#and i would kill and die and maim for him

[sluaghter]

Nicholas is inured to apologies. That’s what people come to him for: to say sorry and to confess and to be guided. They come for Father Teague. Not Nicholas. 

“And what are you sorry for.” He asks as if he already knows. 

He half-expects it may be too much to put into words. Arthur may be sorry for everything. Maybe for asking Nicholas, a stranger, to take his heart, the emotional equivalent of an extinction event. Maybe for knowing he’s possessed. Maybe for darkening his doorway, or for the blood that was on his cross, and even for the fact that he’s regrettably childless, fifty-eight.

Nicholas lets go and sees his eyes start to dim. It reminds Nicholas of those old boxed televisions, the ones that zap before shutting down like a Panavision eye, Arthur peering off like he’d just walked out of a hospital room with a year left to live. 

“...I think a heart is something that is given—not asked for.” His smile is a twitch. He laces his fingers at his front. “Arthur, I won’t be responsible for your happiness.”

Nicholas has seen it before, the toxic attachment that comes from winding too tightly around another human. It’s sweet at first—the check-in calls. The indulgent pink chiffon softness—until you’re so intrinsically melded, you’ve formed an emotional double helix. Now in this soldered and homogeneous state, you can never leave because they’ll die without you. You’re why they’re happy. Why they’re not. You’re the walking nuclear code to someone else’s life. 

Curiously, Arthur takes his arm. Nicholas watches with a kind of paralytic oppressiveness, silent against the memory of an organ rendition of “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling”. It smells of incense. Smoked oud and tonka beans. He feels a fuzziness about the corners of his eyes like white mold, the air going neon, and the confessional vaporizes. Imperceptibly, Nicholas startles.

You’re thinking it, aren’t you, the voice slowly piles up, a rusted engine. What if he did that to you. That’s right. Welcome. sweet. oblivion.

That’s not all Arthur can do. Arthur, this Porzac’d empath with the burnt thistle hair. He smiles a sad, watery smile and says homicidal things like ‘It was at first sight’ and ‘Where you end, and it begins’. Flaring up, his instinctive cortisol blip. Not long ago, he would have been killed for this: Nicholas possessed; Nicholas the devil, a delightful splash of ecclesiastical irony in the stain of the Salem Witch Trials. Mercifully, he will never know Nicholas’ need to maim, or to dominate, or that he is tormented by a primitive vein of machismo that demands that he fuck, but Arthur knows the painful and indubitably ugly truth: Nicholas wants.

He wonders if Arthur felt it coming off of him earlier, the impulse to kill him. He pushes past his cross and jabs him in the chest.

“In what way,” Nicholas asks in staccato, low and blunt. His voice still echoes. “Would you like me to tell you that I’m alone, and that I carry another within me. Or that it pains me to know that I will never be happy.”

He feels Arthur’s finger still wound against his chest. The church lights suck into Nicholas’ eyes, brilliant technicolor orange, and he lowers the hand away.

“Arthur, we don’t know each other,” he says. “But I would like to. In time.”

one misstep leads to another until limbs are tumbling over the edge, a foot slipping over hardwood until the spine snaps at the bottom of the stairs. two familiar hands leave imprints on the back. he picks himself up off the floor. even though it hurts, there is undeniable sturdiness that keeps him grounded. a splintering of wood and vine that leashes him to the reality of this moment: that he has broken the shell around his fragile body and given this priest the creature that stands before him, head bowed and full of shame.

a face within a face, a thought within a thought. god and the world knows what arthur doesn't, that he has never been a whole, only parts within parts. the doll trembles, the skin weak. through the translucence, he reaches beneath all the layers and pulls out the tiny centerpiece. whether nicholas realizes it or not, when their hands squeeze together, arthur drops the tiny body in his grasp for safe keeping. he smiles gently to hold the rest of himself in.

“ i'm sorry. ” he apologizes for a million things. every little crack in his facade of a person, the blood against skin and wood, the way he looks at this stranger in his arms and expects the world from him. not that he ever believed he would get anything in return for his begging—defiling god in wanting salvation but withholding faith in him, finding it hard to lay his convictions in anything more abstract than himself and the way the world shuns his very being from it. he simmers at a boiling point, every word spoken over the whistle of vapor spewing from a kettle and the bells of penance that chime behind. “ i'm sorry. ”

his hands empty themselves until they are dead weight at the sides. he looks at the priest, then the wood wall behind his head. the light in his eyes dies down until the room is dark. it feels like they are buried together in the same coffin. perhaps they are, somewhere in the irony of the universe, two inhuman things trapped within the fibers of their humanity. skeletons under the house of god.

he clears his throat again. one matryoshka layer speaks and it is as familiar as it is opaque and full.

“ if i knew the answer to that question, i wouldn't be here, i think. ” he chuckles. it sounds hollow. there is silence somewhere between where his voice ends and nicholas' begins. but like all things here, it is interwoven and blended and obscure. he frowns with him. the little body in the priest's hand speaks.

“ all i've ever done is carry myself, nick. ” the sweet coo of agony softens his voice until he is mortal and frail. “ from one hand to the other. and you're right—i can barely keep going. but holding someone else is so easy. a vicarious satisfaction, maybe. it makes the world feel right and the pain feel meaningful for once. like it is of worth and purpose. i'd rather hold your heart than mine. perhaps i'd be better at that. is that so bad ?? ”

maybe it is. he doesn't say it but the words write themselves on the scrunch of his nose, knowing he asks out of finality rather than real uncertainty. honesty slicks the floor like wine spilt to carpet, stuck between the fibers. the context red and white, blood and christ. the other touches him again and his vision refocuses on cloudy blue eyes. from the dirt of his own, the contact spurs a thundercloud made of sand, the rolling gold present but unmaterialized. he wants to part the haze of humanity with his own two hands, and not the lightning that strikes against his shore and crystalizes him. the fulgurite husk—though he knows deep down that the doll-shaped layer and the body the other holds are one in the same. the cloud and the light and the thunder—it is all one storm.

fingers twitch. he tilts his head to the left. there is a moment where the quiet settles on what is being asked. he questions the other's echo for a second, then finds that he is unsure if he should care about the motive. his soul reaches from beneath him, a hand bursting through the dirt and wood that makes his grave, and the light of it returns to his glassy eyes. there is a sacred brightness and a violent gust of wind. he reaches out for the other with the opposite hand and holds nicholas' arm to steady him. through fabric, the contact feels colds, like the touch of a corpse under a white sheet, shielding the modesty of its stiff body from human eyes. perhaps it would be different if it were skin on skin.

they mirror each other, yin and yang.

the confessional no longer exists. they stand where it would have been in the room, beneath decorative windows and plain walls, beside empty pews, and under the watchful gaze of saint joseph, the word of god before him auspiciously flipped to an open page. any word would do.

“ if you'd like. ” he bows his head. he doesn't need the arbitrary space to confess, bound by the request of another, and also perhaps shackled to his own guilt, and his own shame. as if, he knew he shouldn't know this secret. he tries to repent for that in some spoken word, some truth to his own nature, for having recognized the other's.

“ is it cliché to say that it was at first sight ?? ” he smiles again. it is sad and silly and small. but it is an earnest attempt to offer more than just vulnerability and uncertainty between the layers. to give back something substantial even though this is the most he has given of himself ( and just himself ) in a very long time. “ if i am being honest, i didn't come here for you. i actually don't know what i came here for. but when i saw you, i—i thought i saw something else. ” he remembers the face behind the skin, the weight behind the mass. the priest looked more human up close despite how he holds the pi like no other human has, looking at his face and not running away. arthur's aureate gaze settles back to the eyes, watching the murkiness of wide blues and the shadows that flicker between the lashes. the penumbra thickens and folds itself into the wrinkles.

a hum escapes him. the feeling of indulgence returns, a chain of fire that rattles in the lungs, and sharp claws that rake behind the eyes. he stares for a moment, holds a deep gaze into the other's face. “ i don't know what it is, but it feels heavy, and impulsive, and insatiable. it stirs a very dangerous yearning. and it makes me question where i end, and you begin. and where you end, and it begins. ” he speaks to the priest, and perhaps beyond him. then he reaches, hesitant and slow, until a single finger pushes past the pectoral cross and smooths against the torso. he imagines the warmth of skin underneath, though the sound of heart and pulse is quiet. it probably has been for a while. he doesn't know what that means.

“ are you like me ?? ”

[tirfpikachu]

bruh i got to watch pokemon journeys tonight on stream with my server gyns and it was SO FREAKING DELIGHTFUL

they're both SOOOO LAYCORE <3333

[raptor-claw]

i just permanently have a tab of images of crowley open on all of my devices so that whenever i go to google i see him and honestly i recommended this as a surefire way for a serotonin boost. 10/10, 100% success rate. can cure all ailments mental and physical.

[aroanthy]

(anthytouga voice) why would i be compassionate to nanami ew disgusting nanami’s literally the worst nanami is a cockroach i hope she dies she’s so fucking stupid oh my god being compassionate to nanami is the worsttttttt so what if the worst things ever happen to her and it’s my fault that’s just lifeohhhhhhhhhhh oh? utena is experiencing the worst things ever and i helped? and i helped? oh well i should just kill myself. oh well i should just kill myself and save her because actually utena is Good. and stupid. but Good. unlike nanami lol nanami was born cursed to suffer haha nanami’s got that karmic punishment coming lollllll But Utena Does Not <3

[lorephobic]

im no better than a dog because even though i know this is makeup, seeing this photo gives me an adrenaline rush accompanied only by the animalistic instinct that makes me want to tear somebody limb from limb for doing this to her

[cobra-creampuff]

spike trying desperately to be buffy's sugar daddy except not requiring the sugar just because her shitty service job bums her out and he can't bear to see it

[dorkylittleweirdo]

Peter 😭😭😭😭

[spotaus]

Pt 10! (Very relevant to all their stories!)

[thistlerock]

The Bad Kids Are Funny because they're all fairly violent and get really aggro really quickly (hey that's what you get for making a highly competent adventuring party a bunch of teenagers who don't go to therapy) but then Riz is somehow just two steps above everyone else and they barely acknowledge it. Fury of the Ball is the most wonderful thing.

The "face" of their party around school would probably be like Fig or Fabian, maybe Gorgug. Wow they're so strong aha. Hey who do you think is the most brutal, probably the half-orc barbarian who seems to mostly repress his rage until it's time to throw down right? Right?? No it's the little guy in the corner. Yeah, the one who just hid in the shadows and now you can't see him anymore. Yeah, he shot a pixie's fingers off one by one to get information, yeah, he ate a live dragon, yeah, he offered to tear someone's eye out for his best friend, yeah, he said the words "make sure his head is cut off so he can't be revivified" about another student. Yeah, he's a fucking goblin and so unapologetic about it at this point.

I always imagine his "fury" (which is a goblin trait which implies Sklonda has it too btw, never forget) being like oughhh pupils blown so wide, hair standing up, hissing claws out, kill maim stab. Just for a few seconds. You can elect to use it after hitting, I imagine him sinking his sword into a big meaty enemy and going "hm wow this guy's pretty tough. I need him dead though. Needs to die." and he twists the blade puts his whole weight in it and just drags it down no matter what's in the way. It HAS to be so gross and brutal every time and his friends are just like oh there he goes, the Ball cleaning up again.

Especially fun with the Kipperlilly thing. Oh two rogues fighting without sneak attack, that's gotta be a slow careful battle where they chip away at each other. Oh she does like seven damage rushing past him, oh he's gonna do the same wait never mind he uses his fury he stabbed her SO badly. No rogue finesse no show about it just the intent to kill. Kid with traumatic past does in fact end up fucked and it isn't actually fun or quirky or interesting, who would have thought. Shoutout to hold person over the lava that goes disgustingly hard and is also so gruesome, imagine being paralysed and watching yourself fall into a pit that will burn you alive.

The thing with classic rogues is that you're "dead before you know you're being attacked" and it's "quick and easy and possibly painless" but if Riz kills you it's gonna hurt. You're gonna know and it's gonna hurt but hey high chance you don't get to do anything about it still. Phenomenal character.

[hadesisqueer]

One thing I really like about RWBY as a show is that the heroes do not have a strict no kill rule. Like, obviously, they very much prefer not hurting or killing anyone at all, but if it comes to that, they do not hesitate.

-Tyrian is trying to capture Ruby and kill her uncle and her friends? The moment he gets slightly distracted, Ruby takes the chance and cuts his tail off without a second thought.

-Cinder is affected by Ruby's silver eyes in the Battle of Haven? Jaune doesn't hesitate and the moment she lets her guard down he tries to stab her in the face; had he gone for a slash instead, Cinder would be dead.

-Tock has blinded Maria and is about to kill her? There you go, Maria will decapitate her. Bye, Tock.

-Adam keeps trying to kill Blake and Yang? Oh, he gets stabbed by both of them. No more Adam.

-Ironwood tries to shoot Winter again with that weird gun even though she's a Maiden now? Winter just sends the blast back at him and leaves. Doesn't even check if he's still alive.

-Neo just pushed Yang to the void and they think she's gone? Blake WILL try to cut Neo's head off. And while they're fighting Ruby doesn't hesitate to push Neo off the bridges even if she thought that would kill her.

Which are all like, normal. Those other people are actively trying to kill them or their loved ones as well. Which is why I used to be really confused when I kept seeing some people complaining mostly about the Ruby with Tyrian and the Blake and Yang vs Adam things. Saying they are supposed to be the good guys and they should set an example to viewers instead of maiming or killing their foes.

What example do you want them to set? That letting others kill you and your loved ones is okay? Because that's what was gonna happen; Tyrian had just poisoned Qrow, actually he's lucky Ruby only went for the tail. Adam was not going to stop and he going to take Blake's sword to continue to try murdering her and Yang, who had no Auras either and were as vulnerable as he was. They either did it first or they could die, and they did. It's self-defense. Tyrian and Adam were trying to kill them and they were the ones who started the fights. You fuck around, you're gonna find out.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Theory of Gravity

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female!Reader

Summary: Making small talk can be difficult with a crush.

Word Count: 1234

Genre: Fluff Oneshot

Content: Drinking, reader being awkward because she has a crush, flirting

Contrary to popular belief, snitching on the whereabouts of a very dangerous mobster in the bar you worked in and possibly getting killed or maimed in the process was not a good plan for a Friday night but to be completely honest, you had done worse things over a silly little crush.

Like back in college freshman year when you pretended to be into music biopics just so that the hot guy in your elective would think you two were meant to be.

So if anything, this was a pattern.

“Logan?” you said as you put his drink in front of him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“What was Galileo like?”

He blinked a couple of times, the familiar scowl that seemed to be etched on his handsome face getting deeper and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” he said. “I will lose all the belief I’ve never had in the first place in this country’s education system if you’re serious.”

You gave him a bright smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I figured it was better than asking how the public took it when Newton came up with the theory of gravity.”  

The look on his face couldn’t be described with anything but complete horror and you let out a laugh, then went to serve another customer before quickly making your way to him.

“I’m just messing with you,” you said, leaning against the bar as you stole a look at the mobster sitting by the table with his men, then to Wade who was very, very busy with Vanessa by the corner.

“You look nervous,” Logan pointed out, making your head whip up before you cleared your throat.

“Nah, not at all,” you said. “I’m just thinking that if I die tonight, I’ll die doing what I love.”

“Which is?”

Gazing at older men who couldn’t look less interested in me.

“Being surrounded by drunk people who want to give me money,” you said. “Not a bad way to go.”

He scoffed into his drink before taking a sip while you nibbled on your lip, shifting your weight.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he said, his voice gruff. “We’re just waiting for his partner to show up, then we will deal with them both.”

You nodded your head. “Yeah. Sure, I know.”

“Do you?”

You nodded again, absentmindedly reaching out to play with the cocktail straw on the counter, painfully aware of his gaze on you that made your face burn.

“How’s grad school?”

…He remembered.

He remembered you saying that the last time he and Wade were here.

One simple observer would’ve thought he was on his knees proclaiming his undying love for you with the way your heartbeat went insane and his eyebrows rose as if he could hear it, but you quickly casted the thought away from your mind; that was surely impossible.

“Oh it’s going well!” you said, your voice going high-pitched for a moment. “Came for the hot professors, stayed for the education—I’m joking,” you added in a haste, waving a hand in the air. “I’m a very…very deep and intellectual individual.”

“Uh huh.”

“And none of my professors are hot,” you muttered and wiped at the damp spot on the counter with a napkin. “They should put that on the brochure if you ask me, it’s important information.”

“So you’ll be a doctor?”

“If by some miracle my dissertation goes through the jury,” you pointed out. “How about you? How’s your roommate situation with Wade going?”

He only grumbled something under his breath and you bit back a smile, then topped his drink.

“Thanks sweetheart.”

If there was one thing you hated the idea of more than dying was proving Freud right but it looked like you were going two for two tonight.

“So uh,” you said, trying to ignore the goosebumps rising on your arms because of his deep voice. “Hey, at least you have the place to yourself sometimes, no? When Wade is with Vanessa? Should give you some time to…bring someone home.”

And I volunteer as tribute.

He raised his brows, his unwavering gaze pinning you to your spot and you cleared your throat.

“Or—or someones,” you stammered. “Sky is the limit if you’re into that sort of thing. Now that it came up by the way, are…are you?”

“Am I bringing people home?” he asked as if he wanted to make sure that was what you were asking and you shrugged your shoulders, your face on fire.

“I’m just asking because, you know,” you began the sentence without having a clue on how you would finish it as usual. “I’m great at giving relationship advice, so if you were in a relationship I could be your own personal relationship coach.”

He pulled his brows together in confusion and you reached out to get the bowl full of peanut shells from his right just so that you could keep yourself busy, then turned the bowl over the garbage can.

“I’m not,” he said and you swallowed thickly.

“Who has the time for that these days, am I right?”

“Do you have—”

“Yes I have the time!” you cut him off, nodding your head in enthusiasm, your heart beating in your ears but he had already finished his sentence;

“…ice?”

You hoped to God tonight was the night you’d die because if that mobster in the corner didn’t shoot you, you were going to have to ask Wade to do it just to save you from this embarrassment.

“Oh,” you said after a beat as he stared at you. “Yeah—yeah I have ice, sorry.”

You rushed to get some ice and put it into his whiskey, biting inside your cheek and he cleared his throat.

“You don’t want to go out with me sweetheart.”

Well good news was that you had already made a fool of yourself so one could think the bar for your self-respect couldn’t get any lower, but boy oh boy you had already brought your metaphorical shovel.  

“I disagree,” you said, taking a deep breath. “I would very much love to if you were interested.”

“You think I’m not interested?”

“I feel like I’d have a better chance at proving you’re not interested with dates and references than my own thesis,” you pointed out. “And that’s saying something—”

“I am interested,” he cut you off, making your eyes widen and you gawked at him, frozen in your spot. “Trust me, that’s not the problem here.”

“Am I getting the I’m too dangerous for you speech?” you heard yourself ask through disbelief. “Because screw that speech. Honestly, the only thing I’m focused on in here is if you—fuck!”

He pulled his brows together. “If I—?”

“No no!” you said as you pointed at the back door where two men were dragging Wade through. “Wade!”

Logan cussed under his breath as he shot up from his stool.

“Don’t go anywhere, we’ll talk about this later,” he told you and made his way to the back door while you heaved a sigh, leaning back to the counter as he stepped outside and you caught the sight of him grabbing a man by the neck before the door slammed shut. You pressed a hand over your chest, then tilted your head back with a groan.

“Alright,” you muttered to yourself. “That was smooth.”

[theseinfernalangels]

Two Steps Behind - Brennan Sorrengail

Synopsis: When a mission goes awry, you don’t expect anyone to come back for you. That is, until, your lover becomes as deadly as a destroying angel.

Includes: CW for explicit torture and slight gore, Brennan being hot as fuck, mated dragons, new lieutenants!Brennan and Sabine, typical violence, gryphons, and all that fun stuff. Takes place years before Fourth Wing.

Your body goes limp. Whoever came up with the idea of ambushing the fliers from the ground is getting chewed out later, if you survive this.

It wasn’t intentional — the squad you and Brennan had been assigned to was skilled, and no one would risk another rider in a mission so critical. But, no. All it had taken was a stupid garrote wire and a sleeping signet, and you’d been taken from everyone, including your dragon. If Sciath isn’t tearing someone apart in fury, then she must be on the hunt…You hope.

Brennan wouldn’t leave you here, right? You struggle to shift into a more comfortable position  — if that’s even possible, given the fact that you were chained to a wall. The bitter heat stings your bruised and scarred arms, and where you’d normally welcome it, it makes you want to curl into a ball and hide. The heat here does not come from the safety of your dragon — it means to maim and kill you, even if they do it slowly.

You groan quietly, shifting as you try to see what could be going on around you. Those bastards kept you in the dark on purpose, you’re sure, so that you don’t know when they’re coming or what could be happening other than their torture. Fucked up, but smart. You curse the practice, but if the roles were reversed, you know you’d be doing the same.

That’s why you don’t expect it when a flash of brown leather appears before you — but you don’t recoil. You’d rather be killed in action than show a fucking gryphon flier that you’re nervous.

The flier, a man with long, sandy blond hair, stares down at you with a cold smile. You don’t recognize him; they must be sending different people to interrogate you so you can’t string them along.

“Well,” he drawls, looking at you like a big under a microscope. “How the mighty have fallen. How does a dragon rider fare when she’s not in the sky?”

Your lip curls, but you don’t dignify his words with a response. You can’t even wield right now — maybe the chains are enchanted — so there’s no way of protecting yourself here.

The flier’s lips dip into a mocking pout. “What? Cat got your tongue? I thought you’d have more bite than that.”

Still no reply. Instead, you just hold his gaze with the most even look you can muster. It’s probably a futile effort; you definitely look like a fool, staring up at your captor murderously while being chained, but at least you won’t die a coward.

You can’t die. If you die, then Brennan dies, too. You can’t be the one to break the connection.

The man sighs. “Oh, well. They warned me you’d be a challenge. Something tells me that a knife won’t do much to intimidate you, yeah?”

True. In the — what, three days? — you’ve been here, you’ve been stabbed at least thrice a day. You still haven’t broken. You refuse to.

He chuckles. “That’s fine. You can use more than weaponry to make someone talk.” He crouches to meet your eyes and takes your chin between his fingers. You fight the urge to jerk away. No touch, no matter how gentle, would be welcome to you. Not unless it was Brennan, but given the protocol for prisoners, you’re not even sure if he’ll be allowed to come find you.

“Now,” he purrs, “we’ll try this the easy way first. I ask questions, and you answer. Sound like a plan?”

Silence.

He releases your chin. If you had the use of your hands, you’d scrub the touch right off. “No one’s been able to get you to say anything at all. Why is that? To protect yourself and your little mate?”

Instantly, you still, carefully regulating the look on your face so as not to give away your surprise. How did he know about you and Brennan? Fliers weren’t privy to rider information, unless they were in the service for a long time.

“Ah,” he says with a grin. “Got you there, huh? Everyone knows about you two — the major’s daughter and the general’s son with dragon mates. It’s sweet. Real sweet.” He pauses. “Too bad he’ll never be able to find you.”

Oh, gods. I hope he’s wrong.

“And I bet your mother won’t be too thrilled when your body is dumped on her outpost door,” he continues, tracing a finger down your temple. “But enough of that. Where and when is the next patrol of riders coming through the bypass?”

The answer is obvious enough to you — in two days time, around six in evening. You won’t break it to him, though; not when the fliers would most definitely use that information to ambush your comrades, one of which is your literal husband. They could never make you sell him out. Never.

“Nothing?” He tilts his head. “Damn. And here I thought we could be agreeable.” Your blood runs cold as a sick, sadistic grin spreads across his face. “Good thing I’m the one who’s allowed to actually kill you.”

A flurry of panic spears through you, but it’s nothing compared to the dread that rises when you feel your shackled wrists start to throb. Could he manipulate blood? Was he about to make your skin burst? Can he slow your pulse close enough to make it hurt?

Your answer comes not from your body, but from the metal chain that starts steaming by your head. No, he doesn’t manipulate bodily functions. He’s a metallurgist — and he’s about to fucking melt your skin off. Instantly, that little voice in your head starts screaming — screaming for Sciath, Brennan, or even Marbh to come and fucking get you. It doesn’t matter, though. None of them can hear you, as you’ve figured out since being locked away.

“And now she knows,” the flier coos mockingly, tracing along your features with terrifying delight. “So, why don’t we try that again? Where and when is the next patrol of riders coming through the bypass?”

Despite both yourself and logic, you still remain silent, glaring up at him challengingly. If he wants answers, he’ll have to pry them out of your mouth with broken fingers.

A bolt of shock shoots through you when the heat makes its way to the manacles around your wrist, pressing a searing pain into your wrists. You suck in a quiet breath, but no words leave you. And, unfortunately for you, that must please the flier, because as soon as the moment drags on for a second longer, the pain turns searing, filling your body with heat, heat, heat.

A choked curse works its way up your throat, barely suppressed by your own self-control and RSC experience. It’s loosed, though, when the fire becomes unbearable, and it’s clear to you that the metal might get close to its melting point in a short amount of time.

“She finally speaks,” the flier says gleefully, stroking one of the boiling chains with his gloved index finger. “Not quite what I’m looking for, though.”

Oh, gods. You don’t even know what god to pray to in your haze of pain and fear. Amari, that someone from your post may value enough to rescue you…or Malek, to take you swiftly in exchange for keeping Brennan and your dragons alive. Either would suffice right about now.

Maybe the temperature rises, or maybe your head is so messed up that it’s giving into habit. You can’t help it when you let out a startled gasp, or when it escalates into a full on shriek. The scorching heat of the metal is worse than getting punched, worse than feeling blades pass through your skin, and even worse than when Sciath marked you with her razor-sharp claws during Threshing. It takes everything in you not to retch and vomit, but you can’t hold your body back from writhing in agony. 

The burning turns to pure torment, but it’s not answers that leave you — it’s pure, unfiltered screaming. It’s not secret to you now that you’re past interrogation now. No, he wants to kill you, he’s excited to kill you, and you probably have a good two or three minutes, at the very most, before you end up dead on the floor. How long has it been since he started? Five minutes? Ten? Thirty, even? You can’t tell.

Tears stream down your face as you surrender your jerking body to the cold ground below you, desperate for anything that isn’t heat against your skin. Your back arches against the stone, and it’s unclear if the “Please, please, please” that echoes through you is said aloud or mentally. You’re far above begging for you life — but, then again, you haven’t been this close to death since Basgiath.

Maybe it’s not begging for your life, though. Rather, it’s begging for death; a sweet, cold, merciful death that spares your squad from any grief or suffering. Your throat is raw from the force of your pained sobbing, but at least it’s the only thing you can hear, at least you’re staring up at a ceiling of nothing but stone and blood, as you wait for yourself to fade from consciousness.

Wait. Blood?

Your head jerks to the side just in time to see the flier being flung across the dark room, which has been lightened by an opened entrance to your right. You hear faint grunting and cursing past the ringing in your ears, but that’s nothing compared to the cold threat in that beautifully familiar voice that fills the air.

“The next time one of you fucks dares to lay a hand on my wife again, I will reduce the entirety of Poromiel to waste and ash. Remember that when you meet Malek, bastard.”

A startled gasp chokes the air out of you at the same time as bones crunch — a snapping neck.

Your voice is weak, rough and faint from enduring your torment, but when it’s his name on your tongue, it feels sweeter than honey.

“Bren?”

Sure enough, a familiar head of russet waves peers over you and drops to the ground, taking your head into his lap.

“Angel,” he breathes, pressing a soothing kiss to your forehead. “Don’t look. I’ll make it better.”

You blink stray tears from your eyes and flinch hard at the first brush of his fingers against the burnt skin of your wrists, but a quiet hushing noise followed by a little glow from his fingers calms you instantly.  

“Easy,” he murmurs, the pain being muffled to a slight ache in no less than a few seconds. “You’re okay now. They won’t hurt you again.”

You swallow against the nausea that throws you in a loop before you let out a shaky breath. “I couldn’t feel you. I couldn’t fucking feel you—“

“I know.” A hand leaves yours to gently wipe at your dampened cheeks. “I couldn’t, either. Sciath did, though, and directed us here.”

“Us?” You glance out the opened entrance. There are shadows moving, but none of them are discernable to you.

“About a quarter of the riders.” He smiles. “Sciath made a pretty convincing case to Major Irie, and she allowed a rescue party.”

You go limp with relief. Your dragon could feel you. Maybe it wasn’t mutual, but that doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you’re alive, and so is Brennan, and Sciath, and Marbh. You lived. 

“It is more than mutual, actually.”

You sob in relief at the familiar, feminine rumble that creeps into your mind. Sciath. You close your eyes, and, yes — that bond of midnight blue glows as clear as day within you, right next to Brennan’s amber and Marbh’s bright orange. 

 Sweat forms on Brennan’s brow line as he continues to mend your scarred wrists, but judging by the shouts coming from outside, you must be pressed for time. He nods, sharing the thought. “We need to get moving.” 

With some straining and difficulty, you finally stand on shaky legs, not having used them for a few days. Brennan slings one arm around your waist and hoists one of yours around his shoulders, easily bearing your weight as you move out of the chamber. It’s a blur, walking out of the compound, but Brennan makes up for it by talking you through it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever prayed so hard in my life.”

“Sciath almost tore the entire outpost down, she was so pissed.”

“Fuck, angel. I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

“You think you can climb into your seat? Marbh would be fine with a second rider.”

“I’ll be okay,” you finally reply, resting your head by his shoulder. “I don’t think she’ll mind getting lower for me.”

Sure enough, the lithe blue dragon appears ahead of you, quick as the wind. Her silvery eyes trace your figure before she lowers her head to lay before you.

“I am so sorry, Saintly One,” she whispers, eyes full of sorrow. “This should never have happened to you.”

“Not your fault,” you rasp, shaking your head. “I made a mistake, and I’ve paid the price. I just want to go home, honestly.”

“Home?” Brennan glances down at you with a frown. “Tyrrendor is miles from here.”

A smirk makes your lips twitch a little. “My home is wherever you are,” you tell him. “Preferably, when we’re alone.”

The look on his face is almost laughable, with a deep blush tinting his ears red, but he recovers the moment by clearing his throat. “Let’s go.”

With Brennan’s help, you slowly ease up into your seat and don’t protest when you feel Sciath wrapping those little magic bands over your hips. “For extra protection,” she frets. “I will not lose you again.”

You just let it happen. No use in arguing with a fussy, protective dragon.

The flight back to your outpost is a stunning contrast to what had happened just barely an hour before. The sunset splits the sky and divides it into pinks and oranges that sit pleasantly against your skin. The warmth makes you frown — after today, you’d prefer anything that wasn’t heat — but you don’t dare to complain. You’ll take anything over torture now.

“You’re quiet,” Brennan observes from where he perched on Marbh, just ten feet away. “Are you alright, angel?”

You hum. “I will be, once I’m back in my own bed. I cannot recommend stone floors.”

You feel a twinge of annoyance flash down the amber bond. “Too soon. We almost lost you tonight.”

Instinctually, you glance down at your wrists. Luckily for you, Brennan is incredibly talented and repaired most of the damage. However, there are still scars around your wrists — both from the chains and the scorching metal. You bite your lip and wrench your eyes away, choosing to focus on the sky ahead instead.

“You didn’t hear me, did you?”

He’s silent for a moment. “What do you mean?”

Question answered. “Never mind, then.”

Brennan looks your way and tilts his head. “You called for me.”

There’s no way of denying it, but that doesn’t make it feel any less pathetic. You avert your eyes and trace idle circles on one of Sciath’s scales, earning you a growl of appreciation.

“Look at me.”

It’s not a question. You lift your head and meet his eyes, his irises fiery in the dying sunlight.

“Something was blocking the bond.”

“I know,” you murmur.

“There is no universe where I would leave you behind, especially if I could hear you. That’s absolutely unfathomable.”

You nod, allowing his words to dwell in your senses and drown everything else out. Absolutely unfathomable. Not even an option. No possibility. Inconceivable. Brennan would have found you at some point in any timeline, even though logic had forced you to question it earlier.

“That is no fault of yours,” Sciath interjects softly. “It was a natural reaction. Your mate looked like he was going to tear the outpost in half, though.”

You scoff quietly, shaking your head. “He wouldn’t.”

“I would,” comes Brennan’s firm reply. “Again and again, I would. Fly to the stars or sink to the sea, and I’ll be two steps behind.”

It’s not unusual for such raw confessions from Brennan, but they never fail to make your heart twist so hard that he can feel it in him, too.

“I love you.”

“Thoroughly and utterly, angel. I love you, too.”

Taglist: @wonderstruckbyyou, @jessicalee22likestowrite, @freezerbride18, @ineednewdaggers

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[sillygoofyqueer]

Any thoughts on Crowyuan who was found by Shen Qingqiu (maybe Shen Jiu at the time) as a baby and then Shen Qingqiu went this is mine now for whatever reason and promptly adopts him. Sorry if this is incoherent or if my grammar is bad, it's 5am as I'm writing this. I am running solely on tea like a true Brit.

First of all honeypie, great grammar and coherency, you don't need to apologise for anything. Secondly, AS A TRUE BRIT SHOULD!!! LET'S FUCKING GO LADS, WOOO BRITAIIIINNNN 💪💪🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧💪🇬🇧🇬🇧💪🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧💪💪💪‼️‼️‼️

Patriotism aside, I'm so glad you brought this to my attention, this is such a fun idea and I adore random kidnapping adoption AUs so I'm going to find literally the perfect reason for child-hater Shen Jiu to find this random baby demon and not just kill it on sight.

Okay, so. Shen Qingqiu, Shen Jiu, badly injured during a mission and basically just trying not to die because if he does, he can't blame it on Yue Qingyuan and he won't let that happen (or whatever reason he comes up with). He's got no qi, he's used up all of his stock when fighting because fucking hell that beast was not what he expected it to be (stupid villagers giving vague explanations of the monster so he believed it to be something entirely different), so he's basically stuck alone in this forest, trying to figure out which beast would come at him first.

Xiu Ya is in his weak hand, his only weapon against the creatures hiding in the shadows, ready to help maim anything that tries to attack its master. The first beast is too cocky, thinking that he's an easy target, but the dead body just brings in more beasts, all attracted by the scent of blood. Every kill becomes more of a struggle to complete, until it's hard to so much as raise his blade to meet the next beast, but he does the best he can as he hears something snapping twigs as it creeps closer.

Whatever monstrous creature he has been expecting to be his murderer, he does not expect it to be this strange little creature who looks rather human, but has these wings and a frankly shocking amount of rocks clutched in its small arms. They lock eyes for a moment, the thing making a sound that could be related to shock. Shen Jiu tenses up as the beast drops all of its rocks, but then the little creature begins to sort through them with more focus than his own disciples greet their work with, pushing them around and throwing a few back into the pile after careful inspection.

After a while of this, Xiu Ya almost wilting in Shen Jiu's grasp with how he begins to involuntarily loosen his grip on the hilt, the little creature suddenly moves and he tenses up again as it approaches. However, instead of getting too close to Xiu Ya, it just stares at him and holds out a rock. Of course, he's not going to trust this creature, so he jabs his blade forwards and the little beast darts back into the trees, but not without dropping the rock where it was just standing.

Now that the creature is gone, Shen Jiu glares down at the rock as he uses Xiu Ya to drag it over for closer inspection, which reveals it to not be a rock but a sort of crystal, one that Mu-shidi would swear helps with cultivation. Judging by the type of creature, it was likely a baby demon of sorts, unaware that it had given its easy prey a means of survival. Fucking moron.

Meanwhile, baby Crowyuan is confused by the crow demon who has no wings (not aware of what humans are) and why he's attacking him with the shiny metal (he wants it so bad, but it's obviously been claimed by this other demon), but he still wants to help!! He doesn't know much, but he knows the smell of blood and this demon reeks of it, and that isn't good at all. So, what does baby Crowyuan do? He goes looking for food to help this injured adult demon. His parents are going to be so impressed!!!...When he..finds where they went....

First, he starts with things he can reach, plucking different berries from bushes he knows are safe, grabbing a few plants that always helped him when he was super hungry, and even finding some sticks so that the demon can nest while it heals!!! He's such a good friend, even if the injured demon doesn't quite know it yet!

This goes on for a couple of days, with Shen Jiu becoming more confused as the little demon brings back more things that would aid his survival rather than prevent it. Hell, some of these plants were said to be extinct in all the books he's read about them, and yet here the little demon comes with them everyday, sometimes waving the sticks around in concern and then placing them down in what seems to be an organised pattern and then shuffles them over to him expectantly. It gets to the point where he doesn't even bother bringing Xiu Ya out of its sheath when the beast comes back, and yet the demon does not make any attempt to attack him when he's disarmed.

Eventually, of course, he is healed enough to go back to Cang Qiong and yell at his so-called ' 'shidimei and shixiong' for not noticing about his absence. He finds himself delaying his return however, waiting for the little demon to come back so he can...what? He doesn't know. When the little demon does come back, however, it's looking terrified and one of its little wings isn't moving properly on his back. He's crying and this is how the world is but this child hasn't even been near humans before, he doesn't deserve to be hurt by a world he's not even a part of-

Liu Qingge, who has been sent out looking for their missing shixiong, finds a little demon gripping what is unmistakably Shen Jiu's fan (baby Crowyuan found it nearby and wanted to give it to his new friend!!), and immediately assumes that this demon has harmed Shen Jiu. When he follows the slippery little bastard, he comes face to face with an absolutely infuriated Shen Jiu holding this sobbing demon to his chest and looking ready to kill without hesitation.

[mediumgayitalian]

The oak wood Grandfather clock in the back centre of the Athena cabin is deafening; tick, tick, tick. Each crack of the heavy gold hands reverberates, pinging off the walls, off the tucked-away metal bunks, each ladder rung scraping off the floor right after; tickscritch, tickscritch, tickscritch. Annabeth’s breathing is timed perfectly, beautifully, with every second of the clock, enveloping the sound with the whoosh of her measured inhales; hhhhtickscritch, hhhhtickscritch, hhhhtickscritch; the puff of her minute exhales; hhhhtickscritchfsss, hhhhtickscritchfsss, hhhhtickscritchfsss.

Everyone else holds their breath.

hhhh

tick

scritch

fsss

hhhh

tick

scritch

fsss

hhhh

tick

scritch

fsss

“Okay,” Annabeth says, voice like a crack of a whip in standstill morning air.

Three people scream.

She looks up, grey eyes flitting between the gathered campers, narrowing at the tense space between them, the pounding hearts audible even over the clock.

Will bites back a smile.

“Oo-kay,” she tries again, shaking a tired head. “I think I’ve figured it out.”

Cecil, bless his brave heart (or perhaps his idiocy, they’re often easy to conflate) is the first to recover. “Really? That seems…complicated. Even for you.”

Ah. Idiocy.

Will slaps his hand over his best friend’s mouth and pinches him hard by his ribs.

“Forgive him,” he says apologetically, scooching them both gently away from the twitch of Annabeth’s eye. “He was neglected as a child and often speaks out of turn for attention. He knows not what he does.” He easily ignores Cecil’s muffled hey! over the sound of barely-concealed giggling. “Also, he’s my best friend, and if you kill him I’ll have to kill myself in solidarity, and then who will heal you?, et cetera, et cetera.”

Annabeth sighs. She taps her foot. She sighs, glaring one last time before returning to her maps. “Keep him muzzled, then, Solace. There’s only so much insolence I can take.”

Will nods. “Ever so kind, Annie.” She whips her head back up, murderous, but Will has already ducked behind Clarisse, biting back his snickering and hushing Cecil when he laughs.

“You’re a nasty hypocrite,” Cecil whispers finally having managed to wiggle himself free (licked Will’s hand and Will shoved him).

Will shrugs, face angelic. “Whatever do you mean.”

Clarisse, without so much as glancing backward, stomps on Will’s toes. “If I miss her list of Jackson’s weaknesses because you two are blabbing, you die.”

Will scowls at her, hopping on his non-maimed foot, cradling his poor mangled sneaker with his free hands. Ow. “Alright, alright, Jesus.” He sticks his tongue out as soon as her back is turned. She knows, somehow, and reaches out and fuckin’ punches him, easy, no sweat, full force.

Ow squared, what the hell.

Cecil snickers at him, nudging his toe against Will’s prone form and rudely ignoring the agony spreading from his stomach. Wow. He could die, right here, right now, staring at the dust bunnies in the corner of the Athena cabin, and that would be the last thing Cecil does for him. Kicks him while he’s down. What a legacy.

“I’ve met your dad, and I want you to know, empirically, that you’re worse.”

“That’s an evil thing to say to me,” Will wheezes. His spleen is still hanging out somewhere around his throat. Clarisse is lethal. He forgot his rule: always make sure you are within the safety bounds before bothering Clarisse. This is why he is unfit to lead a cabin. He forgets his rules.

“Whenever you’re done,” drawls a voice. The minor crowd of demigod clears a straight aisle right to where Will is suffering, because loyalty and class solidarity mean nothing to anyone, apparently.

Will curls up tighter. “I could use a few more minutes, actually.”

There is a scoff, and the sound of flannel sleeves being rolled up, and Will is fast but unfortunately also committed to the bit and does not scramble away in time before he is airborne, collar of his shirt choking him slightly from where Clarisse has fisted it and from where he is dangling. She shakes him, which does not help the choking bit.

“I have impunity,” Will manages, mentally begging forgiveness from his trachea. Annabeth huffs and waves her hand, allowing his release, which doesn’t work because Clarisse doesn’t take orders from Annabeth, so Will sucks in as much breath as he can and tries instead, “Let me go or I’ll sonic on a frequency so specific every one of the Ares landmines will deactivate,” and Clarisse grunts and mutters “Can’t sonic if you’re dead, you little punk,” but does indeed drop him. Will grins from the floor, rubbing his throat.

“I knew you loved me.”

She moves menacingly forward, and this time he speeds away, hiding behind Butch. Butch will protect him.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Butch grumbles, so Will turns up his charm to eleven, smiles including his best dimple, and diplomatically refrains from reminding the son of Iris that unfortunately calling Will cute violates Section Four of the I Know He’s Hot I Got Him First Back Off Act and could result in his zombification.

Politics. He’s great at ‘em.

Annabeth leans forward slightly, easily making eye contact from where they both easily tower over Butch (who notices and rolls his eyes. Rip in peace). “Dude, you’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

From across the room, Kayla laughs out loud, which is Rude, so Will ignores her, holds up a hand, and loudly removes the badly crinkled paper from one of his (many) pockets, tries (unsuccessfully) to smooth it out on his thigh, holds it up next to his watch, and squints until the numbers stop moving.

“Actually, according to my schedule —”

“You mean that blank post-it you just found?”

“—I have four point seven hours before my next shift starts. Responsibility is a distant dream.” He carefully folds the paper back up (crumples it into a ball) and returns it where it belongs (chucks it over his shoulder). “So, there.”

Annabeth stares at him. He squirms. She stares some more, he squirms harder, and before she can stare some more and Will vibrates out of his skin, Ellis loudly says, “I can just kill him, if we want, then we can move right along.”

Several people mutter their agreement. Will makes careful note of who and remembers to let them suffer next time they ask for his help. Annabeth sighs.

“No,” she says, sighing yet again, “unfortunately we need him.”

There are two wolves inside him. One, a praise hungry Daddy issues whore, perks up and starts whining and scratching at the mention of being needed. The second, more rational, trods calmly off an imaginary couch, bounds up his spinal cord, walks through right into his brain, and pulls the giant red button labeled, ALERT. Unfortunately he is so busy imagining the two wolves inside of him dukeing it out that he misses his opportunity to complain, and it is only several minutes into Operation: How Our Totally Dope Alliance will Massacre the Nepobabies (Operation HOT DAMN) that Will starts, realises he’s still on the floor, scrambles to his feet, and says, “Hey, wait a second!”

Unfortunately, he is the boy who cried wolf, and is entirely ignored. Damn. Will hates it when Cecil is right. It’s so rare he honestly forgets it happens.

“Wait a — pause! A moment! Time out!”

His (SUPPOSED, but apparently everyone is a traitor forever) team totally ignores him, or at least they try to, but unfortunately for the scoundrels they have Jason on their team, this time, and since Jason is the sweetest summer child to ever summer child so long as everyone ignores his occasional midnight howling and horrible table manners, Jason turns to him, pauses, and says, “Yes, Will?”

Will sighs dreamily. “Have I ever told you I love you, Jason?”

Jason squirms, glancing fleetingly at the dusty Cabin 6 shadows.

“Uh, no. And, um, maybe continue to not.”

Will waves a hand. “Psh. He’s kidding about the murder thing. Probably.”

Jason scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just that I’ve seen him turn someone living directly into a ghost, and I’m really quite fond of being alive.”

“Speaking of Nico,” Annabeth says, glancing up from her maps, “I have a job for you, William.”

“Not my name,” Will says automatically. The rest of her sentence clicks and he grimaces. “Is the job sitting in a tree, eating grapes and looking pretty? ‘Cus I’m real good at that.”

“He is,” offers Drew. “For all his countless flaws as a person he has really quite excellent bone structure. I love watching his jaw in action.”

Will preens, very used to selectively listening to Drew’s ‘compliments’. “Thanks, Drew!”

Coincidentally, the shadows around Drew churn and whisper. The entire team of demigods takes three wide steps away from her to avoid any association.

They’re being dramatic. Nico only every maimed someone in a jealous rage once! And it was a misunderstanding, anyway. He’s a sweetheart and a softie.

“No one agrees with you,” calls Annabeth. “And, Solace, I swear to the gods, if you keep getting distracted I’m booting you.”

“That’s ADHD-phobic.”

She cracks a smile. “Shut the hell up.”

Smugly satisfied, Will walks over to her crossed arms and tapping foot, curtsying since the situation seems to call for it and ignoring the secondary call to fall dramatically at her feet and pledge his service, as that call feels like his father’s influence and any influence from his father is evil and bad.

“Nico di Angelo is quite probably the most stubborn person to have ever lived. He lives and works for his own will only. And yet, you smile at him and ask for anything and he trips over himself to get it for you, like you have bewitched him in some way.”

“Very weird way to describe a loving relationship, but okay.”

“You —” She drags her fingers in the air in the vague shape of Will’s figure which, coupled with the chorus of wolf-whistles, makes him feel vaguely like a plump hen in a den of coyotes and also kind of like a peacock, which is a sensation he shoves immediately into a pit of repression — “are playing Makaria.”

“Hm.”

“By that I mean you will walk alone into enemy territory. You will locate the target. You will smile pretty and charm him until he lets down his guard. And then you will attack.”

“I see.”

“Kind of a whore of babylon meets James Bond thing.”

“No, I got it.” Will’s ears redden slightly at the gathered snickering. “This is, uh, the plan we’re solidly laying on?”

“Yeah,” calls out Kayla, as she is a traitor, “you think he can sashay up to Nico without tripping over his own feet and dying?”

“No one asked you,” says Will hotly. “I can — I can sashay perfectly fine, thank you kindly.”

What a world that Will is arguing his ability to sashay. Every day at Camp Half-Blood is a thrill, truly.

“He’ll be fine,” Annabeth says dismissively. “I’ve been observing them. As soon as Will gives him one half iota of attention he folds. He won’t even need to sashay.” She looks at him critically. “Really, though, dude, don’t sashay. I’ve watched you trip sitting down.”

Will flushes for several reasons. “Shut up. I’m — I don’t do that.”

“Yeah, yeah. Dismissed. Don’t let me down.”

Will walks back to his corner of cowardice, avoiding Clarisse and also various snickering pokes and pinches to his flushed cheeks. It’s — they’re not like that, are they? Distracted? Will didn’t think they were. He gets a little distracted when Nico is around, sure. Anyone would. He’s — powerful, and sardonic, and sweet, although he hates to admit it, and thoughtful and genuine and surprisingly funny. Nico’s easy to fall into.

But Will’s not — distracting. He’s just Will.

“God, your self-esteem issues are embarrassing,” Drew complains. “Do you think he follows you around because he’s ever so interested in your nerd healing rants?”

Will huffs. “They’re — interesting!”

“They’re boring, you loser. He’s gone on you. It’s impossible for even Blondie to miss.” Drew flicks her long hair over her shoulder, scowling at Annabeth’s direction. “You think he made everyone read the I Know He’s Hot I Got Him First Back Off Act for nothing?”

“I thought it was a bit,” mumbles Will.

“You — are you dumb!” Drew yanks him by the strap of his chestplate, which is Rude and Mean. “He literally stabbed Cecil last week for staring at your ass. I still think you should have let him bleed, by the way. He needs humbling.” She loosens her python grip on his straps and starts picking at imaginary lint on the bronze. “Don’t sashay. You’ll make a fool of yourself, you clumsy fuck. Just walk over and smile and say something about ventricles or something. He’ll be drooling all over you.”

“He’ll be entirely engaged by my thrilling lecture on the cavities responsible for mamillian — and beyond! — life and livelihood,” sniffs Will, pushing her hands away.

“That’s the exact kinda nerd shit you should be saying. Good.”

“I hate it here. I’m so unappreciated.”

“Whatever you say, Grape Boy.”

———

next

[crescenthistory]

Ok not a request but I loved the recent regulus fic with “where is she?”. I can just picture snape showing up in the infirmary the next day just fully bandaged and in casts all thanks to Barty and Evan

THANK YOU i really loved writing that one, hurt/comfort is my shit, especially with someone wound so tight like regulus. something about losing control you know?

and absolutely – as soon as you are out of the infirmary, your bed is taken over by snape for his egregious crime. as is the next one over by avery, for being involved in the situation. beside him is mulciber, for trying to protect his "friends", and any others who got in the way.

regulus is barty's oldest friend; any turmoil he feels must be avenged. reader is the one barty treasures perhaps most; any violence against them must be reciprocated. as for evan, he has that quiet, simmering, unwavering loyalty, both for reader and regulus, but of course, above all else, barty. even if he didn't particularly care for you, he would have followed barty on his almost-murder spree – but when you, someone who always holds space for him and understands him, is all but gutted on school property by buffoons? and not even with a purpose or methodology, just out of pure stupidity? he is not just supporting barty nor satiating some twisted fascination, he is revelling in the opportunity to protect you after-the-fact.

say what you want about those two, call them unhinged, maniacal, disturbing, but they are and will remain pack animals. they protect their own.

they do wait, though. not with the threats, nor possibly the restraining or light maiming of the offending parties, but with any level of repercussions that require immediate medical attention. because there is no way in hell they are going to let those sods near you anytime soon.

i also think you have to keep insisting and reminding them for the next foreseeable future that you did not die:

"when snape killed y/n" is a common point of reference for barty.

"i want nothing to do with that murderous bastard" "he didn't murder me, barty" "you don't know what you're talking about"

"i'm literally sitting here, breathing, right now" "i still hear her voice sometimes"

evan would always position himself between you and snape in a room, even if he genuinely never had anything against you specifically nor would risk the injuries himself

while you roll your eyes affectionately at their theatrics, it actually does unnerve regulus

he is still largely affected by the whole thing, the thought of losing you a sore topic (sorer than it already was, that is)

only when you give evan and barty a look before nodding inconspicuously at regulus do they quiet down

though they never truly let it go

barty would definitely reference your "death" in his best man speech at your wedding sorry

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ pocket powerhouse ]❜

━━━ .°˖✧ requested by @klerns-birdie ˚₊ ⊹

ft. logan howlett x f! reader x wade wilson — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ entering the void with their tiny, mighty companion┊1.4k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: canon typical blood & violence (and murder lol), reader is described as short & cute, super strength mutation, reader is the one who kills sabertooth in this one, fourth-wall break

➤ author's note: this was funnier in my head

they had you surrounded on all fronts, some standing before you and others on armored vehicles, holding their weapons and fists up ready to strike at any moment. if they didn’t clearly have bad intentions, then you would have been flattered at this little welcome party gathering together after only a few minutes of being sent into the void. they probably heard the ruckus wade and logan were making since they simply couldn’t keep their hands off of each other.

meaning, they couldn’t stop beating each other up and using any means necessary to shed blood or break bones despite it all being healed within the span of seconds.

you find the only successful way to get them to stop trying to kill each other is by threatening to kill them first, throwing a punch into the ground to destroy it under you as a means to grab their attention while shouting that you’ll decapitate them if they continue.

they listen to you most of the time and drop the mini battles, not because they believe you would actually do it, but because they believe they are humoring you by doing so (and because they know to sit down and shut up when a pretty woman tells them to). with super-strength as your mutation, you could do it with ease, they know you can— it’s just so difficult to think that such a cute little thing who pouts when ignored and is frequently used as an armrest due to short stature would ever do anything of the sort. you still have yet to act on your warnings, only depending on bloodlust-filled glares to settle them down much like a teacher waiting for her noisy class to be quiet.

logan thinks you all bark and no bite, wade compares you to an angry bunny, it’s safe to say they take what you say with a grain of salt, exchanging amused looks and admiring how cute you are when yelling profanities and gory details of how you’re going to maim them. (blah, blah, blah, proper name, place name— backstory stuff)

the three of you cringed at the failure of johnny storm, grimacing when his balls probably got crushed on a metal pole and every time he hit his head before getting captured. his end goal was clearly to escape, but you didn’t quite know how he was planning to get there when he set himself alight and started flying.

“i know you!” a large man with flowing blonde hair jumped off the tank, landing with a heavy thud on the compacted sand.

“oh my god, that’s sabertooth, peanut’s brother,” wade explained.

“brother? they don’t really look anything alike aside from being… uh… feral?”

“well you see, apparently there are some discrepancies about that. the author isn’t sure about anything because her bitch-ass still hasn’t watched any of the x-men movies or done her research. something about ‘being too busy with real life,’ can you believe that?”

“okay, you lost me when you started talking about ‘an author,’ but lay off her!”

sabertooth growled at logan, “ready to die?” 

“hey, don’t threaten him! i don’t care if he’s your brother, he’s my friend!” you interrupted, walking up to him, acting nonchalantly like he was a teddy bear when he was truly a grizzly. he was much taller than you too, towering over you and leaving you in his shadow.

“get outta my way, girlie” he barked, extending his claws, prepared to sink them into your flesh. “you’re lucky you’re cute, or else i already would have killed you.”

“aww, thank you! but i can’t accept compliments from someone who wants to kill my friend, so to that, i say ‘fuck off!’”

before he could let out a roar about how you should know who you’re talking to or swipe his claws at your face, you lifted your hand and slapped him across the face. it was much like a dramatic slap from television shows where the girl finds out her boyfriend is cheating on her or something, except his head went flying off into the distance and sprayed blood everywhere. it happened so quickly that his body stood there for a second before flopping over.

“oh my god!” wade exclaimed, cupping his face in his hands from surprise before excitedly clapping them together, “oh my god, that’s my girl— that’s our girl! see, that’s what happens when you enlist a y/n on your team, i told you that it was a good idea to take her with us!” he picked up the decapitated head and waved his arms around, paying no mind to the dripping red iron spilling on his costume, “you bitches saw that? she’s cute ‘n tiny but mighty, and she’ll absolutely fuck you up!”

the victory was short-lived as they took advantage of logan’s adamantium skeleton and other large pieces to scrap to trap all of you to a magnet. normally, this would be a breeze for you to get yourself out of, but you got hit in the head and quickly fell unconscious for them to ship you all away to cassandra.

when you finally woke up, you’re tied back-to-back with johnny and find your two companions in a similar position. “are you guys okay?”

“they’re asleep, but i’m okay,” logan answered, voice uncharacteristically amiable. despite being just as annoying as deadpool, he liked you a whole lot more and never spoke to you as roughly as he did to him. you were sweeter, more empathetic and understanding that he needed his own space, and, he isn’t going to lie, very easy on the eyes. “and you?”

“i’m okay! my head really hurts though…” you winced and shook your head a few times, trying to get the pounding sensation out. “god, this place is crazy. first we get teleported to this junkyard and then—”

“did you really mean what you said back there?”

“what did i say?”

“well… you…” god, he felt stupid, he was about to back out and say ‘nevermind,’ but he knows that you wouldn’t have let him go so easily. “you said that i was your friend…”

“yeah! you are! i mean, i killed your brother for you even though you could have done it yourself, putting myself in danger just so that you didn’t have to— you better consider me a friend too!”

he should tell you that you shouldn’t call him that nor think of him that way since nothing good ever comes out associating with him, but he can’t bring himself to say the words he’s routinely told others to successfully push them away. something about the look in your eyes, the way they sparkled when you looked at him. something about your smile, toothy and full of hope for the future to make up for his lack of. something about you makes him keep his mouth shut.

instead, he looks away, muttering a quiet word of thanks.

you tilt your head in slight confusion, not understanding the depth of your statement yet and how it managed to pull a word of gratitude out of a man who was in a constant state of irritation, but it made you irrationally happy and giddy inside.

wade was murmuring a few unintelligible sentences before coming to, and despite wearing a mask that covered his entire face, you could envision the mild look of disgust behind the leather as clear as day. “ew, why are you smiling like that??” he took a glance at you and then back at him, repeating the process a few times. “what the fuck? you guys can’t have a love story and leave me out of it! i’m the reason you two even met—” he finally seemed to process the situation from the close proximity with logan, looking him in the eyes through the white fabric of his mask and trying to find a way to loosen it to no avail. “how long have i been asleep?”

“not all of you was asleep.”

johnny seemed to wake up as well, beginning to tell a whole bunch of exposition about this place you were trapped in, something about a monster that would swallow you up and a “her” who runs this entire place. he laughed at the notion of evading this woman’s grasp, but wade thought otherwise.

“nah, we can take her! i have a pocket powerhouse and the wolverine on my side, i’m not scared of anything!”

no one quite believes him, but it’s nice to see that your optimism has rubbed off on him.