#I can feel the bone shattering beneath my hammer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

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Hue and Cry XVI

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), pain/wounds, mild violence.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Barnes lashes out in his grief.

Note: So, it’s not over but most of you guessed that :)

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The sun cast a sardonic light on the cold winter morning. The first flakes of snow fell the night before but glistened as they melted away with the unexpected bloom of light on the horizon. The men began digging at dawn for the interment, a pit to be unmarked and unseen. The woman would be buried as any servant was; without any formality or fanfare.

Lord Barnes dressed in black, the sole attendee of the service. He had dragged a priest from the castle chapel to say some ordained words. The men climbed out of the six-foot hole as the cart was led over by two others, the wooden box atop it.

They lifted it, lifted her, and maneuvered it down into the grave with ropes. The holy man recited his verse but the duke did not hear them. He was only torn from his own grief as he heard footsteps on the crisp grass. He looked over as the foreign baron came to stand beside him, his dark eyes ahead of him as the men began to shovel dirt onto the wood. The sound was harsh in the early hour.

“Go,” Barnes growled, “you aren’t welcome here.”

“Well,” Zemo said, “how is that? After all Werner did for you; for her. I should like a proper farewell.”

“You didn’t know her,” Barnes hissed.

“Oh, I didn’t, but are you so sure that you knew her so well?” Zemo challenged, “you knew what you wanted from her--”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barnes lifted his chin and turned to face his foe, “I will not tell you to leave again.”

“I owe you no obedience, my lord,” he said flaty, “I think you’ve misunderstood that entirely. The ground we stand on is even. I am beholden to you for nothing. Given that it was my physician who saw to her comfort in her last hours, I’d say you--”

His voice was cut off by the hand at his throat. The duke throttled the Baron with his only hand and backed him away from the grave as the dirty continued to rain down. He marched him across the grass as his blue eyes burned with a selfish sort of hurt.

“I am not stupid. I know you came to rile me and you’ve done just that so go! Go before I put you down beside her,” Barnes shoved him away so that he stumbled.

Zemo stood and touched his throat as a rare glimmer of anger flashed across his features. He raised his chin and fixed the fur collar of his cloak. He nodded as he set his jaw and peered past the furious duke.

“She is free now,” Zemo said, “from you most of all.”

The baron turned away and strode from the green. The duke turned and watched the diggers as they kept at their work. A lump lodged in his throat and he lowered his head. He could not deny Zemo’s words, in fact, they sank so deep his heart ached. He knew as all did that her death was bloody on his hands.

🏰

Lord Barnes watched from the window as the line of carriages rolled through the castle gates. He was smug at the Baron’s premature departure but he didn’t truly feel any better than he had the day before. He expected the knock at the door and he was not surprised by who drew him away from the window.

The door opened before he reached it and his sister blustered into the chamber. Rebecca snarled as she came to face him, of the few who could match his own temper. Her nostrils flared and hardened her soft features as she glared at him.

“You’ve ruined it!” she spat, “you’ve ruined it all! He’s gone and it’s all your fault, you dunce!”

“I ruined it? You really think you could have trusted him? I merely saved you time and gold,” Bucky scoffed as he shrugged her off.

“You are so conceited. Don’t you realise we need this alliance? It’s much bigger than your little maid!” She barked, “oh, all this just to fu--”

“No, no! Shut up!” he spun and pointed at her face, “you don’t speak of her. Your or anyone else.”

She reeled and chortled. She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. She licked her lips sourly and shook her head, “Better yet, I will not speak to you again. You have until the end of the day to leave the capital.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m serious,” her brows arched, “Samuel agrees with me. You will go and you will not return. Go back to your castle and be alone and bitter as you always wished.”

Barnes huffed and mirrored her own fury, “fine. I told you, I never wanted to come here.”

“So it is my fault now?” she snipped.

“No, your majesty,” he said dryly, “how could anything ever be your fault?”

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Oh, queen’s are so powerless,” he rebuffed, “how every woman in the realm must pity you.”

“You’re a bastard,” she sneered.

“We both share the same blood, the same flaws,” he slowly walked back to the window, “you will see in the end that I did you a favour. That man cannot be trusted.”

“Oh, do get over yourself, brother,” Rebecca snapped and the slam of the door marked her exit.

Lord Barnes stared down at the wintery grounds then up at the grey sky. It was due time he went home. To be alone. For good this time.

🏰

Flickers of light skimmed beneath your eyelids. Distant memories, dwindling dreams, and unheard words.

The pain came first. The agony down your left arm and hip, the way it rippled through you like a crashing ocean against the shore. The ragged breaths grew to groans as the ground moved beneath you, rattling like your bones and your head. The noise of horses and wooden wheels in the dirt. The smell of leaves and oak. The feeling of life come back to you.

You could not move your left arm, it was bound and even if it was not, you couldn’t have lifted it. Your left leg was in similar shape and your entire body was bound in pain. The confusion laced your mind and kept you from thinking too deeply as you realised you were in a box, the darkness broken only by the thin wisps of light between the hammered boards.

“Hello?” you called, your throat dry and sore. It hurt to speak and your lungs squeezed terribly.

You bent your right arm, your shoulder straining as you did, and hit the lid. It did not budge and you hit it harder. Your uncertain strikes turned to a steady and frantic pounding as the blackness began to suffocate you. You had to get out. You would die in there. Or were you already dead. You realised what you lay in; a coffin, and your stomach dropped like a boulder.

The wheels stopped and the ground stilled. You were on a cart of some sort and footsteps tramped into the dirt and murmurs stirred outside. There was a thump on the lid and suddenly it lurched upward as it was pried off.

Swathes of light flowed in and blinded you. You stilled and stared up as a figure stood above you and another appeared at the other side of the casket.

“Ah, finally,” the accented tone slithered, “I feared the dose was mistaken.”

You blinked until Baron Zemo came clear to you and shielded your eyes as they watered. You gasped as another shattering pain overtook you and gasped at the sheer torment. The other man, thin and tall with lines around his eyes and across his forehead peered down and reached to check the bandages around your left arm.

“She cannot sit in the carriage but we can arrange for her to recline in there, yes, my lord?” he asked as he felt your forehead, “there is no fever. She is past the worst of it.”

“We can arrange it,” Zemo nodded, “do get her a blanket. We really should have done so before we nailed the top on.”

“Yes, my lord,” the tall man hopped down from the cart and returned with a thick fur coverlet. Zemo tucked it gently around you and as he brushed your arm, you cried out.

“I… I should be dead,” you rasped, “how--”

“A trick. On the gods, on fate… on your Lord Barnes,” Zemo smirked, “oh, do not fear, he hasn’t any idea of your miraculous perseverance. Let me assure you he is most miserable to believe you dead.”

“Why?” you asked as the lid of the coffin was moved away and you heard others moving around. The stench of the horses made you shudder and brack back the scene; the clopping hooves, the roaring crowd, the pulsing of your heart, your maddened laughter.

“You know, I never desired anything more from Lord Barnes. What happened between us was an act of war. We were soldiers but he could not see it that way. I am an understanding man but I am not without reason. If he cannot be civil, why then should I?” He said smoothly, “I came to your kingdom to serve my own and I cannot do that with him snapping at my throat, so I will go home.”

“But why--”

“Patience,” he bid as he lifted a gloved hand, “I could not have factored you in if I tried. You are the most unexpected creature. What you did… well, that sent a very clear message to me, one that I heard.” He looked around and clasped his hands together as he leaned his elbows on his knees, ”I will not claim it to be entirely selfless in my deed, in fact the idea of the deceit does more for me than it could ever do for you. To think of Lord Barnes in his misery, that pompous man.”

“What--Where are we going?” you asked weakly as the wariness crept up on you once more.

“The Tower Zemo,” he said plainly, “in my homeland. You should recover there and then we will decide what to do with you.”

“What to--”

“Nothing too nefarious, I assure you. I should like to avoid the depths of Barnes…” he sniffed, “I don’t expect you to trust me, lady, you would be a fool to and you do not seem one to me. Foolishly brave and perhaps obstinate but not a fool.”

“I--how am I to thank you?” you croaked.

“Don’t do that just yet,” Zemo rose as men approached and suddenly the coffin was slid off the cart.

You were carried around the side of a carriage and set down again. The men worked carefully to remove you from inside the casket and you screamed as they did. Zemo spurred them on and apologised for your discomfort as they transferred you to the lid of the coffin placed to stretch between the seats of the carriage.

The tall man draped the fur over you again and checked your splints and the layers of bandage hidden beneath the loose wool gown. He called for some water and helped you drink. Then he was handed a chest and stirred around for a vial.

“This is Werner,” Zemo said as he sat on the empty part of the bench and the carriage door shut, “he did see that you survived and that you died in the eyes of your master.”

“Oh… thank you,” you looked to Werner as he urged you to drink from the vial.

“Just a sip, miss, for the pain,” he bid.

You did as he told you and reclined again with a grumble. He sat opposite Zemo who watched you with a cryptic expression.

“It will be a long journey,” he said, “and likely longer for you. It would be best if you kept calm and did not stress yourself. You are still… fragile.”

“I feel it,” you closed your eyes as fatigue shrouded you.

“You would,” Zemo said, “sleep is best for it, isn’t that so, Werner?”

“Sleep numbs the pain,” Werner assured, “sleep lets the body heal itself.”

“And sees the time through,” Zemo yawned, “besides, what else is there to do?”

Your breath eased along with the pain and slowly you sank back into the void. You let it embrace you as you forgot about the Baron and his odd physician, about the Duke and the life before. You welcomed sleep as you had death and yet, you were relieved to be alive.

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nagito-kissmaeda · 3 years

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omg...but imagine sex with nagito on the beach 👀

ミ☆ Consider it imagined ;) Word Count: 2419

Contains: Gender Neutral Reader, Explicit sexual content, a little angst but not heaps Read on AO3

“I think I want to kiss you.”

Komaeda stiffens beside you. The gentle rise and fall of his bare chest ceases entirely as he holds his breath. His hair has just started to dry again after your swim, the ends are beginning to curl but the majority of the strands still lack their usual volume. It makes him look smaller, more vulnerable.

You can’t help but wonder if it was genuine happenstance that you caught him in the ocean tonight, or if his luck had a hand in it. Thinking about his luck too much always stresses you out, would seeing him standing waist deep in the water - droplets running down his bare skin and glinting the perfect moonlight - be considered good luck or bad? Did he curse his talent in that moment, or did he see the adoration in your eyes, the way your breath caught at the sight of him, and praise it.

You hear Komaeda laugh, a familiar sound. Pleasant, but altogether fake, like a strawberry milkshake with too much syrup, “I will admit, that was quite a funny joke, if a little hurtful.” he looks at you from the corner of his eye, “Though i cannot rightly criticise you for making jokes at my expense, there is little else i am good for.”

It hurts that he thinks you would make such a cruel joke. It hurts that he doesn't have it in him to believe it.

The wind rushes by and you shiver. Even though you are mostly dry after your brief stint in the ocean, the cool air still makes your skin prickle. Komaeda’s jacket is spread out on the sand beneath the both of you, a gesture that is likely more intimate than he intended for it to be. You worry, frequently, that for all Komaeda’s posturing about talent and hope, that maybe you still don't fit the bill. That you may be worthy of his worship, but fall short of being worthy of his love.

“I wasn't joking.”

Komaeda chokes on what might have been a laugh before it died in the back of his throat. You can hear him shifting slightly, his hands clawing nervously at the jacket beneath him. Again you can't help but wonder, if this moment is good luck, or bad. The sound of your heart is so loud in your ears, and your hands are shaking so furiously that you are surprised the stars in the sky haven't all imploded. The moment feels big enough.

You hear a little more movement beside you, clenching your muscles in a bid to keep still, like even the slightest twitch from you will scare Komaeda away like some frightened animal. Ridiculous, Komaeda doesn't scare easily.

“I won’t stop you.” he whispers, you turn your head just enough to look at him. He’s rolled over onto his side, his slowly drying hair cascading down over his shoulder, pale eyes glinting in the moonlight. Your heart is hammering at your ribs.

You wet your lips with your tongue, and follow his lead, rolling onto your side and carefully examining his face. His eyelashes are really pretty, and they’re faint, but at this proximity you can see a small smattering of freckles across his nose. Like constellations on a cloudy night.

His lips taste like salt when yours press against them, chapped but soft and undeniably gentle. You shiver with more than just the cold when you dart your tongue out just a little, and he readily opens his mouth to accept it. He lets you explore the inside of his mouth, the sharp ridges of his teeth, the underside of his tongue; a moan cuts loose from your mouth and you tangle one of your hands in the back of his hair. One of his hands comes to rest on your cheek and you almost sob.

“I want to do more than kiss you.”

His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, and your eyes meet his. He blinks slowly down at you, contemplative but hungry, “Again, if that is truly what you want. I won't stop you.”

There's a heavy weight in your chest at those words, at his assertion that you could have your way with him, but not a single shred of genuine reciprocation. You are ashamed of how weak your voice sounds when you whisper, “Do you...actually want to? Or are you just letting me because I want to?”

Komaeda’s head cocks to the side, “I don't understand why the distinction matters.”

“I’m not just chasing some momentary desire, Komaeda.” you laugh bitterly, “I have feelings for you. Romantic ones.”

He stiffens for a moment, and you can see the cogs turning in his brain. There's an icy chill down your spine as you prepare for his rejection. He loves everything about you, but he doesn't love you.

Unannounced, Komaeda swings his leg over your hips and rolls you onto your back. Looming over you with a smile that actually reaches his eyes. You can count how many times you have seen that on one hand, but here he is, grinning down at you with an indescribable warmth that you feel from your chest all the way down to your toes.

“I was more than happy to be used for your pleasure.” He breathes, eyes turning misty as they meet yours, “To be able to touch you for just one moment, but this...this.” a breathless laugh escapes him, shaking his boney shoulders, “for you to return my feelings...the bad luck around the corner must be immeasurable, but im…” he heaves a shaky breath, “im so happy.”

His feelings. His feelings. The words vibrate around your head as you struggle to even comprehend them. He has feelings for you. Nagito Komaeda is leaning over you, pale hair lit up by the moon eclipsed by his head. Bathing him in a halo of white light. He looks angelic, and he has feelings for you.

“I want you.” You breathe, “Please, Nagito.”

His breath hitches at the sound of his first name dropping from your mouth. So unbelievably intimate, so tender. He tilts his head down, and slots his lips against yours. This time his hands waste little time before wandering across your skin, the bathing suit you picked up from the supermarket hides little, and you feel your flesh buzz as his hands pass over it. In the end, his palm sits comfortably in the curve of your waist and his other hand is planted beside your head to keep his balance. The salt in his mouth is slowly dissipating, giving way to a taste that must only be him. Your arms twist around his back, tracing the bumps of his protruding vertebrae, dancing across his fragile skin.

Your tongue slips into his mouth and you feel his hips twitch. With only the layers of your bathing suits to separate your skin, you can feel his growing hardness very prominently. You buck your hips upward to feel it again, and Komaeda instinctively bites down on your lower lip.

“Oh no. Did I hurt you?” He whispers, pulling back and brushing across your lower lip with his thumb, “I’m so sorry, though I shouldn’t be surprised that someone as worthless as myself would cause you pain.” You feel him start to move, “I should go-“

In a feat of strength that surprises even you, Komaeda is now pinned underneath you, arms pushed backwards onto the jacket atop the sand and wrists gripped tight in your shaking hands.

“Don’t go.” You press a hot kiss to the side of his throat, “You didn’t hurt me. I liked it.” You graze his neck with your teeth and he quakes below you, “I don’t want to stop unless you do.”

His breathing is shaky, his thin body quivering so much that you're almost surprised you can’t hear his bones rattling, “I don’t...I can’t stop. If you could read my perverse thoughts right now, you would be disgusted by what you would find.”

You laugh, releasing his arms and running your fingers down his chest, “Doubtful. I think if anything I’ll find that your thoughts mirror my own.”

Komaeda squeaks when you pull one of his nipples into your mouth, sucking gently, you run your knuckles up and down the side of his ribs. Smiling when you can hear his heart race, “Such a pretty boy.” You whisper, circling his nipple with your tongue. His hips stutter upward to meet yours, he seems to like it when you whine.

“I...I…” Komaeda’s throat bobs, “I’m not doing anything...I should be worshipping you, but I’m just lying here…”

“Shh, Nagito.” You breath, grinding your hips down on his, gentle enough that he can only just feel it, “I like doing this to you, I’ve wanted to do this to you for so long.”

“You...you’ve also been thinking about it?”

“Thinking, among other things.”

Komaeda barks a laugh, covering the lower half of his face with a hand, “Are you implying, that all those nights I fucked my pathetic hand thinking only of you, that you were-“

“Three cabins down, thinking about you?” You giggle, dragging your tongue up his collarbone, “That sounds about right.”

“I must be dreaming…” he whispers, looking past you and up at the sky, “it looks like the constellations are caught in your hair.” His shaky hand comes up and cups your cheek, “I don’t want to wake up.”

You smile, gently working his swim shorts down over his narrow hips, “Then don’t.”

He pushes himself up on his elbows, pretty face turning nervous as he is suddenly naked in the open air, though he isn't alone for long. He watches in awe as you toss your swimsuit off into the sand somewhere, eyes wide and watery as they trace the curves and angles of your body. His hips dig into your thighs when you position yourself on top of him, hands pressed gently on his chest, worried that his birdcage ribs might shatter if you put too much weight on them. You can feel his heart racing under your palms, fragile, perfect, beautiful boy. He is shaking under you, pale skin shining in the light of the moon. You lose your breath, completely enamoured with him, with his big green eyes, the mess of his hair, his collarbones so sharp that you swear you could cut yourself on them.

“I haven't done this before.”

Komaeda’s breathless silence is filled only with the ebb and flow of the ocean behind you, with the salt in the air and the stars in the sky. He sits up a little, arms shaking under his weight as he holds himself at eye level with you. He takes in a wheezy breath, one side of his mouth quirking up in a familiar nervous smile.

“You don't have to.” He whispers, “I...I’ll only disappoint you.”

It only takes a gentle push to his chest for him to fall backward onto the sand. Blinking up at you with wide eyes as you slowly start to lower yourself down onto him, “You could never disappoint me” you breathe, and then he is inside of you.

Just where he belongs.

The prettiest moan you have ever heard rips loose from his throat, his head tossed backward onto the sand and eyes scrunched shut. He is twitching inside of you, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he isn't sure what to do with them. You lift yourself up just a little, and he almost sobs when you drop back down again. It feels good, you feel full. There's a twisting in your gut that tells you to just move, just move. You aren't sure how much longer you can resist it.

Komaeda is in a similar state. You are so warm, so tight, so perfect. He can feel his hips twitching with a desire to just give in, to pump himself as deep inside of you as possible. It’s pathetic, it’s selfish, but he wants you to be his. He wants to be so far inside that you can't pull him out again, he would do anything to be here forever. Completely naked, out in the open, in the middle of the night with you writhing on top of him. Your face twists in absolute pleasure, and he can't help lording over it. Over the fact that he is doing this to you.

Then, you moan again. Head lolling backwards as the guttural moan morphs into the syllables of his name.

He can’t hold back anymore. His hands snap up to your hips, digging in tight enough that your eyes open in shock, and he pushes his hips as far up as they will go. You call out his name again and it is all he can hear, hips snapping up again and again, dragging more perfect noises from your mouth and letting out moans of his own everytime he hears you say his name.

Your eyes drift down to his, letting out a sweet little whimper as he hits a spot inside of you that sets your insides boiling. Your nails dig tight into the taught flesh pulled across his ribs, turning his pale skin a bright red, your own hips meeting his every thrust with a desire to have him deeper, to have him faster. He throws his head back in a breathless laugh that almost sounds like a sob when he feels you clench around him, you’re perfect, you’re real and you’re so fucking tight.

You don't even have time to warn him before you topple over the edge, the world flashes white behind your eyes as your walls twitch around Komaeda’s desperate cock. He lets out a rattling breath, so close, so close, so close-

“Nagito” You breathe, “cum inside of me, please.”

He feels like he is going to explode, in more ways than one when he shoves himself up into you one last time, finally cumming with a high-strung moan that sounds suspiciously like a declaration of love.

Then, all is quiet again. The ocean breeze is your only company as the two of you come back down. At some point the jacket slipped out from under Komaeda, and now his messy hair is tangled with sand. You reach down and try to comb some of it out with your fingers, he nuzzles into your palm. Content.

You smile down at him.

“I love you too.”

#komaeda x reader #nagito x reader #nagito komaeda x reader #/request #danganronpa x reader #danganronpa

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heliads · 3 years

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Time Can Heal (But This Won’t) Chapter Three: Bloodstains

You’ve been a lone demigoddess, daughter of Hecate, ever since your home of Hellas sank beneath the waves centuries ago. You loved the Darkling until he crossed you and you fled the Little Palace. Now you’re disguised as a mere cartographer. Can you face him again, knowing what he’s done?

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There was no way around it, no way to avoid it. Like it or not, you would be returning to the only place you’ve ever truly called home since you left behind the sinking shores of Hellas, past a people who would never rise again. You had seen Os Alta built, walked the newly constructed halls of the Grand and Little Palaces with the Darkling before you knew enough to run from him. This is where you’ll be going- not to a new future, but a chance to drown in all the memories you’ve tried so hard to forget.

However, you’ll have to survive the journey to Os Alta first. You’re not here as an esteemed guest or prisoner, you’re here as a double, a lure. Someone who can be killed so that Alina Starkov walks out alive. You know this as well as your ice-eyed Darkling who rides next to you, who thinks nothing of you but that you share a name with a woman he thought he could manipulate. That is all.

So you force your gaze away from the Darkling and back towards your hands, which grip the reins of your offered steed. You mentally catalogue the scant few weapons you had on you before you were dragged along after Alina- two knives, a medium length dagger, and the small pistol all First Army soldiers were forced to have on them. You’ve never particularly cared for guns, though- they’re dirty, loud things, nothing compared to the damage you could wreak with a syllable from your tongue. Then again, if it came down to it, you’d rather have a pistol in your palm then risk using your magic in front of the Darkling. In the end, you’re here to stay hidden, not reveal yourself in the most dramatic way possible.

That being said, you can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. You’ve learned long ago to listen to the voices that whisper past your ear, speaking of dangers lurking in the woods and ill-intentioned beings who wait for women who walk alone. Some are remnants of past protection spells, and others are shades from the Underworld who’d managed to conjure up some corporeal strength and warn you of an attack. You are the last living Hellenid to walk the earth, and so they feel duty-bound to protect you. Through you, your people live on, and so even the dead watch your back.

So when the voices come, you listen. Your eyes flicker shut for just a second as you listen, past the thump of your heart and the pattern of horse hooves on the dusty ground. The carriage rolls noisily some distance in front of you, and then you hear it stop. Around the bend, you hear the disgruntled mutterings of the guards even though they’re too far for a human ear to pick up. A tree has fallen down, blocking the path. You know it’s a trap even before the shots ring out.

You hear the choked screams of men falling with arrows through their throats and eyes and begin to panic. They’ve come for Alina Starkov, the Sun Summoner who could damn the Fjerdans to a lifetime under Ravka’s watchful eye. They’ve come to kill her. You sense the Darkling rearing his horse beside you, and his stallion picks up into a canter. You don’t have to say a word, just listen to his commands to his men. There are more men attempting to circle behind you and pick you off, you can distract them and the remaining attackers trying to get into the carriage.

A Heartrender turns to you, gesturing for his fellow Grisha to follow you. “Come, Alina! We have to get you to safety!” This command is far too loud for any self-respecting Second Army soldier to ever utter, but to the Fjerdans, it is nothing out of the ordinary. Ravka already swears by its legions of witches, why shouldn’t the ice-haired drüskelle believe themselves above the pathetically obvious Grisha? They follow you without a second thought.

You wait a minute, listening to the sound of boots crashing through the forest floor after you, then jump down from your horse in one swift motion. Your knives appear in your hands and you sprint towards your attackers, knocking them down again and again. You slam the hilt of one knife into a Fjerdan’s nose, and you can hear the bone shatter as if it was your own. Light flashes off of the Grisha steel blades as you slash and stab, drawing blood without taking a break.

A small part of your mind gleefully notices the way the Fjerdans are running towards you now, drawn towards the sunlight reflected by your knives. They think you the Sun Summoner now, all because of metal polished to a shine. And why shouldn’t they? You have enough power to tear this continent in half, to let the sun pierce the planet’s very core. Why shouldn’t you be feared? Why shouldn’t you be the Sun Summoner yourself?

The man in front of you cries out, and you come back to your senses. Your eyes follow your knife, twisting in his windpipe, and you withdraw it hastily. You wipe the scarlet blood on the grass before turning to fight another Fjerdan attacker, but none come forward. You realize that they’re all dead, either by your hand or by the Heartrenders. Although, you notice with a sickening twist, most are killed by you. You’re supposed to be a shy First Army soldier, and you’re not exactly playing your part quite right.

Across a clearing, you see the Darkling helping Alina to her feet. She looks stunned, most likely due to the body of a Fjerdan lying at her toes. It’s been sliced perfectly in half- so he’s used the Cut. No wonder she looks as if the world has just been exposed for being woven from nightmares. She glances over at you and blanches even further. Shame twists in your gut as you realize your hands are covered in blood, none of it yours. You were borne of a race of warriors, fighting has been in your history for as long as Hellas has stood. To Alina Starkov, however, this is a massacre like she’s never seen before. You carefully sheath your knives again once you’re sure there’s no blood left on them.

You stare at the bodies, forcing your eyes to remember every last detail. May your gods or their Saints watch over them, wherever they may go. You don’t have enough coins to place under their tongues as per the Hellan tradition, although even if you did you couldn’t risk drawing the Darkling’s attention with such a specific ritual. Instead, you burn their faces into your mind. Memories and legacies were how your people retained their power, and being forgotten was a large part of how they crumbled away. At last you can remember these men.

A voice sounds from in front of you, and you look up hastily. “Do not pity them. They attacked the Sun Summoner, your friend.” The Darkling stands before you, something strange in his eyes. You’ve seen this look before, a few centuries ago. You had been careful to hide the true extent of your magic from him, perhaps knowing even then that he would want nothing more from you then the power you could give him.

In that long ago instant, you had let go, allowing your spells to run wild as stallions through the air. You were attacked, yes, but you had used it as an excuse for true bloodshed. It had been so long since you had truly tested your limits, always making sure to hide what you truly were, even from the other Grisha. You wanted to see what you could do, just this once. Even then, you were just scratching the surface, but the wash of inky emerald over the scene threatened to drown out the world. Bodies dropped, trees were stripped of bark, entire buildings crumbled despite the strongest of foundations.

The few other Grisha present looked at you with true horror, but not the Darkling. No, he looked at you as he does now, with a sort of hunger that could consume entire countries and never be filled. He saw no girl or lover, he saw a weapon. He saw you standing before him, pulling a blade from your chest and offering him the hilt. He’d take it, not caring (or even relishing) your blood still dripping from the blade. The things he could do with you were unimaginable even in your worst nightmares, and it would never be enough. The worst part is that you thought you might go along with it, that you’d be willing to watch the end of the world with him.

This is how the Darkling looks at you now, a weapon ready for the taking. You remember hastily that he’s likely expecting something of you, so you duck your chin and do your best to summon up the modesty expected by the likes of Y/N Stassov, mapmaker and nothing more. “It’s just, well, a lot of death.” The Darkling inclines his head. “Maybe. Where did you learn to fight like that?” You don’t like this line of questioning, where it could lead. “The First Army. Sir.”

The Darkling’s lips quirk at the last minute honorific. “I’ve seen no First Army mapmaker who could take out a dozen Fjerdans with a pair of knives. Maybe I should send some of my soldiers to learn from your generals.” You panic, sure he’s testing you, then realize that he’s joking. Ridiculous. You force a smile. “I think they’re probably fine with their heartrending and all that.” The two of you have begun walking back to the horses now. The Darkling mounts his steed, then looks back at you. “Maybe so.” When he takes off, you’re not sure which scares you most- him figuring out who you are, or the idea that he would not look for you at all.

The Darkling calls for the party to take a respite that night, waiting until the moon shines low in the sky for everyone to tie up their horses and rest in a long-abandoned barn. Alina runs over to you as soon as she gets off of her mount, flinging her arms around you in gratitude. You can tell from the hammering of her heart whenever she looks at the Darkling that she hasn’t forgotten his use of the Cut, and probably won’t for a while.

“Saints, Y/N, I’m so glad you’re here. I couldn’t do this alone.” You can sense the eyes of the Darkling and the other Grisha on your back, and you know what’s expected of you. To them, you are no more than an otkazat’sya mapmaker, someone utterly unworthy of their Sun Summoner’s company. They’ll leave you to make your way back to Kribirsk when Alina is safe at the Little Palace, and they no doubt expect you to make her path easier.

So, you smile, smoothing back an errant piece of her hair into place. “That’s a lie, and we both know that. If you can punch an irritating officer or survive the Fold, you can ride a horse to Os Alta. Promise.” Alina rolls her eyes. “It’s not like that.” You raise an eyebrow. “It totally is. Believe me. Now come on, chasing after you all day is exhausting. I intend to go to sleep right now.” Alina grins. “That sounds good to me.”

Despite your weary eyes, you can’t seem to fall asleep at all. Alina sleeps next to you, the few Grisha lookouts stand unmoving at their posts. Eventually, you get sick of tossing and turning and staring up through the rotting beams through the barn roof. You stand, making your way quietly out of the barn. If the sentries see you, they do not stop you. Evidently, they trust you enough to let you walk around, or they view you as useless enough to not stop you from trying to run. Either works for you.

You don’t go far, just outside of the doors lying at odd angles on their hinges. You take a seat on a rusting metal bench, leaning back against the faded paint of the barn walls. You stare up at the sky, eyes tracing the constellations. Somewhere up in the night, there were once heroes and monsters, prideful queens and stubborn kings whose stories were famous enough to warrant them a place amongst the stars. You’ve been looking for them for a while, though, and know that the skies are empty of all souls who were once cast up there. It’s just another reminder that you are well and truly alone. The last remainder of a long dead culture.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” You startle, turning to see the Darkling walking out of the barn beside you. You manage to cover up your surprise with an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t think I’d woken anybody.” The Darkling shrugs. “You didn’t. I was already awake.” This feels somewhat surreal- here you sit, a false face and a fake history as a farmer turned soldier. Here stands the Darkling, looking just the same as always. It makes no sense, though- why would he keep seeking you out? Why would the general of the Second Army keep looking for an otkazat’sya soldier? He must know you, somehow. There’s no other explanation for it.

The Darkling clears his throat. “Thank you for speaking to Alina. I appreciate your words.” You dismiss the gratitude with a lift of your shoulder. “She’s my friend. I couldn’t exactly make her feel worse, could I?” The Darkling turns to look at you now, familiar quartz eyes seeming to tear you in two. “You could. You could have refused to play along with the role of double, you could have refused to fight by her side, you could have done your best to turn her away from us. You did none of that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I could have resisted a team of the most skilled Grisha in all of Ravka? I intend to keep my life.” Something almost like a smile appears on the Darkling’s lips. You’ve seen this look before, in sunset afternoons and deepest nights. It’s so familiar that it seems to cut at you like a knife. You almost want to call out to him now- know me, please. Remember me. If you look close enough, you will see the woman you pretended to love. We could pretend again, if we wanted to.

You silent the murmurings, and he speaks again. “All the same, it was appreciated.” You turn back towards the sky, partly to take in the sight of the night sky again and partially to hide the smile giddily appearing on your own face. How is that after all this time, all these hurts, he still has this effect on you? “Well, I want her to have some good memories after this. I’ll be shipped back to Kribirsk, I don’t really want to leave on bad terms.”

The Darkling remains silent for so long that you’re worried you’ve said something wrong, opened up too much. A simple mapmaker would never confide in a centuries-old Shadow Summoner, he must suspect something. Surely, hopefully, he does. But instead, he turns to you, a softness present in his eyes that wasn’t there before. It rounds the edges of his quartz gaze, making it easier to fall hard and fast. “You aren’t going to leave for Kribirsk. You’re staying in Os Alta.”

You stare at him, night sky forgotten. “What? But I’m no Sun Summoner.” The Darkling laughs quietly in the night. “No, but few of us are. I have a personal guard, the oprichniki. I would like you to begin training with them once we arrive.” The sentence is phrased so casually that it almost floats by you completely undetected. The monumental weight of the words, however, is enough to shake you whole. The oprichniki are not Grisha, so you would fit in, but they are the Darkling’s special guards. Only the toughest and bravest of fighters are selected, certainly not a mapmaker who’s best skill is pretending to be a Sun Summoner.

You tell him as much, so stunned by this that you forget to hold your tongue. When you remember who you are and who you’re doing your best to pretend you’re not, you wish you had remained silent. For some reason, however, the Darkling doesn’t seem taken aback by this momentary lapse. Instead, it just makes his lips twitch even more. He is most certainly hiding a smile. “I saw you fight, Miss Stassov. If you can do that without any of our training at all, I’d say you’re a good candidate.”

You lean back against the barn wall. “Oprichnik. Me.” You whistle quietly, letting the sound echo in the night air like the call of a dove. The Darkling inclines his head. “You are free to turn the offer down at any point-” his smile grows at your raised eyebrow- “Although it is not an offer I take lightly. You have potential. Besides, keeping you in Os Alta will be a support for Miss Starkov.”

You furrow your brow. “I thought you would want to separate her from her old life, not keep having ties to it.” It’s what the Darkling would do when you knew him. He would have cut out another mapmaker without a second thought. The Darkling considers this. “Perhaps. But if she feels too alone, she may draw in on herself and feel unwilling to use her power at all. You have your merits, Miss Stassov. Perhaps more than you see yourself.”

You barely hear him when he goes back inside the barn. He has always had this ability to disguise his footsteps, letting the shadows cloak him in sound as well as in sight. For once, it doesn’t trouble you. Instead, you’re troubled by the future ahead of you. If you were an oprichnik, a guard loyal only to him, there would be even more chance of the Darkling finding out that you were Hecari, the woman he’d loved and who had run from him, feigning death rather than stay by his side and fear his knife.

Being near him, though, it makes you think back to every moment you’d shared. Could it be possible that you had misheard? Would the man you know, the man drenched by moonlight who makes offers of joining the ranks of the oprichniki to mapmakers he’s barely met, truly want you dead? The answer is yes, you know that. But your heart whispers differently, telling you that you could be wrong on this. You’ve always trusted your whispers, the ghosts of the past. The only problem is that these aren’t Hellenid spirits now, they’re your own. Longings for what might have been, what you left behind.

In the end, you retreat back inside the barn. When you sleep, you dream of a quartz-eyed boy, dark-haired and smiling before he thought to use you.

series tag list: fave @underc0vercryptid, @hotleaf-juice, @aleksanderwh0r3, @kaqua, @nemesis729, @imma-too-many-fandoms

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heliosthegriffin · 3 years

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Domain Expansion; Nobody’s fool anymore.

In the Emerald Forest various students were fighting for their life, as a sudden surge of Anthro-Grimm have invaded Beacon forcing a unexpected conflict between the Hunters of Light and the Beasts of Darkness.

One student in particular who has been separated from his team struggles the hardest for his life, Jaune Arc.

A shield comes up and blocks a clawed fist, but pushes the boy back wielding it.

Again and again fist after fist slams into his shield, and forces him further and further back till he till his back is slammed against a emerald tree painfully.

Jaune grunts in pain and fatigue as he blocks another blow, the strength behind the blow sending tremors up his arms as he blocked two handedly.

‘Just got to hold on, just got to hold on till someone can save me, no way I can beat this guy on my own.’ Jaune thinks to himself as he can feel his reserves being chipped away further and further.

A roar of annoyance catches his ears, as the twelve foot tall Ursa Master charges again, it Bear like bone mask hardly showing any emotion though, merely raising it’s fists together before dropping them on Jaune.

He barely manages to block it’s hands, as he is sent to his knees in the process. A leg as long as Jaune was tall then struck out into his guts with a powerful clawed foot, Jaune gasping and spitting as he feels the shockwave spread throughout his body before he is flung through the emerald tree flying through five feet of dense wood without his momentum stopping as he flies nearly a mile across the forest destroying any thing in his past till he lands in a heap, in paralyzing pain.

“Aaagh, is this it?” He asks himself, raising his hand in front of himself, shakily, hardly able to keep it from falling down. “Did all my training really mean nothing?”

He is given no chance to answer as a black shadow forms across the .sky that gets bigger and bigger till it falls right on top of him. The Ursa Master dropkicking him into the ground, Jaune gasps in other pain as the worlds starts to go dark as the Ursa Master punchs him again and again with body-shattering hits after body-shattering hits.

His mind drifts away to the day before as his aura drops away to nothing, and the Ursa Master breaks his body into pulp.

*Day Before*

Jaune stares at his mentor nervously, the white-haired headmaster smiling happily. “C’mon Jaune, you need to move first.” Jaune nods and charges forward to tackle Ozpin with his shield, but the white-haired man sidesteps, so Jaune tries to stab at him only for it to be dodged with nonchalant ease, he pulls back and tries to slash at the man’s neck, but it is batted away with Ozpin’s cane.

Jaune jumps back and holds up his shield, and Ozpin unleash a series of devastating jabs with his cane. Jaune holds still enduring the blows and trying to wait out the onslaught. Ozpins smirks and changes the direction of the cane to hit Jaune’s knees.

Jaune twitches as the blow shakes him, his legs starting to give out on him, and then finds himself on the floor as Ozpin knocks him to the ground cane to Jaune’s throat.

Ozpin takes a sip of his coco. “Hmm, still terrible.”

Jaune’s face falls.

“You’re not meant to stay behind a shield, Jaune. This sit and wait will not work out for you.”

Jaune frowns. “I’m not a fighter, I’m a aura-buffer, a team player, Oz. I’m just trying to be as helpful as possible to everyone else.” Ozpin leans down and stares into Jaune’s eyes with his arcane green eyes. “And that is not what I let you into my school for Jaune, despite your severe undertraining.”

“But, my semblance and my aura are meant to lift up other, Oz. I’m meant to be a hero.”

Ozpin lifts the cane up and shakes his head. “Silly boy, who told you that?”

“Everybody.”

“Well, then they’re stupid.” Ozpin says sticking out his tongue. “And, I’m the headmaster so my opinion matters more.”

Jaune grabs his mouth as he starts to laugh, then sits up.

“So what am I then?”

“A huntsman like anyone else here, and remember Jaune, all Huntsmen must hunt alone eventually. There will be a day when you must fight for your, or someone else, life, and you will have to drop your shield and go hog-fucking wild.”

Jaune stares at Ozpin in shock.

“You’re potential is among the highest I’ve ever seen, up there with Ruby or Pyrrha, now lets get you up to par.” Ozpin says raising his cane again.

*Back to Present.*

The Ursa-Master stabs it’s clawed fist through Jaune’s abdomen straight into the ground beneath sending cracks in the earth everywhere, spraying blood through the air, blood flowing freely out of Jaune’s eyes and mouths.

Jaune gags as he comes back to consciousness hacking up a mouth full of blood.

He stares at his hands in the sunlight, he drops his shield. “I-I’mmm not a fucccking fffailure!” He puts his hand on the broken ground and pulls himself forward and headbutts the Ursa-Master so hard the mask shatters and sends it realing back, revealing a human looking face with bear features, shock across it’s face.

Jaune growls and flips off the grounds to face the Ursa, sword in hand, and guts hanging out from his gaping stomach wound. He smiles. “It’s time to go full fucking hog!” He plants his sword point down into the ground and closes his eyes, the Ursa-Master takes a unsteady step back.

A explosion of aura comes off of the Jaune. “I won’t wait around more, I’m sorry Oz, I should have taken you’re lesson closer to heart, hehe, I won’t be anyone’s fool anymore. No one will need to save me now,” Jaune opens his eyes looking at the Ursa-Master with utter serenity, having turned a crystalline blue as light leaked out behind them. “Cause you taught me that-”

Jaune doesn't get to finish as bone spike goes through is head, the Ursa-Master having fired a spike from it’s hand.

Jaune’s head falls back, but snaps back, the spike pushed out, the gaping hole healing in microseconds. “What my semblance actually is.” He holds his hands in prayed above his sword. “Domain Expansion: New Testament - Heaven’s Light.”

Light, soft white light spread across Jaune, the Ursa Master, and then all of the Emerald Forest, cutting it off of real space to form a pseudo-dimension.

The white light touched each Huntsman in the forest, refill their aura reserves and amplifying they’re power by an order of magnitude, everyone who was touched felt the message in their head. “This is Jaune speaking, fuck ‘em up for me.”

Cries of battle sounded off beginning a one-sided massacre.

Four Hunters in particular responded back.

“You got it, Fearless Leader! Break their existences!” Nora said with lightning flying from her eyes, going down her hands and through her hammer, as she was about to fight a Lamia-Master.

Ren gave a proud smile. “I believe in you, Jaune. So, come back safe.” His body fading in and out of light, about to fight a Yeti-Master

Pyrrha stood atop a mountain of dead Grimm, staring down a Dragonis-Master, a myriad of weapons rotating around her. “Hmm,, so that’s what laid dormant in you,” She smiles fondly. “I could get used to it, so make sure to come back Jaune.”

Ruby’s eyes glowed with power, a cloak of petals behind her. “There it is, I knew there was something in you.” She faced a Ancient Beowulf-Master. “We’re going to have so much fun when you get back.”

Jaune’s wounds begin to knit back together with ease, he held his sword up with both hands. “Sorry about the light show, but I don’t know what I just did exactly, so I’m just going to hope it’s enough to beat, and if it’s not, well not like I’m afraid of dying anymore.”

With a step Jaune appeared in front of the Ursa-Master and swung his sword down connecting instantly, the Ursa-Master having only a fleeting moment to show horror before it was erased by a curtain of light that came down for miles behind it, scaring the land deeply by it’s holy power dispersing any Grimm that it touched.

Jaune looked at his work, and then down to his sword. “Woah, I’m a little scary, aren’t I?” The light then evaporated in a shower of rainbows, releasing the pseudo-space. “I’m a little sleepy, now.” He said before falling asleep.

His friends would later find him in crater statured with holy energy and evaporating Grimm corpses, a miles long scar in the earth in front of him.

#Jaune Arc #Jaune Arc appreciation.#Jaune Arc Crack

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thecolordemon · 4 years

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Short story: Belphegor kills MC

This is a angsty and sad short story about the MC during their dying process after Belphegor hurt them so bad...

⚠️❗Angst, Sadness, mentions of blood, wounds and death❗⚠️

Title: "I forgive you"

The nightly silence in the House of Lamentation was broken when Belphegor pushed you against a huge vase. The fragile object crashed to the ground and shattered into million pieces. The fragments on the black marble looked like spilled stars and there was a strange beauty in it. But you couln't care less about it right now because you couldn't breath. The marks which Belphegor's rough tail left on your sore throat just seconds ago were bright red and the sensitive skin was on fire.

You fell to the ground after your harsh collison with the vase and a painful gasp left your lips when the sharp shards burried themself deep inside your pink flesh. The pain was hot and jolted through your whole body like a lightning bolt. Crimson copper oozed from the many jagged wounds inside your palms and colored the floor like red rain. Your breath hitched in your throat and inhaling air was like swallowing knifes down your trachea. It felt like a hot blade sliced right through it and the pain made you feel nauseous.

Belphegors laugh ringed inside your ears from the room behind you. Sounding like a dark curse. "You humans really are foolish, idiotic, weak creatures, aren't you?" His evil snicker dripped from delight and you could hear his footsteps coming closer. "It's your own fault if you trust a demon. Don't blame me for your current situation, MC." His sing-sang voice scared you to death and you tried to crawl forward and away from the door. Away from the gates of hell... "That's all your fault."

But your hands couldn't carry your own weight and that's why you collapsed on the ground again. The adrenaline throbbed inside your ears and the sharps just pressed in further. Shakly you robbed forward and tried to get up on your knees. The fragments cut all through your clothes and left hurtful cuts all over your arms and legs. Some of them even sank into your kneecaps and made you cry out in pain.

Right at this moment Belphegor's long tail shot forward and wrapped itself around your left calf. All it needed was just one strong pull and you were on the ground again. Belphegor stood in the doorframe, all tall and drunk with power, when he dragged you over the black marble, over the the whole mess of broken glass and towards himself. He laughed like a maniac when the cutting continued and you cried because of the stinging pain. Being dragged all over the sharp shrads felt like you were being dragged over jagged gravel. Your legs already started to bruise from the impact before. The demon towered above you like a predator above it's prey and the sadistic grin on his lips bared his razor-sharp teeth.

"You smell delicious, you know that? Your blood really makes it even more fun." Now you laid right in front of his feet and his tightly wrapped tail cut of the blood supply to your leg. It already started to tingle and to feel weirdly numb. "Please-" you begged and the words stung in your throat, your voice being nothing more than a raspy whisper. "Please don't do this-"

"Oh MC, begging will get you nowhere." Belphegor kneeled down next you and grabbed your chin harshly. His dark, pointy nails burried themself inside your flushed cheeks and they drew blood. The smell of iron filled your nose and made your stomach twist with desperate protest. Tears watered in the corners of your eyes and dribbled over your flaming hot skin. Belphegor grinned and his rough tongue slid over your overheated flesh, catching all of the tears. He left sticky stripes of saliva on your right cheek and grinned even more when you crunched your nose in disgust.

"Who do you think you are to make such a face..." He licked over the red stains of blood that oozed down from your abused face. "You should be more grateful towards me, MC..." Suddenly his fist shot up and hit you violently on your right eye. You screamed in pain but he covered your mouth to shush the noise. He wanted to enjoy the show and he did not want to be interrupted too early. The hammering pain made you quiver and you were sure you heared some of your bones crack. You couldn't even see rigth with the eye anymore. Everything was a pounding, hurtful, black and red mess-you were pretty convinced that all the blood vessels in your right eye did burst because of the impact of his fist. But you were still losing tears.

Belphegor laughed louder as he examined your face closely. "Such a fragile creation! Useless! Utterly useless!" He laughed uncontrollably and his shoulders were shaking because it was so strong. His lilac eyes were those of a madman and he let go of your face with a painful twist of his wrist. His tail loosened a little bit and you were able to free your leg. You pulled yourself up but because of the lack of proper eyesight it was hard to keep a solid balance. Within mere seconds you grabbed one of the bigger shards and threw it at Belphegor. The demon flinched and dodged the thrown weapon which caused him to back away into the room from where he came.

Without looking back you stumbled away as fast as possible. The fear blinded you and all your nerves were on edge. You could hear him roaring viciously and staggered around the corner of the next floor. The pain was nearly taking over your body but you had to move further!

I can't give up- I can't- If I stop,I'll di--' Your legs gave in and you fell to the ground. The glass splinters pierced nerves and, muscles and caused your wounds to vomit even more blood. Like an hurt animal you crawled over the rough carpet beneath you. But you had to get up again-otherwise-

"YOU'LL PAY FOR THAT!!"

The blank anger in Belphegor's voice triggered you so much that you got up again. Fear can be a motivation-. You could feel a strange mixture of tears and something else dripping down from your abused eye and had to struggle with the feeling of throwing up. "-help-" you breathed out as you stumbled rashly along the never ending floor. "Somebody--help-" The beast was approaching. His thumbing steps were coming closer and closer within seconds. Furniture crashed behind you and a broken picture frame missed your head with mere inches/centimeters. You limped faster and wanted to scream but just as you opened your mouth, a heavy and powerful body smashed you to the ground.

You hit your head very hard on the black marble and again you heared a sickening cracking sound. You could feel something running down your neck, how something agglutinated your hair... You blinked dizzily and had a hard time to stay conscious. Your whole head was overwhelmed by the hot and dull throbbing pain and little black spots danced across your, already bad, vison. The heavy creature on top of you was growling dangerously and the monstrous shadow fell on your demolished features. It was hard to breath-

"I'll kill you, you know?" Belphegor's voice was a dark snarl and his teeth grazed the sensitive skin on your throat so carelessly that he drew more blood. "I'll will erase you from all the three realms and your soul will perish-" His hot breath made you sick and your weak attempts to push him away from you failed miserably. The power within you faded faster and faster... You wanted to say something but the words were like lava, heavy and gooey-You couldn't even understand them yourself.

"Don't you dare to look away MC! I want to see your eyes when their light fades away-" He laughed maniacally and grabbed your jaw violently. His nails dugged deep inside your chin and you could feel them claw over the bone beneath the skin. The hammering pain got more awful as his other hand slid to your hips to hold you in place. You tried to kick him away but your legs weren't listening to you anymore. His tail twitched threateningly above his head like a agressive snake and whipped through the air. It was hard to focus on anything else but the thickening atmosphere around both of you. The danger was so present, that it seemd like you could cut it with a knife. Belphegor hold your head in place with the other hand and his eyes glistened crazily and were glassy. It seemed like he wasn't there anymore...Like something overtook his body...

That wasn't the demon you knew-

"B-Belphie---pl-please-" you breathed. "Shh...don't waste your last breath, MC!" he replied happily. This was the biggest fun he had in years...He longed for this! "We were friends-" You could taste iron in your mouth. "Oh no. We never were friends. You're just a toy that I mobilized for my purposes." His lilac eyes pierced your dizzy vision and his long tongue curled in excitement. "I trusted you-" you whimpered. "Bad thing to do...Good bye, MC." And with this words he pierced your soft body with a harsh snap of his tail.

You wanted to scream but the only thing that left your lips was a sore whimper and a deep, aching breath of air. It felt like someone knocked the wind out of you and your lungs screamed in terror. Belphegor's tail was burried deep inside the pale flesh of your body and when he pulled out, he left a deep, bloody hole. Your heart went on a rampage and pumped the blood with all it's remaining energy through your veins. Calling out for help... It was like your heart was crying. It cried red tears of broken hopes and shattered promises, tears of despair and a lost love...

You didn't knew what hurt more...The fact that your life slowly faded away into the dark or the horrible reality that you've been so wrong about Belphie? Your hearbeat got weaker...you felt kinda cold and breathing in felt like inhaling razor-blades. "B-Belphie-" The demon above you frowned at your desperate whines. "Don't call me like that!" That was a thing only his twin was allowed to do, just him and nobody else! "You know nothing, you hear me? Your death means nothing to me! You're just like every other human being in this world."

Now, with your physical form broken, he tried to hurt you otherwise. And in a way more personal way. He was aiming for your psyche. He tried to break you in every possible way. He showed no mercy. He had no mercy. He was a wild beast driven mad by hatred and bad treatment. You winced and tried to calm your breath. "If-my death means nothing-then why are you-so eager to kill me anyway?" Belphegor blinked in confusion. "What's--the difference?-" You managed to look the avatar of Sloth right into his eyes. He stared at you like you insulted him. You could see his thoughts wild'n behind his head. He tried to find a valid reason. He tried to think of a justification why it would help him to kill you.

But there wasn't a valid reason. You helped him. He knew that. Without you he would be still stuck in the attic-locked away from the world like a caged animal. "Can't you see that you became the monster that Lucifer feared you could be?--" You coughed and spit blood all over your lips. Your breath lacked of power and the words sounded pretty slurry. "Shut up-I'm not a monster-" You interrupted his denial. "You are. -but that's okay--" You closed your eyes and hot tears poured over your lashes and cheeks.

You cried harder. "I forgive you-"

Belphegor's eyes widdened in shock and his fangs grew even sharper. Anger darkened his face like a dark cloud. "NO! YOU CAN'T FORGIVE ME! DON'T YOU DARE!" He grabbed your wrist and twisted it back in a sharp motion. Your bones cracked under his strong grip and you screamed in pain when he broke every single one of them. Your hand fell limp. Belphegor growled hatefully into your face. "You.won't.do.that!" His pupils were narrowed strongly and that made him look even more crazy.

This was his perfect moment, he wouldn't let you ruin it!

"You're nothing! A mere human like you does not have so much power over me! No one has! Your dumb and naive! Your dumb and naive if you think your stupid little words affect me!"

He was going insane. How could you not hate him?! How could you not beg for him to stop this torture?! Why were you still undermining his authority even though you were dying?!

You cried more and couldn't stop yourself from feeling sorry for the him. He was so lost in anger, so lost in his own mind that he lost all references to reality. "I forgive you, Belphie--"

"NO!" he roared and trew you across the whole floor. Again you hit your head hard but that didn't make such a big difference anymore. You were feeling awful anyway...

Belphegor kneeled on the floor, several metres away from you, crouched over and quivered like hell. His whole body shook from his jagged cries and his hands fisted into his bluish-grey strands of hair. His nails clawed over his face and left red stripes. He was fighting against himself, against the effects your words caused. It was like you put a spell on him and he tried to fight it off.

You were laying on your side and watched him apathetically. The blood colored the whole upper part of your uniform and stained the floor with it's red puddles. 'That's it...' you thought to yourself. 'It's going to be over soon...I am alone...'

That's when you heared a familiar sound.

Someone was talking-no...Lucifer was talking. You could here his voice growing louder as he came closer. He seemed to discuss something with Mammon. Powerlessly you rolled over to the other side, so that you could look down to the floor beneath you. You were lying on the balustrade on the second floor from which two stairs lead downstairs. Through the little pillars (that supported the railing)you were able to see Lucifer and Mammon coming closer. As you thought, they were busy with discussing something. Both of them totally clueless about the fight of life and death. That was your chance-

"L-Lucifer-" Saying his name was so exhausting... "M-Mammon-" They stopped right underneath the big chandelier but not because they heared your little pleas of help.

"-help-"

Lucifer spoke. "Mammon one last time, I'm not participating in your omnious bets. You'll lose all the money again because you do not learn from your failures." Mammon scoffed. "I'm not dumb, of course I learn!! It was just bad luck!"

You trembled and felt a strange cold approaching you. With your last ounce of strength you grabbed the railing with your good hand and pulled yourself up. It was hard and you had to balance your weight from one abused leg to another. Your body begged you to give in, to fall asleep-to give up-but your mind told you to keep on fighting. Now you were able to look down at Lucifer's raven hair and Mammon's white head. You were so close-

"Lu--cifer-m-mammon-"

One single drop of blood dripped from your chin and fell all the way down. You saw everything in slow motion. The little red drop brushed over Lucifer cheek and landed on his black shoulder pad. Mammon flinched and looked up. Lucifer did the same. When both their eyes land on you, you felt safe for a little moment.

Mammon smiled. "MC what--" He stopped right away when he noticed your terrible state of condition. His smile disappeared and turned into a shocked expression. All the color left his face and he looked like he saw a ghost. Lucifer's eyes widdened in shock, his mouth hung a little bit ajar.

Tears streamed down your face and the salty liquid mixed with blood and cold sweat. But you smiled powerlessly. They would help you-

"--thank yo-"

Suddenly something big appeared behind you. Before you could do anything else, claws digged deep inside your back and threw you over the railing. The next thing you remembered is that the whole room was rotating wildly. It all went so fast. You couldn't even scream. With a loud crash you fell to the hard ground.

Lucifer saw everything in slow motion. Your abused face, painted with dried blood and steamy tears, how hopefully your eyes lightened up when they noticed you, your broken hand which you pressed close to your body like a hurt little lamb...and Belphegor, his youngest brother, as he appeared behind you and hurled you over the balustrade like a doll.

Your fall was endless. But he couldn't do anything. But one thing was for sure. He would never forget the sound your body made when it crashed into the black marble ground. Your hair sprawled out around your head like a fading halo, sticky with blood and nearly all of your limbs were twisted in a sickenly wrong way.

Before Lucifer knew what to do, Mammon already started screaming in terror. "MC--NO--HELP!!!" He ran towards your body and crouched down beneath you. His screaming alerted the rest of his brothers and fast steps were coming from every direction. They all gasped in shock when they saw you laying there. You breath came in thin little gasps and you couldn't move. Everthing hurt so bad...at the same time you felt nothing at all. The crystal chandelier twinkled like a planet made of stars and mirrored your horrible reflection. You really looked awful...

That's you? The bloody mess with a smashed eye is supposed to be you?

Satan, Asmodeus, Leviathan and Beelzebub stared at you in shock. They couldn't move. They couldn't breath. They could just stare at you. Speechless. Hopeless. Clueless.

Lucifer fell to his knees and tried to stop the bleeding. He pulled his gloves off his hands and his long, slender fingers touched every cut, every bruise and every stab wound. "MC--stay with me-please-" His eyes were glassy with tears as he tried to heal the wounds but you already lost to much blood. Mammon sobbed. "MC--"

Belphegor stood on the balustrade and watched the whole thing going down. Pushing you over the edge seemed like the last possible thing to do. He watched how Lucifer failed to stop the bleeding and how your eyes wandered aimlessly over the ceiling. Your chest rose and lowered slower and slower with every passing second. Mammon cried loudly and hold you into his arms trying to protect you. "Dont do this MC-please-YOU CAN'T DIE!!"

Mammon's scream shook everyone to the core. You hiccuped blood and tried to say something but the red liquid drowned the words ruthlessly. Beel had to come forward and pulled his older brother to his chest. The big demon trembled and Mammon fought against his grip-screaming loudly and calling for help. But Beelzebub didn't let him go. He had to protect him. He had to protect MC-

Lucifer couldn't hold his tears back and he cried without any shame. "I'm so sorry MC--I'm trying b-but it's-it's not working--" Your eyes landed on his and he let out a shaky breath. You knew.

You knew you were going to die.

Lucifer embraced you in his arms and he pressed your fragile, abused body to his chest. "Please--someone--get Diavolo-he'll know what to do-he-" His voice broke as he lost his fight against the tears again. Diavolo was Lucifer's last hope--his only hope- After all he declared his loyal devotion to the demon prince. But he wasn't there. Diavolo wasn't there. And he wouldn't make it in time. Lucifer knew that. His brothers knew that. But it was impossible for him to just sit here and watch his beloved MC die in his arms-He had to do something, he-he is the oldest! He has to fix this, he has to find a solution, he-

"l-lucifer-"

His eyes shot back to you. You had lifted your good hand and managed to softly touch his cheek. Your fingers smeared blood all over his skin and the contact made him flinch. "-I'm sorry-" you whispered in a very thin voice. "I-should have-listened-to you-"

His hand found yours and Lucifer sobbed desperately. "MC-stop-don't say that-"

"it's--all my fault-" you explained with rasping breath. It was harder for you to focus your vison and big black spots interrupted the sight. You could feel your own life slipping through your fingers.

"-I'm-so grateful--for everything--you treated me like family-you welcomed me-I'll keep you in my heart-forever-"

Everything was going strangely numb...

You heared distant cries. They were from all the brothers. From all your beloved demons. You felt bad for leaving them. You felt bad for making them cry. You whished you could see them one more time.

Lucifer kissed your fingers softly and held onto you like his own life depended on it. His hands were shaky and he tried to keep his voice calm when he answered you.

"I love you-" he hiccuped and the tears streamed down without a stop.

Everthing was starting to black out.

You smiled sadly. "I--love you too--"

Your heart stopped.

"I---forgave---him---"

Your breathing stopped.

Your thoughts stopped.

Everything stopped.

Your hand fell to the ground. Lucifer could still feel your last touch lingering on his blood-smeared cheek. Time stopped.

And he screamed.

#obey me #obey me short fic #obey me sad #obey me angst #obey me shall we date #obey me mc #obey me lucifer #obey me lord diavolo #obey me leviathan #obey me mammon #obey me belphie #obey me belphegor #obey me story #obey me hc #angst #sad short story #obey me satan #obey me brothers #obey me beelzebub

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onfreckledwings · 4 years

Text

follow up to this ❤️💚

When he wakes in the deepest recess of the night, Cas is not asleep at his side.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and glances around the room. He doesn’t need to turn on the light on the bedside table to know. The space next to him in the bed is cold, the room is empty.

He’s alone.

His stomach drops to the space between his knees as he pushes himself upright. His heart is a pitter-patter in his chest; the blood rushing in his ears a deafening roar.

“Cas?” Dean calls out uselessly. He swings his legs gingerly over the side of the bed and walks slowly to his door, turning the knob and stepping into the hall.

“Cas?!” He calls out again, louder this time, glancing down both sides of the corridor and listening for movement. He sees nothing, hears nothing.

His heart begins to hammer against his ribs, and his mind starts to race.

Shit.

He walks a little too quickly throughout the bunker, ignoring the pain that slams from his back through his chest at the movement, and checks the kitchen, then the library. When it’s empty too, he heads into the war room.

He spots Cas’s phone on the map table, and when he walks over to tap the screen, the time glares back at him.

2:32

Dean takes a deep breath. He thinks for a moment, and when an idea comes to him, he tosses on his jacket hanging on the back of one of the chairs.

He heads for the garage.

When Dean opens the side garage door, it creaks and groans loudly in protest. A quick scan of the woodlands behind the bunker finds Cas standing in the middle of a small clearing, wrapped in a thick, oversized blanket that trails at his feet in the frozen dirt.

Relief floods through him like waves on the ocean. His shoulders drop, tension ebbing from his muscles, and he shuts the door gently behind him instead of letting it clang against the frame.

Cas is looking up at the diamond-studded sky, and Dean smiles as he watches.

He zippers up his coat against the mid-winter chill as the breeze hits against him, swaying against the rustling branches high above. He inhales deeply, the scent of the cold air mixing with the towering bald cypress trees cleansing his lungs. He approaches Cas silently, hand reaching out to caress his back, palm gripping his shoulder gently as he stands next to him.

Cas sighs and lets his eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments.

“Hello, Dean.”

A huff of breath escapes his nose in a chuckle.

“Hey,” he smiles, letting his hand squeeze Cas’s neck affectionately. “Leave a note next time, huh? Scared the crap outta me.” He keeps his voice gentle, teasing, and Cas turns his chin to meet Dean’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says solemnly, eyes drifting to the ground before meeting his again. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Dean smiles, rubbing soothing circles against Castiel’s shoulder blade. “Nah, it’s okay. I’m just sayin’,” he murmurs, and they both turn their faces towards the sky.

It’s a cloudless night. There are stars everywhere. The moon is high and full and shining. It’s beautiful.

“All things bein’ equal?” he continues, watching Cas’s reaction in his periphery, “I’d rather you wake me up than just wakin’ without you next to me.”

Cas thins his lips into a sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he casts them to the ground. Dean tries again.

“I dunno if you’ve noticed, but...I don’t need to sleep with a gun under my pillow these days. So it’s not like I’ll accidentally shoot ya.”

Cas’s eyes close then, a rueful chuckle escaping his lips as his chin drops a little to his chest. Dean can tell he’s holding something back.

The former angel is crestfallen.

Dean’s brow furrows in concern, and he wraps his hands around Cas’s wrists to tug him towards him so that they’re face to face. He lets his hands travel to frame his cheeks.

When Cas’s eyes open, they glisten with tears.

“Hey,” he whispers, crowding closer into Cas’s space. “What’s goin’ on?”

Cas makes an attempt to shake his head, to try to dismiss Dean’s worry.

“No no—” Dean says gently. “Talk to me.”

Cas screws his eyes shut, tears falling in moon-bathed streams down his cheeks before he meets Dean’s gaze.

“I’m not an angel anymore,” he murmurs quietly.

Dean’s chest aches at the pain in Cas’s voice as he tilts his head in sympathy. He sounds so small and vulnerable, but there’s something else there, too.

Dean’s thumbs stroke against Cas’s cheekbones, feather-light. “I know,” he whispers, tears of his own sneaking into his throat.

But he has to be strong.

“I can’t imagine—”

“How can I ever be enough for you like this?”

Dean freezes mid-sentence. His heart sinks before it shatters, bleeding in the space between his feet. The crease between his eyes deepens as he frowns, eyes widening in disbelief.

“What?”

Cas steps out of Dean’s hold, and the fallen leaves crunch beneath his feet. He wraps the blanket tighter around him as he turns to face the sky again.

The roaring in Dean’s ears return, and he stares at Cas’s profile. Nausea starts to spread and twist like ribbons in his stomach.

“I don’t have the ability to heal. I can’t teleport. I can’t...do any of the things I used to,” Cas breathes, voice firm as stone. He’s not looking for pity, not looking for anything to challenge his thoughts.

He’s just being.

Dean’s head is spinning, and he’s so flabbergasted he can’t formulate words in his mouth.

Cas turns his head to meet him again. “How could I make up for that now?” As just a human goes unspoken; but Dean hears it all the same.

In that moment, he feels the rebar ripping through his gut all over again. He steels himself against the urge to double over.

“I don’t know how to be worthy enough,” he continues, voice solemn and jaded and numb all at once. “I don’t know how to be enough—for you—as just...this.” he finishes then, glancing himself up and down, hands stretched out in a shrug before crossing his arms with the blanket again. Cas sighs heavily as he rotates on his heel to stare up at the moon, his back to Dean.

All of the air leaves his lungs. His heart speeds up a little in a panic. He stares unblinkingly at Cas’s silhouette, and the wind gusts in the woods around them. He can hear the branches rustling above, and he can see Castiel’s thick hair swaying against the wind, sticking up every which way.

His stomach rolls. His mouth goes dry.

“Enough?” Dean mumbles in a hoarse whisper, more to himself than anything else. He strides forward, grabbing onto one of Castiel’s shoulders as he walks to stand in front of him.

Cas won’t meet his eyes. He just keeps staring at the world far beyond, hidden and cloaked in darkness.

Maybe he’s looking at Heaven.

Dean sniffles and reaches both hands on Cas’s shoulders.

“How could you ever think that you ain’t enough for me?”

But if Dean’s honest with himself, he knows. He knows he’s done a pretty shit job over the years of making Cas feel valued and wanted and loved —regardless of the status of his grace.

Cas closes his eyes and sighs heavily. When he opens them, he keeps them canted to the ground between their feet. The look Dean finds on his face scares him; it’s defeated, empty.

Broken.

His shoulders sag underneath Dean’s fingers.

Castiel looks exhausted.

“Okay, look…” Dean begins, shaking Cas gently to force their eyes to meet.

“I know...I know I’ve said things, an-and done things over the years that’ve hurt you. I know we’ve had our moments. But man…”

He trails off for only a moment, letting one hand slide down Cas’s chest to fist it into his shirt, the other reaching to grasp one side of his neck.

“‘M a wreck without you,” he grits out, green eyes boring into blue. “Losin’ you...an’ every time I’ve ever lost you it just—it always almost finished me.” He pulls Cas in closer by his shirt, and Castiel’s hands fall to grip Dean’s sides to prevent himself from stumbling.

“It was never about your mojo, Cas. Ever. ‘N I’m so sorry you ever thought it was.” Dean’s eyes are watering now, and he purses his lips as he lightly punches Cas’s chest.

“It’s just always been you.”

And maybe he’s not making any sense. But Dean’s never been good with words, and his chin is trembling, and Cas’s eyes are spilling over without a blink.

They’re so fucking blue.

And Dean’s heart is tattered in pieces on the floor of his ribcage.

“You’ve always been enough.” Dean whimpers, and he lets his own tears break free through the dam of his eyelids, falling in rivulets down his stubbled cheeks.

“Just you. I need you to see that.”

He rests his cheek against Cas’s temple and wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him into his chest as he chokes back a sob. Cas’s arms come to wrap around Dean’s middle as he nuzzles his nose into the crook of Dean’s neck.

“Please, Cas. Please believe that.” Dean chokes out, and he knows he’s babbling now. But Cas squeezes him tighter, and Dean lets his mouth fall into the swath of skin where Cas’s neck slopes into his shoulder. He crushes Cas into him.

They cry together until there are no more tears to shed; they hold each other, mending their broken pieces and bones and marrow and flesh.

The cracks in their hearts begin to heal.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Cas’s lips are against his ear, shushing him and murmuring sweetly against the shell, hands rubbing up and down his back.

They begin to sway in each other’s arms.

“You’re it for me, Cas,” Dean sniffles. “Just you.” Not your grace, not your wings.

He pulls away to rest their foreheads together. “You hear me?”

I love you.

Castiel nods, closing his eyes before meeting green. Dean watches as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and they meet in the middle in a chaste, open-mouthed kiss. Cas’s hands come up to frame Dean’s face.

“I hear you,” Cas whispers hoarsely as they part, and he runs a hand through Dean’s hair. Dean can’t help it when his eyes flutter at the touch.

A small, cold wet sensation stuns his nose then; Dean opens his eyes and tilts his head back to see thick, fluffy snowflakes beginning to fall around them. A small chuckle escapes his throat, and Cas follows his gaze. When another snowflake lands on the bridge of Dean’s nose, Cas’s index finger comes to catch it.

Dean’s eyes fall back to his. What he finds there is marveling.

“I dunno how y’do that,” he mumbles. “Make your eyes so friggin’ blue.”

Cas just smiles through those wonderfully thick lashes. He reaches to grab one of Dean’s hands, cupping it between his own as he brings it to his lips. “It’s a gift,” he quips.

Dean chuckles with a nod, and taking advantage of their height difference, he tugs Cas forward so he can press a kiss to the muss of velvet black hair. He inhales the scent of his own shampoo that mixes with the natural essence of Castiel: earth and rain and lightning. Dean grins as Cas snuggles into his neck, pressing a kiss to the skin there.

“Wanna go back in?” he mumbles against the thick strands. Cas lets out a yawn.

“Mm-hmm.”

Dean snorts as he reaches an arm around Cas’s neck, walking them both back towards the bunker. Cas must notice him wince slightly in pain at the angle, because then he’s reaching up a hand to cover his, and there’s an arm snaking around his waist.

“Lean on me,” he commands. And it leaves no room for argument. So Dean smiles, and lets his weight sink against the man against him, who accepts it all willingly.

Just like he always has.

They’re almost at the door when Dean stills, grasping the fabric of the blanket.

“Hey,” he says. Cas stops to look at him, letting Dean turn slightly in his hold.

“Merry Christmas, Cas.”

The smile Cas gives him is like the Star of Bethlehem. Cas leans in, mouth ghosting his as their foreheads connect.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

#I did a thing #supernatural #destiel #deancas #destiel fic #deancas fic #destiel coda #a sort of part 2 to my last fic #merry christmas everyone❤️💚

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lovehugsandcandy · 3 years

Text

(when you never) see the light (n*fw, Colt x MC, RoD)

A/N: So @shondideaira-blog comes up with AMAZING ideas and requested a rewrite of RoD Chapter 16 but with MC getting shot (apologies for the delay and if this isn’t what you were looking for). Title from Rihanna’s ‘Stay’

Length: ~5,900 words

Rating/Warnings: N*FW (warnings out the wazoo- cops, gun shots, injury, blood, hospital, swearing, sex)

Summary: “... she thinks of nightmares that slide into daylight and then almost the opposite, times like now when the morning sunlight is gauzy and warm and the fears from the dark of night (gunfire and explosions and a scream caught in a throat that won’t open and being left behind by those you love) seem so distant that she knows she can’t return. ‘Colt, come with me.’ He still doesn’t answer, and it’s embarrassing how her voice cracks. ‘Please.’”

Her heart beats 63 times per minute.

It’s an average, of course; she’s studied the display, the colored lights flashing each number, vital signs and jagged lines dipping and rising with her movement, her stress level, the all-encompassing terror snaking cold through her bloodstream. By now, she can predict the digits shown stark on the machinery: rolling to her side increases it by a single beat, focusing on every breath decreases it by three, and thinking about that night and the fear in his eyes and the warmth pooling from between her fingers, well, that sends the numbers skyrocketing and the nurses running.

The shrill tone emitting from the machine echoes the hammering in her chest, a constant noise even in the awkward silence stretching into the corners of the hospital room.

“Are you sure you’ll be ok if I…” Her dad pauses and his eyes bore into the side of her head. It’s a conscious effort not to turn her leaden gaze from the tv. “... If I go to work for a bit?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Her heart rate holds steady, steel will and mental effort holding her annoyance at bay.

Of course he can leave.

He had been there constantly, was at her side when she awoke from surgery, when her vision warped so blurry she had almost mistaken him for another, dark hair floating in and out of her field of vision, a mirage of her deepest desires fading to bitter reality when she realized who was by her side. And then her father had refused to leave her side, sitting in for every visit from the doctor, scrutinizing every movement as they tended wounds and replaced IVs, taking calls stationed outside the door to her room as she watched his shadow pace through the frosted glass. He vacillated between anger expanding coldly through the sterile walls of the hospital room and relief that she was alive seeping into his smile.

“I just want… I want you to be ok.” He pauses and this time, she turns her head, taking in his knuckles paling against the door frame, the lines of his face wrinkled and sallow in the blazing hallway lights. It’s unsaid: he wants things to go back to the way they were.

But they can’t. They never will. There’s no looking back, ever; the world has changed too much for that, and the only path is forward.

Her side still hurts, tiny white pills not enough to knock her out but enough to turn the stabbing pain in her abdomen into a dull ache, and she is tired, eyelids heavy from three nights in an unfamiliar bed; the physical pain pales compared to her sadness, bone-deep and weary. He wasn’t asking about that hurt. “I’ll be fine, dad.”

She almost wasn’t fine.

The barrel of the gun was dark, looming large before her, a sinister circle ready to engulf everything in its path the longer she stared. It was mere seconds, but it felt like hours as she stood, frozen. She couldn’t pull her eyes from the metal; she knew Jason was holding the gun, her high school looming somewhere behind him, her car in shatters behind her, and her friends in the periphery in various states of horror, but the gun consumed her entire field of view.

Would she ever step foot inside this very school again?

There was movement, somewhere behind Jason, Mona, god, Mona was trying to interrupt.

Would she even graduate?

And Colt’s voice echoing to her right, a yell, too far away to help, but close enough to hurt.

God, would she ever see Colt again?

The light was first, a flash, a bright flicker in the inky black night, dancing hauntingly by Jason’s thumb.

Then sound, the crack echoing in the parking lot, bouncing about until she was disoriented, not knowing where one rapport ended and the next began.

And then the pain.

“Ellie!”

More noise. A scream. Was it her?

A fight.

It couldn’t be her; she was looking at the sky, the endless night above, even the streetlights growing darker with every blink of her eyes.

“Ellie!”

The parking lot was cold beneath her. She couldn’t feel it through her leather jacket (red, red, everything was red) but her bare hands traced the pebbles below, uneven and jagged.

Everything hurt.

“Ellie!”

Another scream, the squeal of tires. Someone was pulling out (was she at the sideshow?), rubber burning, caustic and sour as it reached her nose. The engine roar faded, softer in the distance (was she racing?), replaced by movement around her (if she was racing, she was losing-the world was spinning, but she was immobile).

No. Her side… something burned, flaming hot, pain radiating up her side with every choking inhale.

She grimaced and lifted her hand, pressing it to her side, wince deepening. Her side hurt, sharply, as her fingers prodded a gash. It was hot, whatever it was (not skin, not anymore), and there was something liquid on her fingers, tacky, warm.

A cold sweat covered her body; she could feel its path tracing her hairline where the salt burned glass-torn wounds. She wanted to wipe it off, dig out some shards digging into her skin, but every move was draining, labored.

She bit her lip.

“Fuck, Ellie!’

Iron flooded onto her tongue, metallic, sharp. A few stars fought their way through the smog and the thin cloud layer overhead; streetlights shone in the parking lot.

Everything else was darkness.

Except for the red smears on her fingertips.

“Ellie!” Colt entered her field of view, suddenly, eyes wide and panicked. “Are you--- fuck?”

“I…” Everything hurt, God, her stomach felt like… like she had been shot. “Colt? What- what happened?”

“You…” His fingers trembled as they trace her face. “Ellie, you’re gonna be ok. We just gotta…” He looked down at her stomach and his hands pressed into her side, warm and far more comforting than the tears welling in his eyes. “We just gotta…”

Logan dropped to his knees at her other side. “Troublemaker… God…” Mona appeared behind him and even her eyes were wide, face pale.

A siren pierced the night.

She reached up; her fingers shook, and she was tired, oh so tired, but she forced her hand to rise until she cupped Colt’s cheek, thumbing at the moisture trickling over his skin.

He choked out her name, and she dropped her hand. A path of blood, a dark and foul smear over sharpened cheekbone, remained.

“We need… we need to get you out of here.” His voice shook.

She nodded, pushing herself up to her elbows, wincing when even the simple motion hurt.

“C’mon, Troublemaker.” Logan slid an arm around her waist, nudging his shoulder under her arm. “Can you get up?”

She nodded, wrapping her other arm around Colt’s shoulders. He was trembling slightly, lips in a tight white line, but he folded in next to her, taking her weight as her feet found the pavement. Her knees buckled, but the boys held firm and, though she swayed, she stood, hunched and weak. “I’m ok.” In the distance, the siren screamed louder, closer.

“You’re not,” Mona said, eyes assessing her wound. “You need to go to the hospital.”

She nodded; she obviously did. The pavement was tilting under her feet, and she had to focus to take in the parking lot. “Where’s Shaw?”

“Took off like a pussy.” Mona crossed her arms over her chest. Ellie let out a smile; at least the plan was working.

Colt curled his fingers over her hipbone. “Come on.”

“No.” Ellie shook her head, and the pavement swam in time with her movements. “The cars.”

“What? Ellie… we gotta… who cares? You…” She could sense it, the moment he looked down to see the blood spreading over her shirt. “Ellie…” Colt reached out, fingers visibly shaking now, to gently touch her side. Even through the fabric, they came away wet and glossy red. “Ellie, we gotta…” He stared at his hand, at the fingertips damp with her blood. “We gotta…” The siren was speeding on the highway now; they were running out of time.

“Colt.” She touched his cheek, smearing the blood even more. “We need a plan. We gotta get the cars out of here, your bike. We need to move.” He blinked at her and she tipped forward, to where he opened his arms at the last possible second, landing against his chest. They were both covered in blood now but it didn’t even matter, nothing mattered but finishing this last ride. His arms wrapped around her waist and she couldn’t even pretend anymore, just let him hold her up, fully, legs weak and unresponsive. His arms still shook. She tilted her head up, right against his ear, and whispered, “Colt, we need a plan. And I can’t… we need a plan.”

Because that was the meaning of partnership, of trust and support and love. When one person fell, the other was there to catch them. And while it was Colt physically holding her up, she was there to make sure he didn’t collapse either.

When he blinked again, his eyes opened clear. “Logan, get in your car and get out of here.” He balanced her against his own body to fish keys from his pocket, tossing them over to her without pulling his eyes from Ellie’s. “Mona. Take my bike. I’ll contact you later with where to stash it.”

Ellie smiled, head lolling against his chest. She could rest now that someone else was in charge.

“Open your eyes.” His voice was harsh but, when she opened them, she could only read concern in his wide gaze. “Stay awake. We gotta go. Walk.”

And, one foot in front of the other, she did.

~~~~~

Despite her dad’s concern, she’s fine.

After the surgery and the stitches and the unrealized fear that she might lose part of her liver, she had been fine. She had watched tv, avoided conversation with her dad, and reached for the comforting bottle whenever her side ached.

The meds, chatter of the pills ricocheting in her palm, helped ease her physical pain.

If only all pains were as easy to soothe.

She has just reached for the cannister when the door creaks open; she rolls her eyes, again. It had barely been 10 minutes. “Dad, I’m-” The word dies in her mouth as she turns to the door “-fine.”

“You sure? ‘Cuz I’m offended. I think you definitely need your vision checked.”

“Colt…” It’s not even speech; she breathes the word out in an exhale that makes her ribs twinge. “How did you get in?” The sheets shift underneath her as she struggles to sit, letting out a small groan as her side throbs before she’s finally up, watching him edge closer, hands in his pockets and dark circles haunting his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he scoffs. “You think I can’t get access to a fucking hospital room?”

“My dad- he’s been here the whole time, he just left.”

“I know.”

She shakes her head. “What happened? I don’t really…”

“You got shot. Remember that?”

“Oh my God, yes, I remember that.” He’s close enough to touch now, out of place next to the IV machines and constant beeping, leather and smirk tangible and real amidst the white-walled sterility; she pulls him closer, finger tucked into the cuff of his jacket. “What about everyone else? Logan? Mona? X and Toby? Is everyone ok?”

Colt shrugs, easing down next to her to perch on the hospital bed. “They’re fine. Logan’s on his way to Detroit. Mona’s halfway across the country. And X and Toby both went to Oakland.”

“My dad told me Jason got arrested.”

“He did. Your plan worked.” The smile stays small, but Ellie can see the pride and relief shine through. “Not an eye for an eye, but…”

She threads her fingers through his, her thumb tracing calming circles even though he also carries pain impossible to soothe. “It’s good enough. You need to live, Colt. Not be haunted by what’s behind you.”

“I can’t dream, El?”

“You have better dreams than vengeance.” In the hospital room lighting, his every feature is stark, cheekbones sharp over the hollow sloping to his jaw. He looks proud and pensive and defeated, all at once; though her side twinges when she leans over, it’s secondary to the ache in her heart. “Colt?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to go home.”

He surveys the tube still running into her arm, the pills at her bedside. “You sure that’s such a good idea?”

“Yeah. I can’t stay here anymore.”

“I don’t think they are ready to discharge you. You kinda look like you got shot recently.”

“I’ll go AMA, I don’t care?” She pressed the call button.

“You’ll go what?”

“Against Medical Advice. They can’t trap me here.” She jabs it again, frantically; a plan is forming. Finally, the fear and boredom and monotony of the hospital are being replaced, and she’s floating on something that feels implausibly like hope. “Meet me out front.”

He studies her, for so long she wonders if her demand is too presumptuous, and then he breaks out into a grin. “You’re sexy when you’re bossy.”

“Even in a hospital gown?”

His fingers trace the tie at her neck. “Especially then.”

“Really.”

“Easy access.” His eyes gleam, fluorescent shine of the hospital room reflected in beautiful black, and she’s sure his excitement is mirrored on her own face.

“Oh, my God. Just meet me downstairs, you’re my getaway driver.”

He stands, mattress creaking underneath her, and rocks back on his heels. “You sure about this?”

“I have never been more sure about anything.”

When she emerges into the brilliant LA sunshine, he’s leaning against a dark sedan, sunglasses on and every inch the cocky mastermind she remembers. She falls into his arms, replacing antiseptic and sterility with every inhale of motor oil and aftershave.

“No motorcycle?”

“Are you already forgetting you were shot?”

As if she could ever. “I want to go home,” she murmurs into his tee.

“Whatever you want.” He opens the door, eyes hidden by shades, but his shoulders tense. “We can drop you there.”

“No.” Her hand on his forearm stops him and he turns, eyebrow raised. “I want to go home with you.”

His lips against hers are hard, demanding, hand twitching toward her hip but then settling against her jaw, cupping her close as she nestles closer, relieved sigh as she feels her muscles relax for the first time in days.

As they accelerate away, she’s glued to his side, nestled in leather, and the sunlight blinding outside the windshield adds to the warming calm in the backseat.

~~~~~

She couldn’t tell if it’s pitch black outside… or if it’s the back of her eyelids.

“Ellie, eyes open. Now.” Oh. She opened her eyes, dome light illuminating the car interior where Colt was reaching over to buckle her seat belt, nudging the strap away from her side. “You gotta stay awake.”

“Yeah.” She nodded but her eyelids were so heavy, falling closed even when she struggled them awake, and he kissed her, hard, desperate. She kissed back, lips weak but sure, revived in the dead of night.

He slammed the door, sprinting around the car to leap into the driver’s seat, throwing the car in drive and shutting his own door simultaneously. The sirens were blaring now, she could see the blue and red flashing through the night, reflecting off the sterile concrete of the school, and Colt gunned it through the parking lot, the world flying by as he maneuvered onto the street and into the night.

“You’re gonna be ok, you hear me?”

She hummed, watching him change gears. When he drove to her driver’s test, she remembered how confidently he drove, experienced hands easy around the wheel, but now those same hands were moving fast, almost frantic as the speedometer flew higher.

“Ellie?”

“Yeah?” Her eyelids were so heavy.

“Tell me about Langston.”

“What?” Her head rested against the leather as she squinted at him. “Why do you… What?”

“I want to keep you awake and it’s all I got right now,” he responded, chuckling darkly.

“I… Langston.” In truth, she had barely thought about Langston in weeks. “It’s the best college out east. And I was lucky to get in. I always wanted to go there and now…��

“Now what?”

“Am I even gonna go?”

“You’re gonna go.” His hand gripped her knee. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna go...“ He moved his hand to downshift as they maneuvered through traffic, but it landed on her leg immediately after, strong and sure. “You’re gonna do great.”

“No. No, you don’t understand.” She sighed. “I don’t know if I… I’m not ready for this to end.”

“For what to end?”

She felt the moisture spilling from her eyes, streaking down her cheeks. Of course she was going to Langston, it was all she wanted, and yet. “I don’t want to leave you.”

He had nothing to say to that, no smart reply; he only squeezed her knee and headlights flashed by, interrupting the night sky that encroached into her darkening vision.

“I just… I don’t want to go back to how I was before.”

“You won’t.”

“Are you just saying that because I now have a hole in my stomach?”

“Christ, El… Gonna be a hell of a scar.”

The tires squealed as he pulled a left, sign declaring the Emergency Department brilliantly red above them. “Gonna be a hell of a story.” She shifted uncomfortably as they pulled to a stop; she could see a smattering of doctors and police officers inside the glass doors when she peeked over.

“Our story’s not over yet, El.” Her tears are pouring out now, stream turned to a river, and they slipped through his fingers as he cupped her face in his hands. “It’s not.” His voice was harsh, sure, and it made the tears even worse.

“I have to go.”

He unbuckled his seat belt. “Yeah, let’s go.”

“No.”

“What do you-”

“See those cops?” He glanced behind her, still cradling her cheeks, and his gaze darkened. “This is something I need to do on my own, Colt.”

“Ellie.”

“I can’t have you get arrested, I-I can’t.”

His lips turn down, his own eyes welling, glistening in the red glow. She pushed forward, as much as she could through the pain, because she might die from her wound but she couldn’t live without threading her fingers through his hair, kissing him with every ounce of trust and surety and love she had been gifted in return.

And then she steps out of the car alone.

She doesn’t look back. She can’t. Even the tiniest glance behind her would make her disappear, Euridyce vanishing in the dawn; a mere turn of her head would force her to stay, compel her to fall into his arms and flee into the night, and her blood would spill rivers onto Mona’s leather interior.

By the time a nurse rushed over, she was bawling, sobs pouring from her mouth, blood ground into the lines of her palms and the tears painting watery pink paths down her forearms.

She shook her head when they asked how badly it hurt.

She couldn’t feel a thing.

~~~~~

The nightmare shocks her awake.

It’s her first night of freedom and it’s quiet, still, the light of the moon replacing the flash of gunfire behind her eyelids, soft exhales beside her replacing the exhaust of a Santagata speeding away.

She can still see her father’s face, stern and disappointed and angry, so angry, when she struggles to sit up, wincing at the flash of pain radiating up her side.

“Mh? Wass… El?” Colt turns under the sheet, hand grasping at nothing until his fingers find her arm, wrapping around her fragile wrist.

“I’m ok…” His skin is warm where hers is corpse-cold, and she’s obviously not convincing enough because he sits up, the line of heat at her spine not enough to quell her shaking muscles. “Really, I’m ok.”

“You need more of those meds?” he slurs, still half-asleep, and she grins despite herself. He’s been surprisingly great, having her holed up in his temporary apartment, dispensing her painkillers upon request, grabbing the ice cream she wants from the 24-hour store down the block.

Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised.

For all the gruff exterior and snarky bite, he had seen her potential, respected her abilities, challenged her and fought for her and, now, speaks low into her shoulder blade in the pitch-black room, LA haze blocking out the glow of the moon. She can’t see inches in front of her face, can only sense where he is by the crinkle of sheets, the warmth of his skin at her back.

“I’m fine. I… it’s fine.”

He shifts, arm threading around to trace under her shirt, between her breasts, so he can cup her shoulder. “What happened?” She can feel the warmth seeping through her chest; it makes it easier for her to inhale through the terror caught in her throat.

“I…” He waits, shifting so his nose nudges into the curve of her shoulder. “I just saw… I just saw the gun. The flash, when pulled the trigger and I… all I could hear is the crack of the gunshot and I-”

He maneuvers her so she can see his face, barely, white of his eyes framing the darkest of eyes, a flash of white teeth when he mutters her name. “Ellie…”

“And the surgery and days in the hospital room and I didn’t know if I was going to see you again and I…”

His thumb is gentle on her cheekbone, wiping away tears she didn’t even realize were coming. He’s still warm, hand on her face and other palm solid on her back, and she breathes out slowly, heart rate returning to her typical range. “I still dream about my old man.”

“Oh, Colt.”

“I still dream about the bridge, the explosion, and then...” The whites of his eyes flash as he turns his head, sharply. “You. You bleeding out in the parking lot, bleeding through my fingers, and I couldn’t...”

Her fingers find his and squeeze. “What helps?”

“...don’t know yet.”

Her hand on his cheek turns his face back to hers and she has no words, no magic solution, no idea how to overcome the trauma and pain of their shared past. All she can do is bring her lips to his.

Maybe the memories will always be with them, written in scars like the puckering skin on her abdomen, but maybe they can forget, together, to make it through the night.

He responds eagerly, hands cupping her face, trailing down her neck. His thumb traces down her spine and it’s singularly all she can focus on; every nerve ending in her body is so sharply attuned to the callus at the joint sliding inch by inch down her skin that she can feel nothing else, not the sheet pooling around her waist or the contact of her legs against the mattress or the itch and tug of the scab pulling at her skin. It’s so soft, so gentle, and his name falls from her lips, all needy whine and desperate plea, and the flush that covers her skin is sudden, fire hot, spreading down to her toes in a blaze of combustion and if he doesn’t touch her, more, somewhere else, anywhere else, God please, she’s going to explode as a quivering mess in this bed.

He’s gentle, easing her closer to kiss a scorching line down her spine, following the path of his fingers with the fire of his lips. They drag achingly down the sensitive skin of her thinner forearm, up her inner thigh, and it’s somehow more intimate than anything they’ve ever done. She’s already tense, toes curling as his hands make their way under her underwear, and her fingers anchor into his hair as his teeth trace up her thigh.

He avoids her side, where the stitches curl dark into her skin, instead teasing his tongue through her folds, his fingers over her clit; when her vision turns white (not the cold light of gunfire but the warm glow of pleasure and connection and love and lust and freedom), she forgets about her injury, forgets about the hospital, forgets about everything except the strands of hair sliding through her hands and the boy taking care of her in every way that matters.

Sated, she reaches for him as he collapses beside her, straightening her pajamas and tucking a wisp of hair from her face. She’s suddenly exhausted, muscles weak and shaky, but she curves her hand into his t-shirt. The sheets muffle her voice; she wouldn’t be surprised if drool pools underneath her chin, but she’s too tired to care. “Don’t look back.”

“What.”

“Don’t look back.”

“What are you talking-”

“There’s nothing behind us.” If she was going to leave that life behind, she was going to take part of it with her. “Come with me.”

“What? Ellie?”

“Please.”

She doesn’t hear his response; behind her eyes, there’s only darkness (no gunfire flash, no rhythmic beeps). It’s quiet and still and warm, and she sleeps without dreaming.

~~~~~

She could get used to this.

While Colt had taken a few hushed phone calls in the hallway, he was a constant every other second, just in reach, as if his mere presence were enough to protect her from murderous cops and an untimely demise.

A few days into her convalescence, she awakens from a nap, degree by warming degree, curled into his side. Her sleeping schedule has been erratic ever since her frantic discharge escape, and it’s now twilight, golden sunbeams sinking into the horizon behind the highway. Colt is sprawled next to her, playing a game on his phone; she’s curled into his side, eyes blinking open against soft cotton grey, and he drops a kiss on her forehead when she stirs.

“How are you going to sleep tonight?” he asks, smirking through every word and dropping his cell onto the bed. “It’s almost 8. You’ve slept all day.”

“Dunno. Count sheep?” she murmurs against his chest. “Count stars?”

“No stars in LA.”

She mumbles some reply, unintelligible and low. While she was regaining some of her strength, it was a slow improvement; she still generally felt weak and worn. She would have no trouble sleeping.

“Count headlights,” he continues and she tilts her head to watch the white lights fly over the road, glittering diamonds slicing through the horizon.

“Is that what you do?”

He shrugs. “It’s all there is to see.” His fingers thread through her hair, avoiding her forehead where cuts from barreling over the overpass still sit open and obvious along her hairline, but gently tracing down to her back, hands gentler than they have any right to be, belonging to a wanted criminal on the lam from the LAPD. It’s rhythmic and calming, and she wants nothing more than to stay in this bed forever.

“There’s headlights in New York.” She holds her breath. She hadn’t asked again since the nightmare, too terrified of the reply to broach the topic.

“Lots of them.”

She hazards a glance up; to her surprise, he is staring right at her, eyes soft, cautious. He swallows, Adam’s apple tightly bobbing, and nibbles his bottom lip. “Colt, please.”

He glances away, out the window; he doesn’t answer, doesn’t promise anything, and she tightens the arm draped over his chest. The headlights still glow, bright white cutting through the city landscape, and she watches them as the twilight slides into darkness.

~~~~~

Even though she gets stronger, she still makes him help her, pouting through simple challenges like carrying grocery bags or reaching high shelves. He grumbles through it, but she can’t hide her smirk when he obliges regardless.

(Tougher challenges, like holding her after nightmares that leave her quaking, those are done without complaint and the gratitude gets stuck in her throat, lodged against where her heart races at triple the normal tempo.)

When she feels up to it, he needs no persuading to help her shower. He’s surprisingly gentle with her hair, fingers massaging shampoo against her scalp as she mewls piteously, and lathers her body in careful strokes that build heat in her core. His fingers slow as he nears her side, bypassing the bruise beginning to green and the scab that’s beginning to crust about the stitches. His hands avoid the wound noticeably.

“Do you not like blood or something?”

He quirks an eyebrow, droplets raining from his hair. “I’m fine with it. I got shot too, remember?” Her eyes drop to his shoulder. Yes, she remembers and, even if she managed to forget that horrific night, his own scar would remind her, dark mark noticeable against the curve of muscle. “Not as bad as you.”

“Yeah… it’s just… you just seem wigged out at the sight of blood…”

He looks behind her, straight at the shower wall, but she has the sense that he doesn’t see a single white tile square. She sees images in her own mind, flashes of her blood on his fingertips in a shadowy parking lot, his father’s blood a morbid trail across the garage. “I don’t like seeing the blood of people I care about.”

Well, she doesn’t have an answer to that. She can only reach up, wet hair sliding through her fingers, to pull him down, closer, until they’re sharing the same breath and his lips consume hers with practiced ease. He backs her against the wall, so gentle, as if she were spun glass, fingers tender about her waist even though his lips capture hers insistently.

They kiss with abandon, making out until the steady stream of water cools, turning tepid, and then cold, and then he interlaces their fingers together to pull her out of the shower. By the time they get out of the bathroom, they made a weak attempt at towel drying, but her back is still wet as he lays her down against the sheets.

But the sensation of water cooling is quickly replaced by others.

And the only flashes of light are stars behind her eyes.

And the only sound is his muttered curse, harsh fingertips digging deep into the muscles of her ass.

And when she trails fingertips over his cheekbone, only sweat remains.

~~~~~

He makes her breakfast, too.

It’s only a few days before she’s scheduled to head east, and it looms large on her mind. She requests pomegranate seeds and yogurt, granola and a drizzle of honey, something fancy and annoying just to see him fluster.

“Seriously?”

“Please, Colt?” She bats her eyelashes, burrowed under blankets, and he huffs, throwing on a shirt before trudging to the store.

She giggles when he cuts into the fruit; it’s going to stain the cheap formica counter, but he apparently doesn’t care, hacking into the pomegranate skin with a paring knife and cursing under his breath.

“This is such a pain in the ass.”

“Remember when you said I could have anything I wanted.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We were in bed, sweetheart. I wasn’t asking for a meal plan.”

“Well…” She gingerly steps against the counter and stands on her tiptoes, testing her side. When there’s no pain, she hops up to sit next to the bowl with only a slight grimace. “This is what I wanted. I wanted you to make me breakfast.” Triumphant, she pops a seed into her mouth.

His gaze drops to the fruit in front of him as he shakes his head ruefully. She watches the sculpted biceps move as he separates the seeds from the pale flesh, dropping them into her yogurt. There are easier ways to cut the fruit, taught by her mother over quiet breakfasts even more precious in retrospect, but watching him bite his lip in concentration, she keeps the information to herself.

She’s so focused on the tip of his tongue between his lips and the bicep shifting under his tee that it takes a moment to realize that he stands frozen beside her. “Colt?” His gaze is fixed on his hand, and she leans close to look over. Eyes haunted, he’s staring at a pomegranate seed, smashed against his finger; it takes her a moment but, at this angle, it looks like blood, a red smear staining his thumb, an eerie jarring flashback to blood on his hands.

She doesn’t even think, only reaches over to drag her teeth across the fleshy pad of finger, sucking the sweet juice onto her tongue. When his gaze flits to hers, heat rises in her cheeks.

“What?” He doesn’t respond, and she thinks of nightmares that slide into daylight and then almost the opposite, times like now when the morning sunlight is gauzy and warm and the fears from the dark of night (gunfire and explosions and a scream caught in a throat that won’t open and being left behind by those you love) seem so distant that she knows she can’t return. “Colt, come with me.” He still doesn’t answer, and it’s embarrassing how her voice cracks. “Please.”

“Ellie…”

“You don’t need to stay here. There’s nothing good here for us.”

“I’m not running. I’m not gonna run from anything.”

“What if you ran towards something instead?”

“Like what?” There’s a pomegranate juice smear bright against his cheekbone, a reminder of her hands on him, a mark that won’t scar but is permanent, regardless.

“...A new future.”

~~~~~

Breakfast with her dad is as awkward and stilted as she feared.

He makes the Ellie Special, and she crams forkfuls of waffles in her mouth as they try and fail to find any safe topic of conversation, past bond cleaved, strained silence left behind.

Even though his fear for her life had tempered his fury, he still saw her as a songbird, resigned to a gilded cage to sing on command and lead a life of clipped wings.

But she learned what she could do - chase dreams and fly high and soar into a new life with its own scars and tears and triumphs.

She walks out the door with a plate of food and a promise to call. When he shuts the front door, it sounds like the closing of a book, her childhood written and read, its last few months unsatisfactory in her father’s review.

When she thinks about it, she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

She plops into the driver’s seat and takes a deep breath, hands tight around the steering wheel, watching as the curtains drift shut. Away from her father’s prying eyes, head in her hands, she lets it out, tears pouring through her fingers, tears of joy, of heartache, of hope, of wonder... and of love.

Then, she reverses out of her driveway, smoothly popping the clutch into first as she heads to retrieve the motorcycle jockey whose calloused hands hold her heart.

It will take days to make it out east.

They had better get started.

There’s nothing but the open road ahead and they get to speed along, together.

And, at dawn, the sun peeking over the interstate is wholly brilliant, warm and peaceful, every single day.

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#playchoices fanfiction #colt x mc #colt kaneko #n*fw #cw: police #cw: cops #cw: blood #cw: injury #cw: hospital #amy writes

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razieltwelve · 3 years

Text

Leap (Final Rose)

“You do realise that you should probably have grabbed a parachute before jumping out of the transport.”

Yang smirked at Averia. “I figured I’d let you handle the landing.”

The pink-haired girl sighed. “Really?”

Yang did her best impression of Fang’s smirk. “Saviour bullshit, go!”

“...” Averia scowled. “I should let you hit the ground.”

“As if you would.” Yang grinned. “You like me too much.” She shifted in the air and extended her arms toward Averia. “So... help a girl out?”

Averia’s eye twitched. “You’re lucky that Ruby would be sad if you died.” She wrapped her arms around Yang. “I’ll handle the landing. I don’t feel like flying.”

“Aww...”

X X X

The team from Beacon Junior Academy was not having a fun day. A relatively easy weeding mission that should have involved fighting only the weakest of Grimm had rapidly gone to absolute hell. Now, they were holed up in a settlement with a horde of angry Grimm outside. They’d called in for reinforcements, but they’d been told that there weren’t any qualified hunter teams in their immediate vicinity. Instead, they’d be getting two students from the Senior Academy to help them out.

Just two? They knew the people at the Senior Academy were good, but there were a lot of Grimm out there.

And then two people just fell out of the sky.

One of them landed in incredibly cool fashion while carrying the other bridal style. Straightening, the pink-haired girl set the blonde on her feet.

“Heh.” The blonde smirked. “Nothing like hitting the ground at full speed and coming off with nothing more than a scratch.”

“Try not to make a habit of it unless I’m around,” the other girl replied. She glanced toward the Junior Academy students, green eyes taking their measure in an instant. “You must be the students. Report.”

There was something distinctly professor-like in her tone of the voice, and the leader of the students, Rouge snapped to attention. “Multiple Grimm outside the settlement walls, ma’am. We’re estimating at least a hundred with at least one A tier amongst them and multiple B tiers.”

“I see.” The pink-haired girl was wearing a suit, of all things, but she wore it so naturally that Rouge couldn’t help but admire the cut and style of the garment. “And your team?”

“We’re running on empty, ma’am.” It felt odd yet fitting to address the older student as ma’am. “But we can still fight.”

“I see.” The other girl nodded. “I want you and your team to take up defensive positions on the wall. Yang and I will go over the wall. Kill any that get past us.”

“You’re just going to go over the wall?” Rouge asked.

“Yes. We could fight a defensive battle, but going over the wall and killing them all is the simplest way to deal with the problem.”

“Relax, kiddo,” Yang added. “I know we’re students at the Senior Academy, but you’re looking at two of the best. Pinky over there is number one in our year.”

It was then that Rouge put the pieces together. Pink hair, number one ranking, and the ability to fall out of the sky and not die? That had to be Averia Yun-Farron. And Yang? That had to be Yang Xiao Long. Her teammates must have drawn the same conclusions because they were all staring in a combination of shock and admiration. The number one and number five from the Third Year of the Senior Academy were both here? Awesome.

“Right!” Rouge cried. “We’ll get any that you miss!”

X X X

If there was one thing that Yang enjoyed, it was punching Grimm. Of course, she also enjoyed kicking Grimm, stomping on Grimm, pulverising Grimm, and, well, anything that involved killing Grimm was pretty good in her book.

A Beowolf leapt at her, and she ducked under its claws before caving its chest in with a punch. She allowed an older Beowolf to land a strike, so her Semblance could absorb the damage. With her increased strength, she turned the older Beowolf into a bloody smear before shattering the armoured plates of an Elder Beowolf with her gauntlets and then pulverising its torso with a right cross. A kick hurled another Beowolf back, its head ripped almost clean off, before a hammer fist crushed the skull of yet another opponent.

Showing off was one thing, but the best way to deal with this many Grimm was to just get things done the simple way. Small fry like these could only win by overwhelming her, so as long as she dealt with them quickly and efficiently, they weren’t really all that dangerous.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Averia doing her best impression of a killer robot. It was almost comical watching the other girl just decapitate anything that came within reach. One head was joined by another and another and another until they were just piling up on the ground.

“Someone’s feeling lazy,” Yang shouted as she jumped over a Grimm and then smashed its spine to pieces as it skidded past her.

“Efficient is the word you’re looking for.” Averia calmly decapitated another Grimm and then turned to kick the head at an oncoming opponent. As it staggered, she removed its head as well. “And you should be happy I’m not just killing them all myself.”

“How kind of you.” Yang was well aware that Averia could have simply killed all of the Grimm the instant they arrived, but this was a chance to get some practice in, as well as a good learning opportunity for the younger students observing them. Too many of the youngsters got into trouble by trying to be too flashy against the Grimm. Her dad had always told her to keep the flashy stuff confined to sparring. Against Grimm it was always best to keep it simple and efficient. The only safe Grimm was a dead Grimm.

Averia glanced ahead. The B tier Grimm had all been slain. The only real threat remaining was the A Tier alpha elder Beowolf. “Do you want to deal with that one?”

Yang took a moment to size the alpha up. It was at least twice as large as the elder Beowolves who had been twice as large as the normal ones. And it was A tier as well. Hmmm... “Sure. I’ll get it.”

As the alpha bellowed and charged, Yang rushed forward to meet it. They met in a storm of blows. It was fast, far faster than anything its size should be. It was smart too, using its superior reach to keep her at bay while only ever exposing the most heavily armoured parts of its body. Moreover, it had clearly been watching her fight since it was firing the occasional bony spike at her to keep her from closing the distance.

Yang, though, wasn't the same fighter she’d been when she first entered Beacon Senior Academy. She was in her third year now, only a year and a half away from graduating. She’d learned more than she ever thought possible, and her skills and power had grown in leaps and bounds. Two years ago, she wouldn’t have dreamed of fighting a foe like this alone. Now? This thing was already dead. It just didn’t know it yet.

She waited for the alpha to shoot another spike before she slapped the projectile out of the air. The sudden shock was absorbed by her Semblance, and she waited for the spike to fall back toward her before punching it and firing her gauntlet at the same time.

The spike rocketed back toward the alpha, and the Grimm barely managed to dodge. Yang used that split-second to close the gap. She ducked under the Grimm’s claws and then heaved an uppercut into its belly. The blow wasn’t enough to do any real damage, but there was enough force in it to knock the Grimm off balance. That was all Yang needed.

She lunged forward and drove one fist into the Grimm’s right leg. Her Aura surged and her Semblance flexed. The blow shattered the Grimm’s leg, and it toppled onto its side. Yang spun away from the Grimm’s retaliatory strike and leapt up onto its chest. She slammed two punches into the armoured plates that covered its chest, and the sharp, angry retort of her gauntlets was accompanied by the crack of breaking bone.

The Grimm bucked and tried to throw her off, but Yang jumped into the air. Her Aura swirled around her, a golden mantle of power, and she landed fist first on the Grimm’s exposed chest. The shockwave of the blow cratered the ground beneath the Grimm and shook the area. Enhanced by her Aura, the shotgun slugs from her gauntlets turned the Grimm’s back into one giant exit wound.

The monster groaned, and Yang darted off its chest and grabbed it by the jaw. Bigger Grimm like this could often keep fighting despite taking wounds that would have killed lesser Grimm several times over. She punched it square in the jaw, and half its skull evaporated from the attack. She hit it one more time just to be sure and then flipped clear of its collapsing body.

“Heh.” Yang smirked. “That has to be at least a nine out of ten, right?”

“Hardly.” Averia grinned. “You could have killed it at least three seconds faster if you’d severed its head instead of punching it in the jaw.”

“Spoilsport.”

X X X

Author’s Notes

Just Yang and Averia doing what they do best. As third years, they do get the occasional solo or pair mission, which is what they were doing when the call came in. It’s also not unusual for a bit of mix and matching between teams to occur if a mission calls for it.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here.

#final rose #fanfiction #averia yun farron #yang xiao lng

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ao3bronte · 4 years

Text

the skies belong to no one

[Chapter 3: Adrien]

[Chapter 4: Chat Noir]

The masked hero of Paris scours the city for a beacon of red from high above, his green eyes cleaving through the darkness. Unlike feathered wings, his membraned ones are soundless and he likes the way they slice through the air with patent ease, the perfect limbs for living in the shadows. He could get used to the idea of being a cat in the night.

But as tempting as running away from home is right now, he’s still left with the uncertainty of having no money to care for himself. It’s something he’ll have to figure out if he wants to get out from under Father’s thumb because ultimately, Plagg is right. He has the power and he has the courage; he just simply needs to find the means to try.

So he follows Plagg’s advice: Ladybug will always know what to do.

He finds her weaving through the trees in Paris’ only night market, perusing the stalls from a few metres high. He’s curious to know what she’s buying and waits until she’s finished making a transaction before swooping down and up beside her, floating on a summery updraft, “Good evening, M’Lady. Running some errands, I see.”

Ladybug must have sensed him because she hardly flinches at his sudden presence, “I’m on the hunt for something specific actually.”

“And what are you looking for? Purrhaps I can be of assistance.”

“Actually,” Ladybug says, banking towards the nearby cathedral, “I need to ask you something.”

Chat frowns, “You do?”

Ladybug doesn’t answer him, nor does she quell the butterflies in his stomach as she lands on an outcropping and promptly sits down, glancing out into the evening. Chat swallows the lump in his throat and follows her lead, letting his wings flap open haphazardly behind them as he sits down beside her.

“I have a...personal question to ask,” Ladybug begins, kicking her feet against the cathedral’s stone facade, “About today. You said something that I...I didn’t really take seriously.”

Chat stiffens, “What do you mean?”

“You made a comment and I thought you were being...metaphorical or something.”

“Metaphorical?” Chat snorts, “M’Lady, I’m the king of witty puns, not colourful prose.”

“Witty? More like witless,” Ladybug nudges him in the side with her elbow, her lips curled into a smile, “Anyway, I wanted to ask you if you meant it.”

“Meant what?”

“You told me...you said to me today…” Ladybug trails off, seeming to struggle with her words, “You said that the reason that you have these...weird looking bat things instead of normal, feathered wings is so that no one could touch them.”

“You can touch mine whenever you want,” Chat tries to joke only for it to come out as a strained mumble, “I mean, if you want to.”

It’s highly frowned upon to touch another person’s wings without their consent; in essence, giving permission to brush and preen one’s wings is usually a huge sign of confidence, trust and intimacy and Chat has that in spades for Ladybug. He’s brushed up against hers and vice versa more times than he can count during fights and frays but they’ve never formally talked about it. For their kind, to run your fingers through someone else's feathers is a privilege. And to be wrapped up in someone’s wings...well, that level of closeness is something Chat has been craving for as long as his memories stretch back.

Ladybug’s cheeks bloom with colour, “That’s...um, can we get back to what I was saying? Because it’s really bothering me and I need to know.”

“Then just ask, M’Lady. Your humble cat is here to serve.”

“Okay,” Ladybug takes a deep breath and releases it, staring pointedly at a cell tower light in the distance, “You said...you said you made your wings look that way so no one would clip them.”

Oh.

Chat’s heartbeat suddenly starts hammering in his chest. He opens his mouth to speak and finds that his voice is paralyzed by a sudden panic and Chat desperately, desperately wants to fly away.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,’ Ladybug seems to sense that something’s gone wrong and takes him by the elbow, “You don’t—I mean, I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just wanted to know because—oh my god, Chat, are you alright?”

Chat is definitely not alright. In fact, if she had asked him before this afternoon, he would have probably brushed her off with a joke. But tonight her words cut far too close to the bone for him to be able to laugh this one off and now that Ladybug’s sensed his weakness, he’s not sure he’s going to be able to avoid telling her the truth.

“Okay, you need to—we need to breathe together,” Ladybug uses her strength to turn him around and face her, holding him by the shoulders. He lets her move him around like a ragdoll and is reminded of how Plagg had compared him to a puppet only an hour ago, “Inhale for me, that’s it. And out, good. Let’s do it again. In. Hold it. And out, yes. You’re doing great, Chat, one more time…”

He breathes with her, his eyes locked on hers and there’s something there beneath her voice that he can sense intrinsically. It’s the sound she makes when she’s struggling to find a solution; it’s the tell she has when she’s running out of time.

“There. You look better,” Ladybug squeezes his shoulders, scanning his face carefully, “Do you feel better? Keep breathing.”

Chat nods, his mind still racing. Should he be honest with her? Would she react like Marinette had when she’d seen that he was bound? Or worse, when she saw his broken feathers, hacked off right above the quill?

It feels like hours before Chat finally gets himself together. He delves into the recesses of his mind to find things to distract him, counting the spots on her suit and feathers, the freckles on her cheeks. He follows the contours of her wings as they splay behind her, half curled like she’s trying to shield him from the world. He supposes he could use the protection, now that he thinks about it; all of his darkest secrets have been exposed today and it will change his entire life forever.

“Thanks,” he murmurs eventually, embarrassment creeping up his spine. His wings furl, draping over his body like a blanket, “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, Chat…” Ladybug reaches out, taking him by the hand, “Was I...was what you said true? About being clipped?”

Chat folds his legs up against his chest and rests his chin on his knees, “Yes.”

Ladybug closes her eyes and winces, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Chat responds automatically, dipping his head in shame, “It’s just the way it is.”

“No, it’s really not,” Ladybug responds, using her other hand to cup his cheek and raise his chin. He makes eye contact with her once again and sees a tempest in her eyes, the same tempest he saw this afternoon.

His jaw drops.

“I was here looking for feathers for my friend,” Ladybug’s eyes are wide and frightened and when she starts to shake, he starts to shake with her, “To replace his feathers. I thought I could try imping them so I could teach him how to fly,” Ladybug’s voice catches in her throat, scraping like shattered glass as she tries to speak again, “But I think he already knows how.”

Chat is rendered speechless for the second time in as many minutes, “The first time I tried to fly...it was with you.”

“And I told you I would fix things,” Ladybug’s eyes shine with watery determination, “I meant it, every word.”

“But how?”

Ladybug looks away for a moment to gather herself before pinning him down with an expression so palpably Ladybug that Chat’s wings physically flop flat against the stone they’re sitting on, “I don’t know yet,” she admits, tugging on his hand ever so gently, “But I’m Ladybug. I’m going to figure it out.”

He nods. There’s no one else in the world that he trusts more than her.

“Come here,” she tugs on his hand and he relents bonelessly as she pulls him forwards. He braces himself on his knees but she just tugs him harder and his eyes widen as her efforts pull him against her body, his chest pressed against hers. She wraps him up in the tightest hug he can handle and Chat gasps, the pressure of her warmth all encompassing as she curls her wings around them both.

Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. He hasn’t been...no one’s ever wrapped him up in their wings before.

“We’re going to fix this, okay?” Ladybug murmurs against the shell of his ear. Her feathers are downy and soft and don’t tickle his nose in the slightest, “It’s you and me against the world, right?”

“Right,” Chat’s voice is shaking as he melts into her embrace. Throwing caution to the wind, he buries his face in the crook of her neck and tries to fight the way the maelstrom of today’s reveal wants to wreck him more than they already have. But here, in the shelter of her embrace...he breathes and she breathes with him, shielded from the world in the safety of her wings.

[the end...for now.]

#miraculous ladybug #ml wings au #ml wing au #ladynoir #bronte's wing au

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just-horrible-things · 4 years

Text

‘Verse: Resistance Story: Unlikely Salvation, co-author @whump-sprite Timeline: Arc 4, Ariadne is established with the Resistance

Dev Tortures Ari, pt1 [ First | Prev | Next ]

The footage starts rolling with the fed already on the floor, each wrist handcuffed to a metal ring screwed into the floorboards by her sides. Her eyes are closed, but the lids flutter with the signs of imminent consciousness.

Dev walks out in front of the camera and starts laying out a set of beautiful knives while Ariadne Milonas begins to wake. When she turns her head and screws up her eyes against the bright light, they turn to her with a smile. “Good morning.” Their fingers brush gently across her cheek. Her eyes flicker open, but she struggles to focus. “Someone paid me to hurt you very badly.”

It seems to take a few seconds for the words to sink in, then suddenly she is struggling. Dev already has the first knife in hand. They sit on her stomach to curtail her attempts to sit up, and pin her right hand deftly. Milonas jerks as they start to push the blade slowly into the back of her hand. Her mouth opens soundlessly in shock, and she fights harder, pushing with her feet and lifting her hips off the floor as she tries to dislodge Dev.

They ease the knife in until the tip scratches the floorboards beneath, but it’s not until they twist it that she makes a sound. They repeat the motion, and get another tight groan. “You’ve clearly taken pain before,” they comment, wiggling the knife back and forth to see what other little sounds they can elicit. “My instructions were to make you scream. Make you desperate. Might take a few of these!”

Milonas has locked onto Dev’s face. Her eyes are wide and fear is written clearly across her expression. But she still hasn’t said a word.

The torturer pushes down until the knife is buried firmly in the floorboards, then picks up a second. They calmly stab it through Milonas’ wrist. Her whole body jerks and she is silent for a second, then groans. The third knife goes in just above the second. When Dev twists that one, she throws her head back and she yells.

The sounds of her pain only get louder as they work their way up her arm, burying knife after knife in her flesh. Crimson blood pools beneath her arm. She tosses her head side to side, crying out and kicking at the floor. Dev taps a rhythm into the hilts with their hands, humming, and she moans softly. When they twist the blades she makes all kinds of sharp, scared sounds.

She screams when they work the tenth blade into the joint of her shoulder.

“That’s a lot of blood!” Dev stands smoothly. They allow Milonas to just pant for a few seconds. She’s not trying to sit up any more. Her face is streaked with tears. Then they sashay around to pick up the next tool. “... gonna …kill me?” Milonas asks, voice tight with pain. “No, wasn’t paid to kill you.” They crouch down beside her, careful not to block the camera’s view. “Time for the next arm.” Milonas whimpers when her eyes settle on the hammer in their hand.

Even the first blow gets a sharp cry of pain. Methodically, casually, Dev brings the hammer down again and again to break every bone in her hand and wrist. It’s not long at all before she’s screaming full volume. She writhes on the knives, struggling in wild-eyed panic. More blood pools.

Every so often Dev pauses to tap on that hand, lightly with just a couple of fingers, listening for her reaction. They don’t stop breaking bones until even that light touch gets an agonised sob.

“How are you feeling, Ariadne?” She whines urgently as their fingers tap tap tap on the back of her hand. There’s a kind of wary hate in her eyes alongside the desperation. “Answer me.” They twist a shattered finger. Her back arches and she screams long and loud. A sob, a couple of gasps for air. “I --” she forces out, “-- Scared. Hurting.”

Dev studies her. Milonas pants, staring up at them. Wide, terrified eyes overflow with tears. “Not desperate enough.” She makes a little whimper-sob of despair as they hop up again. “What do you -- wa-ant me to say?” Her voice cracks and climbs in pitch as Dev turns back to her with a length of rope in hand. “No --” she tries frantically as they start to loop it round her destroyed hand. “No I can --” “Begging would be nice.” They pull the rope tight round her palm, and she screams the loudest she has yet.

A quick click to free her broken wrist from the cuff, and Dev lifts on the rope, tying it through a metal loop above her and hauling until her shoulders come off the floor, so that that horribly broken hand is supporting a portion of her body weight. Her right arm is pulled up against the knives that are buried in the floorboard. She screams, and screams, and keeps on screaming.

“I’ll just be getting a fire going over here,” Dev tells her. But they pause for a moment to admire their work. Milonas’ eyes are rolled back in her head. She writhes and spasms continuously, trying to relieve the tension. Her screams are only broken by irregular gasps for air. Dev smiles, and turns away to toss firelighters into the metal half-barrel that they’ve prepared with fuel.

Slowly, the screams break apart into breathless sobs and moans. Dev breathes on the coals to encourage the flames. Milonas shudders and gasps and cries. And then eventually she forces out a desperate word “Please--!”

“Please what?” Dev asks without looking up from the fire. “Please sir.” The response is immediate, automatic. “Please -- please -- sorry I’m sorry --” “Call me goddess,” Dev corrects, talking over her continued pleas. They place an iron rod into the fire to heat. “Or better. Don’t beg me. Apologise to everyone you’ve hurt.” Milonas is momentarily silent. “Call --?” she echoes uncertainly “-- nnh?” Dev simply stokes the fire.

For a couple of minutes, Milonas just sobs, and it seems as though she’s not going to follow the instruction. But she does find her voice again. “Please,” she whimpers. “I-I’m sorry… I am … I -- I a-am. I’m -- I’m -- so, so so-orry … am a-a, a mo-onster, I… I’m sorry … I’m sorry …” She sobs harder as she stumbles over the words, until the repetitive, cracked apologies can barely be understood.

The iron rod is glowing red by the time Dev takes it from the fire. Milonas’ eyes try to track them as they turn back to her. But her gaze keeps slipping, drifting sideways. They have to hold the iron above her before her eyes blow wide with recognition. She whimpers low in her throat. “Do you deserve this?” Dev asks. “Yes,” she whimpers wretchedly, “yes I --” sob “-- always.” “Good, good, say that again for the camera.” She sobs. Her head lolls as her eyes search for the camera. After a couple of seconds they find it. Her face is ashen and contorted with agony. “I -- deserve -- this.” “Always,” says Dev. “Always.”

They bring that burning iron rod down across her feet, and Milonas screams again. Her voice cracks and breaks as they ruthlessly beat the tops and soles of her feet, and her ankles too. “Tell me again. You deserve this.” “-- de-eserve -- I -- deserve this.” Another blow, another scream. The beating continues.

When her voice goes weak, they pause, giving her a chance to gasp in some air, and then they carry on. “Again.” A hysterical moan. “You deserve this.” “I-I -- I dese-erve -- de-e -- I -- nnhhh --” “This.” “-- thi-is --!” The rod comes down, and she screams.

Even with pauses to breathe, at a certain point the fed’s voice fails and her face slackens as she starts to lose consciousness. Dev slaps her cheeks to try and keep her awake. Then they shrug to the camera, and return to beating her feet with the hot metal. It’s not subtle when she comes back round -- she lets loose a long and anguished wail.

Finally, Dev swings the burning iron into her broken, tied-up hand with a savage whack. Milonas makes no sound at all, breath locked in her throat, but she convulses with soundless agony. “Oh that’s good. Gotta do that again.” Another blow gets the same response.

Dev watches her twitch until her throat releases and she starts gasping raggedly for air again. “Beg me for mercy,” they say. “-- ple-ease --” The response is almost a whisper, but it’s prompt. “Please what.” “-- please sir.” The same no-thought answer as before. Dev raises the iron bar. Milonas whines in terror. “I’m sorry --!” she gasps. “Beg for mercy.” “-- mercy -- ple-ease -- please --” Her voice is twisted with agony. But she keeps trying to force the words out. “-- please no mo-ore --” gasp “-- please -- ple-ease --”

Dev walks round her, tapping casually on her injuries, interrupting her halting pleas with sobs and whines of fear and pain. Then they cut her down. She flops, and the impact with the floor leaves her unconscious again for a few seconds. When she comes round, she sobs “sorry” hopelessly into the air.

Dev unlocks the remaining cuff. Milonas shows no sign of even noticing. But she certainly notices when they work loose the knives that still pin her to the floorboards. She makes hoarse, strangled noises, and shudders weakly where she lies. They leave the knives in the wounds.

As Dev walks towards the camera for the last time, Milonas is trying to sob out more words. “sorry --” she repeats over and over “-- sorry sir … so-orry …” Dev smiles at the camera and reaches forwards. And the video ends.

[Next]

#my writing #verse: resistance #unlikely salvation #ariadne milonas #dev

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retvenkos · 4 years

Text

he smiles // mordred

Merlin (BBC) - Mordred x Fem!Reader, fluff

A/N: 8.1k words!!! i didn’t think it was in me, but i clearly love mordred more than i should...

Summary: There had been time for them to bask in each other’s presence, to feel their souls intertwine as their paths converged onto the same road. For, in those days, few as they were, Mordred and (Y/n) shared a common destination and their fates were one.

brother, you could never understand the beauty in his eyes and the pain reflected there. i have found legends of the most desolate of places with the most gruesome of histories and none of them compare to the look in his eyes. he has been rubbed raw of everything he’s loved and has been chipped away of everything he once was.

but he is beautiful, brother, when the stars are resting in the black night of his hair and when the ivy climbs his skin like a statue of marble.

and when he smiles…

is there beauty that could compare?

ii.

Laughter, warmth, and wine filled the Banquet Hall. Knights celebrated, feasting and drinking to good fortune, speaking with one another in their usual, rowdy tones. Music played and merriment filled the hearts of every soldier and guest in the room.

Instead of sitting at the high table where his father had sat before him, King Arthur was amongst his people, Guinevere at his side, speaking to the man that was cause for celebration; Mordred. An old acquaintance and new ally, this young man was knighted earlier that day and the newest recruit was being honored the only way Camelot knew how.

Mordred was smiling, disbelief clinging to the edges of his mouth, hope blooming roses on his cheeks, underneath his skin. His joy was more subdued than that of those who surrounded him, but it seemed as though the happiness that clung to him was the most pure and full joy he had ever experienced in all his years on Earth.

(Y/n) had yet to meet Modred when Gwaine grabbed her arm and took her over to where his fellow knights were huddled together, in the center of the hall.

“Gwaine,” (Y/n) huffed, following her older brother, despite her initial reaction of refusing, “what is it, this time?”

“You haven’t greeted the King and Queen! Guinevere was wondering if you had gotten holed up in the library again, archiving histories no one’s ever going to read.” Gwaine’s voice bubbled with glee, the mead he had drunk already taking effect on his mood, making him even more playful than usual.

“Are you sure it wasn’t because you didn’t want me talking to the ladies at court? I heard a pretty blonde knows you better than I.”

Gwaine grabbed another drink from a nearby servant and took a swig of it. “If she knew me better than you, she wouldn’t have talked to me the way she did.”

(Y/n) scoffed. “Apparently she spends quite a lot of time in your chambers, as well.” (Y/n) raised an eyebrow and stole her brother's mead, taking a drink of it herself.

“We’ve been getting better acquainted.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and Gwaine laughed, taking his drink back, only to find it empty. He nudged her in the ribs with a playful scowl before letting go of her arm and nodding to the Queen. He disappeared into the crowd after that, leaving his younger sister to bow and exchange formalities.

“My Lady.”

“(Y/n),” Guinevere smiled, laughing at the title she now wore. Her spirits, too, had been lifted by the contents of her goblet, and the candle-lit hall seemed to be painted in rosy hues. “You know you can call me Gwen.”

“But that isn’t nearly as fun.”

(Y/n) bowed once more, her eyebrows raised in jest and Guinevere shook her head. “Have you met Sir Mordred?”

“No, I’ve not.”

“Well, then,” Guinevere led (Y/n) a few paces deeper into the throng of knights and very quickly found who she was looking for. She smiled triumphantly when she did and put a hand on the shoulder of a man turned away from her. “Sir Mordred, this is Lady (Y/n).”

The knight turned around, (Y/n)’s gaze met his, and the world around them slowed. Her heartbeat quickened and her breath caught as his blue eyes shook her to her core, seemingly looking right into her soul, finding the pure gold that lay at the heart of her very being. In that moment, which stretched into infinity for them but never left the stream of time for others, (Y/n) could see the most beautiful sky form in his eyes.

And she knew the poets to be right in their rambles of beauty and desire and all that fell in between.

“Sir Mordred,” (Y/n) bowed low, long lashes kissing her cheeks and allowing her a second of relief from his intoxicating gaze.

He breathed her name and it sounded like a forgotten memory; like something that was all at once fondly missed and discovered anew.

“I see you’ve met my sister!” Gwaine’s strong voice shattered the still moment efficiently. The knight clapped Mordred on the shoulder with a strength that could have made mountains crumble, but Modred did not move. “She works with Geoffrey of Monmouth in the Royal Library.”

“She’s the brain to his brawn,” Guinevere supplied with a grin, a twinkle in her eye.

“And the beauty,” (Y/n) teased, earning a laugh from Guinevere and a protest from Gwaine. Through the laughing, (Y/n) caught Mordred’s keen eye as it lingered on her.

iii.

brother, i cannot describe it, but there is a kindness in his bones. it is so deeply rooted in the fabric of his being that it cannot be separated without destroying him - picking him apart piece by piece, excavating his soul until it becomes a cavern, stripped of it’s jewels and metals.

the heavens treat him as though he is a part of them. the sun haloes around his head like a crown, like he is an angel on earth.

and, brother, when he smiles…

the skies above clear just for him.

iv.

(Y/n) walked through the castle, purpose quickening her step, her mind stuck in days gone by, those scholars called the Great Purge. She had been translating history texts written in languages that had died with the Old Religion, and had come across a mention of a sorceress she had not heard of in her many years of learning. Geoffrey of Monmouth, the keeper of the library, had told her to take the name to Gaius in search of more information.

“If the sorceress does, indeed, exist,” Geoffrey had told her, “then there is great reason to believe she did not perish in the Great Purge and the king must be warned.”

(Y/n) understood the danger that a sorceress could present to the kingdom, which fueled her haste in going to Gaius’ chambers, but hesitation pricked at the back of her mind, making her avert her eyes from those around her.

Was a sorceress inherently evil? It went against all her beliefs to concede to that idea. She had always been taught that evil was a thing to be cultivated, it was not the natural state of mankind. Then how could it be justified, slaughtering her before she has committed a crime? All men face hardships that poison them with the potential for great evil, yet they are not senselessly killed. But with times being what they were - with Morgana threatening everything Camelot stood for…

The sound of swords clanging disrupted her thoughts, and (Y/n) stopped to calm her mind.

The world was a hard place to navigate through and come out unscathed. There were times when (Y/n) thought it just might be impossible. Sometimes, it seemed that humans were made to bleed. Skin was made fragile for a reason, after all.

Swords clashed together once more, and (Y/n) turned to the source of the noise. The knights (just as she has suspected) were honing their sword fighting skills, the men engaged in one on one combat. Her eyes immediately found Gwaine, who was sparring with Percival, both of them clearly taunting the other. (Y/n) rolled her eyes at their antics, chuckling when Percival was able to get the jump on Gwaine, delivering a harsh blow that her brother was only just able to block, stumbling backward.

Her eyes drifted, then, to Mordred, who was sparring with Elyan. As she gazed at the pair, (Y/n) found herself under his spell once more. His brow was furrowed in concentration and his jaw was set; he looked lethal, like a dangerous poison had been unleashed in his bloodstream and was ready to consume everything in its path. (Y/n) looked deeper into his eyes, expecting a hurricane to be raging within but found no animosity there.

Mordred; like all men; like the sorceress who’s name she had on a scrap of paper, tight in her fist; had the capability to be cruel in this harsh world, but it was not in his nature. She could see that in his soul, and the fact that she could see it from such a distance was a testament to that goodness and beauty she had seen in the Banquet Hall, only a day prior.

King Arthur called for his men to cease their training. Swords no longer clashed. Mordred’s eyes locked with (Y/n)’s.

She smiled politely and he nodded to her, his own mouth curling upward, slightly; a look that was meant for her, and no one else. (Y/n)’s breath caught in her chest. The ache that lingered there was pleasant and bearable, when she remembered who had left it.

Gwaine saw his sister and called to her. (Y/n) snapped her attention to him and waved.

Then, with one last glance at the knight who had caught her attention, she continued on her path to Gaius’ chambers, her thoughts straying from the sorceress at hand, her cheeks warm and heart hammering.

brother, there is a knowledge in his voice that could drown the world in sorrows. he speaks and his words are heavy enough to bury us all alive. but that is not who he is. for, brother, when he looks at me with eyes like diamonds forged far beneath the ground, i see a light that he has created within.

it is warm and kind and believes in the world this one could become. how has he fallen in love with this world when it has come to him broken, already in shambles?

i do not know, but when he smiles…

could the world really be this way?

vi.

The gossip ladies shared while dining was, for the most part, colorful but frivolous. Most of the time it was rumors about a prince who couldn’t banish his feelings for a commoner or a princess who couldn’t hold her tongue while in the presence of men. It was spoken of in tones that made it sound more interesting than it was, and it was passed through the table like another dish they were being served.

(Y/n) listened and engaged with it at yet another banquet, thrown in the aftermath of yet another victory over sorcery. The music played energetically, and as the wine flowed, the painted lips of women loosened and their words came freely.

“That Sir Mordred,”—(Y/n)’s ears perked at the sound of his name—“he’s grown awfully close to the King, hasn’t he?”

The lady who spoke tilted her head and her friends urged her to continue - to finish the thought that was stewing inside her head.

She smiled wickedly, lowering her voice and leaning in, “I’ve heard nasty whispers about where he’s from - no one really knows, but some think he’s a slave-trader, and others…” she paused for affect, and when the music played loudly again, she divulged, “others say he might be a Druid.”

The ladies gasped and (Y/n) felt bile rise in her throat. Suddenly, she wished the gossip to stop - for the music to become so loud that the lady who sat across from her wouldn’t be able to finish the vile thought that she was already speaking.

“If he hadn’t saved King Arthur’s life… Well, we know where he would be.”

(Y/n) stood up in a flash, her jaw set, her eyes angry and frightened, her nerves a mess. The ladies startled and turned to her, but the rest of the celebration carried on. The music still played, the instruments now shrill and jarring, the voices of men suddenly harsh and cruel. (Y/n) was suddenly overwhelmed by the crowd - their fanged grins and ravenous eyes, the hate and anger that lay in their hearts.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves.” (Y/n)’s lips quivered, but her words rang true. The women at the table looked at her, their mouths working soundlessly.

With no further ceremony, (Y/n) left, walking through the castle, letting the sounds of the Banquet Hall fade behind her. Unsure of where she could clear her racing mind, (Y/n) let her legs take her where they pleased.

She stopped in the middle of the balcony corridor, the gentle wind calming her mind, the moon above reflecting a soft, steady light that played against the stone beneath her. The only sound here was her skirts grazing the floor. The stillness calmed her. She sighed and leaned against the stone wall, turning her face to the inky night sky.

What had angered her? She looked at the stars scattered across the sky and wondered at her own actions. Had it been the ladies questioning who Mordred was? No, people were always questioning from where people hailed. It was a way to understand a person without ever knowing them - it was an easy way to allow comfort when in the presence of a stranger. Had it been them accusing him of being a Druid? Perhaps. But, then again, it was not the Druids that had angered her. What had brought her to stand was the implication of what could befall him if he were, indeed, a part of them.

It was dangerous to be something more than just flesh and blood. For there to be rumors, there had to be doubt - and if there was the smallest ounce of doubt in the hearts of those most adamant in the war against magic…

It was not fair - none of it: the rumors, the fear, the suspicion, the deaths of innocents. There was no crime in being born. There was no evil in having been created with skills that few understood. Nothing was inherently wicked, so then how could magic be persecuted as such?

(Y/n) sighed. Perhaps she cared too much. What good could she do, at the end of the day? Being a magic sympathizer only passed suspicion on those you cared for. Was it wise, then, to speak the way she did, to let her feelings be known?

“(Y/n),” a voice called from the shadows, disturbing the silence that had given the woman peace of mind, only moments before. (Y/n) spun around, feeling guilty, her heart beating louder.

It was Mordred, dressed in a knight’s finest, his expression impassive in the moonlight. (Y/n) calmed when she saw it was him who had called for her, but heat rushed to her face.

“Mordred,” she smiled, despite herself, and the dim light played against the curve of her mouth. “I didn’t hear you come. Is the celebration over, already?”

“No,” he answered, walking over to stand beside her, a respectful distance between the two, “I doubt it’s going to end anytime soon.” (Y/n)’s hands itched to be nearer to his, and she folded them together to occupy them. “But what brought you out here?”

“Some of the women I dined with are not as kind in their hearts as they should be.” (Y/n) gazed into the never ending sky, wondering how the stars burned so bright in such a dark expanse. Did their warmth, too, come from within? Did they see Mordred below and feel the same heat fill them so completely? She couldn’t imagine feeling any other way, in his presence. “They may be at court, but they are not nearly as deserving as others.”

Mordred’s eyes twinkled with mirth, like tiny stars igniting in blue skies, although (Y/n) did not seem to notice, her gaze still searching the night around them. He looked at her admiringly, his eyes tracing the curves and dips of her profile - that serene face that drew him out of himself and towards her.

“None of them have any idea of what it’s like to be an outsider, but their judgements of others are swift and cruel.” She turned to him, hesitant to see his reaction.

(Y/n)’s words, so sincere, so carefully chosen, turned Mordred’s face into something softer - something (Y/n) had only seen once before, but felt like she knew more deeply than anything else. “Nobility knows nothing of the suffering they can inflict.” He held her gaze when he spoke, and his words were a melodious lament - almost a siren’s call, pulling (Y/n) deeper into his depths. He sighed, his eyes averting from her own. “But everyone pays for their soul, in the end.”

“Then let ours be pure of heart while we’re still here.” (Y/n) leaned heavier against the stone before her, her shoulders falling deeper, her forearms bearing her weight. She tilted her head to look at Mordred beside her, and he relaxed in a similar manner.

“This world needs more people with your ideals.” Mordred complimented her and heat flooded (Y/n)’s cheeks. He regarded her with a smile - small and conspiratorial, like a soft embrace.

“You can thank my brother for any beliefs I hold. He was the only man to teach me how to rise above what I am.”

The wind visited them once more, weaving through their hair, twisting Mordred’s cape and twirling (Y/n)’s skirts. (Y/n) leaned into its caress, her eyes closing for a brief moment, her entire being becoming one with the heavens above.

“You’re lucky to have each other. Being alone isn’t easily shaken.” A shadow came over Mordred’s eyes, heavy and dark.

(Y/n) turned to the man beside her, her lips parting as she moved to say something.

She was untimely interrupted by Gwaine calling for her. She held Mordred’s gaze for a moment longer, as though debating whether or not to stay and say something more, but when her brother called again, she obeyed.

vii.

brother, he lives with such gravity. every breath is a gust of wind, every step is a tremor in the earth. he is so heavy on this earthly plane, the world presses down on him as though he were made to carry it upon his shoulders.

and yet, when he is still and the world stops around him, he looks weightless, as though he could fly. and brother, when he soars above me he is an angel out of reach, a dream beyond imagining.

and then he smiles…

is there freedom such as this?

viii.

(Y/n) held her skirts in her hands, running through the castle’s corridors, taking the familiar path to Gaius’ chambers. Weaving in and out of people who were in her way, her mind raced faster than her legs. It was only by luck that the gossip of the servants reached her, and she hadn’t a moment to lose.

The King had gone on a patrol to the Black Mountains that morning, and when they had come back…

The servant’s weren’t clear in what had happened, but Mordred was wounded - carried into Gaius’ chambers by Arthur and Merlin.

To be wounded was one thing; but to be carried into the castle by the King, himself? (Y/n) didn’t know what to think, but she feared the worst. Her heart was beating faster than ever, a drum to which her anxieties chanted inside her skull.

Still running, her feet slapping the stone incessantly, she turned a corner and stumbled headlong into someone walking the opposite way. (Y/n) muttered an apology as she started to dodge the obstacle, but whoever it was moved in her path once more, grabbing her shoulders with a tight grip.

“(Y/n), what’s the matter?”

It was Gwaine, his brows furrowed in worry.

“It’s not me you need to worry about,” she all but snapped, her tone clipped from worry. “Were you with Mordred?”

“He’s with Gaius, now.” Gwaine’s worry started to melt away, seeing his sister unharmed by the day’s events, but (Y/n) shared none of his relief. “He’ll be fine,” Gwaine repeated, trying to reassure her by catching her eye.

“What happened?” Her voice and lower lip shook, her nerves frayed and unable to settle. “I - I heard rumors, and—”

“—And you won’t settle down until you see for yourself. I know.” A smile slowly grew on Gwaine’s face, and he wrapped an arm around (Y/n)’s shoulder, walking with her to Gaius’ chambers. In all their years together he had become the father his younger sister never had, and learned her better than any lesson he had been given in his entire life. Gwaine knew his sister, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to still without absolute confirmation.

He slowed her eager pace, trying to soothe her before she saw what lay within the physician’s chambers.

“So,” he began, a grin already plastered onto his face, “you’re that worried about Mordred?”

(Y/n) felt herself burn from embarrassment.

“Not not, Gwaine. He could by dying!”

Her brother laughed and allowed her to see the knight she fretted over. She rushed to his side, and the pallor in his cheeks made her stomach twist in knots. She brushed his raven hair off of his forehead, feeling his fever. She looked to see if his eyes moved behind his lids or if his chest rose as he breathed inward, but he didn’t seem to respond to life at all. She whispered a prayer under her breath before turning to Gaius, already questioning what was wrong and what could be done.

“There is old sorcery at work - knowledge beyond my understanding.” Gaius’ words were uncertain and he shook his head just slightly, as though he had already concluded the worst. “The Disir were said to be a most sacred court with power unimaginable.”

The Disir. (Y/n) knew their name from stories she had translated from dead languages to that which was spoken, now. If Mordred had been stuck by a force so revered and entrenched in the Old Religion...

“But there could be a cure?” (Y/n)’s tone was adamant in their desperate hope - far more so than her thoughts. Gaius looked at her as though he saw something deep inside her gaze, and eventually conceded.

“Perhaps… in the texts of the Old Religion…”

(Y/n) was out of the physician’s chambers and racing down the hall before he could finish. She had no practical skills in medicine, but she was an archivist. She knew languages and history, and due to her position, she had unlimited access to the Royal Library. If there was an answer between the pages Camelot stored, she would find it and use it to save him.

The candles in the Royal Library burned brighter than usual, lighting the shelves that lay in dark, unused corners. (Y/n) situated herself amongst the shelves she knew had to keep the secrets she so desired, choosing books from the rows. She lost herself in piles of ancient texts, her hands careful and precise as they skimmed down page after page, searching for an answer. Volume after volume was pulled from its resting pace, meticulously scoured, and replaced once more.

Geoffrey of Monmouth allowed the candles to be burned all night long, eventually retiring for the evening and leaving (Y/n) to her search, giving her a fond, supportive squeeze on the shoulder before shuffling away. Servants still gossipped out in the corridors, their voices drifting like ghosts to where she sat. Gwaine came to her before his nightly rounds of the castle began, and found her sitting on the floor, her skirts pooled around her as she continued her search. She was desperate for some kind of news, but Gwaine had none; Mordred’s condition was unchanged and dire, still. Tears threatened her eyes and he had taken the time to embrace her, rubbing her back soothingly, promising her things would be alright.

(Y/n) clung to his faith, feeling the crushing weight of gravity bearing down on her. How could people live with such pain?

She felt herself grow tired. She opened more books. She felt herself grow tired. She flipped more pages. She felt herself grow tired. She sought more answers, feeling them slip through her fingertips - elusive and intangible. She felt herself grow tired.

The candle burned lower until she could no longer feel it’s warmth - until she could no longer see it in her mind’s eye.

In her dreams, she could see pages before her, with drawings of three women in robes of black, with writing that was slanted and almost unable to be read. (Y/n) reached out to grab the page, hold it in her grasp and learn it’s secrets, but her body was heavy like stone, unable to move - unable to save him.

“(Y/n)...” Mordred’s voice called out to her, so full of life, so full of love. She stirred. “(Y/n)...” She moved.

(Y/n)’s eyes opened, and she was lying against a shelf, a volume open on her lap. Light from the morning sun spilled from the nearby window, and when she looked up, she had to blink to believe it was real.

Mordred smiled down at her, his cheeks pink and flushed with beauty, his eyes bright. He was something out of a dream, in that moment, the sun’s rays casting the shadows away from him, bathing him in golden light.

His name slipped from her lips in wonder, and she repeated it once more, euphoria filling her tone with something akin to a song.

“I was told I could find you here.”

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him long enough to hide it.

ix.

we could never see it, brother, with our lives painted in such rosy tones, but his world is drenched in stormy, blue waters. it is salt rubbed into wounds and waves battering stone until they erode away. it was not a crucible that forged him, but an ocean that drowned him and left him washed on shore, gasping for breath. brother, his story is one that we whisper at night, voices low in fear of giving those wayward souls power over us all. if he so desired, we could be crushed and left. the crows would pick us clean.

but he looks at me and his ocean eyes cradle me, rocking me back and forth with the tide. and i am safe, in his embrace. i am loved, wrapped in his arms.

and when he smiles…

our story has yet to unfold.

(Y/n) looked at the wares of different vendors, strolling through the streets with no real destination in mind. The day was beautiful, with the sun partially covered with thick clouds, the heat emanating from it just enough to be comfortable and without chill. The people around her were happy, for the most part, their worries few and their good fortune abundant.

There was peace in Camelot, and (Y/n) wished - foolishly, perhaps - that it would last.

Stopping to search for coins to buy a loaf of bread, (Y/n) readjusted the basket she held and a book she had been carrying fell out. Before she could lean down to grab it, the book was already in someone else’s hands, being wiped clean. “I’m sorry about that.” (Y/n) looked up to see who had helped her and found Mordred before her. He had a grin on his face, lopsided and pulled to the left, his teeth just visible beneath his lips.

His sharp eyes were on the small volume before him, reading the title with interest (Y/n) had not thought she would find.

Mordred shrugged off her apology, instead turning his interest to that which he had recovered. “Poetry?” (Y/n) shifted under his teasing gaze. “Is it for the King, perhaps?”

(Y/n) scoffed, well aware of the joke that had been floating through the palace - Merlin and King Arthur learning poetry by candlelight. Was the Queen impressed with her husband’s talents? Leon had been given extra training for two weeks when word of it reached Arthur.

“The King and I have very different tastes in poetry, I believe. He’s more of a romantic.”

Mordred snorted, flipping through the worn pages. “These poems…” Mordred’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, his tone still gentle when he spoke, but his countenance changed nonetheless. “They’re about magic.”

(Y/n) bowed her head, training her eyes at her skirts brushing the ground below.

She had been caught.

It was just literature, and she didn’t believe there was any harm in it. Poetry could not teach her sorcery. The knowledge that lay in those poems were not spells that she could wield against Camelot and those she loved, and yet, she knew, deep down, that such things would not matter to those who would wish to persecute her for harboring such knowledge and allowing it into her home.

“They’re just poems. Just stories written in beautiful languages. There’s no harm in it, only understanding.” (Y/n)’s words were low but spoken with conviction and heart. “I only wish to understand that which I am to fear.”

“And I admire you all the more for it.”

(Y/n) looked up into Mordred’s eyes where she held his tender gaze. Her worries were put to ease by his serenity, and she idly wondered why she has ever been nervous in the first place. Even now, she could look into his gaze and see the kindness that lay deep within his heart. Within those blue eyes, she could see his sympathy for magic, not dissimilar from her own, but more deeply sown. She could see, deep in his soul, that there was something he knew and had not shared.

She wished to tell him she wouldn’t tell a soul. (Y/n) wished to hold Mordred and whisper in his ear that he could bare his entire soul to her and she would regard him the same. She wished to let him know that she knew him deeply and irrevocably, that in those still moments when they walked with one another or locked eyes from across the room, she felt their souls were one and she could not distinguish where one began and the other ended.

“Would you like to hear some?” (Y/n) put her hand on the book lightly, her fingers brushing his, warmth igniting where they touched. “The old way of speaking… it’s beautiful.”

Mordred smiled and she slipped the book out of his hands, starting to leaf through the pages, searching for the right sentiment she was looking for.

He spoke, then, his words soft and with a lyrical lilt, whispered between the two of them. (Y/n) gazed up at him, and it took her a moment to realize that he was reciting a poem - a variation of one of the poems inside the book she had in her hands. She listened to him, allowing his language to captivate her senses and pluck at her heartstrings. The poetry spoke of magic - it’s ubiquitous power and intentionless existence - and how the world, whether it wanted to be or not, was gifted with it.

When he finished, (Y/n) realized that the warmth that had spread through her body had made her lips pull into an expression of awed wonder. She tried to regain control over her features, but Mordred had already seen her beauty and wouldn’t forget it for all his days.

Mordred took (Y/n)’s hands in his and closed the poetry book, placing it back in her basket. “Keep that safe,” he said. “It’s not wise to have poetry about magic in Camelot.”

(Y/n) started to grin, staring up at him challengingly. “And to have it committed to memory? Is that just as guilty?”

Mordred chuckled, but after a moment, his face turned grave. “In Camelot, I believe so.”

“Then Camelot is too harsh with matters of magic.”

Mordred did nothing but nod.

xi.

there is a ferocity deep within him, brother. it has the strength of a bear and the loyalty wolf; baring its teeth and tearing out throats. he keeps it deep within himself, burrowed beneath the ground, hidden amongst the trees.

it is strong, brother, but he is it’s master. he has run with the wolves and become one with the pack. he has faced the bear and made peace with its power. he has a strength inside of him that cannot be changed, and it protects this world from what he could be. and i stare at him, in awe of the power which he possesses within.

and when he smiles…

he is nothing i could not love.

xii.

The forest around them teemed with life - birds singing from the treetops, the undergrowth shaking from the movement of small animals, and the nearby brook babbling. (Y/n) breathed in deeply, the smell of the fresh air clearing her mind and filling her senses with a feeling of calm. Absentmindedly, she fiddled with the bad slung around her shoulder, the books inside of it slapping against her thighs as she rode her horse forward. Mordred, riding alongside her, looked at her from the corner of his eye, but she did not notice his gaze through her pleasant sigh.

They were riding to Carleon - Sir Mordred escorting the Royal Archivist - to meet with the genealogist that worked for Queen Annis. Geoffrey of Monmouth found a discrepancy in their bookkeeping of the old, noble families and needed to compare his records with the other kingdom, but at his age he was far too old to undertake such an adventure - especially at such a critical time in Camelot’s history. (Y/n) had been sent in his place, her expertise growing with every day that passed, the old librarian sharing his knowledge and legacy with the woman so that she might one day succeed him.

It was to be a fairly safe journey. Carleon was an ally of Camelot, and the two kingdoms were not far from one another. King Arthur had allowed Mordred to escort the woman, his warnings minimal - only that Mordred not forget his duty while protecting (Y/n).

Gwaine had been there to see the pair off, teasing (Y/n) of her feelings for the young knight.

“I believe your love life is the one we need to keep an eye on, Gwaine.” Her brother had laughed at that, and she told him to behave while she was gone. The last thing she needed was to worry about him while traveling to another kingdom.

Their journey so far had been a peaceful one. The two had time to talk about all that had happened in Camelot - from the gossip of what happened in the lower towns to the battles that the knights had waged in the name of the King. After that, there had been time to talk about the histories she had been translating and scribing; the worlds that she learned about on weathered pages were vibrant in their age and charming in their customs and habits - all of which had betweitched her, ensnaring her attention.

Mordred had deep interest in what had come before him - those millenia in which magic reigned, free - and (Y/n) was happy to share her passion with someone who listened and cared.

There had been time for them to bask in each other’s presence, to feel their souls intertwine as their paths converged onto the same road. For, in those days, few as they were, Mordred and (Y/n) shared a common destination and their fates were one.

Now, there was less than a two hour ride left, and with the end in sight, (Y/n)’s anxieties started to claw their way into her heart. She closed her eyes and focused on the world in front of her, this forest of bright yellows and deep greens, this sanctuary where she and Mordred were together, close enough to get lost in each other’s eyes for eternity.

“How much do you think Gwaine has worried while we’ve been gone?” (Y/n) smiled at the knight who rode beside her, her tone fighting to be as light and cheerful as the words she spoke. “I saw him talking to you before we left. What did he—”

A high-pitched scream that was not their own erupted into the sky. With a flash of metal, Mordred had unsheathed his sword and was riding for where the sound originated. (Y/n) followed, and when they burst into a clearing, they found it to be full of bandits surrounding an elderly man and his daughter. Without a second thought, Mordred sprung into action.

(Y/n) grabbed a sword from one of the bandits that Mordred felled and joined him in battle, her strikes proper and effective, although unceremonious and without the craft of a true swordsman. Mordred spared her an impressed glance before engaging with the rest of the marauders.

Surprise was their biggest advantage, and the two of them were able to dispose of four of the bandits quickly. The rest of the men ran, reasoning that the spoils weren’t worth the risk involved, now that a knight of Camelot was among them.

After the last of the men disappeared into the trees, (Y/n) dropped the sword she had been using, looking over the scrapes and minor flesh wounds she had received. Mordred walked over to her, his own eyes scanning her for injury, and she reassured him she was fine, her eyes moving to search him.

“Where did you learn to use a sword?”

(Y/n) scoffed, the adrenaline still buzzing through her veins. “Gwaine. Who else would arm a young girl against her will? He said I would need to one day.” A grin tugged at her lips. “I suppose he was right.”

Mordred smiled briefly and the two of them turned to the people who had cried out for help. The elderly man thanked them, taking their young hands in his own and blessing them good fortune for days to come.

“Such kindness is lacking in the world, today, when it is most needed.”

“We are just glad we could be of assistance to you and your daughter.” Mordred dipped his head low, and his voice echoed with past transgressions - moments of his past where he was a victim to circumstance, just as they were. “No one deserves such violence and pain.”

The old man peered at Mordred with years of wisdom, and he squeezed his shoulder like a father would. “You have such good souls”—he looked at (Y/n), as well, with a kind twinkle in his eye—“both of you.”

“Good souls are hard to come by.” (Y/n) agreed, gently. “They’re a rare treasure, indeed.”

Mordred looked at her, his eyes like the sky on a cloudless day. She regarded their bright brilliance with a warm glance and roses of the most vibrant pinks blossomed beneath his cheeks.

Later, after the travelers had gone on their way, and the two were riding for Carleon once more, (Y/n) found the courage to speak something that she had been thinking on for a while, but had only articulated just then.

“Mordred, when we were fighting those bandits…” her words trailed off, but Mordred was patient as he waited for them. “I know we’re only human - average and simple - but when I’m at your side, I feel stronger than that - better, even. It’s almost like…”

Silence didn’t stay between them, long.

“Like you have magic.”

xiii.

brother, we live such violent lives and meet such violent ends, but his life is precious in it’s softness and should never die on the end of a blade. this world has rubbed his edges with stone to sharpen them to fine points, but he wraps himself in soft down and refuses to be changed.

this life he lives deserves to be full, brother, with none of the emptiness that has surrounded him for so long. so much has been taken from him, so much of what he owns has been displaced. and so he holds me as though i am already gone.

but when i am resolute beside him, he smiles…

could the world bear to tear us apart?

xiv.

“All I’m saying is that Mordred is a lucky man to have caught my little sister’s eye.” Gwaine held up his hands in mock defeat as the two of you walked down the castle steps and into the Citadel. “How many people have you turned down over the years? I vividly remember at least three…”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes at her brother’s teasing, quickly shooting back, “And for every person I turn down, you lead another to your chambers.”

Gwaine feigned hurt, but a grin grew on his lips all the same. “I have more honor than that, (N/n).”

“More tact, you mean. If Arthur were to see you—” Gwaine nudged (Y/n) in the side and she laughed good-naturedly, elbowing him right back.

“But, truly, (Y/n). Mordred is a fine knight and if the two of you—”

“Gwaine...” (Y/n)’s face was hot with embarrassment and her brother smiled down at her, affection in his gaze.

“I would be happy, is all” —he tilted his head, then, his lips pulled into a thoughtful frown— “and a bit proud.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes. “Exactly what I always wanted.” The two laughed, and once the moment sobered, (Y/n) turned to Gwaine, her expression genuine and earnest. “But really, thank you.”

Gwaine put a tender hand on her shoulder, squeezing it strongly. He opened his mouth to say something, but the clapping sound of horse hooves hitting stone caught his attention, and both siblings turned to see who was approaching.

An entire patrol of soldiers burst into the Citadel, many of them leaning over, their expressions drawn in pain and suffering. (Y/n)’s eyes searched frantically until they settled on Mordred, his expression grim and worried, but the rest of him seemingly okay. Gwaine walked over to him and he dismounted, both Knights meeting each other half-way.

“What happened?”

“We were attacked.” Mordred’s blue eyes flashed dangerously. “It was Morgana.”

“And you got away?” (Y/n) walked over to them, her eyes scanning over the injuries that the patrol had sustained. Almost all of them had a bruise or two, some of them with gashes on the head or sides. What had she done?

“It’s the King she wants,” Mordred sighed. “She’s just trying to draw him out.”

Gwaine nodded deftly, his brow furrowing as his entire disposition changed. “I’ll let Arthur know,” he assured Mordred, putting a hand on his arm before leaving.

(Y/n) watched as Mordred turned back to the men behind him, checking their wounds and sending them to Gaius if necessary. She watched his face contort with worry as he passed over each man, his eyes filled with care and legitimate attentiveness to each of their circumstances. The soldiers smiled gratefully at him, as though thanking Mordred for showing them that they were seen. In such a large military, it was easy to get lost in the sea of hundreds; people stopped becoming human and were just another sword in combat, just another body left on the battlefield. But here, under Mordred’s worried gaze, they were human. Bleeding, battered, and bruised people with hearts that were broken and minds that were screaming in the silence.

The love that resided within Mordred was quiet, but (Y/n) could see it from any distance and behind any facade.

When the last soldier was tended to, Mordred made his way over to (Y/n) and she looked at him deeply, with a soft care that made him feel entirely known and wholly loved. “Are you alright?” Her voice was low and pleading, careful but firm. “Morgana didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m alright.”

(Y/n) looked at him, her eyebrows still furrowed as she searched his expression for something to tell her the contrary. Finding nothing, she sighed and reached out to embrace him, holding Modred close to her beating chest.

He melted against her slowly, then all at once. His arms moved to wrap around her more securely and she responded to his touch, her hand getting lost in his hair. The pair stayed like that, enveloped in each other’s arms, until their hearts synced together and beat as one.

“Things happen so quickly Mordred,” she spoke without pulling away, her breath hot against his ear, “I don’t want you to be someone that passes by without me ever telling you how much you mean to me.”

Mordred hugged her tighter, until he felt he couldn’t breathe from her love. “Nothing can happen to me while I have you to live for.”

(Y/n) pulled away slowly, her eyes questioning whether or not he meant what he said. Mordred’s smile was in full bloom, adoration and love pouring out from him with no end in sight. She stared into his deep, blue eyes and her question died before ever making its way to her lips.

xv.

brother, you could never understand how the world has wronged us all and the poets exist only to make amends, but when i feel his heart against mine, i know it to be true. this existence is strife and heartache and nails tearing into flesh, but there is consolation in the arms of a lover and there is peace in their kiss.

and, brother, you may not understand his depths, but my lover is good. despite how he bleeds and breaks, he is whole when he lays beside me, his hands lacing with mine, his features carved by the artist we know as Time.

and when he smiles…

is there love that could rival mine?

xvi.

His lips were rough against her own, hot and wanting, pushing all thoughts that weren’t of him to the recesses of her mind. His arms were steady as he held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other planted firmly on her waist, pressing her against him. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her hands trailing up his chest as they reached for his dark hair, thick and soft beneath her fingertips.

She kissed him deeply once more before parting to take a breath, her forehead resting on his, their noses bumping together, gently. Mordred’s eyes fluttered open and the world was extended to (Y/n), begging her to take it in her soft hands and make something beautiful from it’s fraying edges and tattered bits.

She didn’t know how to tell the world that it was already beautiful, when she looked through his eyes and saw its glory reflected there. If everything could be crafted in his mind’s eye this existence could be a much softer way of living.

“I love you,” she breathed the words, and even though they were her own, they made her heart race in her chest. She could feel his speed up as well, and placed a hand over his chainmail, where she knew his heart lay beneath.

Mordred sighed, “And I love you.” Their lips connected for one sweet, brief moment, and when their eyes met once more, he was smiling, his iris’ twinkling with the light of the sun. “I could love you for the rest of my days and it wouldn’t be enough.”

(Y/n) giggled at his charming words, unable to contain the love that filled her so completely. He kissed her again and it felt like a cloud - downy and warm, like what she imagined heaven to be like. For a fraction of a moment, his lips hovered over her own, and it was she who chased after them, her lips divine as they pressed against his.

A knock at the door pulled them apart, and Mordred looked at her with sympathy, unwilling to pull away from her embrace, not wanting to venture into the night when all of his world was right here, in front of him.

(Y/n) put a hand to his cheek, rubbing the smooth skin with her thumb. “Be careful out there, Mordred.” Her voice was still ragged, her breathing slowly finding its normal state, and the sound of it pushed on his resolve, begging him to stay.

“I promise.” He kissed her once more, and when he walked out the door, sword in hand and a smile on his face, she believed him.

xvii.

and when the sun has not yet come up and he is wrapped in my embrace, he is mine.

#merlin bbc #merlin #mordred #mordred merlin #bbc mordred #x reader #reader insert #imagine #one shot #fic #long fic #fem!reader #fluff

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saintsurvivors · 4 years

Note

Hi! I love your writing!! For the Whump Drabbles, could you do #56?

No pressure, have a fabulous day!!

@whumpflumpthump I just realized when I sent that last ask, I didn't give you a character😅 Sorry about that, I would love it if you did Mac, thanks, and sorry again

No. 56 Begging

Ahhhh! no problem fam, honestly, thank you so much for sending this in and sorry for your wait!! <3

warnings: broken bones, shitty self esteem, referenced torture but non graphic, jack’s potty mouth and atrocious southern accent.

Mac’s broken bones before. He’s not exceedingly clumsy, but whilst cuts and bruises are a warriors lost, broken bones and concussions seem to be a spies lot, especially ones that deal with explosions and under the table incidents that DXS do. Never mind the fact that he’d broken several fingers and ribs whilst back downrange, had barely been able to stoop when things had gone wrong so spectacular and Al had been less ...well, had been less Al and more parts of Al.

But human minds aren’t designed to remember pain, not really, even ones that are eidectic memory. The neurons remember it, but you forget what caused it, what made your heart stammer, what made your lungs seize, what made you want to jackknife up from your bed in the middle of the night, face wet with tears and blood beneath your nails because you’ve scratched your throat raw. You only remember it when it’s happening again, when you’ve felt that loss, that break.

Mac’s good at compartmentalization. Too well, often times. Jack doesn’t quite understand, not really though he tries, just how afraid Mac is, how afraid he is that if he even begins to open those tiny little boxes, meticulously labelled and stored away in the shelf of his mind, that he might not ever get them back closed. Everything he doesn’t, can’t deal with, handle. Everything he wishes would be wiped clear like the last equation of the white board by the eraser. But it isn’t that easy.

Maybe that’s why he can’t help it, why he leans so easily upon Jack, despite Jack no doubt hurting just as much as he does. Broken bones and concussions are a spies lot, but Mac thinks that kidnappings and hurt are a MacGyver and Dalton special, and wishes that it wasn’t. Wonder sometimes, in the back of his mind just how much Jack regrets meeting him. Wonders if Jack wishes he’d walked away at the end of his original tour and had left a stubborn bomb nerd in the sand of Afghanistan. Wonders how long he’d have lived; it’s a question he likes to ask himself, especially now, after missions, or when he and Jack are traipsing back to exfil after things have gone to shit.

Thinks he knows the answers, but always swallows the question and the answer, swallows the pennies he can taste too, doesn’t want to turn around and accidentally spit it out on Jack. Jack, whose already bloodied, bruised and aching. He’s got probable fractured ribs, but he can’t rest because he has to help haul Mac’s stupid, incapable ass out of the fire. He can’t keep doing this, not to his partner, not to Jack.

His left leg buckles, fire lancing up his shin to his thigh, spreading through his hip. his ankle twists further, and he only just manages to avoid bringing Jack down with him by twisting and ducking, knows that Jack’s ribs can’t take the strain and Jack’s reflexes would have him letting go. The ground is hard and cold, he can already feel the bruises forming over bruises, wonders if he’ll have the entirety of their kidnapping marked out on his skin like the world’s most fucked up map. Wonders if he’ll be able to read all the pit stops and roads, he’s where they first captured us, here’s where they fractured Jack’s ribs up after a failed escape attempt, here’s where they almost waterboarded me, here’s where they shattered my shin with a hammer because I called someone an asshole and Jack punched their lights out-

A frantic hand tucks beneath his armpit, tries to get him up, clamps down on his instinctive cries, blinks reflexively in place of the full body flinch he wants to give.

“C’mon man, we gotta hustle, I think they’re right behind,” Jack crouches as best he can, tries to get his shoulder jammed underneath Mac’s, tries to haul him up through sheer force of strength. A wheezing grunt escapes, pained. God, Mac is so selfish. “Get up, hoss, don’t do this to me, now.”

“You gotta go, Jack,” He says, looks Jack in the face, sees the wide, pain lined eyes, the grit of his teeth. He’s in so much pain, Jack is, exhausted to his very bones, beaten and bloodied. He doesn’t deserve this. “You, you need to leave.”

Jack pauses for a single moment, his arm around Mac’s waist tightens, leaves Mac breathless, dizzy, with breathlessness and pain. Jack loosens immediately, but that rare look of anger doesn’t. Seems to only grow deeper.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Jack far enough growls it, anger and pain, his eyes flash, he looks furious. Furious enough to hurt, to break, to punch. He does neither, only look at Mac like Mac’s said something so stupid, so out of far left field that it doesn’t even compute, as if Jack hasn’t had the same thoughts.

“Just go, Jack!” Mac hisses, insists, tries to shove himself backwards out of Jack’s grip, manages to break it, only to immediately miss it. He’s so fucking selfish. “Look, I’m just weighin’ you down, at this point, baggage, dead fuckin’ weight, you know this, man! You gotta go!”

“Now, I know that’s them blows to the heads talkin’, because I’m pretty sure I didn’t just hear my partner say to leave him the fuck behind!” It’s angry, angry and harsh and pained. An edge to it that has Mac’s back straightening, a shiver roiling down his spine, something pooling in his gut that he hasn’t paid attention to for the longest of times, because like Al used to say, it isn’t the bomb that’s going to kill you, it’s the emotions.

“Jack, please,” He tries to plead, can hear the shouts getting closer, the bark of angry shouting, he can’t let Jack be taken, not again, not when it was Mac that got them into this. “Please, just, go, already! They won’t be able to keep up with you. I can distract them-”

“Boy, are you stupid?” Jack hisses, and that seems to be the last straw. He grits his teeth, face turning red, hand shaking from where he’s tucked it up around Mac’s waist, hauling him up. Mac barely gets his feet beneath him, before Jack is fairly enough marching him forward, eyebrows knitted together, eyes flashing.

“Jack.” Mac hisses, pleads, begs. He’s got no chance but to go forward, pain sunfire hot, chemistry fire burning. He’s sick to his stomach, swallows down the bile. Every foot forward is agony, gut punch deep.

“No, Mac.” Jack grits out. He’s sweating, red faced. His ribs seem to creak with every movement, but he’s got Mac locked too tightly against him for Mac to do anything. They step wrong and Mac lets out a thin yelp. Jack doesn’t even flinch, only grabs the arm he forced Mac to throw around his shoulder further over, presses the swell of his thumb harder over the wrist pulse point. “No, Mac, I ain’t leavin’ you. You know why? Because you’re a fuckin’ stubborn ass of a kid who I still want to punch sometimes and you’ve got the shittiest set of emotions I’ve ever seen and I mean that, I’ve dealt with Deacon and that guy is a hot mess, but fuckin’ Christ, Mac, telling me to leave you behind?”

Something seems to have rattled loose inside of him, something hurt and vicious. Mac falls silent, keeps his hurt noises locked behind his teeth.

“We’re both gettin’ outta here, hoss, I don’t care what that stupid brain a’ yours is saying, and I swear to High Heaven that if you ever ask me to leave you behind, I will knock you on your skinny ass and drag you there, do you get me? ‘Baggage, dead weight’-” Jack scoffs, literally hauls Mac up over a mound of rocks; his anger seems to be the only thing keeping him going. “Biggest crock a’ shit I’ve ever heard, I’ll tell you what Mackie, if i ever meet that pops a’ yours I’m gonna be beltin’ him so hard I swear-”

“Jack,” Mac says, soft, gentle. Something swells up inside of him, warm, cosy, like he’s just slipped into a hot bath. Even the fiery hot pain of his broken leg seems to have been soothed. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, he says,” Jack’s words sound angry, but his tone is soft. His fingers tap something out in morse code against the shiver of Mac’s ribs. something that spells i love you. “Just never ask me to leave you behind kiddo, I can’t. You go kaboom, I go kaboom, got me?”

“You go kaboom, I go kaboom.” Mac echos softly, wondrously, hopefully.

#whumpflumpthump #mac whump #jack whump #angus macgyver #jack dalton #macgyver 2016 #!!!#kw #this got LONG #prompt

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10millionyearsdungeon · 4 years

Text

His Girl Friday

So! Shindou-mas was upon us! In honor of our favorite supporting character, we have a sordid tale of personal assistants and a week in the life of the notorious hero Grand. As part of a mini-collab with a few lovely writers from the BNHarem server! ============================= “Your case files are on your desk, Grand. I took the liberty of filing them from oldest to new to help you catch up.”

Shindou sat behind his heavy oak desk and flashed you his most dazzling smile. His nimble fingers unbuttoned the top two buttons of his pale yellow shirt and ran absently along the tanned skin of his throat. You had only started working for the hero as his personal assistant for little over six weeks now. Your temp agency had pre-assigned you to his agency but wouldn't disclose the reason why they pulled you from your prior assignment in Nagasaki. Your eyes lingered a half-second too long before you swore his perfect, sun-rivaling smile grew predatory.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?" Your thighs shifted together beneath your pencil black pencil skirt and you hoped he didn't notice your squirming. He took the files you tirelessly worked over and shook his head.

"I think we're good, Y/n. Thank you."

You excused yourself from his office and beelined to the restroom. Splashing cool water on your face brought you back; you always suspected that your new boss was a flirt. Hell, he dictated his fan replies to you and his responses to the anonymous masses that elevated him up the Hero Billboards ranged from wholesome and sweet to downright lewd.

"He is your boss and this is just a job! We do not lust over our boss like some ill-mannered slut!" you scolded yourself in the mirror. With a huff and slightly better control over yourself you strode back to your desk and started on the next mountain of paperwork to fill out and catalog for your boss.

You felt like you had been working over reports and case data for backlogged cases for hours. A sharp buzz pulled you from your fastidious toil and the smooth, charming voice brought you back from data abstraction.

"Y/n, could you cancel my dinner reservations tonight? I'm afraid it's going to be a late night for everyone."

"Uh, yeah, sure thing."

"Oh, and call Tuesday in, would ya? You're the best."

The line went dead and you sat confused by his request...or maybe it was the heat that bubbled under your skin at his praise? Numbly, you opened his planner and hovered your mouse over the events for the day. "It's Monday. Why am I calling Tuesday's staffer in?" In your grumbling, you noted a tall, thin woman with soft blonde hair falling past her shoulders in cascading waves of spun gold stride past your desk. Wrapped in a tan trench-coat, her heels clacked softly on the polished floor of the agency. She always came on Monday, but you never thought anything of it. She didn't even spare you a glance as she pushed through the double doors and into Shindou's vast office. He greeted her with a wide sweep of arms and that obnoxiously gorgeous smile of his. The blonde woman giggled in his arms and sat herself across from his plush throne. Shindou made his way to the doors and shut them, flashing you a glimpse of that same hungry grin you swore you caught earlier.

With a raised brow, you shook your head and dialed the number affixed to the Tuesday staffer's sticky note on your planner app. Naturally, the call went to voicemail.

"Um...hey, this is Y/n from Grand Hero Agency. Grand is calling you in to work for the night. Thanks." Awkwardly, you hung up the phone and tuned the rest of the world out as you poured over your reports again. Your heart still hammered in your chest as you felt his eyes burning into you. Those harsh obsidian chips had a way of causing your brain to short circuit. Part of you wondered if that was a lesser known part of his famous quirk-- bringing women to the brink of stupidity with just his devastating grin? You sighed through your nose and pursed your lips at the report. Soft moans pulled you away from your work and you turned to the closed doors of his office.

Maybe you were mistaken. Your lip caught in your teeth, you strained to hear the conversation inside the office but there weren't any words. Another moan, louder this time, rattled the heavy doors of Grand's professional sanctuary. Blood rushed to your head and heat settled in your core. Spluttering over your desk, you squirmed in your seat and tried to imagine what depraved acts your boss was doing to pull those moans from his blonde companion.

Another girl, short and with a mess of red curls piled high on her head rushed through the department and stopped herself at your desk. Her chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath, sweat glistened down her pale, freckled collar bones. Even a mess she was a vision in olive green, and her eyes were pale ice chips set in porcelain. If the first woman was poured gold and refinement, this one was that one wild night in the pub wrapped in a pert little package.

"Don't tell me they started without me!"

"Ah! He's expecting you," you whimpered out in an attempt to hide your shame. The sprite bounced to the double doors in a huff and threw them open. The image of Shindou Yo's head nested between the slender, golden thighs of his blonde Monday staffer would be forever burned into your retinas. Her elegant head threw back against the plush leather of his office chaise and her long willowy fingers pulled through his jet hair as he coaxed another high keening moan from her glossy lips. The red headed newcomer held her hands on her hips and stood in the doorway. You drank in the scene and found yourself unable to pull away. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to look away and continue about your day but you just couldn't. Slack jaw and burning cheeks, you swallowed down your shame and sunk deeper into your chair only to feel his sharp, hungry eyes on you again. A silvery string of slick hung between his mouth and her glistening folds and the sight sent white-hot heat straight to your abdomen. Sinful smirk stretched across his handsome features, he dragged his tongue slowly along his slick-coated lips and waved the redhead over while he rubbed his golden goddess's thighs to help her come down from her high. With a pout the newcomer closed the doors behind her, leaving you in a puddle of your own desire.

You stepped away from your desk and began to make your way to the stairs. Air. I just need to get some air and then I can focus again. Heels in hand, you ran down the ten flights of stairs to the street level entrance. Your lungs burned with exertion, but the ten floors of steel and concrete between yourself and your boss only eased your unrest enough for you to think through the haze of your desire. His lascivious gaze stuck with you as you leaned against the cold glass lobby door.

It was hardly fair, the strain he put you under. He knew he was gorgeous, a literal god among humble mortals, and with his quirk he could have anyone he wanted. The longer you mulled over the implications of catering to the hero, the more lost you became. He knew what he did to you the longer he kept you on payroll. You could feel it when his eyes lingered on you whenever you brought him his decaf oat milk latte with extra espresso shot, or how he would gently vibrate his fingers against yours when you took his dictation. Your breathing slowed only to hitch at the thought of his tongue lashing at the dewy pearl between those bronzed thighs. What you wouldn't give to take her place sprawled out on that leather sofa carding your fingers through his jet hair as he nipped and sucked bruises into your thighs. Heat rose to your cheeks and suddenly the chill of evening was gone. Ignoring the gnawing, wet ache in your core, you sighed heavily through your nose. It started as a rumble through the foundation of the building and ended in a cascade of shattered glass with Shindou Yo triumphantly groaning his release into the skyline.

+++++

Wednesday marked the beginning of a new day with a new set of struggles. Grand would be out of the office, saving you the embarrassment of facing your boss at least one day this week. As you stretched and went about your morning preparations, Shindou's predatory stare haunted you. The warm, bitter aroma of hot coffee sloshing in your mug kept you grounded. Tiny scratches along your arms from the shower of window shards stung with every pull of your limbs as you dressed for the day. It would be at least two days before the building contractors replaced the windows. Maybe this time they would replace them with something more durable to seismic-grade vibrations than rudimentary glass. You pulled out your phone and squinted at the screen.

Message: Shindou Yo - Y/n, I have a few errands for you to run after sending those finished reports off to the HPSC. My list is already uploaded to your planner. You're the best, doll!

Your breath caught in your chest. It wouldn't take but a few hours to finish and courier over the reports, but Shindou's personal errand list? You cautiously opened your planner app and highlighted "Wednesday" with a trembling finger. This was a man quite capable of anything, and your career, your livelihood was in his large, devious hands. Much to your surprise (or was it disappointment?) his errand list was fairly innocent. Grocery lists, dry cleaning and package pick ups, it all seemed pretty self-explanatory. Every errand was detailed down to the minute, and for a moment you found yourself wondering why Grand even needed a personal assistant to keep his life in check. Dressed in your modest gray pencil skirt and white quarter-sleeve collared shirt, you took a quick look in the mirror. With a sigh, you steeled your nerve. This was your life now-- just another powerless pawn at the beck and call of a celebrated hero. You packed up your laptop bag, topped off your travel mug, and started your commute into the city.

Your key turned effortlessly in the tumbler of the deadbolt on his penthouse door. It was a feat with how many bags and hangers you had hanging from your arms. You cursed your boss and his arrogance. It was borderline harassment what he was putting you through. As you pushed through the doorway with Grand's parcels and bags, huffing to yourself over his arrogance, you swore you could hear the softest grunts coming from inside the suite. Dutiful assistant you were, you hung the tasteful slate and navy suits and dry cleaning in the foyer. Silence continued to permeate the suite as you worked to replace the groceries in the fridge and tidy the kitchen. Internally, you thought about calling the maid service if only to keep the penthouse clean for the careless bachelor.

"Hnnghnnn!!"

You froze and held your breath-- you knew that voice. A sickening crack resounded through the suite and was answered by another keening groan. A cool, low voice exchanged clipped, stern words. Your curiosity bubbled over and your skin burned scarlet at the vision swimming into view as you quietly emerged from the kitchen and into the open expanse of the playboy's living room. If the vision of his raven head buried between the bronzed and oiled thighs of a golden goddess left an impression, the sight before you would remain with you to the grave.

Rich, wine ropes dug into limbs hardened and sculpted by years of hero field work and honing his multifunctional quirk. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose and onto the polished hardwood as he hung suspended by a bolt from where you assumed a light fixture once hung. A heavy black blindfold velcroed tightly to his handsome face kept him blindly sweeping his head to find his playmate. Sinful mouth was left woefully unattended and you felt your panties grow damp at the thought of all the horribly lewd noises about to be coaxed from his saliva-coated lips. But the cherry of it all, red and angry, weeping onto the floor bounced proudly against his washboard abs with every twitch and sigh. He curled backward, spine arched deliciously and stretched his pecs with every heaving breath. The leather-clad woman in thigh-high boots and fishnet bodysuit didn't even register as you drank in his helplessness.

"I want you to sit and think about what you've done, hero." Her voice was red wine and dark chocolate. It was night in the dungeon and her word was final. Her riding crop came down on the pale, toned flesh of his buttocks with another loud crack, earning another loud moan and a violent twitch of his neglected cock. Precum beaded and glistened at his swollen head, the light catching it in a way that made your mouth water from your hiding spot. As the imperious Amazon left the scene, your body moved on its own. Creeping through the dark, you sat on hands and knees beneath the quivering Adonis in his crimson silk harness. Wetting your lips, you raised up on your knees and dragged the tip of your tongue along the seam of his balls, up the thick vein running the length of his heavy shaft, and twirled around that leaking, hot head. He was all salt and heat on your tongue, a taste you could grow to appreciate under different circumstances. He let out a hiss under your tongue as you dragged the pad of your tongue against his head in soft kitten strokes. Your fingers drifted between your thighs and ran carelessly along your clothed silt, your slick rendering the cotton fabric useless. Grand was brought low by a Quirkless civilian, and all that remained was Shindou Yo, bound and moaning into the empty expanse of his penthouse. He keened above you and helplessly thrashed against his harness to seek more friction from your eager mouth. For a moment, you obliged taking his girthy length into the heat of your waiting mouth. He melted into his restraints and into the warm, wet cavern, helpless to your slow ministrations. His moans were low, needy notes littering their shared space. How frequently did you find your thoughts coming back to his penthouse? You moaned into his length and rubbed tight, sloppy circles on your clit over your drenched panties. The head of his cock pushed to the back of your throat. His poor, neglected cock twitched, and you felt yourself begin to come undone. His whimpering and frantic panting spurred you on until reason seeped back in through the cracks of your lust-hazed thoughts.

"I know you're still there," he sighed, still struggling against his binding. "I can smell you. You're loving this, aren't you? C'mon, sweetheart...is that the best you've got?"

His words, that sinful, husky voice doused whatever fire you had burning in your loins. He knew you were here. How could he not? Maybe he wasn't anticipating you finishing his list so soon? Or...more likely, in all his meticulous planning he wanted you to find him like this-- beaten and vulnerable, open to your advances. The door creaked open, signaling your chance to escape. Abruptly, you pulled his aching cock from your lips and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. Scrambling gracelessly in your nylons against the hardwood, you dove back into the kitchen. Mistress Wednesday strode confidently into the frey, riding crop in hand. Harness slung across her hips in elegantly embossed black leather, her own proud length in dazzling ultraviolet was anchored to her crotch with a heavy steel ring. Eight inches and rivaling his own girth, your eyes rested on her gloved hands and how they worked to nimbly prepare his needy, puckered hole for the beating it was about to receive.

It was too much to take in. The scene unfolded and elevated to a higher level of filth you were far from accustomed to, and you, despite every cell in your body screaming to stay and enjoy the show you silently stole away. The only sound signaling your departure from the suite was the gentle click of the deadbolt latching between Shindou Yo's hungry moans. You called in sick the next morning agonizing over whether or not it would be poor form to put in your notice.

++++++

You fidgeted at your desk when he crossed through the foyer to his office. It was a patrol morning, and naturally he had to grace his staff with the morale boosting sight of the boss hitting the streets just like the lowest-rung side-kicks in his employ. His bare chest glistened under the fluorescents. Sweat dripped from his pretty-boy brow and harkened back to that moment when he was curled back on himself, sweat dripping down his sinew and steel body for an entirely different reason. It was all you could do to avoid his sharp, onyx gaze and that heart-melting smile.

"Y/n, I hope you're feeling better," he grinned. God, how you hated that grin! "We missed you yesterday."

"Ah, yeah. May I help you with something, sir?"

He canted that gorgeous, raven head of his and narrowed his eyes at you. "Actually there is." You waited for him to finish, your heart leaping into your throat the longer he loomed over your desk, but he never did. Instead, he sauntered through the double doors of his office and gestured for you to follow. Numbly, your feet followed before the rest of you could catch up.

Contractor tape still lined the window panes, a reminder of the last time you were caught in his crosshairs. You squirmed mulling over the implications of his quirk, your position, and how inexplicably tangled you had become in his daily life. As he pulled off his faceguard and set the sweat-stained support gear on the rich oak hardwood of his desk you felt him burn through you as if committing every exposed freckle to memory. He zeroed in on your lips and smirked, holding his arms open as if to invite you to take a moment and fully appreciate him for the god among men he was.

"Like what you see, sweetheart?"

You swallowed hard and nodded before you could stop yourself. It seemed to be the right answer because in seconds he was on you, pinning your back to the desk. He leaned over you, nose barely brushing yours and licked his lips slowly. His stare was downright predatory as he loomed over you, hands heavy and rough pawed at your poly-blend wrapped hips. He gripped at the dark fabric and eyed you hungrily. The breath you didn't realize you were holding slowly escaped through gently pursed lips, the preamble to what should have been your verbal notice. But something in his stare kept you silent, submissive. The possessive hold he had on your hips kept you grounded, but the scent of him after a patrol sent you reeling. Effortlessly he lifted your hips and slid your skirt down your legs, hoisting them over his shoulders once freed. It was his turn for his breath to hitch in his throat-- he drank in the sight of your damp, silk panties and dragged his tongue along his lips as if imagining how your fluttering walls would feel convulsing around his tongue. Pupils blown, he raked his eyes over your half-dressed frame.

"Shy? I thought we'd be long past that, sweetheart." He lowered his head and dragged his lips across the soft skin of your inner thighs. "After all, I still have to return the favor," he purred, dragging his tongue in one broad stroke up along your soaked, clothed cunt. A shuddering gasp broke through your self-imposed silence and you all but melted into his mouth. He hadn't even used his quirk on you and he had you quivering into his mouth. You felt him grin that feral, wolfish grin into your heat and the lift of your lower back from the cool, hardwood of his oak desk. How many times did he seduce and lay waste to his catch of the day? It barely mattered as you carded your fingers through the tangle of black curls and opened yourself to his advances. Shame was an afterthought you could afford if it meant you could satisfy that carnal curiosity surrounding your boss.

"Y/n, who knew you'd be such a lewd little slut." He pulled your panties to the side easily and teased your clit with the very top of his tongue. It started with a low, steady hum and graduated to a heavy buzz focused entirely on the head of your tender bundle. The sensation brought you to the edge almost too quickly. You fought against his hold, squirming and writhing with your legs squeezing helplessly around his head as he continued holding his tongue against you. Incensed by your sudden fight, he slipped a finger easily into your drooling hole and searched for that spongy spot that brought white stars to the edges of your vision. A moan, high and sharp ripped through you as he pulled his mouth from your now swollen pearl. Hungrily your cunt clenched around his finger, and soon he added a second. Your eyes clamped shut at the sudden addition and your body tensed around him. He planted soft kisses and gentle bites along your thighs as you slowly came back to a baseline he deemed appropriate. The moment he felt you relax, you felt it-- a hook of two calloused fingertips digging mercilessly up into your g-spot, vibrations resonating from deep within. You kicked and fought to writhe away and again he held you fast against the desk effortlessly. You tugged and pushed at his head, your end coming all too quickly. Your breathing grew frantic, moaning out half syllables and empty pleas for him to stop.

"Yo!!"

Shuddering into his mouth, you rode his fingers to completion, legs trembling around his ears like his own personal earthquake. He withdrew his fingers and brought them to his lips, groaning at the taste. Shindou palmed his half-hard cock through his hero suit and lowed his head for a taste from your source. Satisfied, he pulled your ass lower down the desk and helped you find your feet back on the ground. Your heels long forgotten, the carpet felt foreign under your bare toes when he turned you around by the hips and bent you over the desk. His hands lovingly dug into the meat of your ass and spread your cheeks to peek at your holes from a different point of view.

"So sweet, little miss secretary. So submissive. Who would have guessed you'd be such a dirty little voyeur, too…" he purred in your ear. The shuffling of fabric and the soft sound of skin sliding on skin punctuated his statement. "Bet you never thought you'd be part of the show, huh?" You whimpered under his caresses, slick dripping down your thighs as he ground his thick cock between your cheeks.

"Please, sir…" you moaned, rubbing your thighs together for some semblance of friction to ease the growing ache. "I can't. I need you."

He ran his hand down your spine and rubbed soothing circles over your hips. "Use your words, sweetheart. Sir can't give you what he doesn't know you want," he teased. The head of his cock rubbed between your thighs, catching your swollen clit and earning a soft moan. "Say it."

"Please let me cum on your cock, sir!"

As if that was all the permission he needed he sheathed himself into your needy core in one stroke. Spasming, you felt as if your joints would pull apart from the pleasure alone. He stilled inside you and gave you a moment to adjust, if only to revel in how tightly your velvet walls hugged around his girth. Satisfied, he gripped the back of your neck and rocked his hips into the plush muscles of your ass and thighs. You reached before you and dug your nails into the desk, moaning out like the only two adults left in the entire city were the two of you. Wanton and wanting you rocked back, earning a low groan in return. His hand wound around your hair and gave an experimental tug as he picked up the pace, the head of his cock curving into the soft sponge of your g-spot. White hot, pleasure surged through you from fingertips to toes and left you screaming his name as you came around him

"Yo! Fuck me, please don't stop. Yo, don't fucking stop!"

He grinned above you and pulled your back tight against him, spine arched beautifully by the hair you continued to whine and beg as he rutted his hips against you. "That's it, sweetheart. Let loose a little. Sir's got you. That's it. Cum on Sir’s cock again."

His words enough could have been enough to be your undoing, but it wouldn't be Grand if he didn't bring that little extra something to the scene. He sheathed fully, angling up and pulling hard on your hair to kiss his head to your tender cervix. Stars flooded your vision, and your legs threatened to give if it weren't for the strong hold he had on your hair and the solid desk beneath you. He didn't budge from your tight, fleshy ring. As he held you, he closed his eyes and focused his quirk into that spot he just knew few before him had touched. Deep, rumbling vibrations threatened to rend your soul from your still breathing body as you convulsed and clenched rhythmically on his cock, milking him. Words were lost. The longer he fed on your spasming body, the sensations and sounds he could pull from your pliant, willing little holes, he felt himself get lost.

"Cum, I'm cumming again, Sir! Fuck, I can't fucking stop!!" With one last spasm, he let go of your hair and let your body slump over his desk as he took your ass in his hands. He spread your cheeks and watched as his cock disappeared into your tight pink sheath and sloppily gave a few more thrusts before digging back in and releasing with a low, gravely groan. Hot, thick ropes of white coated your abused hole as he continued his release. Your body trembled, cunt still clenching tightly around his softening member, and you whimpered softly into the desk. First emptiness set in, and then anxiety. Emotions crept back in where lust once sat, and all you could do was slowly piece together what just took place.

As if sensing your growing distress, Shindou scooped you into his arms and peppered your cheeks and nose with chaste kisses. His tenderness seemed out of place given how savagely he had used you moments ago. The leather couch was cool against your after-glowing skin. He left you briefly, retreating to his private restroom, and returned with a washcloth.

"You're okay, sweetheart. You did so good. Better than I ever expected." He crooned over you as he gently wiped the remnants of his spend from your leaking hole. "Looks like you passed. Congrats, we're hiring you on full-time, Friday," he grinned coyly. It took a moment for the gravity of his words to sink in and finally it hit at once. In your fucked-out haze, you barely registered what he meant. It was going to be a long rest of your career.

#shindou x reader #shindou smut #yo shindou #shindoumas #bnha smut #bnharem

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pastelwitchling · 4 years

Text

This prompt is a gift for @draculaspetbee.

I have no idea how Synesthesia actually works, but I hope this is close enough.

***

Alex had never seen Michael bleed that much before.

He was used to pain, used to injuries, used to having his skin sewed up and his bones dislocated and his muscles strained. But seeing Michael lying on the floor like that with his head in a pool of his own blood, that was enough to shatter him.

Alex’s left foot tapped the tiled ground nervously. He felt Isobel’s hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see her giving him half a smile. The best she could muster.

Alex knew he shouldn’t have seemed so worried, but Max was pacing back and forth and Isobel more clutched Alex’s shoulder than merely touched it and no one had come to tell them anything about Michael and he was losing his mind just waiting here.

He stood. Michael wouldn’t have waited if it had been Alex who was injured. Michael would’ve stormed in there and demanded to know what was going on. At the very least, he wouldn’t have wanted to leave Alex alone.

Sure, a small voice taunted. Keep telling yourself that.

Alex shoved it down, inhaling deeply, even as he sat back down and resumed tapping his foot. After what felt like days, or it may have been minutes, Kyle stepped out. Despite the fact that Max was already standing, it was Alex who first spoke.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Kyle said with a sigh. “And working on my last nerve. He took a real hit to the head, luckily his skull is pretty thick already.”

“Kyle,” Alex said, exasperated, and Kyle held up a hand.

“Sorry, sorry, thought it’d relieve the tension,” he said. “Look, he had minor brain damage, but the acetone’s already fixing it as we speak.”

“Will it give him any problems?” Max asked as Isobel thoughtlessly tugged on the hem of Alex’s jacket.

“He may start seeing spots, may have some trouble remembering what happened, but like I said, the nail polish remover is doing its job. Any side-effects should be gone by the end of the day.”

Alex nodded. “Thanks, Kyle.”

“Sure,” Kyle said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some alien MRIs to burn before anybody starts asking questions. Isobel, I could really use your help. With your mind control, I can be quick.”

“I told you,” Isobel said, still nervously glancing at the hospital door. “It’s not mind control.”

“Whatever, Yoda. Come on.”

Isobel followed him with a roll of her eyes, and Max raised his brow at Alex. Alex shrugged. “We had a Star Wars marathon.”

Michael didn’t need the bandages. He’d told Kyle as much when he’d woken up with a throbbing migraine.

“It’s a headache,” Michael had complained. “I’m fine!”

“You want to go out there and tell my colleagues why you came in with a blunt head injury and walked out healed? Now, stop whining, lay back down, and try to rest, or so help me God, I will kill you myself!”

Michael huffed, scratching at the bandage with one hand and chugging down another bottle of acetone with the other. In truth, aside from a slight headache, he didn’t feel as if he’d been attacked by an evil clone of his brother at all.

Then Kyle’s phone went off, and Michael froze. It rang with a familiar song. Michael didn’t have the time to discern what song exactly because a wave of colors – gray and dull yellow – suddenly flashed before him. He winced and nearly dropped his bottle of nail polish remover.

Just as soon as the colors started, they stopped. Kyle had shut off the ringing with a groan.

“Geez, sorry,” he muttered, checking the screen before he stuffed it back into his pocket. “Forget to turn that off. You okay?”

Michael realized he was clutching his head and staring at the wall ahead of him. But where there had been faint colors only a second ago, there was now only white tiles.

“What – uh – what was that?”

“What was what?”

“The colors,” Michael said. “I saw something gray and…” but even as he said them, he realized how ridiculous he sounded.

Kyle, on the other hand, didn’t seem to want to mock him. His expression softened fractionally, a look Michael had no doubt he perfected while working with patients that believed they were detrimentally ill even when they were, in reality, perfectly fine.

“You’re still healing, remember?” he said not unkindly. “Your head suffered some damage, there will be repercussions. Don’t be surprised if you saw a little more than a few weird things today.”

Michael slumped in his seat. “Great,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes. He made a silent vow that, the next time he saw Mr. Jones, he was going to throttle him with his bare hands.

“Stop whining,” Kyle said. “Max and Isobel are here.” He paused. “So is Alex.”

At Alex’s name, Michael looked up. He tried not to look too eager, but Kyle seemed to already have caught him.

“Yeah,” the doctor muttered as he headed towards the door. “Knew that would cheer you up.”

Soon Max and Alex were coming in, Alex had his hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly in that way it usually did when he was trying to look a person over for injuries and not let on that he was doing it. Michael tried not to smile as he thought of Alex worried for him.

“So?” he prompted. “How do I look?”

Max scoffed as Alex took a seat on the edge of Michael’s bed, beside his feet. Michael realized the armchair was free, but chose not to mention it.

“Funny,” Alex said quietly. Now that they were sitting so closely together, Michael could see the dark circles around the airman’s eyes, his hollow cheeks, the frown lines etched into the corners of his mouth.

His heart stuttered as he wondered how long it had been since Alex had slept.

“Kyle says you’re gonna be okay,” Max said. “How’re you feeling?”

Just a headache, Michael almost said, and considered what would happen if he said he was all right. Alex would probably leave, return to Forrest who was probably waiting for him at their shared home. He swallowed.

“Like… someone bashed my head in with a hammer,” he said slowly, and Alex’s concern grew. Michael slumped his shoulders and leaned heavily on his pillows for effect, and his heart leapt when he saw Alex scoot closer to him on the bed, as if unable to help but come to his rescue.

Max gave him an exasperated look that so clearly said, Are you seriously going to do this? Luckily, Alex didn’t seem to be paying him any attention, his eyes focused solely on Michael.

“Should I get you more acetone?” Alex asked and moved to stand. “I think I still have some bottles in my car.”

“No!” Michael yelled, grabbing Alex’s wrist before he realized everyone in the room was staring at him in silence. “Uh – I mean, you know, it doesn’t hurt that bad. I’ll survive it… I guess.”

“Oh,” Alex blinked. “O-Okay. Then I’ll just… stay here.”

Michael nodded solemnly. “I think that would be best. Max, you don’t have to wait here.”

“Mmm,” Max hummed dryly, his lips pursed. “Well, in that case, I don’t think Alex really needs to be here either.”

“Alex stays.”

“Michael,” Max said through grit teeth. “He’s not a machine, he needs to rest. Same thing you should be doing.”

“He can rest here,” Michael argued.

“Where? You want him to sleep in the chair? And anyway, he hasn’t eaten either.”

“Um,” Alex tried. “Guys –”

“He can eat here, too!” Michael started and flinched loudly as Max’s alarm went off this time. The sound echoed throughout his skull, like there were loudspeakers placed in every corner, and then projecting out before him in a slide of colors, splashing against the walls and the people around him. Different shades of reds, purples, pinks, and white moving before him, creating wave after wave, like an ocean coming for him.

It took Michael a while to realize that Alex was shaking him.

“Guerin,” he tried. “Guerin, are you okay? Max, quickly, call Kyle.”

Max’s phone seemed to have been stuck because he was roughly tapping the screen now, silencing the alarm. At once, the colors around him began to fade.

“No,” he said, his voice ragged, though he couldn’t say why. “I don’t need Kyle, I’m fine, just… tell me you saw that, too.”

Alex and Max exchanged confused looks. “Saw what?” Max asked, and Michael shook his head, pressing the bottoms of his hands into his eyes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Michael whined low in his throat.

“Guerin?” Michael looked up as Alex put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell us what you’ve been seeing.”

Alex still looked concerned, but there was a steely expression beneath it, a resolve to protect no matter the opposition. Michael didn’t think there was anyone who could love as much as he loved Alex.

Michael shook his head. “It’s like every time any music or alarm plays, I just see colors jumping out at me.”

Max looked confused a moment, then he looked to Alex. “That’s not a real thing, is it?”

“I think it is,” Alex scratched his jaw. “It’s rare though. Something like synthe – syna – something.”

“Should we be worried?”

“Nah,” Alex said thoughtfully, his hand still on Michael’s shoulder. Michael tried his luck and tugged at Alex’s wrist. As he spoke, Alex moved to sit next to Michael on the bed. He seemed to hardly notice as Michael leaned into him, putting his head on Alex’s shoulder. “Kyle did say he had brain damage, but it’s healing as we speak. I think it’ll be gone by the end of the day.”

“No kidding?” Max whistled. “So you can actually see colors? What, like, coming out of the phone?”

“No, just,” he shrugged helplessly. “Everywhere.”

“That’s sounds so cool,” Alex said into Michael’s hair. “And terrifying at the same time.”

“Michael,” Max said, exasperated. “Would you get off him already?”

“He’s not complaining,” Michael argued.

“Guys –”

“Because he’s too nice to, but he does have to get back to Forrest at some point.”

“You just had to bring him up, huh?”

“Sort of, he is Alex’s boyfriend.”

“Guys,” Alex cut in, laughing. Michael’s eyes fluttered at the sound, and he could’ve sworn he saw a shimmer of gold swim before his eyes. “I’m fine. Forrest knows Michael’s here, and he won’t expect me back until morning.”

“But, Alex, you –”

“Max, really,” he said kindly. “It’s okay.”

Max sighed, and Michael could feel his glare, but he chose to cling to Alex’s waist instead, turning his face into the airman’s shoulder and inhaling his scent. He felt Alex chuckle, Alex’s arm coming around his shoulder, keeping him safe and warm.

“Okay,” Max said, rubbing his face. “I’m gonna go check on Isobel. Don’t worry about leaving, Alex, no matter what he tells you.”

“Got it,” Alex laughed, and again, Michael blinked rapidly as more gold and silver shimmered before his eyes.

I wonder if . . .

“Hey,” he murmured against Alex’s shoulder when Max was gone. “Sing for me.”

“What?”

“Sing that song you wrote,” Michael said.

“Oh,” Alex said quietly, and Michael slowly took his hand. He pressed Alex’s palm against his own jaw, and turned into the touch, inhaling his scent.

“You won’t do it for me, Private?”

Alex scoffed into his hair. Michael’s eyes fluttered and he tilted his head up a little more, until Alex’s lips were touching his forehead. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he and Alex were together, and there was no Forrest waiting for him to go home to him in a few hours.

“Getting a little too cozy, aren’t you?”

“Does it bother you?” Michael asked, and pressed further into Alex’s side. “I’m hurt, you know. I need you more than he does.”

“Guerin, you can’t say stuff like that.”

“I don’t care,” he said, and pressed his face into the crook of Alex’s neck. “Sing for me, Private.”

Alex said nothing for a moment, and Michael wondered if he would suddenly decide to leave, and Michael would be left in the cold again, only able to imagine Alex’s body against his. Then –

Would you meet me in the middle?

Could we both stop keeping score?

There’s a battle I must fight alone,

It’s you I’m fighting for...

Michael’s heart thrashed in his chest. He wanted to close his eyes to the sound, fall asleep to Alex’s song. He knew it would be less painful than staying awake and watching Alex leave, but as shades of gold, silver, and different shades of blue began playing out before him, Michael found he couldn’t look away.

As Alex sang, it was like entire galaxies were unfolding. Golden sunlight, the dust of stars, deep and pale hues of blue and purple and pink. He should’ve known that Alex’s music was unlike any other, Alex’s voice a remnant of the planets that had come together to create him. He couldn’t tell Alex what he was seeing – he hardly understood it himself. But it felt like having lightning in a bottle, this moment. Alex’s voice in his ears, his music playing out before Michael in an array of colors that the galaxies couldn’t rival.

“Guerin?” Alex said softly, and the colors slowly began to fade. Michael realized he was clutching Alex’s hand too tightly, his other arm tightening around Alex’s waist.

He quickly let go, sitting up. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Alex said. “What’d you see?”

Michael shook his head. “I don’t know. But it… it was amazing.”

“Yeah?”

Michael nodded. A moment of silence. Then, Alex’s hand came gently around his head, and he was guided back onto Alex’s shoulder, their bodies pressed together at the sides.

“Alex…” Michael breathed as he felt Alex’s other hand in his hair, raking his curls back.

“I have a little more time,” Alex said quietly, as if embarrassed by his own words, but unable to stop. “I’ll keep singing.”

So he started again, and just as they had before, colors of gold, silver, blues and pinks and purple surrounded them, turning the world around them to something better than a rainbow, better than the stars, better than anything.

Michael hugged Alex’s waist as he listened, as he watched, and he realized, in an ironic sort of way, that the home he’d been working so hard to return to, the reason he’d been fixing that old spaceship for so long, had come to him now because of Alex.

#alex manes #michael guerin #malex #malex one shot #malex fanfic #malex fic #malex fanfiction #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #malex angst #malex fluff #tyler blackburn #michael vlamis

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