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mylifeisactuallyamess · 3 years

Text

General Hux x Female Reader/Kylo Ren x Female Reader

A/N: I don’t really have much to say about this chapter. Enjoy!

Warnings: SMUT. NSFW 18+ mentions of poisoning, healing, mention of previous character death. Little bit of angst.

Word Count: 5119

Read Chapter 13 here on AO3.

Tagging: @lemongingerart 🥰

He stood by the door, long fingers rubbing his wrist as he stared at your prone form. The numbers on the screen were worse today, your heart was giving up and Hux experienced a feeling he didn’t enjoy. He felt useless. He had no power here, no say in what was happening and it angered him. The doctor had given you one more day before you gave up completely, the poison weaved through your body, black tendrils had appeared under your skin creating a pattern that criss-crossed all over you.

Hux fell back on the only thing he knew, his mask of indifference. He locked his turbulent self away in a box and buried it deep, with Ren gone on what was turning out to be a pointless mission he was in charge of following the lead for the New Resistance base, which was also turning out to be a load of nothing.

An alarm sounded on the monitor, the medical droid reacting instantly and wheeling to your side. Hux’s heart fluttered but all he could was watch as the alarm became a shrill constant noise, the Doctor burst in with a team of nurses and Hux was unceremoniously shoved outside. The door closed hiding you from view and he flinched, it felt like the hammer of death had struck down on you, Ren had failed. Running off alone on a fool's errand and not working with Hux to find a solution. His arrogance and ego was astronomical, thinking he could single handedly save you and be your hero.

Hux turned away from the closed door, his hands fisting and releasing in steady motions, a pain erupted in his jaw, blossoming behind his eyes and shooting into his mind. He didn’t even feel himself move, the muscles contracting in his arm as he pulled it back and slammed it full force into the durasteel wall. He grunted as pain radiated up his arm, his knuckles instantly swelled and he could feel the restriction within the leather gloves. He cradled it to his chest, accepting the physical pain while ignoring the mental, he embraced the hurt hoping it would dull the ache that increased with every beat of his heart. The longer they were in the room the more his barriers slipped and he wanted to hurt himself again, he gripped his injured and possibly broken hand, biting his lip to muffle the cry that wanted to break free. Physical pain he knew how to deal with, he knew it wouldn’t last forever he had extensive experience with it. The pain of losing you though, would cleave him in two and that was an anguish he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

“What are you doing?” He turned so hard he nearly fell over. Ren stood in the doorway, he looked filthy and exhausted but he was here.

“Where's the antidote? Tell me you have it!” He snarled.

“I already passed it to the Doctor, I was in the medbay with the Knights getting checked over.” Both their gazes drifted to the closed door and Hux felt the question burn inside him but he refused to ask it. He hated the force and everything to do with it, the whole thing was too much of a mystery for Hux, but if it could give him the answers he seeked…Kylo looked back at the General, his tired eyes flicking to the injured hand.

“You need to get that looked at.” He rumbled.

“I’m not leaving,” muttered Hux.

“Suit yourself.” Kylo sighed and carefully lowered himself into a chair, his eyes closing as he rested his head in his hand. Hux curled his lip in hatred, how could Ren just sit there like you weren’t dying in the next room? He looked like he wasn’t affected by what was happening to you at all but then he hadn’t sat here for the last three days watching the very life drain from your body.

“She’s alive.” Hux looked up with a frown, not daring to hope that Ren was telling him the truth. His eyes were still closed and a small furrow marked his brow. “They administered the antidote and it seems to be working.” Hux glanced at the door realising now what Ren was doing. “Recovery will be slow,” he murmured. “But she will be alright.”

“But they said about deficits…” Hux didn’t even want to utter those words but he had to know. Kylo slowly shook his head, the frown becoming more pronounced.

“Not that I can sense, but she should go in a bacta tank for a few days to be sure.” His entire body relaxed with a sigh and he slumped back in the chair clearly even more exhausted from exerting himself like that.

“You’re sure?” Pressed Hux.

“I’m not a doctor,” he griped. “But from what I can sense she will be ok.” They both looked up in unison when the door slid open and the doctor emerged.

“If you had been just minutes later with the antidote we probably would have lost her. I am pleased to say it’s working and I’m going to have her immersed in a bacta tank to help the process and hopefully reduce the risk of deficits.” He glanced at Hux’s hand and his pain filled expression. “Shall I take a look at that General? She won’t be awake for a while yet.” Hux gave a curt nod and let himself be led away but not before shooting a glowering look at Kylo.

The Supreme Leader watched the nurses file out, the last one saying he could go in if he so wished and soon he was alone. His entire body ached, he should be asleep recovering in his own bacta tank but he had to make sure you were seen too first, he’d never forgive himself if he went to sleep for a few days and woke up with you gone forever. The silence was damaging to him, battering him with it’s brutality. Had he been mistaken?

Were you dead?

No, he could feel you.

His footfalls were light as he entered the dark room, a soft blue glow emitted from the bacta tank and there you were. Floating like some ethereal creature from a child’s fairy tail in the thick fluid, he felt a heat creep under his skin as he took in your body, modestly covered but not leaving much to the imagination. He had the overwhelming sense he shouldn’t be seeing you like this, so bare and vulnerable. The black lines under your skin were fading as the poison receded, the vitals on the side of your tank looked good and yet he still couldn’t bring himself to leave.

The mask that covered your face helping you breathe was dark and bulky but he could still imagine your beautiful mouth, the way it curled into a smile, how you pursed your lips when you were annoyed. Your mouth gave so much of your emotion away and you didn’t even realise, but he did. He noticed, he noticed everything about you. Kylo placed a hand on the surface of the tank leaning in so he was level with your face, almost willing you to wake up and look at him but you didn’t. You weren’t ready. His hand slipped down the tank before withdrawing completely, his feet backing up slowly so he could keep his gaze on you, casting one more longing look at you before exiting the room and closing the door just as Hux reappeared.

“What are you doing?” He snapped, his green eyes blazing.

“Leaving,” stated Kylo, sweeping past the General and vanishing from sight.

Hux released a breath, he had no doubt Ren had been in your room and he felt the flush of anger that he had seen you before Hux even had a chance. He stood outside the closed door, his emotions hurricaning inside him as he reached for the controls. He should go in, he had every right to see you and yet he couldn’t bring himself to enter. He hated that room, it now will forever be the room where you nearly left his world and he backed up a step. He hated feeling this conflicted, he fought the rise of emotion that threatened to fill his chest, his face scrunching up in anger at himself. He didn’t even recognise himself anymore, his father was right. Women were trouble, they made you do things you would never normally do. They twisted you into another person entirely. Hux backed up again. You would probably prefer to wake up with Ren at your side anyway. He turned, refusing to spare anymore time on pining for you or thinking about how you were clearly moving on with another man. He had work to do.

The first thing you noticed was how warm you felt, a cosiness wrapped around your body and you snuggled down in the cushiony covers. It wasn’t until your brain engaged, hazy memories of drinking and Hux frantically calling your name made you sit bolt upright, your heart pounding.

“You’re awake.” You turned to see him sit forward on his chair at your bedside, his dark hair framing his tired face.

“Kylo…” you looked around the room, it seemed familiar but different at the same time and you frowned. “Where am I?”

“Hux had these quarters cleared for you, so you could recover without interruption.” You hated those words. Hux had kicked you out of his quarters in the disguise of you getting better in peace. You splintered, a soft “Oh,” sounded from your mouth and you dragged the covers closer suddenly feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“Are you hungry?”

“I—erm I guess.” You swallowed nervously and turned back to look at the Supreme Leader. “Where is he?” The muscle under Kylo’s eye twitched, the creak of his gloves as he fisted his hands broke the still moment.

“We are chasing the Resistance down, following up on some leads as to where they might be. He is overseeing that.” Of course. Working. You stared into space when Kylo got up, you barely noticed he left until he returned with a plate of food. You took a slice of bread picking off a piece to nibble lost in your swirling thoughts. “I’m sure he will be along to see you when he’s free.” Kylo said softly and you couldn’t stop the snort that was pushed out of your nose. “I can order him…” you held up a hand.

“Don’t order him, he needs to want to be around me. If you force him it will just make everything worse.” Kylo shifted in his seat, clearly wanting to say something but not sure how to broach the subject.

“Does he?” You looked up at the quiet question. “Because last I saw…” your arm jerked a little as Kylo ghosted a hand over where your bruises had been. “He is not taking care of you as a husband should be.”

“We are still finding our feet,” you mumbled. “What happened to me?”

“Do you really want the details?” He asked softly.

“Yes. I need to know.” He moved and settled on the bed facing you, one leg cocked over the covers the other planted firmly on the floor. He reached for your hand and you let him take it, feeling the callouses that protruded making his skin rough and the complete opposite to Hux’s.

“You were poisoned,” his eyes locked with yours as you inhaled sharply at the news. “We caught the Resistance member and dealt with him accordingly,” you saw the darkness spread across his gaze. “He won’t be troubling us anymore.”

“How long…?”

“A week and a few days. You were taken out of the bacta yesterday.” Your mind boggled at the amount of time lost and his hand squeezed yours in a comforting gesture. “Hux did what he could for you. The Knights and I found the antidote but you nearly died.” You felt tears brimming, Hux must have been beside himself….so you hoped but that doubt whispered in your mind. You remembered his panicked tone before you passed out though and you clung to that.

“What happened to the Resistance member? Who was he?” Kylo looked down, watching his fingers gently spread yours with his own.

“His name was Temmin Wexley.”

“Was?” You interjected.

“The Knights…I’m not sure how much detail you want here.” He finished gruffly.

“Is he dead?” His hazel eyes dragged to magnetise with yours.

“Yes,” he stated firmly, watching the grim look cross your face.

“Do we know why? Why me?” Kylo’s expression softened, his brows knitting together in concern and he leaned forward slightly.

“You were not the target.” Oh. Your fingers gripped his at his words, realising that there were people out there trying to murder your husband. Your chest expanded abruptly but you leaned back when he went to wrap an arm around you.

“I’m alright.” Kylo sighed and he stood, your hands detangling. You watched him, grateful that he had been here when you woke. His amber gaze roamed over your upturned face as though devouring your features and he was a man starved of them. “Are you close to finding the Resistance? Will this war be over soon?” You asked, a hint of a plea in your voice. You hadn’t contemplated your future much but if you could get Hux away from the battles, the constant darkness that war spread, maybe he’d soften around the edges. But that was just a dream. Kylo bent down, his hand swiftly cupping your face, his lips warm as he planted a kiss against your cheek. He didn’t pull away immediately, letting his cheek press against your skin, his presence surrounding you for a moment before straightening up, his fingertips trailing across your cheek and catching the edge of your lips before turning away.

“I will let you know if anything changes,” he told you in a low tone, sweeping from your quarters like a dark shadow.

You finished the food, placing the plate in the living area and you looked at the crate that was sitting there. You pulled out fresh clothes, noting a few items were missing and wondered if Hux had left them on purpose. Or maybe someone else had packed your stuff. The shower was blissful, washing away the remnants of what had happened, your body felt well though. You weren’t plagued by fatigue or any aches considering what you’d been through.

You checked the time, seeing it was late by ship standards even though you weren’t tired, your fingers rapped haphazardly on the top of your table as you toyed with the idea of heading and getting the rest of your things from Hux’s quarters. There was a very slim chance he was there anyway, but if he was maybe you could talk? You had almost died and all you wanted to do was have him hold you, and not at arms length anymore. Your mind was made up, the corridor was silent, the lights dim just barely offering enough for you to see your way to Hux’s quarters.

You let yourself in, the lights were on the lowest setting here and frustration curled inside you. The quarters were I masculine as always, you debated sitting at the table and waiting for him when a light from the bedroom caught your eye and hope sparked in your chest.

The door slid open and you stepped into the bedroom seeing him sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He looked up, surprise showing for a moment before he managed to disguise it.

“I thought you’d be staying in your quarters I had put aside for you.” He sounded genuinely astonished to see you in his space.

“As far as I’m concerned these are my quarters, if that’s agreeable…” you trailed off. You wanted to be assertive but there was always that doubt with him, you never knew where the line was drawn.

“Yes, I just assumed you wanted space,” he murmured. You took a step closer seeing him eye you wearily out of his peripheral vision, his posture straightened and his hands came to rest on his thighs. You nibbled your bottom lip, tentatively reaching out to trail your fingertips over his shoulder. You needed to feel him, you’d almost died and now you wanted nothing more than to feel alive.

You traced his side profile with your eyes, memorising every tiny detail like the ridge of his ear, the way his hair settled perfectly just behind it. The faint colour of stubble that littered his pale skin, freckles dotted over the bridge of his nose and his coiffed hair had come loose slightly so a single bright strand now hovered near his eye, with more slowly following. You applied pressure to his shoulder, letting him know you were there, your lips parted slightly in anticipation when he didn’t move away.

Heat burned like an extra layer under your skin, coating your body in a fire that only he could satisfy. You watched him swallow harshly and you hoped he was as tortured as you were right now. Subtly your thighs pressed together under your dress, already you were damp, craving his touch but to your disappointment he still didn’t move.

A little sigh escaped from you and your hand dropped away, the material of your dress ruffling softly as you headed to the refresher grabbing some night clothes that had been left in his room on your way. You got changed in private, your heart heavy with thoughts of your marriage breaking down. If it broke down you’d have to return to Arkanis and no one would want you, the derelict house would just contain you and your father, with only the ghosts of happier times for company. You smoothed down the material of your night dress, straightening the straps before activating the door. You jumped slightly as the light from the refresher fell on Hux, he was standing outside of the door, hands behind his back and his head bowed as he waited.

“I’m s-sorry…” you stuttered slightly.

“No.” He sounded angry and you frowned in confusion not sure what was happening. He stepped towards you driving you back into the refresher until your back slammed against the wall.

“Armitage…” he placed a hand next to your head and leaned in close. His other hand came up to ghost along your lips, his breath fanning over your face as he watched his fingertips trace the lines of your features. Your heart hammered inside you until it felt like your entire body was vibrating with the force of it.

“No…” he whispered. “I-I am sorry.” You went to speak, your surprise evident at his apology but his hand moved and grabbed your chin, his gaze fixed on your lips avoiding your eyes. “Are you really here?” He whispered.

“Yes, I am here,” you replied, reaching up and digging your fingers into his arm. “I’m really here.” His kiss was fierce as he slotted his lips over yours, the grip on your face tightened when he applied more pressure making you moan softly. The heat that had died down before came flaring back, breaking out across your skin in rivers of fire.

He adjusted his position, bringing his free hand to curl around your neck pinning you to the wall, a soft gasp from you escaped into his mouth. The hand around your chin relaxed, sliding over your shoulder and swiping the flimsy strap down your arm until the nightdress slipped enough to expose your chest. He cupped the curve of your breast as his tongue still ravished the velvety cavern of your mouth, stealing the breath from your lungs. You felt light headed but grounded at the same time, highly aware of the feel of his skin on yours, the rub of his uniform against your exposed nipple sent ripples through your body. His long fingers massaged the pliant flesh almost pushing you harder against the wall, his thumb flicked over the hardening nub and you jolted against him, a gentle cry sucked from your mouth to his.

His lips broke away to heavily kiss your cheek, a trail of saliva cool against your heated skin. You took the opportunity to breathe, your chest expanding as his hand slipped down the curve of your body. His fingers were unforgiving, digging in hard enough to make you cry out but all you heard was him huffing erratically in your ear. His fingers found the hem of your gown, slowly dragging the soft material out of his way to splay his large hand over your pubic bone.

You swallowed a whine, your body canting into him of its own accord, his hair now completely dishevelled swept across the side of your face as his lips trailed kisses across your shoulder and the curve of your neck. His hand slipped down, his movements jerky and uncontrolled, almost painful as though he was trying to imprint the very fabric of your body onto his own.

His fingers swiped along your slit dragging the wetness from you and coating your folds with it, his breath hitched, a rough gasp warming your skin for a brief moment before he plunged two fingers into you.

You weren’t prepared, even though the invasion was welcome, your cunt instantly clenched around him and more of your spend leaked out coating his fingers, you still moaned through the burn. Your head fell back into the wall as his teeth grazed the perspiring flesh of your shoulder, feeling the way your body shuddered against him. He dragged his fingers out slowly, giving no warning when he pressed them back up into you, his teeth marking you at the same time.

Your cries rang loudly in the hollowness of the refresher as each pump of his hand had you almost climbing the wall, your toes complaining when your weight was transferred to them in an effort to take what he was giving. White spots erupted in your vision from the action of him curling his fingers, your hand clawing at his uniform as you tried to find a purchase to cling onto, your head now falling forward to his shoulder, his body crowding you completely. He needed to be close to you, he needed to feel each breath that expelled from your body, he needed to feel the vibrations of your cries as you keened loudly for him. He desperately wanted to feel each minute ripple of pleasure that made your walls flutter around his fingers. The sound of your wet cunt had him hardening in his trousers, an ache so deep he almost stopped what he was doing just to bury himself inside you. He had to feel the life that coursed through your veins, he had to be sure, so he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

You were real, you were here.

You hips ground shamelessly on his hand, your gyrating body rubbed against his crotch and he shoved his hips to grind on your thigh, allowing himself the friction his cock was crying out for. He could feel you were close, the pitch of your cries and the way your cunt sucked his fingers in even deeper told him you were ready to come undone. His hand tightened around your throat, his teeth once again grazing your shoulder. The need to mark you and remind you that you were his wife raged inside him, the possessiveness he felt of you in this moment made him feel powerful. In control. The next curl of his fingers had his name tearing violently from your lips. Your body tried to fold in on itself as your muscles spasmed in ecstasy. You clutched him, pinching his skin through his uniform but he didn’t flinch or recoil, he embraced the pain you gave him, because you were here. Alive.

He withdrew slowly, watching the soft flicker in your expression, the way your lips were sucked into your mouth only to come out more plush and kissable. Your lashes rested delicately against your cheek, you were glowing, a thin sheen of sweat coated your entire body and you were the most beautiful he had ever seen you. He brought his hand to his mouth, sucking the remains of you off his fingers, never taking his gaze away from your face so he could see your eyes flutter open to gaze at him. Your pupils were blown wide from the pleasure that had just encompassed your entire being making your irises just a sliver of colour. He moved the hand from your throat, moving his thumb to press against your lips, his cock twitching as you sucked it effortlessly into your mouth. He brought his face closer to you, brushing the tip of his nose against yours as he basked in the feel of your hot, wet mouth around his digit.

His head was filled with all the ways he wanted to possess you, he needed you cumming on his cock but he also wanted to take his time. He was too slow in his thoughts, your teeth grazed his thumb and you moved. Pushing him but keeping contact with his body you guided him back into the bedroom almost shoving him roughly so he was sitting on the bed. He watched you, every movement you made had him sweating, the look in your eyes made him bite his own lip. You crouched down, running your hands heavily up his thighs to the fastenings on his trousers, your fingers deftly undoing them with ease. His own hands moved, removing his tunic and top, for once having no reservations about being naked before you. His hips rose off the bed for a moment and you yanked his bottoms off with a rough movement that had him gasping in anticipation. He went to reach for you, his hands greedy in their grabbing, the gown getting in the way. You were standing between his legs but he wanted you closer and he pulled on your thighs.

Your hands settled on his shoulders, one leg after the other slowly rested either side of his body and you sat deeply in his lap. He groaned at the dampness of your skin, feeling your slick as you settled yourself over the length of his cock. He wanted to be inside you, but first he had to remove this gown. You lifted your arms up and he slipped it over you with ease, his mouth and hands falling to your exposed breasts. Your hands entangled in his bright hair, your hips rolling against the heated, silky skin of his cock and he shuddered, gasping heavily against the salty taste of your soft body.

He felt you flinch when he bit you, easing the pain with a lick from his tongue, his hands moving in a bruising way up the sides of your body to move round and cover your back, bringing you closer and more forcefully into his mouth. A moan erupted from your exposed neck as your head fell back, your bodies melding together like they were made for each other. You rolled your hips again feeling the tip of him slip into your dripping entrance and you both heaved a groan at the sensation. You widened your hips, taking him inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt, creating an ache in your lower belly, he was so deep inside you. His lips caressed your neck, his large hand covering one side of your face as he cradled you, his other hand needy as he dug it into your back almost massaging you. Your hands pulled his head as close to you as he could get, feeling the tension in his neck and shoulders, the shudder that ran down his spine as you bucked your hips accentuating the ache inside you and making him moan.

You pulled back, bringing your body back to meet his with a soft slap, a grin alighting your face as his hands got even more needy in their grabbing. You picked up the pace, his panting and the clumsy feel of his lips fed the desire that bloomed inside you. Every noise and soft huff that emitted from him had you burning up, you needed more from him. Your hips moved with more urgency, his hands falling to grab the supple roundness of your ass rocking you against him with more force. His own urgency drived you to keep going with the punishing tempo.

His lips roughly connected with yours, teeth clashing and tongues fighting as you gasped into each other’s mouths. Your fingers dug into his scalp, your arms tensing with each thrust against him, your chest colliding with his. The wetness of your bodies mingled, the slapping sound of your sex disturbed the quiet of the room and you both got lost in the intense feel of each other. Your pace faltered but his hands did not, he was so close you could feel him pulsing inside you, swelling and getting ready to fill you as much as he could. Your cunt clamped down on him, the cries building in your chest as the coil wound tightly in your lower belly. Each time he brought you forcefully down onto his lap your face contorted with pleasure as he nudged that special spot at the front of your fluttering walls.

His cries punctuated yours, his pale skin flush from the exertion of your movements. You chased that need for release, you wanted to come undone on top of him, the need to feel him unravel below you had you hanging over the edge of that cliff. He found his peak first, the warmth of him spilling inside you pushed you over that last hurdle. He rocked you softly into him, carrying you both through the waves of pleasure that spun both your worlds. Every pulse from him sent a fresh tremor through you, dragging out your orgasm until it felt like your body was going to snap before it sagged heavily against his firm chest. He collapsed backwards onto the bed, breathing heavily through his nose and wrapping his arms around you hugging you close.

His heart was pounding against the side of your face and you zoned out to the sound, cuddled into him enjoying the feel of him still inside you. You never wanted this to end, you wanted to stay like this forever, wrapped in your blissful feelings shutting the world out. If only moments like this lasted

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deceptive-jo · 3 years

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Whumptober 2021 - Alt. 1 Losing control

A headache has been tormenting Dark...turns out it’s a lot more deadly than that.

Words: 1109

(Apparently I write best when I’m stressed and should really be doing other stuff. However it is also late so this might still not be good.)

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There had been this unsettling feeling thrumming in the back of Dark’s mind for the past days, not unlike the whispers that usually followed him but for some reason they seemed to bother him more. He considered some sort of argument breaking out but no matter how closely he listened there seemed to be no distinct voice reaching out. Regardless the whispers persisted, growing louder over the week, and by Friday the hissing and ringing was loud enough to drown out his own voice. Dark masked his discomfort well enough but he knew at least the Wilford and the Host must have noticed something, yet he felt no desire to talk to them, his entire body clamping up at the idea of them getting involved. It was a ridiculous thought to have about his closest friends of course, he was aware, but the constant noise in his head made it harder to think by the hour. Perhaps a tea would help them-

Wilford turned around when the Host suddenly stiffened next to him, tumbling against the wall a moment later, “Woah buddy, everything okay there?” The Host didn’t seem to react as his neck snapped around, facing the kitchen as if he could see through the walls right into the room. “They have to get to Dark!” “I know, that’s the plan, Host.” The Host grabbed him by his sleeve, not paying Wilford’s attempts at calming him down any mind, and pulled him down the hall, “their condition may be worse than the Host suspected.” Before Wilford could inquire further the two stumbled into the kitchen, coming face to face with…Dark. Except that wasn’t Dark. Wilford knew whatever was standing there in front of them now was not his husband.

Eyes cracked open, so many more than there should be, scattered over his forehead and cheekbones, squinting over the unnaturally wide smile that revealed the black tongue slipping over sharp teeth lazily. Grey limps were twisted in ways that shouldn’t support anyone’s weight, even less let anyone move around. The pristine suit was partly ripped to allow room for the extra pairs of arms growing out the torse and ending in sharp claws dripping with black liquid…that slowly mixed with red as it dripped to the ground. “What did you do?” The entity cocked its head to the side, eyes smiling curiously. As it spoke it sounded like dozens of voices screaming against one another, grating and painful. “We did not do much. But it has been so long since we ate. And the anxious boy was such an easy target.” Wilford’s throat went dry as he spotted the blood-spattered handkerchief caught in the backdoor. The Host stepped forward, power pulsating through his own aura. “The Host advises the Entity to hand control back to Dark. They caused enough damage as it is.” The creature’s grin- if possible- grew even wider as it let out a high-pitched cracked chuckle. “Leave the body back in that weakling’s control again already? Why, when we’re having so much fun right now?” Not thinking twice Wilford pulled out his resolver and fired- one, two, three. In horror he watched the creature cackle as the bullet wounds knitted themselves together in front of his eyes, only leaving behind a slight discolouring of the skin. And before he could recover it jumped-

Dark awoke in his office with no recollection of how he got there. His dress shirt hung off of him in shreds, suit jacket missing completely. As he let his eyes wander the room was completely thrashed. The bed wasn’t much more than a pitiful assortment of splinters with the curtains ripped apart slowly flowing in an invisible breeze and sprinkled with…blood? Dark sat up, entire body aching and stretching uncomfortably. Stalking closer he could safely identify the red substance covering parts of the wall and floor as well. When had anyone- Dark’s blood froze at the sight of the silver dagger embedded into the wall. Slowly turning but unwilling to see he followed the flying path of the weapon. The closest would be his office which looked just as thrashed, the desk overturned and barely revealing a pair of dark dress shoes. Dark let out a surprisingly soft gasp at the sight, realisation at what must have taken place slowly setting in with just the slightest flashes of confusing memory. He slowly inched closer, unwilling to face the massacre, but he had to know- leaning over the cracked table Bim’s broken face stared back, glass shards cutting into his cheeks and decimating his eyes, purple long-faded.

Dark stumbled back in shock, the urge to throw up growing unbearable. He couldn’t stay here anymore, the pressure of the room growing bigger by the second and yet he didn’t dare step outside in fear of what carnage would await him. Because whatever had caused this could have been in no way contained to the bedroom and office. He didn’t dare look back again as he pushed the door open.

The doctor’s clinic was empty, equipment discarded in a messy heap and dark blood puddle giving a clear idea about his departure. The androids- as far as they were still recognisable- were bent into unnatural shapes, limps and compartments pressed together like cheap soda cans and lenses dark and dim. Every room he walked in was another blood-fest, another massacre that made Dark’s insides turn over. By the time he reached the front entrance his hands were shaking, foot sticky with his family’s blood and throat sore from vomiting. And he had yet to find Wilford or Host. The thought worried him but he had so far checked every room except the kitchen and everything in his being screamed at the idea of entering it.

With a sight he turned around, deciding to check the basement just in case, when a flash in the big mirror caught his attention. Instead of the usual reflection an abstract parody of his person stared back at him, black eyes, too-wide grin and blood-stained suit. He had never seen such a thing before and yet a deep feeling of recognition settled in his heart. Dark, slowly stepped closer, the entity mirroring the movement with just a bit too much stiffness. “What did you do?” The question was not much more than a breath against the glass yet the creature seemed to understand just fine as it threw its head back in abstruse amusement, voices reflecting the ones that had been tormenting him for years. “No, Darkiplier. The question is: what did you do?”

Just as the darkness swept into his consciousness again a gun shot ripped through the air.

#whumptober2021 #no.5 #losing control #altprompt #markiplier egos #fic #blood tw #death tw #description of corpses tw #darkiplier #wilford warfstache #the host #body horror tw

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chaseatinydream · 3 years

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pirate king (88): epilogue || atz

Perhaps, somewhere deep in you, you’ve always known that it would have to come to an end.

Death isn’t a concept known only to humans. From the second the breath of life passes through any living being, it fights, flees and struggles to stay alive. The reason a a shoal of fish scatter before a shark, why birds take to the sky to escape stray cats fighting for their own sustenance, death is the one language every creature understands.

Survival instinct. The basest, most primal drive shared by every living being on this earth. Stay alive.

That’s what you’re fighting as you walk towards the black dagger pointed directly at you, the wind screaming in your ears, power surging through your fingertips even as you feel your body crumbling apart under the onslaught you’re putting it through. Slowly chipping at you, sand falling through your fingertips, the end draws closer and closer no matter how much you’ve tried to fight it - inevitable.

Two responses, fight or flight.

You can no longer run from this anymore.

“Finally, we meet again, sea goddess.”

An odd feeling stirs in you, strangely serene even as the storm swirls around you, lightning flashing and thunder raging. Right, you remember now, your memories slowly surfacing the more your body deteriorates. The sea, the storm, the sky. You could never ben human to begin with. This is who you are.

Hot tears burn your eyes, sting against the cracking skin of your cheeks, but you bite your lip and stand strong, back straight and eyes fixed firmly on the man in front of you. The blade in his hand trembles at the sight of you, and somewhere in the depths of your memory, you realise why Hongjoong’s gaze had drawn you from the very beginning upon your first meeting.

The same fierce gaze. The burning glare. Both father and son had the same eyes.

“You.” The sea goddess speaks with you, every word falling from your lips echoed by thunder, its resounding cry. His eyes burn the same way they did years ago, and the image of a venomous green stare blazing with tears superimposes itself over the vision in front of you, a scream of vengeance from a single man left alone on a deserted beach louder than the howling wind - I will never forgive you! “We’re here once again.”

“Right where you killed my crew.” Commander Kim speaks, voice even as he keeps the blade pointed straight at you. You can feel the very power thrumming in your body flowing through his and all about you. This place rises from the depths of aeons of memories - a single ship, splintering upon the sheer indomitable force of the storm, the screams of its dying crew, the anguish of its only surviving captain. “I’m here to take back everything you took from me.”

“You want to kill me.” You say slowly, nails digging into your palm, and skin splits beneath the force before it too, is blown away like chaff in the wind. “Your soul, it’s mixed with the essence of the sea. You’ve committed taboo of the highest order against yourself, foolish mortal. What you’ve done cannot be reversed.”

Sluggish, like a waking beast, an ancient force churns slowly in the commander’s body, wrapping its claws around the human soul. Like a predator, it latches on to the only support it has, burying its tendrils so deep that you can’t tell it apart from the original soul. There’s no going back for him.

All water eventually flows back to the sea, and now, it’s reaching out for you.

Blood trickles slowly from the corner of his mouth, his eyes mirroring yours - you see the primal force in them as in yours. “Then I’ll have to see it through till the end.”

In the blink of an eye, the waves surge.

Higher and higher, until they tower high above you, a seething mass of water and wind, the storm sounds its death knell - and it all comes crashing down upon you. Move, the survival instinct in you screams, and you throw your hand up. Beneath your feet, the sea twists and writhes like a massive beast before it responds to your call, crashing into the incoming wave and breaking it apart in a shower of salt water that rains down on you from above.

Commander Kim stumbles, more blood dripping from his lips and staining his teeth red, while burning pain engulfs your legs, so agonizing that you collapse to your knees. You can’t think straight, fingers of your one remaining hand burying itself in your hair even as you try to force yourself to your feet once more.

“-hin Hae! Chin Hae!” A voice fights its way through the death knell of the storm, and you turn your eyes to see three people on the beach. Yeosang, mouth agape, Wooyoung, his eyes wide with horror, and your captain, shaking on his feet and staring at the scene before him in shock. The entire island they’ve been standing on has been reduced to nothing but a bare strip of sand by the commander’s massive wave, yet only where Kim Hongjoong stands stays untouched.

“Captain, you need to escape-” You begin to shout, but before you can do a thing Hongjoong unsheathes his sword, and with a cry runs towards his own father, blade swinging down in a merciless arc.

Horror leaps into your throat, and you take a step forward. “No!”

Commander Kim moves aside just in time as Hongjoong brings the cutlass down in a flash of wicked silver, dodging and avoiding every swing aimed his way. Yet he doesn’t retaliate even once, wordlessly defending, never attacking as his own son raises a blade to him with the intent to kill.

“That blade can kill gods, can’t it?” Hongjoong snarls over the roar of the storm, and lightning races across the sky, so dark it almost resembles night. The clash of steel rings in your ears, punctuated by claps of thunder. “Then it should be able to kill you too, am I right?”

His words echo over the storm. The tears in his one remaining eye cry even louder than his words.

“Hongjoong, I’m warning you, get out of the way!” His father utters, a guttural growl that sounds more bestial than human. “I can’t control this much longer, and if you try to fight, I-”

The energy in the commander tightens its grip on his soul, squeezing. The more your body falls apart, the better you see things that humans cannot - the cracks emerging on that soul, the strain of the commander who is struggling to resist its power in its entirety, and for a moment, panic floods through you.

“Captain, run!”

You hear the sound of a soul breaking, like glass shattering. Like a now empty, broken vessel submerged at the bottom of the ocean, it can only helplessly watch as water gushes into it, wiping out every last remaining trace of what it once used to be - and then it’s as if the entire sky turns black.

The scream you hear tears the sky in two.

Another wave rises and sweeps towards you, picking up in ferocity and height until it almost blends in seamlessly with the sky overhead. You throw up both hands and the sea obeys your call, sweeping up into a massive hurricane that envelopes you in a spinning mass of water and wind like a protective cocoon. And not a second too late, because in the next moment a wall of seawater crashes into the barrier you’ve thrown up, the sound thunderous enough to make your ears ring.

“I will kill you, sea goddess! My crew, give them back to me!”

More tears fall from your eyes, hot and burning. Memories overlap with memories, and you can feel them, the bones lying at the bottom of the seas, so deep that the sun will never reach them ever again. Hear the screams of the dying, the feeling of suffocating, their cries and pleas to spare them - you feel their deaths in your body, the sea that you encompass, and tears only come faster, harder - this is why the gods do not have emotions.

Right. That was you. This is who you are. What you are.

“You should have taken my life with theirs!” Commander Kim screams, face so twisted with fury and grief that you can barely recognise it, and you can barely raise a hand to block it, feeling your body crumbling apart more and more under the repeated attacks. “I would have gladly given my life for any of theirs, so why-”

Another wave.

“Why!”

The sky shatters, lightning cutting a clean line through the clouds, and a torrential downpour falls.

“Why did you have to take them from me?”

The sea rises from every direction, storm and sky melding together, and brings their joined fists down upon you.

Your shield breaks apart under the onslaught, and you cry out as you’re flung onto the beach like a limp rag. Head swimming, you taste copper in your mouth, vision going double as you try to sit upright, shaking uncontrollably.

Just how many had he killed to become this strong? Just how powerful is his desire for vengeance that he was able to endure this long?

Run.

The voice in your head chants, louder and louder.

Run. Run. Run.

You can’t win. Flee. Escape. Run!

A pair of arms wrap around you, warm. You glance up shakily to see a pair of concerned green eyes staring down at you, and one hand rises up to brush your tears away. “Wooyoung...”

“What happened?” Wooyoung’s voice breaks as he looks over you, his own eyes turning wet with tears even as the rain pelts down upon him, soaking his shirt and dripping from his hair. “Chin Hae. What’s going on? What’s all this about you being a sea goddess? What’s happening to you?”

Fresh tears roll down your cheeks the second you hear the anguish in his voice. “I’m sorry-”

“Father, stop!” You hear Hongjoong screaming over the storm. “Stop it! If your crew could see you right now, you’d be a shame to every single one of them! This isn’t what they’d want you to do!”

“Don’t bring them up when they’re already dead!” Thunder shakes the entire sky, the sound ringing painfully in your ears. “They’re gone, and this is the only path I have left! As a captain, you understand, don’t you?”

Through your own tears, you see Hongjoong’s lip trembling as he stares down his own father, blade shaking uncontrollably in his hand. A single tear rolls down his cheek.

“I understand.”

Commander Kim nods, eyes hard. “If you do, then-”

Hongjoong takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. When he opens them, his eye burns with the same fire you had seen all those years ago on his father’s face, and you can’t seem to breathe.

“I understand.” Hongjoong repeats, voice shaking, but his words come out clear. “It’s exactly because I understand,” he raises his cutlass at his father, pointing it directly at his chest in a clear challenge. “That I will die before I let you hurt Chin Hae. Because that’s what you taught me. Because that’s my role as a captain, just like yours.”

Commander Kim stops moving for a second, blue eyes wavering, and for a split second you see a flash of green once more.

“I will never forget everything that you’ve done. But even when I denied it this entire time, I realised my whole life was spent chasing after your back. I wanted to become a captain like you.” Hongjoong grits his teeth, tears spilling from his eye, mixing with the rain as they slip down his cheek. “But the man you are right now, is not that captain anymore.”

A single tear falls from his father’s eyes.

“Hongjoong, I...” He begins to say, but at that moment, he collapses to his knees, coughing and retching. Dark red blood begins to trickle from his mouth, his nose, his ears, and your mouth falls open in horror. His body is failing. Water always returns to the sea, and if it’s been kept in this mortal body for this long...

“Hongjoong, get out of the way!” You scream, throwing yourself forward. And just in the nick of time, because the second you do, the sea crashes down right where Hongjoong had been standing, and would have swept him into its depths if it wasn’t for your arms wrapped tightly around him protectively.

“Father!” Hongjoong cries out as Commander Kim groans in pain, red soaking into the sand. The waves leap to and fro like untamed, unbridled horses, increasingly wild and erratic. “Father, stop this! Please! I’m begging you!”

Commander Kim shakily rises to his feet once more, and to your shock, one of his eyes are a familiar shade of green once more. That shouldn’t be possible, how could his soul fight back against the sheer power of the entire ocean? Another tear spills from that one eye, and he smiles - a sad, resigned smile.

“What...” He says, so softly you almost miss it, as he looks at his son and then down at his own hands. “What exactly... am I doing?”

The wind screams overhead, piercing and shrill. Lightning flashes, outlining the world in white light and darkness. Commander Kim stands on the beach, alone as he was all those years ago, as the sea whips itself into a frenzy behind him, wild and uncontrollable.

The power in him responds, tearing his body apart from the inside out. He’s a vessel filled close to bursting, and the second he does...

Commander Kim knows as well. He turns to look at you, eyes beseeching. Black wind and rain whips around him, ferocious, near terrifying and yet he looks so, so sad, a lost, broken man in the middle of it all.

“Please.” A plea, begging. “Stop me before I end up killing everyone in this place.”

Tears stream down your own cheeks.

Don’t! The survival instinct in you screams. Don’t do it! You’ll die! You-

“Father, what are you talking about?” Hongjoong screams, voice painfully raw. The sheer desperation in his voice stabs you straight through the heart. “What are you doing? Don’t leave me again! Father!”

He’s talking to you.

You rise to your feet, liquid fire burning your entire body, and take one step forward. Another, and another, until you’re standing in front of the commander.

“You’re already a great captain.” Commander Kim says gently, and there’s so much warmth in his eyes as he looks down at his grief stricken son. “A greater captain than I ever was. You’re my pride and joy, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong wails.

He turns to you, a self deprecating smile playing on his lips. “Sea goddess. I underestimated you, and I am sorry.”

You nod your head, but hold out your remaining hand as an offering. You know what you have to do.

“I understand why. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.”

He smiles at you, and takes your hand.

“Wait!” Hongjoong stumbles forward, collapsing onto the sand once, before he forces himself to his feet once more, reaching out for you. With a pained smile, you hold up your crumbling hand, and a gust of wind physically holds him back, preventing him from taking a step closer to you.

“Chin Hae!” You hear Wooyoung cry out, Yeosang’s sobbing. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

Taking a deep breath, you turn and give them a final smile, voice trembling. “Commander Kim’s body is falling apart, and if all the power accumulated in his body is released here, a storm large enough destroy every ship in the ocean will rage. I’m going to bring him to the bottom of the ocean, so we can minimise the impact.”

“But you’ll get caught in it, won’t you?” Wooyoung screams, body shaking from sheer agony of watching you walk to your own death. “Chin Hae! You’ll die!”

You try to smile for him, to reassure him. For some reason, at this moment, all you can think about is them. Will they be alright? Will they be okay? “I know. I’m dying anyway, Wooyoung. This is something that only I can do.”

Hongjoong screams, wordless, fingers digging into the sand as he sobs, his entire body trembling from the force of his cries.

“Captain,” you say softly, even as Hongjoong cries harder. “You’ll forget all about me once I die. It’ll be okay. You won’t feel any pain, nor any guilt. It’s alright-”

“I never want to forget you!” Hongjoong screams, and at his words, the tears you’d been holding back finally fall from your eyes, your heart throbbing painfully. “Never! How could I... how could I ever forget someone like you?”

“Then please,” you manage through your tears, “don’t forget me, okay?” Sobs fills the cavity of your chest, and a muffled cry escapes you. “I thought... that if all of you were to forget me in the end, that this life I lived would have been completely meaningless. But now...”

You take a deep breath, and give him the brightest smile you can muster. “But now, nothing about this life was meaningless, because I spent it with all of you.” Another sob slips past your lips. “You called my name. With you, I was human. Chin Hae...” you bow your head, trying to stifle your sobs. “Chin Hae lived a very blessed life.”

Hongjoong doesn’t say a word, only staring wordlessly at you as if he’s trying to commit every feature of your face to memory before its too late. His eye is brimming with tears.

“So thank you, captain, for everything that you’ve done.”

With that, you turn around and take a step forward, Commander Kim walking with you. The two of you walk towards the ocean, where the storms rage and clash, and step into the water without looking back.

The water rises, as if to swallow the both of you whole. You can feel the sea surging, thrashing in response to your presences. You continue walking. The water rises to your chest.

“Chin Hae! Chin Hae!”

The water rises to your ears, and their cries are blocked out by the waves.

You continue walking.

All this while, the hand in yours doesn’t let go.

The two of you walk till there’s nothing beneath you. Until darkness surrounds you, and the weight of the sea is crushing from above. You grip the hand in yours tight as you sink, slowly descending to the bottom of the ocean, and you can no longer hear the storms overhead.

You open your mouth, and water rushes to fill you. Your mind goes peacefully blank, nothing but warmth surrounding you in this freezing ocean, consciousness fading. You wrap your arms around the man whose hand is in yours, and hear a soft thank you resound in your head as his power swells, tipping the breaking point.

An orange and black flag against a smoke darkened sky.

A single green eye, a confident smile. Warm arms wrapped around yours, furious pounding on a wooden door.

The taste of cream, an awkward scowl. Strong hands gripping a cutlass.

Rising sun breaking the dawn from a crow’s nest. Two rings braided in brown hair.

The scent of herbs and medicine. A cheeky laugh, soft hands and a softer heart.

The sound of meat sizzling over a stove. The taste of vegetables playfully stuffed into your mouth

The feeling of hot blood and gunmetal under your fingers. The sound of flipping pages, a serene voice.

A commanding bellow, pink beaches of sand.

Purple hair, and the warmth of conjoined hands in a pocket. Scarred wrists, a tender gaze.

The sea surges one last time, and vaguely, you see a gentle smile in the back of your mind.

Your lips part to form his name with the last bit of air in your lungs.

“___”

Somehow, you think, you can hear him calling your name.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

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atinytokki · 4 years

Text

My Way

i. The Morning on the Beach

To open his eyes was to face reality. So Hongjoong kept them closed.

Gradually he had become aware of the sand beneath him, the waves lapping at his legs, and the way his head pounded. He knew where he was.

He had practically been raised on this beach. And he knew he hadn’t washed up here on accident.

Last night was the storm, and the boat splitting, and his parents—

No.

Hongjoong squeezed his eyes shut harder. To open them was to accept what he already knew.

They were gone. There was no way they had survived.

Part of Hongjoong was unsure he had even survived, but unless this really was the afterlife with the sun beating down on him and the spray of sea water on his face, that meant he was the sole survivor.

That meant he was alone.

Hongjoong kept his eyes screwed tightly shut and refused to allow tears to build in them.

This was all just a bad dream, and he’d wake up soon wondering how he had dreamed so vividly. His mother would laugh at him and push some food in his direction. His father would chuckle from where he prepared the nets for another day on the water.

Another normal day. Clear skies and calm waters.

The pounding in Hongjoong’s head was becoming a throbbing hammer crashing down on his senses. He could barely move, and he already didn’t want to.

Fear gripped him as he caught sight of blood in his peripherals. It had dripped down his face, and his head wound must be worse than he thought.

Suddenly he was fighting the pull of sleep. If he fell unconscious, he might not wake up again. Part of him resigned to his fate and the other part pushed him to crack an eye open.

A sliver of daylight appeared, and in the distance a pair of boots.

Hongjoong wasn’t sure if he imagined them, but in his waning consciousness they grew closer until there were arms around him, dragging him out of the shallows and up the beach.

There was no telling where he would end up, but Hongjoong couldn’t fight it anymore. He hoped that if he died, he’d at least be able to see his parents. And the rest of him was numb and lifeless.

The dark shadows closed in and he let himself be swept away by sleep.

...

“...washed up, half dead, so you can imagine our surprise...”

“...so glad you arrived when you did, otherwise we’d have had to break the news to him...”

“...horrible, really. Poor lad.”

Sounds filtered in before the light reached him. It was an unfamiliar voice, but it sounded quite close, maybe even in the room with him.

Hongjoong squirmed in place and hesitantly opened his eyes. He lay in bed in an unfamiliar room, and a deathly cold panic began to cover him.

Birds chirped incessantly into the morning air somewhere just outside the window, and as Hongjoong’s eyes darted around he spotted a door on the far end of the room and a person next to it.

A woman he didn’t recognise. She held a bandage roll and her apron was stained with blood, which immediately made Hongjoong wary of her, but her face was soft and kind, and she turned to face him with such relief in her eyes that he didn’t think to flee when she ran over to his bedside.

He also didn’t think he could flee if he wanted to.

She grasped his hand in hers and turned to call back at the door to whoever had just arrived that she was talking to, “He’s awake!”

The person she had been talking to emerged from the doorway, and this man Hongjoong recognised.

“Uncle Ryeowook?”

His face was very grave as he removed his hat and joined the woman at his bedside. He looked as if a single word could shatter him like glass. Hongjoong was afraid to utter anything at all.

“How are you feeling?” The woman asked, drawing his attention away for a moment.

“A bit sore,” he admitted, lifting his hand to meet his head. The sting of his wound met him, and the woman pulled his hand away from the bandage wrapped around his head with a tutting noise.

“You slept the whole day away yesterday with that nasty bump,” she told him, smiling softly. “For a few moments, we were afraid we might lose you.”

Hongjoong’s brow furrowed and he looked over the room once more. “Where am I?”

“In our spare room,” the woman explained, tucking the blankets closer around him before he got too antsy and tried to run off. “My husband, Dongmin, is the lighthouse keeper. He found you on the beach and brought you here.”

The beach.

Fragments of the memory returned to him.

The stormy night, splintering wood, crashing waves...

Then morning stillness. The sun beating down and the sand hot beneath him.

Tears gathered in his eyes as he remembered what had happened. If only he had stayed asleep, he wouldn’t have to wake up to this... this dark, cold aftermath. This horrible twisted version of what a normal Friday morning should be.

“Your parents died in the storm,” Uncle Ryeowook said suddenly, as if he had practiced the lines and decided it was better to just rip off the figurative bandage and tell it to him straight.

Hongjoong bowed his head and let the weight of those words rest on him.

It just wasn’t fair.

“Where are they?” He asked, shaking as he tried to sit up. “I want to see them.”

Because if he couldn’t see for himself, he’d never fully believe they had died.

Uncle Ryeowook sighed and stood again, holding out his arm for Hongjoong to take. Trembling, he rose to follow him outside, to which the lighthouse keeper’s wife fussed behind them the whole way.

“Thank you,” Hongjoong said softly once the carriage pulled up outside. The woman cupped his face in her hands and looked him over one last time.

“Don’t thank me, my boy,” she whispered back. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

Hongjoong wasn’t so sure he could agree, but he climbed in to the carriage and sat still as a stone for the ride, unbidden tears silently falling where his uncle was afraid to look.

...

“Has anyone inquired about their wills?”

Hongjoong almost dropped his glass at the nonchalance of the question.

He had been ushered by his Uncle to Jangwon Hall, the ancestral home of his father’s side, and the residence of most of his extended relatives. Before any “inspection of the corpses” they were to eat lunch. So far he had only been able to stomach a few bites of his fish and a glass of water.

Mercifully, Aunt Minkyung had allowed him to eat with them in their private wing of the great hall, away from the rest of the family and the prying eyes Hongjoong barely recognised.

He lowered his glass and regarded her defeatedly. It had only been a few hours since he had awoken from a state of near death and already he was being reminded at every turn that he was alone in the world now.

Hongjoong hadn’t even had a proper cry yet over the events of the other night and already they were moving on to the next event.

“Ryeowook, it’s an honest question,” his aunt insisted, leaning over to catch her husband’s eye. “If you can’t secure one, who’s to say where he goes?”

There was no need for her to mention Hongjoong by name. He knew that without a will from his parents saying exactly what to do in the event of their unfortunate early departure... the hall would be in chaos and he would be tossed around like a new toy.

“I’ve sent Seyong to their cottage to look around,” Ryeowook finally sighed. “But it’s too soon for all this. Do Dongwon and Donghyun even know about the tragedy yet? I haven’t been back to the hall since—“

“I’d like to see them now.”

Hongjoong stood from the table and silently begged to be excused. Both Uncle Ryeowook and Aunt Minkyung looked up at him in surprise, like they’d forgotten he was there.

“You should speak to your Grandfather Kiduk before you—“

“Yes you may.”

Ryeowook cut off his wife without ever breaking eye contact with Hongjoong.

“He’s had a hard day,” he heard him explain as he quickly left the room.

Hongjoong had been told they were in one of the back cellars, awaiting inspection from the coroner. So he took a moment outside the door to breathe deeply and remind himself that he wanted this. He wanted to see them before they were packed away and disposed of like rubbish.

He would never be ready to look at their dead bodies. But he opened the door anyway.

They looked much like they had when he had seen them outside that day. It was wrong to him that their skin could be that colour- so lifeless and warped into some dead creature. It looked as if they had never been alive. Hongjoong wondered briefly if these were just stuffed mannequins made to slightly resemble his parents but he quickly dismissed it after hesitantly reaching out to touch his father's hand.

No one would be able to convince Hongjoong that the cold, dead people in front of him had not once been alive and happy, and full of laughter and song as well as tears and angry words, but most of all of love. Mother and Father had been real with a full range of emotions and every day they had lived and breathed and they had been his. His parents.

He didn't want to assume, and he wasn't a great sorcerer with the gift of foresight like the characters in stories he had read, but he knew himself and he was fairly certain he wouldn't have any semblance of a clear head during the actual funeral ceremony, whenever that took place, so he figured that if he were to "say goodbye" or anything of the sort, he had better do it now.

Hongjoong opened his mouth to whisper something, but his eyes filled with tears, and he found himself clamping his mouth shut to trap a sob from escaping. Saying goodbye would have to be goodbye forever, and he couldn't do it. It just wasn't fair. Cousin Seyong could say goodbye to Uncle Ryeowook and Aunt Minkyung and it wouldn't be goodbye forever, it would be "goodbye until I see you later.”

How anyone could be expected to say "goodbye, I'll never see you again" to their own mummy and daddy escaped him.

Was it really forever? Hongjoong didn't know. There were so many things Hongjoong knew he didn't know, and he didn't know where to start. "I love you," he choked out. "I love you."

He repeated it aloud until his voice broke.

He couldn't beg them not to go, because they were already gone. He couldn't ask them what to do, because they wouldn't answer. But he could tell them he loved them, because he knew they loved him back. He knew they loved him back.

...

A/N: Well this actually worked out quite nicely because 1) I wanted to post something as a gift for yall since it’s my birthday and we just finished the most recent spinoff poll the other day and 2) Hongjoong won that vote and also happens to be my bias xD So welcome to My Way!! It’s going to be a little (lot) hectic and sorry for such a sad first chapter but hopefully you’ll stick around :)

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arthurjdrake · 4 years

Photo

Follow-Up to this thread, in which long withheld truths are finally laid bare.

❝ TRUTH : the true facts about something, rather than the things that have been invented or guessed. ❞

@cryxmercy

Mercy never slept well. Always restless, always shifting, always dreaming, sometimes murmuring things in languages long dead. Always hoping to wake and find something - or perhaps someone - that was never there. Mornings always left her feeling washed out and weary.

So when she started to slip back into wakefulness, expecting the cold reality of another fucking day to hit her full in the face at any moment, and the harsh light didn’t come… Mercy briefly wondered if she might still be dreaming. There was an all-encompassing warmth that seeped deep into her bones, bringing with it a gentle softness and a feeling of… not ever wanting to be anywhere else. It was both familiar and strange, as was the scent that drifted over her as she moved closer and tucked herself against the source. Fingers brushed something warm and solid before gently curling themselves around it as Mercy let out a soft, sleepy sigh.

The morning would come; it had no choice. And neither did she. So for just a moment, she allowed herself to be content. Because it wouldn’t last.

It never did.

Arthur had several lifetimes to come to terms with the reality of this life and the things it would entail. Being alone wasn’t the worst outcome by any means, this was a fact he recognised but it didn’t mean that sometimes the loneliness didn’t creep its way in. The solitary nights standing by a stove going through the motions of cooking a dinner for an empty table of just himself. The quiet company of his tortoises the only other living things in the vicinity of his abode. He had friends over occasionally but even that didn’t entirely subside the wish for something to fill the void.

But sleep was a thing that came without much issue. It was mostly dark and dreamless but tonight it was different. The storm that brewed outside the house and sheets of rain framed by the occasional crack of thunder and flash of lightning that illuminated behind his eyes. Tonight his mind drifted along a dark and winding forest path following a raven that fluttered silently through the canopy. He could feel the cold and damp earth against his bare feet, the soft whisper of the breeze brushing past his skin. Calm and peaceful despite the darkness around him until he broke to the edge of the treeline. An endless expanse of ocean stretching out beneath a grey-wash sky of clouds that swirled and twisted overhead. The air charged with static energy belonging to a formless power of something else. Something beyond comprehension.

The crack of lightning arcing down out of the sky was sudden and jolting. Its intensity striking a nearby tree; exploding it into a shrapnel of splintered and jagged bits of wood. A demonstration of power from whatever things lay forgotten by the world yet had been called forth the night before. The jolt was enough to cause Arthur to stir suddenly awake, breathing shallow and fast as he lay there attempting to orientate himself in the dim morning light with the memories of the prior night filtering slowly back to him.

It was the familiar warmth and pressure of fingers curling into his top that drew his hazy mind to sharp focus.

Oh… Oh no. Oh Gods. What had happened? And how were they… here? Bloody hell… Of course they were.

Mercy would beg to differ when it came to being alone. Being alone was terrible. There was entirely too much time for things she didn’t wish to think about to creep up on her. Entirely too much time to wonder what the point was anymore, other than to keep a promise she’d made more than a millenia ago. To always watch over and protect her beloved friend. And so far, that was the only promise in her life she’d been able to keep. Yet at what cost? She’d hurt one of the only people in the entire world that she’d ever loved. Still loved, actually. And that love was what had kept her going all these long, lonely years. Though the recent loneliness was her fault.

Because Arthur was right: Mercy was scared. Because in all her life, the only thing that had truly frightened her was him. Losing him, more specifically. And it had happened a hundred times. Each time hurt just as much as the one before. Sometimes more than others. It was one of those times that had driven Mercy to distance herself. Not for her own sake, but for Arthur’s. So she wouldn’t bring her darkness and misery down upon him again.

He startled awake, and that was when her fingers tightened in his shirt. Holding him close while the buffer of being half-sleep still allowed it. Mercy made a low humming sound before she shifted closer to Arthur’s warmth. Her voice was low and warm when she murmured, “‘S’alright… go back to sleep…”

It took a moment for Arthur to steady his breathing, the mild panic that had come over him from his dream. For a moment he lay there, one hand raising to press to his chest as he blinked the sleep away from his eyes. As the room came slightly more into focus it was easier to orientate himself and his heart rate began to slow. Though his focus was drawn by the sudden tightening against the material of his shirt, enough to draw his attention to one side and blink tiredly.

It was a surprise to see her here, and in the dim morning light. How long had it been since they’d even shared something as simple as space? A sad smile settled on his features. It was a shame… That this was how things were but it was what it was. His eyes scanned over her face and hair that was even more of a tangled mess than it typically was after the previous night’s events. But she was alive and that was what mattered.

Arthur lay there for a little while, lost in his thoughts before he eventually drew away. Turning to sit at the side of the bed he went to rub his face but the stinging pain of unfurling his fingers drew his attention back to the cut. “Ah shit,” he mumbled to himself softly, not loud enough to stir Mercy as he walked carefully out the door and downstairs to the kitchen where he kept a small medical kit knowing he needed to clean the wound before it got infected or anything else.

Mercy loved storms. The beautiful, wild chaos of rain and wind, thunder and lightning… she’d stood right in the middle of her share of maelstroms over the years, daring the elements to do their worst. But she also loved the sound of soft rain on the roof, the gentle rumble of far-away thunder, and the dim grey light of morning that came with it. It was peaceful, where so many things in her life were not. But such was the nature of things, and Mercy had tried to reconcile with that a long time ago. So far, she’d failed miserably. Because just as chaos couldn’t exist without peace, neither could peace exist without chaos.

Mercy was more than ready to find a bit of peace inside her chaotic existence.

But peace never came without sacrifice. And while Mercy had never in her life hesitated to face anything that had come her way, sometime in the past 200 years she’d lost her nerve. At least… when it came to one thing in particular. One person.

Mercy frowned as the spot next to her started to grow cold in Arthur’s absence. Absently, she reached out a hand, only to find it empty altogether. She opened her eyes after that, still frowning as she lay there in the dim light, trying to remember what had happened and how’d she’d gotten here. It came back slowly, though there were gaps she couldn’t fill on her own. Mercy rubbed a tired hand across her eyes, the other worrying her necklace beneath the oversized shirt she was wearing. She lay there for a few more moments before getting up. She felt a bit woozy, but none the worse for wear, and after making the bed - seemed the least she could do - she padded out into the hallway and down the stairs in search of Arthur.

It was chilly downstairs, and Mercy couldn’t help but wrap her arm around herself - still worrying the necklace absently - as she finally found her old friend. He was standing at the window watching the rain. Mercy had no doubt that he knew she was there, but didn’t say anything. She simply watched him for a moment, a tightness growing in her chest that hadn’t been there a moment before. Whether it was fear, or something else, Mercy couldn’t say. All she knew was that what happened now was important. She didn’t know how she knew, only that she did. Perhaps it was time to stop being a coward, and face her fate. Whatever that might be.

Slowly, she moved to stand nearby, looking out at the rain and water beyond. They were both quiet for a bit, until finally Mercy spoke quietly. “It’s beautiful here.”

The storm the prior night had come with overcast grey skies, and Arthur stood looking quietly out the window. A steaming porcelain mug of tea he’d made grasped in his hands. A few chores and errands had been done, like putting her bloodied clothes on to wash and taking them out to dry. After that, there was little else to be done except enjoy the morning for what it was - peaceful and grey. There were boxes stacked around the place that needed to be unpacked but for the time being Arthur was content to simply enjoy the solitude of his drink and the weather a reminder of another thing he had to enjoy from behind carefully constructed barriers.

It was cruel, he thought while watching another raindrop slide down the glass, how the most beautiful things in the world were so close and yet so utterly forbidden. What was it like? To run outside and feel what he could only imagine the cool wash of rain against your skin. His shoulders dropped a little, relaxed and at peace in this new abode he’d picked for himself. There were things that needed tending to, fixes that would be made in time. Not to mention the other company present in the house.

They had been an interesting development. The scattering of his boxes several times over, plenty of cupboards and doors slamming in the dark of night that had almost given him a heart attack. Until he’d come to realise just what had been responsible for them. The installation of a whiteboard on the fridge had settled those tensions between him and Jeanine - the spirit he’d found also resided in this abode. They had come to an agreement, and since his things had been left relatively untouched save the occasional floating book or candle. A fire-hazard in the making, he’d pointed out several times over.

There was a small tilted to his head at the slight creak of a couple of loose floorboards behind him. That, and the static that always seemed to charge the air whenever Mercy was nearby. His eyes remained on the glass but his attention was near immediately devoted to the valkyrie behind him. “It is… Peaceful and isolated…”

Mercy wasn’t quite sure what time it was. She’d slept for quite awhile it seemed. Though she’d never been much of a morning person. But the grey sky and the rain left a bit of a question mark as to how early it was. Mercy simply hoped she hadn’t overslept and overstayed her welcome. There was another feeling in the house aside from the one that resided in Mercy’s chest. Subtle, but there. It accompanied the flutter of a curtain where there was no breeze, and that was too far away for Mercy herself to have disturbed it. Interesting. But not harmful.

Stepping up beside him to look out the window, Mercy kept her eyes on the water in the distance. Every now and then her gaze would focus on a trickle of rain down the glass, following it until it disappeared. All the while worrying her touchstone, and wondering what had happened last night in the spaces she couldn’t remember. Ironic really, all things considered. She was missing a few hours.

Arthur was missing a lifetime.

And that was her fault. Just as certainly as whatever had brought her here was.

It was always her fault.

So she gave him a soft hum in return, before growing uncharacteristically quiet as the gentle static in the air prickled a bit. “I’m sorry, Aren. For whatever happened… last night. For...” She huffed, but there was no humor this time. “For everything.”

If Arthur had wanted Mercy to leave he would’ve made more of a fuss about noise when he’d left the room. But after the prior night he knew that she needed her rest to recuperate, he also wasn’t cruel enough to do that to an old friend. Regardless of the things that had happened she would always be that. No amount of disagreements or fights could change the fondness with which he thought of her.

There was irony in the situation. But where Mercy had made her mind up about keeping those decades in her own possession, Arthur would happily fill Mercy in on the events of the prior night. Though he couldn’t help but wonder how many times this would continue. How many times would he have to come running to rescue her before she finally understood that one day he might not just be there. That one day he might not get there in time all because she’d gotten into a situation she hadn’t prepared for.

He wanted to tell her how idiotic she was. But Arthur couldn’t bring himself to let that bitterness spill over. What use would it serve anyway?

“Don’t be,” he said calmly, head turning fractionally away from the window. “Can’t predict that a wraith’s gonna follow you…” But he knew she meant for more than just what had happened the prior night. His shoulders rose as he took a deep breath and sank a little as he exhaled it.

Mercy wasn’t used to being laid low. Sure, she was headstrong, impulsive, stubborn, quick to fight on most occasions, and had a short temper, but she wasn’t stupid or ignorant of the world by any means. She’d forgotten more things than most people would ever know, and that wasn’t arrogance. It simply was. And the only person in the entire world that truly understood that… was Arthur. The only person that had always been there… was Arthur. No matter what she’d done, no matter how many years went by, how many fights or misunderstandings they’d had, he had always been there. Just as she had always been there for him.

Until she hadn’t been.

The logical side of Mercy asked why this time should be any different? Why should the lifetime Mercy had in her memories be any more or less important than the ones that had come before? Why should the things that had happened be any more or less important than anything else they’d been through?

Mercy knew why.

Because it scared her to death.

Arthur scared her to death.

1200 years… Mercy had lived through revolutions and plagues and witch hunts. Been a party to war and regicide and some of the worst parts of history. A few of those parts had even been partially her fault. She’d nearly been beheaded in France during the Revolution. She’d nearly had her arm taken off by an albino alligator the size of a bus in the sewers of New York. Countless things over the centuries, and none of it had ever frightened her as much as the thought of losing Arthur permanently.

Which was sure to happen once she told him the truth. Because she would tell him. Eventually. She wasn’t cruel either, despite how it may seem. She simply… didn’t know how.

This was one time where Mercy couldn’t bring herself to jump without looking. Regardless of the fact that she’d had 200 years to get it right.

Part of her wished Arthur would yell at her. She deserved it, after all. But his quiet resignation was actually worse. It felt heavy, almost suffocating… at least to Mercy. It was what her guilt had always felt like. So when he told her not to be sorry, Mercy could only huff and shake her head. They both knew it wasn’t simply the Wraith. “Maybe not,” she murmured around the thumbnail that had found its way to her mouth. There was no elaboration on the fact that she hadn’t even known what a Wraith was until now. It didn’t matter.

“What happened to your hand?” she asked without looking away from the window.

Arthur raised a hand to rub at his eye, still feeling rather drained from the night before. It would take a little while for him to feel settled once more. The peace of the rain and grey skies helped tremendously, but it was difficult to arrange the multitude of thoughts and feelings he was experiencing presently. They would be dealt with in time. Probably once Mercy left to go… wherever she went these days. How much didn’t he know anymore? That thought stirred a fresh sense of sadness in him as another raindrop slid down the windowpane.

His hands tightened on the mug, the slight sting of the wound a remnant of the events from the night before. “My hand?” he glanced over at her for the first time this morning, she looked like she’d been dragged through several hedgerows backwards.

“I god cut,” he explained with a slight shrug of his shoulders. Not a lie by any means, but he didn’t really see how going into details about reactivating his side of their millenia old rite would help anything right now. “When I fell during the wraith attacking… Bit of a bugger… But it’s okay.” His eyes lingered on her face for a moment, “how are you feeling?”

Mercy knew her presence was usually the opposite of peaceful. Ironically enough, she longed for peace. If only for a little while. Instead of the constant raging chaos that went on inside her head, and then translated into the tangible world. It wasn’t as if she didn’t believe in what she was, and what she stood for, with nearly every fiber of her being. She did. But after centuries of life, Mercy was old enough that even she craved the quiet places of the world from time to time.

Perhaps it simply wasn’t meant to be, like so many other things in her life. Things she’d lost along the way. Things she’d given up. Some of which she’d only realized after the fact. All for a singular purpose. A purpose that was both unnecessary and yet vitally important. At least… to Mercy it was. Even now she was unsure if Arthur felt the same way. He’d made his feelings quite clear when she’d shown back up so unexpectedly. Or had seemed to. And yet… here they were.

“Mmm.” His hand that she could feel aching as her own throbbed with a dull residual discomfort. Mercy didn’t stop to think that he might have reactivated his end of the blood bond. It had been gone since he’d first burned. She wasn’t sure she’d even remember what it felt like to have someone on the other side of it. She only knew her hand hurt, so his must as well. When he explained, Mercy turned to look at him, only to find he was already looking at her. “It attacked you?” After what she remembered happening - she knew the wraith had been draining her life force through her injuries, but not to what extent; that part was still just… dark - a look of mild panic crossed her features. “Gods, Arthur, I’m-” But she couldn’t put another ‘sorry’ between them. It seemed trite, all things considered. She held his eyes for a long moment, finally having to look away for fear she would say something she might regret.

Now it was her turn to rub a weary hand over her eyes. She pressed her fingertips to the corners, squeezing the bridge of her nose to stave off the headache that was approaching. “I’m fine. I should… go. I’ve…” Mercy drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing a tight smile as she once again worried the lump beneath her shirt. “I’ve interrupted your peace and quiet long enough…” She turned to move off, in search of her clothes and shoes, but paused. “Thank you. For saving me. For… everything…” She padded away again, scrubbing her hands over her face to get rid of the sting in her eyes.

Everyone deserved peace, Arthur was of that particular opinion. But sometimes he missed the simplicity of the lives they led so many aeons ago. Where their greatest concerns were where their next meal was coming from and not the freaky lake monsters of mimes wandering the streets. Yet here they were. Sometimes peace didn’t come without conflict first, and a part of him suspected that was going to soon become a part of their existence here if the prior night was anything to go by.

There was no given elaboration for his hand or why he hadn’t chosen to heal it. Arthur merely tightened it a little. The reactivation of an ancient and powerful bond between them. His had vanished with his first burning, but the connection had never truly been broken. Blood called to blood. “It did. But only because I offered myself up, so… please don’t beat yourself up about it.” This wasn’t her fault really. Even though he knew her well enough to know she’d spin it that way regardless. “Look Frey, it’s fine,” he interjected before she could do the very thing she was worried about his expression growing more stern. “But the real thing that matters… The thing I need you to remember the next time you walk out on one of your jobs… Is that you need to be more careful with your own safety… Your job’s dangerous. And I get you’re not gonna change it, which is fine. But please… prepare. Because I’m bloody well terrified at the thought of something happening and not being there to come and help.” If something happened to her… It didn’t bear to think about but it was more than enough explanation for his hand.

She was withdrawing before he knew it, and Arthur’s frown deepened as he watched her move across the room. Pushing up from where he was perched, he stood tall. Gods, she was so frustrating. “Why do you always do that? Jump to the conclusion that… You’re intruding or… a burden. You aren’t. I brought you here to get better, not to kick you out at first fucking light.” Why didn’t she understand that?

More than once, Mercy had thought about moving somewhere remote. Somewhere with mountains and snow and… as few people as possible. A place where she could grow her own food, hunt game, and just… be. But what would be the point if she had no one to share it with? Life was lonely enough now. How lonely would it be if she was alone at the ends of the earth?

But she wasn’t in some remote part of the world. She was here, in White Crest. And there were people here that she cared for. Arthur being at the very top of that list, right where he’d always been. Though Mercy was starting to think that her way of caring about Arthur was more about how she felt than how he did. And that only served to fuel the guilt and pain that she’d carried with her for centuries now. It pressed on her like an ever increasing weight, compressing her chest and squeezing her heart until she felt it would burst.

So when he admitted to offering himself over to the wraith, Mercy couldn’t help the horrified look that crossed her face. “Gods, Ren…. that’s… insane. What… what happened to it?” He wasn’t clearly unharmed, other than the hand he didn’t acknowledge again, so the wraith must be gone. Right? She didn’t have a chance to ask anything else as Arthur continued to speak. But instead of the berating she expected, what Arthur had to say surprised her into silence. Very nearly into tears. If she could cry so easily, that is. When was the last time someone had truly worried for her? When was the last time someone had asked her to be careful? Or to watch out for herself? In a way that wasn’t merely out of habit? When was the last time someone had asked it of her simply because they cared?

Mercy couldn’t remember.

But here was Arthur, asking that very thing. After everything she’d done to him. After everything she’d put him through. Now and in the past. Especially in the past. She’d broken a vow. Left him alone to try and figure out the meaning of his existence on his own. Without explanation. She’d hurt him in so many ways, and he’d never done anything to deserve it. Which only added to Mercy’s feeling that perhaps she didn’t deserve his friendship. Or anything else. Yet here they were. There was a bit of silence after he’d finished, and when Mercy finally found her voice, all she could answer with was, “Alright.” A single word, a rare thing for the Fury, but her tone suggested that she meant it. She would try.

Mercy felt her chest grow tight, and her heart beat even faster as everything started to roll over her at once. The good along with the bad. The past and the present. The things she wanted to say but couldn’t. The things she wanted to feel, but didn’t deserve. The air hummed with static, and she knew she had to go. Or risk making things worse. But she didn’t get far before Arthur was following.

Mercy bit her tongue, doing her best to clamp down on all the self-deprecating comments that were ready to fly. “I don’t wanna argue with you, Ren… that’s… the last thing I wanna do. I’m just-” She had to stop walking when she realized she had no idea where she was going. Running her hands through her hair in frustration, Mercy turned to look at him. “I’m a disaster. My life… is one disaster after another. And the Fury in me… she thrives on it. On that chaos. But the other part of me… what’s left of… of Freyja-” The name felt strange on her tongue after not saying it for so long. “-she still wants what she’s always wanted.”

Her hand rose to grip the necklace beneath her shirt. “I had it once. Until I didn’t. And that’s… that’s something you couldn’t know. But… you deserve to know. And I know there’re things I need to tell you, but-” She huffed, short and sharp. Only to realize that the gesture had popped the necklace loose from around her neck. So much for making more excuses for not answering his questions. Mercy frowned at the sensation of the necklace not being there, but after a moment took the whole thing in her hand. “Here.” She held it out to him, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “This belongs to you. I-” Mercy closed her eyes, willing herself to just… tell him. But the words simply wouldn’t come.

Arthur wasn’t sure how many more ways he could put it. How many times he could ask her to just tell him and let him make his own mind up. He had just as much right to the truth of it as she did. How was it fair for her to keep hold of secrets in the vain desperation that it would make things better. A part of him had begun to make peace with that backwards reality, that he might never know, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant having her back. But if that remained the case, a part of him, regardless of how small it might be would always remain and resent the fact she had taken the very right to a choice, to an opinion straight out of his hands. Just for her own selfish self-preservation, after all, what else could it be that drove a person to such lengths as that? At the cost of all else.

She cared, of course, Arthur knew that she did acutely and the horrified expression was testament to that. But all he could muster was a tired look of resignation. So this was what they had become? She could trust him with her life yet not her secrets? His secrets? “It’s gone, I killed it” there was a simple finality to the words that seemed to drive the emphasis home more than any flowery description of what he’d done might. It was gone, she was alive and safe. That was what mattered.

There were certain things Arthur knew how to do with acute precision. Picking his words in a moment like this was one of them. Though the truth of them was perhaps driven by his exasperation of wishing to truly understand. To break through and point out the chaotic reality she was careening so wildly into and dragging him with her by proxy of sheer association. He didn’t mind so much in that regard, trouble always made for interesting situations but it didn’t change his fear about the idea of something happening and not being able to get there in time. If only he knew how his own fears mirrored hers. Perhaps then he might understand.

There it was again, the humming static that caused him to glance at the space around her, a narrowing of his eyes occurring as though this might help him perceive that which he’d briefly glanced those months prior. But there was nothing, save a humming tension on the air that seemed to indicate something, somewhere, building to a precipice. Was this the moment she finally listened? The time she heard his plea and stopped to truly take stock of what he wanted? Of what he was asking of her.

The occasion was enough for a look of shock to bleed into his expression.

Really?

Was that seriously all it took?

His muscles were tense, standing stock still as he waited for the storm that had to be coming next. Because that’s always what happened. The confrontation and the subsequent way the situation dissolved into a row that would end with one of them leaving. But instead of bracing herself with that sheer emotion she held, she let it go. Or no, wielded it in a way that left him silent and processing her words that seemed to take the air out of the room. You’re not a disaster. You’ve never been a disaster. An eternal pain in the ass but you’ve always been my eternal pain in the ass. And then his attention shifted, for the first time, from her face to the worry stone she kept returning back to.

What was it? Her hand loosened and he caught the glint of silver, a chain of some sort hanging slack over her grasping knuckles. Despite the various complaints in his mind, all those doubts and fears that came from her circular excuses and pandering as to why he had no right to know the truth he felt a tiny knot inside him loosen. The possibility that perhaps she finally understood. That she would wilfully feel that he was finally somehow deserving of this truth that she’d kept buried for two long-lost centuries. Or perhaps it was just the change of heart he’d been so desperately hoping might come about. The thoughts were enough to leave his mouth feeling parched as he stood there in desperately hopeful anticipation ignited from deep within, a hand, palm upturned extended out to receive whatever she passed across.

Mercy knew that Arthur deserved to know. If she were honest, she’d known that from the very moment she’d decided to keep it all to herself. Because sometimes not knowing was better. Wasn’t it? Sometimes the raw truth was far more painful than a well-meaning omission. Right? Mercy had long since started to question that logic. And her reasons for choosing to distance herself from the one person she never wanted to be parted from. Was it truly to protect him? Or was it to protect herself? Or was it perhaps a mixture of both?

Whatever the true reason, Mercy was weary. Weary of wanting and never having. Weary of knowing she was taking away a choice that should be his. Weary of being terrified of what that choice might be. She wanted nothing more than to tell him everything, beg his forgiveness, and have him grant it. But Mercy never got what she wanted. Her life was chaos. She was chaos. Standing in the middle of a storm that was always in danger of raging out of control. And her only safe haven was just out of reach.

Even though he stood right in front of her.

So the snap of her chain felt… The loss of it’s familiar weight around her neck made her feel strange. Like a vital part of herself was missing. But perhaps it was meant to be this way. She’d worn the necklace for years without ever taking it off, or without ever damaging it. For it to simply… come apart at this very moment… Mercy didn’t believe in coincidence. Not even to save herself any more pain.

The static in the air fell to a soft hum, almost undetectable, as Mercy let the necklace slip gently into Arthur’s palm. Only it wasn’t just a necklace. The chain was threaded through a simple but elegant silver band, the finish of which was worn smooth after years of Mercy’s worrying fingers. A ring. Well cared for, but old. Very, very old.

She could sense the change in Arthur as he stood waiting. Hoping. Trusting even, that she was going to do what was right. What she should’ve done years ago. And again, Mercy desperately tried to find the words to just… tell him. But her throat was so tight that words, let alone the explanation Arthur deserved, were impossible. So she wrapped her arms around herself, hands tucked away, and waited. Fighting the centuries-old urge to run away, while wanting nothing more than to stay.

Mercy might have been chaos eternal. She might’ve been the one that always went from frying pan into the fire without any real forethought, but she hadn’t always been that way. Before she had become a valkyrie, a fury as so many knew them as she had been just as steadfast and sure as he could be at times. Mercy had been born in the brightness of summer blessed by its gifts and the bounty of harvest while Aren - as he’d been known then, had been born in the depths of winter. The months of tempests and raging seas that claimed wayward ships that dared to brave their waters. Arthur - or Aren as he’d been in that lifetime had been born in the months of chaos, and he’d learned how to endure the elemental chaos of the universe.

One thousand years he’d learned how to tame and live alongside chaos and strife. He hadn’t become so sure-footed and stoic in his beliefs by being easily swayed by those around him, no matter how chaotic. But it took a step, it took an action to find that point of anchorage so you didn’t get lost in the storm and Freyja had cut that tether two-hundred years prior. Setting herself adrift in a sea that Aren couldn’t save her from. She was at a crossroads and she had to make a choice one day soon or risk getting lost forever.

As the weight of the item settled in his hand, Arthur looked down. He’d been expecting some kind of necklace, and while the guess wasn’t wrong… His brow furrowed, creasing his forehead as he tried to make sense of the silver band on his upturned palm. “What’s…” was this meant to hold answers? Arthur had no magic or sense to know what he was meant to discern from a ring - tastefully designed and certainly something he would have worn. So she’d carried one of his rings all this time, so what? His head lifted towards her, confusion in his expression “I don’t understand… Is this… How is this an answer?” Because it felt like another fucking mystery.

Summer and winter. Chaos and calm. Everlasting life and eternal resurrection. If ever there had been two opposites born into the world, it was Freyja and Aren. Yet they had always been inseparable. Years would pass - lifetime after lifetime - as Mercy waited for Arthur to grow into a man and start to remember her again; remember all the lives that had come before. But she was always happy to wait. If it meant having him in her life again. It didn’t always turn out that way. He’d been but a child on several occasions throughout the centuries. Circumstances not being the best during those times. But still, Mercy had been there. He was her tether just as much as she was his.

Until she wasn’t. Until the chaos inside her had reached its boiling point. Spilling over violently and without recourse. All the result of a terrible, terrible mistake. A mistake that was on her. A mistake that had affected her so deeply that she had cast off her tether, and let herself drift far, far away. For what she couldn’t touch, she couldn’t harm.

So she handed over the necklace, hoping - quite selfishly - that Arthur would at least recognize his own taste, and perhaps begin to draw a conclusion. But Mercy wasn’t that lucky. She’d broken a vow, after all. A vow to the gods and to Aren. To never let him face the world alone. And for two-hundred years, she’d done just that. Because she was a coward. So as confusion spread across Arthur’s face, and he asked more questions, wanted more answers, Mercy felt her heart start to thrum in her chest. Fast and staccato, like a frightened bird trapped in a cage.

She felt herself take a step backwards as she tried to… speak. To say something. Anything. To quiet the chaotic storm churning to life in her head. Thoughts that she reached for but couldn’t grasp. Voices that cried out: ‘Speak! Speak now! And speak true!’ Where others warned: ‘Time… more time… you’re not ready… you need more time!’

Mercy shut her eyes as she willed the thoughts to quiet themselves. Willed them to form some sort of order that she could focus on. That she could put into words that would mean something. Instead of… give life to more questions. Out of habit, she reached for the necklace that wasn’t there - for it sat in Arthur’s palm. Waiting. Wanting. Needing answers. - and her fingers closed around the empty space, twisting the fabric of the shirt she wore into a tight bundle over her chest.

When words finally came, they weren’t the ones Mercy wanted. They were desperate, even selfish words. But most of all… they were terrified. ”I don’t… know. I’m… I’m trying, Arthur. I just… I need-” She cut herself off there, clamping down on her tongue before the last phrase she ever wanted to speak to him could meet the space between them: that she needed more time.

Arthur wasn’t sure how a piece of jewelry would solve what he’d asked of her, and once more he looked down to it hoping that perhaps something might reveal itself. Yet the ring remained as it was, glinting silver in the grey morning light filtering through the window. What did she want or expect him to say? Yes, I have the answer now? If anything the act only left him more confused than he was before and he did all that he could - look to Mercy for answers. It seemed that this was simply how they were meant to exist these days. No answers only questions.

Perhaps by now he should’ve learned his lesson. As if getting his hopes up that she might finally have the courage to bare the truth and banish the darkness. His heart beat just a fraction faster before he felt it almost viscerally sink in his chest. Those words. Of course she would pick those ones. His hopeful expression flattened as his fingers curled around the ring as his frustration seeped through the cracks.

“Go on, say it, more time? You need more time?” there was an acerbic bitterness to the words. “You’ve had two hundred fucking years Frey. How do you need more time than that?”

She deserved every bit of the anger and bitterness that Arthur flung at her. More even, if she were honest. What she didn’t deserve was chance after chance to make things better. Or at least put a start to it. Because he was absolutely right: how could she possibly need more time? Wasn’t two-hundred years enough? Two-hundred years that she’d made him wait and wonder what had happened in the time he couldn’t remember? Years of what she could only imagine had been confusion and frustration, perhaps even fear as to what had happened to her. Though Mercy felt she might be giving herself too much credit.

Arthur rarely lost his temper. In all the time she’d known him, he was far more level-headed than she would ever be. Even now, as she saw the hope fade from his expression, only to be replaced with the inevitable disappointment and frustration she always seemed to bring in her wake, he hadn’t lost it completely. And Mercy felt more selfish in that moment, standing so close to the truth, than she’d felt in the last two centuries. Because even now, she still wanted to run. Even now, when it was clear she was hurting him, the urge to flee was… almost unbearable.

But so was the flare of her own bitterness and hurt. Her own fear which so often turned to anger. It rose up fast and bright and Mercy set her jaw, glaring at him with a familiar expression that never boded well. Her eyes flashed, and her mouth moved as if she was about to fling some sharp retort in his direction. The air hummed briefly in response, but Mercy stopped herself. She stopped herself, but had unwittingly taken another step back. She was far closer to the door than she realized. A few steps and the turn of a handle was all it would’ve taken for her to bolt into the morning rain where Arthur couldn’t follow. But something told Mercy that if she ran now, something vital between them would break beyond repair. Something that no amount of time or circumstance could fix. She would finally lose him for good.

Was the secret she held really worse than that?

Mercy knew the answer. And it was a resounding ‘no.’

There was a long, tense moment of silence in which Mercy looked like nothing more than a frightened creature backed into a corner. Though it was her own doing. Words came and went, none spoken as she paced a small path in the space between Arthur and the front door. Finally, she stopped, closing her eyes and twisting her fingers in the sleeves of her shirt. The pinch of her nails gave her something to focus on until she could find something that seemed even close to… an explanation. Starting with the ring in his hand.

Her entire frame seemed to sag, making her look small and even fragile, when that was hardly the case.

“It’s all I had left of you.”

Everyone had their limits and everything that had been happening lately was pushing Arthur to his. This was the breaking point. He’d listened to enough reasons and excuses as to why Mercy should be allowed to make these decisions, why she was right and why she deserved to be given the time she needed. He’d given her it and perhaps it was on him for being soft. For letting her and so many other people walk all over him to get what suited them. All for what? What had he gotten out of that bargain?

Nothing. Nothing but loneliness, isolation and confusion. Not to mention the compounded fear of what must have happened to her that meant she had never come back. Was it a hunter or some other nefarious means that had ended her existence? What other reason did he have? And that realisation had nearly been enough to destroy him entirely. Tempted him with the fatalistic wish for it all to simply end. But he couldn’t even bring himself to manage that.

So here they were, both cowards to boot. This point, utterly inevitable as time itself. They had made a bargain after all. It was just a matter of how long it took for them to reach it.

So Arthur stood, bristling and feeling the prickle of heat itching under his skin that practically begged to catch and light in an inferno around him. Yet he kept that tamped, a modicum of control or perhaps it was mild awareness that he didn’t want to burn his new house down just because Freyja had royally pissed him off. Even as her eyes flashed he didn’t move, merely watched as she made for the door. “So now you show your colours huh? A coward to boot… If that’s what you’re choosing, take this with you,” he shot at her back while lobbing the ring across the room, it hit the door and rebounded skittering to a stop on the wooden floor near her feet.

The silence that followed was extensive and filled with rising tension and Arthur swore he could hear the pound of his blood in his temples. And then she turned. Perhaps, finally, finally seeing sense.

Except, it was never that simple. Sparks danced and there were the signs of the beginnings of an inferno silhouetting him. Not quite catching but it didn’t take much for an ember to turn into a wildfire. “That’s not an answer! The truth, NOW, or get out and don’t think about coming back.”

When the ring she had so carefully guarded for the last two centuries clattered to the floorboards at her feet, discarded like nothing more than a piece of worthless metal, Mercy flinched slightly. The air around her vibrated as her tension rose to new heights, and this time she knew she’d be unable to stop it if it got much worse. So she spoke as best she could, eyes focused on the silver band at her feet.

But even that wasn’t enough. Deep down she knew it wasn’t, but it was all she had. Or so she thought. So when Arthur finally reached his breaking point, Mercy couldn’t stop the small sound of distress that accompanied the way visibly flinched beneath the sharpness of his words. Beneath the ultimatum they laid down just as surely as the ring he’d so pointedly tossed at her feet. A thousand different thoughts passed through Mercy’s head at that moment. A thousand years of history. Of friendship. Of always being there just as they promised. But Mercy had broken that promise. And now she had to pay for it. Perhaps not with blood, but with something just as vital.

A long moment passed before Mercy slowly reached down to pick up the ring, letting the broken chain fall away. She let it lie in her palm, a nameless expression passing over her face before it settled into something… sad. Remorseful even. After another moment, she untucked her right hand from beneath her arm and slipped a small, silver ring off her third finger. It was something she’d always worn, like the necklace, but it went largely unnoticed.

Moving towards him, Mercy held out her hand once she was close enough for him to see, and gently set the smaller band inside the larger one. They were a perfect match. “‘My whole heart for my whole life,’” she said softly. “That’s one vow I’ve never broken. Unlike so many others.”

It was a cruel and vindictive move, clearly care had been taken in the possession of keeping this ring safe. It clearly meant something to Mercy but that was just the thing wasn’t it? Everything else, all these material possessions seemed to mean more to her than Arthur did himself. Telling really, that a piece of metal meant more to her than thousands of years.

But it seemed that perhaps an act of cruelty out of angered desperation was just the necessary amount to break through her barriers of silence. She flinched, something he’d barely seen in a thousand years proof of the power they both seemed to wield over one another. Knowing just the right spots to hit so they hurt the most. He watched silently as she retrieved the band wondering just what she was going to decide. Leave as she had before or stand and face the reckoning that awaited.

And then she untucked her own hand; one she’d kept hidden for the duration of so many of their encounters. Out of sight and attention that in his focus on trying to understand the play of her emotions he’d completely overlooked the little adornments. Even more specifically overlooked her own ring that became the center point of focus as she pulled it off her finger and approached.

She extended the pair, and a few minutes of processing the combination of her words and the pairing of the ring - far too similar in design to be coincidental. Things started to finally click. Some of the fog and confusion dissipated. “What…” the questions lingered in his eyes as a single strange concept came to mind, one he’d thought about countless times in the past but never truly had the courage to act upon… Unless… He reached out hesitantly, picking the rings up off her palm and holding them up to the light. “But…. why?” How did this explain anything? If anything it only further complicated the matter.

Mercy was stubborn, yes. More stubborn than most. It had been her nature when she was human. Becoming a Fury had only made it a thousand times worse. But even Fury’s had their limits. And this was Mercy’s. When faced with the threat of truly losing the one thing she never wanted to live without, even the will of a Valkyrie would bend and break.

So Mercy gave over her centuries’s-old secret. One she’d kept as carefully as she’d kept the bands that now lay in Arthur’s palm. Bands that left her feeling utterly naked without their weight against her skin. He held them up to the light, and Mercy watched his face, watched as something deep inside finally clicked. Not a memory, she knew those were gone, but a realization based on the facts that had been presented so far.

She tucked her hands away again as she crossed her arms. This wasn’t finished. An explanation still remained unspoken, despite the dawning of connection on Arthur’s face. So when he asked why, Mercy could only swallow past the tightness that threatened to bind her words again, and speak the truth.

“We were married.” Another small pause as Mercy looked away. “Or… we would’ve been.” She closed her eyes, trying not to remember that day even as it flooded her mind with a rush of painful images and sensations. “You were… you were killed. On our wedding day. By a man that… that sought revenge on me. For… humiliating him in front of his peers. You had… enemies. In that lifetime. Political and otherwise. And… you didn’t mind letting me take a jab or two here and there.” Mercy rubbed her arms, the sensation of being doused in ice water one that was all too familiar. “I was waiting for you, I was… there. At the altar we’d placed in the forest. It was… beautiful. And then… I felt this… terrible pain. Here.” Mercy touched her stomach just beneath her ribs, near her heart. “And I knew… I knew you were dying.”

There was more to the story, but it was all a blur, even now. The frantic rush through the forest and then the gardens… the plumes of black smoke that were already rising from the burning villa. Mercy screaming… fighting against the people that tried to keep her from running inside. Breaking away from them… not caring if the whole place came down around her… only caring about him. About finding him among the smoke and the embers and the flames. If she could get there in time… find the vial of tears…

But she had been too late.

It had been Arthur’s burning that set fire to the villa. All Mercy found was blood and ash.

“Your death was my fault. It had never been my fault before. Not in any lifetime. Not until… not until you finally loved me like I love you.” Mercy looked away, closing her eyes. “I couldn’t let you get hurt again because of me.”

Arthur’s fingers traced over the smaller circlet, a vast contrast to the vehemence with which he’d thrown them a moment before. Surprising what a small bit of context and information would do for a situation, and as Mercy began to tell him the story he listened. Not a word spoken as he turned back towards the window that looked out over the bay. No interruption or comment came, his own arms crossing loosely in front of him. The only sign he was even listening was the subtle tilt of his head in her direction, and occasional minor reaction that read through his body language.

His expression was a mask for the time being, compartmentalised and pieced together so as now to react too soon. It wouldn’t do. He couldn’t afford for things to turn now, not when she was finally willing to lay it all bare. And he knew it wasn’t easy, but they would both be better for it. That much he knew. But the thought that he’d finally had enough courage to go ahead and ask. That they’d been so close to being married… It stirred a warm flutter in his chest that he hadn’t felt in many, many years. But the pain in Freyja’s voice, it was more than enough to finally help piece those missing moments together.

A slow nod followed a moment of consideration, until eventually she finished. The burning of the villa solved the mystery of the burnt pages which in turn contained any memories pertinent to that lifetime. And consequently the belief that had kept her away for so long. His lip found its way between his teeth and he chewed it thoughtfully until silence fell over the room. Her final closing remark enough for all else to momentarily be set aside in its consideration. The thing of note catching his attention being the tense.

Present.

“Married...” even uttering the word aloud felt rather surreal. Who would’ve thought… There was a short, sharp inhale. An act to steady himself as he processed everything she said. It was admittedly a lot and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to work through it all today. Not wishing to undermine all that she’d said, Arthur finally turned with a small but present smile. There was still a lingering resentment over her holding out for so long, but he’d need to work through that in his own time. “Thank you for telling me… This is… a lot, and um… I’m going to need some time to process…” His eyes drifted down to the rings, tracing the edge of them reverently now that he understood their importance. Lifting his hand he offered them back for her to take “you should…. Keep these safe, hm? You’ve done such a good job this long...”

And there it was. All laid bare between them. Some might say the truth wasn’t worth all that Mercy had done, or not done, over the last two centuries. Some might call her selfish, or even foolish, for letting such a thing affect her in such a dramatic way. And maybe they were right. But Mercy didn’t care what anyone else thought. The only person who’s opinion she cared about at this moment was Arthur. And even then she knew she was unlikely to get any true response from him just yet. It was… quite a lot to take in. And she’d just glossed the surface of it all. Telling the most important aspects of what was a far longer and far more complicated tale. But every word was true.

There was more that came afterwards. More that explained the static hum that surrounded her at times. More that involved what happened to the men that had orchestrated Arthur’s murder. And so on. But all that could wait for another day. Another time. Right now, Mercy fell quiet, waiting patiently as Arthur began to process all that she’d told him, silently wondering if any of it would still matter to him like it mattered to her. If she would still matter to him as he did to her.

But that was a hopelessly selfish thought. So Mercy put it away despite the fact that she knew Arthur wouldn’t have missed a single word once she’d started speaking. Or how she’d used them.

He knew.

And for now, that was all that mattered.

Mercy hummed quietly at his one-word response, watching the rain as it slid down the windowpane. She wasn’t quite sure how to feel now that she’d let go of the words after so long. Relieved? Not quite. Unburdened? Not at all. Scared? Terrified. Perhaps the feeling was closest to numbness. Feeling so much all at once that her mind just… shut it all down. Perhaps that was best. So she waited, watching the lines of rain as they ran down the glass, only to disappear and be replaced by another. Over and over and over.

When Arthur finally broke the silence, Mercy blinked herself out of her thoughts and turned towards him. She knew that one forgotten lifetime was unlikely to affect the next, despite the evidence he held in his hand. It was wishful thinking on her part, despite the fact that she knew there would be feelings between them that weren’t positive. Meaning she would be lucky if Arthur didn’t hate her after all this. Which would be the least of what Mercy felt she deserved.

So she nodded as he thanked her, taking a shaky breath that she let out slowly. “I know.” It went unspoken that Arthur could take all the time he needed. Mercy would wait. For as long as it took.

When he handed the rings back, Mercy felt that familiar tightness in her throat. She hadn’t expected him to keep them, but having them handed back, even in such a reverent way, struck something inside her that she couldn’t put a name to. But she took them anyway, gently closing her hand around them and offering him a soft smile in return.

“Always.”

They were very old, after all. And very, very precious.

#para #p: freyja #a tale of two halves #// thar be secrets here

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curus-creations · 4 years

Text

It began with me treating myself to sushi. Cheap vegetarian sushi – I'm not made of money.

That's why I didn't make the connection immediately. Even now, it's just my best guess. All that fake caviar – I have no idea what it really is – just as easily swallowed as popped between my teeth.

I'm not saying it was real caviar, of course. It was eggs, yes, but not fish eggs – and nobody can be blamed for not anticipating that.

Hell, I could still be wrong. It took about a week for 'symptoms' to show. And at the time, I had no thought of even describing them as that. Occasional twitches and twinges; a tickling, itchy feeling; brief glimpses of my own body – in dreams – covered with string-like creatures crawling stop-motion through my skin. Only the last one seemed even close to concerning, and – well – wasn't it just a way for the dreaming mind to explain a minor worry?

Then I met him, of course.

I was still going out as normal at this time, trying to live a normal life – I wasn't in any pain, for one thing. It was as I was sat with friends that I saw him. Sat across from me, suddenly filling a space I hadn't thought to notice as empty. Nobody else seemed to have noticed him. His face was in shadow – despite the light. I couldn't see it all at once, and what features I could make out – they seemed familiar. Some old memory twitched awake and told me I had seen him before, dimly, on a television screen or some glanced poster.

It told me I shouldn't trust him.

In that regard I was very much ahead – some stranger blithely sitting amidst my friends was never going to earn my trust.

He leaned forward, took hold of my drink. "You've been dreaming about the worms."

...I decided, trust or no, to hear him out.

"You have received a gift." I eyed him as he took a long swig from my glass. Unsure if talking would break the spell. "Your suspicion is reasonable." He pushed the glass back to me, and naturally I made a note not to touch it. "You have only just begun to understand. Yet I can guide you. I will guide you."

I was not grateful. "Who are you? What the – what the fuck do you mean?" No use – he was gone. One of my friends glanced sidelong at me – had they heard me? Not quite enough to care.

Neither that, nor the message I had just recieved, was comforting.

The symptoms of my 'gift' intensified.

My limbs ached. My body felt hollow, a skin sack propped on sticks. My dreams were clear on the matter – my body was a home to horsehair worms, crawling staccato through pores, despite what I myself might be doing in dreamland. Sometimes – just brief glances – I thought I could see the dance under my skin, in the waking world.

I still had to live. Ever had to drag yourself to the shops, feeling like you might collapse and deflate at any moment? Well, maybe some of you have. I walked down the aisles in a haze. The world outside me was a dull fuzz of sensation. A lightning bolt of pain – the world went dark entirely.

My first realisation was that I had screamed. My second was that I was on the floor. (The floor of a public building is a terrible place to be.) Looking up, I could see already that nobody was inclined to help. Nobody was holding out a hand, or asking if I was alright. Indeed, nobody was looking my way at all.

"You are no longer one of them." My messenger was above me, straight-backed and faceless. "I'm not human?" This time, I was apparently permitted to address him. "Do not be mistaken – it is not a matter of biology," he responded. "A dog is not human by any genetic or morphological means – and yet most of these kind people would stop to help a dog, would they not?" "...Probably?" He held out a hand. I took it – noted how cold and bloodless it felt, how much more like a glove than skin – and he lifted me to my feet effortlessly. "But what are you implying, then?" He shrugged. "None of them could put a name to it. They barely know they are doing it. They simply know you are wrong."

I still had to live.

But he was right. My contact with the outside world was drying up. I can't tell you how much of it was another symptom of the change – and I knew for certain I was changing, now; the shifting patterns under my skin did not disappear when I looked at them, anymore. It was understandable that I would not be so willing to engage with casual conversation. But nobody reached out to me. No responses to emails, statuses, messages. My friends began to elide past my contributions to the conversation (digitally – I no longer had the strength to leave the house, and they did not care).

My parents. My parents – well.

I'd never had the best relationship with my parents. But I noticed when they stopped contacting me, too. It was the second of two dreadful, anxious days that I finally screwed up the courage to call. My mum picked up. And, subsequently -

"Hello?" "Hello. Hello! Mum, it's – mum -" "Hello?" Oh God.

"Who is this?" Did she even recognise the number? "I'm sorry, I can't hear you." "Mum, please -" Phone down. Oh God, oh God.

What would happen if she rang back? Would I answer and fail to be heard again? Or would my lack of existence spread to my points of contact – the number you have dialed has not been recognised. I choked. Oh God, dear God. What did she think her life had been up to now? Was I in it? Was any child? Oh God. God help me.

I'd ended up in my bedroom – instinct for comfort still functioning, at least. A vicious twist in my stomach and I was down, digging my nails into the sheets, bones like bundles of splinters.

I could sense him there. Messenger. (Didn't angel, once, mean messenger?) With an effort I rolled myself over. Squinting through teary eyes, his face seemed...vibrant.

"Please." I could see metal in his hand. Catching the light. His other hand pressed, gently, onto my chest. His skin was cold – he had no pulse – neither did I. I felt nothing when the blade sank into my abdomen.

The unnecessary cover was peeled away.

My guide let go of me. I sat up, propping myself on rigid arms. The – the writhing – segmented – my skin had no blood, wet white sheets neatly placed aside, and framed by them the same pearlescent pale crumpled – worms – serpents – I. I couldn't want this.

I retched. Nothing came out. Nothing happened, but something was moving in my mouth. I opened up, hoping to let it fall, and out tumbled – more – more segments. Entwined and writhing me.

This wasn't right. I felt trapped. Rib cage – of course they'd call it that! I was clawing at my chest even as I writhed to escape my own insides. My teeth churned, my fingers sloughed away.

In the distance – oh, he felt so distant – my messenger, radiant, his voice holding the tone of joy, love, rapture: "Is this not a gift?"

#writing #horror #body horror #transformation #parasites #worms #transcendence horror

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wanderingpride · 5 years

Text

A short story with Auro and Cassius.

It was getting late; the sunset was stretching its last rays over the mountains in the distance, Auro slumped on the grass in Cassius’ backyard, waiting for dinner. He always felt a little bad for Cassius. Not only did he have to worry about providing enough food for himself, but he had to make food for at least twenty extra regular humans on top of that. Auro shook his head, trying to get the thoughts out of his brain whilst taking a deep breath in, inhaling the scent of freshly cooking steak. Mouth watering a little, he felt his stomach about to rumble, hunching over trying to suppress the sound. Alas, it didn’t work, as Cassius gleefully opened the window and chuckled.

“I heard that. Worry not, it’ll be ready soon!”

That smile never seemed to leave Cassius’ face, something that Auro secretly admired about him. His generosity and altruism were unrivalled. Auro wished he could match it. A sigh escaped his lips as he goes back to drawing soft circles in the grass, barely feeling the individual blades on his fingers anymore; a combination of tough calluses and the finger simply being too large the cause. He missed those little things.

The door to the backyard opens, Cassius barely able to keep his balance with the sheer amount of food he’s carrying as he places a very full tray of meat on the little picnic table next to where Auro is sitting. Cassius is barely phased by Auro’s enormous form now, it wasn’t the boy’s fault he ended up like this. That he believed wholeheartedly, no matter what disgruntled townsfolk say. Cassius serves himself some meat and oven-roasted vegetables, before pushing the rest of the enormous tray to Auro, a routine that both of them know very well. But most unusually, Auro doesn’t even look at the food, a thousand yard stare frozen into his face as his brows furrow, pushing the tray back to Cassius.

“Auro? What’s wrong?”

Cassius’ dinner now lay abandoned on the picnic table as the old man leapt to his feet and approached the giant, running a gentle hand down the side of Auro’s thigh as he walked around to the front. Auro’s gaze flickered down for a brief moment before looking away, eyes deader than before, face sunken and void of emotion.

“Cass.” Auro said, his voice booming.

“Yes?”

Auro bows his head before diverting his dead-eyed stare back to Cassius, taking in a breath.

“Why do you do this?”

Cassius tilts his head.

“Do what?” he asks, a little confused.

“You know...all this. You give me free food. A place to sleep. I can do all of this on my own, you know. I don’t need your help.”

Cassius’ brows raise. He knows better than to automatically assume Auro is being ungrateful.

“What? You know why I do this. Because I love you; you are my son and I care about you. Do you take me to be the type to leave someone to suffer?”

“Maybe I wasn’t suffering.” Auro snaps back.

Cassius takes a step back, crossing his arms.

“Let me head upstairs so we can talk face to face like adults.”

He briskly walks to the picnic table and collects all the food, putting it on the kitchen counter for the time being. Cassius soon emerges from the balcony of the master bedroom, Auro standing up to meet him despite still having to crouch a little bit to meet eye to eye.

“Auro,” Cassius begins, “what is this about.”

The giant’s shoulders tense, his face contorting into a scowl as his temper begins to flare.

“I’m just...I’m sick of being an inconvenience.” Auro answers, “You make me all this good food and built an entire goddamn fucking barn for me to sleep in and for what? This does nothing but make more problems, you have more to do around here now. You don’t just have one human mouth to feed, you gotta make a fucking army’s worth of grub for one person! And let’s not forget everyone who I’ve had to steal from otherwise I’d DIE otherwise.”

He begins to raise his voice, losing his composure.

“I feel pathetic! I can’t even fend for myself. Everyone I have met has showered me with life’s most basic necessities; things that I should be able to get on my own. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be babied. I know I’m an overgrown freak of fucking nature now but I still have my fucking DIGNITY! How am I supposed to survive if I can’t even rely on myself to stay alive...”

“Auro.”

“DON’T AURO ME. LISTEN TO ME.”

“No, Auro. Listen to me.”

A little taken aback at Cass’ sudden change of tone, Auro begins pacing back and forth, the wind from his movements rustling Cassius’ hair a little as the old man covers his ears slightly at Auro’s raised voice. But Auro doesn’t notice, too wrapped up in his own overflowing emotions to even look at Cassius properly. But Cassius doesn’t look away, not even for a second. Auro’s frustration tugged strongly on Cassius’ heartstrings; this definitely wasn’t a case of him being bratty.

“You can ignore my words all you like, but the truth cannot be denied forever. Do you know why people give you all these things? Do you know why people willingly part with these necessities to help their fellow man?”

Auro turns back to Cassius, his expression twisting with guilt as he sees Cassius remove his hands from his ears.

“No but please, enlighten me.”

“Because we want to.”

“WHAT KIND OF A REASON IS THAT.”

Cassius’ hands swiftly cover his ears again.

“A perfectly valid and believable one.”

“WHAT GOOD IS HELP IF ALL IT’S DOING IS SOFTENING ME AND MAKING ME RELY ON OTHERS FOR MY OWN WELL BEING?! DON’T YOU GET IT?!”

In a fit of rage, Auro’s hands grip the roof with a mighty thump, dislodging the dust on the balcony ceiling as it lands on Cassius’ bun. The man cowers a little at the thump, expecting the roof to cave in.

“Auro, please--”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

The only thing Cassius hears is the sound of Auro’s heavy breathing, the giant beginning to hyperventilate, unsure how to handle what he’s kept pent up for so long now finally bursting at the seams. Auro hunches over the balcony, blocking out those last few rays of sunlight as it plunges Cassius into darkness, eclipsed by Auro’s torso. Cassius crouches down, hands above his head, Auro too worked up to truly take note.

“IF PEOPLE WANTED TO HELP ME, THEY WOULD HAVE HELPED ME BACK WHEN I ACTUALLY FUCKING NEEDED IT. WHY WAIT ALL THIS TIME? WHY WAIT UNTIL I CAN LITERALLY NEVER FUNCTION IN A HUMAN SOCIETY EVER AGAIN?!” Auro cries, rearing his foot back.

“I don’t know Auro, I don’t--”

“THEN WHY ARE YOU HELPING ME NOW? I’LL NEVER LEARN IF I DON’T--”

A splintering crunch brought silence to the pair, Auro waking up from his blind anger looking down to the ground. He lifts up his foot, finding the picnic table utterly destroyed. He glances back to Cassius, still cowering as Auro takes another step back, letting light back onto the balcony.

“Cass...I…” he mumbled, barely able to speak behind choking sobs.

Cassius cautiously rises to his feet, peering over the balcony to look at the destruction. His gaze is interrupted by the sound of a hiccup, eyes darting to Auro, eyes teary and face contorted in grief. The man sighs, all fear he once had melting away as he feels a wash of relief seeing Auro calm down once again. Auro covers his face, shoulders heaving.

“I’m sorry, Cass…”

Cass smiles gently.

“Come here.”

Auro approaches the balcony once again, peering at Cassius through a space in his fingers. He wipes away his tears, crouching down to meet Cassius face to face again as his eyes glisten once again, barely able to look at the man. Cassius reaches up and wipes a tear away from the corner of Auro’s eye, the man’s hand and sleeve utterly soaked.

“Do you know why we help you? Because we love you. Because humans are a social species. You and I, we are not meant to live alone. We are meant to connect with one another, to communicate with one another...to form incredible relationships and be a part of the wondrously wide network that is the human race. Humans help each other for a myriad of reasons. For me? It’s because you are a son to me. You are my son, and there is nothing more important to me than family.”

Cassius runs his hand down Auro’s cheek, Auro too ashamed to look at him.

“Helping people does not always mean they are too pitiful or lazy to get what they need themselves. Sometimes it simply means that people love and care for you so much, that they are willing to part with what they have for the wellbeing and happiness of somebody else. Don’t you see? People love you so dearly, that they are willing to part with everything they have for your sake. You are not the easiest person to care for, I admit, but seeing you thrive, recover and grow brings me so much more pleasure and happiness than any amount of material possessions ever could. You make me so proud, Auro Lengdreal, and I love you more than you realise.”

Auro backs away, a few seconds of silence befalling them before he bursts into tears, his weeping filling the air as his hands fall away from his face. Auro sits back on the ground, too exhausted to keep standing up as Cass recognises the cue to rush back downstairs, meeting Auro outside merely a few seconds later.

He lays on the grass, continuing to weep, as Cassius nestles himself in between Auro’s arms and chest. Auro places a very careful hand on the back of Cassius’ head, resting his fingers on the man’s shoulders. Cassius softly hushes the man, feeling Auro’s body convulse with heavy hearted sobs. Auro gently pushes Cassius into his chest, Cassius allowing himself to sink into the pressure, closing his eyes as he feels Auro’s warmth soothe him. He continues to quietly hush Auro, regardless of whether Auro can hear him or not. Auro begins to speak, Cassius feeling every word rumble through Auro’s chest.

“Cass?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about the table.”

Cassius laughs, wriggling himself free from Auro’s hand as he meets Auro face to face, giving him a few endearing paps on the cheek.

“Tables can be replaced. Lives cannot. I’ll just get another one.”

Auro sits up again, running a hand through his hair bashfully.

“Yeah...I suppose. And uh, Cass?”

“Yes?”

“...I’m still hungry.”

A cheeky smile brightened up the old man’s face as he turned on his heel.

“As am I. I’ll go heat up the steak again.”

“Mine was medium rare right?”

“Of course. Extra fat on your cuts, correct?”

Auro reached over and gave Cassius’ hair a light ruffle, loosening his bun.

“You know it...dad.”

#tea writing #tea art #father and son

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indescribablechoices · 6 years

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Afraid of Falling (Damien x MC)

After talking with Hayden, Kai heads out to find Damien and finally fess up her feelings. But it seems Damien had the same idea.

A follow up to All I’ve Ever Learned From Love; a rewrite of the break up scene with Hayden. You don’t need to have read it to read this one!

“So, do you always chop wood half naked by moonlight or is this a Germany-exclusive thing?”

Damien glanced around to see Kai stood watching him, her arms folded across her chest, a soft smile on her face. His eyes dragged across her form, trying not to focus on the thigh high slit of the purple dress she was still wearing. Curse this infernal woman and her ability to distract him.

He rolled his eyes at her, causing her smile to grow.

“I mean it,” she laughed, “It definitely adds to the whole ‘rugged, manly master of nature’ vibe. But you’ve got to have a major concern about splinters.”

“My extraordinarily manly physique is impervious to… such…” he let out a sigh, “I’m really not in the mood, Kai. I’m sorry.”

She gave an understanding nod, “You don’t have anything to apologise for. It hasn’t exactly been easy going. Particularly that dinner. Talk about intense dining.”

“It was definitely not how I-” he swung the axe down to split another log, “Expected this to go.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Or… not talk about it?” she said, stepping a little closer, “Bad jokes and my fine company are all I got, but they’re yours if you want them.”

He felt a warmth in his chest as their eyes met. If only she understood how much her companionship really meant. But he turned his gaze back to the stump.

“It’s sweet of you to offer, Peanut, but I’ll stick to chopping wood. The last thing you need with everything going on is me burdening you with my problems,” he said.

And yet, she came even closer, offering him a smile, “Watching Damien Nazario doing manual labour; what an awful burden for me to bear. Whatever shall I do?” She feigned a swoon, and he couldn’t help but crack a small smile before letting out a sigh.

“It’s not that. It’s just… There are things you don’t know,” he avoided her gaze, “Kai, when you’re around, I- There are things I’ve been meaning to-” he ran a hand through his hair, cursing himself for not shutting his mouth, grabbing a fresh log to chop, “Forget it. Don’t worry about me,” he split the wood with a hard swing, “I’ll be fine.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He opened his mouth to argue with her, to shut her out, to turn her away like he always did, but tonight? Tonight, he didn’t it in him to fight her. Whatever came of this conversation, whether he got his confession out or not, he knew Kai. She was going to be at his side, no matter what.

“I think we both know that we need to talk,” she said.

He let out a sigh, setting the axe down, “Yeah, alright. Take a walk with me? The forest that surrounds this place is lovely this time of night. It’ll give us someplace to talk where we won’t have Sloane or your cousin or… anyone else, interrupting us.”

“You want me to walk into the woods with you in the dark?” she frowned.

He smiled, “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but returned his smile, “My hero. But if I trip and break my leg, you’re carrying me back.”

“Deal,” he chuckled. Side by side, they wandered along the twisting path that led into the forest, moonlight illuminating their path. He made some comments about the wildflowers, then the stars, opening his mouth to point something else out before she let out a snort.

“So,” she said, coming to a stop in a small clearing, “You do realise I know you well enough to recognise when you’re stalling, right?”

He sighed, turning to face her, “I’m that obvious, huh?”

“Look I’ll keep playing along with your distractions if it makes you feel better, but I think if we don’t talk we’re both going to regret it the next time shit hits the fan,” she said.

He nodded, “You’re right. As always… Listen, Kai, I- God I don’t even know where to start.”

“If I ask you something, will you promise to give me an honest answer? No matter what.”

“Sure.”

“Was what that Eros computer said true? Do you have feelings for me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

He let out a sigh, “It’s not that simple, it’s-”

“It is that simple, Damien,” she said, squaring her small form in front of him slightly, “Whatever it is that you’re so scared of, just tell me the truth. You’re my best friend. And I told you that I’m not going anywhere. I plan to stand by that.”

“It’s because we’re best friends that I’ve never said anything,” he ran a hand through his hair, “The last time I was here, I was a very different man. Not a man I ever want to be again. I lived my life undercover, not knowing who I could trust, not even sure if I could trust myself anymore. I barely knew who I was. Then after everything that went down in Beitan… One bad piece of intel was all it took to ruin someone’s life.”

“Damien,” she said quietly, stepping up to him to squeeze his arm.

“The higher-ups said it wasn’t my fault, that I made the right call, but it doesn’t change what happened,” he said, “When I got back to the States, I was even more lost. I just wallowed in my own guilt… But you changed that. You invited me places. You stopped me drinking alone. You made me laugh, Kai. You made me laugh during a time when I thought I would never have another reason to smile. I can’t tell you how much your friendship means to me… And that’s why I’ve never wanted to jeopardise it. You’ve always been there when I needed you, even if I didn’t know it myself. You are the one constant good thing in my life… I can’t lose you. Ever… But I almost lost you for real last night. And I can’t stand the thought of losing you forever and being to much of a damn coward to tell you how I feel.”

“How you feel?” her voice was barely audible.

His eyes searched her face, taking in every detail. The flecks of gold in her brown eyes. The small gathering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The plump curve of her bottom lip. He would never get tired of looking at this face.

Now or never Nazario.

“I care about, Kai. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone,” he said, “No matter how dark life gets, you’re always there, lighting it up again. You’re… You’re everything, Peanut.” He took a step backwards, letting out a sigh, “And I know. You’re with Hayden. You’ve already got your perfect match. But I-”

“Damien-” she started to say but he held his hand up.

“Please, just let me say this whilst I still have the courage,” he begged, “I know I’m being selfish, burdening you with this now of all times. You’re dealing with so much right now, and you don’t need this added to the pile. But I just… I couldn’t go another day without telling you how I feel. Not when I realised how easily I could lose you.”

“Damien, I-”

“You don’t have to say anything right now. Or ever. We can pretend like this never happened if you’d like. But I had to say something before I regretted it forever,” he said, “Dealing with Eros and staying safe is the main priority right now. Let’s just drop it. We should be getting back. I just-”

Before he could say another word, her mouth was on his, kissing him. Hard. Her arms slid around his neck, pulling herself closer against his body as she continued to kiss him, despite his rigid, shocked state. He let out a soft groan as his body began to relax into the kiss, wrapping his arms around her body to hold her close against his chest. He allowed himself to kiss her back, daring to believe that this was really happening.

Kai, his Kai, was really kissing him. She was softer than he’d imagined. For a girl with a sharp personality, everything about her was soft. Her hair, her body, her mouth. He savoured the feel of her embrace. Surely this would never happen again. This was a pity kiss; a taste of something he would never have again. But if this was going to be the only time he held her, he was going to enjoy it.

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, voice lowered, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Her fingers curled in the dark ends of his hair behind his neck, “You think you’re the only one who came out here to make a confession?”

His eyes snapped open, “What?”

She against his mouth, “It’s why I wanted to talk. I… I feel the same way about you Damien. I have done for so long now. I was always worried about losing you as well. It’s why I never said anything.”

As much as it pained him to say the next words, he knew he had to, “What about Hayden?”

“We broke up,” she told him, “Not because of what he is, I don’t care about that. But we both knew that something wasn’t right between us. It would have been easy to go on like nothing was wrong, but he had the guts to come out and say it.”

“He broke up with you?” Damien’s eyebrows raised in shocked.

“Not so much,” she said quietly, “He… He wanted me to be happy. Even if it wasn’t with him. I came out to the yard to tell you, and attempt this conversation, but you just had to distract me with your rugged wood-chopping physique and you beat me to it.”

He laughed softly under his breath, “We’re a pair of idiots, aren’t we?” He ran his thumb along her jaw, teasing the corner of her lips.

“Just kiss me again,” she demanded, both of them leaning in to meet lips in a hard kiss. The longer they stood there, the hungrier their kiss got, hands clutching at clothes and hair, Kai finding herself with her back against a tree, pinned there by Damien’s body as his hand ran up her bare leg, hooking it around his thigh.

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you in this dress,” he whispered against her mouth, “All I could think about was kissing you senseless right in front of everyone.”

“There would have been no complaints on my end,” she gasped as his mouth moved to her jawline, then her neck.

“You are the most infuriatingly distracting woman I’ve ever met,” he told her, “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Tell me,” she begged, tilting her neck back to give him better access.

“I’ve been attracted to you since the first day we met,” he said, “When you strode into my office behind Nadia, wearing that grey crop top you love and your denim shorts. But after that, every time I saw you, it made me want you more. I wasn’t kidding before, Peanut, you are the bright light in my life. You make me so happy.”

Tears pricked at her eyes as she moved her head to catch his lips in another kiss, “All this time we wasted…”

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmured against her mouth before stepping back out of her embrace slightly, “We don’t have to rush this. We don’t have to figure this all out at once. If this is going to happen, I want to do it right. You deserve to have it done right.”

“So we’re taking it slow, then?” she smiled, almost teasingly.

“I waited four years to kiss you. I think I’ve more than proved my patience,” he pointed out with a grin.

She stole one final kiss, then took hold of his hand, “We should get back. The last thing we need is Nadia getting worried and finding us dry humping up against a tree.”

He barked out a laugh, “We would never live that down.”

“We aren’t going to live this down anyway,” she said as they began to walk back towards the house, “She is going to be so god damned smug.”

“Did you ever tell her? About how you felt?” he asked.

“I… hinted, early on,” she told him, “She knew that I was insanely attracted to you, but as time went on and you didn’t seem to show any interest, I decided to keep my mouth shut about the whole thing. She’s like a dog with a bone, she never would have let it drop.”

“And to think I didn’t ask you out because I didn’t think you were interested,” he hummed, then rolled his eyes, “But she definitely had some clue. Remember Truth or Dare at her party? When she asked you if you were attracted to me.”

“And I took the drink to save us both the embarrassment of me trying not to admit that I’d been pining after you for years.”

“Your sacrifice is appreciated.”

They laughed the rest of the way back to the safe house, quietly entering the front door as not to disturb anyone who was sleeping. He walked her to her bedroom door, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.

“Goodnight, Peanut,” he said quietly.

“Goodnight, Damien.”

She leaned against the doorframe as he headed towards his own door, shooting her one last smile before going into his room. Heart a-flutter, she quietly went into her room, closing the door behind herself, leaning against it, letting out a content sigh.

She stayed there for a moment, trying to wrap her head around the fact that that had really happened. She grabbed her phone and sent off a quick text. She wasn’t even fully out of her dress before Nadia was running into her room, slamming the door behind her, bottle of wine in hand, demanding details.

#perfect match #damien x mc #mc x damien #damien nazario #kai park #writing

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leahlisabeth · 7 years

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6. Empty Kiss - When one of you don’t kiss back, just the stoic feeling of their lips on yours, it’s empty, like no one even cares anymore. - Andreil fight, mayhaps???

Andrew knew something had shifted when feelings started to break through his drug fueled haze. At first, it was weak, just fleeting impressions sneaking through when he approached sobriety. There was fear, the urge to run, and, most improbably, every once in awhile he actually cared about Exy. The anger, the stubbornness, those he recognised, those could almost be his own, but the longing to be a part of the family, that was something that he had stomped out long ago.

Again, he blames the drugs because it took him far too long to realise the feelings were not his own. They belonged to this boy, the rabbit, scarred and terrified, but strong and full of words like knives, Neil Josten, the runaway, soulmate to the monster.

He wonders if Neil knows. He mustn’t. Would the longing to belong be this strong if he knew his soul had found a home? He wonders sometimes if Neil can feel anything from his side of the bond and if the drugs would let him care, he would rail at the injustice.

It takes months for the mark to even begin to show. It’s a fox paw because of course it is. Neil’s obsessed. And Andrew thinks it fits somehow because maybe if there was nothing standing in the way and he could let Neil be his everything, he would be drawn into everything else he was missing, the home and family that the Palmetto Foxes provided.

He traced the lines over and over in bed at night, pressing hard, trying to feel what he knew it should mean but he usually fell asleep without an answer.

Thanksgiving arrived and everything changed again. Drake happened and Andrew was separated from everyone, separated from Neil, and he was getting clean. He would trace the mark every time he couldn’t sleep, when the pain from withdrawal grew too much. He wished he could feel Neil, that he could draw strength from his feelings, from a Christmas celebrated with friends, and a new year full of possibility. But he was also happy that the bond hadn’t darkened yet and Neil wouldn’t have his Christmas ruined by Andrew’s pain.

And then he comes back, and Neil is bruised and broken, and Andrew never really believed this was real. But sometimes now, Neil lets him pin him to the ground and kiss him slowly and the fox paw on his forearm is red as scarlet. Neil blushes as red as the mark when he finally pulls up the hem of his shorts to let Andrew see the outline of the key traced on his inner thigh. Andrew kisses Neil like his life depends on it and waits for the other shoe to drop.

The away game in Binghamton is an exercise in restraint. He sits beside Neil in the bus and can feel every thought and feeling as Neil remembers their kisses the night before. Neil is dangerous. Andrew makes promises.

He feels a spike of fear from Neil as he waits for him outside the showers. He almost barges in to demand an explanation but Neil calms almost immediately. Neil exits the showers, his hair wet and his shirt clinging to his skin as if he hadn’t properly dried off before putting it on. He looks around, able to hide his hint of surprise from everyone but Andrew. He comes and stands directly in front of Andrew and smiles. It isn’t a smile that Andrew recognizes.

“Thank you. You were amazing,” Neil said, and Andrew was overwhelmed. Neil was leaving the stadium, right behind the security guard before Andrew could even begin to sort out what Neil had just given him. There was pride, and something Andrew thought might be love, but there was fear too, and bitter determination, and Andrew ran to catch up to Neil when he realised the sour thread running through everything was goodbye.

Then the riot began and he was too late. He could feel fear and pain from Neil, enough to drive him mad. He barely felt the elbow driving into his eye.

And then the riot ended and the fear and pain went on. Andrew found Neil’s duffle, phone tucked inside, and his Exy racquet a few feet away, handle broken and splintered. Neil was nowhere.

And no one else seemed worried. Dan was preoccupied with Matt’s injuries. Wymack and Abby were perfectly calm and said they would call around to the other hospitals once they had had time to get organised. There was no reason to panic now. Everyone he knew was sitting, laughing, relieved to be alive and safe, and his own world was imploding. Pain was fluttering up and down his hands and arms. Andrew knew intimately what a razor to the forearm felt like. Fire licked at his inner thigh and his soulmark exploded in pain. Andrew screamed hoarsely and doubled over, collapsing to the floor.

Abby was there a moment later, frantically patting him down for injuries. Andrew couldn’t speak because it was suddenly much too quiet. The place in his mind that Neil had occupied since they met was empty and echoing. Even the residual ache from Neil’s pain had disappeared entirely.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” Andrew whispered as he tore off his right armband. “It’s not black, he’s alive.” But the mark had changed to a deep purple and Andrew didn’t know what that meant.

“Neil’s…” Dan choked. “He’s your soulmate?”

Nicky deflated, pulled a wad of cash out of his wallet, and handed it to Allison. Dan shot them a venomous glare.

“We’ll get him back, Andrew,” Wymack started but Andrew was done, he pushed past them all and locked himself in the bathroom. He didn’t emerge until Wymack knocked on the door hours later.

“He’s been found. The FBI has him,” he said simply.

Andrew stood and strode out into the main room. Two men in suits stood there, falsely sympathetic. Andrew marched right up to the taller of the two men, grabbed his black tie, and yanked the man’s face down to his level. “Where is Neil? I want to see him.”

The man fought and Andrew lost himself to a haze of rage until he feels metal around his wrist and recognizes Wymack’s face. “You can’t do anything for Neil if they lock you up,” Wymack said.

Andrew listens. But he doesn’t settle until he comes back from parking the bus and Neil is there in front of him again. It feels wrong. Neil is on his knees and Andrew is front of him. He’s close enough to touch, so why can’t he feel him? Andrew gently peels the bandages off Neil’s face and the wrongness intensifies. The burns, the cuts, those would have been agonizing, and Andrew hadn’t felt them at all.

Andrew leans forward, grasps the back of Neil’s neck, and pulls him into a desperate kiss, heedless of the people watching. And it’s just empty, it’s nothing, Neil isn’t kissing back. Andrew pushes closer, frantic, trying to find the fire of their kisses from only days before. But nothing changes. It’s like Neil doesn’t even care.

Neil pulls back first. Andrew tries to chase his lips but Neil’s hand is firm on his chest and it so clearly is shouting no. Neil clutches at his inner thigh, the place his soulmark had formed, and Andrew could see the bulk of bandages under his pants.

“I’m sorry,” Neil said hollowly. “I thought I was going to die. I couldn’t let you feel my death. I…I broke it.”

For the first time, Andrew could understand why Neil ran. All he wanted to do was run until he couldn’t feel anymore. He missed the oblivion of the drugs. But he didn’t run. Neil still had to be questioned by the FBI and, even if Neil would never feel the same way about him again, he had to make sure Neil returned, that Neil could keep his found family, his Foxes.

Returning to Palmetto was probably the hardest thing he had ever done. Reminders of what he had lost were everywhere. He couldn’t go to his rooftop refuge, he wanted to tear the beanbag chairs in their living room apart. Mere hours after returning, he found himself sitting on his bed, armbands on the pillow beside him, his sharpest knife resting in his hand, poised over the fox paw on his forearm. One quick slice and he could stop feeling all of this.

A soft knock interrupted his musing. He shoved the knife under the pillow with a promise of later and answered the door. Neil stood there, black garbage bags and duct tape cradled in his bandaged arms.

“I’m sorry,” Neil said. “I need to shower but I can’t cover…my hands…” He shrugged. “I didn’t want Matt to see my scars.”

And Andrew nodded and followed Neil to the bathroom because he doesn’t know what he’s asking. There’s so much weight to this moment, seeing Neil completely naked for the first time. The soulmark is hardly visible. The outline of the key is broken by white jagged lines as if Neil had torn it open with his fingernails. It’s the only wound that has already healed and scarred. Andrew wants to touch it but Neil’s answer is no longer yes.

He helps Neil cover his wounds and turns on the shower. He should leave but this might be his last moment to let himself feel and he’s not ready for it to end. He follows Neil into the shower, fully clothed, and starts to shampoo his hair. Neil faces him. Andrew almost wishes he would turn away. He can feel the water running down his neck and Neil is so close. Neil bends for a moment, chasing a rivulet of water as it snakes down Andrew’s neck. Andrew moans and Neil pulls back, blushing.

Andrew finishes Neil’s hair and kneels down to wash his legs and feet. He’s eye level with Neil’s cock and this is not how he imagined being in this position.

“I wanted this so much,” Neil speaks hoarsely from above him. “I would dream about this. I remember the want, everything I felt about you. But it’s like there is a wall between me now and me then. I wish I could go back.”

Andrew is suddenly glad that the water pouring down his face disguises his tears. He blinks up at Neil. “Yes or no?” He holds his breath.

Neil face twists but he nods and Andrew leans forward and sucks him down. Neil cries out brokenly and Andrew tries to pour everything he had ever received through the bond from Neil into this one encounter that would never be repeated. Neil sobs when he comes. Andrew crowds him into the wall of the shower, keeping him on his feet. He grips one hand around the back of Neil’s neck and holds eye contact and his other hand slips down into his pants tugging and stroking, completely silent as he finds his own orgasm.

“Goodbye, Neil,” he says and he leaves the shower, dripping water back into his own room. The soulmark on his forearm has faded into a light gray and Andrew knows it is over. He scratched absentmindedly at the side of his neck where Neil’s lips had been mere minutes before. He looked in the mirror and saw the faintest outline of a fox paw where before had been unmarked skin.

He dashes back over to Neil’s room. Neil is scratching the back of his neck and craning to get a look at it in the mirror. Andrew looks and rests his forehead on the back of Neil’s neck. It’s a key. Andrew is feeling again. He’s not sure if it’s from his own heart or that of the boy in front of him, but he knows what the feeling is, it’s hope.

#i'm sorry #but you gave me a very angsty prompt #how much do you hate me right now?#soulmate au #andreil #aftg #i wrote this

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general-du-vallon · 7 years

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for @myhamsterisademon ah this got a little away from me! It is the same prompt as @rhesascoffee asked for but canon, and I half arsed that last one and this one went long so you guys can share it. It’s not hugely angsty and it kinda turned out to be about Constance but, eh, enjoy :)

“No, no, no, you can’t close your eyes right now!” Canon with LOTS OF ANGST PLEASE PLEASE?

It’s not the first time Constance has been here, stuck on the border between Spanish and French territory, a kind of no man’s land. Officially it’s Spain but the skirmishes keep pushing the border around and right now it is occupied by neither Spanish nor French troops. Which is why they were here in the first place; neither country owns it so it has become neutral territory until one side wins the ground again. There is a tumbled ruin of a church, battered by artillery and laid waste by soldiers more than once, of both sides. They had a meeting here. Constance is stuck up behind some rafters in the roof, a small gap made by a broken beam, hidden from sight. She is here on the queen’s behalf but until it is safe, Porthos represents their country. She cannot move until he tells her. And he’s not going to be telling her any time soon.

He’s lying in a pool of his own blood, the knife of the once-French lieutenant Larue in Porthos’s loose grip. Larue is dead at Porthos’s side, the knife now against Porthos’s still palm finding a vulnerable spot in his thigh; he bled out long ago. Porthos hadn’t trusted Larue but Anne had, he was a cousin, and he had been foisted on them as a Spanish speaking asset. Constance doesn’t know what went wrong. She couldn’t hear the whispered conversation between Porthos and Larue, she’d just seen the flash of the blade, Porthos’s grin and grit-teeth as he pulled it back out and feel, the bright red as it scored deep, down Larue’s thigh. Then the harsh wet breathing of Porthos as he gazed up at her. He’s still got his eyes open, his lips parted. She hopes he’s still breathing. She prays and begs him to keep his eyes open.

The Spanish think he’s dead.

They’re down there now. The party who were supposed to come and talk peace with them. They had not reacted well to finding Larue dead. One of them kicked Porthos. He’s talking now, voice grating. His face is twisted with scars, the kind that fire leave, his voice is probably scarred too, from the sound. Constance will know this man again when she sees him. He has too many men with him for her to fight, her only hope is that they do not find her, that they continue to believe Porthos to be dead, that Porthos is not dead. She waits, counting her breaths. Her grip on her own weapons is tight and sure and the cloth wrapping her hair is in place, keeping her vision clear. Her dress is wrapped to her thighs with strips of dark cotton, turning it into pantaloons of a kind, Porthos’s idea. She can unbind herself and become the meek woman who speaks for the Queen regent and the king, but she can also fight. Her boots are too big, tight over light cloth slippers that would suffice. She has thick leather over her chest and back, a pauldron Porthos swears is not the property of a dead man but rather one of his own, from younger years. She believes it: it is scratched, scored, the edges damaged, discoloured by sweat, the strap curling sometimes. Old. She marks it as Porthos’s from the use- she recognises the fighting style from the marks, a pauldron worn by the kind of man who used his fists and his body, turning his shoulder to the sharp blades that tore at him, taking the hit to get close.

One of the men down below speaks rapid Spanish, impatient and angry and Larue is born out. Constance holds her breath, praying hard that they do not come back for Porthos. The man with the harsh scarred voice spits in the dust, just missing Porthos’s hand, and switches from Spanish to broken French, giving Porthos to the wild dogs. He stalks out, cloak billowing dramatically. Constance waits. She has been taught patience by her trips with Porthos. She has also learnt her enemy. Sure enough, one of the softer men, a diplomat by her estimation, slips back inside and drops an envelope with the Spanish royal seal onto Porthos’s chest, eyes flicking over the room: he knows someone is always watching, and that is was not Larue.

Constance waits for the light to dim, then drops to the beam and swings herself down, glad of the thick gloves protecting her from splinters. She moves swiftly to Porthos’s side and kneels, unbinding her hair and using the thick scarf, one of d’Artagnan’s, to press against the knife wound. Porthos sucks in air and bends, twisting away, biting his lip until it bleeds. Constance pulls off one of her gloves and eases off, waits for Porthos’s mouth to relax, then pushes the leather between his teeth and presses. Hard. He yells against the gag and bites hard, body trembling under her hands. She breaths through her nose and presses still harder. She holds there until he stills, shaking and gasping but no longer screaming. Then she pulls back to see if the blood is clotting. It is.

She tugs the kit Aramis sewed inside her dress off. It cannot be stolen by the enemy, not held like that against her body. Medicine is worth more than gold in this kind of territory, these days. She has a small flask of spirits. She doesn’t know what kind, she didn’t ask when she took it from Pepin; made in the musketeer’s home, vicious but effective. They’re not safe here. She can’t do this here. She stows the flask.

“We’re not safe,” She whispers. Porthos’s eyes wander, unresponsive, unfocused. “Porthos, I do not know what to do. I can’t carry you.”

It’s too late, though, he has lost too much blood, he can’t understand her let alone help her. She nods to herself and manages to undo the bodice of her dress. The stays are at the front and she’s glad, so glad, that Sylvie suggested that and helped her fix her clothing so she undo it all easily and one handed. Sylvie might not be a seamstress but she’s clever and practical, and Aramis can stitch as directed. Constance considers her options, then smiles grimly with little humour and removes her corset. It isn’t a tight one, it’s loose so she can move and breathe. She pulls her dress back up, tugging until she’s decent, then sits a moment to contemplate again. It will work. The corset is one which laces from top to bottom, short and barely shaped. She fights it under Porthos’s heavy torso, Porthos lethargic but reactive to her when she moves him, flinching and making pained sounds, shifting where he can to help. She wads the scarf against his wound and laces the corset again, tightening it, tugging, tightening, until Porthos might not be able to breath well but also cannot bleed to death. Constance gathers her things back up, puts a stitch through the Spanish letter so it’s caught in the lining of her boot (boots with lining that pulls away from the bottom, stitching ripped open by Athos, a trick Porthos showed him so many years ago).

“Alright,” Constance says, taking a deep breath. Porthos’s eyes flutter. “Don’t you dare you monster.”

Porthos’s gaze fixes on her a moment, hurt, and Constance uses the flash of anger and adrenaline in him to heave him to his feet, drags his arm over her shoulders and insults him in a whisper as they stagger out of the church the back way, through the beams and fallen roof, unobserved. It’s dark now and Porthos is a good strategist; this is their fourth exit, planned out and carefully mapped. Constance moves from cover to cover, glad Porthos talked her through this one, the one for the dark nights. The path is clear under her feet by feel but not by sight, the rocks and half-fallen houses that cover her retreat loom sudden but obvious before she walks into them. She keeps her sword in one hand, the other holding tight to Porthos. She’s got to hold tight, he’s barely shuffling, she’s dragging him. He’s got a hold on Larue’s knife.

They make it to the French border but the outpost isn’t held anymore, the skirmishes here pushed the front back beyond the border, up a mile or so- the battle is no longer here and the small, haphazardly built defence is abandoned. It’s half a ruined inn, half a barricade. It’s shelter, though, and the Spanish do not know of it, never found it. The battle will not reach them here tonight. Constance dares not light a candle or a fire. She presses water to Porthos’s lips, forcing him to drink even as most of it spills down his front. She forces him to drink a mouthful of Simon Pepin’s spirits. She forces the dried up fruit they have left between his bared teeth, the pulp swallowed the rest spat out. Then she lays him down and unlaces her corset, cuts away his shirt. His jacket the Spanish too, along with his pack, his cloak. His horse. She undoes him until he’s naked to the waist lying on his dirty bloody clothing then she pours water over him, what’s left in her flask into the wound, over her hands, as Lemay taught her. Her eyes sting from the fumes of the spirit and Porthos makes a tired sound. A giving in kind of sound.

“Don’t you dare shut your eyes,” Constance hisses, looking up from her work onto long enough to see that he is shutting his eyes. She curses and reaches up to slap his face and his eyes open again, stunned and hurt and beyond weary. “Good.”

She can stitch cloth and even skin but now her hands are shaking with fatigue and hunger, thirst, her own weariness, shock. She jabs and tugs the skin around the wound tight in an ugly, broken line, jagged, puckered. It is good enough. She binds the wound with the cleanest clothes she can find, ties the corsets again, and removes her jacket to lay over Porthos. She sits by him, her sword across her knees, and guards him while she considers her next move. He can’t walk any further, not while staying conscious. He probably isn’t going to stay conscious for much longer. He needs to rest, but if she lets him, will he wake again? She looks over her work with his wound. He has lost so much blood. She needs to keep him warm, and make sure he eats and drinks. She learnt much from Lemay, once he trusted and respected her. She lights a fire using a flint from her kit and does a quick scout, finding a blanket stashed between the barricade to keep the wind out. This she wraps Porthos in. She finds a shirt, discarded by one of the soldiers, and puts that aside for later.

She finds a man, dead of sickness, left. She heaps what stones she can find over him and says a prayer. And takes his weapons.

Constance crawls back to Porthos and lies beside him, lending him her warmth. Her fire is good now, Athos taught her to build one to last and give off plenty of heat while as little light as possible, as little smoke. She has a stash of wood. She rests a hand on Porthos’s chest and takes a breath, takes all her courage in her heart.

“Rest, Porthos. Close your eyes now and sleep. Just remember you’re waking up again in the God fucking forsaken morning,” She says, voice turning fierce and desperate at the end.

Porthos turns his head slowly and she catches a glimpse of glazed, bright eyes in the firelight before they slide closed. She moves so she’s closer, so she can feel his breath against her cheek, keeps her hand on his chest, and rests. She doesn’t sleep and she keeps her weapons and the dead man’s weapons close, but she rests. Listening intently, on alert, ready. Porthos’s fingers are still closed around Larue’s knife. His blood and Larue’s blood is brown and crusting. Constance should clean it. She doesn’t. She falls asleep.

She wakes quickly, the short sleep has done her good but she’s hungry and thirsty. She sits up and checks their boundaries, makes sure the fire is still going. Dawn is coming but it is coming cold, chill and frost and damp sweeping in on a mist. She gets up and feeds the fire, they won’t be found in this no matter how big a blaze they set. She unbinds some of the cloth around her thighs, leaving enough to keep her practical, and hangs it in strips to capture the moisture. She unpacks the small amount of food she kept in her jacket, Sylvie swearing it a necessity that everyone carries something to eat. It’s not enough. She takes her knife and crouches just beyond the barricade, the wall, within shouting distance. She stays still.

A rabbit comes. A hawk cries high above. Constance beats her to the prey, still enough the rabbit comes close and then in a quick sharp movement, she has meat for them. Elodie taught her that. The stillness of the hunter, the quick twist to bring the animal a swift and kind death. She carries it back to her fire and skins it the way d’Artagnan showed her, uses the tiny amount of dried meat from her jacket for its salt, puts the rabbit on the bone into the edge of the fire so the fat drips into the ash and doesn’t burn, doesn’t send up a scent to signal their location. She wraps up the remains and buries them, then kneels by Porthos, feeling like she’s going to be sick. He’s gazing up at her though, his eyes open, and relief washes over her in a rush that makes her dizzy. His eyes are bright and wet, probably with a fever. He’s not dead though.

He licks his lips. She gets up and takes down her cloths, squeezes the water out into her depleted water skin, rehangs them. She holds the skin to Porthos’s cracked lips and he drinks. She drinks a little too and feels better for it. She feels better, also, for the meat she eats. She leaves Porthos’s in the fire until it is soft and pulls it out before it crisps, but he doesn’t eat much. He sucks off the little salt, the fat, chews a mouthful. He isn’t sick. He has more water. Constance feeds the fire and checks their boundary. Until the fog lifts, this is where they will stay. She hangs up the rest of her cloths and keeps on taking the water. She crouches for another rabbit but none comes. A deer comes, but it is too big for her. She unburies the remains of breakfast and lays it out, waits for one of the scavenger birds to come down, and cooks that. She buries what’s left again, this time she keeps the bones though: she found a pot half-under-earth, by the barricade. She uses a little water, boils the bones for the hours of the day, adds the slow-cooked meat. She ties the claws of the bird and places them, superstitious, against Porthos’s breast-bone.

He has lost so much blood.

He drinks the gruel she gives him and eats the boiled-soft meat.

The fog lifts: she damps the fire.

That night she sits guard, her sword ready. It is clear, and the moon is bright, she cannot afford to sleep. No one comes and in the morning she takes the last of the water, ties the cloth around her dress once more, sits out and waits for a rabbit. There is still gruel for Porthos, so she eats plenty. Porthos’s fever is hot but it has not yet killed him, so she makes him take the last of the gruel, the last of the boiled meat. She buries the pot with it’s bones and tidies up: clothes Porthos in the shirt, buries the bloody remains of his old clothing, bundles the blanket onto her shoulder and ties it there with one of her bindings. Another she ties about her breasts, so she can fight and move, can run. She crouches by Porthos.

“Don’t close your eyes yet,” she says.

He’s falling asleep after his breakfast. She gives him water and gets him up to his feet, and they set off. Constance doesn’t know this part of the country, has never been here, but Porthos has made her learn the maps. He knows this country. He built this front with his men and his blood and his sweat, he probably built that barricade, brought those houses down, collapsed the roof of the church. Constance drags them down through the field to the ditches and they stagger and reel and fall to their knees in the mud and she regrets it, but this is course Porthos himself set for this eventuality and Constance knows that it is the best. Porthos is incoherent, but he is talking. That makes her hopeful for a while, but she can make out words here and there. Aramis’s name, Athos, his mother, Flea. Porthos calls for people and talks to people and defends Paris and France and fights and fights and fights. It is exhausting to listen to his slurred nonsense, it is disheartening to hear how incomplete his thoughts are. He is not here, not with her. He is gone somewhere deep in the hot fever that burns him.

“Come on just a little further,” she says, to make conversation.

She is lost.

“Out,” Porthos says.

“Yes,” Constance agrees, as she has been when his comments seem directed at her.

This time Porthos stops, collapsing against the bank of the ditch, into a bush. Constance lets out a sharp, painful sob that drags at her ribs and Porthos repeats his one word. She looks at him. He’s lucid. She heaves them up out of the ditch and sees the landmark she is to watch for. Once a windmill, now mere rocks. They head through the fields. This too is land hard-won, the crops that once would have grown here are long pillaged and burnt, now the land is mud. They struggle on. Night comes and Porthos faints. Constance doesn’t dare light a fire and there is no food, only a little water. The next day she drags Porthos half the way before he wakes properly, gets enough strength to walk. He is not lucid.

They come finally to a place with people that evening. It is three houses in a village that has been ravaged. The people are dead, or they’ve fled, the houses destroyed, everything burnt. Constance undoes her hair and her dress and removes her boots, stashing everything. The two men in the middle house speak French and this is France. They light a fire and make soup from potatoes and roast potatoes and mash potatoes. There is salt. Constance gives them the fat she kept from the meat, ashy, dirty, congealed, in the flask. That is added to the mashed potatoes and a little to the soup. They eat and Constance tells them a story about her husband, tells them the flask is his, the meat was his.

They don’t believe a word of it.

She doesn’t believe a word they say when they sleep knitted together by the stove, voices soft, hands soft. Brothers indeed.

She keeps their secret, and they hers. They have no horses, they have nothing but potatoes. She shows them how to catch rabbits and in the morning she takes Porthos onwards. The fire, the company, the food, has warmed her and given her hope. The front cannot stretch forever. Indeed, it is only two days before they reach another ravaged village, this time with more people who dared stay, more rebuilt. Then three days and an inn, with a horse. Constance undoes the lining of the boot not holding the letter in their room and pays well for the horse, for food, for hot wine for Porthos, for bandages and brandy. She undoes the corset holding Porthos together and is met with the stink of dying flesh. She pulls away the rags of her head scarf and weeps for the damage there, against Porthos’s side. She cries when he yells against her glove as she scrubs the wound and cuts away the dead skin, stitches him again, bandages him. Still his fever burns.

Constance debates leaving him, in the morning. Here it is almost safe, here he might heal until help can come. He debates with her, though, in a whisper-cracked voice, calling for Athos, for Aramis, clutching her hand and repeating their names. She takes him with her, pushing him onto the horse before her and holding him in place. She gets strange looks when she leaves the inn with her dress bound once more, her hair braided and twisted into a tight knot held with cloth, her boots on. She holds Porthos in place and lets the horse have it’s head, lets it choose it’s pace, not edging to a gallop until she recognises the land spread around them. They reach and inn and find a fresh horse and this time she gallops, knowing where she’s headed. Three horses later Porthos is unconscious before her as she canters over the homestead she has been making for. Far from Paris, closer to the front where they had been. She draws the horse in and sees Sylvie straightening up from her garden. Constance lets out a soft sigh and faints, falling from the saddle.

She wakes to a soft bed and warm blankets, a dry mouth. She sits up and at once Sylvie is there with water and warm tea, something good to eat, a gentle word that eases Constance back to sleep. When she wakes again there’s more water, more tea, more to eat. She gets up this time and Sylvie takes her through the small chalet, passing two servants but otherwise quiet. They come to a warmer room with a fire and Athos is there, sat against the head of a bed, Porthos curled in his lap. His face is clean and his hair tied back, the heat of the fever looks less, he sleeps peacefully. Constance takes a hesitant step and Athos looks up, face breaking into one of the warmest smiles Constance has ever seen from him.

“You brought him home,” Athos says, smile turning to wonder, gazing up at her.

“Of course,” Constance says, as if there had never been doubt.

“His fever is breaking,” Athos says, looking down at Porthos. “Soon he will be well, soon he will be hungry again.”

Constance laughs and goes to sit with them, relieved. She falls asleep once more. When she wakes for the third time it is to Porthos’s hoarse voice and for a moment she thinks him feverish and muddled once more but then Athos answers and Porthos actually responds, as if he’s listening. Constance relaxes and opens her eyes.

“You have given me stitches that will scar,” Porthos complains, looking down at her from where he’s propped up against many cushions.

“Yes, I did it quite deliberately,” She says, losing no equilibrium.

Porthos smiles at her and she lets out a soft laugh. She remembers the letter and her duty, but lets that pass.

“I am sorry,” Porthos says, seriously, a moment later. “I should not have spoken to Larue.”

“What happened?” Constance asks.

“He asked for information and I said no, and he knew I suspected him and told me that, and I should have kept my peace but did not. I did not think he was much of an asset,” Porthos grumbles, shifting, pained. “God damn this country.”

“The diplomat we were to meet, he was there,” Constance says. She was never given a name. Porthos freezes, then nods. “He left you a letter.”

“Me, or the queen regent?” Porthos asks.

“I didn’t look,” Constance admits.

Porthos huffs and grumbles at her until she goes for her boot, undoing the lining and removing the sealed paper. It has ‘general de los conejos’ written on it in a sweeping hand, ink bleeding. Constance frowns, then holds it out for Porthos’s inspection and he huffs and puffs some more.

“It is their idea of humour,” Porthos says. “I like rabbit. They taste good. I may have eaten more than my fair share.”

Constance laughs unduly long over that, as Porthos looks over the papers he’s been given. He writes out a letter for the queen and then he sleeps, and Constance sleeps. Tomorrow is soon enough to take Porthos’s letter, tomorrow is soon enough to complete their mission. Porthos will stay where he is safe with Athos to recover but Constance won’t take the road to Paris alone; Sylvie will ride with him, to Elodie. They swap now and then, to everyone’s pleasure and continued happiness, it seems. Constance just shrugs at it. She is a woman with a sword who clothes herself to fight, who hides among the beams, who drags a general out of enemy territory, who catches rabbits and keeps them alive. What is a little sharing to such a woman?

#General Porthos du Vallon #Fic #prompts #constance is queen #Constance

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fanforfanatic · 7 years

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Something About Salvation - Part 1/2

Read it on ao3

(Part 2)

Relationships: Dean x Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: Mentions of torture, explicit depiction of torture (not very gruesome), aftermath of torture. A/N: This was originally a one-shot but it ran a bit long.

~10k words

Summary: A rogue soul escapes hell and its tortures. Top side, she runs into a man wearing the same face as one of her tormentors from her first decade in the pit. The one who had piercing green eyes.

Or, one of the souls Dean tortured in hell escapes and he’s forced to face his actions from his last month in the basement.

Magnolia hated her name. It was kind of ugly, rolled off the tongue awkwardly and just didn’t fit her. It was too sweet, too precious. Growing up, she’d spent many years trying to shake it. Call me Maggie. Call me Lia.

Here, though, she held onto it like a lifeline. So much time had passed since she’d been placed on the racks it was hard to remember anything from her old life, but she could remember her name.

By the time her first century in hell came to an end, she’d forgotten her home. The backgrounds to her memories faded, leaving precious moments in time without a backdrop. She still remembered her mom making them dinner, but couldn’t for the life of her recall what their kitchen looked like. With time, details just seemed to dim and disappear. Her mom wasn’t standing at a grimy off white counter pouring cereal and milk into a bowl she’d pulled from a splintered wooden cupboard while a six year old Magnolia sat at the patio table for two they used as a dining table. The image had just become her mom fixing her a meal. Something. Somewhere.

It took another century to forget interactions. She knew she’d kissed Simon Kester in the cluster of trees behind her high school at sixteen. It had been sloppy but fun except for the bark dinging into her back. She had disliked the smell of so much greenery but had liked the cologne Simon probably stole from his brother. She kept losing pieces of the puzzle though. Soon all she knew was that she’d kissed Simon. Somewhere. Then she just remembered Simon himself. Couldn’t recall any time they spent together but she knew she had known him. It didn’t take much time after that for her to only remember a face, his name long lost. They, her torturers, had ripped it out of her just like they’d ripped her teeth out, her nails off.

They restored her, of course, at the end of every day they put her back together only to start back up the next morning but she never got her memories back.

Realising she was forgetting names made her cling to her own.

She’d spent three hundred years in hell, when she realised she was forgetting faces too. It was a startling discovery because thinking of her life had kept her strong, here. Had helped her survive. Had given her the strength to say ‘no’ whenever they offered her to get off the rack to do to others what had been done to her. So how was she managing to forget?

She found herself trying to put together the images of people she barely knew anymore. Like ripped scraps of pictures from magazines taped together. She tried to make a collage from the fragments she could recall, but each time it resembled less and less the original. One face she rebuilt more than any other until it barely looked human anymore. The jagged edges of the shards she put together in her mind stopped lining up making the visage seem wrong. She was no longer sure who the person even was. She was a girl, that much Magnolia knew. A friend? A sister maybe? Whoever she was Magnolia figured she wasn’t honoring her by literally defacing her. So she stopped trying to recall altogether.

It felt suspiciously like giving up, like giving in to these sadistic fuckers that kept her here and that’s something she just couldn’t do. Wouldn’t. So she held onto herself. To her name.

To add insult to injury, she never forgot them, the men and women who came to her with malicious smiles carved into their faces wielding weapons meant exclusively for her torment. No, she’d learned every last one of their features. She’d engraved every last wrinkle in her mind. It was how she passed the time while they hacked away at her.

She started recognising their styles of torture too. She knew some of them wore different faces at times. They’d come one day looking like one person, leave, return looking like another. Magnolia recognised them though, they, the demons, each often had their own brand of sick and twisted. It helped tell them apart.

The show runner she’d heard be called Alastair, was a bit of a voyeur, often accompanying a green eyed demon. The latter almost always started by gouging her eyes out. After a few years both of them stopped showing up and that’s when the shit really hit the fan for Magnolia. Another demon, Bethuel, took over as ring master. He was particularly fond of using blunt blades. She hated him the most.

“Happy anniversary.” A lanky teenager greeted as he approached her.

She was suspended in the air hanging from a dozen chains. She knew it was the beginning of a new day only because she didn’t have any significant injuries at the moment, though she did have a bone deep ache and tiredness. That was perpetual, however. In fact, she doesn’t remember a time when she didn’t constantly feel that way.

“Four hundred years, today.” He said cheerfully.

Magnolia didn’t acknowledge him. She didn’t even bother lifting her head to get a look at him. She knew Bethuel’s face best. He looked boyish and charming and it was the Great Deception because he was made up only of rot and evil. She wondered briefly if the human inside the possessed body was still around. She doubted it.

“It’s rude not to answer.” He snapped his voice dangerous and nothing like the sickening sweetness it had been before.

Magnolia straightened her neck then to look him in the eyes, she smirked but only for a millisecond before pressing her lips together into a tight line. Pointedly not answering.

The demon scowled and stomped a foot reminding Magnolia of a petulant child. Had she known children? Had she had any? She might have been alive, well not alive, but around for over four centuries but she didn’t feel old enough to have had kids. To be a mother. God she hoped she hadn’t left kids behind.

“I don’t like to be ignored, Jessica, you know that.” He barked picking up a meat tenderizer .

It was one of the ways some of the demons had of toying with her. Once, when one heard her murmuring ‘My name is Magnolia’ under her breath like a mantra he’d started calling her by any other name for no reason other than to fuck with her. Other demons had joined in on the fun.

He brought the mallet of choice down heavily onto her clavicle, which she heard snap. She hissed out in pain. My name is Magnolia.

“I don’t know why you do this.” He said sort of like an exasperated teacher reprimanding a particularly difficult student.

He swung the hammer again this time busting a knee. My name is Magnolia.

“You know it only angers me. You know it’s pointless. I always get you to scream in the end. You know I never stop until you do.”

A knife was stabbed in her armpit and dragged up to the crook of her elbow. Blood fell freely from the gash and landed with a smacking sound on the ground. More dripped down the side of her body. My name is Magnolia.

The knife was then planted in her wrist and left there. My name is Magnolia.

The demon tapped the dull point of the blade sticking out from the back of her wrist. “For safe keeping.” He said then lifted wire cutters so that she could see them.

My name is Magnolia.

Magnolia. It’s all she had left. A name. She tried not to doubt it. The demons calling her Tracey, Ruth, Isabel, sometimes made it hard. She always found her way back to Magnolia though. The way it always fit wrong in her mouth felt right. She hated the name so goddamn much, it was ironic that it was all she could remember, now. Maybe she managed to remember it because she hated it. Nevertheless, it was all she had. Her name and these faces.

Dean thought that maybe Sam had a point. Maybe driving well over an hour and many towns over for pie was excessive but it wasn’t just pie. It was some of the best god damn pie he’d ever had.

The brothers had been operating from Rufus’ cabin, in Whitefish, Idaho whilst dealing with the leviathan fiasco. They had hit a lull though, waiting on one thing or another. Kevin to finish translating the tablet maybe. Cas to find something out. It was rough having nothing to do, knowing all the while that the country was in terrible danger. So they worked cases in the area most of the time, trying not to stray too far from the cabin, since it’s where all their research was, their home base for the time being.

Not having too much to do did have its upsides. It meant that Dean could afford to drive more than two hours, roundtrip, to Bigfork, Idaho. Unfortunately, not the home of the biggest fork. However, it was home to a hole in the wall diner that served some of the best god damn pie he’d ever had. Even Sam had liked it the first time they’d been there and had uncharacteristically opted for desert every ensuing visit. That wasn’t stopping the younger Winchester from being pissy on this day, though.

“Okay, but why do I have to be dragged along? You can order to go, you know.” Sam complained.

Dean shook his head vigorously at the absurdity. “That’d defeat the whole purpose. It’d be cold by the time I drive back to the cabin. What would be the point?”

“Whatever.” Sam mumbled.

“Quit moaning. Some people would be grateful to have an older brother treat them to a delicious lunch.” Dean mocked with a wiggle of his brows and an easy grin.

Sam sighed. “I’m just... worried, y’know. About...everything.”

“I know.” Dean replied without missing a beat because he did know. “But we can worry later,” He said reversing the car into a parking spot. “Now is the time for pie.”

Sam chuckled and rolled his eyes at Dean’s narrow focus on the here and now.

The two stepped out of the car. Hole in the wall was right. The diner, a mom and pop type shop, was nearly lost in the street’s industrial layout. It was mostly buildings that were falling apart on one side and one massive abandoned warehouse, or maybe it was a factory, on the other side. The diner itself was the first floor of an apartment complex, neighbouring a bookstore and a pawn shop.

They made their way inside and escaped the grime of the street as the restaurant itself was quite well kept. It was small, only large enough for a handful of tables and two larger booths, but it was clean.

“Sit wherever, boys, I’ll be right with you.” Min, a waitress that had served them at least half a dozen times by now, told them.

When she brought them water and menus they slipped into easy conversation with her.

“School still going good?” Sam asked. He’d found out during a previous visit that she was majoring in electrical engineering.

“One final left the day after tomorrow.” She answered excitedly. “I still have two classes that I had to drop last year to make things work with my jobs but by the time summer ends I will be a graduate.” She smiled toothily at them.

“That’s really great, Min.” Sam congratulated feeling an odd sort of pride for this girl he barely knew.

“Yeah, awesome, super, fantastic, reading is fundamental. Can we get to things that matter please?” Dean insisted callously.

“Dude.” Sam reprimanded.

“Dude.” Dean countered.

Min just laughed, though, unsurprised by the man’s behaviour and the duo’s banter. The latter convinced her they were brothers. If not siblings then at least long time friends.

“Don’t worry about it. Dean, the special today is pecan. We also have a new burger heavy on the caramelised onion. So new, in fact, it’s not even on the menu, yet.” She winked at him conspiratorially.

“Yes, yes to all that and also a beer.”

“You got it.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Sam? The usual?”

“Yes, please. And,” He hesitated, glancing at Dean briefly. “I’ll have a slice of the pecan too.”

“HA!” Dean exclaimed as though victorious but Sam always had some of the pie here so it’s not like the win was unexpected.

Sam rolled his eyes for what must have been the fifteenth time that day and Min laughed gleefully.

“Coming right up.” She assured clicking her pen and walking away towards the kitchen,

“Don’t,” Sam warned Dean.

“I wanna hear you say that I’m right and that coming here is a great idea and that we’re about to have some of the best god damn pie-”

Dean was interrupted then by the earth rumbling beneath them, a loud crash and a piercing scream, one that sounded familiar to him, coming from below.

The well-known cry shocked Dean into stillness as opposed to Sam who was up and by the counter of the diner pulling out an FBI badge from the breast pocket of his army jacket within moments. He flashes it to Min and the rest of the kitchen crew.

“I’ll check it out.” He told them. “My partner will stay with you.”

Huh, Min thought, not brothers.

Sam looked over his shoulder and was surprised to find Dean still in their booth. “Dean.” He said, jolting him into action.

The hunter shrugged an icy feeling off and jumped to his feet. “Go.” He assured moving closer to the other occupants of the diner. It was past the lunch time rush and the brothers had been the only customers so it boiled down to the employees working that afternoon.

Min pointed to the door that led to the basement of the building, where they heard the crash and the scream.

“Sam.” She said before he turned the knob. “There shouldn’t be anyone down there. Everyone who’s working is here.”

He nodded in response and then offered a small comforting smile.

As he made his way down the steps Sam heard the telltale signs of a fight. He’d thought that the quake had caused something to fall over and someone to get injured, but it was obvious now that more was going on. So he pulled his gun out and flew down the rest of the stairs.

Days where no one came to torture her were rare. They occurred in clusters a while back. During that time she’d heard murmurs of Lucifer’s release. She couldn’t help but laugh at that. Of course. She was in hell and demons were real why wouldn’t Lucifer be as well. She figured that’s what had kept the demons occupied. Though, Bethuel made it a point to visit her even then. Now, days off were few and far in between.

It was a few weeks, maybe a month, maybe more, after what Bethuel had fondly called her four hundred year anniversary, when Magnolia got one of those days off. Sort of. Mostly.

A demon had walked into her cell and had released her chains. She knew that never meant anything good. It meant this demon wanted to play. Wanted to see her scurry and run and try to hide in a concrete room empty save for the cart of torture tools kept by the door. A room where there was nowhere to hide.

She hated when they got this way because she didn’t want to play along, didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, but it was hard not to. Hard not to throw a punch, poke an eye, kick a groin. Hard not to retreat to a corner of the room. Hard not to try to avoid the pain that was sure to come. And it was always sure to come. Her efforts were fruitless, which she knew. They knew she knew. The game was rigged. That was the whole point. They wanted to give her hope, give her some semblance of power, only to have her realise time and time again that it wouldn’t be enough.

Magnolia braced herself for the first kick that would send her across the room and the inevitable taunting that would follow but then something that had never happened before in all her time in hell happened.

The demon was called away. A female voice came from down the hall had beckoned him to her. So the man huffed, promised Magnolia a swift return and left closing the grid door behind him. First it shut with a loud clank and then it was followed by a small click as the lock mechanism fell into place.

Not a second went by before the door opened again. The same demon reentered the room.

“No point in chaining you back up at play time. I’ll just take this outside.” He explained with a darkness in his eyes. He grabbed hold of the cart with the tools of his trade and dragged it out of the room behind him. “Not that it really makes a difference.” He laughed maliciously making Magnolia shudder.

My name is Magnolia.

The metal door shut again with a loud clank and then... That was it. Magnolia waited to hear the softer click that always, always, followed but it never came.

She laid there with a bruised knee from her fall for long torturous minutes, waiting for reality to hit. For a swarm of demons to rush into the room and cackle at how she was too weak now to fall for their traps but that it didn’t matter because they still knew how to have fun with her. But that never came either.

So Magnolia rose to unsteady feet, prayed for them not to fail her and took hesitant steps towards the door. She pressed on it and marvelled when it gave under the light pressure of her hand. She cringed when it creaked sharply and retreated quickly further back inside the room.

My name is Magnolia.

She waited for the stampede of footsteps to hustle towards her cell but was met by quiet. Well, not quiet. She could still hear the pained wailing of other captives far away but that had become white noise at this point. So Magnolia gathered all the courage she had, the few scraps she could manage anyway, and stepped outside of her prison. Another first since being brought here. In the past, when they had wanted to move her, she’d be so beaten they had to drag her body on the stone floor.

She was on her own two feet now, though. The demon she’d seen last had gone left so she was going right, but not before picking something off of the cart he’d pulled out of the room. That goddamn cart that had taunted and tormented her even when no demons were around and now it had become her salvation.

She skimmed what it had to offer quickly pocketing a knife and a revolver. She laughed softly at a time when she thought being shot was the worst thing that could happen to her. A time when she thought that had to be the worst sort of pain. These demons, if nothing else, had taught her how untrue that was.

Next, she took a dagger and a sword in each hand. She wanted something to keep as much distance between her and demons but she didn’t want to resort to the gun right away as not to alert more demons, thus the sword. She remembered distinct times when all four of her chosen weapons had been used against her. On her skin. Left lodged inside of her as demons busied themselves with another device. The irony was not lost on her.

She wasn’t deluded enough to think that anything from the cart could do any lasting damage to a demon but she figured it’d be hard for them to drag her back to her cell if they got their head, or say their feet, chopped off.

She started making her way down the silent corridor. Apparently, the demons hadn’t been working the cells in her hall yet since most of the screaming she could hear was coming from further away.

The passage didn’t remain hushed for long though as other captives started to speak up. To beg really. They plead for her to help. Cried for her to free them.

One man said, “You can’t leave us here, please.”

And he... He was right. Magnolia thought she’d regret it, she knew that if she had any hope to get out of here it’d have to be quick and quiet but she couldn’t leave them there. It’d make her a monster just like her tormentors and hadn’t she spent the last four hundred years denying that she was anything like them. Turning down their offer to become them. Leaving these lost souls here would make her a demon in every other sense of the word. And she was Magnolia not a demon. Never that.

So against her better judgement, she stopped at each cell, starting with that man’s, pushed the metal grids, that she knew only locked from the inside, open and pulled the lever that made the chains evaporate dropping bodies. She moved down the hall at a painfully slow pace, zigzagging between the walls to get to each prison. After a few captors were released she found that she was moving a lot faster, because they’d armed themselves from the carts in their own jails and helped.

So for the first time in over four hundred years Magnolia believed, not only in hope, not only in escape but in humanity. The cluster of humans moved together down the corridor, freeing each other, supporting those with injuries, wielding the same weapons that had been used against them no more than twenty four hours ago, growing in numbers.

Magnolia wasn’t too much of a religious type, she didn’t think, but there was something goddamn biblical about the scene. Something about deliverance.

They got further than she thought they would before the first demon showed up. The people she was with, they all... sort of rushed him. As some sort of unit just trudged forward, perhaps on sheer will alone, and obliterated him. They stabbed him and severed an arm and someone shot him in the head before the demon escaped its vessel in a black smoke. When more showed up, and a lot more showed up, they did the same. They freed more and more captives as they went.

She isn’t sure how, maybe it was the thrill of killing, of revenge, maybe it was mob mentality, maybe it was pure dumb luck but the crowd she found herself leading somehow collectively decided to head in the direction where they saw the most demons. Magnolia liked to think they were all smart enough to know that demons would be guarding the exit. Magnolia also liked to think that the demons were dumb enough to lead them through the maze of hell to the doorway of their escape. Which is exactly what they did.

After some time they found themselves in front of a massive iron gate. It was heavy and ugly and locked.

“More are coming.” The first man she’d freed said from the left of her. “We need to get this thing open if we plan on getting out.”

A chorus of voices chimed behind them in agreement. She turned and saw over five dozen or so faces staring back at her. Faces that were nothing like her tormentors’. Faces she didn’t have the time to learn in this moment but that she wished she could. She wished it was their features she had committed to memory instead of those of the demons that had torn her apart time and time and time again.

Her heart went out to these people. No one deserves the agony of this place, no one deserves to have their humanity tampered with. It’s an unfair battle, one they had a chance to win.

“My name is Magnolia.” She said to them, for no reason at all other than she wanted them to know it. Needed someone to know it.

The faces stared on and Magnolia could read them so easily because she saw in them exactly what she knew was reflected in her own. Fear. And hope. So much hope. Briefly, it felt like she had lead some sort of rebellion. One that wouldn’t mean anything if she didn’t come through on the home stretch. It wouldn’t mean anything if she couldn’t get the gate open.

“I know this is hell,” She said finally. “But do you guys think we can just pick the lock?”

Everyone exchanged glances and...shrugged.

A boy, he looked barely ten, too young to be here, approached Magnolia and handed her a pocket knife. She took it from his tiny shaking hand and whispered a thank you.

“Magnolia, now.” The man, to her right now that she had turned, barked.

She understood the urgency when she lifted her eyes and found more demons turning the corner at the end of the hall heading their way. The escapees turned their backs to Magnolia ready to fight, ready to protect her. It was all or nothing at this point. It was go big and go home. Maybe.

Bodies were flung into walls and into each other as the demons stalked closer and closer, but it was the man by her side that startled her into action.

“Do you know how to pick a lock?”

“Yes.” She said turning to face the gargantuan double doors. She wasn’t sure how she knew that she knew but flashes of memories were returning to her. “At least I did. A long time ago.”

“Well, get to it. It’s down to you, so no pressure.”

She looked up to him and was met with a smirk and a wild glint in his eyes.

“Someone like you, someone who’d stop to help the rest of us, you got this. I know.” He winks and then leaves her to join the fight.

Behind her she could hear gun shots and the sound of skin smacking cold concrete and cold stone but before her she could see freedom and salvation and that’s what she had to focus on.

She didn’t have to kneel, the lock was level with her chest, that’s how colossal the doors were. Seemed about right if they were The Gates Of Hell. She dropped her sword to the ground, she’d lost her dagger earlier in the fight, and pulled out the small blade she’d pocketed. She opened the switch knife gifted to her by the child, it was the kind that had other tools inside of it, and set to work on picking the lock.

Her hair fell into her face more than once, which was more than annoying. Her hair was something else she’d hated. The demons had had field days pulling on it, sometimes hard enough to tear out clumps, sometimes hard enough to tear her scalp.

Once she had tucked her strands behind her ears, it was easier to concentrate than she thought it would be. Despite the noise coming from behind her. Despite the chaos. Despite knowing exactly when the demons got close enough to get their hands on her- her what?- comrades in arms. She could hear their bones snap, their throats collapse. She could hear the sounds of their tortured screams, familiar, haunting, torturous in their own right. She heard one scream that made her heart sink because she could have sworn in was the little boy’s. It was too small to belong to anyone else.

That’s when the lock gave. The bolt unlatched and the doors swung open slowly with a grunt. The earth rumbled and an eery calm came over the mosh pit behind her. She stepped forward, slowly, afraid. Afraid of what? Freedom? Salvation? She didn’t know, but she was afraid.

She passed the threshold and when both her feet were on the other side she felt that bone deep ache finally, finally, lift if only a little. She turned slowly and saw a motionless picture of tangled limbs. Captors and captives stared back at her in a still moment.

“Shit.” One demon muttered under his breath.

Then Magnolia saw what could only be described as all hell breaking loose. A collective and powerful roar escaped from souls that had once been prisoners as they clawed their way to the gate, to their freedom.

Without much thought Magnolia tried to step back through, to help, but didn’t make it far. It was like a screen had formed keeping the two worlds apart, allowing passage only one way. At least it as the right way, she thought. At least it was the way out and not in.

A rush of people started filing out but moments after they did they were encompassed by a bright light. Magnolia saw the souls lift and rise upwards and into the ceiling where they disappeared. Tears flowed freely from her eyes as she realised that they were Heaven bound. However long they had been trapped in that pit of despair they were headed somewhere better now. They were headed somewhere they would never have to hurt again.

Magnolia was so full of awe as she watched deliverance occur right before her eyes that she barely noted that she herself wasn’t moving on. Her bare feet had remained planted firmly to the ground. That was until a demon stepped out of hell to come for her. He flicked his chin one way and up that way Magnolia’s body flew hitting large metal shelves.

The stand fell backwards from the collision and clattered loudly to the ground. The air was knocked out of her, something metallic was digging into her back. If she didn’t already know exactly what it felt like to have her spine severed she’d suspect that’s what had happened.

Her body was tossed up again, hitting the ceiling before falling back onto the metal shelf unit. A bag of flower broke part of her fall, namely her face, but she felt her knee twist in a way that just wasn’t right.

“Dumb fucking bitch, you know how much shit we’re going to be in for this?”

She hurried off of the shelves as best she could and crawled to the exit. The demon had other plans for her, though.

An invisible force raised her from the ground so she hung suspended in the air in front of the demon, not unlike how she was kept chained in her cell.

From her vantage point Magnolia could see inside of the gate. She saw the near last handful of people step through the door, nod their thank yous, and move on in white lights.

The demon was saying something, talking to her, but she didn’t care. She was caught, but so many people weren’t anymore. Only one person was left.

“Pay attention, whore.” The demon snapped irritatedly.

She saw the man she’d first freed bash in the head of the last demon standing on the other side of the gate. But she also saw more demons appearing at the end of the hall.

“Hurry!” She croaked as the demon who had her squeezed her lungs in a tight grip.

“Shut. Up.” He barked. With his free hand he willed the gates to close. The doors were so massive it was slow enough to give the man inside time.

When the demon beneath him escaped in smoke form, the man didn’t run for the exit, though. No, to her horror, Magnolia saw him step further into hell.

“HURRY!” She screeched again, her lungs restricting even more.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” The demon yelled shaking her like a rattle.

Magnolia ignored him some more, but understood why the man had backtracked. She watched him bend down and lift the small boy from earlier into his arms. He sprinted, then, out of Hell, onto earth, just as the gates sealed behind him.

Light erupted in his arms as the boy’s limp form rose upwards and disappeared from view. Magnolia cried some more.

As soon as that happened the man picked up a metal rod from the ground and swung it at the demon holding his saviour in the air. That’s what she was, his saviour.

The rod dropped to the ground before it ever hit the demon though. It fell right through the man’s hands as he began to ascend to his own afterlife.

“NO! No, wait!” He tried to bear down, to return, to help, but up was the only direction he went. “Magnolia!” Then he was gone.

Magnolia was once again alone in a dingy room with one of those faces.

The demon laughed evilly. “It’s cute that he thought he could help you.” He mocked.

“He helped many others.” She spat back, a raging fury boiling inside her.

The demon scowled. “Your whore mouth? Shut it.” He ordered flinging the fallen metal rod into and through her thigh.

Magnolia grunted through clenched teeth and then smirked. “You wanna know something about hell? It’s full of demons that are better at this than you are.” She gripped the metal pipe with a hand and in one swift tug pulled it completely through and out of her leg.

She threw the rod at him. She didn’t expect to harm him with it and wasn’t surprised when he deflected it easily.

The grasp on her lungs constricted further and Magnolia was no long sure when she had last breathed in air.

“Good thing I have you to practice on.”

The last thing she heard and saw before passing out is a giant man with luscious locks kicking down the door she had crawled to earlier. Poor guy, he had no idea what he had gotten himself into. Maybe they’d be cell neighbours when they’re brought back to hell. Maybe in another four hundred years they’d get a chance to escape together. She doubted it, but maybe. Magnolia refused to lose hope entirely. The demons might have her again but they never really had her. She never caved, she never would.

You wanna know something about hell? It’s full of demons that are better at this than you are.

Good thing I have you to practice on.

Sam heard two voices before he kicked the door off its hinges. He wasn’t expecting demons, but demons are what he got. Well, one demon. He shot at it only to regret it when that caused the girl to drop to the ground. He winced at the loud cracking sound. The rest went more smoothly. Sam had an angel blade buried in the demon’s throat within minutes.

When that happened, he watched large iron gates morph into what looked like doors to a simple storage room. Sam rushed to the girl and assessed the damage. Her knee was sprained if not broken, a hole was punched through her thigh and her wrist was shattered, all on the left side. But she was breathing, she was alive which was more than most could say after going toe to toe with a demon.

Sam sighed. How was he supposed to explain any of this to Min, her coworkers and the owners upstairs?

It took some insisting, some charming and some more badge flashing but everyone at the diner eventually relented on allowing the FBI agents to leave with the wounded girl they’d found in their basement instead of calling an ambulance.

Sam had carried her out to the car while Dean apologised for the mess he imagined Sam had left and graciously accepted the full pie Min had packed for them to go. He didn’t even grumble about how it wouldn’t be warm by the time he got to eat it.

Dean slid easily into the driver’s seat of the impala, glancing quickly at the unconscious body in the back. Her hair covered her face, a strip of fabric was tied around her thigh and Sam’s balled up jacket was placed under her left knee. He sighed turning the key in the ignition.

“What happened?” He asked as he pulled out of their parking spot.

“A demon and...”

“And?”

“A portal, I think.”

“A portal? To where?”

“My guess? Hell.”

“Another gate? Fuck, how many entrances does that place need? Since when do demons even use those to get around?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean sighed again. “What’s the damage?”

“She’ll pull through. Best case we get Cas to heal her, but she’ll be fine with time. Might have a limp from now on though.”

“Any idea what they want from her?”

“No, but I... I think she’s been there before.”

“Been where?”

“To hell. In hell. Whichever.”

“Shit. What makes you think that?”

“Something she and the demon were saying to each other.”

“They were chatting? This wasn’t a normal demon attack was it?”

“With our luck?”

“I know, why do I bother asking.” Dean sighed for the third time.

Magnolia woke up in some sort of lodge on an ugly red and patchy couch. The strange part was that she was waking up. Slowly, naturally rousing out of slumber like she had been used to a long time ago. She wasn’t abruptly being startled out of unconsciousness from one affliction or another. Wasn’t jolted into awareness by a sinister laugh. She was simply waking up.

Though that was strange the stranger part was the man sitting two feet away from her on an equally ugly chair. He’d been the one to bust into the room before. But if that were the case why wasn’t he dead, or worse why weren’t they back in hell. This place might need some serious dusting and maybe some redecorating but this wasn’t hell. In fact, it was nicer than where she’d grown up. Hadn’t it been a while since she remembered what that looked like?

“You’re up.” The large man intoned softly with even softer eyes.

Magnolia nodded and sat up wincing through the pain in her leg and wrist.

The man looked at her appraisingly. “That doesn’t hurt more?”

She eyed him right back, with suspicion. Did he want her to hurt more? “High threshold.” She explained.

He nodded then offered his hand. “I’m Sam.”

She moved to grasp his hand so hesitantly it reminded Sam of a fearful animal. She shook it in the end, though. “M-My name is Magnolia. What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

Her eyes narrowed then. “I don’t like games.”

Sam put up his hands in surrender. “You took a nasty fall. I just don’t want to remind you of something you might prefer left forgotten.”

“You saw me hovering, levitating, or whatever.”

“Yeah. You know what was doing that to you?”

“You’d have me committed if I answered truthfully.”

“It was a demon.” He deadpanned. “I killed it.”

Magnolia hardened even more so. “You know about demons. You know how to kill them.” She stated.

“My brother and I, we hunt them for a living, amongst other things.”

Magnolia noticed then the shower that had been running in another room. “Other things?”

“Do you want to know?”

“No.”

Sam nods. “Then let’s leave it at other things.”

Magnolia looked around noticing that it’s dark out. “Now what?”

“Do you know what it wanted with you? If more will come for you?”

“I don’t know...I don’t think I’m of value. I don’t think they’d bother. I don’t know. If you really did kill that one, maybe the rest won’t even know I survived. The others... they... they’re gone.” She looked like she was piecing together a complex puzzle. “Am I alive?”

The question startled Sam. “Why would you ask that? You’re here aren’t you?”

“The others didn’t stick around. They moved on.”

“What others? There were more demons?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean...” She sighed deeply. “The people I escaped with. When they left hell, they just... I think they went to heaven, but I’m still here.”

“There were others? Humans? You escaped Hell?” Sam asked confused. This girl was no hunter, barely aware of what goes bump in the night yet she manage to escape Hell?

“How’d you manage that?” Dean asked chuckling from a doorway, towel drying his hair.

Magnolia tensed.

“Hey, hey it’s okay. It’s the brother I told you about, Dean. He hunts them with me, you’re still safe.” Sam reassured.

She shut her eyes and let her head hang. Her hair fell forward shielding her like a curtain, a blessing for once. She thinks she might like to cut it anyway, now that she’s out.

She nodded rigidly letting Sam know that she’d heard him but that she’d need a minute. She heard the brother, Dean, move around the couch to sit on the coffee table beside her and Sam. She breathed deeply through her nose, relaxed her shoulders and her back.

My name is Magnolia. She reminded herself.

When she’d calmed sufficiently she lifted her head back up and opened her eyes ready to accept the safety they were offering her. What she was met with was a face. Not just a face, but a face. One of the faces she’d learned while she was caged.

It looked different now. Older. But it was still the same face. The same jaw, the same slightly dimpled chin. The same cheekbones with the same slightly asymmetrical nose. The same piercing green eyes surrounded by the same wrinkles. The same cupid’s bow lips framed by the same creases. Laugh lines she had thought bitterly all that time ago.

He was one of them. She hadn’t escaped. This was all part of their game. She was still in her cell, for all intents and purposes. She was still trapped. Still their prey. Magnolia wasn’t sure how they had orchestrated it all, she was mildly impressed but mostly she was petrified.

Something was wrong though, well something else. Because the face that stared back at her looked just as scared to see her as she was to see it. He looked downright traumatised.

Magnolia jumped on the couch her injuries mostly forgotten. Pain she could handle. Sam was up half a beat after her but Magnolia was quicker than him. She stumbled backwards and managed to hop ungracefully off the arm of the couch.

“No!” She yelled. “You can’t take me back. I won’t let you. You can’t.” She screeched. She reached for something, anything, a chair to hold between them knowing full well it would do nothing to protect her.

Her words startled Dean into action himself. He reeled back, nearly tripping on the table, dropping his small towel, and put as much distance between the two of them as possible pressing his back to the corner furthest from her. It was for her sake as well as his.

“Hey, hey, calm down, Magnolia, it’s okay. I told you he’s my brother.”

“I’m sorry to break it to ya, Sam,” She said with a hysteria laden voice. “But that is no longer your brother. They can... they can possess people. Unless you’re,” She shifted then to hold the chair between her and Sam. “You’re one of them too?”

Magnolia tried fighting the tears but she couldn’t help but start sobbing. She’d been so close.

“NO!” She yelled. “You’re all sick you know that. You can’t do this. I don’t deserve this.”

“Maggie, please, listen to-”

“My name is Magnolia.” She snapped at Sam.

“Magnolia. I swear we aren’t demons. I promise. I don’t know how to help you believe it.” It’s not like she knows about holy water. Even if she did, it’s not like he could confirm the water in his flask was holy. Sam did his best to look as non-threatening as possible.

Magnolia pondered that for a moment, her eyes going from Sam to Dean back to Sam because Dean was so hard to look at. “Go stand over there.” She said to Sam pointing towards a wall with a cork board with a bunch of newspaper clippings pinned to a map of the US on it.

Sam obeyed clearing her a path to the exit. Dean stayed stock still, his eyes still not leaving her, too consumed by the screams in his head to do anything more than stare at her.

“Good. I’m going to leave,” She said inching towards the front door, favouring her right leg. “And you’re going to let me. That’s how you help me believe it.”

“I can’t let you do that.” Sam countered taking a step towards her.

She lifts the chair higher in pathetic defence, ignoring her tightly bandaged wrist’s complain. Sam cursed himself.

“I don’t want to hurt you Magnolia, but more demons might be out there coming for you. We want to keep you safe.”

“I don’t believe you.” She wailed back.

To Dean, the sound felt like a whip striking his face. He remembered her. He remembered them all. Every last helpless soul he’d tortured under Allistair’s command. That decade he spent in hell doing to others what had been done to him. She’d been one of them. One of the hundreds. He remembered her making it hard too. Bottling up as much as she could for as long as she could. But that had made it worse because Dean hadn’t been allowed to stop until he made her scream. So he made her scream. Time and time again. All the while she had observed him, studied him. Learned his face until he couldn’t take her weighty gaze any longer. Until he couldn’t handle having her eyes on him.

“Sam.” Dean finally spoke making the girl jump. “She was on the rack. My last month in hell, she was on the rack.”

Realisation dawned on Sam as he put the pieces together. It made him sick to his stomach.

“Magnolia, please.” Sam spoke. “There has to be some way to reassure you. Even if demons aren’t after you, it’s the middle of the night and we’re deep in the woods. You’ll get lost out there before getting to a town.”

Magnolia hesitated. “This place... it doesn’t smell like rotten eggs. Neither do the two of you.”

“Yes! Okay good this is good. That smell, it’s sulfur, demons reek of it.”

“This can still be a trap. I... I remember him.” She argued near tears again, nodding towards Dean without looking at him.

“We can explain that, Magnolia. Besides, if we really are demons do you think you’re going to get far with that chair in the middle of nowhere?”

Magnolia laughed a dark desperate laugh that rattled the brothers. “I guess not.” She put the chair down and fell onto it, head in her hands, elbows on her knees. “Do your worst. Not that you’d need the encouragement.” She looked up at them with hatred in her eyes. “Don’t misunderstand me. Just because I see the predicament I’m in for what it is, doesn’t mean you’ve broken me. You’ll never do that.”

Sam began to move closer to her slowly, picking up the first aid kit left on the coffee table from when he’d bandaged her up earlier. When he stood a few feet away from her he kneeled and shuffled the rest of the way forward. He didn’t want his imposing height to loom over her.

“No one wants to break you. We want to help. We want to keep you safe, I promise, Magnolia.” He opened the white plastic box and retrieved more bandages and gauze. He pointed to the bloodied ones on her thigh.

She hadn’t even noticed that she’d started to bleed again. She nodded to him, scooting forward on her seat to have the bandaged part of her leg hang off the chair.

Slowly, giving her the opportunity to stop him, Sam touched the fabric and uncoiled it from around her thigh. “You’re going to need to stay off your feet. I set your knee earlier but if you want it to heal right you need to take it easy. No more vaulting off of couches. No more parkour.” He tried to kid at the end.

A glance upwards showed him that no one in the room appreciated his attempt. Magnolia was staring warily behind him at Dean who was undoubtedly staring back. Sam couldn’t imagine what the two were going through. She had to sit here and face a man who’d tortured her and his brother had to face what he’d done in hell. This was one of Dean’s nightmares brought to life. Magnolia was the embodiment of all the guilt and shame Dean had festering inside of him. It was a while since he’d gotten out of the pit, but the self-disgust Dean felt about what he’d done never went away. It was just tamped down so he could deal with the next big bad. So he could focus on the world not ending.

“Turns out your wrist is only sprained, but I’d try not to overdo it too.” Sam continued. “Hey Dean, do you know if Rufus kept crutches here?”

Dean didn’t respond, couldn’t find his voice but he scurried off to check the basement.

Sam and Magnolia stayed silent as the hunter applied a cool creme through the holes in her jeans to both spots where the metal rod had pierced her thigh. He’d sewed her up earlier while she was knocked out and only a few of the stitches had torn in her haste. So he didn’t bother with more needlework, opting to wipe the fresh blood, applying the disinfecting ointment and wrapping her leg up again.

By the time Sam was done, Dean was back. He was impossibly close, many feet away, but still too close when he set the crutches against the table. Magnolia’s nostrils flared as her breathing became more laborious. Dean took large steps back.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay. See,” Sam tapped her latest bandages lightly. “Demons don’t do this sort of stuff.”

“I’m scared to believe you.” She admitted in a rush.

“But you do, don’t you? You can tell we don’t want to harm you.”

Magnolia nodded, then, surprising herself only a little. Her time in Hell meant she knew what malicious intent looked like.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Magnolia’s brow wrinkled in concentration. “It was a while back, time there is off so I don’t know, but I was...” She thought hard until memories began to resurface. “I was working the night shift at a Gas ‘n Sip, stocking gum of all things, and then something was being crammed down my throat and I couldn’t, I couldn’t...”

“You were possessed.”

“Yes. I was still there though, still aware just not in control. The demon who took over my body he was...really bad at his job. He met with another demon, his boss I think, only a week after possessing me and this new demon... His name was like a bird or something.”

“Crowley.” Dean said gruffly making Magnolia flinch which in turn made him take another self-hating step back.

She regained her composure quickly enough and nodded. “Crowley. Like a crow. He killed the demon that had possessed me, burned him up from inside until I was all that was left again.”

“You were still alive?”

“I don’t know? I was in hell, so I just figured I’d died but I don’t remember dying. It’d explain why I didn’t move on when I walked through the gate, though. I think maybe I really was alive because the demon, Crowley, he laughed and said to store me on a rack. He said the boys had earned a live pound of flesh to play with. Then I was dragged off and strung up and then they- they-”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. We know. We know what they do there. I’m sorry you had to live through that.”

Magnolia just nodded because there was nothing to say.

“How long ago did you escape?” He asked. How long had she been running from demons?

Magnolia gave him a confused look. “When you found me.” She answered.

It was Sam’s turn to furrow his brows in confusion because something didn’t add up. If she hadn’t escaped until earlier that day, and she was there during Dean’s last month in hell, that meant she had been there for at least...

“When were you taken?” Sam asked pressingly.

Magnolia shrugged. “I don’t know. It was early fall.”

“What year?” Dean asked then, catching on to Sam’s line of thought.

Magnolia pointedly looked at only Sam when she answered. “Two thousand and eight. What year is it now?”

“It’s spring twenty twelve,” Sam whispers.

“Oh.” She answered, unbothered.

“Oh?” Sam questioned. “You were there for three and a half years and all you have to say is oh?”

“Why are you getting agitated, it’s not like you’re the one who has lost time. Honestly, I can’t believe I’m out, I can’t believe I’m alive. Losing a few years seems...insignificant.”

Sam shakes his head almost violently. “You don’t understand, a month on earth feels like a decade in the pit. You’ve been there for years that’s centuries.”

“I know. They have special tortures for every hundred years you hit.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Sam said standing abruptly and making his way to the sink in the kitchenette behind Magnolia. He cupped his hand under the faucet and drank some water not bothering with a glass.

“I don’t understand,” Magnolia said twisting in her seat towards him. “Isn’t hell supposed to be for all of eternity, why are you surprised by this?”

Sam didn’t get a chance to reply because Dean spoke. “I’m sorry.” His voice was so frail. Sam had never, in all his life, heard his brother sound so weak. So young and yet so worn.

Magnolia recoiled again at hearing the man speak. He didn’t do that often when he visited her cell in Hell. “If you’re not a demon, what were you even doing there?” She snapped harshly.

“I...The same thing as you.”

“I’m sorry but I think we were on opposite ends of the situation.” She bit and there was so much hate, so much resentment. This man had torn her apart, had bled her dry. She remembered his particular likes. Most demons had them and his was to gouge her eyes out, almost as soon as he got in the room. It hadn’t stopped her from learning his face, though. Didn’t stop her from remembering it. Because how could she forget.

“Not at first,” Dean answered.

Wheels churned in her mind. Not at first. How had she not considered this earlier?

“You took the deal.” She said more so than asked. Her voice was softer though, no longer accusatory.

He looked startled. By her knowledge. By her tone. “Yes.” He admitted shamefully. “You know about that?” Didn’t thought that deal was specific to him, to get him to break the first seal and jumpstart the apocalypse.

“They offered it to me every night.”

“You never accepted it?” Dean asked. Centuries, she had to have given in at some point. Maybe that’s how she got enough leeway to escape.

Magnolia shook her head. “No, I...I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hated them more than I hated the pain. I couldn’t give them the satisfaction. I think I might have been a very stubborn person.”

Tears pricked at Dean’s eyes because this girl, who hadn’t even been a hunter, was tortured for centuries and she still managed to say no. That’s thousands of ‘no’s at the end of thousands of days and he barely managed a quarter of a year topside. It took them three months to break him. “I’m so sorry.” He sobbed, a full-body sob, unable to hold back any longer. He was so ashamed.

Magnolia stood and stalked towards him, the pain in her leg only at the periphery of her mind. Dean watched her approach and didn’t bother taking a defensive position, though he sensed Sam tense. He didn’t care. She could do whatever she wanted to him. He deserved it. Deserved worse.

When she got close enough, Magnolia put her weight on her right leg, reached up and hugged Dean.

The Winchesters stood still, unsure of what exactly was happening.

“I know.” She whispered holding onto him tightly. “I know, I’m sorry too. What they do to people there, it’s not right. No one can expect us to survive.” They both understood what survive meant in this case. It had nothing to do with living, everything to do with staying whole. She was crying too, now. “I know. It’s okay. I know.”

A loud shuddering weep wracked through Dean’s body because how was this girl forgiving him? How was she being sorry? How could she offer him empathy? How could she see him as anything but a monster?

“That offer, it’s hard to pass up, I know.” She clung to him so tightly as he trembled it had become more so for her benefit than his. “It’s okay, I forgive you, it’s okay, I promise.”

The more she held onto him the more she realised how much she missed humanity. Touch. She got flashes of embraces with people she had loved once. Still loved, maybe.

The harder she clutched the harder the grief hit her. She was finally mourning what happened to her. What she’d lost. What she’d endured. Who she’d been before becoming this Magnolia.

Finally, she was able to commiserate with someone. She hadn’t even known it was something she wanted. She wondered if maybe the haunting screams she’d heard through the years had consoled her. It repulsed her to find that they did. What was that, about misery and company?

There was definite comfort here, with a man who’d been through some of what she’d been through, knowing she’d been through some of what he’d been through. It made her feel less alien, knowing that he could understand her, understand the agony and the temptation to give in. Because she had been tempted, so tempted. Which is why she couldn’t hold it against him.

She could imagine it. Being on the other end of the blade inflicting the pain instead of enduring it. Inflicting it in order not to endure it. It’d cause a new sort of anguish, she knew. One that would set roots deep inside a soul. One that this man had been living with for years now. It’s a torment she couldn’t wrap her mind around, not fully. So instead she drew comfort from him and hoped he’d draw some from her.

Magnolia thought maybe Dean had read her thoughts because that’s when he lifted his arms to wrap them around her. The two clung to each other fiercely. Both apologising for the other’s misfortune silently. One apologising for his actions in ineloquent mumbles.

It took a while for Magnolia’s shushing to finally get Dean to stop. She kept insisting that he didn’t have to ask for forgiveness. She kept saying they weren’t his sins to atone for. She murmured something about a cart and irony and deliverance. She whispered something about locks and freedom and hope. Then, she hummed something about salvation.

And Dean thought maybe he’d begun to find his.

(part 2)

Read it on ao3

#supernatural fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x ofc #supernatural angst #spn fic #something about salvation part 1 #something about salvation #my writing

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