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florencemtrash · 5 months

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The Ballad of the Shadowsinger

Azriel x Reader Oneshot

“Because I’m waiting for my mate to call me home.” The Shadowsinger said, “Because I’m waiting to die.”

Warnings: ANGST with a happy ending, mentions of attempted SA and suicidal ideation (they're very brief, but please do read with caution)

Author's note: I finished this at 3am last night and I think it's pretty apparent... buuuuuut I'm going to post it anyway. Enjoy...

The Shadowsinger arrived one winter night, curling into existence on the border of town like cream through coffee. Jadhan was only a boy at the time - painfully human with a broken leg that had never healed properly. The Midlands were a terrible place for a child to grow up - a place where the only thing more unstable than the ground was its sense of safety.

But things changed when the Shadowsinger arrived, bringing with him gold and the brutal violence required to scare off the bandits and murders that slipped in from the nearby Lordship. And when the Lord came for the Shadowsinger’s head, it was the fae male was the one who walked away from the fight. Except it wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter.

Jadhan was thirty-seven now with three young boys that had come in a cluster, forcing their way into the world one after another. Sasha had never been quite pleased with him for that, but her love for her sons and her husband outweighed the pain and hardship in the end.

The boys - Mikhail, Alzhar, and Zhik - ran around the tavern, ducking beneath tables and barstools while their height still allowed it. The Shadowsinger watched them with the faintest of smiles as they clambered about, begging for more attention from his shadows.

There was little known about the Shadowsinger this deep into the Continent, but whispers still passed through the mouths of travelers at the inn. The most common piece of gossip was that he was a Prythian outlaw - banished to the Continent after attempting to kill his Lord. Jadhan didn’t know - and he figured he would never find out.

The Shadowsinger was so quiet that no one even knew his real name. They all called him Shadowsinger - Shadow for short. He disappeared into the woods at night and stalked into town come morning, but give a shout at any time and he would be there, flying overhead like a black stormcloud.

“On the house, Shadow.” Jadhan said, dropping the glass onto the sticky counter. Whisky neat, two fingers - just the way he liked it.

The Shadowsinger picked it up, swirling the amber liquid around like he hoped it would start talking to him, “You say that every night.”

“That’s because a free drink is the least I could get you.” Jadhan tipped his head towards the rickety stage where the local songbirds were setting up. The singer, Phaedra, had her eyes on Shadow, sending love and gratitude his way like a flood, “Phaedra’s been telling everyone what you did for her. You know, with the Morois boy.”

Shadow grimaced, taking his first sip. He grimaced again. The whiskey was home-brewed and tasted like it. Everyone in town said a shot of the stuff could kill a man, but Shadow was hardly a man, and more shadow than fae.

Lev Morois had had his eyes on Phaedra for a while now. And he didn’t like to be denied anything, especially women. Normally he traveled to the Lordship for his fill, and he would have been better off going there last night. Instead he’d forced his way into Phaedra’s home… and Shadow had made sure he’d never be able to hurt a woman like that ever again.

“How old are your boys now, Jadhan?” His voice was deep and smoky.

The trio neared closer, as if they knew they’d been summoned. The eldest, Mikhail, nearly crashed into the countertop, forgetting he had to bend down now. A tendril of black shadow shot out, muffling the blow and corralling him back out onto the open dancefloor with the rest of the children.

Jadhan sighed and rubbed at a burned spot on the counter, “Too old, and growing faster than weeds.”

It was a sweet pain for Azriel to see the three brothers romping around. It was almost winter and soon enough they’d be wrestling in the frosted fields, shoving snow down each other’s shirts, and hurling it at each other's heads.

When was the last time he’d seen his brothers? Cassian had stopped by twenty-five years ago, shocked and scared to see Azriel looking so wretched. The next time Azriel’s shadows had warned him, and they’d sent Cassian away.

Rhysand was a different story… he’d never forgiven Azriel for what he’d done - and rightfully so - but that didn’t make the pain any easier to swallow. That didn’t make Azriel miss them any less.

He tossed the rest back and, to Jadhan’s surprise, he let the barkeep refill it.

Again.

And again.

Phaedra’s voice crooned over the crowd, settling over drunk men and women like a warm blanket until it was time for their sober partners to drag them home. Those who were alone either settled into the hard booths for a nap or resigned themselves to a stumble home in the dark. They’d all make it to their beds in the end - The Shadowsinger would see to that.

He dropped a gold coin onto the counter - triple what the night’s libations actually cost. It was the briefest of stumbles that had Jadhan gripping onto the male’s shoulder and forcing him back into his seat.

Azriel wasn’t drunk. It would take an ocean of human liquor to get a fae drunk and then some. But he was starting to feel something.

“I got a pinch of ambrose from a merchant passing through.” Shadow’s eyes snapped up to Jadhan, who only raised his hands in surrender, “Hey, hey, hey, I know you don’t drink my whiskey for the taste, so I thought I'd put something in there to remind you of home. Something to loosen you up like liquor is supposed to.”

The Shadowsinger winced at that word: Home.

“Very well.” He said.

The boys had gone home with Sasha hours ago, and without them running about with their usual compatriots, the tavern seemed dull. Now was no longer the time for dancing and riotous laughter. Now was the time for the sad drunks and those who didn’t want to go home.

But Azriel wasn’t drunk and he desperately wanted to go home.

It was the shame that kept him rooted to the stool like a stubborn weed… that and Rhysand’s promise that if he ever laid eyes on Azriel again, he’d rip the wings off his back.

Jadhan seemed to understand that about him, leaning over the counter on sturdy arms thick as tree trunks. His leg was still lame, always had been and always would be, but that had never held him back much.

“What’re you doing here, Shadow?”

His hazel eyes flickered up.

“What’s it been? Twenty-five years you’ve been in town now?”

“Thirty. Exactly.”

So that was why the Shadowsinger had drank so much that night. It was to commemorate the sad, terrible anniversary of his banishment to the Midlands.

“Don't you think that's long enough? I don’t mean any offense, but don't you have anywhere else to go? Friends? Family?”

The male gritted his teeth and Jadhan had the sinking feeling he'd just poked the bear.

“I thought I was wanted here.”

“Of course you are. Hell, we’d all be dead or piss poor if it weren’t for you.” Jadhan shook his head, “I don’t know what you’re running from - if you’re a thief, a murderer, a treasonous bastard or all of the above-”

Shadow flinched, actually flinched, and Jadhan knew it was all of the above.

“But whatever it is,” He continued, “I think you’ve made up for it.”

Azriel stilled, shadows continuing to swirl around the wet, empty glass in front of him.

How he wished those words were true, but only a human would think thirty years was a long time. They were nothing if not optimistic.

“No. I haven’t.” Shadow said flatly. Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until Jadhan finally sighed and went to clear the glass.

“I had a mate.” He whispered the words so quietly, Jadhan almost didn’t hear him.

His thick eyebrows disappeared into his receding hairline. He didn’t know much about fae customs and the ones he did know about were often violent, strange, or both… usually both. But he had a great deal of respect for mating bonds and understood they were prized above all else to fae.

“Had?”

Shadow’s lips flattened into a thin line and Jadhan could have sworn his eyes began to brim with years.

The Shadowsinger nodded stiffly.

“Dead?”

Shadow gritted his teeth and nodded once more, wings drooping low enough to brush against the sawdust packed floor.

Jadhan sighed so deeply he seemed to shrink into himself, and Azriel was once again struck by how quickly humans aged.

Silver streaks were already beginning to color his temples and his leg was getting stiffer and stiffer each day. It wouldn't be long until he was forced to swallow his pride and buy a cane like Sasha had been suggesting.

It seemed like just yesterday Jadhan had limped his way into the woods, calling out for the Shadowsinger with a copper coin clenched in his fist and a bargain to make.

Kill my father, and I will do anything you ask of me. Anything at all.

There had been such determination in the little boy’s body that Azriel hadn’t hesitated to fold his small fingers back over the coin and then do what he had been told… to do what he’d always been told to do.

“I’m sorry, Shadow.” He shook his graying hair, “I’m so sorry.”

Azriel grimaced, fists tightening until they turned pale, “Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t you dare.”

He frowned, “And why not?”

The Shadowsinger stilled and got quiet again, “Because it was my fault. I killed her.”

Jadhan, for all his mortal naivete, didn’t look surprised at his answer. He only twisted his mouth to the side in thought before asking once again, "Why are you here, Shadow? Why don't you leave?"

Azriel looked at him, hazel eyes filled with despair.

He would never tell Jadhan this, but he’d always been envious of humans for one thing - they could die of old age. They could be killed easily. So easily that all it would take was one flick of Azriel's wrist and Jadhan would be no more.

Fae were not so easy to kill, and their only end was a violent one. Maybe that was why Rhys had banished him to the middle of the Continent where life was harsh but simple, and fae were nowhere to be found.

No one here was strong enough to kill him. Azriel would know - he’d spent the first five years on the Continent searching for a way to die and getting into so many bloodbaths it had lost its luster.

“Because I’m waiting for my mate to call me home.” The Shadowsinger said, “Because I’m waiting to die.”

___

There were many reasons Azriel built his house in the woods. Firstly, he liked the privacy Secondly, when the nightmares came, there was no telling the damage he could do.

Tonight’s dreams were especially violent and cruel to him.

Elain appeared before him, sweet and delicate as a dove and despite knowing better, he couldn’t help but follow her into the darkness like a fly to a carnivorous flower. It wasn’t her fault - he should have known better than to drag them both into this mess. She’d been reckless, hungry for some semblance of control in this new and strange world, and he had been all too willing to play the role of the selfless knight.

When she kissed him it felt wrong, but like every other night, he was too powerless to push away. This was how it had happened, and there was no changing that.

She whispered against his lips, “Thank you for coming for me.”

Azriel’s stomach twisted, because two people had gone on the mission into Beron’s lair, and two people had come out. Azriel had wrapped his arms around Elain’s silky body after saving her, and left you behind.

He followed Elain further, chasing her shimmering pink skirts onto the Autumn Court battlefield where she dove into the grasses and disappeared.

This was where it truly went wrong.

He caught sight of you on the hill, blood blooming like roses from where the ash arrows pierced your flesh. Your wings were gone and you leaned too far backward, still feeling their phantom weight against your back. That was what it had taken to bring you down. That was what it had taken for Beron to break you.

It was like a bolt of lightning running through his body when the bond snapped into place. Your bruised eyes shot open and you fought against the chains, horror freezing your heart.

Azriel would know, because he felt it all.

“AZ! NO!”

Beron’s ax caught the light as it came down on your neck and this wonderful thing he’d dreamt about for over five hundred years was snatched away from him.

Azriel shot up in bed, skin slick and suffocating under the blankets. He kicked them off his body, taking big, desperate gulps of air as his stomach and shadows settled down.

He rubbed his chest, feeling that hollow space where the bond used to be.

He’d had you for less than a minute… he should have had an eternity with you. You should have had an eternity with all of them.

On the day you died, Rhys and Cassian had also lost a sister. Feyre and Nesta had lost a best friend. Cassian may have been quick to forgive him, but Rhys could never. He’d already lost one sister. Nothing could have prepared him to lose you too.

Shadows swarmed around him and he already knew his powers had wrecked the roof once again. Moonlight streamed through the newly made hole in the ceiling, pooling around his shaking form. He imagined it was the Mother staring down at him with her unblinking eye. Disappointed. Angry.

The mating bond had been utterly wasted on him.

“I’m-I’m sorry, Y/n.” He gasped out, trembling. He wrapped his wings around his shaking shoulders, as if that would be enough to shield him from what he’d done.

Once again he was that little boy trapped in the cellar. Abandoned. Unloved. Alone. But this time he deserved it.

“Please. Please.” He begged. He begged for the madness to take him. He begged for an end to his eternal life.

“I want to come home.” He sobbed. “Please. I want to come home.”

You stood before him at the foot of the bed - a vision that had arrived three days after coming to the Midlands and never left. You looked at him sadly, your white dress hanging still despite the breeze that flowed through the room. But you didn’t say a word. You didn’t say anything at all.

___

Jadhan was fifty-five now. The Shadowsinger still came to the tavern every night, drank his whiskey on the house, and left once the songs were over.

Mikhail had left at eighteen, chasing after opportunities on the edge of the Continent. Zhik had died the year before - the youngest and the weakest of the trio. Not even the Shadowsinger could fight the cold that came for him in the Winter and stole him away before Spring.

Now it was Alzhar and Jadhan that ran the tavern. Alzhar who poured the Shadowsinger his drinks.

“On the house.” He said, sliding the glass along the countertop. Whiskey. Two fingers. Just how the Shadowsinger liked it.

“Thanks, Alzhar.” He raised the glass in the air before tossing it back in one shot, grimacing. Either he was getting older, or the whiskey had gotten worse.

Snow flurried past the windows, more rain than anything else.

“Happy Solstice day.” The Shadowsinger said with the faintest of smiles.

“Happy Solstice day.”

It was no grand holiday in the Midlands, and it certainly could never hold a candle to the festivities that were going on in Velaris, but still, Azriel would take whatever comfort he could get.

Phaedra had quietly retired from singing, opting to strum along with her guitar in the background. But her daughter led the band now, a vibrant star in the midst of these quiet lands with a smoky voice that was only rivaled by her mother.

“Happy Solstice day, everyone!” The tavern-goers cheered and a new generation of children shrieked from their spots closest to the stage. “Now I know it’s not looking too great outside, but we all know what dear old, Phaedra says.”

“Are you calling me old, Miss Devra?” Phaedra hollered, red painted lips turned down in a frown.

“I’m calling you a dear, Mama. You’re still as young as a rosebud in April.”

“That’s right!” Alzhar whooped. Phaedra winked and blew her future son-in-law a kiss.

Devra’s smile was positively radiant, “Alright, alright well whatever. She says daisies look brightest when they’re down in the shits, but that’s not really the most appetizing turn of phrase now is it?”

Everyone erupted in a mixture of laughter and cheer.

“Come on now, Dev.” Alzhar called out, “You’ve kept us waiting long enough. Sing!”

She rolled her eyes playfully, “Well since you asked so kindly,” She cleared her throat and began to croon,

“When my mama first warned me you’ve got trouble on your tail, I told her foxes are quick runners and my heart ain’t just for sale. I won’t be wooed by sweet flowers or sugar tea on ice, I just want someone who’ll love me and who’ll never think twice. I’ve-”

The tavern door burst open, letting in a howling blast of night-chilled air tinged with rain and frost. Everyone cringed back except Shadow, clutching at their thick coats and gasping at the sight of the being that came in from the darkness.

The female was anything but cold with her shining, warm eyes and radiant skin. She glowed like she'd been brushed with an otherworldly glimmer. She was sunlight shooting through crystal.

Dev stopped singing immediately, her hands slipping from the worn out strings with a strangled thrum.

The Shadowsinger stumbled, actually stumbled, to his feet, and the world seemed to fall silent.

Shadows shot out towards her, curling around her legs and licking the hem of her midnight blue coat. She was the moonlit darkness given form, delicate and fierce at the same time.

“Azriel.” She breathed out, finally giving a name to the nameless fae. “Azriel.” She repeated, still in disbelief.

The Shadowsinger - Azriel - walked forward without a sound, his scarred hands shaking at his sides.

She looked ready to throw her arms around him. Whether it was to embrace him or strangle him was yet to be seen.

Before she could make a move or say anything further, he dropped to his knees, head bowed and trembling. He swallowed thickly, keeping his eyes trained on the floor between her feet like he was scared to even look at her straight on.

If he had been looking at her, he would have seen the horrified shock that parted her lips and widened her eyes.

He pulled out that sleek obsidian blade he carried with him everywhere. The knife seemed to hum, the silent sound reverberating through the room and causing the air above it to warp.

Everyone knew that that knife was as much a part of him as his wings. But he held it out to her now like an offering, wings stretching open so that everyone could see the orange glow of the fire through the thin membrane, and the tendons that flowed through them like rivers.

Alzhar looked to his father in confusion. Was this some fae custom he wasn't aware of? Should they all be bowing to her? Perhaps she was their queen.

But his father only let out a slow breath, shoulders sinking down.

The Shadowsinger was the picture of reverent misery, and he would let her take whatever she wanted for her revenge.

His wings.

His life.

Anything...

Because I’m waiting for my mate to call me home.

That was what the Shadowsinger had revealed to him years ago, and Jadhan had never forgotten it.

Because I’m waiting to die.

Her beautiful face crumpled, then turned resolute. She ignored the blade, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and hauling him up to his feet. Azriel’s eyes blew open in surprise.

“You bastard. You absolute bastard.” She said, her silky voice shaking, “I’ve been looking for you for years.”

“Y/n,” Azriel whispered reverently, “I-”

She slammed her lips against his, swallowing whatever desperate apology had been about to escape his mouth.

The Shadowsinger froze, then slowly melted into her touch, wrapping his arms around her waist so tightly it was a miracle her ribs didn’t snap. Shadows swirled around the pair in a perfect mixture of light and dark - like moonlight bleeding through winter clouds.

No one in the tavern could stand to look away. They were absolutely transfixed. Some great power was moving in the world and they could feel it. Magic or not, it demanded to be felt.

When the two fae finally pulled away from each other, gasping for breath, something in the earth seemed to crack open and shake the ground, releasing pressure that had been building for hundreds and hundreds of years.

Tears slipped out of her eyes, salty and not entirely unwelcome.

“Oh, Az.” She whispered, cradling his face with one hand and clutching her chest with the other. The Shadowsinger was weeping now, curling into her like a vine seeking sunlight, “How could I have forgotten this?”

He buried his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of elderflower and mountain pine like a man starved. His shadows grew around him, thick and powerful. And before anyone could even let out a strangled gasp, they disappeared with a whisper of smoke and shadow.

You reappeared in darkness, holding Azriel’s shaking body against you like an anchor to a ship.

“I’m here, Az. I’m here.” You gently shushed him, tangling your fingers through his hair.

You scanned the room finding nothing but a rickety bed and a dresser in the corner by way of furniture, and a small pile of firewood against the wall.

Moonlight streamed in through the roof and you held out a hand, latching onto the rays and weaving them together so tightly they filled the room with a silver glow.

“Az.” You whispered, all your attention turned back on him, on your mate. "Az." You gently shook him, pressing fervent kisses to his temple until he finally lifted his eyes.

Azriel looked exhausted, purple bruises shading the hollows beneath his gorgeous eyes.

“How-” Azriel gasped, “How is this-”

“Bryaxis brought my body to the Cauldron.” You finished, equally out of breath, “It took him years to put me back together but… he did it. He did it, Az.”

Azriel closed his eyes, sinking to his knees. This time you let him fall. And you fell with him, climbing into his lap so he could bury his face in your wind-swept hair.

Home.

You smelled like home to him.

“Promise me." He begged, "Promise me you’re real, Y/n. Please, promise me. I’ll-I'll do anything." He could feel you on the other end of the bond, your heart pulsing and alive. But… he didn’t know if he'd be able to survive if he woke in the morning to find that this was all some terribly perfect dream.

“I’m here, Az. I’m here.” You replied thickly, “I’m here and I’m whole.” You tugged off your coat, throwing it somewhere behind you, and pulled down the neck of your sweater. A thick line of scar tissue wrapped around your throat, one of the many physical reminders of the horrors Beron had put you through.

Azriel stilled, one hand daring to trace the pale flesh with a feather-light touch. “I… I did this.”

“No...No.” You whispered, brushing away the moisture that had collected on his cheeks, “You didn’t do this, Az.”

“I left you behind.” His voice broke. “I took Elain and I left you behind. Y/n, I’m so sorry. Please, I’m so sorry.”

You flinched and closed your eyes. It was one of your worst memories to date - the sight of Azriel’s broken face as the first ash arrow caught you in the back and brought you to the ground. The second was what had done you in, piercing through the membrane of your wings and digging into the ground, pinning you there.

Azriel had only gripped Elain’s golden form closer to his body. He could only fly one of you out, and in that moment he had made his choice and leapt into the sky.

Azriel felt your emotion through the bond and desperation flooded his system once again.

He couldn’t lose you. Not again. Not like this. Not when he had so much to make up for.

“I know what I did, Y/n. I know it was unforgivable, but I swear to you I will do anything you ask. Whatever it takes. If you’ll just give me a chance, I- ”

“Shhhhhhh.” You shook your head, pressing your finger to his lips and silencing him. “I forgive you, Az.” You said, cupping his face.

He immediately leaned into your touch, craving the feeling of your soft skin against his.

“I don’t-I don't want to think about that anymore. Trust me, I’ve spent the last half a century agonizing over it.” You said, smiling without humor.

His hands rubbed up and down your back, tracing the ruined remnants of your wings and silently begging you to explain.

You hesitated, collecting your words and speaking them carefully, “I would have come sooner but… I was so scared and confused about everything. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore without my wings with-'' Your hand flew up to your throat on instinct.

Azriel gently pulled your fingers away, kissing the pads of your fingertips all the way to your palm, and then your wrist. His lips brushed against the pulsing vein as soft as a feather. It was such a small point of contact, but it grounded you to reality.

“I couldn’t remember anything. It was like… like I was starting from scratch. Building my life from the ground up.”

Azriel repeated the gesture with your other hand, soft lips skimming over your skin until you shivered, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He whispered softly, “I should have been there.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have known.”

You looked at him for a long time, drinking in the sight of him and refamiliarizing yourself with his face. He did the same with you.

He looked tired and thinner than you remembered, the elegant planes of his face now harsh and sharp. But buried beneath all those years of loneliness, he was still there - your Azriel. The male who never did anything in half-measures. The male who couldn’t help but make some of the most impulsive decisions you’d ever seen in your life, and also some of the most careful.

Gods, you’d missed him.

You'd missed talking to him and laughing with him. You'd missed the simple joy of being in his presence and the way that the world seemed to fall with hush whenever he entered a room.

“I came for you as soon as I remembered.” You brushed a strand of inky black hair from his forehead, and then flicked him. Hard. “But you just had to go and disappear on the Continent without a trace.”

That wasn’t completely true. He’d left bloody, brutal footprints for a while, but those had dried up too quickly.

The smile Azriel gave was weak and dull, but it was a start, “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Y/n.”

“That’s alright." You murmured against his lips before kissing him, "You can make it up to me.”

Azriel’s heart leapt in his chest, and the bond responded in kind, singing louder than a choir of a thousand songbirds. Even after all this time, even after everything, the Shadowsinger hoped.

“Y/n-” That light began to dim, hateful voices whispering in his ear that he was unworthy of you, that he would destroy this chance at happiness just as swiftly as he’d done the first time, that he would ruin it all, “I don’t deserve-”

“Stop it, Az.” Your words were soft but commanding, “I don’t care about what you think you deserve or don’t deserve. I want you. I want my best friend back. I want you back.” You wiped the tears from your cheeks, “I want you back in Velaris, and if it turns out I’m still pissed at you for everything, we’ll figure it out, ok?”

You took a shaky breath and Azriel looked up at you in awe. He gathered you in his arms and captured your lips in a softer, more gentle kiss. A kiss that said, I’m tired. I’m so so tired and for the first time in my life I’m going to force the voices that tell me terrible things to be silent.

And it worked for a spell, but Azriel was pulling away again, looking guilty.

“Rhys-”

“I’ve already handled Rhys.”

His brow arched up every so slightly. Your guilty eyes flitted to the side.

You loved Rhys like a brother, and you fought with him like siblings do. That was why the last thing you'd done before leaving Velaris was force him to lift the banishment... and then you'd punched him in the face.

“I wasn’t exactly happy with him when I found out he banished you to the Continent. And to the Midlands too. I’ve heard it’s terribly boring here.”

Azriel smiled, and this time it was a genuine one full of love and relief, “Everywhere is terribly boring without you. And terribly painful.”

“That’s a very good answer.” You replied, feeling that a great weight had been lifted off your chest.

He held you in a gentle caress, tracing your brow bone and the curve of your lips and committing the feeling of you to memory.

This was real. This was real. This was real.

You both folded in on each other like paper houses laid to rest, until you were tangled up on the floor. There was a perfectly functional bed not even four feet away, but even that seemed like too much effort after everything that had happened.

Azriel wrapped his wings protectively around you, settling down with his head against your chest so he could hear your heartbeat. You hummed in tired contentment, peppering his forehead with kisses as your eyelids began to droop.

“I want to go home, Azriel,” You murmured, “I want to go home with you.”

Home.

Azriel swallowed thickly, “We’ll leave tomorrow first thing in the morning. I promise.”

You opened a bleary eye, examining your mate quietly, “Do you not want to say goodbye?”

Azriel kissed your chest, right over your heart. Thirty years ago he would have said yes. He would have taken time to get his affairs in order and to make sure Jadhan and his sons, Phaedra and Devra, and the rest were taken care of. But things had changed, and he knew that no matter what, they would be alright. They would live and travel and fall in love. If they were lucky, they’d experience the joy of dying in their sleep surrounded by loved ones at the end of a long and eventful road.

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

You pressed one final kiss to his forehead, absorbing him in the warmth of your arms. Azriel sighed, hanging onto the golden thread in his chest that wrapped around his soul and bound him to you.

“They’ll be ok, my love.” You murmured.

And so will we. You whispered the promise down the bond, soft and gentle.

He closed his eyes, pressing the words I love you into your skin.

“I know.” He whispered to the night sky once your breathing had evened out, “I know.”

That night at the tavern felt like a dream - the kind that left you groggy and awestruck when you initially awoke, and then slipped away like water cupped in a child’s hands.

Everything seemed louder than before, even though the townspeople walked about in a contemplative daze. It was the forest. That’s what it was. It hummed more brightly. The blanket of power that had rested over the treetops for decades had lifted overnight.

No one spoke of the events aloud - they were too aware of the enormity of what they’d witnessed - but they all knew the truth.

The Shadowsinger had finally been called home.

___

“Quick!” Alzhar’s eldest son, Samu, called out to the twins. They hobbled over as quickly as their stout legs could carry them.

“Samu,” Niran whined, “I’m tired.”

“Papa said to be back by dark.” Rhaan reminded them all. The only trademark that separated him from his twin brother was the flash of blond through his ruddy brown hair. White-tailed deer they called him.

“I want dinner.”

“Me too.”

Samu looked over the hills where the sun was sliding down the sky like rain on a window.

“But we haven’t found the house yet!” He protested.

“We’ve been searching for days.”

“Yeah, we’ve been searching for days.” Niran parroted.

“Of course we have!” He threw his hands up in the air, “Did you really think the Shadowhouse would be easy to find?” He clicked his tongue in disappointment, shaking his head, “Go back if you’re so scared. I’ll look for it myself.”

Niran and Rhaan looked at each other, identical frowns pulling at their lips. They wanted to prove their worth, but they were still younger than Samu, and their hunger mattered more.

“We’re telling Mama you didn’t listen.”

“I want your dessert.”

“Wait, no. I want it. Can we share?”

“I’m not sharing!”

Samu smiled triumphantly and stomped further into the woods, leaving the twins to their usual bickering.

The little boy sprinted back home hours later, a gleeful kick in his step. The sky was already turned pitch black, but the Mother had sprinkled out the stars like salt to guide him home.

Devra stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, swollen belly blocking out the roaring firelight like an eclipse.

“Where have you been?” She gasped out, grabbing Samu’s head and holding him close to her stomach. Samu loved when she did this, convinced that his newest sibling would talk to him first.

Niran and Rhaan wanted another brother to tussle with, but Samu was hoping for a sister. She could tussle with them too, he was sure.

He ignored her question, grabbing her hand and hauling her back inside, “Papa! BaBa! I found it! I found the Shadowhouse.”

Niran and Rhaan popped out from their bedroom, clambering after their older brother as he dragged their mother along.

Jadhan and Alzhar looked up with relief. Jadhan’s hair had turned white as snow in his old age and hints of gray were beginning to sprout from Alzhar’s temples.

“Papa!”

“Samu, what have we told you about staying out past-”

“The Shadowsinger left something for you and Baba.”

“What?!” Jadhan sat up straighter, grimacing at the painful twist of his leg. He motioned his grandson closer, helping him climb onto the bed.

The little boy dropped the blue-velvet bag into his outstretched hands, leaning back on his heels with rapt attention. Samu, being the boy that he was, hadn’t opened it on the whole journey over and was now buzzing to learn what secrets it held within.

Jadhan was immediately startled by the weight of the parcel.

“Open it!”

“Wait! I want to see!”

“Help me up!”

Alzhar and Devra relented, picking up the twins and leaning close. Their own curiosity was itching to be satisfied.

Jadhan opened the bag and tipped it over spilling dozens of gold coins onto the quilt. Devra gasped, her hands flying up to her mouth. Alzhar didn’t bother hiding his shock, his mouth agape.

It was more money than they’d ever seen in their lives, Jadhan didn’t concern himself with it - he hadn’t had to worry about money in a long while. Instead, he picked up the slip of paper that had also fallen out, carefully unfolding it with trembling, wrinkled fingers.

For all the drinks “on the house” and for your son, Mikhail, who traveled to the edges of the Continent and made it possible for my mate to find me and bring me home.

Scrawled on the lower edge of the paper were more words, cramped and small like they’d been jotted down as an after-thought.

Also, your whiskey is absolutely disgusting. Never let anyone else drink it.

Everyone stilled, watching Jadhan carefully.

Without warning, the old man tipped his head back and roared with laughter.

Samu leaned back in surprise. His grandfather was a naturally solemn man, and he'd never heard him laugh so loudly and so fiercely.

Alzhar reached for the slip of paper, skimming the words quickly.

"No!" He cried out in disbelief, "Stop! This can't be. Devra, look-"

One by one the adults fell into fits of roaring laughter, collapsing onto Jadhan's bed or onto the floor. Even the boys cheered - confused but happy to be part of whatever story had just finished unfolding.

Jadhan was seventy-one years old when he died, and he died laughing, surrounded by his family at the end of a long road.

Down the street in the tavern, the band was still playing the same old songs, although they were being performed by yet another generation of songbirds. But, there was one new addition to the repertoire.

A song penned by Phaedra and aptly named The Ballad of the Shadowsinger years before her quiet passing.

It was always the last song of the night. Always. And it ended like this:

Come Solstice day

Come wind or rain

Now calls the heather

The Midlands will have no reason to dismay

For the Shadowsinger has been called home again

___________

Another author's note:

I feel like I threw in so many new human characters so I made a family tree. Ha!

Also, please enjoy the small essay I wrote last night after writing this oneshot...

From last night:

Listen, some red flags are just pale orange scraps of fabric when you’re an immortal non-human being who’s been alive for hundreds of years. Don’t come for me. I’m so tired. It’s 3am. I should sleep.

Ok, note from Florence B at 3:16am because I am making CONNECTIONS. Not all of this was intentional, but maybe it was? Maybe I’m just stringing connections after the fact. Maybe I’m a genius. Probably not, but still. I’m so tired, guys. Why am I doing this right now? I should be sleeping but I can’t sleep so I’m going to do this instead.

Buckle down folks for the essay I am about to write:

I have my qualms about the ACOTAR books, as I’m sure most people do. Don’t get me wrong, they’re wonderful reads and it’s the series that got me back into reading after college, but they’re not perfect by any means.

One thing I think that gets brushed under the rug (especially given how ALL the batboys fall for girls who are literally in their late teens/mid-twenties - it’s a major red flag but we forgive because it’s fiction) is how DIFFERENTLY fae experience time. LIke, these fuckers live hundreds, if not THOUSANDS of years. The only way they die is if they get killed, like purposely poisoned or stabbed or whatever have you. I tried to write this/touch upon this when Azriel describes how he’s jealous of Jadhan for his humanity and how no matter what, Azriel is stuck potentially living an ETERNITY with the reality of what he’s done. It’s why for me - personally - all the stuff about the mate bond driving males mad or the choice that Rhysand and Feyre make to bind their lives to one another kind of makes sense. Like, if I was faced with an eternal life sentence in a world that was as brutal and cruel as the ACOTAR universe is, HECK YEAH I MIGHT BIND MY LIFE TO SOMETHING/SOMEONE I CARED ABOUT! I’M NOT DOING THIS SHIT ALONE! You’ve gotta retire from the game at SOME point.

I know I probably made things really confusing by introducing a whole host of human characters spanning several generations (re: the family tree up above), but as I previously mentioned, I thought it was important to do this to contextualize/compare the lifespan of a fae to a normal human. While Jadhan is growing up, getting a job, getting married, having kids, Azriel is still struggling with his banishment to the Midlands and his own sense of self-worth. The line about Jadhan approaching Azriel and offering him money to kill his abusive father who broke his leg was thrown in there later on around the 1am mark. And I didn’t think of it much - I just wanted a reason for Azriel to know Jadhan personally throughout his life from childhood to old age. BUT! Now that I think I’m thinking about it more, it makes sense that Azriel would be able to accept Y/n’s forgiveness so quickly. He sees a lot of himself in young Jadhan and by helping him escape his abusive father(albeit by violent means) and watching him grow up into a strong man and a good father, Azriel’s helping heal his own inner child.

The kids! Oh my goodness I love the kids so much. Once I threw the first kid into the story I thought - fuck it, we’re going to make the parallelism painfully obvious with Azriel seeing himself, Rhys, and Cassian mirrored in Mikhail, Alzhar, and Zhik. Then of course I had to bring things around full circle and give Alzhar three boys and a girl on the way (yes, Devra is pregnant with a girl and Samu is going to shower her with all the love that Rhys gave his own sister).

Finally, I’m going to address any comments about Y/n forgiving Azriel too quickly. 1) I feel like it is a universally acknowledged/unacknowledged truth that no one hates Azriel as much as he hates himself. And no punishment could ever be worse than the self-loathing he feels for himself (NOTE: people, if a partner/romantic love interest/friend/crush/whatever EVER says this kind of stuff to you, drop them like a two-ton boulder. That’s a major red flag, but once again this is a fictional man/fae so we can let it slide). 2) Once again, these fae are literally HUNDREDS OF YEARS OLD. I can only speak for myself when I say this, but I feel like if I had known and loved someone for that long, I would be willing to forgive a lot and trust that time might be able to heal deeper wounds than humans are used to. Time is precious to us humans, we can’t always afford to wait and hope for things to get better on their own, but fae can.

Are those all my thoughts? I think those are all my thoughts. It’s 3:47am now. Oh jeez. To future me: I’m so sorry if you have to read this and it’s bad and you have a coffee-fueled headache all day because I fucked things up for us.

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel x mate reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel angst #azriel x reader angst #ANNNNGGGSSSTTTT #angst #angst with a happy ending

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arieswritez · 5 months

Note

yandere mark nsfw alphabet😳😳 loved the idea

cw; DARK CONTENT! MDNI!!! rape, breeding/baby trapping, dacryphilia, asphyxiation, abusive 'relationships', edging, predator/prey dynamics, nipple play, kidnapping, food tampering, mentions of suicidal ideation, threats of violence, implied death, manipulation, victim blaming, branding, mentions of incapacitation.

about; nsfw alphabet ft. cray cray mark x gn! reader xx a/n; a couple of u asked for this so here it is :D not edited & straight off the dome so excuse any grammatical errors. will edit if necessary xx

A= Aftercare

'aftercare' with yandere mark is patronizing and condescending. a lot of shushing, wiping your tears, and asking why you're so upset. you asked for this with all your fucking cock teasing. it couldn't have been that bad, i mean, he did make you cum! why can't you just let good things happen to you? ;(

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

mark loves your eyes <3 it's the first thing he's noticed from you. how they seemed to gleam and widen while you gave him your undivided attention. he can't count the amounts of times he had to excuse himself and jack off in the bathroom: imagining how your eyes would water with his cock stuck down your throat. or the way your eyebrows would furrow while he jack hammered into you.

C= Cum

yan mark definitely likes marking you with his cum. he likes to see it dripping off your face, along your belly, your thighs, but most importantly, he loves it when he watches it drip out of you. whether you can get pregnant or not - and good luck if you can - there's just something primal about cumming inside of you. marking you in and out.

D= Dirty secret

he's a masochist just as much as he's a sadist. his little obsession with you caused him to get a tattoo of your name <3 right at his adonis belt 🥺 so everytime he's in too deep,, your hands desperately try to hold his hips back,, and your blunt nails dig into the curved lines of your name. it never fails to make his eyes roll into the back of his head 🫶🏽🤭

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

canon typical mark is (was) a blushy lil virgin but yan!mark has a tad bit more experience. he's attractive, he's funny, he knows how to play into the slightly awkward charm that got you to lower your defenses. so it's safe to say it isn't hard to find random hookups every now and then.

it's not all about his experience. he just knows what you like.

you may not know it, but he's. . done his research. and by that i mean, he's logged into your computer or your phone and looked through your browser history. he knows what kind of porn you like. and some of those things are borderline freaky. here you are, acting all innocent, like you wouldn't hurt a fly. or high and mighty like no one would ever dare snuff out your flame.

who would've known you were such a desperate slut?

but that's okay! because he's willing to do anything to satisfy you. . or humiliate you by making you cum. he feels it takes you down a peg, when he pins you down and makes you cum even though you don't want to. even though your mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to hold your climax back while he plays with your clit/cock.

unbeknownst to you, he's watched you masturbate. knows the right amount of pressure & speed that gets your toes curling. he knows you so well & he can't wait to learn more about you 💕

F= Favorite position

mark loves watching you squirm beneath him. most importantly, he loves taking you down. he might even make you think you can get away. the chase, the constant cat and mouse you'd subject him to used to be torture. your teasing, the occasional sliver of skin as you stretched, the way you'd lay your head on his lap as the two of you watched television, the way you'd grin when he blushed. . and the wrestling. god, the play wrestling.

he used to let you win. but now. . now this is real. there's real consequences. so he makes you think you can kick him off while you flail. maybe even lets you get up and run. your elbows are all scuffed during the struggle and he's given you a busted lip, but he lets you think you've won.

god knows he'll catch up eventually.

the games he'd play made you cocky. you thought you were stronger than him instead of considering that it was just him playing nice. so he loves to watch the look of defeat, of deception, anger, and disappointment towards yourself when it's revealed he could've had his way with you all along.

he loves to be on top.

but sometimes,

sometimes,

he likes it when you're on top. some things never change. and lets just say he didn't always let you win play wrestling just because he was trying to be a gentleman. but because he liked the way your weight felt on top of him as you grinned triumphantly, pinning his wrists down.

now, of course, things have changed. he can't let you have all the control. pity. but he forces you to ride him: his hand wrapped around your throat. he could really hurt you if he so much as wanted to. . something he hisses into your ear whenever your pace so much as falters. he makes you work for it. and it takes longer to make him cum when you ride him. fear makes you clumsy, makes your legs shake more, and you're sore and achy and tired, which makes it all the more fun.

so i think his fave is when he forces you to be on top :)

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

yan!mark teases you a lot. comments on how many times he's made you cum, pinches your nipples just to hear you squeal. he's only ever quiet and serious when he's in a bad mood.

H= Hair

mark's trimmed but not necessarily shaved.

you, on the other hand, have to be shaved. not because he finds it unattractive (if anything, it makes him feral. makes him feel like you're something meant to be conquered, something to be domesticated. controlled.)

hence his decision to have you shaved at all times. it's about control.

he forces you into the bath tub and watches as you shave, making sure you're all pretty for him. no, you don't get a say in the matter. you're his little doll. he'll do whatever he wants to you.

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

mark is rough. depending on the situation, he may start off slower, softer, easing into you while his words are pure venom. he's grinding into you, making you hiccup, because this type of 'love making' should be reserved for couples. not whatever the two of you have got going on. but of course, he speeds up. roughing you up the more into it he gets.

he's rough regardless of who the object of his affection is, but he's definitely rougher if you're on the masculine side. yan!mark doesn't like to be challenged. he doesn't like talk back. he doesn't like you running around thinking you're big and bad. so he has to knock you down a peg. force you to understand he's stronger than you.

he chokes you out, squeezing your throat until your vision spots. he likes to watch your face change colors. and when your mouth opens, desperately trying to suck in air, he spits onto your tongue 💗

likes it when you - confident, and tough, walking like nothing can ever hurt you - beg him to let you go. beg him not to kill you.

because, sometimes, you fear he just might.

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

he does! but when he gets you, there's really no need for that <3

when he hadn't kidnapped you, he'd masturbate all the time. it was the only way to relieve himself. like i rambled about before, he'd steal your underwear and cum into them, use them as tissues to wipe his abdomen clean.

secretly takes pictures of you - upskirts if you wear 'em,, or just candids. cums to your most mundane selfies.

if the two of you were close before he kidnapped you, debbie would send you all types of homemade treats. sweet or savory, whatever it was; you loved debbie's cooking. what you didn't know was that mark would add a little bit of his own . . twist to them. when you'd steal bites of his food, you always wondered why his tasted differently to yours.

and the way he'd stare at you as you ate, jesus.

you thought he just liked the way you'd wolf down whatever his mom cooked. turns out he just liked watching you eat his cum.

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

BREEDING!!! whether you can get pregnant or not, he loves the idea of claiming you for a lifetime. of changing your life and forcing you to carry his child. watching you grow round and hormonal. he knows he'd have to keep you on a tight leash; lest you do something you'll regret in order to escape your fate. but it'll be worth it. because after nine months, you'll have another life to look after. you'll be on edge all the time, protecting a fragile, little life, because you can't trust mark to do it.

after all, if you're really bad, he can always get rid of it. start all over again. and you wouldn't want that, would you~?

dacryphilia.

there's nothing like watching you cry. when you'd confide in him about your troubles, when you'd cry on his shoulder, seek solace in his company for whatever reason, and cry. . it'd be really hard to hide his erection. the first time you let yourself cry in front of him was a day he'd never forget. he couldn't stop thinking about it since. wonders if you tear up when someone fucks you. (you do. you will)

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

mark doesn't care where he takes you as long as he's got you. it can be in public or not, just as long as he takes you to the secondary location he'll keep you prisoner in. if it's in the au where nolan & him team up, there will be a compound with all the rebels. you'd be at the top floor in a comfy little penthouse. a gilded cage overlooking the remains of your burned city.

i think he'll first want to fuck you in a place where there'll be no interruptions. if it isn't in the au where him & nolan conquer earth, he knows how to play his role. doesn't want to risk being found raping you. he'll most likely fuck you in a place you hold dear to your heart. your bedroom, could be an example.

because wherever that safe space may be, you won't be able to stand being there without thinking about him.

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

he likes it when you act so sure of yourself. when someone's a bit cocky and bossy. it's nice to break you.

it is a whole lot easier when someone's shyer, though. wallflowers always blend into the background.

no one misses them when they go missing.

N= No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)

there's almost nothing mark won't do to you, sorry ;( even if he doesn't like it. . even if you both don't like it. . he'll always find a way to humiliate you if you've been bad. so it's advised you be on your best behavior if you really don't want him to do some fucked up shit to you. & believe him: it hurts him more than it hurts you!!

all he's ever wanted was to own you.

you were meant for him.

so why fight?

you both know you're not getting out of this alive

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

mark doesn't always give head unless it's to put you in your place. just to show you that he can make you cum and theres nothing you can do about it.

but he makes you choke on him all the time. he's impatient, forcing your head down and hiking his hips up to meet your face. if you've pissed him off, he'll pinch your nose and hold you down. loves to feel your nails dig into the bulk of his thigh. sometimes, you'll make him bleed. he doesn't care.

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

mark doesn’t last very long BUT he’s got a very short refractory period and can go for countless rounds. by the time you cum once, he’s already cum like three times and he’s ready for more. by then, he’s already fucked dumb. so your next orgasms will be forced out of you, roughed up and overstimulated as his cum leaks out of you, his cum acting as lube and making the slide intoxicatingly easy.

Q= Quickie

basically non-existent. he loves giving you his undivided attention. and he never stops after one round ;(

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

he loves trying new things with you. he's spent so much time fantasizing about you that he doesn't even know where to start the first time he gets his hands on you. he'll most likely force fuck you more than once in a day the first time he gets the chance to.

S= Stamina

(see pace <3)

T= Toys

loves using toys on you. if you’ve used them before him, he’ll force you to use them in front of him. it doesn’t take long before he takes control: grabbing them and fucking you with them. edging you. if you cum, then it’s only fair he cums, too, right? and you don’t really like that much ;( so best hold it in <3

U= Unfair (how do they tease? edge?)

mark loves to tease and edge you.

you say you hate him. you can't stand him touching you.

you bite and you snarl, kick and punch, yet when he has you pinned, edging you for hours on end. . you end up breaking. begging him to make you cum. of course, he coaches you through it. tells you he'll leave you alone once you cum, he promises. yet he drags it out for so long. hearing you ask to cum instead of asking him to stop is music to his ears.

except, mark is a liar. you shouldn't trust him.

he just ends up overstimulating you after you cum😒

V= Volume

lots of whispering and hissing, talks very quietly and carefully. you'd think he'd be loud. . but he's not. and despite the fact that he may say vile, disgusting things to you, he whispers them to you so nicely. . if he were saying anything else it'd be sweet. he's so patronizing ;( whimpers in your ear when he's close.

W= Wild card

really into pain.

since he's got his powers, it's not very often that he feels pain. sure, there are some fights with villains - while he's out playing the perfect hero in the mean time - that give him a few flashes of pain. but that's once a blue moon.

nothing compares to you.

you fight him like you're afraid he might kill you. and he might. but it's never his intention ;( he knows what kills and what doesn't (trust him) &, believe it or not, he doesn't want to lose you. but you fight him with such intensity he has to manhandle you more than he'd like.

your hits are surprisingly hard. you claw at him and punch and kick, and he's thought about breaking your legs more times than he can count - he still might if you catch him on a bad day - but then that'd leave you completely immobilized and that's really no fun. because he likes it when you make him bleed. he likes it when your hands slap against his face and when your nails try to claw his eyes out. he wears the bruises and the cuts you give him like badges of honor and he loves to bite his busted lip when he's close to cumming.

he loves it when you hurt him. and he loves it when he ends up winning, anyway.

X= X-ray (size)

5-6in & THICK. really pretty w/ plump balls. he cums SO much.

Y= Yearning (sex drive level)

he's got a HIGH sex drive.

you've teased him for so long he doesn't think he'll ever get enough of you. and there's nothing you can do to stop him. if the two of you weren't close - if the two of you weren't friends, etc. - there's nothing you can do to lay low. you'll catch his attention sooner or later and he'll weasel his way into your life before you even realize it. his intentions would appear pure at first. he'd be so caring, wondering if you're doing okay, and protective; who were you talking to? i don't think they're good for you~

and you listened. because it's mark you're talking about. but if you truly knew him, you'd realize his accusations were actually projections.

Z= Zzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

falls asleep fairly quickly after he's wrung himself dry. but that's only IF he's already taken you hostage. if he so happens to assault you while the two of you aren't where he'd like to keep you, he takes you there, first. coupled with his strange idea of aftercare, he is fairly affectionate. or as affectionate as you'd expect him to be, anyway. always with a hint of menace: he'd hold you tight against him, an arm around your waist and the other wrapped around your throat. making sure you don't so much as think about straying away from him 💗💗

#mark grayson #invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #yandere mark grayson x reader #mark grayson brain rot #can't stop imagining mark being an absolute creep #“when will my husband come back from war”#but it's just some psycho #do you think yan! mark listens to deftones #korea & lovers are his songs #mascara is if he's still pretending to be normal #& baby traps u or something #so now u have to get marrieeeddd eee #when he follows in his dad's footsteps #making u a stay at home parent while he saves the world #but ur being held hostage #listen to it now i am in ur walls

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killerpancakeburger · 20 days

Text

Breaking Point (1/2)

SUMMARY: Civilian!Reader, who works as Price's assistant, has a breakdown at work. Soap+Ghost help the best they can. Hurt/comfort. Can be read as platonic or romantic. Gender Neutral Reader.

PAIRINGS: Ghost x GN!Reader

Soap's version.

TAGS: Hurt/comfort. Military inaccuracies (I make shit up for the sake of the plot). Ghost is... Ghost; taciturn, blunt, aloof, but Not An Asshole, protective, trustworthy, He's Trying ☆.

WARNINGS: Mention of relative in the hospital, suicide ideation, depressive thoughts, swearing. Ghost's part is significantly darker than Soap's (in terms of suicide ideation, not as in he's a yandere).

WORDS COUNT: 3.6k

A/N: Very self-indulgent, Reader is going through it and so am I. 🙃 Ghost role-plays (NOT SEXUAL) as the world's worst psychiatrist. Yours truly suggest to listen to "Strong For Somebody Else" by Citizen Soldier to set the mood. (Song includes suicide ideation and depressive thoughts too, so listen at your own risk).

The news you’ve just been told cannot be real. Life could not possibly be that cruel. What did I do to deserve this? you wonder helplessly. It’s like every time you get back up, life knocks you down again, sending you tumbling on the cold, hard ground.

After ending the call, you put down your phone on your desk in a daze, hand shaking.

Clenching your fists, you stare into space, a thousand thoughts disorderly swirling inside your brain, all bursting with anguish, until a burning tear running down your cheek brings you back to the present. You’re at work, your boss is in the next room; a breakdown is a luxury you cannot afford right now. Better bite your tongue hard enough to draw blood than be caught sobbing.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you take your head between your hands, shoving your fingers into your hair, trying to convince yourself to postpone your nervous collapse. Only one hour left, and you’ll be free to cry your eyes out at your flat. Or on the way home, even. It’s not like the other passengers ever paid you attention the other times you’ve cried on the bus.

But somehow your attempts have the opposite effect, and more tears roll down your face, staining the papers beneath it. As you furiously wipe your face with your sleeve, with a blend of frustration and despair, pissed at yourself, and wanting to get rid of the evidence of your fragile state as fast as possible, the unmistakable sound of your office’s door opening makes you look up.

The sight of the dark, bulky silhouette standing in the frame does nothing to appease your worries - quite the opposite. Of freaking course of all bloody people that could have walked in on you, it had to be fucking Ghost. The most intimidating - not to say terrifying - man on the whole base, but also the most cryptic.

Towering over 190cm and built like few were, even on a military base, you had recoiled despite yourself the first time you met. Every single detail regarding him was redacted - you knew because you had checked his file, consumed by curiosity -, including his own face - unvaryingly covered by a black mask adorned with a white skull. That semblance of halloween mask and an alias was all that he shared with the world.

He dispensed his words in dribs and drabs to a handful of privileged people, which seemed limited to your supervisor, Captain Price, who was also his direct superior, and his teammates of the Task Force 141. He couldn’t have offered you more than ten syllables in the six months you’ve been there. Yet, everyone knew who he was, what he was capable of, and crowds systematically parted with his passage like the Red Sea.

You had wisely taken the resolution to not heed the rumors about him, which ranged from hardly believable to frankly ridiculous, but you couldn’t help the knot in your stomach every time he was nearby. It wasn’t only his imposing stature that put you on edge, but mainly the fact that he was always impassive. His mask effectively hid his emotions, sure, but his voice didn’t let anything show through either. Most of the time you had no idea what he was thinking or feeling, leaving you puzzled at how to interact with him. Not that there were that many interactions to begin with, but the few that happened left you with a lasting impression.

However you were pleased with yourself after you quit agonizing over his opinion of you, focusing instead on doing your best to treat him like the other soldiers. He may not be friendly, but he never had been disrespectful either.

You stare at him in horror, a deer in the headlights, unable to emit a sound. You didn’t even have the time to fabricate a bunch of excuses to get you out of this situation.

Shit, shit, shit. What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?

“Ya good?”

His tone is gruff, as it always is, but not hostile. The question feels like a way out of this awkward situation, a lifebelt. You cling onto it like you're lost at sea.

Maybe you can still turn this around - pretend everything is OK. He will follow the implicit rules of politeness and leave you to it.

You hasten to reply.

“Yeah, yeah, it's fine. I'm fine.”

As you finish drying your face, he steps into the room, stopping in front of your desk.

“Did you need something?”

Your voice automatically switches to “customer service” mode, and you plaster a fake smile on your face. The mental image of a puppet, strings forcing the corner of its lips to lift, comes to your mind.

Ghost doesn't respond. His eyes are searching your face like it's an encrypted message that could provide a target's position.

Your smile vacillates under his scrutiny. The examination is cold, clinical; there's no warmth nor sympathy in those brown eyes.

“Doesn't look fine to me.”

He announces the statement like a fact, voice dull, neutral. He doesn't provide sympathy, but he doesn't cast judgment either. It’s not less irritating though.

Your first instinct is to snap at him, tell him to mind his own business, ask why he even cares. You resist it. Picking quarrels will only make matters worse. You grit your teeth and lie some more, trying to sound carefree.

“It's nothing, really. I'm just being a crybaby.”

Crybaby.

Ghost turns the word over in his mind, unconvinced. He still recalls vividly the moment he stopped considering you like another faceless office worker amongst others and made an effort to remember your name.

He was mindlessly killing time in the break room with Gaz and Soap until you showed up at the door, a forced smile on your face, attempting to look casual but your body language betraying your nervousness. He spotted you first, the other two engaged in a lively conversation. Relief spread on your face when you saw he had noticed you, sparing you the trouble of having to call out for him, and you approached.

“Ghost, can I have a word? … in private?”

He straightened up from the wall he was leaning on and followed you wordlessly, feeling the prying stares of his teammates lingering on him. You stopped in the hallway to face him.

“You forgot to fill out the medical part in your last report.”

Fingers linked together, you were anxiously twiddling your thumbs. His eyes followed the movement unconsciously.

“I haven't.”

You frowned in uncomprehension.

“Your medical file said-”

“I know what the medical file said,” he retorted firmly, hoping that you would understand his intention without him having to spell it out loud.

The furrow in your brows didn’t go away, quite the contrary.

“You want me to lie.”

The statement wasn’t an accusation, but a request for confirmation.

“You catch on quick.”

The sarcasm and patronization unintentionally slipped into his voice. You were just a newbie trying to do your job well, after all. However the others before you never took the trouble to confront him about this, either out of fright or negligence, and this felt like a waste of his time.

He watched you search his face for something, an explanation, a way out? You bit your lips, conflicted, before replying:

“No.”

“No?” he repeated, raising a skeptical eyebrow that you couldn’t see, crossing his arms. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused. He wasn’t used to being turned down anymore, except for so few individuals, like Price or Laswell, that they could be counted on the fingers of one hand. That the first person to oppose him in so long wasn’t an uptight high ranking or a gutsy enemy, but you, an average civilian, was definitely a surprise.

“I'm not taking that risk”, you added with a determination he didn’t expect.

“Ya wouldn’t be takin’ any. Nobody will be none the wiser.”

“That's not what I- urgh. I am not letting you go back injured on the field! I don't care if you're the ghost or whatever, you’re not invulnerable. So either you fill that damn file or I'm telling Price.”

“Oh? You'd snitch on me?”

“I'd do it to save your life, yeah.”

And with that, you shoved the papers in his chest, turned around and walked away. You had barely disappeared around the corner that he was already mentally calling himself a bloody idiot. Why had it been so tempting to provoke you? Because out of nowhere your usually bashful self showed audacity? Because you were absurdly hellbent on defending his expandable life? No matter the reason, he started to look at you differently from that day on.

Clearly you and him had a different definition of “crybaby”.

He deposits the stack of files he had been holding on your bureau, but as you reach to seize them, he covers your hand with his own and leans in.

You would have stared in disbelief at his gloved hand over yours if the proximity of his face wasn’t a much more pressing matter. You can feel your face warm up and you loathe it.

“Those'll still be there tomorrow, love.”

You blink in surprise at the pet name. It's like you're a spooked horse and he's trying to soothe you with sweet nothings.

“But the paperwork-”

“Fuck the paperwork.”

Easy for him to say.

“But Price-”

“I'll deal with Price.”

“My mom's in the hospital”, you brutally admit, having run out of pretext.

You look each other in the eye for what seems forever.

“Ye take yer coffee with three sugars, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah?”

You reply hesitantly, stunned by the ask that, a priori, has nothing to do with your wholehearted confession. How did he even know that? The words have barely left your lips that he already disappeared into the corridor. You stare in disbelief at the door, mouth agape. You poured your fucking heart out and that socially inept bastard in his goofy ass halloween costume just ditched you after wringing the truth out of you like you were an interrogated enemy soldier.

Sipping the content of your mug with the Ghost's unblinking stare fixated on you is an unsettling experience, to say the least. Seated on the chair facing your desk, legs wide open, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and gray pants, one hand holding his mug of tea, he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he sat down.

Does he seriously not realize how unnerving his starring is?

He exudes an aura of tranquil power; the unchallenged authority of someone who is used to being obeyed without question, combined with the nonchalance that comes with being unmatched. Even casually sprawled like this, he remains formidable.

A few minutes ago, he set down a steaming mug in front of you and a box of tissues - a delicate attention that sent a pang in your chest -, before taking a seat. The fingers of his free hand are softly taping his knee.

“Guess I won’t need to kill anyone tonight,” he declares in a detached manner.

You blink in incomprehension at that.

“But you don’t have a mission tonight…”

“Won’t have to kill anyone for makin’ ya cry,” he clarifies.

“Oh.”

What else can you possibly reply to that? The murder machine lounging in front of you has enough confirmed kills to make a sniper of legend green with envy.

“So…”, you initiate, not without uncertainty, “is this the moment where I get everything off my chest?”

“Do whatever ya want.” he placidly counters, shrugging.

It really, considerably, sounds like he doesn't care at all; but if he did, he wouldn’t be here.

You take a deep breath, staring at your desk.

“She's in the ICU. Paralyzed, intubated, put in a coma.”

Tears flood your eyes again. This time you don't try to fight them.

“I'm terrified for her. But, what's worse is…”

You swallow your saliva; blink in rapid succession - the tears sting.

“I can’t help but think the worst. About what'll become of me without her.”

Water overflows your eyes. The dam ruptures abruptly. Raw honesty spills from your lips.

“She’s all I have. Without her, I have nothing. I am nothing.”

The ensuing silence is deafening. You wonder what the hell you’re doing. There’s something about the man in front of you that, paradoxically, makes you want to confide in him. Despite his lack of warmth, he feels steady, reliable. A rock to lean on when your whole world is crumbling. Solid ground when it feels like everything is caving in around you. Like you could lay all your burdens on him and he wouldn’t even flinch under what feels like the weight of the world.

You feel awfully selfish to entertain that thought, but you doubt he'd ever give you the opportunity to return the favor.

“Bollocks.”

His tone is surlier than before. You look up at him to be sure you heard correctly.

“What about yer job? Ye enjoy it, right?”

You scoff bitterly at that.

“It's just a temporary gig. I'll be kicked out in two months.”

“We can make it permanent.”

You shoot him an incredulous look.

“You're just saying that.”

“‘M not. Wouldn't lie just to make ye feel better. Not my style.”

A cynical chuckle escapes you before a mischievous smirk stretches your lips.

“I’m sorry big guy, when did you get nominated as the commander of the base? Cause as far as I know this is outside your jurisdiction.”

A similar smile spreads behind his mask. He’d take your sass over your tears any day.

“I have my ways,” he replies tranquilly.

From anyone else, you’d call it bragging or bluffing. Coming from the Ghost, it doesn’t sound as anything but the truth. He stares at you intensely, as if daring you to doubt him again, or intent on proving you his integrity through gaze alone.

You look away, your cheeks heating up.

Ghost never minded that you can’t maintain eye contact. Just like he’s not into small talk, or physical contact. He knows most people tend to take it the wrong way, interpret it as contempt, when it couldn't be further from the truth.

“Thank you, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’d feel like I’m manipulating you.”

He chuckles darkly, sending a shiver crawling down your spine, one you do not know if it was born of fear entirely or attraction.

“Oh sweetheart, you couldn’t even if you tried.”

Another tingle. Definitely pleasant this time. You desperately busy yourself with the content of your mug, the effects of that sentence on you too intense for the solemnity of the situation.

Your strategy proves itself fruitful until a movement at the periphery of your vision attracts your gaze. You peek without thinking, and freeze at the sight of Ghost lifting his mask above his nose to drink from his cup. One scar crosses his mouth, another departs from the corner of his lips, both ancient but deep. They don’t faze you though - truth be told, the omnipresent mask made you expect him to look like a world war one veteran, so heavily disfigured that you wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“Enjoyin’ the view?”

He doesn’t sound even remotely annoyed, but you lower your eyes in shame all the same.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

“If I didn’t wantcha to look, I wouldn’t have taken it off.”

As you need a moment to take in the implications of that sentence, he talks again.

“What's your poison?”

“Pardon?” you reply, genuinely lost.

He snorts at your exaggerated politeness.

“Coffee isn’t gonna cut it. Whataya usually take when you feel like this? Alcohol? Cigs?”

A pause.

“Sex?”

You choke and set down your mug out of fear of dropping it.

“No, no… and no.”

“Nothing?”

He sounds doubtful.

“I… cry myself to sleep?”

It makes no sense to formulate it like a question, but everything about this is surreal.

He hums, contemplative.

“You’re not making this easy.”

“What?”

“Helpin’ ya.”

You scoff, suddenly irritated.

“You could lend me one of your guns and let me blow my brains off with it. That would help.”

“Not gonna happen,” he counters with emphatic authority that leaves no place for rebuttal.

“Worth a shot,” you say, trying to get the last word. “Ha, shot. Get it?”

“Very funny.”

You roll your eyes at his comment, like he’s a tired parent indulging you, a tireless child.

“You just don’t have any humor.”

The words left your lips before you could consider their impact. Yes, you never heard the Ghost laugh, but maybe he has a very good reason for that. Maybe several. Maybe you’re just a fucking asshole.

“Why are colds bad criminals?”

Your head pivots towards him so fast you fear your neck is going to snap.

“Why…?”

“Because they’re easy to catch.”

You stare at him in bewildered silence, not quite believing what just happened, before starting to laugh, first softly, then, carried away, louder and louder, bordering on hysterical. You don’t even giggle because of the joke, but because the contrast between the silliness of it and how deadpan Ghost was when enunciating it is simply too good. That, and the nerves are probably getting the better of you.

“Never had anyone laugh that much at this one before.”

You attempt to get your breath back, alternating between pants and laughs, wiping a solitary tear at the corner of your eye.

“It’s just… you… I didn’t see it coming, jeez.”

Sighing wistfully, you take in the quietude of this fleeting moment.

“This is nice.”

“I'm always nice,” grunts the lieutenant.

You let out a good-natured scoff, then reality catches up to you.

“SHIT! What time is it!?” you shout in panic as you violently get up. “Maybe I can still catch a bus-”

You log out of your work session, turn off your PC and shove all your belongings inside your bag in record time. Ghost barely bats an eye, still like a languid cat; a very big, very dangerous cat.

“You can spend the night.”

“No I can’t!”

You push your chair under your desk and pick up your coat.

“We can make some sorry bloke sleep outside.”

“Noooo- That's horrible!”

You have no idea if he’s messing with you or not.

“Not worse than what's waiting for ‘em on the field.”

“Well, I still can’t do that.”

“Good for you that I can, then.”

You finally look at him, an half-amused smile on your lips, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Lemme guess. This is you ‘having your ways’ again, isn’t it?”

His offer is tempting. You really don’t want to be left to your own devices tonight.

He stands up and takes a step towards you while pulling his mask down and, oh, with him sitting this all time, you would have almost forgotten how much he towers over you.

“S’that a yes or a no?”

You could almost detect a hint of playfulness in his voice.

“It’s a yes, sir,” you retort while pronouncing the “sir” with as much impertinence as you can muster.

“Better keep up, then.”

And just like that, he vacates the premises, and you do have to focus to keep up because those long legs of his ain’t just for show.

As you two travel across corridors unknown to you, you wonder once again what the hell you’re doing, hanging out with this mountain of a man who’s more myth than human, and breaking the rules of a military base on a whim. Lost in thought, you don’t pay attention to the voices edging closer, and you’re completely taken aback when Ghost grabs you by the back of your shirt and drags you in a dark alcove with him. You’re so astounded, you don’t even make a sound. He takes hold of the back of your head and presses you against him to occupy as little space as possible, effectively hiding you from the men walking by. Only then you recognize Captain Price among other officers.

“Sorry ‘bout that, love,” whispers the man you’re squeezed against, barely audible, imperturbable as ever, like this is an everyday situation for him.

You don’t answer - you can’t, anyway, essentially muffled by his pecs. You should be more irked by those circumstances, but the sudden proximity set your face ablaze, therefore you’re very happy with its current concealment.

“Price will have my head if he thinks I made you cry.”

You’re about to protest, but then you remember that one time when Soap tagged along when you were carrying a huge box back from the archives, and when Price saw you two, Soap unconcerned with empty hands, and your face almost disappearing behind the imposing cardboard, he called the sergeant a bloody useless muppet and then proceeded to call into question his ability to transport his rucksack for days. Nevermind that you were the one who insisted on carrying the crate on your own as it provided a nice workout, and that you had to bare your teeth at Soap to prevent him from taking it from you.

When the peril has walked by and Ghost releases you, you silently thank the shadows around you hiding how affected you are by this ersatz of a hug. Later, he drops you off at an unoccupied bedroom, small but including a bathroom and furnished with everything you could ever want. You say your goodbyes and your thanks at the door, and he. pats. your head. You don’t even have time to be outraged that he states he will see you tomorrow, something that sounds like a promise as much as a threat, probably in reference to the morbid fantasies you shared, and he vanishes into the shadows like a… ghost.

A/N : The real reason Ghost ran out:

He be googling “how to comfort female civilian age between 20 and **”

In the TF Group Chat (Price not included):

“We have an emergency.”

“Send as many kitten pics as possible to [Reader] … stat.”

#mine #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty x reader #cod mwii #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost fanfiction #cod fanfic #cod fic #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost fluff #hurt/comfort #cod fluff

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samwhump · 1 month

Text

a (very inexhaustive, wincest-heavy) sam whump reclist

@transfemmesam asked me for Sam whump recs a few days ago, and I've had other requests in the same vein before (I can't imagine why.../s) so I thought I would throw this together, since these authors deserve all of the love and support for their contributions to our li'l fandom corner.

like I mentioned in the title, this is not at all a comprehensive list; I have at least ~200 more fics in my to-read queue that could thematically fit here, but alas, I have stupid shit like a job and a body and a dog to take care of, so. I'm always happy to get recs along these lines, so if you notice anything important missing, hit me UP. (and don't take any omissions as any specific commentary by me -- it's likely I just haven't had the chance to read it yet, haha.)

disclaimers:

some (most, honestly) of these contain potentially triggering and dark content, including but not limited to rape/noncon, torture, and suicidal attempts & ideation. I have tried to note content warnings where applicable, and most of the works are hosted on ao3, so the tags should have most of the information you need to make an informed decision. that being said, tread with caution. all of the summaries provided are from the original author, with warnings added after by me.

the list is in alphabetical order and separated into wincest and gen categories. a lot of the gen is also focused on the sam & dean relationship, because...I am what I am. and what I am a sucker for these two dipshits. there is also a brief section at the end with a few fics that don't fit into either category.

gen

All That Goes Unspoken by amnesiawife:

A case forces Sam to confront something long kept buried. (Set nebulously in season 12.)

CW: discussions of past rape/noncon, victim blaming

Beneath the Trees 'verse by Lise (5 works total, starting with Beneath the Trees, Where Nobody Sees):

Sam doesn't go to Stanford. Everything goes downhill from there.

CW: suicidal ideation

a boy is a cage by ad_castra:

After expelling Gadreel from Sam's body, Dean thinks they're in the clear. If only they were that lucky. // S9 fic wherein Gadreel's grace causes some adverse side-effects in Sam's mind.

CW: past referenced rape/noncon, body horror

body of proof by Askance (doomcountry):

There are things Sam hasn't told his brother. They're all in the envelope laid on Dean's pillow.

CW: heavy discussion of past rape/noncon

break these bones 'til they're better by redskyatmorning:

After Sam’s torture at the hands of the British Men of Letters, the latest in a long string of violations, he is rescued by Dean and Mary – and forced to ponder his broken relationship with his own body. Months later, when Sam is resurrected and tormented by Lucifer yet again, Dean confronts Mary and Sam gets his revenge against the devil.

catching my death (staring out an open window) by ad_castra:

Sam gazes at the window, catches the faint pink hue tinting the sky. It’s so realistic - he could breathe in the fresh air if he were really here. ----- They got Sam out. Sometimes, just knowing that isn't enough.

CW: implied past rape/noncon

Death of Convenience by WilsonTheMoose:

It should have been easy. Wendigos are no joke but daylight slows them. The weather's been unpredictable though and perfect, idyllic hunts don't exactly stay that way where they're concerned. Or Sam has one card to play and never stops to think that Dean would care if he killed himself.

CW: suicidal ideation, references to suicide

Echoes of Hell by The_Nightbreaker:

It wasn't real. He wasn't in Hell anymore. That's what he tried to tell himself over and over. But two centuries of torture don't disappear in a day. Sam struggles with visions of Hell, fighting to maintain his grip on reality. Dean hates that he can't protect his brother from what isn't real—but curse him if he doesn't try. When the boys stumble on a case with ties to the Devil himself, will they be able to pull themselves together in time to stop the sacrifices? Or will the echoes of Hell finally overtake them? Aka, season 7, but the plot is Hell trauma, not leviathans.

CW: suicidal ideation

Evening Shadows by withthekeyisking:

Sam is hallucinating the monster who tortured him for nearly two centuries, Dean feels like he's failing his brother, and a diner waitress bears witness.

CW: past rape/noncon

Everything Dies Given Time by Lise:

AU from 5.03. Sam discovers something wrong with himself, and learns to live with it. Only a lot less functional.

CW: suicide/temporary character death

The Freedom to Be Loud by jribbing:

It hadn’t occurred to Dean that maybe Sam remembered so much about that little nowhere town because something memorable had happened there.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

golgotha by redskyatmorning:

There’s a vacancy on the throne of hell, and Sam is desperate enough to save Dean from Michael’s possession to give into the abyssal depths of his own darkness.

Head Space by ameliacareful:

A witch curses Sam leaving him blind, deaf, and bedridden. Left with only the inside of his own head and the occasional touch, Sam begins to unravel.

CW: suicidal ideation

Hiraeth by inkandpaperqwerty:

(n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past "Dean... I made a really big mistake." For a second, Dean actually thought things were going okay. He was out of Hell, Sam agreed to stop drinking demon blood, they had just wrapped up a successful hunt... for once, everything was okay. And then it wasn't. "I overdosed." Not at all.

CW: suicide attempts, suicidal ideation

if i could leave (i would've already left) by serendipity0930:

“I have a mission from God for you,” the Angel whispers to the man. “It is time for you to do what you were born to.” The man’s face twists into a smile, delighted over being chosen by Him, a purpose from God digging into his heart, carving out a place to fester. “Hunt.” ... 05x03 AU where Zachariah is even more determined to keep the brothers apart and hunters are all too willing to take Lucifer's True Vessel off the board for good

CW: referenced suicide

It's A River (But Not In Egypt) by Lise:

He's still a liar. Maybe always has been.

CW: toxic Sam/Lucifer dynamics

Kindred Instruments by PinBitch:

They’re in a tug of war and Sam is the rope. He doesn’t need to be alive for that. OR Sam dies in detox, being flung against the walls of a metal box will do that to you. Dean and Ruby pick up the pieces.

CW: temporary main character death, permanent supporting character death

lazarus trick by katsidhe:

Sam's alive, so everything is gonna be okay. 13.22 coda.

Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence by Lise:

Sam's back. He's in one piece. That's the problem.

CW: self-harm

love is like ghosts by redskyatmorning:

I’m poison, Dean had said instead of I’m sorry. Well, Sam wants to say, what does that make me? What the hell does that make me? (A look into Sam's mind in the aftermath of the Gadreel possession.)

The Other Brother by RadioFriday:

Sam and Adam are pulled from the cage at the same time. Sam is not right, and Adam, stuck as his caretaker, is not pleased.

Oxygen by inkandpaperqwerty:

“Cas! Cas, please! Please, answer me! Cas!” Castiel ignores Dean for several minutes, but then Dean gives him an opening that might help him complete his mission. So, he goes to investigate, and what he finds is a very bloody, nearly dead Sam. Dean tells him where the injuries came from, and Castiel quickly becomes confused. It doesn't make sense, but Dean tries to explain it to him, and slowly... Castiel begins to understand.

CW: suicide attempt

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc by AmberSock:

Sam waits, kneeling, for his execution. What if Dean hadn't missed?

CW: temporary character death

Safety In Distance by GalaxyThreads and SpiritClusters:

The Mark of Cain is a brand of violence. Sam was an idiot to think that he'd be exempt from it, just because he and Dean are siblings.

sometimes a kind of singing by adi_rotynd:

Sam gets cursed. They're dealing with it. Jack can see souls. That one they're not dealing with quite as well.

CW: past referenced rape/noncon

Soul Windows by GalaxyThreads and Spirit Clusters:

A few months after his birth, Jack learns how to see souls. Then he comes to a realization about the Winchester brothers, Sam in particular, and it's not a pleasant one. (gen)

Starry Night by keepcalmsmile:

Sam attempts suicide-by-monster. Dean tries to help. It sort of works...until it doesn't.

CW: suicide attempts, suicidal ideation

such fragile, broken things by The_Bookkeeper:

Sam wishes that Dean would just get it over with already.

The Tale of Sir Galahad by keepcalmsmile:

Sam once said he could never be clean like Sir Galahad. Dean assumed he was just talking about the demon blood. Turns out, Sam was talking about something else too. WARNING: Extended discussions of the aftermath of rape and childhood sexual abuse (but NO description of the actual events). Happy(ish) ending, but potentially very triggering.

CW: past rape/noncon, mentioned CSA

They Hammered in His Teeth by jribbing:

Sam has a secret.

CW: suicidal ideation

today's troubles (are history tomorrow) by a_good_soldier:

"It's not really something I know how to share," Sam had said. In which Dean figures he ought to help Sam out a bit.

Touch and Go by themegalosaurus:

Tag to 9.19 (Alex Annie Alexis Ann) in which Dean realises why, exactly, Sam is so angry about what happened with Gadreel.

trust fall by ad_castra:

“I’m nothing like you,” Sam hisses. Nevermind relating to the anguish of going it alone. Nevermind that he knows what it is to be strapped down and forcibly cleansed against his will. Sam wonders if these trials are purifying Crowley as well.

Words Like Glass by broken_cinders:

Dean never figured the cage wouldn't leave a mark. He was prepared for memories, flashbacks, and nightmares. He wasn't expecting the words Sam brought back with him or the way they made him seem just a breath beyond Dean's reach.

Wound and Unwound by fascra:

Sam stops eating spring of his freshman year.

CW: eating disorder

wincest (dean/sam)

Brittle by thecapn:

Sam Winchester has an eating disorder.

CW: eating disorder

Don't You Cry No More by sixtysevenlmpala (schittyfic):

The first time Sam gets badly hurt on a hunt, he doesn’t cry. Dean does.

Fall On Your Knees by dollylux:

Sam doesn't quite make it home on the last day of school before winter break.

The Fall Will Probably Kill You by killabeez:

Set between 7.04 and the aftermath of 7.07. Dean is not as okay as he'd like you to think. Neither is Sam.

CW: self-harm

Feels so good to feel again by Trojie:

The pain keeps Lucifer at bay, at least to start with.

Follow In Your Form by withthekeyisking:

Sam is hallucinating Lucifer in the wake of Cas bringing his Hell Wall crashing down. To make matters worse, it seems like this has his dormant powers flaring back to life.

Last Temptation by merle_p:

Sam is running a fever again, the kind of fever no Ibuprofen or cold compress will bring down, the kind of fever that is eating him up alive, eviscerating him from the inside. He is too hot and too cold and too pale, delirious and shaking, resonating with whatever divine energy the trials are subjecting him to, and Dean is not sure how much longer he can stand to see him be in this state. Because Sam is quite possibly dying, and there is nothing Dean can do to stop it. Because Sam is dying, and he just. Won’t. Shut. Up.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

leeches by Anonymous:

Sam discovers a spell to make everybody forget him. He’s convinced it’s for the best. Pre-Stanford.

CW: attempted kidnapping/torture

Make Thick My Blood by themegalosaurus:

“You’re going to kill me, Dean,” Sam says, eventually. And all Dean can say is, “I think I am.” A season 10 AU, set after 10x14 ('The Executioner's Song'). Cas finds a solution that might cure the Mark of Cain; but if they're going to go through with it, Sam has a terrible price to pay.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

Prophecy of an Abomination by ashitanoyuki:

Sam is kidnapped by fanatically religious hunters and crucified. Coming back from this won't be easy. Canon-divergent from midway through season 2.

Recall by De_Nugis:

Sam's having a hard time telling what's real and what isn't, especially when it comes to some voicemails from Dean.

The Room Upstairs by brokenlittleboy:

Sam comes back from hell, but he’s inside-out and all wrong, and Dean can’t fix him.

CW: mentioned past rape/noncon

Ruin You (and its companion fic Worth) by Mumble_Bee:

Cole fucks Sam with Demon!Dean watching from a devil's trap, snarling that anyone would dare touch what was his. “I told you I don’t care what you do to his face or his blood or his fucking nose,” Dean growled, “but you put your dick anywhere near him and I will end you.” “Better hurry up then, Dean, because I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

CW: explicit rape/noncon

Snowed In by HelloStarlingFics:

When working a case, Sam and Dean get stuck out in a shack in the woods when the snow comes in hard and fast. Trouble is, Sam’s hated the cold ever since the Cage. Time for Dean to step up and look after him.

Wake by minchout:

Gadreel has had Sam for four years, and Dean, lost in guilt and obsessed with finding a way to get his brother back, has isolated himself in a cabin in the Missouri Ozarks with nothing but the woods, a stray dog, some chickens, and all the books the Men of Letters had to offer to keep him company. Then Sam shows up one day without his passenger, and Dean learns quickly that it doesn't matter that Sam is with him again - there is still a lot of work to be done before they can find their way back to each other.

Wanting to Forget by morganaDW (morgana07):

1-shot. S1 fic. After getting Sam freed from the Benders Dean thinks all he has to cope with is some bruises and cuts. He learns quickly just how wrong he is when Sam wakes up with a nightmare, reliving his brief but bad captivity in every detail. Sam just wants to forget & Dean has to try to get him to let him help. Will one night of cruelty and pain ruin what’s been formed between them?

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

when I wake up I'm afraid, somebody else might take my place by quake_quiver:

Sam doesn’t remember the last time he cried for Dean like he did that night. And now it’s been…two weeks. Maybe more. Sam is tired, and in pain, and starting to doubt that Dean’s going to show up. He’s weak and shaking from a combination of constant pain and hunger. Sam longs for Dean. Dean would make it better. Dean would fix it.

CW: rape/noncon, body horror

Wire Inside Me by merle_p:

There are a lot of things Sam hates about his current condition, to the point where he sometimes feels for the gun under his pillow at night, blindly toys with the safety, imagines pressing the muzzle into the underside of his chin and pulling the trigger just to make it stop. But there’s nothing he hates as much as the shadows he sees in Dean’s eyes whenever his brother is looking at him these days. It’s not an expression he remembers ever seeing before, but Sam thinks it’s probably something like revulsion. Horror. Disgust. What else could it be.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon, body horror, forced pregnancy

Worth (and its companion fic Ruin You) by Mumble_Bee:

Episode 10x01 "Black" where Dean is a human, and very, very, pissed off to hear someone has hands on his brother. “It’s nothing personal,” Cole whispered into Sam's ear, too quietly for Dean to hear, “but I need to kill your brother, and I need him off his game when he gets here. I don’t wanna hurt you, kid, but I’m going to, anyway. I’m going to hurt you a lot."

CW: explicit rape/noncon

you'll never see us again by according2thelore:

Then finally, his eyes trail over to Dean. His pupils are pin-point thin, and his hair is straggling in his face so Dean can’t see most of what expression lies there. Sam usually wakes up from nightmares in one of three attitudes: confusion, fear, or calm. A scary, sense-prickling calm that Dean hates more than anything else. Resignation, almost. Or: Sam suffers from nightmares and touch starvation post-Cage. They do their best to deal.

other Sam/Lucifer noncon

Cage Fight (No Way To Do This Right) by Dyed_Red:

Sam’s visit to the cage is already going awry, but Dean’s one-man rescue ends up skidding it sideways into territory neither him or Sam are ready for. (Gratuitous episode scene re-write. If Cas hadn’t come till after, if he hadn’t been there yet when Dean ran down to the 'parole' cage after hearing Sam scream - how bad could it have got for the brothers before he made it?)

CW: graphic rape/noncon

Into Being by withthekeyisking:

When Sam wakes up in the cave on Apocalypse World after having been killed by vamps, it's not just to find Lucifer there with him. It's to find him in him.

CW: graphic rape/noncon, necrophilia, forced pregnancy

Reggie/Tim/Sam noncon

a pointless resistance for you by withthekeyisking:

Sam doesn't know how long he's been with Tim and Reggie by the time Dean shows up and tries to take him out of there. Long enough that's he's already lost one baby and is pregnant with the next. Long enough that this life is starting to feel like all he knows.

CW: graphic rape/noncon, forced pregnancy & miscarriage, victim blaming

screaming birds sound an awful lot like singing by withthekeyisking:

Sam has done his best to move past what Tim and Reggie did to him, pretending it never happened at all. But running into them again makes that very difficult—especially when Dean gets involved.

CW: referenced past rape/noncon

Waste 'Em All by withthekeyisking:

When Tim and Reggie try to force the demon blood down Sam's throat, he spits it back out. He has no interest in being turned into their own personal attack dog. They don't...take it well.

CW: explicit rape/noncon

#sam winchester #sam whump #supernatural #supernatural fic rec #wincest

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months

Text

Unexpected 55

Warnings: non/dubcon, child endangerment, pregnancy, pegging, Lloyd being the worst, post partum, csection, suicidial ideation, Andy is nasty in this, violence, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You've done this before. Waiting out a man. Biding your time. Before, you didn't realise it. You just did it.

With Colin, you just went through the motions, waiting for something, anything to change. With Lloyd, it was waiting for the next combustion, the final one that would send it all spiraling.

Now, you're just waiting on yourself. Because now you know it's up to you. It always has been. You were just too stupid, lazy, and blind to see it.

So you do what you have to. That's nothing new. That's the easy part. Luna is the only one keeping you going and you know, you're the only one to keep her going.

When she cries, you go to her. You're no longer play the part, distracting yourself with your own motherhood, trying to get through the day. No, you want to be there for her, you want to comfort her. And in turn, as small and innocent as she is, she does the same for you.

And when Andy needs you, you bite down and get through it. Another familiarity. When he touches you, when he kisses you, when he says those disgusting things. Clawing, pawing at your chest, sucking and biting at your body like and animal, rutting with desperation until he's breathless. He thinks the noises you make are just as delighted as his own. You let him believe it, just like you let him believe this little makeshift domesticity is real.

Until the moment comes. Until you will keep that promise to yourself. To her.

You sit in the rocking chair, Luna on your chest, peaceful in his absence. You don't know why he left, you're just happy he did. It's a moment to rest, for you and your daughter.

She's getting bigger. Four or five months now, you think. Things change so fast yet move so slow.

As you let your eyes close, there's a thump at the door. The locks grinds back noisily as the baby stirs against you. You huff and try to get her to fall back asleep as Andy enters. He leaves more often these days but not for very long

"Shhh, she's asleep," you warn him, watching her eyes slit, she's almost there.

He shoots you a look as you peer up at him but doesn't say anything. You tisk. You know what he wants. You stand carefully and take Luna to her crib as you hear him pacing around behind you.

"I don't what I'd do if I didn't have you, honey," he rambles, "I just... the world's a crazy place."

He's telling you, you hide your disgust at his lack of self-awareness as you lay Luna down.

"It's going to be okay though, we're going to be okay," he rants on as you face him. He has his shirt halfway up his torso, "aren't we?"

"Sure," you answer.

"I just..." he rips his shirt over his head, "I need you so bad right now."

You nod and come forward, forcing a curve to your lips. He's as easy as any other man, just a little less stable. It's funny to think so when you have Lloyd to compare. You put your hands on his chest as you approach him. You caress him, feeling the soft hair beneath your fingertips as the tension uncoils from his shoulders. He puts his hands on your hips and steps closer.

"Are you full?" He asks.

You look at him, he's staring at your chest. Your stomach churns. Your tits are close to ready, just in time for Luna to wake, but he only cares about himself. You don't answer as he feels along the belt of the robe and unknots it. He pushes it open and dips his head down, kissing your chest as he growls.

He angles you towards the bed. You zone out as you let him and fall back beneath him. He puts his lips around your nipple and you cry out as he sucks. You hate that feeling, you hate the noises he makes, moaning like a pathetic little beast. He squeezes your tit as he keeps his mouth sealed around the bud. You grit your teeth and focus on breathing.

He shifts to put his knees between yours, pushing them apart so you're open to him. Without lifting his head, he picks at the front of his jeans, shimmying them down as his need builds. He dribbles down your chest as he parts and sits up on his knees. He pulls your legs over his and strokes himself, pressing his tip to your cunt impatiently.

You're dry as he rams insides. He grunts and holds himself deep, the tendons in his neck taut as he grips your hip, his other hand groping your chest meanly. He ruts, slamming into you as hard as he can. There's no precursor left. He doesn't pretend. He takes what he wants and you don't stop him. He accepts your complacency as love.

The bed shakes, the frame hitting the wall, bang, bang, bang. The noise hammers away at your soul and the silence. You hear Luna murmur, babbling as she awakens. She doesn't cry even as you want to. She's just a baby. She shouldn't be here. He shouldn't do this with her right there. Only the bars of a crib to protect her.

You put your hand on his wrist and the other on his stomach. You need him to be done.

"That's it," you growl through your teeth, "harder."

He obeys easily. You swallow down your whimpers as his hips crack against you. He's almost there. You can feel it.

"Come on, honey, give me it," you squeeze his wrist tighter and grunt.

"Oh yeah, you want it," he growls, "you want me to give you another baby?"

You can't help but choke. He doesn't notice as he dips his hips into you, looking down to watch his motion. You curl your lips in repulsion. Just get it over with.

"Yes," you gulp out, "yes, give me... your baby."

Your mouth is bitter as bile rises in your throat. He groans, louder and louder, and falls over you, his hips rolling frantically as he chases his release. He buries his face in your neck.

"You wanna be a mommy again," he rasps, "be a good mommy, mmm--"

He grunts and snaps his pelvis, once, twice, three times, then quakes as you feel him spill into you. You hold your breath as your eyes tinge. He slides his arms around you, inside the open robe as he pants. He clings to you, pushing himself as deep as he can get.

"I can't wait to be a daddy," he purrs.

"Mhmm," you rub his shoulders, "I know, honey."

He doesn't move, even as Luna begins to fuss. Your chest begins to thrum as she cries and you pat Andy.

"Please, she needs to eat."

"Mmmm," he drags a hand up as he leans on one elbow, fondling your tit again, "I want a little more."

"Andy, honey, please," you plead, "she won't have much."

He snarls and pouts as Luna cries loudly. He jams himself into you so you whimper and slides out roughly. He bounces off of you and sits at the end of the bed. He stretches his neck and flicks you away with his fingers.

"Fine, go ahead," he sneers, "but after, you can get on your knees and give me a suck."

You shudder and sit up. You glare at the back of his head. You could bash it in but you know you're not strong enough.

"Yes, honey," you turn your legs over the side of the bed and stand. You try not to wretch as a gush flows down your thigh.

You close your robe and tie the belt, crossing to the crib as Luna wails. Your hands linger on the thick belt. You pull them away before your thoughts can stray. You take Luna out of the crib and put her to feed. Andy stands and strips off his jeans and briefs.

You walk around as you feed Luna, when she calms, you cover your chest again and keep her in your arms. Andy huffs as he plays with himself in the bed. His impatience strikes another flash of anger in you. The belt of the robe cinches you tightly as you shift your daughter in your arms. You whisper to her and lay her down again, handing her one of her crinkle toys.

You back away and pull the curtain across the space between the bed and her little nursery. You turn to Andy and shake away your agitation. You put a knee up on the bed and lick your lips.

"My turn?" You ask as you crawl over to him, grabbing his half-flaccid dick.

He nods excitedly and you feel him twitch in your grasp. You move between his legs and tease him, hovering your lips just above his tip. You look up at him with a smirk. You're done waiting.

🍑

This, you haven't done before.

You sit against the bedframe in the dark. It's quiet and still. Eerie even.

It is the isolation, it's not the prison cell built to look like a home, no it's what needs to be done. What you're going to do.

Luna sleeps soundly in her crib, only just dozing after another bout of frustration. And beside you, another infantile creature, snoring to his content. The taste of his salty flesh sickening on your tongue.

You inhale deeply and let it out as you feel along the fabric of your terry robe. Slowly you tug the belt from the loops, inch by inch. Your chest coils tightly as it comes free and you hold the lax fabric in your hands. You stare at it in the small glow of the nightlight plugged in only a few feet from the bed.

You're jittery as you wind each end around your hands, yet numb as you push away all your thoughts. This isn't a time for doubt. You're done letting that hold you back. You pull the belt taught between your hands. It's innocuous at first glance, probably why he never even thought to remove it from the robe. To him, it was a simple knot he pulled to get what he wanted. To you, it's freedom.

You glance over at him, his shoulders broad, moving slightly with each breath. You pull the belt to full tension. You have one chance, you have to make it count. For more than yourself.

You get on your knees and edge towards his back. You raise your hands and hover them over him, shaking as you build the nerve. This isn't just as simple as tying your shoes, this is... life and death. Yours, his, Luna's.

You swoop the belt down and pull it tight around his neck. He grunts and twitches away. You quickly knee him onto his stomach and straddle his back, bringing your weight down on him.

You twist the belt around itself and pull, pull, pull. He chokes and spasms, pushing himself up. You can't stop him, he's too strong. You hook your legs around him instead, staying latched on as he gasp and claws at his neck.

He falls onto you, knocking the air out of you, but you don't stop. The heat flowing through you keeps you fighting. He rocks atop of you, writhing and kicking, reaching back blindly as he scratches down your face. You won't let go. You can't. You've come this far there's no going back.

It goes on for what feels like eternity. He just won't stop. You twist the belt tighter and tighter, the gagging battle for his life souring your stomach. Then he's still. All once, it's over and he lays limp atop you. You don't loosen the belt until you're certain he's entirely still.

You drag yourself from under him, watching him as you think he might come to life at any moment. He doesn't move. Is he dead? Did you do it?

Even if he isn't, it's a chance. This is your escape. This is it.

#lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #drabble #unexpected #series #the gray man #andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #defending jacob

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thedreamlessnights · 8 months

Text

Someone to shed some light - pt. 1

Astarion x gn!reader (Upcoming NSFW)

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: After being raised as a commoner, you find yourself as the last in a royal bloodline, forced into a marriage with someone you've never met. He's more than he seems. AKA: An arranged marriage AU with everyone's favorite vampire.

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood, death, and minor injuries. Mentions of sex, but nothing particularly graphic. Very brief, not graphic suicidal ideation.

Word Count: 6k

A/N: This idea possessed me and did not let me go. I don't know where it came from, or how on earth it's already 6k. I'm feral for Astarion, and it just... happened. Anyway. The royalty aspects are not remotely lore-accurate to the Baldur's Gate games, for which I apologize. Sometimes you just have to make shit up.

If reality is meant to be believable, then you must be in a dream.

No one ever said what kind of dream, though. Not a dream you’d wanted, that’s for sure. Most days, this all feels like some horrible nightmare. But maybe, just maybe - if you close your eyes and stay exactly where you are, thinking about nothing at all - it could be a nice one.

The palace gardens are beautiful, after all. Even this place can’t ruin that.

Silver moonlight shines on the earth below, giving everything a ghostly cast. Soft, silky wind brushes against your skin, and the faint aroma of flowers fills the air. Honeysuckle. Roses. Lilies.

Yes. If you shut your eyes tight and pretended everything else away, it would be a nice dream. But you know better. Beyond the lovely gardens and the ornamented walls, this place is a prison. And never, not in a thousand years, could you have pictured anything like this happening to you.

Not even in a dream.

You’ve never been one to fantasize about being royalty. Riches and power simply don’t appeal to you that way, especially not when comfortable clothes and the freedom to be yourself are traded in for the sake of discomfort and diplomacy.

Still, the reality of it is somehow even worse than you’d thought. The clothes pinch at your sides and itch at your neck, and you can’t move in them the way you want to. Everything you’ve worn is stiff and tight and ridiculously heavy, as if all your outfits were made for a doll, not for someone alive. Then again, maybe that was the intention. You certainly feel like a puppet.

If only none of it was real.

You still haven’t accepted any of it, not really. It’s as if you’re waiting for someone in the shadows to jump out at you and laugh, telling you it was all pretend. Of course you aren’t royalty, they’d say. Of course you don’t belong here. And you’d go back to your home, where everything is right, where you belong.

You can still see it all in your mind, so real that it’s practically touchable. The thought of it never fully fades. Just as soon as you’ve closed your eyes, you find yourself reliving that day once more.

The smell of baking bread floods a warm room. The heat of the fire sears the air. Customers bustle in and out, laughing and drinking and picking fights. Home. The way you’ve always known it. The way you’ve always loved it.

Then the room slowly goes silent. Wary. Palace guards lurk in the doorway, their eyes sweeping over the crowd, and your fingers immediately itch for your knife. The crown hasn’t any business in this place - what could they want?

When one of them steps inside, gazing at the crowd like they’re dirt beneath his feet, it takes everything you’ve got in you to stay calm. You can practically hear Cal’s voice in your head, telling you to take some deep breaths.

As the guard stalls in front of you, he stares. His gaze runs over you slowly, like you were less than he’d expected - a disappointment to him without even trying. “You,” he says. “You’re coming with us. Queen’s orders.”

Every pair of eyes in the inn land on you. Your heart starts beating so fast and rough that you’re sure it’ll burst straight through your ribs and fall out of you. The room spins. You’re biting your tongue, resisting the urge to pick a fight, because Cal is shaking his head and tugging at your sleeve. The single voice of reason in this place. Blood slowly fills your mouth with the taste of iron.

And you go with them. For some godsdamned reason, you go.

As soon as you’ve left, you know it was a mistake. There’s a whole troop here - enough men to tell you that you’re considered a threat, somehow. Enough men to keep your arms folded into you, wondering what in the hells you could have done to warrant this attention.

Despite everything, you force yourself to maintain some dignity, keeping your shoulders squared until you get to the palace. You suck in deep breaths and try to hide your shaking hands. This place… it won’t get the better of you, if you can help it. But it’ll all depend on why you’re here, and furthermore - what they want.

As you approach the throne room, they stand back to let you in. When you hesitate, the leader shoves you through the open door, and it slams shut behind you with a sound that echoes throughout the room. You’re left in a large, empty place with two shadowy figures that become clearer as you step further in. You recognize only one of them.

The queen is entrancing in the flesh, all dark hair and flashing eyes. She says nothing, but her gaze analyzes you from her throne as the man - who, from the look of things, must be her court sorcerer - approaches you. A needle pricks your finger and leaves a dull throbbing in its place.

Silence. A nod.

“It’s true, then,” the queen says. Her voice is like wine, dark and smooth in your ears. “You’re a child of Calthir. Royal blood flows in your veins.”

You’re standing in front of her, squinting in the bright light. Her words seem a million words away. Some other dimension. Some other reality.

“I - I don’t…”

“You poor thing. You didn’t know?” she asks. “Well. Perhaps they were clever to keep it from you. Or perhaps not.”

“It isn’t possible,” you blurt out. “What you’re saying. I can’t be… that.”

She raises a brow. “But you are.”

This time, your nails draw blood when they curve into your palms. Stinging pain floods your senses. “Then what do you want from me?” you ask, unable to mask the frustration brimming your words. “Calthir fell when I was a child. I don’t even remember it.”

“Where are your parents?” she asks.

You swallow hard. “Dead. Just after I was born.”

For a long moment, she stares down at you, her dark, intelligent eyes gleaming in the light. “Calthir has fallen, yes. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t alive.” Her words are measured, carefully chosen for the most impact. “Every day, more of my soldiers are lost to Calthirian dreamers. They want their kingdom back, their so-called rightful ruler placed on the throne. You. They’ve been searching for you. Do you understand?”

You do. “You’re going to kill me.”

She clicks her tongue. “And make the problem worse?” With a graceful movement, she gets to her feet, towering over you from her throne. “No. Their search is thorough, aided by magic. They’d discover your fate, sooner or later.” She pauses, lifting two fingers to her temples as if sensing an oncoming headache. “You’d become a martyr. Mass kindling for the zealots. I won’t have that.

“Then what?” you ask weakly. “Prison?”

She laughs hollowly. “And what good would that do?”

You can’t think of an answer.

“No,” she sighs. “Prison would be pointless. A waste. I still have use for you.”

Fear floods your gut, thick and dark. When you speak, your mouth feels like it’s full of sand. “Which is?”

She tilts her head. “I’m sure you’ll find it simple enough. You’re going to marry my son.”

In the gardens, the crickets are singing. It’s the first thing you notice when you come back to yourself, ears ringing. You’ve gone through that memory a hundred times, but it seems more real now, sharper, somehow. Your stomach churns with the urge to be sick, but the feeling fades quickly.

It’s starting to settle in. That this is your life now. You’ll likely never see your home again. Your friends. All of your ambition, gone - thrown away for some petty diplomacy. You’re engaged to a man you’ve never met, and for the rest of your life, he’ll be tied to you.

More than anything else in this place, the prince doesn’t seem real. Even his name feels foreign in your thoughts, a muddy figure you can never put a face on. Strangely enough, the palace doesn’t have any portraits of him - which doesn’t put you any more at ease - and none of the servants will talk to you about him. You’ve been here over a week and still haven’t seen him, not even for a moment. Not even a glimpse.

Maybe you’ll never meet him. That’d be nice.

You doubt you’ll get so lucky.

The rest of the night passes by slowly, oozing along like syrup. You’re more than happy to sit in relative silence and enjoy the peace while it lasts. After all, this kind of freedom will be a rare thing, soon. Your eyes start to grow heavy, but you have no desire to head back inside. Not yet.

When it’s long past midnight, the sound of a snapping branch behind you startles you to your feet. Your knife is gone, taken by the guards, but you reach for it all the same, cursing when you come up empty . But there’s nothing when you turn - nothing dangerous, at least. Just a squirrel, scurrying up a tree.

Just as you’re about to return to your seat, a man comes stumbling out of the woods, scaring you half to death. He halts in his tracks as he sees you, eyes widening as he looks at you. He must not have expected anyone to be out this late at night, and you can’t blame him. It is absurdly late. And yet, here you are, and there’s nothing stopping you from taking in every inch of his clearly guilty appearance.

The first thing you see, because it would be impossible to miss, is the blood. It’s all over him, splattered across his face and tattered clothes, staining his hands. His silky white hair curls around his pointed ears, dirtied with dirt and leaves. His dark eyes that you can’t quite make out the color of lock onto your every move.

He’s handsome. And, from the look of things, he’s probably going to kill you.

You aren’t quite sure whether or not you want him to, considering everything. You wouldn’t have to go through with the sham of a marriage if you’re dead. Then again… are you really ready to let go?

For a moment, neither of you move. Your heart is thrumming under your ribs, and your feet are frozen where you stand. His fear turns into something else - puzzlement. His head tilts ever so slightly. Then, slowly, he takes a step back. You don’t move, because what could you do? Chase him? You’re not that much of a fool.

He chances another step away, and when you still don’t react, a third. And just like that, the man vanishes into the night, and you’re left alive and unscathed, staring out into the darkness of the woods he’d come from.

You can’t help but feel a little disappointed he hadn’t killed you, or at least tried. It would have been exciting, at least.

After a few more minutes of nothing but silence, you turn on your heel and head back inside. The next time you see him is three weeks later, and until then, there’s not a moment he’s not in your thoughts.

As the days pass, you soon come to realize that the worst thing about this place is the boredom. It should be a thousand other things - the pinching clothes, the ache of your old life that never stops throbbing in your chest, the soon-to-be husband you haven’t even seen - but it isn’t. It’s the never-ending, constant boredom.

Gods, is it ever boring. You read every decent book in the library. You walk around the gardens at least five times a day, looking for something new. You linger around the courtyards, hoping for a bit of gossip. And every day, it’s all the same, and there’s nothing. And every day, you think of the strange man in the woods and wonder who or what he possibly could have killed. You’d checked the woods the next morning but came up completely empty.

As the wedding approaches, the air around the castle grows thick and tense. Arguments ring out from the halls about this or that - flowers, invitations, food. You’re shoved into at least twenty different potential outfits to see how they look, pinched and prodded. Servants scrub your skin raw despite your protests, even though it’s still a week away.

The queen is almost as rare a sight as her son is, though you do catch her slipping through the main hall once. She hasn’t spoken to you since that first day. Perhaps isolation runs in the family.

Which is why it’s so surprising when, three nights before the wedding, you hear her voice coming from a passage down the hall. It’s late. You should be sleeping, but your thoughts have kept you awake, and you’re roaming the halls like an aimless ghost. Your feet stall when you hear the echoing of words - something shouted not far from you.

From the sound of it, she’s in the east wing, an off-limit portion of the castle you’d been told was dangerous and in dire need of repair. You’d only listened at the time because no one else went in there, not even the servants. But now…

You chance edging in a little closer, keeping your steps quiet and your body in shadow. When you manage to sneak a look, Queen Erelin is standing in the midst of floors so clean that they shine, shouting at one of the closed doors.

“Every time I do anything for you, you fight with me,” she snarls, pacing up and down the hall. “I am doing what is best for you! Making you better! Why can’t you understand that?”

When no answer comes, she stalls in front of the door, lets out a long, heavy sigh, then throws her hands into the air and mutters something final under her breath. She leaves without so much as a glance toward your hiding spot. Your breath comes out in a whoosh of relief, tension flooding out of your shoulders.

When the fear is finally gone, curiosity takes its place. The east wing is silent and open, practically begging you to take a look, and you’re not in a place to resist. When you move closer, you can see warm light flooding out from underneath a door - the one she’d been shouting at. It’s not difficult to guess who must be in there, considering the facts. Would he answer, if you knocked? Would he talk to you?

A long moment passes in silence as flickers of movement spill their way under the door. Well, if you’re going to spend your life with him, you might as well find out what he’s like in advance. But just as you’re about to take a step forward, something stops you - a sensation you don’t recognize. The feeling trickles down your neck, plants itself deep into your chest as if it’d sunk straight through your skin - icy and dark and making you shudder as you wrap your arms around yourself for warmth.

After one final look toward the hall, you head to bed. The feeling fades. And, for the next few days, every time you look at the east wing, it’s shut tight.

Part of you is glad for it.

Despite your best efforts, the wedding rolls closer and closer, and as a horrible result, you get hardly any time to yourself. You’re escorted around, forced into fittings and rehearsals and who knows what else. The prince still never shows, but the queen is absolutely everywhere. She floats from room to room, dark circles under her eyes as she approves or denies things entry. She glances at you when she notices you, then shakes her head.

“I’d be the happiest woman in the world if I never had to plan a wedding again,” she says.

You resist the urge to point out that she was the one who’d wanted this.

On the day of, you’re ripped out of bed at a miserable hour, scrubbed clean, slathered in creams and fragrances, forced into yet another torturous outfit, and shoved out into the halls. People filter around you, carrying flowers and pastries and various trinkets. You stand there feeling like you can’t breathe until an arm loops around yours and starts pulling you through the crowd.

“Come,” the queen says. You don’t argue with her. She’s looking much better than before, well-rested and her cheeks rosy, porcelain skin glowing in the light. Her dress, light-blue, weightlessly flutters around her. “Given these last few weeks,” she starts, her eyes fixed in front of her. “Well. You must be curious about your husband-to-be.”

You are curious, yes. But you keep your lips shut tight.

She shoots you a piercing look. “I expect you to be polite,” she says. “He is your prince, after all. And one day, your king.”

Only then do you realize she’s leading you straight into the east wing - but not to the door she’d shouted at before. Further down the hall, into a giant room filled with books and servants and a tailor, fussing over some clothes. A man stands in the corner, and when he turns to look at you, you stop dead in your tracks.

It’s him. The one you’d seen that night, covered in blood. His eyes widen when he sees you, and all you can do is stare at him like a fool. You don't know how you hadn’t put that together - the mysterious prince, never showing his face, and the stranger in the woods, covered in blood. But then…

The way you’d seen him then is the complete opposite of everything he is now. The opposite of everything in this place, every spotless, perfect little thing that makes you feel so wrong being here. He’d been dirty, clothes simple and torn, hair mussed and covered in leaves. Here, he’s clean, dressed in extravagant clothes, so pristine and put together that not an inch of him looks out of place.

Of course you hadn’t considered it. Just like you, he hadn’t seemed like he belonged here. But you were wrong. He fits in the same as everyone else.

His eyes, as it turns out, are a dark, gleaming red.

“Astarion,” the queen says, letting go of your arm and stepping away. “I trust you remember your manners?”

His gaze doesn’t leave your face, even for a moment. “But of course,” he says, his tone sultry and smooth. He steps closer, taking your hand in his, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to the skin. Your stomach flutters at the action even though you should know better.

His touch is ice-cold.

In his eyes, you see exactly what you are: a threat. Maybe he’ll kill you after all. Then again - he can’t. They need you alive. That’s why they’re doing all of this in the first place.

“Prince Astarion,” you greet. That touch has put some danger into you, a spark that won’t settle in your veins. You can’t help yourself, can’t hold your tongue. “It’s nice to see you again,” you find yourself saying. “I hope you’ve recovered from the incident in the gardens?”

For the barest moment, his eyes narrow. But just as quickly as his distaste is there, it’s gone, tucked under a pasted-on smile. “Why yes, I have,” he says, tilting his head. “Healthy and clean as ever.” He takes another step toward you, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear before he leans in close, so near that you can feel his breath on your cheek.

“Not another word,” he murmurs, his voice dark and low. He smells clean and herbal - you catch notes of bergamot and rosemary, enticing and dizzying. A light hint of something else: wine, perhaps. He’s stepped away before you can fully place it.

“I didn’t realize you’d met,” the queen says, her eyes flickering between you and Astarion.

“It was rather brief,” he answers.

She looks like she’s about to ask something else, but a loud crash from the main hall distracts her. “Shit,” she curses, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’d better go see what that was.” Then she turns her gaze to you, nodding for you to join her. “Come along, now. It’ll be starting soon.”

You look back at Astarion. “Well, then. Goodbye, Your Majesty,” you tell him. “I suppose I’ll see you soon.”

The corner of his mouth flicks into a smile. “That you will,” he replies.

Everything else turns into a blur.

You’re rushed from place to place, forced to recite the stupid vows over and over again until they’re convinced you’ve got them down, preened over and prodded until you’re raw. Your feet start to ache along with your head, and all you can think about is wanting to be home and… well, as much as you hate to admit it, you think about Astarion. He might as well be a plague for how much he’s infected your thoughts.

You think of him, covered in blood, then spotlessly clean. You think of his voice, low in your ear, and his touch, and the smell of him that still lingers somewhere on your skin. Had he planned this, somehow? A ruse to get into your head? No. You’re being ridiculous. He hadn’t known you were the one who’d seen him - of course he hadn’t planned it.

If only it had been anyone else.

“Quick!” someone says. “It’s starting!”

Your heart drops straight down to your stomach as the drone of an organ hits the air. Nearby hands scrabble around for various items, clawing like animals. A stranger grabs your arm and drags you around like a doll, throwing instructions at you.

And just like that, you find yourself in front of the prince again.

This time, instead of a dozen people or so, there are hundreds of people in the room. You needn’t have worried about being here with him. Nothing has ever felt less intimate.

Your vows are rehearsed and devoid of any emotion, even though you really are trying. His are more convincing, perhaps, but they’re coached all the same. Still, when he takes your hand and slides on the ring, your stomach flutters. You slide his ring on with shaking fingers and just like that - you’re married.

“You may kiss,” the priest says, and your soul instantly exits your body. Gods, this can’t be real. None of this.

But it is. Astarion leans in, his hand settling on your cheek, and kisses you.

It’s clearly meant to be a quick, chaste kiss, but his lips are soft, and he smells so very nice, and the chill of his touch on your cheek is both soothing and strangely intoxicating. It’s as instinctive as breathing when the kiss deepens, when you find your fingers fisted into his shirt and his hand curls a little tighter around your jaw.

That is to say, the kiss is neither quick nor chaste, and when you pull away, there’s no small amount of cheering from the crowd. You want to melt into the floor.

When you finally muster up the ability to look at him again, Astarion tilts his head and raises his brows - a question you don’t at all want to decipher. You simply shake your head in response.

He loops his arm through yours, takes you down into the crowds, and escorts you through the room, effortlessly witty, devilishly charming. You don’t know how he does it. When people start talking to you, you can hardly get the words out of your mouth. You’re still half in shock, and Astarion’s presence isn’t helping.

The smell of him you couldn’t place earlier reveals itself to be brandy.

How incredibly pretentious.

After what seems like hours of forced conversation, Astarion leads you over to the tables of food and drink, placing a glass of wine in your hand that you gratefully start to gulp down.

He sips at his wine, pasting on a smile when people wave at him, then turns his gaze to you. “You know, darling,” he murmurs, quirking a brow, “it wouldn’t hurt to make an effort.”

You grip your wine tighter, shooting him a scowl. “I am making an effort,” you hiss.

He gives you another one of his false smiles. “As passionate as that kiss was, I’m afraid that doesn’t count.”

Shutting your eyes, you take in a deep breath. “That’s not what I meant. Not all of us are good at this like you are. Talking to people.”

“Well, my sweet,” he replies tightly, and for the first time, you can hear frustration lining his words. “I appreciate the compliment, but we still need to convince everyone here that we are madly in love. And that takes more than a kiss.” He takes the glass from your hands - much to your dismay - and places it on a servant’s tray, interlocking his arm with yours again. “So try a bit harder, won’t you?”

Gods, you can’t stand him.

When you go back to speaking, you try your best to be charismatic - but only because you can feel Erelin’s eyes on you, and you don’t dare upset her. Not that your best efforts make you succeed, unfortunately. Astarion has to swoop in several times to save you from the awkward turn of things.

When you finally get another moment to breathe, he guides you to a silent corner, puts an arm around you, and leans in close. “For the love of the gods,” he says. “You’re driving us both into the dirt with your horrid conversational skills.” He inhales deeply and sighs, collecting himself for a moment. “How about this - I will take on the heavier conversations, and you can just… pay compliments.”

“Pay compliments?” you ask incredulously, taking care not to be too loud. “How in the hells am I supposed to do that? I don’t know any of these people!”

“Oh, it’s easy,” he says, waving his free hand dismissively. “Tell the women you like the dress they’re wearing, or their necklace, or… I don’t know - their perfume. They’ll go on about it for ages, and you won’t have to do anything but smile and nod.”

This sounds much too easy to be true. “You’re sure that it’ll work?”

“Trust me,” he replies. “The more we keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, the better off we’ll be.”

Anger flares in your chest at his words, red-hot. “Quite the charmer, aren’t you?” you ask.

“That I am,” he says, pulling you closer. “I’m so glad you noticed.”

Anywhere else, you’d have elbowed him in the stomach. Hard. Unfortunately, you’re in front of hundreds of people, and it would lead to a large number of very awkward conversations. So, instead, you paste on a smile and think of home.

You aren’t in a palace. You’re in your tavern, talking to customers. This is easy, and you definitely don’t hate it. At all.

When the next couple approaches you, Astarion takes the lead, and you smile wordlessly and nod. When a null in the conversation arrives, you tell the woman you like her dress. Which, luckily, you do. It’s masterfully made, gold embroidery along a shimmering turquoise fabric.

Her face lights up. “Isn’t it just gorgeous?” she asks. “I searched for days when I heard about the wedding. Only the best for me, I always say. Anyway, there was this girl who ran a shop I went to - Martha, her name was - and she told me she had just the thing. And I tried it on, and it was perfect, only, well… it didn’t quite fit. But I knew I’d never want anything else now that I’d seen it, and I thought to myself, oh gods, I can’t turn up like this to the wedding! So I told my mum about it, and she said, ‘Don’t you worry! I’ll take care of it!’ And then, when I went to get it, clumsy me, I spilled half a glass of wine on it! I was just thinking it was lost forever when my neighbor came, and…”

And… what her neighbor did, you’ll never know. It’s completely lost to you, because when you look over to Astarion, he looks ridiculously smug. You can practically hear his voice in your head, saying ‘I told you so.’ You resist the urge to elbow him once again and turn your attention back to the girl, who is just now finishing her story.

“...and then, we arrived here, and saw you! And the wedding! My gods, what a sight. You two really do suit each other, you know. But Thom and I really should be going. There’s a lot of people for you to meet, and we wouldn’t want to keep you from tonight, if you know what I mean.”

She winks at you, and your cheeks go as hot as Avernus.

“Well,” Astarion says quickly, “thank you both for coming!”

“Oh, of course,” she replies. “Enjoy yourselves, you two!” She gives a sly grin and then she’s off, leaving you feeling like you’re about to shatter into a million pieces.

Tonight. How could you forget?

It isn’t that you hadn’t thought about the fact that sex would be expected of you - it’s just that… well, it’d seemed so far away before. Back when you’d been thinking about it, you hadn’t known who it would be with, and it had all seemed like it was going to be a dream. Something that would never actually happen.

But here you are.

You can’t say Astarion isn’t handsome, because he very much is. You can’t say you aren’t terribly attracted to him, because, infuriatingly, you are - no matter how much you hate the fact. But whether or not you’re comfortable with him touching you that way is a completely different matter, and, honestly? You have absolutely no clue how you’re going to tell him that you’ve never been with anyone. Or how he’ll handle it.

Gods help you.

“You see?” Astarion tells you, slowly walking you over to the next group. “I told you it would work. Just keep that up, and all of this will soon be over.”

And over it soon is, much quicker than you’d like. You’d stay out chatting all night if you could avoid what comes next, but there aren’t many others to greet, and eventually there’s no one left to talk to. There’s hardly any food remaining either, which makes you want to cry. You’re starving. Your feet hurt. You want to crawl into bed and sleep for an eternity.

Astarion, as if he can read your mind, finally leads you out of the room and heads straight to the kitchens, releasing your arm when you arrive. “Here we are,” he says. “We wouldn’t want you going to bed hungry, now would we?”

You try not to think about the implications of that statement as you eat. You try not to think about the way he leans against the wall next to you, seemingly not interested in the food. In fact, you try not to think about anything at all.

It doesn’t work.

The food is a welcome distraction, at least. That’s one good thing about this place. The gardens are nice, the beds are soft, and the food is delicious. You never have to go to sleep without eating, which is a new feeling. You just wish it didn’t all come with a cost.

When you’re finished up, Astarion raises a brow at you and straightens up. “Well,” he says, “we’d better go find my mother.”

Erelin looks exhausted after the celebrations. She doesn’t bother with any formalities, just nods for you to follow.

“I’ll show you to your new room,” she sighs. “Don’t forget - tomorrow, the two of you are off for the honeymoon. I’m trusting you both to keep up appearances, yes?” She gives you a pointed look.

“Right,” you reply.

She sighs again. “This way.”

She leads you back into the east wing, this time to a large room around the corner - one you haven’t seen before. It’s gigantic. You’d thought your bed was huge when you arrived, but this? It practically takes up half the room. Bookshelves line the walls, the windows glisten in the moonlight, and there’s a large vanity in the corner, presumably for you.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Erelin says, leaning against the doorway. “Just remember: you’ve done a great service for this kingdom.”

The door closes, and for the first time today, you and Astarion are completely alone. There are no servants, no guards posted along the walls, no crowds of adoring citizens. Just you, and him. And you have no idea what comes next.

In truth, all you want to do is to jump into the huge, fluffy-looking bed and sleep. But, of course, it isn’t that simple. For one, your clothes are intricately laced. There’s a privacy curtain in the corner, but you can’t remove the lacing by yourself. Then there’s the matter of what’s expected of you. What you’re dreading. And that’ll have to come before sleep, too.

Astarion isn’t exactly paying attention to you, though. He’s mulling around the room, examining the books, looking over the vanity. You’re relieved, but you know it won’t last. And, honestly? If it comes down to it, you’d rather just get it over with.

“Would you mind giving me a hand with this?” you ask.

He finally looks at you, gaze focusing on the lacing you’re helplessly trying to undo. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says.

By the hells, he’s irritating. Still, he comes over to help you without complaint, deftly pulling apart the lacing until the ribbons finally come free. You’re expecting him to go further - to start undressing you, or touching you, or… anything, but he just steps away.

“There you are,” he says.

Your throat goes thick. “I… Thank you,” you say softly.

He hums in response. “I’d make for a poor husband if I didn’t help undress you, wouldn’t I?”

The word husband sends electricity through your veins. He really is your husband, isn’t he? It feels incredibly strange.

When you turn to scowl at him, Astarion is already gone, returned to his place by the books. You suck in a deep breath to compose yourself, then grab the change of clothes they’ve left for you and slip into it, folding up your old outfit as neatly as you can.

As soon as you take a seat on the bed, your heart starts beating thickly against your ribs. It’s an unsteady pattern, the thump of it. It gets faster when Astarion moves, then goes quiet when he simply grabs his sleep clothes and changes behind the curtain. It drums hard and rough when he emerges, but settles down when he crosses over to his side of the bed and blows out the candle.

The room goes pitch dark.

“You’d better get your rest while you can,” he tells you. “I’m sure they’ll wake us at a horrendous hour tomorrow.”

You stay motionless in the dark for a moment or two before what he’s saying hits you. As if his words have broken a dam inside you, all the tension floods out of your body. You climb into the sheets, weightless in sheer relief, and find the bed incredibly soft. You can hear him tucking himself into the space near you, shifting around to get comfortable, and it’s strangely intimate. Still, with the size of the bed, there’s not much danger of accidentally kicking him in the night.

The room is peaceful and the crickets chirp outside, and it doesn’t take long before your eyelids are closing and the pull of sleep comes. Just as you’re drifting off, you realize one thing:

You’d forgotten to ask him about the blood.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #baldurs gate 3 x reader #mywriting

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heartpascal · 6 months

Text

fight the tide

▹— joel miller x platonic!reader

▹— summary: you face the consequences of going to seattle

▹— a/n: hello, this ended up being different to what i had planned. i hope yall enjoy anyway. its very angsty. very sad. at least to me. be careful with what you read. mind the warnings. love you.

▹— warnings: MAJOR TLOU 2 SPOILERS, suicidal ideation, or thinking about dying, almost hoping to die, major character death (referenced), canon-typical violence, eg murder, descriptions of blood / being covered in blood, kinda religious imagery / talks of divinity (no explicit religion mentioned), hints at a possible romance with jesse

▹— taglist: @rhymingtree @sleepygraves @wnstice (everything!) @auggiesolovey @just-kaylaa @evyiione @lemonlaides @fariylixie0915 @faceache111 @randomhoex @canpillowscry @pedropascalsrealgf @star-wars-lover @coolchick333 @soobsdior @rvjaa @sunflowersdrop @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @miss-celestial-being (pedro)

MASTERLIST

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Setting off from Jackson was a distant memory, by now. It was hazed over, an image in your mind that didn’t seem to fit into reality, no matter how you tried it.

The past few weeks didn’t seem real to you, either.

More than once, you had found yourself waiting to wake up. As if all of this could be some sort of bad dream. A nightmare that you couldn’t escape, no matter how many times you pinched and clawed at yourself, trying to figure out how to prove that this wasn’t real.

Because, really, how could it be? This world, this city, it didn’t feel like it could be true. You didn’t feel like you, and this certainly didn’t feel like it was your life. Wherever you looked, the terrain showed the aftermath of a rampage.

Bodies strewn across the ground, puddles of red dripping down curbs, down cars, down buildings, down your hands. It was beneath your fingernails, caked into your hair, drying on your clothes. For a moment, you thought it was yours. It was the only plausible reason for why you were feeling so empty, wasn’t it? The only explanation for why your heart felt as if it would burst at any given moment.

This rampage was an act of such violence, such rage, it seemed unfathomable to you. You couldn’t remember a time where you had felt something so deeply that it presented as destruction. As a massacre.

That was the word for this, too. Massacre. All of these bodies were once people, once held love and life and the ability to hurt and kill others, just as you did. And when you looked closer, when you looked at their guns and their knives, the bows and the arrows, you knew they had been trying to kill you.

It made sense.

You didn’t want it to, but it did.

These people had tried to kill you, had tried to slaughter you, and they had ended up dead for it. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, either. Joel had killed more people than you could count, just for the crime of trying to bring you harm. It made sense that he would do it again.

“Joel?” You called, your voice echoing in the empty surroundings, bouncing off of bodies and weapons, off of the tangible feeling of death that hung in the air.

Your chest was heaving, breath entering and leaving your lungs so rapidly that it didn’t have time to supply the oxygen you so desperately needed. You hadn’t noticed how unsteady your breathing was, until you had spoken, until you had called out for Joel. It made you feel dizzy, all of a sudden, like everything was hitting you all at once.

For a moment, you didn’t notice that he hadn’t answered you.

But his silence lingered, and the only thing you could hear through it was the sound of your own panicking breaths.

That feeling from earlier — the one of your heart, which had been feeling as if it would burst at any given moment, revealed itself as a choked sob. It jumped out of your throat when you opened your mouth to call for Joel again.

Your devastation didn’t register, for more than a moment. Until you remembered why you were here, why there was a gun in your hand, empty of ammunition. When you looked around, you didn't find Joel. Instead, all you found was blood and death and your machete lay on the ground, a dent in the grass, covered in blood and gore.

There was something hanging over your head, something which felt as if it was holding your head underwater. It felt like the water was forcing its way down your throat, into your lungs, filling them up until all you could do was choke, heave on the lack of breath. Your head was exploding, pressure against the sides of your skull, pushing out, out, out, like a fungus was bursting through you. Only the vague feeling of your hand pressing against your head reassured you that you weren’t Infected.

The memories flashed before your eyes, distorting the image of destruction ahead of you, filling your mind with reality. Joel. Cracked skull, insides out. The unrelenting taste of iron on your tongue, your teeth. Getting on a horse in Jackson, and leaving. Fighting your way through Infected, people, even past Tommy. All in your search for vengeance, for Abby.

And all it had led you to was before you, laid out in death.

Did this make you a monster? Was it evil? You’re not sure if you believe in such a thing anymore, but if you did, you think it would look like a woman, braided hair, golf club raised in the air. But there’s this nagging feeling at the base of your skull, asking you, are you better?

You don’t know what it means. Are you better? Than what? Because of this? You want to ask Joel, but when you turn, he’s still there. Still lay out on concrete, skull scattered around the room, blood staining your skin.

It’s all you can think of. It’s all you can see. Even in the bodies around you, the people that you killed, you see a flash of white, a splatter of blood, and it’s all Joel. There’s the imprint of his boot in the grass, the sound of his voice in the wind, but the only heartbeat you can hear is your own.

Your knees press into the grass, and you stain your jeans with blood, but it feels soft. Softer than the concrete in that basement, softer than the frozen dirt in front of his gravestone. It’s welcoming, or something like it, and your heart aches with it.

A sound breaks through the air, pierces through the air that carries Joel’s voice, and it takes you more than a moment of your throat aching to realise it’s you. And there’s disappointment in that, you realise, that the only person here is you. Nobody is here to kill you, and nobody is here to protect you.

The sound coming from you doesn’t sound like your voice, doesn’t have any familiarity to you. It doesn’t convey words, but rather something harsher, something deeper, a sound which traverses language and time. It breaks these barriers, and empties the chest of something ancient, something eternal.

It wavers as time passes, it comes and goes, much like your recognition. Sometimes, you’re here, belting out something that doesn’t fit into words, and then you’re there, screaming out for mercy that never comes. And all you can hear is Joel, and he’s yelling at you, to you, but you can’t tell what he’s saying.

All you can see is his lips spelling something that he couldn’t say, that you couldn’t translate. You want to tell him you love him. You want to scream at him for going down there. You want him to pull you away from these corpses, but he can’t, and neither can you.

No matter how hard you try, there’s nothing you can do to pull yourself up, to overcome that weight that continues to drown you. It presses down on you until your nose is against the grass, and all you can smell is iron and dirt.

You stay there, one palm pressed against the machete that had been resting on the ground, the other gripping the dirt, for what seems like eternity. There’s no escape from it, nowhere you can turn to pull yourself from this mourning, this hell. And you know that nobody is coming to save you.

It sends a chill down your spine — tingling and bringing feeling back to limbs that had long-since turned numb, the realisation that you are going to end up just like Joel.

Here, against the ground, reduced to something less than human.

And — like Joel — there’s no fighting it.

If Abby approached, golf club raised to the heavens, you would accept it. You would welcome it.

Because surely, whatever would be waiting you, it would be better than this. This endless moment of suffering, of pain and grief so deep it encompasses your whole being. You wonder—hope that Joel would be waiting for you.

You feel guilty, a moment later, because you know that Joel deserves to rest—whatever that meant. And you also know that he had never done that, when he was around you. It was selfish to hope for him to be waiting for you, to hope that he would put whatever was awaiting him on hold, all for you.

Joel had been waiting to die for a long, long time.

Ever since Sarah.

And that fact sends a fresh wave of guilt through you, as if you could hold on to any more emotion, because Sarah was his daughter. She was everything he had wanted, since the moment she was born. And he had been waiting to join her. He had waited for Tommy, for Tess, and then for you and Ellie.

Maybe, Sarah sent Abby for him.

Maybe she got tired of waiting for her dad, whilst he feigned dad for two orphans, left alone in the bitter end of the world.

You try to think of her like that. Some sort of angel, a gift sent from Sarah, all to give Joel the mercy of death. To give him the easy way out. Because Joel didn’t have a choice about dying, Abby had made sure of that, so he couldn’t feel an ounce of guilt for leaving you and Ellie and Tommy to pick up the pieces, to carry his body home to an empty house, a dip in the earth.

It made sense to you, somehow.

Abby seemed so… unmovable.

She was like the force of nature. Nothing you, or Joel, or anyone, had done would’ve stopped her from doing what she did.

If you thought of her like this, as something divine, something above yourself, it was easier. It was easier to forgive yourself for failing to stop her, and now, for failing to end her.

But it also makes the guilt so much heavier.

And you don’t know how you can carry it, anymore.

Because if she was that, if she was something like a divine intervention, then you were doing everything that Joel had never wanted, for nothing. This, right here, this explosion of death, this blood, staining your hands, was what Joel had tried to steer you away from.

He didn’t want you to turn out like him.

Angry, burned, covered in blood.

Monstrous.

He was covered in the scent of stale blood, of death so old it had decayed to nothing, to earth and ash and life reborn. He was stained with it. Distorted by it. It had made his vision red, for as long as he could remember.

Joel didn’t want that for you.

Joel didn’t want you to end up here, knelt in the grass, drenched in blood and sweat, in guts and gore and everything wrong with this world.

And there’s even more guilt in that knowledge. You’re disappointing him. You can practically hear his voice ringing through the air, asking you what you were doing, why you were doing it. You could hear him telling you that he’s not worth all of this. It hurts that you can’t tell him otherwise. If he was here, you could have screamed at him, told him he was worth everything. But he’s not.

How do you carry that around with you? How can you? Are you supposed to drag the weight of Joel’s dead body behind you for the rest of your life?

He would tell you to let him go. He would tell you to live your life. But Joel had never really understood just what he meant to you, to everybody. He could never quite grasp the concept that he was loved, that he was one of the reasons you got up in the morning, one of the reasons you always fought to go home.

The problem is—you don’t want to let him go.

Your hand curls around the grass beneath it, sticky with blood, as if you could physically hold on to him. More than anything, you’re worried about losing the memories. If you let go of Joel, if you let his death fade to the back of your mind, would his life follow? Would you start to forget everything he had done for you? Everything he had meant to you?

Would you forget the sound of his laughter? The smile that only appeared on occasions, which lit up his entire face? The hug he greeted you with when you came home after a particularly hard day? The embarrassing talk he gave you about liking people your age? The feeling of having a father?

If you could, you would stay in those memories forever.

A ghost in your own past, haunting the man who had gone somewhere you couldn’t quite bring yourself to follow. You would go through all of that, the good and the bad, all over again, if it meant you could stay with Joel. Because despite everything, all of the things you had lived through, Joel Miller had become your home.

How could he expect you to let go of that? How could you be okay with that? After the life that you had led, you deserved to go home. It was hard not to resent Joel for expecting you to be okay with letting him go—divine intervention or not.

And you know, that if the tables were turned, if it were you who had been buried, if it was Joel who was here right now, he wouldn’t let you go. He would hunt Abby down, and he would make her suffer for what she had done, because Joel Miller was a force of nature, too.

Either way, he would have to find her.

So, shouldn’t you?

You think that you need to know. You have to find out if she’s this unearthly being that you have made her out to be. You need to know if you could’ve stopped her. If Joel could be alive, right here, right now.

There’s something so poetic about it all, you think.

Maybe, if you were in a better headspace, you could’ve figured it out. But really, what use was poetry in this world?

You’re working up the courage, the ability, to move, when you hear the footsteps crunching gravel just behind you. They’re heavy, purposeful, and you realise you’re still weeping, still screaming out for someone who can’t come. You think—hope—that this is Abby, here to put an end to this suffering. To these unending questions.

But there’s a warm hand against your back, a moment later, and no golf club swung at your skull.

“I’ve got ya, kiddo.” A voice says to you, hands grasping your shoulders, the twang of an accent so familiar that you’re reaching out, eyes closed, waiting for the person to reach back. When they do, your eyes open, but it’s not who you thought it was. You hadn’t died on this grass, and Joel wasn’t here to get you. Instead, Tommy stood in his place, his hands cleaner than your own.

When you look around, you wonder if you’re the monster that people will tell their children about. The person who ripped people to shreds, who tore them apart for no reason other than a quest for vengeance, one that wasn’t even fulfilled. Maybe, you think, you will become a cautionary tale. A warning for others. An example of what not to become, even in the apocalypse.

This was senseless. It was a slaughter.

All of these people are dead, and you don’t even know their names. They fought to protect themselves and the people around them, something of a team, maybe even a family, all because you are angry, and you are hurt, and you miss your dad. How many of these people have families at home? Families who will never see them again, because of you.

You know you’re not a divine being.

There was no otherworldly reason for your massacre. There was nobody behind a curtain, choosing your actions. No—there was just you.

What right did you have to decide these people should die? What right did you have to end their lives? Was one man—one dead man—truly worth this? Did he deserve to be the reason for your murderous rampage? Would he have wanted this? Would he be proud?

“C‘mere.” Tommy says, kneeling on the ground beside you, and shifting you until he could hold you tightly in his arms. If you don’t focus so much, if you let your mind wander, this could be Joel. It could be your dad hugging you, staining his clothes with the blood you’re drowning in. They’re similar enough, brothers, that you can imagine it is.

He’s holding you together.

“We need to get you out of here.” Tommy tells you, breaking the illusion you had been hoping to live in forever. You know he’s being patient with you — you can tell with every gust of wind that rustles the grass below you. Each one could bring more people, more bodies, yet Tommy refuses to rush you. Instead, he holds you tightly, like the cracks in your surface may lead to you bursting.

You suppose he’s right to worry.

His brother is dead. Joel is dead. And here he is, holding you in one piece, as if that wind could shatter you.

Selfishly, you don’t want him to be patient, or gentle, or kind. You want Tommy to show you some kind of mercy, to bring you peace of mind, of soul. But he can’t, unless he has some kind of insight that you don’t, unless he has ripped Abby apart and seen the divinity in her creation.

“C’mon,” Jesse says then, appearing out of seemingly nowhere. You hadn’t realised he was even nearby. Didn’t hear him approaching, though that could’ve been because of the unearthly wailing that had surrounded you. “I’m sorry,” He says, hand wiping at your face where it rests against Tommy’s shoulder. “We have to go. We have to go now. I’m sorry.”

And he does sound sorry—god, he sounds more apologetic than you had ever heard him.

You don’t know if he’s sorry for making you get up, for making you face the world again, or if he’s sorry that you’re even here, sorry that Joel is dead. You don’t know which you would prefer. You try to decide, and realise not long after that the two of them had pulled you to your feet, hands gripping you, waiting for you to hold yourself up.

“Jesse,” You choke out, reaching for him, as if seeing him for the first time. His hands are holding your own before you can even get out another word, uncaring of the blood that covers them. He squeezes once, twice, thrice, before he lets go to press his hands to your cheeks, grounding you, almost.

“It’s okay.” He says, and you can see in his eyes that he knows it’s a lie.

He takes your hand, pats your cheek, his forehead against your own for no more than a moment, before he’s letting Tommy take over, letting the man soothe his fatherly instincts. Uncle Tommy. You imagine a life where you would have called him that.

Tommy leads you away.

Away from the bodies, the gore, the guilt, hopefully. He grips onto you the whole way, pulls you along every time you stumble, holds you up whenever you long to fall. All the way until you reach a theatre, where Ellie and Dina have been bunkered, one of them tells you. We’re going home.

You wonder if they’re going to bury you in the ground, beside Joel. Home. You think it sounds nice.

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stvharrngton · 1 year

Note

Are you still writing for your 1k celebration? If so can you do Steve with a breeding kink pls

here ya go babe! thanks for requesting i hope you enjoy this filth i wrote <3

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: smut, 18+ minors dni, fingering, breeding kink, ideations of pregnancy

taglist: @sweetiestevie @dukesmebby @sw34terw34ther @sweetbabygirlsworld

1k celebration

Steve wasn’t sure where it came from, the carnal need to breed your pussy, to stuff you full of his cum and fuck it back in with his fingers. But fuck, did it make him go a little crazy, the thought of you being pregnant with his baby.

The first time you asked him to cum inside you, Steve thought he was living in some sort of dream, that he’d pinch himself and wake up any minute. But it was very much real and he’d forever thank God for that.

Now every time you two got tangled beneath the sheets, his mind would race with images of his cum leaking from your spent hole, dripping down towards your ass and the sheets. His fingers immediately shoot out to scoop up the remnants, before plunging his digits back inside you.

“Don’t want to waste any now, baby.” He’d always say.

And you’d always slap his hand away with a roll of your eyes.

But the longer you were together, as the days, weeks, months, years went by the more that fantasy became an actual possibility. His brood of Harringtons within touching distance, the idea of you and Steve starting your very own family wound it’s way into your head daily.

And this morning went the same way that many mornings did.

Wrapped up in Steve’s arms, he’d woken you up with soft kisses to your neck, his nose skirting up and down your jaw. You eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep as you hummed happily at the feeling of his lips on you.

“Good morning,” you mumbled, legs stretching out as you felt Steve’s hand creep up under your sleep shirt, thumb rubbing over the soft skin of your breasts.

Steve sighed into your neck, a little content noise that tickled against your skin. He pinched your nipple now, rolling the bud between his thumb and finger, the sensation making you press back into him.

You felt him against your ass beneath his boxers as he began to rut against you ever so slightly. The light brush of his cock against the swell of your ass sent a shiver down your spine, Steve’s fingers wandering south down your body.

They stopped at your panties, fiddling with the cute little bow that sat in the middle of the waistband, “Morning, beautiful.” He whispered, a silent question on the tip of his tongue.

Giving him his answer, you pushed on his hand, sending his fingers beneath your underwear to run through your folds. A shaky breath left your lips, your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“You’re already so wet, huh?” Steve teased, his pointer finger teased your hole until his was knuckle deep.

“Because you drive me crazy, Harrington.” You said with a huff, keening at his touch.

“Oh, come on, honey, don’t ‘last name’ me.” Lips forming a pout, the pace of his finger slow as he pressed his thumb into your clit.

Steve dared to add a second finger, your pussy sucking him right in. Slick coating his digits, your arousal seeping through the cotton of your underwear. It was all so soft, so slow. Steve’s lips moving over your skin in barely there kisses as his fingers pumped in and out of you.

“Steve, please,” you whined, back arching from his chest, your ass pushing into his stiff cock.

His thumb brushed over your clit so softly, lazy circles rubbing into the bundle. It made your head dizzy, the gentleness of it all, Steve’s motions were delicate and tender against you but it just made you crave more.

You maneuvered onto your back a little more so you could reach for Steve, your fingers carding through his locks as you tugged on the soft ends.

“Steve,” you whined again, “need you, please, baby.”

It was a little desperate, a little needy. But you didn’t care. You just wanted to feel all of Steve, to be completely wrapped up in him, pretty cock sat deep in your walls as he stuffed you full.

Steve smiled that pretty smile at you, the one that was reserved only for you. The kind that reached his eyes, the kind that said I love you without any words leaving his mouth. His fingers left your pussy now, the wet pads trailing your jaw as he leaned over you, his lips brushing against yours softly.

“All y’ had to do was ask, love,” voice still raspy with sleep, his hair wild as he tugged your underwear down your legs, ditching his boxers soon after.

Steve lined himself up with your entrance, one hand resting on your thigh as you watched him through hooded eyes. You both groaned out at the stretch he created, a hot sweet sting as he pushed in inch by inch.

“Oh, fu-uck,” Steve moaned, a quiet breathy sound from his throat. He began to move slowly, hips rolling against your own at an agonising pace.

You felt Steve’s palm brush against your cheek, his hand cupping the soft skin there, thumb soothing over the apple of your cheek. He hooked his other under your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist.

His forehead came to rest against your own as he built up his pace, his cock sitting deep as his tip brushed your spot with every stroke of his hips. You mewled below him, pushing your chest into his bare one as you clutched at Steve’s biceps, fingernails digging into his freckled skin.

It was all a little too much, the way Steve was towering over you. Your leg hiked up around his waist so he could fuck you nice and deep, a contrast to how he held your face, how his warm honey eyes bore into your own. You’d give yourself to Steve over and over if it meant you could make this moment last.

You choked a sob out, lower lashes wet, as Steve’s pelvis was flush against your skin, his thick cock buried in you to the hilt. It made your pussy flutter and clench around him, pulling the sweetest moan from his throat, his eyelashes fluttering closed.

“Shit, not gonna last much longer if you keep squeezing me like that, baby.” Resolving to burying his face in the crook of your neck, his cheeks flushed pink.

It wasn’t long before Steve was snaking his hand between your bodies, thumb rubbing at your swollen clit, voice shaky and asking where he could cum. You whined at the stimulation, your fingers running riot in Steve’s bed hair.

“Inside, Steve, please,” you whimpered, the coil in your stomach twisting eagerly, “want you to cum inside me.”

“Yeah? Fuck—“ it was almost like a switch had flipped inside Steve’s brain, mind overcome with the images of his cum leaking from your cunt again, thoughts of you becoming pregnant taking over.

“Want it so bad, Steve,” you wailed, eyes glassy and dazed, “can you fill me up? Please, baby?”

“Oh fucking hell, Christ,” he moaned, his thumb against your clit taking on the same speed of his thrusts now, “fill you up, huh? S’that what you want?”

“Yeah, yes, want you to fuck me full.” The beginnings of your orgasm soon washed over your body, your stomach and thighs clenching.

“I can do that, baby, fuck,” his lips crashed to yours, swallowing your moans like they were his favourite meal, “shit, that’s it, baby, good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You cried out into Steve’s kiss as your body shook with pleasure, vision starry as you came undone below him. Legs wrecked as Steve held your thigh to your stomach, his thrusts unrelenting as his cock fucked into you at speed.

“You gonna take my cum, honey? Every last drop, yeah?” He cooed, nose brushing against the slope of your own, only a whimper in reply, “Shit, gonna fill you up nice and good, g-gonna fuck a baby in you, fuck, ‘m gonna make you a Mom, baby, you’ll be so sweet.”

Steve’s pussydrunk ramblings made you keen, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt sucked him right in, the boy’s motor mouth in full affect.

“You’d look so hot, fuck baby, tits so pretty and heavy,” he whined, hips beginning to stutter, thrusts growing sloppy, “belly swollen and you’d, shit, you’d be glowing, baby, I fuckin’ know it.”

His fingers dug into your thigh so tightly, fingertips a bruising grip as he squeezed you. He was close, you knew he was, just needing that little extra push to get him there.

“Stevie,” you whined, “please, I want it so bad. Want your cum.”

His orgasm hit him like a wave, pleasure and relief hitting his body all at once. His hips stuttered as he came, ropes of hot cum painting your walls as his stomach and thighs clenched. Pretty little moans and whines escaped his lips, his brows pinched together as his mouth hung open.

Steve’s chest heaved as he slumped on top of you, sweat matted chest hair sticking to your t-shirt, his face buried in the crook of your neck once more. He hissed as he pulled his softening cock from you, his cum leaking down to the sheets.

Like clockwork his fingers delved back inside, fucking his seed back into your pussy as you whimpered at the sensation, your hands wrapping around his forearm. A soft chuckle emanated from beside you as he held his lips at your shoulder.

“Steve?” You asked softly, voice quiet and timid, “What— what if we tried for real next time? Like, for a baby.”

He shot up from beside you like a meerkat, large palms cradling your face as he kissed you all over. Big wet sloppy pecks making you giggle.

You swear you’d never seen him so happy.

#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x female reader #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things smut #k.fic #request #stvharrngton1k #i sorta ended up hating this but idk

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sempersirens · 8 months

Text

sun bleached flies | five

masterlist

chapter summary: back to reader's pov, joel is issued a firmer warning, and old vices are revisited

warnings: 18+, mdni. previous dark!joel/raider!joel. angst. threat. violence. panic attack. mention of ptsd/nightmares. lotsa swearing. alcoholism/drug overdose. suicidal ideation.

a/n: i half proof-read this but editing was turning me inside out so i called it a day and pushed post. pls forgive me. love u all

You'd be lying if you pretended that the sight of Joel breaking down on your front porch didn't tug both sides of your mouth into an uncharacteristically sadistic smile.

Big, scary Joel Miller. The man who put the fear of God in most of Jackson's residents each and every day. He was a ghost story in this town; rumours of his past life were exchanged in low voices, whispers gliding through pools of beer at the Tipsy Bison after dark.

He had been a ghost to you, too. An intangible apparition that left you feeling like a little girl afraid of the dark.

But here he was, on your doorstep, sobs racking through his body and tears falling from his eyes.

He looked pathetic. Powerless.

You had an overwhelming urge to touch him as he wept. To place a hand on his upper arm or rake your fingers through his hair and pull, pull, pull. To ground yourself in the moment, to prove to yourself this was real. Your fingertips swelled with power. The feeling was electric; you momentarily understood how men like him became infatuated with the sensation.

You'd grown to realise that men didn't like it very much when they were faced with facts of their wrongdoings. You had seen it first in your father. How he would attempt to convince you, and himself, that he was a good man. That he had tried everything to bring your mother back from the pit she called home, but that she was too stubborn. That it was her decision to crawl further and further into the darkness.

It was interesting, to you at least, how your father had slowly managed to believe his own lie. You had watched as he'd wiped his slate clean and moulded a new identity that only existed in words, not actions.

You looked on as Joel did the same. You watched him come undone, clinging onto the wooden railing for support, assuming the same stance as when you'd confirmed his suspicions about Mia's parentage.

It felt like watching a predator behind five layers of glass at the zoo. You couldn't help but stare at his insides mangling his body; his knuckles white against the railing, shoulders rigid against his neck, jaw clenched and throat humming with gulps of air between sobs. It looked unnatural, like seeing a polar bear sprawled against a cold rock on a summer's day in Georgia.

Repeatedly turning up here, at your home, was one thing. But to demand a right to see your daughter? His unrelenting audacity was astounding; it was the self-confidence only a man who had lied to himself over and over could pull off.

"I need you to quieten down, Joel. I have neighbours." You warned in a harsh whisper, afraid of providing Jackon with a buzz of gossip tomorrow morning.

You pulled him by the arm and dragged him inside to ensure his attention. Pinning him against the front door, taking a second to commend your own strength knowing he could put you on your ass in seconds, you pressed the blade from your back pocket against the base of his throat.

"You make a single move toward those stairs or do anything to wake my daughter, I will gut you. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." He choked in response.

You released your weight from him, finally realising just how big he actually was. He towered over you, his broad shoulders eclipsing the entire width of the doorframe. You wondered if he had stayed beneath your grip solely for your benefit.

"Sit down." You gestured toward the sofa, pacing back and forth as he obeyed.

"M'a good father, y'know." He hiccuped, face buried in his hands.

"I'm sure your Father of the Year award got lost in the mail." You retorted under your breath.

"I may not be a good man, but I've always been a good father. Took down all those Fireflies for Ellie. But now she don't wanna talk to me, she don't even look at me most days."

You weren't entirely listening as he mumbled into the palm of his hands, his body still jolting from time to time with poorly contained sobs.

"Well what did you do to piss her off?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Look, Joel. As much as I love our little heart to hearts, you nee-"

"Mommy?" You hadn't noticed Mia come into the room. Your muscles froze.

"Hey, sweetheart. Couldn't sleep?"

"I heard voices." She rubbed her eyes with little fists.

"I'm sorry we woke you little bird, let me come and tuck you back in."

You moved protectively toward Mia, herding her away from Joel like a shepherd at the sight of a fox in the distance of his flock.

"You were at my birthday party." Mia croaked, peaking around your legs to look at Joel.

He'd straightened his posture as soon as Mia's small voice had startled you both, and now he was leant forward ever so slightly.

There was something you couldn't quite put your finger on reflecting in his eyes. The effects of half a bottle of whiskey, most likely.

"Yes, I was, little lady. Did you have fun?"

"Okay, that's enough, le-" you tried to catch her before she slipped through the gap in your legs.

"Yes, thank you. But the other little girl ate the last of my cake."

Joel chuckled, resting his elbows on his knees with his fingers intertwined.

"That'll be my Ellie. You'll have to forgive her, she ain't had cake in a real long time."

You quickly caught the tear threatening to fall down your cheek.

Seeing the two of them connecting so effortlessly felt like driving past a car crash. You didn't want to look, you wanted to grab Mia in your arms and run as far away as possible, but you couldn't help but stand and stare.

All of their similarities, the quirks and characteristics you could never place in your own daughter suddenly lined up.

The way she looked through her eyelashes with those big brown doe eyes, the slight hook of her nose that you had come to terms with belonging to a stranger.

It was a haunting collision of where you'd come from and where you were headed, your past and future hanging before you with fingers and toes of their own. The man who had made you wish you could tear at your skin until there was nothing left, and the girl who gave you the needle to sew yourself back together. All you could do was stand and watch.

"That's enough, now. Upstairs to bed, Mia." You choked out, placing your body in between her and Joel as if it could stop the same blood from running through them both.

You ushered Mia up the stairs, tucking her into bed with a kiss on the forehead.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, you placed a hand on her cheek and spoke in a low whisper.

"Mia, my love. If you ever see that man in town and I'm not with you, you are not to speak to him. Do you understand?"

"Is he bad?" She whispered in response.

"He's sick, baby. He was outside and alone for a very long time. I just really need you to promise me you'll stay away from him."

"Is he infected?" Her big eyes searched yours for an answer.

"No, sweetheart. It's his mind that's sick."

"Can I get it? The thing that makes him sick?"

"Never. You have honey running through your veins, little bird." You smoothed her hair down, placing a small kiss on her cheek as she giggled.

"Okay, mommy. I promise."

"Good girl. I'll see you in the morning."

She pulled the duvet up to her chin, her eyes fluttering softly shut. You closed her bedroom door and made your way back down the stairs to Joel lingering by the front door. His hands were crumpled in his jeans pockets, eyes concentrating on the wooden floor.

You thought he was about to say something, but rather than hear him out any longer you swatted your palm flat against his chin with all the force you could muster. As the back of his head hit the door with a thud, you connected your knee with his crotch, bringing your face down to his as he doubled over with a groan.

"You must've misheard me before. Pull this shit again and I'll make sure no woman has to suffer the misfortune of putting up with you, daddy of the year, ever again."

Feeling around the side of his dangling body, you turned the doorknob and let him stumble backwards into the night.

━━━━━━━━

"We still on for tonight?" Greg pressed about an hour into your morning patrol.

You'd wondered when the dreaded topic of drinks was going to rear its ugly head. In all honesty, you were far too tired from your poor night's sleep to do anything after patrol, but you were equally too tired to argue.

One drink wouldn't hurt, you told yourself. Hell, you might even manage a full night's sleep with the help of a glass of red.

"Sure. Tommy and Maria pick Mia up from school on Tuesdays, anyway."

"Great, I'll swing by yours around 8?"

"No, that's okay. I'll meet you at the Bison."

Hesitant to host yet another unwanted guest, you attempted to put as much distance between him and your home as possible.

You weren't a particularly antagonistic woman, but knowing Joel had arrived at your front door last night just short of a suit of armour boasting about how he just couldn't stand to hear you spoken about in such a way almost spurred you on to see through your plans with Greg. Joel's southern drawl, which wasn't really all that charming, coated each syllable that fell from his mouth with a sickly, lazed attempt at chivalry. Sometimes you thought he dropped half a word simply to conceal the rot in his chest.

Let him disapprove, you thought, remind him of his place: out of your business. Out of your life.

"Won't believe who I had a run-in with last night at the Bison. Tommy's big brother, Joe?"

You rolled your eyes.

"Don't play coy, Greg. You know his name is Joel."

"Whatever. He's fuckin' nuts. Smashin' his glass around, stormin' out in a damn tantrum like he ran the place."

"That so? What did you say to antagonise him?"

"You think I'm such a troublemaker, huh?" You quietly thanked god that you were riding ahead of Greg, or you're sure you would've caught a stomach-turning glint in his eye at the insinuation you actually thought about him, ever.

As the afternoon meandered into dusk, you wondered how in hell you were going to cope with a double shift of Greg. The leftover bottle of wine from Mia's birthday flickered in your subconscious. A scene played out in your mind of Maria smelling the sweetness on your breath, backing you into a corner and locking eyes with you the way only she could manage.

You hadn't drunk alone since what Maria had coined the incident; you were surprised at her absent-mindedness in leaving the bottle behind in the first place.

Maybe she was testing you.

Perhaps she had undertaken a quiet hypothesis crafted between her and Tommy, one whispered between pillows after the lights went out.

Let's see how long it takes for her to break.

Dr. Lee's voice rang in your ears. Love is conditional and unconditional. He had said. You are not always walking a tightrope - sometimes you are simply walking. Most often, you felt like the rope.

You had watched your mother's descent into paranoia, only a couple of months before she opted for opioids instead. Maybe that was your destiny; a bottle-shaped grave with the fingers you slipped through muddying your favourite dress with handfuls of dirt.

Soon enough, you and Greg were pulling yourselves from your saddles, exchanging pleasantries and specifics about meeting later on. You found yourself on autopilot, calculating the quickest route home to swallow down whatever feeling was clawing at your throat.

Maybe you were imagining it, but your front porch seemed to linger with Joel's presence. Approaching your door, you could see the ghost of his shape leaning against the wooden railing, you could still smell the musk of his skin, hear the thud of his body hitting the door. The latter made you smile at least.

On the other side of the door sat that stillness you had to fight to not let swallow you. You could never adjust to the emptiness that tried so hard to engulf you, so instead, you sought to destroy it.

An hour passed. Relaxing into the familiar warmth finally seeping through your skin, you caught your reflection passing the mirror on the way out and smiled. Lips stained and teeth bared. You tipped your chin to the sky and searched the ceiling for any hint of a higher being.

"Jesus, if you're there, make this quick." You spoke to the peeling wallpaper.

━━━━━━━━

Maybe nobody was listening.

You had decided it was easier to surrender to Greg's ego, accepting that he in fact had no interest in conversing with you, but talking at you.

You tried not to dwell on the fact that you hadn't uttered more than a couple of words in the past hour, but he seemed content with that.

One thing Greg was good for was his willingness to keep your glass full. His stories eventually all merged in to one, you didn't care to differentiate the names or places.

You hated his mouth. The way words shaped his lips, the strings of saliva stretching from his tongue to teeth as he boasted about how many infected he had cleared a couple of months ago.

"I was supposed to be patrolling more dangerous locations, but Maria wanted someone more senior on the perimeter." He lied.

Before you could endure any more of his heroism, Tommy came barging through the door, his face flushed but simultaneously sickly pale. He only needed to call your name once before you were on your feet, jogging toward him. You hoped he mistook your stumbling for urgency.

“Tommy?” You attempted to keep your breathing regulated.

His response floated in the air around you, never truly sinking in until the words Mia and some kinda allergic reaction fell from his mouth.

You clutched your stomach, unsure if the liquor was finally catching up with you or if your gut knew something you couldn't bring yourself to process. Tommy called your name, underestimating your speed powered by instinct, an invisible string tying you to her, tugging, tugging, tugging.

"I'm coming," you breathed, words disappearing as quickly as they'd formed. "I'm coming. I'm coming."

Maria and Tommy's front door was wide open, scurrying bodies illuminated in the rectangular light running to and fro.

You squeezed your eyes tight, for just a second.

"Please." You begged.

Is anybody still listening?

taglist: apparently my tags don't always work so fingers crossed these come thru? sorry if i forgot anybody - if you want to be added/removed please lmk! @warm-tea-and-otp @mrsquill @ashleymsnodgrass @bluetattoos @mabermaple @hiroikegawa @casssiopeia @joeldjarin @southernbe @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @cool-iguana @drewharrisonwriter @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @randomhoex @ilovepedro @koshkaj-blog @ejuliet999 @love-the-abyss @jellybeanxc @mabermaple @radsanchez @powellssaturn @ok-boke @phoebe13 @ahintofkiwistrawberry @smexy-bucky-waifu @withasideofmeg @darkroastjoel @willowsvalley @forestfaeriequeen @radsanchez @moonlightdivine @noisynightmarepoetry @mysingularitybts @misshoneypaper @ezzynf @spideyyhoe @runningmom94 @disassociation-daydreams @serendipity22086 @lionlena @shotgun-shelby @daddy-din @dins-riduur-anthe @phoebe13 @bageldaddy @sunnyskyapplepie @jenispunk @zeida @joeldjarin

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #my fic #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel tlou #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel x reader #dee writes #fic: sun bleached flies

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aidaronan · 26 days

Text

Where the Sunflowers Grow

Where does a dead girl fit in a world that has already mourned her? That's one of the many questions Chrissy has to answer after El brings her back. Luckily, she's not alone. Her new best friend, Eddie, came back with her. Still, there's only so far friendship can take her as she navigates this new reality. Some roads must be traveled alone. Other roads, well, it would be nice to have someone else along for the ride. Someone who knows what it's like to have nightmares that feel too real. Someone who can look past the scars and see the soul beneath. A recovery narrative first, a romance second, Where the Sunflowers Grow explores the impact of friendship, chosen family, and love.

Read it in full on ao3!

Words: 30, 285 (complete) Archive Warnings: No Major Archive Warnings Apply Rating: Explicit Relationships: Chrissy Cunningham/Robin Buckley, Chrissy Cunningham & Eddie Munson, Background Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Background Steve Harrington/Robin Buckley Characters: Chrissy Cunningham, Robin Buckley, Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Original Characters, El Hopper Additional Warnings & Tags: Chrissy POV, eating disorders, trauma, recovery, body image issues, mild self harm, suicide ideation, hurt/comfort, Chrissy Cunningham Lives!, Eddie Munson Lives!, Chrissy Cunningham vs comphet, Harold They're Lesbians, masturbation, cunnilingus, fingering, body hair enjoyment, light d/s dynamics, light praise kink

Thank you to lady-lostmind for providing such inspirational art and for a successful collaboration. And for both being a part of and modding the @strangerthingsreversebigbang. Thank you to @sparklyslug for the beta 😘. And thank you to everyone who takes the time to read this, double for you blessed commenters. 💕

#buckingham #robin buckley #chrissy cunningham #platonic hellcheer #stranger things #stranger things reverse bang #fanfic #mine

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slexenskee · 10 months

Text

Running List of No Scrubs Albums

Because even I can't keep up with them anymore lol. I'll update it as I go. Also yes there are 6 official albums with 6 songs each... because Gojo is lame lol. And yes the acoustic albums are 5 songs... because he's extra lame

Spotify Playlist

update as of 09/18/23 bc I'm a f** scrub with commitment issues clearly

1. Thanks, I Hate it Here:

The 2nd album by release order, but first in chronological order of when they played them live. Yes, Gojo was feeling himself in his classic FOB phase real hard on this one lol. I find the evolution of FOB's discography IRL to be really fascinating, so I wanted to emulate it in the fic. This album is almost entirely FOB because Gojo realized flopping around bands and genres was difficult for the rest of his band, so he decided to first focus on one kind of ‘sound’ until they got used to playing together.

Critics will later call it a bit unpolished and juvenile in comparison to the refined sound, themes, and quality production of later albums, with it's younger and simpler narratives. Thematically it tends to resonate more with a younger crowd, which people accredit to Ru-kun's assumed age of writing at the time (late teens). In other words, it becomes the quintessential 'middle school glory days' playlist for an entire generation of No Scrubs fans.

A Loaded God Complex - (Sugar We're Going Down) FOB

Reinventing the Wheel to Run Myself Over - FOB

In Too Deep - Sum 41

Homesick at Space Camp - FOB

A Little Less Sixteen Candles - FOB

Dance, Dance - FOB

2. Good News For People Who Love Bad News

This was No Scrubs' first album ever released on a streaming platform, but it compromises songs more from their 2nd live setlist chronologically. A cult favorite amongst the fans, this album is fun and bratty with a combination of punchy pop punk lyrics, theatrical narratives, and catchy hooks that become unanimous with the band's dramatic flair. No Scrubs always had a rep as an underground alternative band with petty delinquent vibes, but this album definitely solidified them as the patron saint of all the edgy and misunderstood goth punks.

At this point the band had been together for a few years and Gojo definitely felt satisfied with the way the band was coming together and wanted to throw in some more famous mid 2000s pop punk bands into the mix.

Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner - FOB

I'm Not Okay (I promise) - MCR

In One Ear - Cage the Elephant

But It's Better if You Do - Panic!

I Write Sins not Tragedies - Panic!

Jesus of Suburbia - Green Day

3. Death Before Decaf

After playing up the 'pop' quite a bit in the last album, No Scrubs digs deep into some gritty grunge roots with their third album, full of noisy amped up rock anthems. Thematically it was considered their strongest album at the time of release, with intense vocals and lyrics covering dark and personal topics beneath the guise of their distinctive and iconic instrumental riffs. The juxtaposition between the catchy sing-along hooks and the depressing deeper meaning to the words made this album an instant classic. It remains a fan favorite of music critics for Ru-kun's scorchingly honest handling of raw and deeply personal themes like suicide, depression, and substance abuses. After the identities of the band members became public, it became a hotly debated album amongst No Scrubs fans, who consider it a cathartic outlet for a lot of the trauma that turned Ru-kun into a villain, but also a worrying one full of suicidal ideation, alcoholism, drugs, and child abuse.

On his part, Gojo was feeling nostalgic for his youth and felt it an affront that the likes of Nirvana and Weezer had never been experienced in the MHA universe. He gets asked about these songs a lot, specifically about Today, Semi-Charmed Life, and Say it Ain't So, which all seem to allude to a dark history. He often tells people Semi-Charmed Life is one of his favorite songs ever, which doesn't help matters, and also alarms several psychologists, who worry he's romanticizing what was clearly a very unhealthy time in his life.

My Own Worst Enemy - Lit

Today is the Greatest - (Today) Smashing Pumpkins

Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana

Come As You Are - Nirvana

Say It Ain't So - Weezer

Semi-Charmed Life - Third Eye Blind

4. Glass Onion Heart

Aka the "Baby boy who hurt you???" album inspiring sexuality crises across the world

Glass Onion Heart feels like a wild card of metamorphosis from No Scrubs' prior albums, with the addition of more electronic, pop, and synth instrumental mixing. Combined with the explosive and flashy tour that accompanied the album's release, it felt like a radical departure from the band's classic garage-band sound, into a more streamlined, pop format.

The album was met with divisiveness from fans, not helped by the news of the band's breakup following the album release and subsequent tour. While many adored the new direction, long-time fans mourned the loss of the quintessential indie and underground 'No Scrubs' aesthetic, especially when faced with the thought of their final album. Nonetheless, it was the band's most popular album at time of release by a wide margin. It certainly helped the album's popularity that Ru-kun did the entire tour in drag.

At this point fans the world over became intrigued by No Scrubs and their burgeoning fame, prompting Gojo to name the album 'Glass Onion' after the Beatles song of the same name, because there is no deeper meaning to any of his songs, he's literally ripping them off from bands that don't exist. Fans spend way too long trying to figure out who this album was inspired by - who could have possibly broken their precious Ru-kun's heart?? - and as we enlightened No Scrubs fans know, it was no one. Literally no one. Gojo just really liked this femme fatale vibe, and decided to cross dress the entire tour because of it.

Tokyo - The Wombats

Dance Floor Anthem - Good Charlotte

Thanks for the Memories - Fall Out Boy

I'm the Leading Man - (This Ain't a Scene) Fall Out Boy

Moving to New York - The Wombats

Misery Business - Paramore

5. Infinity on High

Hailed as a return to the unfettered, unabashed, anti-establishment garage-band jam-session appeal that had people flocking to No Scrubs in their heyday, this album made an intense splash as No Scrubs' Comeback Album. Despite the return to their signature gritty rock sound, this album was in fact the most produced of any of No Scrubs' albums. This album marks both the return of No Scrubs as well as their launch into global superstardom.

Ironically, Gojo named this after his favorite FOB album (I mean it IS called Infinity lol) despite not including a single FOB track. Fans widely consider "Island in the Sun" to be specifically about Hawks, which Gojo never confirms or denies (although he definitely did think the similarities to their island mission were amusing). In reality, the song that reminds him of Hawks - and himself - the most is Mayonnaise, which might be why it's one of his favorites.

Holiday - Green Day

Cherub Rock - Smashing Pumpkins

Cool Enough - (Mayonnaise) Smashing Pumpkins

1979 - Smashing Pumpkins

Island in the Sun - Weezer

Wake Me Up - (Wake Me Up When September Ends) Green Day

Bonus: Don't You Know Who (I Think) I AM? Acoustic Album

The first of Ru-kun's unexpected - and according to Makoto, utterly unplanned - acoustic albums, this bonus LP was met with delight and excitement from fans after Ru-kun had teased its release on Twitter. The intimate and personal nature of the simplistic mixing gave this album a cult following, and brought in a new segment of music fans that No Scrubs' music normally didn't appeal to.

Nobody Puts Baby In the Corner - Fall Out Boy

Grand Theft Autumn - Fall Out Boy

My Heart is the Worst Kind of Weapon - Fall Out Boy

Notion - Rare Occasions

No Such Thing - John Mayer

Bonus: Take (Me) With a Grain of Salt

Despite the critical acclaim this acoustic album (and the full band versions eventually released afterwards) it was met with a lot of incendiary response at the time of its release. No Scrubs had finally achieved global stardom and was regularly topping hit charts across the world with the release of their album Infinity on High - and while music critics unanimously praised the EP as a worthy contender for Album of the Year, it was generally acknowledged truth that the album's popularity was owed in no small part to lead singer Ru-kun's sudden infamy that coincided at the same time.

The unfathomable depths of Ru-kun's new celebrity status in parallel to the band's brand of off-label, anti-establishment themes created friction within the fanbase. Many accused them of taking advantage of the current media coverage to promote sales, which bassist and band leader Makoto clapped back as 'just doing smart business'. In general, consensus was positive towards the sentiment; capitalizing on Ru-kun's fame and releasing an album in parallel to his identity reveal was just genius marketing.

However the timing of the release of Ru-kun's second acoustic album kicked up the discourse once again, with fans decrying the release as 'a fake sellout' aimed to exploit current gossip trends. However the album's drop was sudden and unexpected - with little to no pre-release marketing - lending credence to the narrative that Ru-kun wrote this album under the emotional duress of his personal life at the time.

Due to the staggering popularity of the acoustic album, the band eventually recorded and released a B-Side with full band versions.

Disenchanted - MCR

Stay Together For the Kids - Blink-182

Iris - Goo Goo Dolls

How's It Going To Be - Third Eye Blind

All These Things That I've Done - The Killers

#fic may death never stop you #music recs #mdnsy art

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killerpancakeburger · 7 days

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Breaking point (2/2)

SUMMARY: Civilian!Reader, who works as Price's assistant, has a breakdown at work. Soap+Ghost help the best they can. Hurt/comfort. Can be read as platonic or romantic. Gender Neutral Reader.

PAIRINGS: Soap x GN!Reader

Ghost's version (1/2)

TAGS: Hurt/comfort. Military inaccuracies (I make shit up for the sake of the plot). Soap is tooth-rotting sweet.

WARNINGS: Mention of relative in the hospital, suicide ideation, depressive thoughts, swearing.

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

A/N: Very self-indulgent, Reader is going through it and so am I. 🙃Soap is Prince Fucking Charming (very cliché romance tropes). Yours truly suggest to listen to "Strong For Somebody Else" by Citizen Soldier to set the mood. (Song includes suicide ideation and depressive thoughts too, so listen at your own risk).

This bad good boy gave me a harder time than expected lol.

After ending the call, you put down your phone on your desk in a daze, hand shaking.

Of freaking course of all bloody people that could have walked in on you, it had to be Soap fucking Mactavish. Only the most gorgeous man on base - according to you, that is.

You weren't proud of it, but you had a crush on him since you arrived, six months ago. His piercing cerulean eyes, rugged good looks and outgoing personality wouldn’t let you know peace. The mere sight of him was enough to bring a goofy smile to your face, and every conversation between the two of you left you blushing and elated.

You initially thought that this silly, juvenile infatuation would fade away soon enough. Ok, he was beautiful, and he had eyes to damn yourself for, so what? Surely with enough time and exposure, he'd feel mundane. But things didn’t go that way at all.

On top of looking stunning, he just had to be friendly. He made you feel welcome when you arrived. He made efforts to include you in conversations, asking questions to get to know you. He relieved you of the burden of small talk, appeasing your social anxiety, by happily keeping the conversation going on his own, never taking offense when you had nothing to say. He chose to spend some of his free time with you, escorting you back from the archives or dropping by your office.

He was even flirty at times. Flirty. With you.

You could have still disregarded all this; tell yourself he was like this with everyone, that it was just his personality; imagining things would only end up with you hurt in the end.

But then, during a meeting, you witnessed his sincere concern for civilian lives. His righteous anger against unjust orders, when you had fully expected a soldier to obey mindlessly.

This had been your undoing; the moment you knew you were a goner. A severe fondness for him had sunk its claws deep inside your chest and had no intent to let go. It didn’t mean you had any intention to declare your feelings though; you never entertained the thought that he could return them, therefore there was no need for any confession.

For him to be the one to have caught you in this state, it was downright humiliating. Especially since his good heart would make him feel obligated to care.

He was still wearing his leather, fingerless gloves, and some dirt lingered on the contour of his face, like he tossed his weapons and his flak jacket to the side right out of the heli bringing him back to base, and rushed here.

“Hiya hen, brought you the- Shite, what happened?”

His booming voice and cheerful tone fade away as his eyes widen with concern. He briefly freezes at the door in shock before closing the distance to your desk with great strides. You lower your eyes in shame, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. Everything's fine.”

“No offense, bonnie, but yer not very good at lying.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself to look at him. Staring at your own lap is only going to make you seem more suspicious.

You grit your teeth and lie some more, trying to sound carefree.

“It's nothing, really. I'm just being a crybaby.”

Crybaby.

Soap turns the word over in his mind, unconvinced.

He still remembers that one time when you showed up thirty minutes late to a meeting with the Task Force, panting, leaning on the threshold, the front of your clothes soaked in blood.

“Sorry I’m late,” you started.

“‘Sorry’ isn’t going to cut it,” Price interrupted before laying eyes on you. “Bloody hell, what happened to you?”

You explained how Private what's-his-name bled out in the break room after carelessly reopening his stitches and you had to stop the hemorrhage with your bare hands and a bunch of paper towels while shouting yourself hoarse for help. Yet when Price ordered you to take the rest of the day off, you insisted on going on as usual, forcing their captain to make it clear that it wasn’t a mere suggestion.

You and him had a different definition of “crybaby”.

Clinging to what's familiar, you focus on the stack of papers under his arm.

“You have the latest reports? Give it here.”

You hold out your hand expectantly. Instead of giving them to you, he sets them down on the opposite side of your desk, out of your reach.

“Paperwork can wait.”

You blink in astonishment at him.

“No it cannot…?”

You roll your eyes at his behavior and get up to seize the reports, but he snatches them from you. You can feel your composure snap like a twig.

“Johnny, what the hell?!” you yell, throwing your hands in the air.

You could remember exactly the first time you called him Johnny, only because it had been such an embarrassment. You couldn’t get used to his alias; sure you had been warned beforehand that some of them were… original, but somehow "Soap" was the one that stood out as the most ridiculous. You briefly entertained the idea of using his first name, except that for you “John” already referred to Captain Price. Only once you tried to call him Mr Mactavish, and as a result Gaz and him guffawed so hard they almost fell off their chairs. Even Ghost let out a cough that was most definitely a concealed laugh. You were running out of options until you heard the lieutenant call him Johnny; you instantly liked it. It just… fitted him.

From that moment on you used the nickname, but only in your mind. You didn’t have any of the liberties Ghost had and you wouldn’t take them, out of respect, and shyness. Or at least this had been the plan until you fumbled and called him that to his face. The ensuing silence felt deafening as you were realizing what you’ve just done, and you apologized immediately, mortified.

He just laughed it off; said you could keep calling him that. True, he had appeared more surprised than irritated, but you didn’t want to take the risk of him simply being polite. This too, had been your plan, until he ruined it merily.

Somehow he must have noticed your efforts to not slip up again because he teased you about it.

“Not Johnny today? Did ah dae something wrong?”

You went back to “Johnny” quickly - anything to put an end to the mischievous glint in his eye and the rascally smirk on his lips aimed at you. Being the target of his undivided attention sent a pang in your chest and knots in your stomach. Those sensations weren't exactly unpleasant, but it led to an ominous feeling that this was too good to be true, and that at any second this vision would shatter to reveal the cruel reality; so you'd just grant him a timid smile to confirm he did amuse you, but then proceed to look away.

It's the first time you’re pronouncing “Johnny” with anger; real, raw annoyance, as well as animosity, instead of the fond frustration you usually display when he messes around.

To your utter disbelief, he smiles in response to your outburst.

“There we go, talk tae me. Even if it’s just tae scream at me.”

The remark pacifies you instantly; you lower your arms, defeated.

“I'm not gonna… I don't want to scream at you.”

You sigh and sit back, setting down your elbows on your desk to take your head between your hands, overburdened.

“The hell you want me to tell you? That my mom's on the brink of death out of nowhere? That when she's gone I'll be all alone in this world?”

You swear, aggravated, as tears sting your eyes again, and this time you ignore if you'll be capable of holding back the flood.

Nevertheless you can still hear Soap curse under his breath, Scottish accent growing thicker, before moving to get on your side of the desk, to reach you, dispensing soft-spoken, soothing words along the way. You pivot to face him, your burning eyes and the sensation of dried tears on your face making you painfully aware that you must look as pathetic as you feel.

Your eyes widen in surprise when you see him kneeling at your feet. His hands reach for your face, slowly enough to give you time to back away if you wanted to.

“A'm sorry, ah didnae mean tae mak' ye cry, a'm a bloody eejit. …Can I?”

His fingers stopped a breath away from your tear-stained cheeks.

At that exact moment you can’t quite believe what he's about to do, yet you nod your head in agreement - not trusting your voice to not break - all the same, the gaping void in your chest aching for any kind of contact he'd be willing to provide.

His warm fingers cup your cheeks as the pad of his thumbs gently, almost reverently, wipe the underside of your eyes.

“There we go,” he cajoles, meticulously drying any wet spot on your skin.

“A'm ‘ere whether ye want tae talk or not, aye? A'm not going anywhere.”

You stare at him in silence, thunderstruck by the scene unfolding in front of you. Never in your wildest dreams you would have expected to have this man at your feet. He sets his hands down on your knees, squeezing them softly, and is looking right at you, encouraging smile and tender gaze, reassurance radiating from his expression. The position allows you to greedily take in every little detail: the white line of the scar on his chin, the breathtaking shades of blue in his eyes, the gap in his left eyebrow.

As you lose yourself into the work of art that are his features, he keeps conversing.

“We should take yer mind aff things. We could play board games in tha rec room. Or ye could let aff some steam wi’ tha punching bag in tha training room! Ah could teach ye how tae shoot on tha shooting range-”

You open your eyes wide as his suggestions turn progressively more violent.

“I have a bus to catch, and that's overlooking the fact that I haven't done anything in my last hour of work today…”

“If anyone gives you trouble, just say ah forced you.”

You chuckle at the idea.

“You'd never compel me to do anything.”

You can’t repress a loving smile. Johnny just feels that safe to you.

He smirks mischievously at that.

“Na, but they'll believe ah dragged ye intae mah evil schemes.”

He punctuates his statement by a roguish wink that wrests a laughter from you.

“You should take my bed,” he declares suddenly, serious again.

As the silence between you two stretches and your smile is replaced by a mix of shock, confusion, and worry, he realizes how this may sound. Flustered, he starts rambling to defuse the situation.

“Wait, no- steamin’ jesus - Ah didnae mean it like that! I’d take the couch in the rec room, ‘f course. Ye shouldn't go through tonight alone.”

“Oh my god, Johnny, I could never take your bed from you. You must already sleep on the floor so often for missions…”

“Exactly, hen. This is nothing for me. The couch is a hotel compared to that.”

You open your mouth to argue more, but then he makes an expression that can only be described as sad puppy eyes, even going as far as slightly tilting his head to the side to perfect the impression. You gulp in response, stricken straight through the heart, and knowing pertinently that you could already hardly refuse him anything, so if he begins to gaze at you like that…

“Pretty please?”

Oh no. Not that line.

He's now excessively batting his eyelashes at you, which, while not exactly alluring, is both comical and endearing. Hell, who are you even kidding? You’re so smitten with this blue-eyed creature, is there any act from him you wouldn’t find endearing?

“Are you… pouting?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

You sigh, aware it's a losing battle, and look away, a futile attempt to hide the ridiculously potent effect he has on you, or to at least shield yourself from his influence, if only momentarily.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Maybe ah just wantae hear ye say aye tae me.”

Your cheeks catch fire at the suggestiveness of the words. As if the regular rasp of his voice, that felt like an exquisite caress along your spine, wasn’t already making it incredibly difficult to keep your face at a reasonnable temperature.

“You're gonna get me fired, Johnny.”

“Over my dead body,” he retorted with surprising determination, solemnly pressing a hand over his heart.

You scoff indulgently. Coming from anyone else, the hastily taken oath would be preposterous, but Soap has always proved himself trustworthy.

“Let's go. Your knees must be sore,” you mumble, trying to sound casual.

“Wanna make a joke aboot mah stamina when kneeling but ah will keep it fur next time,” he slips as he stands up, way too smugly for your own good, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything. As if you needed any more incitement into picturing him on his knees in a different context.

You get up quickly after, but he does not get out of your way. You rise a quizzical eyebrow, his close proximity triggering alarm bells inside your head. If he remains near enough for you to feel his body heat, you’re going to get dizzy.

He simply grins.

“Want a hug?”

He opens his muscled arms, smile genuine, almost blinding, like a tacit invitation, and all your reluctance seems to evaporate with that simple gesture. Before you can linger any more on the harmful consequences this lack of restraint will eventually cause, you throw yourself into his embrace. It feels like falling and flying all at once.

You blink at the unexpected question. Yes, implores your touchstarved mind. YES, cries out your sensitive, enamored heart.

No way, rebuffs your cautious brain. It will only hurt more knowing what you can’t have.

Your hands close on the back of his shirt, near his shoulder blades, and, pressing your face into his shoulder to make the world disappear for a moment, you cling to him like he could rescue you from the sinking ship that was your sick mind. One of his arms close around your waist while his free hand rubs your back, leaving trails of fire in its wake, but bringing you much-appreciated comfort nonetheless.

“You're too nice to me. I feel like I'm taking advantage of your kindness.”

He remains silent a drawn-out second, and you're terrified you just screwed everything up.

“Yer givin me too much credit, lass “ he finally says. “Ah don't go ‘round base comforting every person I find.”

His tone isn’t angry, per se, but it lacks its previous joviality.

Soap tilts his head back, biting his lips, thanking the universe that with your face laying against his chest, you can’t perceive his embarrassment.

He can’t tell you. Not yet. Not now.

Months ago, he took the resolve to make you smile more; for a while now he started doing his reports more seriously, or even did the ones of Gaz and Ghost, just to have an excuse to see you, to behold the way your face lightens up when he brings you necessary paperwork before you even demand it.

He can’t tell you that he used to consider writing reports as the worst part of the job until you came along; until you awarded him a heartfelt, radiant smile when he gave you his; that he noticed how little you smiled outside of artificial ones you fabricate for work purposes; that when he manages to make you smile or laugh genuinely, it feels like a prize, that only he is privy to.

And he certainly can’t tell you about that one time where he handed over his reports in advance, but you weren't there, so he left, heart heavy with disappointment, dragging his feet, until he heard your voice coming from the room he just left.

“What are those?” you questionned your coworker.

“Soap just dropped them.”

“But… I didn't even ask him to yet?”

Perplexity combines with glee in your voice.

“He's a good boy, isn’t he?” prompted your colleague.

You let out a fond, wistful sigh, before responding, half-joking.

“I know! Such a good boy for me.”

Getting to hear you beaming over his benevolent action was already a treat, but witnessing that compromising exchange? To be called a “good boy” by you short-circuited him. He swore - “Steamin jesus” -, ears burning, face on fire, covering it with one hand. He needed to leave badly. Seek refuge in his room, where he could be free to replay that tantalizing line on loop in his mind. “Such a good boy for me.”

Your heart beats a bit faster than usual as you obediently follow Soap through corridors you’ve never been in before. You trust him with all your heart, but that doesn't change the fact that what you’re doing is against the rules; and those rules aren't high school's, but the ones of a military base.

You flinch hard as a familiar voice screams in your direction.

“SERGEANT MACTAVISH!”

Oops, you think. That's Captain Price, your supervisor, and he sounds pissed. You never witnessed him calling Soap by his last name before, but that being said, you never saw him deal with a kidnapped assistant either.

You've been caught red-handed.

Your mind begins to come up with plans to lessen the punishments that are without doubt about to descend upon you two, but Johnny grabbing your hand brings you back to reality.

You lift your gaze to him. He doesn't seem worried at all, if anything… is that a spark of delight in his eye?

He only pronounces one word.

“Run.”

So you run, carried away half by adrenaline, and half by the sergeant dragging you. Thankfully Soap is aware that there's no way you can keep up with him and his training, so he comes to a halt a minute later.

Panting hard, you double over, hands clenching your knees for support, heart thumping in your chest, blood throbbing in your ears.

“Why… are we… running…!?” you manage to exhale. “It's only… gonna make… things worse…”

By your side, he's standing fresh as a daisy, barely ruffled by your flight. The sight would be infuriating if his eyes weren't glinting with amusement and he wasn’t offering you a dazzling smile.

“Because it's fun,” he affirms like it's evident.

Little by little, you catch your breath, throwing Johnny a look that's half in earnest, half in jest.

“More fun for you than for me.”

He doesn't get flustered by your moderate reprimand.

“Is it selfish o' me tae wantae spend more time wi' ye? Didnae want us tae git interrupted yet.”

The line feels like a punch to the chest, stealing the breath you just recovered and leaving you agape.

He takes your hand again with the natural of a well earned habit.

“C'm'on, ah have more than one trick up mah sleeve.”

You're unsure which of the views unfurling under your eyes is the most magnificent; the sunset in front of you that's painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, or the striking man by your side whose eyes could rival the most astounding sights.

Nibbling on the dinner Soap smuggled out of the cafeteria with too much ease for it to be his first time, you regularly sneak glances at him as he fills the silence with tales of his adventures - the parts that aren't top secret, at least. You two totally did not break onto the roof moments ago, no sir.

Goosebumps travel along your arms and any exposed skin as the night falls and the sun takes away the warmth with him. You furiously brush the outside of your arms for heat, and you're about to suggest finishing this inside, when a jacket lands on your shoulders.

It is still warm with his owner's bodyheat, deliciously so. You curl up and drag it closer, your face on fire. Realizing that Soap gave you his jacket without you even having to ask or complain about the cold… you’re conflicted between obsessing over this like a giggling schoolgirl, and feeling apologetic.

Once you more or less got your blushing under control, you turn to him, displaying a contrite expression.

“I don't want to take your jacket on top of your bed, Johnny.” you pout.

“A'm a bloody furnace. Wanna check?”

He asks, cheekily, even adding a wink for good measure. As if there was any more artifice needed to make you putty in his hands.

He presents you his bare arm for the taking, all golden skin, bulging muscles and a constellation of white scars.

You indulge him and lay a hand on his bicep, knowing he won't relent otherwise; that is definitly the only reason; it has absolutely nothing to do with your own desires.

Indeed, he's burning. As you envy and bask in the heat provided by his body, forgetting that your touch is lingering too long for someone who is just a coworker, he chooses that moment to flex shamelessly, showing off the impressive circumference of his muscle. You feel obligated to squeeze it in response, a way to finally meet him head-on instead of passively enduring his quips, and it feels like reinforced concrete under your fingers.

You fail to hold back your laughter at his facetious demeanor.

“You're ridiculous.”

The comment holds no bite, a smile brimming with tenderness stretching your lips.

“I'll be the most ridiculous man on the planet if it makes you laugh.”

He's leaning back, hands propped on the ground behind him, head slightly tilted to gaze at you, and the earnestness on his face could almost make you believe his words.

Almost.

But instead a sharp pang pierces your chest, right between your lungs, at heart's level. The smile you return him in spite of yourself oscillates between content and heartbroken, before opting for the latter.

Tomorrow you will ask him, maybe even plead; tomorrow you'll ask him to put an end to the flirting. You cannot bear it.

But just tonight, you'll indulge it. You'll pretend to be normal, a well-adjusted human being, instead of a broken shell; you'll act like an adult for who flirting is a regular event and not the mental equivalent of a nuclear bomb.

You abruptly stand up, dusting yourself off, purposely ignoring the newfound lack of understanding on Soap's face and how his mouth opened for a question.

“It's getting late,” you state, not nearly as casually as you'd like. “I'm beat!”

You're running away and you know it; but you never claimed to be brave. Really, it is the best solution for everyone involved, or at least it's how it has always seemed to be your whole life.

He escorts you to his room - of course he does. Even if he already picked up his things earlier to crash on the couch, already showed the place to you.

As you awkwardly face him on the doorstep after saying your goodbyes and your thanks, unable to look away yet incapable of making eye contact, pain flares in your torso thinking of him, somehow intertwined with joy and gratefulness for his existence. Maybe your inner struggle shows on your face because next thing you know, he cups your cheek, forcing you to look up, but as the deranged idea that he's about to kiss you manifests in a remote corner of your mind, your brain swiftly shuts off as his lips make contact with your forehead.

The touch is light yet your entire being seems gathered on that point of contact.

“G'night, bonnie,” he half-whispers, as if to make sure his words exist only for you.

He grants you one last smile, small but so sweet you feel your heart tightens.

“Good night, Johnny,” you manage to articulate before sheltering in his bedroom. The room smells like him.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you rest against it, tilting your head back, letting out a deep sigh. Morbid curiosity pushes you to glance in the adjacent bathroom's mirror, if only to see what you look after this evening. A flustered mess? A sorrowful wreck?

Catching your reflection's eye makes you grimace as you realize an incriminating detail.

You forgot to give Soap his jacket back.

155 notes · View notes

hexonthepeach · 24 days

Text

a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 27: wild

pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127

tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content

summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself

but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out

ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting

now, you must make them choose you

[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [26: fallen]

wc: 7.3k

warnings: action violence, mild omega slander

recommended listening: box - nct dream (truly enjoying this ep)

Your face is buried in a strange texture, the scent even more unimaginable. Dirt–real and rich as a forest floor, scattered with dead leaves and flakes of bark. Rot and green and something carbonized as well, a scent map that transports you back a decade and a half, hundreds of clicks due north on the 127th meridian.

Home.

It can’t be. This dream is too real–trees rising on either side, the chittering of insects and birds echoing from their tops, the moon centered above beyond a green haze of aurora–

No, you think. That shifting light is too distinct in its pattern, too geometrical to be a natural phenomenon. Your head throbs as you slowly register the familiar bright rectangles of color visible through the leafy canopy, the sound-dampened rumble of voices.

“Welcome back to the main event. As our guests return to their seats from the intermission let’s set the scene. Tonight we have a very special stage, a little corner of the Wild carefully transplanted for your entertainment.”

The announcement through a speaker sounds underwater, but Key’s voice is unmistakeable.

You’re back in the arena. But that’s also impossible–there’s no way the breadth of this space could fit even in that huge room. This is something different. A botanical garden? A zoo? Enclosed, you think, much warmer and damper than the Neo Seoul night you’d shivered against earlier on the rooftop.

“For the safety of our esteemed guests we have transported our participants in tonight’s death match to a confidential location, to demonstrate the resources granted to us by our newest corporate sponsor, Zhirafa Technical Manufacturing.”

Zhirafa? The name has no meaning to you.

“This display of our Park clan ally’s newest offerings for private and public security celebrate their new investiture to our NSMP response teams. Let’s hear a few words from our sponsors.”

You pick yourself up, tripping on the ridiculous train of your gown, shaking a small storm of leaf litter free. Your slippers are gone, feet deadened by cold and inactivity, coming back to life with your pacing around the opening in the forest.

“Help!” you shout.

You hear your voice echo in the vast structure beneath the music of some distant advertisement, muffled by the dense trees. Based on the autocar-thickness of the trunks and their building-tall height this isn't new growth–this must have been here for years. That the treetops haven’t broken through whatever is containing them overhead is a testament to how well-architected it is against it.

“The classic Savannah line has been modernized for Neo Seoul’s most prescient threat: the cyber-fitted feral alpha. Tonight’s demonstration is proof that in the war of organic and robotic, the apex predator will always be the one that can’t be killed.”

The music swells above you, scored to a video you can’t see.

This is where real fear finds you, remembering anthems played in the distance over speakers. The constant chatter of gunfire, the arc of rockets overhead. You taste metal and gunpowder just the same. Kicking at the ground with your bare feet displaces weathered shell casings and bits of exploded plastic beneath the leaves.

There’s no way you’ve been transported North. It would take days, not minutes. They don’t even know you’re gone if this stupid game was proceeding with you at its heart.

No, it dawns on you. This must be an NSMR training ground.

You knew them best from the melos, places where new recruits from Seoul had trained to fight against Neo-Manchukoan guerilla forces, acting out their deaths before inevitably meeting them in the Wild.

You have to alert the audience somehow–get out before the event begins. Even if you don’t have a mic and tracker there’s the familiar low-register buzz of drones overhead, you just have to get the attention of one.

“Is anyone out there?” Your voice echoes a little less, the artificiality of the soundscape revealed in how the birdsong and insects continue unphased.

There is something–though–the rustle of leaves nearby that makes you twist around. Your ears swivel towards the noise, hunching low out of instinct and searching for something to use as a weapon.

“No more surprises, please,” you speak without saying, backing away from the unnatural gleam of blue-white in the thicket.

[Present identification, citizen.]

The voice is electronic and uncanny, different from your kidnapper’s in being devoid of any humanity at all.

“I’m not a citizen,” you say, calmly, “I’m Lee ____, born–”

There’s a metal-on-metal sound, pneumatics hissing as the thing breaks free of the bushes, four-legged and bristling with attachments of dull chrome.

The robotic construct is built like and yet unlike any large cat you’ve ever witnessed–larger than Johnny in his original form. It’s surprisingly smooth in its movements despite its clunky profile, its metal claws and chain-like tail just as ridiculous additions as the grenade launcher fixed to its back.

[Scanning] the drone says, giving you the grace of a few moments to keep searching for a weapon as a white net of light is projected from the thin rectangle of its eyeline.

You think for a moment you might have made it before the scanner pulses from white to red, metal jaw opening wide, fangs sharp past the light.

[Level 3 security protocol in effect. Unknown intruder detected. Countdown T-10 to detainment. Do not attempt to flee.]

Terror rushes through you, animal brain screaming to bolt while your rational self tells you to hold, to not give the drone a reason to chase you. It’s absurd, treating an artificial creature as having an instinct but a step to the side is answered by a mirror-like movement.

“Is there anyone there?” you plead. “I was abducted here. Get me out.”

[6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . .] the impartial countdown continues.

“Nine hells,” you mutter, ripping off your outer robe and approximating the stance of a matador with an angry bull as you begin to back away.

You don’t have experience with these kinds of machines but you understand programmed intelligence–the limitations are cartoonishly absurd no matter how many years of advancement have tried to make them as reactive as a human mind.

[ 3 . . . 2 . . . Engaging protocol.]

You wait until the drone lunges at you, wait longer to watch it break to slam its stun-paneled flank sparking from conduced energy, before throwing the swatch of weighted fabric towards it.

You have seconds of its head and body being covered to turn and bolt, path of retreat already erratic before you glimpse a red-shaded observation camera in front of you, the blink of another–

It’s visible for an instant ahead of colliding with cold metal and 50,000 volts pulsing through you in a heartbeat.

You can’t even scream.

Your body seizes and rolls across the ground–stunned. Heavy thuds hit the earth around you as the drones close in, mechanisms grinding and whirring. One of those wicked three-pronged paws bears down on your chest before you can curl away, pinning you to the earth.

[Cease resisting, citizen.] the drone’s pre-programmed voice is oddly calm. [Further resistance will be met with deadly force, comply until additional units can be engaged.]

“Fuck . . . you . . .” you wheeze with the remaining air from your lungs, screaming once you’re able to pull in air. “Get OFF OF ME!”

Something–someone–rumbles overhead, guttural and loud.

The drones attention on you breaks, met with a flash of chrome as the unoccupied Savannah Panther darts up the side of the nearest tree. It’s absurd watching that stupid thing claw the wood uselessly, unable to fight the pull of gravity on its dense chassis.

The shadow above takes advantage of its struggle, attacking as the drone is sliding down, before its hind paws can hit earth again.

The impact shakes the ground, metal screeching as black furred arms tear the drone’s jaw from its skull with barely any give, a fluid movement stabbing the jagged metal deep into its visor. Sparks fly from the downed Panther, unable to see but further assaulted by that shard pulled out and dug into its neck.

Your own Panther makes the choice between continuing to hold you down and dealing with the more obvious threat–suddenly you’re free. You twist in the soil against the awful pain in your chest, struggling to get up and finding the exposed back of the predator creeping towards your savior.

Without thinking you pounce, climbing on the back of that wretched thing.

You have to hold on for dear life as the drone drops and rolls you both, limbs and head rotating to try and dislodge you. You grasp the cannon-like protuberance from its back, claws digging into the exposed pneumatics at its base to disable its hindquarters before several hundred kilos of angry robot can buck you off.

“Why don’t you just self-destruct–” you hiss, tearing your hands raw hooking into the gaps of its plating for its more-fragile innards. A rotor dies, the cat stumbling as you feel the launcher under your chest whir into life.

[PleaaAAAse comp comp comp–]

The electronic voice jitters into intelligible speech as you rip another cable or hose–some snakelike thing spewing gas in your hand, the entire forest floor blinking red from the malfunctioning unit as the launcher fires.

You brace yourself against an explosion–realizing that the cannon lacks compression and ignition when there’s a pop and the grenade rolls to the ground, barely out of range. The sight of that palm-sized canister makes your entire body go cold, fear breaking your fight into flashes of horror.

Faded green writing on a metal can, leaves in a circle. Biotechnica.

“It’s a bomb, eomma?” you ask.

“Spring,” your mother corrects. “Bom, not bomb. But yes, a bomb.”

She pulls the seedling blooming from the torn canister, showing you the remaining markings in English.

“Nothing is burning. Where did everyone go?”

You’d looked around you at the new growth, strange for it being in the middle of what had once been a bustling refugee market. No people remain–wrecked stalls enveloped in fresh herbs and blooms out of season, bamboo and fruit trees bursting through the cracked pavement of the train station.

“A long time ago someone predicted the planet would go silent, if we kept destroying and polluting it.” Your mother says. “Men made this to try and stop it.”

You accidentally kick something at your feet–a dense twisting of vines and mushrooms that appears to be vaguely human-shaped, like someone curled onto their side. Spores rise up into the cold winter light, like specks of gold.

“When you see this, don’t touch it, don’t even move towards it, ____, just . . .”

“RUN!” you scream your order, looking up to see that dark-furred hybrid bash its opponent drone a final time into the shuddering, splintered remains of a tree trunk.

You can make it, you can get out of here, both of you–

Crunch.

The sound is more horrible than the pain with the adrenaline rushing through you, metal jaws closed on the back of your thigh gripping you in place and pulling you facedown into the dirt.

You fight against the stuttering hold, feeling cloth and muscle shred between twin fangs, crawling towards the protector who’d taken your instruction literally, but towards you, not away–kicking something just past your head–

The explosion compresses the air inward before blowing it out, the force of its blast throwing you free and against the nearest tree.

You know it’s not an incendiary grenade. There’s no red flash or the heat of fire–no sound except the ringing in your ears from the sonic boom.

Your vision streaks with green-yellow, a swirl of dust washing over you and that familiar smell . . . something like the rain after a drought. It's burning so deep with each lungful you can only cough as the scent fills your lungs and nostrils, trying to get it out.

Through misty eyes you see the thing beside you, booting back to life, cat-like jaw working beneath its blinded visual sensor. The battered Panther drone picks itself up from newly-formed moss and plant-life, red lights blinking on its chassis casting the newly grown meadow in shades of horror. You claw weakly at the grass, cringing away from the metal claws.

And then, a roar–

–not from the drone, but him.

He’s so real and loud it breaks past the damaged muffle of the explosion to resonate within you, that black belly and the ghost of its weight over you so familiar it hurts more than the oozing, aching awfulness in your leg or the internal damage from your pathetic fight.

You’re back in that abandoned building, terrified and dying as Taeil and Yuta try to keep you amongst the living, your unlikely savior a thing with no resemblance of the man buried within.

It’s not an easy fight for him, at least, not with the Panther drone recognizing the threat of 1500 PSI of bite force in the jaw closing around its armored neck. The cats rise in a two-legged, clawing grapple, the earth drumming beneath you with each stomp of claws beside your face, metal and organic, dirt and contagion blinding you as you shrink away.

Not a thing, no. Your mate.

“Youngho,” you whisper, realizing too late it's the wrong time–the jaguar pausing for a moment in its battle to twist around towards you, yowling when metal claws rake across his thick black hide.

“Left side,” you gasp. “Wires, left side.”

The jaguar hears you, at least in the backwards turn of those gold-dusted ears. He uses the unbalanced weight of the construct against it, climbing atop it the way you had, but much more elegantly, rolled with less visible damage.

Sparks fly as he tests each weakness with yellow-white teeth embedding in the metal and synth plating, ripping chunks free until the repeating electronic scream of that thing dies, the grenade launcher in its back unable to fire with the critical point of information cut clean.

It drops to the shifting ground, just so much scrap. Leaves twine around it, growing slowly at least, shoots erupting through a metal carcass.

The flesh-and-blood cat roars over its frame, triumphant, clawing and kicking roots over its destroyed corpse. He’s unaware of the danger, only visible to you as the self-destruct cycle begins, numbers streaking across the lit visor screen where its eyes should be.

“Run,” you say, having already given up, cheek pressed into the familiar scent of home.

Jaws close on your back, snagged in the fabric, picking you up as he drags you away like just another kill. You make it as far as the brush, leaves ripping at your face, before the world explodes again.

This time in fire.

Everything about this entire ceremony-turned-circus has been sucking him down into the last point of control but this is the final straw on the camel’s back. Mark is incensed, claws out without any conscious control to hide them.

He’s starting to understand what Johnny had said about it hurting every time, that after a while the pain of them piercing the skin barely registers. The constant burn in his ears and his spine is more worrisome.

“We need to speak to the Crown Prince,” he says, shoving Haechan back when he slithers up beside him. The younger Canid is on a warpath, having already chucked the last Kim attache’s tablet into his face so hard it knocked him unconscious.

“Against the rules.” The servant seems to be enjoying the experience of saying no to their ragtag Nyctos contingent–all four of them with Renjun limping beside him, supported by Taeil. Yangyang had already been transported to one of the medical centers, unable to be roused from the stun that had crashed his system while Yuta went to security to investigate the feeds.

The man’s eyes keep flicking up between a personal roster of wagers and the modified stage behind them with its ghostly phantoms of trees and lights in the 360 degree model of the next arena.

The fight should have already started a long time ago, but Key has stopped announcing anything besides advertisements, agitated murmurs in the crowd revealing that something is deeply wrong beyond the obvious absence.

This ends now, Mark thinks. If they want their bets and bloodsport it can wait.

“Tell him the Princess Consort has been kidnapped,” he finds himself saying, earning the immediate attention of the men–no, the buzzards–flocking around his cousin and pack leader. They look down on them from the vantage of their booth, Choi Siwon laughing.

“Impossible,” Elder Bang says, leaning over the edge as he pokes slowly at his agent. “This building is secure.”

“We were attacked by an unknown assailant, a solo,” Renjun reports, tail whipping behind him. “Check the security footage in the west side service corridors.”

“Did you see her taken?” That gray-haired old doctor makes his way down, AR glasses scrolling with information. Mark’s nose wrinkles at the lavender-like scent of the tobacco on him, something oily and metallic underneath.

“No,” Renjun says. “They knocked me out before I could go after her–”

“Contusions, skull fracture–” he assesses the fox, signaling to Duke Kim to call for additional medical support and security.

“We’ll send a team to the site and investigate,” he says to the Duke. “Quietly. We don’t want anyone panicking.”

“We can’t track her without an agent or a biochip,” Mark says. “We’ll need to check all exits–”

“First and foremost, keep quiet, we don’t need to raise an alarm,” Duke Kim says. “Is the Tenth Prince secure?”

Mark gestures towards the illuminated royal box, frustrated already with the lack of response. “Does it look like he’s missing?”

“Check yourself, Lee.” His uncle-by-law threatens, fixating on Renjun with a measured look of disgust. “You’ll watch your tongue or we'll let this fall on your heads.”

Mark immediately feels the surge of anger that’s been so quick to strike aflame these past few days–the recognition that another is attempting to dominate his Alpha.

“This is on your security, not mine,” he warns, eyes flashing up past the crowded entrance to the booth. “I will speak with our pack lead–”

“He’s occupied,” Elder Park joins them on the stairwell, looking entirely unsurprised by the news. “You’ll report to me.”

Mark takes one look at his smug, modded face and makes the decision to breach the fifteen-foot gap between the outer arena floor and the heavily-decorated exterior of the Syndicate booth, fuck formality.

He’s been itching to use his new claws–wishes he had a tail to make scaling the wall less awkward.

The Syndicate’s security response is immediate in the barrels of several guns aimed at him by the time he peers over the ledge, teeth gritted against the ache deep in his shoulder as his boots skid on carved wood.

“What in nine hells,” Taeyong stands along with a number of Syndicate guests, disrupting an entire table of drinks, credit chips scattering.

Mark is grateful when he reaches out to take his arm, sheathing the claws digging into Taeyong’s red military jacket as he pulls him over. “What are you doing?”

“____ is missing,” Mark hisses, heart pounding in his chest, turning between the multiple barrels pointed at them both, moving to guard his cousin despite knowing they’re treating him as the threat. “They almost killed Liu, too.”

“Stand down.” The Crown Prince is–mostly–himself, though he’s slurring heavily and reeking of liquor. He looks down at Duke Kim, brows lowered, until the elder gestures dismissively for security to lower their weapons.

“We’ve already deployed a team to search for her–”

“And I’ve got our NSMP representative on it. The whole building should be put on lockdown–” Mark begins.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Choi asks, moving to Taeyong’s side. “We don’t need Ten–the Imperial contingent finding out.”

“Relax,” Elder Bang adds. “That one is still safe in his box with his guards.”

“Right,” Park agrees. “She’s probably still in the building. Best to continue with the event and track her down before that freak can find out she’s given him the slip. We’d never hear the end of it.”

Duke Kim sidles over to their meeting, tablet in hand. “Entrance scans are negative. She’s still in the building. Reinholdt will find her.”

“See?” Taeyong pats Mark on the shoulder, handing him a drink that hasn’t been overturned. “Our Princess will be fine. We were just celebrating the good news, you should join us.”

There’s a familiar drumbeat on his shoulder as his cousin and pack leader embraces him one-armed, as the Syndicate heads and their entourage of cronies and Lottery escorts raise their glasses in a toast Mark refuses to participate in.

Mark doesn’t even realize he’s being signaled, distracted by the sheer number of recognizable enemies in this booth–-cold eyes fixated on him. Faces his mother had made him memorize, when they’d first been taken hostage.

“Such a smart boy,” she’d said, inspecting his homework, the artificial breeze of the Dome ruffling the pages in her manicured hands. “You still have so much trouble with your English spelling. Your father did, too.”

It had struck him that it was a lie, even then at twelve years old, with the books he’d grown up with in multiple languages in his father’s study–the ones his mother never seemed to want to read for herself or him besides Scripture. None of them, here, now in the Palace.

“You don’t have to learn any of that nonsense, precious child. Just learn the codes. Learn how to speak the language of the enemy,” she’d said.

O-K-A-S, is what Taeyong is saying in code. Okay, wait. Over and over again.

"Our clan finally has a 4th gen representative," Taeyong says aloud, proudly. "Reinholdt will do a determination of the hereditary profile once we've wrapped."

Mark pulls away from that repeated tap on his shoulder, letting his real anger out.

“Is that all you care about? Would it kill you to show some concern for her?”

He ignores the familiar bark of Haechan arguing with a guard below to maintain eye contact, watching Taeyong’s ruddy eyes blink at him, a lazy smile sliding across his mouth.

“C’mon Mark. Don’t be like that,” the Vulpine says, leaning in to whisper loudly in his ear. “Even if you didn't get a chance the kit's still your family–”

Mark grabs him by his jacket front, surprised by how easy it is to handle his cousin, realizing too late how drunk he is. Doyoung’s absence is worse than he’d ever imagined.

“She was raped,” he spits out.

Taeyong laughs in his face, quickly joined by the rest of the booth. Choi moves to intervene, waved off by the Crown Prince.

“That’s just omegas, right?” Taeyong drawls. “Always asking for it.”

More laughter. He knows his cousin isn’t like this–doesn’t believe any of the lies about his own designation–but it still makes him sick to acknowledge the words coming out of his mouth. For the first time in his entire life, the brother he’s chosen, the one he’d risked his life and limb for, is unrecognizably ugly.

“Did you take advantage of her, too?” Mark asks, tone deadly.

“She begged me for it.” Taeyong says with a shrug, earning more of a response from the corpos and their escorts. Mark lets him go, disgusted.

Taeyong turns to their audience, lifting his glass. “You’ll forgive my cousin, he’s never had the pleasure–”

“Fuck you,” Mark says, waiting only as long as it takes for Taeyong to turn back to wink at him before punching him across the jaw.

Fresh shoots spring from the ground, stringy tendrils catching at your skin and blossoming into flowers crushed under your weight as you’re dragged away.

Buried deep–a part of you kicks and screams and fights to return to it, to be enveloped within the decomposition of the environment and recreated as something new. Only your fox would remain, flesh melted down to the bones, the human side of you disappearing into the new forest.

But, no. You have to fight back. Those despicable bastards had brought the Wild to Neo Seoul.

Not just the aesthetic sensibility of it but the bioterrorist weapons used in the war, the bombs that melted human flesh into raw organic material, feeding new life. You’d been exposed before–thankfully never close enough to alter you fully.

It wouldn’t kill you–no, but contamination would pull you back to the animal you are. You might not be able to shift, not with your therapy, but you'd be in jimseung.

Even now your fox twists and lashes out with her claws, rending flesh, feeling it in your chest—your neck–as you’re dropped to the earth.

The rage makes you incandescent, fur rippling ruddy and black across your arms as you sneeze and paw at your face, half-expecting to find the fox’s snout where your nose remains as human as ever.

You’re far enough away from the strike zone, you hope. You might be able to fight the influence of the contaminant but an Alpha without anti-shift doesn’t stand a chance.

Indeed, Johnny has reverted past the point of communication, the jaguar’s movements purely animal. You try to drag yourself away as he circles you, chin pulled in with a display of dominance. His mouth is open wide, giant teeth exposed as he tastes your scent.

You bare your own canines and growl a warning. Back off.

The jaguar vocalizes in answer, a chuff almost like a laugh. Then he’s rolling you with his massive head and paws as he greets you with unadulterated excitement. When you mewl out in pain he freezes, tongue mid-swipe over your face, dropping down to sniff at your chest and the bloody wound on your thigh.

You yelp when he rips at the torn skirt with his teeth, having a moment of panic at the thought of him deciding you taste good enough to eat and pushing back on the cat’s heavy brow. His orange eyes flick up at you, gently cleaning away the drying blood and dirt as he blinks slowly at you.

At least he doesn’t seem to think you’re food. You’re being treated like a kit, pushed down by a paw when you try to get back up, all so he can continue grooming you. You roll on your back in submission, breath sucking in at the pain in your chest.

“You still in there?” you ask, weakly.

If the Syndicate is watching it would be dangerous to order him again but you know if you don’t he’s going to lick the top layers of your dermis off trying to treat the bone-deep wound.

He rumbles like an engine in answer.

“Come out,” you whisper your order.

You feel him change back, heat and moisture roiling over you from the release of mass and energy. He lifts up from your legs in a daze, eyes still bright with his cat.

“You’re safe,” he says, lisping a bit with the lingering changes to his teeth.

“Neither of us are safe here, you fool,” you scold him, coughing at the dryness in your throat. “You most of all. You were supposed to run away, not into it.”

You roll to your side to spit out pollen-yellow saliva, trying to ignore the bloom of fungal spores and ground cover from the thick wad.

“Don’t even get a ‘thanks’,” Johnny retches a little, coughing up his own lungful of goo. “What in the hell is this stuff–?”

“Spring gas. Jimseung poison,” you say. Of course he’d never encountered these bombs, as far as you knew he’d never made it that far North. “They must have wanted you to fight feral.”

“How are we–”

“We were lucky,” you say, tiredly, testing your leg and crumpling back to the ground. Somehow he’s managed to catch you by the ankle, the both of you wheezing as you succumb to the effects, unable to fight against him as he pulls himself over you.

“It’s old ammo–probably degraded,” you explain to distract yourself from the press of his body. “High enough heat can burn it off–”

“You’re here.” The way he whispers the words tugs on your heart, all dreamy and wistful.

You don’t acknowledge it. “Yes, I’m here. I can keep you out of jimseung, I think. We’d have to stay together–”

“You’re here,” he repeats, forehead pressing yours as he rubs his nose against yours. “My precious little kit.”

You push on his shoulder where the echo of his rosettes are burnt black into his golden skin, muddying his re-emerging tattoos.

“Don’t you get it, you idiot? You’re in danger, they want to kill you–”

“So I should be thanking you,” he says, drowsily, looking down at you with unfiltered affection. “For saving me.”

Johnny is mostly human–eyes dilated so wide only a thin ring of honey-colored iris remains. His ears and hands have remained changed, tail swatting at the air beyond the clean lines of his naked body, fur still visible where his hair grows naturally.

You know he’s struggling against his cat, a feeling like fire racing over his skin as he finds the only therapy available. You’re lifted up bodily with a cry, going limp as his face buries in your neck and rapid breaths douse your shoulder. Claws prick and unprick through your clothing where he’s wrapped completely around you, nuzzling against your racing pulse.

“God, I missed you,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

He folds down with you still at his mercy, heartbeat slowing marginally as your pheromones bring him to a calmer state.

“Stop making that godawful noise,” you protest, wriggling in his grasp.

“You don’t like it?” That only spurs him on more, licking at your neck as you cry out, fists uselessly pressed to his bare chest. Johnny rumbles in contentment as he rubs his cheek over and over again against you protectively. As much as you try to wrest free he holds on to you tighter, unable to get enough. He's warm and tender–all things unwelcome in this place.

“Get off of me, you pig!” you bark. You can’t order him here, can’t reveal anything that might compromise you both, but you can still try to extricate yourself from what feels like a more dangerous situation than the one you’ve just fled. This isn’t the time or place for an intimate moment.

Johnny lets you go. You only make it a few inches, pushed down face-first into the soft leaf litter and further assailed by searching hands over your leg. His touch sparks a new flame through the ache, your fox desperate for him to continue comforting you physically.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Feel like I was hit by a truck,” you groan, inhaling sharp when his tongue traces your oozing wounds again. “Stop, please.”

“You do taste different,” he murmurs, idiot’s grin in his voice. “Sweeter, like candy.”

“If you don’t stop this nonsense I’ll make it so you can’t speak, again,” you say over your shoulder. You can’t let this continue, not with your body’s reaction to this much-longed-for care.

The unspoken threat carries through–he eases off of you, still straddling you. He leans down to nudge the side of your face with his nose. The intimacy has you more dizzy than the contamination, body surging up unwillingly as your tail swats between you.

“Even with everything I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, lips trailing over the side of your face. Your heart is racing, the world blurring beyond as you avoid kissing him back, eyes clenched shut against his attention.

“My beautiful little kit,” he murmurs. “When we get out of here I'll take care of you so good. Make you a nest just right for you to–”

“How much blood did you lose?” you ask, too aware of the hot drip of it from his side.

“‘M fine,” he says, licking at your ear. “Felt like dying not knowing you were alright.”

You are most certainly not alright. You struggle to turn over beneath him, meeting him with your mouth against his jawline.

“Johnny,” you say. “We’re being watched.”

“They know who you belong to.” He’s high as a kite, you realize–probably more on pheromones than the gas. It’s so incredibly stupid considering the circumstances but then so is everything about this trial. He seems to realize it as well as something passes over him, a moment of consciousness.

“Was this part of your plan?”

“No! What plan?!” you put a hand to his mouth as he smirks down at you.

“Someone dumped me here to complicate this knowing you'd be dosed,” you whisper as quietly as you can, shoving at the blanket of his wide shoulders. “But it's good. If I wasn’t . . .”

You both know he wouldn’t be here at all–just the jaguar. You think the smallest push would send him reeling back into his true form, without even a sliver of the humanity he’d spent years learning how to keep surfaced while in full shift.

“That doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head. “We'll get you to safety, we can’t risk any harm to–”

“We can’t risk them seeing you feral, or fully shifted,” you deflect. “We just need to find Jae–”

Johnny hisses, not as comical as it should be with the rage you can see twisting his expression. You instinctively snarl back, scratching at his shoulder. It snaps him out of it, retreating in an instant, looking as hurt as if you’d yanked his tail.

“Control yourself,” you say, scuttling back, testing your injured leg. “He’s not your enemy. Who knows how many more of those things are out there. We need to work together.”

“He’s not taking you. Over my dead body,” Johnny says. It’s really a wasted effort to try to speak to him with the Alpha in charge, his body movements whiplike as he listens for a threat, nose twitching against the thick smoke from the embers of the explosion drifting in your direction.

“You’re mine, I told him you were mine–”

You try a different tactic, placing your palm in his wild hair to calm him. It works like a charm, his shoulders rounding as he leans into the touch and butts his head against your chest.

“Of course I’m yours,” you soothe.

He looks up at you warily, tail stilling. At least he’s smart enough to know your words don't match your intent.

You push your luck a little more, bringing his head against your breast and massaging his scalp behind his velvety ears. The Alpha quivers with excitement, making a sound deep in his chest as he rubs his human face into your belly instead.

Though you cringe at the gesture there’s a trace inside of pure peace, especially when he reaches around you to hold you again like his life depends on it. That motor-like attempt at purr is back, loud and vibrating you in a way that makes your resolve melt.

Whatever compulsion he’s feeling, the only thing motivating him is ensuring his mate is safe. It makes him brainless but it’s also endearing–and your fox is no wiser. She’s never been more satisfied with herself–you’d be rolling in the dirt in pleasure if you weren’t fighting to stay alert.

“If you want to protect us you’ll do what I say, won’t you, Youngho?” you ask, feeling him nod as a whine-like noise comes out instead of words.

“I can only trust you if you stay in control. You need to stay in control.”

Only enough to be believable, you think. You can’t forget your audience, after all, as sweet as this might appear to an outside observer, his tendency to submit to you can only be considered a weakness. No, there has to be a limit.

“We’re going to find Yuno,” you begin, carefully enunciating the other’s birth name while pulling away. “He can help us get out of here–”

He manages at least two seconds before he stiffens and breaks, rising up over you. Your fox is submitting immediately, unabashedly aroused by this display of dominance.

“Not. Him.” he says between clenched teeth, fangs pushing into his swollen lips. “You can't trust him in jimseung. He doesn’t care about you the same way I–”

“Snap out of it,” you say, struggling away from him. “None of us are making it out of here if we don't work together.”

“You want him more than me?” He looks just as baleful as before, panting. “You want to make me kill him?”

“I want you to protect us,” you yell. “He’s your pack–”

“No one can take you,” he repeats, nostrils flaring as he crouches over you. “You’re mine.”

You can hear something stalking towards you from the darkness–unnoticed by Johnny in his cresting anger.

“Fine. Prove yourself and kill those things. Kill all of them,” you order, reaching mentally inward and snapping the thin thread of control you can feel keeping you from becoming your animal. His eyes blaze yellow, startled as the change begins.

It's just in time for the Panther drone to attack.

Johnny whips around, instantly more beast than himself, claws raking metal as the scent of fresh blood overtakes the perfumed air. You take the chance to run, hunted down by another of the drones bursting from the brush.

Climb, you think, stumbling towards the nearest tree. It’s only pure instinct and adrenaline that gets you up the first branch, hearing the snap of a metal jaw inches from your ankle. You cling to the limb above you with all your hybrid’s strength, unable to pull yourself higher–

Your perch dips down. For a moment you’re afraid that you’re being pulled by the awful thing snapping at your heels before you recognize the tension is in your clothing, snatched up by the back of your underdress.

It’s just in time as something explodes beneath you, heat searing your skin and nearly shaking you both out of the tree you’re being bodily swung up into.

Out of the frying pan, into the fire, you lament–seized around the middle and dragged upward by clawed hands.

This time, at least, the Alpha who has captured you is still human.

Boom.

The projection in the middle of the arena is scattershot with fireworks, sparks flying and shrieking beneath the opaque grid as the returning audience rushes in to see what’s going on. Mark’s blood goes cold seeing the shadows of trees lit bright by another grenade burst, some deep fear response unlocked by the sound of bombs.

Across the box, Taeyong ducks instinctively, ears pulled back as he fights out of the circle of the other Alphas keeping him separated, his drawn face scanning the room for threats.

“They haven’t announced the match start yet, I haven’t finished my calls–” Bang stands up, only one of many whose attention is turned to the screens above the open interior of the stadium as they flash to black from displaying the usual wash of corporate advertisements.

A series of bright green digits and flashes preface the hacked signal, cohesing into one principal symbol: a circle with an unbroken horizontal line beneath it.

He knows it well–too well. The unbroken omega.

[Respected members of the Syndicate,] a modulated voice invades the speakers, stilling the room. [Your attempts to set the terms of this tribunal have revealed your greed, stupidity, and most of all–your hand.]

Footage plays of a fight he never expected to see. You and what looks to be Johnny struggling against a pair of Savannah Panthers, no weapons or resources except your claws and teeth. He’s most surprised by the sight of you rushing head-first into the fray, as if you could do anything against those nightmare creations.

Somehow, you both gain the upper hand–at least until the grenades are fired. The fight ends with a flash of green, dead and broken Zhirafa drones swallowed up by a nightmare explosion of plant-life bursting forth from the radius of the strike point.

“What the fuck is that?” Choi barks. “We didn’t clear using–”

“Kill the feed,” Duke Kim hisses, order ignored as the attache beside him struggles with his agent.

“We don’t have a way–production says they lost communication with the control crew entirely–”

[Let’s make a wager without the house having advantage. Your greatest prize is contained within the field before you, trapped with your entire illegal stockpile of biological weaponry and the Alphas you’ve consigned to die by it.]

Bang’s tablet slips from his fingers, clattering against bottles of imported liquor. Shrieks and shouts follow, as those witnessing the show realize this isn’t just entertainment.

[You have one, simple step to fulfill, to regain your investment. Proceed with the trials and execution of the son and heir of Lee Taeri, one Lee Taeyong, for his father's crimes against our kind and for the millions of innocent souls whose blood stains your Council's hands.]

[Then, and only then, will we release your so-called prize.]

Mark looks up at Taeyong, seeing genuine shock on his elder’s bruised face. The Vulpine turns to him, instinctively, shaking his head with his lips parted.

He didn’t know. It makes Mark even more angry at being left in the dark on whatever Taeyong had planned, all of it blown open with their blindness to this unanticipated weak point.

[Open the field and die with them. Alter the rules of the game and you will be subjected to the same carnage inflicted upon you as handed down in your judgment. May your punishment match the crime.]

The feed goes dark, projection still flashing with burning trees and the reports of gunfire before the hologram disappears. The arena floor is blank but for a simple reminder of the message: a taegeuk rotating on the field, under the watchful eyes of that monstrous xiezhi statue over the royal box.

A royal box, he sees, is now completely vacated.

In the strangled silence that follows the end of the message, chaos erupts. Half of the audience is fleeing, turned back at the door by security guards waiting for an order. Mark forgets himself to move towards his cousin, crowded back by the hulking guards that had been assigned to keep him seated as the clan Elders dealt with the ongoing crisis.

“The entire control suite is offline,” Kim stutters. “No in or out, we’re working on retaking the signal but–”

“Sokolov wants the demonstration canceled or they pull sponsorship,” Park says. “We need to make sure nothing happens to the . . .”

He drifts off as he realizes what’s happening beside him, Taeyong moving across the crowded space to close on Mark with the same aggression they’d been separated from earlier.

“Did you know they’d take her?” he accuses, tail bristling behind him.

“What, no?!” Mark yells.

“It was your recruits who last had her. And this–”

One small gesture at the screen burnt with a symbol of a movement his father hadn’t started but had been responsible for in the end–the very same reason Fourth Prince had faced execution when the Exodus forces were brought to heel.

North and south, all over again, he realizes, far too late. This time he’s tight in the clutches of the enemy, no ally in sight with Haechan and Taeil taking care of the wounded and Yuta investigating the crime.

“This is a set-up,” he argues. “We have to find them first, make sure they can get out without being kill–”

“We finish this,” Taeyong says, rounding on the other members of the Syndicate Council. “Tell Key we can expedite the final match.”

He doesn’t understand this game Taeyong is playing, and doesn't even think he’s in control of it with how shaken the Vulpine looks before he turns his back on him.

“Where did you take our enforcers?” Mark’s words are for Duke Kim, who’s leaving the box as if he doesn’t want to see the outcome, scurrying away from his responsibilities as always. “We need to get down there before they try to get out–”

“No. You come with us,” Choi says, raising a flashy chrome pistol at Mark’s face. Park and the others don’t move to stop him, Taeyong regarding him over his shoulder with a dismissive look.

“We proceed with the trials, cousin,” Taeyong says, expression grim, and resigned. “We’ll let the heavens decide which of us deserves to walk out of here alive.”

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candied-boys · 9 months

Text

Luke's POV x F! Reader - Part 1

Warning: Dark Content!

Including but not limited to references to prostitution, child neglect and abuse, war and death, PTSD, flashbacks, nightmares, suicidal ideation, and historically accurate ages for relations. The dark content is almost entirely drawn from/same as Luke's route.

Themes: protection, hurt and comfort, mutual healing, learning to trust, letting yourself feel, and eventually giving into love. Everything is written from Luke's POV.

Part 2

Your boss said you he'd make sure you get a “real good one” tonight. A bonus to go along with your promotion, if you will.

You don't actually care though.

You're just here because it's part of your job — another calculated move that keeps him in your pocket so that you can secure a position as a knight in the palace.

You don't have anything to care about anymore.

You don't have morals left either.

You're essentially dead inside.

You won't complain about getting a little relief — the only other outlet for your frustration being war games and military exercises.

You try not to take out your pent up anguish on the women employed in this wretched business, but it's easy to get a little rough when they take it so well.

You came back to Rholodite seven or eight years ago now. Being in the military meant it was inevitable that you'd have to put up with this aspect of the job eventually.

You tried making excuses that you were too young, too tired, too poor, too busy and so on, but they only worked for so long.

At some point, rejecting the offer came with consequences. Snubbing your boss implies that you take issue with his choices, and coming off as holier-than-thou is great way to get demoted.

You have too many items left on your checklist to get held back now. It's already been too many years — almost more than you can handle.

So here you sit, waiting in some ramshackle room for some sordid whore, drinking some vile shine and hoping it'll take edge off.

It doesn't.

Between your height and your drinking habits, you would need to drink half a bottle or more just to feel a buzz. In truth, you keep your tolerance high intentionally.

You can't afford to get caught off guard.

Hence you're not surprised in the least when the faint kerfuffle you heard begin upstairs ten minutes ago makes its way into the hallway and ends with the door to the room opened and slammed shut behind the girl who gets shoved in.

Tear-stained cheeks.

Pupils blown wide with terror.

Breathing shallow and ragged.

Stance defensive.

Arms curled into her chest.

Obvious rope burn around her wrists.

Swollen wounds from lashing visible beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown.

She can't be any older than Leyla — sixteen at most…

Your blood runs cold.

You grab the scabbard resting against the wall and sling it over your shoulder.

Her eyes feverishly search the space for an escape but find none.

She scampers away when you approach as if she could outrun you within the confines of the room.

You don't bother taking a second glance before walking out.

Two steps and you've caught your target by the arm. No doubt she's the one who shoved the girl in.

“What the fuck is that?” you demand, pointing at the door you exited.

Looking you once over the madam answers cooly, “Your boss asked for the best we have, so I gave you the new one to break in. Is there a problem with the girl?”

“She's not the problem. How the hell did she end up here?”

The woman cocks a painted brow and replies haughtily, “The same way most of them do. Her father sold her to pay off his gambling debt. If you'd rather have a different one, we have plenty of others. You can take your pick.”

“How much did y’ pay for her?” you growl, patience running thin as your fingers begin to dig into her arm.

Snatching herself from your grip, she answers contemptuously, “What's it to you? Look if you don't want her, I have plenty of customers who do.”

“Oh, I want her,” you snarl. Out of this cesspool. “I'm takin’ her with me. So answer my question. What’s the price?”

“I'm not selling her, boy. She'll be worth a hell of a lot more over the course of a few years than the five silver coins I paid for her yesterday.”

“I don't think y’ heard me right,” you hiss and draw your sword from its scabbard. “I said, I'm. Takin’. Her.”

“Like hell you are!” she screeches behind you as you turn on your heel and slam open the door.

Shaking in fear, the girl all but collapses to the floor as you draw near.

Yanking the yellowed sheet from the bed, you stand her up forcibly and wrap it around her barely clad frame.

Too terrified to protest, the girl neither cries nor pleads.

Hiking her over your shoulder with one arm and bearing your weapon with the other you make your way out.

“You can't just run off with her! She's property of the establishment now!”

Pointing your sword at the woman, you reiterate for the last time, “Y’ will put the bill on my tab, and y’ will relinquish her to me. Do I make myself clear, Madam?”

You sheathe your sword once outside, relieved you didn't have to skewer those two drunkards she sent after you. Both hands now free, you cradle the trembling bundle of sheets to your chest.

You know that in your disgust you've been rough with the girl, but a dark road lined with brothels isn't a nice place for a chat in the middle of the night, so you make haste.

After unlocking the door to the little rented apartment in the centre of town, you set her down gently on the bed and begin stoking the few embers still burning in the fireplace. When the kindling crackles and the chilly autumn air starts to warm, you fetch the wash basin and fill the jug from the water you boiled this morning.

As you kneel level to her where she sits with her knees curled into her chest she starts frantically babbling through tears.

“I'll do whatever you want! I promise! Just please don't kill me! The other girls said sometimes the new ones don't come back, but please! I'll do anything you want me to! Just don't kill me!”

Trained to remain stoic at all times, you don't show the shock you feel at the horrific image she paints as you hear her voice for the first time. Setting aside the items in your hand, you lay your palms face up in front of her so she can see your every move.

“Hey, it's okay. Y're safe now. I'm not gonna hurt y’. Y're never goin’ back there.”

It's obvious from her trembling gaze and shivering body that she doesn't believe you.

“I'm Luke. What's your name?”

“Honey…” she murmurs, voice hoarse and cracked.

Furrowing your brow, you ask again, “No, y’r real name. Not the one they gave y’ there.”

There's a long pause. Her fearful eyes glaze over with an emptiness you're all too familiar with.

“I don't know…”

“Y’ don't know?” you catch yourself repeating as an old wound reopens inside you.

“My father always just called me girl… or more often wench…”

Terrified expressions…

Absolute avoidance…

Complete silence…

You manage to beat back the memories threatening to well up within just enough to find your voice once more.

“Alright. Honey it is then, I guess. ‘less y’ prefer somethin’ else?”

She simply shakes her head, tears still streaming down her round cheeks.

“Here. Wash y’r face.”

Pouring out the water over a cloth, you ring it out and offer it to her. A beat falls between her eyeing the item warily and unfastening her clenched fists from the linen sheet she holds so tight.

“They take y’r shoes so y’ couldn't run away?” you ask as she hands back the cloth, tear stains finally wiped away.

“Yes, sir.”

“Just Luke is fine.”

“Luke?”

“Mhm. Luke. Here. Set ‘em down and I'll wash ‘em for y’.”

Frowning at the trepidation creasing her pretty features, you quickly surmise what happened.

“They cut y’r feet so y’ couldn't get far even if y’ tried?”

You can't help the sigh that escapes when she nods and tears up again.

Sick. I hate this world and I hate living in it. God, I can't wait for this all to be over.

Standing up you gather what you need to treat the injuries and return to sit at her feet, then motion for her to drop her legs from her chest. You can't bring yourself to speak, but she does as she's wordlessly told.

As you dip her toes into the basin she flinches. As gently as you can, you scrub the dirt off with the cloth before rinsing each foot with clean water from the jug.

“They take y’r clothes too?” you ask, more to distract yourself from the nauseous feeling knotting up in your stomach than anything because you already know the answer.

“Yes. They burned them…”

With only honey for an antiseptic, you carefully coat each wound and bandage up her feet using the clean strips of gauze you keep for the rare occasion you get hurt in training. Finally, you slip a pair of your far too large woolen hose on and tie them with strings beneath her knees to keep it all secure.

“I'll get y’ some new clothes tomorrow. Just rest tonight. Y'll sleep here in the bed. I'll be over there by the fire if y’ need anything.”

From the confused and scared look on her face you know what she's wondering.

“I'm not gonna touch y’,” you tell her plainly and rise to set the jug and basin on the table.

Voice riddled with even more fear despite trying to reassure her, she mumbles, “Then… why would you buy me?”

How else was I gonna get y’ away from there without cuttin’ down somebody and causin’ a scene?

Falling to your knees once more, you pull her into your arms and squeeze her tight.

“If you don't want my body why did you bring me here? How am I going to repay you… I don't have anything else…”

No… Don't cry again… I can't take no more tears today…

“Shhh. Shhh. Y’r body isn't something y’ pay with. Don't offer that to nobody, y’ hear? Y’ don't owe me for nothing. Just be a good girl and go to sleep for now, okay?”

“I don't understand… Why…?” comes a shuddered whisper against your shoulder.

In truth you don't know either, and maybe in the morning you'll regret not simply walking out alone. But that's a thought for tomorrow.

Part 2

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