#tearing and rending his soft white flesh with my teeth
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siren.
[inspired by Hozier’s brilliance and “De Selby (Part 1)”]
pure bliss floods my veins despite the murky waters starting to swallow me whole; the notes still ring in my ears as my ribcage starts to fill, but dark eyes peer through the crystalline waters at my descent.
a warm hand grips my wrist, nearly yanking my arm from its socket, hauling me from the sweet release of cold nothingness awaiting far below. fear suddenly breaks through the haze as my lungs remember what they need.
upon my escape, my body purges the offensive liquid from my chest, making room for oxygen in an attempt to fight for the life i was ready to release. it isn’t pretty, the struggle for survival, especially against my better judgment. spit and seawater and mucus run freely down my soaked body as i remember where i am; my addled brain attempts to take in an illustration come to life so real it feels as if i’m the fairytale.
flowing waves of hair the color of an ancient tree you lean upon to rest and read frames a fair and handsome face, with freckles scattered like stars over the vast expanse of skin exposed to the world and my vision. long, dark lashes flutter over then around wide eyes that tell of endless depths seen and unspoken for too many years.
a hungry smile twists a pair of rosy, supple lips — white teeth sharper than shattered glass slipping out between; but the mirth fades as those ageless eyes meet mine, a flush of color blooming over cheekbones high and proud, nearly drawing my glance away from that impossible stare.
almost.
that narrow, masculine jaw is set now, and a swallow bobs down a throat that creates a symphony within a sigh; the hand that isn’t keeping me above the water reaches out to touch my face.
“i am supposed to kill you now.”
his voice is sin and salvation, lighting me on fire and cleansing me of everything else i’ve ever known. my mouth falls open in a gasp so involuntary i don’t realize i’ve made a sound until he chases it with his lips covering mine.
he draws more sounds from me then — so much different than any i’ve ever made — pulling my trembling body tightly to his, his bare chest heaving against mine: sharing breath and warmth and a simmering passion i do not comprehend. he devours my sea-stained tongue and swallows down the lilting notes of my voice that i find i cannot help but surrender.
i am not freed from his deadly, life-giving kiss until my damp fingers curl into his hair and pull — gently, but firmly, drawing a sigh from him that i feel in my marrow.
“i do not understand,” he murmurs, holding me to him still, pushing wet strands of hair back from my eyes. i’m crying, and my arms slip around his neck as i begin to shake in earnest now. there is a steady pulse thrumming under his perfect skin, and i wonder what beats within the cage of his ribs if not a pounding heart like mine…
“you taste sweeter than any flesh i’ve consumed before, but i do not wish to rend it…” he presses his forehead to mine; his brow is wrinkled, his breath fanning over my face.
“and your voice… so human, but so…” he bends down to sink those deadly teeth into the soft slope where my neck and shoulder meet, and i draw in a breath to brace myself before he can pierce my skin. instead, he inhales, his nose tracing a line up to just below my ear. i whimper — a pathetic, begging sound — and he groans, his tongue dragging over my throat as i tilt my head back for him.
“what must i do to keep hearing such music?” he asks with his lips pressed against my collarbone, his smile grazing the spot and pulling a nervous whine from the pit of my stomach, my breath stuttering as his hands begin to roam.
“are you an angel?” he teases, with his words and mouth and fingertips, while his hands are tearing away my wet clothes and those eyes are cataloging every exposed inch of me. “we do not often see those down here.”
i force my eyes to meet his gaze and he freezes as though time has stopped dead, one hand on my neck, the other resting on my hip. i lay my palms on his chest and he looks suddenly unsure, as if i am the hunter here — unarmed though i may be, disarmed as i somehow seem to make him. i stroke his skin with my fingertips and his grip tightens around me, his thumb pressing to my windpipe as i swallow hard against it.
“i am not,” i admit, and his eyes flutter closed, like he is bracing himself against the onslaught of my voice slicing through the taut silence between us. his tongue traces his bottom lip as if my words are a tangible thing he can taste upon the wind, his thumb stroking my throat like he can coax more of them from me at will.
“i do not know what you are,” he admits quietly, “or what this feeling is. you are meant to be a feast for me, but i feel no hunger here, no thirst for your blood, no need to…”
“it is strange,” i agree, “but it isn’t wrong.”
“it is wrong, little angel of darkness,” he argues, a wry smirk warming his face, his hand kneading its way over from my hip to slip down between my thighs. “you are human; i am siren. for all of time your kind has sustained mine by seeking out our song and finding death awaiting.”
“i would die right here and now if you wished it,” i shrug. “but i would give you anything you wanted if you let me stay with you instead.”
he groans and buries his face against my neck, stroking me with long and nimble fingers, stealing my ability to speak anything but nonsense, a vast vocabulary traded for the soundscape of aching desperation then impossible release.
“i am supposed to kill you now…” he breathes against my skin, his head resting on my chest as i try to remember my own name. it seems inconsequential, somehow. i am lying on my back on the same rocks that ruined my ship, being willingly and gladly torn apart by the same creature who lured me here to die.
peace floods me as oxygen fills my lungs and my body continues to warm under his exploration. he is kissing me again, carefully this time, keeping his sharp points away from my soft give. my hands are in his hair, content to let him do whatever he decides is best.
“it is your choice,” i say against his lips as he finally moves again, his eyes searching mine as his fingertips tease and coax and keep me in a haze of bliss i can’t bear to leave.
“it is inevitable,” he says, peering up from between my legs this time— but his expression is unsure, his eyes unfocused. “i cannot keep you. not alive…not below.”
“do what you must,” i whisper, ecstasy flooding my brain for another drawn-out peak — his teeth finally breaking skin as his fingers curl and press inside of me. i cry out, pleasure and pain mixing in a confusing rush as he removes his mouth from me. blood flows from the tear he made, but i arch my back as he forces me to come again around his fingers and on his tongue.
i’m gasping for air, unable to focus on any one sensation, the raw burn of torn flesh blending with the beautiful ache of oblivion — and he’s creating it all, a work of art meant for no one but him, selfish and beautiful and cruel.
“no,” he rasps, and his tongue suddenly drags over the cut splitting my thigh; i’m screaming and he’s torturing me and it is clear now how this will end.
but at once the burning subsides, a cool breeze washing away the pain, and i sit up to watch my leg healing with impossible speed. i lock eyes with him, and he’s panting, both of us dragging our gaze away to watch as the wound repairs itself. his thumb is absently stroking circles over the skin above my knee, his other hand buried in his own hair.
“you saved me,” i whisper, holding his face in my hands, gazing upon his impossible beauty with fear and awe.
“no, little angel,” he sighs, his eyes pained as they meet mine, bloodshot and tearful. “i damned myself.”
his face becomes gaunt and his breathing is shallow, his skin graying and drying out beneath my hands.
“what did you do?” i cry, “and why did you do it?”
“i gave you my blood,” he huffs a soft laugh. “it was the only way to repair the damage i had done…but now i will die… do not look so stricken, my angel, this is not in vain. for the first time, i have chosen for myself.”
he moves his head just enough to kiss my palm before he withers quickly to sand slipping between my fingers and sticking to my wet skin. everywhere he lands, i am sparkling and warm. i weep for what was and for what could never be, a song rising in my throat — soft and alluring, like the swishing of the waves… like a lover’s kiss.
i feel the shift before i know what he’s truly done, the sea calling me to her depths to demand answers for her missing son. and i obey her command, unable to deny her anything, slipping beneath her surface; the scales of my tail shimmering under the waves in the last rays of the day.
#grampsoninspace#fiction#sirencore#hozier#de selby part 1#unreal unearth#tell me that man isn’t fae#i won’t believe you
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Something bad happens and Copia’s plans are ruined. He’s so pissed off he can barely control himself. You offer he can take the anger out on you. Hate-fucking ensues
Delightful prompt, nonny. 🔥
*hate sex; angry sex; rough sex; spitting; penetration*
Even if you hadn’t heard the stage whispers around the Abbey today, Copia banging around his office would be warning enough that he’s in A Mood.
You eke open the door to find papers strewn about his desk, books sprawled out like drunks on the floor, and his chair upturned.
The man himself is hunched over himself the sofa, his back heaving in rage.
“Papa?” you ask softly.
Copia freezes, then turns to you, smoothing down his ruffled hair before clearing his throat.
“Ah, amore. Perhaps not now, yes?”
You pick your way carefully through the detritus, as his eyes track your form the entire way. Even when you take his hand to kiss his knuckles, Copia’s body is still a taut wire, ready to snap.
“I am no good being around at the moment, amore.”
But you are not a fair-weather partner. You know some of Copia’s past lovers were in it for the favors or the infamy…but you’re here for all his moods.
“You’re angry about the—”
“Ai! Do not even speak it,” he hisses through cleaned teeth as his white eye flashes.
You touch his face to smooth away the anger, but—while he doesn’t flinch away—the sour look remains.
“Let me help, Papa.” You kiss his nose. “My Papa.”
He grumbles, but allows it.
“Oh? And how would you be doing that?”
You’re already tugging off your habit.
“You can use me to fuck it out.”
Copia goes as still as a predator observing his prey, even as his eyes take in the snatches of revealed flesh.
“Your personal stress reliever.”
You toss the habit to the side, now clad only in your underwear.
When you meet his eyes, he rolls his hand at you.
“Continuare.”
You reach for your bottoms, but Copia growls low in his throat and stalks over to you. He fists the fabric and jerks you into the line of his body.
“I have your permission to use you as I see fit?”
You press yourself into him and nip lightly at his throat.
“Yes, Papa. Use me hard.”
“Bene,” he rumbles.
And then he’s rending the cotton in two.
You gasp, but he’s already biting into your neck and raking his blunt nails hard down your skin. His one hand travels up to grip into the roots of your hair before he’s yanking your head back with a harsh jerk.
“Fuck you,” he snarls, and then he spits in your face.
He’s pushing your head back painfully as he smears it into your skin before shoving his fingers harshly into your throat.
“Your dare,” he hisses as you try not to gag. “I will show you who is in charge here. Who is Papa.”
His nails scrape your scalp as he digs his fingers into the hair at the top of your skull.
“On your knees,” he growls. It’s a command, but he’s pushing you down before you have a chance to comply.
Free from his fingers, you cough and wipe the tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. When you look up, Copia’s face is twisted in hate as fumbles to undo his pants. You barely have time to admire the flush and fill of his hard cock before he’s ramming it down your throat, a hand at the back of your head to keep you in place.
“You will take it whether you like it or not.”
(You like it.)
He shoves it down as far as you can take it—and then some—and you choke and wheeze as you try to breathe through your nose. He grunts as his hips twitch into your mouth, his curls rubbing against your nose.
Your eyes are streaming, and you don’t think you can last much longer, so you tap at his thighs. He yanks you off his cock in a mess of spit and mucus, and you double over as you suck in air.
“You can dish it out but not take it, eh?”
When you lift your face to his, his expression is smooth—but his nose and lips twitch with restrained anger. One pointed boot comes up to push your flat with a press to your forehead. It smears down your face to press at the hollow of your throat.
“Are you chosen by the Olde One?”
You shake your head as much as you’re able.
“Are you anointed by our Dark Lord?”
Another shake, and he leans down, resting his arm on his thigh.
“Do you think I have this eye for shits and giggles, eh?”
He points at his blazing eye, and all you can do is stare at the fire in it.
“If you don’t know it, I will make you know it,” he hisses through clenched teeth at you.
Your body responds with a heated desire, and you wonder if he registers the flush of your skin.
Copia makes a growl low in his throat, and suddenly you’re being manhandled up and onto his lap.
“You will feel it when I fuck the sense into you.”
The first crack of his palm on your ass has you letting out a startled gasp. It’s followed quickly with another smack. And another.
And another.
He’s raining down open-palmed smacks on your bare flesh, and you’re letting out little hitched breaths while squirming in his lap at the stinging sensation blooming across your ass. Despite the sting, you’re leaking, and while your reflex is to jerk away from him, all you want is more.
“Oh, Papa!” you cry.
He mistakes your cry for one of mercy, and he rumbles as his hands grab at your burning flesh.
“Had enough, eh?”
Your response is to moan and press into his lap. His hand winds into your hair to yank your head back again.
“I’ll show you enough,” he breathes into your ear.
Copia slips out from under you, and you rub into his couch, leaving the evidence of your arousal over the soft leather.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” you groan because it seems like the correct thing to say.
(You're not sorry. Not at all. Copia can come get it.)
“Oh, I’ll show you ‘sorry’,” he snarls, and then he’s grasping you here and there to bend you over the back of the couch. When he kicks your knees apart with his own, you go easily, practically wiggling your ass at him.
You know he’ll like what he sees—even if you weren’t getting it from Copia on the reg, you love to play with your toys (and you love to play with Copia and your toys), so you’re open and ready for him.
Lube might still be seeping out of you from some earlier play.
When his blunt teeth sink into your raw ass, you do yelp, and that only encourages him to continue his bitey journey across each cheek. His hand comes up to fondle you as you jerk and gasp. The pain from his bites is only enhanced by the pleasure his hand elicits, and you pound your fist into the couch.
“Papa, please…”
His tongue slips across your throbbing skin—no doubt tracing the outline of his teeth—before the heat of him recedes. You don’t even have time to look over your shoulder before you feel the rasp of his pants and the bite of his zipper against your ass. Your back arches toward him, but his warm hand at the small of your back presses you forward.
“Now, for some correction.”
His fingers trail down your skin to your hole; there’s a slight pressure, and then a wet splatter when Copia spits. Moaning at the sensation of his fingers in you, you ooze forward more…and when he hits your sweet spot, you drool onto the leather.
Copia’s nails scrape across your heated flesh, and you gasp out an Oh.
“Mm…sí. You will feel every,” he rumbles low in his Mummy Dust register, “thrust.”
And then his lips are back to tickle your ear.
“And I want to think about what you did with every,” he presses into your sweet spot and you gasp.
“Single.” Press.
“One…”
Press.
“PAPA!”
He replaces the pressure of his fingers with the press of his cockhead, and then he’s pushing into you roughly.
“Papa what?” he growls as his hips snap into you and as his hand yanks your head once again back by the hair.
“I’m sorry, Papa! I’m sorry!”
You feel him acutely every time his hips slap into your stinging ass and the material of his pants rub against your sore spots; you throb between your legs with his every hard thrust into you.
Spreading your knees even further to accommodate the drill of his cock only has him snarling with more feral energy. The hand in your hair slips down to clasp at your throat, and his body drapes across your back as he fucks harder, faster, into your supple, willing body.
“I don’t fucking care,” he rasps, and then he’s pounding into you like he’s a fuck machine set to high, his hand shifting up to your face so he can shove his fingers back in your mouth. You moan and gasp around his fingers—the only other thing you can do besides just taking him.
At some point, he pulls out so he can rearrange you face down, legs together on the couch, but you submit languidly. He boxes you in with his arms and the pressure of his chest on your back as his cock treats you like his very own fleshlight.
“Take it…fucking take it, you stronza,” he wheezes into your ear as he presses your face down hard into the cushions.
You throb again, clenching around him, and he snarls, sitting up.
“This is not for you.”
When he pulls out, you whine at the loss, but then his hand is pushing at the nape of your neck, making sure you’re muffled by the couch.
You can hear the sound of skin on skin, and you groan right before the splatter of Copia’s cum hits across your back and ass; you jolt in surprise when he shoves his cockhead into you again. And then out.
And then in.
“Fuck you. Fuck you…fuck you…” he chants.
By the time he tumbles down on you panting at his release, you’re panting at your unsatisfied arousal. You let him catch his breath for a few beats before you speak.
“Papa?”
His hand comes up to clumsily pet at you.
“So good. So good for me, amore. Grazie.”
You wiggle around so that your front is pressing into his, and you apply little kisses to his collarbone as you grind into his leg.
“Papa…” you plead.
His hand strokes your hair. “Sí. Sí, amore.”
And then your eyes roll back as he goes about thanking you.
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Im gonna throw some words and see what inspires you, no need to complete all, i know i dont have anything worth publishing for hands but i got a grand idea for sunrise. Beloved, mercy, mightnight? (Again no need to write all)
midnight is smth i wrote a little while ago that i figured i would never publish bc i think it's Bad but oh well (does it fit the prompt perfectly? nah not really but night is an element)
Beloved
The night was harsh and the wind bitter cold. The woman bundled her delicate quarry tighter into the furs, protecting him from the elements, as she made her slow but meticulous way forward with her companion. The taller man held aloft a persistent torch that battled against the wind, bringing some clarity to the path ahead. Not too long after two others joined, coming to greet the travelers from the other direction.
A few pleasantries were shared, quick and hushed. The mission was dire, and delicate. The taller man followed as the two newcomers lead the woman further, to the door of a solitary, silent hut. The man and the locals stayed outside as the woman quietly cracked the door open and stepped in.
The house was cold and dark, but in there was safety from the whistling wind. The woman brought up light with her own magic and the small bundle in her arms stirred, making some small noises. She shushed the baby and sat down to a vacant chair in front of the cold fireplace.
Now she would wait. She calmed her fussy package, the small boy in her arms soon settling down and closing his eyes for another, well-deserved nap.
Time passed. The woman knew these things were not to be hurried. She only wished she had been right.
The wind outside calmed a little and stopped whistling in the crooks of the chimney and at the door hinges. The atmosphere in the dim light became cozy, welcoming - warm, almost, but not in the sense of actual temperature. Mahran had known what to expect, when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She looked up and was greeted by the translucent, spectral face of a young woman. "Hello", she said, her voice thin and echoing, but still clear.
"Nesia, was it", said Mahran and the shade nodded. "I am- I was Qharil's wife."
The shade turned her head down in shame and regret. "I never knew", she then said and Mahran nodded.
"I blame you for nothing that happened. It's I who grieves for you", she said. "There are no words for me to express my sorrow for what he did to you."
Nesia nodded, grief still evident on her face - and the vicious wounds evident on her body. The attack had been swift and cruel. "But the most important is safe?" she then said, lifting her eyes to the bundle in Mahran's arms. Mahran gently revealed a bit more of the baby boy she had brought to see his mother.
"He's safe. And perfectly healthy. A beautiful child", she said and Nesia smiled, reaching out a spectral hand to touch the face of her beloved, the one she was ripped away from all too soon. Kaede yawned, eliciting a delighted gasp from Nesia, reaching out his little hands to swish past her outstretched fingers.
"You will keep him safe? You will raise him?" Nesia asked, voice strained, tears already glimmering in the corners of her eyes. Mahran nodded gravely.
"As if he was my own", she promised. Nesia simply nodded, choking back her tears, hand shaking ever so slightly as she reached out for Kaede's small hands. She mumbled something in a language Mahran didn't understand outright, but as a mother, she could guess the meaning.
"Thank you", Nesia whispered.
"And I'm sorry", said Mahran.
"You will tell him of me?"
"Everything he wishes to know."
Nesia nodded a final time and retreated, as Mahran bundled Kaede back into the warmth and comfort, him soon nodding back off into sleep in Mahran's arms. Nesia blew him a kiss, waved, with tearful smiles.
Mahran stood up and made her way to the door, when the lingering shade spoke once more. "Promise me something?" she asked.
Mahran turned, waiting for the request.
"Get that son of a bitch."
Mahran chuckled. "Count on it."
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Mercy
An eery disquiet held a grip of the barracks as he walked in through the gates. He paid no mind to the gate guards as they let him pass without question, said no word, made no eye contact. He had always disliked the barracks and the nameless, faceless men clad in black and white, ever since he was a child. He would rather not spend any more time in there than was necessary.
Some of the knights stared, some were too involved in their own hushed conversations to pay mind to the man walking past, making brisk headway to his destination, the largest building within the walls of the compound. A knight by the door said nothing as he approached, merely bowed his head and opened the door for him.
The air inside was quite nothing like he had experienced before. He had seen death, yes, but in the confines of his own home, not within a dimly lit stone hall, not where death had took its rawest form, placed on the table right in front of him in the middle of the room.
He hesitated for a moment, for two. He stood in front of the shut door, fists clenched - out of anxiety, maybe. Or out of lingering resentment. He had not seen his brother in months, and the last time they spoke was... not on friendly terms.
It was odd.
Numair had grown to know Mahir as a large, intimidating, harsh individual whose physical presence took hold of a room and gripped the minds of men who were compelled to listen when the man, eldest of the three sons, spoke. He was a man who criminals ducked out of the way from, who stood out on the battlefield not only by his crimson sash, but also by his height and sheer stature.
But here, laid down on the table, still in his blood-soaked vestments, he seemed... almost small. Worn. Thinned out. Numair took a tentative step forward, looking down at his eldest brother's face. Even death had not brought him peace - his expression was that of lingering horror, eyes ever so slightly open and staring dead into the ceiling. The blood was the worst part. The deep, deep crimson pouring from his mouth onto his chin and down his throat only exaggerated his sallow skin and painted a macabre picture of his last moments.
Had it been painful? It must have. It must have been terrifying.
And had he always looked so thin, or had death already begun its work? His cheekbones jutted out compared to his sunken cheeks, dark shadows laid under his eyes and deep wrinkles framed his brow. Numair didn't even remember. Mahir had always had a stern look, and his dark eyes - inherited from their mother, just like Numair had - never held the warmth they should.
Silently Numair reached his hand out and swept a couple of curls off Mahir's forehead. His skin was cold to the touch and Numair almost pulled his hand away, but resisted.
This had been his brother, once. Numair didn't know where the change had happened. During their youth, when they drifted apart? During the years of relentless arguing over who should pick up the sword and who not? Or had it just happened, when the commander, the eldest son, was finally cut down?
He hadn't noticed the tears coming in. This was a hollow husk of the man he had once loved and admired as his brother and protector. This was the lingering ghost of a man who once knew love yet sunk into the bottomless depths of revenge and all-consuming grief, who responded to death with rage and more death, who made it his life to pay back the endless pain he endured not just for him, but for his mother, for his brothers, for his sisters.
It was no way to live.
Perhaps this, in its own, macabre way, was mercy.
"You can rest now, brother", Numair whispered, bent down and placed a soft kiss goodbye on Mahir's cold forehead. Then he wiped his tears, turned his back and left the room.
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Midnight
The ocean was still. Night had taken over the coast, laid to rest all the little critters and birds who made no sound on the moonlit shore, giving in to the atmosphere of quiet solace and calm. No nearby people, no sound of city hustle and bustle, just a solitary hut with the smoke of the final embers of the morning quietly dying down. In the silence of the hut, one man sat awake, next to the peacefully sleeping form of another.
He had awoken suddenly, twisting himself free from a memory that was still too fresh, too harsh – time had not yet smoothened out its edges, not laid down a fog cloud of forgetting on its raw form that burned when touched. Claws, digging into skin, twisting bone and chilling its depths, teeth rending bare, unprotected flesh, a face so familiar but yet not at all, burned and gnarled and… wrong. The memory still held a grip, of his mind and his heart, which now beat harshly in the still silence of the hut, so loud one could almost hear it.
Slowly, almost afraid Goose turned his eyes to the man quietly laying besides him. Elk was asleep – in the depths of something blissful and calm, his breathing deep, his heartbeat steady. The sight of him both calmed and frightened Goose, because despite his love, his deep knowledge of the man, the stain of the demon who took his form to attack him still crept at the edges of his vision and threatened to cloud his mind altogether.
He wouldn’t, Goose told himself, over and over again; he wouldn’t, it wasn’t him. It had never been him. Elk had told him, his body wasn’t his own, his own memory had faded away from the way of the demon. It wasn’t that Goose didn’t believe him. But what Elk didn’t remember, Goose did, and those memories stuck to him tight in the hours where no other thought was there to push the doubts away.
Almost tentatively he reached out his hand and gently as ever stroked Elk’s cheek – unharmed, untwisted, warm and familiar as it had always been. Elk drew in a sigh, stirring but for a moment in response to the unexpected touch, a shadow of a smile creeping up to the corner of his mouth. But he did not wake yet, he remained asleep, peaceful as ever. Goose smiled as well for a moment, remaining still to ensure the man didn’t wake further. And, confident he didn’t, he as quietly as possible clambered out of their shared bed, careful as to not stumble over Elk’s legs. The previously so comfortable and welcoming warmth of the hut had become oppressing, the shadows in the corners almost feeling as if they had crept closer in the night than they had before – silently, Goose unlatched the door, creaked it open and snuck outside, pressing the door shut behind him.
Once outside, he drew in a deep, long breath, closing his eyes and taking in the sea breeze. The faint smell of salt felt purifying, almost. It smelled like home. It was where he had grown up, where life had offered him its most, given all to him – given him too much, sometimes, more than he could understand, more than he could do with. The small stones underneath his feet clicked and clacked as he walked barefoot towards the shore, until he found a suitably big rock and sat himself on it, facing the ocean and its ever-lapping waves. Somewhere in the horizon he saw birds against the clouds illuminated by the moon, too far for him to recognize. He had always been jealous of birds – what an existence, to just fly with nary a worry about tomorrow. But despite his sometimes less-than-affectionate nickname, he was merely a man, left to earth with his worries, mistakes and the regrets that followed.
Stupid fucking conch. Stupid fucking Goose. Of course they don’t talk to people. Only an idiot would think a conch would actually talk. All it was was just bait for someone as stupid as him to latch on to and for others to get in trouble for. It had always been like that – Goose gets in trouble, does something stupid, and the rest around him have to make excuses and take the blame: give him a rest, he doesn’t get it, you can’t expect Goose to get it. And it was up to the others to pick up the pieces. It was up to the others to put themselves in harm’s way.
To sell themselves to demons.
A demon Goose called in by being stupid, and now had to be protected from.
He didn’t know if his tears were of anger or regret, quite possibly both – he wiped them down to the much-too-long sleeves of his husband’s shirt. He stirred from his thoughts for just a moment to hear the gentle footsteps on the rocks behind him.
“What’s wrong?” Elk asked as he sat on the rock besides Goose and noticed the tears on his cheeks. He raised his hand instinctively to wipe them away but Goose turned his head away, and with a mix of confusion and worry, Elk put his hand down.
“Bad dream”, Goose mumbled and sniffled.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Elk asked, and Goose shook his head slightly. Elk knew if the man didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t – but knowing him, being silent was either short-lived, or a reason for worry. Elk was content sitting quietly for a time, staring at the ocean alongside his man, pondering what the next thing he would say was. The silence did not end up being long.
“It had your face”, Goose mumbled.
“Was that the dream you had?” asked Elk, and Goose nodded silently, not looking towards his husband. Elk was quiet for a moment, hesitating – “It was just a dream”, he then said.
“It was real to me”, Goose said, still staring at the waves. Elk didn’t argue – Goose had refused to talk much about that day, and even if they had returned to life together under one roof there were hitches in the man’s behavior that had not been there before. Elk had seen hesitation in his eyes, seen him ever so slightly duck out from under his touch.
“I know. I’m sorry”, he sighed. Goose didn’t say anything, just sat there, swinging his legs slightly. The silence had an uncomfortable tinge to it, an awkward flavor that permeated the night, but which both of the men hesitated to disturb.
After a period of silence filled only with the waves lapping at the rocky beach, Goose turned his eyes at Elk once more.
“Why’d you do it?” he said.
“Did what?”
“You gave yourself to a demon. It was my shell. My mistake. It should have been me that the bastard took,” the man answered, voice wavering.
“I felt-“ Elk started, then spending a moment to choose his words. “I felt it was my duty. As a paladin. And I mistakenly thought I could… do something about it.”
“Do what? Kill it?”
“For example.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Elk sat quiet for a second, averting his eyes – Goose could feel the regrets the man had, and felt that he had pondered that same question himself.
“I tried to get through to you before. At this point I… I didn’t know how you’d react. I didn’t know how strong of a hold it already had in you, for it to start communing with me, as well”, he finally answered, meeting Goose’s gaze again. “I was scared for you. I was scared that if I told you, the fiend would make you outrun me – do something I couldn’t predict or prevent.”
Goose sat silent until Elk spoke again. “I’m sorry”, he sighed. “But I couldn’t lose you.”
“I could have lost you!” Goose exclaimed and Elk turned his eyes away in shame. “Weeks, Vragi, weeks – what was your plan? What did it want? You would disap- you’d disappear, I would… what was I to do? No matter the demon in my ear, but you? What would I have done without you?” said she smaller man, fighting back the tears that now tried to once again force their way out.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t-“ Elk began, pausing for a moment to pick the words.
“You don’t have to fix my wrongs! You don’t have to throw yourself into danger for me, because I’m too stupid to understand it myself! You don’t need to-“ Goose started before Elk could continue, when the man turned back to him and placed a firm but gentle hand on both of Goose’s cheeks.
“I did it because I love you!” he said, firmly, eyes nailed on Goose’s eyes, the man looking back in tearful bewilderment. “And I was terrified of losing you. Love and fear, they make men do the stupidest things, but I need you to know that everything I do is… I love you, Fégla”, Elk continued with a softer tone, hands still holding Goose’s head in place.
Goose looked back, sniffled, and Elk took a deep breath.
“I don’t have an excuse or explanation that would make sense now. I cannot justify leaving you with no word. I’m sorry, my love – I cannot take it all back. I wish I could”, he sighed. Goose, turning his eyes away from his husband choked back a sob, pulling in a long, wavering breath he then let out slowly, calming himself, collecting himself.
“I wish so too”, he said and Elk sighed deep, lowering his hands to his lap and pressing his forehead to Goose’s. He delicately, almost tentatively took Elk’s hands in his.
“I’m sorry”, he mumbled.
“I can’t imagine-”, Goose said back, but wavering. “If I lost you-”.
“I’m sorry”, was all Elk could repeat.
“I love you.”
They sat together for a moment, foreheads together, Goose holding Elk’s hand in both of his, listening to each other breathe in the rhythm of the gentle waves of the moonlit ocean lapping at the rocky beach. The first squawk of a distant seagull stirred Goose from his thoughts and he looked at the horizon where the soft, pale tones of reds and oranges breached into the purple and blue hues of the night sky, blending into a promise of warmth and life for the new dawn.
Elk took both of the Goose’s hands in his, for a change, giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Whatever happens”, he said. “I will be there for you every step of the way.”
And Goose smiled, wiped off the last remaining tears from his eyes and leaned in to give his husband a gentle kiss – a kiss of promise, and mistakes forgiven.
“Let’s go to bed.”
#the last one is like as long as the others combined but that one i wrote separately and the others into this post so#makes sense i guess#writeroo
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Fic Update: Blood Wolf
Chapter 5
Fandom: Dishonored
Ship: Daud and the Whalers, some Daud/Outsider on the side
Rated: Mature to Explicit, Strong Violence and Gore Ahead!!
Synopsis: Werewolf!AU :: Daud-Centric Prequel to Wolfbann. Origin Story, pre-canon. Centers on how Daud turned, and his subsequent marking by the Outsider and his formulation of the Whalers.
Notes: Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Daud goes back to where it began, spurred to action by the Outsider’s words.
AO3 link
Previous :: First :: Next
____________________________________
Dunwall
Month of Songs, 1820
He was running. He was running, throwing his surging body forward, every step pounding into the ground with the force of a full stampede. The scent of blood, of fear, was heavy in his nose; it drove his senses to a pinpoint, beckoning him onward. Weariness fled from him as his skin was shed, scars blazing and teeth shining with a manic light. He breathed and his body breathed with him, contracting and expanding, growing with every filled lung. He gulped air like a whale before the plunge; muscles rippled, launching, claws ready to rend, to tear, to savor.
He was a killer; he was born for this. His prey was fully unaware; fur flew and bone crushed and his jaws longed for the warmth of blood, the tender tear of flesh rending between his teeth. A limb was shorn from its body easily and his long nose plunged into the cavity left behind, rooting for soft, vulnerable organs. He closed his eyes and worshiped the entrails he found within. He was drunk on it, drowning in the life-giving red water, offering reverence to both god and devoured flesh. Somewhere far away, a whale keened; he bellowed his own song, body rippling with the sound as it morphed into a roar, then a scream. His voice dripped with Void but still the whales cried and burned; he could feel their dying songs reverberating in his ears, his whole body resonating with the call.
------
Daud lurched forward, gasping for air, returning to the surface of his dreams. His body was slick with sweat and smoke and his nose burned with the smell of burning oil. Whalesong mixed in his ears with another unearthly sound, a keening note that he realized, belatedly, was a sundering howl ripped from his own throat. He fell from the bed, all too aware of his teeth clashing, his claws ripping, his body shaking from an exertion he didn't know it was experiencing until now.
He tried to still his panicking mind but his body spasmed of its own accord, as if trying desperately to break free of it's human-shaped prison. He fought for lucidity against the instinctive desire to shift into something else. He bit down on his tongue, rolling it through too-long teeth, and clenched his left hand so painfully it bled. He tasted iron on his lips and gasped out, trying not to fall apart at the literal seams.
Human, human, you're still human , he reminded himself, trying desperately to convince whatever shift was happening to reverse itself. A dark part of his mind snarled back, telling him he was only lying to himself, that humanity was now beyond him--but he snuffed it out, shaking his head as the world swam with void and smoke. He clenched his fist even tighter; he snarled and his scars smoldered like they would sear his face right off, but he finally got his body to settle. Claws melted away, fur and ears and snout left on a non-existent breeze. His chest exhaled; with it, the beast succumbed, returning to rest in the coil of his ribcage. His limbs shook, his body was slick with sweat. He wanted to be sick.
When he pounded his fist into the flooring, the wood creaked, splinters biting into his skin.
A week. He'd had this Mark for a bloody week and still, everyday was a fight. A fight against a body that didn't want to be confined to skin, with claws that itched to grow, with teeth that begged to be bared. The Mark on his hand and the whispers of the Void that were supposed to help him maintain this mess seemed only to encourage the beast of him. His dreams were vivid bloodbaths coaxing the monster to burst from his skin. The Outsider had wondered how long Daud could control the beast; Daud wondered if he even had control to begin with.
His hand seized and he shook it, flexed it, then concentrated. His breathing returned to normal, his shivering stopped. He willed those claws to grow long and deadly before whispering them away again. He watched as the inky black fur broke apart and turned to ash, as if the fur wasn't made of hair, but actual voidstone, muttering secrets even as it dissipated away. Daud frowned, sat back on his legs, and closed his eyes.
This time, he felt for the Void. He searched for it with purpose, his hand the part of him that was allowed to plunge across the barrier. The chill was bone deep, the pain of it followed by a tingling pressure that begged him to stop-- but he found it. The tendril of magic he was searching for. He tugged on it like a spider testing its web, following the vibrations towards its intended goal.
Daud kept his eyes closed until he felt the cold burn up his arm, filling him with magic. When he opened his eyes, the world's colors were muted but her secrets lay bare; people far below him either still slept or paced paths around their beds. Scent trails wafted in front of him, the smells of whales, of oil, of burnt skin traveling through his apartment. When he blinked again his normal color vision returned, the murmur in his ear fled from him, and his mark faded from a bright screaming white back down to a faded black.
He drew breath and heavy air filled his lungs; a cold hand materialized on his scarred cheek and he stilled, blinking, until a smirking figure appeared before him fully. He swallowed, still very aware of his position on the floor, and lifted his gaze to meet endless black.
"My, learning something new today?" the Outsider asked calmly, stroking a thumb across Daud's cheek. The sensation of the touch across his scars sent a shivering jolt all the way down to his feet and he gasped at the sensation. He tried to regain composure, tried to scowl at the god.
"It's not like I've been given many instructions," Daud complained. "So I've had to learn to take what I can get when I find it."
"You have been quite busy seeking out my shrines," the Outsider noted. "But they are easier to listen for than to see. This new power will help you hear their songs. Once your ears hear it, you will know. And you will be drawn to them."
Thin fingers moved from his face to his hair, carding through the loose black strands and Daud's eyes slid closed, his body entranced under the touch. It was soothing and suffocating; he let himself be set adrift, the current pulling him where it wished. The Outsider smiled.
"A mother from Pandyssia, and the bastard father she murdered on her way to Serkonos. She was called a witch, people thought she worshipped me. But she didn't; you knew it was all slander. You didn't even believe I really existed." He drew his hand away and Daud whined, unbidden. Free of the trance, he stood up; the Outsider floated above the flooring, his shadow immeasurable.
"Why believe in a god that didn't pay attention to us, or the suffering of others? It was pointless."
"And yet, here I am. In truth, I'm glad you weren't devout. Would have made it so much less interesting to approach you." The Outsider turned away, though Daud felt as if his hungry dead eyes were still watching his every move.
"Tell me, Daud, did you ever hear the fables of whale-wolves in your youth?"
Daud blinked. "My mother mentioned them under a different name. Wolfbanner, those cursed as wolves. It was fanciful, like anything from Pandyssia. I didn't pay it much mind as I aged, when I had other things to worry about."
"Like murdering your abusive captors," the Outsider supplied. He turned back to Daud, studying him. "Not your first kill, and not your last." He disappeared, reappearing at Daud's side, facing the opposite direction. A hand hovered over Daud's arm, the sensation of promised contact prickling against his skin.
"You are by far the most bloodthirsty of my Marked, the first in a long time."
There was a sadness there, but also an interest, a hunger. Daud leaned away a little, trying to meet the Outsider's eye.
"How many have you Marked?"
"There are a few in every age. You are one of six, all scattered in the Isles. The last time I marked someone, you were still a babe in Serkonos. The last time one of my Marked died, it was here, under this very city, just over a year ago." His face fell serious, a terrible gaze that chilled Daud to the bone.
"The one Fink found," Daud surmised, and the Outsider's form flickered dangerously. He chose to dissipate, forming again to sit on Daud's bed, a foot resting over the opposite knee.
"My whale-wolves are not the playthings of men. They are individuals who make their own lives, their own paths, their own choices. According to legend, the original were whales that left the water to walk on land; they possessed humans, and their form changed to suit their bodies and their environment. It was not so easy on the humans; they eventually lost their minds to the whale's overwhelming presence, ravaging their villages and infecting their others, and were ultimately killed." The Outsider looked away, his gaze far off.
"But that was thousands of years ago, when whales were more powerful. My Mark gives humans a fighting chance, but it also changes them forever. You are now more than you ever were before, Daud."
"I was quite fine being human, you know," Daud snarled. "I didn't want to become some furred whale that walks on land." The Outsider gave him a sad look.
"Unfortunately, few get to choose this path. Those who have the option of choice are rarer and more powerful than you could ever imagine. You could have been one but…" the Outsider flicked over to him again, his hands and eyes fixated on the scars marring his face. Daud inhaled sharply, not expecting the touch.
"But you were attacked before that choice could be offered to you. I'm sorry. So please, do not take what I've given you to waste."
The god's voice was barely a whisper, but so loud within his ears, like rushing water. He turned toward the Outsider, unbidden. That slender face smiled.
"What would you see me do, then?" He asked, eyes dark and entranced again.
"Return to where you started," the Outsider offered. "And keep your friends close. You will need them, soon."
And then, just like that, Daud was alone again. He shivered, his body alight in a very different sense, limbs tingling with phantom pain. He breathed, trying to ease his mind, but it was no use. He settled instead for a cold shower but all it did was remind him of those icy hands, the rush of water in the Void, and the whales that kept crying from their death row in the slaughterhouses.
------
Rulfio was early to his meeting with Daud by approximately ten minutes and 45 seconds.
Apparently, so was Daud.
This wasn't completely unlike the other assassin, if Rulfio was being honest. What was unlike Daud, however, was his vulnerable position-- sitting against the chimney, his arms resting on his knees, his mouth nervously rolling a new cig. Daud didn't even look at Rulfio as he cleared the roof, swinging his legs over the edge before straightening up.
There was no mask, this time. A welcome return to normalcy -- until, of course, Daud turned his head towards Rulfio. Without thinking, Rulfio's eyes shot over to Daud's scars and he stilled. His beard pulled into a frown and he crossed his arms; Daud sighed. The younger assassin didn't stand up, just kept sitting there, too open and languid.
"Do I even want to know the trouble you've been into since the last time I saw you?" The words were rough but held no venom; Daud responded by looking down and away, the shadow of a smile twitching on his lips as he pulled at his cigarette. The smoke billowed up as he breathed out.
"Maybe not. If I had the option of not knowing, I would take it, to be honest."
There was something ruined there in those words that gave Rulfio a pause. He unfolded his arms, instead opting to set his hands into pockets.
"Well, did you get it done, then? It's been near two weeks."
Daud nodded. He then dug into the bandolier at his chest and pulled out a small pouch. He tossed it to Rulfio, who caught it easily. He noted the red velvet of the purse's fabric, opened it to gold coins, and laughed.
"Steal everything but the bathtub?"
"I burned the house. The whole family is dead. Except, well…"
Rulfio tossed the bag up, catching it easily as it fell. "Well?"
Daud sighed. He shot Rulfio a look. "There was a kid."
Of course there was. "And where's the kid now?"
"In the hands of a physician. She was hurt, but she'll live."
"Have you been stalking her?"
Daud's expression went deadly sharp. Rulfio blinked; a dark emotion hung in those edges that he had never seen on Daud's face before. But then it passed and Daud just grimaced, puffing on the cigarette in his mouth.
"I've been trying not to. I don't need to interfere with a kid who's life I ruined."
"And yet you pulled her from a burning building after killing her parents."
"I wasn't gonna let her die, Rulf."
Fair enough. He tossed the coin purse again, finding the clinking pleasant in his ear. "Did that physician fix your face up too?"
"No, that was…" his hand clenched, as if his wrist hurt. "It healed on its own."
Rulfio knew a lie when he heard one. He laughed, waving at a bug hovering too near his ear. "Daud you're a better liar than that. If you have a secret, you can just keep it, you know." Interestingly, Daud's jaw worked; the fly in his ear grew more insistent. Rulfio wasn't the twitchy type --having a steady hand and low jumpiness made him great at his job-- but when he swatted and nothing flew from his hand, he turned his head, looking around. The air was empty, but the sensation tickling at his nerves remained. He scowled, and then caught Daud watching him curiously.
"What is it?" He asked.
"Dunno," Rulfio confessed. "Thought it was a fly, or a mosquito. But there's nothing there."
Immediately the twinge on his nerves receded, but Daud remained far too impassive. Rulfio squinted at him, folding his arms in again.
It took a few ticks, but Daud finally twitched, his fingers moving back to his cigarette.
"What did you do?" Rulfio asked, like he was talking to a petulant child. Daud exhaled, the sound roughened with smoke.
"I need your help," he said, skirting the question. "It's not a contract, it's a… personal favor." His head tilted, his eyes softened. "I don't really have anyone else I can ask to come with me on this one."
Rulfio considered. If you asked him, he wasn't the superstitious type, but something wasn't right. Daud was acting strange. Void, how long did Rulfio think him dead? Long enough to come to terms with the fact that his partner was well and truly gone. Then he just reappeared, with that haunting face and those seeping, infected wounds, and things changed. To be honest, Rulfio isn't even sure if Daud was still real, or some phantom sent to haunt him.
"Sure, I'll help you out, Daud. I've owed you for a while, anyway." He settled down on the roof next to the scarred man, nudging his boot amicably. "What do you need to see to?"
Daud sighed, weary. He ran a hand over his hair.
"It's the Hound Pits. I have to go back there, look around. Something doesn't add up, like I missed something the first time around. I don't want to get my information crossed, but some of the papers I found in Fink's place allude to... unpleasant practices. " Daud pulled the papers he recovered and easily handed them to Rulfio. He took the proffered articles, smoothing his beard as he read. That insistence itched at the back of his skull, ringing like tinnitus.
Eyebrows up, Rulfio simply said aloud "do you mind?" while his eyes skimmed over the words, and was mildly surprised when the sensation obliged, backing off. The ache it left behind was dull, and Ruflio gave Daud a very pointed look.
Daud, to his credit, tried to remain neutral. Rulfio sniffed. Daud blinked innocently.
"Are you using some kind of magic on me, Daud?"
"Don't start with me, Rulf."
"Look I know you said your mom was from Pandyssia but--"
"Just read the damn articles," Daud growled out, "and maybe then I'll tell you."
Rulfio went back to the papers, smirking, but the smile fled as something dark settled into his chest. He read it, then read it again. He swallowed heavily and when he handed the papers back, he found his steady hand shaking.
"Jerome," he managed, "it says he changed? And that they were looking for assassins to…" he cast a nervous glance at Daud, who was watching him very carefully. Rulfio's gaze flicked to those gastly scars, the lines dragging over his face and across his jugular, and he could feel the sweat beading on his own forehead.
"What the fuck happened under the Hound Pits, Daud?"
Daud didn't blink, his expression dark.
"It's easier to show than tell on this one, Rulf."
------
The trip to the Hound Pits Pub took longer than Daud wanted it to. After a week, he was used to these powers taking him farther and faster than his own legs could, to the point where walking was an overt annoyance. However, he couldn't trust to show his powers to Rulfio, not yet, not until his fellow assassin fully understood why. So, by simple flesh and steel they both traversed the rooftops, knowing the routes through Dunwall better than anyone. Blessedly, Rulfio asked no questions on the way, letting Daud take the lead and direct Rulfio where they needed to go.
As they neared the establishment they settled down, carefully perching on a nearby apartment roof and simply observing. It was late afternoon, which meant the pub was getting ready for dinner and a long night of pleasantries. Someone in an upstairs apartment aired out some dirty laundry, getting spooked when she caught them lounging out of the corner of her eye. Daud grimaced, motioning to Rulfio; they hopped down after that, mingling with the streetside crowd.
"Go on inside," Daud suggested, as they eyeballed the front door of the Pub. "See if you can't distract the staff for a while. I'm going to scout around for where we need to go."
"And how will I know you're ready for me?"
Daud worried his cheek and resisted the urge to push his thoughts towards Rulfio. It was an addictive side effect, one he didn't totally understand or have control over, but he knew Rulfio's mind now, had a bead on it, and it would be so easy to…
"I'll come in and grab a drink myself," he supplied, pushing down the ache to reconnect to Rulfio's mind. "I'll grab a whiskey if I'm ready to go, a wine if not. How does that sound?"
Rulfio nodded, good with the plan, and Daud relaxed. He nodded, then eased back against the wall, pulling out a cigarette to light. He lounged casually, wearing a loose shirt over his bandolier to conceal the majority of his weapons and equipment. He waited until Rulfio disappeared, nursing his cigarette between his lips.
Then, he pulled the spent butt from his mouth, flicked it to the floor, and disappeared.
He transversed through the Void, his body leaping to a new location, again and again, effortlessly. He had been practicing with the power, honing the feel of it over the last week, his confidence growing with each successful jump. He allowed the power to flow through him now, breathing in the ash it left behind, feeling his chest swell with unspoken exhalation. He circled the Pub, gathered a loose key from an upper room, and disappeared briefly into the sewers connected to the establishment.
There, he let himself take a breath. His hand itched with long claws, his black gloves melting into oily fur. Daud looked around and sniffed; the sewers still stank, but not of death. Perhaps the rats or the hagfish got to last month's massacre, tearing apart any remains. He carefully traversed the tunnels, found the door he had used when he was first here, and unlocked it with the stolen key.
Then, as silently as a spectre, he slipped into the main body of the Hound Pits Pub.
The place was bustling, the smell and sounds of the brewery and its customers hitting him full force. He staggered for a moment, nose curling, before making his way to the broad chested Tyvian. He knocked on the counter and Rulfio glanced at him, but said nothing else.
"Can I get a whiskey?" Daud asked gruffly. "Dunwall's finest." The barkeep nodded, sauntering off to get the drink. Next to him, Rulfio shifted.
"There is a door to the sewers in the--" he whispered, but just then, the rabble rose up, drowning his words. He glanced at Rulfio, who shook his head. Of course, he hadn't heard him.
Daud huffed. And, without thinking, he shut his mouth tight and reached his mind out to Rulfio's.
"Adjacent brewery has a door to the sewers in the back. It's unlocked. No guards. I'll meet you there."
Daud could feel Rulfio's mind flickering through confusion, realization, shock, and-- the emotions flashed by so fast Daud's head felt heavy but he drummed on the counter and cleared his throat. As the barkeep brought his drink and he dropped his pay, he chanced a glance at Rulfio.
His partner's face was a wall. He was looking at Daud, his eyes unblinking, and Daud could sense the disbelief. He frowned; he needed to get Rulfio moving, damnit.
"Is there a problem, sir?" Daud growled, lifting a dangerous lip. Across the weak connection he felt confusion, then understanding. Rulfio cleared his throat, then shook his head.
"No sir, just thought I recognized you from somewhere."
"With these scars? I doubt it. Now back off."
Rulfio nodded and behind them, someone laughed. Daud turned away and nursed the whiskey; when he looked back, Rulfio was gone.
He dropped a tip, downed the rest of his glass, then exited the way he entered.
When Daud next met up with his fellow assassin in the sewers, Rulfio was livid. He grabbed Daud by his too-loose shirt, shaking him roughly, and snarled in Daud's face.
"What black magic was that? Where is the bone charm? Who gave it to you? Damn it all, Daud!"
Daud let himself be handled before carefully prying Rulfio's fingers off his shirt. He then pulled the shirt off, storing it near the door, and then checked his equipment and adjusted his hood.
"It's not a bone charm, Rulfio," Daud said, hating how strained his voice sounded. It was easier to count his bolts and darts than look at the dark, angry eyes of his partner in crime. "It's just how I am now, Rulf."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" There was the sound of a blade unsheathing, and Daud started, not expecting the weapon now pointed on him. Not Rulfio. His stomach dropped with the realization that somewhere along the way, he'd made a deadly mistake. He whirled towards his partner, putting his hands up.
"Rulfio, wait--"
The tip of Rulfio's dao blade pressed into his stomach, silencing him. Daud's mouth snapped shut and he shook his head, unmoving.
"What were you doing in my head then? Are you like Jerome? In the note, how it said he could invade thoughts… is that what you're like now? Are you even Daud anymore?"
Daud licked his lips. He chose his words carefully; he really didn't think Rulfio wanted to see what would happen if he tried to spill his guts here and now. Daud didn't really want to see what would happen, either.
"Rulfio, I swear to you, I have not been body snatched, I'm not some weird animated corpse. I just need you to trust me--"
"Trust you, when you were coming in my head and talking to me? I didn't give you permission for that, Daud!"
"I'm sorry, I couldn't help it," he whispered lowly, his voice echoing against the water and the walls. Rulfio had no response to that, but the blade didn't move. Carefully Daud moved to take off his left glove. "I just want to show you, so that you don't make a terrible mistake, right here, right now."
"And why's that? You some witch now?" The sword pushed into his stomach.
"No, Rulfio-- fuck! I'm a Wolfbanner, I'm a cursed fucking whale-wolf!"
The silence at the declaration hung heavy between them. Rulfio then laughed, singular, in disbelief.
"Yeah, right. Those are just old wive's tales, Daud. There's…" but he trailed off, the look on Daud's face stony. Rulfio's eyes flicked to the scars. His hand shook.
"Let me show you, Rulfio." He tugged at his glove. Rulfio shook his head, but didn't take his eyes off the motion. "Just please, don't gut me, that's all I ask."
The glove slid off. The Outsider's Mark gleamed. In a swarm of ash, black claws grew.
The sword clattered loudly to the floor.
Daud's jaw clenched tight, working as Rulfio stared, fascinated at the action. Worry crept in, and Daud took a step back for distance.
"I didn't want this, Rulf, but I'm not lying, and by some god-given power, I haven't gone completely insane. I didn't think--I'm not here to-- I thought I could trust you with this because I hate lying to you, Rulf."
"And the mind tricks? What is that?"
"I…" Daud clammed up, and had the audacity to feel ashamed. "I don't know. I just realized that I could reach out to someone else's head, read their emotions, talk to them. I'm still learning this shit and I'm sorry, Rulfio. You couldn't hear me and I just acted without--"
The thwip was near silent. Daud didn't catch it soon enough; the punch in his leg caused him to buckle and grunt. He looked down; the bolt stuck from his thigh at an odd angle, but the blood poured from it all the same. He groaned again as the pain burned down his leg and up his spine.
"Rulfio, what the fuck--"
But it wasn't Rulfio. Daud's second stood, watching agape as a second bolt hit his right arm, in the bicep. Daud growled in annoyance, the sound guttural in his ears. He could feel his teeth growing heavy and he gnashed them together as he pulled the first bolt out of his leg with his free hand.
"Rulfio," Daud rasped, feeling his mark burning and begging to be used. He dodged; another bolt whizzed past his head. "I swear, if you're in on this--" He didn't mean to sound so rough and angry but someone was shooting at him and he'd been too distracted to notice. But Rulfio just shook his head, his face pale. He reached for his sword but another bolt nearly struck his hand and he pulled back, cursing.
It was enough to make Daud's blood boil over. His fist clenched; with a snarl he was rushing forward, ignoring the pain in his limbs. There was an exclamation, but he was already too far to make out the words. Ugly claws sprouted as the world greyed; a body to his left lit up and he sneered, teeth sharp. The individual was slim, hooded; they realized how close Daud suddenly was and they stumbled back, surprised. Or perhaps, terrified.
It didn't matter. Daud's fist clenched and he pounced; another bolt whizzed past him, the shot going wide as Daud collided with his assailant. He pulled his blade out immediately, pulling it to the throat of--
Daud cursed and the person under him shuddered from where his hand lay clasped around her throat. Because now he knew it was a she; the long brown hair tied back in her hood and those sharp blue eyes were sign enough. He sighed out a growl, keeping his blade on her neck.
"Jordan. You better have a good explanation for this." He heard a yelp from Rulfio in the distance, the call of his name. Jordan sneered and Daud was suddenly very aware of the steady drip of blood from the bolt still in his arm.
"Daud, what the shit was all that-- Jordan?!" Rulfio finally moved over to them, wet from the sewers, and he looked at her, equally baffled. He looked at Daud, then Jordan, and his face went severe. "Oh, you didn't… Seriously , Jordan?" He sounded like he was chiding a child which, to be honest, wouldn't be far off the mark. Jordan was even younger than Daud, fresh into her second decade, and sometimes her recklessness preceded her.
Jordan, for her part, at least knew better than to struggle against Daud's grip. Her eyes darted to Rulfio, then back to Daud; she put her hands up, swearing.
"Okay, okay, shit, you caught me. Now let me up you assholes."
"Not until you explain what you were thinking, shooting me in the fucking sewer," Daud growled out, his teeth grinding together in anger.
"There's… there's a hit on you, Daud."
It was Rulfio who responded. He sounded defeated, almost ashamed. Daud swore, nearly dropping his blade as he turned to Rulfio, livid.
"There's a hit on me and you didn't tell me? Since when?"
"It's that prick, Brimsley," Jordan supplied. "Said he was threatened by you, that you killed someone else and he wanted you gone. It's good pay, you know," she twitched, her eyes darting between the other two assassins. "15,000 coin, Daud. I thought it'd be easy enough, but he didn't say you were a heretic too."
"I'm not a heret--" he cut his own words off with a groan, finally pushing Jordan away in anger. His claws left no marks, for which he was grateful. She rubbed at her neck anyway, trying to ease the pain away, checking for blood. "Whatever. Fuck Brimsley. I'll kill him myself and collect my own bounty." With an annoyed grunt, he pulled the bolt from his arm, letting it clatter to the floor, unphased by the blood weeping from the wound.
"Does that even hurt?" Jordan asked, stupefied.
"Like a bloodfly sting," he responded. Jordan blanched.
"Yeah okay, fuck Brimsley, you're a scary man, Daud. 15,000 isn't even close enough to be worth it. 20,000 maybe. But Outsider's ass, you really ate two bolts like it was nothing."
"Yeah, well, at least you didn't try to kill me," he said, and his mind remembered that grey wolf's-- Jerome, his name was Jerome, he reminded himself, sickened--split neck, stitching itself back together. "There's a good chance it wouldn't have worked."
"I wager not," she said, her wide, nervous eyes trailing the scars on his face. "So what, you a fuckin' witch now? Give your soul to the Void so you can't ever die?"
"He's a whale-wolf now, Jordan." Rulfio said gruffly. Daud spared him a glance; Rulfio was watching him carefully, but there was no skepticism in his gaze. Daud savored the small amount of vindication that brought him, before turning towards Jordan's laughter.
"Yeah, right. Those are just fiction, Rulf. I know you love your conspiracy theories, but seriously? A whale-wolf? I'm supposed to just believe that?"
Rulfio flushed, the grip on his blade tightening with the creak of leather. "Did you not see what Daud just did? He disappeared and then reappeared like it was nothing. He's even Marked--or tattoo'd, depending on how you see it."
"Don't need to be a giant beast to use magic, Rulfio."
"Oh? You think those witches you see at night aren't also beasts too? You think Granny Rags isn't more than just an old crone?"
"You ever see Granny look like a giant monster? No? I didn't think so! But she still brews those concoctions and talks to rats and leaves carved bones lying about!"
"Just because you ain't seen it doesn't mean it's not true," Rulfio defended.
"Shut the fuck up, both of you," Daud finally snarled, his whole body bristling. Jordan and Rulfio both stilled, acquiesced, though Jordan's eyes still darted skeptically between them. "Rulfio isn't wrong, Jordan… I got attacked. In these very sewers, even. It's not something I really enjoy, but--
"Show me, then," Jordan bit out, stubbornness taking over as she steadied her crossbow at Daud, "or I'll turn you over to the Overseers. I bet they'll give me more coin for a marked heretic than Brimsley will for your head."
Daud sighed, aggravated. "You can't be serious."
"And if I am?" She tilted her head. "What, you suddenly shy or something, Daud?"
He snarled, the sound rumbling out from deep in his chest. Jordan faltered and Rulfio stepped back; around them, the air grew heavy. He stuck out his left hand; still gloveless, he clenched it and it burned, the smoke and ash giving away to fur and muscle. Jordan's eyes went wide and she lowered the crossbow as Daud's scars glowed hot, the smoke revealing fur and ears. His teeth clashed together as they lengthened in his jaws and became something other than human. Rulfio cursed, Jordan held a silent scream. His bones cracked unpleasantly but he willed the rest of his body to stay put, despite the heaving of his chest and creeping fur down his back. He felt his wounds steam away, the flesh knitting back together with his partial transformation.
Jordan gaped like a fish. Clearly, neither of them had expected -- this . Daud could hardly blame them. He sneered, his lip curling up, hating the looks on their faces. He let go of his magic; immediately, the fur dissipated, melting away like fog over water.
Nobody said anything. Daud could feel the anger rising in his chest and his left hand itched.
"Any other stupid questions?" He rasped out, his voice ruined after the transformation. Jordan just shook her head, the crossbow falling from her hands.
She ran.
Daud caught her before she took more than two steps. Rulfio's hand flew to his blade, anticipating a fight.
"And where do you think you're going?"
"I'm not sticking around so you can kill me like that!"
"Daud frowned. "I'm not going to kill you." His mouth twisted up into a nasty smile. "Unless you're off to snitch, that is. Then I might reconsider."
"Like anyone would believe me anyway!" She shrieked, her voice cracking up an octave. Then, she relaxed, though the sweat on her brow lingered. "What are you going to do with me then?"
Daud blinked, then looked at Rulfio, who shrugged.
"I think you'll just have to come along for the ride, now," he sneered, putting his blade back on his hip. "You followed us down here, after all. Aren't you curious as to why we're here under a dirty old dog fighting pub?"
Jordan looked skeptical, but Daud knew her curiosity would win out in the end. Her fingers twitched, and she licked her lips.
"It got to do with that hit you took for Brimsley?"
"The very one that fucked me up and almost killed me? Yes."
"Fine. Just don't kill me and leave me a mummy for someone to find in 200 years, alright? I got a lotta living still to do."
"We aren't going to kill you, girl," Rulfio sighed out, exasperated. That seemed to convince her; she wiggled out of Daud's limp grip and wiped herself off.
"Alright then. Where to, wolfman?"
Daud sighed and rolled his eyes; he was already regretting the decision to bring anyone along. But the Outsider had told him to keep his friends close, and maybe this was why.
"Give me a moment," he muttered, then waved his left hand again, burning through more magic. The Void laid bare the secrets of the world and in his ears, a faint ringing began. He frowned; the sound was like a tuning fork, resonating in his chest and limbs. It tugged him down, deeper under the tunnels, to where the dog fighting amphitheatre was. As his vision returned to normal, he started moving, motioning to the others.
"It's this way. Come on."
#dishonored#daud#the outsider#whalers#werewolf au#wolfssegner#blood wolf#long post#rulfio#jordan#fic#my fic#fanfic#my fanfic#not much rambling in the tags on this one#just struggled with this one a bit#a lot of dialog to juggle#both myself and daud are exhausted by jordan
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5 & 23 from the ace prompts 🤩
5. "I have been waiting for you my entire life."
+
23. "You are not allowed to die first, got it?"
Okay, this one had me stuck for like, a week. I just couldn't come up with anything for it that wasn't super cheesy and tropey and cliche. But then I just decided to be cheesy and tropey and cliche instead anyway.
(And to everyone else that sent prompts, sorry! I did get them, I am getting to them! I just also sorta got carried away by plotting out that amnesia steve fic…)
//
Billy runs in through the front doors of the hospital at full speed, ready to roar and to scream and to tear the place apart but instead of any of that, he takes a deep breath, adjusts the strap of his duffle bag that he suddenly realizes he had no need to drag inside and looks around for the front desk. This isn't the hospital he's used to, so he has no idea where it is.
And he can't find it.
He looks and he looks and he looks and still, he can't find it.
This isn't the hospital he's used to, he doesn't know anybody who works here and he's fresh off a really rough, really long shift.
He hadn't even gotten to go home and shower, he'd only just stepped out the door into the bright, warm, mid-afternoon sun, taken a single, deep breath and only just decided his plan of action was he was gonna go home, shower, then maybe go surprise Steve with a pizza when he'd gotten the phone call.
And he hasn't taken a single deep breath since. He just ran straight for his car, drove all the way across town to this neighborhood he doesn't know and this hospital he doesn't know and he tries to think of everything, of anything El's ever told him about PTSD or panic attacks, stuff she's said help people calm down when they're experiencing things like that, because he's experiencing something like that right now, he's got enough sense left to know that much but none of what she's said is sticking, none of it is applicable and -
The rage he's gotten so good at tamping down boils over in his blood and swims in his skin and he feels like he's gonna scream but instead he pulls at his hair, but he only manages to grab at too-short, freshly shaved sides with not near enough left on top and he takes a breath, and he's going to scream, he's going to scream -
But then there's a hand on his shoulder and a soft, sweet voice saying, "You need some help?" and everything in him crumbles as he turns to see a sweet-faced and tall (very, very tall) man in poorly-fitting light blue scrubs behind him.
"Uh, yeah," Billy says, somehow managing to get the words to push out past his numb, numb lips, "do you, uh, do you know where the, uh, front desk is?"
The guy nods, shaggy brown hair falling into his big, brown eyes. (It doesn't make Billy think of anybody. It doesn't.)
"Sure," the guy says, his hand still clamped to Billy's shoulder. "I'll show you."
He directs Billy towards a slightly labyrinthine-looking set of corridors that Billy had distinctly avoided and he does it still with his hand on Billy's shoulder, guiding him like a captain guides a ship, like he'd seen the look on Billy's face, the terror and the panic and he'd recognized it. It makes sense. El and Mike are always telling him people panicked about - about loved ones, those who really, truly care, they almost always have the same look, even if it's contained itself to just their eyes, it's always there, it's always present, that panic, that fear. And Billy guesses this guy, working in a hospital as he does, he's probably as familiar with that look as EMTs like El and Mike would be.
"Just right here. Ellen'll help you find who you're looking for," the guy says as he deposits Billy in front of the front desk with its big, red 'reception' sign, the one Billy wishes he could've - knows he should've - found on his own.
"Yeah, thanks," Billy says as the guy claps him on the back and wanders off, probably to help some other poor soul like the good, good dude he is.
Ellen, the nurse behind the desk, on the other hand, looks Billy up and down appraisingly, cold green eyes assessing, assessing, assessing and clearly finding him wanting somehow. Maybe it's the rough haircut he'd given himself, maybe it's the sweatpants and grungy white tank top he's wearing, maybe it's the big, fat, homemade "Station 52" logo patch on the front of his duffle bag that Max had custom made for him. Maybe this woman hates firefighters. Maybe she can tell that he's gay, can smell it on him and maybe she's homophobic.
Or maybe, the last five percent of his brain capable of rational thought tells him, maybe that's just her face and it's not personal.
"Who're you looking for, dear?" she asks, even though she clearly thinks he's anything but dear.
"Um, uh," he stammers and god, he hasn't been this awkward, hasn't said um and uh this much since middle school, "Steve Harrington?"
Her face tightens, her tall stack of thick gray hair wobbles just a little and Billy's stomach prepares itself for free fall, for bad news, for -
"Alright, he's in Room 357, just on the third floor-" and she keeps going, keeps giving instructions after that, but Billy doesn't hear them, is too overwhelmed with the taste, the feeling, the rush of sheer relief that hits him with the knowledge that Steve has a room number, which means that Steve has a room, which means that Steve hasn't died in the time it took him to drive here or in the time he spent wandering, lost. It means Steve isn't in surgery and these are both very, very good things.
That surge of joy fades out with a mewling whimper after Billy gets lost another two times looking for Steve's room, as it occurs to him, What if Steve's only not in surgery because he's too weak to survive it? and, Just because he wasn't dead however many minutes ago, doesn't mean he's not dead now.
And he still can't find the room, isn't even sure he's on the right floor anymore, but there is one thing he knows for sure, one thing he knows for certain:
Whenever he sees that partner of Steve's, Dustin whatever, he's gonna tear him limb from limb, gonna tear him apart, gonna rend flesh from bone for not telling him more over the phone than, "Steve's been shot and we're at St. Mary's, you should get here like, now."
As he wanders down yet another meaningless white hallway, he feels that rage boiling again, feels like he's going to lose it again until he turns a corner and sees a row of feet all clad in plain, dark, sensible shoes and looks up to see a line of officers, most still in uniform, all sitting stuffed end over end, just one too many in a row of old, creaky, metal and ugly navy felt hospital chairs.
He almost smiles at having finally, finally found them - because of course there's a whole crew of people waiting for his boy, of course there is, that's probably why the nurse at the front desk got so annoyed, there's at least ten people sitting and jamming up this small hallway and here he is, adding to it, but -
Then it occurs to him:
Why are all these people waiting here?
Why are they all…
He looks around at all their faces and each and every one of them has that pinched look, that capsized-rowboat-in-the-ocean look that Mike's told him about, that panicked look that loved ones get that El's talked about, that restless, hopeless rage that he's been feeling on and off since he got that call and if -
And if they all look the same way then maybe…
Then maybe those feelings he's been feeling aren't an overreaction like the last five percent of his brain capable of hope has been hoping, praying, wishing for it to be.
That last five percent shuts down and dies a quiet, lonely death as his eyes connect with those of one of the guys sitting in the middle of the row and he sees fear there, sees panic, and sees rage there.
He feels himself capsizing in the ocean of this near stranger's sad blue eyes and as his terror over this spreads he feels his stomach pick itself up and ready to launch at his lungs which have suddenly decided to forget what it is they're supposed to do, like they've ever had more than just the one job and now maybe they're just a little confused.
Billy himself is a lot confused, because he and this guy just keep staring at each other and nobody is saying anything.
Why is nobody saying anything?
Then someone comes stumbling into him from behind, saying, "Well, it certainly took you long enough," and it's Heather and the way she says it sets Billy's teeth on edge because he can't figure out her tone, can't figure out what she means and -
She points him in the direction of Steve's room, even if it's almost right in front of him and he's grateful, really, he's grateful (he's grateful and he's terrified) as she pushes him inside, not giving him the space nor the time to chicken out or run away.
And he lets out a sigh at the sight of Steve lying before him, lets out a sigh even as his heart ripples and creaks under the weight of his exhaustion.
He pulls a smooth, blue, and terribly squeaky plastic chair up to Steve's good side and tries to hold his breath, tries not to smell that cloying, abrasive antiseptic smell that fills the room, tries instead to imagine Steve's favorite cologne, that woodsy, citrusy one.
He tries not to focus on the IV in the back of Steve's hand, tries not to focus on the cannula in his nose, tries instead to think of Steve pressed up behind him in bed, of Steve's hands warm and comforting on his chest and Steve's nose pressed into his hair or the back of his neck and inhaling deeply.
He tries to ignore the thick, white, starchy-looking bandages covering Steve up from his left shoulder to his elbow, he tries to ignore the way Steve's eyes are closed and what that might mean, he tries to ignore all of that and just see Steve -
He tries to but he can't.
"I have been waiting for you my entire life," Billy says. He grabs Steve's hand and grips it tight. "You are not allowed to die first, got it?"
Steve surprises him by squeezing back and saying, "I'll try my best," and being an idiot and trying to sit up with a freaking bullet wound in his freaking arm.
Billy pushes him back to the bed with his free hand on his good shoulder and winds up positioned very awkwardly for a moment before Steve finally relents and lays back down.
What he says next makes it worse.
"I'm fine, though, you know."
Like it's nothing. Like getting shot is nothing. Billy supposes it's meant to be comforting, to be reassuring, but instead it makes Billy see red.
"You're in the hospital." Billy tries for soft, he really does. He wants to cradle Steve's face in his hands and press sweet, quiet kisses to his lips, but instead Steve said that and now he's snarling.
"Yeah," Steve says, voice either forced calm or drugged oblivious and Billy isn't sure which, "but it's okay, it didn't hit anything vital and the doc says I'll be fine in about a month or two."
"You're in the hospital," Billy says again, louder this time. He can feel himself growing claws and he feels overwhelmed, feels a need to claw at something, to scratch, to bite. To destroy.
Lucky for him, this is exactly when Dustin strolls in carrying flowers and looking particularly guilty.
Unlucky for him, Dustin says, "What the hell, man? I barely got to telling you we were here and you told me you were coming and hung up. Me and Heather tried calling you back like six times and no answer. We were just about to send someone out looking for you."
And.
"Oh." It's all Billy can think to say. Then, "Sorry."
But then Steve just has to pipe back in with, "See? If you'd let Dustin get to it, he'd have told you that I'm fine, too."
And boy, is that ever the wrong thing to say because it has Billy roaring with, "You are in a hospital with a bullet in your arm, Steve, you're not fine."
And Dustin politely interjecting with, "Okay, woah, woah, nobody said anything about you being fine. There's a lot of distance between you and 'fine' right now, Steve."
Steve's eyes narrow, that medicated calm sliding from his face even as Billy sees the last drops of whatever medication they've got him on dripping down from the bag and into the IV line.
"You literally came home with your hair singed last week," Steve says, like he thinks the fact that they both have dangerous jobs is somehow going to win him this argument.
"Yeah, and that was just my hair! You're in the hospital!" Billy shouts. This time, he fully shouts because apparently, Steve's not going to get it unless it's screamed at him.
"And I'm fine!"
Or maybe he's just not going to get it at all.
From the doorway, Dustin laughs and Billy is on him in a second.
"What's so funny?" he snarls but Dustin keeps laughing.
"Just…" he says, unable to stop laughing even as he's trying to speak, "Just say 'I love you' and get it over with, already, both of you."
Steve's face goes as tomato red as Billy's suddenly feels.
But neither of them says it. Neither of them says anything.
fic tag squad:
@a-magey @xgardensinspace @myboyfriendsteve @haxpr0cess @thinger-strang @nagdabbit @demi-don @lissieisspacey @tracy7307 @ihni @yourneighborhoodace
@harringrovetrashh
#harringrove#billy hargrove#steve harrington#stranger things#harringrove fic#misc au#angst#modern#gideonwrites#asexual#asexual fic collection#asexuality
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predator
geralt is a predatory thing.
the imposing silhouette he casts against the light, the lines of muscle so clearly visible even through tunic and plate, the wolf-gold or abyssal dark of his eyes, the cut of his teeth that’s just this side of too sharp and inhuman...
the raw and husky growl of his voice, all the more unnerving when raised.
he’s terrifying when in motion, all looming stances and powerful strides, and when he swings a sword, he makes it seem like nothing to rend bone and flesh apart. the spray of blood across his skin never seems to bother him; it’s almost as if he’s more comfortable in his own body if it’s painted with a snuffed-out life.
geralt is a predator, and yet, for all that he can tear a foe to pieces, jaskier is certain that he is never more of a wolf than when geralt comes for him.
geralt has bedded him more times than either of them can count, and jaskier has never made it to dawn unscathed, not even once. the witcher’s teeth are sharp and his hands are strong, and his own skin pale and soft and nigh untouched.
the white wolf loves to bite - to sink his teeth into jaskier’s flesh, deep into the crook of his shoulder or the hollow of his throat, biting and biting and biting until jaskier is bleeding, twisting, gasping under the pain, his hands fisted tight in icy pale locks to keep his witcher close.
geralt keeps him pinned as he works his bard to ecstasy, his hands firm and bruising on jaskier’s hips and thighs. it’s so easy, so effortless, for him to lift jaskier to the wall, to press his thighs apart and dig in, to leave his fingerprints on jaskier’s ghostly skin. jaskier can only buck and writhe, straining against a hold he knows damn well he can’t break - doesn’t want to break, not when geralt is growling just so against his ear -
and fuck, his voice, that low and horrific and maddening snarl, the one that makes heat curl low in jaskier’s gut even when they’re miles from a proper bed. geralt is quiet at all times except now, quiet until he’s coaxing jaskier to sing for him, until he’s burying three fingers deep into his aching heat and drawing wretched cries from the throat of his bard -
his fingers. his hands. christ, they wreck jaskier without geralt even trying, long enough that they can reach deeper than jaskier’s own, thick enough that it’s fucking nothing for him to have jaskier sobbing his name.
“my little lark,” geralt will croon, deep and rough and raw, lips against his ear and fingers crooked to stroke over the nerves inside him, and jaskier will moan for him, high and broken and absolutely ruined, and jaskier will beg -
and finally, finally, geralt will take his hand away, and jaskier will whine, but geralt is quick to soothe him, lips firm and insistent and tongue coaxing jaskier’s apart... and geralt will hold his legs apart and he will push in, and jaskier will keen...
and geralt will hold him close, will pin him to the sheets with his own weight, will croon into his ear until jaskier is shaking with the weight of his cock deep inside, thick and hot and so fucking perfect, and it feels as though jaskier can taste it in his throat -
and only when his bard is trembling and gasping and completely gone will geralt reach between them for his cock, will wrap a hand around him and swipe his thumb across the head, and then, only then, jaskier will break.
he’ll come with a stifled cry, geralt’s name a curse and a prayer all at once, muffled into his shoulder, and geralt will growl, deep and wrecked, and he’ll help him ride it out, the scent of his bard’s seed hot and bitter and fucking heavenly in his head, and that - that’s enough to break him.
geralt will thrust in deep and bite down hard, hard, hard as he spills inside his lark, and jaskier will jerk and sob and beg, and geralt will only purr, soothing him with his voice, his lips, his tongue, his touch... coaxing jaskier back to reality as he pulls out, lets his seed drip back out and onto the sheets.
jaskier will drift off in his witcher’s arms, skin raw and bruised and broken, his hips split in half and so gloriously sore... his witcher’s heartbeat slow and calming against his ear.
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The Wonder of Small Things
Category: Mild Romantic Fluff
Fandom: My Hero Academia
Characters: Momo Yaoyaorozu, Yosetsu Awase
Additional Tags: Mermaid AU
Hey guys, I’m still riding my MomoWase train LOL… This one is in accordance with @bnhabookclub‘s MerMay event, inspired by the prompt “It’s all right. Come here.” Happy reading, and thanks again to @bnhabookclub for hosting this event and accepting me into the server ^.^ I’m having so much fun already!
The early morning air was cool on Yosetsu’s skin as he tromped down the worn dirt path leading to the rocky shore, his cast nets slung over his shoulder. The clinking of the attached metal weights was the only sound in these pre-dawn hours; the sea birds were just beginning to blink sleep away from their beady black eyes and ruffle their feathers to shake away the dew that clung to them like diamond beads. There was that, and the scraping of his worn soles on the even more worn dirt of the path carrying him down to the sloshing sea.
Soon the earthen incline gave way to slick, salty rocks against which the frothing white waves continuously crashed in an endless melody. A wooden dock jutted out into the dark waters, secured to the last bit of earth before the rocky shore. The path Yosetsu traveled suddenly veered level to snake alongside the collection of smooth rocks, but rather than following it just yet, he carefully picked his way a few feet down the precarious shoreline. Mouth drawn into a taut line of concentration, he poked each rock firmly with the toe of his boot to ensure it would not dislodge before setting his full weight against it. In doing so, he gradually approached the thick brown mud barely visible at the base of the rocky slope. Just above the rolling waves, he stopped, setting a hand on his hip and gazing intently at the horizon. A smile crept up his lips as the first tinge of red began to bleed into the indigo sky, slowly following by the burning yellow sun.
Yosetsu always watched the sunrise before setting out to sea. He viewed it almost as a good-luck ritual at this point, a prayer for a plentiful catch. Besides, the sunrises off the rocky shore downhill from his solitary, modest cabin were more beautiful than that you could see from the grandest mansion, at least in his eyes. He loved the way the red, orange, and yellow spilled forth into the sparkling waves like paint poured over a canvas, bleeding together in colorful harmony. At the same time, it spread upwards into the black ink of the sky, like a battalion of soldiers forcing back the terrible demons of the night from whence they came to return light to the world. The golden-white sun bloomed on the horizon like a trembling bubble, ready to burst at any moment with energy but never doing so. Yosetsu’s smile grew with every inch the sun traveled up the blanket of night, marveling black turning into brilliant blue. As soon as the sun detached itself from the horizon with one final flicker, he then turned to pick his way back up the slope and tromp down the remainder of the path to the dock where his humble fishing vessel was moored. The sunset was beautiful, but a young man had a job to do, after all.
The little boat moaned and groaned as the waves playfully tossed it about. The white canvas sail flapped languidly in greeting at him. Yosetsu tossed his casting net into the boat before grabbing the mooring rope to untie it. Once he removed it from the post, he tossed it into the ship as well and carefully eased one leg into the boat. It rocked precariously with the addition of his weight, drifting closer to the dock; after taking a moment to ensure his balance was sufficient, he swiftly pushed off from the pier and drew his other leg into the small vessel. The force pushed the boat away from the wooden structure and out into the waves. Yosetsu grabbed a little paddle and stuck it into the water, then began to row out to sea.
His boat was little more than a dinghy fit for two, so he did not row far- only to where the water was about fifteen feet deep or so, with the land still clearly in view. He hefted up his anchor and tossed it into the water; in plunked into the waves with a tremendous splash before plummeting the short distance down to the seafloor, where it sunk into the thick mud and probably startled some scuttling crabs or perhaps disgruntling a flounder. Yosetsu picked up his casting net and spread it out with both his arms, hooking some of the salty thin rope with his teeth. With practiced movements, he then flung the net about a yard into the water. The heavy weights sewn into the rope caused the thin and light material to sink rapidly down into the depths and hopefully trap a collection of nice fish and crustaceans within the spiderweb-like netting. Once the tension slacked in the string in his hand, he swiftly reeled it in.
Water cascaded from the net as he hauled it over the side and splashed around as the trapped fish fearfully flapped about. Yosetsu grabbed one of the metal ten-gallon-buckets that stocked the boat and scooped some seawater into it before loading the acceptable fish from his haul into it. It seemed his daily ritual had again borne fruit; the net contained several sizeable crabs and a nice, fat trout, perfect for roasting over a crackling fire. He had only just begun, but he still grinned to himself at the possibility of a haul so good he could take a day off.
Yosetsu continued fishing until the sun had reached its highest point. By this time, he had stripped off his loose cotton shirt; the hot rays made the thin sheen of sweat glimmer on his tanned skin not unlike the light playing over the water. He had five ten-gallon buckets filled to their brims with a various assortment of fish and other sea creatures. He grinned as his eyes swept over the impressive haul, his mind whirling of the various ways he could salt and season and grill them over the next few days. Two-thirds of his catch he was going to take into town to sell to the local fish merchant and earn himself a pretty penny. Could probably get myself some new boots, he thought as he wiggled his big toe, watching the pink flesh and dirty toenail poke through the frayed leather.
There was a little more room in the last bucket, so Yosetsu decided to try his luck with one more cast. He flung the net out into the water and waited for it to sink to the muddy bottom, holding the string tight in his hand. His eyebrow quirked when he the thin rope lurched some in his grip. He grinned, thinking he had caught himself a nice fat monster fish. However, the string then lurched violently in his grasp, making him cry out and stumble over to the edge of the boat. He planted the sole of his boot on the edge and leaned back at a forty-five-degree angle, gritting his teeth as he gripped the rope tight with both hands.
“Nuh-uh. You’re not getting away from me, dinner!” he grunted through clenched teeth. The rope dug into the calloused flesh of his palms to tear away the roughened skin and bite the soft, vulnerable layer underneath. It began to burn terribly, and smears of red blood began to appear on every inch of the gray-white nylon he tugged back, but he refused to let go. His eyes went as wide as saucers as a massive, glittering red tail began to thrash at the surface of the water. He began to whoop and holler with glee. “Well dammit if that ain’t the biggest redfish I’ve ever seen!” he howled. The crimson scales gleamed in the white sunlight, sparkling like millions of fine-cut rubies. The shade was a bit vermillion to be a redfish, and he couldn’t spot the signature brown circular mark that identified the species, but if it wasn’t a redfish, then what the hell was it?
As it turned out, it was not a redfish.
Yosetsu went slack-jawed as the gigantic tail disappeared under the water, only to be replaced with the upper half of a human woman. She tugged aggressively at the white nylon netting twisted snug around her body, but her fine fingernails had no chance of rending the thickly woven rope. She had thick black hair that was voluminous even with the water streaming from the strands in rivulets, and pretty black eyes that shone like onyx pearls in her pale white face. He gawked at her shamelessly, the rope loosening in his hands from the shock. “A mermaid,” he breathed when his tongue finally decided it wanted to work, “I caught a fucking mermaid.”
Her head snapped to him once he spoke. Her gaze dropped to the thread of rope connecting the net proper to himself, and he hastily tightened his grip again lest she decide to try and spring away. Her eyes slowly trailed back up to his face; they were hard, calculating, distrusting… but gleaming with the tiniest bit of curiosity. Yosetsu flushed a little under her unyielding stare and bit down hard on his lip as he contemplated what exactly he should do.
Mermaids were urban legends, fairy tales, the subject of raucous sea shanties- yet here he was with one tangled in his cast net! If he hauled her in and showed her off in the nearby town, he was almost guaranteed to skyrocket into the highest tax bracket. He could sell her off to a zoo or a scientist or even the government for millions, and boom! No more hovel on the seaside, no more slaving in a dinghy to drag in fish all day- he’d be lounging in a hammock sipping piña coladas out of coconuts surrounded by pretty girls in bikinis! He giggled languorously at the colorful fantasy. Yet, when he looked back at the beautiful mermaid staring silently at him, the dream bubble burst over his head.
Guilt began to burn like acid in the back of his throat. What was he thinking? She was a living creature, no different than he. With her tail suspended below the water, it was like he was looking at a human girl. How dare he fantasize about profiting off her misery? He tried to ignore the whispers of dollar signs in his ears as he slowly crouched down, beckoning her over with a hand. “It’s all right. Come here.”
She tilted her head to the side as she eyed him warily. He couldn’t blame her; mermaid horror stories probably consisted of terrible tales of what humans would do if she were ever caught. Smiling gently like he would at a stray dog, he beckoned her again. “I promise I won’t hurt you. That netting must hurt, right? Lemme untangle you.” The mermaid hesitated for a moment, then slowly swam up to the edge of the boat. The waves had calmed down since early morning, so now he could see her vermillion tail gliding just underneath the surface; wispy pinkish-red fins adorned the scaly body. It seemed she even had a flair for fashion, as she had strings of colorful glass bits and dark green kelp wrapped around her midriff like a belt with lines of them trailing down around her like a shredded skirt. He was so busy staring at the interesting garment that he hadn’t noticed she had leaned up to rest her arms on the edge of the boat- that is, until she coughed politely right in his ear.
He scrambled back too fast and landed on his rump, rocking the boat tremendously. She giggled cutely at him, bobbing up and down with the boat’s movement. With pink cheeks, he straightened his headband and crawled back to the other side of the vessel to sit on his knees in front of her. When he procured his pocketknife, her dark eyes flickered to the chipped blade before looking at him nervously. “It’s all right. I’ll be careful not to cut you. I just don’t think I can untangle you with how much you thrashed around,” he explained softly. He waited until she nodded slowly in acknowledgment before getting to work.
He started with the netting around her chest. Due to her whipping and flapping around, most of the net had wound itself around her middle. It was drawn painfully tight, digging into her supple white skin, and there was a faint wheeze in her breaths as she struggled to breathe with the tightness. Yosetsu wormed the tip of his index finger beneath the thin rope to pull it up enough to slip the blade under, careful not to nick her, and slice through the nylon. He tried not to think about how expensive that net had been and how he would probably have to forgo new boots in favor of purchasing a new one. At least I got a good haul today, he lamented with a wry smile.
Once he had cut through a good portion of the netting around her middle, the mermaid released a long sigh of relief. Her body sagged down into the water a little and she drank in a few heavy breaths; Yosetsu waited patiently for her to recover from the strain, as he was sure it had been uncomfortable for her, then began to work at the netting around her neck. That was the most painstaking part, as he had to be exceptionally careful not to cut the artery or vein there. She craned her chin up as he diligently worked, but her black eyes remained fixed on him the entire time. It was quite daunting, actually, and a faint blush remained on his cheeks throughout the entire ordeal.
“Here we go,” he smiled as he pulled the loose netting over her head. For a second, he thought of the way a groom removed a veil from the face of his bride, and his blush darkened to a plum color. The mermaid seemed not to notice, for she was smiling giddily and shaking her cascades of black hair away from the clinging strands of the net. The afternoon sun had dried her hair out considerably, making it shine like threads of obsidian. Transfixed, Yosetsu could not help but reach out to touch it; it was incredibly soft against his fingertips, despite the incredible amount of salt it came into contact with daily. The mermaid didn’t shy away, only watched him with a blank expression. “Sorry,” he stuttered when he realized what he was doing and snatched his hand away. “It’s just, um, really pretty.” His heart thumped in his chest at the happy smile she gave him. She hadn’t said a word yet, so who knew if she even knew what he was saying? She was probably just reacting for his benefit.
He motioned for her to roll onto her side, and she did so, exposing that giant vermillion tail to his awaiting eyes. Rubies, he thought again as he beheld the magnificent appendage. He leaned over the edge of the boat to begin cutting at the netting. It was much less careful work due to the healthy hardness of her scale, so he finished quickly. With a small sigh, he dragged the last of the ruined netting from her body and deposited it in the small fishing boat. With his back turned, he fully expected her to disappear beneath the water and swim away into the depths, never to return. He frown when he heard no splashing, however, and turned back to see her still there. She had her chin propped up on her arms and was just gazing at him with a tiny smile.
“Um… I’m done now. You can go now if you want to,” he told her awkwardly. Her smile widened, and for the first time, she spoke.
“What’s your name?” The question threw him for a loop; really, at this point he thought her to be mute, or at least incapable of human language.
“Y-yosetsu Awase,” he stammered quickly. “What about you?” he asked and edged a little closer to her. “Do you have a name?” She made a series of clicking and chirping sounds that he supposed was merfolk language. He had no idea of how even to begin replicating it, so he just gave her a crooked smile. “Uh, that’s, uh, a pretty name.” She giggled airily and pulled herself up so that they were now eye-level. Her face was only a few inches from his. He could kiss her if he wanted to. Stop that, he scolded his shameless unconscious.
“You didn’t understand that, did you?”
“No. Absolutely not. Not a word.” She giggled again. He found himself smiling at how beautiful her laugh was. It reminded him of the bells ringing in the docks of the city harbor as they signaled the morning sail of the shrimp and charter boats. Her body bobbed up and down with the waves, occasionally bringing her face a few centimeters closer to his. Her black eyes continuously searched his expression, but he knew not what she was searching for.
“Well, then… Why don’t you give me a human name?”
One hears thousands of names in their lifetime, but as he gaped at her, he could not even think of one. Subconsciously, he glanced down and spied the peachy-pink color of her wispy fins.
“How about… Momo?”
“Mo-mo?” she echoed inquisitively. He flushed, thinking she found it ridiculous, but then she flashed him a toothy grin. “I like it. You may call me Momo, Yosetsu Awase.”
“You can just call me Yosetsu,” he corrected her quickly. When she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, he quickly explained, “Humans have two names, a first and a last. Humans usually only call each other by one, so… You can call me Yosetsu.” He figured it would be too much trouble to explain the intricacies and manners of given and surnames, so he just elected to keep things simple. She smiled cutely at him.
“All right, then… Yosetsu.” The conversation died, but not uncomfortably so. Yosetsu very much liked just looking at her. She really was a magnificently splendorous creature, and he couldn’t believe that thirty minutes ago, he was considering selling her off to the highest bidder.
She poked around his boat a little, inquiring about the various tools and such he carried with him. He found her delight and curiosity to be more refreshing than the briskest sea breeze and smiled all the while. She was like a charmed young child, entranced by even the most mundane of human artifacts. He gave her a cowrie shell that he had fished in with his net, and she reclined back in the water to watch the light play over its brown-striped surface with the purest look of rapture he had ever seen. It reminded him of how much he really took for granted in day-to-day life. How had the wonder of all the small things in the world just dissolved away? Although, he thought wryly, I do have my sunrises.
“Momo.” She looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Will you… come back tomorrow morning? Before the sun rises?”
~~~~~~~~~~
The early morning air was cool on Yosetsu’s skin as he tromped down the worn dirt path leading to the rocky shore, but he didn’t have his cast net with him this time. The scraping of his worn soles on the even more worn dirt was the only sound in these pre-dawn hours; the sea birds were just beginning to blink sleep away from their beady black eyes and ruffle their feathers to shake away the dew that clung to them like diamond beads. There was that, and Momo’s greeting floating on the sea breeze from the shoreline.
Like every morning, Yosetsu ignored the veer in the dirt path to instead pick his way down the slick collection of rocks to stop just short of the splashing waves. Momo lay with her upper half sprawled over a large, flat stone with her black hair gathered over her shoulder, and the milk-white skin of her mostly bare back gleamed like limestone in the moonlight. Her crimson tail floated on the surface of the water behind her, those delicate pink fins rippling like fine silk in the swilling waves. “Good morning,” he smiled as he came to a stop beside her.
“Hello. What is it you wanted me to see?”
“Just be patient,” he instructed her breathily as he eased himself into a sitting position on the flat but slimy-wet rock. He eased off his boots and socks and set them aside so he could dip his bare feet into the cool water. He dug his toes into the goopy brown mud with a contented sigh, then looked over as Momo swam a little closer to him. She was eyeing him curiously, like he was going to bring out something at any moment. “Just look at the horizon,” he ordered, punctuating it with a point of his index finger. She blinked but obediently did as he asked, reclining against the rocks and staring out at the point where sky met sea. A smile crept up his lips as the first tinge of red began to bleed into the indigo sky, slowly following by the burning yellow sun, and he looked at her to see her eyes gradually widening.
The red, orange, and yellow spilled forth into the sparkling waves like paint poured over a canvas, bleeding together in colorful harmony. At the same time, it spread upwards into the black ink of the sky, like a battalion of soldiers forcing back the terrible demons of the night from whence they came to return light to the world. The golden-white sun bloomed on the horizon like a trembling bubble, ready to burst at any moment with energy but never doing so. Yosetsu had seen this image countless mornings; it had been burned into his mind like a brand, so he did not need to look at it that morning to marvel. No, instead, he marveled at the gorgeous mermaid beside him as she beheld her first sunrise. Her pink lips parted with an awed gasp while her black eyes shone gold as they caught the first rays of the morning sun. So enraptured was she that she didn’t even smile; she just stared at the sun as it inched up the sky, until with one final flicker it detached itself from the horizon to rise into the brilliant expanse of blue.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she whispered. He raised an eyebrow as a tear leaked out of her eye and rolled down her cheek. He wondered if he had been so moved the first time that he saw the sunrise. Probably not, because unlike Momo, he took the wonder of the small things for granted. She turned to him with a beaming, grateful smile so big it made her eyes scrunch up a little. “Thank you, Yosetsu. I’ll never forget this moment, never.” He blushed at the solemnness of her vow and scratched at the back of his head bashfully.
“Well… If you want to… You can see it every morning. The sunrise, I mean. I do it every day before I go out to sea.”
“Then I’ll be here every morning waiting for you,” she promised. He gave her a lopsided grin. She pulled herself up onto the rocks so that they were eye-level. Her face was only a few inches from his. He could kiss her, if he wanted to- and oh, how he wanted to. Her eyes flickered down to his lips as he experimentally leaned in a little closer. She did not retreat from his advance, only gazed invitingly at him with those eyes like black pearls.
“You know somethin’, Momo?” His breath ghosted over her face, and his lips hovered mere millimeters from hers.
“What?” The word was but a whisper, a flitter of wind against his mouth.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her eyes fluttered shut as he closed the minuscule distance and gently pressed his mouth to hers. His hands found her waist, just above the junction of ruby scales to skin covered by strings of glass shards and kelp wrappings, and tenderly caressed the soft flesh still gleaming with seawater. He only held the kiss for a mere moment, as fleeting as the crash of a wave against the shore. When he pulled back, her onyx eyes glittered as she smiled sheepishly and cupped his wind-roughened cheek in her hand. There, in the space where sky met sea met land, Yosetsu again marveled the wonder of all the small things in the world and was thankful.
Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!
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Dreaming Pt. 3
AO3: Here, Pt.1: Here, Pt. 2: Here, Pt. 4: Here
Note: Blood and violence. Swearing. Trigger warnings apply.
~
Virgil shivers the whole night through, swiping his hands across his shoulders over and over again. Try as he might, he can’t get rid of the phantom water running in rivulets down his spine.
The only good thing that comes from his terrible daydream is that Virgil is not at all inclined to fall asleep again. His heart races in his chest when he thinks about it now, and although he spends the next three days locked up in his bedroom, his blaring music and the stiffening of his spine when he thinks about closing his eyes are enough to keep him awake.
Patton tried to follow him upstairs when he ran. The moral side spent hours knocking, begging for Virgil to come out. He finally had to put on his headphones to drown him out. He has no idea if the other side is still there.
Not that Virgil would expect him to wait outside. He’s Anxiety, after all. No one really wants him around, least of all happy-go-lucky Patton.
Even as that thought curdles in his stomach, Virgil can’t help but remember how cold those soft eyes got when they looked at him from above the water.
Panic makes his heart stutter in his chest just thinking about it. He has to stop soon; any more of this and his emotions will leak over to Thomas. He can’t do that, not now. Not ever again.
It wasn’t Patton. Says a little hopeful voice in the back of his head.
But wasn’t it? When Virgil woke up Patton had known. Patton had seen what happened. It was like Patton had been there in his dream. That didn’t just happen to people- that wasn’t a thing.
But what else could it have been but Patton sharing his dream? It wasn’t real, after all. If it were, he’d be dead by now. Or at least soaked.
Virgil is dry as a bone.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.
So what was it?
He falls asleep without realizing it while he argues with himself. He never hears the renewed knocking at his door.
This dream starts in a meadow.
The sun turns the long grass a golden hue and the air smells like growth and dark soil and morning dew. There’s a forest of evergreens a few yards away; their branches sway gently in the breeze. Daisies bob their heads in time with the trees, dotting the ground here and there in large, colorful patches.
Virgil is sitting on a checkered picnic blanket, his face tilted to the sky. He closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of spring, and feels his chest relax almost against his will. Birds are chirping somewhere beyond his sight.
“Anxiety!”
He’s never heard that voice sound quite so jovial when curling around his name. Virgil tips his head back down, blinking his eyes against the sunlight. After the spots have cleared from his vision, Virgil sees Creativity striding out of the treeline, headed straight for him. Against his will, his lips twitch upwards.
It’s hard not to like Roman at this moment, though, not when he looks so content. His shoulders are broad and thrown back and his clothes are pristine. He raises his hand in greeting, and his teeth gleam in the light of the sun. Virgil doesn’t wave back, but he does shift to the side, leaving a conspicuous space on the blanket.
Roman does not hesitate to fill it, sliding into place with his shoulder lined up to Virgil’s like he’s meant to be there. He stretches like a cat in the warmth of the sun’s rays, sighing and grinning at Virgil when the anxious side pulls himself up to sit cross-legged.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”
Virgil shrugs, suddenly shy under the other's gaze. He never knows quite how to act around Roman, never sure what exactly will be the next thing Virgil says or does to set him off on a rant, and normally he wouldn’t worry about it but-
But right now, everything is perfect. The sun is shining, birds are singing, Virgil isn’t worried for once in his life and Roman… Roman looks happy to see him.
Roman would never smile at you like that.
“Oh, come on, Anxiety, even you have to be happy right now!”
“I am,” he says, in lieu of anything else. He has to drop his eyes when Roman’s grin softens at the edges and the creative side leans in to bump their shoulders together. He is a long line of comforting warmth against Virgil's side, warmer even than the sun. "It's nice out here. Quiet. I'm- I'm happy here. With you."
“And why wouldn’t you be?” Roman exclaims boisterously, waving a hand at their surroundings. Virgil follows the gesture, smiling at the flowers and the trees and the pervading calm of their surroundings. “After all, you’re not hurting anyone out here.”
This isn’t real, Virgil realizes just as ice floods him. This is just like last time.
Except last time Patton had been smiling at him as he plunged Virgil underwater. Except last time Virgil hadn’t had Roman looking at him with a smile that looks more like a baring of his teeth. Except last time, a sword wasn’t at his throat and Virgil wasn't falling back on his elbows in the dirt.
“Roman,” Virgil cautions, eyes darting about for a way out. Rain spatters down on his forehead, the tip of his nose. Clouds have begun to gather overhead and Virgil wonders distantly how he never noticed them on the horizon. He usually looks for stuff like that. Thomas could get sick if they get caught in a storm.
But the darkening sky only shrouds Roman in shadows. He looms over Virgil, still smiling that terrible smile and Virgil tries to scoot back but the blade at his throat prevents any true escape. Virgil swallows and feels a thin line of blood split open the skin under his Adam’s Apple.
“Out here,” Roman continues, tone horribly conversational as he bears down more weight, “you can’t hurt Thomas any more than you already have. Aren’t you happy about that, Anxiety?”
“No, no-”
“No?” Roman surges to his feet and his eyes are darker than Virgil has ever seen them. His hair is whipped about his head in a halo by the fierce gale that has picked up. The dirt under Virgil is turning to mud with rainwater and he slips, falling flat on his back as Creativity rises above him like an avenging angel, blade pressed tight to Virgil’s sternum. “No, you want to go back? Back to Thomas? Back to hurting Thomas like you do every day?”
“No! No, I never- never wanted to hurt -”
“But you did,” Roman interrupts. “And I am here to make sure you never will again.”
And he plunges the sword deep into Virgil’s stomach.
Virgil screams on instinct. The first thing he feels is simply heat; he’s not sure if it’s from the surprise, or his blood or something else, but the pain only comes after. It spikes in an ice cold contrast to the initial heat and Virgil raises his hands to clutch at the blade still embedded in his middle, unheeding of the slices that open on his palms when he does. The blade is rending him in two, it’s cleaving him apart the more he struggles to get it out-
It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real-
But it certainly feels real as Roman laughs above him in the dark.
The world is dark and confusing and his blood is too warm on his hands and there is something inside of him please take it out and Roman is laughing and laughing and then-
“Get away from him!”
That’s- that’s Roman’s voice, Virgil realizes distantly, but what does he mean? Virgil’s not anywhere near Thomas and it’s not like Roman needs protection from Virgil himself, not when he’s killing Virgil.
“You bastard, get away!”
The laughter has cut off now, and through the haze that has descended on him Virgil can hear the sounds of a scuffle; someone growls and there’s the thud of flesh on flesh.
His fingers finally find the strength to pull the blade from his belly just as the sound of a body hitting the ground reaches his ears. It hurts almost as much coming out as it did going in, but being free of the feeling of a foreign object inside of him is almost worth the gush of blood that flows over his white knuckled grip.
He lets the sword drop away from him as his hands go limp and he should really try to staunch the blood flow but everything is foggy and it hurts so much and his eyelids are so heavy.
Then deep brown eyes appear above him and Virgil recoils in shock. He ends up only flopping in the mud, and a small, animal sound of fear yanks it’s way from Virgil’s lungs.
Someone is talking to him, he realizes. That same someone is leaning over him, their hands pressed to his chest and oh that pressure hurts even more than he thought it would.
“You’re alright, you’re alright, you’re gonna be okay,” says a voice that’s getting fainter by the minute. Those eyes stare into his and they are so sad.
“Anxiety,” says the voice that has to be Roman’s but why does Roman sound like he’s about to cry when he’s the one who did this to Virgil in the first place? “Anxiety, you have to wake up, okay? You’re not going to die, you’re safe, please, you just have to wake up. I’ll keep you safe, I promise. You just have to wake-”
~
“-Up!”
Virgil shoots backward, flailing. He manages to smack away Creativity by shoving at his shoulders violently. Virgil scrambles up the bed, gasping and shaking.
Roman looks about as bad as Virgil feels; he’s pale and sickly, almost. He looks like he’s going to vomit at any second.
Instead, Roman opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Finally he croaks, “Anxiety, I-” and reaches out tentatively. “I don’t know what just happened, but are you alright? You were hurt-”
Virgil pulls his leg away before the other side can lower his hand onto his vulnerable ankle. He tries not to admit to himself that he’s cowering against the headboard.
“Get out.”
Creativity pulls back, looking conflicted. Virgil can hardly see through the tears in his eyes but he catches the emotions that flit across Roman’s face; confusion, worry, anger.
That last one makes his chest constrict even more than it already was and he realizes distantly that he’s going to pass out again soon if he doesn’t get oxygen to his brain.
You could get brain damage. How would that affect Thomas do you think?
“Get out of my room,” Virgil says, louder than before.
“I- I was just trying to help,” Roman says and his voice breaks.
Virgil wants to sob. Instead he heaves himself up, glaring through his watery vision and shouts, “Get out!”
He only gives into his instinct to curl up and hold his face in his hands when he hears the door swing shut.
Virgil’s room is very quiet.
#my writing#dreaming#tw blood#tw stabbing#tw swearing#nightmares#ts#sanders sides#virgil sanders#roman sanders#patton sanders#sanders sides virgil#sanders sides roman#ts virgil#ts roman#angst#hurt#tw violence#ongoing series#virgil whump#sanders side fic#ts anxiety#self-doubt#ts creativity#trigger warnings apply
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The Demon’s Opera house. Chapter 3.
In her small room the young singer sat up on her bed, her knees pressed up against her chest. Her small respite of sleep in the lap of the angel, it had given her the strength to get through the day. The praise of the others were like daggers of guilt. She could not deny the pride she felt about being able to sing in such a way… reminding her about those emotions which threatened to turn her to ash right there on stage.
Her thin night gown left her shivering against the night air, yet the cold kept her alert so she would not be without it.
Then that silence spread through the opera house, like when the carpet would fall and muffle out the sounds of the audience. Only multiplied a thousand times over.
“You are here… are you not?” her voice whispered as she stared ahead. How could she escape him…? How could she escape the devil in his own lair?
As if to answer her she heard that siren’s call, which continued to tempt her down to damnation.
Despite what she knew was right… what she should do… to go to someone… to seek aid of… someone… anyone…
There was a need within her… a wish to know… to know what it was that lurked in the darkness.
That song lead her to that mirror once again… that mirror that she had hardly dared to look at… fearing that she would see something else than her own reflection.
Holding up her lantern she saw herself standing there… in the darkness… her white nightgown shimmering so slightly in the gentle light of the flame.
“I know you are here…” Christine’s voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it was so stark as that beautiful song at once fell silent.
”My angel…”
Christine gasped as she saw those red glowing eyes hovering above her shoulder. At once she turned around, expecting that black shade to stand behind her, but… the opera hall was empty.
“Show yourself!” she attempted to gather up her quickly fleeing courage in making that demand.
Turning towards the mirror again she let out a startled scream as she saw in the mirror… the face of the angel. Her angel.
Yet…
Beneath that mask she saw those infernal glowing red eyes, and that curling horn which made a mockery of those beautiful angelic features.
“Come to me.”
He held out that left hand again. It was only that white mask which she could see of his right side… remembering the claws which had held her on stage… her heart skipped a beat about what he might hide under that black cape which she could barely see in the darkness.
“I will be damned if I do…” she whispered.
There was almost a faint grin upon his lips.
“Perhaps my angel… perhaps. But there is beauty in damnation… I will not harm you. This I swear.”
“How can I trust your words? How do I know that once I step through you will ever let me go?” she asked, clutching her hand to her chest, as her knuckles whitened as they grasped around the lantern.
“You don’t…”
Christine gasped looking over her shoulders, thinking she should run to the stairs. Perhaps Meg… Madam Giry… perhaps someone still was up and could protect her.
“You cannot escape me… you do not desire to.”
Christine’s eyes closed as she let out a gasp. He was right… this infernal demon was right… she did not want to go anywhere but with him. Perhaps that was why that he had come for her? That her nature was just as sinful as his own.
Turning towards him again her lip trembled slightly.
“No… I do not desire too…” she whispered softly.
Once again he reached his hand towards her again, cocking his head so that mostly that mask was shown.
“Come to me…”
“Do you have a name?” she asked, she knew she was stalling. Which was fruitless… she knew there were no escape. She could see the demon furrow his brows in confusion.
“What?”
“You expect me to follow you if I do not even know your name?” Christine questioned once again stepping slightly away from the mirror. She could see him grit his teeth in frustration at her not doing as he wanted.
“If I give my name to you will you follow me then Christine?”
She felt a bit of a falling sensation in her stomach… somewhere between fear and lust.
“Yes… I promise…” she whispered softly towards him. The demon in the mirror fell silent for a while.
“Erik…”
It sounded like he was reaching for a memory long lost. However Christine could only stare up at him in surprise.
“What?”
Christine blinked slightly as she was brought back from her fanciful thoughts.
“Just… so… human…” she swallowed.
“It was a human who named me… even if she was as foul as what sired me.”
“So… the legend is true…” she gasped.
He glanced back at the darkness as he held out his hand again.
“It is time to keep the promise you gave me, my angel. I gave you the name I was given… now… take my hand and follow me down into damnation.”
Christine hesitated for how could she not?
Slowly she reached out her hand wrapping it around his, feeling that warmth from his hand threatening to burn her skin. Still she did not let go as he pulled her into the mirror.
Had someone walked through the hall in that moment… they would only have seen their own reflection staring back at them.
The sounds of water hitting stone filled Christine’s ears still clutching the lantern as she held this demon with the face of an angel’s hand. It light up a large cave.
“Where are we…?” she looked at the back of that raven black head, that unnatural horn coming out of the right side of his head, a constant reminder of what she was dealing with.
“Mind your step,” was the only reply that she got.
He had no source of light, though with those eternally glowing eyes, she did not imagine that he needed it.
Christine swallowed, feeling the cold air creep up her night gown, yet his presence was an eternal heat.
“Where are we going?” she asked, doing her best to match his well practiced steps.
“Down… down, down, far below the theater which you call home,” he said without looking back.
“Will I ever come back up? Will I ever feel the warmth of the sun again?” she questioned as they descended down slick stone stairs… though Christine could hardly even see the outline of where she was stepping. Relying on him to not lead her wrong.
He did not respond to her, his eyes pointed down towards the darkness, which for her might as well have been a bottomless abyss.
“Erik… please answer me…”
She could see by using his name the being was forced to a halt… looking behind with an almost uncertain look on those glowing eyes. It seemed that the name he had given away so willingly had a lot more power than he expected coming from her heavenly voice. Was it even right for such a divine creature as she to speak his name?
“I can keep you warm,” he stepped closer, looking down at her, making her tremble. She did not think that even given eternity she would be able to get used to those infernal eyes of his.
“I…” she stuttered. “That heat is not enough to keep me alive.”
He moved even closer to her and she could feel that burning body press against hers, almost threatening to burn her up.
“I have wanted you for so long… I do not think I can ever give you up… not even to the sun,” he whispered leaning his face closer to her.
When he was so close she could see how the teeth on the right side was as sharp as a wolf’s and behind them was the forked tongue of a serpent.
“I don’t…”
He moved his right hand upwards, that cape falling away and her light was enough to see a scaled hand adorned by long black talons, the very one which had grasped her as he had given his voice to her to sing with. For a mere second she thought that he would use them to rend the skin from her flesh, yet he stopped his hand mere inches from her face. Christine saw how it trembled… as if she was not the only one who was terrified in this moment.
Then she felt those claws brush against the soft skin of her cheek, running down her chin. He barely dared to grace her, as gentle as he could.
She saw how that mouth opened ever so slightly as he felt that soft skin under his hand, his breath hitching in his throat, showing more of those terrifying teeth and that serpent’s tongue.
“… I don’t want to let you go… my angel… please do not make me…”
He was pleading with her, she seeing tears well up at the edges of his eyes as his demonic hand rested at her tender neck.
“Forgive me…” she whispered ever so softly. “I did not know… that demons could cry.”
She reached his hand towards the human side of his face, feeling how he twitched under her hand, his breath hitching as hers had done when he had reached out for her.
“I will stay by your side tonight… I promise…” she whispered drying a tear from the corner of his eye as he leaned against her touch.
Slowly he moved his head so that she felt his lips brush against the palm of her hand.
Christine had to gather herself as those deadly fangs were still so fresh in her memory, yet all he did was place the faintest of kisses there before he removed his hand from her throat to lower the hand from his face.
“We still have quite the decent to make my angel… we should not delay, not here,” he said as he glanced upwards, but try as she might Christine could not see what he was looking at. His human hand then tugged at hers… forcing her to follow… follow deep… deeper into the abyss to which she could not see the end off.
#the demon's opera house#poto fic#the phantom of the opera#poto erik/christine#the phantom of the opera fic#demon erik au
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Ookami
Written for the @myyoukaiparade zine / [AO3 Link]
Word Count: 2000+ (oneshot)
Genre: Supernatural/Family
Characters: Todoroki Enji, Todoroki Shouto, Todoroki Touya/Dabi, Todoroki Fuyumi
Summary: Medieval Fantasy AU. In the wake of his eldest son Touya's mysterious death, renowned samurai and war hero Todoroki Enji makes a nighttime journey through the forest. But he is far from alone there, and the spirits who dwell there know his sins and intend to pay him back for them...
Warnings for implied child abuse/murder and animal death.
~0~
His daughter runs from the other side of the house to warn him not to travel alone after dark. The forest between their estate and the city isn’t home to men. No youkai cares about his rank, she says, and all she cares about is him returning in one piece!
His daughter is a frantic little fool, just like her madwoman mother, just like every other woman he’s ever met.
He is Todoroki Enji, second favored warrior of the emperor, with the blood of thousands on his spear. He’s left clouds of ash behind him on countless battlefields. A man like him is not afraid of the dark, he snarls at Fuyumi as he mounts his horse.
“Father, please! After what happened to Touya-nii — !”
“Silence! How dare you compare me to that weakling!”
He’d ridden off into the sunset then, like any good hero, and it is long after midnight now. Enji has traveled this path by daylight enough times to know it by heart, even in the weak moonlight. The only sounds are the humming insects in the bushes and the soft clop of his horse’s hooves. Shakunetsu sees no reason to spook, and neither does he. He has faced assassins before, and none of them drew a drop of blood from him before they were killed.
Almost none, the tiny part of him that speaks the truth reminds him, and the scar on his chest itches.
He shakes his head again. He is Todoroki Enji, glorious, fearless, and invincible. He’s not moved by a ghost story of all —
Something rustles in the bushes just behind him.
Enji stiffens. His eyes flick back and forth in the dark, searching for spots of light or movement. Humans are clumsy and fallible...but his eyes don’t land on a human.
His brain tells him that he should breathe a sigh of relief. It’s only a wolf following behind him, just out of reach of Shakunetsu’s skull-shattering kick. A dumb-looking thing, too, with a slavering mouth and bulbous white eyes. A mere animal, especially one without the support of its pack, should be nothing at all to worry about.
And yet there is an instinctive chill running deep down his spine, telling him to flee with his tail between his legs, that he must suppress. For gods’ sake, it’s one lone wolf —
No. Not one. Now there’s two, alike enough to be twins, one on each side.
Enji jolts, and twists around in the saddle to make sure he isn’t seeing double. Once his gaze is focused, it’s clear that he isn’t: there are four wolves trailing behind him, all with identical black coats, misty white eyes, and knife-sharp teeth. His eyes widen, and he hastily kicks Shakunetsu into a brisk canter. They really must be dumb animals, he tells himself, to mistake a predator like himself for prey. No matter; he knows how these things hunt. The mountain pass at the other side of the forest is not far off now, and they will not follow him past there, even in an attempt to outrun a seasoned war horse.
He hears scrabbling in the dirt behind him, but it’s a few minutes before he looks back and sees the hunger in the wolves’ eyes gleaming even brighter as they keep pace easily with Shakunetsu. It isn’t that that finally breaks Enji’s nerve. It’s the fact that every single eye is fixed directly on his own neck.
His breath catches, and he gives Shakunetsu a sharp kick. The horse lets out a shrill whine, and charges off down the path in a frantic gallop. Sweat runs down his forehead and the trees rush by in a dark blur, and he hears the barks and howls of the wolves start up behind him as they lope forward to not only match his pace, but overtake it.
They don’t seem to think of Shakunetsu as anything more than an overlarge elk as they surround him, biting at his legs and leaping up to tear at his rear and flanks. The many claws rend their well-wrought armor as if it were paper. Strips of flesh and steel are flying into the dirt before his eyes. Enji doesn’t waste another second before hefting himself up and jumping clear of his steed, pushing off hard from Shakunetsu’s saddle.
One last betrayed shriek tears itself from the horse’s throat as it goes down under a torrent of claws and teeth. Enji does not hear it. Blood pounds in his ears as he hits the ground and charges for the soaring cliff at the end of the path. They will follow him up that part, he sees that now, so he leaps to grab the narrow ledges and crags beside it, hauling himself up the steep face. Adrenaline surges and spurs him on, and before he knows it he’s made his way very nearly to the top. He climbs up atop a wide rock, to catch his breath and look back to check for his pursuers, and startles when he sees them scrabbling in a great mass at the cliff base.
Their baying turns his blood cold; like mist and water, they climb and flow over each other and rise up the cliff face. Fur and blood fly and their blank white eyes bulge, and Enji is frozen with shock as they get closer, and closer, and...
Just as quickly, he bursts into wild laughter. They’re clawing the rock barely a meter from his boots, but they just can’t reach. There must be a thousand of them, but they aren’t enough.
“Ha! You thought you could destroy me?! Todoroki Enji?! Foolish animals, I’ll wear your pelts on my back for the rest of my life!”
He draws his dao sword with a flourish, but looks down to see a streak of blackness and sparking blue fire rushing up to meet him. He roars and slashes at its eyes, but his blade swings harmlessly through the head as if through smoke. Slavering jaws snap open wider than his head, and there’s a puff of icy breath on Enji’s neck before daggerish fangs sink into them. The two of them tumble down the cliff face, grappling and struggling, until Enji hits the ground spine-first, with a sickening crack.
Suddenly he cannot move anymore, despite his best attempts. All he can do is stare through spinning vision as the huge shape — the great wolf — stalks towards him, its pack circling around. Its body and face are twisted by scars, lips pulled back in a snarl, and eyes burn with the purest hatred Enji has ever seen —
No. No, that’s not right, Enji realizes, remembering the eyes of that damned boy, the traitor who had stolen his own sword and turned it on him with a broken howl. But he had burned that boy to ashes, erased him from this world!
The wolves all rush him at once, and those blue eyes are the last thing Enji sees before he’s torn to shreds by twenty thousand claws.
~0~
Shouto would like to think that he knows better than his late father.
For instance, while Fuyumi and Natsuo are quarreling over which of them should go fulfill Enji’s final task in his place, Shouto simply slips out and sets off himself. The sword he takes is older and less easily missed. He leaves through the fire-damaged part of the house, right through the hole that was once a bedroom. Nobody likes to go around there at the best of times. With everyone distracted by the winding-down of his father’s funeral, it’s deserted enough for him to leave entirely unnoticed.
He cannot, however, leave on horseback, or well enough before sunset to avoid traveling by dark. The full golden moon lights Shouto’s way as he walks down the beaten forest path, and he tries to ignore the fact that he’s following in his father’s footsteps. Fortunately, there are more important things grabbing his attention.
Namely, the distinct sound of padded footsteps right behind him.
Shouto takes another deep breath. He is an avid student of spirituality, a way of clinging to the old stories of their country that his mother used to tell him. If it were mortal wolves stalking behind him, he would have been chased down by now, and the icy feeling of intelligent eyes on his neck would not be there.
These were youkai in Wolf’s shape, and while he didn’t know what they wanted with him — perhaps only a bite to eat — he knew that he must not provoke them to attack. One did not try to fight or insult a youkai, that was just common sense. Not even the fiercest animal would come nearby now. But if he had read his mother’s scrolls right, it was imperative that he keep his footing at all costs. Should he allow the darkness, the weight of the sack on his back, or the daunting path to trip him up even once, the pack will surely fall on him to devour him alive.
Because it is a pack, if his ears do not deceive him. The stirring of dirt and occasional clicking of claws on stone and root increase fourfold every moment. He keeps his ears pricked, his eyes on the uneven ground, and his face its usual mask of perfect calm. He must act as if nothing is there at all.
Shouto’s heart pounds a drumbeat in his chest, a frost of fear running over his skin. He is hyperaware of every move he makes, every rustle in the grass. When he passes the river, he dares not glance at however many reflections might be following his own. He trusts in the moon, illuminating the path and the cliff ledge where it ends, to guide him to safety as they both pass through the night.
Still, he’s never wanted to grab his sword so badly in his life, even knowing that respect is his key to survival. He knows his father must have tried to fight off whatever had reduced him to bloodied bone splinters and shreds of armor. He will not meet the same fate.
He steps out of the trees as the sky begins to pale, taking extra care in ascending the steep mountain path. When he reaches the ledge, and can see the town below the opposite slope, he pauses for a moment to let out his breath. Only then does he turn around, and his heart almost stops.
They’re like a lake reflecting a starry sky: myriad white eyes shining from a mass of deep, rippling darkness. Identical, save for their leader, who stands twice their height and whose body is seared with scars. Shouto thinks for a moment that there’s something familiar in those shimmering blue eyes, in the way he seems to be smiling at Shouto. But no: he must be only looking for something.
As such, Shouto bows deeply to the pack, and addresses them loud and clear. “Thank you very much for seeing me off! You have been very kind!”
He turns on his heel and marches towards town, out of sight in an instant. He does not see how the lead wolf’s prideful eyes linger on the space where he had been, until his second breaks ranks to come and lick his muzzle.
Come, Dabi, it says without words. You have a new pack now.
Dabi’s long-tongued smile lingers. Their father is gone; his mother and siblings are free and safe. He can leave them with no regrets.
So he turns around and runs, and his thousand wolves disappear alongside him into the dawn.
~0~
People bow their heads to Shouto and offer their condolences for his losses as he passes through the city. His family tomb is at the back, so he gives countless people thanks before he reaches its silence.
His brother’s death was recent enough that his ink portrait is still there, joined now by their father’s, which he ignores. No one has lit incense or offered prayers for his brother since he died, burned to death in his own room, and Shouto gets the feeling that he is finally bringing him some kind of peace with his journey now.
“Touya-nii, you’ll never believe what happened on my way here.” He smiles as he lights the incense, imagining the elder warrior’s shining eyes and smile. “You always loved the tales of youkai? Now I have one to tell you...”
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#2 Explosion
My Ao3 | Requests always welcome! | @whumptober2019
Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t-
Hawke gasped wetly for air, pulling in huge gasping breaths as he coughed, black splattering the ground in front of him. Fenris pulled him to his feet, yelling something- oh Maker his hand!
He stumbled blindly after Fenris, the elf’s grip on his hand was bruising but he couldn’t feel it. Smoke stung his eyes, tears running down his cheeks cutting through the blood he knew had dried on his cheeks. His hand, maker his hand!
It didn’t hurt, had burned too deep for it to hurt just yet. Bone ran white through the blackened flesh, barely recognisable as human and bile rose in his throat.
“Fenris,” Hawke choked, pulling against the determined elf, catching a glimpse of wide, terrified eyes, lyrium flaring as he bared his teeth in a reflexive snarl before Hawke doubled over and vomited onto the ash covered dirt.
The rest of the night passed in shaky snapshots of memory: the heat of Fenris’s lyrium as he ran into the elf’s back, pressed against him from cheek to hip; a heart, red and bloody in Fenris’s grasp as the previous owner sunk to the floor at his feet before being kicked roughly aside and the run began again, Hawke unable to draw his sword, the blade too heavy for just one hand; stone cold against his back, the realisation that his shirt was ripped and torn dawning on him slowly as Fenris crowded him backwards, Templars running past them unaware of their presence even as Fenris sparked and glowed.
“Where are we going?”
Hawke was dimly aware that he was shaking, teeth seeming to rattle in his skull as he spat the words out, throat red raw and aching.
“Somewhere safe,” Fenris replied, glancing behind at Hawke and then-
Fenris’ lips were so soft, the stubble he normally kept shaved gently scraping against the bare patches on Hawke’s face, the taste of lyrium lingering in Hawke’s mouth as he drew away, searching his face for his reaction. Hawke glanced down towards their joined hands, Fenris’ fingers resting so delicately above the rend in his skin and realised he couldn’t feel anything.
Fenris’s face was all he could see as Hawke collapsed to the ground, lyrium streaks blending into the mess of stars above him as Hawke’s eyes rolled backwards and he succumbed to the darkness.
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Savior, Bloodstain, Hellfire, Shadow Ch36 (V x Reader)
Alternate ending - bring your tissues!!!
June 15th, 3:06 pm
The low blue glow flashes, painfully bright against your clenched eyelids as it surges from Urizen’s body beneath you and you topple to the side in shock as the corpse vanishes. Your heart sinks to the floor as you look back to where you left V to see nothing, a void where the man you love should be waiting for you.
V is gone.
V is gone…
NO!!!!
You collapse in on yourself, tears falling from your eyes like rain, painting your cheeks and dripping off your chin. The pain in your heart is too much to bear, it’s as if there’s a hole inside your chest. Heaving, choking sobs wrack your body as you watch the blue light fade to reveal…
Vergil.
A tall man dressed in high quality clothing, white hair slicked back and a cold expression on his face. Yet as you watch, his face chances, morphs almost, and suddenly Vergil has V’s face. It barely has time to register in your mind before it’s gone again, but something is clearly wrong with Vergil; he holds his head in both hands as if in agonizing pain, features twisted with what looks like rage as he falls to one knee. Its clear something is happening inside him and he doesn’t like it.
You stand slowly, a tiny flicker of hope appearing in your chest.
He’s still in there somewhere!
“V, if you can hear me, come back to me! Please! Don’t leave me here all alone! I need you! I love you, V, please!”
Again, Vergil wears V’s features for a brief moment, long enough for his face to twist in sorrow, but Vergil’s face returns. The sharp angles of his appearance twist as the man glares at you and you can’t help but shrink back at the fury of his gaze, so unlike V’s gentle emerald eyes.
“Vergil…” Dante growls, already lunging forward with his blade extended. Vergil remains on one knee, his icy blue glare locked on you as his brother swiftly approaches. You watch in terrified stupor as Dante closes in, expecting the blade to decimate the unfamiliar form before you.
Instead, Vergil draws his own blade and expertly blocks Dante’s heavy blow with a vicious snarl. You can hear the blood rushing through your ears as the two men lock eyes, goosebumps erupting across your flesh as you desperately try to think of something you can do. Nero seems similarly paralyzed, his eyes glancing between you and the twins uneasily.
Vergil’s hair darkens for a fraction of a second as V struggles to the surface, using the momentary chance to fling himself away from Dante and throw the Yamato to you. The cruel glare returns and the man marches toward you to reclaim his blade.
Dante and Nero both step between Vergil and you, blocking his path with determined scowls. Mercifully, none of the three men attacks, their eyes and bodies frozen in a stalemate.
____________________
Vergil
To be recombined was… jarring to say the least. He was shocked to find his demonic side so weakened, and even more so to find his human side so strong! It was an odd sensation, to have half of oneself wish so desperately to exist separately from the whole.
V… it even named itself. Fool.
His brother attacks as he processes the flood of information from his two halves, his mind going into overdrive to make sense of all that has occurred since his desperate plan was enacted. Even as distracted as he is, Vergil flicks the Yamato loose and blocks his brother’s blow before it can cleave him in half, snarling at the man in red as he prepares a counterattack that will leave him severely injured, if not dead.
NO!
A surge of power from within him, and when he regains his senses he finds himself a dozen feet away from his brother, his eyes fixated on the blade as it slides to a stop near your feet.
She is inconsequential. Not a threat. Powerless.
Some portion of his being howls its discontent at the thought, but he roughly forces it away. No time to dwell on the intricacies of his humanity’s idiocy until the threat is resolved. He strides toward you, brutally ignoring the flicker of disquiet that pulses through him as he takes in the agonized expression on your tear-streaked face.
His view is blocked as his moronic brother steps between him and his goal, another young man joining him in a classic image of protectiveness.
“Not. Another. Step,” the young man growls. His right arm is pulsing with light, and Vergil realizes the arm isn’t flesh, but metal.
The boy who had Yamato!
Another flash; he’s now on his knees, eyes locked on Dante.
What in the world…?
“No way, pal. If there’s even a hint of V still in there, I am not gonna kill you, no matter how much you beg,” his brother comments with a smirk.
I never beg!
Vergil launches himself forward, using his demonic power to teleport close enough to you to grasp the Yamato. He’s within a few inches of you, can smell your skin and hear your choked breathing. It evokes a powerful image in his mind, something from his human half.
Your eyes, fluttering closed as your head rests on a pillow across from his own. The distance between you shrinks into nothingness as your lips meet; a taste of heaven.
Vergil grimaces, shaking off the lingering affection the memory elicited in his heart.
Meaningless. She is nothing to me.
He draws the Yamato once more even as a twinge of doubt makes his stomach heave uncomfortably, the thought that you are in fact, everything to him painfully difficult to subdue. He lunges away, creating a safe amount of space between himself and you to clear his mind.
“V… please, my poet, don’t go,” your pained voice calls to him. The sound irks him, enrages him as it makes him feel things he can’t afford to feel, not now, not ever. He grits his teeth and sets his eyes back on his prey; Dante.
His brother holds his sword out defensively, guarding himself from Vergil’s obvious attack.
Something else, then…
He pauses as tactics and plans of attack flood his mind, each one being dissected and analyzed for advantages and potential weak points. He imagines dozens of possibilities in a matter of seconds, the familiar thought process as comforting as Dante is irritating. He settles on a plan and prepares to execute it, repositioning his body for the perfect angle as he purposefully keeps his eyes on his twin.
He charges, but not at Dante.
At Nero.
Foolish boy, your ineptitude will cost you your life!
Another flood of foreign emotion hits him as he closes the gap, terror and powerlessness tugging at his consciousness. He ignores it, focusing instead on the gleaming metal blade about to pierce the flesh of the boy before him. He doesn’t see your eyes shift to watch, doesn’t see your tear-streaked face twist into another level of pain as he hurtles toward Nero, a triumphant smirk twisting his lips.
He’s barely three feet away when everything changes.
A flash of movement, a blip of no consequence is the only warning as you sprint between his blade and the boy with a fierce howl, your body intercepting his death blow. Vergil freezes as the Yamato sinks into your abdomen, slicing through you just next to where your belly button would lie. An awful squelch, a wet cough as blood splatters his face. His icy gaze widens in astonishment, mouth dropping open as he stares at you.
Panic. Bewilderment. Regret and shame. A slough of feelings annihilates Vergil’s battle-lust, the portion of his soul that cares about you screaming in agony so deep it would drive most men insane as you smile at him sadly, his blade still embedded in your body.
“Y/N!” Nero cries, finally paying attention to what’s happening right beside him. Vergil withdraws the blade with a soft slurp, throwing it aside like so much trash as his arms catch your falling body. Your face twitches painfully, eyes wide and chest heaving in panic as blood stains your white teeth an angry red.
You motherfucker! Look at what you did!
All the animosity and hatred of just a few seconds prior is gone as Dante and Nero reach him, their hoarse calls to you like knives in his throat. He lowers you gently to the ground, your blood pooling already around his feet in a warm puddle. He hears you gurgle past the fluid in your mouth to speak, and your words rend his soul from his body.
“I… I did it, Lara… the scales… are balanced now,” you choke out, your own hands pressing feebly against your side instinctively. He remembers everything in a tsunami of memory, every moment with you, every touch, every smile, every kiss… He remembers it all.
What have I done!?
The overwhelming pain he had sensed before mercilessly assaults his senses; he can’t breathe, he can’t think as the smell of your blood stains the air, its hot warmth spilling from you in rivulets. His own blood feels like ice, chilling him to the bone as it courses through his petrified body. Vergil thought he knew pain, thought he understood it in a way few could. Yet the searing, torturous agony of realizing how important you were just after stabbing you was another realm of excruciating he never could have imagined.
“Shit! What do we do?” Nero frantically asks. His mind racing, Vergil recalls how you had helped him treat your injuries, how you’d treated his own wounds during your travels together.
His hands move to press against the gaping wound, applying pressure just like he did when your hip was sliced open. His fingers tremble, quickly turning red as the crimson flood continues. His heart pumps dangerously fast, eyes dilating from the adrenaline as he bites his lip anxiously.
“Dante, get her bag! NOW!” he screams, and his brother sprints to where your backpack lies nearby. Vergil can feel the flow of blood slowing, feels your heartbeat weakening against his hands even as Dante dumps the bag out beside him.
“Towels, we have to stop the bleeding!” he cries, tears bursting from his panicked eyes as his stoic mask slips away, his energy focused entirely on saving your life. Dante brings over every last towel he can find, and all three men take one and press it against you desperately.
“C’mon, kid! Stay with us!” Dante pleads, brow furrowed nervously.
“Why did you do that? It should’ve been me!” Nero hoarsely points out, tears leaking from his eyes as his nose turns red. Your hand rises slowly, shaking as you stroke Nero’s cheek gently.
“Worth… it,” you gasp, and your hand drops lifelessly as the breath leaves your body.
What have I done!? Little fox?!
His hands press harder, his full weight behind him as he searches your form for any signs of life. Nero reaches out and pats your cheek, leaving a streak of blood behind as your head lolls in response. The boy swallows heavily, glancing at Dante as his eyes overflow. The two of them sit back in unison, their hands dropping the towels they had held. Only Vergil still tries to staunch the blood, but its no use. The deep vermillion hue of the wide puddle underneath you stills, the blood no longer flowing.
No… no, no, no…
Vergil holds the towel against you desperately for another moment, refusing to accept the reality before him.
“She’s… she’s gone,” Nero tearfully states, sniffling. His words at last drive home the truth for Vergil and he cradles your limp body against himself, heedless of the blood that will forever mark his clothing as he holds you close one last time. He doesn’t care that his brother and the boy are watching, doesn’t care that either one of them could easily destroy him as he mourns the first friend he ever made, the first person he ever allowed into his heart. The first person he ever loved.
He can do nothing to stop the stream of memories now, each one another dagger plunging into his flesh.
Your smile.
Your laugh.
The cute thing your nose did when you got angry.
Your courage, your resilience and stubbornness. Your strength and humor, your lips and your body. The glow in your eyes whenever you had told him you loved him, that shimmer forcing him to accept it as truth.
I’ll never see her again… she’s gone…
He rocks you in his arms, overcome with grief. He strokes your hair, your cheek, memorizing every last mole and freckle.
She was mine, and I was hers.
And I killed her.
I killed her.
Why couldn’t he have gone back to his emotionless existence? Why did he have to discover how incredible it was to love, only to then learn how much it hurt to lose? His previous refusal to care about people seems so far away, so unreachable. It’s a bitter taste to realize how much he craves the emptiness of not caring, misses the lack of attachment he had cultivated.
All to be destroyed by you. In a single month.
I never deserved her. Why didn’t she just leave?
A warm hand grips his shoulder, another hesitantly on his back. He had completely forgotten Dante and Nero were there, so wrapped up in his own pain that nothing else registered. Gradually, his keening wails fade away. Not because his pain is lessened, but simply because he runs out of energy to continue.
He is destroyed, wrecked beyond repair as he exhaustedly quiets. Nero gently pulls you from his grasp and as much as he tries to hold on, he has nothing left to give.
“Vergil…” Dante’s low rumble proclaims his sympathy, and suddenly the man in red’s arms are around him. Dante holds his brother close, offering comfort as best he can. Vergil stays frozen for a long moment before he returns his brother’s embrace.
I can kill him tomorrow. Or maybe next week.
____________________
For the remainder of his life, Vergil would never be able to recall how they all reached Nico’s van, the time a complete blank in his memory. All he knows is when they finally turned the corner with your limp body in Dante’s arms, three female voices all cried out as one.
“Y/N!”
Nico reaches you first, her long stride serving her well as she takes in the amount of blood covering all three men. She gasps as she sees your face, too still and frozen. She takes your cold hand in her own and presses it to her lips as tears pour from her eyes.
“What the hell happened? You were supposed to keep her safe!” the mechanic screams at Nero. He flinches as if she had slapped him, carefully keeping his eyes on the ground as he trudges forward to sit near the van. Trish and Lady carefully take you from Dante, carrying you inside the van with stricken faces.
“She took a blow meant for Nero,” Dante explains gruffly. Nico wails, collapsing into the legendary devil hunters’ arms and babbling incoherently through her sobbing.
Trish and Lady return, finally taking notice of the third man with matching sneers of distaste. He tries to meet their eyes with an equally cold expression but finds he can’t disguise his pain fully.
So weak. So stupid, powerless and foolish.
“I take it her idea was a bust then?” Lady asks hesitantly, refusing to even speak your name. Dante gives her a pointed nod, gently turning to face her and Trish.
“Ladies, my brother Vergil. Vergil, don’t stab anyone,” Dante introduces them, his uncouth words making Vergil flinch. His brother grimaces, an apology clear in his eyes but Vergil simply walks away.
Enough. Enough of this nonsense.
He forces himself to breathe evenly, arranging his features into a blank mask and setting his limbs in a neutral posture as he calms himself. It’s difficult, far more difficult than it was a mere month ago. Just as he locks away the last of his grief, Dante joins him.
“Look, Verg… I can’t really imagine what you’re feeling, but I’m here, yeah? Don’t run off again. You’re the only brother I’ve got and I don’t know about you but I’m sick of fighting,” the impudent man informs him bashfully. Vergil manages a tight nod, focusing on calmness and still waters. It doesn’t work very well, his teeth clenching as the tide of emotion surges once more.
“I hate to bring it up, but how are we going to deal with the tree?” Trish asks, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Dante sighs, stepping back over to the group to discuss options, but Vergil is having none of it. He stalks over to the group with a scowl, glaring at them all in turn.
“I’ll do it,” he states simply.
Nero exchanges a doubtful glance with Dante, but Lady beats him to the punch.
“How can you possibly think we’d trust you with that after everything you’ve done?” she exclaims angrily. He only glares at her in return, failing to find the words to explain his urge to finish this, end this horror that had destroyed you forever.
“Because I’m going with him,” Dante adds with a confident smirk.
Vergil swallows his anger and frustration, forcing his voice to be calm and steady.
“We need to sever the Qlipoth roots in the Underworld itself. Then, we'll seal the portal with the Yamato,” he explains coldly, to dubious looks of confusion.
“Hang on, if you do that, you can't come back,” Nero starts stubbornly. Dante whirls on him with an angry scowl.
“Why do you think I'm goin'? Someone's gotta keep an eye on your old man,” he comments to the boy, but Nero still won’t see reason.
“You can't just expect me to stay here, while you both go—” he cries out insistently.
“It's because you're here we can go. We're trusting you with things on this sidem, capisce?” Dante counters, and Nero finally seems to settle. Vergil can see the resemblance in his son’s face as he scowls and crosses his arms.
“Don’t you let him die, Vergil, or you’ll have me to deal with,” Trish threatens with a steely-eyed glare. He stares at her brokenly until she looks away awkwardly, his empty eyes not holding the slightest threat.
“Make haste, Dante,” the elder Sparda urges, turning to face the Qlipoth with grim determination. He wishes he could see you one last time, but if he went in the van he knows he’d never want to leave. He must finish this. For you.
“Yeah, I know,” Dante replies, trotting over to join him. They transform together, a flash of red and blue mixing together as the two brothers launch themselves into the air, flapping their mighty demonic wings to ascend. Neither of them look back.
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Intoxication of the Fall | McHanzo [Overwatch]
Hanzo has long since given up fighting his transformations. When Jesse McCree follows him into the woods on the night of the full moon, Hanzo decides to give up something else, too.
My Monthly Patreon fic, as chosen by patrons in a monthly suggestion poll! The winner this time was @werekem with the prompt “Werewolf Hanzo/Demon McCree and some great big ol' knotty fun.” And they are definitely having a good time with some real good knotting. ;9
I had... so much fun writing this. I write so much canon-verse fanfiction I often forget how much I like writing monsters, so this was a nice return to form for me (even though I don’t write a lot of knotting itself, lmao).
This fic was available for early access on my Patreon two weeks ago. If you’d also like to have early access to monthly fics, commissions, and WIPS, or to have a say in what I write every month, please consider pledging!
AO3 Link | Commission Info | Patreon | Leave a Tip?
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The forest is still, quiet, dark. Peaceful, or so it seems, until the clouds part to reveal the bright, round moon, to bathe the forest floor in its light. Alone, Hanzo turns his face skyward, lets the moonlight illuminate his face, wash over him like a wave, soak into his skin. It sends a ripple of warmth and a flash of heat, a trickle and then a geyser of sweet sweet thrill rushing through his veins. He falls to his knees. His eyes roll back in his head.
He had gave up fighting the transformation years ago. Now, although he doesn’t quite embrace it, Hanzo accepts it. He lets the crushing waves of heat and electricity and power wash over him without struggle, without defiance. All it takes is that first warning sign, the tiniest contraction in his muscles, the sharp prick of sensation in his ears and his nose, and he knows: soon, he will change.
The feeling comes quickly, sharply; his transformation takes him out of almost nowhere, furious and overwhelming, and Hanzo’s palms hit the forest floor. His nails, blunt, scratch at the dirt. He tries to get a proper grip, tries to ground himself, but can’t. Soon, he gives up. Short, harsh breaths hiss out through gritted teeth; his lips peel back over them as they grow, long and sharp. He growls, clenches his fists as he feels his nails grow and dig into the meat of his palms. The fur of his palms.
And then the tension leaves him. He relaxes, lets the light breeze weave itself through the soft, black-and-white fur that now covers him.
He stands. Takes a deep breath.
Howls.
And then he runs. Runs through the woods he’s fled to, relishes in the feeling of the earth beneath his feet - hands - paws. It’s liberating, somehow, to let himself be taken by this, to allow himself this small freedom after so many years of trying to hold it all back.
But he can’t let go completely. He knows what he is. Knows he’s still dangerous, even in more lucid times, like this. He knows all too well what happens when he doesn’t run, when he allows himself to himself stay in the city, to surround himself with people. With friends. With family.
He fears himself, sometimes - perhaps he always will. But it’s justified, he thinks, as he remembers his brother’s face, mangled and scarred and red red red beneath his paws. Hanzo fears his strength, his teeth, his claws, the overwhelming urge to bite and tear and rend and drink in moonlight and blood.
He fears himself. Others fear him, too.
But what doesn't fear him is the thing that stands before him.
Hanzo stops running. He straightens up, from all fours to hind legs. He sniffs the air, narrows his eyes at the man that stands before him. At the man he once believed to be Jesse McCree.
But Jesse McCree is no man at all. He may look like one in size, shape, and cadence, but now, with his heightened senses, Hanzo realizes that he doesn't... smell right. Under the layers of fabric softener in his clothes and cologne on his skin, he smells just the tiniest bit like sulfur, like wine, like fouled meat and blood. Not his own, though - like the blood of six or seven others. Hanzo wonders if that blood stains his skin or runs beneath it.
McCree holds out his hand and smiles, sharp-toothed and too wide, at the beast snarling before him. "Come on, now, don't be like that,” he says, voice like honey and whiskey.
Hanzo’s nose wrinkles. “So you were never human at all,” he rumbles as he crouches low, poises to strike. The image of Jesse McCree scoffs; his smile widens uncannily. Hanzo’s fur bristles.
“Shouldn’t be surprised you knew somethin’ was up,” he answers. He steps closer. Hanzo backs up.
"Stay away from me, demon," Hanzo growls, for McCree’s protection as much as his own. It takes everything he has not to leap at the hand, snap McCree's arm in two with his pointed fangs and his long, powerful jaw. It's like this every time: he wants to eat, to kill. To let himself go, let himself become the beast he feels inside him.
He wants to fall.
Wants to fall into Jesse. Wants to tear him apart from the inside out, with teeth and hands and tongue. The temptation is strong, overpowering. Unsurprising, too - because isn't that what demons do? Tempt?
McCree's arm moves. It's a quick motion, a small one, not meant to alarm but to remind Hanzo that his offer still stands. “It’s okay, Hanzo. You know me,” he says, and for a moment Hanzo sees the man again, sees Jesse McCree with his bright smile and his kind, warm eyes. But then he blinks and sees the demon, gaze sharp and red and hungry.
Hanzo does not move. His lips curl over bared teeth. He growls; McCree laughs. “Come on. It ain’t like you got much left to hide like this, do you? And you know what I am now, anyway. Why don’t you let me show you what I can do?”
Hanzo sniffs the air. Every muscle in his body warns against this. Against him. But Jesse McCree's pull is strong (fire and danger and meat and blood blood blood so much blood), and the urges of the wolf inside Hanzo (fight and kill and tear, bite, rend) are too powerful.
He takes his hand, and McCree smiles with far too many teeth.
---
There is nothing gentle about the way they fall together.
As soon as McCree closes his fingers around Hanzo’s paw, Hanzo yanks the demon to him and holds him there. He takes a moment to inhale deeply, to memorize McCree’s scent (so familiar but so new, so dangerous, so enticing). He lets himself feel the slightest touch of almost-too-hot heat seep through his fur, and the same instant it becomes too much, Hanzo throws McCree against the nearest tree.
McCree hits it hard, chest first, and it’s all he can do to brace himself against the trunk with both hands. He whips around, but can’t move: Hanzo is on him in the space between heartbeats, a clawed hand to his neck to hold him in place. The tips of his too-long nails dig into the still-soft flesh of McCree’s neck, but he does not press any harder. Does not cut off McCree’s air supply.
“Feisty, ain’tcha?” The demon reaches up and tangles his fingers in the thick fur behind Hanzo’s ears. “Now that you’re finally lettin’ go.”
He leans up, stands on his toes. Hanzo is so much taller like this, so much bigger, so much stronger. He could crush McCree where he stood, if he wanted. It would be easy. But he doesn’t; he holds himself back and snaps his jaws shut.
McCree raises an eyebrow. His eyes darken. His smile grows.
He kisses Hanzo.
Kissing is not easy in this form. Hanzo isn’t even sure he would call what they’re doing kissing; it’s more like they press their teeth together, bump noses, lick into each others’ mouths. It’s like they’re fighting, almost, and it sends a thrill through Hanzo, makes him feel even more like the beast he knows he is, deep down. And it feels so good, so good to let himself fall.
McCree pulls back. He grips Hanzo’s arm with one hand, fingers and nails digging in: sharp, so sharp. Had he always had claws?
“Much fun as this is, I’d rather we take this somewhere a little more comfortable,” he says, and without warning, the world around Hanzo spins and plunges into darkness. When he opens his eyes, he is in an unfamiliar place.
It’s dark here, too. Hanzo has no problem seeing in it. He doesn’t need to see much, anyway; he can smell McCree. Can feel him, soft skin under rough paws. The claws of one hand still dig into his bicep.
“Where are we?” Hanzo snaps.
“Somewhere comfortable,” McCree answers, and that’s the last thing he says for a while.
He grabs Hanzo by the sides of the face and pulls him in again. This time, what they do feels much more like a kiss. There’s still too much teeth to it, but their lips touch for a brief moment before giving way to tongues. Hanzo can taste the inside of McCree’s mouth, hot and vivid: ash and spice and blood. His eyes roll back and he groans. Lets himself fall further.
McCree pulls him forward, toward the bed. Hanzo throws him onto it, all instinct, and stretches over him, rakes his claws down McCree’s chest and tears at the clothes that cover it. He leaves jagged lines in his wake, angry and red. McCree gasps and arches into it, hissing his pleasure with every centimetre of skin Hanzo claws at, from chest to thighs to calves to hips.
Hanzo’s fingers twitch. His mouth falls open and his tongue lolls out as hot, damp breaths escape him. He looks down at McCree hungrily, like he wants to devour everything the demon is. The voice in the back of his mind that is still human reminds him this is just what the demon wants, but it’s too late: there’s no denying McCree now, no going back from this. The demon may be beneath him, may be at the mercy of Hanzo’s teeth and claws, but he is the one who is in control now.
And Hanzo will take whatever he can tear from McCree. Hungrily, happily, he will take.
Hanzo pulls back. He licks his lips, eyes roving over McCree’s naked form and stopping when they reach the demon’s dark, dark eyes. They flash at him and Hanzo grins. He takes off what remains of his clothing and crawls back over McCree to meet him in an open-mouthed kiss.
He paws at McCree’s chest. Scratches down it. Something shifts under his touch, and when Hanzo pulls away to look, the texture of McCree’s skin is different: it’s bumpy and uneven, like tiny ashen scales have erupted over it, chitinous and shimmering.
Hanzo leans down, sniffs at them, slides his tongue along the newly-formed ridges. They taste like nothing he can name. Something unique.
He pulls away again to take in the demon’s entire form. McCree returns the gaze, grinning ear-to-ear. His skin is redder, brighter, almost glowing. The black scales glint against it, but they no longer hold Hanzo’s attention: instead he turns his eyes toward the two dark, curved horns that have sprouted from McCree’s forehead. They’re tiny. Pathetic.
“Hmph. Is that all you are?” Hanzo taunts. “You smelled so much stronger than this.”
“Just you wait,” McCree retorts, finally finding his voice. Hanzo laughs and reaches for one of the horns, ready to rise to the challenge. He runs the pad of his finger over its sharp tip. McCree gasps and twitches in the wake of the touch, his entire body lifting off the bed. His cock, hard and insistent now, presses against the crook of Hanzo’s thigh, and the werewolf laughs again, rubs at the horn in his hand, fascinated by the way McCree writhes beneath his paw and enthralled all the more when the horn grows under his hold.
“You are changing,” he says. “A sex demon, then? Feeding off the pleasure of being touched?”
McCree shakes his head. “Feed off energy of all kinds.”
Hanzo huffs and leans down. “Is that so?” he murmurs, breath hot against the thin skin at the base of McCree’s neglected horn. The demon shivers, clenches his jaw. Hanzo smiles, predatory, though he doubts McCree can see it. He does not need to see, anyway - he simply needs to feel.
Hanzo’s tongue slips from between his bared teeth to wrap around the base of McCree’s horn. He licks at it, drags it up over the curved point, and McCree howls.
“Quiet.” Hanzo yanks the horn in his hand and forces McCree’s head to the side so he can bite the back of the demon’s neck, hold it between his jaws in an attempt to hush him, to put him in his place. It only half-works: McCree pants hard, helpless against Hanzo’s continued attention, but he does not shut up, does not relinquish total control. Not yet.
“You get less and less human every minute, sugar,” he says.
Hanzo digs his teeth in deeper.
McCree hisses, but the sound twists itself into a breathless laugh. “What, didn’t like that? It was a compliment, you know. Lettin’ this thing inside me take over was the best decision I ever made.”
Hanzo snarls and backs up, replacing teeth with claws and pressing his paw firmly to the back of McCree’s neck. “So you were Jesse McCree, once.”
“Yeah. Long time ago. Felt easier to keep the name than use the first one I was given. Hell wasn’t gonna be lookin’ for some no-name human, but they might’ve gone lookin’ for one of their own.”
Nails dig into Hanzo’s hip, sharp. He grunts and flinches, but his hold on McCree does not break. The demon smiles up at him with wide, excited eyes. “You know how it is. You of all people should know how it feels to be hunted.”
Hanzo’s eyes flash. He bares his teeth, lifts his paw from Jesse’s neck to grip his hair. “You talk too much,” he growls as his nails scratch against the hard flesh of McCree’s scalp. The friction is strange, exciting. But Hanzo has no time, no desire to linger on the sensation.
He moves forward on his knees. Pulls the demon’s head down so McCree is at last face-to-face with his cock, hard and red and leaking. McCree licks his lips, opens wide, and Hanzo forces him down.
It’s too much for McCree at first. He twitches violently, almost chokes. He does not try to escape, though; he moves his hands to clutch at Hanzo’s ass, to dig his nails in and pull the werewolf closer to him.
The nails of the left hand are sharper than the right’s, Hanzo notes. The palm feels rougher, too, as if his hand were made entirely of scales and stone instead of flesh. It’s hot to the touch, too hot, and he wonders briefly if that’s where the “thing” inside of McCree came from, where the demon first began to fester like an infection. But he does not give himself the time to wonder or to ask. There are more important things to be dealt with right now, and Hanzo would rather not stop Jesse in the middle of sucking him off. Not when he is so eager.
Eager though he is, McCree does not have much room to maneuver between the cock in his mouth and the vice grip Hanzo holds him in. Still, he tries: he licks at the underside of it whenever he’s given the chance, swallows around the angry red tip and tightens his lips as far down the base as he can go. Hanzo huffs and rubs the base of one of McCree’s horns with one hand, right where the flesh of his scalp is thinnest. A reward for doing so well.
McCree groans. His eyes roll back in his head, and his jaw goes slack for half a moment before Hanzo tightens his grip in his hair and shoves him down further.
“You can do better than that,” the werewolf says, voice coming out more like a snarl than anything. He thrusts into McCree’s mouth, deeper and deeper, groaning as he hits the back of the demon’s throat over and over again. Hanzo can feel himself swelling, can feel his knot begin to fill out as he mercilessly fucks McCree’s throat, and all he can think about is how much he wants it in there, how much he wants to have McCree’s deliciously too-hot lips wrapped inescapably around it.
He pulls out. Adjusts his angle. Grins ferally down at McCree, whose unfocused eyes barely register the beast before him.
And then he slams back in.
Hanzo howls, euphoric, as McCree takes him in all the way, right down to the base, lips stretching impossibly wide over the swollen base of his cock. He can’t pull out anymore - doesn’t need to, anyhow: he’s deep in McCree’s throat, past any sort of gag reflex the demon may have had. McCree’s tongue twitches, long and forked, trying to slide along Hanzo’s shaft, to wrap around it and stroke him to completion. It’s hardly necessary, though - even the slightest movement sends shockwaves of cascading pleasure all throughout Hanzo. It pushes him just as far as he needs to go, and he comes with one last stuttering howl, spilling himself down the demon’s throat.
McCree breathes, hot and heavy through his nose, stealing air between the spurts of cum gushing down his throat. He looks up at Hanzo admiringly, almost reverently, as he tries to swallow around him. Mercifully, it gets easier with every passing second as Hanzo’s knot deflates.
Hanzo pulls his softening cock from between McCree’s lips. A string of cum and saliva still connects the two of them. It breaks when he shuffles back and takes the space to admire how McCree’s neck lolls to the side, how McCree’s eyes look right through him. He looks spent, exhausted, satiated. He hasn’t even been touched yet. Not properly.
Hanzo decides to remedy that.
He leans forward and presses his nose, his lips, his teeth to the side of McCree’s neck. He licks along the demon’s jawline, between his ear and the beginning of his beard. Tries to soothe him, to bring him back to the present. Or so it seems, at first; as soon as McCree blinks, shifts, tries to reach up to touch Hanzo, the werewolf reaches between the two of them, runs the pad of his finger over the ridged head of McCree’s cock, and shivers when the demon falls back, powerless against his hold.
He strokes. McCree gasps, groans, writhes against the bed as Hanzo slowly teases him. He moves his fingers one at a time over the tip, smearing the small trickle of precum that’s begun to leak out of it. The demon’s clawed hands grip the sheets, almost tears them. Hanzo licks along his horns. McCree cries out again.
“Still so noisy,” Hanzo says, a low rumble in his chest. He squeezes McCree’s cock. The demon twitches.
“And you - ah - you’re still holdin’ back,” he stutters. “Still tryin’ to play at bein’ human.”
Hanzo growls. He leans in close to McCree’s face. His wide, powerful jaws loom dangerously close to the demon’s lips. “Silence.”
It comes as no surprise that McCree continues to speak. The demon laughs and reaches up, tangling his fingers in the fur behind Hanzo’s ear. It’s equal parts comforting and alarming. Hanzo’s hackles rise.
“That little stunt you just pulled?” McCree continues in a whisper. He leans in close. Hanzo can feel the breath on his muzzle, can smell it stronger than ever: sulfur, wine, salt. Pheromones. Arousal. “It was nice, but it weren’t enough. I want more, Hanzo. I want you to let go. Feel what I feel. I want you to stop pretendin’ to be somethin’ you ain’t.”
He stops Hanzo before he can speak, pulling the werewolf down and forcing him into another open-mouthed kiss. Hanzo ignores the way his legs go weak at the feeling of McCree’s forked tongue licking along the roof of his mouth. He ignores the eager twitch of his cock as that tongue slides over his teeth, tangles around them. Ignores the thrill of want that shoots through him when he tastes himself in McCree’s mouth.
McCree pulls away. Waits. Looks Hanzo right in the eyes, and all Hanzo sees is red. Deep, dark, all-devouring red.
Short, suffocating silence rings between them but a moment before McCree says one thing more. He opens his mouth and his voice echoes around Hanzo: in his ears, in his mind, in his very soul.
“Let go.”
And Hanzo does.
He doesn’t know what comes over him, exactly, but in the split second after McCree speaks, he feels a frenzy overcome him: want, need, hunger, desperation.
He doesn’t think as his claws dig into McCree’s hips. Doesn’t think as he flips the demon over. Doesn’t think as he grips the meat of McCree’s ass to spread his cheeks apart, as he leans down and licks at the demon’s rim, as he pushes his long tongue past the clenched ring of muscle to stretch him open. He barely hears McCree’s loud, desperate moans of pleasure - doesn’t care when they stop, when they’re replaced by whining and panting. Nothing registers to Hanzo but the need to have McCree, to take him, to make him his.
He pulls back. Licks his lips at the sight of McCree’s hole, open and gaping and ready for him.
Hanzo does not hold back anymore.
He slams into McCree and buries himself in to the hilt. McCree cries out beneath him. His whole body goes tense, tight.
Hanzo pulls out. Slams back in again.
He holds McCree’s hips, pulls him back to meet his thrusts. He feels his knot swell again, fill out more and more with each powerful snap of his hips. Soon Hanzo can hardly move at all: his knot is too big, and when he can no longer pull out, he leans down, presses his chest to McCree’s ridged, chitinous back, and snarls in the demon’s ear: “Mine.”
He jerks his hips, presses in deeper. McCree gasps. He bucks against Hanzo, presses himself further onto the werewolf’s cock. He laughs, a raspy hiss of a noise. “You sure about that?”
Hanzo snarls. A great paw slams down on the back of McCree’s head to force his head into the mattress. He ignores the laughter. Doesn’t care about it anymore. All he cares about is pressing further into McCree, forcing the demon down, making him shut up. Making the demon beg for more. Beg for him.
McCree says something Hanzo doesn’t understand. Another language, maybe. He doesn’t care. He bites the back of McCree’s neck, trying to force him into proper submission. He digs his teeth in deep. Bites a little too hard - something cracks under his teeth. The flood of a new, unfamiliar taste floods his mouth. Not blood. Not anything tangible. It’s something new, something heady and ashy and entirely McCree.
And Hanzo wants more.
He fucks McCree hard. So hard it may have hurt a human. But McCree is not human - hasn’t been for a long time - and he relishes in it, writhes ecstatically in both pain and pleasure. It’s everything he’d wanted, everything Hanzo had refused to give him, everything Hanzo had rejected about himself until now.
“Yes, yes,” McCree hisses. He arches his back, pushes against Hanzo’s thrusting, rolls his hips to grind against the werewolf’s cock. “That’s it, sweetheart, more, give me more--”
Hanzo snarls. He yanks McCree’s hair, forces his head back as far as it will go, anything to stop the words from falling from his lips. He doesn’t want to hear anything from McCree now - all he wants is to feel him, to fuck him, to give him what he wants.
Hanzo comes, jaw opening wide and back arching obscenely. He’s poised as if to howl, but no sound escapes him. White noise floods his ears: the rush of pumping blood, the scramble of McCree’s knees against the sheets, the rub of fur against scales. He doesn’t even notice McCree has come too, not until his knot deflates once more and he pulls out, slick and sticky all at once.
When he is finished, Hanzo hovers over McCree and slowly, slowly, begins to come back to himself.
He huffs. Without thinking, Hanzo crawls off the bed, kneels at its side, and once again spreads McCree’s cheeks wide. He slides his tongue between them, licking up the mess he’d made, more instinct than care. The demon twitches feebly against him, and it’s a better reward than Hanzo ever could have dreamed.
When he finishes cleaning up his mate (Mate, he thinks, Mine mine mine), Hanzo flips McCree over and pulls him close, ridged back to furry chest. He wraps his arms around the demon and licks at his neck, all lupine affection and warmth.
“Mine,” he grunts, deep and low and rumbling in his throat. McCree smiles. His eyes glint, unseen, and he reaches back, scratches at the fur behind Hanzo’s ears.
“Mine,” McCree corrects. And Hanzo can not find it in him to argue.
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Delicious (Horrifically N/S/F/W and Grapefruit-y)
(Not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach)
Delicious, delicious little thing.” Three said, hand caressing One’s face. One shivered, but whether in fear or arousal, he wasn’t sure. The emotions mixed and coagulated into something else inside his chest.
The Heart of Darkness had taken Three back. How, One wasn’t sure. But what he did know was that the Heart had pinned him to the concrete wall of Subsite-01, and Three’s eyes were blood red. Horrifically, beautifully red.
“You know all the things you talked with me about? Knives ripping into skin, hands playing with your fragile organs? Blood and gore and Lust.” He accentuated the last word, pushing himself forward until he was grinding against Founder, both of them hard. “Imagine what I could do with you now, hmm? I’ll take you apart, put you back together.”
Tendrils of flesh whipped and squirmed around The Heart, slicing through the air wildly.
“You’re not Three. You’re just a para-” He was cut off when the man’s clawed hand leapt forward and wrapped around his throat.
“You listen to me my little fucking prophet. You’re Mine. Mine to do with as I please.” His other hand slipped down until he was rubbing against One’s clothed cock, One moaning out involuntarily.
“See! You’re already so fucking hard for me. Come on my gorgeous little fucktoy. When I’m done you’ll never want me to stop.” A tendril of flesh was already rending apart One’s pants and underwear, his cock now steaming and exposed in the open air.
Three ran a finger down his length, tracing the bead of black precum that dribbled down.
‘This isn’t Three, I have to resist, I have to-.’ His thoughts were cut short when a moan pushed its way out of his chest, Three’s thumb grinding none-too-gently against the head of his dick.
“Oh? You like that?” With that, he rubbed his finger along the head again, rougher this time. Shuddering, One wasn’t sure if he was leaning into or away from the touch.
“Fuck you.” One gritted out, bearing his metal teeth.
“What was that?” Three all but shouted, grinning madly, “You have to speak up! I can’t hear you~”
“Fuck You!” One shouted, mouth open just long enough for a pulsing tentacle to stretch past his lips and force its way down his throat, choking him on the fleshy muscle.
“There we go. That should keep you quiet. Now let’s see… How shall we start?” Producing a scalpel with a flourish, Three began to slice through One’s synthetic skin.
‘MEKHANE, it feels good.’ One thought as he was cut open, flesh and skin removed by the pitiless steel. ‘Why does it feel so good?’ He gagged around the tentacle that had invaded his mouth, warm and thick and for some reason Divine.
‘MEKHANE, what’s wrong with me.’ He said, his cock throbbing, the bright blue veins glowing through the skin.
“Almost done my pretty little thing. There will be a nice hole for me to fill you up. Won’t need any preparation, or any of that lube stuff. Just a nice, drenched hole for me to bury myself inside of.” Founder clenched his eyes shut, horrified in himself for the arousal he was experiencing. It left his stomach coiled and his body Wanting.
He looked down, down past the tendril that pistoned in and out of his mouth, past the writhing arches of flesh that radiated off of Three, and to the hole that had been carved into his torso.
And Three’s cock, bobbing hard and eager.
He almost came from the image alone.
“Shall we begin?” Without waiting for a response, Three unceremoniously took his cock and pushed it into the hole that he had just carved.
It was an odd experience to a degree. The pain overshadowed the pleasure at first, filling him with a burning, jagged pain.
But as Three pushed in and out of One, he couldn’t ignore the exponential rise of pleasure, filling him up. Couldn’t help the feeling of being filled where a body shouldn’t be filled; strange and wonderful pleasure.
‘Fuck, I love this.’
“It looks like it’s getting hard to breathe huh?” The heart said, running a hand down the tendril that was occupying his throat. “Wouldn’t want you passing out in the middle of this, huh?” He pulled the tentacle from his mouth, a thick trail of saliva connecting it to his lips.
The first sound that came from his mouth was a choked gasp for air, the second being a whorish mechanical moan.
“There we go! Moan as loud as you want now. Don’t muffle a sound~.”
One was overwhelmed, filled with pleasure and pain and more more More, tears springing to his eyes.
So he moaned. He moaned like his life depended on it, letting out all the sounds he was to shy to show whenever he was getting fucked.
But he sobbed as well. This was just as bad as cheating on Three, enjoying this thing that should have been special, something he and Three would share themselves.
So he sobbed and moaned, catharsis shooting through his system as the Heart pounded into him, growling ferally.
Which was why he stopped, stock still when a tender hand took his cheek. He looked up to see Three, no, the Heart staring down at him, eyes gentle.
“Don’t worry my Love. We’re both here. For you. Your boyfriend could no longer live separated from me. Or I from him. You wouldn’t want to lose him, would you?” One shook gently before replying:
“No. I wouldn’t. I don’t.”
“Well you won’t. We’re here, both of us. And we’ll always be here with you. Remember after all,” He paused, red gaze tinged with Three’s deep-water-green eyes. “We Love You.”
With those words, he begin to pound into Founder, swift and primal and passionate.
‘We Love You.’ Those three simple words filled One’s mind, and he collapsed against the Heart, tears still running hot but no longer in guilt.
“There we go my love. I’m almost there. Can you cum for me? Can you be a good boy and cum?” Founder nodded desperately, his hand reaching down to stroke himself. “There we go. Just stroke. Pretty soon I’ll paint you pretty guts white. Make you mine. No, not mine. Ours.”
That word. Ours. Founder came as the word passed The Hearts lips, seizing and clenching muscles, trying to get his Love to cum inside him. To fill him up and make him theirs.
“Fuck, fuck, so good. Take it!” Three spasmed, cumming deep inside him. Their was more seed than there should have been, filling up the space between his organs as he rode out the orgasm.
One almost felt bloated from the sheer volume that Three came, his stomach distending slightly. Collapsed against each other, panting and gasping and feeling the most alive they’ve either felt in the last fifty years, One’s eyes closed in exhaustion.
“Let’s get you to bed.” Three spoke as he picked One up, gently carrying him in his arms. He passed out to the sound of some forgotten lullaby hummed into his ears.
==============================================
“Fuck, fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t expect Heart to spring that on you, I thought-.” Founder cut Three off with a hand to his lips, shushing him.
“It’s okay, I wasn’t expecting that. Or to have enjoyed it. I just… He said that… You both loved me. Is that true?”
“He… He told you?” Three whispered, voice soft in something close to fear.
“Yeah. Said both of you loved me. Wanted me to be both of yours. I’m… Not opposed to the idea.” He blushed luminescent blue, turning his face away as Three processed his words.
I didn’t know what Heart would think of you. I suppose if he’s Me… I don’t know. Let me think.” They both nodded, Three curling up against One.
“It still feels like I’m full of you My Love. Like you’ve made yourself a place inside me.”
“I suppose we’re… Conjoined.”
“Yes we are… yes we are.”
#o5-1#o5-3#the founder#the philosopher scientist#the heart of darkness#heart!Three#g/ore /#nsf/w#grapefruit#like#seriously
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Fluri Fortnight - Knight Academy
Title: Bitter Words
Pairings: Fluri
Description: Ceazontania provided Yuri with no escape from Flynn and his own feelings. An injury only made it worse.
Authors’ Notes: You all knew the fluffy stuff wasn’t going to last.
Disclaimer: Tales of Vesperia is the property of Namco Bandai.
The crunch of bones came secondary to the molten wave of pain in his brain, tearing skin, rending muscles, right through the metal of his gauntlet. His voice came out as a scream, unable to hold it back as the maw that held him tightly only bit down harder. With his vision darkening, he fumbled for his knife, his sword hand hanging useless in the wolf's mouth. If this monster wasn't going to let go, he was at least going to try and use the opportunity at killing it. But another one was already on him, snapping at his uninjured hand. He finally managed the knife from his boot, his fingers clenching its handle as he slashed to keep the second wolf back. He heard a shout, but it was distant in his ears, and he couldn't find the second to focus on it, not with attacks from two sides and the pain of teeth still in his flesh keeping his attention elsewhere.
The second wolf leapt away from his weak attempt at defense, startled enough to give him a little space, and he took the chance. Knowing that he was leaving himself open, Yuri turned his attention back to the one trying to tear off his profusely bleeding left arm. He stabbed down, catching the wolf in the eye. But that didn't drive it back. It released him just long enough to yelp in pain, and when he went to pull his arm away, it dove forward, thrashing wildly. Gnashing jaws caught him again, crunching down on his shoulder. Another shout escaped him, and he stabbed again, splitting the skull of the wolf. The light was starting to fade. Help rushed forward, and he felt himself caught.
A warmth rushed his body, a soft tingling in his limbs. When he could finally manage to open his eyes, Yuri could barely see through the haze of pain. He knew that he was flat on his back, cold ground below him and sunset stretching across the sky above. Blurred faces filled his vision, concern darkening their looks. A shout came for them to back up, but he didn't care. He was still breathing, and although the pain in his arm and shoulder were still there, they were fading slowly. Bones creaked and cracked back into place, moving through his flesh in way that might of bothered him if he were more aware. The healing spell being cast was knitting his flesh back together. Hands pulled at his uniform, checking for other spots, holding his wrist for his pulse while indistinct chatter echoed around him. Of the voices speaking, one was clearer than the others, even for the fewer words it managed to speak.
“Is he going to be all right, Chastel?” The voice was filled with a familiar warmth, and for a moment, he could even forget that he was going to get yelled at by that same voice later.
A muffled reply came, but it didn't seem concerned.
He shut his eyes only for a moment, but his consciousness washed out. When the wave of it came back, his head was a little clearer, his eyes focused. Whatever remained of his wounds had been cleaned and bandaged tightly and he had been left in the quiet of the infirmary, propped up in a bed. But with the person sitting beside him, Yuri knew that it wasn't going to be quiet for long.
“You're awake.” The warmth in that voice had chilled, tempered with an anger that ran under Flynn's skin, barely contained. It felt like he was merely waiting for the powder keg to ignite.
“I guess so,” Yuri replied, his mouth dry and burning with a sour, metallic taste. Beneath the bandages, his wounds were still healing, although faster than his body would be able to do it without the aid of the blastia. “How long have I been out?”
“A little more than an hour.”
“Huh.”
“What were you thinking out there?”
Here it came, but Yuri had no intentions of walking on egg shells. He was prepared to argue every moment if necessary. “I was doing my job as a knight.”
“You were fooling around!”
“I took out more than a few didn't I?”
“And then you nearly got yourself killed!”
“What the fuck was I supposed to do, Flynn? Let that old man get eaten by wolves?!”
Their voices rose with each words, crushing the fragile quiet of the infirmary.
“You were being reckless!”
“How about you stop breathing down my fucking neck for one goddamn second?!” He was already pulling himself out of the bed. So what if it tore open the wound again? He just wanted to be away from Flynn for a single moment in time. There was no where here in Ceazontania where he could get some peace, even while laid up with a multitude of broken bones.
“Yuri!”
He wretched himself from the confines of the bed, and stuffed his wobbly feet into the still bloody boots beside him. The ache of his left arm and shoulder were enough to cause his vision to haze and darken once more, but he pushed on, the only thing keeping him going was being able to get away.
But there really wasn't anywhere for him to go. Flynn didn't follow him out of the infirmary, but he had only made it a few hallways before Captain Niren had ordered him back to bed, and sent his dog, Lambert, to chase Yuri off to his room. At least in his own room, he could shut the door and shut out Flynn for a little while. Even if it was his room, too.
They really couldn't escape each other. They had shared a cramped and cold room in the Lower Quarter for years until now, but the recent fights between them had made the space too small for them both. Joining the Knights had been a promise they made as children, and Flynn went for that reason. Yuri because there was nothing else. He cursed himself. If only he hadn't bargained away his original orders to come here. It was all Flynn's fault. Yuri was only here because of him, but right now, he wanted to be anywhere else. His own feelings had only damned him in the end.
He laid there, facing away from the door, for a long time, watching the full moon rise in his window, orange through the trees only to glow white as it crested them. Flynn would be coming back soon. All Yuri wanted to do was sleep and avoid him. But it wasn't to be. The door opened with a creak and he could feel a pair of eyes settle on him from the silhouette that stretched over the yellow hallway light. He waited for the argument to begin anew, but only a sigh came and the door closed. The springs of Flynn's bed groaned and sagged and a long moment of unease quiet stretched between them.
“Are you awake?” Flynn had to know that he wasn't.
“Yeah.”
Another silent moment passed, and then another as the room cooled between them. Flynn spoke again. Yuri almost hoped he wouldn't.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?” The question was almost inaudible, but Yuri heard it over everything else. A question asked before, always in moments of need. He wanted to be mad. He wanted to yell. But he only felt sad and hollow.
“Do whatever you want.”
Flynn sunk down on the bed behind him, pressing close. Yuri felt himself prickle automatically, but suppressed it. This wasn't the moment to continue their feud, weeks in motion. They hadn't laid like this since before they joined the knights. It had been nothing but arguments between them since then. But at this moment, he couldn't begrudge Flynn this moment. He wouldn't admit to either of them that, perhaps, after the harrowing day they'd had, that he needed the comfort, too. He needed no prompting, wrapping his arms around Yuri and burying his face in the crook of Yuri's sore neck.
Yuri's breath hitched in his throat, his heart beating faster, maybe even more than it had during the fight. But this feeling was different. This wasn't fear, or at least not the same kind. It made his chest ache, his eyes burn. Why couldn't it just be like this again? What had even caused this distance between them in the first place? Had today been enough for the the two of them to bridge that gap and mend their friendship? Or was it too late?
“I- I...” Flynn stuttered, hugging closer, “I was so afraid that I'd lost you.”
“I'm fine. We're both fine.” His own voice sounded so cold, dry.
“But what if we hadn't been?”
“What does that matter now? We both made it out okay.”
“What about next time? What if next time you--”
“Just stop.” He huddled into himself. “I don't want to think about it anymore.” It wasn't that he didn't feel the same why. What if Flynn-- what if he--. All those questions burning in his brain that he had resolved to nurse alone in the dark once the moment passed. They would haunt him, maybe forever.
In the morning, the cycle of arguments and bitterness would begin all over again. But for tonight, he just wanted rest and a little comfort.
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beastly
So I wrote this a while back, and intended it to be part of a longer fic, with this as the ‘jumping right into the deep end’ nightmare prologue, but it works well enough as a standalone ficlet. I may end up posting on AO3/FFnet, I may not. For more of my work - AO3, FFnet, ko-fi. This one is... dark. Gory. Perhaps depressing. But, as I said, it’s a nightmare.
Emily felt the sting and burn of the blade cutting into her flesh even as she ducked and dodged, but, true to her training, she didn’t falter. A flash of steel and one attacker fell, grabbing at his sliced tendon, a thud and he was out cold thanks to a heavy blow to the temple. She tried not to kill them. She’d been trying. But her non-lethal ammo ran out after the first ten or twenty and they seemed to keep coming.
Her Void-given abilities had helped take them down efficiently at first, but she only had so much energy. The bodies had begun to pile up. For a fairly large room, there wasn’t much space to maneuver around the unconscious bodies that littered the floor.
How long had she been fighting? It felt like ages, though she knew it couldn’t have been that long -- time seemed to slow in a fight, but it couldn’t have been more than eight minutes. Still, eight minutes was an eternity. Most fights were over in one, maybe two. But - seven strictures - they kept coming.
She whirled, sword clanging against that of her attacker, and a careful maneuver sent the opposing weapon skittering along the floor until it was hidden under fallen men. Once disarmed, another well-aimed jab had them down for the count. Still, her focus wasn’t what it had been at the beginning of the fight. She grit her teeth, but the strangled cry of pain still pushed out of her throat as another blade bit through her defenses from behind, sinking much deeper into her shoulder than she’d initially thought, and a brief flash of horror crossed her mind as she felt the sword tumble from her grasp.
No.
No, she needed that. She needed-
Another burst of agony along her hip and she did what she should’ve done twenty seconds ago and pulled herself from the fray, Reaching, jaw tight even as the tortured sound echoed from the spot she’d just been standing. She stumbled as she took advantage of the brief moment of confusion (a blessing that they weren’t the same lot who’d borne witness to the first few rounds of using that trick -- but they’d figure it out in another couple seconds) to reassess her surroundings. She couldn’t run. She’d been trying, trying to escape, or to find higher ground, but there wasn’t enough space. She’d used it to her advantage at first, using the bottleneck at the entrance to the room to stymie the flood of attackers, but the room continued to fill. If it were bigger - if it had something higher she could perch on - she may be able to make better use of her crossbow, but everything was so close.
She targeted one of the men at the back of the pack, closest to her newly relocated position, and sent a bolt through his knee. A rustling behind her warned of a foe not quite debilitated, but they’d be hurt enough, she needed to focus on stopping this other group before they could get close.
The first time -- the fifth time, even the tenth time -- someone had grabbed her, her eyes had narrowed to concentrated slits, an angry calculating glare. But this time, as the hands wrapped around her, they were wide, panicked, and she just managed to reverse the hold and try to choke the man out. (Man? Woman? Fog was creeping into her eyes and head, every thought focused on survival, and she didn’t care who her attackers were any more.) There wasn’t time. She yelped in pain and thanked her lucky stars that the dagger now sticking from her thigh had missed an artery. At least, she hoped it had. If it hadn’t, she’d be doing something very stupid as she pulled it right back out, choking down a whimper and hesitating for only a fraction of a second before realizing she had no choice.
It was easier than she’d expected, slitting the man’s throat. More resistance than an arm or leg, but they’d gifted her a very sharp blade, and she wielded it with a quick hand. She tried to tell herself the blood, rushing over her arm that held the still twitching body against her, was the same as any other wound. But it felt hotter. It burned.
No time to think about that.
She shot a desperate glance to the doorway, and her heart leapt. Empty. Empty? A darting look around the room, at the not-unsizable crowd of enemies that were already lurching toward her. That must be it, right? So many had already fallen in this forsaken room. There couldn’t possible be more. Surely not. If she made it out the door, maybe then there would be space to run. Run? That was laughable -- not with the searing pain in her thigh. But she could Reach.
Keeping an eye on the door, Emily let her power shove the body she held toward the rush of attackers, and desperately hoped the blade she Reached for was hers. She was finding it hard to see - was that blood or sweat in her eyes? - but the warm hilt of the blade was unmistakable, and that small touch of relief was a blessing.
But still they came.
She lost sight of the door, still trying so hard to maim and not kill, but her bolts seemed to be batted away, and soon they would be at her again. As the first of them fell upon her, a blade just barely parried away with a quickly-raised crossbow, she realized she had no choice. She sucked in a breath and melted into shadow -- and tried not to hate herself as newly-formed claws rended flesh from bone. Survival. It’s me or them.
She hated fighting like this. The form seemed to call to something in her she didn’t want to indulge, each slash and tear like a dropper of euphoria, and it nauseated her. No choice. Them or me. So part of her, wound tight by desperation and pain, took a disgusting amount of pleasure in digging claws into one attacker’s mouth, wrenching their head back and ripping the jaw clean off. Her stomach heaved watching the lolling tongue that spilled forth, but luckily she had no time to stare; her smoke-like presence flowed down the body as it toppled over, creeping up the legs of the next.
She felt it, that grim satisfaction, dragging her form over the man’s shoulders and twisting his neck like it was the easiest thing in the world. If she’d been cognizant of it, she may have noticed the hesitation of the attackers, but that part of her that may have cared was too distracted looking on in horror witnessing this other side of her, this shadow side, that seemed morbidly curious, viciously detached as it did things that tested Emily’s own resolve. The feeling of a throat tightening around her arm as the inky talons plunged deep was -- she lost control of the reins, the shadows seeming to swarm frantically, and her head swum at the sheer amount of viscera that could fit in one smoke-like hand. This wasn’t what she’d wanted. She didn’t realize -- it had never been this bad before.
She felt her mind drifting even as muscles moved and responded. She was going numb. The heat of it, the blood that this creature seemed to revel in, she let it scald her. Shadows tore through flesh, managing a precision that would’ve been impressive had it not been set on such gruesome masterpieces. Flayed skin papered the ground around the next corpse, thin wet sheets, and one of her enemies slipped on it, crashing down with a cry of terror when they tried to flee.
Was that the benefit, then? That her enemies were fleeing? So terrified of this sadistic beast that their own survival became paramount?
If Emily had been in control, it would’ve been more than enough. She would’ve stopped, allowed them their flight, taken the time to recover. But she had no strength, no will left, and this thing - this monster - hungered for something more.
Let them run. They wouldn’t escape.
She’d lost all agency, but she still saw it all. The fallen runner was dragged onto her back and treated to a pre-mortem autopsy, and Emily wasn’t sure who was screaming as felt claws cracking the ribcage open.
The worst part was the glee in it. A childlike curiosity as organs were plucked from the body like fruit from a tree. Luckily it seemed to have no cannibalistic desires. If it had, she would’ve surely gone mad.
Or was she mad already?
Images blurred to a white fog, and every trembling part of her psyche stilled, trying to forget even as she experienced every sensation. She heard the screams, felt the raw muscle and woven sinew, the bone that seemed too dry for being so fresh, the soft snap of membrane before an organ would pop. She couldn’t see it, but she could smell it. She didn’t think she was breathing, but she must’ve been or else she’d already be dead. Everything was blood and bile, an acrid metallic scent, with something salty and bitter in it, and she felt thoroughly steeped in the stench.
She would never be clean, not after something like this.
She wasn’t sure how long it lasted. It couldn’t have been that long. There had only been, what, ten enemies left? And the shadow self seemed to make quick work of the first few. But it felt like ages before the storm that was shadow claws seemed to calm. When finally she felt the vibrating molecules of herself tightening, becoming denser and denser, returning to a body almost identical to those she’d just mutilated, she didn’t want to look.
Instead she tried to feel for her limbs. Fingers tapped cautiously and she realized she was standing, leaning against something. She reached out and felt the other side of the door, then shifted her head this way and that until she could point away from the fetor of death. She steadied herself for a good long while before finally opening her eyes.
She expected to see a hallway of some sort - something leading far into the distance before her, or perhaps to either side - but that wasn’t it at all. She supposed it was a hall of sorts, but all that was visible to her was the suggestion of direction, with only fifteen feet of corridor before both ends made sharp right turns to… somewhere else. Where, she wasn’t sure. But she tried to focus on the hall instead of the tangible pulse she imagined from the room behind her. She tried to think of a strategy of some kind, but her head was still fogged.
Attempting to step into the hall made her tense and suck in a harsh breath at the shock of pain up her side, and her hand immediately flew to one of the many wounds she’d acquired. She didn’t think to stop herself from looking down at it. But as she peered at the gash that had ripped through her clothes and carved into her hip, something else caught her eye. Her gaze shifted past the plum color of her bloodsoaked trousers and to the movement on the ground below. A sluggish ruby stream, spreading slowly but steadily, lapping the edges of her boots as it seeped from the room behind her.
Emily’s muscles seemed to have locked as soon as she realized what it was. She shouldn’t look. She should just go, not turn back, and let the bloody footprints mar her path as she got as far from this hell as she could.
She felt the defeat that weighed on her, the morose futility of it, and her eyes dulled as she let them close.
Did she have a choice? Had she ever had a choice?
She must face the truth of it.
Even with eyes closed she felt the liquid pool as she lifted first one foot, then the other, and could hear the slightest slap as she placed them down again, turned to face her deeds.
As she had hundreds of times in the throne room, her spine straightened, shoulders back, head high, chin up before she finally opened her eyes.
There was nothing left in her to be surprised. No scrap of hope that it wouldn’t be exactly what it was. No wonder it had felt like ages trapped in that monster. All of her efforts in the early fight - every blow to the temple, every sleep dart - had been completely undone. No life stirred in the room now. Just piles upon piles of corpses.
Emily stared dumbly, sheer habit the only thing keeping her on her feet. It was grotesque, the whole scene. It put the crown killer to shame, the amount of gore that seemed gleefully strewn about the floor. Just glancing at the various well-crafted tableaus brought back things she hadn’t even realized she remembered. The feeling of thumbs digging into eye sockets, of carefully arranging scalps by hair length. It was something far beyond obscenity. The disgust was paralyzing.
She wasn’t sure when she finally heard the sounds from the hall behind her, but as soon as she did she knew it was over. She wouldn’t fight them. Not if this was the inevitable conclusion.
Her ears rang, reducing the approaching attackers’ demands and threats to a muffled roar.
Her stare was blank, haunted, and somehow relieved as she fell to her knees.
It was a mercy to give up. To know whatever was in her would never escape again.
And as the sword pierced straight through her heart, she was glad to die.
#dishonored#dishonored fanfic#my writing#fic#fanfic#emily kaldwin#tw gore#horror#nightmare fic#jekyll and hyde tones#gore#shadow walk#unwilling low chaos turned high chaos em#nightmare#dark
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