#╰ ⁎ character study ⟩ to know the pain of too much tenderness; to be wounded by love; to bleed willingly.

[my-mt-heart]

Where's Daryl?

This was very difficult to write. It opened up a lot of old wounds for me, so if you read this, thank you. If my thoughts on this show haven’t been your cup of tea, that’ll most definitely be the case here as well, so maybe just move along. ***Trigger warning for discussion of childhood abuse***

For about a year and a half, Caryl fans asked Where's Carol? as a pointed reminder that the spinoff was always meant to be hers just as much as it was Daryl’s. Even though she's back now, her fans didn't always know she would be (nor did the EP's 🙄) so her absence during filming and promotion of the first season was a heavy burden to bear. The irony is, though “Daryl Dixon” sticks out like a sore thumb in that ridiculous font, he's the one who feels absent sometimes, as if important parts of his character development were lost when he washed ashore while other parts come and go as the plot demands.

Zabel talks about swapping Daryl's iconic vest for "old man" suspenders as a matter of pragmaticism i.e. they were the only clean clothes available. Norman says it was a choice he wanted for some unclear reason, but neither of them seem to consider the intelligence of their audience, particularly Carylers, to see it more symbolically. The costume change is our visual reminder that Daryl isn't himself. In some scenes he's chattier than he should be, far more trusting of strangers with personal details, and far more theatrical. Then in others, the differences are even more alarming. He calls a child cruel names, puts his hands on him, and feels conflicted about returning home to his family, to the woman he said he loved.

I mentally prepared myself for retcons, but the one I'm struggling with a lot right now, which I haven't seen anyone bring up yet, is the retcon of Daryl’s childhood abuse. Daryl tells Isabelle that he and Merle had to take apart engines and if they couldn't put them back together, their dad wouldn't let them have dinner. It's a milder version of the stories the scars on his back tell us, though I can buy Daryl omitting the worst of it like he did in the pilot. What I can't buy is Daryl saying his dad was "hardly ever" around and emphasizing it as the main source of his pain growing up. It feels contradictory for one thing. When we see Daryl's scars for the first time in S3 of the flagship show, it's implied Daryl was trapped in an environment that enabled his dad to physically hurt him often. Presumably that's why Merle felt guilty about leaving him behind. The revelation also seems like it's only intended to highlight the consequences of an absent father figure, explaining Daryl's fear of not making it home, but also justifying his "close" bond with Laurent. The best stories allow a character's emotions to drive the plot, but this just does the opposite, twisting Daryl's backstory to fit the current narrative.

Daryl's backstory made so many people root for him in the first place. It allowed Carol to see him when nobody else in the group could. It helped me process my own childhood trauma. The ways I got to watch him overcome his violent past gave me hope that masculinity could mean more than what I grew up around—more than anger, shouting, and swinging fists. Daryl taught me that men could still be tender, kind, and loving even if those closest to them in their childhood never showed them how. I imagine Daryl's representation has been important to boys and men too, specifically to those who were afraid to speak up about their abuse because of the stigma around it. The implications of this scene may not be easily noticeable to some, but they are to me, and I'm deeply offended by it.

I’ve talked at length on this blog about how it takes a village to make or break a show, though it’s usually the showrunner who has to answer for it. I've already mentioned that I do blame Zabel. His knowledge of French history has no value when he obviously didn’t bother to study Daryl’s history aside from reading old scripts and (maybe) watching the first couple seasons. That's incredibly irresponsible and terrifying for S2. I also blame AMC for their short-sightedness and their determination to save face no matter how much it costs them. I blame Gimple for his pettiness. I blame Greg Nicotero for his insensitivity to Melissa and her fans.

As for Norman, he's hinted very loudly that he wants credit for the show being "different," so in theory he should be prepared to take some of the blame too. I can't name all of the decisions he specifically made, but no matter what they were, I can blame him for not speaking up about the shipbaiting, Daryl's wavering loyalty, and the childhood abuse retcon, all things that hurt his character and hurt the fans. I genuinely don't know what else to think other than Norman didn't give either the consideration they deserve. The show has been treated like nothing more than a vanity project, and it’s unfortunate when you think about what he and AMC had to gain from the original Caryl spinoff.

I love the version of Daryl I knew before this whole mess, I love Carol, and I love the relationship between them. I want them to have the story they deserve in S2. At the moment, I don’t know how to reconcile that with the agony I feel over the damages to half of my two favorite characters. If Carol is going to cross the Atlantic ocean to find Daryl, I want him to be the man who threatened to punch holes in all the boats so she couldn’t leave and the man who told her he loved her before—ironically—leaving himself. I need to hear Daryl admit he hasn't been completely honest with the French characters, not because he was afraid of getting too close to them, but because he didn't want to face the pain of potentially living without Carol and TF. I need to hear him say that he can't be Laurent's father, which is okay because the kid has plenty of other family to take care of him. I need to hear him say, out loud, that he could never love another woman romantically because he's already in love with Carol. That's what I need to feel better about this story. That's where my investment is. I feel like Carol is safe in Melissa's hands, but I don't feel like I have anyone to rely on for Daryl. That’s a big problem because their stories are so intertwined. There’s no Daryl without Carol nor Carol without Daryl. If you ruin one of them, you risk ruining both of them, and that’s a possibility I really can’t bear.

#caryl #carol peletier #melissa mcbride #darylneedscarol #the book of carol #twd caryl

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice, pt. 22 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!oc]

summary: no amount of money ever bought a second of time.

words: 6.9k

chapter warning: soft smut, characters pretending to be mean and therefore breaking your heart

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, hurt/comfort. smut. Spicy situations. spousal / domestic abuse. family trauma. verbal abuse. PTSD, psychotic breaks/episodes, drug use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. possessive!peter, protective!peter. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships. having happiness ripped away from you.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you weren't alive when Tobey Maguire was Spider-Man, maybe you should wait.

Part 22

A wise woman once told Peter that time was the key to the universe. She was so incredibly right.

Even so, Peter had a complicated relationship with time. He was always on the wrong side.

He had too much, or too little. He’d lose it. It would get away from him. It’d be just out of his reach, mocking him from the ivory tower of a future he would never have. 

The phrase ‘what if’ ticked away in his mind, like seconds on a clock. Like the broken hands of a clock face not too far from Roosevelt Island.

If he’d gone to bed an hour later, maybe he would’ve been awake enough to be able to save Ben and May from the gunfire.

If he’d gone into that convenience store a minute earlier or later, he would’ve never had the opportunity to try to be a hero.

If he had more time with Gwen…

If he had given her more of his time…

Time was the key to everything.

For someone who could crawl up walls and bend steel in his bare hands, he was rather powerless. What’s super about any of those party tricks compared to the power to control time? His estrangement with time left him weak and weary—no more than a street magician with cards up his sleeve.

But the night his Honey gave herself to him—for the first time in a long time—Peter felt superhuman.

He took his time with her. Washing the grime from her hair. Relishing her touch as she reached up to wash his back, and again as she ran gentle fingertips over his mending ribs. Long after their skin pruned, he held her beneath the roar of the shower, right next to his heart. 

Peter would’ve let the oceans run dry if it gave them more time to just be.

When they emerged, the sun was setting.

He counted heartbeats and freckles and dimples and breaths as they searched one another for injury. Patiently, they tended to each other’s wounds, but he didn’t waste too much time with his temporary discomfort. 

He’d live. In fact, he’d had worse. His natural healing abilities would take over eventually.

Until then, he could take his mind off his pain. And he was determined to do the same for her.

Peter focused his energy on stretching out each moment into an eternity, although that was hardly enough time to worship her how he wanted. He knew her so well already—or at least he thought he did— up until he noticed how her lower lip would twitch and fall agape as she reached orgasm. 

This discovery intrigued him. More research was needed. 

There were things about her body that only experimentation and practice could teach him, and the thought of unlocking more of her mysteries drove him wild. 

He wanted to study her. To become an expert in what made her gasp and quiver. A master of her body and heart, even as he became a willing slave to both. 

He wanted all of her, just as he’d said. 

To know her, wholly. 

Pleasure and pain. Joy and sorrow.

With a tender touch, Peter studied the scars of her past, stamped on her flesh like letters inked by a typewriter. He read each line, over and over, now committing to memory what he’d managed to miss because before he’d been in a hurry. Such a fool.

He followed the path of every bead of her sweat that served to punctuate the ecstasy of the present. Her soft sighs soothed him—crisp-sounding, like turning of pages in a book.

He should’ve taken his time to read her before, to really see her.

He wouldn’t repeat the mistake.

And so, ever the good student, he took his time. 

He wanted to know her by heart. He’d turned his bed into a seminary, where soon he’d be able to recite her like passages from a Bible.

Devotion like that takes time.

‘All a man has is time,’ Uncle Ben would say, ‘and what he chooses to do with it.’

Peter wasn’t going to waste a moment of it.

A thin sheen of cooled sweat coated his nude form as he stood at the foot of his bed. In reverent silence, he regarded the delicate woman softly dozing in his sheets. His gaze was content as he took in the peacefulness on her face. Her lashes hung heavy on her round cheeks, and her chest rose and fell in a steady pattern. 

She was curled up, snuggled with her face in the pillow as she clutched the bedsheet around her like a teddy bear. The eerie glow of dusk illuminated the curves not concealed by the sheet. Hidden paths up her thighs lured his gaze, barely obscured by the Egyptian cotton threads of the bedding. Her tiny fingers cuddled the edges of the fabric. It had turned into a chaste vestal robe which concealed places his mouth had explored an hour ago.

Even in her sleep, she was saintly and seductive. It was endearing as much as it was enticing.

His soft gaze continued down the path of her body. The rest of him hardened. 

“I can feel you, you know,” she murmured against the pillow. “Creeping on me.”

The tips of his ears went red, eyes widening like a cartoon robber frozen in a giant spotlight clutching a money bag in his hand. She snorted with amusement as she peeked at him over the covers. 

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Peter chuckled in response, blushing.

“I’m not sleepy,” she lied. “Just resting my eyes.”

Both were exhausted. 

If they went at it again, it would count as Round 3 for him, and Round 5 for her. Maybe even 6. His regenerative abilities blessed him with seemingly endless stamina, but it was no match for the kind of day they’d had. 

The onslaught of damage, both physical and emotional, wore them down. Their activities wouldn’t have been possible if not for a mind-numbing wave of adrenaline-fueled lust that seized them. They were driven by the desperate need for compassion and comfort.

And yet, there he was: a caveman leering down at her with a boner. 

She twisted around, studying him with sparkling eyes. She reached out her hands in his direction, making grabby claws with her fingers. “M’not even tired. Lemme show you.” He snickered, watching her fight off a yawn that suggested the opposite.

Carefully, he crawled up from the foot of his bed to her side, pulling the sheets back to position himself behind her. He pulled her close until her back was up against his chest, skin-to-skin.

“Noooo,” she whined softly. “Gimme you.”

Peter couldn’t hold back his grin, although he shook his head. “You have me. What you need is some rest.”

“You’re the one who's ogling me in my sleep with a hard-on. Like a weirdo.”

His smile glowed in the darkness. “Can’t help it, Honey.” He leaned down over her shoulder, his warm breath tickling her ear. “Everything you do makes me hard.” He followed the statement with the evidence lined up against her lower back. His hands roved over her hips, greedily gripping the flesh at the top of her thighs. 

She hummed in satisfaction, making a noise that wasn’t helping either of them. He felt her body press even closer to his, rolling her hips. Peter couldn’t let out the erotic hiss gathering in his chest at the sensation of his shaft sliding between her cheeks.

He was losing control again. He propped himself up on one elbow with his hand keeping her hip still. “We... we should... sleep—you should sleep. Sleep is good. Sleep—”

“I don’t wanna.” Her head was turned upwards, glancing back at his winded expression. 

“But-but you... need to—”

She bent her neck and captured his lips with her own. She pulled away with a seductive pout. “I thought you knew what I needed.” 

Again, her mouth sweetly teased his, delicately coy, until she charged forward and conquered his kiss. For a few seconds (or... maybe a few minutes), he was the submissive one, as he succumbed to her desire. He remained helplessly complacent as her tongue toyed with his. It was only when he realized he’d lost track of the time that he pressed his fingertips to her chin and pulled away. 

It was one of the hardest challenges of his entire life.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he pleaded, voice deep in his chest. His forehead kissed hers as he held his eyes closed.

She blinked up at him curiously as he nuzzled her nose. “Do you need a moment?” she said shyly, biting her lower lip.

His lashes fluttered open as he stared down at the Milky Way in her eyes. 

Strangely, he thought of the great sea explorers of the past. He pictured himself in Magellan’s place, standing at the helm of a carrack in the eerie darkness of the Pacific. He was adrift in a vast ocean of uncharted waters with no land in sight, nothing but the stars overhead to guide him. He clung to them desperately, fearful of the darkness outside of their hold, but awestruck by their wonder. It was like gazing at the gate of heaven. Being alone in the Universe, locked in an intimate moment with God herself.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmured curiously. The question wasn’t worried or rushed.

Peter observed her intently, memorizing the pattern of her freckles. “I need so much more than a moment,” he breathlessly replied. His eyes shimmered in the dim light. “I need to stop time.”

She blinked several times, pondering his response with an uncertainty that might have gutted him if she had let it go on too long. 

Thankfully, she answered with another passionate kiss, tilting her chin behind her shoulder. The air was swept from their lungs when she pulled away from his lips. “What about a lifetime?” she whispered. “What could you do with that?”

Affection warmed his eyes while passion ignited his stare. He didn’t hesitate further. The width of his hand cupped her jaw firmly, and he crashed his lips into hers. He breathed her into his lungs as he leaned over her, his cock resting heavily in the space behind her back.

She let her fingers card through his thick, brunette waves, playing with the damp ends that had curled up after the shower. Synchronizing her movements, she dragged her backside across his shaft and her nails through his scalp. He purred, twitching against her spine. 

His hand travelled down again, memorizing the feeling of each pore from her jaw to chest...to her stomach... across her pubic bone... and finally slipping into her dripping folds. A satisfied hmmm rumbled from his chest as he licked a spot beneath her ear. The warmth of his tongue, matched with the roughness of his fingers, made her quiver in his grasp.

She pulled her hand away from his scalp, urgently searching for his waist to pull his lower back into hers. As the gentle tease of his fingers formed into a languid massage, she bucked her hips impatiently, using the arm under her pillow to balance herself.

“So needy,” he muttered, tone sizzling. 

She mewled, her hand frantically searching for a place to land. It fluttered at his wrist, his bicep, his nape, then over to her chest, her breasts, and back to his hand again.

“Told you I’d take care of ya,” he whispered, bringing his other hand on the underside of her hip bone, replacing the outside one. “Just relax.” His other hand gripped her uncertain fingers, guiding them down to her breasts. He slowly squeezed each one of her mounds with his hand over hers, allowing his fingers to spin a wheel at her tender bud.

Intently, he watched as her eyes disappeared, rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it, baby, I gotcha.” His voice was dripping with dark chocolate. “Keep goin’ just like that.” 

It was an order, somehow delicate and firm.

It drifted into her ear like smoke from a wildfire and only added kerosine to the blaze in her belly. He reached down and lifted her outer thigh, forming a V with her legs. Opening up her core allowed his hand better access to her clit, while the other hand groped his cock and positioned it at her entrance.

“You need me to slow down?” he questioned, his mouth going dry from the panting. “Jus’say the word, and we can stop at any—”

“Don’t stop, Peter,” she cut him off impatiently, her voice lilting in desperation. There was no room for shame. “I need to feel you inside me.”

With a breathless gasp, he obliged her hunger and his own. He pushed the eager, leaking tip of his cock through her wet folds, perhaps a little more forcefully than he otherwise would have. He drank in her expression—the wince on her face, the flutter of her eyelashes, the pathetic whimper quickly melting into an erotic moan.

“S’okay, pretty girl,” he soothed. “M’gonna make it better.”

The grip of his fingers pushed dents into the meat of her thigh as he pried her open and rolled his hips into her heat.

“Doin’ so good for me,” he praised, his need overwhelming his senses. He pulled his hips back and drove them forward, slow enough for him to imbibe in her tremors. Her core fluttered over every inch. 

“Am I still a good girl?” she gasped with wide, wet eyes. Her head was thrown back against his shoulder and cradled against his bicep.

“Yeah, you are, princess,” he practically growled. She could feel the reverberation of his voice in her heart. “You’re my good girl.”

He sealed his lips around her open-mouthed moan, greedily licking it up for himself.

Each second stretched to a millennium. That’s what he would wish for if the Devil himself offered him a trade. However, it wouldn’t take long for the Dark One to realize that he had been cheated. Peter’s soul belonged to someone else already. 

Until mountains erode into sand. That’s how long he wanted each kiss to last. 

“God, you feel so good, baby...”

When sequoias that pierce the sky tumble and decay into the soil, from which a new giant is born and completes its life cycle. That’s how long he wanted each of her sighs to last.

“M’gonna be good t’you, always...”

Until every tectonic plate wades to a new home atop a pool of lava, and the face of the Earth is unrecognizable.

“You’re so good to me, Pete... s-so good—”

Until all the glaciers have melted. At the end of the next Ice Age. 

—“...radio waves from Galaxy 0402+379, whose coordinates appear in the constellation Perseus,  featuring binary supermassive black holes with the least separation of any directly observed binaries, at a distance of approximately 23.88 Light-Years. Now, who can tell me what happens when these two objects reach singularity? Anyone? — Yes, Mr. Parker...”—

“Don’ever wanna lose you, Honey... Never, never...”

Until the end of the Milky Way’s last dance, as the curtain falls while it takes its sister Andromeda by the hand.

“Shhh, you won’t, baby. You won’t lose me. Just—ahh—stay with me...”

Each moment stretched out into eternity. Slow like molasses. Dripping like honey.

She was right. Time was the key to the whole universe.

And as Peter pushed her toward another summit, clutching her close as they tumbled over the peak together, they shared a sweat-coated sigh of relief. Both of them were finally sated, at least for now. At this moment, they were content drifting off to sleep in the cradle of each other’s embrace. 

He kept her body wrapped around his, her face buried into the crook of his neck. His hand weighed heavily across her back. Eyes closed, he listened intently to her familiar purr.

He knew it well. It was the one that would confirm she was asleep—the signal he would wait for to open his eyes and observe her beauty freely, without hinderance or shame.

“I love you,” he said. 

Always.

A vow. 

A hope.

A plea.

She woke up to the sound of rain pattering on the window panels. 

Grey light pushed on her eyelids, prying them apart, while cool air scratched at her back. She responded by folding herself tighter and burrowing her nose into a warm chest. She was still dreaming, she thought. The scent of cedar and cinnamon filled her airways as calloused hands tickled her back.

She was dreaming. And it was a beautiful dream. She refused to acknowledge the light, fighting off the waking world.

When she felt a gentle brush of fingers clearing a lock of her hair from her face, she found the courage to open her eyelids. Gazing fondly at her were a pair of doe eyes. The light of day reflected off their hue, but the facets were illuminated from within. 

Like candlelight. Like fire. Roasted chestnuts, caramel, chocolate, hazelnut, whiskey, brown sugar, and molasses. Warm amber, deep garnet, charred topaz, smokey quartz, bronze, brass, and gold. Earth and fire and water and the air that escaped her lungs.

And honey. Delectable, delicious honey. 

She found it all in his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmured, his throat thick from hibernation. A beaming smile burst through his lips, burning through clouds outside.

Her heart stuttered as she basked in its glow. “Morning.”

He glowed. Her friend. Her protector. Her lover.

They lay in silence, regarding one another with warm gazes and warmer hearts.

“How long’ve you been awake?” she said with a tired smile, leaning back into her pillow to get a better look at his face.

“Not sure,” he whispered, threading his fingers through her hand and placing it near his heart. The short distance between them at the present was as far away from her as he could stand. “I was jus' thinkin' about how long I've been asleep. Too long.”

She blinked at the awe in his expression, blushing as she realized he wasn’t referring to last night’s rest. Her eyes sparkled back at him, feeling a slight ache at the corners. They held several seconds of blessed silence, taking in each other in peace, until Peter rubbed the haze from his eyes.

“We outta get up,” he sighed. “Need to pack.”

“Pack?” she repeated. Her smile dimmed a bit, as the dark memories of the past couple of days crept back into her consciousness. “Where are we going?”

“You let me worry about that,” he said, though not unkind. He kissed the back of her hand tenderly. “All you need to know is that we’ll be safe. And Bella and your sisters will be waiting for us.”

Her eyes fluttered wide. “Really?”

He smiled. “Really.” Gazing at her fondly, Peter watched the relief wash over her until it brimmed at her lashes. “I’m jus’ goin’ over the details in my head,” he added thoughtfully. “Does your ma ever play the lottery?”

She smirked. “No.”

“Well,” he pondered, “she’ll be so surprised when she finds out she’s won a million dollars and another vacation getaway.”

A snort broke through her foolish grin. “Practically astonished. Won’t even bother to question it.” 

“She can come along as long as she doesn’t ask any questions,” Peter said delicately before giving it some thought. He added on a condition. “And she keeps her mouth shut.” More thinking. “And stays alone, in her own place, away from us and the girls.” His brow furrowed as he continued to ponder. “Maybe even on a different continent. I’m still fine-tuning the kinks in my plan.”

“Hmmmmm,” she grinned, leaning into another soft kiss. “Kinks.” 

Playfully, she brushed her tongue against his, stirring a deep groan from his chest. When he pulled back, he fixed her with a sultry gaze. “Careful...” he warned. “You might start somethin’ you’ll have to finish. Again. And again. And again—”

She giggled and leaned in for another kiss until they were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. The couple jumped, with Honey clutching the sheet to her chest.

“Pete!” they heard Felicia’s voice through the wall. “Open up! Or... close—whatever it is you’re in the middle of.”

Honey snapped her eyes to Peter, embarrassment flooding her expression. He grinned wide, amused by her flustered state. 

“Just a minute,” he called back as Honey pulled the sheets off the bed and dragged them with her. Alarmed, she scurried across the room with a shocked look. “C’mon,” he muttered at her with a jeering chuckle. “You didn’t think we were that quiet last night, did you?”

Scowling, she flipped him off and disappeared into his closet. Coming to a stand, he paused with one foot over the edge of the bed, his smile fading.

There were two heartbeats at his bedroom door.

“Hurry up, Peter,” Felicia repeated, a lack of levity in her tone. “We’ve got company.” 

In a blink, he had on a pair of sweatpants and was reaching for his phone. He pulled up a camera feed outside of his bedroom. 

Felicia stood with her arms crossed impatiently, tapping her fingers along her biceps. A familiar face waited beside her, wearing crimson-tinted sunglasses and clutching a white cane. 

Something sharp pulled at his chest, the brightness of his smile dimming. He glanced back at the closet doorway. 

“C’mon, Pete. We don’t have time!”

Peter frowned.

Of course they didn't. It was always out of his reach.

He wiped the self-pity off his face as he pulled open the door. He hadn't bothered with a shirt, facing them with a bare chest still striped with bruises. 

“Matt,” he stated, reading the grim look on the other man’s face. Peter didn’t need many words to confirm what he could already hear in his friends’ heartbeats.

“Sorry to wake you,” Matt stated tensely, “but we’ve got a problem.”

It took a minute for Honey to be brave enough to poke her head out of the closet. She was fully clothed, wearing a silk robe tied snugly around her waist, but her flushed cheeks telegraphed her embarrassment.

She expected smug and teasing expressions, if not from Matt, then definitely from Felicia. What she saw was the opposite.

“How much time?” Peter asked, brows furrowed and arms crossed tightly.

“Maybe a minute,” Matt answered. "Maybe less."

“Building’s surrounded,” Felicia added anxiously. “Cleaning crew just left. We haven’t had time to check the work.”

“They’re good at what they do,” Peter assured her. “It’ll be fine. We just need to put on our game faces, stay calm, and we’ll get through this—”

“They’re bringing an army down here, Pete,” Matt implored. “You need to be sure.”

“If I weren’t, I wouldn't be standing here,” he replied.

“You oughta be running,” Felicia said sharply, "preferably to LaGuardia."

“Leaving is a bad look,” Matt argued. “I cannot stress that enough.”

Felicia glared at him. “But you would recommend a trip to Ryker’s? I thought you were supposed to be a good lawyer?”

“Cat. We need to deflect attention right now. Stay calm.”

“Where are we going?” Honey questioned, her voice cutting through the tension like a hot blade into butter. 

The conversation came to a screeching halt.

Eyes snapped in her direction, but she noted how Felicia immediately looked away. Even Matt turned his head; his nose pointed at the floor.

Peter was the only one who looked her in the eye. And when he did, it made her stomach twist. Despair filled his gaze.

He didn't need to say a word. She already felt faint. “Pe-Peter...?”

He dashed across the room, taking her face in his hands. As quick as the motion was, everything felt like it was moving too fast—need more time—and Honey couldn’t keep up. Like concrete weighed down her feet—what happened, what just happened, what’s happening—and the lights of an oncoming train blinded her. 

“Pe-Pe—But—-wh-wha—? What is he talking about whatdoesthatmean who’scominghere wha-what-whatdoesshemean—”

“Easy, easy,” he cooed. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, yeah? I’ve got it under control.”

Her voice shattered beneath a whisper, “Don’t lie to me, Peter!” 

He fell silent. Sorrow twisted his closed lips. Then, hesitantly, he explained, “The cops are here. They know about Walker.”

Honey gasped. And then she felt herself go numb.

“They were expecting him to check in this morning. And when he didn’t, somebody knew to come here.”

Tears flooded her vision with wretched memories riding them like a tidal wave. A python tangled itself around her lungs, constricting her breath. 

“Now, they’re gonna come in and make a big show,” Peter continued to explain, “but it’s very important that you stay calm, Honey. Don’t say a word. Don’t answer any questions. Just follow my lead.”

She was crying. Her mind was traveling through wormholes in time. She was hurdling untethered into a cosmos of what-ifs and should-have-dones. Doubt and terror filled her expression as her heart broke into pieces.

“Nothin’ bad’s gonna happen to you, sweetheart. On my life, I swear it,” Peter softly declared. “You’re gonna be okay.” 

Honey blinked wet lashes up at him, still existing outside reality. “I... I’m... I’m not afraid.”

Peter went still, lips parting.

She stared at him with resolve, her voice turning to steel. “I don’t regret what I did. Even if I have to go to jail—”

“You’re not going to jail,” he promised, shutting down the idea.

“I’m not sorry that I killed him. I’d do it all over again, if I had to. He was a monster... and-and he needed to die. I’ll tell them—”

“Honey, you’re not going to jail,” Peter firmly repeated. “I am.”

She froze, her stomach and heart plunging. Her wet eyes went wide. “What?” Terror gripped her. “What!? What do you mean—”

Peter noted how she physically pulled back, like a cobra ready to fight to the death.

“Listen to me, listen, listen," he pleaded. "We don’t have a lot of time, so I need you to listen to me carefully, yeah?” Peter murmured, the sight of her tears twisting a knife in his chest. “It’s gonna be fine. They’ll take me in, but we can fight it. Nobody has to know what really happened, alright? All you gotta do is follow my lead—”

Now her mind was traveling elsewhere, plummeting down into hell.

She pictured Peter in handcuffs. In an orange jumpsuit. At his trial. For murder. Of a goddamn shitbag. A federal agent. Sentenced. To death.

She rapidly blinked as if doing so could clear the horrifying image from her vision. Instead, she kept shaking her head as the nightmare unfolded.

Her tongue wouldn't work right. “But-But—”

“You’re my brave girl,” he said with soft desperation. “Jus’ need ya to stay brave a little longer, alright?”

“You... you didn’t do—no, no, you can’t—”

“I’ll make sure you’re safe,” he pleaded. “You, Bella, your sisters—you’re all gonna be okay. Just like I promised, alright? You just gotta go along with what I say. Whatever you hear, you gotta stay quiet, okay?”

“But...”

“No buts, you gotta trust me—”

“But... M’not—”

“I’m serious, Honey. I’m not playin’ around. Don’t fight with me on this—”

“I’m not letting them take you away from me!” she snapped, her voice breaking.

He went quiet as her fingers gripped him by the arms, nails digging into his flesh. She shook her head vehemently. In fact, her whole body was trembling like the facade of an avalanche. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks as she stared desperately up at Peter.

“You belong to me, too!" she said through sobs. "Okay? You’re mine, and I’m not letting you go. I’m not running away. There is nothing on this Earth that I love more, and I’m not leaving you!” 

Time stopped. 

Peter blinked at her, unsure if he actually heard what she just said. 

When he listened to her heart, it beat steadily. Drumming its truth. Each beat the tolling of a bell, ringing clear.

One moment stretched out into eternity.

Peter's eyes shimmered as he gazed down at her. His heart swelled beyond his chest, outside of the room, dwarfing the skyscrapers, eclipsing the sky.

Craning his neck, he touched his forehead to hers. He swore he could feel her devotion through her skin. He was empowered by it. Weakened by it.

Swallowing hard, he breathed her into his lungs.

Suddenly, they were alone in the room. In the city. On the planet. A shudder racked through her, a silent sob escaping her lips. “I... love you, Peter. I love you so much—”

“I know you do,” he nodded with a reassuring tone. Tears budded at his eyelids. “I know.” He hooked his fingers beneath her jaw and pointed her gaze up at his. 

There she is, he thought. His light in the darkness. His hope. His Honey.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered. 

She felt her pulse in her own throat as she gazed up at him with red eyes. He waited for a response. She sniffed and nodded, swallowing her panic back down. 

He smiled warmly. “Then I need you to remember that I love you,” he said. “And don’t ever forget it. No matter what you hear, okay? I love you forever. No matter what.”

Heavy footsteps echoed from down the hall. Her stomach twisted helplessly at the sound. Peter pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. When they parted, he turned away from her. She watched his retreating form until she felt Felicia's fingers take her by the shoulders. Gently, the woman led her back away from bedroom entrance.

Honey watched him longingly as her arms ached to hold him. He kept his back to her, eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Police!” a shout boomed from the hallway. “Coming in!” Honey felt a scream bubbling in her throat, desperate to break free.

The door opened with a bang. 

Peter kept himself steady, casting his eyes downward as a herd of boots stampeded around him. In a blink, at least a dozen of NYPD’s finest filled the space, with pistols and rifles pointed at Peter. They barked orders, shouting over one another. 

He was motionless.

Honey’s eyes darted around to see the ridiculous show of force, more befitting of Michael Myers or Hannibal Lector.

Half of them wore traditional police uniforms and bulletproof vests, while the other half wore full body-armor and carried SWAT-style equipment. Her eyes narrowed in on the SHIELD patch on the arms of one of the officers, her stomach twisting into knots.

“Hands up!”

“Put your hands above your head!”

“This is absurd—you’re in my client’s private residence!”

“Hands where I can see them!” 

When Peter looked up at them, he was a different man. He looked surprised. His eyes glittered with amusement, and his mouth was crooked with a brash grin. Relaxed, he leaned back on his hands as casually as any visit, observing the intruders with a pompous smirk

“Mornin’, boys,” he said boldly. “Please tell me one of you brought donuts.”

“On your feet!” one of the SHIELD agents hissed. The man sporting dark stubble over his jawline and a military crew cut stepped forward and gripped Peter by the shoulder. With a yank, he hauled the half-naked man to his feet—or rather, Peter allowed himself to be manhandled into a standing position. 

“Hey, watch it!” Matt snapped. “You lay a finger on my client, and I’ll have your badge faster than you can say your overly complicated acronym.”

“Tell ya what, Murdock,” the dark-haired SHIELD agent glowered at him with a cruel smile. “If you see something, say something.”

“You hear that, Matty?” Peter snorted. “Small Dick Energy over here’s brought his big guns and blind jokes today... What’s ya name anyway, pal?” 

“Rumlow,” the SHIELD agent spat. “What’s it to you?”

“No big deal,” Peter shrugged. “I’m gonna wanna know which funeral home to send the flowers to, is’all.” 

Rumlow’s face turned red with rage, giving him a look that shot terror down Honey’s spine. Peter smirked haughtily as a different police officer turned him around and wrenched his wrists behind his back. 

“Ooh!” Peter hissed playfully, with a lascivious wiggle of his brows. “Easy, tiger. Gimme some time to recharge 'ere. I had a rough tumble last night—”

“It’s about to get rougher,” a husky voice called from the entrance. 

Honey turned to see George Stacy’s ominous form blocking the doorway. His eyes were even baggier than the last time she saw him. His stringy, graying red hair looked unwashed, and he wore a wrinkled white dress shirt under his Kevlar vest. Marching into the room, the man glared at Peter with narrow eyes that could melt steel.

“Georgie!” Peter called out with glee. “I thought I smelled bacon. Good to see ya, buddy!”

“Captain Stacy to you, asshole,” Rumlow bitterly remarked. 

“Oh, no, Georgie and I go waayy back—wait a sec....did you say ‘Captain?’” Peter questioned before turning to George in shock. “Really? Still? Ya mean they haven’t given you a promotion yet? That’s some bullshit right there—”

“Peter Parker,” George declared sharply, popping each ‘P,’ leering at him like a shark hunting a sea lion. “It’s with the utmost pleasure that I inform you that you’re under arrest.”

“I’m happy for you, Georgie,” Peter smirked. “Really am. You look like you could use some pleasure.”

“Captain Stacy,” Matt snarled, inserting himself between the two men, “I had a conversation with the Commissioner this morning. We agreed that Mr. Reilly was coming in of his own accord—”

“‘Ben Reilly’ can come on down whenever he wants,” George sneered disdainfully, pointing at Peter. “I’m here for him.” He flicked his eyes back to Matt, “If you wanna take something up with the Commissioner, go ahead. He’s downstairs.”

“That’s perfect—maybe we can all do a round of 20 Questions!” Peter grinned wide. “Anybody up for a game? Here. I’ll start:” He glanced over at George, lifting his chin proudly. “Never Have I Ever... been suspended from active duty for showin’ up to work three-sheets-to-the-wind and smellin’ like I bathed in a vat of Irish Whiskey.”

George chuckled mirthlessly, loathing in his eyes. “That’s funny. Always so clever.” His smile faded. “Make jokes all you want, Parker. They’re still gonna take it outta your ass at Ryker’s. If you even make it that far.”

The humor dimmed in Peter’s eyes, but his grin was infallible. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

“I know exactly how to tempt you,” George said through gritted teeth. He glanced across the room to the small woman hugging herself in a silk robe. “You.”

Honey’s glossy eyes went wide, stunned motionless as all eyes turned to her. “Me?” Her voice trembled pathetically, tongue fumbling. She was incapacitated by her fear as much as she was by her growing anger.

“You," Stacy grinned with a set of shark teeth. "You’re comin’ too. Cuff her.”

She flinched as a blue-shirted officer stepped towards her. 

“Wait. Who?” the cuffed man piped up.

They halted at the sound of Peter’s confusion. With a crooked brow, Peter leaned forward, bending at the waist. When Honey made eye contact with him, she was shocked to see him practically looking through her. His face went blank, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” he said, as if he’d found a stray cat on his front stoop, or a slightly-interesting ad in his mailbox. “Hi, there.” Awkwardly, he smiled at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Uh...” He blew out an exaggerated exhale, utter shock on his face. “You!”

A crease formed between her eyes as she stared back. The crowd of officers glanced between them with growing confusion. 

Peter eyed her with a blush, embarrassed. Sheepishly, he blurted out, “Eh. I gotta level with you. I didn’t know you were still here.” 

A hitch formed in her throat as she blinked at him, her face looking as if he’d slapped her. By contrast, besides the slight discomfort of being caught off guard, he appeared apathetic. Like she was a total stranger.

“Um, look,” he said, scrunching his face like he was about to rip off a bandaid. “I... uh, usually this isn’t my style, but... M’kinda in the middle’a somethin’. So... if you could grab a cab home, that’d be great.” 

Her stomach twisted.

Peter fixed her with an apologetic grin that was half-cringe, as if he was still attempting some level of charm without any kind of real remorse. 

“Just hit me up on Venmo,” he added, as if their relationship was some transaction. Like selling an old couch on Craigslist. He suddenly looked alarmed, glancing at the officers around him, then added, “For the cab fare! Not the... y’know, anything we did last night.”

Mortification hit her like a truck. He simply wrinkled his nose and shrugged, then glanced away. He didn’t look back.

Honey wanted to vomit. She lacked the air in her lungs to respond in words. Instead, she responded with a brokenhearted, glazed-over expression of shock and horror.

“Bullshit,” Captain Stacy said, eyes narrowed between Peter and his mistress. “Don’t play games with me, Parker. I know who she is.”

Peter blinked at his estranged father-in-law, completely daft. “Really?” He glanced back in her direction, avoiding her eyes, then to George again. “Wait. She’s not your daughter, is she?!”

“No!” the man replied, his face turning red.

Peter sighed. “Thank God. That woulda been so weird.”  

“Don’t bullshit me, Parker!” the police captain growled. “This woman is just as culpable as you are!”

“Really, Captain Stacy,” Matt added, skeptically. Doubt was slowly overtaking the room. “You can’t honestly believe that this, uh... um—” The lawyer cleared his throat, “—Mr. Reilly’s guest—is somehow useful to your case?” He scoffed with a laugh. “Or that she’s of any kind of consequence to my client at all?”

George pointed at the woman, who looked humiliated and near tears. “This woman is a witness, at the very least!” he barked. “She’s his girlfriend! His ‘Honey.’”

The way Peter raised one of his brows was almost comical, if it wasn’t so cruel. Incredulously, he glanced over at the devastated woman and snorted.

He looked back at George incredulously. “Seriously?” he scoffed. “Do you have any idea how many ‘Honeys’ I go through each month?”

The wince that followed could be felt throughout the whole room. Even strangers averted their eyes. 

The mob boss laughed cruelly. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great lay with a cute face. But that’s it.” 

A vein popped out of George’s forehead. The surrounding officers avoided eye contact, the situation becoming uncomfortable for everyone in the room. “This woman is practically an accomplice!” he bellowed, raising his voice loud enough to echo into the hall.

Peter gazed at him like he had two heads. “Accomplice?” He raised a brow. “You’re losin’ it, pops. I don’t even know her name.”

The pain was so sharp, she flinched. Like a stab to the back, or punch to the gut. A slap in the face. Her stomach lurched. Eyes blurred. She wanted to scream and vomit and die.

And still, she wanted Peter to look at her. To give her some kind of indication that this was all just a ruse.

Instead, he kept George fixed in his gaze, watching the sweat bead on the police captain's forehead as his outrage flared.

“‘Sides,” Peter taunted, licking his lips like a dog. “You know my type.”

The man’s eyes shot back to Peter, flashing red.

“That reminds me,” the mob boss grinned, a lewd twinkle in his eye. “How’s Helen?”

At the mention of his wife, George’s face dropped. His eyes went wide, the color vanishing instantly. The grown man lunged across the room with a growl. His hands were wrapped around Peter’s neck in the blink of an eye, practically tackling the cuffed criminal to the ground.

A ruckus of shouting, grabbing, and grunting broke out as George’s colleagues physically restrained him from continuing to choke Peter. 

The melee suddenly came to a halt when an authoritative male voice shouted out from the doorway, “What the hell’s going on here?”

The humorless tone snapped the whole group into order. The doorway was shadowed by the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man with dusty blonde hair wearing a tailored suit. He was older, possibly in his 70s, and judging by the way the officers tensed up as he strode into the room, he outranked them. 

“Anybody want to tell me what the problem is?” the man ordered, keeping his tone soft.

“Well, I’m missing a shirt, for one,” Peter complained. “And if you plan on takin’ my picture, I gotta tell ya, I don’t go topless. Least not for free.”

Matt spun towards the authoritative presence, infuriated. “Commissioner Pierce,” he greeted him firmly, with a faint tone of relief. “Your officer just attacked my client while he was restrained in handcuffs. Respectfully, I request that he be removed immediately from the premises.”

The Commissioner’s eyes roved from Murdock to George Stacy, who was still panting wildly, hair disheveled, and shirt askew.

“Captain Stacy, you’re dismissed,” the man declared. Just like that, it was over. Not even the SHIELD agents attempted to argue. George opened his mouth to protest, but Pierce silenced his rebuttal. “That is all,” he said calmly.

George snapped his mouth closed, stunned at the turn of events. He gulped down rage, and jerked himself free of his fellow officers’ grip. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the room. 

Now Pierce was in charge.

He gazed over at Peter, staring at the lanky man past the end of his nose. Pierce looked as if he was sizing him up. His eyes were cold and impersonal, like judging a cut of meat. Defiantly, Peter glared right back.

Matt stepped in, more sensitive to the man’s authority than Peter. “Commissioner Pierce, I appreciate you sharing my concern for a conflict-free investigation—”

“No need for posturing, Mr. Murdock,” he answered. There was a sophisticated nature to Alexander Pierce that the others were incapable of. “We can make this quick and easy. Your client’s coming with us. Gentleman, please, kindly escort Mr. Reilly from the room.”

“So... no shirt then?” Peter remarked, before being 'pulled' along by the beat cops at his sides. The other officers moved with him, filing out behind him. “Forget my lawyer!” the mob boss called back from the hallway. “You’re gonna hear from my agent!”

Pierce scanned the room like a shark through water, landing on the small, mortified woman in the back. Honey looked up to see Pierce’s eyes narrowed in on her. Matt remained close, and deep down, she knew it wasn't for her support. The tall man approached her, studying her intently. 

“So that just leaves you, then,” Pierce said. “Mr. Murdock, do you represent this young lady, too?”

Eyes glistening, she swallowed hard, focused on keeping the bile from crawling up her throat. 

“No, sir,” Matt stated, mouth twisted with a smirk. “In fact, I don't have a clue who she is. I’m pretty sure you could question every person in this house—you’d get the same answer.”

With a firm jaw, Pierce said to her, “Who are you?”

Fawn-like, she stared up at him, blinking wet lashes. “I... I’m....” Her mouth fumbled before forming the correct words. 

“I just make coffee.”

Continue to Part 23

#Lizzy writes. #Lizzy writes! sugar and vice #tasm peter parker #tasm peter parker x reader #tasm peter parker x you #tasm fanfiction #tasm spiderman #the amazing spiderman #the amazing spider man #amazing spider man #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman fanart #andrew garfield spiderman #spiderman au #peter parker au #mob peter parker #mob!peter parker #mob au #mafia au #mafia romance #spidermafia #andrew garfield #andrew garfield peter parker x reader #andrew garfield x reader #andrew garfied au #peter parker andrew garfield #we live in time #spider man no way home #tasm #tasm angst

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 3 – STUCKY FAVORITES

Hey, Asshole! A New York City Love story by bunnymaccool

Pairing: Steve/Bucky Rating: T Words: 14,818 Tags: Shrunkyclunks, Hurt Bucky, Identity Porn

Summary: Bucky's running late for the bus and he's stuck in line behind some ridiculous shoulder to waist ratio bastard who's too busy flirting with the baristas to get his frickin' order in. After he tells the dude off, completely in his rights he feels, the damn oversized puppy-faced ass keeps following him around and trying to apologize. And okay, dude is hot like burnin', but Bucky just doesn't have the time or patience for soothing the wounded ego of some gymrat wannabe with an obsession for dressing like he's hiding from the mob and .... why are you laughing, Sam?

Reasons why I love it: This fic is – in my humble opinion – the best Stucky thing since sliced bread. Bucky as the grumpy veteran Newyorker and Steve with his golden retriever puppy love optimism are such a godtier combo, it makes me roll around clutching this fic to my chest. Add to that Identity Porn and hilarious cameos from the other Avengers, and you literally can't make this any better. No wait, there's hurt/comfort too?? Shut up and take my kudos!!

4 Minute Window by Speranza

Pairing: Steve/Bucky Rating: E Words: 24,127 Tags: Action, Surveillance, Happy Ending

Summary: "Look, if they catch me," Bucky muttered, "they're either going to kill me or they're going to put me in a box with a little window and—Steve, I can't."

Reasons why I love it: This fic, man, I can't even tell you. If you've been in this fandom for a while there's a good chance you know this one already, but I had to recommend it anyway, because my god, this fic is utter perfection. Not just Steve and Bucky either but every single character and all of their relationships are so well written. The ending makes me teary every time, and all the little details in it are just incredible. Seriously, if you haven't read this one yet, do it right now. Please.

Say it louder for the people in the back by redhook

Pairing: Steve/Bucky Rating: E Words: 14,864 Tags: Glory Hole, Sex Worker Steve, Strangers to Lovers

Summary: Steve operates a glory hole. One of his regulars starts to get under his skin.

Reasons why I love it: This. Fucking. Fic. Oh my god. It's so hot. Like, scorching, a billion degrees, could probably melt vibranium hot. Plus, the developing closeness between Bucky and Steve is so fucking precious to see, and watching how Bucky slowly opens up is just beautiful. I love this fic so much, oh my god, you HAVE to read it!!

Lonesome no more by dharmashark

Pairing: Steve/Bucky Rating: E Words: 7,539 Tags: Wakanda, Touch-Starved, First Time

Summary: “Uh, Steve?” Steve’s eyes snap open. He pulls back, bracing to be reminded that this isn’t something they do. Instead, Bucky slurs, “D’you…have a beard?” — A post-cryo, pre-Nomad interlude.

Reasons why I love it: Steve and Bucky rediscovering themselves and each other while they're making up for lost time? Hell fucking yes. The feels are strong in this one, it's so tender and raw. Feels almost a bit like a character study, what with how true it reads to the characters. I really love this one, please go and check it out!

offer me that deathless death by canistakahari

Pairing: Steve/Bucky Rating: E Words: 10,656 Tags: Groundhog Day, Temporary Character Death, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Bucky dies for the first time in February of 1945, and then he dies again, and again, and again. It doesn't stick, but he can't find a way out, either.

Reasons why I love it: Pain. I am in pain. But happy pain? I don't even know. Bucky's desperation is so real towards the end, and I'm in awe of the whole concept of the fic, as to what the trigger for the whole timeloop actually is. Plus, the epilogue at the end owns my entire heart. Please go and read this one, you won't regret it!

#marvel #stucky #fic rec #fanfic #fanfic rec #a year in fanfic recs

[chryzure-archive]

🥺🤡😈✨💋⛔👀🎉🤯 For those fanfic asks!! <3

🥺 Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between your characters that never fails to put you in your feels?

the inherent tenderness of cleaning the blood off another… of caring for them after they’ve gone on a murder spree… of tending to their wounds…. OH, also comforting someone after they’ve been possessed. THE POWER OF LOVE OVERCOMING CURSES AND SPELLS ALSO, BUT IT’S EXTREMELY DRAINING AND IT ENDS WITH BOTH CHARACTERS CLINGING TO EACH OTHER FOR DEAR LIFE, TAKING SOLACE IN EACH OTHER!!!

🤡 What's a line, scene, or exchange you've written that made you laugh?

she would shoot jacks for her own entertainment btw

😈 Has there been a point in a story where you did something just to be playfully mean to your readers?

oh, for sure. pretty much any sort of angsty foreshadowing is playfully mean, but the most recent example is probably the way i kept hinting at azure never drinking / eating in the october fic. initially it seems it’s out of his stress for chrysi, but obviously that’s not the whole truth…

also, whenever chrysi ignores jacks’s advances before she realizes he has feelings for her… it’s so mean! it hurts him! it’s very fun to watch everyone yell at her for not acknowledging his feelings :)

basically, everything is playfully mean when you enjoy writing painful scenarios 🖤

✨ Give you and your writing a compliment. Go on now. You know you deserve it. 😉

hmm, my writing is the exact kind of heartbreaking that i adore, mixed with a wry sense of humor 😌

💋 First kiss fics. Love em or hate em?

i personally love writing first kiss fics w chrysi in particular, since she will have a first kiss with someone and then take about six more months to admit her feelings for them. she’s so fascinating in that regard.

chrysijacks first kiss fics are esp hilarious since it’s like. jacks going “oh my god… i’ve found my one true love…” and chrysi’s like “alright so back to business, since i felt absolutely nothing when we kissed 🖤” guys…

⛔ Do you have a fic you started, but scrapped?

it’s not that i’ve scrapped them, it’s jst more of the fact that i don’t know if i’ll ever have the time to write all of them, buuut i think most notably would be my ella enchanted chrysijacks au… i’ll probably jst post the scene where she almost stabs him and leave it at that. all the other snippets i’ve written will go in my unfinished folder 🤧

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

obviously i’ve said this before, but i’m working on the jacks origin story fic as of right now. it’s about jacks and his friendship with chrysi and the way it all devolves as she hides her disease from him + as she falls in love with azure. i also explore the deal he made with the fallen star after azure and chrysi both die and how that correlates with his fear of being unimportant and his fear of dying.

basically, i’m character-studying jacks and writing yet another angst soulmates story with chryzure.

🎉 What leads you to consider a fic a success?

if it makes me want to wail into my pillow as i write it (affectionate), and if it gives me a clear mental image of the scenes playing out, AND IF I ACTUALLY FINISH IT… it is a success 🖤

🤯 What's a genre you struggle with as a writer (ex. romance, action, etc.)?

hmm… i think action might be the hardest for me to write? i’m a very visual writer (everything is like a movie in my head), and it’s hard to get camera angles / shot-editing / a visual medium to explain disorientation across in a written medium instead.

in the same vein, i find adventure to be a bit difficult too… i can’t explain it, but action-adventure has never been my niche. i like a slower pace in my writing. lots of character moments rather than scenario moments!

#.asks #m.filly✨ #jacks is a character i like to put under a microscope at all times #tbh i feel like i understand his driving motivations and fears the best 🖤 i’m jst right abt everything wrt him….

[alligais-a]

the night of a thousand tears,       web weaving.

a quiet place    /    elegy for the time at hand,  adonis    /    return of the mandalorian    /    hebake,  euripides    /    a quiet place    /    plainwater:  essays and poetry,  anne carson    /    return of the mandalorian    /    alcestis,  euripides    /    a quiet place    /    tree of fire,  adonis

#╰ ⁎ out ⟩ edit. #╰ ⁎ character study ⟩ to know the pain of too much tenderness; to be wounded by love; to bleed willingly. #genocide tw #ask to tag #long post cw #i accidentally deleted this while cleaning up my blog because i am dumb

[tavvattales]

helloooo can i request a fluff lof y/n taking care of their injuries after some long fight? with childe, xiao and diluc 😊 thank youuu

Oh my goodness, yes of course! <3

And if I may be bold to say, you're my first ever ask! Thank you so much for enjoying my work. I hope you enjoy these stories I wrote especially for you! 😊😊

---------------------------------------------------'--

GENSHIN IMPACT Character x gn reader fluff stories~♡♡

Scenario: Cleaning up their wounds

Characters: Childe/Tartaglia, Xiao, Diluc(seperate)

Pairings: Childe/Tartaglia x gn reader, Xiao x gn reader, Diluc x gn reader

Warnings: Mentions of blood and injuries, minor swearing

SFW----> Lots of fluff down below. Click at your own risk. ;)

Childe/Tartaglia:

● He's a skilled fighter, he wouldn't be a Harbinger if he wasn't, so very rarely would he come to you with a wound. When he does he's always embarrassed, but he'll come to you because you never pass judgment, instead your eyes are filled with worry and love.

● He loves how gentle you are when you tend to him. The way he looks at you when you clean him up and the way you smile at him, telling him how glad you are it wasn't anything serious. He knows how much you love him and it makes him fall even harder for you. Every. Single. Time.

A loud, rapid knock to your door startled you awake. Groggily you stumbled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes wondering who it could be at this time of night. As you reach the door, you peer through the peep hole. Surprised, you open the door.

A Fatui agent stood there, bowing to you. Immediately you knew what was wrong before the man could have a chance to speak, "Where is he? How bad is it?" You asked, rushed, already putting your coat on over your sleeping garments.

"He's at the Northlander Bank. He would have come here himself, but this time it's. . .bad. He's lost a bit of blood," The agent spoke grimly. You felt the lump in your throat rise and you tried to swallow.

"Thank you. ." You manage to say to the man before rushing past him, grabbing the medical supplies in the process. You didn't stop running through the brightly lit streets of Liyue until you arrived at the bank.

Panting and gasping for air you pushed past the two Fatui agents who were guarding the doors. They already knew who you were so they didn't even try to stop you, otherwise you would have had their tounge.

You quickly made your way to his room where a few more agents were attending to him as he lay on his bed, clutching his side with blood soaked rags. Your nose was immediately met with the smell of iron, "Childe! Oh my Archons, what the hell happened?!" You rush to his side, pulling out your medical supplies.

You shooed the remaining agents out of the room so you could focus. "I had a run in with a peculiar traveler named Aether. He put up quite a fight. ." His breathing was heavy and staggered, fading in and out of consciousness.

"I need you to keep talking to me, my love," you say to him gently, trying to stay calm, "I'm going to cut off your shirt so I can better assess your wound, okay?" You swiftly take out your surgical scissors and cut away the crimson soaked fabric clinging to his upper torso.

You gasp, the wound was a large slash across the side of his abdomen. You stifle back tears before meekly saying, "You're going to be okay. I promise. You'll need several stitches, but I'm determined to keep you alive."

He lets out a small laugh before wincing in pain, "I'm lucky to have someone as kind and caring as you, Y/N" Childe weakly reaches over to push a strand of hair behind your ear.

You lean into his hand for a brief moment before replying, "Take this for the pain, and this to help stop the bleeding. Afterwards I'm going to need to disinfect the wound," You hand him two pills and he swallows them quickly, "It's going to hurt, love, so bare with me. ."

You open up a bottle of alcohol and offer your hand to him, "Squeeze my hand," You say to him as you start pouring the alcohol over his wound. He grits his teeth and lets out a pained groan as he squeezes your hand tightly. You work quickly from there, stitching his wound perfectly.

Once you're finished you clean up all the rags and place a clean damp one over his forehead. He's now asleep, getting the much deserved rest he needed. You place a gentle kiss upon his cheek, not leaving his side.

He'll live to see another day, thank the Archons.

Childe/Tartaglia x gn reader END

----------------------------------------------------

Xiao:

● He also isn't one to get injured so quickly, though when he does you're always quickly by his side no matter how big or small. Even though he's not much for human interaction, he quite enjoys the attention he gets from you.

● He'll always thank you in his own way with odd gifts he made himself. You find it charming. By now you have quite the collection and they're all your most prized possessions.

Today you wanted to travel to Mondstat as you heard there was a festival going on and Xiao offered to accompany you, but only for protection he insisted. He thought human customs were a waste and didn't want to be bothered with them.

The journey to Mondstat would take half a day, and sometimes the roads could be treacherous, so you made sure to pack all of the necessities.

Snacks for the road? Check. Extra water? Check. A med kit? Of course. You triple checked everything and you were about to check it a fourth time when Xiao stopped you and said, "Y/N, you have everything we need. Trust me," He placed a firm, but gentle hand on your shoulder, "Now let's get going before it gets too late. The roads will get dangerous is we wait any longer."

You let out a small sigh and nod, "You're right. Sorry, you know I always gotta make sure everything's in order." You could have sworn you heard him huff and that made you smile. Xiao always had a cold exterior, but you knew a different side to him. He was gentle, kind, always looking out for you. You loved him so much for that. He'd never let anyone but you see this side of him.

Grabbing your sack you sling it over your shoulder and secure it as you both prepare to head out. Xiao was never one for small talk, but you still engaged him in conversation while you two walked. He secretly loved the sound of your voice so he kept you entertained just so he could keep hearing it.

After a few hours of walking both of you had arrived to Stone Gate, you decide it was time for a break. You stretch your arms upwards and arch your back before plopping down on top of a log you had found, patting the spot next to you for Xiao to sit next to you, but he shook his head and continued to stand on guard, "Oh come on, Xiao. We've been walking for hours. It's okay to rest for a bi-"

He quickly raised his hand to stop you from talking and put a finger to his lips before quietly saying, "I sense something evil coming our way," He readied his jade spear before continuing, "I need you to hide someplace safe."

"No way am I going to let you fight on your own!" You retort, getting your sword ready. Determination burned in your eyes as you glanced over to him.

He met your gaze and let out a small sigh, his golden eyes glimmering before giving you a nod, "Fine."

You started hearing rustling from all around you both when it finally clicked that it was an ambush. A charge of at least twenty Hilichurls and three large ones came at the both of you from all sides, "Tck. . Damn. There are more than I expected, " Xiao muttered angrily, knocking back three with his spear in one swift movement, killing them instantly.

You swiftly take out two more, rushing at a third one. You two made a hell of a team. You didn't have a vision, but you were very skilled with the sword and whatever you didn't have, Xiao made up for it creating the perfect synergy between the both of you.

"So much for a peaceful break!" You call out to him as you hacked away a few more, so far you've managed not to get hit. Xiao managed to take out the rest rather quickly.

You rush to his side, noticing a rather long cut across his right cheek, "Xiao, you've been hurt," you said, a frown forming on your lips. He reached up to touch it and he winced slightly.

"I must have been nicked by an arrow, " He muttered, "I'm just glad you're not hurt," He softly took your chin in his hand as he tilted your head gently, side to side.

You blush furiously, avoiding his beautiful gaze, "Let me at least tend to your cut. It's the least I can do" you say, rummaging through your sack taking out the med kit.

Xiao took a seat on the log you were previously sitting on as you kneel in front of him, gently tending his wound. He winces each time you dab it with the disinfectant, but he's grateful to you.

After placing the bandage on his cut, he gingerly takes your hand and places it back on his cheek, nuzzling into it, "Thank you, " He said in a hushed whisper before kissing your hand.

You smile at him and leaned upwards, giving a quick kiss to his bandaged cut, leaving him stunned. "That's to make it heal faster" you say giggling softly at his expression.

He still wasn't used to human customs, but this he could get used to.

Xiao x gn reader END

----------------------------------------------------

Diluc:

● His work as the Dark Knight hero brings him home with several injuries a week, but you're quick to assist him and most of the time he's careful not to sustain anything too horrible. Though you never fail to scold him for being reckless and to take it easy once in a while.

● He always studies your features as you tend to him, falling in love with you all over again. You're so tender with your touch, careful not to cause him any further harm. He always pulls you into a tight embrace afterwards, grateful to be back in your arms after a long night.

You let out an exasperated sigh as you study the mildly battered Diluc. His bright fiery colored hair, falling in locks in front of his face as he plops down in a chair, leaning his head back. He had several small cuts from what you could tell with the amount of tears on his clothing, "You over did it again, didn't you?" You asked, hands on your hips.

"Mm, perhaps I may have, " Diluc replies back, slowly taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, preparing for you to clean out his cuts and scrapes.

You click your tongue in response to his answer, "You worry me so much, you know that, right?" But you're quick to blush as he slides off his shirt, his perfectly sculpted abs catching the dim light of the room, creating perfect shadows across his skin.

He smirks at you, "I'm aware, but I also love seeing how you care for me after a long night, Y/N," Diluc takes your hand in his, bringing it up to his lips as he gingerly kisses it, glancing up at you with his gentle crimson eyes.

You fidget shyly, meeting his gaze, "O-of course. I'll always support you, but it's okay to give your body a break once in a while too. ." You say, smiling softly wondering what you were gonna do with him.

Diluc lets go of your hand, letting you get to work on cleaning his several small cuts. You're careful not to further hurt him as you dab them clean, applying a bandage to each one, "All finished." You say, proud of your handiwork.

"Thank you, my dear," He says as he gets up, pulling you into a warm embrace. Your heart pounding in your chest. You lift your face up to meet his loving crimson gaze as he leans down to give you a soft, warm kiss upon your lips.

You may not like to see him hurt, but you live for these gentle moments.

Diluc x gn reader END

I hope you enjoy <3

#genshin impact #Genshin #genshin headcanons #genshin impact fandom #genshin impact fanfiction #Genshin impact childe #genshin impact xiao #genshin impact diluc #genshin childe #genshin xiao #genshin diluc #xiao x reader #genshin impact x reader #childe x reader #diluc x reader #diluc fluff #childe fluff #xiao fluff

[revirushifaa]

Umm I had a thought of a secret shapeshifter MC transforming into a wounded animal so she could get treated and spoiled by the brothers?

Why this was so much fun to write! And surprise!! Belphie's included finally, I grasped his character... I think. If he's still not in character do tell me and I'll do my best to keep him true to his character!

Enjoy!

-----------------------------------------------------

Bros + Fem!Animal Shapeshifter MC:

Lucifer and MC:

*He has his own giant pupper, but seeing this one wolf that just walked in his study, he felt something. Why was the animal here in the first place? He just crouches and pets the wolf, taking off his black gloves.

"Whatever you are doing here, I have no idea. But make yourself comfortable."

*When he pets the wolf in a sensitive area, she let out a pained squeal. Which prompts him to stop and look at her.

"You're injured? You poor thing, here, let me make that injury feel better.

*He gets pretty gentle with the she-wolf, making sure she feels comforted. Puts a few drops of whatever healing ointment that he has with him, then he picks her up and sits down back on his chair, the she-wolf on his lap as a gentle hand, caresses her fur and she's pretty soothed.

*This is MC using her ability to shapeshift just to get a little spoiling and treatment, she's thinking triumphantly in her mind, having Lucifer's hand ruffling her fur, she feels like in the clouds. She would do this more frequently, without letting the oldest know that it had been her.

Mammon and MC:

*What's a fox doing in the living room? Just what?

"Oi, where did ya come from? Aww, look at ya."

*He crouches down and pets the fox's head, she purrs and leans in his touch, her front paw is limping and Mammon takes notice of it and gently picks her up, carrying her to the bathroom where most injury treatment is.

*Gently massages her front leg and whispers soothing things to her, just to keep her calm and soothed as he treats her injured leg.

"There. Feelin' better? I'm glad. Now come here."

*Carries her to the couch back in the living room, sitting down and he puts her next to him, his fingers rubbing her fur and little ears, a soft smile coming in his features.

*MC is just enjoying this as much as she can, behind her mind she's emitting rainbows and happy things. Mammon's hand is just so soft, she sure is enjoying this.

Leviathan and MC:

*Hm? What's a panda doing in his room? He has no idea, but the panda looks hurt, she has a splinter stuck in her paw.

"O-oh, that doesn't look too well. I'll tend to that."

*As careful as he can be, he picks up a pair of tiny tweezers and gently pulls out the splinter off the panda's paw, and then wraps it in bandages, before looking down at the panda.

"Better? O-oh, you want me to pet you, w-well, ok..."

*Unsure if he'd do a good job petting her, he's hesitant but when the she-panda seems happy that he's petting her, he gets confident and now he has her in his arms and he snuggles, her fur is just so soft he can't resist to this. He has a thing for pandas so finally meeting one is all he needs to feel in confidence for when he has to cuddle MC.

*MC is grinning in her mind, she has fooled Levi into believing she's a panda, so now she has him all for her, she nuzzles him and lets out soft grunts, meaning that she's enjoying this. Levi then continues snuggling her so close, enjoying this himself.

Satan and MC:

*What's a poor cat doing trapped in a net outside the house?! Not on Satan's watch! He unties the she-cat and promptly picks her up in his arms to see if she's hurt.

"Are you ok, little one? Poor you, don't worry now, I've got you now."

*With a soft tone he gently soothes the she-cat and brings her into his library room, sitting down on his favorite chair, and cradles the cat in his arms as though, she's a mere baby.

*Cats are his favorites, so it's only natural that he's as soft as a pillow with the little kitten. She's just shaken up, not injured or anything, so he's relieved.

"Such a precious little one, you're enjoying my caresses, hm? Well, I have more for you."

*He ends up treating the she-cat like an infant, rocking her back and forth, even reading to her to see if she likes his voice, it's a soft voice and the she-cat couldn't be happier than she is, she purrs in response and mews pretty joyful.

*MC manages to get Satan all over her, just by shapeshifting into his favorite animal, very clever of her. She doesn't want this to end, so she keeps in her cat form purring and snuggling Satan happily.

Asmodeus and MC:

*A bunny? A poor thing is limping right to him, he crushes down and pokes the bunny's nose.

"Hurt are we? Come with me, I'll make sure you get better."

*Gently carries the bunny into his room and and places her on his chair by his dresses, massages her paws that had been injured and peppers her into soft caresses.

"All better, sweet bunny?"

*He's fond of bunnies, they remember him of dear MC(Who he doesn't know he's just petting, the she-bunny is just MC but into the bunny form) so sweet and soft, he really is so fond of the bunny he just found.

*He sits by and keeps caressing her with a smile on, the fur that she has is just like petting a stuffed animal, he's fond of those two. He keeps the bunny in his arms, which he had just washed into body wash body of coconut milk, making them smooth and soft.

*MC leans in all his touches, this plan of hers worked quite well, she has gotten almost of all the brothers to give her spoiling and soft treatment. Asmo's now for her, she's all for enjoying the lustful one.

Beelzebub and MC:

*Munch munch munch. As usual eating, but he looks down when a small duckling comes to him and pecks his feet.

"What are you doing here, little duck? Hungry as well? I got some bread crumbs for you-oh no, look at that twisted little wing..."

*He crushes down and gently carries the duckling in hands and sees that near is a stick and a string from a ribbon. He works his way to on caring for the little duckling and soon her wing was strapped to the stick and put back in place.

"There, that wing should be better in a few days, you should be better by then."

*He caressed her feathers, seeing how she gently squeak, and he smiles softly at her. Ducklings are really adorable, too adorable, but wouldn't dare gobble this one up, he wants to care for her until she's better to be put back to her environment as animals that are from the outside world, should be better in their habitats than in another place that isn't home.

*The duckling leans in his touches and hops into his hand, rubbing the palm of his hand with her head and beak. She's been quite affectionated with the gluttonous one.

"Precious small little thing..."

*MC snickers inside her mind, she knew that shapeshifting into this form would get Beel to be tender with her, so she keeps in that form, happy that Beel seems to not get suspicious of her being in her duckling form, she's just delighted with these caresses, she doesn't want them to end.

Belphegor and MC:

*He's sleeping once again, until he feels his cheek being licked. He grumbles and his eyes flutters open, to see a cattle next to his bed... wait a cattle? Wha?

"Uh... is this a dream? There's no way a cattle could be in the attic."

*When he realizes that this is real, he sits up and rubs his eyes. His animal that he is in demon form, they're a precious animal but oh no... her ear is injured, he gently cleans it up with a handckerchief and bandages it, with his arms he wraps them around her neck.

"So precious and soft... I can use you as a better pillow..."

*He caresses the cattle and puts his face on her head, he's loving this moment with the mammal. He feels like falling asleep again, because all is soothing, but the cattle's presense is just enough to keep him awake for a little longer.

"Don't go just now, stay here with me... even if I fall alseep on you..."

*His caresses are gentle and the cattle nudges his cheek and licks it as a kiss making him giggle a little. This unexpected visit who just interrupted his sweet sleep is just the best little guest that he's had.

*MC knew from the get go that turning into a cow would make Belphie pull out his soft side, so there. She'll keep this way for a lot longer, just to keep feeling Belphie's arms and soft touches, there's nothing better than this. Clever idea of hers, now she's had all the brothers treating and spoiling her, what she all wanted.

#obey me imagines #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #headcanons #demon brothers #female mc #obey me female mc

[vibraniumwing]

what once was mine.

a neville longbottom x reader wherein the reader catches a disease that everyone fears to get, and when the former realizes what was happening, it was all too late.

WARNING: angst, hanahaki!au, mentions of death, major character death

A/N: okay so this is my own entry for my writing challenge !! the chaotic eggs were talking about hanahaki fics and i just couldn’t shake this idea off. i hate writing angst for this little bean but i JUST can’t let this go. 

prompt: healing incantation from tangled.

word count: 3.2k

---

Neville walked through the path of what was once his safe haven, the chilling air biting into his skin as he reached the only tree that was in the middle of the vast land that was littered with flowers.

For the beautiful place that once brought him joy, also gave him despair.

---

You and Nevile got along quite well due to the fact that the two of you grew up next to each other and that you’ve always had this special bond over plants— whether it be magical or just the normal kind— meaning that you mostly bonded over tending to the plants at the greenhouse and helping Professor Sprout during your free time. 

He would usually teach you the magical properties of the plants you’ve studied for in Herbology while you teach him certain meanings and symbolisms for flowers that you’ve studied in your free time. 

---

Neville was making his way to the greenhouse when he heard a gentle voice through the window, peeking through, he saw you gently spray the pots of dittany with water as you quietly sang, 

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine”

He mesmerized by the way you carried out the song, capturing him in a trance as you continued to sing and tend to the plant, unaware of his presence,

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fate's design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine”

Your voice growing more silent as you ended the song, only noticing his presence as you turn around and see him looking at you with a rather dazed expression, amazed at what you’ve performed in front of him.

“Nev! how long have you been there?” You question, nearly dropping the watering can, cheeks flushed at the realization that he heard you singing. 

He smiled at you shyly, “Just enough to hear you sing, why have you never told me that you sing so well?” he questioned, jogging to the door and entered the greenhouse, the smile still evident on his lips. 

You shied away from his gaze, “It just never came up as topic, besides my singing abilities aren’t that good.” you now answer, walking back to the table to return the canister and face him, crossing your arms as you lean on the table. “Now I’m guessing you want an answer to why I was singing to them?” Questioning him, motioning to the plants that was in front of you. 

He sheepishly nodded, genuinely curious at your habit. 

Taking a deep breath in, you started to explain, “When I was young, my mom would always sing me this song when she’s healing the small wounds I would get to distract me from the pain, telling me that this song helps to revive what once was in agony.” You answered, walking back over to gently hold the leaves of the magical plant in front of you.

“Then when I started to grow my own garden, I would sing the song to the flowers in my garden when they would show signs of wilting, as if to help them grow back. It’s silly, I know, but I just believe that it helps them in a way.” You finished explaining, looking back at him with an embarrassed expression, still in disbelief that he had finally caught you.

He looked at you incredulously, shocked that you think he would shame you for such a habit. “I don’t think that’s embarrassing, I honestly think it’s adorable.” tone filled with sincerity as he rubbed the nape of his neck, “I would love to learn that song too.”

That was your turn to look at him with disbelief, did he really want to learn the song because of you? 

A huge grin soon came over your lips as you pulled out a tattered leather journal from your bag, handing it over to him. “I might consider teaching you the song if you learn these flowers with me.” You persuaded him, his hands now opening the notebook to see the hand-drawn flowers you’ve designed on the pages, it’s names and meanings beside it.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

---

“Hey (Y/N), what do these flowers symbolize?” He asked you one day, pointing to the page that had carnations decorating the page, the name and its meaning missing. 

You leaned over and smiled sadly at the drawing, “Those are red carnations, Nev.” You started off, leaning on your chair as you continued, “You can see that the red varies from a light red hue to a much deeper and rich one, right? Well, the light red carnations symbolizes admiration while the deeper ones mean deep love and affection.”

He eagerly listened to your explanation, nodding once as he motioned for you to finish what you were saying, you bring your hand towards the white and striped variations of the same flower, “The white ones represent pure love and good luck while the striped ones are for the regret of a love one cannot share. “ You finished, giving him an accomplished look as he was amazed. 

“Who knew a single flower and its colors have tons of meanings.” He commented, fingers gently grazing over the surface of the page as he looked at it with awe. 

“Everything has meaning if you look at enough, Nev.”

---

As days passed by, you’ve bonded over the simple journal filled with flowers, spending hours upon hours showing him what they could mean to a person and how you can care for it. 

as the days passed, you also felt your heart slowly sink in deeper into the emotions you swore to never tell. 

---

You were passing by greenhouse when you heard a familiar tune carry out from the windows, stopping by the very last one, you peek to see Neville carefully tending to his Mimbulus Mimbetonia that he bought in that same year, gently watering the plant as he sang.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine”

Admittedly, his voice wasn’t that good but the tenderness in every word he spoke had you swooning; your heart swelled with adoration as he continued to sing, unaware of how you were silently watching him.

You’ve made yourself content with that, just admiring him from the distance; loving him silently from the side.

---

The two of you were in the Great Hall, immersed yet in another session of flowers and symbols, you were explaining to him the meaning of Camellias when you’ve noticed he seemed to be out of focus, staring off into the distance.

You followed his gaze to the group of students who proudly wore their house color of blue, landing on a certain blonde girl who was eating her food quietly, caught in-between two chattering girls.

Upon realization, your throat started to itch, making you wince at the feeling. “Hey Neville, are you still with me?” You asked, clearing your airway as to ease out on the uneasy feeling stirring inside of you.

He instantly snapped out of it and looked back at you with a grin, “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. You were saying?” motioning you to continue, eyes now glued to the flower you had recently drawn. 

“There are called camellias. Generally, they would symbolize love, affection and admiration to a person. However, like what I’ve explained before, the colors vary what their purpose.” You explained, hand reaching over to scratch your throat as the its irritation intensified, “For example, red would mean love and affection.” 

Neville silently nodded, not noticing how you were struggling with your words, “and these are?” he asked, pointing to the pink ones that were alone by the corner of the page.

“Those are pink camellias, those signify a longing for someone,” You finished.

“Your knowledge on these never ceases to amaze me.”

---

Weeks passed and the irritation just worsened, confusing you to no end about what you may have eaten to cause such a state. 

Until you were walking alongside with Neville until you coughed, feeling a rather foreign object in your mouth. You covered your mouth and looked at your friend with wide eyes before running to the lavatory, stumbling to the sink as you release whatever was in your mouth.

It was petals, and not just any petals, it was striped carnation petals.

You stared at the bunch in your hands, rather terrified of the beautiful red to white design it had. 

---

Seemingly enough, every time you would cough up these little monsters, it would be whenever Neville would be looking or talking to Luna. 

Your eyes looked at the amount of petals you had coughed up in just a week, filling the little jar you had hidden halfway through already. Everyday would be a new struggle for you as your breathing would get restricted more and more each time. 

You sat by the window of your dorm and watched how the glass reflected in the moonlight, gently shaking the jar as you watch the petals flutter inside the case, remembering how you 

You had some alone time after telling Neville that you would stay back at Hogwarts rather than go down at Hogsmeade, telling him that you were feeling a little under the weather for such activities. 

He offered to stay back but you said no, telling him to go have fun and enjoy the rest of the day, to which he reluctantly agreed to and left with Seamus and Dean.

You wandered into the library in hopes at you would find something that would answer what you had been currently suffering with. Eyes quickly skimming through the various books until you came across one that explained muggle ailments and illnesses. 

Scanning through the pages, your eyes had caught a picture of lungs that were slowly being filled with petals, “Hanahaki Disease...” you read out loud, your head pulsating at the realization of what you had caught, its severity causing you to tear up. 

‘This disease is stemmed from a love you cannot receive back, the petals usually appear from a certain flower and reminds them of the person they hold dearest.’ You silently read, blinking through the tears as your fingers played with the carnations that laid rest inside your pocket. 

“It’s severity may vary from petals to coughing up the full form of the flowers, the only known cure for this is aside from the reciprocation of love is the removal of the petals, however the devastating side-effect includes the loss of emotions for the said person. This is severely fatal for those who decide to leave it be, death be their mark for those who pretend not to see.” you whispered, fear creeping into your mind at the realization if you get this removed, your love for Neville will also leave

That’s when you’ve decided to leave what you have as it, choosing to endure what may come rather than to lose Neville.

Your hand clutched the container as sobs soon followed, tears freely flowing down your cheeks, “I’d rather fight and endure the pain may give me than to lose the love I have for you, Nev.”

and for the first time in what seems like forever, there were no petals that night.

---

You’ve decided to keep a notebook to keep track on the days you’ve survived with this living hell, writing down what happened within your day and if you have coughed up any petals; small bits and pieces of how you adore your best friend. 

You were by the Greenhouse, hugging your cardigan closer to your body as you admired the beautiful flowers of a rather wilted aconite, drawing the plant as you quietly sang to yourself, 

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine”

Bringing comfort to your rather irritated chest as someone joined along, your head whipped to where the sound came from, seeing Neville walk towards you with a rather warm smile, the same smile that you found comfort in, the same one that caused you to be in the predicament that you are right now.

“What are you drawing there?” He had asked, attempting to peek at the notebook which you closed rather quickly. 

You shook your head and hugged the notebook close to your chest, “You can’t look into this yet, Nev. Not yet.” You had said before coughing once more, a single petal escaping your lips. 

He looked at you with concern etched on his face, rubbing your back soothingly. “You’ve been coughing a lot lately, (Y/N), are you alright?” He asked, voice laced with worry as you nodded, giving him a smile as you held onto his hand.

“I’m all good, Neville, don’t worry. It’s just a cold that’s been sticking around for longer.”

---

You crossed out another date on the calendar you’ve made on your journal, signifying you have yet lived another day with this treacherous disease. It’s been three years since the first day you’ve coughed up petals and you still can’t believe you’ve lasted this long.

The longest record for this was for just 5 months, yet here you are now, marching on your way down to the Great Hall with your heart pounding at the realization that you were about to walk into another battle aside from your own.

As chaos soon ensued, you and Neville were on lookout by the other end of the wooden bridge, on the lookout for the pack of death eaters that were bound to invade the castle that way. You were both staring out into the rather pitch black valley, you were chewing the inside of your cheek as your hands grip on the railing, “Nev, before we both get into this, I just want you to know-”

You were about to confess what you felt for him when a loud rumble of feet interrupted, making you both alert and grip onto your wands as you looked into the distance. You grabbed his hand the moment you saw the death eaters viciously towards the entrance when three of them just obliterated into nothing making the rest halt in their tracks,

Neville gave you a knowing look, a rather victorious smile on his lips, “Yeah?! You and whose army?!”, taunting the large crowd who stopped in their tracks. Yet when a single flare landed on Scabior’s want, you immediately tugged on his sleeve, “Nev, we have to run.” as the death eaters rushed inside the gatehouse. 

You instantly took the lead, the both of you fleeing the bridge while avoiding the spells the snatcher was casting on the both of you while Neville casted a few spells to blow up the bridge. 

You were the first one to the end, watching how the bridge fell as your friend disappeared from your sight, “Neville!” You shrieked, Seamus holding you back as you coughed, your throat not handling the rather strenuous thing.

You struggled in Seamus’ grip, sobbing at the thought that your friend might have plummeted to his death when his want re-emerged from where the bridge cut off, his head soon popping out as he supported himself on the ledge, “That went well.” He groaned. 

You wiped your tears and ran towards him, helping him up as you cupped his face, eyes searching any bruises he might have. “Nev, don’t ever scare me like that again.” You sobbed, not minding the fact that every time you had to take a sharp inhale, it felt like glass was being pushed into your lungs because of the flowers growing within your chest. 

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, breath heaving in lots of air as he felt the adrenaline course through his veins, “I’m okay, (Y/N/N). I promise.” he assured, smiling at you rather happily. 

“Hey I hate to break your moment but we have to get back inside the castle now” Ginny spoke up, motioning the two of you to go and stand up. You both looked at each other and stood up, running along with her into the school as you maneuvered through the sea of students trying to flee the scene.

“What were you trying to say earlier, (Y/N)?” Neville had finally asked, glancing at you as he bumped into another student again, you shook your head, choosing not to speak up about your emotions in a time like this, “I’ll tell you once this thing is over, just promise me you’ll stay alive” You said back, giving him a smile which he mirrored, understanding what you meant.

“Ginny! Neville! (Y/N)!  Are you alright?” Harry’s voice soon rang in your ears, watching how Harry took the lass by his side and looked at the both of you with expectancy. You gave him a mere nod while the other spoke up, “Never better! I feel like I could spit fire! You haven’t seen Luna, have you?”

Harry looked at him confused, “Luna?” “I’m mad for her! ‘Think it’s about time I told her since we’d probably both be dead by dawn!” Neville exclaimed, giving you a small pat on the back as he ran up the stairs.

You suddenly felt your airway constrict more as you violently coughed, hunching over as a bunch of petals escaped your mouth, a bit of your own blood trailing down your mouth as you looked at Ginny who was talking with Harry. Despite the painful ringing in your ear and your ragged breath, you shouted at the both of them, “I’ll go this way! Be safe, the both of you!” before running off into the distance, fighting your way through the crowd.

You didn’t know where your feet would take you as you ran until you reached a deserted hallway, making you finally collapse on the floor as you spat out buds of the beautiful carnation and even the flower in its full form. 

With a shaky hand, you grasp onto in, heaving in your last breath before blacking out. 

---

When you woke up next, you heard a voice quietly sing albeit the hoarseness present in it, you found the sense of familiarity in every word, 

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine”

The song was cut off by a sob, causing you to stir as your vision was invaded by the bright light, looking down at what seems to be a distraught Neville. “H-Hey.” You managed to croak, wincing at the pain it caused you. 

He looked up at you with bloodshot eyes, “Why didn’t you tell me, (Y/N)? Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, crying harder as you brought your hand up to wipe his tears, silencing his sobs as you sang for one last time, 

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fate's design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine”

Tears of your own spilled as you realized that you have finally reached your end, that with every inhale that you took the exhales got shorter. You weakly cupped his cheek, smiling softly. “I didn’t want you to worry so much, seeing you happy was enough for me.” You explained, eyes exploring the ruins of the Great Hall for one last time.

“Because I’d rather die knowing that I loved someone as great as you, Neville. I’m sorry.” your answer cut off by coughing up the final camellia that escaped your system, giving it to him as you softly sang before drifting off, the cries of what once was your first love floating away.

“What once… was mine.”

---

TAGS: @theweasleyslut​ @violetravens​ @eunoia-kth​ @starlightweasley​ @minty-malfoy​ @glimmering-darling-dolly​ @slytherinsunrise​ @loony-loopy-lupinn​ @dogweedanddeathcaps​ @pastanest​

#FoTT200wc #neville longbottom #neville longbottom x reader #neville longbottom x y/n #neville longbottom angst #neville longbottom imagine #neville longbottom imagines #neville longbottom fic #neville longbottom fics

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 10

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 3.9k

warnings: 

description: finding momentary refuge in a cafe across town, Han Jisung is holding onto his facade by a thread, and a talk with Detective Bang Chan -- and Police Captain Kim Woojin -- leaves him more shaken than ever before. Things have changed, time is running out, and a sudden turn of events leads Jisung all the way back to your doorstep.

watch the trailer here!

10| dead end

Han Jisung sat facing the windows of a cafe whose name he neither remembered nor cared for, absently stirring a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.

From the moment he’d stepped out of your apartment, his feet hadn’t stopped propelling him in the opposite direction, actively putting as much distance between him and you as possible. This coffee shop -- the Third Eye, or something along those lines -- was far enough on the other side of town for Jisung to walk in, order the first thing on the menu, and plant himself down by the window seats.

If only he could get you out of his mind.

Every time he blinked, he saw the silhouette of your fearful, blood-drained face burning into his eyelids -- the warm laughter that had been stirred in his chest from making pancakes now felt like an ice burn, leaving his rib cage aching, raw, and cold. 

Lies, lies, lies.

That’s all they were, really: those tender, precious moments didn’t belong to him, not really. No, he scowled -- they were stolen, they belonged to who he was supposed to be. Who you thought he was, who you wanted him to be. After all, there was no way you would still love him if you knew who he really was. He saw it in your faltering smiles, the nervous laughter filling the cracks in your conversations; he heard it when you called him that night, voice impossibly small and begging him to stay safe from the -- the killer.

To stay safe from himself.

Jisung let his head fall in his hands, fingers violently raking through his hair as he stared blankly through the window. How long was he going to keep this up? No -- how long could he keep this up? He was on bought time, and every stupid slip-up he made was a sufficiently painful reminder of this bitter truth. The memory of the middle-aged man, his rough grey hands and milky-white pupils, made the hair at the back of Jisung’s neck stand up. Somewhere, shambling through the streets of the town, his last victim was still alive.

And one living witness, Jisung thought, was one too much. 

The cafe was fairly busy, but Jisung could still hear the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall. It made his skin crawl. It was a constant reminder that his time with you was running out -- and that no matter how hard he tried, how much he wanted his own facade to be real, it was too late. 

Too much damage had already been done.

“Who’d you kill, Han Jisung?” Chan’s familiar voice nearly sent Jisung falling from his chair, his flailing arms knocking the coffee cup precariously close to the edge of the table. He looked up at the stern-eyed detective in utter shock, mouth falling slack like a fish out of water. Kill? Chan couldn’t know, could he? But then again, the lockdown--

Before Jisung could will his mouth to move again, the detective broke into his signature wide grin, clapping the younger boy on the back. “The look on your face, mate—you look like you’ve just murdered someone and can’t figure out where to bury the body. Loosen up.” Chan was laughing, and Jisung finally unfroze, a wave of relief making his entire body go weak. Chan held out a cup of something with a dollop of cream on top, motioning for Jisung to take it. It was warm in Jisung’s hands, and when he sipped it shakily, the thick, sweet taste of caramel flooded onto his tongue. “What’s this?”

Chan clicked his tongue, shaking his head at the cold cup of coffee Jisung had left untouched. “Caramel frappe. Since when have you drunk coffee? You’ve always had a bigger sweet tooth than most little kids.” Coming from anyone else, the words might have sounded condescending, but the detective’s tone was warm and fond — almost fatherlike. He took a swig of Jisung’s bitter drink instead, studying the younger’s expression with a look of concern. “What’s bothering you?”

Jisung’s mind raced. What was bothering him? Why did his head pound, his chest feel unbearably tight; why did he feel so...sad? 

He glanced at Chan, whose eyebrows were still raised slightly, eyes blinking in confusion.

Why did everyone look at him like that? Like he was a puzzle they could never figure out, no matter how hard they tried.

“Ah, that look. I know.” Chan broke the long silence right before it got stifling, snapping his fingers with the comical flourish of a character in a sitcom. “It’s written all over you face.” He leaned in closer to Jisung, dark eyes glittering with mischief. “Which pretty girl stole Han Jisung’s heart, hm? Go on, tell Detective Bang—he’s seen them all. A cute freshman? Or another hot health sci major?” When Jisung only gave a halfhearted smile, Chan’s teasing expression softened. “Ah,” he breathed, leaning back and nodding sagely. “Y/N?”

Jisung turned away, wincing. The sound of your name made his ears ring. He felt the detective chuckle and sit down next to him, warm eyes studying the younger boy worriedly. “Relationship problems?”

“No, it’s--it’s a me problem,” Jisung mumbled, fingers anxiously tapping the frappe cup. “I keep having these headaches, and I just—I don’t know. I’ve never felt like this before.”

Pushing the coffee aside and humming in thought, Chan asked gently, “Felt like what?”

Jisung gestured vaguely before giving up and propping his head up with both hands. “Like—like I’ve become someone else? Every time I see her, my mind goes...blank. When she smiles, when she talks, I get all nervous, and whenever I’m with her, I—” he caught himself, the words ringing in his head. Whenever I’m with her, I start to remember everything. “Just—I don’t know, Chan.”

Chan gave a low whistle. “That’s love, mate.” He chuckled. “You’re serious about this one, aren’t you?”

“I don’t deserve her.” The words came tumbling from Jisung’s lips before he could stop them, and he cursed himself silently. “She could do so much better, I’m not--”

“Everyone deserves to be loved,” Chan interrupted slowly, and his sudden, soft tone made Jisung turn to look at him in surprise. The detective’s eyes were slightly narrowed, focused on the younger boy’s face. He looked like was examining a case file, Jisung realised — as if Chan had already sensed that there was something deeper, beyond what Jisung was telling him. Still, something in his expression remained unmistakably brotherlike; there was something about Chan that always seemed so comforting: his crinkling, droopy eyes, maybe, or the unfailingly kind smile on his lips.

If Chan noticed Jisung’s sudden loss of words, the detective didn’t mention it. “Everyone deserves to be loved, and you’re no different. There isn’t much that’ll change that — not a few mistakes, not a few imperfections…” Chan paused, as if thinking, then added, “And not a few of Hwang Hyunjin’s comments. You’re a good kid, Han Jisung, even if you don’t believe it yourself.”

Jisung looked away, a painful lump in his throat. Something ached in his chest, like an old wound left to fester — too familiar, too dangerous. “How do you know that?” He asked in a small voice.

He saw Chan smile faintly out of the corner of his eye. “Intuition?” The detective laughed. “I’ve known you since high school, ‘sung. You don’t open up a lot, granted — but deep down, you’ve got a good heart. Y/N’s lucky to have you, and you’re lucky to have her. So why this, all of a sudden?”

Before Jisung could reply, something caught his eye. On the other side of the window, a stone’s throw down the street, was a woman and her young son. The mother’s face was alight with amusement, the toddler teetering a few steps before his father swept him up into his arms. The little boy shrieked with laughter — laughter that Jisung couldn’t hear from the other side of the glass — as his father lifted him onto his shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” Chan’s eyes followed his gaze. The boy’s hands were held above his head triumphantly, like a king on his trusty steed, his father holding onto his legs firmly. Jisung slowly shook his head, staring after them. Something unpleasant burned in his chest — like poison, or a lost memory.

“They...look happy.”

The words seemed to hang in the air. Chan looked at him sideways for a long moment before he finally said, “You and Minho...grew up in the children’s home, right?”

Jisung gave a small nod. Around them, the shop was abuzz with the conversations of customers and the bustle of baristas making drinks, but it all sounded as if he were underwater—slipping further and further away with every tick of the clock on the wall. A sudden nudge to his shoulder made him jolt, and he looked up to see Chan grinning again, arms held open. 

“Hey, now, no more moping. Here—how’s about I pick you up?”

Jisung’s mouth dropped open and the blond detective burst out laughing. Jisung felt his own smile tug involuntarily at his lips, the tension in his chest lightening slightly. 

“Tell you what,” Chan continued, his tone serious but his eyes sparkling with playfulness, “I might not be able to carry you on my shoulders, but I have been told that I give some sick piggyback rides.”

As if on cue, the cafe’s doors swung open, a familiar man in black police gear making his way towards the counter. “Woojin!” Chan called out, waving him over. “Ah—Woojin can definitely pick you up,” he told Jisung, “he’s got more gains than me, I’m afraid. Police Captain Kim Woojin!”

A couple of heads turned in their direction and the older man shot Chan a look. “I didn’t expect to see you here. What are you two up to?”

Chan cleared his throat. “I have important orders for you. Captain Kim Woojin, would you please carry Jisung on your shoulders?”

Jisung opened his mouth to protest, expecting the stoic police chief to sigh deeply and walk back to the counter. Instead, Woojin’s questioning eyes flickered outside the window, where the toddler was still clinging to his father—and the next thing Jisung knew, the police chief’s arms hoisted him up onto his own back. Yelping, Jisung immediately tensed and flailed his arms before clinging onto Woojin for dear life. The police chief was laughing, he realised with a jolt— and Chan, too. Jisung felt his own incredulous smile form on his face, a tentative laugh breaking the tension in his chest. Woojin had always seemed like Chan’s polar opposite— stern and austere, what with his leading the police force with an iron grip— but in this moment, he looked younger, more boyish. Jisung could see how they had become such good friends in the first place.

Woojin carefully let Jisung slide down from his shoulders and back onto the ground, turning around to place a hand on the younger’s shoulder. As his warm, concerned eyes flickered across his face, Jisung felt a bittersweet feeling flare across his chest. “You okay, kid?” 

He brought himself to nod, the smile feeling stiffer than a mask on his face. “Th-thanks. I’ve got to get going— my next class starts in twenty.” He felt both their eyes on him as he swung his bag over his shoulder, Woojin nodding before migrating back to the counter to order his coffee. Jisung waved at Chan, throwing on the most convincing smile he could muster, but just as he turned and pushed the cafe doors open, he felt the detective’s hand clasping his shoulder.

With a pounding heartbeat that had leapt to his throat, Jisung turned to face Chan, the detective’s eyes darkened and serious. After a long moment, Chan finally said softly, “You know I’m here for you, right, ‘sung? Anything bothering you at all, you talk to me or Woojin anytime. We’re still high school friends before detectives or police.”

Stunned, Jisung could only give a jerking nod again before stumbling out of the cafe doors, breaking into a brisk walk. He could feel the detective’s eyes boring into his back before he turned the corner, fingers shaking. What was it about Bang Chan, or even Kim Woojin, that made his chest ache? The warm, genuinely concerned eyes, the firm yet gentle words — it was almost fatherlike.

Well.

Was that what fathers were like? Jisung wasn’t too sure. 

He wouldn’t know; his father had never been like that.

Jisung’s fingers reached into his back pocket, fishing for his phone—and frowned when he found them both empty. Patting all his pockets frantically, his head spun, trying to remember where he could have left it— the cafe? A class?— before it dawned on him.

He’d left his phone on your couch.

Cursing, Jisung paced back and forth—he had gotten up and left so suddenly; he could still imagine your hurt and confused face behind his eyelids. Still, it had been a couple of hours— nearing dinnertime. He nodded slowly— you wouldn’t suspect a thing. He’d apologize and leave, and both of you would pretend that this morning had never happened. Everything would go back to normal.

Right?

Feeling uneasy, he turned on his heel and headed for your apartment.

────────

Your fingers hovered above your phone the same way they had on your first blind date, although your heart was pounding for an entirely different reason now. 

Why? Had been the first word you’d managed to punch out, before shaking your head and frantically deleting it. 

Who are you? Had been the second, which you had erased just as promptly. Now, the white screen was burning into your eyes, your head spinning with questions but your fingers unable to form the right ones.

Taking a shaky breath, you carefully typed a third message.

You: You forgot your phone at my place, so I returned it to your dorm. When you see this, please call me. I|

You felt a wave of hysteria bubble in your throat and you shoved it back down.

You: I need to talk to you about something.

Send.

Stay calm. Stay calm. The ground seemed to be shifting beneath you, threatening to cave in at any moment now—from the therapy session to Jisung’s dorms, from the record shop all the way to the rooftop of the hospital. The moment you had slammed the door to Minho’s office, your legs hadn’t stopped propelling you far, far away from the hospital building. Only when you were back in your apartment again did they finally give way and you hit the ground, back sliding against your front door as you buried your face in your hands.

You were going to stay calm. There were so many possibilities—that’s right, you had always been taught that there were variables to every case study, different perspectives and hidden circumstances—you couldn’t immediately assume the worst, right? Your mind babbled on and on—Jeongin, Minho, murderer, murderers—until you felt like banging your head against the wall just to make the torrent of thoughts stop. 

The curtains were drawn, casting grey shadows over your entire apartment. You were still gripping Jeongin’s cassette tape—the tape with his voice on it—in your hand. You were about to conjure up the strength to drag yourself into the living room and attempt to clear your thoughts when the doorbell rang, the sudden, high-pitched sound piercing through your chest like a gunshot. For a moment you stayed rooted in place, head stiffly turning to face the door.

Standing shakily, your fingers slipped around the doorknob. They fumbled for several moments before you finally managed to pull the door open, and you nearly slammed it back shut when you found yourself face-to-face with Han Jisung.

“Hey,” he said, voice as soft as it had ever been, smooth and sweet as honey. Your fingers tightened their grip around the doorknob, but a small breath betrayed your lips, the smallest sigh of relief. A part of you still clinging onto the possibility that this wasn’t happening, that something, somewhere along the way had been misunderstood, and that was what kept you from tearing your eyes away from his face, from pushing him away and locking the door.

“You...did you get my text?” Your voice cracked slightly, raw from disuse, and you quickly cleared your throat. Jisung blinked at you, puzzled.

“I...no, I don’t have my phone. I thought I’d left it here, but I—I guess I probably left it in class—”

“You did leave it here,” you interrupted, and Jisung, who had begun turning to leave, jerked his head back. “You left it, and I returned it to your dorm.”

His face grew unfathomable, like a cloud passing over a sunny pasture, darkened eyes studying your face. “Thank...you,” he finally managed. One of his hands raised slightly, as if meaning to touch the side of your face, but stopped when you flinched away. “I—I’ll get going, then, I...” He trailed off suddenly, eyes falling on the tapes you were holding.

You could feel your fingers trembling violently and clenched them, the plastic grooves in the tape digging into your palms, and you forced yourself to lift your gaze to Jisung’s face. Voice barely above a whisper, you asked, “What were you doing that night?”

He didn’t need to ask what night you were talking about. Instead, his dark eyes were cast to the floorboards as he replied without missing a beat, “I was in my dorm, studying for finals.”

Your heart twisted as if someone had plunged a knife into your chest. For what seemed like an eternity, all you could hear was your own short, ragged breathing and heartbeat thudding in your ears, louder and louder and infinitely louder until the words that had been clawing away in your throat and what was left of your composure finally burst. 

“Then why—” you tried to steady yourself, but your breath caught in your throat, all rational thought, all previous reason disintegrating, the world as you knew it crashing to pieces at your feet. The words were tumbling from your mouth now, like beads falling from a snapped necklace. “Why is your voice on Jeongin’s tape? Why is there blood on the shirt you were wearing yesterday, why did you lie about your limp, why are your hands always bruised or cut and w-why do you always smell like smoke a-and g-gasoline—”

Jisung took a step forward, hands outstretched again—it was almost like it was instinctive, as if his first impulse was to pull you into his arms, to wipe the hot tears that had begun welling in your eyes and threatening to spill onto your cheeks—but you took two staggering steps back in response, shaking your head frantically. 

“Minho t-told me,” you choked out, “Minho—he wouldn’t tell me much, but Han Jisung—” the sound of his name made Jisung flinch, jaw clenching. “I wanted so badly to believe that it was all a mistake, that none of it was real—but you k-k—” The ugly word caught in your throat like a bitter pill, and with a wince you spat it out. “You killed that man, didn’t you?”

Dead silence fell between you, the weight of your words quickly turning sour. Jisung’s eyes were still boring into the floorboards beneath your feet, pupils bottomless black pools. Your own gaze darted wildly, small details jumping out at you— his fists shaking, knuckles bruised and white; he was biting into his lip so hard a drop of scarlet blood was staining his teeth. All your worst suspicions, the thoughts that had been whispering at the back of your head all this time were burning in your throat like bile—bitter like venom, demanding to be thrown up before it ate away at you from the inside.

“The crime scene, the morgue, the park—and yesterday, the lockdown—this entire time, it was you? Answer me, Jisung —” You tried to grab his arm, to make him face you—but you had no strength left in your hands, your fingers feebly grasping at his jacket instead. “How much of what you said was real? What part of us was ever real?”

The words had barely left your mouth before Jisung’s eyes suddenly shot up to meet your gaze. Through your blurry veil of tears and the dizzying haze of hysteria you had worked up, you didn’t even register him leaning in until you felt his cool hand clasping over your trembling ones, until Jisung closed the infinite distance between the two of you and pressed his lips to yours. 

For a fleeting second you felt your heart stop and you stiffened, his touch sending electric currents searing through your skin—but you couldn’t move away, no, this time, you didn’t want to move away. Because Jisung wasn’t kissing you to shut you up, to hurt you—he was kissing you with a softness that brought tears to your eyes. He was kissing you like it was the last thing he would ever feel, a dangerous balance between intensity and a genuine sincerity and the only thing you knew for sure was that it felt so, so right. With every touch, there was an unspoken promise, a reassurance; a silent you can tell me to stop, you can push me away, you can tell me to go, and that was what made you pull him in closer, your shaking fingers tangling in his hair as one of Jisung’s hands gently cupped your face while the other found your waist—before a bittersweet feeling suddenly tore through your chest and you pushed him away. It was like you had ripped yourself awake from a dream, the taste of Jisung and something faintly sweet—caramel?—still lingering on your lips. Your eyes stung, and when you looked up at Jisung you saw that his cheeks were shining with tears—his, or your own, you weren’t quite sure anymore. 

“I can show you what happened,” he breathed, eyes clouded and voice flat. “I have—a camcorder, there are memory cards, I can—”

“I don’t want you to show me,” you interrupted, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounded. Raw and scratchy and high-pitched, yes, but steady nonetheless. “I want you to tell me. I want to hear it from you, in your own words, Jisung.”

He stared at you for a long moment before his gaze drifted behind you. The living room. “Come in,” you said softly, and lead him over to the sofa. Knees feeling weak, you collapsed onto the seat, Jisung sinking into the couch across from you. The peach roses he had brought you on your first date sat between the two of you, their petals withered and sunken. You tore your gaze from their drooping heads, fixing it instead on the boy in front of you. Hours ago, you remembered with a detached pang, this had been a therapy session, with Jisung avoiding your eyes, and your notebook in your lap. Now, you were empty handed—you had set Jeongin’s cassettes on the table—but Jisung was still looking away.

You heard him draw a shuddering breath before his dark eyes locked on yours, and it was as if something had shattered behind them — the last wall he had built around himself, or simply a fragment of his heart—and words finally freefell from his lips.

#han jisung #stray kids #skz #stray kids series #bang chan #kim woojin #yang jeongin #lee know #lee felix #seo changbin #kim seungmin #hwang hyunjin #stray kids boyfriend #stray kids yandere #stray kids au #stray kids angst #stray kids imagine #han jisung imagines #han jisung au #han jisung angst #han jisung yandere #han jisung boyfriend #serial killer!au #maatryoshkaa

[cherryjuicegf]

witcher fic masterlist

i probably haven't written enough fics to make a real masterlist so consider this as a medium list. a trying list. more to come. (updated 13/5/21)

one-shots

forget-me-not | geraskier, 3k, T, angst, major character death

How could I ever forget you?

Remember me, love. Jaskier’s voice was so clear in his mind it might as well be real. One last desire, one would say. But Geralt had tried to forget. Even though he said he wouldn’t.

Oh, but he didn’t ever say that, did he?

when you think that you're bereft | geraskier, 1.8k, T, emotional hurt/comfort, tw none

And so the sea asked; may I take you?

And I replied; there’s not much of me left.

Yet the sea whispered; I will love you,

Even if you think that you’re bereft.

Sometimes forgiveness is all one has left to give. Sometimes it's not.

with you all along | geraskier, 4.6k, T, hurt/comfort, tw none

"You are an idiot, Geralt of Rivia. You think that, eventually, you are all alone and will be until the end of your days. You say you don’t need anyone and yet, here I am, bandaging your wounds and singing your triumphs. You need people and you care about them more than you say you do, but refuse to admit any of it, and you harm yourself in the end. Tell me I’m wrong."

or

Jaskier has some unfortunate encounters and Geralt's potions lack any sense of timing at all.

slipping through my hands | geraskier, 7.6k, T, angst with a happy ending, warnings in the tags

One does not crave one's touch until they're deprived of it; unless it burns.

what you run for | geraskier, 6.8k, T, angst with a happy ending, warnings in the tags

Jaskier saw the mirror again. Funny, one would’ve said he’d been there just five minutes ago. A lot must have happened in those five minutes. He shivered, furrowed his brows in thought. “Did you find the mage?” The helpless look Geralt gave him made him conclude that no, probably he hadn’t. But then, how did he end up like that?

or

Jaskier gets possessed. Geralt doesn't like what follows.

breathless | geraskier, 2.1k, T, fluff, mild hurt/comfort, tw drowning, read on tumblr

It’s nothing. A brush of lips. A taste of tongues. Cheap ale that Geralt now finds he’d willingly tone out the rest of his senses to taste once more. A soft moan, but it can’t be him, he’s not breathing. And then Jaskier’s head bumps limp on his shoulder, and he hears silent snoring.

He closes his eyes. And breathes shakily.

Five breaths and a sigh.

the hands that tend to me | geraskier, 1.3k, T, hurt/comfort, tw none, read on tumblr

Was it a bad day? Jaskier couldn’t answer for sure with yes or no. It was not bad. He’d had bad days and that one definitely wasn’t one of them. Still. He felt a weight resting on his shoulders, as if all the previous hours had settled on them. He sighed, returned Geralt’s gold gaze. “A long one,” he decided to answer. He turned around before Geralt’s eyes burned him more in their insistence. “I’m having a shower and then we eat. Give me ten minutes.”

Some days you just don't know what's wrong. It will pass.

one last time love | yennskier, 1.9k, T, fluff, mild hurt/comfort, tw none, read on tumblr

"You know that if you want my clothes off, all you have to do is ask.”

Yennefer hummed. “A'ight, then. Strip.”

Jaskier’s smile faded. “What?”

She stared at him for some seconds, appreciating his shocked expression, and burst into laughter. Jaskier let out a breath and laughed with her. She wasn’t drunk enough, not yet. The way he looked at her though said that he wasn’t drunk enough either.

Not yet.

Five times Jaskier told Yennefer he would take his clothes off if she asked and one time she did.

the spaces where our garden grew wild | geraskefer, 11.3k, M, angst with a happy ending, warnings in the tags

He cuts through the branches, desperate, but they grow back, thicker and thicker and almost hiding that raven hair, that red doublet behind their leaves. He grunts and shouts and pants and his sword rips the air like paper. He sees them again. Or is he?

Black, isn’t her hair? A chain.

Red, isn’t his doublet? Blood.

Oh, he’s too busy, too focused on the thorns. Of course he would, they have hurt him too much by now not to notice them. Yet he doesn’t hear the voices anymore. He doesn’t hear the screams. He doesn’t hear his name. 

And when he does, it’s too late.

or

A study in gardening.

beside the salty water | geraskier, 836 words, T, fluff, read on tumblr

The beach is silent, except for the singing of a voice that resembles a siren’s, yet gentler, loving, warm. Like home.

Feel me falling, feel me sinking

Feel my breath foam on the waves,

For the sea’s my love, my mistress,

and my heart’s a heart that craves.

under the covers | geraskier, 584 words, G, emotional hurt/comfort, read on tumblr

Jaskier shudders. He realises, to his great surprise, that what he needs isn’t to talk or seek words of comfort. Thankfully, since he knows Geralt isn’t a master when it comes to that. What he needs, is to rest. What he needs is a break.

Comfort doesn't always come in words. But who can say no to hugs anyway?

a little favour | geraskier, 3.2k, T, fluff/light angst, tw blood and injury, read on tumblr

He hears Jaskier’s breath hitch. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, he realizes what he’s done, and immediately looks at the bard. Blue eyes wide, lips parted. Jaskier whimpers.

“Geralt.”

Stay. For me.

No.

Geralt lets go of his hand and storms outside the room, his heart beating faster than a human’s. Before he closes the door, he smells the salty scent of tears behind him. He doesn’t look back.

Five things Jaskier asks from Geralt and one thing Geralt asks from Jaskier.

the stars bear your name | yenralt, 1.1k, G, fluff, read on tumblr

When she was still at Aretuza, she remembered how the girls looked up at the stars, amazed by a world that had yet to be cruel to them. She thought how it would feel if someone ever looked at her that way.

Looking at Yennefer, Geralt turns out to have an entirely different concept of stars than she does.

a lovestruck's letter | geraskier, 3.7k, T, fluff, epistolary, read on tumblr

The last letter wasn’t old. There, on the top of the page, Geralt could discern an erased Geralt, beloved, and the first letters of what seemed the starts of darling. Finally, Jaskier had settled. Just like he’d done then, Geralt found himself craving to actually be called what the bard first intended to call him. Instead.

Dearest Geralt,

Over the years, Jaskier filled his absence with his letters. Then there was one time that Geralt had to fill that absence himself.

series

songs for goodnight | geraskier, 7 works, T, fluff, incomplete

a reason to laugh | 1.4k, G

Jaskier knew Geralt of Rivia was capable of a lot of things but laughing was hardly one of them.

Well, until now.

for warmth | 1k, T

No, Jaskier wasn’t ordinary at all, not for Geralt, yet the warmth that burned in Geralt’s chest completely changed its source when, after a minute or two, Jaskier rolled on his left side, and having his back turned to Geralt too would be completely fine for Geralt to sleep guiltlessly, thank you very much, if only Jaskier didn’t also pull the blankets so that Geralt was, in every sense, uncovered whole.

sing me awake | 1.2k, T

"I didn't know your voice is actually magical," the witcher smiled sleepily and let out a long sigh, feeling soft fingertips trailing his face.

Jaskier chuckled. "Oh, it's not. I just love you too much."

in remembrance | 957 words, G, read on tumblr

Jaskier is the one to tell stories. As so many people do. A human need, one would say. Tell a story, even if it's the same but with a different twist, a different hint or air, still the same, and people will delight and sing and get enchanted and they will remember, they will remember.

He will make them sing. He will make them remember.

these hands of mine | 1.9k, T

"Have I told you I love your hands?"

"Yes, you have."

"Have I told you why I love them?"

"Yes. Many times."

Jaskier then hesitates, just for a second before slightly raising his head from Geralt's shoulder and gazing at him. A glint wild with tenderness sparkles in his eyes. "Mind if I tell you again?"

A sigh. Then a smile. "No. Not at all."

parent-shaped | 1.4k, G

Jaskier took both of Geralt’s hands in his, forcing him to turn around whole and face him properly. "Being a witcher is not what is going to make you a different parent. What is going to make you a different parent is the amount of love and care and protection you’re going to give to this girl, and I know pretty well you’re more than capable of those things."

these lines aren't wrinkles, dearheart | 1k, T

The one where Jaskier has self-knowledge and Geralt is too blinded with love to accept it.

tumblr ficlets/prompts

allergies | geraskier, 533 words, inspired by art

Jaskier is delighted to find out that witchers do, in fact, have allergies.

early morning kisses, geraskier, 482 words

Jaskier is not a morning person and Geralt just indulges him.

prison buds | yennskier, 376 words, inspired by art

In which Jaskier gets sick and Yennefer realizes she's scared.

Guilty/self loathing Geralt after he can’t save a child during a contract, with Jaskier comforting him and being horrified about how much emotion and hurt he hides (geraskier)

Jaskier gets cursed by a mage that puts him on a killing spree but before he can do anything Geralt shows up and grabs him except he doesn’t have any rope or anything to hold Jaskier down but himself.  (ao3) geraskier, T, 1.4k, hurt/comfort

(5+1) 5 times Geralt showed Jaskier he loves him +1 time he actually said it out loud. (ao3) geraskier, T, 2.1k, fluff

physical affection prompts (under 1k)

pats on the head (geralt & ciri)

a hug after not seeing someone for a long time (yenralt)

giggly cuddles (geraskefer)

an incredibly loud and painful high five (geralt, jaskier & ciri)

kissing someone’s forehead (geraskier)

the biggest warmest hugs (geraskier)

play wrestling (yenralt)

kissing knuckles (geraskier)

tugging on the bottom of someone’s shirt (geraskier)

kissing someone’s cuts/bruises/scratches (geraskier)

a hug that some might consider as ~too long~ (geraskier)

playfully biting someone (yenralt)

400 followers celebration prompts

There's people chasing us and I pulled you into the alley with me and wow you're close (geraskier)

I'm going to save you from the terrible date you're having (yenralt)

"Do you trust me?" (geraskefer)

"Please don't say that about yourself. Please don't believe that. You're so much more than that. You're so..." (geraskier)

I called you at 2am because I need you (geraskier)

touch prompts (under 1k)

in a moment of worry (yenralt)

on a scar (geraskier)

for luck (geraskier)

to say hello (geraskefer)

for comfort (geraskier)

for comfort (yenralt)

sensory prompts (under 1k)

orange sunsets (trissefer)

red wine stained lips (geraskier)

blood at the corner of your mouth (geraskier)

being so close that you can feel your lips brush together (geraskier)

raindrops on eyelashes (yennskier)

red wine stained lips (trissefer)

touch/kiss/hug/hand-holding prompts (under 1k)

tiny hands in big hands (geralt & ciri)

unconsciously searching out each other's hand while sleeping (yennskier)

hugging while lying down together (geraskier)

listening to the other's heartbeat (yenralt)

tummy kisses (yennskier)

holding the other's chin up (geraskier)

bandaging the other's hand and not quite letting go (yennskier)

group hugs (geraskefer)

kissing their bruises and scars (yennskier)

cold hands in warm hands (yenralt)

soothing kisses (geraskier)

made-up fic title asks

(why does it have to) feel so good

the spaces where our garden grew wild

we deserve a soft epilogue

once more

destiny called (but i forgot to pick up the line)

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #yenralt #geraskefer #yennskier #ciri #cirilla fiona elen riannon #chrysa writes

[severetimetravelnerd]

Hatred and Love(ft. G Dragon) Mafia AU

Part 1

When you get abducted, your captor is someone you would never have expected.

(I don’t own any of the images used. All credit goes to the original owners.)

Taglist:

@unabashedturkeytreeslime​

@happiestgirlontheeastcoast​

If there is anyone else who would like to be tagged, you can comment or leave me a message :))

I only write on this blog on tumblr, so if you see my work on any other platform, please let me know immediately.

Okay, so this is a mafia AU. It has appearances from Daesung, Taeyang, TOP, Mino and Hanbin. It will also feature EXO’s Kai in the later chapters. 

Warnings: Violence, Death(not main character), Eventual smut, Sexual abuse, Abduction, Guns and Knives 

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Jiyong. G Dragon. GD. The same person. Such drastically different sides. A living legend. A pathbreaker in kpop. A trendsetter in fashion. Just all round incredible. For more reasons than one. The man had a side job. He was the head of a mafia gang. It was a well-kept secret, but there was no denying that Jiyong, the mafia boss, was a terrifying man. He had absolutely no emotion when it came to running the gang, and that’s what made him terrifying. There was no appeal either his gang members could give him, or his victims could give him that would work, because he would never empathise with them. The whole image of Jiyong being a shy, cute guy was a clever front for his side business. Whatever deals he made, he never went back on, so he quickly became the best in the business. It wasn’t for nothing that he became the richest kpop star, you know.

He was sitting in his room, leaning back and just about to close his eyes when he got a call.

 “Is this Mr.Jiyong?” 

With his eyes still closed, Jiyong responded. 

“And if this is him, what do you need?” 

This rather frantic sounding voice replied saying, 

“I have a job for you. I need you to abduct someone.”

 Jiyong finally opened his eyes. So this was a serious call after all. Jiyong’s tone icy as ever, he asked,

 “Are you aware of my rates?”

 The same frantic voice answered, sounding a little irritated.

 “I’ll give you as much money as you want. I don’t care about the cost. Just get the job done.” 

Jiyong started to get annoyed. Was this client implying he wouldn’t be able to get the job done? Jiyong didn’t bother reassuring him, because Jiyong never reassured people. He simply said, 

“Anything else you want me to do?”

 The man’s voice dropped.

 “Abduct her. Torture her. Send a video to her father. I need him to sign some papers, and he keeps refusing. He won’t refuse if his daughter’s life is on the line. If he still doesn’t sign,”

 he paused, 

“kill her.” 

Jiyong nodded, jotting down the details. This was standard stuff. Must be some business partner’s daughter. This client didn’t sound like it was his first time asking the mafia for something. Maybe this girl was also part of a mafia family. The client sighed.

 “I wouldn’t have gone this far if my brother had just signed the damn papers.” 

Jiyong froze. Even to a beast like him, family was family. There were some of his family and friends he would do anything for. He felt disgusted for a second, but shook it off. Business was business.

 “Okay, we will be able to do that. Send me her details and where to find her.”

You had only gotten to Korea a few months ago, barely settling into your new job. You were struggling a little with the new place and the new culture, but you were enjoying the freedom from your family. At home, things were always complicated. Your father and his brothers were constantly fighting over money and property, and somehow, being around that negative environment was never good for you. You knew your uncles. You knew they were in the wrong. You knew how they were constantly coercing people and blackmailing people. You knew how they constantly cheated people. You knew how they ill-treated your grandparents. You knew your father was fighting for the right thing, but it was exhausting to be around. Which is why when you got a new job in Seoul as a PR rep for a company, you jumped at the chance to go. Your father was very worried about sending you away, but you never fully understood the worry, confident that you’d be fine in a new place. As you sat in the trunk of a car, gagged, cuffed and blindfolded, you finally understood why he was worried.

When they finally removed the cover off your head, you were sitting, tied to a chair, in the middle of a dimly lit, crowded room. There was a man sitting a few feet across from you, legs crossed and staring at you. As you blinked to adjust to the light, you slowly started to make out the features of his face. You recognised those features. You were a fan, or at least, you used to be. You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your mouth when you saw him. Some of his men at the back laughed when they saw that, but his expression remained unchanged. Unflinching, uncaring, intense. After that though, you clamped down on yourself. You made up your mind to refuse to speak. You father had enough and more problems on his hands. You were not going to be one of them. You were certain you’d survive this. You didn’t know why you had that implicit faith, but you just did. You had to.

Jiyong looked at you, trying to gauge you. He was expecting more fear or even anger in your eyes, but he was not expecting a stubborn obstinacy to be there. A determination that was rare in such situations. His eyes slowly raked over the rest of you. His men and their looks, comments and whistles had already established that you were attractive, but he surprised himself when he looked at your face and found himself thinking you were stunning. He had abducted plenty of women before, and a good number of them were attractive, and he had never thought that before, but somehow, the sight of you sitting there, your hair dishevelled, your white shirt crumpled, your shorts torn and your eyes glaring at him with that insane determination did something to him. Constantly maintaining his poker face, in his low, cold voice, he said, 

“Call her father.” 

There was a slight pause. 

“Daesung, torture her. Nothing too serious. Just enough to make her scream. Don’t touch the face though.” 

He paused to smirk lightly. 

“She’s a pretty thing.” 

At that moment, you looked up at him and decided that you loathed the man.

Jiyong held the phone while they dialed your father’s number and Daesung stepped forward with a whip. You bit down on your lip determined not to scream. You knew they wanted to make your father hear you scream. You knew that if he heard you scream, he would go insane with worry. And so, as the first lash hit you, the pain searing through your thigh, you kept quiet, even though your body felt like it was on fire. They expected you to give in and scream with the first three lashes, but after you still hadn’t screamed with 10, they switched it up. You were crying from the pain, and your lips were bleeding from how hard you bit them, but you felt oddly exalted. You weren’t screaming. Daesung undid the ropes tying you to the chair and picked you up, and began punching you in the stomach, and although you desperately wanted it to stop, and you could feel the metallic taste of blood in your mouth, you held on, not screaming. Finally, Daesung took out a switch blade. Jiyong felt a slow sense of panic rise in him, and just as he cut the call, and said, 

“Enough.”,

 Daesung stabbed you in the stomach. It wasn’t too deep a cut, but as you watched the blood stain your shirt, you felt the need to laugh. Jiyong, still maintaining the poker face, said,

 “Everybody out. Hanbin, Youngbae and Daesung stay.”

 They, along with Mino and Seunghyun hyung, were part of Jiyong’s inner circle. They weren’t just his men. They were his friends. They were his family. They knew something was off by the way Jiyong said that. Still maintaining the poker face as the leader, Jiyong said, 

“Hanbin, get the other room ready. She’ll be kept there. You will be in charge of getting her food and water. Tell the boys that no one is to touch her.” 

He turned to Daesung and Youngbae.

 “Put pressure on the wound and stop the bleeding. Bring her up to my room.” 

And he left for his room.

Daesung helped you up while Youngbae applied pressure on the wound. You were wary of them, especially Daesung, but he was surprisingly gentle when helping you, almost apologetically. They left you in Jiyong’s room, Youngbae giving you instructions on how to stop the bleeding, and Daesung slowly whispering, 

“Sorry”

 before leaving. You looked around you, wincing from the pain and the smell of blood. You were just about to sit when Jiyong entered the room. He looked different. His blazer was gone and his sleeves were rolled up. He was holding a first-aid kit. He looked at you, and said, 

“Strip.” 

You were annoyed with the man, but you were curious. Was the same man who ordered them to torture you going to give you first-aid? In the same detached tone as him, you replied,

 “Why?” 

He gestured to your wound.

 “That needs to be taken care of.” 

You looked at him, trying to figure him out. You also had a feeling he wouldn’t answer any more questions, so you just shrugged and slipped out of your shirt. He slowly walked over to you, and started disinfecting the wound. He was being surprisingly tender. He had never done this before. This wasn’t like him. He found himself looking at the lashes and the bruises, and feeling sad, which was definitely not like Jiyong. He never sympathised with the victims. He also couldn’t look up, because already, without looking at your face, there was a slight blush across his face from seeing you like that. He dressed your wound in silence, and after dressing it, he just walked out of the room, leaving you alone there to wonder what exactly was he thinking until Hanbin came to get you.

After that, things changed a little. You were moved to a room of your own. Granted, it had no windows, and all it had in it was an old couch and a study table, but it was still an improvement. At least it had an attached bathroom. Although they kept you locked up in there, Hanbin, on Jiyong’s orders, removed your gag, blindfold and handcuffs. It was much better for you this way, and you were doing okay. Jiyong had your phone with him, and you were dependant on Hanbin for pretty much everything, but it was better. You liked Hanbin. He was a nice guy. He would talk to you and check in on you even when he didn’t have to. From talking to him, you gathered that he was a nice guy. More sensitive. Always got attached to people when he shouldn’t have. Jiyong had warned him about that countless times, but Hanbin, being the sweetheart that he is, always did anyway. It was late in the evening the next day, and you were just peacefully relaxing, when you heard someone opening the door. You knew it wasn’t Hanbin, because he always knocked, so immediately, your guard went up. It was a man you didn’t recognise. He came in and smiled at you. It was a menacing smile. It made you nervous. Trying to keep your voice steady, you said,

 “What’re you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here.” 

His smile grew wider. He came closer to you, until his face was only a few inches away from yours. In a second, before you could even react, he caught your hands, and held them painfully tight above your head. He pushed his knee between your legs, holding your legs in a vice-grip. He leaned in, close to your ear, and said, 

“Look at you. Who do you think you are, you little bitch?” 

He slapped you. 

“You think you’re in a position to order me around.” 

He laughed. 

“Well, you’re not, and all you managed to do is make me angrier.” 

He pushed his lips onto yours, forcing his tongue through your lips, and running his hands all over you body, groping you. He was just about to unzip his pants, when the door slammed open. It was Jiyong. As usual, he had his poker face on, but immediately, that man dropped your hands and stepped away from you, trembling. He knew Jiyong didn’t like being disobeyed. Jiyong slowly reached for his gun. He looked at the man.

 “Joongi. Stay there.”

 Joongi could only nod, trembling in fear. Jiyong took out his gun and pointed it straight at your forehead. He moved closer to a shocked you. He handed you the phone and said,

 “Call your father. Tell him you’re here.”

Jiyong had been bothered by how he stopped them from torturing you all day. It wasn’t like him. It was more like him to send a picture of you, all bloody and bruised to your father. He didn’t like this new found vulnerability. He didn’t like the uncertainty of emotions. He thought about it all day and finally decided to make you call your father and tell him. He had no idea why you were being so stubborn, but he was sure he could make you crack. He couldn’t afford to disappoint a client, after all. He walked down to your room, feeling oddly nervous about what he was going to do. All of that disappeared though, when he noticed your rooms was unlocked and the lock had been picked. He started to feel worry rising in him. Hanbin wasn’t careless enough to make that kind of a mistake. He walked into the room to see Joongi kiss you and grope you while you tried to fight him, but failed. Jiyong felt this anger boil in him. He had killed many people in his career, but he had never felt this intense a desire to make someone feel pain and suffer. He would deal with Joongi later. For now, he had to make you call your father. He held a gun to your head, and told you to call your father.

You were shaking from what just happened, and you were scared because of the gun to your head, but you were determined to sound normal for your father. You called him. He answered on the first ring. 

“Hi Sweetheart. How are you? How is the job?”

 You took a deep breath. You looked at the gun and shrugged. If it was your time to go, you would. You looked straight into Jiyong’s eyes and decided you weren’t going to give in to this kind of pressure.

 “Hi Dad. Everything is okay. I’m just getting used to things here.”

 And just like that, with a gun to your head, you lapsed into your normal conversation with your dad. You smiled and continued talking to your dad as usual while staring into Jiyong’s cold eyes the whole time. Your dad suddenly asked something unusual.

 “So, did you get to see your favourite kpop star? That Green dragon guy?” 

You smiled. Jiyong’s eyes changed slightly. 

“Dad, G Dragon. Not Green dragon. And yes, I did see him.”

 “Why do you sound so disappointed Darling? Not as handsome as the pictures?” 

You paused for a minute. Still looking into Jiyong’s eyes, you said,

 “No Dad. He’s every bit as good looking as the pictures, it’s just his personality and values. I’m disappointed.”

 And something in Jiyong just went off. He grabbed the phone from you and cut the call. Within seconds, he moved his gun to Joongi’s direction and without even looking away from your eyes, shot him straight in the middle of his forehead. He grabbed your face and pulled you closer until you were only an inch away from him. Teeth gritted, he asked,

 “Why’re you disappointed in me?” 

Refusing to back down, you replied, with your eyes blazing. 

“Because I used to like you. I used to admire you. But now, I hate you.”

#kpop scenarios #kpop angst #g dragon scenarios #g dragon angst #g dragon mafia au #mafia au #kpop #kpop fluff #kpop mafia au #g dragon #g dragon fluff #bigbang scenarios #taeyang #daesung #choi seunghyun #top #hanbin #mino #kpop series #fanfiction #scenarios

[flowercrown-bard]

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1  part 2  belongs to this

i think I should warn you. This is an old!Jaskier fic. Meaning, eventually Jaskier will lose his memory and there won’t be some magic spell to bring it back. He isn’t immortal either, so eventually there will be major character death. Neither happens in this chapter (it won’t happen for like 6 more chapters probably).

On the bright side, this story isn’t heavily plot-based, so if at any time you want to stop reading, you won’t be missing any big revelations or something. I will give content warnings when we get to the heavy stuff, but be warned that it will come to that eventually.

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It should have been strange. Sitting in a tavern simply because he wanted to and not because he needed to look for the next contract. It should be strange, unsettling even. It hadn’t been for a long time. Though it took weeks getting used to, Geralt came here with Jaskier time and time again, for the sole reason of enjoying themselves.

It should have been strange. A witcher and a bard – travelling no more, but collecting sea shells on their window sills, taking walks along the shore, hand in hand and without the pressure of knowing they’d have to leave soon, going to taverns like normal people did. Geralt was never going to be normal and as far as he was concerned, Jaskier was as far from ordinary as it could get. And yet. There was something beautiful, something soft in the simplicity of the life they were building here.

There was something so fiercely right about the way people referred to Geralt as “that lovely man’s beloved” instead of as a witcher.

Still, Geralt couldn’t help but let his eyes wander over the patrons, couldn’t keep himself from straining his ears. Even Jaskier’s arm around his waist wasn’t enough to counter decades of training and drilling instincts into him. As much as Geralt wanted to only feel Jaskier next to him, only hear his voice, whispering sweet nothings that were everything to him into his ear, he couldn’t help but pick up what he was trained to hear amidst the laughter of the crowd.

“It’s true, there is no way for me to bring my wares over to Blackrocks.” The voice was relatively new in town. A travelling merchant, probably. Though he forced his words to sound frustrated rather than scared, the hidden emotion was obvious to Geralt. Too often had he met people desperate to hide their fear. “Ol’ Olek – may his soul find rest in Melitele’s amble bosom – tried weeks ago and I’m not stupid enough to follow in his steps. Bandits and the occasional arsehole tollkeeper I can handle. But a griffin? I’d rather sit on a scorpion bare-arsed than coming across one of those.”

Immediately, Geralt tensed, but willed himself to remain seated. Years of being low on coin and desperate for any contract he could get were hard to shake off. He forced himself to relax. He didn’t need a contract. He didn’t. His place was with Jaskier. He didn’t need to go. He couldn’t do that to Jaskier, to them.

“Are you alright, love?”

Geralt closed his eyes when Jaskier’s concerned voice interrupted his desperate thoughts. As it should. Jaskier was what mattered most. He should always be at the forefront of Geralt’s mind. Not some merchant whose livelihood was threatened because of a monster that Geralt was trained to slay.

Geralt managed a grunt, not confirmation, merely acknowledgement of Jaskier’s words.

“Oh, dearest.” Jaskier twisted in his arms to face him, laying one hand on Geralt’s cheek and softly guiding him to look at Jaskier. “Ah,” he said after a moment, a tiny smile playing on his lips. “I know that face.”

Geralt let out a long breath, surrendering to his fate as Jaskier continued to study him as if he were a child’s poem, easy to read and easier yet to analyse.

“That is the face you make when you tell me ‘no’ before I even told you what I want.”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “Because most of the time I already know what you want.”

“Which is?” Jaskier lifted his chin in playful defiance.

“To come with me on a hunt.”

Jaskier laughed, freely and loudly and oh so beautifully. “Is there a hunt to accompany you on?” He asked as though they hadn’t talked about this before. As though Jaskier’s admission that he wouldn’t be able to go on hunts with Geralt any more hadn’t already broken his heart. As though the promise of a quiet life together hadn’t mended it faster than any spell had been able to heal his wounds before.

“No. There isn’t one.”

Jaskier cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. A few heartbeats passed and Geralt held his breath praying that Jaskier wouldn’t see, that he wouldn’t know –

“Geralt,” he finally said in a tone that suggested Geralt was a student who had been caught sneaking alcohol into the classroom without sharing it with the teacher. “May I remind you of how often I have seen you react to mentions of monsters near-by? The fact that I couldn’t hear whoever was talking doesn’t change a thing – it never has, whether it’s me being old or you having superhuman hearing. I know you.” His thumb brushed over Geralt’s cheek and his tone became fond once more. “So, what is it?”

“Griffin.” Geralt forced his eyes to let Jaskier in, needing him to understand. “I am not going.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a new one. Isn’t it normally ‘you are not going’?”

“What we have isn’t normal.” It’s so much better. It’s too precious and fragile to worth risking.

Jaskier sighed, his hand falling from Geralt’s face and dropping down to his chest, coming to rest on his heart.

“No, it’s not,” Jaskier said and undoubtedly he could feel the skip in Geralt’s chest as the relief of Jaskier’s agreement seeped through him. “But that doesn’t mean you have to give up your old life for me completely.” A sly smile stole onto Jaskier’s face and there was something in his eyes that Geralt couldn’t begin to name. “My eyes might not be the best and whatnot, but I assure you, my mind and memory are still sharp as ever. You might pretend it didn’t happen, but I very vividly remember having this talk before.”

Geralt’s shoulders sagged. “I know.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said softly, filled with a heart-shattering amount of fondness. “We both know you can’t just sit around doing nothing forever. Spending every day with you being idle was wonderful, but it is not who you are.”

“It’s who I could be.”

Jaskier didn’t answer. His look, tilted head and eyes so knowing said more than even a poet could express with words. Geralt might have that face he always made when he was going to deny Jaskier his request – his scary face, as Jaskier so fondly and teasingly called it -  but Jaskier had this one expression, the one he would always use shortly before Geralt would relent and grant Jaskier his wish. Who was he to deny a bard in need of inspiration to come with him? And who was he to deny the man he loved and who so desperately needed to feel like he didn’t stop Geralt from being himself to give him that freedom to leave him?

“I will come back to you,” Geralt said and the smile Jaskier gifted him was almost worth the clenching of his heart at the thought of leaving him behind, however briefly.

“Of course you will.”

“Blackrocks isn’t far. Only three days on horseback. Two if I’m fast.”

“Don’t be.” There was an inexplicable strain to Jaskier’s word, an edge that didn’t cut, as his hand gripped Geralt’s shirt tighter. “Don’t be fast. Don’t rush. Don’t let the world pass by in a flurry. Take your time.”

“I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“And I don’t want you to miss out all the details.” His tone was back to teasing, but the unknown weight was still there. An unspoken need that Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever be allowed to understand. “You do know that I will pester you for the grand tale of your adventure, don’t you?”

Geralt’s mouth quirked up involuntarily. “Naturally.”

Jaskier pointed a finger at him. “I am being serious about the details. Don’t just tell me about the griffin. I need to know about how the people you helped looked at you when they realise that they are safe now. I need you to stop and notice the different shades of the sky at dawn and the smell of the wildflowers. Try to find strange shapes in the clouds for me, will you? Promise me, you will see all of that.”

Something in Geralt’s throat grew tight. He gently took Jaskier’s hand that was still pointing at him and held it close. “You’d be far better at describing those things.”

“I don’t need you to describe them like a poet would. Just… see them. Can you do that for me?” Desperation coloured his voice that Geralt vowed to himself he would do anything he could to banish from Jaskier’s life.

“I can.” His voice, barely a whisper grew stronger. “I will.”

How could he not? To Jaskier, the world was so big and bright and beautiful. Geralt would not stand between Jaskier and this beauty that he deserved to breathe in with every inhale and feel with every heartbeat. Jaskier might be unable to leave, confided to the coast like the mermaid in his story was to the sea. Every step father from home would pain him, but staying in his confide unable to know what he was missing would hurt his soul just as much. Geralt would not subject him to this fate. He would do his best to make Jaskier see the world, even if it meant learning how to paint pictures with words instead of showing it to him first hand.

He lifted Jaskier’s hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against his fingers, a silent vow.

Jaskier understood. He always did. His eyes brightened and his smile grew warmer. The look he gifted Geralt with was so tender it almost hurt and Geralt knew what he had started to learn years ago; that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to see that look on Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier needed him to be himself and do what he did. Geralt still needed to help people. And Jaskier still needed stories. almost as much as he needed arms to hold him close and whispers telling him that there was nothing as important as him.

He gently gave Jaskier’s fingers a squeeze and stood up to talk to the merchant.  

---

“The sunrise was more pink on the third day than on any other day. It was… the colour looked like that one doublet of yours. The one you wore on midsummer in White Orchard.” The words were awkward and nowhere close to the vivid descriptions Jaskier no doubt would have found, but Jaskier’s eager eyes were worth it. The familiar scratching of a quill on parchment accompanied Geralt’s words, lulling him into a sense of comfort. “When I told the people I had slain the griffin, one woman cried and the merchant looked like Bieberfeld did when he had realised that Dudu actually knew what he was doing with his money.”

A grin spread across Jaskier’s face at the memory. “Who would have thought. You do know how to tell a story after all.”

“I am sure you will find better words for it when you make it into a song.”

Jaskier tilted his head and gave his notes a long look, before setting his eyes back on Geralt. “No. I think I quite like the words as they are.”

He lay the quill to the side. Ink-stained fingers of parchment-skinned hands found Geralt’s hand. “Thank you, love.”

Warmth blossomed in Geralt’s chest as he looked at their intertwined fingers. Maybe this was good enough. Maybe life could continue to be like this. Maybe it could be that simple.

----

Against all odds, against all the rocks destiny was known to throw in his way, it truly was that simple. Despite everything, Geralt was allowed to have this.

He continued to bring Jaskier stories and Jaskier in turn would tell him what he had done while Geralt had been away. Somehow he managed to make the most mundane things sound like the biggest adventure. The knowledge that this was the life that they had, that when he returned from his hunts, they could experience these ordinary, domestic adventures together, made Geralt’s heart swell in his chest.

He brought Jaskier descriptions of the sky and Jaskier told him about the unruly sea.

When Geralt finally made true on his promise to go to the harvest festival in Corvo Bianco, he brought Jaskier a bottle of wine and a summer jacket and Jaskier in turn gifted him with the sight of immediately donning the garment and grinning at him with a flush that the alcohol was only partly to blame for.

“What do you think?” Jaskier asked, twirling around as much as his joints allowed him to.

I think I never want to give up what we have here. I think you are gifting me with the best life. “You look good.”

“Good?” Jaskier huffed. “Come on, Geralt. I taught you better than that. You were doing so well describing the world to me.”

Geralt sighed, but it held no annoyance. “I think…you look like you could make the flowers jealous.”

Jaskier threw his head back laughing and if Geralt were a poet, he would have thought that somewhere out there, a rose was seething with envy that she would never be able to give a lover the same indescribable feeling that Jaskier’s laugh gave Geralt.

#editing? never heard of her #in my defence my laptop decided to delete a good chunk of what i had written and i had to rewrite it #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #Geralt #old jaskier #old!jaskier #do i use the word 'gift' far too often in this? #eh probably #fic #fanfic #my writing #the coast #accidental multichapter #witcher #jaskier #Birds still sing when they fall from the sky

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Whumptober Day 6: Just Pull It Out

Summary: Written for Whumptober Day 6. Pre-Httyd 2. Astrid has a little accident that ends in a trip to Gothi's. Hiccup has to help her treat his betrothed injury.

Rating: Teen and up/Mature

Characters: Astrid, Hiccup, Gothi

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Words: 1 848

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: "Stop, please”

Whumpee: Astrid

Author’s Notes: Did a little Hiccstrid, because why not.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

Enjoy!

Ao3

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"Ah, FUCK!" The swear Hiccup doesn't quite appreciate, but when he sees the reason why Astrid bellowed a shout loud enough to even scare the Terrible Terrors out of the treetops, he understands.

"Oh Gods, that doesn't look good." He states what she considers the obvious as he kneels next to her, having jumped out of the saddle the second he and Toothless had landed. Lying eyes on the injury now present on her person after the crash, he can't help but wince.

After crashing with Stormfly, there is now a branch sticking out of her thigh, the area surrounding it already an angry red. It's not bleeding, but that is because the branch is stopping the bleeding for now.

Astrid pushes herself up in a sitting position, gritting her teeth as she does so. Hiccup helps her. He would tell her to stay down until he's gotten a better look at it, but he knows her well enough to know she wouldn't listen to him.

Stormfly comes over and chirps apologetically at her Rider.

"It's okay, girl. Accidents happen." Astrid tells her dragon, petting her on the beak reassuringly.

"Okay, okay..." Hiccup mutters to himself as he tries to figure out what to do next.

He's not about to pull the branch out himself, lest the love of his life bleeds to death right here in the forests outside of Berk The best thing he can do now is stabilize it to the best of his ability, so it doesn't move on the way back to the village. Gothi needs to take a look at this one.

Astrid is patiently awaiting Hiccup's analysis of the situation, trusting his judgment on things medical as well. Ever since Dragon's Edge, Fishlegs has been their healer, but amongst the remaining Riders, Hiccup is second best.

She trembles because of the pain her thigh is in, but she keeps up her tough façade. She's a warrior and she's experienced injury before. No use crying over a minor accident such as this.

"Bud," Toothless comes when he's called, having been watching from the sidelines, and gives Hiccup access to their saddlebags.

"I'm gonna need to stabilize it," Hiccup tells her and takes out what he may need to get this done.

Grabbing dressings from the bag, he turns to the task at hand and gets to it. Once he's sure it's stable, they can go to Gothi to get this wound looked at and treated.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flying to Gothi's wasn't the most pleasant of experiences, but Astrid didn't complain when Hiccup helped her mount Stormfly, as she was adamant in flying on her own dragon, and they took off towards the village.

Thankfully, it wasn't for very long, and soon enough, the two are in Gothi's shack, Astrid limping over to a stool with Hiccup supporting her on the way.

"Careful," A pained noise leaves her when Hiccup lowers her on her stool, telling her to mind her wound.

Sauntering over, staff tapping on the wooden floor, Gothi is at the perfect height to take a look at the affected area without needing to even lean down. Leaving her staff against the wall, she moves Astrid's thigh in a better position for her to see better and Astrid bites back a grunt.

She takes a good few moments, undoing Hiccup's work first, before coming to the conclusion that it actually looks quite good for an injury such as this.

Throwing two handfuls of sand on the floor, she tells the two as such.

"Oh, that's good to know," Hiccup says, sagging in relief.

"Okay, but how do we get it out?" Astrid asks. She would very much like to have that branch out of her body now.

"Eh, well..." Hiccup tells her, knowing what is to happen next. They all know it as, obviously, it needs to be removed somehow, but how to go about it is the question. Hiccup, having been Fishlegs' study buddy while the Ingerman studied under Gothi, knows a thing or two at least. This won't be pleasant.

Gothi writes in the sand what needs to happen next, how they're going to pull out the impaling object, see what the damage is now, and stitch accordingly. Astrid didn't look forward to step one, but she knows it needs to be done.

At Gothi's age, however, she doesn't quite have the strength to pull it out herself anymore. That leaves the perfect man for the job to be Hiccup as Astrid's pain response won't allow her to pull it out herself. It wouldn't be smart either, considering there are people around that can do it for her.

So with the hook of her staff, Gothi grabs Hiccup by the back of the neck to pull him down on a second stool.

"Ow, okay! Okay! I get it, I get it!" Taking a hint, Hiccup settles on it opposite to Astrid, his hands soon washed and clean of grime, his armbraces missing, and ready to pull a branch out of his future wife's thigh and hope they don't realize too late that a major blood vessel has been hit, causing her to bleed to death right after. Or about as ready as he can be.

Gothi gives him the all-clear and Astrid braces herself, holding onto her seat and her back leaning against a table standing behind her.

"You can do this. You're Fearless Astrid Hofferson, you can do this. This is nothing!" She says to herself, hyping herself up for what's to come. Hiccup waits for her, gaze meeting hers while his hands hover over the object.

After she feels like she has been sufficiently hyped up, Astrid wears her battle face and nods in determination.

Hiccup nods back, slightly less certain, and gently grabs hold of the shaft and her thigh. Just that already gets Astrid's leg to jerk in response, but her expression doesn't change, so Hiccup commits to pulling it out. There is a tiny, secondary branch annoyingly poking his palm as he does so.

The pain multiplies tenfold immediately and a hurt yelp leaves her, leg jerking further in response. Hiccup would tell her that it's going to be okay, but he's too focused on the task at hand to be able to.

He can't let her noises of pain deflate his resolve to help her. Out of the edges of his vision, he can see her trembling, can see her face change from one of determination to one of agony and he tries his best to ignore them in favor of doing a good job.

Not the easiest thing to do. That thing is really in there and he's afraid to use too much force and end up hurting her more.

Meanwhile, Astrid thought she could do it. She really thought she could take the burning agony, but it turns out to be too much, and her sense of dignity as a warrior has to step aside to let her want for it to stop through.

"STOP! Stop, please!" So she shouts and Hiccup immediately listens and lets go. Which he gets a smack on the head for from Gothi. She's all for patient comfort, but that branch could've been out of her already if he hadn't listened.

Hiccup gives her a non-apologetic look as he rubs the back of his head before looking back at Astrid.

"You okay?" He asks, to which she silently nods, breathing hard. She feels embarrassed for screaming like that.

"I'm fine, just... Just pull it out." She tells him, averting her gaze.

"Are you sure? We can wait a moment, let you take a breather." He suggests, but Astrid shakes her head stubbornly. The sooner it's out, the better, Gothi is right.

So he gets back to it and this time he wants to focus more on speed than care.

He still won't just rip it out of her, but he'll try to make it take less time than it did earlier.

And on the second try, it finally slides out of her with difficulty and a disgustingly meaty sound.

Dropping the considerably sized stick, Hiccup takes the cloth their healer hands to him and presses it against the wound. Blood is pouring out of it now and the cloth is quickly stained.

But the flow and the amount causes Gothi to believe that a simple couple of stitches will be enough. Another something Gothi makes Hiccup do. Either as punishment for his hesitation earlier or, perhaps, something else entirely.

Ah well, which Viking couple doesn't bond by stitching up each other's wounds?

If anything, Astrid is happy it's Hiccup treating her and not their healer. Gothi is great, but she isn't the most tender person around. At least with her own fiance, she knows she's in gentle hands.

Within the next hour, Astrid's wound is cleaned, sewn up, and dressed. All that remains is a healing broth with painkillers and she's all ready to go back home.

Hiccup helps her get there, acting as her support once more.

"And you're sure you're going to be okay?" He asks her as he helps her sit down on the step leading to the front door of her home.

"I'll be fine, Hiccup. You don't need to keep asking me that." She responds with fake irritation. The tired smile on her features speaks of how his concern for her warms her heart.

"Eh, I think I'll keep asking, just in case." Hiccup retorts, to which her smile widens.

"You want me to talk to your parents... or?" At this his mood changes slightly. The Hoffersons approve of their relationship and their engagement, but they make Hiccup nervous. Astrid blames her father's and her mother's tendency to be rough with him. In a "we love you and therefore you must endure our rough love" kind of way. Astrid definitely gets her way of showing affection from her parents.

"I'll talk with them. You take care of Stormfly because I don't think I can do that today." She offers to take the responsibility of telling her parents herself, so long as he cares for her Nadder in return, to which he agrees.

"Consider it done." Hiccup tells her and gets right to work, first removing his armor as it isn't really needed for this. Besides, it's getting late. He won't be doing much flying with Toothless anyway.

Astrid watches him take it all off and leave it with the Night Fury, who puts a foreleg on the pile so no mischievous Terrors will think to steal any of it while his Rider's back is turned to them. Toothless lies next to Astrid as she sits.

Though Astrid can be stubborn when it comes to her independence, it always feels nice to have Hiccup care for her. He does it in such a genuine way that she can't help but love.

The crutch Gothi has given her lands on the ground next to her as Astrid decides that her parents can wait. She's just going to take a moment to watch him work instead.

#whumptober2020 #no.6 #stop please #httyd #how to train your dragon #fanfic #tw: minor surgery #tw: impalement #httyd 2 #how to train your dragon 2 #astrid hofferson #hiccup haddock #astrid whump #hiccstrid #caretaker hiccup #my fanfics #just pull it out

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary:  “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”

((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))

Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Rating: M

Read on AO3 and FFN

A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay, guy, life has been busy. School has started back up so between work, my grandfather's death on October 1st, and just writer's block in general, I haven't been myself. Due to this absence, I'm not sure if things have been forgotten so a quick recap if you will:

Dracula finds a gravely sick Agatha, kidnaps her and takes her to his castle, he cares for her but there is a lot of fighting, eventually sex ensues and with that comes feelings. Eventually, Agatha admits her feelings to the Count but when he doesn't immediately reciprocate, she decides to kill him. Things don't go as planned and Agatha makes the "wise" decision to leave the castle. This decision causes her to become mortally wounded in an accident. Dracula realizes the error in his ways and goes out searching and finds her near death. Admits his love for her and she, now satisfied, gives him permission to turn her. That's where we left off! Enjoy! Feedback/reblogs/comments what not greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen

                                             Chapter Eleven

The dead don't dream. At least, that was what she decided to call this current state she was in. A dream. An unconscious state of sorts where reality was all but a hallucination. Agatha found herself standing, not even remembering getting up from where she lay dying on the rocks below. She might as well have materialized into that position. Gone was her blood and with it the snow and ice. All that remained was a foggy wall that surrounded her. Seemed to hold her caged as she tried to find her bearings.

For the briefest of moments, the former nun thought she was alone. Left only to her thoughts and silence. Her mouth opened to call out to someone, anyone, but not a word escaped. Instead, something began to form in her peripheral vision. Dark masses growing into familiar silhouettes. And soon Agatha found herself staring back at the literal ghosts of her past.

Mother Superior and her fellow sisters faced her from afar, their looks still and unreadable. Like her, no longer did they represent their final moments. The signs of their massacre gone. They merely stared, habits dancing by an unseen wind. Though it was not vocalized, she knew their judgement. What they surely thought of her. But as Agatha attempted to address them, the women faded away and a new form began.

He stood there a few meters away from her in the cover of the mist. His ancient face twisted into a look of pure hatred. Disgust. A knowing expression of disappointment that held the very meaning of the betrayal. This phantom image of Abraham her mind had created. A final vision as she cut the ties to her Van Helsing name. To mortality. As the apparition of her late grandfather began to disappear, so too the last thrums of her beating heart.

Agatha remained there in the darkness, in the threat of the void that seemed to want to swallow her whole. But just as the shadows reached out towards her, readying to drag her down, a familiar figure appeared. Their eyes met and shared a knowing glance. No longer was there distrust or ill-intent. No. There was kindness. Tenderness. And as Dracula moved closer, the blackness seemed to fade.

Agatha.

It was his voice calling to her, but his lips weren't moving. Agatha watched him perplexed, almost amused. The words echoed around her as if they were in a cave. She couldn't quite explain it, but it was him. Not some mere trick of her imagination.

Agatha. Wake up.

He was so close now. So close that if he wanted to, he could touch her. But the noise was growing louder and the former nun felt oddly light. When she tried to open her mouth to reply, no words escaped. The vampire smiled as the world around them began to slowly crumble away, disintegrating the plane between life and death.

Agatha, it's time to wake up.

Earth. Some sort of wood, perhaps cherry or magnolia. The more exclusive of materials. It was odd how she could identify that. It was certainly not pine. Her eyes flickered open and though it was dark, she could still clearly see the figure looming over her. The distinct features of his face. He was smiling down at her, but it was far from malicious. Warm, Relief. And she found herself returning the expression, feeling as if she had just woken up from a really long nap.

"Welcome back, Agatha Van Helsing." Dracula greeted, a hand reaching down to touch one of hers. "To the world of the undead."

"So it worked then?" His lover replied. "I'm not dead?"

"The formalities of what one would consider as deceased are rather...skewed, but yes, you are as much as a vampire as I am." The former nun's eyes narrowed, but the somewhat tired smile still etched itself across her pale features. "What?"

"I'm in a coffin aren't I?" She stated, turning her head to either side to inspect her surroundings. "Yours, if I'm not mistaken."

"Ours," he corrected. "With a few modifications, it will suit us better that way."

"I think I prefer my bed upstairs." The former nun smirked as she slowly sat up, gripping onto the Count's hands as she did. Dirty fell from the locks of her hair, and the few clumps of something that clung still she assumed were due to dried blood. But no longer was she in any sort of pain. "I'm rather dirty."

"Physically or mentally?" His joke got him a disapproving look. "Yes, I realize you didn't exactly wake up to being perfectly clean. After we were out there and I...well, you needed your rest. And I didn't want to risk altering things by dolling you up during the transformation."

She nodded as she gave herself a look over. Tattered clothes from torn branches. Though, all of her wounds had healed. Just the mess of old blood and dirt remained, a reminder of sorts of what occurred. Slowly, she brought her fingers to her neck and touched the telling indents. Dracula's eyes followed her as Agatha gently massaged the spot.

"Does it bother you?" There was genuine concern in his tone. "

"No." She shook her head. "It's just...funny."

He cocked a brow in confusion. "Funny? How so?"

Agatha thought for a moment, a thoughtful smile still playing on her face. "Never mind." She assured him. "If you don't mind, I'd rather like to clean up now." The woman paused, seeming to consider her next words carefully. "You are welcome to join me. I might require some assistance."

The concern left the vampire's face as his clawed fingers interlocked with her own. "It would be a pleasure." He assured her. "Shall we?"

                                                           XXX

The cool water ran a rusty brown as it trailed down her bare skin in rivulets. Despite the barely tepid temperature, she was not bothered by it. A perk of being a vampire she supposed. Though she had no need to, she still closed her eyes and inhaled as Dracula fingers ran through her hair, unknotting her messy locks until they were free once more. She smelled something sweet. Floral. Lavender perhaps? He must've infused the water with something-a gesture she did appreciate.

"You're quiet." She commented as his hands traveled to the small of her back. "That's rather unusual for you."

"It's been a rather unusual day." He replied, working the cloth against her skin. "You almost died. Permanently."

"And you said you loved me." The former nun countered. "Just as permanently, I hope."

His strong arms wrapped around her waist and Agatha's unneeded breath hitched in her throat. "Forgive me." The vampire murmured, words tickling her ear. "I suppose I wasn't as blunt in the beginning as I should've been."

"...I suppose I too should somewhat be apologetic." She smiled softly, turning so that they were face to face. "Maybe my actions were a bit...overdramatic." Agatha's fingers traced against his chest. "No matter. We have all the time in the world to figure things out, don't we?"

"Yes." Her lover agreed. "That we very much do." Reaching over, the vampire retrieved a clean towel from a bronze hook. "Come, let's get you dressed. As much as I love you like this, there is much to discuss." Dracula pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "We'll return to this later."

                                                       XXX

Her tongue ran against the bottom of her teeth, feeling the smooth, porcelain enamel that had yet to present itself as fangs. Even though she was a newborn, Agatha hadn't felt that overpowering urge to feed. She couldn't help but wonder if that was normal. This delay in blood thirst. And to think she had so many questions about vampiric nature while was still human. It was almost laughable.

"You look positively radiant by the fire light."

Dracula eyed her from the entrance way, a small plastered across his face. In just a few strides, the man stood before her. Tenderly, he tilted her chin up as if to study her features like a jeweler examining a rare gem.

"Seeing as my heart is no longer pumping blood and causing natural circulation, I suppose I need some source to brighten my features." The former nun smirked, eyes locking on his. "Thank you for the compliment."

"I have far, far more where that came from..." Her mate promised, touching his forehead to hers. "How are you feeling?" The warmth in his expression seemed to change to one of concern as he spoke. "Are you...adjusting fine?"

"I suppose as much as one can." She replied with a small smile. "Though, I really don't have much to go on seeing as I've never experienced a transformation first hand myself…Rather, being the one who is changed." Agatha clarified quickly.

"You'll need to eat soon." Dracula commented, gazing into the fire's light. "First hunt's the most important."

"I do not plan to kill the innocent." Her words caused the other vampire to turn and face her. "There must be other ways to exist or extract blood without harming the lives of humans."

"It doesn't work like that, Agatha." Her lover replied with a small frown. "Our species is different. We don't have the choice of eating just meat or vegetables or substitutions of any sort. We require blood. Human blood at that. And as distasteful as it may sound to you now, you haven't really the choice."

"There is always a choice." The woman countered, arms folded across her chest. "And if I must muster up the will-power and strength to find it, I shall. But I simply won't conform to your standards and murder because I need to. A cow is different from a human. They aren't as complex. They don't think. Don't have complicated lives, loved ones like people do."

"I almost lost you, must we seriously get into a disagreement now?" The vampire sighed, massaging his temples. "Blood is lives, Agatha. And now, it will become your life just as much as it has become part of mine." He went to rest his hands on her shoulders, but she stepped back. "Give it a chance, Agatha. I promise, you'll adjust far easier than you think."

"If you truly love me, you'll help me come up with a better solution." Agatha replied firmly, still hellbent on her good ways. "There must be another way." She ignored the expression of irritation that sat fixed across his features. "You've proven yourself to me before, Count Dracula. I have faith, though it may be perhaps little now, you can do so again."

"Your stubbornness has followed you into this new life, I see." Dracula grumbled, clearly perturbed that the former nun was still set on her ways. After everything they'd gone through together. "Why must you make things so difficult?"

"There will be no killing on my end." Agatha repeated, standing her ground. Once more she ran her tongue across her smooth teeth, her fangs yet to show despite the small growl that emanated from the pit of her stomach. "Those are my terms."

Dracula was silent for a moment. "You are making things quite difficult. None of my brides were ever this...picky…"

"Do you consider me to be one of your brides then?" Agatha inquired with a cocked brow.

"...No." Came his response after a long pause. "...I consider you to be quite, quite more."

Neither spoke after he uttered those words, a pregnant pause left between them. Then Agatha stepped forward and touched his cool cheek with her equally cool hand. His gazed back into the blues of her eyes with his dark ones. Love was merely a construct, he had convinced himself long ago. And yet, now where he stood, it seemed quite the opposite.

"I can make no promises nor can I say I can do much more than try." He replied quietly. "But for you, I will look into more humane ways. But if I cannot find such things, you must swear to me that you will feed from whomever no matter the costs."

Agatha pursed her lips but said nothing. Dracula nodded his head knowing full well this was going to be a mere impossible task. After centuries of feeding on only humans, how was he to know of any sort of substitutes? But he just got Agatha back. Just confessed his feelings. And for her, if he could, he'd offer her the world and whatever with it.

"I believe in you." Agatha stated, pulling the man from his thoughts. "Find it in yourself to do the same."

A statement, he would not admit allowed, that was easier said than done.

#Dracula #Dragatha #Dracula 2020 #Agatha Van Helsing #Dracula x Agatha #Bad Moon Rising

[emachinescat]

Murdoc + Ithika + Mac

A MacGyver Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 14 - “I didn’t mean it”

Summary: As an artist, Murdoc prides himself in taking his time with his work - he never loses control.  Except one time, with his favorite boy genius.  He always imagined that when he finally made MacGyver cry, it would be his finest moment.  Now, he’s not so sure.

Characters: Murdoc, Mac, Jack

Words: 3,454

TW: torture, broken bones, Murdoc being his creepy little self

Note: Happy Valentine's Day – the store was all out of chocolate, so I got you Mac whump! ;) The allusions to Ithika are from Homer's epic by the same name, but even more so from the incredible poem by C.P. Cavafy. The muse mentioned, Melpomene, is the Muse of Tragedy.

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Ithika gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

- From “Ithika” by C. P. Cavafy

Murdoc enjoyed taking his time.

He was an artist, after all, and artists didn’t slap together a masterpiece in an afternoon – not the ones worth anything, at least.  Most spent days studying their subjects, becoming intimately familiar with every line and curve and element – the shading, the lighting, the vibrancy of the colors.  The very best didn’t even consider touching brush to canvas until they had developed a personal relationship with their subject – for how can a true artist paint that which he does not know deeply?  Why bother recreating that landscape or tea kettle or sad-eyed little girl or bowl of fruit if it could be any landscape, tea kettle, little girl, or bowl of fruit?  Why would someone paint something that wasn’t theirs?

Murdoc knew his subject very well.  He, like a true artist, had studied it in a variety of settings.  He’d watched and learned, dug deep into the core of its being, drawn out every secret and motivation and loss and love.  He understood what made his subject tick.  He’d even done some brief sketches, practicing each brushstroke with care, waiting patiently for the day he could at last, intricately, evoke that muse sought by the Romantics, that evasive Melpomene, and breathe his masterpiece to life.  Or, more accurately, to death.

And now, after years of watching, interacting, teasing, sketching, his time had finally come.  Months of planning had been sunk into this particular endeavor.  And now, unlike the first time he’d been introduced to his subject, he hadn’t been commissioned by anyone.  This portrait was personal, deeply personal.  He finally had his subject right where he wanted it.  The canvas was bare and waiting for the artist’s touch.  Murdoc had chosen his palette, mixed the colors – it might be cliche, but he was a sucker for red, black, and blue.

Now that his moment had finally arrived, however, it didn’t mean that he could rush through the actual creation process.  The act of studying one’s subject matter was slow and deliberate.  So must be the painting.  

***

Murdoc studied his canvas slowly, methodically, unsurprised that it wasn’t exactly blank.  MacGyver stood, hands chained above his head, attached to a grate above.  His bare toes just reached the cold concrete below.  His jacket and Henley had been removed – he shivered slightly from the chill of the basement.  Murdoc liked to think it was from fear.  

“Oooh, this one’s fun, MacGyver!” Murdoc crooned as the blonde boy wonder eyed him scornfully.  It was quite entertaining how expressive his prey’s pretty blue eyes could be.  Murdoc briefly brushed the tip of his little finger against the scar of a bullet wound on MacGyver’s chest.  MacGyver jerked back from the touch, though his expression remained stoic.

“Jealous that you weren’t the one who did it, Murdoc?”  He sounded confident enough, but Murdoc knew his subject quite well by now.  MacGyver was shaken.  For once, he had no control, nothing to work with, no way to escape.  He was at his captor’s mercy – Murdoc could do whatever he wanted, and MacGyver knew that.

“Oh, it’s nothing compared with what I’ve got planned for you, Angus,” Murdoc simpered sweetly, circling his catch of the day, dark eyes darting across more scars and recent cuts and bruises.  He pressed directly into the dark center of a boot-tip bruise on MacGyver’s side, relishing the sharp intake of breath it elicited.  “Someone on your last mission in Volgograd left their mark, I see.”

He circled back around to face his victim, who did a subpar job of hiding his surprise at the observation.  “That was highly classified.  How did you–”

“I’ve been watching you for a very long time, MacGyver.  But you had to have known I would.  After all, you’re my closest friend, and I know where you live.  It’s kind of silly that you never moved, but maybe you just figured I’d find you even if you did.  I wonder – have you always tossed and turned in your sleep or is that a more recent development?”

True horror flashed momentarily in blue eyes, tugging Murdoc’s lips up into a satisfied smile.  “Oh, yes, your nightmares are very entertaining.  I do hope the majority of them are about me.  Oh, oh, oh!  And I especially love it when they’re so bad you have to call your watch dog to calm you down.  I wonder how Dalton’s taking your disappearance, by the way?  I’m sure he’s in for some nightmares of his own.”

“He’ll find me, if I don’t escape first.”  MacGyver’s bravado was both highly endearing and incredibly tiresome.  Same old, same old.

“Doubtful,” Murdoc purred.  “I mean, I know you well enough not to make stupid mistakes, my friend.”

“I escaped from the sewers, and you’d drugged me.”

“I intended for you to escape that day.  I needed to draw your friends in, to focus their attention on finding you while I attended to other business.  But this time – you’re mine.”  At the fervor in his words, a shudder entirely unrelated to cold clinked the chains restraining his victim.  Murdoc smiled, then continued.

“But now, there is no ulterior motive.  I grabbed you for no other reason than because I wanted to.  You are hidden away quite well, even more securely than last time, I’m afraid.  And you will not be left alone, not even for a second.  There may be things in this room you could use to escape, but they’re useless to you in your position.  And I am not going to take my eyes off of you.  You won’t have a chance to wriggle your way out of this one, MacGyver.  Ooooh, is that fear I see on your face?  No?  We really must change that.”  He tutted.  “Defiance and bravado really are your bread and butter, aren’t they, Angus?  What are you, an action hero from a cheesy 1980s TV show?”  Silence, though the fiery glare spoke more loudly than words.  

Murdoc clapped his hands together.  “Well, there’s no time like the present.  What do you say, MacGyver?  Let’s get started.”

***

Three hours later, Murdoc admired his work.  It was a slow process.  He painted with precision and care, layering the colors just so, balancing the strokes, the lights and darks and brights.  His brushes were many – laid out on the table before him were knives and pliers and blow torches and hammers and whips and cattle prods and other more specialized tools that he liked to work up to.  He also had an oversized meat tenderizer, made of steel.  He rarely used it – too garish for his refined tastes – but it did look nice and scary looming over the other instruments.

So far, he’d only used his knives and the cattle prod.  The masterpiece was starting to come together, but it was hardly complete.  He prowled around his artwork.  MacGyver’s trembling had increased.  He gasped for breath as Murdoc appraised his work – burns and cuts, some deeper than others – made a nice foundation.  The drip of blood across bare flesh outshone any Pollock painting.  He’d practiced his blending techniques, jabbing the cattle prod directly into the center of the lovely bruise he’d noticed earlier.  MacGyver hadn’t been able to hold in his yell of pain.  

Music.

“Are you enjoying our time together?” Murdoc asked.

MacGyver uttered a creative string of curse words that made Murdoc proud.  He whistled appreciatively.  “Who knew the boy scout had that in him?  I’m almost impressed.”

“Yeah, well,” MacGyver said, hissing as he shifted and pulled at his many wounds.  “Almost is about all you’ll ever be, Murdoc.”

Murdoc had been reaching for his trusty pair of pliers (those toenails could sure use a trim!).  He paused, his back partially to his captive, fingers hovering over the tool.  He was used to MacGyver’s sass, but what he’d just said hit a sour note that the hit man couldn’t shake.  He didn’t know if it was the tone or the words themselves.  “Excuse me?”  He tried to sound amused, but his voice was tight, as if it had been squeezed out of him.

A clink of the chains, a grunt of pain that didn’t lighten Murdoc’s mood as it should have.  Then, MacGyver elaborated.  His voice was clipped in pain, breathless, but conviction lined every syllable.  “You are doomed to live a life of almost, Murdoc.  Nothing is ever going to be enough for you.  Why do you think you take so long to get anything done?  Why do you spend so much time talking and taunting and watching and waiting?”

Murdoc didn’t move, his hand still inches away from his delicate instrument that caused pain but did no lasting damage.  “I’m an artist.”

“You’re afraid.” 

“I fear nothing.”

“You fear winning.”

Murdoc laughed, a forced, uncomfortable sound that he’d never heard come from his own mouth.  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Angus.  Are you sure the pain isn’t getting to your head?”

MacGyver pressed on relentlessly.  “You crave attention.  You need a challenge.  That’s why you picked me.  And you’re afraid of what happens if you beat me.  If I die, there’s always that possibility that you won’t find another playmate.”

Still, Murdoc didn’t move.  His words, despite their teasing jaunt, had a forced quality to them.  “Awfully full of ourselves, aren’t we, MacGyver?”

He could hear the triumphant smile in his adversary’s voice.  “I’m just stating the truth, Murdoc.  You might torture me, you might have your fun.  But at the end of the day, you’re going to slip up somehow.  It’s your way of making sure the game goes on.  Without that challenge, what are you?  Just an angry voice screaming at the sky, no purpose, no point.  You say you’ve studied me, Murdoc.  You’ve watched me and know me.  Well, in doing so, you’ve shown me yourself, too.  You’re not going to kill me today.  You’re never going to kill me.  

“I don’t know what exactly I’ve done to deserve this… honor,” he continued, placing particular derision on the last word, “but you’ve become obsessed with me, Murdoc.  Believe me, I don’t like saying this any more than you like hearing it.  But it’s how I know I’m going to walk away from this.  If I’m gone, so is your fun.”

Murdoc prided himself on maintaining control over his emotions.  An artist, though he might express the inner workings of his soul on canvas, could not let his feelings control the brush, control him.  Look what had happened to Van Gogh – sure, beautiful work, but his emotions controlled him, destroyed him in the end.  Murdoc didn’t make mistakes like that.  He waited.  He didn’t lash out in anger.  It wasn’t because he wanted MacGyver to live, oh no.  His fondest dream was to see the blonde boy cry, to watch him squirm and beg for mercy, and then, finally, only when he’d really begged for it, to send him to his death.  MacGyver had no idea what he was talking about.  

It wasn’t even MacGyver’s words, his cocky belief that he was important enough to his torturer to keep alive, that sent Murdoc over the edge.  It was the tiny little voice, way back in the darkest, most depraved corner of his already dark and depraved mind, the one that spoke not in the voice of Murdoc, but one that sounded more like Dennis, the first casualty of Murdoc’s career – himself.  The voice said, plainly, without emotion, You know he’s right.

And that was the catalyst for the tsunami of rage that crashed into Murdoc, pummeling his well-practiced and unshakable resolve to take his time.  That was what spurred his frozen body into movement, curled his fingers around the handle of the meat tenderizer, that brash, archaic tool, rather than the pliers.  That was what spit his next words out of his mouth as if they were poison, words that finally – beautifully – caused Angus MacGyver’s eyes to widen in real fear: “You are going to walk out of here?”  A sadistic, mad giggle.  “My dear Angus, it will be a miracle if you ever walk again.”  

He hefted the heavy steel implement in his hand, pulled back, and lunged.  MacGyver tried to back away, the chains around his wrists cackling and clicking against one another in his desperation.  They held firm, and the meat tenderizer slammed full force into MacGyver’s left kneecap.  Murdoc felt the crunch of bones.  He heard the bestial howl, the scream of anguish, the body-jerking, breath stealing cry of a man in so much pain he lost himself.  He watched MacGyver’s face drain of color, recognized the moment when the pain became too much, and saw the tear-streaked face go slack, the chin thud against the battered chest and stay there. 

For a moment, Murdoc experienced the euphoria one could only find in hurting that special someone in such a catastrophic way.  He relished in that moment the scream, the agony, the writhing and loss of control.

Then the moment ended – and far too soon.

Immediately after, the weapon dropped out of Murdoc’s limp fingers.  It smashed into the floor below, with the jarring clang that only metal on concrete can produce.  He looked at the limp, hanging form before him, and something twisted inside of him – a feeling he’d never known.  It wasn’t guilt, nor revulsion.

It was, however, regret.

He didn’t understand it.  He should be overjoyed.  MacGyver was completely at his mercy.  Murdoc could kill him now.  Carve that bleeding heart out like a villain in a fairy tale would.  But then, he realized, MacGyver would be gone.  Forever.  Even now, his kneecap had been crushed, shattered into tiny fragments of bone and cartilage, and unless he got treatment of the highest quality, and soon, he’d almost certainly be crippled.  Even if he had extensive reconstructive surgery, his career as a Phoenix agent could still be over.

Wasn’t that what Murdoc had wanted?  To end MacGyver’s pesky existence, to win at this game of cat and mouse?  To create his most spectacular masterpiece with his greatest enemy?  That’s what he had dreamed of for years now, what he’d studied and practiced and yearned for.  And yet – 

What was it that hoity toity Greek poet had written?  Murdoc had read “Ithika” long ago, a random page in a poetry book of a man he’d killed.  For some reason, the poem had attached itself to his mind and never let go.  He could remember it even now:  

Keep Ithika always in your mind. Arriving there is what you’re destined for.  But don’t hurry the journey at all.  Better if it lasts for years, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithika to make you rich.  Ithika gave you the marvelous journey.  Without her you wouldn’t have set out.  She has nothing to give you now.

And he understood.  The poem was supposed to be inspirational, for fools so focused on their goals that they missed the journey of life along the way – a mundane, silly sentiment.  But now Murdoc could see – MacGyver’s destruction was his Ithika.  Perhaps Cavafy had a point – maybe he had been a bit of an artist himself.  And MacGyver had been right about some things, wrong about others.

He was right in that Murdoc wasn’t ready to end the game just yet.  But it wasn't fear that held him back, that urged him to take his time.  It was joy.  Joy of the journey.  The little pleasures of life that are so often passed by in the grand scheme of things – the poet had been speaking of knowledge, of friendship, of love, of experiences.  Murdoc’s little pleasures were things like fear, drawn-out suffering, playing with his food and watching it squirm.  He relished that joy.  He wanted more of it, and if MacGyver died, or was out of commission as a spy, that joy would diminish.  Even if MacGyver lived, it wouldn’t be the same if he couldn’t fight back, couldn’t play along.

Murdoc made his decision.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a burner phone.  He dialed a number he’d memorized long ago, put the phone to his ear.

A fierce Texas twang answered before the first ring had run its course.  “Murdoc, you son of a bitch–”

“Temper, Jack,” Murdoc drawled.  He shivered in excitement at the mental picture of the inferno in Dalton’s eyes.  “You just assumed it was me – imagine if it were your mother on the other line.”

“I can scent the devil from a mile away.”  Murdoc heard muffled voices in the background, knew the call was being traced.  

“Don’t waste your time running a trace, you grumpy old hound dog.”  His words were light, yet he allowed the slightest hint of urgency to infect them.  “I’ve had my fun for today.  I’ll text you the address.”  He paused.  “Oh, and bring one of those fancy whirly-birds you like to use for medical emergencies.  I might have been a little… over zealous this time.”

He closed his eyes, gorging on the incalculable levels of hatred in Jack Dalton’s next words.  “If you hurt him–”

Appreciation turned to irritation.  Murdoc rolled his coal eyes to the ceiling.  “Weren’t you listening, you brute?  Obviously, I hurt him.  Quite a bit actually.  You should have heard him scream.”

A short silence.  Then – “You didn’t let me finish, you overgrown sewer rat.  If you hurt him, I am going to tear you limb from limb.  I don’t need any of your fancy tools.”

“Hmm, that was almost intimidating,” Murdoc teased in his most good-natured tone.  “But you’ll have to find me first.”  He let the words linger for just a moment, then continued: “Anyway, ta-ta for now.  I’ll text you the address.  I’ll be long gone by the time you get here, but feel free to bring all your little friends for a game of hide and seek.  Though I have a feeling that you’re going to be more focused on sweet Angus.”

He hung up, texted the address, then turned to a feebly stirring MacGyver.  Pity he was waking up right as Murdoc had to leave.  Whimpers that would have torn the very soul out of Jack Dalton erupted unbidden from MacGyver’s lips.  Glazed blue eyes cracked open, regarding Murdoc with a mixture of terror and acceptance.  Though he had regained consciousness, MacGyver still hung limply from the chains, too weak and in pain to move.

Murdoc stepped forward, eliciting the tiniest of flinches  Even that motion made MacGyver cry out.  But Murdoc didn’t hurt him again.  Instead, he said, “Your friends are on their way.”

MacGyver’s voice rasped in the aftermath of his screams.  “You’re letting … me go… Why?”  

“Got bored, I suppose.”  No way was Murdoc going to let MacGyver know he’d been right, even if only a little bit.

MacGyver didn’t respond – maybe he didn’t know how to respond; more likely, he could barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words, amidst the torrent of pain.

Murdoc started to step away, then turned back, studying his latest draft of the elusive masterpiece that he would continue to dream about and that would fuel his passion and creativity for years to come.  He pulled off one black glove, placed his hand on a pale, cold cheek.  MacGyver jerked back feebly from the touch, grunting at the pain it produced.  Slowly, Murdoc wiped one of the fresher tears away with his thumb.  It might have been a power play.  It might have been a show of comfort.  Even the hit man didn’t know.  He glanced down at the shattered knee, swollen and misshapen, a grotesque monster straining to break free from the unrelenting fabric of the khakis.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, moving his gaze up from the deformed knee to lock his black eyes with fearful, anguished blue ones, “I didn’t mean it.”

He walked away, casting one final look over his shoulder before he left his art behind for the coming Phoenix agents to admire.  “Until next time, MacGyver.”

And despite the extensive search conducted by Phoenix once MacGyver had been loaded onto the chopper, on his way to the best orthopaedic surgeons in the country, Murdoc had once more disappeared, like a ghost.

That night he dreamed about his Ithika, and this time, it was enough. 

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday14 #murdoc #macgyver #jack dalton #macgyver 2016 #creepy murdoc #tw torture #broken bones #possessive murdoc #obsession #kidnapping #whump #whump fic #mac whump #extended metaphor #torture as art #murdoc as artist #mac as canvas #murdoc being a dramatic little bitch #ithika #literature #hurt/comfort #febuwhump 2021 #i didn't mean it #violence #breaking point #murdoc pov #sassy macgyver #emcatwrites

[lizzieraindrops]

Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Destiny (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eris Morn/Ikora Rey Characters: Eris Morn, Ikora Rey Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Hello destiny sapphics; allow me to introduce myself, Femslash, if nobody is going to write the content i want to see then i will create it myself, listen. it’s about perceiving the weak and wounded places in someone you love, and lavishing love and care upon them even when they won’t admit they need it, it’s about the Mutual Support, it’s about being kind to them even when you don’t know how to be kind to yourself, Light Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, oh and ikora has the most Distinguished Bisexual energy i’ve ever seen so jot that down, it doesn’t come up but you needed to know, this is all just a bunch of softness and tenderness don't @ me okay, Grief/Mourning

Summary:

Five storms Eris and Ikora weathered and one they didn’t need to.

The Shadowkeep weblore lives in my head rent free. Set post-Taken King and mostly during Shadowkeep.

“As I told Asher, there is a storm coming…” “Oryx is dead. We’ve weathered the storm.” Ikora is upset. She has yet to understand the bigger picture. “Yet his sisters would see his will done. There will always be another storm.” “Then let’s weather it together.” -Shadowkeep Narrative Preview #1

Chapter: |  1  |  2  |  3  |  4  |  5  |  +1  |

Set early Shadowkeep. Happy Ikora returns day!

As the afternoon sunlight sweeps across her study in slow motion, Ikora thinks on time, and distance. Their immensity and insignificance are so deeply, paradoxically interwoven. Leaning over the many strike reports on her heavy wooden desk, she thinks on decades passing, centuries, and the way the earth still turns under the sun every day the way it always has. She knows that even without encouragement, the sun has always been running down to eventually collapse into darkness. Yet the process is so slow that she has not witnessed the slightest telltale change to indicate it in all her long life, and unless they are all very unlucky, she likely never will. 

She considers the great stretch of space from her desk chair in the Tower to the near reaches of the Oort Cloud at the edge of the solar system, the pitted stones of which her own eyes have beheld in her youth. That great span is not so different from the kind of invisible gulf that oft forms between people. Ikora will sense that spaceless distance yawning wide even between herself and someone mere paces away. With some time and thought, she can often close it again. Compassion and carefully chosen words, thoughtful gestures; they hold more power than most people credit. But other times, no matter what form of communication she employs to attempt to bridge that void, people cannot or will not hear her. It is endlessly galling. It can happen with anyone from intractable faction leaders during a Consensus meeting to dear friends she does not want to lose to her own Traveler-forsaken ghost.

Despite any physical separation, she knows that felt distance would collapse if only she could understand and make herself understood to those she cares about. If only she could find the right way to reach them. Then she remembers all over again: the too-frequent sensation of reaching and reaching and reaching and not even being met halfway.

Ikora thinks about the universe’s tendency toward entropy, and the way time and space have torn people away from her again and again, be it by kilometers or eternities. She cannot forget the way she lost her mentor, her closest thing to kin, to his obsession with the mysteries of temporality long before he physically left the City. She remembers the way someone she could have loved was already leaving before Ikora could ask her to stay, vanishing to parts unknown. She considers her own time on Io during the Red War: Lightless and lost, desperately seeking a connection to anything that would give her hope or answers. All she found was herself even more alone, feeling farther from everyone than she ever has.

Then, Ikora recalls the way Cayde and Zavala seized her in a doubly crushing hug the moment she returned to Earth and stepped onto the unexpected refuge of the Farm. There she was, weaker than ever and harshly humbled by her own insufficiency in the face of insurmountable odds. Yet they not only reached out to her, but caught her as she fell into their arms broken. Maybe, in their own way, they had been reaching all along, and she had been turning away unknowing. She didn’t know how she’d gone so long without letting herself lean on them.

Now though, with her closest friend ripped out of her life and buried in a few years of grief, she still doesn’t know how she’s going to do it again. There’s only so much of each other’s pain and weariness that she and Zavala can hold. 

She thinks of the way it felt when Eris returned, feeling their separation in time and space draw to a close while a buffer of uncertainty remained. Truly, after the years of silence following their painful parting, Ikora had never expected to see the woman again. Yet Eris came back. Now she lingers at the edges of Ikora’s space, in the back of her mind; sometimes closer. Ever drawn back to the Moon, Eris comes and goes; but now, she remains within reach. 

Eris has always been hard to keep up with. Impelled by her immense grief and rage and pain, she drives herself so hard in pursuit of vengeance or closure. Ikora has always admired her tenacity in reshaping her suffering into a knife of purpose, one effective and deadly beyond even the means of most Lightbearers. Eris’ knowledge and sacrifices are what enabled them to defeat two gods of the Hive. And still she strives to further eliminate the possibility of her cruel fate ever befalling another. But it pains Ikora to see her still flinging herself into the fight with fury while foregoing her own healing.

It feels different, though, to be around her now. While as fierce and focused as ever, something has gentled some of her edges while sharpening others. It’s evident that Eris’ return to the Moon has spiked her dread with memory. Sometimes she is as wary as she was when she first returned from the Hellmouth, hissing at shadows. But her conversations with Ikora turn soft and halting far more than they ever did before. Perhaps she has found some measure of peace, given a few years with the defeat of Crota and Oryx to turn her avenged grief over and over in her hands. Or — as Ikora distinctly suspects — she, too, regrets the harsh words of their previous parting and thinks of reconciliation.

Maybe it’s just that Ikora is hearing her more clearly now. Or perhaps Ikora herself has just finally learned how to listen. What she hears is something that could be, not an answer, but the beginning of a conversation.

Shadows grow longer and Ikora moves from her desk to one of the soft chairs in her little library of an office. Ophiuchus compiles in a small flurry of Light, and she brushes a hand over his shell as she passes by. He watches her settle into the chair to watch the setting sun through the window. They do that sometimes: just watch each other. It has only been a few years since they started speaking to each other again after many decades. It’s still hard. But now that they have, their silences are friendlier. Ikora isn’t sure that they’ll ever be as close as they were before they pulled away from each other. But she’s still glad for what they have now. This is the kind of thing she promised herself she’d do better at after the Red War, so she’s been trying even harder. If she’s going to rely on anyone, her own ghost should be first among them. All the time they spent so far apart right next to each other has left its mark. But this is one of the few rifts that Ikora has been able to even begin to repair, and she treasures every rebuilt link.

Ikora thinks about the way Osiris tore time and causality itself apart to breach one of those unfathomable distances and bring back someone precious. With a little help, he saved someone thought irretrievably lost beyond a thousand layers of temporospatial distance. And yet, Ikora cannot help but see the way Osiris still struggles to close that gulf even when Saint is right in front of him, impossibly alive. As guardians, they are given so, so many second chances, but they are still far from infinite.

Ever since the day she formally became Vanguard, Ikora has been telling herself she’s not going to let herself repeat his mistakes. She keeps a firm grip on her emotions, leashes her ego, puts the City and its people’s safety first. She has failed many times, but succeeded more often; the Last City stands yet. But it’s been so hard to reconcile those imperatives with the harsh lessons of the Red War: sometimes, she is not enough; and sometimes, having others in her corner with her makes them enough, together.

Perhaps she should have paid more attention to those smaller lessons before then. Losing her Light, however temporarily, showed her just how fragile the greater ones are without that groundwork. No matter how mighty, a tree that does not anchor its fine roots into the ground will bow before a stiff wind. 

When the dust had settled and her Light returned, she swore to herself that she’d learn to let herself need other people. Intellectually, she knows it makes her stronger, even when she feels weaker. But losing Cayde so soon after that decision demolished what progress she had made. Time and again she ends up trapped in her own attempts at self-sufficiency, alone whether or not anyone else is there.

Ikora already knows what she wants, what she needs. She knows she needs people. And she knows she wants someone.

She just doesn’t know how to go about it yet.

#ikora rey #eris morn #destiny 2 #eris/ikora #ikora/eris #erikora #ikoris #destiny the game #destiny fanfiction #lizzie's adventures in writing #HAPPY IKORA DAY #look. ikora needs a hug #fun fact i wrote this before the splicer trailer drop so the sun thing was UNINTENTIONAL #anyway as always [shoves this in your face] CARE ABOUT THESE LADIES #long post #destinewt