everydaybayarea

[assiraphales]

I just found out that the Guillermo everyone is talking about isn't Guillermo del Toro and he isn't starring in a vampire comedy slash gay romance movie :(

wifeswap au where guillermo de la cruz and guillermo del toro trade places for two weeks

[helloheyhihowdyheya]

Rose Thorn Blues | pt. 5 (final)

Peter Parker x fem!reader

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Masterlist

Summary: Spider-Man saved everyone he could. But this time, you have to save him — and yourself.

Word count: ~10.4k

Warnings: Enemies to lovers!! (We're finally to the lovers part <3) Canon-level violence. Swearing, blood, injuries. Angst. Fluff and more fluff!! Love confessions!!! And smooching ;)

A/n: Today's my birthday, so here's a little birthday present to all of you :) Thank you all for your patience with this story. It's the longest one I've written, and I'm grateful for everyone that's read it. Your comments mean the world.

I'd be happy to write an epilogue or little snippets of their lives during or after this story if anyone would be interested. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy <3

Pain. Unrelenting pain settling deep into your body was the first thing you noticed. Your closed eyes squeezed shut harder as the back of your head pounded, a shaky exhale leaving your cracked lips. You could feel dried tears stuck along the planes of your cheeks.

When you tried moving your arms, you found you couldn’t — not with them bound behind you to the chair you sat in, and not with the deep ache stretching from your shoulders down to your wrists. The skin there felt rubbed nearly raw by rope holding them together. Even your chest and ankles were tied to the chair. 

Despite the ache in your ribs, you forced yourself to take long, deep breaths. Each one shook through you. Blinking slowly, you let your blurry vision adjust. The bright fluorescents were now dimmer than before, only half of them on. You shivered slightly, goosebumps raising across your skin in the cool temperature of the warehouse. 

Forms of people here and there began to come into focus in front of you. They seemed to be packing things into large boxes, the same wooden ones you’d seen before. And as you took in the tall windows and many shelves, you saw that you were in a shadowy corner of this godforsaken warehouse.

You could’ve screamed if your throat wasn’t so dry and your head wasn’t swimming. Your jaw ached as you clenched your teeth together over and over again. Panicked, uncontrolled thoughts flew through your hazy awareness. No matter how hard you tried to swallow them back, you couldn’t ignore the worry festering in your stomach — one uneasy idea decomposing into another.

Where was Peter?

A thin breath punched from your lungs as you remembered the hurt in his voice over the phone. He’d never allowed you to see him like that before, but still, you could picture his face twisting and the blood staining his suit dark. The image floated on the edges of your vision as you scanned the people moving throughout the warehouse.

Somehow, no guard stood watch over you. If what Will had said before about his horrible suit being missing, his workers must have been scouring the city — stretching his people thin and unable to be everywhere all at once.

With a possible window of opportunity open and beckoning you to take, you shifted your wrists, testing out the rope around them. Wiggling your arms made the binding a tiny bit looser. Each movement stretched them out but brought burning pain with it. It wouldn’t get you anywhere but tired and too hurt to function.

Like Peter, desperate and hurt. Who tried to keep you from walking into your demise… using secrets and lies. You clenched your teeth, hoping the pressure of it could shove away these half-feelings twisting and knotting around themselves.

So, you looked around, careful not to turn your head too abruptly in case any workers looked over. Though, even from afar, all of them looked terrified to do anything but hastily pack. Orders from Will himself, you were sure of it.

From the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of a jagged metal beam broken and sticking out from a beat-up shelf. It looked dull, but it came to a point. It’d have to do.

As silently as you could, you used your feet to inch the chair backward — timing each push with the sound of people shouting at one another or loudly loading up a crate. Your ears rang and your rapid heartbeat dulled your focus, distracting you with each intense spike of your nerves firing off.

Over several minutes, you positioned your bound hands to the piece of metal shelving and began to rub the rope across it. You paused at each lull, each possible moment that you might be caught. It gave you temporary relief from the strain pulling in your shoulders as you continued sawing away at the rope.

Sweat beaded across your skin as time passed — how long exactly, you weren’t sure. But eventually, the strands turned thinner. They felt as tight and ready to snap as your resolve. But when the rope loosened, becoming big enough for your hands to wiggle out, it instead filled your body with quenching relief.

The rope had barely pooled along the concrete floor before you began working on the binding stretching across your chest to hold your torso to the chair. It was tedious and forced your aching arms in horrible positions, but you pulled and pulled at the binding, squirming around to even gain an inch of room.

It kept catching on the bunched-up fabric of your clothes, but it moved. So, so slowly, it moved. It was an effort to keep your breaths silent when you wanted nothing more than to just shout for anyone to come help you. But Peter wasn’t here to help, so you sunk your teeth into your lip and kept quiet as the rope loosened.

Pushing your elbows out, you slipped the rope over your head. You allowed yourself only one unrestrained inhale before bending at the waist and working on the knot tying your ankles to the chair. Your fingers worked quickly, your eyes constantly trained on the workers as you moved. But the sight of that rope falling from your body made you blink away stinging tears.

Your best bet would likely be looking for a back exit and hoping you could sneak by anyone there — or fight your way out if it came to that. On unsteady legs, you raised yourself up, ignoring the wave of sharp pain pulsing at the back of your head and down your spine.

But before you could even take a step, get a real breath of freedom in your lungs, a sharp blade appeared at your neck.

“Going somewhere, sunshine?”

Within an instant, William Beaumont appeared next to you, and had he not held a tight grip to your upper arm, you might have collapsed. Though the blade pressed against you, your body instinctually writhed to get away from him. But even in the dim lighting, you saw the darkness that clung to him, the stillness in his eyes, the heavy weight he held. This wasn’t the Will you met before.

“Or Rose, is it?” he asked, his voice cold and calculated.

He pulled you forward and yanked your arms behind you. Your throat felt tight, your chest ready to rip open as you felt a zip tie tighten around your wrists — the plastic rubbing right where the rope had been just minutes ago. It had been too easy. Did he give you that hope on purpose? Just a lion toying with its food? A wretched feeling of fear shot through you at the thought. 

Will shoved you back in the chair, a labored grunt shooting out of your lungs and a dizziness hitting you. Once he was sure you weren’t going to get up again, he took a step back, careful to keep the long blade pointed at your throat. 

You dully registered a piece of wood rolling to your feet as Will aimlessly paced before you, kicking scattered debris. Sweat coated his skin, his hair damp against his forehead. For a minute, he just wordlessly walked back and forth, his eyes staring unfocused toward the ground. But you couldn’t look at his face for long, not with the sunken shadows settling into each curve of his expression. He almost looked sickly. Your gaze instead dropped to the handgun tucked into the back of his waistband; then you looked to the sharp piece of metal in his hand, recognizing it as one of the wrecked pieces from the Green Goblin’s glider.

When he paused, your breaths stopping too, he turned to stare at you. “Where’s my suit?” he asked, simply and without room for negotiation.

Despite the nearly deafening roaring of your heartbeat, you held his stare and willed your voice to come out steady. “Where’s your father?”

He raised an eyebrow at you, and you wondered how you hadn’t ever seen the similarities between those two before — the eerie air around them. 

“Ellis is a bit busy at the moment. Why? Want to snoop around his mansion some more?” He tilted his head, pursing his lips just slightly. The look brought an anger next to your fear — anger and frustration that they could do good with what they had and keep their promises, but they were just adding more filth to the city.

He came closer then, squatting down so he was nearly eye level with you. You could barely stand to look at him this close, but you did your best not to flinch away. It was just another character you had to play. 

Almost unnoticeable, you saw him wince in pain as he lowered. Watching him, you swallowed the fear trickling down your spine and asked, “Feeling sore?” At his unimpressed look, you merely squared your shoulders, raising your chin.

A breathy half-laugh escaped his lips. He stared down at his hand as he flexed it.  “Jus’ some growing pains…” He shrugged. “ No change comes without a cost.”

“And is the cost worth all this?” you asked, your eyes motioning to the wreckage of the warehouse behind him.

“I’m just living up to the Beaumont family name. We’re cutting through endless miles of red tape with a snap of my fingers. I think you know the answer.”

“Your fingers?” you questioned. “Ellis is making you do all the dirty work?”

Will just rolled his eyes, his grip growing tighter on the blade. Letting out a sharp breath, he stood up, his body wavering just barely as he did so. Still, you went rigid as he towered over you. “Where’s the suit?”

You shook your head, trying to stay calm. But your resolve, this mask, pulled in all directions. “You said you wanted to educate people. What kind of change can be worth whatever you have planned? Worth a super suit and bodily experiments?” You remembered the way he’d bent the shelving’s metal like it was nothing.

“I prefer the term enhancements actually. Because they have made me better. Made it easier to ‘negotiate’ with clients. To educate the city on who really controls things around here.” He stared down at you, letting his words sink in.

Your tone rose, a tightness taking hold of your throat. “And who controls it? It’s certainly not you if your daddy’s bossing you around.” Despite the cold anger flaring behind his features, you continued. “Who says he won’t just keep you as his little lackey to do his bidding forever?”

His jaw twitched, his hand gripping the blade harder. You fought the terrified waves of nausea sitting in your stomach as he said, “Shut your mouth. You know nothing about the empire he’s planned for me.”

Your voice lowered with venom pooling around your tongue, one eyebrow raising. “Oh, and he’d never lie for his own personal gain, right? Even at the harm of others?”

“Where’s the suit?” he gritted out.

“I don’t know.”

You jolted backward as he slammed the metal blade against one of the shelves. The echoing clang of the hit made you curl into yourself, the blood draining from your heart.

His hand raised high, clenched above his head, before it slowly unfurled. He pressed his fingers into his temples. “I’m not in the fucking mood for this.” Punctuating each word with a step closer, he said, “Where. Is. The. Suit?” 

A pulsing vein appeared along his neck, his breathing coming harder. Your hope of getting out of here dwindled with each second he got closer to losing it. 

Trying to keep your voice calm, you said, “Will, I swear I don’t know.”

He charged toward you then, gripping your chin in his hand despite the yelp you let out. “You’ve come to this warehouse before. You’ve been in our house. You stole blueprints. And you think I’m going to believe you?”

You let out a shaky exhale, muscles twitching and screaming at you to get away from him. “I never broke in here. I wouldn’t be able to take all those boxes of the suit by myself, not without being seen. I don’t know where it is.”

His gaze considered you, roaming across your face like he was listing all the ways to torture the information from you. “Then you had help. Maybe that little ‘husband’ of yours knows — he might talk more than you when we find him.” He paused, his hold on you growing a little tighter, making you wince. “And that spider will talk when we string him up and force it out of him.”

Your expression dropped, your eyebrows tightening together. So they didn’t know Peter was Spider-Man, at least not yet. And if you could get out of here alone, it could stay that wa-

A flash of red flew past the windows near the warehouse’s ceiling. Any sense of calm, no matter how forced, dissipated into uncatchable smoke. No, he couldn’t be here. He couldn’t bring himself right into the waiting mouth of the beast that was hunting him. Silently, you pulled at the zip tie holding your wrists. 

“Speaking of cutting through red tape…” Will muttered as a thud on top of the roof had his gaze shooting upward. Silence covered the entire building — all of the workers immediately stopped their movements. 

You could barely slump forward when Will let go of your chin before he brought the blade back to your neck, his body standing behind you. His words echoed as he called out, “Come on out, Spider-Man! I promise we’ll let her go…”

Your eyes squeezed shut as the pain in the back of your head pounded harder, tears threatening to pool on your eyelashes. You whispered, “And then what? Where does this end, Will?” 

A jagged smile was evident in his words. “Who says the fun ever has to end?” His hands forced your head to turn, your gaze pointed toward the warehouse entrance. “Isn’t that right, father?” Will asked loudly, calling to the man walking toward you both with a gun at the ready.

The sight dropped a deadening weight into your stomach. Ellis looked wild, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His usual well-kempt look was forgotten, his suit ragged and hair free from its slicked-back style. More guards continued to enter the warehouse after him, and you couldn’t stop your entire body from shaking.

“Or maybe the fun’s just beginning,” Will said into the curve of your ear. It made you stretch to get away from him, but that only pushed your neck further into the blade — pain prickling along your skin.

You revolted against the dread, the horrific realization, that you may watch Peter die here — while he was trying to save you. It took everything in you to not let it incapacitate your ability to think or even function.

Ellis directed the guards this way and that. You watched with unfocused attention as he followed the large group up toward the roof. Normally, you would say he was sending them to their demise with Spider-Man up there. But an injured, desperate Spider-Man? That struck icy fear into your veins.

And you’d never known Spider-Man to have a noisy approach — careless enough to make noise and draw the enemy’s attention to himself. He’d have to play it smart, which became evident a few minutes later when Will yelled to one of his guards… and got no response. Peter was picking them off one by one in here while they searched for him outside.

Will’s free hand gripped tightly to your shoulder, his body continuously moving in small twitches. You could feel how on edge he was, and you wondered just how dangerous this family could be. Full power over the city, and all they needed now was to remove the one man stopping them.

You fought to keep your breathing even, your mind clear, so you could stay calm. And it worked to ground you just as a web shot from the sky. At blinding speed, it hit Will’s arm, sending the blade flying away from you. It clattered across the floor, the sound the sweetest thing you’d ever heard. Before he could fully realize what had happened, you lifted your foot and brought it down against his knee using every bit of strength you had.

By the time he’d crumpled to the floor, you’d run the other way. His scream froze your heart, but you knew he wouldn’t be down long with whatever experiments were coursing through him. Weaving between shelves with your hands still bound behind you, you tried to find somewhere safe — maybe the back entrance you’d planned to go to before.

But there were sure to be more guards outside now, and you couldn’t get far with your hands tied together. Your steps slowed, trying to become silent as you looked around for something sharp. Among the debris were ammo, rope, chemicals… but nothing to cut the zip tie. 

Will’s words sounded far enough away, but that didn’t stop your head from whipping in his direction as he yelled, “You’ll fucking regret that!” Without so much as a breath, you took small steps backward away from the threat.

You only got a few feet when a gloved hand wrapped around your mouth. Before you could even scream, you were lifted into the air. The warehouse passed in a blur, but relief broke through as you felt summer night air hit your skin — as you recognized the sounds of the man swinging you both a few blocks away.

The two of you landed in a different alley, this one empty and finally safe. A second later, you felt the snap of the zip tie, and your wrists came free.

“Thought you might need a han-”

He only spoke those few words before you turned around to lunge into his arms. A quiet grunt shot out of him as you hugged him until your arms shook. You sniffled back tears budding up, your fingers clenching tight onto his suit. You breathed in him.

“Peter,” you whispered against him.

“Uh… I’m not sure who that is. The name’s Spide-”

“Shut up,” you interrupted, shaking your head as you pressed in closer to him. You could have sobbed when his arms wrapped around you too. To have him here, real, and breathing felt like the aching quiet after waking up from an unending nightmare, like the first rays of morning sunlight peeking above the horizon.

But the memory of when the two of you last spoke washed over your senses in an unrelenting tidal wave. You pulled back, your hold on him tightening as you looked at him. Your breath fizzed away like bubbling remnants of the crashed wave.

Blood splattered across his suit, broken up by dirt and rips along his body. His chest rapidly rose and fell, tired in a way you’d never seen the superhero. He’d pulled his arms from you— one of his hands rested against the building, using it to hold his weight. His other hand wrapped around his left side where blood-coated webs held together what looked to be a bullet wound. But what stole the breath from your lungs, what grabbed you and forced you to come to terms with all that’d happened, was his face. 

A jagged tear in his mask stretched from his cheek to his forehead, leaving one of his bloodshot eyes exposed. The skin around it looked marred with cuts and aching bruises. At the top of the rip, pieces of his shaggy hair stuck to his forehead. He was barely recognizable. Your bottom lip trembled, no matter how hard you tried to stop it. But before you could open your mouth, Peter brought you back in against him, hugging you tight. He whispered, “Thank God you’re okay.”

Pressing your hands against his chest, you created a little bit of space despite how your body protested. “Peter… are you okay?”

His exposed eye traced across your face, the soft brown looking paler than usual. “I’m fine. I got the suit out — and hidden. That’s what matters.”

You gave him an exhausted look because that was not all that mattered, not as he stood there looking like that, but you didn’t argue further. He was here. And stubborn.

So you just allowed yourself to do what you hadn’t done before the fundraiser. Raising your hand, you paused for a brief moment before gingerly fixing his hair. You tucked the strands back under the mask before swiping a thumb across his forehead. 

His hand came up to grab your wrist, lowering it from his hair but not letting go of you.

“How are you doing?” he asked. His fingers were gentle against the marks on your wrist.

You blinked against the throbbing in your head but nodded, breathing out, “Uh… yeah. I’ll be okay.”

And too many other things to say passed your mind, some you wanted to tell him and others you couldn’t. With a hoarse voice and downcast eyes, you settled on, “You came.” 

You hoped he heard all you meant underneath those two words.

And you didn’t have time to register his answer — “of course” — as he moved his grip from your wrist down to your hand. He squeezed once then let it return to your side.

“Okay, I need to head back,” he said, raising his arm to shoot a web back in the direction of the warehouse, “please head to the hospital, and stay safe. I’d bring you there myself, but–” He gestured to his injured side, his face wincing in pain.

Instantly, your face twisted, a dizziness coming over you as any relief you had shattered to the ground. “You’re not going back in there. Not like this,” you nearly pleaded, your words coming out faster. “You’ve done enough. Call- call the police, and let them handle it.”

He shook his head. “I already called them. But with Will’s powers, it’ll be a massacre. I’ve got to go.” He said it with such certainty, with no room for argument. He tried to step past you, his gaze stoically not meeting yours. 

“Then I’m coming too.” You stepped to the side with him. You hurriedly explained, “Something’s not right with Will, like his body is struggling with whatever’s coursing through him. So I think if we-”

“What? No. I mean, yes,” he told you. “Will is using DNA from supervillians, and I think his body’s rejecting it. But no, you’re not coming with me.”

“Could we somehow increase his symptoms then, or speed them up?” Your palms came up to rest against his chest. His heartbeat pounded rapidly beneath your touch.

“I mean, probably. If we incubated it with heat or lights maybe, but…” He cocked his head. “Stop talking like we’re doing this together. We’re not.”

Turning your chin up at him, you argued, “Well the plan where you get yourself killed sucks.”

“Well I happen to like the plan where you get killed a lot less, so you’re staying,” he said, raising an arm to shoot out a web again. He held stern, but you heard the exhaustion coating his words, how tired he really was. 

Spider-Man always had a plan, Peter always knew what to do. And now it seemed his only plan was to stop Will at all costs — even at the cost of his own life. You shoved away the emotion that thought brought bubbling up your throat.

You clenched your hands into fists, refusing to let him go so easily. “Peter, you’re not leaving me in the dark anymore. The secrets and hiding have to stop here.”

You watched his eyebrow sink into a frown, his voice becoming more serious than you’d ever heard. “Secrets and hiding? Yeah, I have to keep my identity hidden, but don’t you get why I did all of this?” He asked as if it was the most obvious question. His hands gestured out to the side as he took a step back — your own hands falling away from him.

He turned his head away from you, and you could only watch his jaw clench and unclench with each passing second. The silence rang in your ears, until he breathed out, “It was to keep you safe. ‘Cause all this? It does no good if… if you’re gone.”

You held your breath, feeling your heart beating wildly throughout you. Heat crawled up your body at his words. Quietly, you asked, “What does me being gone have to do with stopping Beaumont?”

Shaking his head, Peter breathed out the ghost of a laugh. In an instant, he stepped so closely that it nearly gave you whiplash. Slowly, the tips of his fingers slipped under his mask to pull it above his mouth. He shifted even closer, his lips merely an inch from yours as his hands cupped your jaw. His body overtook all of your senses. He whispered, “Christ, are you this dense on purpose?” 

With that, his lips pressed against yours, your eyes fluttering shut on instinct. At first, you didn’t move at all — afraid that it would break whatever moment you somehow found yourself in. Thoughts and emotions yelled for your attention, for you to analyze what was happening, but none were quite as loud as the feeling of his body melding against yours. That familiar warmth of him enveloped you, and all you could do was melt with him.

It wasn’t like the hurried kissing at the fundraiser, all teeth and tongue and newness. This almost felt familiar, as if you could come home to this every day. Your hands snaked up, holding onto his shoulders as he dulled your senses into a fuzziness. You felt your mind nearly go blank — but not completely.

With waning will power, you pulled away, trying not to relish in the soft noise that escaped his throat as you did so. You both caught your breath — the yearning exhales mingling in the small space between you. And with the way his hands still held onto you, now dropped down along your body to find a home on your hips, you knew there was no way he’d let you go with him.

“I… you, uh, need to get back” you began with a long, heavy breath. Swiping your tongue across your bottom lip, you took a resistant step backward. He kept one hand on yours as you moved. “Just, Peter, please be safe.”

He slowly nodded, and you watched every movement as he grabbed his mask and brought it back down. His thumb rubbed along your skin. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. And after…”

“After?” you asked, smiling at him.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “After. Let me take you out.”

“After,” you promised. You swallowed, wrapping a hand around his forearm and squeezing once. But before he could move away, you said, “Wait! Do you have anything I could use? To defend myself, I mean. I’d just feel safer — in case I happen to run into their guards on my way to the hospital.” You offered a closed mouth smile, one that told him not to worry too much about you.

“Uh, yeah…” he said, patting along his suit and up to his wrists. Removing part of his left webshooter, he set a small metal piece into your palm. You thought it looked almost like a flash drive as he curved your fingers over it.

“It’s not ideal, but it’s the best I have right now. It helps control my electric webs, so you can use this part as a sort of taser if someone comes at you,” he explained, waiting until you nodded before pulling you into a hug. It crushed your body, feeling like a hug you’d give someone you might not see for a long time. Or ever again.

So, you whispered, “Good luck,” and watched as he stepped away and swung away slowly. One of his hands still held tight to his side.

You waited there for a minute, bringing a thumb up to your lips. You felt how they still tingled and how they curved into a smile. But as soon as you were sure Peter had made it back to the warehouse already, you began making your way there with quick steps.

Maybe you were in over your head. Peter would probably call you stupid or reckless. But if he couldn’t handle if something happened to you, then he’d have to understand why you weren’t leaving him to go in there alone.

So you found yourself marching back to the place you never hoped to return to. Intense pounding went through your head with each step. Your palm felt slick with sweat, but you held tight onto the makeshift taser until your knuckles began to ache.

You were glad the warehouse was so secluded — hopefully no passerbyers would get caught in the fray. Or hear the commotion coming from inside. The muffled noise came from the far side of the building, near the front, so you hugged the opposite side of the alley as you made your way to the back. You guessed that they all concentrated on where Peter must have made an appearance, which only left one guard standing at the door.

Eyes flicking to the ground, you caught a glimpse of rock sitting in the cracks of the alleyway. Silently picking it up and pressing yourself into the shadows, you took a steadying breath that did little to calm your nerves in the midst of this insane idea. Still, your shaky arm reeled back to throw the rock up and over the guard, making it land on the other side of him.

As soon as he turned away from you, gun trained on the strange noise, you stepped from the dark and crept toward him. You gave yourself no time to second guess yourself before coming up behind him. Your internal monologue repeated, Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god as you raised the taser.

But as you went to press the taser into the guard, he turned back around in shock — throwing his elbow into your cheek in the process. A silent groan sat in your throat as your mouth hung open, a loud ringing going through your head. Pain bloomed outward from your face, and it took a moment to push past your swimming vision. Using all your strength, you lunged at him again and shoved the taser into the flesh of his neck.

In an instant, his body began convulsing. You did your best to try and let his weight down gently, but he just slid to the ground alongside you, unconscious and still twitching. Pushing him off, you sat on your knees and tried to catch your breath. You let the pain slowly dull with each passing second.

As you sat there, a glimpse of white against his dark uniform caught your eye — an ID badge hanging off his hip. It worked perfectly against the card reader at the back door, unlocking with a soft click for you to slip through. And there you were again, stood in the mouth of the beast once again.

In the back hallway away from the open floor, you could hear crashing and yelling coming from across the building. You only made it a few feet before footsteps sounded from the end of the hallway. Deep voices echoed off the concrete walls, each word louder than the next. You didn’t move or breathe until eventually, finally, they began to grow quieter.

From where you stood, heart still in your throat, you could tell the warehouse lights were still dimmed. So you searched along the walls, ears always listening for anyone coming back. You opened up the door after finding a circuit breaker, tracing a finger down the length of it. None of the switches were labeled, so after a moment of consideration, you flipped them all on — washing the building in bright fluorescents.

And just a few feet down the hall sat the thermostat. It was set to 65 degrees, but your hand quickly turned the dial up to the 89 degree mark. Within a few seconds, you heard the heater turn on and rumble through the vents. 

You nodded, hopeful that this could begin weakening Will enough for Peter to take him out. While bleeding and injured. While dozens of guards also tried to kill him. How could you let him come back here? How could he come back here and make you come back here to help his ass?

You began to turn around to go find him when a heavy hand landed on your shoulder.

“Freeze-”

A gasp caught in your throat as you whipped around out of instinct and fear, immediately shoving the makeshift taser at the woman. It connected with the bottom of her jaw. With wide eyes, you watched as her body shook and fell to the ground just like the other guard. Your hand came up to cover your mouth while you stared. You didn’t think you would ever get used to that.

Slowly, you backed away down the hall. You did manage to grab her gun and hide it on a shelf when you made your way out there — rather than take it and risk shooting yourself or Peter, even if he did have superpowers.

Superpowers that you almost began to resent as you stepped into the open area of the warehouse — and the man himself immediately dropped down in front of you. You placed your hand over your mouth and swallowed the yelp that threatened to escape. Instead, you watched Peter as he guided the both of you behind a shelf. 

His chest rose and fell much too quickly, his stance wavering and unsteady. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to affect his attitude though, as he came closer and angrily whispered, “What the hell are you doing here? I can’t believe you did this.”

You gave him a soft, disbelieving look, a closed-lipped smile on your face. “Yes, you can.”

He brought his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose. A long sigh left his mouth. “Alright,” he said, “I can believe it. But you need to leave now.” He tried weakly pushing you toward the back door again.

You didn’t budge. “Oh, okay. Yeah, now that I’ve snuck in to help — by electrocuting two guards into unconsciousness, by the way — I’ll just go on my merry way,” you whispered back, twisting your face into a mocking expression. “How about you shut up and just let me help?”

“That’s why you asked for the weapon?” He quietly groaned before looking at you again, his head cocking. “Two guards? That’s not bad.”

“Thank you. Now, I’ve turned up the heat and lights. So let’s go.”

For a moment, he considered you. His eye covered by the mask looked expressionless, distant. But his exposed eye made you pause — his gaze feeling resigned, desperate in a way that made your heart twist. You didn’t want to imagine the other compromises or sacrifices Spider-Man has had to make over the years. And you didn’t have time to. So you swallowed those thoughts and simply grabbed his hand, entwining your fingers with his to pull him farther into the warehouse.

As you slowly moved down the aisles, you whispered, “Give me one of your web shooters.”

You already knew his answer from the blank stare he shot sideways at you. “I’m not giving you one of my web shooters. I need them.” Part of his words told you he really did need them to get you both through this. The other part said he didn’t trust you to not accidentally shoot him with his own webs.

“Well don’t you have an extra one or something?” you shot back.

“Do you see this suit? Where could I even keep an extra web shooter on me?” he quietly asked, his free hand raising outstretched and exasperated.

You let your eyes trail across the suit per his suggestion — until Peter said, “Okay, that’s enough ogling.” And even for the briefest of moments, it felt good to smile with him. 

But at another crash several aisles down, he stiffened. You felt his rapid heartbeat pulse against your skin as he held up a hand. “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

You tried to squeeze his hand, to give him some sort of mention to be careful or to not get himself killed out there, but his fingers slipped through yours as he instantly swung away. Your palm radiated leftover warmth as you hid, thinking through the plan. Hopefully, the two of you wouldn’t have to wait long for Will to show symptoms, which would just leave many guards and Ellis. Peter seemed confident that they couldn’t fight their way out of this.

But under the commotion of guards around the warehouse, yelling and fighting coming from seemingly everywhere, you didn’t hear the heavy footsteps until they were too close. Whipping around, you saw Ellis appear at the end of the aisle, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. He raised his gun, aiming it right at you as he said, “Found you now.” His voice sounded colder, void of any of the charm he had when speaking to the public.

Instinctively, you backed away from him — from the man that made cold dread creep through your body and steal the breath from your lungs — but your steps stuttered when a web came from the ceiling and yanked the gun from Ellis’ grip. It flew upward, but you didn’t wait to see Ellis’ reaction before silently thanking Peter and sprinting the other way.

Only to be met with Will standing on the other side of the long aisle. 

His twisted smile and disheveled hair falling into his face fueled the icy weight dropping into your gut. His bloody fingers tightened around the end of the blade he held in one hand. The other gripped a pistol.

You turned to look back at Ellis to see him fighting against more webs. As Will approached with heavy steps, his arm shaking as he aimed his gun at you, you forced your body to move.

Without thinking, you ducked and crawled past boxes sitting on the large shelf and emerged into the next aisle. You couldn’t think about the thudding sounds of bullets hitting metal around you.

You knew he’d be on you soon, his mutated powers making him too powerful. So you crawled across to the next aisle, pushing aside scattered equipment before throwing yourself through that shelf too. You went through a few more aisles and shelves to create at least a little distance. In the last shelf you passed, you hid yourself between the boxes. You stilled just a second before you heard him enter the aisle.

Clamping a hand over your mouth, you squeezed your eyes shut as his footsteps grew louder with each passing second. Your other hand began to ache from gripping the taser between your fingers.

“Run all you like. It won’t change how this all ends,” Will seethed, his voice becoming closer to you. A raggedness filled his words, and you hoped that meant the plan was working.

Still, Peter’s name repeated over and over in your mind, a silent prayer for him to come help. But you could hear more guards approaching, each one feeling like an extra shovel digging your graves.

The guards seemed to be coming to find the commotion, but from the sounds, it seemed like Peter was holding them off. You could only imagine the exhaustion and pain riddling his body as he never stopped fighting.

And you hoped he wouldn’t stop as a shaking, powerful hand wrapped itself around your arm and yanked you from the shelf. No sound could escape your mouth — every inch of it went dry in the face of Will’s bloodshot eyes. 

One hand reached to claw at his grip while the other brought the taser up to his neck. But he knocked it away before sending you flying from the aisles into the open space. You heard a growl rip from his throat before it disappeared under the ringing in your ears, a breathless groan dribbling from your agape lips, as you fell against the concrete.

In between slow blinking and painful winces, you caught sight of Peter coming down and fighting against Will. Even with the sweat starting to bead along your skin, the extra heat and lights weren’t enough yet to weaken him. You saw how fast his punches were, how slow Peter was to dodge them.

Your arms trembled as you pushed yourself onto one elbow. Gritting your teeth, you ignored the ache throbbing behind your eyes. You began to stand up again only for a blow to knock you back down and sliding across the floor.

“God, I’ve just had fucking enough of you. Stay down for once, sweetheart. Okay?”

Past watery vision, you raised your head to see a bloody Ellis pointing a gun down at you. You held your breath, not daring to move as nausea and fear turned to sludge in your stomach. His knuckles look torn and raw, his suit ripped along his shoulders and arms. One hand of his ran through his hair, leaving a smear of blood along his hairline.

Just as you were to silently call for Peter again or to close your eyes and wait for this all to be over, a strangled groan echoed throughout the warehouse. A second later, Peter’s ragged body flew from the shelves and hit the ground, sliding until he slammed into the building’s wall. A cry escaped your mouth at seeing his limp form, and you only breathed again once you saw him beneath the debris and dust. Blood dribbled from his shoulder. More rips spread along his suit. But weakly, slowly, you could see his chest continue to rise and fall.

Before you could try to crawl over to him, Will emerged from the aisles — his smile victorious even as his muscles shook. From where you lay, you couldn’t see any more guards. Peter must have gotten them all. Now you just needed a little more time.

“His current state is going to make it harder to get answers out of him, William,” Ellis said. He stretched his neck side to side as he continued to train his gun directly at your heart.

Will let out a breathy laugh as he made his way closer. “I was just having some fun testing out my powers.” He flexed his hands in front of him, his heartbeat visible in the raised veins just beneath his skin. “Besides, I’m sure there are ways to get him to talk…”  

His gaze rose to connect with yours.

He dropped the end of his blade to the ground, letting it drag against the concrete with each step. The slicing sound may as well have been the blade itself running along your throat.

You began to shuffle backward, needing to get as far away from him and his torture plan as possible. Your teeth dug so far into your cheek that you began to taste blood. Fresh tears pooled along your eyes as you called out, “When were you going to tell him, Ellis?”

Still several feet away, Will paused for a moment, the blade hanging looser from his grasp. His eyes flicked to his father’s.

Ellis' shout echoed across the building, making you flinch. “What are you doing? Grab her. We need to leave.”

You didn’t let either of them think before blurting out, “When were you going to tell your son that his body’s rejecting the DNA? That they’re going to kill him?”

Ellis nearly growled out his next words as he stalked closer. “Shut. Up. You don’t know anything, you worthless girl.”

You scrambled back farther, your hands searching for anything along the ground. Your fingers grasped a broken shard of glass, bringing it in front of your body. It looked so miniscule, so useless, trembling before him.

“Is that true?”

Will’s words broke through, and for a brief moment, you recognized him again — he was the man you danced with. Only this time, he looked empty.

The question made Ellis stop this time, his eyes squeezing shut for a second.

“Father?”

You saw how Will’s skin looked red and blotchy, how his breathing became harder with each passing second. He knew something was wrong.

“Tell him, Ellis. Tell him why he’s becoming weaker by the minute.” You tried to keep your voice steady, and though it wavered and scratched, it still struck the tense thread holding them together.

For too long, no one spoke. You fought to not look away from Ellis’ stare that pierced through you. Every breath, every tiny move he made, you watched him from behind the broken glass.

Will pleaded, shouting,“Dad!”

Finally, Ellis broke from the trance and dropped the gun just slightly, turning toward Will. You took the brief moment to glance to Peter. In… out. In… out. He was here. He was okay. He would be okay.

You turned back when Ellis let out a resigned sigh, refusing to fully meet his son’s gaze. “We are working on a cure… a treatment to stabilize your body’s reactions. There was no use in worrying you before we found it.”

“Except that tiring his body worsens it — it kills him faster,” you gritted past split lips, despite flinching when Ellis aimed the gun at you again.

“Shut the hell up!” he yelled, gripping the gun’s handle until his knuckles turned white. You raised your chin higher.

“Is she right?” Will asked.

“I…” Ellis began, groaning and dropping the gun to his side. He reached his other hand toward Will, turning toward him completely. “It’s…” And for once, you heard Ellis Beaumont have nothing to say — no lies to spew. Still, he approached Will, trying to embrace him.

But Will backed away, his tripping over one another. “You did this to me,” he whispered, almost in awe. Then, his voice rose with each word until he was shouting. “You used me as some lap dog and knew that it was destroying me from the inside out?”

Ellis approached again. “Son–”

“No! Get the hell off me,” Will screamed, pressing his hands into his father’s chest and shoving with all his strength.

Ellis stumbled, and you relished in the way his mouth opened and shut without saying anything. 

“No. Don’t say another goddamn thing. No more telling me what to do like I’m a child,” he paused, his jaw clenching. His irises seemed to glow a sickly green, his voice becoming deep and alien. “Like I’m just some tool to get you your money.”

What lit the awaiting wick, though, was Ellis — in all his confidence and cowardice for his own safety — raised his gun at his son. You swore you saw the instant Will lost all semblance of control.

His body surged forward, tackling his father to the ground. Ellis yelled out, but it cut short when he hit the concrete. Any noise he made disappeared under the sound of Will’s fist hitting his dad. An animalistic growl rang out, and for a moment, you sat entranced, watching the pain pass across both of their faces as they battled. 

You stared at the tears flying from Will’s eyes until your arm could no longer hold up the shard of glass. Its sharp edges pressed into your skin, but as they continued fighting, you dropped it to crawl toward Peter’s body.

Your eyes stayed on the two men while you passed over debris and the occasional webbed-up guard. You pushed away the wreckage despite the aching fire licking across every part of your body. Glimpses of red peaked through as you uncovered Peter. Immediately, you felt his chest for a pulse, for his ragged-but-stable breaths. A gasp escaped your mouth as you felt it dimly beating. You then moved to put pressure on the bullet wound on his side. 

The pained groan he let out choked your heart. On the tip of your tongue, his name stood begging to leap off the edge and surround his body until he was okay again.

Instead, with darting eyes and trembling lips, you whispered, “Spidey.”

When he didn’t respond, you took hold of his arms and shook him slightly. Tears dripped down your cheeks, your voice becoming more desperate. “C’mon. We have to go. You have to get out of here.” You pushed his exposed hair back under his mask again. He barely stirred.

“Please,” you cried out, pulling on him, prepared to try and drag him out of there. “You can’t ditch me, asshole. I’m not doing this alone.”

Beneath the yelling of Ellis’ pleading and Will’s incessant punches, you heard Peter murmur something. You didn’t dare breathe, only whispering for him to repeat.

“You’re… an… asshole,” Peter grumbled, his face twisting as he opened his eyes. His head lolled to the side, a dry swallow passing down his throat. If he wasn’t in so much pain, you might’ve thought about hitting him for that. Instead, a splitting smile overtook your face.

But you didn’t have time to stop when Peter’s hands tensed around you. He moved just slightly to look toward the Beaumonts, prompting you to whip your head in their direction again.

You looked just in time to see Will wavering above Ellis, his eyes blinking slower and slower. A second later, he slumped forward and off of Ellis’ body onto the ground. Will appeared to be breathing still, but he was weak. 

Any momentary relief you felt vanished as Ellis sat up, that wild look back on his face. Your hold on Peter tightened, your body thrown back into desperate fear. Ellis reached a few feet out to grab the blade Will had before training his eyes on you — like a predator locked onto its prey.

“You little-”

Grabbing Peter’s nearly limp arm, you repeatedly pressed down on his web shooter’s trigger before Ellis could finish his sentence. Webs flew out and encompassed the man, wrapping him and sticking him to the floor.

“Thank you,” Peter muttered. “He was giving me a headache.”

You were sure it was the multiple head injuries doing that, but you appreciated the humor while your heart rate returned to normal.

“C’mon. We’re leaving,” you urged him. With all of your strength, you did your best to support Peter’s weight as he slowly stood and staggered onto you. You could hear the groans he continued to bite back.

You held onto him tight, keeping him balanced. “Okay, do you have your phone on you?”

“Yeah…”

You waited for him to fish it out from a slim pocket. Using your free hand, you took several pictures of the Beaamonts lying there and the ruined warehouse. Your investigative heart wanted to take a hundred images from every angle, but your rational mind told you to leave. It took all your effort to move on. Trying to ignore the dizziness in the corners of your vision, you wrapped an arm around Peter’s side and walked to the back of the warehouse.

You both passed through the back door, out over the threshold of that place — finally out into the night for good. He’d be okay.

Along the warehouse’s high windows, flashes of police lights reflected down onto Peter’s face. He gritted his teeth and raised his arm to the skyline, staring into your eyes. “Ready, sunshine?”

You let yourself be pulled in closer to his side, blinking away the stinging tears.

And from this angle, with cascading cherry and violet lights raining down onto Peter’s profile, you found that you didn’t mind red and blue so much anymore.

Nodding, you slowly drew your eyes to his. “Ready.”

—

Your words spilled through gritted teeth, your jaw clenched tight. “I hate you so much, Peter.” 

Your palms were sweaty as you forced yourself to stay focused despite that rage building in your chest. It continued up your body, crawling along your throat.

“Really? After all I’ve done for you?” Peter asked, his tone incredulous. You could feel the waves of heat rolling off of him.

Your expression sinking into a frown, you muttered, “It’s only fitting, considering that you lie and hide secrets.”

“Oh come on…” He scoffed, holding up a hand. “That’s low. And if you think about it, it was really only one secret!”

“That you lied about multiple times!”

He sat back next to you against the couch cushions, the weight of him drawing you closer. “You’re just a sore loser, and you’re angry that I whooped your ass in Mario Kart. Again,” he said, and you finally turned your gaze from the screen to look at him.

Light streamed in through his apartment’s window, the afternoon sun dancing across his face. His eyes turned to a soft caramel under its attention. His hair was undone, feathering along his forehead. Slowly, he grew closer, raising one eyebrow as if daring you to tell him he’s wrong.

Crossing your arms, determined not to be affected by his stare, you told him, “I literally beat you in the last game.”

He rolled his eyes. “Cause you cheated!”

“Look who’s the sore loser now,” you laughed out, your mouth turning into a gentle smile.

The two of you were face to face on the couch, breaths mixing together. A moment of silence passed, Peter’s softening eyes roaming across you. His thumb reached over to brush along the outside of your thigh. “You’re lucky you’re adorable.”

You didn’t try to fight your wide grin or the heat rising to your cheeks. In a whisper, you asked, “You think I’m adorable?”

His only answer was a slight huff as he leaned forward, kissing you. It only lasted a moment, your lips chasing his when he pulled away. “I’m gonna grab a drink, don’t sabotage my controller while I’m gone,” he teased, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Want anything?”

“I’ll take whatever’s on tap,” you said, laughing when he rolled his eyes.

Slowly, he rose from the couch, taking heavy breaths as he winced. His healing injuries — mental and physical — were better, but they weren’t gone altogether. Neither were yours. 

They probably wouldn’t be for a while. Though, after waking up panicked and breathless from repeated nightmares, it helped having someone there to bring you back down. It helped having someone take care of yourself when that seemed impossible. And it helped knowing you weren’t alone in this.

You watched him make his way to the kitchen, rummaging around in the fridge. In these past days since the warehouse incident, it sometimes scared you how easy this was. Staying at his apartment together, helping one another recover. Your things sat scattered around his place, like they belonged. You wondered when he was going to say something, to ask you to go back home and tend to your wounds alone. When you both healed, would it all go back to how it was?

When a notification sound came from Peter’s phone, your eyes drew down to it for a second. Not knowing whether it was urgent Spider-Man business — not that he should’ve been doing it given his state — you called out, “Your phone dinged!”

Head still in the fridge, his words muffled, Peter called back, “Can you check it for me?”

You paused for a moment, letting a feeling of warmth settle in your chest before grabbing his phone. Just from the notification preview, you could tell what it was.

“Add another tally to your offers to interview for a job,” you told him, shaking your head — a smile evident in your voice. “This one’s for a junior photographer position.”

“What does that bring us up to now?” he asked, closing the refrigerator. He brought a glass of water and what you assumed was Dr. Pepper that’d gone flat.

“I think we’re tied at three each — though they’re just asking us to apply and interview.” You let out a sigh, trying not to get your hopes up. “It’s no guarantee of a job. They’re just interested in our story.”

Peter pointed a finger at you from around the glass. “Our story that kicks ass and put the corrupt city manager and his son away. That’s a piece that belongs on something bigger than The Daily Bugle.”

“You really think so?”

You looked up at him, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Sunshine, the greatest compliment Jameson could spit out was that it’s a ‘mighty fine’ story — before obviously yelling at us for not getting more pictures of Spider-Man during it… and that our injuries were no excuse, of course,” he told you with a wry sarcasm as he set the glasses down on the coffee table. Sitting next to you, his expression softened. His hand wrapped around yours. “But now you have the chance at something bigger.”

You grinned back at him. “But how could I ever pass up a job with… how’d he say it? ‘Minimal benefits and guaranteed maximum overtime’?”

Peter’s laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating a comforting rhythm against you. Next to you, your phone buzzed this time. Picking it up, you told him, “Oh, another one! It’s 4 to 3 now — I’m in the lead.”

His grin made yours even wider, and you were unable to fight it as his hands cupped your jaw, his fingers careful to avoid the bruises along your cheekbone. “You see? You’ve got the whole world in the palm of your hand.” His eyes pulled you in, begging you to fall into him completely as he pressed his lips to yours once again.

You could’ve stayed there forever, sitting on that ripped couch in Peter’s apartment that you swore to never return to. Your fingers twisted in the ends of his hair pulling him even closer. The rest of the world melted away for at least a little while, leaving just the two of you in this bubble. When you eventually pulled away, your foreheads rested against one another, your nose nudging against his.

“Oh!” you said, leaning back, “I almost forgot. I picked up a frame while out grocery shopping — I couldn’t help myself.” You stood up, grabbing a bag from the dining table and pulling out a cheap picture frame. The story you’d already cut out from the newspaper felt smooth between your fingers as you carefully placed it in the frame.

You kept it close to your body while looking around for a good spot to hang it up, not that the walls had much — or anything — really on them. Deciding on a nice place between the door and living room, you asked, “Want to do the honors?”

Fishing out a nail from his tool drawer, which was really just a kitchen drawer full of scattered household items, you held it out to Peter along with the frame. It took some willpower to not gasp as he merely pushed the nail into the wall without a hammer and hung up the frame.

Straightening it just right, he stepped back and wrapped his arm around your back. You took it in, the first real decoration in his apartment — the story that brought the two of you together framed against the pale walls. Your names shone clearly at the top, next to the large letters spelling out, “Fundraiser or Fraud? The Beaumont Empire Falls.”

Leaning into him, your palm rubbing circles on his lower back, you asked, “Do you like it?”

His voice came out soft, the words curling around the ends of your body. “It’s perfect.”

It wasn’t, not with the ill-fitting frame or the story that likely needed further digging and refining. But right now, with Peter, it was perfect. You let your mind run through everything you two had gone through together, how you’d ended up here.

After a minute of thinking, though, something kept drawing your attention. Pursing your lips, you turned back to him. “Hey Peter?”

“Hmm?”

“I just have a quick question. When we were trying to get into the fundraiser, you said you ‘knew a guy.’ Did you just mean yourse-”

“Myself? Yeah. I’m the guy,” he told you, nodding repeatedly. Nonchalantly.

You scoffed, slightly laughing. You really were insane to have gone in on this project with him. “And then you made fake IDs and gave me some fake wedding ring so we could sneak in…” you said in disbelief.

Turning to grab his drink from the table, he furrowed his eyebrows. “The ring you borrowed? ‘S not fake — do you still have that, by the way?” he asked, taking a sip. “Need to return that.”

You took a beat staring at him wordlessly. Your mind crossed several things to say that you decided to hold back. “Peter, what do you mean it’s not fake? That giant rock on my finger was real?”

“Yeah, I borrowed it as a favor from a jewelry store. I saved the place from robbers breaking in.” He shrugged, the flannel his wore swaying around his body.

This relationship was going to take years off of you… 

Your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose. “I’m going to kill you,” you half-heartedly murmured. Your eyes raised to meet his, your finger pointing at him. ���You know, you’re so careless about all this. I fucking knew you were Spider-Man for so long.”

“Oh, bullshit,” he laughed out, walking closer to you. “Now you didn’t. And as long as we’re being honest, I was going to give you the Daily Bugle job offer at the end of the internship the whole time. So really… you didn’t have to do any of this.” His face morphed into a teasing cockiness that sparked a fire in your chest.

The two of you stared at one another, eyes alight but mouths fighting back smiles. All at once, a calm washed over you. “Are we done bickering?”

Peter rested his hands on your hips. He nodded softly, sweetly, as if nothing but you filled his mind. “Yeah, we’re done.”

You leaned forward, kissing him once before whispering against his lips, “Great, now grab the controller — ‘m gonna kick your ass in Mario Kart again.”

@dil3mma @hollandweather @reidslovely @a-lumos-in-the-nox @keepingitlokiii @thedevax @sincericida @agent-tempest @olivezgalore @qwintlimon7 @eddieslooneymoonie @aheadfullofsteverogers @bitchy-bi-trash

[xaphrin]

Anyway I just spent all morning plotting out my next long fic, and uh... wow that outline is something. Hope it doesn't suck? Have a taste?

(Actually trying to see how people feel about this)

-

When Trigon finally conquered Earth it felt like the world had become a strange, tilted reflection of itself. Warped like the mirror in a funhouse, but somehow still the same. On the surface things continued as normal, people went to their jobs, the public transit system continued, and the stock market miraculously stayed stable. The conquering felt less like an ending, and more like a blip in the timeline. Most people assumed that after a few months it would all clear itself up. 

But, underneath that facade of normalcy, there was a wound festering. 

Dissenters quietly disappeared overnight. World leaders vanished on their way to summits. Pacifists simply ceased to exist. Slowly, like a small leak in a boat, little bits of civilization disappeared, letting more and more horrors fill the space until the boat started to sink and there was nothing left but accept the inevitable truth:

There was no saving what Trigon had destroyed.  

And here stood Raven, at the edge of it all. She wasn’t supposed to exist. After her body had been used as a portal for Trigon, she had been left to die and decompose into the earth. Even her soul wouldn’t have found rest anywhere, since it was welcome nowhere. 

“You good?” 

Raven turned and looked at Dick as he stood next to her. “Not sure yet.” She gave a one shouldered shrug and stared out into the skyline. 

The city still looked inhabited, but there was a soft quiet that rumbled in and around the buildings. Look closer and you could see shattered windows and the rust-colored stains of long-dried blood. Everyone ignored it. If someone had died, they had it coming. Keep your head down. Don’t stir up trouble. Those were rules, and they were meant to be followed. 

Dick sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I got a message from my brother.” 

Raven lifted an eyebrow. “A Robin?”

He nodded. “The last one, actually. He was there the day Batman was…” Dick trailed off, unsure of what to call the death of the last man he considered a father. 

“Taken,” Raven supplied. The word didn’t feel like an end. It felt like a book with the last pages ripped out, so you never really knew the ending. “I thought he disappeared. Your brother, I mean.”

“He went back to the League of Assassins.” 

Raven lifted an eyebrow, surprised. They were the one group of people who had managed to resist all of Trigon’s control, walking a very fine line of neutrality. She huffed out a soft breath. “And what does he want?”

“To join the cause.”

[pascalsbby]

The Devil & His Brother

Joel x Tommy x You

Prologue / Part I : 6.4K / Part II

Summary: The Devil was begging you to forgive him, and you wanted to. You wanted to bring your palms together and whisper his name through the cracks, hoping he would hear your silent prayer. “Let me stay here, with you.” He would get down on his knees and pray to your altar. He would bless it first, kiss it clean, before he would send two fingers to spread open your love.

Warnings: 18+ mdni, eventual smut. enemies to lovers, slow-burn, angst/comfort/sex, age gap, power imbalance, possessive tendencies, drugs/pills/alcohol, major daddy issues (that’s why you need BOTH miller brother’s instead of 1). talk of death, shit-talking god & the devil himself.

This was a labor of love, please comment, reblog, & let me know what you think &lt;3

I will take a crowbar and pry out the broken pieces of God in me.

- Anne Carson

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *₊.• ♡ °:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *

Your soul was given to another man before you had even yearned for the rage to scratch it back yourself- have a choice in the matter of your own eternity. Two eyes looking down upon you, gazing into the depth of your skull. Where the fuck was he, when his children were screaming on their knees for his forgiveness, for whatever they had done to deserve this?

You couldn’t remember your own baptism- despite seeing countless bodies pushed underwater, coming back anew. Later in life, not coming back up at all. Drowning sinfully sin-less. You were thankful now, that the hard stuff was done when you weren’t old enough to know it- or deny it. You wouldn’t have washed yourself clean for him, drown for him, now.

You were angry at him- you had every right to be. You were utterly alone in a world that was trying to devour you whole by sinking one tooth into any part of your tender flesh. Your eternal soul was saved (given) to a hand in the sky before you even knew what a God was, what he was capable of, what he would allow, and you had suffered for it during life. But now, when it mattered most, you didn’t have to do a goddamn thing but lay here and die. Yet he wasn’t doing his part. What a fucking surprise.

He never came like all the people said he would, like the Bible said. There was no reckoning. Even he was too scared of what he created.

“I ain’t no God, sweetheart.” The sound reverberated through his throat in a sickly Southern accent. He might as well have been. His thick arms were the ones holding you, warming you against the soft flannel. You haven’t been touched by another human in a long time, and the veins running through his arms were suddenly whispering love stories into your own running blood. His hands were so big.

They refused your pleas. “Please, if you don’t do it just hand me the gun.” Always met with a thickly harsh, “don’t think so,” from the one who shot you. The younger one is somehow quieter than the first. You had been full of anger for years, but it didn't seem as heavy as it normally would, despite barking, “You already tried once and failed, let me do it myself then.” He looked at you, surprised that you wasted your breath in such a manner, it had barely come out of the back of your throat to begin with. He huffed a laugh as he turned his head back to his brother before looking straight into the dark night again, focusing on something that wasn't even there. Focusing on anything that wasn’t you.

You were used to men not following through. Your father was the ‘savior’ (born-again post-outbreak pastor)(liar) of a small group, all now a couple of feet underground, frozen in the decomposing water of themselves- and whoever was lucky enough to be thrown in the dug-up hole on top of them. Baptized over and over as the ground warmed in the spring and froze again in the winter. Perpetually drowning until they become what they were trying to escape all along- food for the earth to devour.

We didn’t burn them, because that would have given us away, invited anyone near to pluck the last of us out, but fire would have been easier. But we don’t do easy, not here. We gather whoever is responsible for your already rotting body and make them throw you into the ground, all in the name of God. You had written a lot into your leather-bound notebook, at first not wanting to fill the pages, because once the paper was gone, there was nowhere else to rip the thoughts out of your head, let them bleed through the pages. You read that specific entry over and over, having memorized it by now, making crinkles in the dusty pages from how many times you turned back to it and prayed to a God that wasn’t there to save them- you.

He was never planning on it.

Your journal was the same color as the Devil’s eyes, darkened honey-brown, alive. You didn’t have many places to look whenever you did have enough spite in you to open your own, body swaying from side to side on a horse that wasn’t yours, in a man's lap that you didn’t know. He looked pretty, even from below, even more so leaning his chin downwards towards your face and gazing up your body. I guess anything safe looks heavenly amidst fire.

Why would they do that? Kill you and then take you along for the ride. They hadn't spoken much for however many days you had been dying, watching as the sun kissed the sky goodnight and welcomed the moon, at least three times. Maybe you were bait for something even bigger- a young woman goes a long way these days. Always has, really.

You had always harbored a deep fear of death. It wasn't exactly the physical suffering that frightened you, but rather the haunting notion of losing loved ones. The consequences of deviating from the life path thrown on you by your parents. There was always this looming presence of the ‘evil’. The Devil… Lucifer, Satan, whatever moniker you choose. In the narrative your parents scripted for you, he was cast as the villain. It was all too funny now, his thighs warming your skin, setting you ablaze.

Lucifer was a beautiful, Southern gentleman- one who spoke quickly and stern. And God sat right next to him, mouth shut, waiting for command. You were so tired of following orders from men but suddenly it’s as if you’ve known all along that his gaze would be the one you melted under. Sludge. Burning flesh. Maybe there was no God. Sure, the other man who sat next to him looked like one, but so does this one. He was an idea, the fear instilled in you, your parents' guilt. But you knew evil more than you knew true good, and the Devil was below you, only cementing that truth further. He was keeping you right here, draped across his lap, and despite your dying, he still caught glimpses of your naked flesh. And you didn’t know if it was eyes burning into you, or the gunshot wound he had so nicely gifted you. You almost wanted to thank him, if that’s what it took for him to wrap himself around you.

Romans 6:4 hung on a carved board in your parent's room after the first wave of death. After your father decided that the group needed someone to lead them, and that your mother wasn’t it, she sat back happily and carved words into worn wood. You had felt safe there, sixteen and under the guise of whatever your parents told you. Young, naive, pure.

‘We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. We’re now dead to the power of sin. Being raised from the water.’ It later hung in the main room of a run-down grocery store turned Church. The church itself was down the street, the rotten door holding in rotten bodies from whoever had come before. Maybe they had sat and awaited the way you all did at first, waiting for their savior. He never rang the doorbell, never knocked. He had just walked right on by, whistling his hymns and being grateful he was above it all.

A new life? If Jesus died for our sins, wouldn’t he be upset with you right now? Laying on your… death horse…. And still not bruising your knees for him? Why can’t he be angry enough to let you slip out of line and take the easier way? I guess suffering wasn’t his go-to, at least outwardly. Fear was more his thing, and fear would eat you alive and cement your veins before true sin ever could. Guilt is what gnaws at your ankles, whispering poetry into your hair. Fear had passed. Anger had too, momentarily. Rage was a common home.

He should have taken you by now, held your hand and kissed your forehead goodnight. But you knew that he wasn’t coming. He never came for your parents either, nor your brother. You waited each time by their bodies, but he never called, never even picked up the goddamn phone.

He promised resurrection to people who needed something to hang on to. Promises made to be broken. God was more comfortable than death. You repeated it over and over as a prayer to those who had lost someone. We all have. Your dads own voice booming through the quiet. Now, you are losing yourself.

But really, there was no more you, not really. Maybe the horse knew too, bucked you off, and laughed as you felt the thud of the ground under your shoulder blades, because suddenly there was no air left in the entire dwindling world. The snow that was kicked up into your face from the weight of your body wasn’t melting as it would have before. You were cold. There was no world. There was just endless pain before a bout of relief. Not even enough to fill your lungs in one breath in or out. Even the horse knew you were dead weight. Every animal fighting for its survival. That’s why you were shot, too.

You scared the Devil and he took it upon himself to punish you.

At least that’s what you convince yourself as you lay dying on the cold, unforgiving ground, the weight of your pain bore down on your frail body- words trying to come out in shallow gasps. He wasn’t coming.

“Please,” you begged.

You heard shuffling, and then a shadow covered the setting moon above you. The all-to-familiar sound of his boots gaining on your still body. You could still smell him, had been able to this entire time you had been on his horse, in his lap. You could feel the pressure of his fingers rapidly squeezing your cheeks, feeling for blood flow, then the burning of his fingers on your neck, looking for signs of life amidst the dark night. Finally, he was touching you again. Maybe now he would kill you, too. His final gift.

“Fuck,” he hissed. That muttered obscenity made you feel more alive. “Get the fuckin’ horse away from her Tommy.” You heard the reins of the animal you were sat upon being pulled, and the hooves cascading further into the night. He returned to you, the coolness of his rings stung against your face, the cool air keeping them cold despite the warmth of his body. The bullseye tattoo, the only indication of who was touching you besides his smell. You had seen it multiple times throughout the rising and falling of the sun. It had cupped your body against his. He holds your face, as he leans into you, bullseye sitting right beneath your chin.

Throw a dart and it would hit you right in the throat- where you wanted him. Where you wanted him to breathe life into you again.

“Please. Help me go home.” Home hasn’t existed in years. You’d been unconscious for days.

“Shhh. No point in talkin' baby. Hurts too much. We’re goin’ home.” You looked up at him and despite the hardness of his exterior, you saw the understanding in his eyes. Just as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared back into his skull.

Almost how a lighter ignites, flickers, warms, almost unbearable but not quite. The wind blows the fire to your fingers, stings, then disappears. As did his burning gaze. The feeling of putting out a cigarette as it shoves its last bit of self out into the world, smoke followed by nothing, simultaneously.

That was him, you would come to find out, as his silhouette and his own warmth flees from your touch. As the brown from his eyes turns to black as your own close. He sighs.

The snow crunches under his weight as he assesses how to pick you back up.

“And you ain’t goin’ anywhere but where I take you. Got it?” A half-attempted nod before a sigh of pain.

You didn’t know where you were going- why, you were still alive… or whatever this in-between was. All you know is that you prayed to the Devil. And he answered.

He was the only one who ever answered.

-

The return to Jackson was painful, the remnants of a long-ago shattered world marred the landscape. As they neared home, the journey became colder, perhaps another reason why it remained a well-hidden place- not many people made it there alive. Joel and Tommy, ever vigilant, guided the two horses with unwavering resolve, constantly scanning the horizon for any indications of danger. Meanwhile, they carried the injured girl, whose body was only partially present after being thrown from the horse three days ago, blankets thrown atop. It had been five days since she was shot. Since Joel shot her.

The way you looked up at him every once in a while was breathtaking- it was too much of a painful reminder that he’d lost (or will lose) everything he’s ever cared about. He could see it in your eyes, the confusion of who and where you were. Watching life move through someone's body and out of their eyes used to be a victorious occasion. It meant he succeeded, that he was still alive regardless of the mangled bodies he left behind. But this felt different to him. You were so godamn young and he plays the scream ripping through your throat over and over an- he swears he didn’t pull the trigger. Joel's gruff voice broke through the haze of silence that had fallen upon them days ago and never left. He broke through his own circling thoughts. As he spoke to Tommy a mixture of concern and guilt for your being broke through, he felt it in his throat, his chest. He didn't want to be responsible for this death, but he sure as hell didn’t want to know you either. Because knowing someone only meant more pain.

“We've been carryin’ her for days, Tommy. How much longer can she hold on like this? No point in bringin’ a dead girl home.”

Denial was a motherfucker, wasn’t it?

Joel knew of death- he didn’t believe in shit besides such. He used to be a God-fearing man but knew if he ever had the chance to stand in front of him he’d rip him in two and gnaw on the pieces of his holiness.

-

Tommy knew of death too, even before the outbreak, but the difference was that he also believed in life. He knew exactly why Joel had that scar, even though they’d never talked about it. It was a quiet understanding, one he never pushed or even poked and prodded.

Tommy's response was laced with a fear, for what Joel had done, but empathy for what he knows he sees every single time he looks down upon you. "We're almost there, Joel. She's tough, you know that. She should have died from that wound but she’s still breathin’, that counts f’something. We'll get her to Jackson, n’ she'll have a chance." He kept looking into his brother's eyes before pulling away and looking ahead into the blinding white. If he said what he really wanted, he wouldn’t stop. “You fuckin’ shot her but now you want to save her? Make up your fuckin’ mind.” The least he could do is help him save someone, even if it’s just for Joel’s sake, especially after he couldn't save Sarah. ‘Least he could do is keep his mouth shut.

Joel was the last person he had- the only person. Ellie didn’t even love him like she loved Joel. It’s always the broken, harsh ones that receive the most attention. People spend so much time trying to put broken people back together that they don’t realize the others are teetering with one foot over the edge.

They’d gone outside the walls because funny enough, they thought it would be more safe this time of year, the dead of winter. Ellie had begged for months for the boys to take her out with them and show her this and that. She was getting homesick for a place she never truly loved. She was tired of sitting still inside walls of safety when everyone she had ever loved was buried outside of them. Tess came along too, providing an extra line of safety, ‘just in case’.

Tommy remembers Joel whispering, “There's somethin’ coming.” More so someone, you. A moment later, a gunshot, a thudding body. Joel was normally calm on the trigger, rifle in hand, looking down the barrel of the gun, aimed at his prey. But Ellie was there, Tommy, and Tess. His people. There was no time to fuck around, so he didn’t. Tommy understood. But that didn’t make it right in his head. His brother was never patient in the moments that mattered the most.

-

One evening, about ten hours from wherever the fuck they were taking you, the sun began to set, setting ablaze a warm glow over the frozen landscape. You had been awake, more so than the past couple of days, looking up at the moving clouds in the sky, watching as his chest moved and released more air into the sky, breathing visible and dancing in the cold. The horse beneath you abruptly stopped and the two men descended their spots atop of them, stretching their legs and gaining more control of their tired bodies.

“You’re awake,” the younger one let out, moving his focus from the soft mumbles he was giving to the other man. “‘Bout time we clean your wound again, see how it’s doing.” You let out a faint, “mm” and attempted to sit up. “No. We’ll get ya off the horse. Be still,” the other said. The Devil grabbed the water and reached up to you, his fingers moved across your face as he gathered your wandering hair and moved it away from your lips. He turned the canister upwards, slowly, letting you drink from it. “Thank you,” you managed. It was the first time he heard your voice not mangled with absolute fear. He stared, eyes roaming the silence, looking ever-so surprised that you had said anything at all, and so clearly at that.

The angel moved closer and reached out his hand, thinking now was a good time to introduce himself to you. “Tommy, Miller. This is my brother, Joel.” he looked toward him. Joel forced an upside-down grin and nodded his head toward you. “You…” pointing towards the one called Joel, “you shot me.” Silence followed, it was heavy, thick. “I didn- Thought you were dangerous, came around that corner too fast.”

“I wasn’t even armed, I-“

“Don’t wanna talk bout’ it.” he huffed, almost angrily. You opened your mouth again, wanting to rattle off one of three hundred questions that you had, but he looked you over once more, and then turned around and walked off. Tommy, with gentle hands, tenderly lifted your body off of the saddle and carried you towards the fire Joel was nursing. The crackling of a campfire and the scent of cooked food filled the air as they set to work, tending to your wounds with diligence that spoke to Tommy's belief that you would be okay (You had to be. He couldn’t fail Joel again. Couldn’t watch as his face fell with the realization that you were completely dead).

His fingers were deft as he cleaned your wounds, his touch sending shivers down your spine. He saw the goosebumps rise, and felt them, as the fire lit your skin. You caught glimpses of concern in his eyes, a silent reassurance that he was determined to see you through this. Joel's presence was a constant anchor, as he spoke into the fire, keeping it lit. They laid out blankets, far too many for just two people to be carrying alone, and sat you atop and below them.

The rest of the night had been filled with your echoing screams, Joel’s palm across your mouth, “Stop screamin’ or someone is gonna find us.” Sure, stop screaming while dirty, whiskey-cleaned fingers are prodding at your open wound. Not even a sorry moved past his lips.

Joel laid down on one side of you, Tommy on the other. “M’ sorry,” he whispered towards you. They both smelled of sweat and whiskey. Their chests rolled and fell at different times, Joel murmuring in his sleep once he finally stopped looking around the parameter. You could tell they were brothers.

-

It was night when the three of you arrived ‘home’. You heard a young girl's voice above the gathering crowd.

“Joel!” She parted the gathering crowd as the patter of quickening footsteps approached. His head whipped quickly, finding her immediately.

“What the fuck?”

“Ellie,” he warned.

“You can’t fucking do that Joel, I thought you…We made it home three days ago. Tess dragged me by my hair but I-”

“Good,” he huffed back, “Where is she?” Ellie blustered but gave up arguing.

Multiple men gathered around and took the blankets off your body, the air hissing through your torn clothes. You whimpered as they moved your body off of Joel’s horse. He didn’t say anything to you, instead he turned and followed Ellie out of the crowd, carrying the reins with him.

You were carefully carried to a bigger two-story home on the outskirts of the city. As the night turned towards the morning sun, you found yourself gaining strength. The length of the night had been blurry, chattering voices and hands, everywhere. Needles, bliss, whispers. Stripping you from the blood-ridden clothes and water pouring over your lips. Fingers, hands touching you, always caught in a delicate dance between stoic tenderness and warmth

‘Gonna be jus’ fine, baby.” Tommy had assured you, multiple times.

Suddenly it had been a week. They took turns caring for you, someone sleeping in the same room as you at all times in case you needed something. Always talking about “patrol shifts” and how Tommy was expected to be a leader of some sort. You had overheard a lot of conversations booming through the thin walls of the house. One hurting more than the others.

“Shouldn’t have fuckin’ brought her here in the first place. You know the whole town is gossipin’ about it right now. The Miller brothers bringing in another mouth to feed.”

“Stop it. Sh’can hear you Joel. You know that’s not how anyone thinks of it. She could help this place. Give her a chance.”

“She’s been practically fuckin’ unconscious for a week now, Tommy. You think she’s just gonna get right up n’ run the town?”

“Why did you take her in if you don’t even want to be responsible for her survival?” Tommy threw back at him. He regretted saying it immediately, watching as it hit Joel in the face before he closed his eyes and looked away. Joel was more so there to watch you and make sure you didn’t bleed into his wooden floor, while Tommy tried to provide as much comfort as possible. After realizing that this was Joel’s home, it made sense in what little you knew about him. There were few things on the wall, but there were remnants of him everywhere.

Ellie would come home and sit with you, read to you and then tuck you in after Joel carried you up the stairs and into his bed. You missed Tommy’s gentleness when it wasn’t there, but you missed the warmth from Joel's body, his lap, when he wasn’t there. His breathing, his nervous habit of cracking his fingers. Even though you could tell that every nerve ending in his body wanted you anywhere else but wherever he was- there was still a silent curiosity.

About a week and a half after your arrival, someone knocked on the front door of the tattered house and Joel called for Tommy up the stairs. He walked down them quickly, walking out of the front door with Joel.

He returned a few minutes later, looking at you sitting in the seat you hadn’t left in since you’d been there. He gave you a look, slowly looking towards the ground as he spoke up so you could hear him. “Gotta go for a couple of days. Heard there’s a group who probably followed us close to here, saw their smoke, gonna take care of them before they can make it any further.” You hadn’t spoken much, if at all, the past couple of days. You didn’t think you would make it this far, and now you were sitting with two strangers and a teenager in their house, rotting away. They had poked and prodded, trying to get any information out of you that they could, but you didn’t give in.

You stared out the window and answered meekly whenever spoken to, if at all. You should be ecstatic at the thought of finally being housed somewhere ‘safe’, somewhere with electricity and running water. Somewhere where they gathered the children and let them watch movies in the mess hall (all information coming from Tommy, telling you stories as he changed your bandages)- but you weren’t. You felt like you were still teetering on the edge of death. You felt like a burden to Joel.

You didn’t answer Tommy, just nodded. He packed up a few things and promised to ‘be back in no time, then maybe you can tell me your name.’ And then he was gone out of the termite-ridden front door.

You had fallen asleep, and awoken to Joel in another room somewhere, those same goddamn boots thudding against the creaking wooden floors. His presence was constant, every once in a while getting up from a creaking chair to come look at you. You slept, mostly. Ate the dinner he got from the dining hall. Your rage had returned. But baring your teeth in anger took energy you didn’t have.

-

Joel couldn’t look at you without feeling like he was looking straight through the blood and guts of you(r)(side). Tommy wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone about it before he left. How pretty you were, how there ‘weren’t many pretty faces left n’ you’re tryin’ to kill one?’ He watched as Tommy cooked you with his stare, warming his next meal only to put on his best-dressed suit and bail on the date before he could even pick up the tab. He was glad he was gone for a while, letting him forget about the fact that he had put the bullet in you. He loved his brother, but he knew his games. He knew his inability to stay.

Joel had nursed you back to… alive. At least. He hadn’t really thought about what that entailed after you were stable. He was surprised you were still breathing. He didn’t think about the feeding, changing, and bathing of you. Of hands touching flesh and natural bodily reactions to such.

You could tell he was the older brother. He held the normal stereotypes, sternly telling you what to do. The older one was always more serious, and stoic. The younger, who probably got away with more, but was the loneliest from eyes diverting. But his big brother was always there, begrudgingly present. And he was in this instance too.

Tommy had washed you multiple times before he left, but never your hair or the rest of you. He was more concerned that your stitches didn’t get infected.

Joel probably thought giving you a rag bath was wasting water, but did it anyway, probably tired of your stench in his bed. It’s cold until he heats the towel after noticing you shiver. “Let me draw you an actual bath. Think you can take one now.” He was softer at that moment, more gently with the way he wiped the towel across your chest. Those moments happened least expectedly. But when they did happen, it hurt even deeper. You felt something for him. And that just wouldn’t do. Rather it be lust, loneliness, or your raging fucking daddy issues.

Tommy likes the water cold, and Joel likes it burning to the skin. Of course, he does. He is all or nothing. Hot or cold. Soft or hard. He’s solitude but brings the same warmth of a front door opening to a sea of snow, chimney warm, lights warmer, hot chocolate, and bourbon- he is. In any other world but this one, he would probably be a good man; one to settle down with. One to hold you against himself, despite of raging night.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *₊.• ♡ °:. *₊ ° . ° .• ♡ °:. *₊ ° *

a/n: Phew do I have plans for these three…

taglist: @worhols @sarap-77 @mishasminion360 @justagalwhowrites @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @romanarose @milla-frenchy @bandluvr97 @alwaysdjarin @basicoccult @hellfyreroz @northernbluess-blog @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @pr0ximamidnight @bambydxll @morgaussy @n7cje @theywhowriteandknowthings @gracie7209 @pedritoferg @twirl731 @med494 @k-ra @gintheginger @obscurexsorrows @cool-iguana @livingdeadmaria @ours-is-a-strange-fate @megangovier20 @rayslittlekitten @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @pedrotonin @bluetattoos @sscorpiiio

[lushrue]

ghoap angst inspired by "little brother" from the outsiders

tw: blood, depictions of grief, light gore

thirty-eight hours, fifty-two minutes, and nineteen seconds.

that’s how long they’d been on this stakeout from hell. holed up in some hostel in moscow, waiting for any sign of makarov peeking his grubby head out so they could cut it off in one fell blow. it wasn’t like they hadn’t done things like this before. 141 had gone on plenty of recon missions that required sitting still for much longer than this. give any of them the command to stay at heel and they’d obey until the inability of their body overpowered the iron will of their mind. 

this time was different though. there was a tension in the air that’d been there since the first deployment as a team of 3. a thick cloud hung over them, weighing down their shoulders and pulling on the bags under their eyes. to anyone who’d seen them before what they were calling “the mission”, they wouldn’t recognize them now. gaz had stubble on his cheeks, his jade-colored eyes shining a little less brightly than before. price was almost uncertain in his movements, his confidence rocked to its core. and simon? he wasn’t simon anymore. he hadn’t told a joke or made a witty remark since that day, and he intended to keep it that way.

it felt wrong to be lighthearted without johnny around. there were times that simon had tossed and turned in his bed, wondering if johnny was disappointed in him for losing himself like this. johnny had loved his jokes. maybe that’s why he didn’t want to tell them anymore. it was too stark a reminder when two laughs echoed through his headset instead of three. he was practically silent now, only speaking when required and even that was a struggle. 

ever since his death, simon had been walking around with a gaping hole in his chest. it was a wound he’d thought long closed by time, but now, it felt as fresh as the day he’d first noticed it. the stench of rotting flesh, of grief, wafted off of him, warning others to keep their distance. he felt like everyone could see it, this incompleteness in him. the hole that johnny had nestled himself into and put down roots. he’d never admit to anyone how painful it had been when those roots were yanked up.

another sip of watered-down coffee brought simon back to the present, back to the shithole they were camped in. the whole place smelled like piss, the air stale and stagnant. he felt price nudge his shoulder and he looked up, eyes bloodshot and heavy. “i’ll take watch,” he said, voice gentler than simon was used to. could the captain see the way his soul was so raw it glowed red? could he feel the weight like a stone around his ankle threatening to pull him under? “go get some rest, simon.”

he didn’t want to. sleeping was scary now. it was a chance for his regrets to rise up and wrap around his limbs, inky tendrils squeezing the life out of him until he felt like a shell of a man. he should have told him he was a good soldier, should have thanked him properly for his help in las almas, should have told him he loved-

simon gave a curt nod, hand tightening around the paper cup he held as he relieved his post. john took his place, sinking down into the chair and grabbing the binoculars. simon knew john was just as upset as the rest of them. he felt like the captain almost had more of a right to be, had told himself as much when the sadness was so heavy that he couldn’t drag himself out of bed. after all, it was him johnny had died saving, his life that johnny valued above his own. simon spared a glance back at his captain. if he looked long enough, he could see the heaviness they both shared in price’s shoulders.

all they had for beds were a couple of cots shoved into the corners of the rooms, thin things that creaked under a soldier’s weight. simon sat down heavily on his, the threadbare blanket sitting on the floor where he’d tossed it earlier. nightmares were more frequent now. visions of johnny, rotting and decomposed, came to him in his sleep. every time he closed his eyes, he could see it, this thing that claimed to be the man he loved. it haunted him, decayed flesh hanging off its bones and eyes glazed over with the film of something no longer alive. he’d seen those same hazy eyes in the rabbits he’d killed with his father as a young boy. “all for a good cause, simon,” his father had said. “just the way things are. when something dies, it’s to make something else better. fertilize the plants, feed a family, shit like that.”

simon didn’t know what johnny’s death had made better. the grass wasn’t greener, no one’s starving belly full. all that was there was darkness. no, simon decided. sometimes things just died for no one’s benefit. the only one who got any satisfaction was whatever cruel excuse of a higher power enjoyed tormenting simon riley like their own personal punching bag. he laid back on his cot, almost comforted by the threadbare blanket and paper-thin pillow. having things that were soft and good felt wrong when he couldn’t be sure if johnny was surrounded by soft and good things. blank brown eyes stared up at the ceiling, gaz’s cot creaking and the squeaking of the ceiling fan the only sounds in the room.

sleep came, albeit fitfully. it was blessedly dreamless, hours passing like seconds before simon’s eyes opened again. a cursory glance at the clock revealed he’d only slept for a couple of hours, and he deemed it enough. his joints creaked as he rolled off the cot, rubbing at his eyes to rouse his tired mind. he hadn’t been keeping up with his daily workouts as closely as he should’ve. johnny would’ve been upset with him for that. simon just didn’t see how he could take any pride in it when the man he was staying strong to protect was no longer there.

he stepped over to the table in the small kitchenette, relieved when price had no words for him. he couldn’t make simon go back to bed if he tried. the two of them had a tenuous understanding; john gave simon his space, and simon held no grudge against john for what happened in those tunnels. he didn’t want to blame price for what had happened, but some deeply angry part of him needed someone to pin this on. he didn’t believe in god or fate or karma, so price would have to do.

maps and pieces of intel scattered the wooden surface, marked in red pen and traced a thousand times over. they’d all pored over every single piece of paper, searching for anything that they could latch onto. makarov was a smart man and every failed lead just made the fire crackling under simon’s skin blaze hotter. he needed to crush him, destroy every single piece of his life until there was nothing left. he wanted makarov’s loved ones to feel the same emptiness that he felt, to know the anguish of losing the one person that could love who you were at your weakest. and so, he poured himself another cup of shitty coffee and got to work.

he made notes, he muttered to himself, he did whatever he had to do to make the evidence make sense. he was a smart man, johnny had told him so. he could see things that others couldn’t, perceptible beyond words. there were advantages to blending into the shadows. he read and re-read and traced and thought. his eyes were dry, red and bloodshot and aching by the 15th time he looked over the same map of makarov’s known whereabouts. simon was about to call it, to give his mind a rest and come back fresh. but one little thing jumped out to him, the tiniest little detail. a sentence in a transcript, which led to a larger motivation, which led to a location on the map. it all fell into place, the logic sound and clear.

he didn’t hesitate. he moved quietly, tucking his weapon into a holster on his hip and grabbing some knives from his vest. the last thing he needed was price trying to stop him. he knew it was a bad idea, rushing in alone. he knew laswell would chide him for it, gaz and price would feel betrayed. none of that mattered when he knew where the man who took his johnny was. he moved swiftly for the door, stopping with his hand on the doorknob when the captain cleared his throat.

“you’re a good man, simon,” he said, his gaze still fixed out the window. simon didn’t dare turn around, afraid that one look would give everything away. not that anything in the world could’ve convinced him to turn back now. he stayed silent, unsure of how to reply. john shifted in his seat, and if simon was a betting man, he’d put money down that he heard price’s voice shake a little. “we’re damn lucky to have you.” simon’s hand tightened around the doorknob, a lump building in his throat. he wasn’t going to cry, not now. there’d been too many tears. “you too, john,” he said, so quietly it could’ve been the breeze. he stepped out the door, shutting it tightly behind him.

his mind was surprisingly clear as he drove towards the outskirts of moscow into farming towns and villages. there were no racing thoughts, no guilt or grief eating him alive. for the first time in months, his mind was beautifully quiet. if a thought did pass by, it was of johnny. he hadn’t been gone quite long enough that simon had completely forgotten his face. seeing it in photos was nothing like seeing the real thing up close. a camera couldn’t capture the divots and scars, the way the light caught the mischievous sparkle in his eye that always seemed to be there. if simon listened close enough, he could hear the chime of johnny’s laugh in his ear.

simon pulled his car off the road a few miles away from his destination, hardly taking any time to steel himself for what he was about to do. he was capable, prepared. he had to be. for johnny, this had to go exactly right. there was no tactical plan as he rushed in, sinking knives and bullets into flesh. each drop of blood spilled felt like one step closer to retribution, freedom. the crimson that stained his hands was like a baptism, lifting the weight that had settled heavy in his chest. if he was shot or stabbed or punched, he didn’t feel it. he didn’t even register the tears that had begun to track down his cheeks, cutting through the eyeblack.

blows landed, attacks succeeded, each one bringing him closer and closer to makarov. it was like a motor drove him forward, the guilt pressing the gas to the floor and keeping him moving. when he came face-to-face with his target, his heart thundered in his ears. simon briefly registered the flash of a firearm, a splitting pain in his core. anger and sadness and pure grief gripped his soul like a vice. it wasn’t supposed to be like this. simon was supposed to make makarov suffer, drag the pain and agony on until his body broke under the weight and then inflict some more. a quick death was too good for a monster like him, but muscle memory took over and he returned fire.

deadly accuracy, as always. simon always hit his marks. he could hear johnny’s voice in his ear as makarov hit the ground, blood dripping down his forehead as he fell limply to the floor. “perfect shot, l.t.” simon let out a breathless chuckle, lowering his gun. “yeah. perfect shot, johnny,” he said in reply, his voice echoing in the expanse of the warehouse he’d destroyed with his bare hands. bodies laid in heaps, brutalized by the animal that was a grieving simon riley. he slumped to the floor alongside them, his legs no longer able to support his weight. fingers relaxed, his gun clattering against the concrete away from him. weapon down, relieved of duty.

simon’s head rested heavily against the unforgiving floor, the pain finally setting in. his abdomen was warm and sticky, pulsing with a familiar ache. he’d imagined his death so many times, thought he knew exactly how it would go. he’d pictured being surrounded by gunfire, the shouts of his comrades in his ears, the knowledge that the mission continued without him. now, it was silent, the blood rushing in his ears his only companion. and johnny, of course.

“wasn’t supposed to be like this, si,” johnny’s voice echoed, so close yet so far away. simon chuckled, finding the idea that it could’ve been any other way absurd. “yeah, it was,” he replied, his voice weaker than he’d ever heard it. “was always gonna be like this. you knew that.” simon had expected a lot of things, but he hadn’t expected to be scared. he thought he’d be at peace with his death. he was always marked for it, a target bright and red on his back for the grim reaper to find. his breath stuttered, lungs burning in an attempt to get air in. “johnny, i’m coming home.” “where’s home, l.t.?” “with you.”

the ceiling of the warehouse blurred as his eyes welled with fresh tears, a chill settling into his bones. “hope you saved a seat for me,” he rasped, using what was left of his strength to cover the wound in his stomach. he didn’t want some poor unsuspecting bastard to stumble upon him and be scarred by the sight of a gruesome death. johnny’s chuckle sounded in his ears, just like he’d heard in the car. “i’ll always save a seat for you, sir.” simon smiled, finally letting his eyes close. the moment he did, there was johnny, just as beautiful as the day he’d left him.

john put the pieces together a few hours after simon left. it wasn’t a surprise to either him or gaz when they got the call from laswell. makarov was dead, and so was simon. john had known, he’d always known. simon riley was a loyal dog, would follow johnny wherever he went. they scattered simon’s ashes on the same cliff as johnny’s. and some part of john was soothed knowing they were together again.

[theknightmarket]

Had the biggest of big brain ideas.

Murdock gets a hint of your search history (in whatever way, have fun) and it's a whole bunch of sus murderous things or very specific google searches about the human body (eg "how long can a human last without oxygen?")

Murdock gets a little excited, thinking you're at most, a killer like him and at the very least morbidly curious about these things which may lead to a gateway.

Turns out you just write a lot in your free time. Shenanigans ensue.

"It works."

In which Murdock makes an expensive assumption. TW: murder, blood Pages: 19 - Words: 7500

[Requests: OPEN]

Murdock wasn’t good with technology. He had been aware of that since the first time he turned on a phone and managed to get himself permanently locked out before he could input a single password. It wasn’t his style; it was as simple as that. He’d seen plenty of killers who used the internet to their advantage, but that was easy. Boring. Any yahoo with access to Yahoo could go that route.

But Murdock saw murder as an art, not just some pastime he could pick up and put down as he pleased. It required dedication, and he was devoted to it like a worshipper to their deity. So, no, he wasn’t good with technology, nor did he want to be.

The good thing was, you didn’t need to be good with technology to watch over someone’s shoulder, now did you? If you did, he would never have met you, the person who was sat at the table opposite him in the café, with your front facing the wall but your laptop facing him. You had dimmed the screen to the point that words were barely decipherable from the rest of the darkness, but Murdock’s business forced his attentiveness to skyrocket, so the only way that you were keeping things secret was to shut it down completely.

Not that you had a reason to. He hadn’t even been meaning to catch sight of your screen in the first place. It wasn’t his intention to intrude on your privacy – not that you could ask for much in such a public space – but nobody could blame him for getting distracted. His target wasn’t going anywhere until his shift was up, and that meant he had four hours to kill before he had to…

Well, jokes weren’t funny when they needed to be explained.

So, Murdock took to his favorite hobby: people-watching. Normally, it wasn’t that interesting, but that was the point. He needed something that would let him pay attention to his target without letting him know he was paying attention. He needed something passive. He needed something that wouldn’t distract him.

This was the first time that it had failed him. It took only a minute, as his eyes swam over from the teenager bussing tables, to the elderly couple sitting outside the café, to the businessman arguing on the phone, for his focus to land on you. It was purely accidental that you caught his attention. You looked just like everyone else, sitting at a table with some device out next to the cup of coffee. You weren’t even moving, no, you were just reading whatever document written in eleven-point Garamond that you had pulled up, and he almost ignored you completely.

It was in his peripheral that he saw you switch over to the search engine and type in a question. Something simple. Something quick. Something that piqued his interest more than his target glancing unsurely in his direction.

‘How long does a human body take to decompose’. The answer you found – after a few minutes of avoiding AI generated responses and the unrelated ads – was liquification at one month, but that wasn’t what kept him watching. Instead, it was the fact that you copied any of the relevant information into another document, separate from your first one, and then erased the question.

That in and of itself had him blinking slowly in hidden curiosity, but then you typed in another question. ‘How much blood can a human lose before they pass out’. The answer was thirty to forty percent, which you noted down underneath the decomposition timeline. You typed in yet another question. ‘What are the immediate effects of blunt force trauma’. Answered with internal or external hemorrhaging, copied into the document, exchanged for another question. ‘What are the hardest causes of death to identify’. Answer: sudden natural death, copied, replaced.

It was as though his body were frozen in a state of shock. He held his breath, halfway through inhaling, and stilled his coffee cup at chest height. What were the chances? He was genuinely asking himself, trying to think of the last time he had met someone like you, someone like him. Were you like him? Or was he just missing the mark and making assumptions that put him at risk? Was he stupid to believe you were a…

Murdock’s body rebooted. You were back on your original document again, typing between two paragraphs, and he was free from the spell he had been placed under. He could move his limps again, and he brought his coffee to his lips in a movement as smooth as he could make it, so as to avoid earning anymore suspicion from his target.

Behind the scenes, his thoughts were racing, like horses startled by the starter pistol. This alone was unnatural; he was normally calculated, slow-paced, he took his time in such delicate matters, but this was different. He knew it was practically impossible for there to be two killers in a room, let alone one. This was in public, too, and there was no chance for you to be the real deal and not have been caught yet. Researching methods of disposal in public would get you caught as fast as if you were to hand over a body to the police yourself. But you weren’t sitting in a jail cell, you were in front of a laptop in a café, because you weren’t dumb, because you weren’t a killer. He was just being unnecessarily hopeful.

Murdock took a sip of his coffee.

On the other hand, maybe you were smart. The smartest person he had ever seen before, and this ‘mistake’ was just you hiding in plain sight. People rarely took things at face value anymore. They were too used to being lied to, and you used that to your advantage. Maybe – and he was forced to remind himself that it was a huge maybe – you really were like him, you were just good at making it look like you weren’t.

And, for that, he applauded you. Internally. The barista was watching him like a hawk, after all, and he didn’t want to be chased away before he could find a way to talk to you. If he was going to get to the bottom of who you were, the easiest route would be through you directly, but he couldn’t waltz right up to you and ask if you were a murderer. He needed time.

But time he did not have. You were bound to finish your cup before he could figure you out.

Over your shoulder, he continued to watch you work. Your hands flew across the keyboard faster than he could track, and that combined with the size of your font meant that what you were working on was lost on him. Maybe it was a research paper. Maybe it was a note for the police to find on your next victim. The lines were blurring between the possibilities, and he had no way of getting closer to the truth, not even when you returned to the search engine and entered another question.

‘What is the best place to cut to avoid blood loss’ were the words that showed up, but the answer was not as easily found as the ones from before. The results were clogged with help centers, lines to call if you were at risk, and therapists that espoused positive thinking to fight against the concerning thoughts you obviously weren’t having – if the tapping of your fingers on the table was anything to go by.

After a few seconds of scrolling and getting nothing but mental health help, you rephrased the question. No change. You retyped it with quotations marks and parenthesis, but the search engine was being uncooperative. With a final key smash into the search bar that bled exasperation, you dropped your head into your hands and appeared to try your hardest to mold the heels into your eyes.

Murdock was good at reading people, but he didn’t have to have as much experience as he did to know you were getting frustrated, and you getting frustrated meant that he was running out of time.

How was he supposed to get your attention? Or, more specifically, how was he supposed to get your attention without also getting the attention of the barista? He looked as wired as a junkie; moving beyond his current position would be a risk beyond what he was willing to take. Still, he was nothing if not resourceful.

He glanced around the table he had sat himself at. There were still mugs and plates and all manner of other castoffs from the people before, the busboy was busy with the messes outside, and his target was too nervous to walk within three feet of him, which left him with free reign of the things they left behind. It wasn’t much, but the sudoku sheet and pencil was good enough for him. It was something normal. 

In a practiced, jittery, socially awkward hand, Murdock scrawled down the number of his burner phone and a little message underneath it. He hesitated for a second, and then added a smiley face. It would make him come across less creepy, given the content of that message out of context.

One look up was all he could spare, but, luckily, it was all he needed. You were still there, but you were flicking through your open documents and aiming for the ‘save’ button on each of them. A second late and he would miss his opportunity, so, in a fleeting moment of impulsiveness that shocked himself, he gripped his almost-empty coffee cup, slid out of his seat, and slipped the sudoku sheet behind your laptop on his way to the trash can.

He only noticed his heart beating wildly in his chest like a prisoner been told he’d be executed in the morning when he got back to his seat. He hadn’t known he was going to do it in that second until he was doing it. He was only aware of the fact that you were in the process of leaving. He didn’t consider going after you, he didn’t consider following you down the block, he didn’t consider figuring out where you lived and leaving it in in your postbox even though he was definitely capable of it. It was almost as though he wouldn’t get another chance, like a schoolboy seeing someone he liked the look of and not knowing how to approach them.

In that quick succession of movements – a timeframe he was more accustomed to when chopping someone in the back – Murdock wasn’t a serial killer hoping that a stranger was a friend. No, it was nothing so simple. Instead, he was anachronistically and uncomfortably normal. 

He dug into his pocket to check if his burner phone was still there before walking straight out of the café’s front door. He needed to clear his head. The barista – his target, because he wasn’t a schoolboy, he was a professional murderer – would be there when he got back.

From that man’s point of view, he wouldn’t have seen anything but a patron kindly cleaning up behind him before leaving. From your point of view…

You couldn’t focus. Of course, you hadn’t been able to focus for the last hour, so that was a moot point, but this was a new kind of ‘couldn’t focus’. Questions swirled in your head, a gathering storm that overshadowed everything else that you should have been paying attention to. It was so difficult, though, when your thoughts kept drifting back to the little slip of paper that you’d shoved in your pocket. Your laptop held securely under your arm, you waved to the barista and started the journey back to your apartment.

The note itself wasn’t a puzzle – metaphorically speaking, given that it was a sudoku sheet – because everything was there, written in an approximation of calligraphy, the words and the numbers seared into your memory. ‘Upper and lower arm’ and a seven-digit line. It was a phone number undoubtably, but what were you supposed to do with it? Text a thank-you? Call them? And how did they know your question in the first place?

Either it was the weirdest pick-up line you had ever received, or you had accidentally caught the attention of a serial killer.

You laughed at yourself under your breath as you crossed the road. It was no secret that you had an overactive imagination, and, while you tried to keep it contained within your work, it was prone to leakage sometimes. It crept into your reality and made you believe the most fantastic stories just because it was more interesting than real life. 

While the characters you wrote about investigated missing families and sliced and diced college kids who strayed too close to the house in the woods, you spent your time flitting between the store and your apartment. Going to the café was a rare treat for you having reached fifty thousand words. It was a safe life, yes, but boring.

The note in your pocket seemed to burn through the fabric.

It didn’t have to be. It wasn’t a call to adventure, but a date might have been the break from the monotony you were hoping for. You were no romance writer, you traded in blood stains over lipstick stains, and yet the possibility of someone new was more exciting than words on a screen had been lately. It helped that they seemed to be into the same things as you – maybe they had the same hobbies, maybe, and you were forced to remind himself that it was a huge maybe, he was like you.

You stopped by an alleyway and went a step inside. As you leaned back against one of the brick walls, you fished the paper out of your pocket.

On one hand, you didn’t even know what the person looked like. They had been sitting behind you the entire time, and you only caught sight of their back when you noticed what they left behind. A long, dark coat and a flash of a red something was unhelpful, so you were back to square one in that regard. It was a similar situation for conversation. Not a word had been exchanged between you, and your assumptions of their interests weren’t the most stable things to base an interaction off of.

But then, on the other hand, you were already holding your phone in your other hand and typing the number into your contacts, and there was no real harm in testing it out. Besides, who needed a name when you had ‘maybe a murderer’ for caller ID?

Without giving yourself time to think about it, you texted them a quick thank-you for the information. You didn’t wait to see if it delivered or not, and, instead, pocketed your phone again and continued on your way. If something came from it, then something came from it, and if it didn’t, then it didn’t.

Neither you nor Murdock expected it to go as far as it did; after your first message, he responded with a simple ‘you’re welcome’, and that was that. It took another week for you to talk again, itself being a small moment among the stress of a normal week. You’d asked him another anatomical question, something about how best to fit a human body in a cooler after the internet had given you less than stellar results. Hell, it was only once you’d talked it through with him that you learned that he was indeed a he and that his name was Murdock. You kept his contact the same though.

For a laugh.

That helpful conversation was left alone for another few days, you went about your separate lives as you had before you met, and you thought about him as an acquaintance to ask about the most niche interests. 

If someone were to ask you when your relationship changed from those monotonous, distant conversations to something real, you wouldn’t be able to tell them. It just… happened. Something shifted in your conversations, and you stopped going to him just for an easy answer or to save time, and you started going to him because it was him. You liked talking to him more than you liked getting your little problem solved, whatever it was. Broken bones and spilt blood were put on the backburner, to the point that they would become rare in the sea of conversations you had about the merits of keeping throw pillows on the bed or your third attempt at building a ship in a bottle.

The only obstacle between the two of you getting closer was the physical distance because, for some reason, your schedules never seemed to sync up. It was as though fate was perpetually dragging you around in a dance that just skimmed Murdock. You lost count of how many times you missed each other by minutes at a time.

You guessed that was why you were so excited when you finally managed to arrange a date – in the place you had first encountered one another, no less. The café wasn’t far from your apartment, but it wasn’t often you found the time nor the energy to leave the comfort of your home. A lot of your writing featured you hunched over with odd angles and twisted limbs, which was not a sight safe for the public, so you tended towards staying at your desk instead of an open space.

Despite having recently chided fate for its unreliability, you had to grant it some leeway when it let you meet Murdock.

The thump of you flopping back against your mattress knocked you out of your dramatic thoughts. You weren’t a romance writer, but your brain was beginning to look like one, and your chewing of your lip wasn’t doing you any favors.

But could you help it? You were excited, more excited than you had been in a good while, and your proof was hanging right in front of you. Two outfits, both with their positives and negatives. One was flashy, one was comfy. Were you looking to draw attention today – were you supposed to be looking to draw attention? You weren’t good at this. Picking out the right shirt to go with the right pants was not your forté, and you hadn’t spared a thought to color palettes since high school.

Your mind was fogged up with choices and your veins were alive with adrenaline and your mouth was coated with the taste of iron.

Furrowing your eyebrows, you shot up straight, paused, and groaned.

Great, you’d chewed your lip so much that it was bleeding. Just what you needed.

You swiped your finger across your mouth to get rid of what was there already and shuffled to the bathroom for a cloth.

However, you weren’t the only one with blood on your hands; while you were busy trying to find the midpoint between pajamas and a suit, Murdock was ruining is outfit. He wasn’t an idiot, he’d planned a margin of error between getting from the warehouse to the café, but getting an entire new set of clothes was going to really bite into his time reserve. Still, he would do whatever he could to not be late for your date, not only because he didn’t want to come off as uncaring. He also didn’t want you to think he was bad at his job.

Wrenching the axe out of the woman’s neck, listening to the gentle stream of blood grow into a gush, he couldn’t help but think about you. He remembered your questions and the variety of ideas you tested him with. The weight of his weapon seemed almost tacky in comparison to what you teased. All your creative ways of ending a life made him wonder if he should have been doing more.

But he had constructed a recognizable method, and he was proud of what he had achieved in the media. Those sloppy back-alley stabbings were never mentioned in tandem with his name, and he thought that was worth it. You were inventive, but he was reliable. Maybe you could work together on something if this date went well.

Murdock caught the glint of his watch from the flickering lights of the warehouse. If he wanted to be on time, he had to get going. Luckily, the woman had already stopped squirming, and leaving the body there wasn’t a problem.

He pushed back the sleeve of his jacket to see the real issue. The inside was coated with specks of blood, creating a sticky seal between the fabric and his skin. He couldn’t let you see this – you’d think he was careless, and that just wouldn’t do – so he stepped around the corpse and went off in search of the closest bathroom. No doubt the warehouse ones were going to be grimy, but he had to take what he could get.

The café was relatively empty when you arrived. There were only two or three people in there, including the barista and each doing their own thing around the room. For the fun of it, you sat down in the seat from weeks ago and shot Murdock a text for his whereabouts.

You weren’t as nervous as you thought you should have been. This was the first time you were going to meet in person, by all means, you should have been worried! Somehow, though, your heart was beating in its normal rhythm, your breath was steady, and you were enjoying looking around the room while you waited.

A few minutes passed like that, and, while you stayed calm, your confusion was certainly growing. Had he forgotten? He hadn’t replied to your message, so it was possible that he had gotten busy. You knew about the erratic nature of his schedule, it was the very reason you had been looking forward to this date, but he seemed like he had the decency to tell you if anything came up.

“Hi there.”

The whisper almost made you jump out of your skin, and you struggled to contain the yelp of surprise even after you turned around to see the man you had been waiting for. It didn’t matter that you had expected him, he apparently had an uncanny ability to sneak up on people.

You lightly batted your hand against his arm. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I’m sorry.” He said this despite him obviously not being sorry, considering the low, breathy chuckle he let out as he slipped into the chair opposite you.

“And I was going to offer to pay for your coffee.”

“Did I scare you that much?”

You shot him a blank look, to which he started up his laughter.

As far as dates went, this was going pretty well; you started by ordering your drinks – you noticed it wasn’t the same barista as last time, but shifts changed all the time – and, while you tried to return to your last conversation, you couldn’t help but point out how bad a choice black coffee was. It was less of a complaint, and more of a public service.

“It’s not that bad,” he said after taking a sip from the cup.

“So you admit that it’s at least a little bad?”

“It’s better than your sugar-loaded concoction.”

“One sugar packet does not make it ‘sugar-loaded’.”

Despite his glasses covering his eyes, you were able to feel the disapproval quite clearly, enough to match yours, before it faded, and he slid his cup towards your side of the table.

“How about we trade?”

You took a second to think about it; it wasn’t as though you’d never tried black coffee, but it was back when you were thirteen and hadn’t understood the possibility of sweeteners.

Semi-reluctantly and fully suspiciously, you exchanged his cup for yours and brought it close to your lips. You left enough space to joke, “You aren’t trying to get my DNA, are you?”

“Why would I want your DNA?”

“To frame me for one of your murders.”

Had the cup not blocked your view of Murdock as you poured hot coffee down your throat, you might have recognized the flash of panic that spread over his face like lightning in the middle of a storm. His grip tightened around the cup, knuckles becoming more defined while he fought back a frown.

“Do you really think so low of me?”

Placing the cup back down on the table, you shot him a grin that made him relax again. It was a joke, you had been joking, just joking.

“I’m smiling,” you said as you pushed it closer to him, “but that was horrible.”

Oh, right, the coffee. He had almost forgotten what he was doing, but he fixed his mistake by taking a sip. The first taste was the coffee, go figure, but behind it was the faint undertone of what he had expected. The sugar was weaker than what he’d thought it would be, but, nevertheless, it was there, and it was not for him.

“You’re one to talk,” was his response.

“Still, you have to be some kind of murderer, or else why do you know so much about anatomy?”

Were you testing him? Seeing how far he would go in public? You were being bold in joking about your shared work, were you trying to figure out how careful he was? Protecting yourself was a smart move, but he wasn’t going to take the bait so easily.

And you weren’t the only one with jokes.

“I’m a mortuary technician.”

It was a simple answer, one you deemed worthy of a surprised look.

“Really? Why’s that?”

“I feel most at home standing above a dead body?”

That got a laugh out of you, a genuine laugh that made his playful smirk turn more appreciative. For the first time since before he could remember, he thought he preferred that sound from you more than the fearful shriek.

How… normal.

When you faded off into a few stray chuckles, a thought occurred to you that prompted you to point at him dramatically and faux-offended.

“You never answered my text.”

The tilt of his head had you pulling out your phone and showing him the last conversation that you had. The message stood out starkly against your background, even with the dimmed screen, and you tapped it with an accusatory look.

“Well, would you look at that,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah, delivered.”

“No, no, I mean—” he pointed at his contact name, “—that.”

You flipped your phone around to look where he was referring to and immediately felt a blush crawl from your neck to your cheeks. ‘Maybe a murderer’ was not the most affectionate thing to have him labelled as, and for him to see it on your first date was mortifying.

“Oh, yeah, that.” As quickly as you could, you turned it off and shoved it back in your pocket, praying that it or yourself would somehow disappear so that you didn’t have to deal with the embarrassing consequences.

“Maybe a murderer? I thought we’d already clarified what I am.”

“And I thought you were a mortuary technician?”

“So people can’t have hobbies?”

You glanced out the window as you absentmindedly swirled your coffee. “I can’t, at least. I mean, I turned my hobby into my full-time job.”

“What was that saying? Find a job you love, and you’ll never have to work a day in your life.”

“Oh, I’ve worked some days.”

Murdock leaned closer on the table, perching his head on the back of his hand, like a cat watching a fish from an unreachable perch. “So you don’t love it?”

“Of course, I do! It’s just… keeping track of everything gets so tiring after a while, you know?”

“Based on the questions you’ve sent me, I think simplifying your methods would make it easier.”

“I could, but then it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.”

“I, for one, can vouch for the excitement of reliable techniques. Sometimes, knowing how to do something and do it right is the best part. Refining your skills.”

“Do you think people would care as much if I just did the same thing over and over again?” 

From your experience, reusing old material, especially in the same book, made for a lousy read. Unless he meant rewriting the same piece – which itself would bore you out of your mind – you certainly didn’t want to put someone through that.

There was a dip of Murdock’s head, a lowering of his tone, a glint of the sun against his glasses as he said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing some of your work.”

You tried to disguise the surprise from the sudden beating of your heart with a sip of your coffee. It was nearly all gone, which meant so too were your moments of reprieve. Fortunately, he looked genuine, as though he actually wanted to see some of your in-progress chapters.

“Even the stuff that isn’t finished?”

You were brazen, weren’t you? More than he’d ever imagined was possible. “Did you leave a body out so that you could come here?” Just the thought of you taking such a risk just to see him made his breath speed up in a way that was more familiar to him in chasing down a victim.

You shrugged. “They’ll be there when I get back. They’re just words on a page, after all.” You opened your mouth as if to continue that thought, but you soon closed it and furrowed your eyebrows. “How’d you know it was a body?”

There was no accusation in your voice, but the confusion was a feeling you and Murdock shared. Just words on a page? What did you mean by that? Was there some popular metaphor amongst murderers he was unaware of or… 

Wait.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Oh, no.

“What’s under your sleeve. Are- are you bleeding?”

Oh, no.

In a flurry, he tugged his sleeve down over his wrist, as though pulling it far enough meant you would forget you had ever seen it. Telling you it wasn’t his blood wasn’t an option. Telling you it was the blood of a woman whom he had killed – no matter the reason – was not an option.

“Oh, I’m okay,” he rushed to say, his words spilling out of his mouth faster than he could think of them. He needed an excuse, any excuse that wouldn’t make you sprint out of the café as though he’d just told you he was a murderer, which was possible considering he was a murderer and you were distinctly not. “Just caught my wrist on a scalpel at the mortuary, and I guess I didn’t bandage it correctly.”

That was cheap. If you wanted to, it would have been so easy for you to question him about the holes in his story. He didn’t even know if technicians used scalpels, and there was no sign of actual injury anywhere near his wrist. It was shoddy, and this situation was dangerous, and he had gotten so comfortable in presumably talking to another killer that he hadn’t tried to cover anything up. 

Damn it.

Murdock had made a mistake. A stupid mistake that was sure to haunt him for the rest of the days. Hell, he’d made two mistakes, the first being to have ever assumed that you were like him without then making absolute sure that he was right – he was meant to be good at this, but that was the most idiotic he had been in his life – but the second mistake was even worse. 

Because he’d gone and caught feelings for you. Ones he didn’t think he’d be letting go of for a long time; you were terribly kind, and you were awfully genuine, and, worst of all, you weren’t a killer like him.

You were a writer.

While Murdock was internally having a heart attack over the mess he’d made of this relationship from the very beginning, you nodded sympathetically. Wounds on the wrist always made you squirm, whether it was a knife or a paper cut, so you just sat back in your chair.

“If you want to, I’ll ask the barista if they have a first aid kit while you go wash it off.”

He had been staring straight at you when you said that, and the sunglasses blocked his eyes, which meant you didn’t see the way he startled like a rabbit.

You…

You believed him.

Slowly, he nodded, then pushed himself out of his seat, searching for the sign for the bathroom. In sync, you went to talk to the employee, but Murdock stayed standing for a moment.

You hadn’t pointed out any of the problems with his story, you just took him at his word and moved on, trying to help him with a lie. But it couldn’t have been that easy. Something would come up eventually and he’d have to face the music that he had orchestrated himself. He’d lose your laugh and the ill-fated connection you had made. He just knew it. It was only a matter of time.

And yet, surprisingly, everything continued on just as smoothly as before. In some ways, it became even better – being a murderer came with constant fear of getting caught, but also dating a murderer came with twice that amount, especially when it was concern for someone you loved. And, if one of you were caught, there was an uncomfortable choice to be made. 

But none of that mattered! Not anymore. He could enjoy talking over scenarios with you without getting a heart attack whenever you got home late. Sure, anytime you went out into the public together, he spent a few extra minutes looking over his shoulder, but you weren’t doing anything illegal, and Murdock took care not to leave anything behind at crime scenes. A little more awareness was a price he was willing to pay to spend time with you.

Some of his favorite moments were spent in your apartment, and this was one of the best; the blinds were up, the door was locked, and you were leaned against him on the couch, television showing a nature documentary that he was only half paying attention to. Had it been in the depths of winter, snow floating about outside, it could have been the closing image of a hallmark movie. Though, despite it being a cool May evening, it was good enough for the both of you.

You laid your head on Murdock’s shoulder with a sigh, your hands stilled at the keyboard of your laptop across your thighs. He knew that sigh, so he drew the arm that had been strewn over your shoulder back to card a hand through your hair.

“What’re you stuck on?” he asked in a low tone that reverberated through your skin. You almost forgot what troubled you, but the screen in front of you brought it back to the forefront of your mind.

“I don’t know if this works.”

“How so?”

Instead of trying to describe the situation or awkwardly reading it aloud, you just shifted the laptop so that he could see it. Even though it was dim, you didn’t need to burst the comfortable atmosphere with a flashbang – it was a neat skill Murdock had, to be able to read in any environment, but he never explained where he learned it. You’d asked him once, but the only response you got was a wink and a smile.

It was only a short paragraph that had you stumped. When you first started, you would have called it good enough and moved on, but ever since you met Murdock, you had taken special care to make it as accurate as possible. He always got excited when describing certain scenarios to you, always took the time to be precise with what would happen, always made your writing better. It felt like an insult to him to be mediocre at his favorite subject.

He signaled that he was done with a hum.

“I’m tempted to say they wouldn’t pass out before getting to the other hand but…” he trailed off into another hum. “It would depend on their pain tolerance, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s the thing. I’d like them to pass out in this chapter, but later on, they have to have a pain tolerance high enough to run on a broken leg. I don’t really want to get rid of either one of them, though.”

Murdock’s hand in your hair paused, and, unable to see his face, you assumed that he was thinking of ways around it. You had no clue what else you could use that would give you the same effect, so you were already resigning yourself to cutting this part of the scene when he shifted behind you. You took the hint and readjusted yourself against the couch, but you shot him a confused look.

Because his glasses stopped you from seeing his eyes, you were only able to go off of the smirk that spread across his lips. On anyone else, it might have been concerning, but you knew Murdock, and you trusted him through and through. You simply tilted your head in a silent question.

“Sorry, love, I just remembered an extra shift I’m supposed to be at in half an hour. Influx of bodies this week.”

Well, that was disappointing. While you were hoping he had come up with some solution to your struggle, this was also one of the few nights that your schedules aligned. Problems with your calendars hadn’t disappeared after your first date, which meant what little free time you had was spent together, even if you weren’t doing anything specific. You supposed it couldn’t be helped, though – work was work, and Murdock took his job very seriously.

Sometimes you almost wished he didn’t, especially given the recent string of murders around the city. You didn’t like him walking off into the darkness alone. You knew he was able to protect himself, but… you couldn’t help but worry.

That worry apparently showed on your face, if Murdock leaning down to your level was anything to go by.

“Hey,” he whispered, “I’ll come straight back as soon as I’m done with the last body. I’ll be okay.”

“I know, I know, it’s just- y’know, I’ve seen the news and it’s not very assuring.”

He tugged off his glasses with one hand and used the other to caress your cheek. The touch was soft and comforting, but seeing his eyes was the thing that made your shoulders relax and edges of your mouth perk up in a small smile. It wasn’t often that he took them off, outside or inside, but it always made you feel better, as though you understood him the second your eyes met. They were the windows to the soul, after all.

“You don’t need to worry, love. No murderer is going to get me in alleyway. I’ll always come back to you, no matter what.”

To you, that was a pledge for protection against that maniac with an axe. To Murdock, that was a pledge for protection against the police who stuck their heads where they didn’t belong and got them chopped off for it.

But he wouldn’t tell you that. You didn’t need to know; it would only make you worry more, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours. His thumb continued to stroke up and down your cheek, but his hand that held his glasses maneuvered so that he could comfortably cradle the back of your head. On your part, it took you a second to melt into his hold, but melt you did, and you found yourself pushing off the couch to get closer. This was nice. This was safe. Not the safe that you had months ago, the kind that was unbearably boring and made everything else monotonous, as though you were frozen in a block of ice. This was the safe that warmed the ice ever-so-gently until you were pulled out into a protective embrace. The pressure of Murdock against you, no matter the point of contact, was a reminder of that. Your doubtless safety.

When he pulled away, you couldn’t stop the little sound that escaped you, disappointed for a reason different than before, but Murdock only responded with a smug chuckle.

“Later,” he muttered as he replaced the glasses over his eyes, “but I have to get to work.”

He made as if to brush a hand through your hair again, but he smoothly switched directions and grabbed your laptop from where it had slipped during your little moment.

You huffed an indignant, “Hey,” but it was no use.

“This is coming with me.”

“And why’s that?”

“I might be able to figure out your problem while I’m out. It’ll give me something to think about while I wait.”

You rolled your eyes but put up no other resistance. You certainly weren’t going to get anywhere with it, and a break from a screen sounded good about now.

“Fine,” you said as you reached for the TV remote, “just don’t go looking through my files.”

His grin stretched wider. “No promises.”

That look. It was stupid, cliché even, but it made your heart flutter every time it was directed towards you. It showed up in soft moments, in your playful banter, in your affectionately-termed lectures when you wanted to know how long someone could go without oxygen. You’d never taken a picture of it because you never felt the need to; there was always the confidence that you would see it again and capturing it beneath a glass cover was a lot like admitting your time was limited. That was something you didn’t want to risk.

With the flutter replaced by a heaviness, you waved goodbye to Murdock as he waltzed out of your apartment door, your laptop under his arm and keys in his hand. Late night shifts meant that you would go to sleep alone but wake up held securely in a hug that you never felt begin. You guessed that you were a heavy sleeper, or he was just careful not to disturb you when climbing under the sheets.

Though, that theory was put under strain when you stirred to the sound of your bedroom door opening and closing early in the morning, blearily opened your eyes at a rustling, and twisted around to look at who had entered the room.

The moon draped Murdock’s red and black clothes in a milky sheen of light. While he peeled off layer and layer of fabric, you tried to make out the shapes of color that painted his body. They almost looked like splatters – the product of darkness – with their odd angles and droplets against his skin – the aftereffects of sleep – and the way they smeared as he drew his shirt over them – the fantasies you were so prone to indulging in.

You whispered into the shadows where he stood, “Welcome back.”

He laughed to himself under his breath before padding over to join you. You opened the bed for him and held the sheet up until he was safely nestled at your side, arm thrown over your shoulders to guide you closer.

“It works, love.”

“Hmm?”

“The hand thing. They can pass out at the fourth finger and still hobble their way down a hallway with a broken leg. I think it just takes them realizing what situation they’re in for the adrenaline to work its magic.”

“Huh—” you shifted so that you were looking him in the eyes, “—how’d you find that out?”

In the darkness of the room, silhouetted barely by the moonlight but altogether protected from the outside world, he smiled at you and pressed a kiss against your lips. It only lasted a second, two at most, but you couldn’t deny the faint taste of something unusual. Iron?

He drew back before you could figure it out and whispered, “A body came in with the kind of damages you wrote about. Did some tests and it turned out they were put in pretty much the same situation.”

Your eyebrows furrowed and the corners of your mouth turned down. What were the chances?

“Should we be worried?” you asked, mind running wild with questions. Was it just a coincidence that it was the same scenario? Was it just a coincidence that it happened the same time you wrote about it? Was it a coincidence, was it a coincidence?

Murdock broke you out of those thoughts with his words resonating through you. “What did I say before?”

“I know, but…” You couldn’t finish, but you didn’t need to for him to understand. Just saying the words aloud made a certain feeling stir in your gut. Maybe it was simple fear, maybe it was a small glimmer of guilt – either way, it distracted you enough that Murdock had to bring you in impossibly closer for you to snap out of it.

“Love, he won’t hurt me and he’s not going to hurt you.” 

His breath fanned over your hair as you slotted your chin over his shoulders.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

[Thank you for this request! I don't know why I have so much Murdock content considering he shows up for fifteen seconds in a completely missable and frankly irrelevant chunk of Space, but, y'know, I love him, so it's fine. Also, I totally used some of this so vent about how hard it is to search for that blood loss question. Again, thank you for requesting <3!]

[lunaewriting]

The Healer: Xavier x OC

Chapter 2: Pretty Little Lifeform

You just get to keep on living…

When Sirona’s eyes came into focus, she realized the body next to her was William. He died trying to protect her. The stench signified how long it had been. Days. Corpses littered the field, and all the buildings had been burnt to ash. 

Immediately, bile rose in her throat as she realized the disarray William’s body was in. He had been gutted, his entrails spilling out of his body and tainting the earth he had spent his entire life protecting and nurturing. He was gone, and there was no way to bring him back. 

These people, whom she considered family, had been decimated. No, not again. How could I let this happen? It’s all my fault.  

Sirona attempted to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her. Instead, she ended up doubled over William’s ruined body, his half-dried blood staining her skin. She gazed into his lifeless eyes, cloudy pupils staring back at her. She wished that she had fought more fiercely. Sirona had put everything into that fight, but it wasn’t enough to save these people. Now, she had nothing. When her pain and anguish reached a crescendo, she let out a scream of pure agony and then felt nothing at all. 

⭒✦✵✦⭒

Xavier was satisfied with how content Sirona had become. Since their fateful meeting, she was all he could think about. The all-encompassing aura of her soul enraptured him, and her eyes were like nothing he had ever seen before, gold but with a touch of purple. Xavier wished he could get closer to her, but watching over her recovery was the only option because of his rule. Sirona had been spending more time in the town and seemed happy. It was that thought that convinced him to leave the vicinity of the town to visit his friend Jeremiah in the city.

Jeremiah had been his friend for hundreds of years. They had trained together, traveled through spacetime together, and, over the years, he had become his closest companion from his previous life on Philos. Many others had abandoned him to reach their own ends or lost their minds.  But Jeremiah remained steadfast. He was a good friend and an even better man. 

When he returned from his short vacation, Xavier decided to check in on Sirona one last time. When he got there, however, he was shattered to find nothing but gore and rubble. Bodies scattered the dirt, bandits and innocents alike. Buildings had been burned along with the people inside. When he took a closer look, he noticed the bodies of the bandits were all gaunt and shriveled. It was Sirona’s doing; it had to be. Her unique ability had been her saving grace—siphoning her attacker’s energy to keep her alive. 

Xavier spotted green-black tendrils of mist rising from the town center, something he’d never seen before. The miasma of death was causing all life in the area to wilt and decay.  Only one person had that kind of power. He knew he had to act. If he didn’t, their environment was doomed to become a wasteland. The rules had just changed drastically. Countless lives could be lost. No one knew how far this could spread. 

With that potential calamity in mind, he ran into the heart of the miasma. 

The pain was excruciating. He could feel his life force being ripped from his body. But his pain only urged him to move faster. There she is. The aura of decay was originating from Sirona, as he suspected. He ran and fell to his knees before her.

“Sirona!” he rasped, cupping her face in his hands, which were already shriveling up and decomposing. 

When he looked into her eyes, he saw no awareness. She was dead to the world. The effects of the trauma had caused her to lose control. He knew that kind of loss all too well. He wouldn’t leave her. He had to snap her out of this. 

He was dying, and so he desperately screamed. “Sirona please!”

He exhaled hard in a last-ditch effort to save both of their lives. He embraced her. He guided her head to his shoulder and wrapped his other arm around her waist. 

Shocked out of her trance by the sudden contact, Sirona gasped as if waking from a nightmare. Then, the world went quiet. She felt the familiar warmth of another wrapped around her. She took in his smell, Xavier, her salvation.

 Xavier let out a relieved sigh. The pain of Sirona’s attack upon him subsided, and her miasma had dissipated. He felt his life force flood back into him. As well as the environment around them. 

She leaned into the embrace momentarily before quickly pulling back to look at him. In Xavier’s eyes, she saw recognition, which could only be shared between two people who had lost everything. He looked devastated for her. 

“They’re dead, they’re all dead. I couldn’t save them,” Sirona wailed. At that, it was as if the dam holding back the flood of emotions had broken within her. She could hold in her grief no longer. Sirona collapsed into Xavier’s arms and buried her head into his neck. Sobs wracked her body violently, and she gripped onto him with such force he thought bruises might form. His arms tightened around her as if he were trying to keep her from falling apart, but he knew that no matter how tightly he held her, it would not bring back any of the people either of them had lost. 

So, instead, they held each other as if they were the only people left on the planet. 

At that moment, Xavier knew that he could never leave her. Now that they collided, there was nothing that could break them apart.

Eventually, after what felt like hours, Sirona’s sobs had subsided. Silently, she stood, breaking her contact with Xavier. She may not have been able to save her people, but she would see to their eternal rest. 

Mindlessly, she grabbed a shovel and began the herculean task of burying all of the men, women, and children of her village. She knew them all. They deserved better than her. She prayed that they would forgive her for her dereliction in the afterlife.

Xavier watched as she began to work. Without a word, he joined her in her task. She did not acknowledge him. Sirona was too tired after the day’s events to muster a thank you. Together, they dug graves for every person. Finally, she placed an item of importance atop each of their final resting places. Her work had been completed, but as she finished, Sirona realized she had nothing else to live for. In a haze, she began to shamble aimlessly towards the woods. 

Xavier caught up to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, forcing her to stop walking and look at him. “Sirona, I am so sorry.” 

“So am I,” Sirona murmured impassively and tried to pull away to continue her purposeless endeavor. Xavier’s arm prevented her from doing so.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here.”

Xavier exhaled sharply. “Let’s just get you home.” 

Sirona looked over at him; truthfully, she was drained. She hadn’t eaten since before the attack.  The longer she walked, the more she stumbled before finally collapsing from exhaustion. 

He dropped down next to her, a question in his eyes. 

“It’s nothing,” Sirona said. 

“Please, Sirona, let me help you,” he whispered to her so gently.

“I don’t deserve it,” she croaked, looking at the floor beneath her.

“Yes, you do. Please, let me prove it to you.” 

With that, she nodded. Xavier smiled softly at her. He slung her arms around his neck and slid his arms under her legs and back. He picked her up tenderly. Too fatigued to resist, she rested her head on his capable shoulder and allowed him to bring her home. She could not keep her eyes open and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber. 

When Xavier finally reached Sirona’s cottage outside the village, he was surprised to see the vibrant garden surrounding her home. There were flowers and herbs of every variety. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. Xavier looked down at her and smiled to himself.  She looked so peaceful in his arms, unimpeded by the horrors of reality. It would take a long time for her to heal from this, but he would be there to help her through it. If anyone knew what she was going through, it would be him. 

He carried her through the threshold of her home. The smell of jasmine filled his senses. It was long past dusk, but Xavier used his evol to make a ball of light to guide him. It was small and comfortably cluttered. There was one bedroom, though the couch in the center of the living room looked comfortable enough. With great care not to wake her, he laid her gently on her bed and covered her with a plush blanket. As he tried to pull away, Sirona caught his arm. 

“Please,” Sirona mumbled, still half asleep, “Xavier, please don’t leave me.”

“Sirona, I am not going to leave you,” Xavier said, brushing a strand of her chestnut hair out of her face, “I’ll be right here, but we both need to eat.” 

“Okay…” she whispered, content with the answer. Eyes half shut, she watched Xavier walk through her home before sleep overtook her again.

He was a terrible cook, but he knew Sirona was hungry, as was he. Xavier found his way to the kitchen. Each surface in the home was covered in trinkets of all uses, books, and crystals. The walls were blanketed with art, and some appeared very valuable. It was odd that such a young-looking woman would have so many time-worn items in her home.

An antique-looking ice box caught Xavier’s eye, and when he looked inside, he found it stocked with an assortment of dried meats, bread, and eggs, as well as a plethora of fruits and vegetables, likely picked fresh from the garden outside. Xavier then gathered wood and lit a fire to cook and warm the chilly home. Once the fire had been lit, he set upon making a proper meal for himself and Sirona. He settled for something easy, cracking a few eggs into the pan and warming some slices of bread for the two of them. 

“Hey, I made you something.” 

When he returned to wake her, she remained in a deep, mournful sleep. She was tossing and turning, her sleep obviously tumultuous. Xavier touched her shoulder and squeezed to jostle her from her nightmare.

Sirona awakened with a start. Her mind was torturing her with memories of the people she had damned. She looked around frantically, trying to discern where she was before her eyes finally settled upon Xavier’s worried face. At the sight of him, her heart calmed. It was as if his very presence was a salve for her broken mind.

“Sirona, I made something to eat,” Xavier repeated.

“Oh, thank you.” Sirona swung herself out of bed and hurried towards the dining room. It was a simple meal of eggs and toast, but it looked like a veritable feast to her hungry eyes. She sat and began eating, Xavier smiled and joined her a moment later.

Once every scrap of the meal had been devoured, Sirona again yearned for sleep, and it was evident on Xavier’s face that he felt the same. 

“Thank you for the meal, I’m exhausted,” Sirona said, eyes flickering towards her bedroom. 

“As am I. I’ll sleep on the couch,”  Xavier said all too quickly.

“Oh, you don’t have to–”

“I don’t mind!” he rushed, seeming slightly embarrassed. “Truly.”

“Well, alright,” Sirona conceded, wondering why a wave of disappointment washed over her at his insistence to sleep on the couch. Without another word, they both retired to their respective places of rest.

⭒✦✵✦⭒

In the dead of night, Xavier was awakened by a harsh scream. He launched himself from the couch and followed the sound to its origin. There Sirona lay, tears streaming down her beautiful face. Her knees had been brought up to her chest. 

“Sirona,” Xavier whispered hesitantly. Startling slightly, Sirona glanced over at him. The sorrow in her eyes made it impossible to resist approaching her. Gingerly, Xavier sat at the foot of her bed next to her. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Sirona shook her head. “No,” she said hoarsely, “But if you wouldn’t mind, could you stay with me? It seems like the only time I can stop thinking about the attack is when you are close to me.”

“Of course,” Xavier said. “I won’t leave,” and I am beginning to believe I will never want to. The invitation resonated between them. Sirona opened the covers for him and beckoned him to join her. Xavier obliged as he crawled into bed beside her. Xavier thought of his own mind. No one deserved to go through what the two of them had in their lives, but fair or not, they now had to live with the scars. He would not allow Sirona to suffer in silence like he had for a millennium. No, she deserved better.

Sirona placed a hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes. “Thank you, Xavier. You saved my life. I will never forget it. I do not know how I will ever repay you,”

Xavier closed his eyes and leaned into Sirona’s hand. “The only thanks I need is your company.”

⭒✦✵✦⭒

1894

Since that fateful night, Sirona and Xavier would rarely spend a day apart. They began that day as strangers but ended as life companions. For the next 10 years, Xavier and Sirona lived at that cottage in complete peace. Sirona often visited the village she used to call home to pay her respects. The two would also travel to the city to acquire new art pieces and peruse the latest exhibits. Before Xavier entered her life, she often opened a traveling cart selling herbs for various uses to make ends meet and purchase the occasional piece. Xavier had changed that; he had a mysterious wealth that he would dodge questions about when asked; whenever Sirona showed any interest in a painting, it would mysteriously be delivered to them the following day in the city. Their trips were always brief; being away from the village made Sirona uncomfortable. 

As the years drew on, Xavier began to notice Sirona’s stagnation. They knew each other almost as well as they knew themselves. Although his greatest secret still gnawed at him, he just could not bring himself to disclose to her what he truly was. She thought he was merely an exemption to mortality as she was. He wished the burden of immortality was the only one they would have to carry on their shoulders. There would still be a few hundred years of peace; he could pretend until then. But one day, that peace would be shattered. 

Their relationship had always been a mystery to him. He realized long ago that he loved Sirona. Maybe he had loved her from the second he saw her. Still, he could not bring himself to tell her how he felt. The prospect of losing her would be a fate worse than death. Maybe that made him a coward, but he did not care.  

Xavier thought back to those precious few months when Sirona was helping the town’s people. In all his time with her, Xavier had never seen her as happy as she was then. In the beginning, he had thought that Sirona just needed time to heal. Now, he realized for as long as she lived in this cottage that she would only be surviving, never genuinely alive. Xavier had repeatedly suggested they could move to a new place, but Sirona met every suggestion with an immediate no. 

It wouldn’t be fair to either of them if Sirona continued on like this for eternity.

With that thought in mind, Xavier approached her as she tended the garden.

She gazed indifferently at her beloved jasmine as she pruned and watered the plant. A task she had performed countless times. 

“Sirona, can we talk?” 

Sirona paused before looking over at him. He sounded especially serious. 

“Of course, you know you can talk to me about anything!” She managed a small smile. 

“I think it’s time to leave this place,” Xavier suggested firmly. 

An alarm sounded in her heart, no. This had been the only thing that Xavier and Sirona had ever disagreed about. She was bound to this place; there was nothing either of them could do about that. 

“That’s ridiculous. I can never leave this place.”

Xavier squeezed his eyes shut. He had heard that so many times, and it was becoming frustrating. 

“But, why?”

“I just can’t.”

“You always say that to me, and I have never pressed you on it. I always thought that if I gave you enough time, that you would eventually heal from what happened…but Sirona.” Xavier crouched beside her. “I can’t live another day knowing that you are living in the past, you are torturing yourself.”

She looked away. “The past is all I have, I did not even deserve to live through that day.”

He stayed silent for a moment, taking in her every feature. Her freckles came out in the sun; they peppered the planes of her face, framing her beautiful golden eyes. He reached out to caress her cheek.

“Please don’t think like that.” He understood what she was going through better than anyone in the world. Seeing this reflection of his own pain struck him to his core. 

“Xavier, this is not up for discussion. I am not leaving.” Sirona stood at that and began to walk away.

“No, I will not allow you to give up on yourself like this! You are still alive, Sirona. Stop pretending that you died alongside them.” His voice had an edge that he had never taken with her before. She stopped in her tracks. The words he said stung, threatening to open old wounds. 

And you just get to keep on living… 

She still would not look at him. “Enough, Xavier!” Her fists clenched. 

“No! Would you stop and look at me for one second?” 

Sirona raised her eyes to his as he closed the distance between them, grasping her face with his hands, making it impossible for her to turn away from him again. “Do you think your people would want you to waste away for the rest of your life?”

Sirona blinked, surprised at the sudden force of his voice. He had never raised his voice at her before. But then she realized the truth in his words. Mistakenly, she had felt that if she left this place, it would mean abandoning them. Leaving her people abandoned and unguarded yet again, failing them even in the afterlife. She realized her folly; no one would ever hurt them again. Because of Sirona, their sole survivor, they were at peace. She was their legacy. To give up on herself would be to dishonor their memory. 

She searched Xavier’s eyes. “You’re right. I am sorry.” 

Xavier’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head, but he said, “So you’ll consider it then?”

Sirona let out a long sigh. “Yes.” 

Xavier’s face broke into the most radiant smile she had ever seen. He hugged her, bringing her off the ground for a moment.

“Thank you for trusting me, Sirona,” he said quietly, cupping her face with both hands. Suddenly, he noticed how close their faces were. For an agonizing moment, they stood there, breath mingling. They both seemed incapable of looking away. Just as Sirona’s eyes fluttered shut, Xavier pulled away. 

He cleared his throat, “Well, where do we start?” 

[missholloween]

Trick-or-treat!

This fic is from April, and it's called "One mind, one voice, one flesh one end". It's the only think I've written for the tlt au, although this one was more Hatchetfiled focused @samuelandthesun, co-writer of the fic, hadn't read nona yet, so there were things I couldn't talk about when planning the au (no permeability of the soul sadly).

If I recall correctly, macnacross was second house, holloweane was fifth, lautski was third and holy ghost eight. Lexthan was out of this because Lex and Hannah were in a non-house planet. I would do things differently though, but this is still a solid idea.

Spoilers for Gideon the Ninth. TW for major character death and description of injuries

(also thanks again to mai for translating the first paragraph <3)

For their bones, for the decomposed flesh hanging from their predecessors’ bodies, she was not going to do what Canaan House’s bizarre mystery was showing her. She could mutilate her body, her soul, and even her fellow Houses’ ones. But she would not consent to killing her cavallier. If being a Lyctor meant giving up the only good thing left in this world, Miss Holloway refused to go through that.

“Holloway, what’s wrong? Have you figured it out? Do you know how to ascend?” Duke’s face was so full of hope it hurt her.

Holloway looked at him and smiles as she had done many other times. Duke knew when something was wrong, but he also knew that he wouldn’t be able to talk her out of whatever it was.

“We’re closer, yes, but I think I’ll need another lab more. I think the Sixth one is still–“

An explosion cut their words. Duke drew his rapier and stood between Holloway and the figure that was now in the door’s frame. Their gloomy hair was as greasy as it always was, now decorated with blood. With their cavalier’s blood.

“Duke, boy, don’t be like that. Is that how you greet a friend?”

Wilbur Cross, the necromancer of the Second House, was not the same person they had met before. Their eyes had become an unnatural blue, and they held their rapier with a dexterity they shouldn’t have. For a moment, Holloway saw the end of their hair turned blonde, although they quickly faded. Wherever MacNamara was, it wasn’t a better place.

“So, you’ve discovered it too” Holloway said, looking coldly at the person who had been able to do that to their cavalier.

“Please, John was begging on his knees for me to absorb him. He will now be a part of me forever.” Wilbur smiled cruely, did an eerie twirl, raised their sword and pointed to Holloway’s neck. Holloway raised a bone wall to stop him, but they cut through it effortlessly- Holloway barely escaped from it.

“Miss Holloway, whatever they have done, Wilbur is a lyctor already… So do the same!” Duke shouted, going towards Wilbur. “Or we won’t be able to stop them!”

Miss Holloway wasn’t willing to do it. There had to be another way to stop him. Is that what the Lord in Black had preached through the galaxy? Was that the reason they had been sent to that house? The saints couldn’t be built through blood. Their history wasn’t made of blood.

But there was no time to think. Wilbur danced between their rapier and their necromancing, attacking the couple from both sides and preventing them to move. Duke could follow the rhythm, but Holloway knew he could not last forever: thanergy was flooding through the newly created lyctor, and Holloway knew they weren’t even trying.

“Why are you playing, Holly? Don’t you think I should see your maximum potential?” Wilbur laughed maniacally just to, some seconds later, return to the perfect stand that had belonged to their partner.

Suddenly, their eyes glew.

“Oh, I get it now.” Wilbur stopped their sword, and let Duke take the lead. “I’m sorry, boy. Believe me, it’s nothing personal.”

Wilbur’s “slip” had not been anything but a trap. When Duke crossed Wilbur’s space, a bone coming from the lyctor cut through Duke’s ribcages. It didn’t take long to expand, damaging the cavalier’s intestines and lungs.

“Duke!” Holloway could barely speak through her tears. “Don’t leave. D-don’t…”

“You know what has to be done, Holly. I can help you, if you’d like.”

Wilbur held out their hand, but Holloway didn’t take it. Her hands were already inside Duke.

[kim-the-kryptid]

Completed the first chapter to my genderfuck hilson fic! It's a super short set up for the rest of the story because even in crackfic I need some kind of logic to base my wacked up science in. The link to ao3 post is below the cut!

Title: What was in the wine in '73?

Rating: M

Category: f/f

Words: 597

Summary: Wilson is staying at House’s place again. After a night of playing cards, watching bad TV and getting wasted, both men wake up the next morning to new weight on their chests and hair in their faces. Will they unearth what the fuck happened? Or will they be too distracted by new developments to care?

Or: House and Wilson drink some badly preserved 1973 red wine. Overnight they’re transformed into their woman equivalents and have to figure out how to adjust to their new bodies, social perception, and sexual confusion.

House flipped over a set of aces once again. On his right, Wilson groaned, “What?! Oh, come on.” He smacked his cards on the coffee table, revealing a 7 of clubs and 9 of hearts. House snickered and reached over to take the $10 pot, placing it in his pile with the others.

“Down on your luck tonight, maybe you should stop while I’m ahead.” He had that expression on his face, the one that he only showed when he was really having his fun. The playfulness in House’s eyes burned into the side of Wilson’s head, and he sighed. Changing the subject (trying to get out of losing all his cash, without admitting to being beat), he said,

“You got anything to drink?” House let him wiggle away. It was no fun teasing Wilson when he had pulled all the ground from under him. House would say it’s because his fuse would get shorter, he’d have less of a chance to poke at him. But really, he enjoyed seeing Wilson win, at least sometimes. It kept his spirits up, with a smile on his face and the banter burning hot.

“Yeah, I’m sure there’s something.” House got up from the couch and searched his kitchen. With Wilson staying with him again, the liquor ran dry fast and every few cupboard’s insides had been tampered with. Eventually, he found a tall bottle of wine lodged right at the back between a few other boxes and decided it was good enough. The branded label was smudged and scratched so badly he couldn’t make out anything on it, the only legible text was on the neck, a date which read ‘bottled 1973’. An aged wine, red. House had no idea why he had it and for apparently long enough for it to decompose on a shelf. He grabbed two glasses and settled back next to Wilson, who looked like he could doze off at any moment now. It wasn’t late by any means, Wilson had done an overnight at the hospital and needed a distraction. One that required all of their favourite activities in one night, ending with a drink it seemed.

“Hey, don’t leave me hanging here, you’ve gotta match me shot for shot!” House poured barely any liquid into each glass, already sensing they wouldn’t have time for much more.

“You brought out wine.” Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He fought them open with the help of a few tired blinks.

“So you are still conscious.” House handed one of the glasses off and quickly threw back his drink. He was already pouring another when he noticed Wilson eyeing the dark red. “It’s fancy aged wine, so appreciate that I broke it out just for you.” Wilson stayed quiet but sipped his glass. Honestly he couldn’t care less what they drank right now as long as it was inebriating.

***

House was happily surprised when Wilson almost did ‘match him shot for shot’. When they emptied the bottle it actually had become late, a few episodes of housewives later. It was clear Wilson was ready to drop dead, so House took the remnants of their evening to the kitchen, glasses in the sink, bottle in the trash (he had no recycling) and money in his pocket. He returned to the living room only to walk past Wilson, still sat in his spot on the couch, and called out, “I’m heading in, don’t forget to turn out the lights in your drunken stupor!” All he heard in reply was a faint “Uh-huh.”

[summerlovingbaby]

Who would Stay The Longest

Y/N sat at the gravestones of the fallen soldiers. No, they weren’t just soldiers. they were heros. And now they were gone. Y/N hated the word gone, it felt so permeant, like when you delete a picture or swallow your gum  too quickly. But they were. Dead, done, gone, buried, deceased. Whatever you wanted to call it. They were gone. 

And she wasn’t, which was the inherit problem.

She sat at their graves, alone and surrounded by the ghost of memories and occasionally sweeping off the leaves that fell on them. Sweeping the dirt off the stone headstones, and running her fingers along their engraved names, like they would change, She felt the rough stone along her fingertips, and the cold hard dirt that she sat on. She didn’t have the foresight to bring a blanket, nor would she have brought one if she thought about it.

She didn’t want a blanket, or food or water. If someone offered her one Billion dollars she wouldn’t except it, because  the one thing she wanted she wasn’t getting back, she wasn’t special enough for that.

As the sun shrunk behind the treeline and slipped behind the horizon, not than Y/N noticed, let alone even care. It felt like she had been there for a thousand years and would wait there for a thousand more, and she would only leave when she felt good and ready to. And she did not feel good,-not eating or drinking for days would do that to you, and she by no means would she feel ready anytime soon.

She heard the crunching of the fallen leaves behind him, followed by shallow quick breaths from walking up the hill. Her hand flew to the knife she wore around her thigh. and her fingers grabbed at the handle, gripping it tightly she felt her fingers turning red. She heard the footsteps get closer and the breathing get heavier. She felt his warm fingertips through her shirt as he lightly tapped her on the shoulders, she knew it was him but didn’t care.

Will Solace, son of Apollo and probably the warmest guy at camp, temperature and personality wise. When he smiled, the sun off reflected off his teeth to make it look like gold, and when the moon shone on him, his smile looked like pure whith pearls.

As soon as the fingers connected with her shoulders she grabbed his hand and yanked it down, moved her feet from their criss cross position ans outstretched her legs out in front of her, and forced his body over her, throwing him over her shoulder. He flew over her head, his head hardly missing the top  of his own brother’s headstone. He landed on his back with a thud, then led there for a moment.

He of all people could understand why she would wait here. Laying on his back and looking up at the sky through the trees made everything seem so calm and night. The leaves swayed in the chilling night air, and they hid the sky from view, but of you looked hard enough the obscured stars would peak through the leaves ever so slightly and that made him smile.

He took a few deep breaths and sat up, using his arms to push himself to his knees and peaking his head over the top of the headstone, He smiled. That stupid classic Will Solace smile, that usually could brighten hell itself, but right now it made his overtly happy face seem so shapable it made Y/N’s fingers shake.

His fingers tapped at the top of his brother’s gravestone. “That was a nice throw, I was half expecting you to stab me, but a nice through none the less.”

Y/N looked at his face, still smiling at a makeshift cemetery. His blue eyes as bright as ever despite the darkness. His shaggy blonde hair bounced on his head every time he moved, and he was long overdue for a haircut. Despite the glare that she gave him, the corners of his mouth turned into a smile. He still found away to smile through all this grief, surrounded in a field of tragedy and bodies. Y/N wondered if they already started decomposing in their caskets, but thinking about that made something rise in her throat so she pushed it away.

“ Next time I will stab you.” she spoke, her eyes drifted down to the headstone, and tucked her legs back into the Criss Cross position again. “ Right in the neck.”

He playfully grabbed at his chest, mocking a person struggling to breathe. “ Oh you wound me.” he said grabbing at his neck, and falling backwards landing on his back again. It was a bad show he put on the make her smile. But he peeked over the top of the headstone, to see her still grimacing. Her eyes narrowed in on the dirt of the freshly dug grave, and nose shriveled up in disgust.

She was thinking about him. His skin and his body rock hard, his fingertips so stiff that they wouldn’t even move.His face aged with death, death did that to people. It always seemed to age a person 1000 years. She thought about gaping hole in his stomach that had already started to decompose. He wasn’t buried in a suit, just jeans and a yellow shirt that Will always stole for him to wear. He thought of time moving on before him, his body stuck forever in place, the only sign of him aging would be the decomposition of his body. Maybe it wouldn’t do it so fast if it got cold enough quickly, So she wished it would snow, just to escape permance grasp of his body breaking down forever.

“What are you thinking about?” Will asked, poking her in this shoulder.

“ Snow.” she stated simply. She tried to keep her voice still but it cracked slightly.

His face turned sullen, his eyelids drooping and the corners of his mouth dropped to a place between a grimmace and a frown. He hated the cold. Son of the sun god. “ It’s too warm for snow. At least here.”

“ Maybe we could summon a snow spirit, and she could make it cold forever.”

If she could freeze any moment in time it would be the moment beofre the war. Amanda, her best friend since diapers would still be alive, along with the most f her cabin mates. Her boyfriends biggest worry would be making sure he didn’t run out of pomade, and her biggest worry was proving that she could beat Lucy at Uno. She couldn’t beat her at uno. Next thing she knew she was telling whoever was left in cabin 9 how many caskets to build and how many headstones they needed to engrave. What to put on a epitaph, you could only come up with so many before they sounded dumb or cliche, so many were left blank.

“ How long have you been here?” he asked. He sat next to her, running his finers along the fresh dirt, that hadn’t quite hardened on the top of it. Feeling the topsoil and grabbing handfuls before flattening them out again.

She checked her watch and then went back to staring at the headstone.” 3 hours and 14 minutes.”

It wasn’t a lie exactly, she had been sitting at that grave for 3 hours and 14, now 15 minutes, and before that she was at Lucy’s grave  before that, thinking about that time she had to give Lucy the hemiclich maneuver because she never chewed properly, and swallowed haphazardly and choked on a large bite of apple. 4 hours before that she was at Amanda’s grave replacing the flowers despite the fact that they were so fresh the flowers hadn’t yet bloomed. But that wasn’t what he meant. She had missed all mealtimes and hadn’t gone back to the cabin since the funeral.

She was still wearing the clothes she wore to the funeral. Back combat boots laced up to the ankles, and long ribbed socks that went up to mid calf because if they went up any further, they would make her legs itchy. A simple black pleated skirt that she must have stolen from Anabeths closet and a simple black tee. Her camp necklace around her neck, along with a shark tooth that she never took off. Her shirt had gone wrinkled from wear and her fancy funeral updo had frizzed in the humidity and fallen when she flew into hysterics.

He leaned in and placed his head on her shoulder, the top of his yellow hair brushing against her neck. “ I think it’s time.” he whispered. “ I think it’s time to go back, maybe take a shower, this isn’t good for you.”

She knew it wasn’t good but didn’t care. As far as she was concerned her home was beneath her. Buried in the dirt beheath her feet. Her cabin was practically empty. Everyone was either claimed by their godly parent or dead. She was happy for them, she really was, but she couldn’t help but feel all alone. Mourning the dead and taking in there losses. It was lonely work, when all your friends were celebrating theor wins and she had none to celebrate.

The one time she walked back into her cabin it felt open and drafty. Like someone spent a wind god through the room. It chilled her down to the bone and she hadn’t stepped in it sense, and wasnt anytime soon.

She shook her head quickly, not letting her eyes abandon the grave. “ No.”

“Y/N-”

“ I’m not ready.” she whispered.

“ I don’t think anybody’s ever ready for these types of things.” he responded. 

He brushed the side of her face and felt her lip quiver slightly, before she bit it to keep herself from crying. She did that often, hurt herself to keep the emotions away. If she could focus on the pain in the present then she could keep the upsetting thoughts away. But this grief was a pain that nothing could compare to. She couldn’t stab herself in the leg or make her  nose bleed or stick her head in the river that ran through camp to try to cut off oxygen.

This was the worst type of pain for her. The pain in the present, the pain where there was no practical solution to. Her friends were dead. There was not much that could be done. No spell, no magic, no god could bring them back. She prayed. It didn’t work, and begging on your knees for no one to respond was shameful. And she could not tell what she was ashamed of more: that she had prayed to flakey gods to begin with, or that she actually thought they would respond.

Greif made her delusional. Greif also made her jump down the throats of anyone who got within a yelling distance of. It was shocking that it took her so long to get angry with Will.

“ You seem to be ready.” she snapped.

He had abandoned the funeral because he couldn’t stand looking at the bodies of his dead friend's no more could he stand the river styx. He went to the celebration after the war that was really mostly a birthday party for Percy Jackson.

“ Did you even love him?” she asked. She felt his body tense, it was a statement that she couldn’t take back, and one he couldn’t ignore. “ Now leave. I wish to be left alone.

She felt him get off her shoulder and turned to look at him. He had some unreadable expression, something between content and destain. She noticed his arms, that went tense, and noticed he had balled his hands in his fist.

“ You’re angry, I understand. You have every right to be. But I’m not going to watch you die mourning the dead. Your tired, and you need to eat and sleep. I will drag you out of this cemetery by your braids if you try to fight me on it. “ he spoke calmly. His face settling into something quiet. His body still rigid with anger but his face content with understanding. “ You’ve done good. The funerals are over, and they are buried. It’s time to come home, you can mourn them from there.”

“I would like to be  left alone.”

Will sauntered away, muttering something to herself and shaking his head. He wandered his way all the way to Cabin 3. The smell of salt water radiating off of it before he got even close to it.

To be honest, will always hated that color. It was a mix between teal and swamp green. The outside of the cabin looked... proud. WIth 15 feet tall pillars and a large green door with childrens crayons drawings on them. No doubt made by Tyson and hung by Percy. Tyson and Percy were about as close as brothers as anyone could be, and Will distained them. 

They weren’t real brothers. They had only known each other for a few years and they spent most of their time apart. Brotherhood went beyond blood and anyone who cared to know that, Will made the effort to smile to.

He found Percy on  the porch, his arms draped over Anabeth, who was reading the latest issue of Architect Digest. Anabeth was engrossed in the book and Percy was engrossed in her, sniffing her hair that somehow always smelled like coconuts.

“ Will-” Percy started. Percy looked up at him. His green eyes looked darker in the night time. His jet black hair seemed unchanged. Will hadn’t looked at Percy in a while. Really taken him in since he became invested in the war.

Percy had changed alot. Looked a tad like Luke but shorter and stronger. It wouldn’t be odd if someone mistake d him from a young god that got lost and ended up in the mortal world. His face was calm and relaxed, His jaw was unclenched for the first time in a while, finally letting himself relax because the war was over.

The war was finally over, but Will wasn’t ready to move on.

“ I’m worried about Y/N.”

“ I would be worried if you wern’t.” Anabeth said, her eyes not looking up,still engrossed with whatever she was reading and popsicle stick bridges that could hold pennies.

“ She’s at the cemetery.” he said stiffly. His bright smile was gone and replaced with a cold one. Something sick and stiff.

“ I would be surprised if she wasn’t.” Percy laughed.

“ She hasn’t left since the funeral.”

They both looked up the hill and past the trees at her. Her slumped over the headstone of someone’s grave. She looked so small from far away. Like fragility had danced across her , and raked itself across her body.

“ Can you talk to her?”

Percy could almost laugh. He was possibly the worst person to talk to her. Y/N  didn’t like Percy, and that was evident.She would always look upon him with a fatal destain, and when they stood to close together she would always turn up her nose. As if he smelled like road kill.

“ That isn’t a good idea.” he stated, biting his teeth, wishing to say that the last thing he wished to do was talk to her. “ She doesn’t like me.”

“ She actually thinks very highly of you.”

“ Why can’t you talk to her.”

“I’ve tried. Will you do this one thing for me?”

Wills yellow eyes bore  into Percy and he felt that he could not say no. If anyone owed anyone anything. Percy owed will. Though Percy had no knowledge of this, his brother was dead because of him. Drowned on a bridge, Percy had also forced away the boy that Will thought he would love one day. That Percy knew about. Guilt shot its way through Percy, here he was, arms draped around Annabeth, the girl he knew that he loved, smiling and preening like a peacock.

“ Okay.” he spoke. Will nodded slightly, then walked away, he had no other reason to stay.

He pushed Annabeth away and stood. Will looked at Percy and finally understood why people would mistake him for godly. His face was smooth and mostly unmarked, minus a few scars that didn’t make him look ugly, but heroic. His body looked chistled, and the muscles that were visible underneath his clothes were sharp and hard edged like a blade had cut away at the useless things like fat.

He walked off the porch and up the hill, taking a moment to admire the trees. He never had a reason t gaze upon them before, having never seen the value of them. But now that he almost died, more times than a daredevil would enjoy he appreciated them. He ran his fingertips along the bark. It was rough and bumpy, and ants crawled along it.

He continued his way to the cemetery. The air turned cold and stale. It seemed as if Y/N was in such hysterics that she didn’t notice, or she had given up on her personal safety and didn’t care. She detached herself from the grave, and now sat upright. Gripping at the soil, which had somehow grown moist suddenly. Percy clicked his tongue, hoping to gain her attention. Her hands did not go for her knife, that she was so keen on keeping it close, instead they stayed on her lap. Criss crossed and in fist.

“ You’ve been up here a long time.”

“ You should send someone to check on me.” she stated clinically. Her hands unclenched and her body didn’t relax just seemed to get stiffer. She lifted her nose away from him.

“ You sound like Annabeth.”

“ And you sound like my mother.” she snapped. She meant what she said, and didn’t want to take back the cruel words that she pushed out of her throat and into her tongue.

It was meant to be a insult and Percy accepted it as one. It was no secret that Y/N hated her mother. She was a drunk and when she wasn’t drinking she was high and when she wasn’t high she was beating her. She lived alone with her mother until the age of 13, and had no one else in the household to interfere. She wished her mother dead instead of her father who drowned when she was a kid. It was one of her earliest memories, and the only thing she remembered was the palm of his hand above the cruel tide of the ocean fighting not to drown.

They never found a body and buried a empty casket. As she thought of her father she was glad that at least she had bodies this time, there is nothing more purposeless than an empty casket.

“ It’s time to go home.”

“ It’s time for you to leave.” she repeated. “ I have no need for your pity or concern. If I wanted to be babied then I would have let Will stay.”

“ I’m not gonna baby you.” he stated. He rested his hands on his hips and let his eyes drift to the graves. Some of them still unmarked. The cemetery used to be a lonely place, now it was crowded with ghosts. You could no longer be alone when you sat here, you would only be surrounded by a sickly feeling that made you want to leave.

“ You are.” she snapped. Her body went rigid and her jaw went tense once she was finished speaking.

“ That was not my intention.” he spoke, he jammed his fist in his jean jackets and bounced on his feet. He hated staying as motionless as she did.

“ Then what is your intention.”

“ I understand how you feel.” he bent at the knees and kneeled down next to her before falling backwards on his butt next to her. A small grunt left his lips as he landed and for a feeble second he understood why she sat where she did. It made things seem unreal and the world look smaller than it was. Like it would collapse in his palm if he wished it. 

“ You don’t.”

“ This war... it took alot from me. It’s hard to grieve when you're trying to do so many things, and when it hits you it hits you so hard it knocks you over. It makes a gaping hole in your chest and your stomach. And every time you think about them you just fall in it. The hole never goes away, it just gets smaller. You won’t forget them. I never have, you think about them when it’s the little things that are missing, and when you remeber them, you fall into that hole all over again.”

“ Was that supposed to be inspirational?” she asked.

“ No... it was supposed to be true.”

She raised her eyebrows before her face changed into something unreadable.

A moment passed between them, It was silent and still, even the trees which waves kept blowing and rustling agaisnt themselves and the cicadas stopped singing, as if a god themself wished them quiet. Percy hated the silence.

“ You sitting here, wasting away won’t make them any less dead. They will always be dead, nothing will change that. But I know they wouldn’t want you sitting here sad and alone.”

Her face shifted into a noticeable anger that she bothered not to hide, her arm went floppy as she felt rage pierce her skin and enter her bloodstream and pinpointing to every nerve ending in her body.

“ THEY DON’T WANT ANYTHING THEY’RE DEAD.” she rose to her feet, the anger shot through her spine making her want to stand. Percy feeling threateend stood as well. “ THEY ARE ALL DEAD THEY DON’T WANT ANYTHING. THEY HAVE NO MORE THOUGHTS NO MORE FEELING NO MORE ANYTHING.THEY ARE GONE!”

She looked at his face. And resented it. It was still warm and tepid and  that made her angry, she had turned cold surrounded by all this grief and he still had it in him to be warm.

“ Calm down-”

“ YOU DON’T GET TO TELL ME TO CALM DOWN, I’VE LOST EVERYTHING. I HAVE NO ONE. EVERYBODY I KNEW IS IN A CASKET. I AM ALONE” her body felt loose, the gravity of the truth of her statement sat on her shoulders and made her slump. Tears dripped down her face and she made no effort to hide them. 

“ You have me.” Percy offered.

“ I don’t have you. “ she stood taller, getting angry at his words. “ Annabeth has you, Grover has you, Rachel has you. Clarisse has you, Will has you. I have no one.”

“ You’re parent-”

“ Hasn’t claimed me. They won’t ever claim me. All my cabin mates are getting families and I just burried mine.”

Percys throat felt dry as if all the water was stolen from the air, he hung hi head in shame, embarrassed at his inability to breathe, He became aware of the water pooling at his feet. He looked to the trees, which had started to dry and brown, the moisture having been sucked out of it.

No, this was not his doing. It was either the work of his father, which he doubted or the work of a monster who wished him dead.

“ I fought, I worked , I sacrificed so much already. You don’t get to feel empty like I do, you have everything I want, you have everything you need. You have people to miss you when you’re gone.”

Water pooled at her feet and she payed no mind to the puddle she found herself in. She swung her arms around her in anger, she was so angry that it took over her eyes. Percy looked at them, searching for something more calm. He never noticed her face before. It was pointy with smooth features. Smooth skin and a wide flat nose.  Never noticed her eyes which he always assumed was grey like a storm cloud. Similar to Annabeth, but they were green. The shade of saltwater soaked steel that was neglected and turned green.

“ Your father claimed you the second you got to camp! I thought I would finally get to be happy. I’ve been fighting since I was a child. I’m done-” she gritted.

“ Calm down.”

“ DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW THEM. CAN’T EVEN REMEBER THEIR NAMES.THEY WERE JUST PEOPLE TO YOU, PEOPLE IN YOUR STORY. THEY WERE MY LIFE! DON’T STAND HERE AND PRETEND TO MOURN.” Her eyes glowed like the full moon in a cloudless sky. “ YOU HAVE NO RIGHT.” her voice sounded like many people speaking at once.

Percy pulled his pen from his pocket, and it grew to a sword. Her toes lifted from the ground and her hair lifted from her shoulders. For a moment, if only for a second she looked afraid. Her eyelids melted into her eyelids with fear and she looked around for help, before anger over took her. Her eyebrows lifted and she jutted out her chin with a prideful smile. She tilted her head violently to left.

It struck Percy with a word that he coldn’t explain. He wasn’t afraid, but wasn’t not afraid either. He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, and bent his knees waiting for a blow.

“ WHO ARE YOU?” he called.

She laughed at him causing the trees to quiver as even more water was sucked from their veins. Percy heard a faint whistling echo through the trees. A celestial bronze ripped through the air and implanted itself in her shoulder. That same look of fear flashed across her face, before her body went limp and she fell to the ground.

Thalia stood at  the bottom of the hill. Her bow already loaded with another arrow. Not because she was afraid that she would miss. Hunters of Artemis. Percy nodded at her, and she lowered her bow and nodded back and started up the hill.

Percy looked at her. Her body weak and frail and small. But I did not lose his attention with how much wait she lost, or her odd behavior, but was at her head. Not because it was bashed in. It was what was floating just above her her head. A three pronged trident.

She was just claimed. She was the daughter of Posiden. Daughter of the Sea God.

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[tildeathiwillwrite]

Investigation

Records of the Torrent Watchers: The Blood Moon Specter, Part 2

Whumptober Day 14 LEFT FOR DEAD | Hunting Gear | Blackmail | “Because I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted”

Whumptober Prompts List | Masterpost

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

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Fandom: Original Work

Words: 1400

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west

CW: death mention, corpse, aftermath, kidnapping mention, threats, referenced injuries, referenced trauma, swearing

A/N: Two days before the Watchers and Damian were captured, they were investigating a murder and receive a letter that raises more questions than answers. Who is "the Blood Moon Specter"? And how do they know so much about Luc?

----------

Two days before…

The streets of the tiny town were crowded with its occupants, all murmuring and whispering and gossiping. None of them openly stared as Luc, Reese, and Damian passed through their midst, the Watcher striding purposefully to the healer’s, but Reese could feel their eyes on her back. Someone had been murdered, after all.

Luc had received the report a few days before, and, with Reese’s help, realized that the murder was very similar to similar reports he’d seen, bodies he’d inspected. He began preparing to travel to the small river town where the report came from. Reese, of course, wasn’t about to let him go on without her. Damian, who had been with them when the connection was made and who wasn’t even supposed to be in Luc’s office, insisted on accompanying them.

“It’s only an inspection,” he argued when Luc tried to protest. “Besides, I can handle myself.”

Reese was still skeptical about that. Sure, he had a sword, and when sparring he seemed to know how to use it. Her issue came from his lack of experience in any actual battles. Of course, when Luc concluded that the best way to keep the prince safe was to keep an eye on him, there was no getting rid of Damian after that.

Not that Reese didn’t like Damian. She just hoped she wouldn’t have to rescue him again. Unlikely, since few people outside of Caenum knew what the prince looked like. But the last rescue mission, though successful, had counted as one of the worst weeks in Reese’s life.

But she had Luc, and Luc had his crossbow and akinaka, and she had her knife, and Damian had his sword. So she tried to allow herself to relax as they entered the building with the sign of the healers hanging over the door, the silhouette of a butterfly.

The healer, a soft-spoken woman roughly the same age as Reese’s father, showed them to one of the examination rooms, where the body had been kept. Luc entered first, Reese on his heels. The first thing she noticed was the line of runes on the bottom of the doorframe. Closer examination revealed the runes extending across the entirety of the doorframe.

Luc seemed unaffected by the runes, so Reese stepped inside cautiously, joining Luc before the table where the body had been laid, half-covered by a sheet. The victim was male, with long, blonde hair and pale skin. He would have been handsome, if not for the extensive injuries all over his body. Numerous bruises, lacerations, abrasions, et cetera, with a final jagged cut through his throat. A single row of runes had been painted over a mostly untouched area of skin.

“Preservation runes,” Luc said before she could ask. “They keep a body from decomposing too quickly. Also helps with the smell. Most healers know some runes, but not enough to consider themselves magicians.” 

He frowned at the corpse as Damian moved to stand on Luc’s other side. “See how some of the bruising is lighter? And those scabs?”

Reese nodded. “You think he was tortured?”

“Over a period of time,” Luc agreed, “the report said the victim had been identified as someone who had gone missing a week before the body was discovered. I would say he had been beaten and whipped, among other things over and over again, enough time for the earlier injuries to start healing, with the slit throat finally killing him.”

“It matches the other reports almost exactly.”

Luc exhaled slowly. “Indeed.” He turned on his heel and left the room. Reese and Damian glanced at each other before quickly following, catching up to him as he was speaking with the healer. She handed him a letter. “This was clutched in his hand,” she said quietly. “It… well, see for yourself.”

He turned over the paper and frowned at the words written neatly on the front. “‘Watcher’?”

She shrugged before moving over to the room with the body and closing the door. “If you’d like some privacy, you can read it in my office.” She indicated a room close to the front door. Luc nodded and thanked her before leading the way inside, closing the door softly behind Damian. He stared at the letter in his hand for a long moment before crossing the room to the desk and taking the chair behind it, drawing his knife as Reese moved to stand behind him.

The letter had been closed with a pure black wax seal, no coat of arms or signet to indicate the sender. Luc broke the seal with the tip of his akinaka blade and unfolded the letter. Despite the blood spattered on the outside, the text written in uniform, blocky letters was pristine. Reese and Damian peered over his shoulder as he read the note.

Epsilona,

How thrilled I am to learn you have joined the chase. And with your apprentice as well!

If you value your lives and freedom, I suggest you return to Caenum post-haste. Continue to chase after me, and I will make you wish you’d succumbed to that little curse of yours from fifteen years ago.

Yes, I know of the curse.

I know many things.

You know what it feels like to be haunted, don’t you? Haunted by the legacy of your mentor. Haunted by the remnants of that curse. Haunted by the lives you’ve taken.

You’re just as much a killer as I am.

But unlike you, I have nothing to lose. That apprentice of yours will make a fine victim.

And I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted by a life that you were powerless to save.

Best of luck (you’re going to need it),

~ The Blood Moon Specter

Reese scoffed. “A threat?”

“Four threats,” Damian noted, “half threatening Luc, the other Reese.”

Luc’s brow furrowed as he read the note a second time. Then a third. “How do they know?” he muttered, “What else do they know?”

“What do they mean by a curse?” Reese asked softly.

Luc sighed and quietly folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “Fifteen years ago, when I was still an apprentice, Hector and I were sent to assist at the elven blockade in the Fells. We weren’t too far from Zariya. One night, when we were tracking some sang who’d made it through, we separated.

“When I found the one I was tracking, I discovered it dead, covered in thousands of tiny cuts. And it wasn’t alone.” He sighed, hands absently rubbing back and forth on his thighs. “I don’t really remember what happened after that. Hector says I was attacked by a magician, who carved runes into my skin. Runes that prevented my body from healing itself. He caught up and scared her off, but the damage was already done. When we realized what had happened, I suggested we seek out a different magician, by the name of Qila Scoria.”

Damian sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I heard she disappeared. Fifteen years ago… sounds about right. Did you have something to do with it?”

“Unintentionally. I’m not sure what happened to everyone involved besides myself, Hector. Or,” he added, glancing at Reese, “I didn’t until more recently. But that’s beside the point. We never made the story public. Very few people knew I even had a curse. So how did “the Blood Moon Specter” find out?”

Reese exhaled slowly, the possibilities racing through her mind. “And what else do they know?”

Luc rose to his feet. “We need to find them before they claim their next victim. Perhaps they already have. Either way, we should find out where the body was found and search for clues.” He gave Damian a long, hard look. “This case just got personal. I suggest you—”

“Do what? Go home?”

“Perhaps. You weren’t even supposed to be here.”

Damian shook his head. “I don’t think so. If they know you’re working on the case now, then they’ve been watching us already. If I leave, what’s to stop them from kidnapping me and using me against you?”

“He has a point,” Reese said.

Luc stared at the two of them for a tense moment. He sighed. “Fine. Reese, when shit hits the fan, get him and yourself back to Caenum as soon as possible. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Understood, yes. Obeyed? Not likely. Luc knew it as much as Reese did, from the look on his face. But he didn’t insist she swear to obey. She would’ve broken that oath in a heartbeat anyway.

[guardian-of-da-gay]

Reunion

Read on Ao3

For Whumptober 2024 Prompt 22: Tourniquet

tw for violence, permanent injury, leaving for dead

She’d finally found him.  Longclaw had finally found Sonic!

It had taken two years.  Two years to recover from the echidna’s last battle.  Two years to piece together a new collection of rings–just one wouldn’t do.  If he’d left Earth to go to a different planet and she only had one ring she would be stranded again.  But at last she had enough to comfortably travel between worlds!

Longclaw left the little village she had called home during her recovery.  She told no one where she was going–they were owl worshippers and would make too much fuss.  She didn’t want any fanfare for this.  She just wanted to see Sonic again.

She flew deep into the woods, each wingbeat pulling slightly on the scar the echidna arrow had left on her chest.  Two years ago, she’d kept back one ring and given the rest to Sonic, just in case.  She hadn’t expected to survive that battle.  And yet, when she’d clenched the life from the last echidna warrior, she was still breathing.  Bleeding, but breathing.  That one ring had been enough to get her to safety.

Now she could finally reunite with her child.  When she felt she’d gone deep enough that she would not be disturbed by the exuberant villagers, she landed.  She held the ring close to her chest and conjured in her mind's eye the patch of forest where she’d last seen Sonic.  With a flick of her wing, and a bright, metallic chime, the portal opened.

A calm, dark forest lay before her.  It was late afternoon on one side, but over there it was already night.  Longclaw stepped through and breathed deeply.  The forest smelled different, but not in a bad way.  There were still the same sounds: frogs and night birds and crickets.  She’d had several reasons to send Sonic to this planet in particular, but one had been the similarities.  Here he would have had all the same sounds to lull him to sleep at night.  All but the sound of her voice.  And he would have that soon enough.

Although, perhaps her hunt would have to wait until morning.  She could search quite comfortably in the dark, but Sonic would most likely be taking shelter.

She heard a rustle behind her, back through the portal.  Hopefully that wasn’t one of the villagers.  

“Longclaw?”

A little blue face poked out from a crevice in the ground.

She gasped.  Her feathers ruffled in shock and delight.  “Sonic?”

“Longclaw!”  In an instant, blue arms were wrapped around her.  She folded her wings around him in turn.  He’d grown so much–she could cry!  She would cry!  She had dreamed of this moment for so long and at last it was true.

***

He’d finally found her.  Knuckles had finally found Longclaw!

He didn’t know how long he’d pursued the owl.  But he knew how long he’d waited before going to look for his tribe.  Three days.  He learned that three days was plenty of time for a body to start decomposing.  It was a hard lesson for a child.  But he wasn’t a child anymore!  He was Knuckles, an echidna warrior!  Thanks to Longclaw, the last echidna warrior.

Knuckles had traveled all over searching for the owl that had killed his people.  He sought out allies to the owls and owl worshippers.  Neither of them cared much for the life of an echidna.  He hadn’t found Longclaw, but he’d found plenty of trouble.  

If he still had a tribe, he would never be subjected to such pain and humiliation.  But he didn’t.  Because of Longclaw.

And now he had found her.

Longclaw stepped through the ring portal.  Knuckles would normally hesitate to follow–he had no rings himself and often wound up stranded–but he could not wait.  He had dreamed of this moment for so long and at last it would come true!

He dashed through the golden ring just before it closed.  With a tuck and a roll he came up on his feet, spear at the ready.

There were two gasps and he found himself before the towering owl and her apprentice.

***

“Sonic–” Longclaw made to grab her charge, but he vanished from her side.

“Don’t hurt her!”  In a blur, Sonic was in front of the echidna, arms spread out.

“Sonic, no!”

The echidna reached out and threw Sonic to the ground.  Panic struck her.  It was happening again!  She couldn’t allow this echidna to harm her or her charge!

In one wingbeat she was upon him.  The echidna turned his spear on her and she grabbed the handle and snapped it like a twig.  He dropped the spear and raised his fists, but he could not catch her talons, each one with four knife-sharp claws.  One claw snatched at his face, the other grabbed for his arm.  He turned his head away, so his skull was torn but not broken.  His arm was trapped though.  She clamped down, her claw like a vice.  The bone snapped, flesh sliced.  The echidna screamed as she lifted him up by his mangled arm.  She flung him into a tree and his cry was cut short.

He dropped to the ground in a bloody heap.

Longclaw landed, feathers flared.  Her head turned this way and that, searching for more.  There were always more!  The echidna hunted in packs.

“Longclaw?”  She was startled to hear Sonic’s voice.

“It’s alright, Sonic!”  She said quickly.  “I’m alright, just stay back.”

In the quiet moment that followed, she listened hard.  The forest carried on with its usual night time sounds.  She heard no sign of pursuers, but that didn’t mean more echidna weren’t on their way.  She had to be quick about this.

A quick check confirmed Sonic was keeping his distance.  Good.  He didn’t need to see what came next.  The echidna had to die.  She didn’t like it, but it had to be done.  Any echidna left alive was a threat to her and to Sonic.

She approached the fallen warrior.  It was… surprisingly small.  A woman?  No, smaller than that.  The echidna’s war mask had been dislodged in the fall.  Longclaw looked upon its face and her heard sank.  A child.

She reeled back.

No–this couldn’t–She hadn’t meant to!  She hadn’t even been thinking–had only thought of protecting Sonic!  She didn’t notice that the echidna’s mask was carved from a coconut shell and not clay or bone.  Didn’t notice how short its spear was, how small its body.  Of course, her claws had dealt such a heavy blow–it was half the size of her usual opponents!

In the gloom of the forest, the echidna child’s blood spilled black onto the ground.  Its breath rattled in its throat.  It was alive still, but it wouldn’t be for long.  She should kill it just to ease its suffering.

Longclaw didn’t move.

Could she kill a child?  Even an echidna child?  Knowingly?  It was a threat to her and Sonic too, wasn’t it?  Oh, but it couldn’t be much older than Sonic.  Why in the galaxy was a child chasing after her?  The echidna had never dragged children into battle with them.  And where–

She looked around.  She heard no other pursuers, but the knowledge felt strange now.  Where was the rest of the hunting party?  … Was there a hunting party?

Longclaw looked again at the crumpled, bleeding child.

“Longclaw?”

She turned on Sonic, spreading her wings to shield the echidna from view.  “Keep back,” she ordered.  “It’s not safe here.”

Sonic looked at her like he was starving for her.  She knew the feeling.  She just wanted to wrap her wings around him and carry him away.  But she could see the fear in his eyes too.

Longclaw no longer felt certain that more echidna were coming.  But she was certain of one thing: she wouldn’t be able to kill the echidna child.

“Let’s go,” she said.  “I know a safe place.”  She drew one of her rings from her breastplate.  It took a moment to center herself, to hold the ring and think of home instead of the child bleeding out behind her.  There was only one child here she needed to protect.

She threw the ring and led Sonic to safety.

***

Knuckles awoke as the brilliant light of a ring portal shone down on him.  He blinked several times, brows furrowing.  He could just see the fuzzy outline of an owl leading a blue blur through the warp gate.  Longclaw and her apprentice… they were getting away!

He tried to get up, to race after her, and continue their battle, but his body did not obey.  The warp gate vanished, taking Longclaw, and his chance for revenge with it.

Knuckles grit his teeth.  His mouth tasted of salt and he thought he might cry.  But no, that was blood.  Oh.  That probably wasn’t good.  Knuckles needed to… he needed to get to safety.  Lick his wounds and live to fight another day.

It took a long moment, but he managed to get his tangled limbs to shuffle onto all fours.  Or rather, threes.  There was something wrong with one of his arms.  He looked at it once, then not again.  There was no pain, but he wouldn’t be able to rely on it.

Nothing stopped an echidna warrior!

Knuckles punched his spurs into the ground and pulled himself forward, kicking his feet across the ground.  He didn’t know what way he was going, just that he needed to find someplace safe.  And to get someplace safe, he just needed to keep going.  He pulled and pushed himself inch by inch across the forest floor.  He was dizzy and so, so tired, but he couldn’t stop and rest.  Some instinct told him if he rested, he would never get up again.

There was a flash of lights between the trees.  Another warp ring?  Or maybe it was a fire.  Knuckles would really like a fire right about now.  The light disappeared.  He made his way toward where he last saw it.

It felt like an eternity, though it was likely only a few minutes, but suddenly Knuckles was punching something that wasn’t dirt.  He lifted his heavy head and found himself staring down a path of extremely smooth stone.  His head wobbled as he looked down one way and then the other.  The path went on forever.

Knuckles was getting so cold.  Where was the fire? It had been coming from this direction, he was sure.  Perhaps on the other side of the path?  He punched into the stone and hauled himself up.

Almost immediately lights shone in the distance.  Knuckles turned his head but couldn’t find the energy to lift it.  Was that the fire?  Whatever it was, it was bright as a star.  Too bright.  He squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness hit him.  The lights were making an awful roaring noise that grew louder and louder as the two lights came closer and closer.

Then the lights stopped.  He could hear their low growl.

He should move.  This wasn’t a fire.  It wasn’t a safe place.  It was more likely a dangerous one.  He had to keep going.  But something was wrong.  His body wasn’t moving right anymore.  Even with all his strength, his good arm was too heavy to lift.  His eyelids were too heavy to lift.

Footsteps approached and voices wove in and out of understanding as Knuckles struggled to stay awake.

“...what–”

“...don’t know.”

“You’re in vet school!”

“...haven’t covered spiny, red bipeds, Tom!”

“He’s still alive!”

“Oh God… Okay!  Carry him in your…”

“...bleeding so much…”

“Here.”

Knuckles couldn’t feel the stranger tying the band over his shredded arm.  Even in his murky, half-dead state, he couldn’t feel anything below the shoulder.  But he was somewhat aware of his surroundings.  He was wrapped up in something warm and strange-smelling and carried toward the growling light.  He was set someplace warm, on top of something soft.  The smells were even stranger here.  He didn't recognize the many noises he heard.  He only half-understood the voices he heard.

There was a strange sensation.  As though they were moving, even though he was quite sure he was holding still.  It was hard to say though, when his head was swimming.

Knuckles was whisked away, uncertain where he would end up.

Light years away, Longclaw embraced her child, certain she had ended the life of another.

[yum-is]

Laika - Short Story

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 03.11.2057

The launch was successful. That should be obvious. That’s the nice thing about personal logs, I can say obvious stuff like that without having to deal with condescending scientists being, well, condescending.

I’ve never been beyond the reinforced walls of Mos Station. I’ve spent so long staring out the viewports and wondering at what might be waiting beyond the glow of dead stars. The closest star is still Sol, perched at the center of our home system. I can’t turn to see it. I’m not allowed to move out of this chair except to briefly stand.

In the old days, back on Earth, launches were supposedly strenuous things. I’m not a scientist, but I’ve done my research. I know all about g forces and atmospheric interference and thrust. Well. In theory. I don’t fully understand it.

Maybe that’s what makes this all so incredible. This mission is going to be the farthest a sentient, living being has ever traveled away from our home planet. It’s a groundbreaking scientific achievement. Hundreds of millions of dollars have gone into this, years of engineering and training. A scientist would’ve been the obvious choice for the mission. Maybe one that’s actually seen Earth.

Instead, they chose me.

I’m not sure why, but it makes me feel special. I’m just another orphan from miner parents on Mos Station. There are hundreds of us. They chose three of us. Only one of us would actually be launched.

And they chose me.

The wires are kind of itchy under my bandages. I won’t scratch. I promised I wouldn’t. See? I can be good. I’ll be good. You trained me for this.

I can do it. I’m a big kid. I’m almost 13.

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 04.11.2057

Day two! I haven’t scratched and I’ve sat still and I’m doing my best.

Would I be able to see Mos Station if I turned around?

I won’t. I said I wouldn’t.

But could I physically see it?

It’s really empty out here. Everything is dotted with the twinkling lights of far off stars. Most of those stars are dead long before the light reaches us. It reminds me of a graveyard. I’ve never seen one, but the book the librarian lent me last year when I tried to get out of the cold while the environmental controls were purged mentioned them.

People on Earth bury their dead. It seems strange to me. Is it to help the bodies decompose? Or is there some kind of spiritual meaning? Out here, we cremate and eject the dead. Your name gets added to the wall of remembrance if you’re rich enough. We don’t have enough space to bury our dead under stones.

The food you give me out here isn’t very good. I’ll eat it. Of course I will. You had me eating it before I left anyways. It just isn’t very good. But that isn’t the point, is it? It’s just meant to keep me alive.

Will you make me borscht when I get back?

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 05.11.2057

I’m tired. I don’t really want to sleep. You strapped me down so that nothing I do would mess with your test results too badly, but I’m still scared that sleeping will jerk a wire out of place or something. I don’t want to mess up.

Home isn’t a place, it’s people. That’s how the saying goes, right? I never really got that. It’s hard to think of people as home when you don’t have people or a place. Just wherever you can catch some peace or safety.

I think I get it now.

You love me, right? You said we were family. You patted my head after you strapped me in, told me to hang on. Told me you’d see me when I got back. You looked sad, the same way you did when I was chosen for this.

Do you miss me?

I think I miss you.

I’ll be good, I promise, I won’t scratch or fidget or play with any of the blinking lights.

It’s really dark out here now. I can’t see the glow of Mos Station on the edges of the window anymore. How far am I? How alone?

I am alone, right? The first to go this far out. To see this view, the glimmering expanse of the unknown. I read that phrase somewhere. It fits here, to describe the tapestry of the universe that hasn’t been explored yet. I’ve never seen a tapestry. 

Will you show me when I get back?

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 06.11.2057

It’s getting hot. Is that supposed to happen? There’s a glow along the edges of the window. It’s different from the lights of the station. It’s warm and fuzzy around the edges, like the carpeting in our room. We all had to share, you know.

Why did you choose me? You never said.

I’m scared.

“Buck up, Curly. Come on, Chatterbox! You promised to be good, remember?”

I know, I know. But it’s so hot. It’s getting hard to think. I promised not to scratch or jabber on and on, but I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Am I still good? Do you still love me?

The metal burns. It’s getting really hot. A new light turned on. It’s blinking and red and really annoying.

I can’t tell if my ears are ringing or if there’s an alarm going off.

I know I said I’d see you when I got back, but I don’t know if I can do that. You said, I’d come back, right? 

Lemon said you were lying to us. Said we were lab rats, expendable.

Did you lie?

I’ve been so good. Please don’t lie. Please come get me.

Is it alright if I close my eyes for a minute? It’s getting brighter in here. The window fogged up. Is it supposed to do that?

I’m so tired. Are you making borscht? Will you pat my head again?

I’m sorry. I tried. I’m just so….so….

[Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - NO FURTHER DATA

[kachawo]

Previous post related to this one

____________________

Wei Ying woke up in a deep ravine.

He doesn’t remember what happened, he doesn’t particularly want to know.

But what he did pay attention to was the pungent smell all around him. His body was heavy, arms numb and cold from the season; he doesn’t know what he landed on, but it certainly wasn’t soil.

Corpses, corpse, corpse, corpse.

The smell was rotten meat, and he had landed himself in a decomposing gorge.

Somehow, the breath of the dead and its hollow stare seemed more comforting than any human being.

The world faded out once more.

It probably wasn’t easy leaving the grave site, but Wei Ying wouldn’t know. The next days are just him waking up, being too tired to move, not having a problem with staying just a little longer.

The world will comtinue without him, right? He has all the time in the world.

Well, even if he didn’t, no one would have to worry about a decomposing body by the road tomorrow.

Wei Ying watched, with low breaths and half-lidded eyes, as white specs fall from the nightsky. It’s his 12th winter, though he doesn’t really have it in him to feel good for himself. Although, he has a bad time remembering whether the snow is good for his wounds or not.

The night prolonged, and his little body laid pitifully across a sea of dead people. Somehow, just a little, the morbid comfort he seeks from engulfs him in warmth, protecting him from the harsh world.

He had to leave the ravine sooner or later.

The telltale sign was when a pack of stray hounds found themselves a place to stay. They howled and barked, waking little Wei Ying from his sleep with the sound of claws scraping rock, sliding down the slope and entering his shelter

Gone was his fatigue suddenly, he spared no time in looking back in favor of running to the other side of the ravine. He dug his fingers into the frozen soil and climbed climbed climbed, who cares if he scrapes his knees? Who cares if his fingers start thawing and bleeding from too much cold exposure? Who cares if his feet get stabbed by sharp rocks he never noticed on his way up? Who cares if his stomach opens a little because he hit a broken log? Who cares?

As long as he isn’t in that hole with those monsters, feeling their teeth on his skin, feeling his hair drag up from their bites, huddling away in a corner of the alleyway just inches away from their big bodies and stench. Wei Ying will do anything, anything.

Thankfully, the hounds were too busy fighting with each other for food to even realize he was there. Thankfully.

So he runs and runs and runs again. Even when his feet leave trails, even if it hurts.

In the end Wei Ying finds himself in towns again, begging, hiding away, stealing. Running away from dogs who see him as food as much as it does to everything.

He seems to be growing up to be a troublesome child, don’t you think?

Wei Ying wouldn’t know that. His mind is occupied with surviving. Even so, a child was never supposed to suffer this much.

But with suffering came many things, he learned; whether he liked it or not. Sooner or later he gets chased out of town, and he searches for a new one. Winter leaves, spring comes, food comes, danger comes, maybe winter comes and leaves again.

It’s at a certain age where he’s big enough that he can stab someone in the chest without needing them to kneel to his level. He knows full well how life comes and goes, and he doesn’t want to be one of them that goes; not yet, not now.

If the slums teach you one thing, it’s that mercy is not given to the damned. So don’t ever hope for it.

You don’t get by in the streets with luck, everyone knows this. The strong live on and the weak will die, the weak get nothing, no help, no sympathy.

Wei Ying can’t be blamed for the nature of it.

It’s clear that most kids here think the same thing.

What a cruel joke it is, to have children raise themselves, give them knifes and trap them all in one small world.

Wei Ying has more scars than bones in his body.

His left eye is practically useless by now, it’s nothing but a giant decoration nailed into his skull. His face is no better, having left it untreated for too long made it form into a small graveyard etched into Wei Ying’s skin.

But this way, no one dared to come near him, not elders nor authorities. And frankly, he doesn’t know if it’s a blessing to be made this ugly.

At least this way, not even slave traders will consider him, being too damaged to be desired in any way.

And frankly, Wei Ying doesn’t need know whether that’s a curse or a blessing.

[wibble-wobbegong]

no cause i just finished reading over aemiron’s post (go read it!!) on eddie’s death and now im thinking about henry using eddie’s body again because time seems to work different in the ud, so the normal effects of time on someone (thirst/hunger) don’t matter which also suggests eddie’s body won’t decompose so even if animals take bites of him he’d have to be eaten entirely to truly be gone and and the whole kas thing was laid on way too heavy for it to just not matter. he’s gonna be super important in s5 and user aemiron laid out eddie’s connection to mike’s queerness (eddie is vital to mike’s journey with his queerness) and now my imagination is running wild with the thing he also explained about mike’s suicidiality and like.

this doesn’t have a real basis so im just saying shit but i can’t stop thinking of henry using eddie’s body to literally tempt mike into dying because when mike inevitably gets taken to the UD what if he encounters a possessed version of eddie’s dead body? but he doesn’t know eddie’s been possessed? we know mike is much more likely to believe in something that seems impossible if it means there’s a chance someone he cares about is still alive. even if it defies logical sense and dustin’s story, mike would believe that eddie managed to survive somehow in a heartbeat.

personally, i think eddie and mike have talked about being queer before in at least a coded conversation at some point which contributed to mike’s comfort in leaning into his little crush. like, he’s comfortable expressing that part of himself around eddie with leaning into him and he lets himself look in a way he only ever allowed himself to do with will. i’ve talked a little about how mike went from touching to looking with will, and mike is able to do a little bit of both of those with eddie without worrying about it. eddie created a space for him to do that without fear which makes me think mike has to know eddie wouldn’t be mad at him for it.

but basically what if henry uses eddie’s body to tempt mike into staying in the UD? the type of speech that’s like, “we can be free down here” and by using eddie’s body he could literally lure mike to his death. like, using eddie’s body means physically luring mike somewhere that henry can find him. i have the feeling illusions wouldn’t be enough to get that job done because of how quick mike is to recognize when something is off and he makes plans to work against it. eddie’s body being ‘brought back to life’ however is something mike couldn’t worm his way out of — he wouldn’t even want to.

there’s also the thing about eddie being the one to start bringing mike out of his isolating tendencies at the start of the school year. eddie has actually saved mike before, in a sense, by guiding him towards accepting himself and pulling him back into the things he loves. if eddie said he could do it again, actually take mike somewhere that they could be who they are without fear, he’d be much more inclined to follow him again. that, plus mike starting the season with no hope of will loving him back romantically, el breaking up with him, still being under the belief that lucas wishes they were normal, and dustin no longer being able to provide that comraderie he did while they were in hellfire together because he’ll be grieving, mike is going to be feeling more alone than he ever has before. eddie saved him from his loneliness once and he’s offering to do it again.

maybe it leads to mike’s fake death or the hostage theory or something, but this is a really long way of saying that i think eddie’s body could be used to lure mike to danger since mike is too smart to be taken through normal means and henry knows that better than anyone else

[doorrobloxstuff]

Thinking about shadow n rueben rn

What if rueben's hair grew rlly long(if he has hair I forgor) and shadow just sat there braiding his hair while he was binding books

I FORGOT TO POST THIS WHOOPS

BRAIN NEURON HIT.

Wheheheh I’m glad u guys like Rueben. I still have that “Rueben brainrot please” ask in my inbox. I just gotta reintroduce Rueben because these new people have no idea who this old smelly /affec man is.

Canonically, big guy doesn’t have any hair. As he slowly turns into an entity (I’m still trying to figure *Badum tiss!* out what he might look like as a fully-fledged entity-) his bits decompose and new, entity body parts replace/absorb them.

The new grows over the old.

That’s one of the unfun caveats of making a partnership with an entity. Though, I’m very secretive of who or what.. may have made a deal with Ruben (unless I said it before lol in which case ignore that)

But he used to have hair. I like to think he was brunette or really, really dark brown hair since he’s of mexican (with a bit of columbian) heritage.

Wouldn’t it be funny if Figure just woke up one morning covered in black hairs.

Fun fact! Rue’s missin some bones too. Including three of his ribs, three of its left hand fingers, his tailbone. One kidney…uhhh.. whole lot of blood vessels. Tissue from his lungs. (Hmm, I wonder where those ended up..?) He’s always exhausted because of that.

But hey, he has Figure and later his three, strange little mutant grandchildren. It was worth it to him and he made the most of it. (Rue is like that guy who after tragically losing his wife will buy a parrot to fill the hole his life left only for said parrot to consume its entire life because of all the upkeep-)

Uhhhh *snaps fingers snaps fingers* I like to imagine further in their relationship they become habitual snugglers. They’ve never been really..touchy?? But once they get close..they just can’t really help but touch.

Sometimes I wonder how Rue feels about being a grandfather. Probably in a permanent of: “oh.” Because while he loves them he has no idea how tf he got to this point.