#something alive you slide a knife into that doesn’t even bleed

[exitwound]

 the raspberry room by karin gotttshall

#reading this as the woundspaces left by the scratches as where shes lying down. lying down in the space where i open up. jeez ! #w #u #poetry #something alive you slide a knife into that doesn’t even bleed

[searidings]

....🥺 can you please tell us more about that season 5 alternate ending where andrea ends up using the dagger pretty please, just like who does she end up hurting and the others reaction? if only you want to of course !

hooookay this ask got me to open that wip for the first time in a year and actually it's not that far from being complete! but idk how to finish it and i feel like i've done the s5 conflict resolution thing in multiple fics now like how many is too many? i fear i may have hit that limit. BUT since you asked, here is the beginning of it. please note:

1) this thing is angsty and also it's unfinished, so read at your own peril

2) because i wasn't ever expecting to finish/publish it, i've recycled bits of description from it into other fics. so if you see stuff i've repeated elsewhere no you don't <3

-

The last thing Lena sees is a flash like dark shadow pass over Andrea’s eyes, before a kryptonite dagger slides between her ribs.

The sound she emits is less of a scream and more of a surprised squeak as she sinks to the ground.

If you want to get to Supergirl, you’re gonna have to go through me.

It’s not that she hadn’t believed Andrea would do it. Lena was under no illusion of safety when she placed herself between Supergirl and the glowing green rock in Andrea’s hand. She’d come to terms with the possibility of dying for Kara long ago.

What she hadn’t been able to prepare for was the pain. The abstract of sacrifice was all well and good, but. Reality, this searing epicentre, a point of white hot agony turned molten, seeping through her body. No amount of her mother’s decorum training had prepared her for this.

Something is filling her mouth, thick and dark and oozing. She can’t scream. Kara sits, eyes silver, a world away. Kara. Lena has to move. She can’t. Andrea steps over her, and is that the pounding of receding footsteps or the dogged beat of Lena’s heart? Either way, it’s slowing. Every inhale cracks her body down the centre, each exhale buries shards of glass inside the gaping wound.

Her eyes are beginning to mist at the edges but she strains, listens. The sound that cuts through the haze is not the scream she dreads, Kara’s agony as her veins sear emerald. It’s not a scream, but a shout, and then a blur passes over her like light and shadow.

Concrete cracks, or perhaps it’s Lena’s ribs. Sounds are muffled now, the world dulled down like the inside of a snow globe. Underwater, time passes sluggishly to where she lies, drifting, encased in glass. But someone is fighting the current, resisting the pull. Hands grasp her shoulders, burning where they touch. Through the rolling fog comes Kara’s face, blurring out in red and blue and gold and sickly green. Lena wants to push her away, keep her separate from the venomous substance protruding from her chest, keep her untainted. But Kara’s hands are dancing there-away along her cheeks, her jaw, Lena’s own name sounding from her lips over and over, a siren song, calling her home. It’s raining now, wet spots peppering her brow, or maybe the sun is crying.

“Lena, Lena,” Kara is saying. It sounds like her heartbeat and she cannot bear for it to stop.

“Kara,” she manages, a whisper, a prayer.

Her face flashes within Lena’s line of sight for one perfect moment, and is she green-tinged or is it Lena’s failing vision? A shiver passes through the air between them, I’m sorry fluttering like a bloodstained white flag but whether it falls from her own lips or another’s, Lena cannot say. Then a sudden pressure at her ribs, a heavy push and release that feels like salvation and damnation all at once.

Lena hears a scream, two screams, billions. She is left gaping, open and exposed. Invaded by the air and exalted by the sticky-sweet blush of her own blood, her body purging itself. Through the slick of gathering crimson her head rolls to the side, darkness pressing in around her, eyes blazing with the final image of a limp hand on the ground beside her, veins shot through with glowing green.

-

For a long time, there is only darkness. The deepest blackness she has ever known, all-encompassing. Devouring light, thought, feeling. Lena floats, tethered to her own existence only by the pressing weight of the dark, closing in until the end of the world.

Slowly, sensations begin to blur in and out. Cold, a deadening flow, hooking into her very marrow and stripping her from the inside out. She drifts, and then there’s heat, scorching, radiating out from her ribs in scalding waves, and she wishes for numbness.

For a moment, Lena thinks she sees the star-burst of veins behind her eyelids, but then they are gone and all is black again. Sound fragments filter through her peripheral awareness. A great noise, banging and shouting and exploding. She slips back under.

Vibrations reach her, but they must be sounds because Lena no longer has a body with which to feel them. She floats, untethered, sinking beneath the surface of a dark ocean so vast it surely cannot know she’s there. In the deep, voices flicker.

“Haven’t you heard that you’re supposed to leave the knife in? She’s minutes from bleeding out.”

The blackness turns to blood around her, not vibrant red but sticky dark, the kind so loaded with the very force of someone’s life that it moves slowly, crawls under the weight of it, sucking light from all it touches.

“Her veins were green, Alex.”

An eternity passes.

She dreams of her mother, dark hair fanning behind her as she cuts through the still waters of the lake. The scene is calm, but the growing dread means Lena knows what’s coming and suddenly it’s not her mother but Kara before her, and the lake isn’t clear but radioactive, glowing green, and still Lena stands at the shore and watches her slip away, helpless.

Words float through the haze and Lena wishes she could reach out, grasp them, weigh them in her hands to know the truth behind them. Radiation and poisoned and flared and gone, the sounds making physical shapes in the darkness. She thinks of a child, two dark-haired children, of hours spent pouring over a dictionary. A cruel laugh when she got a definition wrong, grudging silence when she got it right. How she wishes now to be wrong, to mishear, a stay of judgment on the world these words conjure into being. But the focus is gone, and she slips away again.

“—whatever you have to do! Or so help me, I’ll—”

Though Lena is nothing now, just an exhale in the wind, she smiles. Warmth blooms, the blackness not crushing but caressing for a moment, and she drifts into memories of happier times.

A million years pass, a billion. Lena is upside down, and right way up, and no way up at all. If she still had a face, she might feel the pressure of a warm forehead against her own. If she still had hair, the imprint of lips pressed gently against it might still ache. If she hadn’t burned every meaningful bridge in her life in the year before her death, she might believe the trick of a whisper wrapping on the breeze, words of comfort, of promise.

But she had, so she doesn’t, and time collapses in on itself as Lena watches, motionless and alone.

-

Though she has always been nowhere, she can feel herself drifting further and further from the last thing that might just resemble a somewhere. The eons slow. If she were a doctor, Lena thinks, then this would be the time to make herself comfortable. To say her goodbyes.

She cannot look at blackness any longer, cannot bear the glowing green after-image that seems to stick to every corner and edge. She thinks of blue, of rain-washed skies and Kara’s eyes, conjures it into being with every fibre she has left. Wraps herself up in it, plunges headfirst, drowns.

“Like it matters!” Kara says, no, shouts, from somewhere far above and below her. Lena would flinch, if only she still had a body. The voice rings out through the void. “Like any of it matters now.”

Lena is privately inclined to agree. She tries to breathe, but the full weight of the universe, of every universe, presses in. As everything, even the blackness, dulls, there emerges a crushing, cracking suffocation, and Lena wonders why she can’t even die in peace. A high-pitched scream, maybe hers, maybe Kara’s, maybe her mother’s, maybe the world’s, stretching out before her like a pathway. Though there’s no doubt where it ends, Lena almost wants to follow it, if only to escape this sensation of being crumbled, submerged, denied life as its very essence is wrung from her being.

And then a hundred trillion bolts of lightning shoot through her at once, and Lena is gone.

-

When she wakes, she wakes secure in the knowledge that she must be alive. Sure that the pain that had burst through her, blighted every nerve with an agony so intense she feels its phantom grip even now, could only lead back to life. Sure that no departure could hurt that much.

When she wakes, it is through cracked, dry eyes to the sight of pipes and ceiling vents, the bland, industrial grey that can only denote underfunded government property.

When she wakes, Kara is standing at the foot of her bed, hands behind her back and looking every inch the righteous hero, and Lena’s unsteady heart sinks. She’s been on the receiving end of this authoritative pose more than enough for one lifetime. At least her hands aren’t on her hips.

But Kara’s eyes brighten as they meet Lena’s fluttering gaze. “Lena.” Quiet, reverential. “How are you feeling?”

Lena takes stock. Alive, to begin with. Every limb still intact. Aside from an unnerving constriction in her chest and the fact that her blood feels a little like it’s burning her cells as it courses through her veins, it could certainly be worse.

When she speaks her voice is hoarse, cracking. “What happened?”

The same darkness creeps into the edges of her vision as she listens to Kara list the extent of the damage. She presses her lips together, willing away the blackness, registering only snippets.

Stab wound. Kryptonite poisoning. Collapsed lung. Cardiac arrest. Resuscitation.

Leviathan, gone. Andrea, captured. Lex, escaped.

The words wash over her like a freezing tide, and Lena wonders if maybe the darkness had been easier after all.

It takes far longer than it should for her to realise that the room has fallen silent. Kara is watching her, concern etched into her features like tears carving through stone.

Lena swallows as best she can. “And you?”

A corner of Kara’s mouth quirks up. “I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

But she doesn’t look fine. She looks exhausted, her face drawn, blue eyes lacking their characteristic shine. Even her hero’s stance can’t mask the fatigue weighing heavy on her shoulders.

But Lena doesn’t have the strength to argue the point. She rolls her head to the side, joints popping and releasing, noticing for the first time the tangle of IV lines threading into her skin. She lifts her other hand to touch them, feels the warning tug of more needles even as Kara steps forward, arms raised as if to stop her.

Her hands reach toward Lena, or at least, the spaces where her hands should be. Huge white dressings swaddle Kara from the wrists down, so bulky they do not resemble hands at all. Lena’s breath catches in her lungs as she takes in the unwieldy bandages, third degree burns and possible nerve damage echoing through her mind and she understands now why Kara had hidden them behind her back.

The inhale she aims for seems to stick in her ribs and she can feel again the crushing, the cracking, the dizzying lack of oxygen as her head spins. Kara is by her side in an instant, radiating warmth and just breathe, Lena, it’s okay, a comforting weight settling against her hip. Lena thanks the thick blanket for blurring the press of rough bandages where there should be warm skin, softening it into something just nondescript enough to be calming.

When her pounding pulse has slowed, the heart monitor downgrading to a less frenetic beat, she sucks in a breath despite her lungs’ protestation, waits for her vision to clear. Kara is still there, and dread opens up in Lena’s chest.

“You— you touched it. The kryptonite. You pulled it out.”

Kara doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just nods, her gaze locked on Lena’s own. Lena lies catatonic, paralysed with the knowledge, unable to move even as Alex enters the room. Dimly aware of low words exchanged between the two sisters and then Alex at her bedside, gentler than Lena’s been worthy of seeing her in years. Just rest, Lena, the press of a button on the IV monitor, and she sinks back into oblivion.

#i wrote this immediately after the s5 finale (clearly) and before i finished it i got the idea for 'with the birds' and blasted that one #and then i was just like well. i've just done kara and lena's whole big reconciliation arc. do i really want to do it again #even though the premise of this one is different and reading through it again today i still quite like it #but i just don't know. i don't want to redo the same theme constantly and also i haven't thought up a satisfying ending #but there's 16k words written so like. i guess i should never say never #who knows #anyway thank you for your interest! i'm touched that you would care about this idea #and i hope you like this beginning! though as i said. it's angst city #i've just never recovered from that scene you know? #lena standing between kara and a threat whispering 'if you want to get to supergirl you're gonna have to go through me' #has anything sexier ever happened in the history of the moving image i'm not sure #truly the fic basically writes itself #anyways. bon appetit i guess #hope you're having a wonderful day #asks #anonymous #ridings writes

[refurbishedgray]

Lover, Look and See (Crosshair x Reader drabble)

Crosshair x Reader; NSFW; 1.1k words

Involves Extra Imperial Dark!Crosshair, vaguely stream-of-consciencey 

Trigger Warnings: reader death, suggested violence

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

You remember the days when his hand used to shake. But maybe those, too, had been your imagination. A faraway summer dream that is no longer as vivid as it used to be, until you find you can’t quite make the warm colors fit into stark black-white reality.

You close your eyes and try harder to remember, but cold wet is seeping into your kneecaps and the only warmth that comes flashing through your mind is an old one, from rough hands and sharp, biting incisors and the grunting ring of beautiful sounds from above and under and around you. Like gnashing teeth, the memory stirs and starts to chew.

“Look at me.” It’s the same voice. His voice, the only one that ever made your own hands shake. “Look. at. me.”

Desperation. A different, harsher, uglier kind than what he used to show you in darkened rooms.

The whisper of a threat - they’re not promises any more, even if the words are the same - presses at your temple. You try to look past him, to the mouth of the dirty, midnight street where he’d chased and caught you. You never could outrun him. The rains on this planet are heavy; pretty sounds pattering all around in an empty alley. But the sky is dark and so is his armor now. Above him, the red, phosphorescent glow of a neon cantina sign leaves his outline hazy. Unclear, like all the memories now.

As you turn your eyes to the gun, the vicious gleam of the barrel is the same color as the hair he had shaved away, and in the tick of slow seconds, you wonder if you had always lived in a dream.

………………

“Look at me.” The flashing white-hot lance of pain at the cusp of your ear drowns your lungs in a sudden breath. You hiss and curse and when the burn is soothed by a wet, hot kiss, you make sweeter sounds. Sometimes you can’t look at him. Sometimes, it’s too much, the tangling that starts in your chest too threatening for you to be brave.

His lips slide from your ear to your mouth. It’s not a kiss. It’s a joining. Until where he stops and you start can’t be separated by the breaths rattling from your mouth into his.

“Look, look…”

His hips rut against yours, hitting deep and grinding. Rooted inside you. It’s almost too perfect, too close, too intense, but your thighs slide around his anyway, damp skin over damp skin, and you lock him to you. He groans into your mouth, tries to thrust, but he’s so deep there’s nowhere to go.

“Look at me.” He mouths the words against your cheek. “Please.”

The plea makes your hands tighten and then tear loose from his shoulder blades, fingers sliding up his neck to snare the silver cropped hair. You dare to open your eyes and catch a flash of it against the neon glow leaking in through the window. You’d never tell him it was pretty.

Another roll of his hips tears a sob loose from you and he swallows it, drinks it like it will keep him alive when he leaves. His heart is pounding, or maybe it’s your own, but the rhythm is a fast-burning flame that coils itself around your insides and makes you flutter around the cock that’s planted inside you. It tears something free inside his chest, a ragged, pitiful sound Crosshair will call you liar for repeating when later, you remind him he’s made it.

He peels back, shoulders rising, arms loosening beneath you just enough that he can watch you.

You look at him, at the honey brown in his eyes lost to something dark. He snatches at the hand you raise to his face and presses a kiss to your palm, canines catching flesh as he pulls away.

He smiles, a white slash of teeth, when he hears you keen. His chest shines in the neon glow, blue-white over brown that’s lost its color; he’s sweating, suffering for this, like you are. He snaps his hips as you wrap your legs tight around his narrow waist, and somehow, he’s deeper still, like the plunge of a knife that’s found your heart. It’s going to bleed you out and leave you happy to die bloody.

You keep looking at him until you can’t. Until you see the knot form in his brow you know so well. Sometimes, you can’t look at each other.

There’s too much that needs to be said that will never be said.

But it doesn’t matter.

Stars flash behind your eyes as the universe goes nova and somewhere, distantly, you hear him curse your name and feel the flood of all he can give you bury itself deep, deep inside.

That’s what matters.  

He collapses beside you, an arm pulling you tight, and sighs contentedly as his fingers dance past your stomach to probe at what he’s left behind.

You look at him through the darkness, and trade a smile for a smile.

This is what matters.

He’s here. He’ll always be here.

………….

The hiss of a plasma cartridge charging loosens the memory. Carries it off into the flooded sewer trickling nearby. Gone. Spoiled now. Never to be remembered again.

He’s going to kill you. You wonder if he wants to, or if they’ve told him to do it just to prove to him that he can. You were the easiest to catch. The simplest and sweetest target. His brothers are long lost to the stars, safe on a planet you can’t name.

An ache blooms in your chest, so sharp and shattering you think he’s pulled the trigger too soon.

“Cross…” It’s the first word you’ve said to him since they stole him. Since he left. It’s said so softly, you wonder if he’s heard it.

“Look.” It’s the same susurrous whisper you remember and the echo the soft word sends splintering in your mind brings tears when nothing else does. “Look and see.”

You don’t want to see the ruin.

Your tears are lost to the rain and you wonder if he knows or notices you are weeping. For him. For yourself. For the galaxy that had given and taken him to and from your hands.

The plasma cartridge flares, charged and blindingly bright, like a sun rising. Or setting. You suppose it’s setting now. Strange, how slowly his finger moves to the trigger, unshaken. A stranger’s hand that used to pull your heart out and put it back in again.  

You look, because it’s the last thing you can do.

And in the final yawning millisecond, you see him and one last tear falls.

#the bad batch #bad batch crosshair #crosshair x reader #triggers #reader death #star wars #sw tbb #angst #unhappy endings

[clareguilty]

Coal Fires and Snowstorms

This was a request fic that was originally for the Overwatch cowboy but I changed to Arthur Morgan for... apparent reasons Arthur Morgan/F!Reader (reader also has big enby vibes) Rating: Mature | No Warnings Word Count: ~2,200

Arthur wakes with a wheeze, bolting upright and smacking his chest with his fist as he tries to pull in enough air.

He’s shirtless, but a woven blanket had been draped over him while he was unconscious. A ray of light cuts through a grimy window. The angle is harsh enough that it’s probably late in the evening.

The last thing Arthur can remember is the dark of the night and the clamoring of the law on his heels. So he’s been out for at least a day.

His lips are dry and cracked, and his muscles groan in protest with every movement. God, his head is pounding like he was hit by a damn train.

A door creaks open, and there’s a squeak of surprise. “Oh! You’re awake!”

Arthur blinks in the harsh sunlight that’s streaming into the small cabin. Whoever is there is bundled up in furs and a jacket with a bow over their shoulder. They’ve got two armfuls of game practically swallowing them.

“Who are you? Where am I?” He means for it to sound rough and demanding, but it’s more croaky and pathetic when the words pass his lips.

“I’m not really anybody, and this is my cabin up in Cumberland. The law chased you a long ways from Annesburg didn’t they? You must have done something real bad.” The hunter dumps all the game onto the table and rushes to the bedroll where Arthur lays. “You aren’t hurt too bad or nothing, but you’ve got a real nasty cough. I’ve got tea and herbs that should help. I bandaged up all the bleeding bits as best I could”

Arthur is bewildered. He knows there had been a fire in Annesburg -- the coal had gone up in a pyre in seconds. Somehow, he had gotten separated from Dutch and the others. The smoke had taken him like crows to a carcass, and he was lucky to make it across the ridge with the way his eyes and lungs were burning.

The last thing he remembered was the pinkertons still on his heels and the darkness of the trees as he tried to hide in the brush. He must have made it to cover before the smoke and the soot finally got him.

He flinches as the hunter sticks an open flask under his nose. “Tea. It’s bitter but you’ll need it.”

Arthur sniffs the mouth of the flask, but it sure does just smell like weeds and water. He takes a sip and wrinkles his nose. But the flavor is a small price to pay for the way the liquid soothes the burning in his mouth and throat.

“Thank you,” he says. “You could have left me in those woods to rot. I appreciate you dragging my sorry ass back here.”

You grin and pat the bandage on his arm. “It weren’t much trouble, but you sure are one large fella.” Arthur thinks you must be a young boy -- it’s hard to tell. Your hair is short under your cap but your voice isn’t all that low.

You turn to the game on the table and grab a knife from your belt. “I hunted enough for the both of us the next few days. It’s gonna be a while before you’ve got your strength back, and a snowstorm is rolling in off the Grizzlies anyways.”

Arthur frowns. “Bit early for snow, isn’t it?”

You shrug. “Winter never listens to me. At least the game was out. Everyone is trying to feed as much as they can before it gets too cold to hunt. That includes us.”

Arthur grunts and struggles to his feet. “I can help with those,” he offers.

You watch him with narrowed eyes, obviously skeptical of Arthur’s strength. “Take the small ones,” you offer up the rabbits and squirrels.

Arthur usually doesn’t have a problem skinning game, but the smoke must have gotten to him more than he thought because he finds himself having to take a rest after just a few minutes. He finishes off the flask of tea and sorts through his pack and weapons.

“My horse…” he asks after a while.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I found her not far from where you were unconscious and she helped me get you back here. She’s out back with my Old Girl.”

“Thank you,” Arthur sounds genuinely touched. “She really means a lot to me.”

You shoot him another smile. “You’re nothing but a big softie, ain’t ya? What could you have done to have the law chasing you all the way across the damn country?”

Arthur rubs the back of his neck, flushing in embarrassment. “My folks might have blown up Annesburg? I don’t actually know how much of it is left…”

“Ha!” you bark. “You’re with them van der Linde folks?”

Arthur’s silence is answer enough.

“I won’t judge,” you shrug. “You’re safe as long as you want to rest here.”

And rest Arthur does. He’s confined to the bedroll, rolled out on a warm pile of furs near the stove. You’re good company, witty and friendly and far too nosy for your own good. Arthur learns that you’ve has been living in these parts for a few years now, trapping and hunting and crafting to sell in town every few weeks. It’s more of a living than Arthur could ever ask for. Arthur thinks he might be sweet on you.

It’s another day before he’s got the strength to walk. He makes it outside to his horse, glad to see that she’s well taken care of. You had said you were going off to bathe in a nearby stream, and Arthur follows the sound of the water.

He’s not expecting what he finds. The water is shallow but fast moving, and he sees a familiar jacket hung on a branch by the bank.

You’re turned away, rinsing in the ice cold water, and Arthur can see the gooseflesh on your skin.

But when you turn slightly, it’s the swell of breasts and the curve of hips that catches Arthur’s attention. He averts his eyes quickly, darting back towards the cabin with his cheeks stained pink.

Now that he thinks about it, you had never said that you were a man. Arthur had simply figured it was most likely. The soft voice and gentle features make more sense now.

“You had better wash up if you want to,” you say when you return to the cabin. “The snow is coming in tonight. I can smell it. I stocked up on herbs for your cough and we’ve got plenty of provisions. I’m gonna split some more wood to bring inside.”

Arthur can’t help but find it attractive that you’re so knowledgeable and well prepared. He makes his way to the stream on his own and washes up in the frigid water, pushing through another coughing fit when the cold makes his muscles seize.

It’s already getting colder when he gets back inside. His weak breath fogs even inside the cabin and the little stove can’t do nearly enough to warm the small space.

“You’re going to freeze,” he tells you. He’s big enough to handle the cold -- spent a damn month up in the grizzlies without much of a problem -- but you surely won’t last the snowstorm.

“I’ve made it before,” you say with a huff and a glare. “I’ve got plenty of furs to keep me warm.”

“Put your bedroll beside mine,” Arthur insists. “We can share the blankets.”

The snow begins to fall, sticking to the ground in wet clumps, and you brace yourselves for the days to come. You’re practically strangers -- save for the fact that you had dragged Arthur out of the woods and saved his life. Now you have no choice but to rely on each other until the snow melts.

Arthur wakes in the night to your violent shivering under the blankets. He pulls you so that you’re pressed against his chest, tucking both of you under the quilts closer together. “I thought you said you’d made it through this before?”

You huff, teeth chattering. “I survived. I never said I kept warm.”

“Stay close to me. It’s my turn to keep you alive.” He drifts back to sleep to the howl of the winter winds.

The next morning he’s greeted by a bowl of piping stew that makes his sinuses burn. “I had some jarred peppers I keep for weather just like this. You’re in no condition for liquor so this is the best you’re gonna get.”

Arthur accepts the stew graciously. He’s not ready for the way you stand on your tippy toes to kiss him on the cheek when he offers to wash both of the bowls.

You pass the time snowed in with several rounds of cards. Arthur tells stories about him and the gang until his throat aches and he starts coughing again, and so the you regale Arthur with your life’s tale and a few stories you picked up over the years. You’re curled up next to each other in front of the stove, and you have no shame about burrowing against Arthur in a quest for body heat. He lets you steal as much as you want.

“I thought you were a boy when I first woke up,” Arthur says.

You shrug. “Most people do. I find it makes things easier a lot of the time. How’d you figure me out?” You don’t seem to feel too strongly one way or another about how Arthur and others see you.

Arthur hides his embarrassment behind a cough. “I, uh, caught you washing up in the stream.”

“Oh,” you laugh, “that’s pretty solid proof, ain’t it.” You’re smiling, not shy at all. “You’re not mad at me for lying, are you?”

“You never lied,” Arthur says. “I just came to my own conclusions. Doesn’t matter much to me anyways, whether you’re a man or a woman.”

You frown at that. “Doesn’t matter?”

“Nah,” Arthur ruffles your short hair. “You’re cute either way.”

It’s the right thing to say. The frown disappears and you settle back against him, humming contentedly.

He wakes in the night to the feeling of your breath on his neck. You shift and your lips brush against his skin. He can’t help the way his whole body tenses at the sensation. His arm is draped around your waist, holding you close because he knows you’ll freeze if he doesn’t.

He pulls you in closer. Every inch where your skin touches his feels oversensitive and hot. You’re still asleep -- he can tell from how slow you breath against his skin, but you reach an arm around his neck and burrow against him.

His heart begins to race. He’s flushed and half asleep and you fit against him so well in this tiny cabin that you’ve made your home. One of his hands slides down your back. You moan as his palm passes over the small of your back and the curve of your ass. His hand comes to the back of your thigh, but you shift again and rock your hips against him.

He gasps, then has to fight back a cough. He doesn’t want to wake you, but your quest for warmth has you plastered against him in a very compromising position. It’s starting to make his long johns downright painful, and he thinks he’ll combust in shame.

You rock against him once more, mumbling sleepily into his skin.

“Darlin’” he croaks. But the sound doesn’t wake you. He tries to wriggle an arm between you so he can push you off, but instead he winds up with a handful of your breast, and the most gorgeous sound he’s ever heard escapes your lips.

He freezes. He’s painfully hard now, and you’re still gently rocking against him in your sleep, perhaps even more so now that he’s got a hand on your chest.

“Arthur, please,” you whine.

He’s pretty sure you’re awake by now, so he readjusts his hand and rubs his thumb over the peak of your nipple. You let out another breathy moan against his skin. This time when he runs a hand over your ass he lets himself take a moment to appreciate how it feels under his palm, they way his fingers sink into the soft skin beneath your winter sleep clothes. He once again places his hand on the back of your thigh and pulls you so that your hips are lined up with his, straddling him under the blankets.

You whine against him once more and grind your hips downward. The friction does way more for him than he imagines it must for you, and his vision whites out momentarily at the heat and weight of you against him.

He loses himself in the motion of your hips for several long moments, but then your whines grow frustrated and unsatisfied and he knows exactly what your after.

Gripping both of your hips tightly, he flips you both so that you’re laying back on the bedroll and he’s kneeling over you.

Your eyes fly open.

“Arthur?”

“You were asleep?” he looks absolutely bewildered.

“I thought so? I was having the best dream.” Your eyes look past him as you remember.

“I don’t think you were dreaming, sweetheart,” he chuckles. He leans in to place an open mouthed kiss against your neck. You gasp and dig your nails into his shoulder.

“Then I think you had better keep going, cowboy.”

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan/reader #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #mild lemons #oranges #i guess #maybe limes

[cassanovancats]

felicitate. nine.

eight < current > ten

Dec. 24, 2017

You make yourself comfortable on the rooftop, debating if you should go ahead and text your brother. He would be almost as disappointed as you were; Satoru had taken to calling himself the captain of your ship with Yuta and Toge, even coming up with a nickname that incorporated shortened versions of all three names. You sigh, deciding it’s probably best to not text him. He’s likely already worried about leaving you in charge, no need to add a worry about something that isn’t deadly.

A sudden yell disrupts your thoughts and you jump into position, nocking an arrow and aiming towards the scream. You hitch your breath at the sight: Geto is striding into your school alone, leaving a trail of headless assistants behind him. One of the bodies is familiar and you recognize her as the assistant that gave you chocolate with a bright smile after a mission with unfortunate timing left you covered in curse blood and your own. She didn't flinch or offer pity - just a single chocolate kiss. Now she is covered in gore and blood, her previously pristine white shirt coated with her own brain matter.

You feel your resolve hardens. Geto is a curse-user, a human at his core, but he also is a monster. The arrow flies an accurate course but the man dodges, leaving it to embed itself into the wall instead of his torso. He turns to your rooftop, calling out, “Ah, (y/n)! And here I thought your brother would lock you in a tower.” Geto unleashes a grade-one curse that looks similar to a wolf and sends it after you. He is infuriatingly unbothered by your presence and continues his steady gait into the school grounds.

You start running across the rooftops, jumping over gaps and dodging the curse’s attempts to bite you. The rooftop tiles bite into your hands and knees. It faintly registers that a nail broke when you almost missed a jump, narrowly avoiding falling to the ground.

Satoru didn’t say how long to keep this secret, but you assume now is a good time to give Maki and Yuta a heads-up. You spot Maki stepping away from a classroom, so you run there, drawing the curse after you. On the roof next to where she stands, you plant your feet and turn, suddenly drawing your katana and slicing at the wolf. It draws back, avoiding your attack before lunging suddenly. Its claws sink into your leg. You cry out in pain, falling to your knees. When the curse lunges again, this time aiming for your throat, you fall on your back and thrust your blade into its stomach. You force the blade down its body with a grunt, disemboweling the creature. The teeth around your throat loosen, but the dead weight of the curse dropping on you prevents you from getting up immediately. Guts slide out and onto you and you suppress a gag. You feel a lot like Carrie on prom night.

When you finally stagger to your feet, you see Maki has engaged Geto in a fight that she’s obviously losing. You cry her name and rush to her side. She doesn’t get a chance to acknowledge you as Geto, in one fluid moment, breaks her weapon and sends her flying. She falls to the ground as a ragdoll, bleeding heavily from her side and head. You watch her body land, horrified, before you’re snapped back into the fight rudely.

Geto is now the closest to you he’s been since you were a child, frightened and unable to communicate with the people around you. He feels some long-forgotten sense of pity as he slides the blade of his knife further into your stomach. “W-wh-?” You look at the handle sticking out of your body curiously, blood starting to leak from the corner of your mouth. The pain hasn’t begun to register but your body understands that you are unable to fight. You faint, missing the entrance of Panda and Toge by a few precious seconds.

When Yuta comes out from the classroom, he isn’t sure what he’s expecting to find. He felt a few earthquakes and thought it best to find you and Maki to wait out any aftershocks together. Yuta was sure it was to be a little awkward after his rejection, but also wanted to be sure you were okay. He didn’t expect to find you covered in blood, the same cute gym clothing you were wearing that morning when he rejected you ruined. A quick glance around and he sees the rest of his classmates, his friends, in similar form. Inumaki is clinging to consciousness.

Geto, the one who grabbed Yuta months earlier, stands surrounded by the bodies, hardly winded. “I truly wanted you to live, Okkotsu, but this is for the future of jujutsu.” Yuta wonders how he can fight this man. How can he protect his friends, the only ones to give him a chance since Rika, when Geto already destroyed the strongest people he knew. He was so, so weak compared to each of them.

Inumaki desperately calls a slurred version of his name and says, “Run away.” The fact that the command does nothing, that Yuta feels nothing, breaks him from his spiral. He summons Rika in a rage.

“I am going to kill you!” He declares. Yuta doesn’t think he has ever felt such anger and despair, the feeling of watching Rika die now multiplied by four.

Geto simply says, “You are going to die.”

-

A sudden pull on your stomach wakes you harshly. “Shit!” Your eyes snap open, to see a sheepish Panda holding the knife that was previously in your stomach. You automatically go to apply pressure on the wound but your hands find Maki’s already there, dressing the wound. “What happened?”

“The fight’s over, but we need to find Yuta,” Maki explains. “He must have healed all of us, but you still had the blade in you. It needed to be removed before you get up. All of us are going to be fine, (y/n), you can rest now.” She helps you to your feet and you cringe looking at your ruined outfit. Maki catches your pout and smiles, glad some things never change.

Toge comes to your side to take Maki’s place as your crutch. You hug him tightly, unable to express in words how relieved you are. He hugs back, equally overwhelmed after seeing what seemed like your corpse. Toge helps you limp along as you all start tracking Yuta’s residuals. Panda clears his throat and asks, “When did this happen?”

“Only a few days ago. Don’t act like you didn’t see this coming,” you explain with an eye-roll.

“No, I totally did. Just curious who won the bet.”

“If we didn’t just fight for our lives, I would kill you.” You four continue to try to have a light conversation until you come upon Yuta’s unconscious body. Toge helps you sit on the ground and you move his head onto your lap, muttering about checking for a concussion. All of you needed medical attention but you were desperate to help any way you could now.

Yuta begins to blink his eyes open and sits up urgently. “Your wounds… Panda! Your arm!” He seems to be working himself into a frenzy. You place a comforting hand on his shoulder as Panda explains that everyone will be okay. Yuta urgently looks over you, trying to determine how much blood was yours, before he seems satisfied.

“Thank you for saving us,” You whisper. His eyes fill with tears and you wonder how scared he must have been. You maintain eye contact, hoping to communicate how much you admire him, before Rika’s jumbled voice makes the both of you jump. Yuta stands, leaving the circle your class formed around him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Rika,” he says, approaching her.

“What’s wrong?” Maki asks, a little fearful at how resigned Yuta looks.

Yuta hums a little before answering, “In exchange for her power, I promised to go with her.”

“What?” You screech and the suddenness of the yell pains your wound. Your classmates join a chorus of disagreement. Panda and Inumaki both grab fistfuls of his shirt to prevent him from walking any closer to Rika. Instead of her usual retaliation for someone restraining Yuta, her form just falls away to reveal a young girl. Four of you are confused but Yuta just mumbles, “Rika?”

A clapping distracts from the drama. You turn as best you can with a hole in your stomach to see your brother without any eye wear approaching your group. “Congrats. You broke the curse,” he continues to clap and stands next to you.

“Who’re you?” Yuta and Maki ask, causing you to snort before you groan at the pain.

Your brother pouts before replying, “Everyone’s favorite good-looking Gojo-sensei. Do you not see the sibling resemblance?” He gestures between your face and his, before carefully putting you on his back. He doesn’t even flinch at the grime covering you transferring onto him as well, relieved to see you awake and alert. You rest your chin on his shoulder and listen to him explain.

“I thought Yuta was interesting, so I looked into his lineage. Apparently, you’re a descendant of Michizane Sugawara. So, super-distant, but we’re relatives!” You groan and hide your face in Satoru’s neck; the teasing to come will be unbearable.

Your classmates look dumbfounded at the information while Yuta just goes, “Who?”

“One of Japan’s big three vengeful spirits.”

“A big-shot sorcerer.”

“Tuna.”

“The annoying side of the family,” you add.

Your brother takes back control of the conversation. “Yuta, you’re right. Rika isn’t cursing you, you cursed her. When the curser severs the bond tying servant to master and the cursed doesn’t desire punishment, the curse is broken. Though it seems you figured that out by yourself.” He gestures at the little girl and Yuta.

“Oh my god,” Yuta collapses in tears. “It’s all my fault…. Hurting so many people, Geto coming after me, it’s all my - all my -” He begins to hyperventilate. Inumaki takes a step to comfort him, but before he can, Rika approaches and hugs his trembling form.

“Thank you, Yuta. For giving me time and letting me be by your side. I’ve been happier these past six years than I ever was alive. Good-bye, be well. And don’t come over too soon, ‘kay?” She gives a bright smile, toothy and pure as she dissolves into bright ashes. Yuta stares at where she stood, long after all the ashes disappeared and everyone else walked away.

“See you,” He says to himself, before getting up to follow his friends to Doctor Ieiri.

#felicitate #cass.writes #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #inumaki x reader #yuta okkotsu x reader #inumaki x reader x yuta #female!reader #jjk spoilers #jjk volume 0 spoilers #please dont take knives out #they help keep blood in normally after getting stabbed

[thesightstoshowyou]

Exposed

Dead by Daylight’s Michael Myers x AFAB Reader (NSFW)

Summary: Michael saves his favorite toy for last. Lucky you.

Warnings: Dubcon, violence, blood, gore, torture, slapping, rib trauma, biting, creampie, reader “death”

This was inspired by @slasherholic and their wonderful headcanons regarding Michael’s obsession in DBD.

 ~~

             You lick the sweat from your lip and peer around the corner of the dilapidated house, your current resting position. Your chest heaves, trembling legs aching from hours of running. Flashing red and blue from the abandoned police car obscures your vision so you pull back and focus on reining in your panicked breaths. He’ll hear you if you don’t get yourself under control.

             You haven’t seen Myers for a good twenty minutes, but you know he’s close. He’s always close, always one step ahead, patiently waiting for your final misstep. Only then will he strike.

             This game, this dance between the two of you has become as inevitable as Michael himself. As soon as you spot the white mask through the mist, see the fist tighten around the handle of his knife, you know there will be no escape for you, no painless end. You’re Michael’s favorite toy and now you’re the only one left.

             He always saves you for last. The others are gone, sacrificed to the Entity who must now begrudgingly humor Michael as he takes his time, stalking, chasing, herding you in the direction he wants. You’re not so arrogant to think you’re quick enough to evade him, no. You’re only alive because he wants you to be.

             Still, you try to escape. Pushing to your feet, you creep across the yard, scurrying and hunched, until your back is pressed to the tire of the police car. Boots smack on asphalt and you clap your hand to your mouth, dropping to the ground to peer under the car.

             Bloodied, black boots cross the street, then pause, listening. You hear the slow, even breathing, a sound that never fails to send a thrill of fear down your spine. Unhurried steps tap, measured and calculating until he’s striding down the street, moving away from you.

             He knows where you are, you’re certain, but he must not be done playing yet. As quiet as you can, you crawl around to the back of the car. Peering past the trunk, you find the street empty in both directions.

             Then, your heart stutters. The hatch! There, in the middle of the street, just a block away. Can you make it?

             You chance one last glance up and down the street. Inhaling, you launch yourself forward, stepping as lightly but as quickly as you can. It’s there, just a few feet away—

             A noisy thud to your left makes you whip your head around just in time to watch Michael vault over the top of the rusty Ford beside you. You shriek, try to dart between two cars but a fist closes around the collar of your shirt. Fabric rips as you pull away, but then you’re grabbed around the waist, hauled clean off your feet, and thrown into the street with such force you bounce.

             You groan, roll onto your stomach in an attempt to crawl but a boot on your back stops you, pins you to the ground. Slowly, Michael pushes down, grinds his heel into your spine until you’re gasping. You whimper when you feel your ribs straining under the force of his sole.

             Michael doesn’t relent, instead shoving his full weight down until you feel a ‘pop.’ A scream erupts from your throat, one you immediately silence when sharp pain stabs you in the side with your inhale. Michael lets off, rolling you onto your back with the toe of his boot before seating himself on your thighs.

             You don’t fight now. You’re caught, he’s won, and now he’s going to collect his prize. Struggling would only excite him anyway; he might get too carried away and kill you before he gets to your favorite part. You’re already slick between the thighs with memories of your last meeting.  

             As much as you dread this endless game, fear the bite of his knife, you can’t help but crave the feeling of his hands on you, the meticulous way he peels back every layer until he finds what he’s looking for. You’re not sure what about you interests him so much, but some dark part of you is glad he discovered it. Trials with Michael always break up the monotony of this hell hole.

             Heavy breaths pour from his mask as he leans over you and tears the rest of your shirt away. You pant as well, heaving shallow inhales to avoid the agony of a full breath. You flinch when he retrieves the knife from the ground beside him, metal scraping on asphalt with a terrifying rattle.

             You clench your eyes shut when he sets the point against your torso, yelping when Michael delivers a stinging slap to your cheek. Your eyes fly open and he fists a hand in your hair, tipping your head down to make sure you’re watching when he cuts into you. He wants you to see it.

             With deliberate precision, Michael traces the blade just beneath your injured rib. Blood wells up along the cut and spills down your waist to drip onto the ground and soak into your jeans. Your hiss of pain turns into a scream when he does the same to the flesh above the rib. Violently, you shake under him, trying your best not to thrash and mess up his little project.

             He drops your head to free up a hand so he can dig his fingers into your flesh. The screams tearing from your throat echo so loudly in your ears you can hardly hear the squelch and tear of muscle and sinew as it’s pulled away to reveal white bone beneath. Burning hot agony, wretched, nauseating torture sends you reeling, the landscape around you blurring as tears well in your eyes and trickle down your cheeks.

             Bloodied fingers slide along your exposed rib bone, tracing the rough surface and you realize with a start that he’s searching for where it’s cracked. Michael’s curious fingers pause when he locates what he’s after. You utter a strangled shout when he pushes against the fracture, lightly at first, then harder until the bone completely snaps in half with a sickening crunch you feel more than hear. You sob, nails scrabbling against the street until your fingers bleed. Michael simply watches, good eye sliding leisurely from your wound to your face, apathetic to your misery.

             Suddenly, Michael’s weight disappears from your legs. He grips your hips, flipping you onto your stomach before wrenching your jeans down to your knees. The movement jostles your wound, your hoarse screech burning its way out of your throat.

             Michael lifts your hips with one hand and presses on the side of your face with the other so your cheek grinds uncomfortably into the asphalt. Hard, hot flesh pushes against your slippery entrance and you’re so relieved he’s finally going to fuck you that you let out a shaky moan. In one, smooth thrust, Michael hilts himself.

             You grit your teeth as he sets a frenzied pace, hammering you into the ground, every jerk of his hips jarring your mangled side. Your cunt flutters around the cock assaulting your insides as your muscles attempt to adjust to the sudden stretch. Road burn blossoms along your cheek where’s its smashed against the ground, a new sensation to add to the list of hurts.

             Still, even through dizzying pain, you feel warm pleasure roiling in your belly. It’s astounding, really, how Michael is still able to make you cum even after everything else he’s done to you. This is not his goal, of course, just a fortunate side effect of his rough treatment.  

             The hand on your face disappears and you hear the squeak of rubber behind you as Michael removes his mask. Then, fingers wrap around your throat, lifting your head off the ground and pulling until your back arches. The stretch at your ribs makes you scream, vision narrowing to pinpoints for a moment before brightening again. Blood gushes from the wound, staining your skin bright scarlet as it splatters onto the road.

             Michael bends down and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, hard enough to draw your attention away from your aching side, if only for a moment. He keeps you like this—arched, bleeding—as he viciously pistons his hips. He bites your neck this time, the crunch of tendons between his teeth making bile rise in your throat.

             While you still have the presence of mind to speak, you murmur his name, the stammered, “M-Michael,” making him bite you again under the ear as he wraps a possessive arm around your waist. Michael crushes you to his chest, pummeling your twitching cunt so hard you wonder if he’s going to break something else.

             When you finally cross that beautiful precipice, the delicious knot of pleasure in your core finally unravelling, you’re blessed with one of Michael’s rare vocalizations, a raspy groan you can feel vibrating against your back. You moan your appreciation when his hips stutter and jerk. Warmth spills into your cunt, only to dribble out around the cock stuffed inside you until it’s trickling down your quivering thighs.

             Brusquely, Michael drops you, but you no longer possess the strength to catch yourself. Your heated cheek smacks against cool asphalt and you groan in pain, every fiber in your body alight and frayed. Michael’s fingers dig into the flesh of you ass and spread you open so he can watch his seed drip from your abused slit.

             Then, you’re rolled onto your back once more. Utterly exhausted, you only manage a pathetic whimper of pain when the movement jars the gaping, oozing wound in your side. The mask has returned, red and blue lights reflecting off its smooth surface.

             Michael crawls over you once more, bending low, bringing his masked face inches from your own. You hear the deep, steady breaths, meet the blue eye intently studying your face. You gasp when he slips the knife into your chest, burying the blade to the hilt in your heart. Blood fountains up out of your throat and you choke on copper, splattering gore across the white face hovering above you.

             Your eyelids droop. One, last haggard breath gurgles in your bloody throat. Little by little, your muscles relax, pain draining away until there’s nothing but black.

             Then, the crackling of a fire meets your ears. You keep your eyes closed for a moment, imprinting the memory of Michael’s arm wrapped around your waist, the sound he’d made when he came, the color of his eyes as he’d observed you. As always, you do your best to quell the smile that threatens to spread across your face.

#michael myers #michael myers x reader #the shape #the shape x reader #dbd michael myers #dbd the shape #dead by daylight #dbd #slashers #slasher x reader #halloween 1978 #halloween #dubcon #blood #my writing #violence #dbd michael myers x reader

[rejectofsociety]

We’ll Get Old If We’re Lucky

Summary:

He reaches forward and holds her hand and she presses her lips into a thin smile. Then she sighs, wipes off the wound again, and reaches for the needle and thread.

“Now for the easy part,” she hums.

“Yeah, you’re a pro at this,” Peter agrees as he lets go of her hand.

“Mhm. Now, what did you realize earlier?” Michelle asks, knowing Peter prefers to have his mind busy while getting stitched up.

He thinks a moment about how to word his realization, then says slowly: “everyone’s afraid to die young… but no one wants to be old.”

•••

After Peter comes home with a bullet in his side, he and Michelle discuss growing old, and if they’ll be lucky enough to get there.

Word Count: 2.2k  

Warnings: Cursing, Discussions of Death, a rant disguised as a fic

Read here on Ao3

༺✦✮✦༻

Peter stumbles home at around midnight, quickly being greet by his wife, then scolded by her for bleeding out on her carpet. Michelle then leads him to the bathroom were he collapses onto the tile, rips off his mask, and vomits all over the floor. With a sigh, she cleans him up, cleans up the vomit, kisses the side of his neck, then leans him against the bathtub. He apologizes a few times and she waves him off, then grabs the first aid kit and asks:

“Where should I start?”

“Ummm…” Peter hesitates, “probably here—“ he points to his side which is steadily oozing blood “—I uh… mighta got shot.”

Michelle heaves a sigh and grabs a rag, “I should really just take you to the hospital.”

“No, no, no, no,” Peter says quickly, then winces as a pain shoots up his side, “no, Em. Just… just pull the bullet out, stitch it up— my self-healing factor can do the rest.”

She chews her lip for a moment then nods, “okay, fine. Lay down.”

“Thank you,” Peter replies gratefully then plants a light kiss on her cheek.

She presses the spider symbol on his suit and delicately helps him slide his arms out of the sleeves, then lets the suit fall to his waist. Then, Peter gingerly lays on his back with some assistance from Michelle. She presses a rag to the wound and leans her weight on it, quickly feeling his warm and sticky blood seeping through. Peter props himself up with an elbow to watch her.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Peter guiltily mumbles, seeing her grimace.

“It’s fine,” she grunts.

He shifts his weight, frowning slightly at her stiff reply. She doesn’t notice.

After a few minutes of silence, with the only sound being Peter’s occasional grunt or whimper of pain, the bleeding finally slows to a stop. Michelle stands up and washes her hands thoroughly, her sleeves now rolled up past her elbows. Then, she cleans Peter’s wound with hot water and a bit of soap and places a pair of tweezers in boiling water. The entire time her breathing is shuddering and uneven, and her hands shake anxiously.

Of course Peter notices, and while they wait for the tweezers to cool off, he wraps one arm around her and holds her close. She lays her head on his chest and mutters to him:

“I just want you to be okay. I don’t want you to hurt.”

To which he whispers back: “it’s okay, Em. I’m okay.”

Even with the tweezers ready, he holds her a while longer to ease her nerves. She calms slowly, eventually pulling herself together for Peter’s sake. Michelle ties back her hair into a sloppy ponytail to keep it out of her face then grabs the tweezers and sits on her knees at Peter’s side, hunched over the gunshot wound.

“MJ, I just realized something,” he says, before Michelle can even locate the bullet.

“Let me pull this thing out of you, then you can tell me,” she suggests, “I need to focus.”

“That’s fair,” he hums, “don’t mess up.”

“Babe, please.”

“Sorry.”

She smiles lopsidedly, still not taking her eyes off the wound. Peter let out a small sigh, admiring her sharp focus and attentive expression.

“I can see the bullet, it’s not deep,” Michelle observes after a minute.

“Okay,” he speaks calmly, “then you’re going to-“

He cuts himself off as she visibly shudders. Peter frowns then realizes that the reality of pulling a bloody bullet out of her husband has just sunk in.

“It’s okay,” he assures, “you’ll be alright.”

“How do you know that?” She hisses disbelievingly.

“I’ve done it two or three times,” he shrugs, “and if I can do it-“

“Who’ve you pulled a bullet out of?”

“Cindy once and myself two times— yeah, so three times.”

Michelle sits back on her heels and rubs her face with a heavy sigh. She pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Are you about to sneeze?” Peter asks.

“No, dumbass,” she snaps, “I’m stressed out and trying to stop my brain from falling out of my face.”

“Oh,” he swallows thickly, tasting blood and vomit, “I’m sorry, the blood loss is getting to me.”

Michelle brushes a few loose strands of hair out of her face and huffs, “alright, we’re going to the hospital.”

“No!” Peter cries frantically as he lunges forward and grabs her hand.

Pain ignites his entire body and he freezes, eyes squeezed shut and expression twisted in agony. He squeezes her hand tightly and it’s almost painful, but she doesn’t pull away. She watches him with wide, worried eyes as she gently strokes the back of his hand, as if she can single-handedly ease away the pain.

“No hospitals,” Peter finally croaks out, his voice weak, “please.”

Michelle heaves a sigh and hesitantly nods, “okay… fine. No hospitals.”

He suspires in relief and brings her hand to his lips, kissing it lightly, “thank you, baby.”

She pauses, looking down at the bullet wound then asks: “now, tell me what to do.”

He smiles at her then begins relaying one step after another to her, being as detailed as he can and answering the few questions that she has. She works cautiously and gingerly, pausing when he hisses in pain and waiting for his permission to continue.

When Michelle finally does extract the bullet, coated in crimson and glimmering in the bright bathroom lights, she forces herself not to gag and drops it onto the bloody rag she used to clean Peter’s wound.

“Great job, baby,” Peter praises with a wobbly smile, “told you you’d be alright.”

“I’m never doing that again,” Michelle shudders, “next time we call Cindy or Gwen or anyone.”

He reaches forward and holds her hand and she presses her lips into a thin smile. Then she sighs, wipes off the wound again, and reaches for the needle and thread.

“Now for the easy part,” she hums.

“Yeah, you’re a pro at this,” Peter agrees as he lets go of her hand.

“Mhm. Now, what did you realize earlier?” Michelle asks, knowing Peter prefers to have his mind busy while getting stitched up.

He thinks a moment about how to word his realization, then says slowly: “everyone’s afraid to die young… but no one wants to be old.”

Michelle briefly glances up at him, “yeah, you’re absolutely right.”

“Like, if you die young it’s like… ‘oh they had so much life left in them’ and when you’re old, now you’re— not my words— ugly and helplessly whatever. And no one wants to be that, y’know?” He rambled, “and then there’s the other stuff that comes with being old, like potential illness, aches and pains— all that. But then if you die young, it’s- like- extra devastating or something because it’s normally really unexpected and sometimes— not always, but sometimes— you’re still in really good health and… and I don’t know.”

“There’s no balance,” Michelle finishes for him, “it’s never a good time to die. But if you live quote unquote ‘too long,’ then it’s not a good time to be alive.”

“Exactly. Or at least, that’s how it’s portrayed,” he flinches as the needle jabs him a little too harshly.

“Sorry,” Michelle mumbles.

“It’s okay,” he sighs. Then he goes quiet for a few moments, and when he does talk again, his voice is soft: “I… MJ, I don’t expect myself to live very long.”

He doesn’t say it sadly. It’s matter-of-fact, like a statement that he’s all too sure of. But even if his tone is calm, his words hit Michelle in the chest like a knife and she instantly finds herself swallowing back tears.

“Peter, don’t say that,” she urges.

“I’m sorry, but it’s true,” he says unapologetically, “I mean… it’s not like I want to die young I just feel like I will. And maybe that’s part of the reason why I don’t understand this- this stigma around getting really fucking old. Like, I hope I get so old I can barely walk.”

Michelle hesitates, “… I hope you do too. I just… I really wanna get old with you.”

He nods, “I do, too.”

“Also, I feel like when you get old, there’s less pressure to look good, y’know?” Michelle begins to think, “like, once you reach a certain point, people kinda except that you’re never gonna look as good as you did when you were twenty or whatever. No one really cares to— or wants to— try getting you to dress in something super flattering or skimpy or pressure you into wearing a lot of make up. You can just wear weird grandma clothes and never touch mascara again if you don’t want to. Y’know?”

“To an extent,” Peter replies, “but I am— obviously— male, and the same standards don’t apply to me.”

She chuckles, “that’s my husband.”

“Yes I am,” he grins, “but I kinda get what you’re saying. I mean, the more physically fit a man is, the more and ‘masculine’ they are, the more acceptable they are by society’s standards. Being old, no one cares and you can just be all shriveled up and… floppy.”

Michelle stops what she’s doing to laugh and Peter lets out a short laugh, before gasping at the pain. Michelle pauses and looks at him with wide, worried eyes.

“Are you okay?” She asks.

He chews on his cheek and nods slightly, “yep. I’m great.”

She sighs and continues, “similar thing goes for women. When you’re really old it doesn’t matter if you have a nice ass or boobs or whatever. Everything can just sag.”

He smiles, “being old sounds fucking awesome. Fuck society, honest. We’ll be lucky to get gross and old.”

She beams at him then leans forward and kisses his forehead, “yes, we will.”

Then, she ties off the stitches and cuts the thread and wraps a bandage around his torso. He thanks her then kisses her sweetly and thanks her again. She helps him stand up and lets his spider suit fall to the ground, then she tosses it in the bathtub— she’ll clean it later. Then she helps him limp to bed where he gingerly dresses himself in a pair of sweatpants with his wife’s assistance then finds himself in too much pain to try putting a shirt on.

They lay together that night, Michelle reading a book— Chaos Walking Book Three: Monsters of Men— trying to keep her mind away from the place it’s tempted to travel: Peter’s inevitable death. Although, a book about war and death isn’t exactly helpful. Especially not as she reads the sorrows of a “Spackle.”

“I should not be alone…. My one in particular should be here with me…. But my one in particular is not here. Because my one in particular was killed…. brought down by a heavy blade. I way dragged away…. Hated them for not letting me die there and then, when my grief was not quite enough to kill me on its own…”

“Peter, what happens if you die young?” Michelle asks suddenly, snapping the book shut.

Peter looks up from his own book and looks at the one in her hands, “you just lost your page,” he says.

“Please answer the question,” she begs, her voice now wavering.

Peter draws in a deep breath, his gaze trailing away from her as he speaks slowly, “I guess… I guess I’ll be grateful for the years I did have.”

“I mean what happens to me?” She almost demands it, but the distress in her voice is clear and forces Peter to meet her gaze again.

He’s quiet for a few beats, listening to the anxious rhythm of Michelle’s heart and her uneven, nervous breaths. Michelle watches him, hiding her impatience as she’s eager for a response.

“I think…” he finally says, “I think that we shouldn’t think about that. Maybe just… focus on the present and take things one step at a time.”

Michelle chokes back a sob and snaps, “but what am I going to do?”

“I don’t know!” Peter cries exasperatedly, “I know that’s not the answer you want, but I have no fucking idea, and y’know what? That scares me, ‘cause I hate the idea of you being alone!” He pauses and heaves a sigh and sinks into his pillows, “I’m sorry, Em,” his voice is softer now, “I really don’t know…. And I really don’t want to think about it.”

Michelle chews on the inside of her cheek silently, wiping away a tear before it can fall. Peter lets out a shaky breath and looks away, unable to meet her broken gaze.

Michelle isn’t sure how long they’re quiet for, but she slowly feels the knots in her stomach unwind and her clenched heart begins to relax as she gazes at her husband. Her shoulders go from tense to slouched as she takes in his big brown eyes and the freckles that litter his cheeks and his chestnut curls that fall over his forehead.

He’s here, she thinks, he’s here now, let’s just focus on that.

She leans forward and kisses his cheek lightly, “we’ll get old if we’re lucky,” she says simply, “for now, we can do what you said: take things one step at a time.”

Peter looks at her and smiles warmly, “I like that plan.”

He holds the back of her neck in the palm of his hand and draws her into a deep, loving kiss. She sinks into his touch, cupping his face with her hand and gently stroking his cheek with her thumb.

“I love you, Em,” Peter mutters to her as he ousts himself from the kiss.

“I know,” she replies, curling up against his side and resting her head on his chest, “I love you too.”

#peter parker #spiderman #michelle jones #mj #spideychelle #petermj #marvel #mcu #avengers #whump #fluff #angst #Fanfic #fanfiction #ao3

[lady-of-the-lotus]

“I’m trying,” says Xue Yang bitterly. “I’m trying, and it’s still not good enough for you.”

Xiao Xingchen sinks his fingers into the dirt. Crawling over his cheek is a beetle, moving over his lips, trailing along the curve of his nose.

Xue Yang watches the beetle’s process, the muscles in his jaw growing tighter and tighter, fixating on the insect as it nestles in the dip of Xingchen’s left eye.

“I’m trying,” he repeats, and Xingchen thinks of the tongues, of one particularly small tongue at the end of the row, and hears himself saying, “You’re not trying very hard.”

Xuexiao - E - AO3! - Read on Tumblr - Ch. 1 - Ch. 2 - Ch. 3

Chapter 4 - Rot

Xingchen wakes to Xue Yang bending over him.

He shoves him away, scrambling backward. “Get off me!”

Xue Yang settles back against a tree. “Don’t do that again. What if I hadn’t caught you?”

Xiao Xingchen manages to roll over onto his side, getting a better look at Xue Yang. Xue Yang is stripped down to his inner robe, face streaked with blood, crimson liquid seeping through the green silk at his side.

He grins weakly down at Xiao Xingchen, teeth red. “One of those fuckers got me,” he says ruefully. “Guess I shouldn’t have shown off so low on blood.”

“You didn’t have to kill them all. And you killed some townspeople too, I saw you…”

Xue Yang’s head droops forward, as if he’s too weak to keep it upright. He doesn’t seem to have heard Xingchen at all. “Lend me a hand, will you?”

“I can’t move…”

Xue Yang groans. “Figures.” He slides over, sprawling over in the grass beside Xiao Xingchen, and lies still.

Xingchen rolls over as much as he can and laps at the blood running from the gash in Xue Yang's side. He drinks until he’s strong enough to sit up. Xue Yang is still unconscious, lying in the exact position he fell in.

With clumsy hands Xingchen cuts bandages from an extra robe in the qiankun pouch. He washes his wounds as best he can with the small amount of water left in the canteen and binds them. Finds a medicinal pellet in Xue Yang’s sleeve, makes him swallow it, places a rolled-up robe under his head.

He sits up with Xue Yang all night. He’s surprised when Xue Yang opens his eyes at dawn and begins to struggle to his feet.

“Well, that was fun,” he says. He’s on his hands and knees, as if too weak to get all the way up. “But let’s not do that again for a while, shall we?”

“How do you feel?”

“I’m fine. I’m always fine. I'll go find some water."

“Don’t strain yourself.”

Xue Yang eyes Xiao Xingchen narrowly. “Is that supposed to be sarcasm?”

“Am I ever sarcastic?” Xiao Xingchen lies down. It’s obvious they won’t be traveling today.

“Let me put down a blanket for you.”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head, inhaling the dirt beneath his cheek. There’s a blowfly crawling across his temple, just visible out of the corner of his eye. “I prefer this.”

“But—”

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes.

“I won’t be able to give you blood for a few days. Or anything else.”

Xiao Xingchen nods slightly.

Xue Yang shoos the fly off Xingchen’s face. “I’ll wake you up as soon as I can.”

Xiao Xingchen could get up and bring Xue Yang the water, if he wanted to, but it’s been too many days without yang and he has no will to stir. Besides, he likes lying on the ground and doesn't want to get up. A dead tree frog lies a foot from his face, and he spends the morning watching a trail of ants swarm the bloated carcass, mesmerized by the endless black dots as they march back and forth through the grass.

He’s asleep when Xue Yang returns, and wakes late the next day. Xue Yang is sleeping beside him, face white, chest barely rising and falling.

It’s because of me, Xiao Xingchen thinks groggily. Because of me he’s too weak to heal, to seal his meridians and stop his bleeding…

What if Xue Yang were to die...?

Oddly fitting, rotting side-by-side for eternity…

But he reaches out, lays a cold hand on Xue Yang’s throat. Either he hadn't taken enough blood the day before to return him to full strength, or the blood isn't working as well as it used to, becuase his fingers are too numb to sense a pulse.

Xue Yang stirs at his touch. “You need something, daozhang?” he murmurs.

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes again.

It’s morning when he next opens them. He’s lying on his stomach, one arm extended, something sharp digging into his back.

Pain in his ear, something tearing at his hand.

A snapping sound.

Rustling of bushes, feet thudding on the forest floor, the whistle of a blade cleaving the air.

“Get off him! I’ll fucking kill you—”

A bird-like squawk, a whirl of black feathers. The smell of blood. Something cradling his head, touching his ear, his hand. The sound of muffled cursing.

Xiao Xingchen drifts off.

It’s night when he next wakes. Xue Yang is on top of him, planting a soft kiss on his forehead as he slides out from between Xue Yang’s legs. They’re surrounded by a wall of reeds and grasses, the air heavy and sweet, a stork winging its way past the moon.

“Welcome back,” he says. “Here.” He lifts Xiao Xingchen into his lap, holding his arm to this mouth. Xiao Xingchen dutifully sucks blood from his veins, sensation flowing back into his limp body.

There’s relief on Xue Yang’s face as he lays him back down on a blanket covering the damp ground.

Xiao Xingchen sits up. His limbs feel oddly… loose at the joints. He looks around, keeping his left eye closed. A half-dozen yellow talismans are pinned to his robes.

“Every little bit helps,” says Xue Yang, reaching for them. “Or doesn’t help, in your case. Here, I’ll—”

Xiao Xingchen reaches up to brush him away, and freezes.

The little finger on his right hand is missing.

Nothing but a bandage-wrapped stump.

Raising his gloved hand, Xue Yang grins at him. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We match now.”

Xiao Xingchen stares at his missing finger. “How...how long was I asleep?”

“Two days.”

Xingchen glances up at the moon, shining brightly down on their little clearing in the tall grasses. “There’s a full moon. It was waxing last I saw it. And—is this—we were in a forest—”

“Three days.”

“Three weeks.”

Xue Yang folds his arms defensively. “I woke you up as soon as I could. I almost thought you wouldn’t wake at all, I’ve been trying for days—”

“Were are we?” Xingchen's sounds strange, and he reaches up to touch his left ear as he speaks. There’s nothing there, just a soft, slippery ridge of missing flesh.

“Fine, so we flew a mile or two or hundred or whatever.”

Xingchen looks around. Laid out on a second blanket are rows of—

“Are those tongues?” he asks. His voice is strangely mild, emotions still deadened. Slowly he begins removing the talismans from his clothes.

Smiling to himself, Xue Yang settles back, tossing his knife in the air. “Would you like to see them?”

“Why…why are they all laid out like that?” And dozens of small animals, too. Water rats, birds, frogs.

Xue Yang nudges one of the talismans with his bare foot. There’s one pinned to the smallest of the tongues, and dozens more lining the neat rows of tongues and swamp creatures. “Do you want to hear?” he asks, and dives into an explanation without waiting for a response. He’s always animated, but he comes to life as he explains the talismans he’s created, how he devised them, and his current experiments.

“…keep them fresh, and they are fresh, except…”

Xiao Xingchen only half-hears him. He’s too busy watching him, the moonlight lighting up his far-too-pretty-for-what-he-is face, and thinking, not for the first time, about Xue Yang’s immense wasted potential.

What could Xue Yang have accomplished had he only been taught properly? Been guided down the proper path? Given a solid cultivation foundation and the opportunity to channel his genius and creativity for good?

What could he still accomplish?

Xue Yang is explaining how he fixed Xiao Xingchen’s shattered soul and channeled his qi into Xingchen’s corpse. He’s using his hands to speak, drawing shining red symbols in his own made-up alphabet as he explains what, even from the limited amount Xiao Xingchen absorbs, sounds brilliantly innovative.

Perhaps it was a good thing he had never had a formal education. From what Xingchen has seen since leaving the mountain, education, after a certain point, is just another way to enforce a set way of thinking, inhibiting free thought and encasing minds in narrow little boxes. A traditional cultivator couldn’t have accomplished half of what Xue Yang had achieved.

Xue Yang has stopped talking. He seems to be waiting for a response.

“That’s very impressive,” says Xiao Xingchen, vastly understating things.

“For a demonic cultivator.”

“For anyone.”

Xue Yang’s grin nearly wraps around his head, then winks out like a snuffed candle. “Doesn’t matter. I failed.”

“They look fresh to me.” Xiao Xingchen takes a closer look. “There are extra tongues.”

“I killed more than just the bandits, remember? You were all bent out of shape about it.”

“Do you want to pick a fight?”

“If you’re disgusted by the tongues, just say so.” There’s no trace of animation left on Xue Yang’s face. If anything, there’s an odd dead look in his eye as he sits cross-legged across from Xiao Xingchen and stares unblinkingly at him. “Don’t pretend to be interested.”

“I am interested.”

He doesn’t understand why Xue Yang throws this knife suddenly, spearing one of the tongues, or understand the sudden nasty change in Xue Yang’s tone. “Know who that one belonged to? That old man with the fucking eggplants!”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. “You needed it for your experiments.”

“How do you know he wasn’t alive when I took it?”

“I…I suppose I don’t.”

“Then stop faking it!” Xue Yang snaps. Xingchen wonders how long this has been building inside him and what spurred it to finally erupt. “Stop faking it all just because you need me right now! I knew you were a hypocrite, but I thought you were at least an honest hypocrite—”

“I’m not—”

“Liar! Were all those things you said in the inn just lies too?”

Xiao Xingchen can’t remember exactly what he said. Something about not wanting him to be hurt—

Xue Yang produces another knife from his sleeve. He seems more comfortable with a blade in his hand. “I was an idiot for believing you, I knew it at the time!”

Xiao Xingchen looks at the extra tongues. Xue Yang follows his eyes.

“I saved them all from those bandits, so if a few people got in my way, what of it! They would have been dead without me, I saved them, their lives belonged to me—”

Xiao Xingchen looks down at his hand, runs a hand over the bandage covering his finger stump. “I saved your life; does your life belong to me?”

“Had you killed me back then, think of all the lives you could have saved! For all we know that old man with those stupid eggplants would have gone crazy and poisoned half the town; they should be thanking me for killing him!”

Shaking his head, Xiao Xingchen pushes aside the blanket so he’s lying on the swampy ground and breathes in deeply. All he wants to do is sleep. Shut out Xue Yang’s voice. Sink back into oblivion, nestled in the tall sweet-scented grasses…

“I’m trying,” says Xue Yang bitterly. “I’m trying, and it’s still not good enough for you.”

Xiao Xingchen sinks his fingers into the dirt. Crawling over his cheek is a beetle, moving over his lips, trailing along the curve of his nose.

Xue Yang watches the beetle’s process, the muscles in his jaw growing tighter and tighter, fixating on the insect as it nestles in the dip of Xingchen’s left eye.

“I’m trying,” he repeats, and Xingchen thinks of the tongues, of one particularly small tongue at the end of the row, and hears himself saying, “You’re not trying very hard.”

Xue Yang hunches forward, a curtain of hair covering his face, digging his nails deep into his scalp and pulling his hair hard enough to hurt. He looks up through the curtain with red-rimmed eyes that almost glow in the eerie orange moonlight.

“Fuck if I care,” he says. “I’m going to go get some water.”

“Xue Yang—”

“Oh, just shut up! I should have left you unconscious!”

Xiao Xingchen turns over on his back. Better this way. More of his body touching the earth. “Are you coming back? Or are you going to leave me here to rot?”

“You’ll rot whether I leave you here or not—”

And suddenly Jiangzai is out, and Xue Yang is hacking at the tall grasses around them. He lays waste to the walls of reeds before falling to his knees, supporting himself with Jiangzai, teeth bared, breathing heavily.

Xiao Xingchen watches him without moving or flinching.

“Well?” he says as Xue Yang stabs the earth with his knife, raking a deep gash in the moss-covered soil. “Are you coming back?”

“Right, you need me!” Xue Yang stabs the ground, slashing it again and again with his blade as if trying to make it bleed. “How do you like it, daozhang, being bound to someone you hate?”

“I don’t hate you,” Xiao Xingchen says quietly. “Do you hate me?”

“I wish you had stayed dead, I wish I had never brought you back—”

All Xingchen can feel is pity. Xue Yang sees it in his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he snaps. “You say you don’t hate me? Fucking liar!”

“I don’t hate you,” Xiao Xingchen repeats. “I don’t know why, but I don’t.”

“How about this, then? I killed your precious A-Qing!”

“I know,” Xiao Xingchen says quietly.

Xue Yang drops his knife. “You know?”

“I saw her name on the talisman. I guess you were telling the truth about needing a name, and actually learned how to write it..."

“And you don’t…you don’t care?”

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes. “Of course I care.”

Xue Yang grabs his wrist, shaking him, forcing him to look him in the face. “And,” he grins, “whose eyes do you think are in your head?”

A chill creeps down Xingchen’s spine as he reaches up to touch his eye.

Xue Yang is laughing now, a manic laugh he doesn’t seem to be able to control. “Just giving you back what was yours! I killed him before you woke up. Tossed him in the same ditch I tossed A-Qing. I’d say he wasn’t yet cold when you opened your eyes, but he’d been cold ever since you stabbed him through the heart!”

And suddenly Xingchen needs to feel. Needs to be choked by the shock, the hate, the grief.

A-Qing and Song Lan deserve it.

He wrenches his wrist away from Xue Yang. He’s weak, but Xue Yang’s fingers slide easily off his slippery, waxy skin. He shoves Xue Yang on his back and straddles him, the mere sight of Xue Yang lying beneath him in just a thin inner robe activating his muscle memory, his cock springing to life.

“Ah, there’s the daozhang I remember! Want to go over to the marsh? You can half-drown me again—”

“Shut up shut up shut up—” Roughly, he thrusts into Xue Yang as Xue Yang continues to giggle, not bothering to take it slow. Tears slip down his face as he thrusts into him, splashes of blood on Xue Yang's chest. "Just shut up—”

“Ah, see, this is what I’ve been missing all these weeks—”

“Stop talking, for once in your life, just stop talking—”

“I’ll do you one better: I’ll do my hair up all stupid, and you can pretend I’m Song Lan.” Xue Yang laughs harder, as if this is funny, body shaking beneath Xiao Xingchen's. “You ever fuck him like you’re fucking me?”

“Be quiet!” Xiao Xingchen thrusts harder, trying to shut him up, but Xue Yang only arches his back flirtatiously, one leg raised onto Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder, a demented smile plastered over his face.

“Was that a yes, daozhang?”

He closes his hand around Xue Yang’s throat. “Stop talking about him, and stop calling me that!”

“You fuck him in your fancy free inns? Pin him down and pour filth in his lily-white ear?”

“Stop talking—”

Xue Yang pries his fingers from his throat. “Were you the one to corrupt him, or did he corrupt you first? You seduced him, didn’t you? Just look at you, you’re like a dog in heat, there’s no way you didn’t make up some perverted priest ritual just to get your di—”

Xiao Xingchen slaps him across the face.

Xue Yang reaches one hand up to splay over Xiao Xingchen’s chest. “Did Song Lan like that? Did you choke him too? Bite his lip so hard you could suck his life out through it?”

“I never so much as touched him!”

“Too bad. He wasn’t a bad fuck for a corpse; was probably a lot more fun when he was alive—though knowing him, he was just as boring when he had a tongue—”

Xiao Xingchen freezes, then turns Xue Yang onto his stomach and fucks him from behind. He doesn’t want to see his grinning face, doesn’t want to pretend this is anything other than a necessary interaction, two animals rutting in a swamp out of necessity—

Xue Yang is still laughing.

Xingchen pulls Xue Yang’s robe down over his shoulders down to his waist. Digs his nails into Xue Yang’s back, leaves long scratches in his scarred skin. Several blackened fingernails come off in Xue Yang’s flesh, and his fingers feel loose where Xue Yang pried them off his throat. He spreads his purple-red hands over Xue Yang’s wiry muscles, pressing him down into the damp, fetid soil.

“Disgusting—”

Xue Yang stops laughing and Xingchen comes abruptly, the sigil on his chest glowing brighter as he fills Xue Yang. He pulls out with a shamefully wet sound, bloody cum oozing out of Xue Yang and dripping to the grass.

Xue Yang rolls over onto his back and Xiao Xingchen, suddenly weak with exertion and the flood of new emotion, falls forward on his hands, framing Xue Yang.

As his palms hit the earth, his head snaps forward slightly, and suddenly one eye goes dark.

Xue Yang scrambles out from under him. A look of shock has frozen his face. He cups his hands, staring.

An eyeball lies nestled in his palms.

Xingchen reaches up to touch his left eye.

It’s empty.

Xue Yang’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “I—I should have sewn it in better—”

Xiao Xingchen pulls his robe closed and holds out his hand.

Xue Yang drops the eyeball into his cupped palm.

“What’s happening to me?” Xingchen asks quietly.

His emotions are in full bloom, but somehow instead of anger, or horror, or shock, all he feels is resignation over what's happening to him and regret over what he'd just done. Knowingly done, unlike that time in the stream...

Silence, just the rustle of the tall grasses in the warm evening breeze, a distant splashing in the nearby marsh, a trill of a night bird.

“I think you already know,” says Xue Yang finally. Slowly he reaches into his sleeve, pulls out a long white bandage, and ties it at an angle over Xingchen’s eye socket.

“Now you look almost like your old self again,” he says.

Xiao Xingchen holds him at arm’s length, swallowing hard. “Xue Yang, how—how long have you known?”

“Rather roguish, your new look. I like it.”

“Xue Yang…”

“I can try sewing the eye back in, if you’d like, but I don’t think it would take…”

“Is that what you were doing these past few weeks? Trying to stop me from rotting?”

Xue Yang winces at the word “rot.” He squirms away from Xiao Xingchen, sitting facing the swamp. Xiao Xingchen wonders if Xue Yang chose this spot to hide the smell of his decaying flesh.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. Xiao Xingchen can hardly hear him. “Didn’t work, clearly…”

He lies down, his back to Xingchen.

Xingchen lays beside him, resting a hand on his arm, his eyeball still enclosed in his other hand. The skin over his knuckles is very thin, with small gas bubbles rising under the delicate bones along the backs of his hands and soft purple lines running up towards his wrist. Blackened lesions mottle his skin, eating down to the bone in some places, and his remaining nails are brownish gray.

He starts to remove his hand, but Xue Yang reaches up, closing his gloved hand around it.

“I didn’t mean to kill A-Qing,” he says, so low that Xingchen has to strain to hear him. “She just bled out so quickly after I cut her tongue out—she was trying to bring cultivators—I tried using a talisman, but it…it clotted the wrong blood…”

“There’s no excuse you could possibly give to make me forgive you for what you did.”

“I turned her into a sentient fierce corpse.” Xue Yang turns, mangled hand still on Xiao Xingchen’s rotting one, and looks at him. “She’s out there somewhere. That was the truth. Practically alive…”

Xiao Xingchen closes his remaining eye. He hates how that does make a slight difference. “Did you truly abuse Zichen?”

“I cut his eyes and tongue out, if that's what you mean.”

“You know it’s not.”

Xue Yang wrinkles his nose, gazing up at the scraps of cloud drifting past the full moon. “I never laid a finger on him. He’s not my type.”

“And was that the only reason?”

“What are you getting at?”

Xiao Xingchen is suddenly tired. So very, very tired. Dealing with Xue Yang is like dealing with a pet fox who keeps killing his chickens. “You understood what that man in Tanzhou did to his wife was wrong,” he says, "at least on some instinctive level. Unless you were simply guessing at how I’d feel on the subject and using it to excuse yourself.”

“Right, wrong, it’s all the sa—”

“Don’t start that again. You knew it was wrong despite the fact that many people wouldn’t think so. You—”

“I’ve killed children.”

“I know.”

“I’ve made you kill children.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care?”

“Of course I care.”

“Then say something better than ‘I know’!”

“There is nothing I can possibly say to that that would express how I feel.”

“Why is killing children worse than killing any other person?” Xue Yang bursts out. “They would have died in another fifty years, at most. So I sped it along a little!”

“Is that truly how you feel?”

“Why isn’t it how you feel? If you think about it, early death is a mercy! And once they’re dead, it makes no difference to them.”

“Their family—”

“I killed the rest of the family, too. The Changs, all dead. Villagers, all dead. Nobody to mourn them. And it’s not like I would have cared either way, but it wasn’t like I went around killing random children for fun.”

“I never said you did.”

“Entire families, gone, just like that!” Xue Yang snaps his fingers. “As if they never existed, so what difference does any of it make? Some of them should be thanking me. Dying of gout at sixty is worse than being killed quickly at twenty.”

"Gout isn't fatal."

“Missing the point, as usual. So they would have died of something peasanty like plague or gangrene. Really, dead is dead. I don’t understand why you care. I really don’t.” Xue Yang looks legitimately puzzled. “It doesn't affect you. It barely affects them.”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. Xue Yang is gazing at him intently, eyes burning with frustration, as if he doesn’t understand why Xingchen is just lying there calmly and listening to his poison.

“You knew what that man did to his wife was wrong,” Xingchen repeats, “meaning you do have something in you that points in the right direction, telling you right from wrong, something not reliant on law or social customs. And you simply choose to ignore it.”

“You think too highly of me. A first.”

“ ‘Highly’! Meaning you know it’s something desirable!”

“I’m just using your own shitty rhetoric. Are we done? I’m tired…” Xue Yang looks up at the moon again, filling his lungs with the fetid swamp air that, to Xingchen, smells sweet.

“No. Xue Yang, why did you hold onto A-Qing’s tongue all this time, and turn her into a sentient fierce corpse?”

“Because I—” He stops. “Getting sneaky, daozhang, throwing in these questions.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what?”

Xingchen shakes his head. “Never mind. Why did you spend six years trying to bring me back, and the past three weeks camped out here on a swamp trying to stop me from rotting?”

“Stop saying ‘rot’!”

“Xue Yang, I am trying to understand you.”

Xue Yang is playing with the long tendrils of hair framing his face, not so much as looking in Xiao Xingchen’s direction. “Are we done?”

“Why did you leave Song Lan alone?”

“I didn’t leave him alone. Are you deaf? I cut out his tongue—”

“Xue Yang.”

“Well, he wasn’t you!” Xue Yang explodes. “Is that what you want to hear? You were coming back soon, I just…” I only wanted you. Perhaps even, I couldn’t betray you like that. “I kill people. I don’t hurt them. It’s not like I enjoyed hurting A-Qing.”

Xiao Xingchen can’t let such a blatant lie slip past. “You enjoy killing people. I have every reason to believe you enjoy hurting them as well.”

“That’s not what I meant by that.”

Xiao Xingchen wonders what Xue Yang went through while living on the streets, to make someone like him not want to “hurt” people in that way. He can imagine some of it. Xue Yang had practically told him, that night in the inn...

There’s an odd quivery look on Xue Yang’s face. As if realizing this, he gets to his feet. “Are we done? I’m thirsty.”

“Xue Yang…”

Xue Yang takes a step, wincing. “Be more careful next time, won’t you? I’ll be walking with a limp for a week.”

“Don’t do that, don’t turn everything into a joke or vulgarism—”

Xue Yang flies off through the grass.

Xingchen picks up A-Qing’s tongue and follows him. His legs are weak, but he pushes his way through the chest-high grasses, finding Xue Yang sitting on the edge of the water, arms wrapped around his knees.

Xingchen kneels at the edge of the water and buries his eye and A-Qing’s tongue in the soft sweet-smelling mud. It’s a beautiful warm night, the dazzling gold moonlight glimmering off the wide stretch of marshland. Dark clumps of tall, graceful reeds grow from the rippling water, with the hushed sounds of the night creatures carrying clearly over the water. The song of the crickets, the chirping of frogs. A stork strides through the water not a stone’s-throw away, gleaming white in the moonlight, and stars speckle the deep purple sky, brilliant and clear, here at the edge of the earth.

Xingchen imagines stepping into the shining gold water, letting it close over his head, envelope him, embrace him.

One more dead rotting thing…

“Does it hurt?” Xue Yang’s voice breaks the stillness. “Your eye.”

Xiao Xingchen touches the blindfold. He wonders if it’s the same one he used to wear, kept by Xue Yang all these years. “No.”

“Maggots hurt.” Xue Yang glances down at his gloved hand. “I know.”

Xiao Xingchen swallows. “I’m fine.”

“And your hand and ear?”

“Not much.”

“I shouldn’t have left you alone. Those vultures—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Xue Yang rests his chin on his knees. He looks more worn-out than Xiao Xingchen has ever seen him, as if the gamut of the night’s emotions have wrung him out and left him empty. “I don’t know how to fix you,” he confesses, his voice almost inaudible.

Xiao Xingchen sits down beside him. He doesn’t think those words have ever passed Xue Yang’s lips before.

“I tried,” says Xue Yang. “I really tried…"

Xingchen looks down at his black-mottled hands. Even in the moonlight he can detect their soft, half-slimy, half-waxy coat.

As he watches, a fly lands on his hand, and another, and another. Or perhaps they had been there all along. He can hear the buzzing of the nearby insect life feasting on the swamp’s rot, drawing life from death, and he’s suddenly reminded of the fungus growing on the dead fox in the Coffin House courtyard, the writhing white maggots making a home in its carcass.

Creating something new.

“You’ve carried this too long on your own,” he says. “Let me take it from here.”

Xue Yang tilts his head slightly, eyeing Xingchen with dark-circled eyes. “You know how to stop the rot?”

“No. But Shifu will.” And she might be able to fix you, too, he wants to add, but doesn’t dare.

“And you know how to find her mountain again?”

“Promise me you won’t bring up your past grievances with her when you meet.”

“I promise, I promise!...” Xue Yang rests his head on Xingchen’s shoulder. He looks very young, small and almost fragile. “I promise, Xingchen…”

It’s the first time Xue Yang has used his proper name since he’s woken. It’s strangely nice to hear. Xingchen, the person, decaying as he is, instead of Xiao Xingchen, the daozhang.

They sit in the stillness, watching the golden moonlight reflected in the water as it moves along with the moon. Listening to the splash of the frogs, the rustle of grass, the call of the night birds.

Surrounded by the sweet scent of rot.

Xue Yang falls asleep with his head in Xingchen’s lap. Xingchen trails his withered purple fingers through his hair, along his jaw, letting his hand rest on his head.

He does not sleep.

He’s at home here, among the decay…

One more dead rotting thing.

They leave the swamp the next morning and travel across the open countryside. Xingchen is too weak to fly, but Xue Yang holds him when he can despite his own growing weakness. Xingchen needs more and more blood just to stay upright, needs Xue Yang’s yang every night, every morning, needs to rid himself of tainted yin, just to keep his mind half clear.

One night he forgets where he is, rises, wanders off, trips, falls.

“Xingchen!” Xue Yang helps him to his feet. “Be careful—”

Xiao Xingchen’s hand comes off in his.

The same hand Xue Yang had pulled him by back in the bandit village what seems like a lifetime ago, he remembers the next morning, after Xue Yang pulls out of him and settles back on Xingchen’s legs.

Xue Yang is staring down at him with a hazy look in his eye.

“I shouldn’t have grabbed on your hand like that,” he says, reaching out to touch Xiao Xingchen’s wrist stump. He'd bandaged it during the night, but dark brown juices have seeped into the still-damp material, staining it with sweet-smelling liquid. "I keep pulling at your hand—”

Xingchen closes his eyes. “It’s not your fault, and I can’t feel anything…”

Xue Yang presses his forehead to Xingchen’s. Xingchen’s skin is still slippery to the touch, still covered in rancid black spots where the reddened flesh has necrotized. “We’ll be there soon,” he says, “won’t we?”

Xingchen nods.

Xue Yang kisses him. He doesn’t seem to notice the blowfly eggs hatching in Xingchen’s mouth, the rice-like maggots living in his empty eye socket, the beetles in his nostrils, the flies that swarm his body and lay eggs on his oozing wrist stump.

Flies that settle on Xue Yang’s own face, attracted by the slimy rot rubbed off on his skin.

It’s late afternoon when they arrive at Baoshan Sanren’s mountain, days later, weeks later.

Xue Yang collapses to his knees at the foot of the mountain. He’s been too weak to fly these past few days, with deep purple circles under his sunken eyes and white hands that tremble as he fixes Xiao Xingchen’s hair every morning.

“Is that it?” Xue Yang asks, looking up at the mountain. “It’s nice and all, but—”

“Wait.” It’s grown harder and harder to speak, Xingchen’s tongue swelling in his mouth, his throat muscles growing soft and loose under the hot sun. “Here.” He fumbles with his white jade hairpiece, but can’t get it out. "I—this—”

Silently Xue Yang gets to his feet, slides the hairpiece out of Xingchen’s topknot, sets it in Xingchen’s hand. Xingchen covers his hand with his fingers before he can remove it, nodding at him.

“Magic hairpiece? I like it. I used to have a gold one that—”

“Shh.”

Xiao Xingchen nods again, stepping forward on legs held together with gauze. Holding the hairpiece, they step through the invisible barrier.

All around them the mountain bursts into sudden radiance, the tall spirit gathering grasses around them sparkling with gold light. The air is thick with curling mists, catching the golden radiance and diffusing it, surrounding them with a warm yellow glow.

Xue Yang opens his mouth as if it speak, then closes it.

“Come,” says Xingchen.

They walk up the mountain, wrapped in the glowing mists.

Just a little farther now to the spot he remembers so well.

A pretty forest glade, gently shaded from the sun. Tall spirit-gathering sparkling with gold light, soft green moss carpeting the bank of a small stream, tiny white mushrooms growing on the fallen logs. Slender trees bent to trail their leaves in the water, the air sweet and warm and lightly perfumed.

Just a little longer...

He stops when they reach the stream that flows up the mountain, flows up past that secluded forest glade.

He turns and touches Xue Yang’s arm, doing his best to articulate. “One last time, before things are set right.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to…”

“I want to.” Xingchen slips his robes off as they settle down in the grass. Xue Yang kisses him, heedless of the fact that his lower lip has been half eaten away by insects, showing a row of teeth in shriveled gums. The kiss is long and slow and deep, his hand slipping down between Xingchen’s legs.

Xingchen gently presses him down into the shining gold grass and lowers himself onto Xue Yang. They don’t need oil, his insides smooth and slippery with decay.

“Soon,” he says. “Soon...”

Xue Yang gazes up at him, one hand on his arm, breathing in deeply, as if he wants to fix Xingchen’s scent in his mind, remember the way he looks now, rotting and desiccated with maggots in his mouth, his eyes, nestling in the soft skin under his cock and under his arms. The tip of his nose eaten away, the bones of his jaw visible through the decomposing flesh.

Xingchen leans forward, sinks his teeth into the curve of Xue Yang's throat, and drinks.

The sigils on their chests glow brighter as he rocks forward, the blue and red spirit light mixing with the golden radiance around them.

He drinks deeply, taking more blood than he has in weeks, filling his throat with Xue Yang’s lifeblood as Xue Yang comes, filling him with his yang. He remains locked in place on top of Xue Yang, arms around him, lapping at the blood trickling from his throat. Xue Yang’s hand is buried in his loose hair, lips brushing the rotting purple skin of his throat, breath warm on his ear stump,

He can feel Xue Yang now, more clearly than he ever has till now. Feel his desperation, his fear, his desire to be—consumed—

He drinks until Xue Yang’s hand falls limply to the grass, his pulse slowing. Drinks until he knows Xue Yang is too weak to follow him.

He can drink him to death, if he wishes. Absorb all of him, the good, the bad. Take him into himself...

"Xingchen." Xue Yang moves slightly beneath him. “Take it all. Find her…”

Xingchen raises his head. He rises, draping his robes over the shivering Xue Yang.

“Don’t leave me here!” Xue Yang grasps at him, bloodless fingers clutching at his arms, crushing the small white mushrooms sprouting along Xingchen’s limbs. “Take me with you,” he says weakly. His eyes are bleary and sunken, lips gray. “I can carry you to Baoshan Sanren—”

“Shhh.” Xingchen kneels beside him, raises him up. It’s like maneuvering a large limp doll. “I’ll always be on the mountain.”

For the first time since he’s woken, he fixes Xue Yang’s hair, braiding the sides, looping it around the topknot, using his mouth as a second hand. He slides his white jade hairpiece into the topknot and lays Xue Yang back in the grass.

“She’ll find you, now,” he says. “She’ll know I sent you.”

Xue Yang tries to move, can’t. “Don’t—don’t—”

“Let her help you.” Xingchen kisses his forehead softly, leaving a smear of red on the ivory. “Don’t forget me, Chengmei.”

“Xingchen...I…” Xue Yang makes one last struggle, but the exertion is too much. His eyes slip shut and he lies stretched out in the spirit gathering grass, covered in Xingchen’s white robes, the jade hairpiece gleaming gold.

Xiao Xingchen removes the jade flute from the qiankun pouch and, naked, drifts along the stream, up the mountain, towards the glen. He’s feeling weightless, almost as if he’s floating. The light around him grows brighter as he nears the clearing, surrounding him, filling him as his legs give out and he collapses to the earth.

He lies on the mossy bank, green and black flute resting beside him, sunlight streaming through the trees. The wildflowers are in bloom all around him, their perfume mixing with the sweet smell of decay. The damp of the soil, the song of the trees, the deep roots spreading through the earth, all surround him. Flowers he’ll soon nourish, trees he will slowly feed, fungus he’ll one day nurture.

Consuming him slowly.

The earth hums beneath him, around him. Embracing him, enveloping him.

Welcoming him home.

The breeze has picked up, rippling through the grasses, rustling the trees, caressing his bare skin, soft and warm.

In the distance, he thinks he hears a familiar voice on the wind, calling his name.

Xingchen! Xingchen…

Smiling to himself, Xingchen sinks deeper into the earth.

*

The inherent eroticism of losing an eyeball atop your lover

*

liked it? AO3...or even spare a reblog?

#mdzsnet #xiao xingchen #xuexiao #heed the tags #the untamed #cql #theuntameddaily #fytheuntamed #fymdzs #katie after dark #Consume Me Slowly

[innaminitus]

To meet you again

Pairing: Geralt x reader

Request:  Hey! May I request Geralt x reader? Maybe where the reader is a commoner in the kingdom, and while Geralt is there to kill a monster, him and the reader keep crossing paths? But get this: the reader is extremely clumsy and every time they cross paths it’s because of the reader tripping, or running into him, etc ya know? It gets to the point where Geralt starts making small offhand comments about her clumsiness and she shows that she’s actually pretty damn feisty. I’m so excited! Thank you hun! (from @badass-dora-milaje​)

and

Hello there. I read your beautiful lake story and just fell in love with your writing style. So I'd like to request a story if I may: Geralt & reader meet up time and time again. She somehow always helps him out (calms a mob, heals his wounds, gives the missing coin he needs) and she's always kind to him. There may be underlying tension between the two, but she doesn't act on it. There is a change in their dynamics though when she endangers her life while trying to help him again and anger and worry finally make him react, pushing her against a wall and showing her how much he truly cares. Now I'd like to leave it up to you if the smut is passionate and either sweet or more angry. I hope this is okay as a request? Thanks so much for sharing your work and doing this! Regards V (from @superconfusedandreadytorumble​)

Warnings: smut, language, angst

Word count: 3034

A/N: I didn’t proffread it because i’m a lazy ass 

You were… just a nobody, really. Just a clumsy girl, who happened to have just enough healing abilities to help with cuts and burns in the town.

Somehow he always crossed paths with you.

You were picking up the herbs in the forest, finally unbothered. It was the beginning of spring, and the door to your house almost never closed. People were storming you with colds and allergies, sometimes knocking on your door at night. Mothers were… overprotective, bothering you when their sons barely sneezed. In the forest you could finally rest, breathe fresh air and be alone for a change. No one walked that deep into the forest, afraid they might meet leshy and his monsters; you’ve never met him, though and doubted he actually lived in the forest.

That is, until you heard sounds of a fight. Frozen in place, you were too afraid to move. A cry of a beast mixed with hoarse screams and clings of steel, followed by sudden silence. Someone, or something moved for the last time and hit the ground. You waited for any sign that, whoever it was, was still alive.

“Ahh… Fuck.”

Well, that almost definitely was a sound of being alive.

You rushed in the direction of the voice, whose owner, thankfully wasn’t far. A man was on the ground, leaning on the tree, pressing his hand on his thigh. In front of him lied a beast, its horny head detached from its body, slimy blood spilled all over the clearing. Your stomach flew to your throat, but you managed not to vomit at the sight. One deep breath and you looked back at the man. He was bleeding as well, but the difference between him and leshy was that he was still alive.

You walked to him slowly, he turned to you when you stepped on a twig.

“Who are you?” He asked in between sharp breaths. His hair was white and his eyes were oddly yellow.

“A healer. I can help you.” You kneeled next to him and looked at the wound on his thigh. It was deep, and he was losing a lot of blood. You pulled at the hem of your dress and ripped a long stripe, then tied it firmly above the wound. “Come, you need to get up. My home is not far away.”

You held him while he clumsily got up, and supported him while you walked out of the forest.

“So what’s your name, healer?”

“Y/N. And yours?”

“Geralt.”

That was the first time you’ve met Geralt. You healed his wound and said goodbye, believing it was the last time you’d see the white-haired man.

How foolish of you.

He passed your village multiple times, since beasts seemed to adore the forests and swamps surrounding it, and soon the Witcher was a frequent guest in town.

You were reading a book. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t see him, it was the fault of the heroine in the story, who was making the worst decision of her life.

It wasn’t a pretty picture, really. Geralt was talking to someone, and you just didn’t bother to look above your book. You smashed onto him, hitting him with the book, and hurting your nose badly on his broad back.

“Ouch…”

“What the hell are you doing?” He turned angrily, but his presence softened once he saw you. Not for long, as it seemed, since he started laughing at your miserable form, holding your nose with your palms and tears building in your eyes. He picked up the book you dropped. “I think that’s yours.”

That was the second time. You’ve had pleasant conversation with him, and discovered he also liked books, but haven’t had the time to read them anymore. Turned out he’s not just a pile of muscles and a nice voice.

Finally a day without a single patient. You could spend all calm day on the market, and unbothered buy food. Maybe you’d buy yourself a little treat, maybe a piece or two of peach pie…

You were buying apples when you heard a horse nearby. You smiled softly at Roach tied to a feeder near the inn and walked to her.

“Hello, Roach.” You caressed her head gently. She bumped your basket, full of fresh food. You fed her an apple. “And where’s your owner, huh?”

Suddenly you heard a loud noise in the inn and the door swung open.

“Witch– Witcher!” Geralt stormed out of the inn, the publican right behind him. You didn’t fail to notice how good the Witcher looked, his hair a mess and unbuttoned shirt. “Pay or I’ll swear my boys will kill you in your sleep.”

“You dare to threaten me?” Geralt turned back and faced the publican, who somehow got smaller under his burning sight.

“Geralt,” you called him, stepping closer and placing a hand on his shoulder. “What’s the problem?”

“He haven’t paid for his stay!” The publican shouted.

“I said I’ll pay later!”

“I don’t believe ya Witchers! One day you fuck a whore in my inn, the next day ya dead! And I am left with no money!”

“I’ll pay for him.” You gave the men a few coins.

“That’s not enough!”

“Well, remember about it the next time you drag your pregnant daughter to my house demanding an abortion. And I’ll maybe remember to not tell anyone about it.”

He reddened and, murmuring something under his nose, went back to the inn.

“Abortion?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“He has five daughters, and each one is rather frivolous.”

He untied Roach and turned to you.

“Thank you. I’ll repay you, I promise.”

“I know.” You shrugged. “But maybe next time you’re here, stay at my place.”

You tried not to show how many sinful thoughts flew through your head.

He stayed a few times, arriving at the evenings and leaving early in the morning. Unspoken tension between you was enough to keep him away. It wasn’t that you were disappointed, only you were… a little disappointed.

Snow was falling into your eyes as you were trying to make your way back home. You treated a boy with fever, not sure if he would survive the night. The cold was merciless, piercing you through, and you forgot your cloak when you run out to save the boy. Only a thick sweater was protecting you from wind and snow. You cursed your stupidity, dreaming of warm fireplace waiting for you. There was one more thing keeping you warm, but you didn’t really want to admit it to yourself. You just couldn’t help it that his eyes reminded you of the sun.

You stepped onto frozen mud, your poor excuse for shoes not protecting you from sliding all across the puddle. With a squirm you tripped on ice, and waved your hands, trying to catch stability, inefficaciously, only making your situation worse. You were sure to hit the ground, but someone’s warm arm wrapped around you, protecting you from it.

“Geralt,” you gasped, still hanging above the ground.

“Hello, Y/N,” he laughed and pulled you up.

Only this time it was different.

You just… had a feeling. A feeling that you should be out, even though it was night. You wandered around the town, this weird feeling in your guts not allowing you to rest. Your intuition was strong, due to your grandmother being a minor witch, and almost never let you down. It was an unsettling thought, piercing you through, that something bad was going to happen.

You didn’t notice that you left the town and mindlessly walked to the forest. Cold air soothed your burning cheeks and scent of wet grass hit your nostrils. You knew you wouldn’t get lost in this forest, you knew it better than you knew yourself, so you walked deeper, letting your intuition guide you.

Everything was oddly silent. No birds singing, not even the bugs working their way through the bushes. You could barely see in the darkness, but you didn’t need a good sight to feel the blood hanging in the air.

One, two, three vampires, and between them the whitehaired Witcher. You watched the scene with parted lips, as they hypnotized him, one already sucking blood out of Geralt.

You had to help him. A silver knife shone in the moonlight when you took it out of your pocket, glad you took it with yourself. You pressed the blade on your arm and with a deep breath cut the skin deeply, not allowing yourself to whine in pain.

“Blood.” One of the vampires shot his head up.

“Blood.”

“Blood.”

“Human.”

You kept squeezing your fist to pump more blood out of the wound.

“Hey, assholes,” you shouted. “How about a dessert?”

Two of them left Geralt and run to you with awful screams, and it was enough for the Witcher to free himself from their power. You didn’t see him killing the vampire still sucking his blood, the two beasts already knocked you down, their cold, dead lips locked on your neck.

A groan was the last thing you heard before you passed out.

The ground was shaking when you woke up. You were flying, you were sure of it. Was this how death felt?

Your eyelids felt awfully heavy when you opened your eyes, the stars were shining on the dark sky. You moved your head. You weren’t dead. You were still in the forest, in someone’s arms.

“Geralt…” Your throat was sore, you were barely able to make a sound.

His jaw was clenched when you looked at him.

“You are… Stupid. Irresponsible. Do you even understand how big of a danger that was?” His voice was shaking from anger, but he tried not to shout.

You moved in his arms.

“Did you kill them?” He nodded. “Geralt, we have to go back.” You tried to fall on the ground, but he was holding you too tight. “Geralt, we need to bury them, their heads apart from their bodies, with iron nails in their skulls… And sprinkle poppy seeds–“

“I did it.”

“What’s with the poppy seeds, though?” You were taking without any sense. “Like… I know they’re supposed to obsessively count them, but do they really do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you mad at me? Don’t be mad at me, please.” You lifted your hand to touch, but it felt weightless. You had no feeling in your limbs, but you could move them. It must’ve been because of the loss of blood.

“Yes, I am mad at you. You should never put your life in danger, not for me, not for anyone else.”

“I wanted to help you.”

“You shouldn’t have. I was dealing with them perfectly fine without you.”

“No, you weren’t,” you snorted. “They were killing you, you needed my help.”

He stopped. You didn’t notice that you already left the forest and were standing in front of your house. He gently placed you on the ground, making sure you wouldn’t trip. Your head was dizzy, but you were able to open the door and walk inside. Familiar scent of candles and herbs soothed you.

“It would be much better if they killed me instead of hurting you,” you said, your back turned to him, as you lit the candles.

He held your arm, and pushed you against the nearby wall.

“No,” he said in a hoarse voice, anger glistening in his amber eyes. “Stop saying such stupid things.”

“Stop telling me I’m stupid!” You were over it. You helped him, and that’s how he thanks?

“How can I, if you obviously are?!”

“You shouldn’t save me then, leaving me as a meal would eliminate me from your life just fine!”

“You must have no idea what you’re saying.” His hands were clenched on your shoulders just like his jaw was clenched when he was talking to you with such anger.

“Enlighten me, then!”

It took him a split second to press his lips onto yours, and to melt you completely.

“Is that clear enough?” He asked in a husky voice, his face millimeters from yours.

“Not– Not really. You’d have to repeat that.”

Only you didn’t give him any time to repeat it, because you threw your arms over his neck and kissed him hurriedly, leaning on him, almost knocking him down. He smiled during the kiss, deepening it, his tongue slid into your mouth, inviting yours to play.

Within a second you forgot about everything, about the vampires, about how bad you felt after the attack. He was more than enough to make you forget.

He lifted you up, and bumped on a closet on the way to your bedroom, making you laugh, quickly silencing you with his tongue. Soon you felt cold sheets under your back, and Geralt’s fingers untying the ribbons of your dress. He slid the material down your shoulders, kissing every inch of the skin that was exposed to him.

He kissed your collarbone, lick the hollow underneath it, his tongue swiped down, to the delicate skin of your breasts and suddenly you weren’t in the mood for laughing. You sighed when he softly tugged the side of your breast, pulling the dress down, exposing your hardened nipples. With a silent groan he closed his warm mouth around one nipple, caressing it with the tip of his tongue. The other one he rolled in his fingers, releasing a moan from you, and you felt him smile at that sound. His big hands kneaded your breasts as he kissed the valley of them before sliding your dress even lower.

His lips never left your body as he made his way down, gently biting your waist, leaving a mark. By the time he got to your hips the heat between your legs was noticeable, just as how wet you were for him. He kissed one hipbone, then another, and ignoring your womanhood kept kissing until he reached your knee, and then, and only then he made his way up. In most torturous of ways he licked the skin of your inner thigh, left hot kisses above the wet trail and finally, after almost driving you crazy, reached your heat.

He didn’t plan to work his way fast. Oh no, he planned to feast on you.

He kissed your folds, yet that was enough to make you squirm. He stuck out his tongue and with just the tip licked a stripe through them, parting them for his warm lips.

“Mm,” he groaned against you “so wet already, and I haven’t even started properly.”

His deep voice was giving you goosebumps, but it was his tongue that made you grab his hair. He flattened it on your pussy, rubbing your clit and forcing a moan out of you. His hands massaged your thighs, but one of it slid to your folds, to the aching clit while he pushed his tongue into you. You arched your back as he worked you this way, his tongue in and out of you, his skilled fingers rubbing vicious circles on your clit.

“Fuck… Geralt, please, don’t stop,” you moaned time after time as he mercilessly drove you to the edge of sanity, forcing an orgasm out of you.

You were shaking as you came on his face, whispering pleads and his name, pleasure holding your throat tight enough for you to not scream. You mindlessly held his head pressed onto you, spasms of ecstasy making you come yet again around his tongue.

He pulled away, his wet mouth and chin glistened in the light of candles as he ripped his clothes and hovered over you. You kissed him, your taste spilled in your mouth as his tongue was dancing with yours.

You felt his hot shaft on your stomach, how it dripped on your skin, making you hungry for more, more of his body, more of his lips. He bucked his hips, caressing your overstimulated clit with his tip, collecting your slick. He slid into you easily, you caught his gasp in your mouth.

“So fucking tight,”  he whispered on your neck. “So marvelously tight…”

He pulled out only to push back in, and you were lost yet again, only now it was Geralt as well who lost control. As you expected, he wasn’t the one to be gentle.

He rammed into you like a wild animal, sounds of moans and wet bodies smacking filled the room and your ears. You reached above your head to hold the frame of the bed, but he had other plans. With sadistic smile he grabbed your wrists with one hand and held them still as his other hand held firmly your hip, sure to leave bruises. All you could do was to wrap your legs around him to make him reach deeper, and moan when he buried himself balls deep into you.

His thrusts were fast and violent, his eyes travelled from your waving breasts to your parted lips, as you begged for more, for him to never stop.

“Gods– You fill me so fucking good–“ You squirmed as your whole body moved to his pace.

“That’s right,” he groaned, leaning over you as your muscles clenched hard on his length. “I want you to come all over my cock.”

You would never deny that order. A heat wave hit you hard, overtaking your body in its silky arms, as pleasure spilled all over your mind just as Geralt’s cum spilled deep inside your pussy. Your legs were shaking when you rode down your orgasm with his gasps near your ear.

He fell on the bed next to you, panting.

“So… So you care for me. If I got the message right,” you said in between heavy breaths and looked at him.

“Pretty much, yes.”

He also looked at you before you both laughed. He pulled you to a soft kiss before closing you in his warm arms. There was nothing that could disturb that night. Not when you felt so warm, so safe next to him.

You placed your head on his chest and soon the sleep surrounded you like a fog. And you dreamed, dreamed about amber eyes and clear blue skies.

 ___

tag lists:

💞: @taylorswiftloverforever13 @thomasfoockinshelby @kaylig02@daddyloki @it-jinxed-us @themusingsofmany @randomlea @annakohanasworld @theunofficialduke @prismroot-starlight0@deathofmissjackson@tricksterwinchester @villanellevi @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @forgoshsake-watchyourlanguage @grace-barnes-13 @starofthedawn @superconfusedandreadytorumble @glimmerlove9

💖 - @omg-so-many-fandoms @iwannaendme

🖤 - @winterpoohbear

#geralt x reader #geralt x reader smut #geralt x y/n #geralt x y/n smut #witcher x reader #witcher x reader smut #geralt x you #geralt x you smut #witcher x you #witcher x you smut #witcher x y/n #witcher x y/n smut #geralt imagine #witcher imagine #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia imagine

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Whumptober Day 15: Possession

CW: Blood, knives, stabbing, mild gore and skin removal, suicidal ideation from one character, some dehumanizing language

TIMELINE: The end of the Bad Arc

“Just-... fuck, keep going, please-” Ryan’s voice is thin and strained, and his back arches off the old hardwood floor, rattling the chain that connects his iron collar to the wall. There’s a fine sheen of sweat over his scarred, burnt, cut-up, healing skin. The ring of raw skin around his neck is surrounded by the scars of the old wounds, healed and reopened and healed and reopened as the collar never stops burning him alive. His head thumps back into the floor, heels pressing against it, panting up at the ceiling. “Don’t stop, Ora please, please don’t stop…”

Ora looks up, their lips pressed together, hazel eyes wide and full of more feeling than Ryan has ever seen them have before. Their hair hangs, bright, freshly-dyed Kelly green in their face. They’re sweating too, stripped to a tank top in the dim, unlit room, with only a little yellow sun coming through the paper that Ashley and Abraham tape over the window. Everything has a sickly yellow tint. “Ryan, this isn’t-...” They hiss, closing their eyes, gulping in deep breaths, before their hands go back to work again. “This isn’t going to do any good-”

“Yes, yes it will, it’s h-helping. I can feel it rising, fuck, please, God, don’t fucking stop now, he’s hurting Danny… he’s going to turn Nate into him... keep going keep going keep going keep going, fuck yes keep going, ah!”

Ryan’s eyes flicker bright and glowing, fall dull, flicker to life again. He digs his fingernails into the grain of the wood underneath him and wails as the knife Ora stole from Abraham digs deeper beneath the first few layers of skin over his hip.

The pain is a burning thing, but Ryan has spent a year drowning in pain, and he can handle this. He can survive this. 

Abraham has taught Ryan how to survive this, now.

There are lashes across his back that ache and itch, mostly healed. He feels a few of the deepest reopen, knows his blood will smear red across the floor, even as more blood dribbles from the skin as Ora slides the blade beneath. 

Below them, Danny is screaming behind his muzzle. Downstairs, kitchen or living room or outside - maybe it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t because wherever he is, Ryan is coming for him, just as soon-

As soon as Ora cuts the fucking tattoo off-

Your true teeth are waiting. It’s not a voice, it’s not his own thought, it’s a certainty that runs even deeper than that, rising like a wave, building like heavy dark clouds along the horizon of a dried-out place. It’s the scent of hot dry air in a land he’s never been to, a land that still feels like home. As Ora cuts the first strip of skin with the yellow eye off of his hip and peels it back, he feels something in him slowly cracking open, a darkness with yellow eyes waiting to step out.

He’s so fucking tired.

He’s tired, and sick, and hungry. 

He’s hungry in ways that eating cannot soothe. He wants something that Abraham can’t give him. He’s starving for it, and he needs it to save Danny, to save-... to save Nate, he thinks, who he can hear arguing with Abraham, but it doesn’t matter. 

He’s going to do for Danny what his big brother has always done for him.

He’s going to take this pain, and survive it, and then he’s going to save Daniel Michaelson from being destroyed.

“That’s-... oh god, that’s one,” Ora mutters, their face pale and greenish around the edges. He watches them jerk forward, fighting the urge to throw up at the sight and smell of so much blood. Ryan takes a deep breath and reaches out, gripping onto their wrist. His hands are slippery-slick with sweat that keeps pouring off of him. 

The yellow light from outside shines on his cheekbones - more pronounced than when he came here - as he stares them down. “Ora.”

They keep staring down. “Y-yes? Yeah, I can, I can do it-”

“You have to help me do this,” Ryan says, waiting until Ora slowly looks up at him again, until their eyes meet. 

Make them sleep. Make them sleep, and then, then you can move through their mind and-

He shuts out the voice - or not a voice, but a knowledge. A truth of himself he has never been allowed to face, but it’s a truth he needs if he is going to save Danny’s life today. Downstairs, his brother’s animal screams through a locked jaw continue, and he can hear Nate, too.

Begging for his brother’s life.

It’s only Abraham’s words that carry with effortless projection through the thin walls, up the stairs, and right to Ryan’s ears. It won’t take long, Nate. And then you can protect him forever - or tell me no again and he doesn’t have to survive what happens to you, does he?

Bram, f-f-for the love of G-God-

I am beyond gods, baby.

I’ll d-do it, please, just don’t k-k-kill him, pl-please, please, I’ll d-do it-

Put your back up against that tree, baby.

“Please, Ora.” Ryan groans, agony throbbing up his hip. A pain sharp enough to be felt all the way to his toes, and he rolls his hips in a pantomime of pleasure. The pain is so sharp that he can barely understand it. His mind steps away, trying to pull him into the space in his mind he has found to go when it’s Abraham’s knife carving him open. It takes all his willpower to stay here, here and now, and let the pain roll through him.

Ora nods, quickly, tucking hair back behind their ear, and then recoiling as they realize they’ve just streaked their green hair with Ryan’s red blood, their fingers are smeared with it. “Oh, god,” Ora whispers, and tears stand out in their eyes. “Oh my god, Ryan, I, I, what if-”

“It’ll work,” Ryan says, shaking his head a little. “It’ll work, Ora, I promise, just-... please, Danny’s running out of time-”

Ora leans back over, and Ryan wails again as the knife slips, soft as a kiss, back into his skin. The next eye is sliced apart first before the skin is pulled off, and Ryan chokes off sobs. He could never take pain like Danny could, but the year has done so much, and he keeps trying to cry and stopping himself, shaking his head, knocking it back into the floor, screaming but it doesn’t matter because Abraham thinks he’s screaming because of Danny, and instead…

The third eye is peeled back, dropped to the floor. 

He can feel it. It’s there, inside of him, pushing the darkness open a little further, and a little further.

As Ora cuts the final piece of the tattoo off of his body, the door inside Ryan doesn’t open - it is destroyed, and the thing he is but was never supposed to know he is comes loose. The thing he is tears apart all the barriers that have been built to keep him safe.

There is a roar inside his mind, gibbering laughter, and then that soft, soothing certainty.

Here are your teeth.

Ryan screams, back arched so much only his head and his feet touch the ground, as the world shifts on its axis, tilts and remakes itself, and the monster he was always made to be gives him back his birthright.

“Ryan?” Ora’s voice trembles, and he can hear in it what he has never heard before - he can hear their voice and know that they were born in a state thousands of miles from here, grew up unhappy, stayed unhappy. He can hear the choices they made that led them here. He knows what their girlfriend sounded like as she died. He can hear how they have told themself, again and again, that life is meaningless, but how they know somewhere deep down that it’s all a lie.

It’s a lie.

Life means something.

Life means death.

For the first time, Ryan Michaelson can direct it.

He drops back to the ground, groaning, eyes fluttering open and shut, before he reaches out to grip onto Ora’s arm again. He turns to look at them, and his eyes are glowing so brightly he can see the reflected light on Ora’s face, the flicker of yellow against their irises. There are things that move beneath the light in Ryan Michaelson’s eyes, and he no longer feels them pushed back under the surface of his skin. 

“I’m so fucking hungry,” He whispers, and his fingernails dig into Ora’s arm until they begin to bleed and whimper, but they don’t - can’t - pull away. Not until he lets them.

They will be lost in his eyes until he decides to let them go.

Downstairs, Danny’s screams have turned to hoarse sobbing, and now Ryan can hear like he has never heard before. Downstairs, Nate is saying, just l-l-let him live, I’ll d-d-do it, just don’t k-k-kill them, don’t k-kill them, pl-please, Bram, I’ll d-d-do it and Abraham is laughing and Abraham has won, but he hasn’t.

He hasn’t won yet.

Ashley, call it up. Let’s make him one of us.

“No,” Ryan whispers. “No. You can’t take him from Danny, too.”

“Ryan?” Ora’s voice is a whisper this time. He swallows around a strange lump in his throat, nervous, like a child riding a bike for the very first time. 

“Everything dies,” Ryan says, voice thick, foggy, distant. He can feel them now, teeth sharp as needles, and he runs his tongue over them, breathing hard. When he reaches his free hand up, the iron collar simply shatters under the strength of his grip when he squeezes it tightly, and the chain drops to the ground.

As soon as it’s gone, alongside the sense of a sweltering rainy season within him rises the vision of green hills, verdant and brilliant. Both of them call him home. He is so hungry. He is so hungry. He is so-

He pulls Ora on top of him, and they cry out as they slide over the blood that continues to run from his hip in a river. “You’ll die here,” He whispers, his hands on either side of their face, now, and they nod, tears bubbling and running down their cheeks.

They’re not afraid of him.

They are not afraid to die.

He can see how they stopped being afraid to die when they put a drug in Danny’s coffee and followed him in a car. He can see how they stopped being afraid to die and became someone simply waiting for death to find them.

He is hungry.

But Ora has been kind, sometimes, when no one else could be.

“I-I know. Please,” Ora whispers. “Please, please don’t let her be the one to kill me, Ryan, please. I don’t want to die hers. You, you can, whatever you are, you can kill me, right? You can-”

“You don’t have to die.” Ryan whispers, and they lean close, and Ora’s lips are warm, chapped, rough to kiss but so are his, and the heat flares up as he presses his lips to theirs. They whimper and then respond, and the green around him is sharp, the scent of ozone.

The clouds are building, rolling over themselves, dark and full-bellied, heavy with rain.

He is hungry, and he is thirsty, and he is two things that both want to feed to find the strength inside of him. He breaks free of the kiss. “I can save you.”

“She’ll never-”

“I can make you stronger than she is,” Ryan says, his mouth trailing from their mouth to the soft curve of their jaw, their neck, feeling them rock forward into him, their fingers curving around his shoulders and gripping tightly. “This doesn’t have to, to end here, Ora, but I need-”

Danny cries out.

Ryan groans, gripping Ora against him, and they are covered in his blood but he feels the heat growing inside of him anyway, and Ora is breathing harder. Ryan has never wanted someone who did not want him back. 

I’m just that gorgeous, he used to say, and flash a smile. He knows better, now. 

“Let me save you,” Ryan murmurs against the warmth of their neck, as their hands move to grip painfully tight into his dirty, tangled, overgrown black curls. “Let me make you stronger than she is. Let me, let me-... let me save Danny, Ora, please-”

“Yes,” They say, eyes up towards the ceiling, as his hands move down their back and settle low there, just above their hips, to rock them forward against him. “Yes, okay, yeah, save Danny, save Danny, save-”

“I’m saving you, too,” Ryan says, softly. “You’ll never have to kill anyone, I’ll show you how. I’ll show you. You’ll never have to-”

“Make me strong enough,” Ora gasps out, a sob edging their voice, tears that run down their cheeks and drip onto Ryan like holy water, burning him in all the best ways. “Make me strong enough to k-kill her so she can’t ever do this to anyone else. I don’t even care if I die, I don’t care, please, just so Penny can rest, so-”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” Ryan moans, closing his mouth around their throat, and the sharp needle-teeth sink in. It’s effortless, like he’s been doing it his whole life. The certainty in him surges upwards, and he buries his teeth deeper and deeper within them. He doesn’t want to hurt them, he doesn’t, but it doesn’t have to hurt, does it?

He’s never wanted someone who did not want him back.

Ora dissolves under his teeth, moaning not in pain but in a pleasure that runs deeper than any agony ever could, and their blood is hot and thick and iron-rich on Ryan’s tongue, but the iron doesn’t hurt him, because the green hills are not as strong, now, as the rains that fall on the grass and the trees somewhere far away.

He has been hungry for a year, without knowing what he was hungry for, but he knows now.

Blood. Fresh, bright, copper-salt-sweet, floods his mouth and he moans.

Blood and pleasure, the way it feels to have Ora’s hips moving against his, how they shift under his touch and he needs only to drop one hand to-

No. Not like this.

Not like this.

For now, the blood is enough.

Blood, rich and full of life, surging into him and they lay together in the scent of blood and sweat and tears, while someone else inside his brother’s body cries for help, and Ryan desperately tries to drink enough to provide it. He could kill them now, ruin Ora, leave their corpse torn to shreds to feed his growing hunger, but-

Ryan pulls free, and Ora whimpers. Ryan’s head is back against the floor as he forces the needle-teeth back from their throat with every hint of strength he has.

“Wh-what are you,” Ora says, pale as a ghost, shadowed and drawn, dying in his arms. “What, what are you?”

Ryan takes in a deep breath, his world sparkling around him. He lifts his own wrist up and tears at it with his teeth, ripping open thinned skin, his own blood running freely again before he pushes the wound to Ora’s mouth. 

“Ryan, what are you-”

“I’m special,” Ryan says, hoarsely. “Now drink.”

Ora latches on like a child to a bottle, tongue lapping at the wound in his wrist, their eyes shifting, fading, going dull and dark. Then they jerk back, hitching in a deep breath, and Ryan pants as he watches the dull hazel brighten until their eyes are glowing the color of a tree canopy in early fall, a heady mix of greens and browns that bounce light off their own skin when they look down.

There are things moving in the light behind Oracle Collins’s eyes.

“Now you’re… you’re special, too,” Ryan says, reaching up to touch their face. “You’re special, too.”

“I’m… I’m hungry,” Ora says, staring down at their hands, blinking, and then back up at him as they sit up pushing off of him, scrambling away and across the floor. They have smears of drying blood where Ryan’s hands have been, across their collarbone and arms and along the tank top at their back. “I’m so, I’m hungry-”

“I know.” Ryan swallows, pushing himself up on his elbows, and then forward, until he can crouch. Until he can stand, swaying, staring at the doorway. No door - puppies don’t need doors.

He’s not a puppy.

He’s not fucking Faerie Boy.

Danny isn’t Red all the time, and Ora isn’t too far gone to be worth saving.

Abraham spent a year teaching Ryan how to suffer.

It’s time to return the favor.

“Come on. You can hunt her, now.” He takes one stumbling step to the door, and then two. Through the doorway, leaving blood on the frame as he goes. It runs down his hips, his thigh, trickles over his ankle bone, drips onto the floor as he moves, each step half-stumbled, each step full of purpose.

His brother is crying downstairs. His brother is crying for help.

Danny needs him.

Ora is just behind him, and the two of them look nothing like the humans they have been and pretended to be. His feet thump on the stairs, one by one, and he feels the laughter inside of him, dark and deep. He thinks of the red supplement powder he’s taken in smoothies and shakes and stirred into soup every fucking week of his life. He thinks of his mother’s sharp edges, her high cheekbones, the look in her of a faraway place she has told him belongs to him, even if he never goes there.

She is right.

This belongs to him.

He is meant for this.

He is made of this.

“I’m still hungry,” Ora says, a little plaintively. “Will I ever stop being hungry?”

“Yes,” Ryan says, low and deep, as they reach the entryway. Outside, Danny is lying in the dirt, and there is more blood on him than unmarked skin. Outside, Abraham leans over Danny, knife just touching one of the few spaces left he has not ruined yet. Outside, Ashley leans against a tree, watching with avid interest.

Outside, Nate is tied to a tree, shouting, with a circle drawn around him and marked with evenly spaced white rocks. 

Inside the circle, something darker and older than Ryan is trying to make itself known.

“No,” He says, hoarsely. “No.”

Abraham pauses, and looks up. Ashley looks up, too, and hisses through her teeth. “Ora?”

“I’m… I’m so hungry, Ashley.” Ora looks down at their bloodstained hands, and back up again. “I’m hungry. You killed Penny and you made me help you kill people and I’m so… hungry, now, so...”

Ryan watches as Ora moves around him like they are in a dream, stepping down the ancient front porch, the wood steps creaking under their slight weight as they move. Whatever Ashley sees in Ora’s eyes, she recognizes well enough, in that moment, to run.

Ora starts running, too.

“Faerie Boy?” Abraham is still frozen, for just a moment, and the things that live in his eyes have been there so much longer than Ryan, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because Danny is going to die if this doesn’t work, and Nate is going to die if this doesn’t work, and Ryan finds, to his mild surprise, that he doesn’t want Nathaniel Vandrum to die at all. 

“My name isn’t Faerie Boy,” Ryan says. One step, two, and then another. Down the porch steps, naked and bloodied, with the final check on what he can do cut free of him. The red around his neck is ugly, he knows it must be, because Nate’s eyes go there and then away as he pales at the sight. “How-”

“Too late,” Abraham says with a sudden rictus of rage, and he reaches out - grabbing Ryan by the arm, his hand slipping in the blood that covers him, jerking him closer. “Come here, Faerie Boy. Take your punishment.”

Danny pushes between them - Ryan will never know how he moves so fast, when he looks back on this later. The furious need to defend Ryan lights Danny up, brings back all his height and strength from wherever he has hidden hem in his fear, and for a moment - just that one single moment - Danny is once again the sun that Ryan’s world revolves around. “No! You don’t get to hurt him anymore! Go to hell! You don’t get to do this to Ryan anymore!”

Abraham turns, to look at Danny, but Danny isn’t looking at him. His eyes are on Ryan, and his big brother is there through all the pain and will always step up to protect him-

“Bad dog. Time to put you down.” Abraham jams the knife in his other hand directly into Danny’s back, then jerks it to the side with inhuman strength, the handle breaking off with the blade still buried in Danny’s skin to the right side of his spine.

Danny’s scream echoes nearly to the sky as he collapses first to his knees and then into the dirt at Ryan’s feet, face down. 

Nate’s answering scream at the sight is somehow even louder. “D-Danny, no, no, pl-pl-please-”

“If I can’t have my puppy,” Bram snarls at Nate, stalking away from Ryan and back to the black-haired man, “neither can either of you.”

The darkness in the circle begins to rise, called by the pain, and fear, and blood - rising up to respond to the sacrifice - and Abraham gives Ryan a sneer before he moves into the circle, pulling Nate’s eyes to him.

Blood is pouring from his brother, and Ryan stares down at it dumbly, hardly understanding what has just happened. “Danny,” Ryan whispers.

His brother lies still in the dirt, blue eyes half-open, jerking in hitching, trembling breaths. Ryan feels, in the way that he can now, that his brother isn’t the person whose eyes move slowly to see him and then fade away. Someone else has been made for this moment, and someone else will help Danny die.

No-

Bram stares Nate in the eyes, and under the weight of grief and power, Nate begins to crumble. “B-Bram-... y-you can’t, you f-fucking-... you can’t do this-”

“I love you,” Abraham says, softly. He places a hand over Nate’s chest, pressing his cold palm to Nate’s bare skin. “Now we’ll be together forever.”

Ryan looks up and his lips move in a silent, no. He steps outside of the fabric of the world and then steps inside Nate Vandrum’s skin.

Let me in. 

Nate’s mind is a soundless scream being drowned by the power of Abraham’s eyes, and of whatever is trying to rise within the circle, whispering madness threatening to break its way in. But for all that Abraham spent a year teaching Ryan how to suffer - and five years with Danny - he spent even longer with Nate.

Nate knows how to hold him off, but he is breaking under Danny’s loss, the life he had held onto, the man he had saved once almost too late and now couldn’t save at all.

We can save him. Listen to me, Danny isn’t dead, yet.

Ryan can hear heartbeats around him like the crack of thunder after lightning, and his brother is still alive. Danny’s lungs still work, shuddering shallow breaths around the agony. Danny’s nerves fire pain at him from every possible angle, and Danny is buried deep inside him while someone else takes the final pain.

But it doesn’t have to be the final pain.

Danny doesn’t have to die here.

Someone else doesn’t have to be the last one drawing air into Danny’s lungs.

Ryan tries to be heard around Nate’s wailing grief. Let me in and I can save you, and you can save us, let me in.

The scream dies, and there is a terrible silence in Nate’s head, the silence of thinking he has been utterly, totally lost. That all his efforts to save the love of his life have failed. That there are no other options left but to give in and be what Abraham would make him. The darkness inside the circle will claim him and he will spread his own pain through the world, like Abraham and not like him. 

Danny whimpers, and Nate’s eyes, fading under Abraham’s influence, snap back to a bright and brilliant green as he turns to look at the redhead bleeding to death just inside the circle. “Danny,” Nate whispers.

Abraham grabs him by the chin and forces his eyes back and away. Ryan, moving blindly with power he has never been shown how to use, pushes himself along the inside of Nate’s body, feeling the constriction of the underside of his skin.

Let me in and let me save you. 

Help me save my brother.

Give yourself to me.

Give in.

Give-

Nate jerks in a gasping breath, tensing up all at once, and then relaxing as Ryan flexes fingers that aren’t his, swallows in a throat that doesn’t belong to him, and pulls lips back from Nate Vandrum’s teeth.

“My name is Ryan Michaelson,” He says with Nate Vandrum’s voice, “and I do not belong to you.”

He tears Nate’s hands free from the ropes that bind him and throws Nate’s body at Abraham Denner, burying the call of the demon in the circle with his own thirst for blood. Flat blunt white teeth tear at Abraham’s shoulder until skin breaks and black blood bursts free.

The thing trying to rise inside the circle is pushed back.

Danny’s heart is still beating.

For now.

---

@slytherynjolras, @whump-it, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp, @whumpywhumper, @18-toe-beans, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @swordkallya, @astrobly, @slaintetowhump, @moose-teeth, @untilthepainstarts, @whumpiary,  @lave-whump @raigash @cupcakes-and-pain

#whumptober2020 #whump #no. 15 #possession #captivity #magic whump #magical whump #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #sadistic whumper #mild gore #dehumanizing language #ryan michaelson wakes up #suicidal ideation tw #fae whumpee #burns tw #knives #blood tw #restrained #daniel michaelson's story

[marvelous-writer]

i'll be there when you feel lost and alone

Summary: Peter gets seriously hurt on patrol when he’s all alone, mourning the loss of Tony. 

Word Count: 6,823

Genre: whump, hurt/comfort, fluff

Link to read on ao3:

A/N: Part 2 of Whumptober 2021 @whumptober2021

Gunshots echo through the chilly midnight air as Peter runs along the side of the wet brick wall in the alley, dodging the bullets. He pushes off the wall and performs a backflip with practiced ease, aiming at one of the armed muggers and shoots an impact web at him, sending him flying backwards, successfully webbing him against the wall. There are at least ten or so men Peter’s trying to fight off all at once and it’s getting a little tiring, if he’s being honest.

“Nice shot, Peter.” Karen says as Peter lands in a low crouch.

“Thanks, Karen!” Peter shoots back as he jumps back up again, dodging a knife one of the muggers swipes at him.

“Who’s Karen?” One of the muggers calls out in confusion.

“The hell I should know just get him or the boss won’t be happy!” Another mugger yells back.

The bad guys come at him all at once and one of them jumps at Peter with an aimed fist, his hand covered in thick gold rings, which Peter easily dodges. “ You’re coming at me like that? Really, dude? How rude! Wait your turn!” Petre scolds jokingly as he ducks, dodging the next punch the guy throws his way, only for Peter to swipe his legs out from under him. “Petty thieves just don’t have any manners these days.” Peter adds as he webs the guy up to the ground.

Before Peter can get a second to catch his breath, two more men are on him, one armed with a crowbar and the other with a handgun. Peter resists the urge to groan. They’ve been at this for twenty-five minutes now since Peter jumped in and crashed whatever illegal dealing that was going on, and these guys haven’t let up. With each goon he takes down, it feels like two more take their place.

And to make matters worse, Peter is starting to feel pretty dizzy right now with how exhausted and hungry he is. That’s what happens when he doesn’t get more than eight hours of sleep in a week and barely eating, especially with his enhanced metabolism. But he’s trying to ignore the dizziness and the gnawing in his stomach for now.

Fight bad guys now, eat and pass out later.

Peter’s spider-sense tingles in warning at the back of his head as the goon with the crowbar comes at him swinging, while another guy appears out of nowhere and manages to land a hard punch to Peter’s jaw, causing him to stumble. Peter slams into the alley wall, barely managing to duck as the crowbar slams against the wall where his face just was.

“Whoah, man! Watch where you swing that thing!” Peter says as he shoots a web at the crowbar and yanks it away from the guy, causing him to lose his balance. Peter shoots a web at his face, blinding him, and swipes his legs out from underneath him, webbing him to the ground next to the other goons.

Another fist meets Peter’s face, causing him to stumble, but before he can react, something hard slams against the side of his head.

A sharp pain explodes through Peter’s head and down his neck as his vision whites out. He feels himself fall against the brick wall behind him, desperately trying to get his bearings back before another one of these guys gets the upper hand. Peter blinks rapidly behind his mask to clear his vision, only to catch a glimpse of the goon with the handgun aiming it at him as the guy that picked up the crowbar comes at him again.

Multiple gunshots fill the air once again, and one might miss them against the loud rumble of thunder, against the steady rainfall.

Pain explodes in Peter’s left leg near his thigh and in his right shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut, barely registering himself falling against the wall from the force of the bullets hitting him, crumbling to the alley floor, feeling his head collide against the wall on his way down.

“Dude—you shot him! You shot Spider-Man!” Crowbar dude exclaims in surprise.

“Who cares! Let’s just get out of here before he gets back up!” The gunman yells over his shoulder as the two of them start to run towards the alleyway entrance.  

Peter groans weakly in defeat on the cold, wet ground.

“Peter it appears that you have been shot several times and you sustained a bad blow to your head. Medical attention is highly advised.” Karen informs him in a worried tone.

He manages to turn his head in the small puddle he landed in, seeing that the muggers, except for the ones webbed up, got away.

“C-Crap…” Peter mumbles to himself,  guilt gnawing away at him for letting them escape. Now they were free to continue terrorizing other people, all thanks to him.

Peter grits his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut against the agonizing pain coursing through his entire body, feeling a few warm tears slide down his cheeks beneath his mask. This is so not how he thought this night was going to go, yet here he is, beaten up and shot, laying in a filthy alley in the pouring rain, soaked to the bone.

He just needs a minute… and then he’ll get up.

Peter lays there for a few moments, until he hears sirens in the distance, feeling the rain soaking through his suit.

“Local law enforcement is incoming. ETA one minute. Peter, you need to get up and seek medical attention.”

Peter groans against the ground as he slowly blinks his eyes open, finding everything to be a bit blurry. “O-Okay…” he whispers as he slowly starts to sit up, letting out a choked gasp when the movement sends white, hot pain through his already pounding head.

When he’s able to sit up, Peter leans against the brick wall for a second, gasping in pain as he clutches his shoulder, feeling a warmness dribbling between his gloved fingers. He wants more than anything to just stop moving and close his eyes but he knows that he can’t. The police have been wanting to arrest him for years now since he started this gig. He can’t be seen at the scene of a crime… or a gang take-down. Whatever.

Peter grits his teeth as he braces his good hand against the ground and slowly starts to stand up, fighting through the pain. When he’s finally standing, he has to lean against the wall for support.

“Peter the police are almost here. You need to leave now.” Karen tells him in a serious tone.

Peter looks up and he can see the flashing blue and red lights from here. He doesn’t have much time to escape—a few seconds at most. He braces a hand against the side of the building with his bad arm, hissing through gritted teeth at the pain the movement brings as he starts to slowly climb up the side of the building, pausing a few times as pain tears through his injured shoulder and leg.

When he finally reaches the top, Peter grips the building ledge and pulls himself up with a pained groan. He rolls over the ledge and lands on the gravel-covered roof on his back, facing the dark cloudy sky above. Raindrops land on the lenses of his mask as he lays there in agony, his soaking wet suit sticking to him uncomfortably.

But Peter doesn’t care.

He messed up big time tonight.

He was sloppy and he let the muggers get the upper hand on him.

This is all because he can’t get a handle on his life. He can’t sleep anymore from either the nightmares or his worsening insomnia. He just… can’t… move on.

Not without Tony.

Peter closes his eyes at the thought of him. It’s been four months now since Tony’s funeral… four months since he’s been… gone. It’s been the worst four months of Peter’s entire life.

“Peter, your vitals are dropping dangerously low. Per the tattletale protocol, I’m required to call an emergency contact.” 

“There’s no one you can call, Karen. Tony’s...” He closes his eyes as he breathes a sigh out through his nose. “Tony’s dead.”

Saying out loud only makes it worse—more real.

Karen remains silent as Peter lays there, blinking up at the sky. For a moment, Peter lets himself pretend that Tony is still alive. It’s sick and unfair to himself, but he doesn’t care. He waits for a few moments, for that phone call to come in, to hear Tony’s worried voice on the other end as he chews Peter out for being so reckless and getting himself hurt. Tony always calls him because he has every alert and protocol known to mankind set for these kinds of situations Peter gets himself into.

He also waits to hear the familiar sound of the Iron Man suit, of Tony, swooping in to save him from bleeding out on this rooftop.

But neither come.

The only thing Peter hears is the rain pelting down and his heavy breathing.

Tony’s not coming… and he’s never going to ever again.

A choked sob escapes from Peter’s quivering lips as the retaliation sinks in. He starts to cry there on the roof, letting his grief swallow him up. It feels like forever until his crying subsides to only gasping sobs. Crying only made him even more exhausted, but Peter can’t bring himself to care right now. He just feels weirdly numb and lightheaded.

“K’ren?” Peter slurs out, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth to form words.

“Yes, Peter?” She responds in a soft voice.

“T’ny’s… gone… right?” He asks. He’s not sure why, but maybe hearing someone else say it will make him believe it, even if it’s his suit’s AI.

Karen is silent for a few seconds. “Yes… I’m sorry, Peter.” She finally answers, sympathy in her voice as she pauses again. “Is there someone you would like me to call for you? Your vitals are continuing to drop and I don’t believe you’re able to make it home in your condition.”

“M’ all good, K,” Peter mumbles, blinking slowly up at the sky as a wave of tiredness washes over him. “Jus’ gonna… lie here… for a bit an’ take a nap.” He slurs out.

“Peter, you need to stay awake.” Karen tells him in a serious voice.

“Jus’ five minutes…” Peter slurs out as black dots dance around in his vision.

“Peter-” Karen’s concerned voice fades away as he lets his heavy eyelids slip shut when his vision completely blacks out, feeling darkness invade his mind, pulling him further and further down.

He doesn’t even feel the raindrops falling on him anymore.

He doesn’t feel cold either.

“Calling Happy Hogan.” Is the last thing Peter hears Karen say before he passes out, unaware of the growing pool of blood underneath him.

…

In the four months since Tony’s death, one thing Happy had told himself, the very same thing he promised Tony all those years ago, is that he would be there for Peter when he couldn’t be. Which is why a few months ago, he took it upon himself to set the kid’s AI up on all of his tech devices at home and on his phone to get any updates from the kid’s suit, with FRIDAY’s help since technology is a little (very) out of his realm.

The only problem is that Peter hasn’t really had any contact with him in the four months since the funeral.

And Happy understands why. Tony’s death didn’t just affect him. It’s affected the entire world, especially Peter. Tony and Peter had such a special bond that wasn’t quite like the normal mentor and mentee relationship. What they had… it was like a bond between a father and son.

Tony absolutely loved that kid, equally as much as he loved Morgan. From the day Morgan was born, Tony would tell her stories about Peter and she grew up believing that Peter was her long-lost brother. And it’s true. In the rare times Peter has visited the Stark cabin, Happy has seen for himself that Peter and Morgan are like mini versions of Tony. Peter might not be Tony’s biological kid… but he sure could fool Happy if he didn’t know.

It’s close to one in the morning and Happy finds himself wide awake, mindlessly channel surfing in his dimly lit living room. He’s debating between watching the Discovery Channel or a cheesy rom-com on the Hallmark Channel to get himself tired when his phone dings with a message. He blindly reaches over to the couch cushion beside him and picks it up and looks at the screen, only for his stomach to drop when he sees it’s a notification from Peter’s AI, Karen.

Multiple GSWs detected.

Vitals dropping.

Emergency medical attention is recommended.

Happy’s eyes widen in shock as he feels cold dread flow through him. He leaps up from the couch and grabs his keys, shoving his bare feet in his sneakers before he’s out the door, running for the elevator that leads to his apartment building garage.

…

It’s a blessing that the tracker in Peter’s suit reads that he’s only a few blocks away. He can only hope that he makes it in time.

“FRIDAY, have Dr. Cho set up whatever she needs to for Peter when I get him to the Compound.” Happy orders.

“Right away.” FRIDAY voice flows through the speakers of his car.

Happy silently thanks Tony for installing the AI into his car all those years ago. Back then he thought it was stupid and unnecessary, but it’s definitely coming in handy right now. It’s one of the best gifts he’s ever gotten. He glances at the map on the touchscreen tablet installed onto his car’s dashboard, seeing that the bright red dot is still in the same location from when he first started driving, meaning that Peter hasn’t moved.

Happy’s grip tightens on the steering wheel as he approaches Peter’s location, the building in his sight.

He slams on the brakes, skidding to a stop as he all but jumps out of the car once it’s in park and cautiously walks in the sketchy looking alleyway, eyes darting around for any sign of danger or the teen, only to find it empty but clearly the scene of a crime that the police had cleaned up sometime before his arrival. There are dents in the side of the brick buildings he can only assume are bullet holes. The sight of them tightens the knot in Happy’s stomach.

The rain has picked up considerably during his drive, only worsening the situation because Happy knows that Peter doesn’t thermoregulate well and he could get sick if he’s out in bad weather like this for too long.

“Peter?” Happy calls out, reaching a hand to the back of his sweatpants waistband under his raincoat where he stashed his handgun he grabbed from the glove box in his car in case he runs into any trouble. “Kid?” he repeats louder, squinting against the rain through the darkness.

He pulls out his phone from his coat pocket with his free hand and looks at the tracker’s location, seeing that he’s now on the red dot. Peter should be here but clearly, he’s not. Happy lets out a frustrated sigh as he pockets his phone and runs a hand through his short, wet hair as he looks up to the sky, only for his eyes to settle on the rooftop above.

The sudden realization hits him like a ton of bricks. Peter must have been able to make it up to the rooftop before the police showed up. The kid isn’t stupid--he knows the police would have taken Spider-Man in and they would have been able to easily catch him with him being injured.

Happy’s eyes quickly scan the building for a fire escape and when he finds one, he wastes no time in getting the metal ladder down by standing on a crate he found, before he’s carefully climbing up the slippery thing.

When he’s up the fire escape a minute later, he’s panting, out of breath and it’s downpouring now, forcing him to squint against the droplets hitting his face as he swings his legs over the ledge and steps onto the gravel roof.

“Peter? Kid, it’s me where are—” Happy calls out, only for his voice to get lost in his throat when his eyes land on the blue and red figure laying on the ground a few feet away from him. Happy’s eyes widen as fear shoots through him, turning his blood ice cold. “Oh my God,” he breathes out as he runs over to Peter’s all-too-still form on the ground and drops to his knees at the kid’s side. “Peter. Kid? Come on, answer me please.” Happy pleads worriedly as he carefully lifts the kid’s mask and slips it off, revealing Peter’s soaking wet, ghostly pale face, his hair sticking flat to his forehead.

Please, God let him be alive. Please. I can’t lose anyone else. Please. May can’t lose anyone else. This kid is all she has left. Please let him be alive.

Happy’s fingers instinctively go to Peter’s neck to his pulse point and he waits for a brief, terrifying second before he feels a faint thumping beneath them. Faint but there.

“Thank God,” Happy breathes out, relief flowing through him.

But they’re not out of the woods yet—not even close.

Happy scans Peter’s body, only for his eyes to land on the bullet wounds, one on his right shoulder and the other one on his left leg, both of which are sluggishly bleeding, the blood being washed away by the pouring rain. But from here, Happy can see that it’s bad.

Shit.

“Kid? Peter?” Happy calls as he gently shakes Peter’s other good shoulder, gently at first and then a little rougher, silently praying to see those baby brown eyes once again, until the teen lets out a weak, pained groan.

It takes a few seconds before Peter manages to open his eyes halfway, looking completely out of it judging by how glazed his eyes are.

“T’ny? S’ you?” Peter slurs.

Happy’s chest tightens with sadness at that. The poor kid is so out of it he probably can’t remember anything.

“No, it’s Happy—see?” He tells him gently as he leans over the kid a little more to shield him from the rain as best as he can.

It takes the kid another few seconds until Happy can see the gears working in his head as Peter looks at him with recognition. “H’py?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s me, Pete,” Happy tells him. “How’re you feeling? Tell me what hurts.” He orders gently.

“M’ head… e-everything,” Peter mumbles as he closes his eyes, brows pulled together in pain.

Happy frowns worriedly as he notices the teen is shivering. He gently shakes Peter’s uninjured shoulder again. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me. You have to stay awake.”

“Mhmm,” Peter mumbles as he slowly blinks his eyes open once again, seeming to struggle with just that. “S’ hard to.” he admits.

“I know it is, kid. Just stay with me, okay? I’m going to get you out of here.” Happy tells him as he yanks off his raincoat and drapes it over the shivering teen. “Let’s get you to the car, okay?

“M’kay,” Peter mumbles, blinking sluggishly.

Happy reaches down and carefully snakes his hands under Peter’s back and legs, taking in a deep breath before he picks him up in his arms, feeling his back protest against the added weight. Peter lets out another pained groan from being jostled.

“Sorry, Pete,” Happy says as he turns around and starts to walk back to the fire escape, which is going to be a challenge for sure.

He couldn’t go down this building’s stairs and walk inside with an injured and maskless Spider-Man in his arms. That would attract too much attention and suspicion from the residents--not to mention there could and probably are security cameras inside.

So the fire escape is their only option.

“Okay, Pete listen up,” Happy says. “I need your help here, alright? You’re going to have to walk just a little bit so we can get down this fire escape.” He says, looking down at the teen in his arms.

“But m’ tired,” Peter mumbles, words slurring slightly.

“I know you are but I need your help here. I need Spider-Man’s help, okay?”

Peter sluggishly opens his eyes as he slowly nods. “M’kay,” he mumbles.

Happy steps onto the fire escape and carefully sets Peter down on his feet, keeping an arm on the teen’s shoulder to keep him standing when Peter’s face scrunches up in pain. He helps Peter put his arms through the raincoat so he has better access to his hands.

“I’ll go first and I’ll help you down, okay?” Happy says as he takes a few steps down the ladder. “You’ve got this, Pete.”

Peter slowly nods as he grips both sides of the metal railing for balance. They slowly start their way down and Happy keeps an arm out in case Peter slips. They make it one flight when Peter’s injured leg suddenly gives out, causing the kid to let out a choked gasp in pain as he grips the railing in front of him tight enough to dent it.

Happy is quick to brace a hand on his lower back, catching him. “It’s okay—It’s okay. You’re okay. Just take a minute to catch your breath, okay?” he reassures.

Peter’s shaking from the effort of holding himself up. “S-Sorry,” he says as he lets out a pained groan, leaning forward as he leans his forehead against the rail in front of him.

“You okay?” Happy asks, brows pulling together in concern.

“Y-Yeah… jus’ dizzy.”

That definitely isn’t good. Happy looks over his shoulder, seeing that they only have one more flight to go. He looks back up at the teen above him. “We’re almost at the bottom. Just hang on for a few more minutes. Do you think you can do that, Pete?”

“I-I’ll t-try.” Peter says with a small nod.

“Okay,” Happy says unsurely as he takes his hand away from the teen’s back as he takes a step down, ready to catch him again if need be.

When they’re finally down the fire escape, Happy helps Peter down by wrapping his arms around the teen and easing him to the ground, mindful of his injured leg. Peter sways where he stands, clearly absolutely exhausted from their trip down the stairs, as Happy wraps the teen’s uninjured arm over his shoulders and wraps an arm around the kid’s back, leading him towards the car up ahead, the headlights standing out against the darkness.

Happy opens the backseat passenger door up and helps Peter lie down in the back before he runs to the trunk and grabs spare blankets he’d stashed away for a time like this. He runs back to the backseat and gently places one of the blankets underneath Peter’s head for a pillow, while he covers him up with the other one.

Happy eyes the kid worriedly as he reaches down and carefully wipes away a few stray rain droplets from Peter’s forehead. “Just hang in there, Pete, okay?”

Peter shakily nods in response into the blanket pillow without looking up.

Crawling out of the backseat, Happy shuts the passenger door and jumps in the driver’s seat before he pulls away from the alley and all but floors it, mindful of the precious and very injured cargo in his backseat. He throws the heat on full blast in the front and back, as well as the second-row heated seats.

Adjusting the rear view mirror, Happy can see Peter’s pain-filled face, adding to the guilt and worry flowing through him. Judging by those dark circles under his eyes, Peter hasn’t been sleeping these past few days. He knows the kid well enough by now to know that he’s going through a hard time and he’s not telling anyone about it. No one should ever have to grieve alone.

And Happy knows this isn’t the first time Peter has lost someone in his life. First it was his parents, then his uncle, and now… Tony.

Life has been very unfair to Peter. But one thing’s for sure… he shouldn’t have to do it all alone. The kid has a big guilt complex and he never wants to burden anyone with his problems—he just wants to help people with their own problems.

But even heroes need help sometimes.

That is if the people around them care to be invested enough in their lives to see that they’re struggling. Which… Happy knows he hasn’t been doing a very good job of that these past few months.

I should have been keeping a closer eye on him.

Happy adjusts his grip on the steering wheel as guilt sits heavily in his stomach. From now on… he’s going to do better. He’s going to start weekly, no—daily check-ins on the kid to make sure he’s doing okay, and maybe they can even set up a weekly meet-up for lunch. Heck, Happy is even willing to pick him up from school every day.

But for tonight… Happy just needs to keep Peter alive, who’s currently bleeding out in the backseat of his car.

“FRIDAY, what’s the quickest way back to the Compound?” Happy asks.

“Routing course,” The AI responds before the route pops up on the navigation system. “ETA one hour.”

An hour is too much time. Happy glances back in the rearview mirror at Peter, who’s now passed out, still shivering away under the blankets covering him.

Happy looks back at the road determinedly. “Let’s make it thirty minutes.”

…

The ride upstate is a blur as Happy drives as fast as he can, cutting a few red lights along his way out of the city. During those long and tense thirty minutes, Peter half-wakes up a couple of times, dazed and confused out of his mind.

“T’ny?”

“No, Pete it’s Happy,” he tells him, adjusting his rearview mirror again to get a better look at the kid, who’s trying to slowly sit up. “Don’t move, Pete okay? You’re hurt. You were in a fight. Do you remember anything?”

Peter stays down, blinking sluggishly, silent for a moment as his brows pull together in confusion. “Are we fly’ng?” he slurs.

Happy looks back to the highway ahead, which is thankfully sparse of other cars, given that it’s now close to two in the morning. “With how fast we’re going, pretty much,” He answers as he looks back at the kid. “How’re you holding up?”

Peter blinks again as he stares up at the ceiling. “N’ suddenly m’ flying… flying like a bird… like ‘lectricity…” Peter mumbles as his eyes droop.

Happy’s brows pull together in concern. “What? Pete—you’re what?”

The corner of Peter’s mouth turns up into a dopey smile. “We’re soaring… flying… there’s not a s-star tha’ we cn’t reach…” he slurs out as he closes his eyes.

Well, shit.

That’s either the blood loss or the head injury talking.

“Sure, Pete,” Happy says worriedly as he glances at the navigation system, seeing that they’re ten miles away from the Compound. “FRIDAY, is Dr. Cho ready for him?”

“Dr. Cho and her team are prepared and awaiting your arrival.”

“Good. Thanks, FRI.” Happy says as he lets out a sigh.

“Of course.”

By the time they finally reach the Compound, Peter is out cold once again in the backseat as Happy carefully skids the car to a stop right outside of the front doors. He jumps out of the front seat and is about to open up the back door to help Peter out when Dr. Cho and her team walk out through the double doors, wheeling a stretcher.

Happy carefully picks Peter up, still wrapped up in his raincoat and blanket as he lowers him on the stretcher and before he knows it, the medical team is quickly wheeling him inside. Happy rushes ahead with them, keeping his eyes on Peter’s pale face until Dr. Cho stops him as they take Peter away through another set of double doors.

“We’ll take it from here, Happy,” She rushes out gently. “Thank you for getting him here so quickly.”

“Take care of him.” Happy says, coming out more like a plea than anything else.

“He’s in the best hands, I promise you.” She says before she disappears through the double doors, leaving Happy standing there alone.

He stares at the doors for a long few moments as guilt and worry flow through him.

When he turns away from the doors, Happy lets out a sigh as he walks over to the waiting area and takes a seat, rubbing his face tiredly. It’s been a long night and it’s far from over.

One thing he has to do is call May and fill her in on what’s going on.

And that’s going to be a hard phone call.

Happy lets out another sigh as he pulls his phone out from his sweatpants pocket, scrolling through his contacts until he finds May’s number. He taps the call button and puts the phone up to his ear, waiting for several moments until she answers.  

“Hey. It’s me… are you sitting down?”

…

“Kiddo... I think it's time you wake up.” A familiar voice says.

Peter blinks open his eyes, only to find himself laying on a bed in a room he recognizes to be the guest bedroom at the Stark cabin. He frowns, not remembering how he got here.

“There he is.” The voice says.

Peter turns his head to the side, only for his eyes to widen in shock. Tony is sitting in a chair beside him, softly smiling at him.

“T-Tony?” Peter asks in disbelief.

“Hey, kiddo. Long time no see,” Tony greets. “How’re you feeling?”

Peter just blinks at him for several seconds, still not believing what he’s seeing as he slowly sits up. “Uh… l-like I’m seeing-”

“A ghost?” Tony asks with a grin before he breathes out a laugh, shaking his head. “No. I’m not a ghost.”

“What—how are you here?” Peter asks, his eyes widening further. “Am I dead?”

“No,” Tony quickly answers, shaking his head again. “You’re not dead. You almost were though if it wasn’t for Happy.” He says. “I’ve been gone for what, a couple of months and everything’s going off the rails, huh?”

The joke only causes a stab of grief in Peter’s chest. Peter looks down and fiddles with the blanket on his lap as he swallows around the growing lump in his throat as his eyes begin to water. “It’s… It’s been really... hard… without you.”

He hears movement at his side as Tony stands up and takes a seat on the edge of the bed next to Peter’s hip. “I know… I’m sorry.” Tony softly says as he reaches a hand out and places it on Peter’s shoulder, the gesture so familiar and comforting, it hurts.

Peter closes his eyes and feels a few stray tears slide down his cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” Tony softly says as Peter feels a calloused hand on the side of his face, his tears being wiped away by Tony’s thumb.

Peter opens his eyes, seeing that Tony is looking at him with sad eyes, surprised to see his eyes are a little watery as well.

“W-Why did you have to s-snap?” Peter asks him, letting out the question that’s been plaguing his mind since the moment Tony died.

Tony looks down with a small sigh. “Because… I had to.”

“N-No you didn’t.” Peter says, shaking his head, dropping Tony’s hand in the process.

“Yes… it did. I couldn’t have put that on anyone, Pete,” Tony gently says, looking into Peter’s eyes as he cups the teen’s face with his hand. “I had to do it. It had to be me.”

Peter shakes his head, blinking past the tears in his eyes as they continue to stream down his cheeks. “N-No it didn’t. Y-You j-just left us! P-Pepper, M-Morgan, H-Happy, a-and m-me. A-And I...I don’t k-know what to d-do without you.” He sobs out, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oh, Pete…” Tony says, feeling the man gently pull him forward against his chest. “I’m… I’m so sorry, kiddo.”

Peter breaks down and cries against Tony’s chest, fisting Tony’s green sweater in his hands as he sobs. He remembers being in this situation quite a few times before, being soothed by Tony’s soft voice after a crying session. Peter doesn’t really know how this is happening, or why… but he’s not complaining. He’s always said that he’d give anything just to be with Tony one more time… and maybe this is it.

The thought has Peter crying harder, clinging to his mentor more. He can’t say goodbye. He just can’t.

“Shhh… it’s okay,” Tony murmurs softly, his voice rumbling against his chest. “You’re okay… I’ve got you, Pete.”

It feels like forever until Peter runs out of tears, leaving him wetly sniffing against Tony’s chest as the man gently rocks him, rubbing soothing circles on his back. Peter keeps his eyes closed, praying for this moment to never end.

“I’m so sorry, Pete. I didn’t want to go… I had no choice. It was me versus millions of people. Thanos would never have stopped his mission. I want you and Morgan to be safe and be able to grow up and have lives of your own. Do you understand?” Tony gently asks.

Peter sniffs, nodding against his chest.

Tony sighs softly as he wraps his arms around Peter in a hug. “I hate that I can’t be with you guys. And I know it’s been hard on you lately. And as cheesy as this sounds, just remember—I’m always with you. Okay? And I want you to know how damn proud I am of you, Pete. I always have been and I always will be. You, Morgan, and Pepper are the best things that have ever happened to me.”

They stay like that for a while, until the moment is shattered when Peter hears voices in the distance. He frowns against Tony’s chest as Tony lets out a small sigh.

“I’m sorry, kiddo… but it’s time to go.”

Fear shoots through Peter as he pulls away, looking up at him. “W-What? But I don’t want to go.”

Tony smiles sadly as he cups Peter’s face. “I know… but you have to, bud. They’re waiting for you. They need you, Spider-Man.”

“But,” Peter pauses, his brain racing. He has so many things to say—so many questions. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know, Pete and I don’t want you to go, believe me. But I promise you, we’ll see each other again one day, okay?”

Peter’s eyes fill with tears once again as Tony pulls him in for another hug.

“I love you, Peter.” Tony tells him, feeling him press a kiss to the side of his head.

“I-I love you too.”

…

“I think he’s waking up now.”

“Peter, honey? Can you hear me?”

Peter lets out a small groan in response, feeling his body start to slowly come back to him but he still feels weirdly floaty and numb. He struggles to open his heavy eyelids until he manages to blink them open slowly, meeting blurriness. He blinks a few times to clear his vision, only to find himself lying on a bed in a room he recognizes to be the medbay.

This scene feels all too familiar.

“There he is.” a soft, familiar voice says to his right.

Peter manages to roll his bowling ball of a head to the side, expecting to see Tony sitting beside him once again… but he doesn’t. He sees both May and Happy sitting in chairs beside his hospital bed, May is smiling at him, gently squeezing his hand in her own.

It all comes back to him.

Tony’s dead.

It was just a dream.

Peter’s face drops as he feels his eyes warm up as tears start to pool in them. Grief and sadness flow through him all at once, overwhelmingly so.

“What’s wrong, baby?” May asks with a worried frown.

Peter sniffs wetly as he closes his eyes. “I-I thought-” He starts to say, only for a sob to escape from his lips. “I-I thought T-Tony was here.”

“Oh, honey,” May says as he feels her fingers gently card through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“N-No,” Peter says as he shakes his head, wincing as it brings a sharp spike of pain from the movement. “I-I was with him. H-He was there.”

May turns to Happy and they both share a knowing look before they both look at him again.

“Peter…” Happy says, seeming to struggle for words for a few seconds until he closes his eyes for a brief second, meeting his eyes. “When Dr. Cho was working on you… you lost a lot of blood. Your… heart… stopped beating for two minutes.”

Peter stares at him for a few long seconds before he looks away at the wall across the room, processing the information. He’s taken out of his thoughts by May grabbing his hand again, feeling her gently squeeze.

“You okay? I know that’s a lot to take in.”

Peter licks his lips and slowly nods. “Yeah…” he says, blinking a few times. “Do you think that I… was actually with Tony?”

May smiles softly, her eyes tearing up. “You might have been from the sounds of it.”

“He was keeping you safe and helped you come home.” Happy adds in with a sad, knowing smile of his own.

Peter nods with a small, watery smile. “He did.”

“Thank God you’re okay,” May says as she stands up and carefully hugs him, wetly sniffing.

“I’m sorry.” Peter mumbles into her shoulder as he closes his eyes, weakly lifting an arm up to hug her.

She pulls back and sits on the edge of the bed, shaking her head to herself. “I don’t even want to think… if Happy hadn’t gotten you here as quickly as he did. If you really...”

Happy reaches over and takes her hand in his, offering her a reassuring smile. “He’s okay, May. It was a very close call,” he gives Peter a serious look before looking back at her. “But he’s going to be more careful next time and I’m going to make sure he wears the Iron Spider suit from now on.”

May nods in agreement, as she looks at Peter. “Yes. And we’re going to make sure you get your proper sleep. No more skipping curfew.”

“And you call when you’re going to be late.” Happy adds.

“Yes,” May agrees, looking back at him, smiling. “We make a great team.”

“We do.” Happy says with a knowing smile.  

And it’s… weird.

Almost… flirty.

Peter eyes the two of them, raising a brow in confusion. “Uhh… what’s happening here?” He slowly asks.

“Umm…” Happy says, eyeing May nervously.

May breathes out a nervous laugh. “Well… we… kind of just…”

Peter squints at them. “Are you two… a thing?”

May and Happy both look at him like deers caught in headlights.

And Peter feels pretty dumb right now because how the heck did he miss this? He must have a pretty shocked expression on his face because May’s eyes widen nervously.

“Peter--I was going to tell you but you’ve been going through so much lately and I didn’t want to spring this on you. And we’re still figuring things out!” May says.

“Yeah! We’re just… seeing where this takes us.”

May nods in agreement. “Yes. Seeing where life takes us with this and… what road we’re going down.”

Peter blinks, processing this, along with the fact that he was pretty much dead for two minutes.

It’s just a lot right now and it’s making his head hurt more.

Peter just sighs, tiredly smiling at them. “It’s okay--I’m happy for you guys. Really.”

May and Happy both let out relieved sighs at that.

“Wow. That feels good to get off my chest.” Happy says.

“Yeah,” May agrees with a small laugh before she looks at Peter. “Now that that’s settled, you need to rest! How about you try to get some more sleep, okay?”

Peter smiles tiredly. “Okay.”

Sleep. That sounds pretty good right about now.

Settling back down in bed, Peter closes his eyes and tries to fall back to sleep as May and Happy softly talk beside him. He’s close to falling asleep until he thinks of something.

Oh. So that’s where all of those flowers have been coming from.

#whumptober2021 #alt. 11 #near death experience #spider-man #Peter Parker #Happy Hogan #May Parker #spider-man: homecoming #spider-man: far from home #avengers #iron man #Tony Stark #Peter Parker whump #hurt Peter Parker #uncle happy hogan #happy hogan is a good bro #whumpy #Peter whump #hurt peter #aunt may #uncle happy #mcu #marvel #my fic

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (86) || atz

Hongjoong has always known that he would have to face his father again.

It was inevitable the second Hongjoong had chosen to become the man he was - a pirate, and one known as the Pirate King of the Caribbean, at that. Hongjoong hadn’t chosen the life of a pirate on his own, it had simply been a means to survival when there was no path left for him to take, but he had to admit he had embraced it partially to spit on his father’s ideals as the Chief Commander of the Royal Navy.

And now, he’s meeting his father eye to eye once again, both on different sides of the beach - both on different sides to this battle.

But while he has Wooyoung and Yeosang flanking both his sides, the hot summer air of the tropics taking on a sudden chill, his father approaches the no man’s land in a tiny boat - completely alone.

“Yeosang, do you notice something strange?” Wooyoung whispers out of the corner of his mouth, and Hongjoong can tell from just tense he is from the way his jaw is clenched. Hongjoong can’t see that well with one eye, but he trusts Wooyoung’s instincts and sight as the head gunner.

Next to him, Yeosang nods, a barely perceivable tilt of the head. “Something’s off, but I can’t tell what it is...” The navigator mumbles under his breath, chewing on his bottom lip. Hongjoong swallows, feeling unease stir in the pit of his belly. Just what is happening?

“They haven’t noticed the Treasure, have they?” Hongjoong murmurs softly as his father’s lone boat approaches the island - it’s barely small enough to fit a single man, yet it captures his attention more easily the massive armada at his father’s back. Yeosang nods again, eyes still fixed intently on the rowboat approaching shore.

“They’ll be able to move into cannon range faster than the armada can react, and we’ll cut a straight path in front of their bows to weaken the ships closest to us.” His navigator speaks quickly, but Hongjoong can hear the way his voice is trembling. Yeosang has never been one to enjoy being in the thick of fighting like Yunho and Jongho are, has never learnt to lift a blade larger than a simple knife for self defense. “There are two ships at the side with their artillery directed to us, but it’s the best chance we have. Once we give the smoke signal, San and Chin Hae should come running... if everything goes well.”

Wooyoung lets out a loud breath, blowing at his bangs to get them out of his eyes before he gives his captain an easy smile. “Nothing ever goes well with you, captain, does it?” He says, trying to lighten the mood, and Hongjoong shakes his head slightly, a small smile curling at the side of his mouth.

��We’re still alive for you to complain, so I don’t see what the problem is.” Hongjoong retorts calmly. Yeosang shakes his head in disappointment as Wooyoung snickers, before turning his attention back to the approaching boat.

The boat draws ever closer, close enough for him to make out the features on the man’s face. He’s completely alone, without a single bodyguard with him, something that Yeosang doesn’t understand. Even when his own father had come on board the Treasure for a negotiation, he had brought with him several men to protect him. But for the Chief Commander of the Royal Navy to approach them alone?

The man before them can’t be over-confident, or a simple fool if he has made his way up the ranks of the Royal Navy. He remembers the snippets of conversation he had heard his father make with the Chief Commander of the Royal Navy before, too young to understand with one ear pressed to a hardwood door, but enough to know that the man inside was one respected and feared. The Chief Commander commanded the room with a single word, and Yeosang had wondered just how capable he was to reach the position.

Yet here he is now, approaching the beach in a solitary rowboat, his presence so large that Yeosang already feels the weight of his gaze.

Just how confident is he?

A cold feeling settles on Yeosang’s shoulders as he continues to stare, watching the rowboat come closer to shore. He knows something is wrong, but what-

The gasp falls from his throat, completely unbidden and he rubs at his eyes frantically to confirm that he’s not hallucinating. No, he isn’t, and Yeosang isn’t sure which one is more terrifying to him.

“Captain...” He tugs at Hongjoong’s sleeve, and it’s only when he misses the red fur a few times does he realise his fingers are shaking. “Your father... isn’t supposed to be a witch or something, is he?”

“What? Only in personality, but not in reality...” Hongjoong begins to say, but then Wooyoung curses aloud, shifting forward to look more clearly at the man approaching the island.

“He’s not rowing.”

Hongjoong doesn’t fully process this until it hits him that his father is alone, in a rowboat, and is fast nearing them. He knows what it’s like to be able to do such a thing, sees the way the waves slide around the underside of the boat to propel it closer to shore. There’s no denying it - his father, too, must have the power of the seas.

And that scares him.

Still Hongjoong swallows, straightens his back and takes a step forward, feeling the weight of the musket strapped under his coat and the blade hidden in the sleeves. He raises his head to meet his father’s gaze, and he swears he sees a smile identical to his pulling at the corner of his father’s mouth.

He hates it.

The boat makes it landing far too fast, the waves pushing the small vessel onto shore. His father steps off board, each action as graceful and elegant as flowing water, befitting a man befitting his station, boots crunching in the sand. Hongjoong instinctively moves to take a step back, thickness forming in his throat before he forces himself to stay still even as a drop of cold sweat trickles down his back.

Remember who you’re doing this for, he reminds himself, nails digging into the skin of his palm. The pain grounds him, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself. The crew is all counting on him, their captain, to steer them safely through this storm. And you... you...

Your smile weaves its way into his mind, entwining with his memories. He has to be brave. You’re still waiting for him.

“Snap out of it, captain.” Wooyoung kicks him not so subtly in the knee, and Hongjoong turns his head to give his head gunner a flat look. The man gives him a beatific grin in response. “Don’t think so hard and just focus on capturing that little bastard snake. I’ll protect you with my life, so there’s no need to worry.”

Hongjoong snorts, but part of him does feel marginally better at Wooyoung’s words. “And here I was thinking that I wish it was Yunho here with me instead. Don’t be so hasty to die too, won’t you?” He looks at the purple haired man, a small grin on his face. “You have something to ask Chin Hae too, don’t you?”

Wooyoung levels a suspicious glance at his captain. “... have you been eavesdropping?”

“Will the two of you stop making me feel like a third wheel?” Yeosang grumbles under his breath, and Hongjoong laughs together with Wooyoung at the put out look on their navigator’s face. “Pay attention to the enemy in front of us.”

Hongjoong takes a deep breath, heart lighter. “Sorry, I got distracted. Let’s do it.”

It’s been years since he’s seen his father’s face, and he hasn’t changed one bit since the last time Hongjoong has seen him.

He still has the same, sharp, fine features that women used to throw themselves at when Hongjoong was still a child, dark hair cropped short and parted in the middle to show his eyes. The only difference is that while one of his eyes are green just like Hongjoong last remembers them, the other is a strange, shifting colour that reminds him or a whirlpool at sea and sends shivers up Hongjoong’s spine.

It’s as if there’s something else lurking in his father’s body that’s not quite human.

His father steps up to the line drawn in the sand, both hands clasped behind his back and a serene smile on his handsome face. At a simple glance, he doesn’t appear to be carrying any weapons on him, dressed in nothing but a smart black coat with the Royal Navy’s insignia decorating the space over his heart. Hongjoong clenches his jaw ever so slightly at the red rose blooming there, but doesn’t say a word, meeting his father’s eyes evenly. The scar along his eye burns at the sight of him.

Don’t speak first, don’t show any weakness, don’t-

“You must have suffered a lot, Hongjoong.”

For the first time in almost a decade, Hongjoong hears his father speak again. It’s the same, steady voice that calmed him when he was trapped in the storms with his father in a tiny sailboat, the one that his ears could pick up even as the winds howled and the thunder crashed through the sky. His father never raised his voice, not once, and at the sound of his words Hongjoong feels like a child who just wants to hold his father’s hand again.

And he hates it.

“That’s not what we came here to talk about.” Wooyoung says loudly, and Hongjoong mentally breathes a word of thanks to his head gunner as he takes the momentary distraction to get himself back under control.

“He’s right,” Hongjoong speaks, and is relieved when his voice comes out firm and steady. Yeosang nods from next to him, eyes evenly trained on the man opposite them. “We’re here to negotiate for our crew’s freedom. ”

“Your crew’s safety is already guaranteed.” The man before him says so warmly that Hongjoong wants to hurl. It’s the exact same gentle smile his father had worn as he abandoned Hongjoong to bleed out on that island. “I mean no harm towards you, or your crew.”

“That doesn’t explain the whole armada behind you.” Wooyoung snaps, seething. The commander simply laughs, shaking his head kindly. “I assure you that they were never here to open fire on your ship. I only brought them to flush you out of Tortuga, otherwise you would never have agreed to a conversation with me. It is my hope that we will be able to resolve this without you having to pull the trigger, good sir.”

Wooyoung and Yeosang both flinch, the former reaching back subconsciously to touch the firearm behind his back before he catches himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hongjoong’s father merely shrugs, an easy tilt of the head that shows neither fear nor wariness. The smooth, refined way he speaks almost makes Yeosang’s head feel light, the right amount of politeness softened with the perfect touch of compassion and gentleness that makes him want to believe everything coming out of this man’s mouth, a textbook example of a perfect diplomat. Refusing him would make Yeosang feel awful, and-

“Yeo, snap out of it.” Wooyoung whispers harshly out of the corner of his mouth, and Yeosang startles out of it, surprised. “I don’t know what he’s doing, but don’t listen to it. Remember, he’s our enemy.”

“It’s a pity that you think of me that way, although that is completely understandable.” Hongjoong’s father nods with a resigned smile, and Yeosang almost finds himself rushing to reassure the man before he catches himself, throwing both hands over his mouth. Is this what hearing the voice of a siren is like, he wonders to himself, fear creeping up the back of his throat. “My purpose here is simple.”

“You want Chin Hae, and we’re not giving her to you. So find something else you want, because I’m not giving up one of my crew to someone like you.” Hongjoong says coldly, and his father simply raises an eyebrow in response. His eyes are as perceptive as those of an osprey, and he lets out a pained sigh, shaking his head in what seems to be both disappointment and worry. “So, it is true that you’ve fallen in love with it. Hongjoong, what you call Chin Hae is something that you haven’t fully even begun to understand.”

“What?” Hongjoong spits out, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. Is his father really saying he understands you more than he does? “What are you talking about?”

“You have a starstruck look in your eyes. I say this because I’m worried as your father, Hongjoong.” His father says calmly, and Hongjoong flinches, one hand gripping his eyepatch before he lets it fall back to the side. There’s a pressure building in his chest, a furious, boiling anger than feels like it’s about to explode any moment. How dare his father come after him, after everything he’s ever done, interfering with the life that he’s built and acting like he knows him?

“That doesn’t have anything to do with you.” He practically spits, voice rising in volume as he tries to keep his emotions under control. “If you did give a bit of care about your only son, you wouldn’t have shot him and left him alone to die on an island!”

“Captain, calm down.” Yeosang grips his wrist tightly, and it’s then that Hongjoong realises that he’s trembling, hands fisted so tight that he can’t feel his fingers. “Don’t let him get to you.”

But his impassioned words seem to have struck some sort of chord in his father, because the serene smile fades from his face. His father meets his eyes calmly, voice firm.

“Blood had to be spilled for the ritual.” The man says, and Hongjoong baulks at the word ritual. The closest he’s come to anything mystical in the world has been San’s unique abilities as a healer, the thing that had come to possess Chin Hae last night, and of course... the blessing of the sea goddess. “Don’t you realise, Hongjoong? The sand that you’re standing upon right now, it’s the very same place I left you behind.”

A chill runs up Hongjoong’s back, and he whips around in a circle to confirm it. When he had been left here years ago as a child, he’d been on the verge of deathfrom bleeding out, crying out of his one remaining eye and trying understand the agonizing pain that the betrayal of his only family had left in his heart. Now that he takes a second look, he sees a terrifyingly familiar palm tree that was stained red in his memory, remembers how golden sand was soaked crimson in his blood. He remembers the way the waves had risen and fallen, and the way she had emerged from the sea to stand on dry land-

“Why would you do something as sick as that?” Wooyoung hisses, and it’s then that Hongjoong sees the shotgun already locked and loaded in his gunner’s hands. Hongjoong doesn’t blame him, just being in his father’s presence makes his hairs stand on the end, his fight or flight reflexes kicking in desperately. “What ritual? You mean you’re one of those disgusting bastards who believe in sacrificing their children or whatever?”

Hongjoong feels sick to the pit of his stomach. He just wants to leave, to escape before he hears anything more. But his father opens his mouth to speak, and Hongjoong can’t bring himself move.

“A ritual to summon the gods themselves.”

Hongjoong freezes. “Gods?” The words come out strangled, choked in his throat. The sea goddess who had risen from the sea to save him and gave him her blessing... that was his father’s doing?

“This very place was where I met the sea goddess, years before you were even born.” His father says, and coldness creeps over his body, liquid ice burning cold in every vein as his father’s words ring in his ears. “I was on the verge of death myself after a massive sea storm, and when I came to I was alone... and my crew... lost to the waves.”

Hongjoong remembers this story. It had only been told once, out of the hundreds of sea legends and fantasies that his father had told him while the sailboat beneath them rocked gently on the waves.

“You must have been an amazing captain when you were younger, dad!” Hongjoong had turned behind to grin brightly at his father as the sailboat rose over another wave. “You’re so calm even when I’m scared! You don’t seem to be afraid of the big storms at all! That’s why you’re the chief commander of the Royal Navy, right?”

Hongjoong’s father had continued smiling, but even though Hongjoong had only been a boy then, he could see the way his father’s eyes fixed on a horizon far away, lost in his memories and his smile fading slightly from his face.

“The sea is a dangerous mistress,” his father had said softly, releasing one hand on the rudder to place it on Hongjoong’s head, a comforting weight. “That’s why it’s the captain’s role to guide his crew safely through any storm. As a captain, your first loyalty is to your crew. It’s a bond almost as strong as that of blood ties.” He ruffled Hongjoong’s hair so affectionately the boy couldn’t help but giggle. “Have you heard the saying, ‘a captain goes down with his ship’?”

“That sounds scary...” Hongjoong had shivered, hunkering down in the boat, slightly scared at the thought of falling into the sea. “What does it mean?”

Hongjoong’s father smiled at him. “It means that the captain holds ultimate responsibility for every member of his crew, and every person on board his ship. In an emergency, he will do everything in his power to save them, or give his life trying.” His voice turned slightly hoarse, and Hongjoong, perceptive even as a child, frowned at his father. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

His father had blinked, before he shook his head and gave his son a reassuring smile. “So, there’s no need to be scared, Hong. On this boat, if I’m the captain, who’s my crew?”

“Me!” Hongjoong yelled excitedly, throwing both hands into the air. “Me! I’m dad’s crew!”

His father’s eyes had softened.

“That’s right, my little map.” He pulled Hongjoong into an embrace with one arm, and Hongjoong threw both arms around his father, hugging him tight. “You... will definitely grow up and understand what it means to become a better captain than I ever was. I’m sorry I won’t be there to see it.”

“Dad?” Hongjoong hesitated, pulling away to look at his father in the eyes. Green met green, and his father smiled. “I don’t want to become a captain if it means leaving dad behind. I wanna be dad’s crew! Dad’s gonna be my captain forever!”

His father’s smile was stained with tears at the corner of his eyes.

“Dad’s crew... is already gone. There’s no one like them, and there will never be any like them ever again.” His father hugged Hongjoong harder. “That’s why I’m sorry you’ll endure so much for your selfish father’s sake and his failure.”

That day on, his father had never once mentioned his crew ever again.

But Hongjoong hadn’t been a fool. It hadn’t taken much for him to figure out as he grew older just what his father had meant by failure: failure as a captain, who was supposed to ensure the safety of his crew above all others. He had survived while the rest of his crew had died.

The captain goes down with his ship.

The very same philosophy that Hongjoong has never managed to shake, even if it had been his father who’d said those words. The same principles he lived and breathed by, to be a good captain, just like his father had said he would.

“Why me?” Hongjoong finally asks, his voice breaking. Yeosang and Wooyoung both turn to glance at him at the sound of his words wavering, fist clenched so tightly that his entire arm is trembling. “What exactly did you do to me? Why did you shoot me and leave me on this island to die? What exactly did you want with the gods that was worth killing me?”

“Hongjoong, I never meant to kill you. If I truly wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing here alive right now, because I would have simply shot you in the heart and left you dead.” His father says, so serious that it can’t be anything but the truth. “But your blood had to be spilled to call the sea goddess, because only you would be able to find her.”

“Me?” Hongjoong trembles, trying to deny it. “I don’t have anything to do with the gods. I didn’t even know they existed until-”

“Hongjoong.” His father cuts him off, soft voice so commanding Hongjoong falls silent instantly. “You were created with the essence of the sea. The blood of the sirens, the essence and life the sea holds, it flows in your veins. I made you with my own flesh and blood, Hongjoong. Just like the way water always finds its way back to the sea, I knew that you would be the map and the compass to my goal. You’re my son who I love, Hongjoong. I would never want to hurt you.”

Hongjoong stumbles backwards, and his knees feel weak. Is this how you felt when you had found out that you were made of clay? Perhaps he understands that now. He can’t seem to find his voice, head spinning and dizzy. He was made. Yet he can tell, knows the love his father held for him was real, and perhaps that is the most devastating thing of all.

“What do you want with the sea goddess?” Hongjoong manages to croak. He remembers the being that had taken over you last night, with its haunting, ancient blue eyes, the way it had tried to kill him in order to save Chin Hae’s life. What would his father want with something like that?

His father’s next words sends a chill down his spine.

“I’m going to kill the sea goddess.” He says calmly, mismatched eyes meeting Hongjoong’s with such intensity that his breath catches in his throat. “I’m going to become the god of the sea, and bring my crew back, no matter what it costs me.

Because I’m their captain, and they’re my crew.”

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

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Genji Heavy Industries (Part 8) Laser Pointer

Hahahahahahhaahahahhaha....

*deep inhale*

Hahahahahahahahahaha

The three men leaned against the shrine panting heavily. You helped Caesar and Chu Zihang load bullets as fast as you could. While Chisei looked out at the flames in the hall. The corpse guard specimen at the end of the hall had burned down like a wax candle to reveal a dark golden skeleton.

“What happened to you?” Caesar asked.

“I was called to another elevator. When I got in, it lost power and took me down to the lowest floor basement.” You were so tired that your hands moved automatically while your eyes unfocused. You shake your head to clear your vision and that sends pain shooting through the middle of your skull. You squeeze one eye shut against the pain and keep going.

“You’re hurt?”

“No… it’s just sequelae. From using my Soul Skill earlier.” You wave him away.

“Where’s Lu Mingfei?” Caesar asks.

“I don’t know. I thought he would have made it through the elevator with you.”

“The earthquake stopped the elevator.” Chu Zihang stood up, holding his Uzi, and looking down at you with his golden gaze. “Was that you?”

“Yeah.” You brace yourself on Caesar’s shoulder and stand too. 

Caesar whistles long and low through his teeth.

“Reports are coming in saying it was 6.5 magnitude.”

“Oh… I was going for 7.0.” You smirk. “Pretty close.”

"How many C4 explosives do you have?" Chisei suddenly asked. 

"Fifteen pounds, but the explosion doesn't seem to seriously injure them. If C4 explosives can't hurt them, then 'Royal Flame' can't do it either." Chu Zihang said. 

"The shockwave of the explosion can't hurt them, but the flames could be fatal to them. Look at that corpse guard. Mermaid oil is very flammable. They can be their own best fuel." 

Chu Zihang was stunned: "But they didn't burn immediately in the explosion just now." 

"That's because they're alive and the corpse guards are dead. The corpse guards are dehydrated. The sphinxes still have a lot of water in their bodies. They have to be in the fire for a long time before they burn up! The Mural Hall is a completely enclosed space, and this is the best place for a fire!" Chisei exclaimed.

"Smothering the sphinxes? Not a bad idea. But they could escape. If they can get in through the elevator doors, they can get out through them." Caesar said. 

Chisei pointed above the elevator door: "Above this kind of door must be a steel bar supporting it, we put a piece of C4 explosive there, powerful enough to blow that steel bar, the wall will collapse down, they have no way to escape." 

Chu Zihang calculated: "We can use a delayed fuse. One that can explode in twenty seconds. That would be enough time for us to enter the elevator shaft and hide outside the explosion range." 

Caesar thought about it: "Then we have to lure the group of them deep into the hall. The more concentrated they are, the better the burning effect." 

"No problem, I'll act as bait." Chisei said. 

“Bait?” You looked to Caesar for answers.

“The blood of Chisei is extremely attractive to them. When he dripped it down the elevator shaft, that’s what brought them down here.”

You nod, understanding.

“What brought you here by the way?” Caesar was leading you away to the armory room. 

“Someone threw a flare. All the other elevator doors were closed. I figured this had to be the only one that was open.”

“Ah.”

Caesar shut the door of the armory. “Alright, suit up. This will be the big push.”

Chu Zihang and Caesar moved between the rows of shelves. You stay behind to lean against the wall. “Give me a minute.”

It occurred to you that this might be the point where you died and whenever your life was in danger, you felt a deep appreciation of your own body. You remembered this feeling of fatigue when you pulled a sledge full of wood through feet of snow. You walked until your thoughts faded away, ignoring the pain and hunger and thirst, one foot after the other. Your body carried you. And thanks to your dragon blood, you recovered quickly to get up the next day.  So you knew this body was tired. But as soon as it ate and drank and got a nice rest it would perk up again.

But the one thing you could give it now was oxygen. You take slow deep breaths, filling your lungs completely, holding it a bit, and then emptying them completely. Your lungs would take that oxygen and revive your muscles for the fight.

Already, you could feel yourself reviving and stretched your arms over your head, feeling the rush of blood to your tissues. You rolled your shoulder and remembered lying on the floor looking up into the eyes of Z.

Z made you break that tank for a reason. You doubted it was to kill you and that gave you hope.

Caesar moved to the door and leaned against it to rest, running his hand over two rifles. 

 The bone-chilling, eerie sound of a giant python sliding against the ground came from behind the door. The group of sphinxes has invaded the mural hall. The only thing separating you from them is a layer of carved wooden doors. With strength like theirs, breaking such a door was no  effort, but this group of low IQ beasts has not yet noticed this room. After mutating, some Death Servitors will gain superb vision, hearing or smell, but the snake versions don’t get significant enhancements to their senses. Their golden pupils look hideous but they actually have weak vision. They have a sharp sense of smell but they’re intoxicated by the smell of blood in the hot air of the mural hall. As for hearing, these have basically zero. They’re more attuned to ground vibrations. As long as you stay still, they will have a hard time finding your hiding place. 

"What's their approximate number?" Chu Zihang asked in a low voice. 

Caesar’s eyes flared golden and the Scythe Itachi went out.

"More than a hundred. All of them have entered the mural hall and the elevator shaft has been cleared. They're eating the dead. I can hear them chewing away at the muscles, disgusting." Caesar said softly, "What's your assessment of the combat power of these snake-like dead men?" 

Chu Zihang thought for a moment. "A grade. Speed exceeds that of a zebra, tearing power is close to that of a lion. Strong cellular activity, so wounds heal quickly. The most vulnerable parts are the heart, head and nervous system. Severed limbs are nothing to them.” 

Caesar nodded: "I also think it is A-class. One on one with them, we’d have a disadvantage.”

You finally move to go arm yourself. “They’re dumb as hell, though. So there’s that.” You say.

The two men fall silent. “Did you fight them?” Caesar asked.

“Yeah.” You wrap a new belt that will fit multiple weapons onto your waist and cinch it up. These belts were made for men, so you have to use a knife to make a hole for the buckle. “Well… technically no. I made them fight each other.”

“How is that possible? You’re not even hurt!” Caesar looked you up and down. “And you still had plenty of rounds.”

“Well… I used my C4 detonator.” You tilt your head, unsure of what he wanted you to say. “I mean if they want to eat each other, I’m not going to get in the way of that.”

“Perhaps an S-ranked hybrid could take them on.” Chu Zihang said, thoughtfully.

It wasn’t like you were unprepared to fight those beasts. But how could you tell them that the ghost of your dead boyfriend appeared in an elevator to Hell and you went on a date with them in front of the big holding tank? The whole thing sounded silly. You knew how to fight them because Z had shown you how. But there was no way to communicate that.

"Do you trust that Japanese guy? He wouldn't have run away by now, would he?" Caesar asked in a low voice. 

"Since I chose to cooperate, I can only trust him, right?" Chu Zihang shrugged.

"It's rare for such a gullible character to have survived to this day." Caesar shrugged back, "He is something that bleeds dragon blood. Dragons are creatures without feelings. If their strength overwhelms you, they will definitely devour you." 

Chu Zihang did not speak again. 

"Okay, okay, I have no intention of figuring that girl out. To say the least, I quite liked her. She was so pretty ...... But it's best not to trust something that bleeds dragon blood." Caesar took a deep breath. 

You let out a breath. In a way, you agreed with Caesar. Z’s yellow eyes gave you a mix of fear and fascination. His kiss made your heart race. You always knew he was scheming something, but you never knew if it was good or bad or had nothing to do with you. And yet you couldn’t help but love it when he laughed. Was what you felt love? Whatever it was, it sure felt good. HIs hands in your hair in front of the holding tank. It felt good.

Your eyes suddenly went wide. “Bait.”

The memory of Z playing with the beasts using a laser pointer flashes through your mind and your face breaks out into a smile. You start pacing the shelves, looking up and down. “Did you guys see a laser sight anywhere in here?”

“What do you need that for? You’re a good shot.” Caesar asked.

“Yes, I need it for something else.”

“There should be one on an AK-47…” Chu Zihang said.

“I found it.” The name AK-47 stood for Avtomat Kalashnikova. It was a Soviet rifle and one you were familiar with, but this specimen looked like it was taken right from your childhood. It was aged, worn and a little rusted. Just like the one you used to use. You picked it up reverently, staring at it in silence while your heart filled with a strange warmth, like the sun coming up for the first time after a long winter night. Your hands caress the laser sight tenderly.

While many women were moved by cards, roses, jewelry and sweets, what moved your heart was the sight of this laser on a Kalashnikov. With this laser, you could live. You unscrew it and hold it to your heart with a smile coming over your face.

You turn to Caesar and Zihang who are eyeing you warily. But you can’t stop smiling. “Okay, I’m going to mark one of them with the Anesthesia bullet dye okay? Don’t kill that one.”

Z. He was a genius… You chuckle and join the boys at the door.

"Are you ready?" Caesar sighs softly.

You nod. You’re smiling as you load a single Frigga bullet into your empty pistol.  “Remember, don’t kill the one I mark!”

"Then let’s start!" Caesar slapped the button to open the door and stepped out in a big way. 

A Deadpool was lying on the overhang in front of the weapons hall door. Reflex speed multiplied after the snake mutation, so it immediately struck at the back of Caesar's neck. But Caesar had already determined its position through the use of Scythe Itachi and fired upward with his shotgun. The Deadpool Sphinx fell to its back.

The shotgun was extremely powerful but not penetrating enough. After the wounded creature landed, it rolled to get up and recoiled to strike again. Chu Zihang's crossbow penetrates its abdomen to pin it to the ground, and the two Sten submachine guns fired into its forehead until the two cartridges were empty. 

"No wonder everyone in the academy says you're a killer. I really like your kind of execution style." Caesar dropped the shotgun and pulled out two Sten submachine guns from the carry pouch behind Chu Zihang. 

"I'm not interested in bloodshed, but I know that showing mercy to something like this will only get us killed." Chu Zihang's right hand drew up another gun from the backpack Caesar carried. Chu Zihang carried Caesar’s guns and vice versa. It was a nice way to keep efficiently armed.  Chu Zihang looked at you in curiosity.

You weren’t using the laser sight to aim, but wiggled it against the ground as though fishing, whispering to yourself. “Heeere, Kitty, Kitty. Come here… I know you’re here…”

One of the deadpool that looked female with an ample golden chest and pretty eyes saw the red dot and opened her jaw ninety degrees to scream bloody-murder. Her eyes were as big as dinner plates. She slid her snake tail vigorously, physically pushing other beasts out of the way and leaving long gashes on them.

“There you are! Gotcha!” You fire a single anesthesia bullet. The red dye smashes between her eyes and paints her face crimson, clearly marking her. She covers her face with her claws in annoyance and wails in fury, associating the red dot with getting hit with a paintball.

You wiggle the dot in a zigzag pattern and she pounces on it with the anger of seven devils. Once you were sure you had her hooked, you scroll the red dot on the face of one of the deadpools who blinks once against the blinding laser light before its head is bitten clean in half by the female.

The spectacular result sends a burst of laughter from you. You loved him. You didn’t care if it wasn’t really love as others defined it. You loved Z. This was fun. This was fantastic!

You wiggled the point of light until she saw it again. She paused in confusion for a moment, her eyes burning brighter and brighter, then she was off again, galloping after the red dot and smashing into another of her own kind. The red dot danced on the back of her poor victim who had no idea that the attack was coming. The female deadpool with the red-dyed face tore through scales, muscle tissue and bone like a woodchipper.

Your laughter filled the whole burning temple. They were stupid! They were so stupid!

You had turned the female deadpool into a terror of her own kind. As she mowed through the crowded mural hall like a living blender, she left a trail of wounded behind her. The Deadpool, who were too cannibalistic and mindless to remember why they were there, immediately started to tear each other apart as soon as one smelled the blood of the other. 

It was an absolute bloodbath and you had only fired one non-lethal shot.

Caesar and Chu Zihang looked at you in stunned amazement. You looked back at them, crying with laughter. You didn’t have a birthday, but this was like a present, the best present you’d ever received. Z had buried this little Easter egg in the ground, hoping you’d find it. It was for you. No one else would get the joke!

#Dragon Raja

[dinodina]

Hey there, just gut into reading your prompts and got hooked right away 🤩 could you do 11 with Tosh and Ianto? In a friendship kind of way?

11 - laying their hand on the other’s neck Thank you!! This... kind of got away from me, but I hope you like it anyway (Also on ao3 with full warnings for TYTNW: Major Character Injury, Temporary Character Death, Touch-Starved, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD)

They lose Gwen and Owen somewhere in France.

It's too dangerous to search. Tosh grabs Ianto's arm and pulls him to safety at the same time as he grabs her—they pull each other along, not stopping because that will be the death of them both. Alone, Tosh thinks she might have tried to find her friends.

They take refuge in a cave. Tosh looks outside as Ianto gets a fire started. It's warm, yet she shivers and puts her arms around herself. A hug. Gwen gave good hugs.

Gwen's gone.

She closes her eyes and pushes back the tears, then takes a deep breath and walks back to Ianto.

He has a meager dinner to offer, the rations they saved from the last refugee camp they visited. As he always does when he presents her with some filtered water, he gives her an apologetic smile. "No coffee, I'm afraid."

Owen had a quip in return.

Tosh just lowers herself next to Ianto and takes her share of the food, eats quietly, and puts her head on Ianto's shoulder when conversation is sparser than it should be. He puts his arm around her, not heavy, almost not touching her. Moving up her arm to her shoulder, to the place between her shoulder and neck that her shirt doesn't cover, moving down to almost hold her hand. Just enough comfort to make Tosh yearn for more.

We'll be fine, Tosh opens her mouth to say, and stops. She can't promise that anymore.

---

Tosh falls and twists an ankle, bumps her head and gets blood in her eyes, and wakes up in the basement of an abandoned building. Ianto's used the last of their bandages on her—she's not even hurt bad. She's fine.

She tries to tell him as much.

Ianto puts his hands on her shoulders and forces her to stay down. "Wait for me."

Tosh doesn't want to say that she needs to go with him. That bad things happen when they separate. It's only been a few weeks since they lost Gwen and Owen.

"I'll be back," Ianto says. He doesn't promise. His smile is too faint for that. "You need to rest."

Tosh has no plans to rest. How can she, knowing that Ianto is gone? Not yet gone, but out of her sight—how can she be sure that he won't cross over that faint line into gone? She raises a shaky hand to hold his face, just in case he doesn't come back; misses, lands on his neck. Sweaty and hot and clammy, dirty from their running and hiding, but alive, underneath it all.

Ianto holds her close, then returns her hand to the bed. "Rest."

Tosh doesn't close her eyes until his footsteps fade away, and falls into an uneasy sleep thinking of Lisa. It's Gwen who usually thinks of her. Thought of her. Of their pasts, of the secrets Owen spilled over a dimming campfire, of the family stories Tosh told between tears as Japan burned, of Lisa and Rhys, gone in different ways; at the end of it all, Ianto had months to say goodbye. He held her just as he held Tosh, she thinks. If Ianto dies on her, Tosh will break; she doesn't want to know what her death will do to him.

---

Ianto shoots up, a scream on his lips.

Tosh's first instinct is to grab a weapon, but it's only Ianto. She fights a sigh of relief and scrambles over to him, tripping over his legs to land awkwardly in his lap.

"Ianto!" she yells, but he doesn't respond.

Tosh digs her heels deeper into him, but he keeps going. It's late, they're safe, but they won't be for long if the ghosts don't leave Ianto's eyes and the terror doesn't leave his chest. Tosh leans forward and presses a hand against his mouth, fingers brushing his nose. For a second Tosh wants to cover it as well, to sit there as the breath leaves Ianto's body and finally lets it go free.

A second. A moment in the too-long aborted scream that echoes for hours in Tosh's ears but probably lasts no more than a single breath, and Tosh puts her other hand on Ianto's neck to feel his pulse. It's pounding. He's alive, terrified, eyes darting between the walls, body stiff below her, but silent.

Tosh keeps her gaze solid and removes her hand. "Ianto?"

"Tosh." His lips move and form no sounds.

"Are you with me?"

He nods, a fragile, jerky thing.

"Good."

She swallows, hearing it echo in her ears and the abandoned cottage they're staying in. She slides off Ianto and sits by his side.

The moment feels like an eternity.

"Thank you," Ianto says when her back is turned.

Tosh doesn't respond. It would have been so easy to kill him, to close her eyes as he struggled and left this world for something peaceful. Not peaceful—dark. She remembers Suzie's haunted eyes. Maybe it's not better. Maybe it is.

With the state of the world, maybe it is.

It's Ianto's turn to hold her throat, to press desperately, eyes feverishly scanning her face for something.

Tosh wants to say something. I'm here, maybe. That would be good. Her arm is screaming, broken, a hazy pain to echo the ringing in her ears. Another concussion. It's a bad habit, now.

"I'm here," she thinks she says.

It's enough for Ianto.

Once again, Tosh wakes to hear him puttering about, then to seeing him leaning over a makeshift bed. It hurts, but it's better than the alternative, because she can't carry him.

"It's okay," Ianto says.

Tosh turns her head into his palm, letting the warmth comfort her, his firm hold anchoring her.

"It's okay," Ianto repeats.

Tosh almost believes him.

---

She loses Ianto in Cardiff.

It's fitting.

He starts off smiling, a hand touching hers as she tries to stop the bleeding. He grimaces, then, letting out a whine that should be louder, too weak to close his eyes; his hand falls from Tosh's, resting at an awkward angle between them.

She loses Ianto in Cardiff, and the hole in his neck is too big for him to say goodbye.

---

Tosh has a grip around a guard's neck and a knife to his throat when the world shakes. She doesn't care who he is, not anymore, not like Gwen would have, not like Ianto would have pretended to one second and genuinely not cared the next.

He falls, UNIT uniform dark against the floor, as Tosh is thrown against a wall. The world zips by, rapidly changing colors. Tosh closes her eyes and breathes, finally, for the first time in a year.

She had no reason to think the Doctor's plan would fail; no reason, either, to think it would succeed. Part of her wishes she could have killed them all. The other needs to get off the ship and back to Cardiff.

The world is back—the whole world and her world, her team, alive and whole and—

Tosh doesn't cry when she sees them. She's cleaned herself up, pretends that nothing happened. Maybe nothing didn't. Maybe it was all a bad dream.

But she can't forget Ianto's blood on her hands.

---

When Ianto brings them coffee, Tosh stops herself from standing, from brushing her fingers against his as she takes her cup. There is no need for her to reassure herself of his being alive with such small touches.

She looks up from her desk and smiles at him, then forces herself to look away.

She wants to stand and look up at him, to feel his chest against hers, to see the small movements of his mouth as he breathes, to lift a hand and rest it on his shoulder, on the vulnerable area between his neck and shoulder that she remembers covered in blood.

She doesn't. Ianto's alive, right there in front of her—now in front of Gwen, now in front of Owen.

Passing by her, distant, not the confident man she grew to know but something in-between. Tosh yearns to learn him again.

---

She gets her chance in a locked closet, aliens with guns somewhere beyond it and Ianto bleeding out in front of her.

He's smiling, a hole in his shoulder and a bump on his head, his suit torn and his palms scratched when he fell forward. His throat bobs as he swallows and says her name.

"It's okay," he says, and Tosh's hands hover over him before pressing down on the wound. He screws his eyes shut and groans. Takes a breath. "It's okay."

His throat bobs as he swallows. He shivers.

"Why?" Tosh asks. She wants to stop herself. But it's the second time Ianto's taken a hit for her. He shouldn't have.

He laughs and groans, lolling his head sideways on the cold floor to meet her eyes. And rests a hand on her arm. "You're my friend."

And it doesn't matter how close they are in this timeline. Maybe they will never grow as close—as paranoid, as alone, as broken—as they did before, but this Ianto? This Ianto is going to survive.

Even if Tosh has to drag him back from death with her bare hands.

#toshiko sato #ianto jones #my fanfic #torchwood #thank you so much for this prompt!

[kingreywrites]

Tethered

- and for @dreaming-in-seams​‘ ask

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 2338

58. “Is that blood?” (prompt list)

Summary: It took until the end of the fight for Rapunzel to see that he had been scared of the cannon the Stabbingtons were pointing at her boat, and that he had been trying to save her, again.

It took even longer for her to understand that Eugene hadn’t fallen because of a punch.

[A canon-compliant continuation to Peril on the High Seas]

Note: I just want to thank Hannah again for the idea, and also, I took some inspiration from this wonderful art she did!!

Read on ao3

From where she was, Rapunzel couldn't get a good look at Eugene. For now, everything was going according to her plan, and she was confident that they would get Eugene and Max back from the prison boat, but she could only get glimpses of them fighting, and her worry kept growing. Should she jump in to help? Would the others still manage this boat if she let them alone without warning?

I trust Eugene, she repeated herself, deciding to stay put a little longer.

The Stabbingtons and him went down from the mat, and she raised her head, trying to get a good look at the situation. Something happened - she wasn't sure what, but Eugene suddenly looked horrified, even from a distance, and when she saw him run towards one of the brothers carelessly, her heart skipped a beat.

The brother stopped Eugene. He was tall, towering above her boyfriend, and she couldn't see, couldn’t do anything, couldn't even watch. In barely a second, Eugene was collapsing to the ground and she didn't even know why.

"Eugene?!" she called, and her voice didn't break but her heart felt untethered, because Eugene couldn't- She wasn't there with him, she hadn't jumped, and if he- if he- She couldn’t even say it. Time slowed, or reversed, taking her back to that time when she hadn't screamed hard enough, hadn't warned Eugene in time - sweet, loving Eugene, who had fought to come back for her, but for whom she hadn't managed the same, and that had cost him his life.

Eugene getting back up on the boat cut through her spiralling thoughts, and Rapunzel realised she had stopped breathing. Here he was, moving and talking and joking, taunting the Stabbingtons as he always did while looking completely fine, and if she didn't understand exactly what had happened, the overwhelming relief was still enough to nearly make her waver.

It took until the end of the fight for her to see that he had been scared of the cannon the Stabbingtons were pointing at her boat, and that he had been trying to save her, again.

It took even longer for her to understand that Eugene hadn’t fallen because of a punch.

They were still at the dock, sitting with their legs dangling above the water, because Rapunzel hadn't wanted to come back to the caravan just yet, and Eugene was always happy to stay with her. The evening had long since fallen, and she had her head on his shoulder, silently watching the stars shining in the night sky with his hand in hers. The air was a bit chilly, but Eugene was warm against her, one of his arms enveloping her shoulders, and this was all she ever needed - feeling him breathe and move and be alive never failed to make her smile. They didn't need words, at times like these.

A stronger gust of wind made Rapunzel shiver, and she snuggled closer to Eugene unconsciously. Usually, he would have tightened his grip around her, made space for her, because he enjoyed their hugs just as much as she did - but this time was different. If she didn't know him as well as she did, she might have not noticed it, might have let it slide, but it was Eugene.

And Eugene never cringed away from a hug if something wasn't wrong.

He corrected it quickly, but it was too late - she moved her head away so her eyes could meet his, and she saw the brief lines of pain on his face before he expertly smoothed them out.

"Eugene?" Rapunzel asked softly, her right hand going to his chest - but he grimaced, and she didn't finish the movement, her fingers hovering uncertainly above his heart. "What's wrong?"

She saw the hesitation in his eyes, the seconds in which he considered lying, or at least softening his answer, but she wasn't surprised to see him sigh in the end, wasn't surprised that he chose the truth. Eugene had spent years not trusting anyone with his vulnerabilities, years where he lied to everyone, including himself, until he was convinced that he didn't need help, that he was fine alone. She didn't care that he hesitated; she was humbled that, each time, despite his instincts and habits, Eugene chose to trust her, chose to confide in her.

His hand went up and softly touched hers, guiding it closer to his clothes, and closer to his heart, too.

"Don't freak out?" he whispered, and she understood the callback for what it was, but his tone was frail enough that she couldn't muster a smile.

The sea under their feet was still moving, unperturbed, its waves flowing in rhythm with her heart. Her hand was trembling, or maybe it was his, but together they inched closer to his jacket, and she gently pushed it aside.

"Is… Is that blood?" she asked, already knowing that it was because the moon was shining bright tonight, and Rapunzel couldn't escape the dark spot of red standing out in front of her eyes. Couldn't escape the memories flooding in her mind, taking her back to the tower for the second time today, as she remembered discovering his wound and realising, deep in her bones, that he was going to die if she didn't heal him.

She couldn't heal anymore.

"It's not too deep," Eugene said, his tone lighter as he tried to push her hand away, but she didn't let him. She hadn't noticed, at first, but even his jacket had a hole in it. When she refused to drop the subject, refused to make light of it, Eugene took her hand instead, and guided her to his cheek, until she managed to tear her gaze from the blood, and look at him. "I'm fine," he whispered, repeating it softly when tears gathered in her eyes. "It doesn't even hurt, Max's book took the brunt of it."

A sob built in Rapunzel's throat before she could stop it; because she understood, now, what she had witnessed earlier - and all the horror was crashing upon her at once, drowning her as she realised the full scale of what she might have lost in a single second. What she might have lost again. Because she chose to wait, chose to let Eugene deal with the Stabbingtons, and he collapsed and… And- what if, her mind screamed, what if there had been no book in between the knife and his heart? What if he bled out there, with her so near and so far at the same time, what if she had been helpless to save him because her stupid hair lost its purpose, what-

"Hey, hey," Eugene interrupted, his warm hands going to her face and tenderly brushing her runaway tears. "I'm okay."

"I know," she exhaled, her voice shaky, "I'm sorry, I know, but- but-"

"No, don't be sorry, that's- that was scary. I'm sorry I told you like this," he said, and she chuckled weakly at his bashful look, even though it wasn't really funny. Her emotions felt on edge, all of them roaring to be let out at once, and- she knew she was overreacting, but she wasn't, too. It wasn't a simple scare - it was her worst fear coming close to be a reality, for the second time.

Rapunzel closed her eyes for a second, soaking in the warmth from his hands on her face, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. When she opened them again, Eugene was still here, smiling at her, breathing with her, his hair moving slowly with the wind. He was alive.

And he was hurt.

She took a deep breath, hoping for tears to recede like the sea was doing under them, hoping to find strength in the salty air making Eugene feel so much warmer against her cold skin. "We should put a bandage on this."

"I don't think it's bleeding anymore," Eugene answered, his eyes never leaving hers, "but it does kinda ache if I move, so you're probably right."

"Probably?" she smiled, her eyes still shining.

"Always are," Eugene laughed, before they both got up.

Rapunzel was still oddly shaky as they walked to the caravan, her hand tight around Eugene's because she couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from him right now. She needed him to be fine. And he was, she knew he was, that it was merely a scratch, but she… She still needed to check for herself.

Thankfully, they had her side of the caravan to themselves. Rapunzel turned her back on Eugene to light up the candle, since the moonlight filtering through the windows wasn't enough to see clearly, and she took those few seconds to brace herself - she wasn't scared of blood, per se, but seeing Eugene bleeding always managed to make her feel like she couldn't breathe right.

When she turned back, Eugene was sitting shirtless on the bed, looking at his white undershirt stained with blood. It wasn't a lot - not like his other shirt had been when he finally got it off after the Tower, and that she had only seen months after, when she realised that he had kept it. I'm sentimental, he had joked, but his voice had felt empty as he held the proof that he had died once, and all Rapunzel could do was hold him until they had both been certain that he was here, and he wasn't going anywhere.

But even if it was only a small stain today, the serious look on his face told her that Eugene was also more shaken than he was willing to admit. They were both trying to wrangle their emotions, their memories back under the lids where they shoved them but…

But they didn't need to. Eugene didn't need to hide his hurt and his fears with her, just like she didn't need to conceal the tremors of her hands and the wetness of her eyes. They could count on each other.

Rapunzel grabbed the first aid kit, noticing that they would need to find more bandages soon, and went to sit next to Eugene. He angled his body towards her without words, and she finally saw the source of all their worries. The wound was a tiny vertical line above his heart, a little above two inches, and deep enough that it had bled and ached quite a bit, even though it was far from the worst thing Eugene had ever experienced. And yet, when Rapunzel brought fabric near the wound to wipe off some of the dried blood, her hand was still shaking.

She kept seeing him fall back there. Kept imagining the worst, and kept feeling thankful that it hadn't happened - and guilty that it was only by pure luck, that she hadn't been there to save him like she promised herself she always would. She couldn’t lose Eugene. Each day that passed, each hour that made her fall in love with him a little more reminded her of how she could have lost it all at the very beginning. Eugene... Eugene dying had been the worst moment of her life. She hadn't thought herself able to heal from it back then, when she had cried over his corpse feeling like her own life was ending; but now that she knew, exactly, how it felt to live everyday while loving him?

Rapunzel knew she would never recover.

"Thank you," Eugene murmured when she applied the bandage, the wound looking like nothing more than a scratch now that it was covered. Maybe it would leave a scar, but that wasn't even sure.

"Of course," she said, her voice as quiet as his. They had no reason to be, but this didn't feel like a moment to be loud.

Her fingers brushed the bandage's outline tenderly, nearly scared that her touch would hurt him. She felt Eugene's hand pushing her hair behind her ear, and when their eyes met again, their lips had to follow suit. Eugene's mouth tasted like the ocean today, and she remembered the fear that gripped her once she realised him and Maximus had gone overboard. Her hands sneaked around his neck and pulled him closer, until his skin was flush against hers. She felt his shoulders move as he shifted and grabbed her waist, felt his chest expand as he breathed, felt how he trembled as she did when his mouth went to her neck and he buried his head in the crook of her shoulder.

"Nothing really happened," she heard him mumble - a confession, in a way, of his own shame at his strong reaction. Both of them were overreacting, and not. Because both of them had suffered through the same events, and from the same trauma, and not. If Eugene hadn't had the book; if Stabbington had pushed the knife a little harder; if- If her magical hair hadn't worked one last time…

"It was still scary," she reminded him, echoing his earlier sentiment, and Eugene laughed against her skin, his hair tickling her softly.

When he kissed her again, Eugene felt more pressing, more insistent, more desperate; and she responded in kind. At some point, she made them both lie down fully on the bed, with her above Eugene, and she scrutinised his wound again - watched the bandage move as he heaved, the white contrasting with his now flushed skin. She saw his mouth open, always ready to offer comfort at the smallest sign she was upset, but she pressed her lips against his again, feeling his stubble on her chin and his hair under her hands, hoping that he knew she wished to comfort him too.

And when she watched him sleep that night, safe in her arms, she knew that they were both ready to give anything for the other to be happy. Maybe their adventure was dangerous, maybe their lives would be in peril again, but their love was warm, and real, and bright; and some nights, it was all that really mattered.

#tangled #Rapunzel #Eugene Fitzherbert #tangled the series #tts #rta

[lizstiel]

[1k words, implied dean/cas (kind of) but mostly I rewatched The Rapture and had a lot of feelings about Jimmy Novak and then watched Lucifer Rising and lost my entire goddamn mind, so.]

“Jimmy.” Castiel says, pleading for something he doesn’t have a name for. His façade breaks, starts to crumble, and Jimmy sees the light bleeding through the cracks -- interlocking wheels of flame, thousands of eyes all wide and afraid; a shifting, everchanging beast barely contained inside Jimmy’s borrowed body.

And -- it’s crying. “What do I do?”

//

“Angel inside you, it’s kind of like being chained to a comet.”

That had been true for the first year, but when he begs Castiel to take him instead of Claire, something changes. Jimmy Novak is consumed by a white hot, everlasting light, but there’s no pain in it. Instead there’s only a softness, a gentle hum. There are an incalculable number of hands, and they all handle him like something precious, something fragile, as they tuck him away somewhere deep inside of Castiel’s grace.

And it’s there that he sleeps.

Until one day, when his eyes flutter open to see thin white clouds moving across a too-blue sky. A gentle summer breeze hushes over the tall grass he’d been sleeping in, tickling at the exposed skin of his arms where they’re pillowed behind his head. When he sits up, he notices a massive tree growing towards the sun; its crooked, gnarled branches reaching desperately for the light. Underneath the tree he sees himself, tensed like a bowstring ready to snap, staring up at the same too-blue sky.

“Castiel?” The angel doesn’t move for so long that Jimmy is afraid he hadn’t heard him, but just as he’s opening his mouth to try again, Castiel turns and faces him with an expression so openly ruined that Jimmy feels his breath catch in his throat. “What’s wrong?”

Castiel’s eyes are wide and afraid, shining with unshed tears. His throat works, his mouth opens and closes, but no sounds come out. “Jimmy,” he says finally, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I don’t know what to do.”

Castiel reaches for him, and on instinct alone, Jimmy reaches back.

When their fingers touch, he sees it all: the beautiful room, Dean Winchester, Zachariah’s plan and the terrible truth of it. He sees in bright, terrifying flashes what they’d done to Castiel when they took him back to heaven. The pain is unspeakable -- the terror he’d felt as they’d dragged him, kicking and screaming out of Jimmy’s body, is incomprehensible in its enormity.

But then it’s gone, and there is only Dean, his green eyes wide and pleading. You were going to help me once, and help me now, please. The hard line of his shoulders as he turns and walks away. We’re done. And somehow this -- this is even worse. The agony in the pit of Castiel’s stomach, the dreadful pull. The way thousands of years of purpose and righteous fury wavered at the thought of Dean Winchester’s absence. How heaven’s most vigorous conditioning couldn’t hold a flame to the guilt of letting him down. Jimmy knows it for what it is, but Castiel sees it as a dark, yawning chasm he’s perched on the very knife edge of.

“Jimmy.” Castiel says, pleading for something he doesn’t have a name for. His façade breaks, starts to crumble, and Jimmy sees the light bleeding through the cracks -- interlocking wheels of flame, thousands of eyes all wide and afraid; a shifting, everchanging beast barely contained inside Jimmy’s borrowed body.

And -- it’s crying.

“What do I do?”

People, families, that’s real. He thinks of the first time he’d held Claire in his arms, her tiny, chubby hand barely able to wrap around his finger. She’d blinked open her big blue eyes and in that moment everything had slotted into place for him. He’d always known his faith in God was solid, but his faith in the life he and Amelia had just created was completely unmatched. Nothing could ever compare to that. He’d burn Heaven down himself, if it meant keeping her safe. You’re gonna watch them all burn?

Castiel sees it too, because here there are no walls. Grace and soul bound together, bleeding into one another. “Claire,” Jimmy says, finding his voice. “She’ll die. Amelia, too. They’ll all burn. Is that God’s plan? Is that righteous, Castiel?”

“What if it’s too late?” Castiel bristles, but there’s no real heat to it. “What if we can’t stop it?”

“At least you’ll have tried, Cas.”

“If I do this, we’ll all be hunted. We’ll all be killed.” Castiel levels him with a stare so full of desperation, so full of fear, that Jimmy feels weakened by it, feels himself buckled under its weight. You’ll never get to go home, isn’t said out loud, but it hangs there heavy between them.

“Yeah well, the kid’s kind of a dick, but he’s right.” Jimmy shrugs his shoulders and pitches his voice an octave or two lower in a mock approximation of Dean’s. “If there’s anything worth dying for, or whatever.”

Castiel almost laughs. Jimmy feels it ripple through him like a breath of fresh air, and reaches out to gingerly lay a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “If you’re asking me for my permission Cas, you already have it.” Castiel’s gaze is fixed on the ground, but he relaxes marginally at the touch. Shakes his head back and forth. “And if you’re scared --” Castiel’s eyes snap up to meet his, and there’s a heated, incredulous anger there, like Cas can’t believe the nerve of him. It melts away to something akin to shame the very next second. “Then,” Jimmy continues, softer now. “Don’t be. I’ll be right behind you.”

The resolve settling in Castiel is a visible, tangible thing. He stands up straighter at the spine, and his eyes flash bright and electric. He is lightning before a storm, and the thunder is soon to follow. Jimmy knows he’s made his choice. Still, he doesn’t expect him to whisper, as if it’s the most important piece of wisdom he’s ever imparted in his many eons of life: “Jimmy Novak,” he touches Jimmy’s elbow with the tips of his fingers, smiling serenely. “I have been alive for a very, very long time, but the one thing that never ceases to amaze me -- is the bravery of humans. I,” he looks away, and Jimmy doesn’t miss the glint of tears in his eyes. “I’m honored to have known you at all. Thank you.”

Jimmy’s throat feels tight, but he just gives Cas’ shoulder a congenial push and chuckles wetly. “Wish I could say the same, buddy, but I’ll be honest -- this year has sucked in a big way for me.” Castiel does laugh at that, a quick, low rumble. He flashes him a guilty look but Jimmy waves him off. “What’s done is done, Cas. Just -- let’s not let it be for nothing, huh? Go save the world.”

The air snaps thin around them. It’s time. They share one last look, and then Castiel is gone. Jimmy finds his limbs laden with a sudden exhaustion, and he slides easily back into the swaying grass to rest.

In the end, he doesn’t feel a thing.

He’s sleeping soundly when a sudden flash of panic jolts through him -- as if he were falling from great heights in a dream -- and then hands, so many hands, reaching desperately for him through the darkness.

He reaches back, as the violent light consumes them both.

#mine #my fic #cas #jimmy novak #spn #ah #i hate writing tbh because i end up editing the same paragraph for fuckin two hours #anyway i love jimmy novak #and i listened to way too much murray gold while i wrote this #something about 10 era murray gold music and dramatic ass writing just *clenches fist* does it for me