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bloodycassian · 2 years

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BY THE MOON - reader x cassian x azriel - reader is kidnapped and hypothermic when azriel and cassian save (them)

The chains stung, and felt as if they were cutting deep into your wrists. After another hour of walking, it felt like your bones themselves had turned to the same ice that lay below you. The ice that had gotten you caught in the first place.

Still, even with your struggling steps, they marched you. On and on and on, unrelenting in their pace. And when you couldn’t keep up, you’d be yanked on, drawing slow blood from your handcuffs. That or you’d be prodded in the feet, or back of the legs. Their horses tramped on as if you were nothing more than brush to them.

Cassian was nearly at his wits end with his brothers. Azriel merely sulked over the rejection Rhys had given them. He had refused three days in a row to allow anyone to search for you. He insisted that it would risk the entire mission and was so supremely sure that you were fine. The high lord’s confidence did not make either of his brothers feel any better. They each had their own deep, sickening feeling of despair in their stomachs.

Cassian came to Azriel’s room on that third night, wearing his armor over his layered clothes. Azriel grinned wide at his brother, and quickly got dressed in a similar fashion. The Winter court held no mercy for its own people, let alone unwelcome visitors. Despite the thrill of disobeying direct orders, the unease and tension still kept his muscles taut, like a bow ready to launch it’s arrow.

Illyrian wings were suited well for the cold, their extra layers of leathery skin were built for it. But Illyria’s winters were not as harsh as Winter Court’s cold storms. Even Azriel’s hulking wings quivered when he landed. The craggy rocks they landed atop were the only things they could see in the night. The moon did not shine through the dark clouds like it would have at home.

“I’ll take first watch.” Azriel muttered. Cassian didn’t need much time falling asleep, curled inside a small indent in the stone, he made it as comfortable as he could. He pushed his wings out, folded them over as much of his body as he could, and slept with his head propped up by his arms.

Azriel sat in the cold, whipping wind until dawn began to lighten the clouds. Cassian woke reluctantly, ice matted to his long hair.

The males that guided you were not from the Winter Court, it seemed. They were ill prepared for the storm that swept through the icy valley, and seemed to panic when they realised just how dangerous it was. Two males were left for dead when they had collapsed, shivering from the cold. The horses kept on pulling, even when their manes froze over, and ice weighed their lashes.

The five males remaining brought you to a deep cave that offered refuge. They shoved you to the corner, leaving one with an axe to watch you while the others struggled to start a fire. They argued, and shook as they did. Eventually, they had it going though. They used ancient driftwood from deep in the back of the cave as fuel.

“We’ll move as soon as we can. Anyone touches ‘em and I’ll end them myself.” The bearded one said, toying with a knife. The others looked to you, unease spread through your stomach. Your cheeks flushed warm, tingling with the contrast of the cold. You wished you could hide, to disappear from those piercing eyes. The attention was never liked, even though you had been raised in the light of it.

Ball after ball, after meeting after escorted walks through the dawn court gardens, every royal that bowed to you seemed to make your shyness worse. You often wished to blend in with the rest of the merchants, the traders that sold their goods on the street to weary travelers from sea or from the bordering courts. They were often ignored. Yet whenever you entered those market alleyways, nearly all stopped to kneel before you.

A sorcerer fae, one expected to be so powerful that Royals from even the continent courted you. You hadn’t been fifteen when your parents were taken from you, after they refused to allow you to be taken to the continent to train with other sorcerers. Magic conjurers, all of them the same it seemed. Since their disappearance, you had been running. Finding solace in the wild, or undercover in small towns outside court lead cities.

It had worked so far. You never expected to be taken notice of, especially by anyone from the continent. None of them should have recognized you, and their clipped accents were distinct enough to narrow they were from the southern region. Someone must have told them, or given them a mighty reward to find you.

And with how delicately carved the chains and cuffs that bound you were, whoever sent them had more than enough money to spare. The intricate carvings, spells and wards that would keep you from using any of your power were etched into the edges, the flat parts of the chain. They even faintly glowed with some sort of shield. Whoever had hired them was afraid, intimidated.

Tears stung your eyes, despair coiling in your bones. You would either die here, or be sent to a rich royal out for your blood, or power. The reality of it sunk in at the same time the aching in your feet did. They had been so numb that you’d completely forgotten about them. Their deep blue color was something you couldn’t bother to worry about now.

Your stomach squeezed with hunger, aching for anything to fill it. You hoped they didn’t hear it. Laying down, you watched the fire’s light flicker on the ceiling, letting the aching in your bones fade to nothing.

Wings cutting through the air, the two brothers flew with enough speed to bring tears to their eyes. Even through their siphon shields deflecting most of it. They spread away from each other, able to look over more land area with their cross searching. The sea wasn’t far off, and the mist tainted the air with it’s salty taste.

“Here.” Azriel called, the wind carrying his voice up to Cass. He was already diving, heading to the wobbly line in the snow below. Heat flooded through chests, as if they were the same being. As if they shared a body and mind, they raced far below and followed the lone trail.

Crashing stone and screaming woke you. At first, you thought it was the howling of the wind through the cracks in the cave. But as reality came to life, as awakeness crashed into you, and as the blood melted the snow dusting the inside of the cave, you realized that it was the males that had taken you.

Cassian laid waste to each one that tried to get a hit on him with ease. Azriel didn’t even need to touch the ones that he took. His shadows did all the work for him, quick and unforgiving as they sliced through each one of them.

They died quickly, without much effort from the Illyrians. Calculated, and brutal, they both took in the environment before rushing to you. You stood, but only out of adrenaline fueled fear. CAssian’s pale features scared you more than anything. It made you curious what exactly you must have looked like to them. Az’s slightly paler skin didn’t reveal anything, not a drop of blood had landed on him. Yet his eyes unnerved you, wondered what the hell was so wrong that even he worried.

You understood when Cassian wrapped his arm around you. The melting heat of his touch brought a groan to your lips. Your hands went to his side, attempting to warm yourself with the familiar spaces that had done so before. Only before, it had never been this crucial. “Lay down, it’s alright.” He shushed you, guiding you back into Azriel’s waiting arms. They cradled you together, guiding you down onto the flimsy blanket you had been laying on for the night.

Once their body heat began setting in, your shivering began. And it did not stop.

Az wished he could speak mind to mind like Rhys could. Wished to the mother that he could make Cassian fly for help. But knowing his brother, that was as likely as Azriel’s leaving was. With the chains around you, it was impossible to have Azriel shadowstep you anywhere. If he were to go alone, it would take several hours of flying and shadow walking just to get back to Velaris. They were stuck.

Eventually, your tooth chattering stopped long enough for you to sleep. And to allow the Illyrians to speak. “You’re sure there was no key?” Azriel grumbled quietly. The glare Cassian shot him was answer enough. He looked down to your smushed cheek against his bicep, and smiled slightly.

Azriel sighed, and traced a finger over your chains. They stung where he pressed, and he winced. “We need to get these off so we can go.”

“It can wait. We need to warm up first, and there’s another stormfront coming in anyway. We wouldn’t be able to fly in that.” Cassian hissed back.

“How-” Azriel began, but let it drop. He could feel it as well, the electric feeling that charged the air around them. The cave quieted, only the sound of your soft snores filling the air. Azriel’s eyes began fluttering, his arms loosening around you.

“Rest, I have first watch.” Cassian ordered. His brother followed the order reluctantly, rage still gripping him from the thought of why he was here in the first place.

Cassian could still smell the blood in the air while the cool wind blew in. It tainted the salty air with a copper scent, and give him flashbacks to battling in the Summer court centuries ago. He prayed to the mother he’d never have to fight like that again. Suffocating in his own armor from the heat of it, the smell of bodies and fish in the air. He shuddered thinking about it.

Shifting from his movement, you snuggled closer to him. His heart raced, eyes tracing the line of your lips and the way your hair fell. Perfection. Such beauty was foregin to him. He had never felt such a pull to anyone in his lifetime. Sharing that love of you with Azriel wasn’t a bad thing, if anything it helped stabilize him. Helped him keep his head straight when regarding you around other males.

If Azriel was flame, Cassian was water. And you were the wind that flowed with both, for better or worse. It was natural, even if Madja had claimed that a double mate was nearly unheard of. It felt different than the regular mating bond, from what they could tell. It wasn’t crazed and pathetic, it was pride and unconditional acceptance of each other. It was as natural as either of them had ever felt.

And it made the nights fun, being able to fulfill any request you had.

He shut down that thought quickly, feeling heat pool. He did pull you trighter to his chest, though. Azriel’s arms pressed against his, and they molded around you like a blanket. Waiting out the night until warmth, or their high lord came to skin them for disobeying orders.

It would be worth it, to know you were safe. To enjoy this moment with you, and his best friend.

#azriel #cassian #acotar fic #reaader x cassian #reader x azriel

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firemedicdiaz · 3 years

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Four Minutes

Fandom: 9-1-1. Pairing: implied Buddie. Word Count: 1454. Genre: angst. Rating: teen+. Summary: Eddie’s thoughts on the trip to the hospital after the explosion. Spoilers for 2x17 and 2x18. Warning(s): mentions of Buck’s injuries. Note: my first ever Buddie fic! Beta’d by @starshiphufflebadger. AO3 link here. Link to part 2 here.

“Hospital is four minutes away, okay? Come on.”

Hen’s words were meant for Buck, but Eddie knew they’d be of little comfort as Buck slipped in and out of consciousness. He could only imagine the pain Buck must have been feeling, and even just the thought of it was exhausting. He couldn’t imagine living it.

It took only seconds for them to reach the ambulance, and Eddie stayed at Buck’s side as they loaded him into it. As he watched Buck’s eyelids flutter, he decided that four minutes simultaneously sounded like an eternity and no time at all. Time seemed to slip away, the seconds meaningless against the backdrop of his own frantic heartbeat.

“Hang on, Buck, we’ve got you.”

The words didn’t seem to register, but the lurch of the ambulance as it started moving certainly did, drawing a raw, exhausted whimper of agony from Buck. Eddie reached out, giving Buck’s arm a gentle squeeze of reassurance before rolling the shutter down on his emotions. It was neither the time nor the place for any sort of sentiment if he had any hope of giving Buck his best chance at survival and recovery.

Tuning into the moment, Eddie instinctively started a secondary survey, looking for more subtle injuries as Hen got to work unbuttoning Buck’s shirt and applying monitor leads. Eddie ran practiced fingers through Buck’s hair, looking for lumps and bumps. His fingertips pressed on Buck’s collarbones, ribs, and sternum, eliciting no tenderness. Buck’s belly was soft, his pelvis was stable, and his arms and legs were no worse for wear aside from his badly crushed ankle. Eddie breathed a sigh of relief.

Eddie glanced up at the monitor as it came to life, capturing Buck’s too-quick, erratic heartbeat. Normal PR interval, no peaked T-waves, no obvious signs that a deadly flood of potassium from Buck’s badly crushed tissues was wreaking havoc on his heart. Not that it meant anything in the grand scheme of things; if Buck’s serum potassium rose too high too quickly, it might not cause any of the characteristic signs on his ECG. At least the bicarb Hen had given earlier seemed to be holding him at the moment.

Compartmentalizing his worry over a potential cardiac event, Eddie stood and reached for some splinting supplies. Stabilizing Buck’s leg wouldn’t relieve all of his pain but it would help, and with Hen already working on pain meds and monitoring, it was busy work that would help Eddie keep his mind off of how scared he was.

“Three more minutes, Buck. We’re almost there.”

Eddie was grateful for Hen’s dialogue. It helped him focus. He exchanged a glance with her as he slipped a speed splint under Buck’s injured leg, hoping she hadn’t noticed the way his hands were shaking. Eddie found that he didn’t care too much anyway as another groan of pain from Buck refocused him on the task at hand.

“Sorry, Buck,” Eddie murmured. “I just need to stabilize this fracture. I’ll be quick.”

Buck’s nod of understanding spurred Eddie on, and it wasn’t long before Buck’s leg was securely splinted. With that said and done there wasn’t much left to do and Eddie could feel the anxiety starting to press in on him, unwavering and unrelenting.

He reached out and clasped Buck’s hand, carefully avoiding the pulse ox clip on Buck’s index finger. He stroked his thumb over Buck’s knuckles in an attempt at reassurance that didn’t reach beyond the very surface. There were still too many variables to count on Buck being out of the woods, but he didn’t need Buck picking up on his concern.

“How’re you doing, Buck? Talk to me.”

“Have an orthopedic surgeon on standby. Our ETA is two minutes.”

Eddie’s gaze left Buck’s face just long enough to watch Hen put down her mic after calling ahead to the hospital.

“Hurts,” Buck breathed, his voice reedy.

Eddie’s attention returned to Buck and he squeezed Buck’s hand once more.

“I know, but it won’t hurt for much longer,” Eddie promised. “They’ll give you the really good stuff as soon as we get to the hospital.”

Buck made a wordless noise of acknowledgment before slipping back into a fitful unconsciousness. Eddie dropped his head, gritting his teeth together to ground himself. He couldn’t afford to open the floodgates right then. It didn’t matter that his best friend was injured, toeing a critical line. It didn’t matter that the one person he had left in his life besides Christopher who he shared a real, deep connection with was fighting for his life. It didn’t matter that he might never get the chance to explore the depth of that connection, of his feelings and Buck’s.

All the words Eddie had never had the chance to say were suddenly at the forefront of his mind. Every time he’d had the opportunity to do something, to act on his feelings, to tell Buck how damn much he loved him. Those unspoken words, unshared sentiments were like a weight on his chest and he reflexively reached up and pulled off his stethoscope, dropping it on the bench beside him to ease the feeling of claustrophobia that gripped him.

“Open your eyes,” Eddie urged him, his voice husky. “Don’t check out on us now, Buck.”

On us, because if he said on me there would be no coming back from all those waiting feelings, their claws dug into him, a thousand pinpricks threatening to burst the tenuous hold he had on his self-control.

“‘M fine,” Buck rasped. “I’ll be okay.”

Even through the haze of pain and morphine Buck was trying to be the hero. Eddie would have laughed if he wasn’t convinced the tears would come through, too. Instead, he squeezed Buck’s hand yet again, earning himself a weak but determined squeeze in return. A kind, reassuring gesture that almost broke him.

“We’re one minute out.”

One more minute.

Eddie could hold on one more minute. His eyes flicked up to Buck’s chest and he watched the quick but steady rise and fall of Buck’s breathing. If Buck could get through this, so could he. He felt so stupid, so dramatic, but he’d never been particularly good at processing feelings, least of all when they were concerned with someone who mattered to him so deeply.

As Buck’s grip on his hand loosened, the draw of the morphine no doubt overwhelming him, Eddie slipped his fingertips up along Buck’s thumb, pressing them to Buck’s radial artery. His pulse was still too fast, unsteady, but it was strong and vital and grounding. Eddie focused on it, on the tactile reflection of Buck’s warrior spirit, willing his own heart to stop fluttering frantically behind his ribs like a frightened, caged bird.

Eddie’s head snapped up as the ambulance rolled to a stop, the back doors behind pulled open almost immediately by waiting hospital staff. Like the civilians at the scene that had helped them lift the truck to free Buck, doctors, nurses, and orderlies milled around, ready to step in and help, to take over and do their part.

Dropping Buck’s hand, Eddie stood and hopped out of the ambulance, unlocking the stretcher and pulling it out. The whole handover happened in the blink of an eye, and before he could so much as promise Buck that everything would be okay, he was gone. The hospital doors were sliding shut in the trauma team’s wake and Eddie was staring after them, all of the fight in his body gone now that his job was done.

Hen walked over, putting a hand on his shoulder, silently offering support. Distantly, Eddie knew that she’d been through the same thing he had, watching a friend go through what Buck had, but it wasn’t quite the same, he knew. She would call Karen, have her come down for support, for company, and what was Eddie going to do? Who was he going to call, to go home with at the end of the night? He’d be brave for Christopher, sure, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep so much as one wink with Buck in the hospital.

Eddie could feel nausea well in the pit of his stomach. He could still smell the blood, the acrid tang of smoke and explosive residue from the scene. He could hear sirens in the distance as the rest of the team raced over to join them, but none of it really penetrated the fog of anxiety clouding his mind. As he stared blankly at the reflection of the ambulance’s flashing lights in the glass, Eddie couldn’t help but fear that those last four minutes, riding on the wings of words unsaid, would be the last they ever shared.

#9-1-1 Fox #9-1-1 fanfiction #Evan Buckley #Eddie Diaz #Buddie

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canchewread · 3 years

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Editor’s Note: our Book Blog feature combines a shareable quote from, and a short review of, an important left wing or left-leaning work of nonfiction I’ve read and would like to share or expound on.

Terminal Point

A little while ago, I published a lengthy piece about how corporate media coverage of the so-called “migrant crisis at the U.S. border” uniformly conformed to the dictates of the Chomsky-Herman propaganda model; regardless of the ideological bent of the outlet publishing that coverage. Towards the end of that essay, I discussed the difference between describing how America created the crises driving migration, and what is actually happening on the ground in relation to those crises; before recommending readers who wanted to know more, check out “The End of the Myth: From the Frontier to the Border Wall in the mind of America” by Greg Grandin.

As longtime readers of this blog may remember, I’ve always been a big fan of Grandin’s work; in particular his scholarship on U.S. imperialism in Latin America is absolutely first rate. Given these factors, today I’d like to return to that portion of the discussion by offering a quote from (see above,) and a brief review of “The End of the Myth” here on Can’t You Read.

Frankly, for a guy whose writing is so accessible, Greg Grandin remains an extraordinarily complex thinker whose historical analysis explores a sometimes overwhelming number of “variations on a theme” in the larger scope of his primary thesis. Given the sad state of the term intellectual in our society, I won’t burden professor Grandin with the title, but as scholars go this guy genuinely fulfills his obligation to present the facts, and challenge established assumptions vigorously where warranted.

In that vein, the author opens The End of the Myth with a fundamentally sound, but deceptively simple thesis; that America has always resolved the staggering contradictions between its stated ideals, and its horrifying practices by projecting its identity, and even its very conception of the term “freedom” through the lens of an endless expansion across a wholly mythical, and ultimately metaphysical, frontier. Indeed, as Grandin notes quite early on in The End of the Myth, the contradiction between the colonial enterprise that eventually became America, and escaping the crushing poverty and violence of the old world was resolved by a genocidal project to claim the frontier before early-American settlers even had a word for the frontier. The story outpaced reality, right from the beginning.

Tracing the line of history from the foundation of the colonies, through the American Civil War, and into the modern era of Pig Empire dominated globalized trade, Grandin demonstrates that at each phase American society resolved the deferred promise of freedom inherent in its foundational mythos, by projecting the violence and conflict inherent to its settler-colonial, hyper-capitalist nature, outward and against a constantly-shifting “other.” From Manifest Destiny, to the Monroe Doctrine and on through our modern War on Terror, the solution to America’s problems has always been found in the destruction of an external enemy, and the expansion of the mythical “frontier.”

Where Grandin’s work really starts to get interesting however, is when he meticulously dissects the internal conflicts a settler colonial project of genocide and slavery created; conflicts that a romanticized vision of endless frontier expansion both rationalized, and reinforced. It is in this analysis that the author exposes the myth of freedom for those who can claim it on an endless frontier, as the skeleton key for understanding the increasingly critical flaws in Pig Empire society. After all, all wars, even an endless war based on the myth of infinite growth, have casualties, and the unrelenting legacy of violence, dehumanization, and ruthless exploitation of the eternal other have fundamentally altered American society in ways no idealized frontier could ever heal. In a wholly disturbing way then, the very existence of marginalized nonwhites inside “the nation” becomes a taunting reminder of a faltering white supremacist legacy the Pig Empire has never made any attempts to reconcile with, let alone end.

These consequences are the dark, unspoken truths of both American history and America’s present; and they are rarely if ever exposed to the public eye. In doing so, Grandin lays bare the roots of American imperialism, white supremacy, colonial exploitation, and even U.S. dominated “borderless capitalism” in the modern era. Like a cancerous tumor, the myth of the American frontier has fueled the endless growth of a Pig Empire capitalist class that threatens to unleash fascist violence to maintain control now that the frontier thesis has run into the hard walls of both history, and reality. By exposing the catastrophic fallout of worshipping frontier mythology in America’s past, Grandin does much to reveal how “the land of the free” has never really stopped being “the home of the slave.”

Importantly however the author does not remain entirely in the past. Grandin also draws stark attention to the fact that although the myth of the frontier has lost its power to obscure America’s horrifying contradictions, it has done nothing to satiate the greed and arrogance of the primary beneficiaries of those contradictions in modern life:

“The fantasies of the super-rich, no less than their capital, have free range. They imagine themselves sea-steaders, setting out to create floating villages beyond government control, or they fund life-extension research hoping to escape death or to upload their consciousness into the cloud. Mars, says one, will very soon be humanity’s “new frontier.” A hedge-fund billionaire backer of Trump who believes “human beings have no inherent value other than how much money they make” and that people on public assistance have “negative value,” a man so anti-social he doesn’t look people in the eye and whistles when others try to talk with him, gets to play volunteer sheriff in an old New Mexico mining town and is thereby allowed to carry a gun in all fifty states. Never before has a ruling class been as free - so completely emancipated from the people it rules - as ours.”

Greg Grandin, The End of the Myth.

Of course, given that The End of the Myth was published in 2019, a certain percentage of the book is focused on specifically what Trump, Trumpism, and Trump’s promise to build a border wall mean for modern American politics. Even this seemingly contemporary discussion however, offers timeless insights on both the past and future of an America that continues to embrace nativist ideas and ideology. Although Grandin never uses the term, he subtly notes that in many ways Trumpism itself represents an explicit ideological rejection of endless growth along an infinite frontier, and even offers a horrifying “solution” to our present day climate crisis - white nationalist infused eco-fascism.

Look, you probably don’t need me to convince you a Pulitzer-prize winning book by a celebrated American historian is “a good read.” What I’d like to add here however is that Grandin’s book isn’t just a guide to understanding American nativism, immigration policy, and right wing fantasies of migrant invasions; this book is a guide to understanding both American political thought, and rising Pig Empire fascism - which in a lot of ways, are very much the same thing.

I don’t know if this is the best American history book ever published, but frankly I suspect it’s in the running. Even though I don’t agree with everything Grandin says in The End of the Myth, I’d still ultimately give it an enthusiastic five star rating. More importantly, I would strongly suggest this work as a must-read volume for folks looking to understand why the Pig Empire works the way it does.

Additional Resources:

Infinite Frontier (The Nation review)

America can no longer run from its past (Guardian review)

A Monument to Disenchantment (Jacobin review)

Slavery, and American Racism, Were Born in Genocide

- nina illingworth

Independent writer, critic and analyst with a left focus. Please help me fight corporate censorship by sharing my articles with your friends online!

You can find my work at ninaillingworth.com, Can’t You Read, Media Madness and my Patreon Blog

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Inquiries and requests to speak to the manager @ASNinaWrites

Chat with fellow readers online at Anarcho Nina Writes on Discord!

“It’s ok Willie; swing heil, swing heil…”

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reversecreek · 3 years

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struts onto the dash carrying this deliriously wriggling little elf in my arms like a swaddled bebe......... they’re genuinely my oldest muse of all time i think i created them when i was like. 13 possibly. n i haven’t written them in Years but. i’m literally so excited to jst vibrating w muse. smiles at u all demurely..... they have risen. u can find their pinterest here n their playlist here.

* alana champion, nonbinary + they/them | you know nyla palmer, right? they’re twenty-two, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, eight months? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to 6669 (i don’t know if you know) by neon indian like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole a two headed doll of a prairie girl with stitched on rabbit ears and butterfly wings, befriending shadow puppets & finding god with your eyes open underwater in a public pool you broke into thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is march 2nd, so they’re a pisces, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( nai, 24, gmt she/her )

HISTORY:

was born in georgiaaaa georgiaaaa (phoebe bridgers voice holds my bang...) to a vry honest hard working man named george (omgggg he’s called GEORGE and he’s from GEORGIA? ahaaaaa fuckk ur jestinggg) nd a woman who did her best named pamela..... george worked on a construction site n pamela was a pharmacist..... their house was this small rickety white thing with a wrap around porch n a very rabid overgrown garden tht kind of looked like the earth ws trying to reclaim it bc nobody ever hd the time or motivation to mow the lawn.... there ws literally a piece of fold out furniture just entirely submerged by weeds n foliage

nyla ws always closest w their dad george..... he hd this way of looking at the world tht was seeing the best in all of it.... he took them on long walks where he talked abt how u have to respect the trees bc they’re breathing fr us n we’re breathing fr them..... he hd a strange whimsical sense of humour n a gnome alter ego called grundlebolt who always tickled them..... in a way this closeness created a distance between nyla n their mother but not so much that it ws rly a problem. just enough tht nyla sometimes waited until their mother ws out of eye n ear shot to tell their dad they loved him bc they didn’t wna make her sad >_>

(mental health, death & grief tw) pamela always struggled w her mental health but george ws great n understanding n knew how to help her thru this... nyla didn’t get it too greatly at a very young age bt they knew their mum got “the sads” sometimes (how their dad wld explain tht she needed to lay down in the quiet for a while or why she’d stood at the stove n let the dinner burn until the smoke detector went off without doing anything abt it). when nyla was 14 they got home one day to a police car in the driveway n came prancing in exuberantly as they always did. immediately hugged the legs of an officer bc this is hw they wld greet everyone they ever met. they only realised something was wrong when they let go n saw their mum sat at the table crying. essentially there ws an accident at the construction site george worked at n :/ yeah.

(jst mental health & grief tw now) this rly had an intense ripple effect on everyone tbh. pamela’s mental health deteriorated quite a lot without george there as her rock n nyla sort of had to step in as best they cld but it was....... hard. some days she ws better bt some days nyla had to sit her in the bath n stroke a wet sponge over her back bc they didn’t know how else to calm her down. nyla always had a very overactive imagination which george encouraged bt it ws like. losing him rly opened a window in nyla’s head n all rationality went floating out of it. their dreams seemed more real than being awake. fantasy wasn’t jst the way they coped bt it was the way they thought n the way they saw. everything on earth was alive. the trees n the clouds n the wall with a brick missing at the bottom of her road n especially their dad. their dad was alive in everything in nyla’s head. the sun shining extra bright in the morning was george. ponds were a veil they could dunk her head under and find george waiting on the other side. reality rly just pulled the plug n said bye tbh n they were ok w that <3

(abuse implied tw) their mum remarried too fast to a man named stephen n it was jst not a good arrangement. he was Not a nice man. i won’t go into this but home wasn’t a nice place for nyla any more n after a couple of yrs stephen wound up asking them to leave n their mum said nothing to contradict tht. there’s more to this bt long story short nyla left <3

(drugs tw) they couch surfed fr a while before settling living w their best friend. they got up to like... all sorts of trouble n grew up far too fast. nyla’s lack of sense n realism hd a habit of getting them into some sticky situations n these few yrs were a rollercoaster where they got by on the skin of their teeth. when they think of high skl they think of gravel and skinned knees and sucking sherbet dunkers to ignore the taste of pennies in ur mouth and getting lost in the woods a lot bc they’d take FAR too many drugs n be lead astray having conversations with kind trees whose branches held their hands

(drug mention) got by on odd jobs like making candles n selling them at market stalls. leaf blowing at cemeteries. face painting fr children’s parties (where they were blatantly high). random stuff. all over the place. in this time them n their best friend also hd a sugar daddy named tony who always wore very impressive colour block suits n mink stoles n jewelled fedoras n hd a swanky apartment w marble floors. rly just. surreal. lots of strange stories frm this time.

things kind of blew up in their friendship group n they fell out w their best friend raya bc she slept w this guy aj who nyla hd been madly in love w for yrs.... he was a Stinker n honestly so ws their best friend so good riddance i say bt obviously it felt like having their entire world flipped upside dwn fr nyla.... they split after this came out bc they just did Not want to b around these ppl any more n they decided to leave w this guy frm a band they barely knew tht much save fr a one night stand to tour w them..... this ws another whirlwind. jst chock full of them. it ws similar to being on a teacup ride at a carnival n spinning round n round n only knowing u were surrounded by lots of lights. tht’s how they’d best describe their time on tour.

SO in terms of them coming to irving 8 months ago they came w the band.... they honestly did pretty well on tour n wound up renting a big beach house on dorado as a kind of “retreat” sort of place fr them to shack up in while they worked on writing and recording their first big studio album (they gt signed w a label so it’s all vry exciting stuff). nyla among like 3 others were allowed to stay w them too bc they hd a lot of fun on tour. literally jst. taken on as professional groupies essentially. nyla loved it bc they’d never seen the ocean n when they first got there they jst threw off all their clothes n ran straight into the water. it was 3pm on a tuesday afternoon. they got arrested fr public indecency n didn’t get why bc they were like but i just wanted to hug the ocean u silly little oinker? i picture the beach house as like. the loudest one on dorado.... comes alive like a jungle at night..... they r probably bad neighbours. anyway. onto personality puts hand on hip.

PERSONALITY:

sets out patio furniture on someone else’s lawn n jst takes a seat n leans back like ahhhhh vat a nice day to be alive ya! (swedish accent suddenly bc they think it’s fun). they come out n start yelling n they’re jst so confused they’re like hey wat’s the big idea hey wat’s go on here why u angies why this happen?

likes drawing imaginary veins over their arms in all different colour blue pens in a sudden fit of hyperfixation n then forgets all abt it n goes out like tht n scares several townsfolk bt they’re oblivious they’re jst in her own world loving life already onto the next fixation. has many many different fads like this. one day will jst start snipping up a bunch of magazines bc they’re like EYES ARE COOL N THEY SEE EVERYTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :P n they’ll stick a bunch of them over their wall n then forget they was doing that n leap onto the next. quite a pattern. bt they love the vein thing a lot it makes them feel like a walking planetarium like they have their own constellations

sometimes jst doesn’t make sense. they’re honestly kind of strange. pops up in places like they suddenly materialised there n it’s like how did u get there where have u been when were u last seen are u ok. has the energy of an ancient deity frm deep in a mountain cave n an ambiguous forest sprite all at once..... talks shit honestly. abt anything n everything. sometimes outrageous. sometimes plain incoherent. like what are u talking about? i dnt kno. even i dnt kno sometimes.

luvs stick n pokes will let anyone tattoo whatever they want on them for the price of a gummy bear kindly placed onto their tongue n swallowed whole

has this obsession w being underwater w their eyes open luvs it. calls it their tadpole time. runs baths just to lie there blinking looking around n drifting her arms. best friends w the bottom of any local swimming pool n hs probably given it a quick kiss so it knows they’re bff’s n then got sick bc there’s sm germs in a public pool. says the kgb probably poisoned their oatmeal n r finally here to deliver on their promise n THAT’S why they got sick unrelated to the pool incident. what promise? noone knows.

unclear if they believe what they say or if they jst has a very expanded sense of humour where they nvr let on if they’re joking.... lines r blurred a lot.....

loves excitedly shouting things. sometimes just screams at the sky bc they say it’s good to let the creatures in ur belly fly out every once in a while otherwise their wings get sore.

(drugs tw) still does an excessive amt of hallucinogens n it kind of shows. very bad fr their brain bt we’re going to ignore it.

dresses fun n strange n eccentric n careless. loves to experiment. does nt care abt what’s considered to be societally appropriate. living in their own world.

sleeps around a lot... jst doesn’t rly see sex as a big deal.... very free w themselves in that way..... sometimes greets their friends w a kiss on the lips they’re like awww :) kisses <3 when they run into them in the middle of the cereal aisle n then pulls away n suddenly breaks into a box tht has a free toy in it bc it’s a banana with googly eyes n that’s the best thing they’ve ever heard in their LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! n isn’t he so HANDSOME????? enchante indeed my good sir ;)... gives the toy a kiss too.

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

other groupies of the band: self explanatory a little.... i dnt have a name for the band yet bt all can b worked out..... i picture them as kind of. not that nice but like. there for a good time........ rock genre.... bit chaotic...... to say the least........ they dnt have to have come there w the band like nyla n the others they cld have been adopted in their time there.... whoever wld b wild n down fr a good time <3

chaotic trash goblin friends: idk what this title rly means it just came to me in a vision....... jst ppl tht r rly kind of off the rails n don’t care abt anything...... they r who nyla tends to mesh very well w......... they rly r living in their own world n by their own rules n they like ppl who do this too <3 inevitably they get up to no good n party far too much...... cld be angst to this if they enable each other’s bad habits...... world’s our oyster. opens my office door. let’s talk abt it.

nyla set up camp on their front lawn: maybe jst w a fold out chair. maybe w a literal pop up tent w someone else too. genuinely so bizarre of them bt that’s what we’re dealing with. they poke their head into the tent n nyla’s lying down crunching on a cracker crumbs over their tits n they just hold it out to them nt even fully consumed n are like hey polly want a cracker? :)

they responded to her craigslist ad: they posted one saying they cld cleanse their house of demonic energy bc they’re an all seeing eye in touch w the spirits. this is a lie. they came n waved sage around n did a little dance as they did it w bird sounds playing on a special cd they brought fr the occasion (had weird indistinct doodles over the case it ws brought in) n then ws like OOH! scary.... n jumped at something in the hall. they go in thinking maybe they’ve seen a ghost bt they just were startled by their own reflection in a mirror n is like. scary mirror placement...... might wna reconsider that........ they charge them merely 10 dollars fr their time n is like this was so fun we shd do it again some time :) also i think u have mould on ur bathroom tile! vanishes. they dnt recall them ever going to the bathroom.

came knocking asking for items for a garage sale: yes. u heard that right. they’re asking for ur muses things to set up their own garage sale. selling items that do not belong to them. they think this is a genius business strategy n don’t understand why ppl think this is so strange or why they cant just ask ppl to donate them things to sell bc hey they’re an entrepreneur? they even had a pencil behind their ear when they knocked on the door so why aren’t ppl taking their business seriously? probably got distracted several times trying to explain their pitch n chattered abt random other things instead.

honestly anything... fwbs... flings... good influence... someone who cnt stand the fact they’re barely coherent.... someone they stopped on the street one day n asked for their opinion on water beds.... we cn do literally anything. fling ur chara my way n we can talk.

#irvingintro #mental health tw #death tw #grief tw #drugs tw #abuse tw

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pressedinthepages · 4 years

Photo

*New Series Alert* - Hollow Things

Series Masterlist

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Eskel x Reader

Rating: M

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24382063/chapters/58808479

Summary: Eskel x fem!reader AU. You are the only woman to have ever survived the Trials and live as a Witcher. You have been traveling alone for 30 years until you stumble across another Witcher, and he requests your help on a contract. The journey starts from there as they discover hidden pasts, dark secrets, long-repressed feelings, and just how human you both truly are.

Chapters posted on Sundays (I think)

a/n: Alright y'all, here we go! No one asked for this, but it's been stuck in my head for like a month and now it's finally out! The story doesn't really follow canon, but I tried to make scenes as in-character and realistic to canon as possible.

CHAPTER 1 - The Trials (Prologue)

Word Count: 4177

Warnings: illness, fever dreams, blood, sensory overload. I wouldn’t call this a happy chapter

The heat poured off your skin in waves, yet you felt frigid under your skin. You lay on the floor, soaked in your own sweat and shit and piss and vomit and any other various bodily fluids that you couldn’t be bothered with. During the few hours of consciousness you’ve been able to hold onto, you’ve seen glorious men dancing throughout a giant banquet hall, women with jewels for eyes and giant, feathered wings on their backs, carrying you through a field of flowers bigger than evergreens, and even dark, murky water surrounding you as you’re pulled under by something that looks like a human but with far too many scales and gills. Years ago, after the Choice, you realized that the Gods weren’t listening to you, or, if they were, they were some shitty gods to believe in. What sort of Godly being allows this torture of helpless children?

But in this moment, after countless days of unrelenting fever and sickness, you found yourself praying. Praying for anything, any sympathy or end to this madness surrounding you. Your sobs, your screams, your prayers echoed in the tiny room, reassuring you that, no, no one is listening. But finally, with one final puff of breath, your eyes fell closed and your body grew still.

…

You wondered if you had finally died. You were standing on a mountain path, rocky and uneven under your feet. It was dusk, the reds and oranges on the sky signaling a storm in the night. The songs of the birds in the trees brought you comfort, their lilting chirps carried on the wind that flowed through your hair. You suddenly sensed a presence behind you, and as you turned, you flung yourself from the trail as a horse barrelled past you, its rider clutching something heavy with blankets to their chest. You felt pulled in their direction, and your feet began following them without thought. You ran for miles, days, weeks, you weren’t sure. But when the rider finally slowed the horse to stop, you found yourself on a familiar stretch of land. You could see the peaks of Kaer Morhen over the crest of mountain, and you heard another set of hoofbeats approach from that direction. The rider dismounts, drawing one of the two swords from his back. You recognize him as Sorel, the asswipe in charge of training new witchers. But you see that his manner is deadly threatening, so you quickly raise your hands in surrender and slowly walk towards him. He doesn’t seem to see you though, staring only at the mysterious rider and their package.

“Sorel, I swear, I have no idea who this is...” Your voice trails off as Sorel steps forward, golden eyes never leaving his target.

“I take it you’ve decided to accept my offer,” Sorel states, arrogance dripping from his voice like venom.

The rider nods, pushing the hood of their cloak back from their face. It is a man, plain and unremarkable. You don’t recognize him, but Sorel does.

“Give it here,” he commands, his hand gripping the swords at his hide tighter.

The man clutches the bundle against his chest, burying his nose into the blanket and letting out a small sob. Sorel grunts impatiently and begins stalking towards the man. You can only watch as he steps through you as if you were air, and you are now fully sure that you’ve died. Your feet feel like they’re nailed to the ground as the rider finally drops from his horse, shifting the blankets in his arms to cradle them. You then see a small arm drop from the side, limp. You gasp, rushing forward to save this child, to stop Sorel, to do something, but you only glide through the men, their words falling unheard to your ears.

Sorel looks into the bundle, wrinkling his nose. His bright eyes shoot back to the man, instantly threatening him without uttering a single word. The man withers under his gaze, stuttering and babbling nonsensical syllables.

“We discussed this. We do not take girls here.” Sorel’s voice turning cold as you see him start to raise his sword.

“But she is not just any girl, please, we fear that if she is not changed, she will be all of our downfall!” The man cried, placing the bundle on the ground. Like this, you could see a young girl, maybe four summers old, dressed in rags and filthy beyond belief. “She entered this world on the day of the Black Sun.”

Sorel stilled, his catlike gaze scrutinizing the man before him. You’d not heard of this, but again, it seemed that Sorel knew exactly what the man was saying. He sheathed his sword in a well-practiced motion and knelt to the ground. You saw him press his fingers to the girl’s neck, and knew he was seeing if she was alive. You’d seen him and the other instructors do this numerous times to the different recruits, leaving them on the ground to gather a shovel more often than not. However, Sorel slipped his hands under the blankets, standing with the girl in his arms and leveling his eyes back to the man.

“I gave her poppy milk with her last meal, she should be asleep until morning,” the rider whispered, shame leaking almost visibly from his pores. His shoulders were slumped, and his hands fidgeted at his sides, not knowing what to do.

“You may go,” Sorel said, “and do not return. Once we take in a wolf, it does not leave the pack.”

Sorel watched the man clamber back onto his horse and open his mouth as if to say something else. The Witcher lifted an eyebrow, annoyed, and the mysterious rider closed his mouth and turned his horse back down the path, not once looking back. Once he was out of sight, Sorel called his own horse over, settling himself and the young girl astride it.

“Sorry man didn’t even give me your name.” He shook his head. Your eyes widened and you took a sharp intake of breath as you heard him whisper a soft sound, pressing his hand to the girl’s forehead. Everything clicked in that moment, and you ran, ran down the path following the other rider, screaming and pleading for him to come back, don’t leave her here, bring her home!

You rounded a bend, seeing nothing but grey stone and even greyer clouds in the sky, the rider nowhere to be found. You collapsed on the trail, the little bits of gravel ripping through your trousers and digging into your shins, sobbing and crying and cursing, replaying what you just witnessed over and over in your head until your senses went black. Sorel, the bastard, had given you your name.

…

When you next opened your eyes, you found yourself inside the walls of Kaer Morhen. You were sitting along the small stone wall around the training area, and there were two children fighting each other with wooden swords. They looked to be around the age of ten, the girl just a little shorter than the boy. He had unruly brown hair that kept getting in his eyes, making him huff his breath to get it out of the way. His eyes were a dark green, it reminded you of the tops of the trees in the summer. The girl had longer hair, falling just past her shoulders. It was pulled off of her face, tied and braided at the back of her head. This time, you recognized them both. You were watching yourself spar with your best friend, almost five years ago. You felt yourself melt into her, seeing what she saw and thinking what she thought.

You were circling each other, watching, waiting, when suddenly the boy lunged forward, swinging his sword in a long arc towards you. You swiftly rolled to the right, finding your footing and blocking his next attack in front of your face. Your swords were locked, your face straining with the effort of pushing his weight back. Suddenly, the boy gave a strong push, knocking you off your feet and onto your bottom, your sword clambering far from your reach.

“You’re getting better,” the boy smiled, holding out a hand to help you to your feet. You groaned as you stood, rubbing your bottom ruefully.

“Yeah, and so are you,” you complained, “it’ll never be an even fight.”

“Who cares? We’re just practicing.”

“I care! I’m outweighed by all of the boys here, and I don’t know how to win against you! All you do is beat me, throw me onto the ground and claim victory, and I’m not learning how to beat you!” You threw your hands in the air, turning to retrieve the fallen sword.

When you turned back around, you saw the young boy watching you, his hands on his hips and a smirk pulling at his lips. He always seemed older than he actually was, his mannerisms and personality aging him ahead of his body.

“What?” You snapped, stalking back towards him.

“You know what Vesemir always says…” he said, and you groaned, your eyes falling to your boots.

“To reject practice is the path of fools,” you both say in unison. The young boy sighs, placing his hand on your shoulder. You bring your gaze back to him, and he offers a small smile.

“I know you can do this, even if you’re a little smaller than everyone else,” he says quietly, but so confidently that you start to believe him. But he can sense this, and his smile turns mischievous. “And I’ll always help you practice, I’ll never turn down a chance to beat you!” He quips, and you give him a shove, forcing him backwards.

“You’ll regret saying that, Eskel!” You shout, and he breaks into a run, shouting back over his shoulder “No way in hell!”

You give chase, whooping and hollering across the courtyard, running in so many circles back and forth that you’re not sure who’s chasing who anymore. The bell in one of the lower towers rings, calling everyone to dinner. You stop, Eskel just behind you. He brushes around you before turning and pulling you into a hug, and gods he gives the best hugs.

“Thank you Eskel,” you whisper into his shoulder, pulling back and giving him a bright smile. He always knew just how to cheer you up, and you always tried your best to do that in return. But boys were difficult, and gross.

“Don’t mention it, I promise, you’ll get the hang of this,” he says, letting you go and turning back to the sprawling castle. “Now c’mon, we gotta get to the dining hall before Geralt takes all the bread!” and you feel the darkness spreading through you once more.

…

When you next awake, you are in the common area of Kaer Morhen. The stone is cold under your feet, and you are standing against the wall at the back of the sprawling room. You recognize yourself in the room instantly, sitting silently, cross-legged on the floor in-between Eskel and Geralt. There are a couple of other young boys on the floor as well, and you are all looking up at the four adults in the room. It seemed that everyone had tried to look as tidy as possible, even Geralt having gone so far as to pull his long, dark hair off of his face and tying it behind his head, allowing his deep brown eyes to scan the candlelit room. The version of you on the floor chances a look around the room, finding the eyes of a red-haired boy. He gives you a wink, and you grimace, rolling your eyes and looking away. He huffs angrily, and you remember thinking that Clovis needed to learn to control his temper better. You remember this moment as if it were only yesterday, because it was.

Sorel steps forward, his golden eyes flicking across the children. You bristle at the sight of him, the revelation of how you came to be at Kaer Morhen and the role he played in it still tender in your mind. He stands confidently, legs shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back. He looks almost identical to the Sorel of twelve years ago, albeit with a new scar at his hairline and the lines forming his ever-present frown are a bit more pronounced.

“You have survived your training up until this point. However, tomorrow begins your next steps,” Sorel states, his voice settling condescendingly over the others in the room. “At first light, you will all be administered the Trial of the Grasses.”

At this, all of the children blanch, shifting and glancing between themselves uncomfortably.

“Settle, pups,” Sorel sighs, “our experiments this year focus only on a simple matter of quantity. As there are six of you, we will administer the usual dose to all of you, and half of you will receive an additional dose after the sun has set. Those three will be chosen randomly, so I suppose you could say that we are letting Destiny decide.” Sorel smirked at his final sentiment, and you clenched your fists at your sides, the short nails still digging into your palms.

“Ah, well, maybe we should just start with the preparations and get this out of the way?” One of the other men steps forward, placing a hand gingerly on Sorel’s shoulder. His hair is long and graying, but his body still shows immense strength and grace. His face does not show any emotion, but you can sense great discomfort behind his eyes, the gold betraying his intent.

“Vesemir, always so impatient to begin the Trials!” Sorel jabs, essentially shutting out the other Witcher. Vesemir nods and resumes his place among the other instructors, one of whom has his arm tightly wrapped in bandages. It is rare to see bandages among the Wolves, but the wound is still fresh. You know this because you witnessed what had happened only a few days prior, but were too far away to do anything.

The man, Osbert, was another instructor at Kaer Morhen and had been helping the students with their horseback sword work. Geralt sat astride the horse, Osbert seated behind him. You had been waiting your turn, pretending to read about the invention of runes and how they’ve revolutionized the silver swords and blah blah blah. Instead, you found yourself fiddling with the hem of your tunic, stealing glances at the boy; no, the young man beside you. Eskel was reclined, not even pretending to read that drivel. The wind danced through his hair, blowing the scent of hay to your nose. Ugh, he’s been back in the stables with the goats again you thought to yourself. You had been fond of him for years, but you knew that romance (or any feelings at all) for a Witcher was never a good idea. You were settling back to tug at the threads of the fraying shirt when a high whinny pierced the air. You and all of the other students sprang to your feet, but it was far too late to do anything. You watched the horse rear back wildly, throwing both Osbert and Geralt from its back before bolting in the opposite direction of the castle. Osbert had broken his right arm, and the only wound that Geralt had suffered was one to his pride.

Blinking back to the firelit room, you realize that everyone had left, save for you and Eskel. You were holding him tightly, your face buried into the crook of his neck, your shoulder shaking with silent sobs. Eskel was still taller than you, and he rested his chin atop your head, humming lightly. After what could be moments or hours, you pull back, still holding Eskel’s shoulders softly, your fingers pricking at a pulled thread in the red fabric. His hands stay at your hips, letting you compose your thoughts before speaking.

“I’m so frightened,” you start, but Eskel cuts you off before you can continue. He’s developed this habit recently, finding himself sticking his foot in his mouth on more than one occasion. However, he clearly hasn’t learned better yet.

“You’ll be fine!” He exclaims, full of false optimism and hope that you don’t believe for a moment. You pass a withering glare, and he relents, his hands tightening ever so slightly on your waist. You really wish that you could enjoy the feeling of his hands right now, but you just can’t bring yourself to that mind-frame.

“Eskel, it’s not me that I’m worried about. I don’t want to wake up in three days only to find out that this had killed you, and I never got to tell you that I…” your voice trails off, unspoken words and feelings hiding in the silence.

Eskel blinks, looking down for a moment before you see a shy smile grace his features. He lifts his gaze back to you, bringing a hand to your cheek, and you lean into it with a sigh. He moves forward slowly, resting his forehead on yours. You look into his eyes, falling into the sea of trees and serenity before you both shift, pulled by an invisible force to draw ever closer. Your eyes flutter closed, and you just barely ghost your lips over his. You hear his breath hitch and feel him hesitate for a heartbeat before pulling you back, pressing his lips against yours and bringing his hand back down your hip, trailing along your side tantalizingly slowly. You both cling onto each other, desperately trying to pour everything into this moment, this potential goodbye.

You feel the darkness closing in once more, and you breathe deeply, smelling smoke and old books and something sharp and unwelcome, hoping that this moment will be the last thing you will see before finally meeting Death.

…

The first thing you notice is noise. You can hear voices, some close, some very very far. You can’t understand a single word, but they all sound as though they are screaming in your tight little room. You curl into a ball, pressing your hands to your ears and grimacing, trying and failing to shut out the relentless noise. You can hear the pounding of feet along floors, the rhythmic strikes of wooden swords from the practice yard, even your own heartbeat is echoing in your ears, but it feels far too slow.

You feel cold stone beneath you, and it shakes with every movement of something across it. Your loose shirt and light trousers are far too tight, suffocating you with any breath you try to take. You feel every thread, every stitch in the offending articles, every gather and bunch and fold starched into the clothes. Your nails desperately search for a respite from the torture, scratching at the fabric, tearing your skin, and almost effortlessly ripping the clothes from your body, rendering them useless. You almost cry with relief, and you feel the wind through your hair from the tiny window in the corner of the room and the dripping of blood from the wounds on your skin. You can feel the root of every hair on your head, the pressure of your own teeth and tongue against your cheeks, and you open your mouth to take a deep breath.

Instead, you only choke on the persistent taste invading your mouth. It is something bitter and stale, reminiscent of when you wake after a deep slumber, but infinitely stronger. You quickly close your lips, your tongue unconsciously darting out to lick them. You taste salt from sweat and tears, and you can somehow distinguish the two from their tastes. Copper comes next, the sour taste of blood filling your senses. There’s not any in your mouth, but you realize that you’re tasting the blood on the air. You run your tongue along the inside of your mouth, able to feel every notch and ridge along your teeth. You try to focus, grounding yourself with a deep breath in through your nose, since there was no fucking way you were ever opening your mouth again if that’s what you’d taste.

However, you were bombarded by the smells of everyone and everything. The first thing you noticed was something sharp and acrid, the same thing that pulled you from your last dream. It was you, you figured, since it smelled of someone in desperate need of a bath. But, as you focus a bit harder, you notice that it is accompanied by several others that are similar, but different at the same time. You try to close in on each one individually, and they comfort you by themselves. One is accompanied by grass and cinnamon, stinging the sensitive nerves of your nose. Another smells of smoke, no, fire, for now, you can tell the difference, and buttercups, and...is that onion? Yet another smells of orange and chamomile and hay, and you almost sob with the newfound knowledge. You’d know that smell anywhere, Eskel has always been weak for orange soaps, and he’s actually alive. But he’s in pain, you all are. You linger on his scent a bit longer, allowing yourself the small comfort of his far-away embrace. You come back to yourself, smelling bread baking and sword oil and goats on the air…and underneath it all, the rancid stench of death and decay. You gag, the scent now permeating your skin, every pore seemingly screaming with disgust and nausea. Your stomach heaves, but nothing comes of it, having emptied itself days ago.

You roll onto your front, pulling your arms under you to push yourself to a stand. You want to run, fight, scream at all of the invading sensations. But gods, you’re terrified to open your eyes. You try to move forward, but you stumble on the little grooves in the stone that you hadn’t noticed before. You fumble to try to find something to lean on, encountering the rough wood of your small dresser under your fingers. You run your fingertips along the surface, feeling the grain of the wood and noticing the oddly sweet scent that it gives off. You hadn’t thought that wood would smell sweet, but at this point, you’re not sure what else could possibly surprise you. You steady yourself against the dresser, head reeling with the emotional turmoil of your dreams and the sensory overload of your consciousness. You clench your jaw, bracing yourself for the inevitable. You reach up, finding the edge of the little mirror secured to the wall. You take a deep breath, and blink open your eyes.

You instantly close them again, finching against the blinding whiteness that you saw. You force yourself to take a breath, for the moment ignoring the horrid taste in your mouth. You open your eyes again, slower this time. You keep them pointed down, and soon enough, the light fades and your eyes adjust to look at the top of the dresser in front of you. You can see all of the individual grains of wood and the tiny specks of dust spattered across the top even though you remember cleaning the morning of the Trial. You look at your hands, back to resting atop the dresser. They are eerily still, covered in days of grime and there’s blood under your fingernails. You slowly bring your gaze down to the rest of your body. You still look pretty much the same, but you can see the frantic scratches on your skin from tearing off your clothes. You remember them bleeding, but they’ve already almost completely healed over. You run a finger over a particularly deep one on your hip, awed when you feel no pain from the pressure. Your hair is hanging in your eyes, and you impatiently push it back, lifting your head and closing your eyes, hesitating before looking at the mirror.

You meet the eyes of the person there. Her hair is wild, matted in spots from days of neglect. She is flushed and sweating, tracks through the grime on her cheeks marking the paths of shed tears. Her chest is heaving, and you can hear her heart speed up, but it’s still too slow. But none of that is what really catches your attention.

Her eyes...they are a bright, shining gold. You lean closer to the mirror, intent on seeing every detail. Her pupils are tiny, little slits, letting in as little light as possible. From further away, they look as though you melted a golden ring and poured it into her irises. But up close, you can see the little nerves and veins, painting the gold with strokes of something darker and warmer, making it look as though her eyes are made of fire. They burn with their intensity and you stumble back, terrified of the girl in the mirror. Now, you are certain that the Gods, if they even exist, could not care less to listen to you.

You scream.

#hollow things #eskel x reader #fem!reader #female witcher #series

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royaltealovingkookiness · 5 years

Note

A little idea popped into my head. “What if Iroh and Zuko also shared a bond that spanned multiple lifetimes? What might their past lives been like?”

Thanks for this awesome ask! I’ve been sitting on it for a while, and kept drawing a blank, but then finally it came to me. I hope you’ll enjoy it:

*******

The sky was immense and a shade of sparkling golden-blue he’s never seen before. The rays of the sun passed right through his skin, melting into his inner flame.

“What’s happening to him?” the voice of a man penetrated the veil of his consciousness.

“Going into the spirit world opened doors in his mind that are never meant to be opened. Some see strange visions of the future, others see their past lives. Many never find the way back, their sanity shattered forever,” a woman replied.

Iroh wanted to tell them that he was awake, he was fine, but when he opened his mouth, no words came out only puffs of smoke and licks of flame. His body, no her body, was covered with smooth red scales.

She lay curled up on her nest, keeping her eggs warm. Their little heartbeats echoed with the hum of life against her body, thin golden threads of fire hanging onto the blazing flame inside her. They were so close to the moment when the spark inside their tiny bodies would bloom into a cheerful flame of their own, allowing them to crack open their protective shells and fly free into the world.

Her blissfulness was broken by fragments of a different kind of beat. Thump. Thump. Thump. She tensed, her scales prickling with the feeling of danger. It was a noise alien to her ears, still it filled her with a mix of dread and rage, making her flame rise to her throat, tasting like ash.

It’s war drums, Iroh’s mind supplied, but before he could say it, she was a dragon again, drawn to the rising beat.

Fight. Fight. Fight. The flames were knocking against the back of her teeth. Unable to hold them in anymore, she opened her mouth and let out a mighty roar lighting up the sky with a bright stream of fire. It was a warning for whoever made those ominous sounds. A dragon-mother would fight to the death to protect her little ones. The beats seemed to intensify in response to her roar, making her spine pierce with the compulsion to meet the sounds and make them stop.

Don’t leave the nest. It’s a trap, Iroh thought terrified, but his voice could not get to who she was. She was inside him, but he was not inside her.

The dragon raised her sleek body, spread her wings wide, and covering her eggs in a warm blanket of fire, she darted out of her nest towards the rising beat. She flew over the green forest, the blue creek, following the trail of the sounds. She could not see anything under the thick green leaves of the trees and bushes, but the thumps were unrelenting, mocking her, taunting her, challenging her. Her fire flared with rage and before she could stop it, the flames escaped her throat.

She watched with horror as a young sapling caught fire with a silent shriek. The forest was her home, she knew every tree; she never meant to hurt them. But flames born of rage were difficult to take back. She tried to put out the fire, but the flames were exceptionally hot and the sparks were jumping from sapling to tree to shrub, the fire spreading rapidly, burning everything in its path. She battled the flames, but it was in vain.The forest turned into a fiery inferno beyond rescue.

The dragon rose to the sky painted dark by the smoke. She felt empty and spent, her insides full of ash and soot as she watched the destruction. What have I done? Fire was not meant to be like this. It was love, it was life, it was a nest full of sleepy dragonlings, blinking slowly with their yellow eyes at their mother.

Her nest! Fear made her blood freeze. She flew back as fast as she could. The nest was empty, full of broken shells. The pain was like thousands of sharp claws tearing at her insides. She wanted to roar her torment into the sky, but you can’t roar without a breath. She let herself be fooled by those sounds of violence and everything was gone. Her home turned into a wasteland with scorched tree-stumps like charred fingers pointing at her accusingly, her babies killed before they had a chance to fly on their own.

Iroh felt the dragon’s pain stab at him and he thought his mind would finally crack apart. The pain of two lives was too much for one broken heart to bear.

Not knowing what else to do, she curled up in her empty nest ready to fade into the darkness. As she listened to the deafening silence, she felt just the smallest of flutters and the thinnest of threads. Lifting her head, she dug through the shards. All the way at the bottom, under a pile of debris she found the lifeless body of one of her dragonlings.

She licked the baby again and again, her heart full of all the love she would never be able to give. Her warm flames danced around the body of her child, surrounding it with light. The baby stirred, there was a small sigh and he opened one of his scaly eyelids, looking at his mother with the purest light of the rising sun. His gaze was full of awe and trust.

He was too small, too weak to survive. Still, he was a miracle. The dragon took the baby in her mouth carefully, to keep him warm, to keep him safe. She spread her wings and soared, rising through the darkness of the thick smoke-clouds, higher and higher until the sky was golden-blue again. A tiny flickering light lit up inside her heart, filling her with new purpose.

Iroh recognized that feeling even if he hadn’t felt it for a long time.That delicate flame was hope.

#atla #atla fanfic #ficlet #iroh #zuko #brusselssprout writes #past lives #iroh was dragonmama #fight me #zuko was a baby dragon #iroh & zuko #i hc that the war-drums is how the FN used to drive the dragons out of their islands #making them burn down the forests #it was easier to turn them into farming land

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bjnurse · 5 years

Text

Risothulhu

Here’s my submission to #RisoDoppiWeek2019 for the Ritual prompt. Part 2 will be coming soon. Trying something different. I ya’ll like it.

Read this on Ao3 here.

Here’s my Ko-fi.

CW: Terror, Nudity and Language.

Cthulhu!Risotto x Doppio

18+ Only Below

----

Doppio wakes up. He blinks his pink lashes as he stretches. The light streaming through the curtain is beginning to hold a warm hue. It’s about an hour from sunset. Almost time. Doppio thinks with a smile. He hops out of bed and hisses as his bare feet touch the cold floor.

He looks dreamily out the window and considers his view. It's a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming... days like these are perfect for bringing about an apocalypse.

With a delighted sigh, he turns and walks out of his room heading to the bathroom to take his ritual bath. He doesn’t bother throwing on a robe. His roommate has seen him make the naked trek like this every day for about month now.

“Morning Diavolo!” Doppio cheerily yells into the living room.

“It’s 5:00pm. I’d hardly call that morning,” Diavolo calls back without looking up from his notes as he cross references a few ancient books.

Doppio runs a bath for himself, checking the water to make sure it’s just warm enough. He allows the tub to fill while he takes a bit of cheese cloth and places various herbs in it. He ties it at the top, creating a satchel and tosses it into the bath. He also adds a generous pinch of Himalayan sea salt directly to the water.

He turns his attention to his reflection. He absentmindedly looks at his freckled form as he brushes his teeth. Looking at his reflection, he runs his hands over his body wondering what he’ll feel like. Doppio loses himself in thought, but then remembers the water’s running.

“Shit!” He whispers as he turns around to turn off the faucet.

Doppio lowers himself into the warm water. He bats at the floating satchel of herbs and squeezes it forcing out every drop of herbal essence. Every bit counts. He needs it all. Doppio reclines, letting the water reach his mouth and his knees bend, touching the cool bathroom air.

Enjoying the warmth of the water and the smell of the herbs, he closes his eyes and remembers his dream. The same dream he’s had for a month now. Each night more details are revealed to him. At first it was a question, Join me? He woke that night in terror of a dark shadow looming over him. He only remembered the eyes black with crimson at their center and tendrils. So many tendrils. Each night more and more was revealed. Upon waking each morning, he had to force the memory from his mind’s eyes. What surrounded this being was chaos and despair. After a time, Doppio grew to love the screams of terror he’d hear in his dreams. Those cries of desperation are glorious. He could get off on it, but the voice in the dreams specifically told not to.

As he lays in the warm tub, he can’t help but let his hand gravitate to his hardening cock. He takes hold of himself and wonders how much it would really matter? Would his new master really know? It was too much to risk, but the defiant thought tempts him.

“Doppio! Hurry up!” His friend knocks at the door, making Doppio shriek and nearly take in a mouthful of water in his surprise.

“Alright, Diavolo! Be out in a minute!” He hurriedly cleans himself as he remembers what it was like in the beginning. To think he actually ran to Diavolo the first night he had the dream. They nearly ran into each other in the hall both awakening from what they had called a nightmare. These days he looks forward to the dreams. Hearing the voice call his name and feeling those eyes upon him. He enjoys the company of his master as he slumbers- as they both slumber. The thought excites him and he bites his lip.

…

Diavolo and Doppio arrive at the beach they had scouted to make sure it was remote and far from civilization. The two worked in synchronized silence setting up the altar that neither of them had spoken about but both of them had seen in their dreams.

As Diavolo lights the last few candles on the altar, Doppio walks a few feet away and starts drawing in the sand. He makes a large circle, about three feet in diameter. Along the outside, he scrawls glyphs that he had been seeing in his mind’s eye, since he woke up. Having finished his own task, Diavolo watches. Being the one who spent years studying the R'lyehian language, he recognizes a few of the symbols, ”protect” and ”tribute.” The rest are a mystery to him. Doppio inscribes one more ”devotion” then stands and turns to smile excitedly at Diavolo. A blush covers his freckled face. He’s filled with glee, as if it were Christmas morning.

“Ready!” Doppio speaks joyfully, breaking the silence between them. With a giggle, he hops into the circle and he removes his cloak. Being fully naked underneath, Diavolo can see how truly excited Doppio is, but he quickly turns his attention to his tome. He flips to the marked page in the well worn book.

“C’ai Risothulhu c-uln! Goka c-gotha! Nog n shugg! C-sll’ha nnn hai! Uaah!” Diavolo reads from the tome, projecting his voice towards the ocean.

The words Diavolo recites were once foreign and archaic to Doppio, but now they reach his ears as a beautiful melody. At the sound, he’s filled with a joyful familiarity. Pride swells in his chest and butterflies flutter in his stomach as if being reunited with a lover.

Diavolo breaks out into a cold sweat as he finishes his incantation. He looks to the ocean, straining his eyes in the last bit of daylight before the sun fully sets. Diavolo exhales with a frustrated sigh, looking over the spell and the list of components. Everything is in order. It should have worked! Discouraged, he looks over to Doppio.

Doppio is looking out to the ocean, his eyes fixed on something in the distance.

“I guess it didn’t…” As Diavolo tries to break the bad news, he’s cut off.

“He’s here.” Doppio says confidently as the ocean breeze picks up. The candles of the altar are blown to the ground. Diavolo shrieks, picking up the ancient tome to remove it from danger. The lit candles fall to Doppio’s feet. The small flames dance around the circle and illuminate the sigils. Doppio giggles from within the ring of fire, feeling the wind caress his bare flesh. When he stops giggling, he puts his hands out in front of him and they meet an unseen barrier forming a circle around him. He grins maniacally as his gaze to the ocean resumes.

Diavolo follows the brown eyes to find the water swirling and waves swelling, their ebb and flow are erratic. The unrelenting winds usher in storm clouds, devouring any remaining light. The only remaining light source is Doppio’s circle, providing them enough light to make out a figure rising from the water before them.

Each passing second, it gains height, slowly revealing how massive and incredible it is.

Each passing second, Diavolo’s mind screams, Flee while you still can! He’s filled with terror and his legs refused to follow his command.

Each passing second, a warmth coils tighter at Doppio’s core. He’s grinning wide. If the arcane restraints of the circle weren’t holding him in place, he’d have run to meet his master- his desire. Doppio giggles maniacally as he remembers the visions of his dreams: people running with faces contorted in terror, the delectable sound of their screams, the mouth watering smell of the city burning, and civilization crumbling beneath him.

From the depths of the waters, shrouded in shadows the thing moves towards them. Diavolo can start to make out a form: head, shoulders, torso, and tentacles. There’s more tentacles than he can count. He sees the sickly green-grey form with black eyes like a void with glowing red ember at their center. Where a mouth should be, its face is covered in smaller tentacles writhing and coiling upon themselves. Diavolo releases the breath he had been holding in a shriek as two large leathery wings extend at the thing’s back then fold neatly behind it. At that, Diavolo crumbles. He falls back screaming. He clings to his last shred of sanity as he crawls away then struggles to get to his feet. He runs stumbling to the car, leaving his friend behind.

“Bye Diavolo! Thanks!” Doppio calls out. He gives a half hearted wave over his shoulder to his absent friend. His eyes are transfixed on the gorgeous man before him. Towering over him now is this ancient God with short white hair, tanned skin, muscular body and eyes like a black void with the red ember center. Those eyes are the ones he’s been dreaming about. They’re just as he remembered them.

The familiarity in the tone instantly touches Doppio’s heart and he melts, as the voice from his dream speaks to him- finally in person.

“Hello, my little morsel.”

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truenortherner · 5 years

Text

A New Realm

The land is barren save for jagged rock outcroppings that are scattered in all directions, frozen channels of water that will never thaw, and enormous shards of ice that jut out of the snowy ground some the likes of which are well over six feet in height. Ghost travels the unforgiving terrain with a light step, and easily blends into the environment whereas his companion sticks out like a sore thumb.

A lone rider clad in all black sits atop a black mare that slowly walks further north. The only splotch of color upon the rider is the fur of the dark cloak that travels from one shoulder across to the other side, and of course the hilt of his sword. Jon Snow had stayed with the Wildlings long enough to see where they would settle but he would not linger there long. While his friend Tormund attempted to convince him to stay he knew that he would be better off alone.

He has lost count of how many times the sun has risen then set again, and has moved further into unexplored land that the Wildlings did not dare to travel. It was becoming clearer as time passed that soon he would have to turn back or release the horse as he didn't want the animal to suffer the blistering cold.

As darkness begins to creep across the land he sets about using an iron stake shoved deep into the tundra to tie the horse up before setting up the small tent that he has. The tent is constructed as a bitter wind chills him to the marrow and Ghost howls unhappily from nearby. Jon carries on his work almost entirely out of habit rather than conscious thought. His thoughts are often of countless bloody battles, and losses that have shaped his life.

Every night he relives the worst decision he ever made under duress. Every night he regrets not listening to his heart. Every night he hurts himself to see if he can still feel anything other than unrelenting anguish and remorse.

Jon Snow is a shadow of his former self. A dark wraith that sweeps across the white dunes in search of any sign that the dead may still exist or at least left behind something that can be studied to explain the history and the motives of the Night King all the better. Are there terrors further north that have yet to be seen? Even in his dishonored and wretched state he still seeks to protect others while questioning why he was brought back to life to make the countless costly mistakes that he has.

The wind has picked up but it is an unnatural wind. Ghost begins to growl menacingly with bright red eyes fixed upon the sky. Jon turns his gaze upward just in time to see a massive black shadow cut through the thick cloud cover and soon a familiar massive dragon has touched down nearby. Wings stretch out as a roar pierces the howling wind. Jon watches as Drogon waits and Ghost backs down. Cautiously his boots crunch over ice covered snow as man draws closer to dragon.

What surprises Jon is that he hasn't been turned to ash or devoured on the spot. His fate is truly in the hands of the dragon before him, and he is prepared for whatever may come. As if it couldn't become any more confusing Drogon bows his head and starts to extend an arm off to the side. It's a clear signal to climb on. Nothing is making sense but after releasing the horse he speaks briefly with Ghost offering the dire wolf a firm hug about the neck, and finally meets Drogons gaze. It's intense and guarded. The rage a flame within the iris as he slowly climbs up to the dragons back. Withoout a clue as to what lay ahead he grasps hold of the spines as Drogon starts to race across the snow to build up speed to launch himself into the air.

@i-will-break-the-wheel

#i-will-break-the-wheel

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darkredehmption · 5 years

Text

Convergence

***

Zsadist:

[My nightmares were getting the best of me. It was getting so bad that at one point I was barely getting any sleep. Every time I closed my eyes my demons came out to play. Taunting me and making me feel like I was nothing. I tried my best to not think about it too much, but as of lately I was just in my head. Which didn’t help on nights like tonight when I was on rotation. I needed to stay focused. Then again, getting smacked around a bit might do me good. My attention is drawn to my twin when I feel a nudge to my arm. “You okay?” His golden eyes found my own.]

Yeah. Just was thinking about something. [Or someone. I couldn’t get Malys out of my head. Phury even gave him a number to contact in case his Mahmen wanted to meet the Chosens, and no text or call. Nothing. My brows draw in and I suddenly get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. What if something happened to him and he didn’t make it home safe?

Shaking the thoughts from my head as I watch Butch move over to us with Vishous close behind. Then we all move in unison down the street. Cop gave an uneasy look which told me that the enemy was nearby. “Z…Let Cop lead the way.” Eyeing Vishous as I try to stay focused. I felt like a caged animal. Desperate for a fight or more so to get hit a few times. I was disgusting but I needed this. The hits would make me feel...alive.

Butch moves forward, directing us towards a large group of lessers that luckily had no civilians. It was so much easier to handle a situation without any hostages. I couldn’t help it though. Once I saw them I charged. I heard a brother holler at me but I didn’t look back. The lessers all snapped their heads up at once and came straight for me. The Brothers did manage to catch up but that didn’t stop the one that lunged for me. I felt a hit to my side then a blow to the face that sent shivers down my spine. Yes. This is exactly what I needed. Ignoring the weapons I could use on the fucker, instead I started throwing punches. Remembering when I got to spar with Malys. The thought sidetracks me and I earn a hit to my jaw that causes me to stumble back.

Growling loudly as I ram my body forward, practically knocking the fucker down to the ground. Grabbing ahold of him as I pound my fist into the enemy’s face over and over again. Black blood splattering out, coating his face so it was barely recognizable. I was crazed and nothing could stop me in this moment. There was a ringing in my ears that caused me to block out everything. Completely oblivious to anything that was going on around me. Giving one last punch that cracks the lesser’s head back. In one swift movement I unsheathe my dagger and stabs it right into his sweet spot to send the fucker back to the omega. When the flash of light forms I lift my head.

And that’s when I see another lesser pointing a gun straight at my head. How did I not sense him there? My golden eyes go wide and suddenly I heard everything around me. The sounds of my Brothers grunting and punches being thrown. Even my name being screamed from across the alley. Then there was a sound that was unfamiliar to me. A flapping sound that came with a gust of wind. Was this it? Did I finally come to my end? The last thing I heard was the sound of the trigger being pulled and the gun firing.]

Mal:

The wind howled around me as I looked down over the city, gleaming like a jewel even at this midnight hour. My feathers dragged in the breeze, eager to ride it, but even as my mind argued it was time to leave, something else kept me locked in place.

My backpack hung between my wings, an easy weight as I drew in a deep breath of city air and let it out slowly. Strapped to my thigh was a silver blade, and my belt had a nine mil tucked in the back. The shotgun with rock salt shells I’d been rocking to deal with a poltergeist (thanks, Sam; so /not/ a cursed object…) I’d stowed away in the pack.

Without meaning too, I let my mind reach out. There were times I could control it; sense a house and its occupants, sense a demon on the move, but this time it happened without my giving thought to it. One minute I was on the rooftop, the night sky beckoning, the next I was immersed in the city, in the scream of cab horns and the laughter of drunken revellers moving to their next venue. As I left the brighter streets behind, the seedy underbelly greeted me, and like an arrow with a target my mind zeroed in.

Demons.

My breath caught as I took a step toward the ledge, ready to leap, when the sense refined itself further. Not demons…

Lessers.

The black blooded creatures were moving fast, and with a start I felt not just their darkness, but the light of other things. Other people.

The Brothers.

I leapt off the building, my wings beating hard as I let my mind lead me closer. Surely, they had it under control. Centuries of fighting, they were warriors of another calibre. But then…

“Zsadist…”

I breathed his name into the night as his spark, his light, registered so much brighter. He was there, but he was… distracted. The Lesser he fought was the weaker of the problems. With an unrelenting rage and ferocity he moved to dispatch his foe, even as I drew level from above, the visions of light and dark in my mind merging with what my eyes could see. The auras of the Brothers shone, even as the dark clouds that opposed them tried to take over, smother their light.

I saw the other Lesser so clearly now, saw him raise the weapon as Zsadist came back to reality. Those golden eyes widened.

But I was already falling.

I couldn’t hit the Lesser; not this time. The gun would still discharge. The Brother would still be shot. Those golden eyes forever dimmed. My gut clenched in fear at the idea.

I landed by the Brother and threw my wings wide as I snarled. The gun fired. I felt a brief burst of pain. Then my own gun was up. I fired, and the bullet found its mark. The Lesser dropped as I panted, seething. He’d thought to kill this Brother? Fuck. No. Not on my damn watch.

Turning, I met those golden eyes. Still bright. Still alive and vital. My relief was exquisite, though his shock was moderately entertaining. I managed a rueful grin before inclining my head. Then I was pivoting again, bringing my weapon up to take aim as the remaining Lessers started to scatter.

Zsadist:

[I was ready to accept my fate. Knowing that this would be it for me. Then in one moment it all changed. Someone swooped down, standing in front of me as a shield from the lesser. And that’s when I noticed the wings. The huge black wings that spread out in front of me, blocking me from watching the scene unfold. What. The. Fuck. I couldn’t help but just stand there in total shock. My feet were cemented to the floor, only to loosen when I watched the bullet hit one of the mystery angel’s wings. NO! Why the fuck would this male take a bullet for me? The hell...My thoughts are cut off when his head turns to reveal Malys.

My jaw goes slack, eyes burning bright as they lock onto the male I thought I’d never see again. Fuck. So I wasn’t crazy that night. He did have wings. Which explained so much. No wonder the halfbreed didn’t heal as fast as he should when under our care. Why the fuck didn’t Lassiter tell anyone about this? I could kill the fucking angel. Fucker probably thought it was funny.

With a snort I’m brought back to reality when Malys starts to take on any lesser that comes his way. And I move right in beside him to do much of the same. We moved in perfect unison, almost like a dance. It was like we’ve been fighting alongside each other for years. I was unaware of anything else around me. Hell I didn’t even know what the fuck my Brothers were doing. All I saw was Malys moving with me as we took down the lessers in front of us.

My golden eyes narrow as I watch one come up behind him. The enemy reached for his wings and before he could grab at the feathers I grabbed him. Tugging him back only to sink my fangs into his throat. I couldn’t help the animalistic side of me that came out. No one was going to hurt this male in front of me anymore. Not on my watch.

My head thrashing back and forth as I tear open the lesser’s throat. Black blood splattering on my face, but I didn’t care. Pulling back, I spit out a piece of flesh before I reach around to stab him in the chest. Watching the flash of light before I lift my head to study Malys. My brows draw in as I see the blood dripping from his wing. Scrubbing my hand over my mouth to wipe off the enemy’s blood as I move forward. All I saw was him.]

Mal:

The world faded into the background. I knew there were other Brothers there, fighting, but they were a secondary concern as Zsadist and I moved like a unit, dispatching anything that came close. I sensed the Lesser approaching at my back, reaching for my injured wing, but before I could even contemplate a countermove the male was there, tearing it to pieces as I put a round in the brain base of the Lesser I was holding.

Looking up from the ruins of the skull at my feet, I locked eyes on the two Lessers still lingering at the mouth of the alley. My eyes lit, silvery white power filling me from within. I flared my one good wing wider, the other dragging, as I bared my fangs and snarled. Behind me, a Lesser popped into non-existence with a burst of light. They both turned and ran.

And as much as I wanted to go after them, I instead took a breath and shuddered, letting the power go. I could feel eyes on me, and I didn’t need to turn my head to know it was the Brothers this time. Instead I looked to Zsadist. As if on cue, the tendon injured by the bullet in my wing snapped, the limb dropping to hang down my back and drag along the pavement. I gave it a dismissive glance, folding the working side tighter to my back.

The male was spattered in black ichor, his chest heaving up and down after the exertion. But, thankfully, uninjured. I actually let out a breath at how relieved I was.

“You’ve got a little something here…” I said dryly, tapping the corner of my lip, the male’s face all but covered by the Lesser blood. “And have you lost your fucking mind?”

One of the other Brothers snorted. It might’ve been Phury. But considering the rueful expressions they were all sporting, like they agreed with my assessment, I couldn’t be sure. The golden eyed Brother before me had clearly been rocking that ‘loose canon’ vibe.

Zsadist:

[If my Brothers weren’t around right now I would have hugged the male that just risked his life for me. Speaking of my Brothers, one glance at them and I saw total shock and confusion on their faces. Vishous muttered something as he lit a blunt before going to check on cop, who was dealing with the aftermath of inhaling lessers. Phury steps forward almost mesmerized by the wings as my gaze meets Malys’s once again. When he makes a crack at me I scrub my hand over my mouth to wipe off more of the black blood.]

Shouldn’t I be saying the same to you? Jumping in front of a gun like that….again. [Shaking my head.] And here I thought I had a death wish. Turns out it was you. The fuck you doing? [My brows draw in.] You…[What? Scared me? Sure did. Made me feel something? Yup. I couldn’t handle this. Trying to take in deep breaths, I turn to pace a little. Ignoring anyone around me as I just stay in my head for a moment. Finally my head snaps to my twin.]

So...he’s coming back with us so we can patch that up. [My hand gestures towards the fucking wing. Scribe. How did I not know? Phury raises both brows then just nods slowly as his eyes stay trained on me. I couldn’t look at Malys. If I did I was afraid of what I would do. So instead I move over to Vishous and offered to bring the SUV around. Butch wasn’t looking so hot.

When I turned with the keys in hand, I catch a glimpse at the angel. My jaw clenches and I felt a tightening in my chest. What the fuck was wrong with me? Practically running out of the alley to retrieve the car that was parked a few blocks down. I couldn’t believe what he just did...Where the hell did he come from and how did he know where we were? My head was full of questions as I bring the car over to the Brothers. Getting out to watch V help cop into the passenger’s seat. “So...we are bringing him back...again?” I eyed the diamond eyed Brother and just nodded once. He tosses his blunt onto the asphalt, stomping it out with a boot before getting into the driver’s seat. That was my cue to finally talk to the male again.

Turning around to face him, I eye Phury as he clamps a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. When I step forward towards the angel the Brother moves to talk to Vishous. Basically saying that he was going to dematz back to let Wrath know what was doing. Great. Lifting my gaze to Malys, my lips twitch before I speak.]

You are gonna come back with us and...um...we are going to patch you up. [My brows draw in as I eye the wing. Wondering how long it would take for it to heal.]

Mal:

Phury looked at me with a whole new light; I had to wonder how many /more/ questions he had for my mahmen now that he’d seen me rocking a set of wings. As Zsadist scrubbed at his face, my attention was irrevocably pulled back to him. At the question, I shrugged, holstering my piece, waiting for him to finish. Only he didn’t. His sentence trailed off and I frowned as he turned and stalked away, shoulders tense.

I looked to Phury, but he just shook his head fractionally and moved toward his twin. Biting back my frustration, I looked away, instead watching as the diamond eyed Brother helped my fellow non-dematting halfbreed, Butch. The male looked like he’d been sucking down bottles of ipecac and was ready to upchuck all over the place.

Zsadist’s question forced me to glance over, my mind churning and my gut backflipping as I tried to process ‘why’ I was so bothered by the male avoiding me. I mean, sure, I’d saved his ass, but I’d done that for plenty of people through my life and never once wanted to grab them and shake them afterward. Maybe it was the disappointment. The Brother clearly had made his decision when he hadn’t bothered to see me off. N’ now here I was, rocking his situation again and forcing him to acknowledge me.

Frowning at the pavement, I glanced back at the wing. With a bit of sunlight I was looking at a day, maybe two, of recovery. There was zero chance of me using it to take off right now, much as I might like to. As the vampires hustled around me to get their shit in gear, loading Butch into the SUV, I looked up as Zsadist approached, locking down my facial expressions to a calm ‘whatever’.

Inclining my head politely at his words, I moved toward the car, my wing trailing in the dirt and debris of the alley.

“I’ll need to be in the trunk,” I said coolly, the irony not lost on me. “Again. My wings won’t fit in the seats or sitting.”

I popped the back as I reached the SUV, not acknowledging Zsadist as I paused and concentrated. So far, I’d been ignoring the aching stab of pain from the wound, too distracted by the golden eyed male, but the muscles around it clenched and spasmed. Now, as I tried to fold the wing up, to fit it into the car, I couldn’t help a small grunt and gasp of pain. The agony shot from my wing to my spine. I curled my fingers around the tailgate then forced myself to climb in, turning sideways. My good wing hit the roof and fanned out at the back, while the bad one lay limply down my back and onto the carpet, staining it red.

Crouched in the back like an animal, bleeding all over their shit not for the first time but the second, I felt a faint flush of embarrassment. How was this my life? What the fuck was I doing?

“Let’s do this,” I muttered, avoiding looking at Zsadist in favour of turning my gaze toward Vishous. The Brother seemed to regard everything with an almost clinical stare, and I could do with a little distance right now as opposed to the emotions ripping me up whenever I looked at Zsadist.

Zsadist:

[There was a lot of emotions coming off of the angel. He seemed angry with me and why shouldn’t he be? Though I was still so puzzled why he came to my rescue. Why did he put himself through that...for me? Lifting my head to watch his sad walk to the back of the SUV. I took a step forward as if I was going to join him, only to pause when the trunk closes. I wanted to scream. Gritting my teeth as I hear the demons in the back of my head, taunting me. Scrubbing both hands over my skull trim head before I move into the Escalade.

Once inside I eye Vishous in the rear view mirror. I couldn’t help but notice the Brother giving me a look. Then he cracks a small grin. Blinking as I rip my gaze away from him, feeling the car pull out and drive off. The ride was silent until I heard a few groans from Butch. V immediately eyes him, reaching a hand out to grip his arm. He murmurs low to the male. Telling him basically that he will heal him once they are back at the pit. Even though my eyes were trained forward, I could feel the angel’s stare burning into the back of my skull. His fresh blood was all I could smell. And I wanted to so badly to comfort him in the same way my Brothers just did for each other, but I couldn’t.

What was doing with me? Why was I so fucked up? “Z…” My head snaps back quickly to look at Malys behind me. Though he wasn’t the one who called my name. I couldn’t help but steal a glance at him before I turn my attention towards my twin who was sitting beside me. Those golden eyes looked at me sadly. My brows draw in and I murmur barely.]

I’m fine. [Hoping that Malys didn’t hear me. Phury nods slowly then gazes out of the window. I let in a deep breath, listening to the sound of the angel’s heart beating in the quiet car ride. It fluttered strong which was a good sign. Not that I thought he was going to bleed out in the back of the van. When we arrive, I watch Vishous practically run out to get Butch out and help him into the pit. Leaving just my twin, Malys, and I in the car. Phury lingers but I break the silence.]

Brother I got this. I’ll take him to the PT Suite. Though he probably just needs some sun which can happen in a few hours. [My eyes trained on the seat in front of me as I spoke.] You can let Wrath know we have a visitor. I’m sure he will be thrilled. [My twin was a little hesitant to leave, but eventually he does leaving just myself and the angel in the car. The silence drags on before I move to get out. When I pop open the trunk, my eyes meet his. I get that tightness in my chest again as I eye his injured wing. Slowly I stretch out my arm. Holding my hand out for him to take, if he would. I couldn’t help but eye the slave band that peeked out of my sleeve.]

Mal:

In much closer proximity, I changed my mind about Butch; the Brother didn’t look like he was going to be sick, he looked like he had the mutant baby virus of ebola and swine flu. If I didn’t know better about vampires getting sick, I’d have lifted my shirt over my nose. Then probably have Vishous break my jaw. Ahh well. Couldn’t be worse than the pain in my wing. Or my chest…

The Brothers didn’t bother with the blindfold schtick this time. Whether it was my saving Zsadist’s life, saving Chosen lives, or the wings, I couldn’t tell you, but they drove on up the highway back to the mansion and I half heartedly paid attention, too distracted by looking at Zsadist, not looking at Zsadist, and trying not to move my wing with the motion of the car. Whatever talk that happened was minimal, Vishous checking on Butch, and Phury having a hushed conversation with his brother up front.

By the time we arrived, I’d started to count the threads in the car seats, but watching Vishous collect Butch from the Escalade and half carry him off down the hall distracted me from my own desire to escape the vehicle. When Zsadist spoke again, I almost jumped.

Eyes flicking between the pair, I take in the back and forth without bothering to get out. One, because I was weary of moving my wing and letting it drag unnecessarily, and two… I was curious. About their dynamic. About this place. About the male that had to take a breath and hold a minute before finally coming to the back of the car and popping the door. I looked at the hand he held out to me, surprised that he was offering it after seeming to avoid me since I dropped from above.

When I reached out to take it, a spark shot up my arm. But I didn’t let go.

Using his grip to slip out of the SUV, I grimaced as my wing dropped, the muscles shrieking at being stretched and pulled with a bullet somewhere inside.

“Could you…” I took a breath and did a metaphorical grab of my sack and hardened up. “…carry my wing, please? I can’t lift it. The muscles are torn,” I admitted gruffly, trying to look anywhere but those golden eyes. “And I kind of can’t reach it myself…”

Though I definitely felt a little bad about getting blood all over the male, again, it kind of worked with the still black smeared face he was rocking, so… win?

“I’m curious though how your med staff are going to handle me. This. When was the last time they pretended to be vets?” I muttered, biting my lip as the male’s hands, so used to slaughtering Lessers, lifted and cradled my damaged wing with such care.

Zsadist:

[When his hand reached for my own, I couldn’t help but feel that spark again. But this time he doesn’t pull away. Why doesn’t he? He found me disgusting, yes? So he should be pulling away from me. My eyes lock onto his own, brows drawing in when the angel asked me to hold his wing up. The one he used to protect me from a bullet. My hands move slowly, grabbing the injured wing with the softest touch I could manage. I couldn’t help but let my fingers move through the feathers. It felt so nice. Closing my eyes for a brief moment before I focus on walking down the tunnels.]

Will sunlight heal you? [Eying the wound that was dripping with blood.] If not I..I can try to patch it up. I mean...how serious is it? [Why was I such a mess always in front of this male? I couldn’t help this awkwardness around him. Ever since the first time we met, I felt something that I never have before and I wasn’t quite sure just what that was.

Once at the door of the PT suite, I will it open before moving inside the room with him. The staff was nowhere to be found, but I could get them in an instant if needed. Here we were again. Only this time he was awake and had a giant pair of wings. My lips twitch at the thought before I moved to grab some supplies from the cabinet. Needing to keep busy so I wouldn’t stare at him.]

Tell me. Why did you come to the alley? And how? How did you know I was there with my Brothers? It’s like you knew I was about to get…[Trailing off as I close the drawer in front of me. Clutching the gauze in my hand as I try to focus on the task at hand. But I couldn’t. I was an absolute mess and I didn’t want him to see it. Lifting my head slowly, taking in a deep breath.]

Why didn’t you tell me what you were? [Closing my eyes, but all I could see was those wings. Shit. And there was that tightness in my chest. Turning slowly to face the angel. Searching his eyes before I moved towards him. My hand reaches out, gently landing on his injured wing.]

Mal:

Reaching the med wing, I take a seat on the gurney, letting the male potter around to gather whatever he wanted. Hopefully a shot of morphine was part of the supplies. I wasn’t bothered by the lack of staff; if the male wanted to play nurse that was kind of alright with me. Besides, it was keeping his hands busy and his eyes occupied. All the better to watch him as I ignored the pulsing throb of my wing.

“It’ll heal in sunlight once the bullet is out,” I admit. “Though I probably shouldn’t fly on it for a day or so. The tendons need time to strengthen.” Clever of the male to already deduce that sunlight was the key to my restoration. I mean, their resident angel must’ve offered some insight, and my sneaking around the last time I was here probably helped some.

At his questions I can’t help but sigh. In for a penny, in for a pound I suppose. I’d made the call to reveal my nature when I’d used my wing as a flesh and blood shield for this male. Could I really stop now?

“I can sense demons,” I admit gruffly, looking down. “I ended up staying in town for a job and I was getting ready to leave tonight. When I sensed the Lessers… I also sensed you. I was flying to you before I even knew what I was doing…” I trailed off, shrugging, the action causing another wince as my wing objected and the other rustled against the gurney. “Can you honestly blame me for not wanting to say anything? There’s nothing else like me,” I point out dryly. “My mahmen feared her whole life that I’d be shunned. Rejected. Hunted.”

Sighing, I shook my head and looked down. “But I couldn’t… not… save you. I don’t know what it was but the thought of those golden eyes never taking in the world again…” Taking in me… “...well, I did what I did.”

Zsadist:

[My golden eyes grow wide as I hear the male’s words. I couldn’t hold back the growl that formed in my chest.] You will not be rejected or hunted. Not on my watch. [Gritting my teeth as I set the supplies down. How could this male think he was some sort of freak? I mean...has he met me? Snorting at the thought as I reach for his wing again, inspecting the wound before I meet his gaze.]

Do you want me to numb it with a shot? Or you okay for me to just pull it out? [My fingers twitched against his feathers. I couldn’t help but think about all that he said. Maybe I got him wrong before. Then why did he pull back in the gym? Dropping my head, keeping my eyes trained on his wound.]

You drive me crazy. You know that? [I admit as my hands moved to grab an alcohol pad, carefully running it over the bullet hole.] One moment I think you find me repulsive and the next you are saying shit like that. [Tossing the bloody gauze away as I try not to lose it in front of him. I couldn’t give him more reasons to see how much a freak I was. Gripping the sides of the gurney.]

Thank you for doing what you did. I owe you a lot. [My life apparently. Lifting my gaze to the male. There was that spark again, except it was all over. Along with the tightness in my chest.] Seems like fate brought you back again...if you were smart you would stay and consider the program. Just saying. [Why did I want him to stay so much? I mean...he was a great fighter. Clearly doing way better than me.]

Mal:

“If you have a shot, I’ll take it,” I shrug. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had wings, but they can be very sensitive in some places,” I add dryly, shaking my head and looking at the floor.

At his words though, the confession that I drive him crazy, my head snapped up. My eyes were wide in shock, and I couldn’t seem to find the muscles to get my facial features under control as I stared at him. For the first time since being shot, I was oblivious to the bullet wound, even after he’d cleaned the area with alcohol.

“Repulsed?” I echoed, my tone containing every bit of disbelief I possessed. “Why would I… because of the gym?” I asked, barely constructing sentences that would pass a fifth grade English lesson. But I was lost for words. Of all the things I’d felt around this male, being repulsed or disgusted never even came close to the list.

Waving off the training program crap (cause, yeah, one thing at a time) I shifted forward on the gurney. “I pulled away from you at the gym because you shatter my defences,” I said quietly, trying to get that golden gaze to lock with my own, so he could see the truth in my eyes. “I’ve worked my whole life to hide what I am, who I am, and two minutes of rolling around on a mat with you and my divinity was nearly /there/,” I declared, clenching my jaw as I took a deep breath. “My wings… my eyes… I nearly lost control with you. /That/ is what you do to me, Zsadist,” I managed, leaning back slightly. “You take a lifetime’s worth of my hard earned self control and destroy it just by /looking/ at me.”

I wanted to scowl. I wanted to be mad. And a part of me was, but only with myself. That my defences had been so easily tested. That I held interest in a male that kept the world, it seemed, at arm’s length. Maybe that was all it was; like his King, he wanted me to be a trainee. A soldier. That was all.

…right?

“Was that why you didn’t see me when I left?” I whispered, watching him, trying to see the reaction in his eyes, the shift of those powerful shoulders. “You thought I was repulsed by you, so you stayed away? Is that the kind of male you think I am?” I pushed, latching onto his wrist and using the grip to pull him close. I turned his wrist in my hand, until his slave band had to be showing, but I never even looked down at it. “Do you think I’m bothered by those? That I would think less of you? Truly?”

And I realized it hurt. My chest ached that this male, this warrior, would think I’d spurned him because of his bands and his scar; that my withdrawal had been, to him, a condemnation and rejection.

Zsadist:

[I tried to look anywhere but his eyes. Though I failed at that. As I stared into them, I was lost for words. What could I say to him? Yeah. I thought he found me disgusting. And I don't mean that in a bad way. Just all my life I got accustomed to how people acted around me. I understood why they did. I had so much self hate for myself that I just accepted it all. Knowing that it was true. But he wasn’t looking at me like that. He just was someone like me where feelings and opening up didn’t come naturally.

Stiffening slightly as his hand clasped my arm. Tugging me forward, exposing the slave band on my wrist. Though he didn’t look at it. Just spoke on how it didn’t affect him and what he saw in me. None of it did.]

I…[My throat closes up and I struggle to form words. Shit. Why was I so bad at this?] Yes, I didn’t come see you cause I didn’t think you’d want to see me again. But that wasn’t the case...was it? [My wrist felt like it was on fire from his touch, though I didn’t want him to let go. Leaning in slightly as my voice dropped to a whisper.] If you only knew what you do to me. If only…

[Closing my eyes tightly. I couldn’t look at him anymore. It made my chest ache. The shot. Yes. He said he wanted one. Pulling away as I take in a breath, turning to retrieve the needle. I found it easily, but pretend to search around for a bit so I could get my shit together. This was all new to me. Is this how my Brother’s felt with their mates…? No...can’t be. I kept my eyes on the task at hand when I returned to the male. Carefully grabbing at his wing before I give him the shot. I needed to get this bullet out of him. As I set down the needle, I can’t help but open up.]

All my life...I’ve lived in darkness. Sure there was a time where I was even worse if you can imagine. I tried so hard to isolate myself from everything. Then my Brothers got me out of that...and it lasted for awhile. [My hands moved, reaching for the forceps. Leaning in as I grab at the bullet. My free hand dropping to his thigh as I pulled it free. Wanting him to know I was here if he needed me. The bullet came out easily and there wasn’t a lot of blood that followed. Which was a good sign. I rubbed at his thigh for a moment before I lifted my hand off to patch him up. Speaking once again.]

But then after awhile I felt the darkness return. They all found their happy with their mates. And they deserve it. Though I never felt like I did. Which is okay. I always told myself it wasn’t in my cards. That I’m…too much for anyone to handle. To want to be around me like that. [To love me...I finished in my head. There was no way I could say that out loud. Slowly I pulled away. The tightness in my chest returned and so did the demons.] You are all set…[My voice weak as I spoke.]

Mal:

I shook my head faintly at his question - that it wasn’t the case. I had wanted to see him again. And leaving without doing so… had held me bound to this city without even needing the poltergeist job. I wanted to know what I did to him. I /wanted/ it more than I’d wanted anything in a long time.

The needle in my wing, the removal of the bullet; I hardly felt either as I watched him, aware only of the stroke of his hand on my thigh, the way it sent heat running through me, soothed the wound better than any morphine.

Listening to his story, I felt the misery that he’d thought so poorly of me fade away. How could he not, when his own race had used him as a slave and treated him as something ‘less than’? He’d pulled himself out of it, with his Brothers and the families they had here, but to hear him say that he thought a mate, a lover, wasn’t a reality when he was too deeply scarred?

The spark that had leapt between us so often ignited. I had no idea if he’d be receptive, if he’d even appreciate it, but fuck it, the male had to know…

I seized his hand as he pulled away, drawing him back. Lifting both my hands to gently cup his cheeks, I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to his. He tasted like apples and steel; sweetness with strength. I felt him tense between my legs, in the cradle of my hands, and I reluctantly moved to pull back, my eyes opening.

“What do I do to you?” I breathed. I couldn’t let him go, our faces an inch apart as I searched his eyes. They weren’t the words I’d intended to say - something more along the lines of ‘you are worthy of love, and will be loved’ - but now that I’d spoken my question it was all I wanted to know. Did I make his heart race? Did I make him want more?

Did I make him wish and ache for me to stay? Because he did that to me. He was making me long to stay. To hold him like this again. Kiss him again. Prove that he wasn’t too much…

Zsadist:

[The angel pulled me in and I froze up. What came next I didn’t expect. He moved forward and planted his lips onto my own. There wasn’t a sense of disgust from him. The total opposite actually. He seemed to be enjoying it very much. As for me...it drove me crazy. Though I didn’t know quite how to react. What if I did something to turn him off? I mean hell...this was all new to me.

My hands fall to rest on the gurney, fingers curling around the edge of it. Holding on tightly as I take in the taste of the male. Even when his lips lifted off my own he didn’t pull back. He stayed nice and close to me. Then came the question. He wanted to know it all. I struggled at first. Taking a moment to think before I spoke. Suddenly realizing that my demons went quiet. Everything was quiet. I liked it.]

You...make everything feel good. And I’ve never felt that before. Ever. Hell I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling until I laid eyes on you. My heart? [Grabbing at his hand, placing it right on my chest so he could feel it beat for him.] It doesn’t just race...it wants to break free from my chest. Which by the way my chest tightens...like I long for you when you aren’t near. [Dropping my hand from his as I let out a snort.] When you left? I lost it...I lost control and been having nightmares every single night. [Did I even want to mention one of those times I called for him only to find Phury at my side. Shaking my head as I roll my shoulders.] I’ve only just met you and I can’t get you out of my head. That’s what you do to me. And fuck what I wouldn’t do to feel that spark every single day with you.

[Closing my eyes as my hands reach up to scrub roughly over my skull trim head. Why the fuck did I say all of that? Fuck! I couldn’t help it. It all just spilled out of and there was no turning back from it. As I take in a deep breath I couldn’t help but take in the scent of him and it was heavenly. No pun intended. Dropping my hands to the gurney once again. They shake as I try to grab onto something. He made me absolutely crazy. So much that I was afraid of what I might do if he were to leave again. No. He can’t go. I don’t think I could survive without him. Blinking at the thought, my head shifts barely to catch a glance at him. Almost like I was afraid of what he might do. What if he didn’t feel the same way about me?]

Mal:

I drank in his confession, a music to my ears that I’d never known I needed to hear. I’d had lovers before, hunters and humans alike, but they’d never made me feel like this. Like they were the sun and I was drifting into a new orbit. And I’d kissed the male /once/! I barely knew him. But I wanted to know him. All of him. And I only knew two words that would convey to him how badly I wanted it. More than I wanted to get back to the hunt.

“I’ll stay.”

The words left me on a whisper, but it was like a weight lifted off my chest as I said them. Relief washed through me as I watched him absorb them too, and then I was grinning, using the hand he’d placed against his chest to fist in his shirt and pull him closer again. Back to me. Back to my lips as I kissed him again, harder. Like I could pass on the giddy, elated vibes rocking my shit right now.

“Ow, fuck…”

I broke the kiss with the curse, my wings having lifted in the excitement and pulled at the fresh wound. Scowling, I shot the limb a mutinous glance then flicked my eyes back to Zsadist. He looked almost dazed, but his golden eyes were alive. So very alive. I found myself staring at them as I licked my lips.

“The sun will be up soon… I need to get outside,” I murmured regretfully, shifting to try and slide from the gurney. “I don’t suppose there are slings here? You can’t carry it outside for me. Then I guess… I’ll need to find a few gurneys down here to make a bed?” I muse ruefully, not presumptuous enough to invite myself into the manse. But I’d never tried to retract my wings with them injured. I honestly wasn’t sure I could.

Zsadist:

[I couldn’t help but let out a growl as the male tugged me in for a kiss that was way more passionate than the last. Totally getting lost in it, only to pull back when I hear him wince in pain. My brows draw in and I eye his wing. I hated the fact that he had to go outside. Yeah he was safe at the mansion, but what if something happens? I wouldn’t be able to come to his rescue. Grumbling at the thought as my head tilts to the side]

Be careful. [Looking around the PT suite before I let my eyes rest on the male’s again.] You can...sleep upstairs...in the mansion. [Hell Wrath might not like that, but how could I tell this male to sleep down here tonight. After he just not only saved my life but kissed me. Twice! My eyes focused on him as he slid off of the gurney. Hands outstretched incase I had to catch him. I hated that he was hurting and all because of me. Though I knew that he would be okay once he got some sun. Shifting out into the hallway with him, my eyes on his wings. I couldn’t get over them. They were breathtaking.]

I’ll talk to fritz about having him set up one of the guest rooms. You are...my guest. [My lips twitch at that before my eyes lifted to search his own.] Why don’t you follow me up and go out through the front door that way he can greet you when you come back inside, true? Speaking of...do you need me to carry your wing again?

[Was it an excuse to touch him again? Maybe. Did I really need an excuse? Not really. Snorting at the thought before I move to do it anyway. My fingers move through the feathers as I incline my head.] Head straight down that hallway. I got you.

[Hell I did have him. I couldn’t help but hear his words in my head over and over again. He was going to stay, but what did that mean? Stay and fight with us? Stay and...kiss me some more? My chest rumbles at the thought of that.]

Mal:

I was glad for the support as the male moved in, regardless of the question, and lifted my injured wing. A little sunlight and I’d at least, hopefully, be able to move the wing myself. If the tendons and muscles could just… knit themselves back together a touch, I could raise it to my back once more.

“A guest of the Brother Zsadist,” I murmured as we moved toward the door as one, smothering a wry grin. “I feel so important.”

I flashed him a teasing smile, the hall, a locked door and another tunnel passing in a blur until we were back in the mansion part of the grounds once more. The impressive entryway gleamed around us, but I had eyes only for the Brother as he helped me to the front door. Then the doggen appeared. He looked particularly aggrieved at my injured state, and if my wings surprised him, I couldn’t tell. Unflappable was most definitely the word to describe him.

“Masters, may I be of aid? The shutters have come down, I would hate for the my Lords to be caught out in the sun.”

Shooting Zsadist a bemused look, I shook my head.

“Thanks, my man, but I need the sunlight to heal. If you could let me back in though when I’m done, that’d be sweet,” I add, flashing him a big smile.

Doggen amused me. Don’t ask me why. They were a surreal thing, since I’d never known even one before this place and its warriors and halls of marble statues.

Zsadist:

[When we arrived upstairs the Doggen was already there to greet us. I swear Fritz always knew just about everything that was going on in the mansion. Slowly my hands dropped from the angel’s wing. Wishing I could help him outside without getting burnt to a crisp. Though my eyes never left him until the vestibule door was closed. Letting out a sigh as I turn my attention back towards the Doggen.]

He is my guest and will be heading upstairs after for some much needed rest. Please...make sure he is okay out there. If you need me, let me know. [Fritz smiled wide before bowing his head. “Of course, Sire. I’ll make sure he finds his way back inside.” With that said he heads off. But I couldn’t help myself from looking back at the closed door.

After a few moments I find myself heading up the grand staircase. I couldn’t get the angel out of my head. What if he needed me once he got back inside…? Scrubbing a hand over my skull trim as I make my way to my bedroom. Hell is this what it felt like to...care for another? I was fucked. That was for sure.

Once inside I’m greeted by the black cat that took up residence in my room. His body moved between my legs as I quickly made my way to the bathroom. I needed to just shower and wash the night off me then catch a few z’s. Hopefully with the male here in the mansion, I wouldn’t have any nightmares tonight.]

#SLS

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bounnostra · 5 years

Text

EXECUTION 2 | HEIR.

Dead Silent.

That's what the world felt like to PIP the moment after he was unable to suppress his illness any longer. He's not sure whether it was the constriction of his lungs, the intensity of his rapid, unnatural heartbeat, or the intense ringing in his ears, but he completely failed to notice the superhero signals turning off, slowly, one by one.

He could tell there was someone trying to help him, but he was too busy wondering about his own health to actually get a good glimpse at them. The world had completely blurred and everything spun, like a carousel in the middle of a deserted amusement park. That's why he didn't notice the rustling, metallic sound of chains wrapping themselves around his arms, legs, chest and neck, abruptly cutting off his coughing and slightly suffocating him.

His eyes snap open, too shocked to react—glancing to the origin of the chains out of the corner of his eyes, he realizes their origin is the deep darkness further below. His eyes, for a split second, fleet back towards the group gathered around, still sitting on the director chairs they had been assigned, before PIP's chair suddenly cracks, the sound of wood creaking as it struggles to hold together before it snaps all at once, and before anyone can react, the Cryptozoologist free-falls down towards the darkness.

His image shrinking more and more every second until he's consumed by the darkness below, but even so the sound of the chains retracting somewhere hangs in the air. Just like with TIME before, a beam of light beams up from the table's center, and like before, it adjusts for a few moments before displaying a sinister scenery.

Before you is the sight of an eerie, uncanny and ghostly forest—skies painted a deep blue illuminated by a full red moon and mist covering most of the black-wood trees that provide shadow to the already stygian woods. The sound of a scream is heard for a few seconds before, appearing out of nowhere, the falling figure of PIP appears, the blood-curdling scream he's letting out quickly being replaced by a sharp gasp as he impacts against the dark brown floor, his back arching as he struggles to even take a proper breath in—those breathing problems really are starting to get to him, and it shows.

The moment he lands, several eyes can be seen opening from the shadows, all of different shapes and colors; some yellow, some green, some red, and their gaze is fixed on PIP, not keeping him, for even a second, out of their sight, before suddenly all of the eyes turn to... Look at you? You, the observer? You don't understand what's going on, that is until you feel a sudden gust, no, a current of wind as strong as a canon enveloping the seats you're all sitting at, and the table itself! It feels cold, it feels like your skin would lacerate at any moment!

Then, the vortex fades away and a single signal illuminates the sky once more, but it isn't the sign of any hero you know about. It's the signal of an owl—Gambit, you quickly figure out, and then you see it. A... Bird? A plane? You don't know what it is, but it is a gargantuan winged beast you've never seen before, and just as fast as you saw it in the distance of the sky, it fades away...—wait, is there someone missing from their seat? Whatever.

Then you hear its roar, and your eyes focus back on the beam of light.

PIP stands, still coughing before his eyes transfix on the sky... It doesn't take you long to figure out just what he's seeing. A panicked expression on his face as the other eyes lurking deep in the shadows focus on him, he picks himself up and, even as he continues to cough more blood out, with sloppy steps, he runs and runs as fast as he can, but the flapping of those large, skeletal wings grows closer and closer every time, and even with the dim illumination in the forest, you can tell a shadow is growing larger and larger on the ground, hovering right over him and assimilating his shadow with its own. A drum-piercing, disturbing roar is suddenly heard, bellowing from the great darkness below you, and you quickly figure out exactly what it is... The creature announcing its found its prey.

Severely weakened by his condition, regardless of whether you find yourself rooting for him or wishing his demise, you watch as PIP trips over his own steps, turning around just in time to see the creature opening its large maw and advancing on him! He stands, but he can't do much more than just turn around and stare, transfixed with horror as he awaits for his demise…

...and yet the maw of the devil is obstructed, rouge blood splattering out in a macabre cloud.

It is not PIP’s.

You may or may not seen IVEY’s descent, especially if you were not near her. You may have been too transfixed on the large cryptid’s circling flight, or PIP’s terrified screams. But if you had, you would have seen the woman as little more than a flash of pink and green. As if completely forgetting her mortal wound (or perhaps purposefully defying it), she jumped to her feet, racing across the table. There was no hesitation in her leap into the darkness of the forest below.

(25 feet… no more. Perhaps less. It was not a fatal fall, and yet she could feel the life leave her a bit as she landed, her unseen wounds being torn asunder once more.)

She coughed, wheezing heavily before pressing forward. Her battered body had only made it between the two with mere seconds to spare. If she were healthy, and with a sword comfortable to her, she might have been able to unsheath it in time… but now?

Well, an arm for a life seemed like a fair trade.

She doesn’t even yell. She doesn’t make a noise besides a sickening grunt that only PIP can hear. Her brow knitted and she nearly bit her tongue with the tensing of her jaw, body recoiling as skin and muscle were ripped apart. Her bones shattered. The creature’s bite was unrelenting, and soon IVEY would falter.

“PIP MOVE!!”

And move he did… but not in the manner she was expecting.

There was no time to panic, and especially no time to waste the sacrifice IVEY had gone through to allow his faulty lungs to draw breath still! Though it was only a moment’s repose, the thought of death brought to the pseudoscientist a wave of comfort he had only ever felt once before, when the pathogen leeching him off his life was first discovered. But he wouldn’t let a life go forfeit—not as long as he himself could protect it with his own life!

The instincts of a hunter quickly resurface, and as the adrenaline spreads throughout his body, reenergizing the once helpless Cryptozoologist, swiftly, he takes hold of the blade resting on the swordswoman’s body. A sword which had been at one point dull and devoid of sharpness, and then destroyed by the force of a berserking titan, now served as their beacon of hope.

With a warcry loud enough to scare the prying eyes of the other bizarre creatures lurking in the darkness that overexert his lungs and his vocal cords, screaming and bleeding from the mouth his lungs out, PIP moved his body to the side of the creature, jamming the now-jagged edge of the blade against the creature’s neck; a soft spot waiting to be exploited.

The creature wailed, immediately letting go of IVEY’s body to instead rear up, tearing the sword from PIP’s hands. Severely injured, but not yet dying, it flapped its wings, retreating back to the skies from whence it came.

IVEY and PIP survive, and as the fog thickens around them, the last thing you can see is PIP, shaking and still bloodied, approaching the woman dressed in scarlet who gave an important part of herself for him. The last thing you hear is him yelling.

“IVEY… No… I’m… I’m so sorry… Y-Your arm..!”

Before the thick fog clouds your vision, and the beam of light disappears...

[thank you azura for the art!]

#execution #pip #execution2

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anonthenullifier · 6 years

Text

Achromatic - Chapter 4

Overall summary: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, sometimes this means you save the day, and other times it means your lover comes out of a fight a different person. After a battle leaves Vision as someone that is not-quite-Vision, Wanda and the team try to figure out what went wrong and how to get him back.Inspired by the White Vision storyline of the comics.

Chapter Title and Summary: Infinite Nightmares -- After an act of desperation, Dr. Strange attempts to reason with Wanda.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13917372/chapters/33343659

Ch. 1-3 available at the link

For @theskyismadeofpenguins and @deathofink

Hope you enjoy!

Wanda sits on the lab table, eyes closed, legs crossed, and her hands resting on her knees, palms up and fingers steepled together. Scarlet billows around her, a nebulae of raw power that contains thin tendrils weaving in intricate patterns around a hexagonal, pinkish object. It is the only fragment they could recover from Q*bert, the last potential link she has to Vision, and Wanda will be damned if she doesn’t find some way to reach through it. Experimentally she prods at the shard, channelling sparks of power into it with each tentative touch, attempting to elicit some sort of response. Nothing transmits, however, not even a faint pulse of residual life, only silence and an eerie, discomfiting absence of fury and light.

She squeezes her eyes tighter, fighting back the tears that have been continually at the edge of her vision since her confrontation with the imposter. A steadying inhale and a mostly even exhale recenter her, her mind shifting to an awareness of her own body, tracking the rhythm of her pulse, the feel of the frigid metal biting into the exposed skin between the hem of her dress and the top of her stockings , and the gentle tapping against her sternum of the vibranium wedding ring that now hangs around her neck. It’s a technique Strange encouraged as a way to ground her to reality whilst her mind reaches beyond the scope of human awareness. Another breath and she pushes her powers deeper into the shard, seeking any remnant of existence, even a single atom that is marginally active. It’s all she needs, she thinks.

When there is still nothing, Wanda tips her head back in defeat, extinguishing the scarlet cloud with a tightening of her fingers and a slow, defeated exhale. “This isn’t working.” Nothing is working, actually. No one has found a solution yet, as far as she is aware, though Wanda hasn’t been particularly social to know exactly what the team is doing to find Vision. She knows she should seek their support, lean on their combined strength but the limited contact she has allowed is exhausting, the guilt in their eyes and the baseless reassurances that everything will turn out okay stoking a gradually building rage deep in her chest. Which is why she’s in Helen’s lab, unable to stand being in her own quarters surrounded by the memories and the smells of Vision, and also unwilling to go elsewhere, the absence of his presence haunting her every move.

Even though Vision spent much of his time helping Helen in the laboratory wing, Wanda, much like the rest of the non-science based members of the team, avoided it, overwhelmed by the equipment and the jargon. What this means is that she has almost no memories of Vision here, no chance of losing her veneer of control like she did while trying to cut an onion earlier in the day (Vision, for years, has served as her sous chef for such actions since his synthetic eyes seem insusceptible to the noxious task ). It also helps that Helen, much like Vision (Wanda’s Vision, the real Vision, not whatever is residing in his place) disregards the normative apologies and reassurances, including leaving Wanda alone when she wants to be.

The only issue with frequent solitude is the tendency to ruminate, Wanda’s mind sliding easily into reliving each moment of that day, considering how she should have stopped the destruction of the cube, should have held tighter to the Mindstone or even thrown Nefaria out of the way. Perhaps she could have fought harder to keep Vision at the compound instead of holding onto the foolish hope of a successful mission and a quick transfer of Vision’s consciousness from the cube. Sometimes she even pushes her blame to the initial event, chastising herself for not helping Vision with Nefaria or for even agreeing with the team that Vision should engage the cube. Hindsight, as always, is merciless and unforgiving. Now she is left with nothing but a lifeless shard, a husband that is not actually her husband, and no prospects beyond going back in time to stop either event, a proposition Strange has already vehemently turned down.

A shiver of despair rolls along her spine, carrying her muscles along with it into a subdued shudder and an uncontainable sob at the memory of the last time she was faced with such bleak options - standing on a half-destroyed battlefield, powers sparking haphazardly from her hands as she stared at the mad titan in front of her. There were no pathways that didn’t include destroying herself, the ground she stood on, her teammates, or the universe and for the first time in her life she didn’t feel the weight of responsibilities or guilt, only the freedom of accepting oblivion. That feeling builds at the memory, prickling at her fingertips as she stares at the lifeless shard on the table. Perhaps there is one more option.

Slowly Wanda lifts her wrists, arms separating as she pulls her hands farther apart. She closes her eyes, releases all thoughts unrelated to the task at hand and reverts her mind back to the battle, allowing her desperation and love to drive her. With a soothing dance-like movement, she pushes rods of scarlet into the ebony sea of spacetime in an attempt to parse out the invisible boundary of reality. Eventually she meets resistance, a devilish smirk drawing her lips up as her fingers mimic the prodding of her powers. It feels different this time, not as dense and fortified, almost like touching the skin of an onion, matter crinkling and crackling as she pokes at the seams. She’s uncertain what she’s looking for, still a novice at this task despite her pleading with Strange to show her how to harness this immense power.

Wanda pushes her palms gingerly into the air, an invisible crocodilian texture tickling her skin as she moves her way along the boundary of the universe, and then she stops, a pressure forming against her hands as if something is pushing back. A deep breath in collects her powers into a concentrated mass, an apple-sized orb rotating three feet in front of her, and then she swings her arms, bringing her hands back together, thumbs hooking to steady her trembling wrists as she sends the orb into the fabric of reality. An infinitesimal crack forms, a golden glow pouring into the darkness from the tear, and it is familiar and comforting like nimble fingers dancing through her hair on a sunny day.

“Wanda!”

Wanda startles, lungs spasming as her eyes snap open. Hanging in front of her is a partially reconstructed cube, one that begins deteriorating the longer she looks at it. Frantically she closes her eyes, shoving her powers in furious whips at the disappearing object but nothing remains, the space between her and reality rapidly forming a chasm she has no way of crossing.

A second, “Wanda,” causes her to flinch, this one not as desperate or pleading, fueled by anger and harmonized by the distinctive whistle of a whirling portal.

Her attention moves towards the new body in the room, Dr. Strange’s clothing always making him seem so out of place in high tech settings, regardless of the fact she knows he has a deep understanding of everything that happens in this room. Hesitantly she slides from the table, silently whispering to her lungs and heart to please slow down, regain some control so she can respond without inducing suspicion as to her activities. “Stephen, I wasn’t expecting you.”

The transparency of her cover is apparent in the quirked eyebrow and haughty sigh that he purposefully draws out for added emphasis. “I have been very clear in establishing rules for interacting with reality.”

“I was only looking,” the words are clearly a lie, her own voice unconvincing and the disappointed shake of his head confirming her failure at being nonchalant. So she switches her strategy to the truth. “I heard him,” Wanda sucks in a trembling breath at verbally admitting it, at solidifying the knowledge of hearing the unique and lovely way Vision’s accent rounds the syllables of her name, “I felt him.” The ghostly pressure forms on her palms at the memory.

Stephen’s face is blank, the gray flecking his hair adding to the air of unimpressed authority he carries around pretty much anyone, one that sometimes gives way to irreverent humor, but the sternness in the set of his mouth means that is unlikely to happen right now. “You can’t do this.”

The words Wanda had been preparing to use, ones explaining exactly how she is sure it was Vision tumble away, replaced by a creeping, oppressive shroud of suspicion around her shoulders. “Why aren't you surprised?”

Strange is not one to participate in tautological avoidance, erring on the side of speaking his mind almost all the time, yet the hesitation of his mouth and the quick glance away from her gaze concerns her. But he remains true to form with his eventual admission. “I discovered him two days ago.”

“What?” Her hands are ablaze with scarlet before the word is done, feet stepping out wide as she falls into the battle stance Natasha worked for months to ingrain into her muscle memory.

The caped man doesn’t respond in kind, a disinterested sniff at her threat a strong enough shield against her ire. “I have spent every second of my time trying to find a way to bring him back,” apologetic sorrow flashes across his face, “He’s unreachable, Wanda.”

She shakes her head, defiance crawling up her arms, “I touched him.”

“And you very well could have destroyed the universe with that touch.”

Wanda considers backing down, his voice laden with a steadfast direness, whatever he has seen appears to have shaken him. “It worked before, against Thanos.”

There is no immediate response to her rebuttal, instead Strange turns away from her, one arm reaching out, his index and middle finger held together by his sling ring, and his other hand rotating in a wide circle as he creates a new portal. Once it is formed he turns towards her, “If you won’t believe me, perhaps you will believe yourself.” A dip of his head indicates she should follow, a command she considers refusing, but intrigue at his offer begins to replace her anger, encouraging her feet to shuffle towards the portal.

As she steps through the golden portal, Wanda squints at the fluorescent lights overhead, blinking several times to slough away the floating dots from the bright assault. “Step back please,” the disorientation of portal traveling means she follows his order without thinking, her body meeting a slight resistance as she transitions into the same room only now there are faceted panels distorting the view. “We’re in the mirror realm.”

“Yeah. I figured.”* Now that her eyes have adjusted, Wanda scans the room, a sense of deja vu forming at the quiet, pristine lab, the only things marring the perfection of Helen’s organization are a mug of tea (a slight ring forming on the table underneath the ceramic cup), the small remnant of Q*bert, and Wanda sitting on a table, legs crossed and hands on her knees as scarlet billows around her. “Where are we?”

Strange joins her in scrutinizing the other Wanda, following along as she gives into despair and desperation, palms reaching out in search of Vision. “The multiverse.” It’s a word the team, primarily the science driven members, throw around, often while drunk and shooting the shit, but Vision has excitedly discussed it with her as well, the notion of an infinite number of universes where every possible outcome can play out a thrilling form of hypothetical contemplation to him. “I’ve been observing your various lives in search of answers.” Hope should attach itself to this information, yet his voice is low, almost terrified.

“What have you found?” His response is a shaky wave of his hand towards the other Wanda, her fingers wagging furiously as she pulls at the threads of reality, doing what Wanda failed to earlier, this Wanda’s connection to Vision still active. Just as a golden light comes through into the lab, as Wanda’s own heart begins pounding excitedly in her chest, there is a blinding, retina destroying, explosion of light and then utter darkness. “What…”

“She failed.” A new portal appears and Strange leads her through, allowing Wanda to watch a new version of herself again. “She fails over,” a new portal and an even brighter explosion, “and over,” attempt after attempt fly past until Strange remains long enough in one universe so Wanda can see the entirety of time implode as they stand in the safety of their spectator realm, “and over.”

“Why doesn’t it work?”

Stephen shifts into the casual, arrogant pose usually taken up by people tasked with explaining supposedly simple matters to someone who seems to not get it. His arms are pulled behind his body so that he can grip his hands behind his back and his hip juts out just enough to be condescending. “When you altered reality to defeat Thanos, you also weakened the stability of reality itself. Cracks formed, universes collided, and in amongst this damage pocket dimensions began to proliferate at the most chaotic and unstable points.” He shifts his hips, the cloak readjusting on his body until it is comfortable. “With the increased instability, there was also, from what I’ve gathered, an increase in using these rifts for personal gain, manipulating and utilizing the raw power seeping from these dimensions.”

“The cube?” The man nods, waiting for her to form the connection he’s been hinting at. “Vision is in one of these pocket dimensions.” Another nod and Wanda’s heart rejoices at the knowledge, wholly disregarding the apocalyptic realities they just observed. .

Strange’s hands release, arms falling back to his side, “Wanda,” the threat in his gaze and the admonishment in his tone chills her joy, his words shattering it into millions of pieces, “it is too dangerous to rescue him, even for me.”

A stray memory waltzes through her mind, a moment from a conversation with Vision concerning these other universes, a tearful, hopeful inquiry as to whether it meant there was a Wanda still with a Pietro at her side. “But some Wanda’s succeed. They have to.”

His “Yes,” is reluctant, fingers tightening into fists that suggest he hoped she wouldn’t understand the full breadth of the multiverse. “But it still never works.”

Wanda chooses to ignore everything after the yes , focusing instead on the possibilities. “How do they do it?”

The leather of his gloves squeak as the pressure of his curled fingers increases, the sound creating a slight crack in his calm demeanor. “Usually through using a relic to amplify her powers, but that is only in the small sampling of universes where it works.” Her eyes drift to the Eye of Agamotto, his own gaze following her silent question. “No, I won’t let you.”

“Why not?”

“Wanda,” the sincerity in his voice is concerning, pebbles of dread piling up in her body, starting at her feet, and holding her to the ground. “I have been through every single universe, even when you do succeed at saving him, your relationship always ends in tragedy.” Her lungs begin to fail, breath sputtering as her mind wages a war against his words, denying the notion because there is no reason her and Vision will not be happy so long as they are together. “It is not worth risking the entirety of reality for a brief time of happiness.”

The argument is the same as what the non-Vision used on the quinjet, the many should outweigh the few, it is futile and selfish for her to save Vision, but Wanda can’t accept this without proof, hearsay a dangerous and unreliable source of decision making. “Show me.”

Strange shrugs, opening a new portal and stepping halfway through it before he turns back towards her, “Tell me once you’ve seen enough.” It is both a warning and an apology, a downpour of frigid terror seizing her muscles as she steps hesitantly through the portal. “These first ones are the most,” he pauses while staring at the back of Vision, body hunched over a desk, and a different Wanda standing in the doorway, watching her husband with concerned eyes, “normal dissolutions.” Normal is a term that is barred from her relationship, a subjective perception that is typically hurled at them as an insult, yet she believes she gathers his meaning, biting back tears as she watches Vision ignore her pleas to talk with her, as she gives up, likely because this isn’t the first time he’s closed himself off, and it appears this Wanda is done. Strange grips Wanda’s hand as he walks her to a slightly different universe, this time she and Vision actually talk, voices deadly calm despite the anger vibrating in the air between them. They argue about irreparable harm to their relationship, of how Vision never quite felt right after coming back, of how she is a constant reminder of this difference, of how they don’t fit anymore. It’s this Wanda that makes the suggestion to split, and it takes everything in Wanda not to break through the mirror dimension and yell at these two idiots, force them to find a way to work it out. The next eight are almost identical, only minimal changes to the words used, the exact reasons for parting ways, and the volume of their voices.

It’s as they walk through the next portal that Wanda hears a difference, a surprising lullaby floating in the air wrapped up in the smooth tones of Vison’s voice. Stephen is about to pull her through another portal but Wanda places a hand on his arm to stop him, her body turning towards the world Strange deemed unimportant . She watches as Vision sways in the middle of a darkened room, faint outlines forming around him the more her eyes adjust to the low lighting, and Wanda begins to make out what appears to be a crib, a dresser, and a changing table. A sharp, high pitched cry solidifies her perceptions as she watches Vision run a soothing hand down the face of the baby in his arms. “We…” her and Vision had only recently tiptoed into discussions of the future, the flurry of excited ideas of buying a house and raising children decimated by three conclusive tests in Helen’s lab of Vision’s inability to procreate, and yet clearly some version of themselves figured it out, “had children?”

Strange’s arm tenses under her grip, “Wanda, we shouldn’t stay here.”

This universe’s Wanda comes in seconds later, another baby in her arms and Wanda finds her mouth lifting into a painfully ecstatic grin, not just one baby, twins. “I want to see this.”

“Wanda,” a tug of his arm rotates her face towards him where she can take in the hunted, petrified glean of his eyes and it momentarily stops her heart, “these universes are the most horrific.”

She ignores the warning, tossing a glare at him before turning back to watch the bedtime routine.

Once the babies are asleep, laid gently in the crib with a cloud of scarlet, Wanda and Vision leave the room. His hand still on the doorknob, this universe’s Vision quietly, in a placating tone, broaches a topic of conversation that has clearly come up before, “Wanda, I am still concerned about what Agatha told us.”

The unamused frown residing on her face is one Wanda has sent to Vision numerous times, it is meant to silence the ridiculous logical reasoning he is attempting to use, particularly on things they have already been discussed and left behind. “Our children are fine, Vizh.” The sharp emphasis of the zh is also a common tactic to silence unwanted dissent, one Vision rarely ever actually entertains, and this instance is no different.

“Wanda, our children might not be real.”

Wanda feels herself denying it right along with the one speaking to Vision, “How can they not be real, I carried them for almost nine months, I gave birth, we hold them, Vision, how can they not be real?”

The man wilts at the words, shoulders curving forward as his body shrinks, “Agatha says she has proof.”

She watches the other version of herself throw her hands into the air, a deep, annoyed sigh punctuating the anger forming in red sparks along her arms. “No she doesn’t.”

“Wanda,” Vision’s voice shakes as he proceeds, “no good can come of denying this.”

The next words cause Wanda to step closer to Strange, curl her fingers around his arm indicating she’s ready to be done with this universe, because even if it is in anger, she is horrified at her doppelganger’s response. The woman balls one hand into a fist and uses the other to point right at Vision’s chest, “And what the hell do you know about being real, you damn toaster.”

“Stephen, please,” her urgency is understood, a whirring portal opening that Wanda quickly steps through, glancing back long enough to see the mortification and betrayal settling on Vision’s face.

Unfortunately that’s not the worst universe, the next one forces her to relive the moment on the quinjet, only this time transported to a hallway, their children several years older, and Vision is completely white. His voice is even more flat and otherworldly as he informs them all they are no longer his family, that he is no longer their father. No matter how fast Wanda pushes Strange through the portals, however, the universes careen them along a trajectory beyond the scope of Wanda’s own imagination, each one more appalling than the last. It feels like being trapped in a horror movie, one with a cliched scene of stepping into a funhouse room filled with mirrors. Wanda finds herself standing at just the right angle to see infinite versions of herself, yet unlike the movies, it’s not just one reflection that diverges from her behavior, but all of them, some in subtle ways —just a blink or a flexing of fingers— and others are so unlike her she has to stare hard to ascertain if it is in fact her.

There’s the Wanda who, due the grief of their children not being real, erases a portion of the world with a whispered “No more.” There’s the Wanda who gifts her brainwaves to Vision as a parting gift in the relationship, who then proceeds to create his own family, which, unsurprisingly, does not go well. There are several where she is with other lovers, sometimes it’s Steve, sometimes Clint, sometimes people she doesn’t recognize from her own universe, yet, at least. Vision dies in several of these universes, sometimes because of her, sometimes not, occasionally he is rebuilt, never the same though, and sometimes they leave his body in a box, as if he is no more than scraps to maybe be refurbished at a later date. Wanda wants to deny the veracity of these universes, and yet they exist, the realness of them harrowing both in the consequences and the sheer breadth of possibilities, such as the strangest one where Vision even had a one night stand (she’d laugh at the thought if she had any energy left for derision) with an alien AI that resulted in hundreds of children.

All of these worlds, these actions amalgamate around her and she can’t breath, overwhelmed by the unmistakably bleak path of their fate. Wanda can barely muster the strength to speak, but manages a quiet, supplicating, “Please stop.”

Strange pauses, hands still lifted in his signature portal conjuring stance, and stares at her. “Have you seen enough?”

The tears running down her cheeks should be informative, yet she first tasted the salt of her sorrow at least twenty universes ago, so it is not an absolute sign of being done. Wanda wipes away the stains from her cheeks, which only makes way for more tears, and nods. “I’d like to go back to my room.”

Wanda wraps her arms around her waist, head bent down so that she only sees her her boots, the frayed ends of the laces a focal point to draw her attention away from the worlds around her. It’s only when she smells the faint lavender incense from before and hears the soft chiming of the metal strands looping along her bookshelf, that she inhales in relief and looks up. “That was,” Wanda’s thoughts move quickly, the images discombobulating as they buzz around her mind, so she keeps it brief, “Informative.”

A curt nod and a needlessly dramatic readjustment of his cloak (which could just be the cloak) goes along with the grim satisfaction of his, “I am glad it was informative, I hope you realize the correct path now.”

Wanda doesn’t watch him leave, can’t seem to muster any response, her heart bending in half, threatening to split in two, as the gravity of the various realities sink in. The process of grief had already started for her husband, a half-hearted pessimism of not saving him that was alleviated somewhat by long days in the lab with Helen, striving tirelessly to find a solution. Yet the truth was always tickling the back of her mind, urging her to consider the scope of what a destroyed cube meant. It’s impossible to hold back the barrage of sorrow now, when Wanda has not only her own grief but the grieving of infinite Wandas, each one offering a unique quality to the mourning of Vision, and it’s overwhelming, her limbs can barely move, lungs are functioning at the bare minimum capacity. The only part of her that is hyperactive are her lachrymose glands, churning out tear after tear for the finality of her loss, of all the Wandas’ losses.

With a great deal of effort, Wanda slides into the bed, scarlet whispering around her head as she cocoons herself in the duvet, blocking out the last of the lamplight that threatens to keep her in a world where she can look around and see the signs of Vision, ones that force her brain to recall his voice and his touch, the way he laughed when she hung up the painting of the monocle wearing dog on the wall (a gag gift from a team white elephant exchange, but Vision adores it far more than she thought imaginable). She breathes in and for a moment it is a mistake, to breathe, because she catches a waft of vibranium that somehow is still clinging to the pillowcase, her senses igniting so strongly that Wanda finds her eyes closing in a likely futile attempt to relive a moment with him, to summon him back to her, briefly chase away the specters of the multiverse, and pretend to have some level of futile hope of his return.

Her consciousness seamlessly transitions from reality to memory and for a time Wanda cannot parse out the differences, allowing herself to be consumed by recollection, of a night when she laid curled against Vision, her skin slightly slick with sweat, creating a pleasant sensation of oneness as her body adhered to him. If she moves her head just a bit, she can almost feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her, pushing her towards one heaven and then pulling her back towards another, over and over in a steady rhythm as his fingers play with the tips of her hair.

“Have I told you about the multiverse?” His voice is clear, playful, but contemplative, his pillow talk always an unpredictable but delightful endeavor.

Wanda rubs her face into the pillow, just as she did that night into his chest, “No.”

When she doesn’t feel his hand in her hair, Wanda sends a strand of scarlet out to mimic his behavior as she recalls his response. “It is a theoretical idea that there are infinite universes where an infinite number of possible outcomes can occur.”

“So there are multiple versions of us?” The words hurt her now, back then she grinned up at him, curiosity coursing through her, feeding her desire to watch his eyes light up as he talks about theoretical things, of possibilities that are only allowable at night, Vision the type of person that relishes the security of a dark room to share his deepest or sometimes most ridiculous thoughts.

“Infinite versions.”

Wanda knows these versions now, could answer her next question without Vision’s input, but she doesn’t stop the memory. “Give me an example.”

He smiled at her, a boyish, self-conscious half-arc that always does funny things to her stomach. His other hand lifted to caress her cheek, irises spinning counterclockwise as he contemplated, then he leaned in closer. “Some may not have this moment.”

“I feel bad for them.”

This elicited a short, delighted almost-but-not-quite snort, “As do I. For those who have this moment,” his hand traced down along her face, dipping beneath her jaw as he followed her neck, “one Vision may do this,” his hand continued to run along her body, skating along her shoulder before snaking down her arm. “Another might instead opt for another action, such as,” his hand rose to her head, fingertips burying deep within her hair to massage her scalp, and Wanda can feel the phantom touch, sighs at the pressure of his sure hands. “Yet another might decide to do something else,” the cool touch of his palm was pleasant but surprising, a gasp falling unrestrained from her mouth (both then and now) as he bent down and pressed his lips to hers. “Infinite possibilities.”

“I’m lucky then,” words she doesn’t regret, refuses to regret no matter how much they hurt, “to be in this universe where you do all of them.”

Wanda freezes, dispelling the memory before he can respond and bolts upright in bed, heart racing at the amorphous implication hanging in her mind. There are infinite possibilities, theoretically, which means that there has to be a universe for every single possibility. She scurries on her hands and knees across the mattress, yanking open her desk drawer to pull out her communicator. It takes five achingly long rings for Strange’s concerned and confused face to fill the screen. “Wanda?”

“You said they all failed, right?”

“Yes…”

“Every single one of them?”

Hesitation forms on his face, his goatee exaggerating his discomfort, eyes bouncing as he attempts to identify where she is going so he can counteract it before it gets too far. Yet he fails, simply responding with what he’s already told her, “Every last one of them.”

A thread of victory attaches itself to her lips, pulling her mouth up into, based on the color leaving his face, a devious smirk. “There are infinite universes, Stephen.”

“There are…”

Wanda stands from the bed, the hand not holding the phone scrunching in renewed purpose as her sympathetic system activates, selecting her fight response (Vision jokingly has informed her he doesn’t believe she has a flight response). “If every single one of them failed, that means this universe might be the one where I succeed.”

“Wanda that is dang-” the communicator goes silent as she ends the call, turning off the device so he can’t contact her immediately. The phone drops to the bed as she stands taller, prouder, and with reinvigorated purpose, an odd gratitude overtaking her body at the notion that because all the other Wandas endured endless tragedy, it means that maybe, just maybe, she won’t have to do the same.

#scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #doctor strange #achromatic #fanfic #mine #ao3 #almost out of the angst #almost #I hope Strange is written okay #i really have no idea how to write him #also just hope this makes sense #now I'm leaving Tumblr until I see Infinity War

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