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fandomxo00 · 2 months

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I miss you, I'm sorry - Erik Lahnsherr - Magneto - Days of Future Past

word count: 2.8k

warnings: dark!Erik, dark!reader, smut insues beware!, its 18+!, angsty, fighting, i miss you, i'm sorry gracie abrams

Do you remember happy together?

When you first met Erik you had been infatuated with him, looking up to him as a mentor and falling in love with his charm. He didn't really have to try; he would just shy a nonchalant smile and make butterflies erupt in your chest. Erik soon became a friend to you and let you know more about his perspective. He wanted a world of mutants that didn't have to hide in the shadows or to be scared to be who they are. Mutants deserved freedom and should even be worshipped for their power. The melancholy way he spoke to you made you sympathize with him. Then he leant into you, his arm resting on the couch below you. His ocean blue eyes looking into yours, you felt yourself choke a little, looking away from him.

I do, don't you?

"Liebling, look at me." He persuaded. You felt yourself sink into the couch as you looked into his eyes.

"What does that mean?" You laughed, your voice cutting off awkwardly. The side of his mouth quirked up before he gave me a perfect smile.

"Darling, in german." Erik replied, his hand reaching out to move a piece of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. "You are…Perfection." You blushed, leaning into his hand as he cupped your cheek and leaned into you. His lips softly met yours and you completely melted into him.

Then all of sudden, you're sick to your stomach

You stared down at Charles, your heart broken in your chest as Charles looked up at you with tears in his eyes. Your sister, Moira, had your best friend in her lap as she stared down at him with crystalized eyes. Erik had left him just like this, over something so silly. And Erik had hurt him, really bad, he was paralyzed.

"Y/n." Erik reached out, as you stared up at him with scared eyes.

"I can't." Erik swallowed at your reply before looking over at Angel. She moved towards him and you felt your heart break in your chest. Is that still true?

You were dissociated when he came to you. You didn't expect him to show up to the mansion. Charles was slumped into a depression as Hank was trying to come up with serum to heal him. He hadn't gone through the front door but rather flew to your window and knocked. You opened it for him and he came through, immediately coming up to you and putting his hand on your chin and leaning down to put his lips on yours. You gasped into his mouth, your hands going to chest. "I missed you." He murmured, moving to your neck and kissing your pulse point and making you whine softly. "Missed that sound."

Erik's hands moved to your hips, and he leant down to pick you up, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you continued to kiss his lips, passionately. He started moving towards the bed before laying you down the mattress and grinding his hips into yours as leant over you. "Wait-." Erik kept kissing down your jaw before stopping as he registered your words, still leaning over you and moving his lips to yours.

"What?" He croaked.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this. We aren't-you aren't supposed to be here."

"I'm not the one who choose someone else." Erik snapped into your ear, making you flinch. Your jaw clenched as you moved your hands to his chest and shoved him off of you.

"I didn't choose someone else. You-."

"I what?" He seethed, staring at you with rage in his eyes. "You don't think I know what I did? I have to live with that, don't pretend that you do."

"You're such an asshole." You growled, moving away from him and getting off the bed and walking over to the window. "Get out." Erik moved off the bed in anger before pausing, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath. He shook his head letting out a airy breath before opening his eyes. His aura completely changed as he met your eyes.

"I'm sorry." Erik murmured, stepping towards you. "I didn't come here to fight, I just-I want you."

"You can just show up here and take what you want, Erik. I have a say."

"I never said you didn't. I would never trap you, but Xaiver?" Erik scoffed. "He'll manipulate you, plead with you, make you feel gulity until-." You flicked your hands towards him and his mouth shut, rage simmered in your eyes that they turned black. Erik's eyes blazed in heat, his patience wearing then as you heard your metal bed frame reach for you. You grinned over at him, before moving away and pushing Erik against the wall as you reached out your hand.

"Your fast but i'm faster, Erik." You remarked, as you walked towards him your heart beating in your eyes. "I'm not the scared girl you once met, that awful Charles, showed me my full potential, something you would squash with your need to be the most powerful, but you aren't." You let him speak, as you snapped your fingers as he gritted his teeth, trying to prevent himself from saying he would regret. You looked away from him, your eyes trailing down his body to see erection through his jeans. "You like this…"

You said, "Forever", in the end I fought it.

"Of course I do, now let me go so I can take you." You grinned over at him, forgoing your old arguments to give into your need to feel him touch you. You flicked your fingers and his grip against the wall let go and he stepped forward to kiss you again. Your hands went to his face as he slid his tongue into your mouth. He was quick this time, picking you up and your head banged against the bookshelf as he started biting at your neck. "This isn't short term, Liebling." He started to whisper into your ear, "This is forever, you and I."

You didn't believe him but then you cried out softly as he bit at your pulse point before soothing it over with his tongue. He moved you back onto the bed before moving back to take off his shirt. You stared up at him, your hands going to your leggings and pulling them down your legs. The two of you watched each intently, as he took off his belt and snapped it together. "Turn around." You breathed out shakily, as you threw off your shirt, leaving your bra on before showing Erik your back. His large, callused hand met your shoulder blade, his touch soft before he moved forward to grab your arms, his chest meeting your chest as he lips met the back of your neck in a soft kiss.

His hands meet yours before one hand disappears to grab his black belt and he loops it around your wrists before pulling tightly. His hand soothes down your back before his finger meets the band of your panties and snapping it against your skin. Before his hand connected with the flesh of your ass, making you jutt forward. You heard the zip of his pants before the shuffling of moving down. You knew from previous lessons that you weren't supposed to look back at Erik, even though you were curious and wanted to see him. He would give everything to you, but you had to be good first, something that made your blood boil, but Erik was desperately hot when he was in control. You felt his hand on the belt, he tugged it back making your back curve as his other hand moved against your ass, rubbing his erection against you. "Please, Erik." You pleaded, your name falling off your lips made him want you even more. You heard a tear of fabric as split apart your panties before grabbing on to your hips and sliding his cock against your folds before plunging inside of your heat. You gasped out at the sensation of his cock filling you, he grunted behind you before sliding out and slamming back into you.

"Is that good for you? Is that enough?" Erik questioned, before bucking his hips into yours harshly. You choked out a moan, as you tried to stay up right as slammed into you.

"Yes." You breathed, moving your hips against his in harsh movements. Then you feel arms wrap around you as you wanted to give up and lay against the bed. Erik's arms gripping on to you, cradling you as he continued to grind his hips into yours, his head moving to the crook of your neck.

"You've been such a good girl." He murmured, moving one of his hands to unbuckle my hands and letting my hands move out to catch myself. Though you didn't have much time because he was tossing you on to your back and grabbing your thighs and moving them around his waist. His cock slides back into you, the angle he has you at makes you shutter, before his hand came to massage at your clit as he rutted into you. "Want to come all over me, baby." You buck your hips into him as you feel your orgasm arise into you before you shattered apart, crying out in lust.

After he was done with you, he was quick to grab his things and not say anything to you. You knew that your argument from before was going to sink into both of you, making the distance needed. Both of you were hurt and even though he cares about you, this would change everything.

Good to each other, give it the summer.

You hadn't spoken to each other for a long time after that, not until you met Peter and he broke Erik out of prison so he could help save the world. Because this random Logan showed up at Mansion saying that he was from the future and that he needed our help. You sat across from Logan on the flight, the two of you actually getting along. He had taken out his claws to save you a seat, declining Erik. You scooched in past him, your face didn't let out how you were feeling, he couldn't read you. He wasn't a telepath like Charles but he knew you like the back of his hand, or so he thought.

"Imagine if they were metal." Erik croaked, his german accent thick.

"Where did they dig you up?"

"For your information, he came to us." You clarified, not meeting Erik's gaze.

"You're gonna find this hard to believe, but, uh…you sent me. You and Charles. From the future." He revealed, before going on to better explain the situation to Erik. Then Charles went into further detail about he lost his power, Erik was eager to know.

"The treatment for my spine effects my DNA." Charles explained. "You sacrificed your powers so you could walk?" Erik questioned, a furrow in his brow and his eyes serious. You tried not to stare at the man, he had aged like fine wine. It had been over 11 years since you had seen him, since you had your daughter Edie, well technically his daughter aswell.

You were brought out of your thoughts by Charles reply, "I sacrifcied my powers so that I could…" he shakes his head before looking away from Erik, "What do you know about it?"

"I've lost my fair share." You heard his voice echo through your ears as you slipped out a picture of your daughter from your pocket. You had kept in the jet and changed after the mission. She had Erik's red hair but your (y/e/c) eyes, the picture mixture of both of you, she had came up with her superhero name, Polaris, she had inherited her father's mutation of the ability to control magnetism. Her favorite color was green and that's the color she mostly wore, she promised that when she is a big girl she'll dye her hair green too.

"Ah, dry your eyes, Erik." Charles taunted, tears welled up in his eyes as he continued, "It doesn't justify what you've done."

"You have no idea what I've done." Erik snapped.

"I know that you took the things that mean the most to me." You watched something in Erik snap at that as he looked over to you to see the hurt your eyes. Charles had spoken about the relationship between Mystique and Erik, but you never wanted to believe that he was able to move on from you.

"Well, maybe you should have fought harder for them." Erik spoke, his voice violent with edge.

"If you want to fight, Erik, I will give you a fight!"

"Both of you stop." You grunted, standing up to separate the two of them. You looked Charles in the eyes, telling him that you couldn't get hurt. He could risk his life being stupid, he couldn't risk yours, or Hank's. There would be no one else left to raise Edie, you doubted that Erik would step up and be a parent to her.

"No-you abandoned me! You took her away!" Charles yelled, moving around, to confront Erik. "And you abandoned me!"

Erik laughed sardonically, malicious intent in his words, "No-you don't get to sit here and pretend you didn't take the most important person to me away. You knew how I felt for her, but you let her take pity on you!" "Angel." Erik started. "Azazel, Emma, Banshee." The plane creaked and you stared over at Logan pleading for him to do something as you froze in your seat before whispering over to him. "I have a child, please."

"Both of you sit down." Logan called.

"Mutant brothers and sisters, all dead!" The plane creaked oncemore, as it tlited to the side, you gasped.

"Erik-please." You shouted. You gripped the edge of the seat, trying to get up.

"Sit down, Y/n."

"I can't-." You protested.

"Countless others experimented on, butchered."

"Erik!" Hank yelled.

"Where were you, Charles? We were supposed to protect them!"

"Edie! Make him stop, Charles! Think about how Edie would be losing her mother!"

"What?" The plane went back to normal, and everyone visabliy took a breath. You stood from your chair, walking over to Erik and pushing him.

"So you were always an asshole." Logan commented.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"Who's Edie?" Erik questioned.

"Our daughter." You revealed. Erik took a step back from you, betryal crossed his face as he turned back to Charles, his demeaour deadly but calm.

"Where were you when your own people needed you?" He said. "You and Hank hid them from me. Pretending to be something you're not, complaining about Raven when she decided to leave you! But you hid my daughter, not yours!" his voice started to raise. "You abandoned us all and you-." he pointed at you, making you gulp. "We need to talk, now." His voice commanded the room and Logan stood up.

"You don't have to go with him." Logan assured. "But uh, I wouldn't worry about anything."

"What do you mean?" You asked and Logan shrugged before sitting back down. You glanced back over at Erik and followed him into the back of the plane that was converted into a bedroom suite. You sat on the bed as Erik paced back and forth.

I miss fighting in your old apartment

"You named her Edie? Why didn't you call?" Erik pleaded, you were surprised his demeanor was so calm, but you would have to guess that he was crushed by the matter. Especially with the way he had so calmy spoken to Charles about you and Edie.

"You've been in prison for a long time, Erik, and before you hadn't reached out in months and after everything I don't know if I can trust you."

"I would never hurt you or her." Erik declared, as you gulped out a laugh.

"Then what was that 5 seconds ago, Erik? And honestly, I thought you would hate me, so-why would I tell you? I wanted her." You explained.

"I would never make you-get rid of our child, Y/n."

"I didn't know that, I didn't know how you felt for me, that I was important to you."

"I have always loved you, I promise." Erik pleaded.

"I love you too, Erik." You started to cry, letting all of emotion out as Erik crossed over to you and wrapped his arms around you. You wept into his shirt and he rubbed at your back. "I will follow you, okay?" "I'll gain your trust your again, I promise with you by my side, we can conquer the world." Erik explained, as you smiled over at him and leaned in to kiss his lips.

#gracie abrams #erik lehnsherr x reader #erik lensherr x reader #erik lehnsherr #micheal fassbender

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wellthebardsdead · 2 years

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Another Deaths Prison Au?? ~Bambi

———

Helping hand

———

Gabe: *sitting in his room after begrudgingly taking his medications and the mountain of vitamins Angela prescribed him, now quietly going through a few of his old things winston was able to salvage* hm?… *pulls out his old beanie* god what was I thinking wearing this all the ti- *blinks as a folded piece of paper falls out of it* huh?… *picks it up and unfolds it to find an old partially burned photo of himself and Jack before everything went wrong* … *crumbles it up and throws it in the trash with the beanie, still feeling some resentment towards the old soldier despite the circumstances he’s now in*

*knock! Knock!*

76: *peers into the room* hey, lunch is ready… you need help putting any of this away?

Gabe: I don’t need your help… *resumes sorting everything into piles of keep or throw away

76: *quirks an eyebrow sensing Gabes resenting tone but doesn’t bite* okay… I’ll keep yours in the fridge until you’re ready… *turns and walks off to the kitchen*

Gabe: *sitting there in confusion not knowing how to react. Was fully expecting Jack to snap at or pry into his attitude* … *huffs and continues sorting*

*a few hours later*

Gabe: *wheels into the kitchen and to the fridge to find his lunch waiting for him like Jack said* … *takes it out and sets it on his lap before looking at the space before him trying to figure out where the forks would be kept* …

76: *walks in holding his laundry* need help finding anything?

Gabe: no… *wheels over to the drawers and stubbornly opens each one until he finds what he’s looking for*

76: *realising Gabe is most likely in pain and generally upset over the situation he’s in* alright I’ll be down the hall if you need me.

Gabe: whatever…

76: *simply glances back at him and walks off continuing his chores*

*a few hours later*

Gabe: *staring at the shower in front of him, easily accessible for him to wheel over and sit down comfortably* … *stares down at his clothes and sighs as he starts struggling to undress while not being able to stand up*

76: *knocks on the door* need a hand in ther-

Gabe: FUCK OFF I DONT NEED YOUR HELP!!!

76: *literally unbothered* okay, towels and soap are in the cupboard. *walks off*

Gabe: *listening to him walk off through the door, feeling a little guilty at losing his temper but quickly remembering the sour feelings that lead to him turning to moira for help in the first place* hmph… *finishes undressing and wheels to the shower before lifting himself into the seat and pushing his chair out of the way where it wouldn’t get wet*

*a long, long hour later*

Gabe: *sighs and turns off the water, already feeling a lot better after just sitting and letting the heat wash over him, goes to reach for his towel on his chair and freezes seeing just how far away he’d pushed it* …shit… *looks around to find anything he can to pull it closer but to no avail* … fuck it it’s only one step I can reach I- *moves to stand up and practically has to bite his lip to stop from crying out in pain* f-fuck- *quickly sits back down as his vision blurs, now finally realising just how helpless he is. Imprisoned by Overwatch, never allowed to go free again, unable to wraith or move freely at all, and arguably in more pain than he was before* h-help… *whimpers trying to hold himself together feeling so destroyed* h-help- Jack, help me!

76: *in the kitchen, cooking dinner and mulling over how to address whatever feelings Gabe might be having without upsetting him* hm? *pauses and turns off the stove hearing Gabe’s voice* Gabriel?… *walks down the hall and nearly breaks down the door upon hearing Gabe call out for help again* GABE ARE Y- oh…

Gabe: *long brown curly hair wet and clinging to his face and shoulders, feeling a mix of fear, helplessness and embarrassment* h-help me… please…

76: *steps closer and grabs the wheelchair pushing it to him*

Gabe: *reached out his arms thinking Jack was moving to pick him up but quickly corrected himself to grab the chair instead as the soldier turned to face him* thank you…

76: *takes the towel and wraps it around him* are you alright? Ptsd? Panic attack?… talk to me Gabe… I’m here to help you okay?…

Gabe: *shakes his head and hugs the towel as he starts to calm down* I’m sorry…

76: don’t be… would you like me to help you get dressed?…

Gabe: … *nods*

76: okay… let’s dry you off first.

*a few more hours later*

Gabe: *laying on the sofa after dinner, finally calmed down and experiencing the post panic attack fog* …

76: *walks over and hands him a beer* think you might be needing that…

Gabe: *staring at the beverage* I’m allowed alcohol?…

76: yeah? You’re a grown man, so long as you don’t have it right after or before any medication you’ll be fine.

Gabe: I’m a prisoner here though, right?…

76: on paper I suppose. And legally you can’t go outside or anywhere off base without me. But, you’re more of a roommate than an inmate. *sits beside him*

Gabe: well, already beats normal prison then…

76: …

Gabe: …I’m sorry…

76: I am too.

Gabe: for what?… you saved my life, brought me here when you could’ve sent me away…

76: for how everything went down… I should’ve listened to you… I drove a rift between us because I thought I knew better… you’re angry at me for that right?…

Gabe: …I was… *sighs and sips his beer* now I’m just… upset over losing my bodily autonomy…

76: you’ll get it back soon enough… recovery doesn’t just happen over night for things like this, not anymore at least because let’s be honest, we’re fucking old.

Gabe: *snorts* no kidding.

76: But if it helps… I won’t do things for you unless you want me to… if you’re in pain or there’s something out of your capability at this time. You can ask for help. I’m not going to judge you if you need a hand okay?…

Gabe: okay…

#deaths prison au #overwatch #overwatch shitposts #jack morrison #gabriel reyes #reaper #soldier 76 #r76 #reaper76

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pagetreader · 11 months

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@retrograderesemblance {x}

His uniform indicated he was surely a soldier, one that emanated prominence and carried himself with a certain tenacity. It wasn’t uncommon for the King’s militia to spend their evenings at the brothel, but when she looked into his eyes, she suspected he was there for more than a tumble between the sheets.

Standing before him with piqued curiosity, Moira watched him discard his coat as she took a step forward, her brow quirked with intrigue.

“That highly depends on who is asking,” she answered, “And something tells me you’re inquiring about talents that are not the sensual sort.”

#Moira O’Shea V1. Someone under stress meets someone lookin’ pretty.#retrograderesemblance

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ebitchwriting · 2 months

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Dragged Into The Blood

Story Summary: Never staying in one place for long, moving nearly every year, Lea Anderson was used to impermanence, chaos, and having to leave everything behind at the drop of a hat. Lea never expected that she would be kidnapped and wake up in a rusted, decrepit prison cell because of a madman's delusional belief in eugenics and cleansing the Earth of imperfection. By herself, with only the clothing on her back, she will have to rely on luck and logic to escape before she's killed or worse. Chapter Summary: While Lea is kidnapped and taken to who knows where, her father Roark is starting to spiral once and Shawn is desperately trying to hold on to some sense of stability as they wait for updates to the investigation. Chapter Warnings: Parental anxiety and despair over the second kidnapping, mentions of stress-induced self-neglect, and lashing out of anger.

Welcome back! I know this is actually a little over the mark for the monthly schedule, but I swear I have my reasons. Basically, I was going to keep focusing on Lea, but my mind just wasn't allowing me to actually write her, Claire, and Moira finding the gears. It was like hitting a wall, but when I changed course and decided to write what was going on with her dad and remaining uncle, that actually flowed really well. Plus, this is a perfect opportunity to get a look at how these characters are in a different POV as they've so far been mainly through Lea's perspective, and she's a bit of an unreliable narrator. Anyway, I hope you like this chapter!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16.

Chapter 16: A Parent's Struggle

Roark

Rain poured down with a vengeance, the force of the droplets hitting the rooftop creating music like wind chimes. The downpour was thick like a curtain, bringing a particular scent of petrichor. The foliage of the forest that surrounded the house seems more vibrant, shining brighter than even on the sunniest days of summer. Any other day, this would make Roark smile and think of how much Lea loved this weather when she was nine. This day, however, all it did was seep dread deep into the man’s bones.

Roark paced beneath the porch roof’s protective cover, fingers tapping rapidly against his biceps. His eyes darted to and fro from the gravel road to the tree line and finally back to the phone lying untouched on the chair. The middle-aged man couldn’t tell if the chilly air made his arm hair stand straight or if his racing thoughts were at fault.

28 hours. It had been 28 hours since he and his daughter had yet another fight about her job and how much showing her face would put her in danger. How they had no idea where Keenan was or who else wanted Lea as an experiment, a weapon, a possession. How Lea felt suffocated, less than human, and wanted to try and move on. 28 hours since, against his better judgment, he let her drive off with the motorcycle to that party. 28 hours since she and everyone else at the TerraSave new-hire party disappeared without a trace.

Absently, Roark heard the whining of the screen door cracking open. The delicious scent of roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, and well-seasoned chicken wafted out, drifting right towards the shaggy-haired man’s path as he paced away from the phone.

“You’ve been at this for hours, Ro. Come on,” the familiar baritone of his mentor and dearest companion spoke up just as Roark pivoted on his heels and stalked back towards the phone. Shawn stood in the doorway, his pitch-black irises watching the man continue to aimlessly walk back and forth. The taller man sighed, stepping fully out into the cold in simple sweats and a frilly apron, the door clicking close behind him. “Come on, I made your favorite.”

Roark paused, his abdomen tensing and his stomach growling loud enough for Shawn to quirk one of his eyebrows in a knowing gaze. The enticing aroma of roasted chicken hung around the taller man, thicker and more inviting than any cologne. It was almost enough to make him succumb to the undoubtedly heavenly meal. Almost. Roark huffed, shook his head, and resumed the mindless, repetitive motion. Why should he eat when Lea is God knows where, cold, scared, and alone?

“Roark, man, stop it.” Shawn grabbed his shoulder, stopping the shorter man’s spiraling. “Just,” Shawn sighed, rubbing his scalp, “just bring the phone inside. It’ll be right next to us. The ringer’s on, my phone’s on me too. Just… eat something. Anything.” Shawn’s voice broke slightly, the same tone Shawn used to beg Roark to eat just a spoonful of porridge a year ago. Roark froze, spine straightening and tensing taut before sagging like all the fight in him was drained. He nodded meekly and gently removed Shawn’s hand from his shoulder before grabbing the phone.

Shawn held the screen door open, letting the disheveled man walk back inside. As soon as the two were inside and the door clicked shut, he reached for the coat rack and pulled a cardigan, shoving it toward Roark, making his eyes scrunch in confusion. It wasn’t until he held the crumpled warm article in his grasp that he noticed how much his muscles trembled, hungry for the warmth the wool provided.

“You’re shivering like a purse dog, come on.” Shawn teased, the corners of his lips lifted but not quite reaching his tired gaze. Roark rolled his eyes at the comment but pulled on the article. Reluctantly, he followed Shawn as he led him left, past the archway, and to the open dining room area. The soft, warm yellow lights illuminated the room, reflecting off the stained-glass bowl full of apples and plums. Shawn pulled the nearest chair open, motioning for Roark to sit. “I’ll be back.” With a firm clap to his shoulder, Shawn turned and walked through the swinging kitchen door.

Roark sighed deeply, plopping down in the cushioned chair, before setting the phone onto the pine table. His eyes drifted from the device to the dozens of coffee rings embedded into the table. Flashes of memories dragged themselves to the surface, of Shawn lecturing them to use the damn coasters, of hot chocolate with a mountain of tiny marshmallows threatening to spill over and stain the table even more. Of the different homes they’ve had through the years, nearly every single one lay on a town’s outskirts. Laughter, embraces. Shouts, arguments, harsh words that Roark regretted with every ounce in his body.

The familiar prickling of tears started to well up, and guilt stabbed his heart yet again. Roark tore his gaze away from the spot and into his scarred hands. He hated this. Hated how he was unable to control his emotions. Hated how helpless he felt. More than that, he hated how much he knew he failed his family.

The gorgeous scent of meat, starch, and vegetables intensified as the swinging door was pushed open again. Shawn stepped out carrying enough plates and bowls to put a fancy waiter to shame. One by one, he set the platters of food down on the table, half in front of Roark, the other half in front of another chair with a gravy boat between the two before sitting down. Stubbornly, Roark fought to keep his gaze sequestered to his palms despite how his stomach growled louder than before.

“Ro,” Shawn called out, to no avail. “Roark.” He turned his gaze to the window; the curtains pulled back, revealing the never-ending downpour. Shawn started to reach out towards the other man before letting his hands fall back into his lap. “You know as well as I do that this starving yourself isn’t gonna help. I’m outta my mind worrying about our little girl. Just, fuck… one step atta time, ok?” Roark glanced at him momentarily before falling to the meal. Sighing, Shawn got back up and turned back towards the kitchen. “I’m getting us a juice.”

“Feck that shite, gimme a Guinness.” Roark snapped back, making the other man huff out a laugh.

“As you wish.” With that, Shawn went back through the door, leaving Roark alone with his thoughts. The all-encompassing shame ate away at his thoughts, though it focused on his mentor this time. He promised the other man he wouldn’t starve or hurt himself on the helicopter when Lea was found a year ago. Yet here he was, moping around like a toddler, refusing to eat even a piece of broccoli while surviving on only an hour of sleep.

Shawn carefully walked back through the door, a glass of berry juice in one hand and a chilled pint of Guinness, the thick and lightly colored foam contrasting enticingly with the taupe liquid. Roark’s eyes glistened, and a genuine, small smile tugged at his lips at the sight. A warm, fuzzy feeling emanated from his chest, filling the void and soothing the shame. The man immediately reached for the slightly frosted glass before a hand quickly slapped at his. Immediately, Roark’s face formed into an affronted one, holding his hand to his chest as if it had been burned. Shawn simply raised an eyebrow at him before pointing towards his plate with his fork.

“Eat at least one bite before you go guzzling that shit, alright?” Shawn continued to stare at him, and in that moment, Roark felt like he was being chastised by his mum rather than his mentor. His hands felt almost as if they weren’t his own as he grabbed the fork, tore off a piece of chicken breast, but hesitated just before putting it into his mouth. “I will fucking airplane you if you don’t put that in your mouth right now.” Roark choked down his laughter, remembering a year ago when Shawn snapped and did precisely that.

Obediently, he finally bit into the flesh. The man nearly moaned at the divine taste of the crispy, seasoned skin and the moist white meat practically melting in his mouth. Roark’s mind seemingly turned off at that moment, shoveling in forks full of roasted broccoli and carrots, then gravy and butter-smothered potatoes, before grabbing a leg and taking a large bite through the dark meat. He reached out to grab the pint before having his hand slapped yet again. Roark shot Shawn a smoldering glare, not appreciating the amused look in the other man’s eyes.

“Fuck, use your napkin man. You know better.” Shawn teased with a proud smirk, laughing under his breath. Roark pointed a finger at his smug face.

“Don’ stop an Irishman from drinkin’ his feckin’ beer. Yer lucky ye didn’ ge’ smacked.” Roark joked back before grabbing the napkin and making a dramatic show of wiping his digits. Roark reached over to the pint, brought it up to his lips, and took a large swig, making eye contact the entire time. Shawn chuckled slightly louder at the action, his tired eyes livelier at the sight of Roark relaxing and acting more like himself.

They fell into a comfortable silence, content with just eating, minds blank for once. A dreamlike tranquility that Roark didn’t know he craved, one he knew would shatter should it be disturbed. Despite how initially ravenous the man was, Roark fought to slow down, savor the food, and preserve the moment’s fragility. If not for his sake, then at least for poor Shawn. He worked so hard on this, holding their family together and ensuring every home they stayed in felt like a proper home, not some temporary thing. It was the least Roark could do to repay him for everything.

They were about three-quarters through their meal when the phone rang, vibrating loudly against the hardwood, shattering the hold of the moment. Instantly, Roark’s attitude flipped. His eyes focused solely on the device, and he snatched it so quickly it sent a throbbing pang of neuropathic pain up his limbs. He didn’t miss how Shawn released a disappointed sigh as Roark flipped it open.

“Wha’s the update?” Roark practically barked out, getting up from the chair and marching toward the living room. A chair squeaked as it was pushed back, footsteps evenly making their way toward the living room but stopped just under the open archway.

“Anderson, is Sinclair there with you?”

“Wha— yes feckin’ Shawn’s here. Get to the point.” Roark’s trembling hands pinched the bridge of his nose, hissing under his breath. His patience ran thinner as he heard the B.S.A.A. soldier sigh heavily and mumble something intelligible through the speaker.

“You’re gonna want to sit down for this—”

“Feck off and get ta the point, Redfield.” He snapped, tone curt, on edge. A gentle hand grasped his shoulder, making Roark freeze. He looked over his shoulder to Shawn, meeting his gaze. His eyes were gentle but firm, a silent plea to let him handle the call. When the other man held out his other hand, Roark couldn’t help but relent and handed the phone over with a withering sigh. Shawn pressed the speakerphone button, holding the phone evenly between the two.

“Sinclair here. What’s the status?” Shawn’s tone was hard, even, and there was no room for argument, contrasting the gentleness to the other man.

“The good news is that there’re a few hostile cadavers left behind at the scene. They all had specialized automatic rifles, flash grenades, and tranquilizing agents on hand. Our scientists are analyzing the tranquilizers, and our weapon analysts are handling the rifles.” Roark held his breath as Redfield’s report unfolded. Drugs, that’s good. They’re typically easy to track. But Redfield’s tone didn’t sound enthused. What else was he hiding? “The bad news is that the cadavers don’t match any of the most likely known mercs that affiliate with bioterrorists. The bioterrorist groups we’ve been keeping tabs on haven’t made any moves.”

“So, what you’re saying is that not only was this a calculated attack, but this could be a new player,” Shawn spoke up, his spine rigid and tense, as he and Roark listened with rapt attention.

“It’s still too soon to say, but as soon as there’s a new development, you’ll be the first to know.” Roark scoffed and rolled his eyes. As soon as he made the noise, he felt a sharp elbow jab into his ribs, making Roark hiss under his breath. “Got something to say, Anderson?” Redfield asked, his tone no less tired but sharper, almost daring Roark to try. At that moment, Roark felt his bubbling detest for the man boil over. He snatched the phone from Shawn’s hands and brought it close to his lips.

“Ye know wha’, feck ye, ye bloomin’ cunt.” Roark spat harshly, glaring at the phone, hoping the soldier could feel his fury through the line.

“Ro.”

“You ac’ like you care, go’ me little one wrapped around ye li’le finger. Now she’s gone, and all ye go’ is tha’ horse shite?”

“Ro, stop it.” He ignored Shawn’s warning, slipping out of his grasp

and pacing the living room.

��“Ye don’ care, ye didn’ nurse her back ta health, ye didn’ raise her. All ye did was give her a fart’s whisper of hope, and she’s gone now. All ’cause of ye.” Roark grew louder with every word until he was full-blown screaming. At that point, Shawn stepped right in front of Roark’s mindless path, giving him a long, hard stare. Roark nearly immediately broke eye contact, silently handing the phone back to his mentor.

“You don’t realize that it’s not just your daughter that’s been kidnapped, but my sister as well?” At that revelation, Roark felt his gut drop and start twisting on itself. “Not to mention dozens of other people? That your family isn’t the only one worried sick out of their mind? Fearing that they’re all dead or worse?” A moment of silence passes as Roark stares dumbly at the device. “I get you’re pissed, at me, at B.S.A.A., at everything. I’m fucking pissed too, but I’m doing everything I can to save them.” Redfield’s shouting suddenly stopped with a sharp inhale. “Now, I need to get back to investigating, and as soon as I know anything, I will let you know. Understood?” His tone was still tense, grating, fighting to stay calm and collected. Roark glanced at Shawn before falling back to the ground, the guilt and shame shredding his innards.

“Understood…” Roark muttered, blinking away the tears welling in his eyes.

“Good.” Redfield hung up, leaving the pair in an uncomfortable silence. Shawn flipped the phone closed with his index finger before handing it back to the other man. Numbly, Roark grabbed it, shoved it into his pocket, and immediately ran his hands through his hair, interlocking and tugging at it.

Neither man said a word, nor did they look at each other. They stood there in silence, helpless, the inkling of despair trickling down their spines. After a long minute, Shawn moved back to the remains of the meal. He stacked the empty plates and bowls, holding them in the crook of his elbow while grabbing the partially filled plates with one hand. He then brought the mass back through the kitchen’s swinging door, leaving each man alone to their thoughts.

#dragged into the blood #original character #resident evil #resident evil revelations 2 #multiple original characters #chris redfield #a03 link #a03 fanfic #canon compliant #resident evil fanfiction

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shootthemessenger · 3 years

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i did things to you only lovers would do in the dark [b.d.h. ; w.v.]

part 3 [part 1] [part 2]

billie dean howard x fem!reader x wilhemina venable

requested: something with billie dean howard (and/or wilhemina) where they are friends with reader parents? maybe reader and billie/mina get involved just for fun but they start to fall for each other and don't know what to do about it. Would love to read how they got together in the first place [anonymous]

disclaimer: sexual nature, strong language, significant age gap (all legal), teacher x student relationship, very poorly written smut (sorry lol this is a disappointment all around)

gif belongs to @mssallymckenna , @clqrkkent

You felt naked standing on the front porch of the very large home you had been directed to.

The wind was harsh against the skin of your thighs, coaxing goosebumps onto your skin as you shivered in your place. You were hyper-aware that anyone who could see you right now was probably judging you the hardest you’d ever been judged.

There was little modesty in your clothing; the jacket hung just below your undergarments whose lace could be seen anyway.

You were beginning to feel humiliated until the door swung open to reveal Wilhemina’s soft features. Her eyes lit up when she saw you and then darkened quickly when she examined your apparel. “Darling,” she mumbled enthusiastically as she stepped back to allow you to come in.

You blushed at the feeling of her eyes and shuffled in nervously.

The house was much larger on the inside, accented with extravagant art across every wall. You could certainly tell that Billie was in charge of the decorating around here.

You glanced back as Wilhemina closed the door, “It’s beautiful in here.” You complimented, pulling the coat tighter around your body. Wilhemina chuckled, brushing her hand against your arm, “Well maybe you can think about coming here more often then, sweet girl.” She pressed a kiss to your temple which only caused your face to flush all over again.

Suddenly, Billie’s voice cut through the room, “My my my, what a beautiful little package that has arrived on our door step.”

You searched for her, finally finding her standing at the landing on the top of the stairs. She was dressed casually, flowy pink dress contrasting very nicely to the purple suit hugging at Wilhemina’s figure.

“Moira,” Billie called out as she made her way down the stairs. When an incredibly beautiful, young, red-head stepped into view, Billie smiled softly. “Be a doll and get the table prepared for three please while we show our guest where she can wash up.” Moira smiled and nodded, turning around as the skirt of her maid’s outfit followed, displaying her underwear to you briefly.

Wilhemina forced her cane against the floor suddenly, causing you to jump slightly even as Billie stood unfazed, “And behave.” She huffed, narrowing her eyes as the woman.

“Not this one.” Billie commanded ominously, causing you to glance up at her. She glanced at you from the side of her eyes and smiled softly. “Of course, miss.” Moira turned towards you, her young features replaced with a much older version of herself causing you to blink rapidly in an attempt to fix your vision.

Billie laughed softly, “Don’t let her fuck with your head, dear, she’s generally harmless as long as you have good intentions.” You quirked an eyebrow, you’d barely call the fashion in which you showed up here a good intention.

Wilhemina pressed a hand against the small of your back, “Come now, darling. We’ll show you where to put your things.” You glanced at her before following Billie back up the stairs she had previously descended, hand dragging against the smooth wood of the railing. She ducked behind a door and you followed closely, trying to navigate your way through the dark space.

When the lights flickered on it became clear through the purple and gold hues shimmering at you from every angle that you were in their bedroom. A shiver ran down your spine at the sight of the bed, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

“You can leave your coat here.” Billie ushered, sitting at the end of the bed as Wilhemina took a seat beside her.

You blushed, “leave it? But I-“ Wilhemina cut you off quickly, “You heard her. Don’t make her tell you again.” Her voice was demanding as ever, you quickly complied and began to move towards the adjacent bathroom.

“No.” Billie sounded, “Here. Now.” You turned back towards her, carefully retracing your steps.

When you were finally in front of her, tugging at the bow that was tied around the waist of your coat, Billie couldn’t help but take the curve of your hip into her hand and pull you closer between the both of them.

You swallowed thickly, allowing the straps to fall at your sides and you began working on the buttons.

You fumbled nervously under their gazes, trying to hold your composure as both woman watched you like a television program.

Finally, Wilhemina reached up to help you. Her fingers worked skillfully at the bottons, popping them one-by-one all the way up your torso. Her eyes were dark, hungry even. When the last button flung open, her tongue poked out to wet her bottom lips.

Billie gripped the zipper between her fingers before looking up to meet your eye, “May I?” She asked softly, assuring you that she was not going to be mad either way. You nodded softly, letting your hand fall onto her shoulder.

Her eyes darkened even more, her lips moving slowly as she spoke, “Say it.” It dawned on you that, even now, with the tension in the room nearly suffocating and her own eagerness to rid you of your coat, she was teasing you.

“Please,” you glanced at Wilhemina who was too caught up in the sight in front of her to meet your eyes.

Turning your attention back to Billie you pressed your teeth against her earlobe, it was your turn to tease.

You dropped your voice down, low enough that even Wilhemina would not be able to hear you, “Take it off mommy.” A guttural moan forced it’s way past her lips.

You let out a soft breath at your own confidence, shifting so that it would be easier for her to slide the zipper down. She did, hurriedly and hungrily.

You leaned back slightly to push the coat off your shoulders, letting it pool on the floor as both women gawked at the lace set that fit you so deliciously.

Wilhemina was the first to move, tangling a hand in your hair and forcing your lips onto hers.

You moaned against her lips as she swallowed the sounds. You could feel Billie’s hands exploring your body, a single nail brushed over the crotch in your underwear teasingly which only caused you to whimper out in need.

“Fuck,” Wilhemina cursed at the sound, tightening her grip in your hair. “The sounds you make for us are heavenly, sweetheart.” Billie’s voice was unusually shaky, her thumb pressing against your clit through the underwear.

You bucked your hips in anticipation, growing increasingly needy. You felt as if you we’re going to burst as Wilhemina’s hand delved into your underwear, finding your clit with ease as she began rubbing soft circles with her thumb.

Billie stood up and moved behind you as you settled onto Wilhemina’s lap, moans spilling from your lips. “Let me hear how good she’s making you feel. You like her fingers on your needy little cunt?” Billie attached her lips to your neck to expertly mark you.

You had no longer gained control of your sounds or your body as Wilhemina’s finger found it’s way between your folds and eventually inside you.

You were sure your cries could be heard from anywhere in the house but neither you nor the women around you cared as they edged you closer and closer to the release you were chasing.

Wilhemina, as concentrated as she was, let out a sort of laugh that rumbled in her throat. “Look at you, little one. Where’d you learn to be such a good little slut?”

Her words seemed to awaken something inside you as you cried out and gripped her shoulders carefully. Billie’s attack on your neck was not slowing down as she held your waist between her two hands.

In that moment you felt as if you were a goddess being worshiped, knowing that both women had their intentions set on your pleasure and your pleasure alone.

So much so that when you reached forward towards Wilhemina she was quick to slap your hand away in an attempt to contain herself. The whine that left your lips was short-lived as Wilhemina hit the stop inside of you that made your toes curl.

Billie couldn’t fight the breathy laugh that fell from her lips as she watched you so vulnerable underneath her.

When your orgasm finally did rock through you, waves of white pleasure rolled down your spine as you spasmed on top of Wilhemina.

Letting you cool down for a few moments, both women peppered kisses along your skin. Your neck was already pulsing with bruises left in Billie’s wake.

Nevertheless, Billie took your chin between her fingers and turned your head so that she could press her lips to yours. You shivered one last time like a tremor aftern an earthquake.

A smile spread across Billie’s face, “Wonderful, now how’s about we get some food into you.”

Taglist: @mssallymckenna , @proudnlittle , @coxmicbabygirl , @sapphicpaulsxn , @its-soph-xx , @fand0m-obsess3d-g33k , @paulsonix , @madamevirgo , @saucy-sapphic , @kikaykimkim , @billiedeansbottom

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asexy-phoenix · 3 years

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holes in my butterfly wings

Schitt's Creek fanfic about autistic!Alexis

Crossposted to Ao3

A/N: THERE IS NOT A SINGLE FIC ABOUT ALEXIS ROSE BEING AUTISTIC, WTF?!?!?

Anyway, I was re-watching Schitt's Creek season 2 and the bit where Alexis has to break up with Ted stuck with me for some reason. So here's roughly 700 words of autistic feels re: Alexis.

Title is from hope ur ok by olivia rodrigues

She needs to break up with Ted. Oh god she needs to break up with Ted. Or-or maybe Mutt? She can’t keep doing this, it’s piled up like a too-tall pile of old eyeshadow containers ready to fall over and now Mutt is looking at her and expecting something of her.

Alexis runs a hand through her hair, trying to calm herself down. “Well, ah, maybe I could just send him, like, the sweetest little text message,” she offers. It’s not what Mutt wants to hear, she knows, but it’s easier for her to communicate with people when she doesn’t have to look at them. When she can just write her message out and send it in a text bubble, safe and sound with no awkward eye contact or indecipherable body language.

“Alexis,” Mutt says in his serious voice. He tries to catch her eye as he explains exactly why she needs to break up with Ted.

Except she’s good at this, okay? Really good at making people feel like she’s looking them in the eye when in fact all she’s doing is bouncing her eyes from one point of contact on their face to another. She laughs again, aware she’s giggling too much but it’s too comforting for her to stop now. Plus, she’s just a little stressed right now so maybe she deserves to be allowed to stim just a bit. It’s not like she’s talking to Leo or somebody right now – it’s just Mutt.

“Okay, okay,” she agrees a moment later, fidgeting with her necklace. “I’ll go and-and tell him for real this time!”

“Okay,” Mutt agrees. He tries to go in for a kiss, but she turns her head just enough that he gets her cheek instead as he’s wishing her goodbye.

Alexis takes a deep breath as she sees Mutt out of the motel room. She waves perkily as he drives away, closes the door, sits on the edge of her bed, and only then does she let herself cry. She cries for Mutt and Ted and herself, for this mess she’s made of the three of them and the way it feels like nothing will ever feel normal again.

It isn’t like she really fit in before, she was always a “little much, Alexis, really,” as Moira would put it. With her laugh, and her “um’s” and “ah’s” and weird noises, and her careful avoidance of eye contact, Alexis has always been a little…off. Except, it had never come back to affect her before, not like this. Consequences had always been something that happened to other people, not to her. And it’s not like she isn’t a grown-up, she can take it on the chin, like her dad would say. It’s just that, for the first time in her life she had met two guys that were nice and genuine and (at least in Ted’s case) kind.

So, she had tried to relate to them in the way that worked for everyone else – giggled and flirted and stayed inside her carefully crafted box – and they’d gone for it. But apparently in this small town, where everyone says what’s on their mind and wears their heart on their sleeve, Alexis’ quirks reveal more than they hide, like bad foundation.

Taking one more shuddering breath, she stands up. If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do it in what makes her feel safe. Even if it makes her look weird and off-putting to the world of Schitt’s Creek, Alexis will feel protected behind the mask. So she carefully, one step at a time, removes her makeup and puts it back on. Ritualistically, she looks through her closet and chooses an outfit. A dress that will press against her skin in all the right places and none of the wrong ones, heels tall enough that she can walk on her toes and not look strange, a headband that puts enough pressure on her scalp to ground her without digging into her head.

“Okay,” she says to herself, applying a last layer of lip gloss in the mirror. “It’s showtime.” She puts the lid on the lip gloss, pastes on a smile, checks one last time in the mirror, and, with everything in place, walks out of the motel to ruin one of the first good things in her life.

#schitt's creek #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #alexis rose #autistic alexis rose #season 2

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goosesister · 4 years

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I ignored all responsibilities this week in favor of binge watching Schitts Creek and I have some thoughts:

I thought I would hate this because I generally don't like shows about terrible people reveling in their terrible-ness (looking at you Its Alway Sunny). And make no mistake, at the beginning of this show they are all AWFUL people. But their humor and good will won me over quickly and by the end of episode 3 I was a true believer

Johnny Rose is a man who's family drifted apart and he and no idea how it happened. All he wants at the beginning of this show is for his family to be close and support each other instead of this 'everyone for themselves' mindset they had somehow fallen into. Eventually they do and he couldn't be happier. Johnny tries hard at everything he does and accepts how far he's fallen. It takes him awhile, but soon enough he's back at it, working so hard and rediscovering how much he missed working at something from the ground up

I would die for Moira Rose. And she would let me do it and thank me before hand in EXA-ggera-TED TOneS and wearing a shiny black and white outfit. Her way of speaking and many wigs makes me smile in any situation. She's more than a little vain and narcissistic, but she cares so much about all the people around her. At the beginning there's nothing she wants more than to get out of Schitt's Creek and never come back, but by the end she realises just how amazing the people around her are and their many strengths. Throughout this series she you see her all encompassing love and acceptance of her children, her true commitment to Johnny as her husband but never letting her dreams and ambitions take a back seat. She branches out creatively with Crows, the Jazzy Gals, and Cabaret and discovers that she isnt just a one trick soap opera pony, but is a truly talented and capable individual.

Were talking about David and Patrick now, beacuse I cant wait another second and because never have I loved a cannom queer couple more (I'm sorry Alana and Margot! I swore I would never stray). Just, damn that was some fine writing. At no point do the writers use them as a cheap stereotype or token gay couple, but one of the main romances of the show with a complex relationship with all its ups and downs. David starts off a whiny man-child whose parents have fixed everything for him. But by the end through his relationship with Patrick, Stevie, and opening his own business, David has discovered he is inventive, capable, and smart individual. He can succeed on his own without his parents money. His friendship with Stevie is iconic and his relationship with Patrick is tooth rottingly sweet. Patrick is a grounded and loving partner to David, endorsing of almost all David's quirks with an eye on how much is too much, so David never crashes. What legends.

Alexis, not going to lie, got on my nerves the most at the beginning. Her obliviousness and self-obsession grated in a way that felt like nails on a chalkboard. But the more you watch her grow and the significant steps she takes to improve herslef and expand her horizons, the more you root for her to win it all. From the beginning, despite everything she does on purpose, she has a genuine and incredible warmth about her that makes her personality bright. The writers also made tough but satisfying choices with her love life. All of her major relationships don't follow rom-com formulas and there are some complex discussions about sex and feelings. From her sudden horrifying adventure stories to her sweet habit of booping people on the nose, you will always want to cheer Alexis on.

Stevie. Just...wow. Watching her story arc over the seasons is one of the most compelling things about the show. Stevie starts out a funny but directionless slacker with no clear goals. But as the show progresses she actively explores different career options and partners trying to find out what she really wants out of life. This echoes so profoundly with me I cried with her a few times. From her dry deadpan humor to her willingness to help others make her such a compelling and relatable character.

This show is amazing and now I'm not surprised it won so many Emmys

#schitt's creek #tv shows #tv #johnny rose #moira rose #alexis rose #david rose #david x patrick #i love them all #tv show review

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hysterialevi · 3 years

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Eitr | Chapter 10

Fanfic summary: In an alternate universe where the Raven Clan is wiped out, Sigurd ends up being rescued by the son of a Saxon ealdorman, and is tasked with being the boy’s new bodyguard. Upon meeting the boy’s father however, Sigurd soon realizes that the ealdorman is responsible for his clan’s destruction, and secretly plans for revenge while hiding behind the guise of a Norse pagan turned Christian.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male OC

Author’s note: Thanks for being patient with me guys. I know I’ve been sucking ass in terms of getting these chapters out at a frequent rate, but I really appreciate you all being so understanding with me. Hope you enjoy this part, and thanks again for the support.

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

ONE WEEK LATER

ELMENHAM, THE LONGHOUSE

Oswald threw an incredulous stare at Eivor upon hearing the news, unable to deny the doubt that was settling into his mind.

“The ealdorman of Wedenscire did this?” He asked. “Are you certain?”

Eivor shrugged, fidgeting with his axe as he relaxed in a chair.

“That’s what Gjuki tells me. There is still much information to be uncovered when it comes to the nature of this ambush, but based on what he has brought to me so far, I think it’s safe to assume that Aegenwulf was involved with the attack at the very least.”

The king placed his hands on his hips and began to pace around the room. “I just... I find it difficult to believe that he would act so brazenly -- especially in the middle of a war, no less. Aegenwulf has never been fond of the Danes, that is true, but he is a man of honor; a man of God. If he truly is behind the attack on Ravensthorpe, why would he do such a thing? What reason could he have to treat your people in such a way?”

Eivor sighed, tracing the edge of his blade. “I do not yet know, but his crimes go beyond what happened at Ravensthorpe. He also has my brother.”

That caught Oswald’s attention. “Aegenwulf has Sigurd? Is he holding him prisoner?”

“Not officially, but he may as well be. I have only heard fragments of the entire situation in Forangal, but Gjuki tells me Sigurd is slowly being brainwashed. He bears their sigil, and raises a blade in the ealdorman’s name. He obeys Aegenwulf’s every word, and apparently, has expressed some hesitation in terms of going along with my plans to assault the fortress. There are even whispers that he might convert to Christianity soon. They are turning him into a thrall.”

The Saxon king shook his head in sympathy, gazing blankly at the floor. “I’m... so sorry, Eivor. You’ve made it quite clear how much Sigurd means to you. I can’t imagine what it’s like watching a loved one lose sense of who they are. I wish I could make all this go away with a snap of my fingers, but we’ll need more men if we are to breach the walls of Forangal Castle.”

Eivor rose from his seat, sliding his axe back into its sheathe. “Have no fear, Oswald. We will have the forces we need soon enough. I have just finished securing an alliance in Eurvicscire. A couple more, and we should be ready to get Sigurd back.”

“Good. In the meantime, I will do all I can to prepare. A fragile peace hangs over East Anglia, but if there’s any chance we can save your brother, I’ll be there when you call for me. So will Valdis.”

“Thank you, Oswald.” Eivor said sincerely. “I know I’m asking a lot, but if we don’t rescue Sigurd from Forangal, he could end up dead. Or worse.”

“I understand. This is not something we can simply let go. If Aegenwulf really is at the heart of all this, we must bring him to justice. He has the blood of many innocents on his hands, and that cannot go unpunished.”

Oswald strolled back to his throne, finally having a seat after a long day of work.

“Carry on with your plans, Eivor. I will inform Valdis of what is to come. In the meantime, do your best to keep your head high. I know these are trying times, but Sigurd is going to need your strength if his situation is truly as bad as Gjuki reports.”

Eivor gave him a nod, making his way out of the longhouse. “I know, Oswald. And I will. I’m not giving up on him yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~

THAT NIGHT

FORANGAL CASTLE, SIGURD’S CHAMBERS

Dragging a small stone along the edge of his sword, Sigurd sharpened the blade underneath the pale moonlight as he sat by the window, continuously checking to see if Gjuki had lit the brazier yet.

It had been about a week or so ever since he began searching for Algar’s hidden crypt, and with no further updates to inform Sigurd of what was going on, the man couldn’t deny that he was starting to grow anxious.

What if something had happened to Gjuki? What if he had been caught? What if all this was for nothing? What would he do?

The last thing Sigurd wanted was to think about the possible outcomes that could arise if their plan was foiled, but the thoughts continued to creep into his mind regardless. There were so many risks at hand and so many lives to consider, that he was beginning to wonder if all their effort was doomed to end in futility.

After all, they were heavily outnumbered in this part of England. Aside from Gjuki and his men, Sigurd really had no one else to rely on in Wedenscire. Of course, he had the support of Aegenwulf’s children to back him up, but in the face of true monarchy, he doubted that their approval of him would mean much to the ealdorman in the end.

Still, he supposed there was no use in worrying until he had a solid reason to believe something was amiss. Gjuki had already proven himself to be a skilled warrior in the past, and with Eivor waiting just beyond the horizon to bring Aegenwulf to justice, Sigurd remained confident in the fact that they would reunite someday.

Though, of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t frightened.

“...Sigurd?” A man suddenly said from behind the door, their gruff voice muffled by its material. “Are you in there?”

The viking placed his sword down and walked over to the entrance, straightening his tunic along the way.

“One moment.”

Swinging the door open with a firm pull, Sigurd paused in surprise when he saw an unexpected face greeting him from the other side, admittedly confused about their presence here.

“Thegn Raedan?” He said. “Is there something you need?”

The nobleman took a moment to observe the Norse in front of him, flicking his eyes up and down.

“So...” Raedan replied quietly, not wanting to wake Forangal’s people, “you’re Sigurd the Lone-Wolf. I apologize for the abrupt visit -- especially at such a late hour -- but I wanted to speak with you face-to-face. After all, I don’t think you and I have had the chance to sit down and have a proper conversation yet, have we?”

“No, we haven’t.”

The Saxon quirked a brow at him. “...May I come in?”

Sigurd stepped to the side, allowing him entry. “Of course, my lord.”

Walking into the dimly-lit chamber, Raedan strolled towards the window and leaned against the wall beside it, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword as Sigurd closed the door behind him.

“So,” the viking said, “what did you wish to speak about?”

Raedan was quiet for a second. “...Well, a few things. But mainly, my wife. Moira. You’ve met her a handful of times by now, haven’t you? I know she’s been giving you some trouble since we first arrived, and I’m sorry about that. She is a good woman, but she’s also very protective. And I fear that the history between our people and yours has been anything but peaceful.”

The viking crossed his arms. “I assume her distrust towards me isn’t without reason.”

The Saxon nodded. “And you’d be correct. I’ll spare you the details, but... just know that she lost her own mother to the vikings. Many years ago. It’s the main reason her father arranged a marriage between the two of us. He wanted to secure an alliance with my family in order to drive the Danes out of their lands. It worked in the end... but at a great cost.”

Sigurd’s tone softened with empathy. “...I’m sorry to hear that. I know how it feels.”

“I imagine we all do, nowadays. Unfortunately. It’s rare to find someone who has evaded the tragedy of this war, and even rarer to find someone who hasn’t been changed by it. But I digress...”

Raedan approached Sigurd, lowering his voice so that it was barely above a whisper.

“May I ask you something, Lone Wolf?”

The Norseman nodded. “Certainly.”

“...From what I understand, you’re quite close to Aegenwulf, aren’t you?”

Sigurd shook his head. “Not particularly, no. In fact, I hardly know anything about him.”

“Is that so? Well, I must admit, that’s somewhat of a surprise. I simply assumed you were friends since he’s allowed you to stay here. Most Danes that cross paths with Aegenwulf end up with a severed head.”

“It was mostly his children who influenced his decision to spare me,” Sigurd explained. “Initially, Aegenwulf was going to have me executed.”

Raedan chuckled softly. “Ah, yes. That’s more what I expected. Still, it doesn’t sound like the Aegenwulf I knew all those years ago. He’s always been a stern bastard, mind you, but... I feel as if he’s changed lately. And not for the better.”

Sigurd recalled what Edric told him. “Well, he did lose one of his sons.”

“Aye. Gareth. I heard about that. Such a horrible death, and one that I fear has left Aegenwulf in a perpetual state of despair. He always puts on a smile when he’s around me, but I can’t help but feel as if it’s no more than a facade.”

The viking picked up on his tone. “You’re worried about him?”

“I am. That’s why I came to you. I hate to talk about a man behind his back, but I thought you might know something that could help. Seems he’s keeping secrets from everyone these days, though.”

Sigurd couldn’t hide the sharpness in his voice. “Not everyone.”

“Oh? You have someone in mind?”

The Norseman sighed out of hesitance, somewhat reluctant to answer the question. Part of him trusted Raedan to handle information like this with an objective mind -- he seemed quite rational, after all -- but the other part regretted saying anything in the first place.

Still, he wondered if it’d be best if someone from outside of Forangal knew the reality of the situation. Sigurd wasn’t willing to open up to Raedan about everything just yet, but... maybe it could’ve helped if one of Aegenwulf’s oldest allies had the gist of what was going on.

He only prayed he wasn’t wrong.

“...It’s Algar.” Sigurd finally confessed.

Raedan furrowed his brow. “Algar? You mean Aegenwulf’s housecarl? What about him? Have you noticed anything strange?”

“Nothing specific,” he lied, “but it doesn’t take much to see that he’s influencing Aegenwulf’s way of thinking -- and not in a good way.”

Strangely enough, the other man didn’t seem too shocked. “Yes... I’ve heard the folks in this castle whispering about him. Edric’s mentioned him a few times as well. I get the impression that no one here is really fond of him, and now I’m starting to suspect there’s more to it than mere speculation.”

“Indeed. Everyone I’ve met so far has called him a snake. Perhaps it’d be worth keeping an eye on him--”

Sigurd came to an abrupt pause, suddenly noticing a lone flame glowing in the distance. It appeared to be coming from the pier just as Gjuki said it would, and he could’ve sworn he saw someone moving around in the shadows.

It must’ve been him.

“Sigurd?” Raedan said, pulling the viking from his thoughts. “Is... everything alright?”

The bodyguard brought his gaze back to the nobleman, quickly conjuring up an excuse.

“Erm, f-forgive me, my lord. I hate to cut our conversation short, but I just remembered I have an important matter to take care of. I’m afraid it can’t wait. If you’ll excuse me...”

Raedan nodded, giving him a casual wave. “Of course, Sigurd. Do what you must, and thank you for lending your ear to this old dog. I’ll keep in mind what you said about Algar, and I think we’d both do best to observe his every move. In the meantime, keep Aegenwulf’s children safe, understand? I don’t know what’s going on with his housecarl, but those little rascals don’t deserve any harm.”

“Understood. You have my word.”

The Saxon began heading for the exit, satisfied with the information he gathered. “Very good. I’ll see myself off, then. Take care of yourself, Lone Wolf. This place is far from safe, and I fear it’ll stay that way for quite some time.” He gave him one last glance.

“Until we meet again.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A FEW MINUTES LATER

THE PIER

Tugging his hood further down his face, Sigurd stuck to the path as he navigated his way through the darkness, doing his best to stay concealed in the overwhelming blackness of the night.

So far, he had yet to notice anyone tailing him through the wilderness, and the foliage around him remained calm with inactivity, but he couldn’t seem to fight off the sense of dread that was crawling underneath his skin.

It just felt... ominous out here. There was too much silence; too much stillness. The world was devoid of any life during this time of day, and it didn’t reflect the same atmosphere Sigurd experienced when he went hunting with Edric at all.

Perhaps it was just nerves, he thought. The night always seemed to draw out a certain type of fear from people’s hearts, and the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be out here in the first place certainly didn’t help.

His mind may have been racing with about a thousand different thoughts at the moment, what with all the anxiety that was building up in his chest, but he had to remind himself to stay calm.

Panicking would only make him stand out more after all, and he couldn’t afford to be caught.

“...Gjuki?” Sigurd whispered cautiously, quietly approaching the pier as he stepped into the brazier’s circle of light. “Gjuki, are you there?”

There was no response.

“Gjuki,” He repeated a bit louder, starting to grow concerned. “It’s me, Sigurd. You can come out.”

Still, he received no answer.

Where was that damned bard? He wondered. Had Gjuki been forced to flee prematurely due to some sort of threat? Or had Sigurd simply mistaken this flame as his signal?

He assumed the fire had been lit by Gjuki, considering that this pier was abandoned. No one else had any reason to make use of this place, and the timing of its appearance had to be more than just a coincidence.

Though, in spite of all that, the bard remained nowhere to be seen. There was no trace of Gjuki lying around the vicinity, and if Sigurd looked closely enough at the wooden floor of the pier, he could’ve sworn he saw some type of red liquid staining its surface.

Wait a minute.

Was that...?

“Hello, Lone Wolf.”

Whirling around at the sudden voice, Sigurd barely had any time to react before he felt the sharp sting of an armored fist bashing him in the face, causing him to fall to the ground.

He heard a group of footsteps swarming him as soon as he hit the floor, and within the blink of an eye, a pair of men had grabbed him by the arms, restraining him in their grasp.

“Hold him down!” A familiar voice bellowed over the commotion.

Sigurd struggled violently in their grip and desperately attempted to break free, only to receive a firm kick to the stomach. His head was still spinning from the initial punch, and now, his organs felt as if they were about to climb up his throat too.

“Stay still!” One of the men barked, shoving Sigurd’s face into the ground as he bent the man’s arms behind his back. But the viking wasn’t done fighting yet.

Despite being somewhat dazed from the attack, Sigurd wrestled even harder with the guards and let out an aggressive grunt, trying to weaken their grasp.

Before he could resist their seizure any further however, a metallic scrape suddenly reached his ears, forcing him to bring his attention to the dagger that was now kissing the flesh on his throat.

“Move one more muscle,” his captor hissed, “and I’ll plant this little beauty straight through your eye.”

Sigurd glared at the man on the other side of the blade, instantly recognizing their face.

“...Algar.”

The housecarl grinned widely, leaning in closer to him as he pulled his hood back. “Well, well. If it isn’t the blue-eyed demon. I had a feeling you would turn up sooner or later, Sigurd. I’m so glad to see you again.”

Sigurd ignored the man’s taunts, focused entirely on the absence of his friend. “Where’s Gjuki? What have you done with him?”

Algar raised a brow. “Oh, you mean the bard? There’s no need to worry about him, mate. I assure you, he’s receiving the exact treatment he deserves.”

The viking glowered at the malevolence in his tone, horrified to imagine what Gjuki could’ve been going through at the moment.

“I’ll kill you for this, you dog...!” Sigurd growled through clenched teeth.

The Saxon offered nothing but a chuckle in response. “You’ve certainly got a fire in you, Lone Wolf. There’s no denying that. I almost... respect it in a way. But unfortunately, I doubt you’ll be doing anything in your position.”

Algar grabbed Sigurd by the hair, yanking his head upwards from the ground with a hard tug.

“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t figure out what you and your friend were doing? How blind do you think I am? I warned you what would happen if you defied me, Sigurd, but it seems my threats fell on deaf ears. A shame, really, seeing as how you would’ve made a great warrior. All you had to do was follow our fucking orders. Now though, I’m afraid your fate rests in Aegenwulf’s hands.”

Algar let go of the viking’s hair and stood up from the ground, giving his men a series of commands.

“Tie him up, and bring him back to the castle. I’ll inform the ealdorman of what has transpired here. In the meantime, make sure this one stays put in the dungeons. I don’t want him to see even a sliver of sunlight until Aegenwulf permits it.”

“Right away, sir.” They answered in unison.

“Good. Then our business here is concluded. Oh, and Sigurd?” Algar shot a smirk at him. “Have no fear. I’ll personally see to it that your friend Edric hears of this. Can’t wait to see what he thinks.”

Sheathing his weapon, Algar swiftly walked over to his horse and prepared to return to the castle, dousing the brazier’s fire with a splash of water from the river.

Meanwhile, his men wrapped a cloth around Sigurd’s mouth and secured him with an abundance of ropes, ensuring that the man couldn’t move. Afterwards, they hauled him up from the ground and threw him over the back of one of their mounts, rendering him completely defenseless.

Sigurd was terrified right now. He had no idea what Algar intended to do with him, nor if Aegenwulf would spare him a second time -- and considering the fact that Gjuki could’ve been dead, he assumed he had lost his only chance to discover what the housecarl was doing behind closed doors.

Everything was going to hell.

Not only would he be a prisoner of Algar’s now, his identity would also be exposed to everyone in Forangal. They would learn his real name, and finally hear the truth of his cryptic background. Edric would believe that his clan was responsible for the death of his brother, and the trust that they had built thus far would crumble into ash.

Blood of Tyr, Sigurd thought to himself. What on earth had done? Would he even survive this next week?

How was he going to contact Eivor now? Were Gjuki’s people aware of what was happening? Surely, Eivor would realize something was amiss with the bard’s disappearance.

Or perhaps... he would just assume they were dead. Hope was in short supply nowadays due to everything going on in the war, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to believe that Sigurd had been killed whilst in the hands of Saxon enemies. Eivor probably had many other things to worry about at the moment, and the viking could only pray that his brother would be vigilant enough to notice that something had gone wrong.

Otherwise... Sigurd didn’t know what else he would do. There weren’t many chances to escape in a situation like this, and the odds were heavily stacked against him.

Right now, his only option seemed to be compliance. He imagined his stay with Algar would simply worsen if he fought back, and any defiance would’ve surely swayed Aegenwulf towards a less forgiving approach.

Edric was the one person who had any hope of changing the ealdorman’s mind, and just like before, Sigurd had no choice but to rely on the young man’s help.

He was the only one who could’ve saved him now, and unless his view of the viking changed after hearing Algar’s report, Sigurd hoped he would be able to see reason.

There was something deeper connecting the two of them, and now, after all this time, he would finally see for himself if it ever actually meant anything.

#assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #sigurd styrbjornson #male oc #sigurd x male oc #ac valhalla fanfic #eitr

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sigcy · 3 years

Text

We dabble in writing fics, as well! Here’s a slowburn sigcy fic (it’s still a WIP, first posted on AO3) that Mod Cricket and I worked on together. (CW for violence.) Part Two.

[ Part One ] | [ Next Part ]

Sigma had lost track of time while he was working under Talon’s authoritative claw. He would wake, don his armor, and do whatever they asked him to do. They told him that they were freedom fighters, pursuing peace for a better world from corrupt politicians and faulty scientists. Days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, and he worked dutifully for his rescuers.

But he had been confused-- told that he had been falsely accused, that he had been imprisoned due to someone fearing his work. And so a manhunt had commenced over the years, the astrophysicist slowly being melded into something far more sinister than he had ever anticipated he could be.

A weapon.

At first, he would hesitate-- a job ending in the death of someone that he had been told had worked against him. Begging for a life cut short by someone else finishing it off for him.

Over time, it grew easier. Easier to reach out with his mind, thanks to the augmentations that Dr. O’Deorain had fitted him with. Mental augmentations, allowing him to bend gravity as he so chose-- as though he didn’t conform to the laws Isaac Newton had described centuries prior. The one exception. The one variable in the wide universe of mathematics.

Over time, he would use his harness to strike fear in those who opposed Talon’s Just cause. He realized the world was filled with nonbelievers, those whose heads had been filled with twisted lies. That is, until Moira stopped him, one day.

“You have become quite brutal in your work, Subject Sigma.” She leaned against the door frame, wiry arms crossed over her chest. “Like a trained killer.”

That wasn’t his name. He reminded himself, looking up from his workstation, scattered with datapads and papers. He had been catching up on scientific work that he had missed while he had been under capture-- several years worth of reading.

The geneticist stepped over, humming to herself. Always, there was an air of aristocracy about her-- yet he couldn’t quite place why. He knew very little of his colleagues, in hindsight. Her spindly, metal-plated fingers graced his shoulders as she rounded his chair. “Mr. Ogundimu almost fears you may be getting too... powerful.”

“I would never harm anyone here.” He insisted, that ringing in his ears making him flinch-- that damned melody sparking just under the surface of the sound, almost barely discernible. His eyes jammed shut, and he shook his head, trying to rid himself of the noise, to no avail.

“Are you sure about that, dear?” She prodded, quirking a brow. One of his hands came up to cup at his forehead, attempting to still the sound.

He had opened his mouth to speak, but Moira continued, never losing that little knowing smirk. “Perhaps we should give you more sedatives, mm? Pull you off the teams for a while.”

“No, no, no, I can work--” “Nonsense.” She grinned, tapping at his arm and stalking off. “I only wish the best for you, my dear.”

The ringing grew worse, and he grit his teeth as he watched her walk off. As the door closed behind her, the room fell dark-- and the datapads in front of him also lost their power.

“What is going on!” He yelled out, standing from his chair and nearly falling from the ringing in his head.

There was no answer, and as he stumbled to the door, it remained shut-- locked.

“What!” he yelled out again, his fist making contact with the door with a loud thud. Again, there was no answer. “Let me out! Your humor is lost. Let me work!” He yelled again, growing angrier by the second.

But in the end, he was left alone.

This treatment continued for weeks-- anytime he flinched, each time he made mention of the noises he heard or the ringing that drove him insane, he would be locked away-- given ‘time off’ in solitary. It drove him insane, loneliness driving him to improve. To survive out of spite.

Eventually, he learned to cope, to ignore it, and to grasp it, if only to escape his room for missions-- as though he simply lived for Talon’s gains.

The noose that Talon had him under grew ever tighter, however-- he soon was not allowed out of his room without armed guard, before he was not allowed out of his room at all, unless they required his abilities. It was as though he were a pet project, losing his freedom with each added layer of ‘security.’ His self worth deteriorated, and he was left to rot.

Anger. Anger is what he began to feel, bubbling up in his chest, almost making him feel as though he could scream. But he didn’t.

Sigma sat alone in his room, thinking about everything that had transpired. He was glassy eyed, staring at the wall in front of him. Fury was evident in his sharp eyes, almost like a small flame was burning in them.

That damn melody rang through his head - he had built somewhat of a tolerance to it at this point, but when he was angry, the sound of it was deafening and unbearable for him.

He felt a small itch in his arm, and looking down he could see the shape of something inside of it. Stretching out the skin with a pull, he looked closer, the shape resembling that of a pill.

Sigma’s eyes went wide, running a finger over the bump to make sure it was actually there and he wasn’t hallucinating. How had he never noticed it there before?

And then that’s when he realized that this was a chip that was implanted inside of him. His pulse began to race and sweat dotted his forehead. The room felt like it was disappearing all around him, his vision beginning to intensely focus on this foreign object in his arm.

Sigma began to claw lightly at it, not really realizing what he was doing, his mind racked and blank from panic alone. He applied more pressure, blood now oozing out of the open wound. Had he been a test subject? All those times he’d been given a sedative to calm down, had they put things inside him? What else was there?

His adrenaline ran high, continuously digging at it and ripping open more of his flesh. Red tainted his vision, the melody in his mind turning into screeching, off-key notes the further he pulled it open. He was far past the first few layers of skin, muscle now visible. Blood poured from his arm and onto his bed - but that didn’t stop him, the adrenaline making him not feel the pain.

Sigma could see the twinkle of the object in his room’s light, and without a second thought, he gripped it and yanked it out, letting out a yelp. The little device fell out and clattered to the floor, ripped from a nerve with a twitch and a spark of a wire.

He gasped and panted, looking up to the ceiling in ... relief.

The melody…it’s gone.

...........................

"Ma'am, there's a situation in Subject Sigma's room." An attendant rushed to her, flashing the security footage of her pet project's room in question. Most of the lights had been busted from the ceiling, one hanging loosely and flickering in the corner of the camera’s vision. Sigma sat idly in the center of the screen, looking up to the ceiling as if lost in thought, turning away from the camera in his room.

"What is it?" She asked, annoyed.

"His chip. We're not receiving any more input from it. He dug it out of his arm." We have security on the way, but with the situation right now, we can't afford to lose anyone else--"

" Impossible. " She hissed, before she turned on her heel, a breath leaving her as her body dissolved-- rocketing forward and out of the room. It didn't take her long to rocket through the fulcrum, rushing past and through anyone in her way, like a vengeful ghost rushing to glory. Finally, she rematerialized in front of Siebren's door, just as collected as she had been minutes prior. But an anger seethed under the surface, barely masked behind a cruel smile.

She didn't knock, and the security outside the door followed her in without a word.

" A mhuirnín. [My Dear.] What on Earth are you doing?" She asked, that same smile crossing her face as she entered. Her tone was light, kind, despite the anger that dwelled underneath. "A little bird told me you've done something very bad. And you know we can't have that, now."

He remained silent, giving her a deathly, intimidating glare as he turned where he sat.

The security team surrounded Moira-- unnecessary, she thought, but nevertheless, she seemed unfazed. This wasn't the time for a security breach. They had to come together, as Akande had put it. Foolish sentiment, but nevertheless one she had to put up with.

"Stand do--!" One of the security guards ordered, his rifle, along with the others, aimed directly at the subject in question. Though, he'd been stopped by Moira's slender, miscolored hand coming up. Her eyes narrowed-- something about the man had changed. His demeanor was filled with hate. With distaste . His intimidation was lost on her, and she stood firm. She still had the power. She always did.

"My, my, A mhuirnín. You certainly seem to have been naughty." She glanced down to his bleeding arm, the trickle of blood following the lines of the musculature of his frame, before dripping down his fingers and to the floor. "And here, I thought we worked so hard to make you such a good boy. " What a setback, months of mental conditioning, wasted in a matter of moments. Nevertheless, she was patient-- A few sedatives would make it easy to replace the chip that funneled those delightful noises into his nervous system.

She smiled again, taking a few steps forward, the security team following close behind. Their anxiety was present in their minute hesitations, one's hands even tightening on his rifle at his shoulder. But she showed no signs of that remorse, no signs of fear. "Come, now. Let's get you bandaged up. Your condition is fragile. "

“Shut up.”

Sigma’s voice was stern, the anger evident from his tone. His usual soft, periwinkle eyes gleamed with hatred, looking right through the woman who stood before him. He understood, now. He understood everything that she had done.

The hatred that bubbled up in his chest came to a boiling point, the feeling no longer ignorable. With swift motions, Subject Sigma threw a fist down, sending the security team slamming to the ground. They panicked, unable to move and felt like an invisible force was keeping them down.

With Moira still standing before him, knees bent and fearful in all but a moment, he wasted no time in grabbing her by the neck with his free hand, his grip vice-like. Teeth bared, her usually stoic face marred by the lines of distaste forming around her mouth. A miscolored hand came up to grasp at his wrist, nails digging ruthlessly into his skin, clawing at him to get free. Her mismatched eyes bore into him, kicking about as he effortlessly lifted her from her feet. That smile she'd worn only moments prior melted away into anger, and into fear above all else. The panicked yells of the security team filled her hearing, along with the pounding of her heart in her ears.

“I’m sick of you.” He hissed, his grip tightening.

Any retort she would have had was drowned by his hand at her throat. Only the choked gasps of her struggling for air could be heard. And within all but a moment, her head already felt fuzzy from the lack of blood flow to her brain.

Damn. This was bad.

She closed her eyes, and in a moment, her form dissipated, the cloud she'd dissolved into twisting around him. She reappeared at his back, a gasp of air letting her return to the moment. "Stand down, pet. I don't want to have to hurt you." She hissed, dark, biotic energy rolling down her arm. It wouldn't kill him, but she could sap his energy enough to at least keep her alive. And that was what mattered. She could replicate the data she'd gathered on Subject Sigma's condition. She could do it again. And do it better.

" Now. " She added-- it wasn't a request. Where she was used to her assistants cowering at the tone, she knew it would take far more than just that to get his attention, again. And so with a flick of her wrist, the corrupted caduceus technology reached out, latching onto his biometric signature, again and again, zapping at him like a drunken parent’s lash of a belt.

A pang shot through his body as the red-head used the ability against him, a short wail escaping him. However, he remained unfazed by her attempt to subdue him, his anger and adrenaline coursing through his veins, he turned around to grasp her neck again. This time, he used his gravitational power to pull her in, the pressure around her much worse than before.

He looked down at her, his usual soft, periwinkle eyes now bewildered and filled with pure hatred. This was a side of Sigma that no one ever saw, even in battle, he never had this same vicious look on his face.

I want you to look at me as I wring the pathetic life out of you. The phrase repeated itself in his mind as he looked at her, as though a switch had been flipped.

His grip tightened, teeth clenched and bared as he put more power into his hold on her.

She'd tried to dematerialize again, to shift from his grip, but something held her in place. Like a cocoon, a spider wrapping its victim in silk and immobilizing her nomatter how much she struggled. It was fascinating, seeing such a raw display of power take hold. But she was on the wrong side. She shouldn't have been prey. She was better than this. Her hands shook, and she couldn't help but watch the beam of caduceus tech get cut off from its link to him. Pushed away by the power of gravity alone. And while there was a minor surge to her own body's resilience, it wouldn't last.

She managed to bring her hands up to clasp at his wrist again, shaking against the gravity that seemed to push against her at every angle. Squeezing her, as though she were about to be crushed by stones.

Teeth bared as she struggled, kicked, eyes wide as she looked to Siebren, looked to the security that were trapped helplessly on the floor behind them. Her hands clenched tightly against his skin, nails clawing for any sort of purchase. But none was to be found-- there was no remorse, no mercy in his fingers.

Moira let out a choked sob, eyes beginning to water. Pitiful. Desperate. She could do nothing, and even though the security called for backup, she knew that they wouldn't get there in time. She tried again and again to shift away, to dematerialize, but every time she did, the gravitational force that bound her in place only seemed to tighten. Finally, the sound of one of her ribs snapping could be heard, followed by a second, and a third. There was a rumble in her throat as she tried to cry out, but nothing could escape.

Nothing ever did escape from a black hole, now did it?

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes; not necessarily from the intense fury that was ablaze through him, but he was finally getting his revenge after all this time. His revenge for all the times she tested on him, prodding and poking him like he was nothing more than a test animal to her. The flashbacks of her putting him under electroshock therapy during the very few times he did attempt to go against her flashed through his mind, the pain something that he could never forget.

Sigma had it in his mind that when Talon saved him from that god awful facility, they were his saviors and he should be ever gratuitous for everything they did for him. But as time went on, he learned of how they actually were, and were far from being his angelic saviors, turning into his torturous captors and being treated much the same as he was in the previous facility.

Moira played with fire, and now she was going to burn.

Sigma kept tightening and tightening his grip, her neck feeling as though it was crushing under this pressure alone. Both hands were on her, and he wasn’t letting go. His thumbs were placed over her throat, making sure that he was going to crush her windpipe. Her gasps and struggles were like music to his ears, a sense of peace and tranquility washing over him in that moment.

His eyes watched hers through all of this, previously unfeeling and serious eyes now filled with fear. How the tables have turned, to now be the one who cowers before me.

Her desperate clawing began to dull, with time-- where he put up a fight, and stood as a brick wall for her to scrape away from, she clawed and writhed like a frantic, rabid animal in a too-small cage. She fought for survival, yet it certainly was a losing one. Nevertheless, her metal-reinforced nails gouged into his skin, tearing it open. She kicked at him, her shoes planting hard at his ribs-- But with the adrenaline that most assuredly coursed through him, she doubted he could feel it. Her eyes bulged, mouth frothing and tongue visible as her body began to kick in to the primal instincts of fear.

She was furious. Furious and desperate. Where she usually wore an arrogant visage, a queen atop her throne, she now felt like a desperate peasant in the hands of a vengeful God. How long had passed? Shit, had she lost count? Precious seconds ticked by as her brain began to slow, consumed by a burning haze.

Her wide eyes rolled up into her head, tears now spilling over as her pale skin turned a bright red. After a moment or two more, her strength began to wane. And finally, her hands slipped from where they dug into his wrist, the movements clumsy and haphazard as the seconds tick, tick, ticked by. Her thrashing stilled, and for a moment, the scientist almost looked at peace. Though, her lip quivered, and her arms twitched as they fell heavily to her sides, body convulsing. The room was spinning, Moira sputtering as her consciousness faded.

Without hesitation, Sigma flung her lifeless body to the ground in-between the guards that he kept down. His eyes looked at her like she was nothing but a piece of garbage, a queen who had been removed from her throne and reduced to a nobody. The marks of his fingertips were visible as oval bruises that spotted her neck, in between discolored flesh.

Sigma’s eyes glanced amongst the group of guardsmen, all of them looking up at him like they were nothing but cornered animals, pleading that he didn’t do the same to them.

He knew he had to leave, otherwise his only other option will be to be killed. As horrific as a person Moira was, they wouldn’t allow for someone in the inner circle to be killed, and by a subject no less.

As if on cue, however, gunfire could be heard outside the door-- screaming and the sounds of fighting, before the door slid open. A masked Talon grunt entered, backwards-- firing several more rounds behind him in a burst fire spray, covering them before the door slammed shut behind him. A fist broke the screen covering the hand scanner, effectively locking them in. They would be safe, for a moment.

The trademark Talon Red helmet turned to the scene before them. Cowering security staff. An unconscious doctor. A lone victor. He didn't hesitate to lift his rifle, dispatching those that were pinned to the floor with ruthless intent before he stripped his helmet off, a flash of palms to show he was no threat. "Dr. de Kuiper?" The man asked, his short hair dreadlocked and brown eyes boring into him. Siebren nodded in alarm, backing up, his hands shaking. "Looks like I came just in time." His Haitian Creole accent was hard on his lips, English sounding foreign on his tongue. "...Dr. Ziegler sent me. I'm here to get you out of here. Are you hurt?" He huffed, still breathless from the exertion.

#sigcy #sigmercy #angela ziegler #siebren de kuiper #baptiste #overwatch fics #txt #ow #mod budgie

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ericahacher · 3 years

Text

A RIVER THAT WINDS ON FOREVER

It felt too soon to be going back home. Hours on the back of her bike with the sun beating down on her, and the closer she got to the base – the more familiar the terrain became – the more the feeling grew; like she’d never left in the first place. Approaching the outer perimeter – the path of the patrol routes, the sightline of the nearest lookout point – she slowed down, weaving between gnarled Joshua trees and pale rock formations erupting from the sand, watchful eyes scanning her surroundings through the tinted visor of her helmet. A trail of dust appeared on the horizon before long, kicked up by an ATV advancing from the left, then another, from the right. Erica slowed to a stop, switching the engine off and kicking the stand down while she waited for them to reach her. Before they came to a full stop in front of her, she pulled her helmet off, breaking into a grin when the first of the drivers recognized her. “Erica?” “Josh.” She stepped off her bike, receiving him when he came up to hug her, the pair locked for a moment in an embrace before the woman from the other vehicle took over, flinging her arms around Erica’s neck. “Sadie, good to see you.” “Your hair! You look so different!” “Figured a bit of change was in order.” She rubbed at the back of her head, still smiling at them. “Look at you,” Josh was almost laughing. “Couple months in the city and you’ve got piercings all over. You get any tattoos?” She shrugged. “Not yet.” “And the others?” Sadie looked hopeful, grabbing the brim of her cap and wiggling it a little to adjust it. Her dark hair was tied into a bun at the nape of her neck, but a strand loosened with the movement, blowing across her face in the dry breeze. “Forgotten about us already?” Josh smirked, quirking an eyebrow. “No; I’m here for work.” “How long are you staying?” “I’m not.” Both their smiles faded, disappointment and something else sapping some of the warmth from their expressions. Erica pretended not to notice. “Right. Of course.” Sadie returned to her ATV for a comm, freeing it from a small bag placed on the side of the seat. “Gate, this is lookout four. Erica’s here.” She spoke into it, releasing the button on the side while she waited for a response. “Copy.” There was a pause. “All clear, Sadie. I’ll let Cira know.” Fuck. Erica closed her eyes, slowly breathing in, then put her helmet back on and straddled her bike. Josh had seen her expression, but thankfully knew better than to ask, returning to his ATV with a nod and a polite but rather unconvincing smile. Helmet back on, Erica mirrored the nod, flipping up the stand with the heel of her boot and starting the engine, leaving the two of them to return to their posts as she traveled on, trying not to clench her jaw too hard, or let her knuckles pale around their grip on the handlebars.

The base was nestled in a flat between a loose circle of towering bluffs, a high wall wide enough to walk along the top of filling the gaps between the crags. Steel walkways clung to the insides of the steep cliffs, connecting the stretches of wall to form a perimeter around the entire compound, high enough that when walking it, one could see clear to the other side. Coming up on the gate, she saw two figures atop it – one on either side of the barrier, each carrying a rifle – silhouetted against the sun. She didn’t bother trying to see who it was, nor did she get the chance, because before she’d even reached the gate doors, the left one opened, pushed along by Grant and… Erica drew in a breath, rolling in through the opening on momentum alone before pulling to the side and parking her bike out of the way of — but still near — the inside of the gate. She took her sweet time switching off the engine, taking her helmet off, rummaging through her small backpack before hooking the strap over her shoulder, getting off the bike, and only when she couldn’t stall anymore without looking ridiculous, she turned around to face the shadow she’d been keeping an eye on the entire time, stretching across the sand underneath her feet. Another hug, firmer, longer, but no comment on her hair, or the silver rings in her ears and septum. “It’s good to see you.” “You too, Mom.” Erica pulled back, carefully breaking the embrace to look down at her mother’s solemn face. “How is everyone?” “Surviving.” Her mother began walking, and she followed, throwing a small wave and a halfhearted smile over her shoulder at Grant as she went. “One of the solar panels has lost connection with the inverter; we’ll need new parts for it as soon as Frances and Lionel figure out what the problem is — and we’re low on antibiotics, but otherwise the base is operational.” Erica opened her mouth, stopped herself from asking if there was anything she could do, and nodded instead. Nobody was dead. Sick. Hurt. At least not badly enough to be worthy of mention in her mother’s eyes. “Listen, I need to talk to Moira. Could you… not tell Allegra and Marcel or Nadir that I’m here? If you see them. I don’t really…” she turned her head, looking around as if Gia and Yousef’s parents would suddenly appear, now that she had mentioned them, “have time to catch up.” “Will you stay and eat?” “Maybe. I don’t know.” “I’ll be in AG.” Her mother peeled off without acknowledging her request. “Find me before you leave.” Stopped in her tracks, Erica drew a quiet sigh, then headed in the opposite direction, towards the building that housed the lab.

Placed in the shade of one of the crags and thoroughly air-conditioned, the lab and infirmary was the coolest building in the compound, with its own set of generators and additional backup power on top of that again, should anything go wrong. Failsafe upon failsafe. The hallway she stepped into when she came through the door was dark and quiet, void of people; not unusual, so she pressed on, undeterred. Through another door towards the far left end of the hallway, the lab opened in front of her — just as dimly lit, save the blue sheen cast over the wall to her right by the UV-lamps that warmed the rows of various plants there, encased in glass. She still didn’t see anyone, so she continued past an open doorway into the next room, where she finally spotted the back of the woman she was looking for, silhouetted by the monitor at her desk. “Moira. Why’s it so dark in here?”

With a start, the brown-haired woman turned around, mouth open about to reply before she saw who had spoken and froze for a second, a blank look of surprise lingering on her face. “Erica.” She stood up, rubbing her eye as she approached, lab coat swishing around her legs. Her glasses were perched on top of her head, half-tangled into the mess of greying curls she’d piled there and fastened with a tie; a strand clung to them when she tried to pluck them free, and she began impatiently trying to disentangle it, gaze focused on the hinge it’d gotten caught in. “The panels… getting fixed. Generator’s running the important stuff. Lionel said it probably wouldn’t be long, so–” she got her glasses free and hooked them into the pocket on her chest, “–I’m not wasting fuel on lights. What are you doing here?” A sigh heaved her shoulders. The woman’s hands were planted firmly on her hips. “I need poison. As small a dose as possible, and as fatal as possible in as little time as possible.” “Okay… I don’t really have that kinda stuff on hand. Method of administration?” “Oral.” Erica made a face. “I assume.” “I can make a tincture, but it’s gonna take a couple of days if you want it to be potent.” “Days? You really don’t have anything else? Some drug that could be lethal in high doses?” “No guarantee it’d result in death, no. It’s also not what you would define as quick.” Moira paced around, opening a small fridge filled with vials. “The only thing I have is a bit of snake venom, but that needs to be injected. We also need it to make antivenom.” “Shit.” Erica, about to reach for her phone, remembered that it was packed away on her bike, switched off. No cell traffic in or near the base. No phones. Just radios. A few months in the city, and getting anything arranged without one was already a pain in the ass, where she’d never once minded it before. “Do both. What do you need?” Moira shrugged. “Nothing I don’t already have. Hey— where are you going?” “To replace your venom.” She was already through the first doorway. “Rattlesnake!” Moira called out after her, the clinking of lab equipment sounding between her words, “The Mojave, not the diamondback!”

In AG, her mother was walking between rows of cabbage with a spray bottle of organic pesticide, a wide-brimmed hat hiding her face from the sun. “Mom,” she called out, pacing closer along the edge of the square plot, boots never touching the darker soil that had been placed there. “Yes?” her mother didn’t stop her work; didn’t look up. “Looks like I’ll be staying for a couple days. Have you seen Locke?” “If you want to help, go to the panels, Erica.” “I need to do something for Moira first. Have you seen him?” “I haven’t — but you know where to look.” She nodded, a single dip of her chin. “I’ll see you tonight, then.” Two days of living in the past, for a client she’d never worked with before. Money is no object, she thought stubbornly as she headed off in search of the only man she’d trust to wrangle a deadly snake, wondering idly if Josh and Sadie would be too in whatever huff she’d put them in to keep her company later, maybe share some moonshine. She’d need it — especially if she was staying the night with her mother.

#( erica )#( para: a river that winds on forever )#( title from ends of the earth by lord huron )#( this was supposed to be posted weeks ago but whatever )

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brianamorganbooks · 4 years

Text

The Tricker-Treater

This is a teaser of the titular story from my upcoming horror collection. You can learn more about the project and help me bring it to life here!

Moira kicked spilled candy corn off her front step. The remnants of another weeknight massacre. This time, all in the name of a holiday.

She’d stopped keeping track of the holidays.

They meant nothing, after all. Just another day full of shit, another day without Norman in it. What was the point?

She looked over at the garden gnome that Norman had polished every St. Patrick’s Day. The ghost of an old conversation floated back to her as she picked it up from where the kids had knocked it over.

Moira closed her eyes and savored the memory.

“It’s a gnome, Norm. Not a leprechaun. It’s not his holiday.”

“I know that! But don’t you think what matters is doing it?”

In the present, Moira sighed. This St. Patrick’s Day, she’d grab a rag and polish the years of grime away. So far, she hadn’t had the strength.

It was the day before Halloween. She’d picked up trash all week, and if those damn kids tried their tricks tonight, she’d give them more than treats.

Movement on the sidewalk at the mailbox caught her eye. Riley stood there, all tousled blonde hair and sleepy brown eyes. His hand-me-down sweatshirt needed elbow patches. She’d see to that soon.

“Don’t stand there gawking at me. C’mon.” She waved him forward, but he looked at his shoes. She put her hands on her hips. “What’s the matter with you?”

“He’s coming here tonight to get you,” he said.

She squinted in the morning sun. “Who’s coming to get me?”

“The Tricker-Treater,” Riley said. “He’s coming here tonight. I made a deal with him.”

“What?” Riley never spoke in riddles. He wasn’t one to loiter at the end of her driveway either. “Peanut butter cookies inside. Tell me later.”

“No, he’ll be here later. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Moira frowned. “Stop listening to your brother. Come inside and have some cookies with me and we’ll go from there.”

Without waiting to see if he’d follow, Moira headed back into the house. She went straight to the kitchen. The storm door slammed shut not too long after, and Riley pulled up a chair at the kitchen table.

Moira carried the plate of cookies over to him. Up close, he looked like the same old Riley as always. All she saw was the haunted glint in his eyes he got from spending time with Taylor. Now school was back in, all he had was Taylor until their mother got home from work. Retail was hell, Moira remembered. When Riley’s mother got home, the last thing she’d want to do was scold Taylor for tormenting his little brother.

Norman would have scared Taylor shitless, given the chance. He would have protected Riley.

Norman had always been better with kids.

“Lots of trick-or-treaters coming here tomorrow,” Moira said. “So what makes yours so special? Why’s he coming here tonight?”

Riley froze with his hand halfway to a cookie. “Not trick-or-treater. Tricker-Treater.”

Moira shook her head. “I said that.”

“No, like… hang on.” He scooted the chair back from the table and dashed across the room to where the landline rested. There was a small pad of paper beside it. He snatched up the paper and a pen and ran back to the table. His brow furrowed in concentration. Sticking out his tongue, he leaned over the paper and spelled out the difference for her:

T-R-I-C-K-E-R

T-R-E-A-T-E-R

He set down the pen and waited for her to read his writing. Moira shook her head again. He didn’t know how to spell it.

“No ‘or,’” he said. “Tricker-Treater. He’s both.”

Something icy pricked the back of Moira’s neck. She brushed her fingers over the spot and found nothing. Her gaze drifted back to the paper.

“He’s both?”

“Mmhm.” Riley grabbed a cookie and took a bite. He devoured it, careful not to make eye contact with Moira. It was a sophisticated strategy for a seven-year-old.

Moira leaned on the table and stared at him. “Riley.”

He scooted his chair away. “I gotta use the potty.”

“Do you, or do you not want to talk to me?” she asked.

He stuffed another cookie in his mouth, and when he spoke, he sprayed crumbs everywhere. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“You mean the Tricker-Treater?”

“Yeah.” He choked on the cookie and coughed. Moira grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the sink. She patted him on the back and slid the glass to him.

Riley chugged the water and still couldn’t stop coughing. Moira took the plate of cookies from him, because no way in hell was he going to choke to death on her watch. Not if she could help it.

“You’d better head on home,” Moira said. “You’ll worry your mother sick.”

Riley scooted back from the table again. “Don’t call her. She doesn’t know.”

“She doesn’t know you’re here? Did you stay home from school, or did you skip?”

“I...”

His eyes darted to look over her shoulder. Moira spun around. Nothing there. When she turned back to him, he was heading for the front door.

“Riley!”

“I messed up, I messed up!”

She lunged for his sleeve and missed. He was through the front door and across the yard before she had time to try again. Damn it. What was wrong with that boy? He’d been in no hurry minutes before with a plate of cookies in front of him. The minute she’d mentioned his mother though…

Moira sighed and leaned against the door frame. Something was off with Riley, and she wasn’t going to let him out of her sight until she got to the bottom of it.

When he returned a few minutes later, Moira stood between him and the front door. “Riley, please. Tell me what’s going on.”

He chewed his bottom lip. “I don’t wanna. I’m scared. It never goes well.”

“What do you mean, ‘it never goes well’?”

“Every time I tell you, it… I messed up,” he repeated.

Moira sighed. She was getting nowhere fast. Whatever he had on his mind, it upset him so much he wasn’t making sense. If she couldn’t get him to focus, she would never figure out what was going on. And, seeing as how it involved her…

“Riley.” Moira grabbed his shoulders and held him there, stooping to look into his eyes. “Whatever you think is going to happen, I can face it better if you tell me about it, okay?”

His lower lip quivered. “Even if it’s bad?”

“Even if it’s bad.”

Riley gulped. “The Tricker-Treater is gonna stop by your house tonight. You gotta meet with him and do what he says, or else.”

Moira quirked an eyebrow at him. “Or else?”

He hesitated. “Like I said, I’ve told you about him before, and he… he always makes sure to catch you. Even if you run away, he finds you and he…” Riley’s voice trailed off into a sob. Shiny, fat tears bubbled over his lashes and rolled down his face. Moira pulled him against her and wrapped her arms around him.

Shit, she hadn’t meant to make him cry. Jesus Christ, that was the last thing she wanted.

Moira’s chest tightened. “It’ll be okay, Riley. We’ll figure it out together, all right?”

Riley pulled away from her. He shook his head. “I dunno.”

“I’m older and wiser. Humor me, huh?”

He sniffed and wiped his nose. Moira debated getting a tissue for him, but it was too late—he was already rubbing the snot with his sleeve. As perceptive as the kid could be, he was still a kid, and he was gross.

Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like to have children. Sometimes she watched Riley and was glad that time had passed her.

“You should run home now,” Moira said again. “Even if you did skip school, your mom won’t be angry as long as you’re safe.”

His gaze jumped over her shoulder again. She waited for him to refocus. He’d come there in such a hurry, and now he kept drifting away. The urgency had waned. That was good.

“Are you feeling all right?”

Riley nodded. “I’m… a little better now.”

“No more getting upset over the Tricker-Treater, okay?”

Hesitation, then another nod. A slow exhale. “Okay.”

“You want a few cookies to take home? You can share them with Tyler.”

Riley wrinkled his nose at the mention of his brother. “He doesn’t deserve cookies.”

“I suppose he doesn’t.”

Moira patted him on the head and went back into the kitchen. She eyed the half-empty glass in a pool of condensation, the cookie crumbs Riley had sprayed on the table. She looked back at Riley, still standing where she’d left him, and her chest ached. She flattened a hand against her collarbone.

She and Norman could’ve tried a little longer.

“Riley?”

His head jerked up. “Huh?”

“You still want those cookies?”

“Um… no thanks.” He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his sweater again. “I’ve never stayed this late before. I don’t wanna see him.”

The poor kid was talking in circles again. Better send him off to someone much more qualified.

Moira propped a hand on her hip. “Go on, get outta here before I call your mom. And be careful tomorrow.”

Riley cast a long look at her before putting his hand on the doorknob. That was all it took? No fight? No begging her for cookies, saying he had changed his mind?

She should have insisted he take some.

If he’d still demanded some, that would have been proof things were normal.

Instead, Moira frowned at the back of his head as he walked out and left the door open.

* * *

Moira tossed popcorn into her mouth and watched Bill Murray fail to woo Andie MacDowell. There was no reason for the network to broadcast Groundhog Day on October 30, but she wasn’t complaining. It had been one of Norman’s favorite movies. They’d gone to see it in theaters the day it came out, which seemed so long ago now.

Without Norman, time dragged on. How had it only been a year since his death?

Watching a movie she’d seen more than a dozen times soothed her ragged nerves. That the movie was itself a perpetual, familiar cycle was not lost on her. In fact, that was a large part of Groundhog Day’s charm—especially tonight, when there was so much on her mind.

Riley’s behavior had left her shaken and confused. Sure, he was a kid, but he’d always been perceptive, and she trusted what he said. He usually meant what he said. At that age, it was rare for children to have ulterior motives. Whatever Riley thought was going to happen to her, it was worth considering.

The Tricker-Treater was coming to get her tonight.

Moira’s gaze jumped to the glow of the streetlight that permeated her closed blinds. Outside, the air was cold and crisp. Inside, she was cozy.

She drew the knitted afghan tighter around her midsection. Andie had slapped Bill. Normally, the moment made Moira laugh. Normally, she wasn’t wound up like a coiled snake.

The chiming of her doorbell made her jump out of her skin. She jostled the bowl in her lap, spilling popcorn everywhere.

Why was she so jumpy? It was likely Riley and his mother, coming to check on her after their talk. Riley’s mom Adriane was nice—she apologized for Riley with baked goods and wine. When she wasn’t working, she tried to come over for tea and pour out her soul to Moira.

In another life, they could have been mother and daughter.

In another life, Norman might still be alive.

Another ache struck Moira’s chest. The doorbell chimed again, demanding her attention.

She set the bowl aside and stood. Whoever it was, they were insistent. She doubted they’d go away if she ignored them.

Probably some damn kids, anyway. God willing, they wouldn’t egg her when she opened the door—for their sakes as well as hers.

She didn’t feel forgiving.

Moira crept over to the door and pulled back the curtain on the window beside the door. She had to see who had come knocking.

There was no one there.

Puzzled, she let the curtain drop and stood on tiptoe to look through the peephole.

No one.

Moira stepped back. She flattened a hand against her chest.

The doorbell chimed again.

Icy dread stuck its fingers down the back of Moira’s shirt. Her hand settled on the cold metal doorknob. After a breath, she twisted it and pulled the front door open.

And gasped.

The man—if the thing could even be called a man—stood at least seven or eight feet tall. It had to double over to fit under the awning of her porch. Pale red skin stretched tight over pointed features, most notably a bear skull. At least, she thought it was a bear skull. Norman would have known for sure. Norman always—

Coal-black eyes glittered at her as the thing bared its teeth—razor-sharp—in some semblance of a smile.

It wore nothing but a top hat, which it tipped before it spoke.

“I hope you were expecting me.”

His voice was low and smooth, like a jazz singer’s, and she shivered. Moira supposed she should have fainted or had a heart attack by then, but once he spoke, all her fear disappeared. It was like he had swallowed it up with his words.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Riley didn’t tell you? I’m the Tricker-Treater. Would you mind if I came in?”

Moira froze with her hand still on the doorknob. What was she supposed to do? The Tricker-Treater offered the illusion of a choice. Was it merely that—an illusion—or would he let her decide how the evening would progress?

Moira let her gaze wander over the creature’s form again. He had the gaunt, emaciated look of a feral dog, and the tightness in her chest only tightened even further.

Nothing about him made her think he’d give her any choice.

“C-come in,” Moira said.

The Tricker-Treater kept his eyes locked on her as he stepped over the threshold and into the house. Moira swore he brought the smell of decay inside with him, but a moment later, it was gone.

Rotting pumpkins, she thought. That was the smell.

Moira gestured for him to sit on the couch. Eldritch horror or not, he was a guest.

The Tricker-Treater sat, bones creaking and popping as he did so. Moira tried her damnedest not to wince at the noises.

She sat in Norman’s favorite armchair and waited for the Tricker-Treater to speak.

“Has Riley… told you all about me?” he asked.

Moira paused. “How do you know Riley?”

“We made a deal. He’s a special child, isn’t he? Perceptive. Tenacious.” The Tricker-Treater flashed her another chilling smile. “Fragile.”

The blood dropped out of Moira’s face. “What are you getting at?”

The Tricker-Treater steepled his long, bony fingers. “It would be a shame if any danger were to befall Riley. If you could prevent such a tragedy, wouldn’t you want to, no matter what the cost?”

Moira rubbed the goosebumps on her arms. “Don’t you dare hurt him.”

“We made a deal,” the Tricker-Treater repeated. “He asked for money so his mother could be around more often. I told him I could give him anything he wanted—such as money—for a price.”

The Tricker-Treater’s eyes made Moira’s head swim. She broke eye contact. “So that’s why you’re here. You’re going to kill me.”

She should have known this was how she would die. Norman, with all his superstitions and wonder of the paranormal, had died of a stroke in the kitchen. A nice, normal death. Meanwhile, here she was, whisked away by a monster for the sake of a child’s wish.

“Not quite,” the Tricker-Treater said. “Well, only if I must.”

Moira’s head snapped up, and she met his gaze again, even though it dizzied her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The Tricker-Treater tapped his claws against the coffee table. Click, click, click. “If you play by the rules, everything will be all right.”

The sinking feeling in Moira’s gut returned. “What rules?”

The Tricker-Treater’s unnerving smile returned too. “Every game has rules, Moira. Do you want to play?”

Her stomach had dropped to her ass, and she didn’t think it would resurface anytime soon. Whoever this man—or creature—was, he wasn’t going anywhere until he got what he wanted from her.

“What happens if I don’t want to play the game?” she asked.

“You lose.”

“And what happens if I lose?”

“Then Taylor wins.” The Tricker-Treater’s smile tore across his face. “And I take you away forever.”

Moira’s throat constricted. So he did want to kill her. Even if he acted like she had a choice, she didn’t.

Riley had already chosen for her. He had sealed her fate.

But what did Taylor have to do with it?

“Taylor?” she asked.

“To fulfill Riley’s deal, I must receive a sacrifice. He had to present me with someone he loves and someone he hates to play the game. I balance the scales. The loser dies.”

Jesus Christ, she thought, what had Riley done?

“He’s too young to make a deal like that,” she said. “You’re taking advantage of him.”

“I don’t discriminate,” he said. “A wish is a wish, and I must grant it. You must play the game, or die. These are my conditions.”

“What if Taylor and I both refuse? You only need to kill one of us, right? And you seem reasonable. You wouldn’t kill us to prove a point.”

“No.” The Tricker-Treater’s smile twisted into something darker, more feral. Moira wanted to scream, but panic kept her gaze fixed on his face. “In the case of two refusals, I take the wish-maker instead.”

Moira gulped. “You’d kill Riley.”

“Kill is such a boring word for what I do, but yes. Riley would become the sacrifice.” He steepled his fingers again. “But of course, you always have a choice.”

Did he think she’d let Riley die? She must have been Riley’s “someone he loves,” which meant the Tricker-Treater had to know she loved him too. She couldn’t damn him.

Only one thing to do.

“I’ll play,” Moira said.

“Wonderful. Let’s go.”

The Tricker-Treater snapped his fingers, Moira felt a tug, and the whole world went dark.

* * *

The reek of iron pulled Moira from unconsciousness. Her eyelids snapped open, pupils unfocused as they sought the light. Only a spare bulb hung overhead, struggling through the shadows. A familiar teenage form swam into view, fastened to a chair by ropes.

Taylor.

A shadow skulked off to Taylor’s left, and Moira’s gaze floated over to it. A long, lanky figure broke from the blackness and formed a solid shape. Sharp teeth glittered in the light as the creature grinned.

The Tricker-Treater.

He snapped his fingers again, and the lightbulb shattered. Moira went to shield her face from the exploding glass, but ropes restrained her. The Tricker-Treater had tied her down too.

A brilliant light enveloped the room, blinding Moira for a minute. The light faded to a ball that hovered over the Tricker-Treater’s head. It was small, but somehow bright enough for her to make out everything in the room, including Taylor.

She looked back at the boy. Blood dripped from ragged scratches in his cheek and stained the front of his shirt. That must have been the source of the iron smell—Taylor’s blood.

Moira looked to the Tricker-Treater for an explanation.

“He struggled,” he said, “so I had to be rough. But he’s learned his lesson. Haven’t you, Taylor?”

Taylor groaned and twisted against the ropes. The Tricker-Treater clicked his tongue and wagged a finger at Taylor. He froze.

“Think it’s time for me to explain the rules of the game to you both,” the Tricker-Treater said. “But no cheating. Is that understood?”

Moira still didn’t know what was going on, but she nodded nonetheless. Whatever game he had in mind, she had to win, for Riley’s sake.

She didn’t know what would happen to Taylor, except that he might die. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

Across the room, Taylor grunted.

The Tricker-Treater gave a wet, hacking cough. Moira watched it rattle his prominent ribcage. Had he not been so frightening, she might have worried for him. As it was, she wished the cough had been worse.

The Tricker-Treater pulled another chair away from the table. It scraped across the floor with a sound that bit Moira’s eardrums. She flinched.

He lowered his long body into the chair and removed his hat, exposing his shiny, red baldness.

“I will now explain the rules, and I will not repeat myself. You both must pay attention if you want to win.”

“I don’t give a shit about winning,” said Taylor. “I don’t even want to play. I don’t give a shit about Riley.”

A muscle jerked in Moira’s jaw. What an asshole. Did this kid understand what he was saying?

“That’s not what you said to me earlier,” the Tricker-Treater said. “You agreed to play the game because you wanted him to live.”

Moira almost didn’t believe it, but the Tricker-Treater had no motive to lie.

The Tricker-Treater stretched a hand toward Taylor, and Taylor’s eyes widened. The Tricker-Treater’s razor claws glittered in the light.

“You’ll play,” he said, “or Riley dies.”

Taylor shut his eyes. “Okay, okay, but please don’t hurt me.”

“It isn’t me you should worry about.”

Moira swallowed a curse. As much as she hated to cooperate with this… thing, it seemed like they had no choice. If she didn’t play the Tricker-Treater’s game, Riley would die. She wouldn’t let that happen.

"What do I have to do?" she asked.

The Tricker-Treater's smile widened. Moira withheld a shiver. Taylor flattened himself against the back of the chair, trying to get as far away as possible.

"Once I untie you both," the Tricker-Treater said, putting his hat back on, "you'll have fifteen minutes to choose a weapon and determine the sacrifice."

Moira frowned. "Kill each other?"

"So vulgar," he replied.

"I don't want to kill an old lady," Taylor said.

Like he even could if he wanted to, Moira thought. In her own way, she agreed—she didn't want to kill him, and she didn't want to die.

Riley couldn't die, either. She'd do what she could, whatever she had to. It wasn't a choice.

"Where are the weapons?" Moira asked.

Taylor gaped at her. "We don't have to do this!"

“I detest idle chatter,” the Tricker-Treater said. “Such a waste of precious time.”

Moira stiffened at his words. Did that mean they’d started? Were they supposed to get going? Why was she still tied up, then? The Tricker-Treater had said—

A click of his fingers and her bindings dissolved. Fuck, she had to get moving. She liked the word fuck, although Norman never had, and the way his face used to scrunch up when she said it to him—

“Moira,” the Tricker-Treater warned. “You don’t have time for reminiscing.”

She chose not to dwell on the discomfort of having him inside her mind in favor of finding a weapon.

But where the fuck were they?

Taylor was squealing something she didn’t care to listen to because she didn’t care more than for any other reason. She didn’t want to kill him but they would soon be out of time, and if she didn’t do anything—whether he killed her or not—Riley was in danger.

Moira dragged herself out of the chair and looked around the room. It was still difficult to see, with the only lighting coming from the flames conjured by the Tricker-Treater, but they were surrounded by several different boxes of all shapes and sizes.

Taylor leaped up from his chair and dove headfirst into the box behind him, digging like a dumpster-diver in search of castoff treasures. Shit, she had to get a move on or he’d kill her with whatever he found.

Moira started with a box on her left, plain cardboard on the outside, unassuming enough. As she dug through a pile of moth-eaten clothes, the sharp edge of something bit the palm of her hand. She cried out. Upon further, much more hesitant, inspection, she discovered the source of the wound—a Japanese samurai sword.

That’s a katana, Norm corrected in her head.

Moira didn’t have time to smile. She wrapped her fingers around the base of the sword and pulled—

Right as Taylor came sprinting toward her with a hatchet in his hands. The metal glinted as he brought it down, right as Moria darted out of the way.

“Jesus, Taylor!”

“Stand still!”

He lifted the hatchet and swung it down again, with Moira only narrowly dodging it this time. She was close enough to hear the whoosh of the blade as it came down past her face. As she ducked to the side, so did Taylor. His third hit struck her shoulder. White-hot flames lit Moria’s muscle fibers and leaked pain down her arm. Warm blood dripped off her elbow.

Jesus fuck, that hurt.

Movement caught the corner of her eye and she whirled around, still clutching her injured shoulder. Taylor had raised the hatchet again. She had to get out of his way.

Still carrying the sword, Moira feinted left. Taylor took the bait and swung. She moved right, raised the sword, hesitated—

The light went out. Moira couldn’t see one inch in front of her face. Distantly, the Tricker-Treater’s claws clicked against a hard surface. Dragged against it, more like.

Moira shivered.

Mooooiiiiraaaaaaaaa…

She jabbed with the sword, wincing as the blade bounced off the wall. She was almost relieved that she hadn't hit Taylor.

Something rough brushed her calf. She jerked back, swallowing a cry. Something metal clattered to the ground, and Taylor yelped.

"Don't move, Taylor."

"Are w-we out of time?" As brave and seemingly bloodthirsty as he'd been moments before, there was no denying the way his voice shook. Hatchet or not, he was only a kid. He had his whole life ahead of him.

And she'd tried to kill him.

Moira let go of the katana. It, too, clattered to the floor. "What's up with turning the lights off, huh? Not fucked up enough as it is?"

"I assumed it would be easier for you to kill him with the lights off," the Tricker-Treater said. "That way, you wouldn't have to see him."

"Whose side are you on?" Taylor countered. His voice had an edge to it that scared her, sharpened by fear into pointed rage. It made him sound dangerous.

She didn't think he had the strength to kill her, but fear could drive someone to do the unthinkable.

And she'd let go of her weapon.

"I believe in leveling the playing field," the Tricker-Treater said. "Moira is, shall we say, more experienced in life, and Taylor has more energy. We correct this discrepancy with darkness."

Moira swallowed. In theory, everything he was saying made sense. But all she could think about was that there must be something she’d overlooked—something the Tricker-Treater had overlooked. In other words, a loophole.

Some way to save Riley without having to kill his brother.

She had to pick up the katana again. Without it, she was powerless. And, there was still a chance that Taylor would rediscover his bravado, would run toward her again with the hatchet raised, would bring it down and—

The Tricker-Treater chuckled in the gloom, and Moira knew he’d been inside her head again. Shit, that was… inconvenient, to say the least. How could she try to find a loophole if he was listening in on everything she thought?

Get the fuck out of my head, she thought.

Again, the Tricker-Treater chuckled. “Manners, Moira. But… I would be remiss not to heed your request, as vulgar as it might have been phrased. All you had to do was ask.”

Moira gaped at him in the darkness—or, at least, she gaped in what she assumed was his direction. It was still impossible to see anything, and though the Tricker-Treater had claimed he was just leveling the playing field, Moira couldn’t understand how this was supposed to help her.

Distantly, Taylor whimpered. Could he be afraid of the dark?

“Please,” he said. “Turn on the lights.”

The Tricker-Treater’s claws clicked together as he contemplated Taylor’s request. “Moira, what do you think?”

What did she think? She thought this whole twisted game was a goddamn mess. She thought it was ludicrous that this… demon expected her to kill a child, or the child to kill her. She thought she would do almost anything to save Riley because she loved him, but she wasn’t sure she could do this.

Most of all, Moira thought she had already lost. She had to change her mind somehow, or else she really would. Find the loophole, she reminded herself. There had to be an angle she hadn’t yet considered.

Moira shuffled her feet. The point of the katana bit into her shin and she fought the urge to cry out. Warm liquid seeped from the wound—not too much, but not too little to escape her notice. The darkness heightened everything. Tentatively, she bent over and fumbled around for the handle, praying her fingers wouldn’t graze the blade. At last, they closed around fabric—the binding on the handle—and she pulled it up with both hands as she rose to a standing position.

“Moira,” the Tricker-Treater prompted again. And… the idea came to her.

If she could kill the Tricker-Treater, she could end the game. She’d win, without killing Taylor, and Riley would be safe.

Of course, she knew next to nothing about the Tricker-Treater’s fortitude, although he seemed like a formidable foe. She had to give it a shot. Anything was better than plunging the blade into Taylor.

“Turn on the lights,” Moira answered.

She tightened her grip on the blade and widened her stance to give her more stability. Sweat trickled down the side of her neck. Her heart beat so loudly it threatened to deafen her, but she stayed grounded. She didn’t have a choice.

The Tricker-Treater snapped his fingers, and the lights flickered on again. Moira coordinated her attack with the fluorescent flash. She ran full speed, katana thrust forward like a jousting lance. Taylor gasped, eyes widening in horror—until Moira jabbed the sword into the Tricker-Treater’s gut.

“Shit!” Taylor yelled.

The Tricker-Treater didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream, nor did he give any other indication that he had been struck. Instead, he wrapped his clawed fingers around the blade and looked right at Moira. The twisted grin he produced was the worst thing she’d ever seen.

“Well, now. Isn’t this exciting?”

Moira trembled, but she didn’t let go of the handle. If she did, she was afraid he’d find a way to turn the blade on her. Taylor crept closer to the scene, face ashen. He was trembling, too, even as he reached out to take the sword from Moira.

She shook her head vehemently. “You’re not responsible for this. Taylor, if anything happens—”

“It isn’t polite to speak about others as though they aren’t there,” the Tricker-Treater chimed in. He was still holding onto the blade, still the picture of tranquility even as the sword stuck out of his stomach and black blood dripped from the wound onto the floor. “I wonder if you two have forgotten your manners.”

“Fuck you,” Taylor spat.

Moira had to agree, though she couldn’t find the words. All she could focus on was the blood, the way it poured from the Tricker-Treater’s stomach even though the wound was technically still sealed up, and—

The Tricker-Treater flexed his claws, and his grin widened. The blade slipped out of Moira’s hands.

“Taylor!” Moira shouted.

The blade shot backward out of the Tricker-Treater’s stomach and whirled around to point at Taylor. He reacted a second too late. Moira stared in horror as the black-bloodstained tip pushed into Taylor’s chest. He stiffened, limbs flying out, mouth open, eyes the size of galaxies—

And then, his body dropped. It made a sick thwack as it landed.

Moira turned her head and puked. When she turned back, the Tricker-Treater was hunched over, holding his hat in his hands. He had the decency not to grin.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “This is… less than ideal.”

If she weren’t so afraid, she would have smacked him. “‘Less than ideal’? A child is dead! You fucking killed him, you son of a bitch.”

“If I hadn’t, you would have.”

“I wouldn’t have,” she insisted. “You’ve been inside my head. You must have known I wouldn’t.”

“Hmph.” The Tricker-Treater twisted his hat in his hands. He was having trouble looking Moira in the eye. “Well, this does present a challenge.”

She wrangled the urge to strangle him. “What are you talking about?”

“The rules of the game were clear. To save Riley, there must be a sacrifice.” He paused, as though waiting for her to remember the rules. “One of you must kill the other.”

“But we can’t now. Taylor’s dead.” Realization dawned on Moira, eclipsing the fear. “You killed him. That’s the loophole.”

“So it would seem.” If he was upset about Moira’s admission of looking for a loophole, it didn’t show. If anything, he was so lost in contemplation he paid her no mind. She could have attacked him then. Taylor’s hatchet lay on the floor not far from his body. If she leaned forward a little—

But what would happen to Riley? If she killed the Tricker-Treater, would she forfeit the game? She couldn’t wager Riley’s life on a spur-of-the-moment choice.

Instead, she had to bide her time and see what the creature decided.

“Unfortunately,” he said. “Riley must perish.”

All the blood drained from Moira’s face. Like hell he must, she thought. “What are you talking about? I played your stupid game. Taylor… well, that means I won. Those were your rules, remember?”

“Alas, Moira, that isn’t the case.” The Tricker-Treater clicked his tongue. “Neither of you did as I asked, as was required of you, so there is no winner. And, as there’s no winner, Riley’s life is forfeit. I’m afraid those are the rules.”

Moira’s stomach roiled. There had to be another way. She had to save Riley somehow, otherwise, Taylor had died for nothing. She refused to lose Riley, refused to let his mother bury both her sons.

“Take me instead,” she pleaded.

The Tricker-Treater hesitated. “That wasn’t part of the deal. Your life is only forfeit should the other participant take it. As the other participant is dead, there is no reason for your life to end.”

His logic and politeness made her want to tear her hair out. “Taylor shouldn’t have died. I didn’t kill him. Doesn’t that change up your shitty rules somehow?”

Again, he hesitated. His face twisted up as though he were in pain. “I concede that Taylor’s departure was unnecessary, given the game’s objective. Reckless, even. However… there must be some punishment for you.” The Tricker-Treater looked pointedly at the hole in his gut. “You also broke the rules.”

“You never said I couldn’t attack you,” she argued.

His mouth twitched. “Fair enough. Hm… let’s do this. What do you think I should do to you, Moira? What sort of fate would be equitable?”

Moira’s tongue sat like lead in her mouth. How was she supposed to make such a strange decision? The question wasn’t one she’d planned for. He wasn’t in her head anymore, so she wondered if she could just throw something out there, something far from “fair,” in terms of extremity. Or, perhaps he already knew what he would do to her, and he was just playing another sick game?

“Tick-tock,” said the Tricker-Treater.

Moira swallowed. Hard. If Norm were here, he’d have the perfect idea. He was always so wise, her Norm, even when he was being silly. The last time they’d watched Groundhog Day together, he’d said—

Groundhog Day. Yes, that was the answer. It was the only way for her to atone, while still paying homage to her husband. And, it was the only way to make sure Riley’s mother got her son back—and got to keep Riley, too.

It wasn’t a fate Moira looked forward to, but it was a fate she accepted.

She gave the Tricker-Treater a watery smile. “Have you seen any Bill Murray movies?”

* * *

When Moira came to, she was covered in sweat. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, and birds chirped outside. Jesus. She felt like she’d been run over by a train.

Out of habit, even after a year, she rolled over to look at Norm’s side of the bed. She smoothed a hand over the blankets and sighed. “Miss you more than ever, hon.”

Outside, the distant hum of a mower pierced the air. She must have slept in much later than usual. A glance at the clock on her nightstand confirmed her suspicions, and she groaned. That would teach her to go through a whole bottle of wine by herself.

A weird pain flared in Moira’s shoulder. When she reached for it, the feeling vanished. She checked under her shirt. Nothing.

Must just be part of getting old, she thought.

It seemed like it was going to be a nice day, what with the birds chirping and sunlight and all. Maybe she’d crawl out of bed and do something fun for a change, bake some cookies to give to the neighbor kid, Riley. Maybe he’d share with his overworked mother. The poor dear was working more than she was home, and Moira knew she was exhausted.

An hour later saw Moira dressed and pulling fresh cookies from the oven, the smell filling the house like a bug bomb—albeit a delicious one. While she waited for the cookies to cool, she slipped on her shoes and went outside to fetch the paper.

Moira kicked spilled candy corn off her front step. The remnants of another weeknight massacre. This time, all in the name of a holiday.

She’d stopped keeping track of the holidays.

tag list: @bauliya, @howdy-writes

#writeblr #writerblr #ttaos #horror #my writing

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dudeandduchess · 4 years

Note

“I’ve been waiting for you” with Kyou? Hearing him say that in any context is hhh s-so good //

Heyyyyy, Bukii! Hope you like this one. UwU

Also, I listened to Happily Ever After by Moira Dela Torre while writing this. :D

***

Kyōjurō x F!S/O: “I’ve been waiting for you” (SFW Scenario):

With a brush in her hand and a pout on her lips, (Y/n) kept trying to tame the mess that was her hair.

She was already running late for hers and Kyōjurō’s date, but she couldn’t very well go out looking like someone had hacked her hair off in her sleep.

Admittedly, it was her fault for getting a haircut in the first place; but she never expected things to go awry so soon. She, at the very least, expected a bad hair day to come a week after she’d gotten her haircut.

But, as fate would have it, they gave it to her mere hours before her dinner date with the love of her life.

“Nee-san,” Senjurō called softly, while he knocked on the shoji’s frame. “Aniki wanted me to tell you to meet him by the clock in the middle of the village.”

“Oh, okay, Senjurō. Thank you,” She answered as chirpily as she could, then listened to his fading footsteps before letting out the sigh that she’d been holding in.

Hurriedly, she pinned her hair up and adorned it with the fresh flowers that she’d picked from the garden earlier. Because, as much as she wanted to dote more on her looks, she knew that she couldn’t keep Kyōjurō waiting.

It wasn’t that he was impatient, but it had more to do with her not wanting any other ladies ogling him while she wasn’t there.

Before long, she was already as primped as she could be and— with one last glance at her reflection— she deemed herself worthy enough to leave.

The walk to the middle of the village was short, but every step she took was agonizing; as she kept on second guessing her make up, and nitpicking at her choice of kimono.

Her mind was in turmoil with all her doubts ricocheting inside her head, but everything was silenced the moment she laid her eyes on her beloved Hashira.

Instantaneously, all of her doubts and fears were silenced.

Her heart was put at ease, and her mind was blissfully free from any wayward thoughts. There was only Kyōjurō in all his splendor; with his warm smile and arresting features running through her head.

Slowly, she found her own lips quirking up at the corners, as she closed the distance between them.

The young man offered his hand out to her, which she placed her left hand in. Then, in a move that took her breath away, he lifted their intertwined hands up to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Hey, I’ve been waiting for you,” Kyōjurō murmured quietly, as if there was only him and her in existence. His eyes never left hers, and that gave her the prime opportunity to witness how his gaze warmed with every passing second.

It was a look that was reserved only for her; one full of so much love and admiration that it made her heart feel so full of love.

“I’ve been waiting for you too... all my life.” The words were out before she could stop herself, and her eyes widened in mortification as she realized what she had just done.

So many possible outcomes flitted through her mind, but how her lover reacted was well beyond the reach of her dreams.

Kyōjurō chuckled at that, before pulling her closer and shooting her a heart-stopping grin. “If that’s the case, my sweet flame. Do you want to spend the rest of it together?”

#rengoku kyoujurou x reader #rengoku kyojuro #kyojuro rengoku #kyojuro x reader #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #demon slayer kyojuro #kyoujurou rengoku x reader #rengoku kyoujurou #demon slayer rengoku #kny x reader #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #jen writes

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absentlyabbie · 4 years

Text

caught me by the collar at the graveside

a tommy merlyn/oliver queen fic for the “it should have been me” collection

special thanks to @obscure-sentimentalist for this one, without whom it would have been much shorter and very... different

(reminder: i eternally reject all canon after season 2 so safely assume we’re all the way au or riffing during or after those two seasons)

------

Oliver knelt before the grave, brushing away dead leaves with a sigh. He let his fingers linger on the carved letters in the marble, the rough-cut snagging at his skin as it did the still-bleeding wound in his heart.

“I miss you, Mom.”

He held a pair of long-stemmed roses in his other hand, tied together by a slender white ribbon. His fingers shook as he laid the flowers on the short grass against the headstone, wishing as he did every time he visited these last four months that, with everyone in his life who seemed to come back from the dead, maybe for once it could happen and be good, maybe someone could come back and not be wrong, more scar tissue than ghost.

But the wish was never granted. Not his mother. Not his father, never even in the grave beside hers, moved from the manor before it sold to rest in Starling Memorial beside Moira. Not Shado. Not Tommy.

Certainly not himself.

Sara was the only gift, and she was as full of pain and darkness as Oliver was.

How he wished… how he wished that life would deal him a kinder turn. Just once.

Swallowing a bitter knot in his throat, Oliver blinked away a sheen of tears and stood, brushing the dirt from his knees and hands.

With one last longing glance, he turned from his parents’ graves and put his back to the lowering sun, threading the rows of markers further into the cemetery, away from the gates. The deeper in he walked, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket despite mid-September’s evening warmth, the older and more elaborate the grave markers became, spaced less evenly and more particularly clustered.

It was the old-money part of the cemetery, and it was where, of course, the Merlyn family plot was found.

He hadn’t visited in too long. Only once since his visit immediately after returning to Starling. Everything had gone straight to hell at such an accelerated pace, but even without staring at all that was left of Tommy in this world, he was in Oliver’s thoughts and heart always.

He was the beat beneath the sorrow and the courage, his memory both pain and promise. Tommy was never not with him, in every breath, the missing him in every one of Oliver’s molecules, the vibration on which he moved through the world.

They had been inseparable from birth. From birth until… until the Gambit.

And after, the world never let them truly reunite. Whether others held literal guns to their heads, or they were separated by oceans, or the gulf of Oliver’s lies and secrets and the things he couldn’t say without drowning in his own blood…

He had missed Tommy for so long he wouldn’t have thought death could make it hurt more, but he had, of course, been wrong.

As he should have known, should have learned by now, he could always hurt more.

He was staring at his feet as he walked, ruminating on loss, and raised his head as he at last approached the Merlyn plot.

His feet stumbled.

Stopped.

He wasn’t alone.

Oliver’s entire body tensed one muscle at a time, his eyes blowing wide and then narrowing to dangerous slits at the broad-shouldered silhouette standing in front of the grave of Tommy Merlyn.

More than once over the last year, Oliver had received a call from the Starling Memorial caretaker with the bad news that the Merlyn graves had been graffitied or vandalized. He had had to pay to have Rebecca’s headstone replaced after a chunk of it had been broken off, and it had felt like swallowing broken glass to imagine if Tommy had had to live to see his mother’s marker defaced.

If the stranger he approached now had any intention of directing misplaced anger at the memorial of his best friend or his mother, Oliver was ready to settle coldly and far too comfortably into the thrum of violence rising under his skin.

He softened his steps as he moved closer, hands slipping carefully free of his jacket pockets. He approached sideways, trying to keep the setting sun out of his eyes as he angled to catch sight of the stranger’s face.

The light and the hour were against him as he closed in on the figure from the side, their profile too much shadow to resolve into identity.

As if to answer his thought—though more likely, to answer a preset timer—a discreet electric lamppost flickered to life yards away beneath the branches of an elderly oak. The faintly blue light cast new angles of illumination on the stranger—

Oliver stumbled, stopped, for the second time.

The anger, the violence snuffed out in him like a candle, and he was left hollowed but for the echoing shock. His eyes rounded under brows tugged into a knot of agony, his mouth falling open but no air coming in.

He couldn’t breathe. His heart seized tight as a fist, and his vision darkened, swooped.

The stranger—stranger stranger stranger shadow dream lie—sighed, and it was like a trigger, or a bowstring twanged with release, and Oliver’s lungs flooded on a gasp. The inhalation wrenched his entire body back to sensation, to presence, with a violence more knives and needles than awakening prickles.

For a moment, his lips, his limbs, were numb but too alive, clumsy and painful with awareness as he staggered a step forward, and then another.

The next was surer.

The one after fell like thunder.

Oliver covered the last, short distance like it was eternity and his chest heaved from the marathon of those few strides. His hands rose, shaking, and he all but caught himself on snatching that coat collar, steadying himself as much as pulling the stranger around to face him.

“Hi, Ollie.”

Tommy Merlyn stared far too calmly into Oliver’s face, looking unruffled, unsurprised, even as the ground under Oliver’s feet threatened to crumble and reform as something new and unfamiliar.

He looked…

Alive.

Changed.

Like more than a memory.

Sideburns shorter, the shadow on his jaw a carefully trimmed almost-beard, rather than the unshaven jaw of a man too betrayed and heartbroken to pretend to vanity. Oliver’s fist shook on the lapel of a long brown coat knotted in his fingers with the front of a soft navy sweater.

It wasn’t the pale blue shirt Tommy had died in.

Or the painfully stark white of the one he’d been buried in.

“You’re not real.” The protest was heavy on his tongue, sticky on lips that felt too thick to form the words properly. “I’ve dreamed you before, this, you’re… you’re not real.”

The stranger that was Tommy Merlyn didn’t argue, only tipped his head to the side on an angle that matched the cut of his wry smirk, the quirk of that one eyebrow. The look was more answer, more counterpunch, than anything he might have said.

His hands raised, slow and carefully open, to settle on Oliver’s wrists. He squeezed, and his skin was warm, the pressure of his grip too solid against Oliver’s bones to be a projection of longing.

Something infinitely fragile trembled in the chambers of his heart.

“You’re dead.” It came out choked, almost a sob.

For a moment, he wanted to be angry, wanted to doubt and embrace suspicion and dread, to brace himself to be disappointed.

But it was Tommy, and the truth, the knowing of it was too rooted in his marrow to deny or question.

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed, sounding sorry, sounding resigned. “Technically, I am. For a while, I even was.”

Shaking in every inch, Oliver loosed his grip on Tommy’s collar, but only to transfer his hands to his neck, fingers curling around either side. Under his skin, Tommy’s pulse raced steadily on. Oliver stared at his hands, the furrow between his brows deep from pain, the tears spilling off his lashes hot from hope.

Tommy laughed, a soft breath of a sound, and Oliver felt it under his palms, the rumble in his throat.

Swallowing something barbed and deadly and beautiful, Oliver skimmed his hands up to fit Tommy’s jaw in the cradle of them, and he let his eyes follow the trace, and past, cataloging every feature he’d known so long he could recall this face better than his own. “How? How? What… where have you been?”

Smiling sadly, Tommy’s head shook back and forth in Oliver’s loose hold. His fingers were still circled around Oliver’s wrists, anchorpoint, tether. “I’m here now.”

Oliver’s legs almost buckled, the toes of his shoes bumping against Tommy’s as he let gravity only tug him closer. “You’re here.” Close enough now to feel the living heat of Tommy’s breath, he dropped his forehead against Tommy’s. All he could see was Tommy’s clear blue eyes, living, bright, vivid enough to at least temporarily overwrite the memory of them sightless and dull. “You’re here.”

Tommy took his hands from Oliver’s wrists and curled one around the back of Oliver’s neck. Oliver let his eyes fall shut, let the tears fall again, pressed his forehead more firmly against Tommy’s, like he could tie them by touch so they could never be separated again.

“I’m here,” Tommy breathed, and his nose shifted against Oliver’s.

The first brush of Tommy’s mouth was a shock, electric. Oliver gasped, but didn’t pull away from the second brush, lips grazing lips.

This was a memory older than either of their deaths, and it fluttered in Oliver’s chest, startled, nervous. The hand on the back of his neck squeezed, and Oliver tilted his head just to the left for a press, a kiss that was here and now, neither memory nor ghost.

It wasn’t chaste, but it wasn’t on fire with passion or need. It was something like confirmation, even tasting of the salt of Oliver’s tears.

And then it broke.

Tommy pulled back only far enough to breathe, to look Oliver in the eye. Oliver didn’t understand how he could look so calm when Oliver felt like he was shaking apart from too much hope and too much heartbreak, two gravities pulling him with equal strength in opposite directions.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy murmured, and Oliver didn’t know why he sounded so sad.

“Don’t say that,” he insisted heatedly, tightening his hold on Tommy’s face, unwilling to let him move any further away from him than this. Those words clanged in his ears like a car crash, dissonant echoes of Tommy’s dying goodbye. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Tommy sighed and briefly closed his eyes, looking resigned. Oliver stroked his thumb along the arch of his cheekbone, both to feel him real against his skin and to try to erase whatever made Tommy look like that.

There was no warning before the knife caught him between the ribs.

Tommy’s eyes opened again, the hand at the back of Oliver’s neck still anchor-firm. “But I am sorry, Ollie.”

“Wh…” Oliver’s shaking only intensified as he looked down in confusion, reality twisted out of joint too many times in too short a span.

But there was Tommy’s hand around the hilt of a knife, the blade sunk deeply in Oliver’s side and blood spreading quick and dark on the muted umber of his sweater.

The blade jerked free at the same time as Tommy’s hand snatched from the back of Oliver’s neck, and his fingers slipped nerveless from Tommy’s face. Oliver stumbled back, feeling colder from the loss of the touch than the pull of the blade.

He covered the wound in his side with his hand, and the blood made no sense to him. His vision swam, sudden and sickening, and one leg buckled beneath him, taking him down to one knee.

Poison.

The scuff of a sole against the dirt. A light touch on Oliver’s shoulder, than a heavier press of a hand.

Oliver looked up and had to blink to find Tommy’s face. He stood above him and just looked… sorrowful.

“I don’t understand.” The words slurred in Oliver’s mouth, dissolving, slipping away from him.

A wave of agony crashed over him, bringing him down to both knees, and he almost fell over as it ebbed to an overwhelming weakness.

Tommy caught him, kneeling with him now, one hand on Oliver’s chest, the other covering Oliver’s over the wound. Oliver stared down at their hands pressed together, pressed together and staining slowly red.

Tommy sighed.

Oliver raised his head, his skull feeling too loose on his neck as he sought and found Tommy’s eyes. “Not supposed to be like this,” he mumbled, even his thoughts slippery and fading now. “Just… just got you back. Wasn’t s’posed… to lose you again.”

“I’m here, Ollie.” Tommy lifted the hand on Oliver’s chest to wipe away the tear that dropped down Oliver’s cheek. “You’re not losing me. It’s me losing you.”

“‘S not fair,” Oliver exhaled, feeling now like even the breath in his lungs was slipping away from him. His head lolled on his neck, cheek pressing into Tommy’s palm. “Why?”

“If you find out,” Tommy said, slow and ponderous, eyes searching Oliver’s, “let me know.”

Oliver’s eyelids were too heavy now to keep open. Tommy’s voice was the last thing he lost his grip on, spiraling slowly away into the dark.

“Maybe next time we can make it be different.”

-------

@klaus-hargreeves-katz @princesssarcastia @ayotofu @adeusminhacolombina @sovvannight @storiesofimagination @obscure-sentimentalist @franklyineedcoffee

#oliver queen #tommy merlyn #toliver #arrow #arrow fic #collection: it should have been me #character death #(sort of)#like sorry i did this to y'all on the first outing for this collection #but tbh i don't know what you expected you know who i am by now

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kimsunwoah · 5 years

Text

take her to the moon || kim sunwoo

[22:19]

“don’t do this, please,” sunwoo sobbed into your sweater that was once his, clinging to your figure as if you were going to leave the moment he lets go. “I swear it- she didn’t mean anything to me! y/n please-”

“sunwoo, please don’t make this harder for me” you chuckled painfully, caressing the back of his head that was placed on your damp shoulder. “of course she means something to you, my love.” you paused, lifting his head up to rest your forehead on his, “but why would you hide it from me? didn’t I ask you to tell me everything?”

tears rapidly fell from your eyes and his. the night cold and the winds harsh compared the soft yellow glow of the fairy lights you hung up with sunwoo months ago, especially on the rooftop of you and sunwoo’s shared apartment where both of you were. god, that was the last thing he wanted: to make you cry, to see your beautiful face stained with salty tears that he knew he caused.

you knew of his secret escapades with the pretty girl from his chemistry class, but not even once did you speak a word about it to him. ‘if she makes him happy, I’ll be okay’ you thought every time you’d smell her perfume on his shirt, or when you see a pink lipstick stain on the collar of his favorite white sweater. you knew you should get out of the relationship, according to your friends. they knew you were already in pain, and you did know that, but your pathetic self always came back to him, and you always will.

how could you let him go? you and sunwoo met in freshman year at high school and got together in your junior year. after graduation, you both agreed on living in one apartment since you were both nearing your 2nd anniversary and you were both attending the same university but with different courses. you knew he was the one for you. how could you possibly let him go?

the first time you noticed was when there was a different scent on his hoodie. a scent that did not belong to you. you thought it was just because he had to spend his time on a female classmate’s house to finish their thesis report. or so you thought. it added up day by day: started from the strong victoria’s secret perfumes that you never owned, to the lipstick stains that you never wore, to the amount of time he was gone that you never spent. you were never worried though, you believed at the end of the day, he’d run back to you.

you both were drifting apart, and it was only beneficial to the party that was not yours. you no longer were the cause of his bright smiles. he smiles on his phone more, you took note of that as well. it was hurting you, he was hurting you, but at the same time, he still manages to heal your torn heart with those stupid forehead kisses, those stupid quirks he had, that stupid him.

stupid. you were so fucking stupid and you knew that.

until the night came where you saw them kissing on the very same rooftop where you spend your cheap dates with laptop movies, blankets, and junk food, where you watched the sun sink and the moon rise, and eventually watch the sun rise, where you both made paper promises to each other, where you both belonged. you needed to borrow his flash drive as you planned to save more movies for both of you to watch on free days. you stood on the doorstep leading to the rooftop as you watch sunwoo’s lips pull away from her’s, then place a final peck before his lips formed into the smile that you thought was only for you. you slipped into the shadows, but not going unnoticed by sunwoo and his girl as they heard the metal door of the exit harshly slammed close by the wind. all you could do was to look at sunwoo with tears running down your cheeks from your pained eyes, his mirroring your expression as the other girl froze in shock.

now here you all were, sobbing on the rooftop.

“I-I’m sorry, y/n. I swear I would tell you but-” you cut sunwoo off.

“I always knew, sunshine,” you cupped his wet cheek, smiling bittersweetly as your fingers chose to wipe his tears first before your own. sunwoo was surprised at the sudden use of your favorite nickname for him. he did not understand why and how you were not mad at him. “I just wanted to know why you didn’t tell me earlier. that way, it would not be as painful.”

the girl put herself aside and situated herself on the corner, not wanting to sever the gap any farther that separated you and sunwoo in the first place. she never knew anything about you. she just knew that sunwoo will pick her in the end. or will he?

“sunshine, before I say goodbye, will you do one last thing for me?” now you cupped his face, giggling softly to brighten the tense atmosphere as if it is your last time spending this moment with him, and it is. you knew you had to make it last.

‘w-what do you m-mean goodbye- y/n what are you saying-” sunwoo was scared. this was it. you were going to leave him. he expected this. he knew this will come sooner or later, but why was this breaking him?

“be happy,” you whispered softly to your ray of sunshine, the amount of tears falling from your eyes and sunwoo’s increasing.

“h-how could I be happy without you in my life, y/n? tell me how-” Sunwoo was already mad. mad at himself for leaving a diamond such as you for a different gem, at least, you thought she was a gem. his walls crumbled at that point.

“- please y-y/n, just don’t leave me please,” he sobbed. you knew you couldn’t leave him like that, but how would his true love comfort him if you were standing in their way. you started to detach yourself from sunwoo, removing his hands from your arms as you step back towards the exit of the rooftop that was once yours and his.

once you had enough distance from him, the girl approached the boy who was already crouching on the floor, racking with uncontrollable sobs. with a pained glance, you look back at them one last time to speak your final words to them before pulling the metal door shut.

“and sunwoo, take her to the moon for me like you promised me, and say you love her every time like how you told me the last time,” you told him before you were gone from his life, forever.

sunwoo barged into your apartment room, finding the space uncomfortably empty. after you left, he let the girl calm him down, but not how y/n would do it. he was adjusting this new atmosphere without you, and he could not bear it. sunwoo prayed that you have not actually left, that you would come back into the apartment and back into his arms. he can’t be happy without you. he can’t take her to the moon because he promised you, not her. and he can’t love her, because she wasn’t you.

he searched all of your cabinets and drawers, finding all of them empty like his heart, before seeing a little post-it note on your pillow on your side of the bed.

2-2-19

My dearest Sunshine,

I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you, my love. I thought you would still come back to me when I knew that you wouldn’t. I wish I could stick around and fight back your tears and tell you "My love, I'm still here". I only wish you happiness, my dear, and you know that right? I always and always will wish for nothing but your happiness, and if she gives you that, I will gladly let you go. I’ll live with the pain as long as it’s for you, my Prince. Please remember that no matter where you are, you'll always have my heart, and I'll always love you from afar.

So be happy, my love

y/n

song inspo: take her to the moon - moira dela torre

#lune types #oh god #sunwoo hours #open #the boyz #tbz #the boyz fic #the boyz x reader #the boyz imagines #the boyz blurbs #the boyz angst #kim sunwoo #kim sunwoo fic #kim sunwoo imagines #kim sunwoo x reader #the boyz sunwoo #kim sunwoo angst #kim sunwoo blurb #wheeee

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iloveurscratchybeard · 5 years

Text

Moirae - Part 13

BACK AFTER A 9 MONTH BREAK! I never meant to make anyone wait that long. I appreciate the messages, comments, notes, and AO3 love asking for more of this WIP. You guys are the reason I came back to the fandom and back to this story and I hope it was worth the wait. First of all...the disclaimers:

THIS STORY IS **NSFW**. That is all.

If you haven’t read all of the other *NSFW* backstories to this part, you can visit me at AO3 or find the previous chapter here.

*****

Episode: “Pusher”

*****

She keeps her distance after their conversation in the hospital. She’s hurt, she’s grieving, but he’s not exactly wrong. She should have mentioned the test to him. Shouldn't she? It was all just too much to process - her abduction, her lost time. The unimaginable violations that had been committed against her. They’d taken so much...the thought that they’d also caused her to miscarry their baby was a thought that she simply could not confront. Not just to him, but to herself.

He stopped showing up at her place with movie rentals and take out. They hadn’t been together since their tryst in the elevator after his miraculous return from the dead.

They did not discuss their conversation in the hospital. She didn’t actually think her life would be better off not knowing him. But she was too exhausted and filled with anger over Melissa’s unsolved murder to go there with him. She goes back and forth between understanding his position, to being completely angry and frustrated with him. He took a moment that was about her losing her sister, and made it about his hurt over her keeping something from him. How dare he. Really- how dare he. Not everything is about him.

She found that the best way to deal with these kinds of situations is to immerse herself in work. It was easy to do with MUFON members claiming they knew her and menacing black oil bleeding through the cracks.

She needed the space, she told herself. She was getting too wrapped up in X-Files, too wrapped up in Mulder. She needed to re-center and find herself. She got a dog. It was so unlike her. A dog left fur and chew marks on her perfectly maintained surfaces, unhinged the order she put so much stock into. A dog gave her someone to talk to when she was alone, and someone to care for that didn’t drain her emotionally. A steadfast companion. It was comfort and it was normalcy, and that brought her just a touch of happiness. Little Queequag helped her lock her feelings for Mulder away for a bit.

He saw her game and beat her at it. He acted aloof. ‘I’ll meet your indifference and raise you one.’ He actually had the nerve to hang up on her. Multiple times. She knew he was just trying to make her jealous. But how can you be a respected entomologist with a name like Bambi? Seriously. It only left her feeling more spiteful toward him.

Detective White and ‘the rare planetary alignment’ was the final straw in the tension of their relationship, leaving her emotions in a ground-up mess in her gut. Was she really so replaceable to him? Could he really care so little about what they had? She couldn’t keep this pace going. She was feeling bitter and resentful, and most of all, even more alone. She had to find a way to let him back in, to bring back down the walls her subconscious had built around her.

Things slowly improved between them after they returned home from that small town in New Hampshire. She found the lighter, flirtatious side of their relationship coming out again from time to time. Things started to feel easier. Finding Melissa’s murderer allowed her to close the door on a bit of her anger and let go. It’s just another piece of the darkness that she’s come to know in her life that she has to file away in order to function.

Her life is different now. She knows monsters and mutants, from Pfaster’s ice-cold delirium to the Flukemen’s grotesque face. But this monster is distressing. There is something so insidious about a person who can get inside your head. That can alter your brain in a way that takes all of your power and all of your control away.

Mulder is so strong. She sees it in the quiver of his lip, the twitch of his eye as he fights back the tears. The weight of Modell’s invisible grip forces his trigger finger to twitch. The way he whispers her name, a plea.

Don’t let me do this to you. I’ll never forgive myself.

All the distance between them lately feels foolish. She sees it all in his eyes in that tense moment, the teeter between life and death where things change in a split second and everything in your life becomes so clear. She’s been blaming this man for months for a life that she had just as much of a choice in. And it’s never been more clear to her as it is in those few seconds that his glassy, unblinking eyes plead with her to run that he is unequivocally and unapologetically in love with her.

Standing over Modell’s comatose body, she slips her hand into his. An apology. I’m sorry I’ve pushed you, too. Pushed you away when I needed you most. She wants to say the words. But they have never been that good with words. She asks him to bring her home instead. He’s hating himself right now, as she knew he would. Blaming himself for almost ending her life.

She stands in front of the door when he tries to leave. Her eyes never break contact with his as she works her fingers slowly on the buttons of her blouse, one by one, exposing her body and her heart to him. His eyes flutter briefly down, taking in a glimpse of black satin, and then purposefully back onto her eyes.

“Scully...don’t.”

She drops her hand, steps closer to him, and places it firmly on his chest. “Don’t what?”

“I don’t deserve you. You deserve so much better.”

Her face is stoic in determination. “It’s not for you to decide. Every step of the way, this has been my decision. Standing by you, fighting for the truth...it’s been my fight, too, Mulder. I accept the consequences of my own choices. And I decide to be with you.”

He sighs in resignation, but she can tell he isn’t going to let his internal self-flagellation subside so easily. She is going to have to show him. She raises her shoulders so her blouse slides back and down her arms, floating to the floor. She reaches around and unclips her bra with a single hand and allows it to join the shirt at her heels. She smiles a little to herself at the very obvious hitch in Mulder’s breath at the sight of her. He doesn’t want to give in, but he can’t avert his eyes. Her pants and underwear follow in one swoop and she stands before him completely naked, both literally and figuratively. She takes both of his hands in her own and leads him to the couch.

“I should go, Scully. It’s been a really long day. You need to rest.” His resolve is slipping as he allows her to push him down onto the couch. He seems surprised when she takes a seat at the opposite end from him.

“I am resting. I’m taking the edge off of the day and I want you to be a part of it.” He quirks his head to the side, uncertain of what she means until she brings her feet up to the cushion, leaning back into the armrest and butterflying her legs to expose herself fully to him. He audibly moans, his whole torso moving as he swallows and clenches his jaw together in restraint.

She brings her hands to the insides of her thighs and lightly tickles the sensitive skin there, inching closer and closer to her center with each downstroke. He is unblinking and thoroughly entranced as she works her fingers down to her labia and dips two fingers in, and then drags them back up along her belly, leaving a trail up to one perfectly tight nipple and then swirling her juices there. Her left fingers dive into her entrance as she continues to tease and pinch at her nipple. She is beyond turned on at this brazen act of exposing her most intimate side to him. Being completely and openly sexual, showing him exactly how she touches herself when he’s away is a huge step for her. She is saying, ‘I’m opening myself up to you, absolutely and unconditionally. Please don’t shut me out.’

She pumps her hand consistently, feels her wetness dripping down onto the fabric of the sofa. Breath thin, toes curled, she continues to watch his face despite the lightheadedness she is experiencing as the sensations heighten and all of her blood seems to leave her head in a southern journey. Her clit swells prominently and she bites her lip as she watches Mulder shift uncomfortably into the couch, clearly restricted by his own clothing.

“Take it out,” she directs sternly.

He meets her eyes, clearly surprised at the forcefulness of her request.

“Now, Mulder.”

He doesn’t speak, but complies with her order, toeing off his shoes and pulling off his trousers with some minor struggle. His penis is so erect that it slaps obscenely against his stomach as it is released from its confinement. He hurls off his shirt before settling back into the couch.

“Wrap your hand around the base.” She is the one pushing him now. She’s the one in control. He seems to realize all at once that this control is what she needs in this moment, to heal both of them. She sees this recognition all at once in his face, and she knows he will do anything for her.

He takes a firm hold on himself, painfully swollen and oozing from the tip, the precum running along the veins down to his hand. She bites her lip at the sight of him and resists the urge to immediately straddle him and sink down onto it.

“Stroke yourself for me. Use a firm grip.” She is shocked to hear herself say these words and desperately close to orgasm from the thrill of it all. Her fingers leave her breast and trail immediately to her clit, applying pressure and slow circles in line with Mulder’s stroking.

“Scul-lee…” he whimpers, his eyes fighting to stay on her and not roll back in ecstasy at the sight of her.

They increase their speed, unable to stop watching the other. Scully feels the build-up, sees the bursts of white behind her eyelids as she comes suddenly and hard, throwing her head back into the couch.

When she comes to awareness and lifts her head she’s greeted with Mulder’s very dilated pupils and a slight smirk on his lips. His hand rests still, awaiting further direction. He is completely enthralled with her display of arousal, so much that he had forgotten about his own.

She slides down the cushion in his direction, throwing one leg over the back of the couch.

“Inside me. Now.”

He doesn’t need a second to process her request as he turns and sinks into her at record speed. It’s like coming home, she thinks. She is full and overstimulated by the erotic direction that the whole day has taken. It only takes half a dozen strokes and the press of his body against her sensitized clit and she is coming again, riding on the euphoria that is being in Mulder’s essence.

His restraint is admirable as she comes down from her second orgasm and finds him watching her face in pure wonder. She reaches down between them and pulls him from her body.

“I want to watch you now. I want to watch you come...on me.”

“Scully-” he starts to protest, but as soon as she pumps him once he shuts up and squeezes his eyelids shut.

“Show me.” She demands. His eyes are hooded, dark, and dangerous. He lifts himself a little and brings his knees up to either side of her ribcage. His penis is beautiful, just like him. It’s thick, a smooth and even magenta tone that commands attention. Using his right hand, he traces the head slowly over her breasts, slicking her with her own cum. He pulls the skin back tautly and then pushes it back up and over the tip so that the head is almost covered. He is slow and purposeful as he repeats this motion, enjoying her eyes watching in rapture. She brings her hand up to her mouth and sucks on her two fingers, salty and musky from their previous dance. She makes a show of wetting them thoroughly, eyes seductively locked on his before she pulls them out with an exaggerated pop and then swirls them around the ridge of his cock. She applies pressure to the sensitive underside with her thumb just so, causing a frantic “Shit, Scully...” and a crease between his brows as he concentrates on restraining himself. She wants him to let go, to free himself and give himself over to her, so she reaffirms him of her desires by wrapping her hand firmly alongside his. Together, they pick up the speed and pump him harder.

“It’s okay, Mulder. This is what I want. I’ve always fantasized about watching you do this. Watching your face as you stroke yourself-”

She doesn’t get any further as he erupts in a strangled moan, biting his lip in the process. She feels the pressure rise up like a tidal wave along her palm as two strokes of their combined hands have him spurting hotly over her breasts. It’s one of the most erotic moments of her life.

Later, after a hot shower together where he washes her hair reverently and towels her dry, they lay naked and spooning in the comfort of her bed. She feels the need to reassure him of her position further, so she kisses the back of his hand.

“You push me every day. You push me to think outside the box. You push me to be stronger. You push me to delirium sometimes... but this is the life I choose. I choose it. And I don’t want a life with anybody but you.”

************************************************************************************************

A/N: Tagging @today-in-fic @pickingoutchinapatterns @viceversawrites @alabama-metal-man @baronessblixen @frangipanidownunder @scully-eats-sushi @shyromanticfreak @observeroftheuniverse @i-gaze-at-scully @peacenik0 @defnotmeyoyoyo @tumblessuckthis @tshining @piper-scully @alienbaby-babymama @spookydarlablack @illnevermeettheground @thatsmedana @markwatneyandensemble @iusedtoknowwhatawishwasfor @reasonandfaithinharmony

#moirae #chapter 13 #my writing #wip #9 months of nothing #i haven't written a thing #I just kind of dove back in #I hope it isn't too rusty #be blunt with your feedback #there are plans for a part 14

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