then gasped at the sudden hold around his waist, the stupid pink blush getting darker as he felt the rest of qi's body on him.

After a bit qi muttered “amazing.” and everything started to spin as liang was picked up from behind. Thankfully he made himself light but the priest was still pretty strong for someone of his species as liang put it. He then felt themselves lower onto the bed and roll over. Now the two were in bed with liang's back to qi as qi hugged him.

“wh-what are you-”

“ssshh it's fine.”

“why are you-”

“i'm hot and tired and it's my afternoon nap. And YOU are gonna help me with that.” qi stated as he took the time to take his glasses off and put them on the bed's nightstand. As he did so liang moved over to turn on his side. Now the two were to face to face with qi's arms going back to wrap around liang's waist.

“and don't try to take this the wrong way or something.”

“oh yes. Not take us laying down in bed with you hugging me the wrong way.”

“you know what I mean.”

liang rolled his eyes at him. He may have been a bit...handsy a couple times when invited to sleep with qi, but really as a sex demon with a 24/7 libido what WERE you supposed to do when you get invited to sleep in a bed with someone? Of course he didn't do this all the time, like right now and a couple times before. It was just his own way of teasing the old man. But it didn't mean he didn't mind these domesticated moments. Despite not getting their purpose they were pretty nice.

He soon realized the priest had already fallen asleep. Seemingly perfectly content. He blushed staring at him. His face was relaxed with no wrinkles, or not as many as he usually had while awake, were on him. His breathing was slower and he looked, peaceful. And this wasn't even the best part of sleeping with him.

No that would happen much later once he woke up, his face contorting for a second and then opening his eyes slowly, naturally bringing his arm to rub at his face before he'd lay back down and look at him and lazily smile and-...god he hated him. This stupid STUPID priest with his pretty eyes and delicious build and that smile, that SMILE. So charming and sweet and-AGH he hated these feelings!

Ever since he had layed eyes on him liang's entire routine had changed. At first, he just wanted to mess with him. Messing with religiously serious people like priests was a fun pass time. And then he saw his figure and, oh how quickly that idea turned. Lust filled him as he got the idea that instead of just messing with him, perhaps he could also lure him to “sin.”

and then things started changing. For one thing he found out about liang and stopped him from trying anything, which he figured would happen at first. Defiance to him and pretending he didn't see him at readings making fun of the head priest. Yet later he started to act differently around him. Of course he'd chase him out or try to make him go away but it seemed that he didn't mind the demon all that much.

Hell later on he started tolerating his sudden arrivals, instead of freaking out and telling him to get out. They'd even started to talk to each other sometimes, and they weren't fights or arguments mostly they were casual conversations about things. It was strange, and yet he liked it. What he REALLY didn't like though were these weird feelings he got from it. The blushing, his metaphorical heart beating fast anytime the priest did something like smile or some other gross human thing and god he hated it. Yet at the same time...he liked it. He never felt like this for as long as he existed until now.

He didn't know what to do with these new found feelings. Nothing in hell said it was illegal to be with one, though the big man was watching and could probably do something about it, a reason why he doesn't show or say anything about it. Except to his friend rock back in hell, which he went down often to berate about this stupid cute priest. The other reason was an obvious one, qi.

There was always the idea that he didn't feel the same way, whether by personally or because of the stupid church. Even if he did feel the same way though the church made up a stupid rule that certain priests couldn't marry. Fine then, he didn't mind waiting till qi either died or retired from it. ...but then that first option came up. Death. He didn't know how merciful the big guy was, but with how much qi prayed and all that religious crap there was always the possibility that god was gonna forgive him and open his pearly gates to him.

It ticked him off, the idea that that would happen. It fueled a fire in him to lure qi further into his web of sin. Get him to do it with him and so much more so much that the big guy wouldn't forgive him and he'd go to hell with liang. And yet, he almost didn't want that. It was sickening to think but, qi was a good guy that deserved to be accepted to heaven. And he felt that small vile of puke almost come up his throat. He swallowed it back down and snapped out of his thoughts. He can worry about this some other time. Now though, he similarly wanted to rest his eyes for a bit. He shifted his arms around qi to hold him close, being careful to not make them wander off anywhere, and slowly closed his eyes to rest.

#nanbaka halloween week #hw: day 3 #day 3 #nanbaka #fanfiction #writing #qi x liang #liang x qi #the pink one speaks #i made this

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abitscrewyvinn · 7 years

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Shade is Not Silver.

If you don’t like blood/gore don’t click ‘read more’. What follows is Shade telling her story. It.. It’s kinda brutal and she’s a little drunk right now so it might not always be coherent.

Let me preface this, start from the beginning. When it all went to shit.

I was seven. My parents, specifically my mother, have this tradition sort of thing. A sick, sadistic one. Though they claim it’s for the progress of humanity, they only recently started releasing their tech to the public. Under a pseudonym as well. This tradition is to ‘build the perfect soldier’ as it were. Generally for them that means their children. The age of seven is apparently perfect or something, because damn do they like sevens.

Anyway, they took me into this room for my birthday and told me I was getting my present when they strapped me down to a table and sawed off my arm and leg. Back then they didn’t have the laser things either. Straight up hacksaw. Used their magic to keep me alive and stable, opened me up and replaced some other shit too but I’d passed out by then. For some reason the arm and leg were too important for me to miss, so I was forced awake for that bit. This was only part of it. At seven, once I’d woken up, they informed me of the other things to happen to me over the years.

By seventeen I was to become a loyal soldier to the Silvers and all their affiliates. They’d tweak my soul just right. The tech would grow with my body just like bones. Well, the skeletal structure would. The add-ons like the shoulder pad and arm/leg covers would need replacing to match the size, and it’s all a special kind of metal. One able to withstanding just about everything short of their magic. So, at eight, I got the balls to try and run away with the only one of my sisters who agreed with me. We both understood that this shit was bad, feared for our lives we did.

.. We got caught.

She was an example. My mother was convinced that I was going to be the perfect Silver Soldier, so I was not expendable, but she was. Her name was Silthie. My mother chained her down, using some shadow abilities she’d been born into, and started a little ritual. A small yellow-blue light started at Silthie’s stomach and clawed its way up her chest through her head, and out her eyes. She screamed until the very last drop of her soul left her eyes. My mother turned to me and softly, she said. “The eyes are the windows to the soul, my love.” ....

I was dismissed to my room where I locked the door and gouged out my eyes. My father broke down the door and ‘saved’ me. I wanted to die, the bastards had more planned for me. “You have such a future ahead of you!” Bastards...

They replaced my eyes, but the model was an early one. My eyes became super sensitive to just about everything. I could see in the dark, but was pretty much blind in the light, so they made me goggles to go along with them. Made them special just for me. They carved out parts of my skull on either side, and put in some kind of magik infused metal. Once my skin was healed and grown back, the goggles could be worn. They’d fuse to my fucking face until I took them off. My right hand, the metal one, was calibrated specifically to be able to remove them.

At ten years old, I ran away successfully. I’d been trained and doted on to be the perfect soldier. I was ‘programmed’ to be a tactical genius, and it paid off more for me rather than them. I timed the security, unlocked the doors, and ran as far and fast as I could.

I smuggled myself to America and lived on the streets, stealing the food I needed from trash; sometimes I’d break into a nicer house and get food there. I’m not proud of it but I had already gotten out so I’d gotten over my wanting to die. My body’s wiring kicked in and wanted to keep me alive. Though the tech and magik I inherited has something of a life support system. It’s all rather annoying.

Once I was old enough I forged documents saying I’d become an American citizen, and I joined the Military. Army to be exact. Got drafted into this little program due to how trained I already was, not to mention my enhancements. I actually got to work with Captain fucking America, if you can believe it.. You probably don’t.. Did I mention this was the 1940′s?

Doesn’t really matter. I served with the regular-old-army for a good long while. I saw a lot of good people die. Only a few of my friends made it out alive. Eventually, though, I sort of retired? They let me go home and I was more or less on call, but nothing ever happened. Unfortunately for me, someone wanted my ass, and not in a fun sexy way.

This bitch’s name is Viran Hellsoul. Her entire family is at war with the Silvers, who I disowned myself from. I even changed my name to Shade Hawke. Steve even helped me work things out with American authorities, about my papers n’ shit. Because I was a good soldier and explained that my family is full of abusive assholes, they were pretty nice to me. Anyway, Viran is the daughter of Anaya Hellsoul, one of the previous four demonic elements. I won’t go into that bullshit, it’s all convoluted and fucking confusing.

She thought that by capturing me and killing me in front of her family, they’d all love her more. She’s an attention whore starved of attention, and takes it out on torture victims. I was the unfortunate victim.

The first month she had a phase with her whip and I. She focused on detaching my metal leg, which hurt like hell and more, and then would beat me for a while every day. Her magic is even BETTER at keeping people alive though, because she’s an over powered entity of flame with many emotional issues. At the end of the month, her family was supposed to come and there would be some ritual and she’d kill me. Thing is, out of spite I think, they never came.

Over the next two weeks she got kind of bored of me, burning the tips of my fingers and toes every other day. On the alternating days she’d choke me until I passed out, screamed at me until I woke up, and did it again.

She never got out of her denial. She kept telling me I’d die once they came but nobody ever did. At some point, I don’t know when, I became hopeful that they would come. This bitch is the head of Hell’s torture department for a reason.

Month three; She started to carve drawings and designs into my skin. Most of the wounds healed well, some left permanent scars. Those were her angry days...

Month four; She went back to beatings, and added other elements to the mixture. More fire torture, waterboarding was popular which is odd considering she’s Fire. She has something against her sister that represents water. Fuck if I know or care. She would repeatedly degrade me verbally. Nicknames. “Silver Girl” “Silver Bitch” “You awful bitch” “Bitch” in general “Silver Whore” Silver. I hate that word. I hate that color. I hate every aspect of it because in my head I just hear Viran.

She does this, mixed with all previous tortures, for the remainder of the year.

The next year, she starts mental torture as well. Sometimes she’ll just take my brain with magic and play. Go through my time in the Army, mess with that, mess with reality. Some other times, she didn’t even need magic to mess with my reality. She’d just tell me things repeatedly during beatings until I believed them. She made me believe I was her toy. That I was going to be hers forever. She told me secrets about her. She told me that she wasn’t Viran, but Val, one of the many people in her head. All splitting off from the original, Viran. They’re all aspects of her, but they’re broken and not quite whole. I used to care. I used to worry if she came in late... She used to tell me she loved me. I don’t even know what kind of love she meant. It was like a reverse sockholm syndrome. Didn’t love me in a way to let me go though, had to keep playing with me.

I was her favorite toy....

She came up with something new year after year, but eventually she just couldn’t think of anything else. She broke down one day during the fifth year. Something about her sister’s husband. Something about killing him. Something about her mother hating her. I actually cared. I can’t believe I cared.

She let me go that day. I stood outside wondering what was real. For a week I was lost until someone saw me and brought me to the hospital. At the time I didn’t understand what the rape kit was for, but hey. Now I do.

As soon as I was coherent and mentally well enough, I went right back to the military. They gave me a new job. Made me a special operative. I don’t think I’m allowed to tell stories, but I was a sniper.

Seventy-eight confirmed kills..

I went home.

I turned seventy. I don’t age like normal people. Steve and I would have only really had each other for company if he hadn’t gotten Iced, but he did. So I was alone a lot of the time. They would have come for me at twenty seven or any other seven variant if they’d known where I was, but they didn’t. They kidnapped me and nearly got their damn job done. They nearly took my other arm, nearly took my heart, but I escaped on sheer damn luck.

I had to go somewhere more secluded, so I moved to somewhere more remote, but I can’t for the life of me remember where it was. I know it was still in America.

Anyway, that’s when things get fuzzy. Next thing I know, I’m no longer in my body.

I’m in some kid’s brain in something called a system, causing them the occasional PTSD breakdown, but I’m a protector.

It’s not all bad. I have a job I guess. I have a purpose. I even have a partner. Someone from another system. A version of Fenris from Dragon Age. He’s sweet in his own way, but I love him all the same. And now I’m drunk in the headspace, venting my story onto Tumblr.

My life’s been rather odd....

#Abuse #torture #gore #drabble #Headspace things #Multiplicity #Fictive things?#She started as an OC.#This was the story we wrote for her. Kinda feel bad now.#So many sad backstories in this system #system things #actual system #rape mention

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