#and then several knife wounds to the gut and heart :(

[loverboyromanroy]

sublime

[samodivaa]

┊Kills and Kisses┊

WS!Bucky Barnes x Asset!Reader He comes back to save you from Hydra, he can’t leave you behind. You are linked deeply through the wounds of the past you share - hanging by a string, loosely holding each other from collapsing.

Warnings - angst, violence, sexual tension, soft!Soldat Words - 3300

He has a very particular set of skills. Skills that he has acquired over the decades at Hydra. Skills that make him a nightmare for the people who are his mission. Soldat’s heart is bursting with such intense emotions—for the first time since he was entrapped that he doesn’t care about the pain after the fight with Steve anymore. More important than pain is this impulse that's rising within. There is something violent, boiling up from within—he needs to save you, he can’t leave you behind.

As Steve lies unconscious, he wastes no more time—he heads back to the base.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ „Ah, Soldat, you are finally back“ The handler turns to face him calmly. Even with Soldat taking a lot of time to come back, he doubts he should feel particularly concerned. He stars at him as he approaches. He has concluded that generally speaking he is neither permitted nor inclined to hurt his own handler. The Asset stares at the handler as though he is considering something. Then his eyes grow flinty, and he steps back for a moment. He freezes and is silent for a surprisingly long time. An indecipherable expression ripples across his face before he blinks and laughs faintly. It occurs to him that if he is to try to kill him it is probably the perfect moment. Soldat’s lips press into a hard line and the other man sees his jaw clenching. There is so much under his controlled mind. A slumbering rage is stirring, rippling just beneath the surface. The Soldier is on the borderline, caught between the tides of pain and rapture—the idea of killing them all and being free. Soldat finally looks up at him.

“I came back fo-”

He glances over at his handler with a cold expression. He continues to study his face for several moments before a slow smile curls across his lips. The other man wishes he could be so calm without feeling like he is frozen.  Soldat looks around to make sure no one else is nearby, then lowers his voice. „I came back for her“ He is so precisely contained, but his eyes are a storm; they look like they contain the power of the sea as he slides his throat, watching the body drop to the floor. He is trying to calm his now-rapid heartbeat. He knows where they hold her. Soldat walks down a long, dark corridor, knowing the maze of this Hell too well—it Is always dimly-lit, industrial, cold. You two share such a fate—monstrous and empty, a whirling wheel for decades—fades to nothing, shadowed and veiled, plaguing your whole existence.

He is close to the two heavy double doors, sealed shut, and his breath catches in his throat as he crosses them in quick steps, presses the button to open them, and when he sees the doctors touching you, he feels a gut-wrenching anger. You swallow down a lump in your throat. You don’t know what to say, why is he here? Your eyes widen, frozen and staring helplessly—fear and shock flashing through as you keep your eyes on his soulless ones—pupils dilated due to adrenalin. With a little gasp, he blinks slowly before settling on your face as blood dips from the knife on the floor. You shift in your seated pose on the bed, you feel ever-so-slightly off-balance, with a nervous, anticipatory energy for what is going to happen.

The doctors look at him in shock, obviously having never seen an Asset disobey to such an extent. "He killed someone" one of them gasps, somehow managing to keep his outburst to a strained whisper „We will leave, let us leave, please“

Soldat laughs and his eyes finally leave your face to settle on the man talking “No, no one is leaving“ he says in a dismissive voice. Fear bubble up inside the three men. Fear for their life. Tears gather up in their eyes. The fraction of hope vanishes. Soldat waves his hands dismissively, the knife dancing across his fingers. He shifts the weight in his still posture—before they could exhale, the sharp blade strikes one of the men’s necks and they all watch the body drop lifeless, blood sweeping down his neck. The remaining men’s eyes are wide with fear, mouths agape and breathing heavy. Your brows knit together, eyes narrow. Soldat can tell you are doing some form of mental math, edging ever closer to his true intent. Finally, you say, slowly „Как така се освободи?“ (how did you free yourself) Your mind is twisting itself up with rationalisation. Trying to make yourself adapt and think freely. To make you survive in this unexpected denouement. You draw another breath and try to recall anything from the past. A blur of a face is in front of you, staring. You blink a couple of times, trying to make your vision clear up. Your vision slowly starts to gain its focus, blinking until it clears. “Hey” Soldat sighs, touching your face with one hand and raking his fingers up through his tousled and now bloody hair with the other “It is okay, we will be okay.”  His lips try to form a smile and he reaches over to ruffle your hair fondly. “What is wrong?” he says as you swats him away from his touch “Talk to me, please“ You focus your attention right back onto the man in front of you, pushing both the worries and memories to the wayside for the moment. His eyes glint as he smiles, a triumphant tone to his honey-sweet voice. Fear explodes inside, dangerous, fire rushing over your skin. The gleam of metal makes you slide your gaze away. It always looks like an ornamentation, a deadly one. His eyes remind you of the ocean: clear as spring water tumbling over mossy rocks, dark as a cloud shadow. Soldat leans closer, his mouth next to your ear, whispering with a despaired groan trapped between his teeth „Say something, anything…do you remember me?“ Your jaw is between his metal fingertips, griping tightly „I will get you out of here“ Winter swallows the lump in his throat, eyes never leaving yours.

Physically and mentally the dread begins to fade as you force your mind to adapt. You don’t feel nauseated, your heart doesn’t pound painfully anymore.

„I want to kiss you“ The dark glint in his eyes and the wicked curl of his lips shows what he has in mind as he hears you say it. His beautiful features offering themselves to your gaze as you trail though them, you are annoyed at how attractive Winter looks—with his dark, messy locks covering part of his bloody face—putting your mind into a darker cloud of both irritation and lust.

He feels his combat pants get tighter as he feels something growing. It feels weird, almost like his first memory of getting an erection as a child. „Kiss me then“ His own words sends a shiver down his spine along with a lightning bolt to his cock. He looks at you with his big doe eyes and stays silent. For a moment, he'd almost thought he could see the faint light glinting off your eyes as you blink rapidly. Soldat suddenly gives you a tender kiss which quickly grows in passion and intensity. He removes his hand from your chin, tugging at your hair and gaining enjoyment out of it. He is the one to pull away, his face seems to be filled with longing, a yearning of sorts. You sigh, unconsciously pursing your glossy lips together to form an innocent, tempting pout, you want more, but now it’s not the right time. There is a device connected to your thumb, a pulse oximeter. It displays your heartbeat—it starts beeping, the shortness of breath and excitement on full display and he watches you remove it, your eyes full of embarrassment and you blush a furious red so he decides to speak. „Let’s form a plan, let’s get out of here“ His voice is soft, but it hits you with a force of a hammer, resounding within your ears like a bell, ringing clearly. His gaze—sharp and intense, appraising you and making you realize he looks at you with so much concern, with protectiveness. You don’t know what to quite make of it. He always leaves you feeling exposed and vulnerable, though covered up you may be. Between the certainty of light and darkness there’s a play of shadows, a question. Between the machine and the human-self there’s an encounter called distance. What do we do now? You don’t notice that Soldat slowly moves away for a bit. His large hands spread a map next to you, tilting it left and right, thinking. You know what he’s searching for. You can feel it, like there’s a hook embedded in your chest, tugging towards freedom as well. So many countries and yet, right there—you choose point and say „Bulgaria“ „Hm?“ Soldat stars at you, eyes wide with surprise and confusion. „Let’s go and live there“ „Why Bulgaria exactly?“ He asks groggily. „I can’t remember yet, but it sounds so familiar“ You have forgotten that word a long time ago, in the midst of all the brainwashing.  But that word is the path you take to remember more. Step by step, you will remember, right?

„Yeah, okay. I will find clothes and bags, you can stay here“ His main priority now is survival and your safety. Nothing else. It is his instincts of a trained killer—kill or be killed. It looks like he is about to say something, but then he just drops his gaze and steps through the doorway. The moment you glance at him as he returns to the room, you can’t identify the person you are staring at. The outfit emphasizes every part of his body. His waist, his perfect thick thighs— „I found some for you, too“ You nearly topple out of your seat on the bed at the sound of his voice and swivel to stare at him with your mouth agape. It makes your eyes raise from his thighs, gaze slowly and seamlessly lifting to meet his. He throws the clothes on the bed, his face only inches away from your own once again. Soldat’s metal fingers come in contact with your cheek. The moment they touch your hot skin, you shiver a little, expecting more. „We need to go“ „They will go after us“ you let out a quiet sob, shaking your head from side to side. For several tense moments, you simply blink at one another. He knows what awaits—people will criticize, condemn, and chase them but it takes all his character and self-control to be understanding of the situation, his mission is to keep you safe, to reassure you to a certain extent. There is no escaping this change of life—what is even the meaning of life—you need to try to grasp infinity while being paralyzed by the truth of all that you both still don’t have names. Soldat’s eyebrows knit together, sadness taking over his perfect features „We will be okay, we will be“ And even if the uncertainty of this world becomes too overwhelming, you have each other. You are his only shade of color, a beam of light. Your hearts are not connected to each other through mutual understanding alone. They are, instead, linked deeply through the wounds of the past you share - hanging by a string, loosely holding each other from collapsing. As you reach out for the clothes, he turns around to give you privacy, feeling his heat rise to his cheeks. „I am ready“ you say after a minute. His eyes settle on you again, suddenly he is very conscious of his lack of words and he clears his throat „You look-good“ his lips part on a soft gasp. He regains his composure, working that same muscle in his jaw as he looks you up and down. You are simply wearing jeans with a plain shirt, but to his depraved mind is enough to leave him speechless, a strange smile quirks his lips almost involuntarily. You are wearing a small smile of your own, and there are tears in your eyes. You two look so normal. Human. For the first time in decades you have come across this. To experience something so surreal, so close to what you truly are, and still have no way to describe it. You finally meet a dream from eternity. Emotions too wild and organic to be domesticated into words. You can tell he is fighting his emotions, and the fact that he is close to tears threatens your own hold on yourself. You both head to the main exit, the sigh of gore – dead bodies and blood doesn’t scare you. ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ The absolute delight—of you being well, the absolute horror of what it costs—blood in every corner of the rooms and corridors and still, there is still a garden made for his soul where he can sleep peacefully, far away from solitude. Remorse—it grows and grows and grows, but his loyalty and care are stronger, but it haunts him. Oh, secret cries of a sorrowful heart—you will keep this day a secret forever. And this is what you learn on the first day as a human being: that he was the antidote to your never ending Hell, that standing within his anger—the beauty and the mystery of his mind, you will re-dignify the worst-stung heart no matter the blood marking your freedom. Only his own heart knows a secret your mind can’t grasp.  A poem that’ll always remain unwritten.

Someday you will ask him, ask him why he risked coming back? ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ The greenery stretches for miles. Earth and sun are in a dance older than your time. But now that you can see how they kiss each other in all the trees and flowers while clouds hop freely across the blue sky—this is heaven? Strange, how such a heaven on earth could exist while you spend so much time underground. „Hey, come on“ he calls you and you turn your head. Soldat is a few feet away, waiting for you to get in the car. „We will get new documents for the country, there is a guy that will also supply us with plane tickets. I-I made my handler call him befo-“ „There is no need to explain, Winter“ You open the door, the words are no sooner past his lips than you enter, his hands already gripping the wheel. You find your gaze travelling over Soldat’s elegant fingers as they move nervously, his knuckles turning white. The way he leans back in the seat, his long legs stretching out before you, tight black jeans leaving nothing to the imagination. His wide eyes stare into space, at nothing. Soldat is completely unsure how to broach this, if he even should have tried to broach such a tender topic. You already saw enough of what he has done. He feels your gaze, because he finally looks at you. Your eyes meet. Soldat gives a small smile before speaking. „It’s Bucky“ „Bucky? What is a Bucky?“ He laughs genuinely at your comment. The shell of the Asset starts to crack and there begins to be a consciousness of the subliminal and physiological underlying personality, you just catch a glimpse of It. „My real name, before Hydra“ he explains softly and fidgets in his seat, already feeling uncomfortable of needing to mention the word. „You had a life before?“ He feels something stubborn and angry enter your voice. The smile on his face instantly vanishes and his expression becomes distinctly cagey, avoiding you gaze. You press your thighs together and try not to pay any attention to the growing sense of emptiness inside. It is overwhelming—do you even have a name? Can you remember who you were, before Hydra told you who you have to be? ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ Everything it is a blur after that conversation. You don’t feel physically, mentally, and emotionally ready for your new life. Your loyalty to the past becomes your most dangerous trait. The programing runs deep in the fabric of your mind, it’s hard to fight, because it is all you know. When you finally board the plane, he finds the courage to finally say something about it. „No, I still don’t want to talk, Bucky“ your voice is dripping acid. It is an act in self-preservation, he understands. He nods begrudgingly, but sits next to you. He knows that you fear to fling yourself straight into life, without deliberation. But Bucky—he is more than ready.

He thinks of Steve, such memories, are long remembered and sealed into his soul—him remembering those memories is what saved you both. Sorrow compresses his heart; he wants to see him again. ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

As you step out of the airport, Bucky wastes no time, heading to a car which is parked nearby, driving in a direction unknown to you. ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ The haunted mind catches fire—the dread and evil of his night terrors punishing him almost every night. He is not alone in this—It’s both a blessing and a curse to share the same trauma. Breakfast is so delicious, but not free erection anymore. Bucky looks like he hasn’t slept a wink, though, with dark circles under his eyes and his face propped on his human hand as he tries to calm both his body and his mind. Is it healthy or is it just familiar to suppress the human side just becomes he is scared of it? It is your fault, too. He admits it freely mentally. Well, if someone is to come across him; he would deny it vociferously. But—to himself—he admits that he is lusting after you.

He pulls his textbook out of his bag on the floor and sets to write to distracts himself for a bit. You have been mysteriously absent this week and even though you have settled in a quiet village for now, he still worries about your safety. There is a conversation he is dreading, but all you do is avoid him like a contagious disease. Bucky hears you enter the house, but doesn’t lift his eyes as you pass him to go to your own room. He wants to tell that hiding your hurt only intensifies it. Problems grow in the dark and only become bigger. You need to take off your mask, to stop pretending you don’t need support and walk into this new chapter together. Then he hears sounds and immediately goes to your room. He follows the continues sobs to your bathroom.

You are huddled in the shower under the cold water, fully clothed—weeping and rocking on the floor and hugging your knees.

He stands in the doorway for a moment, not coming any closer. Speechless.

"Мила?" His voice is rasping, talking in the language he knows you find comfort the most.

Your crying abruptly ceases and your head shots up to look at him, locked on his face. | He immediately moves towards you reaching over and turning off the freezing water. Bucky then kneels down, rubbing your back with his human hand then running his hand through your wet hair.

"Погледни ме,моля те, погледи ме“ he pleas. (Look at me, please, look at me) He gathers you into his arms and pulls you into his lap.

Too many days and nights passed through the body and slowly you started to lose your mind.  Where are your own memories? Where is that life you had before? You drift in the tides of the lost time and lost yourself wave after wave—uncovering nothing, not even an echo of the past.

[thedepthsoffandomminds]

The cold truth

Artful Dodger one shot. Jack Dawkins x fem reader

Before Fagin's return, before Belle, before it all there was y/n. The first woman to break Jack's heart. He kept her portrait in a silver locket, the chain hanging on his bed. One day, long after her operation Belle sits in the hospital going over medical text when Hetty comes into her. Seeing the locket in Belle's hand she tells her the story.

"She was a lovely girl, a nurse here. Odd though because she was married. So many of us live a solitary life but not y/n. She was such a wonderful spirit. I'm convinced she could make the dead dance with her joy. None of us could have known. Jack was the first to notice the changes, they were so small at first. Y/n had always had the most beautiful red hair, it was so thick she could hardly contain it and would have it tied several plates pinned about her head. I remember Jack coming to me one morning, the spirals were gone. It was all chopped off up to her shoulders. Y/n wouldn't tell us what happened.

Then it was the bruises. Poking out of her dress on her neck, her arms you know. She just kept saying she was clumsy, but we spent hours with her and none of us ever saw her even trip. Jack tries to ask her once but she brushed him off.

I don't know if it was her original joy or the subsequent lack of it, but the doctor seemed fixated on her. He needed to know what was happening.

One time he bumped into her, knocking her ribs and the touch sent y/n to the floor. Shocked by the reaction Jack took her aside and checked her over. Y/n had a bruise that covered her whole left side. Angry and red, purple, blue. Still she wouldn't tell us a thing. Jack took it upon himself to look after her. Noting that she would often work a whole day without a bite of food he began making extra lunch and sitting with her.

He would talk about her when she wasn't around. Retelling her jokes and talking of her beauty.

Of course we know now that it was her husband. He cut her hair off with an axe. Said she was too vain about her appearance and a nurse didn't need long hair. The beatings were worse. He would attack her for any little mistakes. Her ribs? That was because she had burnt dinner one night. He was an awful man. We only found out because Jack found her wandering the streets on his way home for the cat and bagpipes. He had kicked her out of their house. I don't remember what for, but Jack found her and he took care of her. By then the only time I saw her happy was when they were sat together. She told him everything and he promised to help her. Said she could have a bed in our nurses quarters. She even appeared happy for a while, the two of em did.

A week or so later she went home to collect her things, convinced her husband would be at work. He wasn't.

She managed to get back here. I'll never know how she made it. One broken leg, a fractured elbow and a knife in her gut. She did though, she came stumbling in. I think I screamed when I saw her. Jack rushed her into the theatre, but this was about a year before you came along. There was nothing he could do with the knife wound. That damn blade was wide enough to take down an elephant. Ripped her up so badly inside. She couldn't breathe and the blood was pouring into her lungs.

Jack tried and tried until she asked him to stop. Exhausted and covered in her blood, Jack was ready to collapse himself. She held tight to his hand and looked into his eyes.

"No, no y/n, you gotta fight this. You can't die." Jack begged her.

"Jack, I have to go. I'm sorry. You can't save me." Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. Jack held on to her. I had hoped his will alone might make God knit her back together. My faith took a knock that day and I'm not afraid to admit it. The look on that boys face when they insisted on taking her away. Tim had to hold him to keep Jack from following her body to the grave.

We all changed after that day. The first time one of our own bad died so brutally. Jack wasn't the same. He threw himself into his work, his competition with Sneed.

You know there are times when he still visits her grave. Maybe that's why he was so desperate to save you, Lady Belle. Jack's poor heart couldn't take another love being ripped away from him. It's a lovely portrait of her. " She finishes by glancing over Belle's shoulder at the lockett.

"he's in prison, so you think, do you think you could take me to her grave?" Belle asks.

It's a small wooden cross with her name carved into it.

"we couldn't afford a real headstone. " Hetty explains. Belle bent to touch the wood, running her fingers over the carved wood.

"What happened to the husband?"

"Got himself hanged for his troubles three weeks after. It took three hours for him to die. Come on now miss we should get you back before you're missed." Hetty reminded her.

"of course. I shall bring y/n flowers tomorrow."

"very good Milady "

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

Haha... it's been far too long. What can I say, technology hates me.

This chapter turned out really long, and I was not planning it like that at all. I like what it became though :)

This chapter is called "The Downfall of Kinsmen".

Page 39 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 13:

How could a man such as you, keep in his heart a Beast? Blind eyes turn heavenwards, crescented and kind, How could a flower, small and fine, Love the fiery sun, the killer and divine, How could the tide, heedless and rough, Love the gentle moon, a teacher for those misguides, How could the star, far and bright, Love our darkest nights, brighten our eyes, How could I  Not admire you?

Simon Riley was a hero.

Ghost has more confirmed KIAs than any merc walking on this accursed earth.

Simon Riley was a hero.

Ghost came here to work with the Hunter, whose soldiers are ending innocent lives by the hundreds, every second taking down another soul.

Simon Riley was a hero.

Ghost is thrusting a knife into his palm, bearing his neck out. Scarred and mangled, veins discolored by the poison eating away at his blood. Gloved hands resting on Soap’s thighs, a soft touch so out of place on this barren dirt.

Simon Riley is Ghost.

Ghost is asking him to slit his throat. Telling Soap it is the only way to end this, to kill the Hunter, to win. Closing his eyes, leaving fate in the hands of a broken, once soldier.

He’s right, Soap knows. Killing Ghost would end everything. He could free this city from the Hunter’s clutches with a swing of a knife.

Soap lifts the blade, the setting sun’s light reflecting over Ghost’s mask, an emotionless skull painted to resemble death. It shines through its eye sockets, casting light over Ghost’s pale lashes. His cheeks lift somewhat, and it dawns on Soap that he’s smiling.

The knife shakes in his hands.

Open your eyes, Soap wants to scream. Fight me, claw at mine. Why do you accept death so easily, when it’s in my hands?

Tell me, why did you become this?

Simon Riley wants Soap to kill him. 

John swings the knife down, teeth bared, feelings swirling in his gut. The blade strikes down.

Buried in the dirt besides Simon’s head.

John watches his brown eyes flutter open, confused. Watches them turn to see the knife, and back to his, questioning.

He heaves a breath, the eye contact burning, yet he doesn’t dare to sever it.

“You were a hero.” John almost growls, hands still trembling on the weapon, “why… why did ye become Ghost?”

Simon tilts his head minutely, his hands caress John’s legs, lost in memories.

“They left me to die.” the man under him murmurs, “was captured, no one came to rescue us.” John feels Simon’s chest stutter, “I escaped. I tried to stay away, tried to live.”

Dark eyes look up at him, “couldn’t. Like you.”

“So ye became a monster?” John spits harshly.

Simon’s eyes soften, “I was always a monster. They only called me a hero because I died-”

“No.” John lets go of the knife, bracketing Simon’s head instead, “ye were a legend, ye saved thousands, ye were-”

Ye were everything I wanted to be.

Simon’s hands are warm, as they pass over his clothes, as if he’s trying to soothe a phantom wound, “you are a hero, Johnny. Why are you not killing me?” he asks, confusion and an edge of fear bleeding into his words.

It angers John. He knows, if he were to try and be a hero, his next step would be to kill the Ghost. Throw his head in front of the Hunter, banish him from this land, save the civilians. His mission is clear-cut, and Ghost is just an obstacle. Another hostile, another target, another objective. That was what he always strived for, from the moment he set foot in bootcamp to the day he was discharged.

All of his previous COs’ words rush forth, voices mingling to a single sentence-

Stop trying to be the hero, MacTavish.

John roughly slides Ghost’s mask off, revealing a face twisted by confusion. Dirty blond hair, curled and pressed flat by the ever-present mask. Scars, creating valleys and hills over pale skin. Bisected lips that fall open in surprise. Brown eyes, so deep, they can’t help but reflect the darkening skies.

Simon Riley is just a man.

He takes the knife out of the ground, only to stab it through the now hollow eyes of the skull. John leans closer, whispering in Simon’s ears.

“Ghost is dead. What will ye become now?”

Simon’s eyes widen, the last of the day’s light radiant in them. “I… I have nothing left to be.” he fearfully answers.

“No.” John raises up, “there’s more to us than heroes and monsters, Simon.” the man startles at the name, “what do ye want to do now? Ye want to kill me, kill yerself, keep on the path that destroyed us both…”

John offers a hand.

“Or ye want to find out what else we could become?”

Simon breathes in deep, like a newborn’s first taste of air, like a dying man’s last prayer. Gloved hands, that know to both give and receive unfathomable violence, take his.

“I do.” the words flow through scarred lips, and John can almost taste the want in them. For salvation. For redemption. “But how?”

John yanks the blade out of the mask, and gives it to Simon. The man that wears it will not be the Ghost that sunk first to the ground, nor the man that has risen from the grave.

“With what we always had.” John turns back to the truck, “with pain and will. With bloodshed.”

He glances at Simon, mask still in hand, “we lead ourselves now.”

When he joins him in the vehicle, Simon wears the mask. But he could never hide how his eyes look at John, how the emotions flow through them. How he trusted him with his death.

How he’ll trust Soap with his life.

He takes them back to the city center. All paths lead down here, it seems. Soap feels the weight of Ghost’s stare on him for the whole drive, and not for the first time he wishes he could take a look inside his skull.

Soap is surprised to find himself without regrets. He’s not without anger at Ghost, hell, not without hate, but alongside those feelings something else stirs awake.

He thinks it might be kinship.

His surprise only grows when Ghost chimes up, “you still want to kill the Hunter, right?”

Soap glances at him, “‘course.”

“We still need to get intel-” Ghost unexpectedly jumps at the steering wheel, pulling it left.

“What the-!” Soap veers the truck back to the road, “are ye tryin’ teh kill us?!”

Ghost’s head pokes out of the side window, looking back, “there’s someone on the road, Johnny.”

“What?” Soap kills the engine, jumping out of the vehicle. Ghost instantly follows him, rifle ready for a gunfight.

They approach the still body on the road cautiously, “are ye friendly?!” Soap shouts.

The form doesn’t move a muscle. “They’re dead.” Ghost mutters. Soap observed the pooling blood around the body, sensing the tension leaving Ghost’s motions.

Stepping closer, Soap recognizes the insignia of the Hunter’s soldiers, a red skull. The body is littered with gunshot wounds, from their legs to their head. Whoever was fighting them, they were frantic. Desperate.

There is only one other group fighting the Hunter in this city. The 141. And if they were in a state bad enough to shoot like an untrained rookie…

Ghost crouched down to pat the dead man’s pockets. He collects a couple extra mags, and the comms. As he switches between channels, Soap scans the surrounding streets. Signs of a struggle litter the walls, cracks drawing a picture of a hopeless fight for survival. More bodies are hidden under shadows, and Soap walks to check their identity.

Civilians, mingled right among the Hunter’s soldiers. This doesn’t feel like Price and Gaz’s work…

Soap’s lingering thoughts snap back to the radio in Ghost’s hand, when the constant white noise is replaced with alarmed commands. “-armed civvies, group of 20! They’re around the main plaza. Took down about 5 of ours-” Ghost meets his eyes, expression serious. “-told you to take ‘em out!” “yessir”. The comms click off.

“They’re fighting back…” Soap thinks out loud, voice trailing off. 

Ghost raises to his feet, shoving the radio down one of his pockets, “they won’t last long. The Hunter’s soldiers are highly trained.”

Burning rage spreads through Soap. He can’t let them die, can’t let the Hunter squash down the few that found the courage to strike back. He glares at Ghost with a challenging stare, “I’m going to help them.”

Ghost studies him silently. “We are going to help them.” he starts walking back to the truck, leaving a bewildered Soap to catch up, “I know where the plaza is, was in the debrief the Hunter gave me. There’s a sniper rifle on the rooftop opposite of it, we can back up the civvies from there.”

Soap slams the door behind him, rushing to start the engine, “if there’s a sniper rifle there, wouldn’t the Hunter have a soldier on it?”

Ghost halts his movements for a moment, “they did. It was me.”

“What- who did ye shoot?”

Ghost seems to curl into himself a little, “...I don’t know. They were just… a target.”

A warning light flashes, signaling the fuel tank is almost empty. Soap sighs, worries and curses overlapping each other on his tongue, ”can ye direct me to the plaza?”

Ghost looks up, “...affirm. Turn right at this intersection…”

Flashes of gunshots light the plaza, a huge building with a court in its middle, acting as a battleground for the civilians and the Hunter’s soldiers. Their fuel lasted them just enough to reach it.

Ghost leads him to the back, where a ladder lines the side of the wall. When Soap doesn’t follow him, Ghost stops, “what’s on your mind, Soap?”

Soap grasps the rifle in his hands tightly, “There’s only one sniper rifle up there, right? Ah’ll be of more use down ‘ere.”

Ghost lets go of the ladder completely, “you’re not planning on joining the civilians, are you?”

“You know Ah won’t be able to do shit up there with ye.”

“You’ll get yourself killed, that will certainly help-”

“Why would ye even care?!” Soap snarls, taking two steps closer to Ghost and staring him down.

He watches his gloved hands clench, “I can’t-”

“What is it?! Ye think Ah’m feckin’ useless-”

“I CAN’T WATCH YOU DIE!” Ghost shouts.

Soap’s brow shoot up, his anger dissipating into nothing. He’s left speechless, as Ghost continues, “you’re fucking reckless, and uncontrollable, and- I thought we’ll-!”

“Ghost.”

“I’ll die without you, you know that? The poison-”

“Ye didn’t care about that when ye gave me the knife.” Soap grabs the front of his mask to pull Ghost down, shoving him against the wall, he ignores his grunt as he forces those dark eyes on him. “Why do ye care?” he asks calmly.

Simon breathes heavily, so much that Soap can feel it through the mask, and he sees how the emotions try to peek through the bleached skull. “I… I don’t… “ Simon sighs, “I can’t let you die.”

“Why?”

Simon hand wraps around Soap’s wrist, not pushing away, just holding. “You… trust me. I can’t break it, not again-”

Soap lets go of the mask, “I won’t die, Simon.” He looks down at the hand holding his, and it retreats, “and ye didn’t fully earn my trust just yet.”

Simon nods slowly, and Soap steps back, “ye better stay alive so ye can.”

Simon stares at him, eyes somewhat soft, muscles relaxing, “I will, Johnny.” the name sends a pang of hurt through his heart. Despite everything, Soap still hasn’t stopped Ghost from calling him that. He thinks he’s just afraid of regretting it, missing the way it sounds.

Wanting that little connection, to keep them tied through this endless sea.

Soap shakes his head. He finds himself in a similar boat to Ghost.

He doesn’t think he can watch him die either.

Chaos is the only rule on these grounds. Furniture is stacked precariously to build cover, bullets shoot in every direction. Soap can’t tell whose blood covers the once white floor.

He climbed up to the second floor, trying to find a vantage point over the battle. The civilians have retreated farther back into the shops, soldiers overwhelming them by numbers and skill. Soap takes aim, a deep inhale.

The shots echo through the empty walkway, deafeningly loud in his ears, but he pays it no mind. Soap keeps tabs on the soldiers trying to push forward on the civilians, watching them scramble to cover once they realize someone is attacking them from above. He tries to kill as many as he can before they’re out of his sights.

Every few seconds, a soldier he’s aiming at drops abruptly, the shell of a bullet splicing through the night air. Ghost is a frighteningly excellent sniper. Soap can see why he struck fear in the hearts of so many.

The civilians have noticed something’s amiss, their willpower strengthening. Soap’s heart swells-

They’re fighting back tenfold, now that they believe they could win.

The Hunter’s soldiers retreat, enough that Soap has to descend back to the ground floor. As he rushes down, he spots the fearful eyes of children peek through the dark shops.

The civilians are protecting them.

He vaults over the edge when he’s low enough for it, and finds himself in front of a man, who seemingly left the fight, searching for him. Soap’s eyes widen with recognition.

“...Mihail?” Soap mutters.

“Soap!” The man smiles, “I have thought it was you!” 

They both start running back to the front, “I thought ye left!”

Mihail shakes his head, “I left. I came back.”

“...Why?” he frowns.

The man halts for a moment, staring at Soap with a determined gaze, “I couldn’t. Leave others, children, friends.” his untrained arms shake around his stolen gun, “you fight, so why couldn’t I too?”

Soap heart beats a war chant in his chest. Mihail pushes them both to run again, all the while his mind forms a storm.

He chose to fight… because of Soap? 

“Here!” Mihail shouts over his shoulder, “we need help. This is Alma.” he points to a woman tending to one of the shot men, hidden behind a stack of sofas, “she knows English good. Tell her what we do, she will tell us.”

“Aye!”

The woman, Alma, lifts her head when he comes closer. Her arms are covered in blood up to her elbows. Her brows crease as she assesses Soap, “are you the one that helped Maria and Victor?”

“I am.”

Her expression relaxes, “thank you.” She nods to the fighters, “we’ve been fighting for hours, they cornered us here. I think they’re trying to kill us all at once.” her teeth bare, “they will, if we don’t do something differently.”

Soap quickly scans their numbers. About 40 people, most equipped with rifles like his own. The Hunter’s soldiers are still cowering under cover. Ghost’s shots are making sure to down any that attempt to push forward, but he can already see them going around, using Ghost’s blind spots to try and flank their group.

He turns back to Alma, “We need to split up, take both the left and the right. Leave the worst fighters here, so they think ye haven’t moved, take ten of the best left, five more right.”

Alma nods, “where will you be?”

Soap motions right, “Ah’ll go ahead, clear the path fer the five on the right.”

Alma wipes the blood on her dirtied clothes, shouting to the fighters. The shooting calms a tad as they listen to her orders. Soap watches them get ready to split up, and only a few moments pass before fifteen men and women step back. Alma continues to talk, pointing at both hallways. Ten leave, and Soap leads the remaining five to their side.

It has been over a year since Soap ordered anyone on field, and a certain nervosity spreads through him, before he shuts it down.

This is no different from any other mission he’s been on, he has to tell himself. The footfalls behind him are of soldiers, not civilians. Their guns are their own, not stolen from corpses.

He is Sergeant MacTavish, not John.

Soap motions them to stop, and he walks ahead to clear the corner. He swiftly ducks behind a low wall, scanning the dark hallways ahead. Ghost seems to recognize the forming plan, since he started providing cover fire for the split groups.

Even with no comms, they work flawlessly.

Soap hears the nearing steps of hostiles, and so he points his group to find cover, and aim forward. He himself sneaks ahead, moving from pillar to pillar. 

Once the first soldier rounds the corner, Soap pounces. He burrows his knife into his side, dragging the man in front of him.

A copy of Ghost’s tactics, he uses the dead man as a shield, and shoots down several soldiers. Soap finds a moment to back up, opening the hallway for his fighters to shoot the rest. Their aim is expectedly shite, but they managed to hit the hostiles by sheer number.

He smiles back, baffled. Soap wishes he could encourage them. But the fight isn’t over, and soon enough the Hunter’s soldiers find a weak point in their defence.

Soap is blindsided by a mass tackling him. They both fall to the ground, Soap scrambling for his knife, blocking the frenzied hits of the soldier. Large arms manage to wrap around his throat, lifting him to a chokehold. 

Soap snarls, eyes rotating wildly in his sockets, breath squeezed out of his lungs. He slams at the hands, clawing at them, leaving rivulets of blood behind.

It is not enough. His vision begins to darken, spidery tendrils encompassing his sight. He can distantly hear the civilians shout for him. They wouldn’t be able to save him now. 

As his vision fades completely, John waits for his life to flash by. This death would be far than the worst he could have had.

Yet, instead of memories, dark eyes flood his mind. A man, once dead, with a plea.

I can’t watch you die.

Soap grips harder at the arm, shoving his face to it.

And bites down as strongly as he can.

Crimson bursts on his tongue, a scream goes off behind him, the arm loosening. Oxygen fills Soap’s lungs once more, and he arches forward, flipping his attacker and slamming him to the floor tiles.

For a split second, he sees the fear in the soldier’s eyes, the dark red covering him. Soap finds his blade.

It sinks down the soldier’s throat not a second later.

Soap rises on shaky legs, adjusting his rifle. The civilians behind him look horrified at his appearance. He can’t find a place within himself to care. He only spares them a nod, and he’s off.

If he can’t be these people’s hero, he’ll have to suffice with being their enemies worst monster.

[fandomnerd9602]

Hunting Ghosts

Sam Carpenter x Wick!Reader

For @tokufighter

Sometimes the past comes back to haunt you when you least expect it. For you and the Carpenter sisters it was a mixed bag. On one hand, they had to deal with the serial killer known as Ghostface. For you it was the festering wounds that the Continental Hotel had brought on. You find yourself loading up on guns and any assortment of gadgets you needed to combat the dollar store slasher villain. You holster the P30L pistol and pack your grandfather’s tactical rifle into a duffle bag. The attachment that Winston mentioned was a secondary shotgun barrel retrofitted for dragon’s breath incendiary rounds.

You snuck out, having Sam and Tara in the safe confines of the Continental Hotel. You even took Sam’s cellphone that way whoever this Ghostface was, they would be hunting you and not them. You made your way down Times Square, walking around just waiting for a call from the killer. On the cue the phone rings. The caller ID reads Charon. You pick it up, “tell me the girls are safe” “Oh we’re safe.” Sam answers back. “Where are you?” “I’m ending this. Today. I won’t let you or Tara get injured again” “This one’s different. I can’t lose you too. You come back right now. You hear me?!” Sam begs you.

“I will…when Ghostface is six feet under” you hang up. Another call rings, you pick it up without even looking at the caller ID. “Sam, baby, I’m sorry I-” “Oh I’m sure you are” the slimy voice of Ghostface answers back. You stop dead in your tracks. “you look snazzy in that suit. I’m sure if you weren’t with Sam, Quinn would’ve gobbled you up in an instant.” “I might’ve let her. She was smoking hot till you gutted her like a fish” you retort, “of course Sam wouldn’t have minded sharing” “Tempting that would’ve been. Honestly that outfit is missing something…”

“Yeah what?” you say, your instincts kicking in at that moment. “It’s not stained red!” the voice shouts from behind you. You duck and weave, narrowly missing the blade of Ghostface. You counteract the next swing of the blade and stab your own blade through the assailant’s arm. A shriek that sounded feminine in form rings out from the mask. You knew who it was in the moment. “Hello Quinn” you smirk. You hear a growl under the mask. You give your assailant the finger and run off into the crowd. You can feel her give chase. Your mind runs wild - if Quinn is under the mask, who is her partner in this? There’s more than one, as always.

You run into an abandoned building, Ghostface is hot on your tail. You run up the staircase of the complex, you can practically hear the boots of the killer right behind you. You reach the top of the staircase and roll into a shooting stance. You fire off several shots which ricochet off the robes of the killer. “It’s amazing what you can buy on eBay” Quinn retorts “Someone sold out the tactical tech.“ you huff. She drives her knife towards you. Quickly rolling again, you pull out your own bowie knife and swipe at her, landing a few jabs at her left knee and elbow.

She screams before driving a knife into your right calf. You grit your teeth to muffle any scream. “Funny” she retorts, “I always was hoping you’d stab me. Over and over again” She gets real close, removing her mask. She licks your face, a sign of mockery, or maybe that was just her sex positive attitude leaking through. She slips her mask back on and readies the knife over your heart. “We’re in the endgame now” Quinn whispers, readying to run you through with the knife. “You know what I love about a franchise’s endgame?” you smirk as your hand reaches into your duffle. “What?”

“It always ends in fireworks” BLAM! You fire off the dragon’s breath attachment. Quinn’s robes catch fire and ignite. She screams, trying her best to dampen the flames. BLAM! BLAM! Two shots ring out, bouncing off her robes. The masked Quinn slams into the railing and tumbles down the staircase. And with that, she disappears. “Chasing ghosts, kid?” A gruff voice rings over you. “More like being hunted by them” you respond as a hand reaches down to help you to your feet. “Apparently one’s helping me now” You get pulled up to your feet by John Wick, who offers you a weary smile and a hug. “It’s good seeing you again” he says, rubbing your shoulders reassuringly.

“Good seeing you’re still kicking, Dad” you respond, “I thought you died in a duel in Paris with Caine” “It’s the city of love, not death” Wick responds. “let’s go” Your dad guides you out to a jet black Mustang. Sam jumps out with her own shotgun a second later. “I thought i lost you for a second” Sam runs up and hugs you. “Wicks are hard to kill” you retort. “And even easier at resurrecting” John finishes as he shakes your girlfriend’s hand. “Come on” Sam smirks “lets kill a ghost”

[sorrowfulrosebud]

Rosebud’s Horrorfest:

Day one: rot in hell

Theme: ghosts

Content: in which Katsuki has to deal with the consequences of his actions after he kills you in an escape attempt.

This shit is really intense, like EXTREME body horror, mentions of abuse, ghosts, reader dies, if you’re sensitive to this kind of stuff then please don’t read.

Nothing felt real to Katsuki. Not anymore. He never intended for it to go so far.

It all started the day he decided to snatch you away from the rest of the world, in his grasp for his own pleasure. His pleasure, your torture. Katsuki was a jarring captor to live with; one minute he was splitting your precious skin apart with bruised knuckles, the next he was applying expensive lotions and soft bandages to your wounds “accidents” as he lovingly called them.

He didn’t start hitting you until after your first escape attempt, the sheer audacity slamming Katsuki in the gut as he slammed his own fist against your trembling soul. He was absolutely petrified of you, so much that it made him scream and claw at his body. He was petrified at the power you held over him with so little knowledge, how if you even implied to him that you wanted him to die, he would more than willingly lay down on a bed of serrated glass and drag his stomach against hot coals if you would kiss his soft cheek and smile at him.

He hated feeling so weak against someone who he would set the world ablaze for because he knew that he royally fucked up any chances left of normalcy with you. Katsuki drugged you and chained you up in his woodland mansion, forcing himself to listen to your screams and sobs to let you go, how he was a bastard for betraying you like this. Could he go back in time, he would smack the shit out of his younger self who acted out of impulse when drugging you. He would reconnect with you properly instead of stalking your every move and maybe ask for a coffee.

Never would he anticipate standing over your corpse.

==================================

Katsuki stood panting above your body, sweat beading down his head as oxygen struggled to circulate in his chest. Eyes as red and hot as lava shrank to pinpricks, trained with a hero’s eye to check for trickery or deceit. Knowing what a shifty little minx you could be, Katsuki would be damned if he would let you pop back up to try to strangle him. Yet…

You weren’t breathing.

You didn’t even look human on one side of your face; Katsuki’s explosions completely desecrated the left side of your face, the thick and meaty smell of flesh mingling unpleasantly with the sugary undertones of Katsuki’s sweat. The explosion burned through all layers of skin leading to the inside of your mouth, your teeth being visible from your cheek and some even swimming in the small puddles of blood forming on the fleshy remains of your tongue.

An eyeball with his favourite colour pupil was nowhere to be seen from your left eye socket, the webs of nerves and tendons connecting the two severed abruptly. Thick, almost purple blood sludged it’s way down your face, neck and pooled unattractively around your weary body.

You had waited until he had gotten home from patrolling the streets of Japan, hiding behind the door before charging at him ferociously with a kitchen knife. Unfortunately, as a result of him keeping you chained up and beating the shit out of you for months at a time, you stupidly tripped over yourself, allowing Katsuki to grab you with his right arm, pull yours forward, snap it in half with his left elbow and throw his crackling palm against your face. He hadn’t realised it was you.

And yet now, he couldn’t see you clearer.

“B-baby? Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh fuck!”, he screamed, vomit piling at the back of his throat. He only managed just in time to pull away from you before emptying the contents of his stomach in the corner of your room. The vomit never seemed to stop, leaving Katsuki a trembling mess. He twisted his head back to you and could feel a sob tear at his once hard heart. Knees that were designed to kill in his teenage years shuffled heavily to you, a tremoring hand moving the hair away from your face before attempting to cradle your corpse.

Soul-trembling screams of heartbreak were all Bakugou could manage as he clung to you tightly, glassy tears making a sizzle when they plopped on your burned face as Bakugou kissed you all over, for even in death and desecration were you still the most beautiful thing to him.

“P-please baby, I’m so fucking sorry, I, I can fix this! I know I can, all you have to do i-is wake up and we can go back to our normal life! I’ll cook you all of your favourite meals, we’ll go to that damned cat cafe, hell I’d even turn myself over to the police if that would get you to wake up!” He howled into your chest that was rapidly going cold.

You didn’t wake up.

Your physical body didn’t at least.

==================================

3 months had passed since Katsuki had brutally torn you away from earth, and it was safe to say that the bastard was absolutely miserable. Glass bottles of vodka piled up around his couch since he couldn’t even go in his room without going into a panic attack. He didn’t bother going to work anymore, instead letting the calls gather and collect dust in his inbox. Katsuki knew he was in a haze, and yet couldn’t look past himself to change it. He wanted a future where you two would be together forever, a happy family, and yet he sold himself out before you would even kiss him without fear of being asphyxiated.

Katsuki would instead would drag himself around the bottom half of the house aimlessly, carmine eyes that once seared villains now never ceasing the heavy trickle of tears. He was distraught and alone.

At least he thought.

==================================

Katsuki slowly ambled his way into the kitchen, snot threatening to drip down his porcelain mouth as he sniffed unceremoniously. He was running low on vodka, and he would rather take an explosion to the face than live in the house soberly.

A loud thud pulled him from his grief. It wasn’t necessarily loud, just enough to get him to focus on the gargantuan cellar door that he used to house you in during the first few weeks of your captivity. Katsuki didn’t dare touch anything after you were brutally slaughtered passed, not wanting to taint any of your memory. The thud persisted, eliminating Katsuki’s initial thoughts of alcohol-induced phsycosis. It was low, heavy and lingered for a few seconds. Katsuki tried counting the seconds between each knock. 3 seconds per knock.

“Katsuki! Please let me out!”

His ears perked at the voice as his hands began to shake. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. His mind raced, mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. Almost robotically, Katsuki knelt on the floor and set to work removing the deadbolts. Dust caked his fingers as he grasped the familiar cold handle of the cellar door, heaving slightly as he yanked it up.

Musty air engulfed Katsuki’s senses as he lifted his hand to cover his mouth. You could tell he hadn’t used the cellar for ages, sometimes throwing you down here as a punishment but he always caved after day 2. Katsuki hauled himself to his feet as he descended the stairs. The stone steps reverberated Katsuki’s movements with a dull thud as he kept his ears pricked in high alert.

Sure enough, soft whimpers came from the huge antique wardrobe that his mother had gifted him. Another cruel hiding place he would stash you in when you misbehaved. The feeling of cotton stuffing his mouth returned as he robotically trudged his way forward. He was petrified; fear oozing thickly through his veins and creating a sharp pain in his chest. A whimper creeped its way out as he grasped the handle and flung open the door.

The wardrobe stank purely of piss and shit, but huddled in the corner, trembling and sobbing was…

You.

Sweet, dead, you. Well. Katsuki had nothing to prove your health otherwise apart from the crown of your head that shielded your face as it sobbed noisily into your tattered pyjama shirt. Katsuki rubbed his eyes hurriedly, trying to tear away the last of his drunkenness and force himself into sobriety. Sure enough, you remained there, except with a few differences. The healthy glow of your skin melted away as it turned a deep cyan colour. Black veins more prominent on the spindly fingers that he loved to hold so much, and the sobs sounded raw and gutteral, almost as if someone stuffed leaved and cotton down your throat.

“Why would you do this to me Katsuki?” You wailed, head not moving at all. Katsuki’s eyes pricked with tears yet again as he collapsed to his feet in front of you, pressing his chest uncomfortably into an apologetic bow.

“I-I’m so sorry baby, please, I- I didn’t mean to!” He sobbed back, near enough kissing the floor under you.

“But you did. And now look at me! LOOK AT ME YOU BASTARD! LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” You shrieked at him. Katsuki’s body trembled ferociously at your screams, shaking his head just as harsh when he could smell the smoke that killed you in the first place.

“LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”

“No, baby please! I know what I did was wrong, please stop punishing me like this!” He cried, head still pressed into the floor.

“LOOK AT ME! LOOK! LOOK AT ME!” Your screams were persistent, increasing in pitch and volume as Katsuki tried merging his body with the stone floor below.

“I’M SORRY, PLEASE STOP!” He begged, tears, snot and sweat dripping down his body. And then.. it was quiet.

Katsuki opened his eyes as all of the screaming stopped. Panting loudly, Katsuki tried blinking away the tears as he snapped his head up to your sitting place.

Only to let out his own shriek as your dead, glazed eyes burned holes into his.

[qe-podfic]

@pb-and-jammothy has created this wonderful illustration for the cover art of Chapter 7 - Angels of Observation.

Excerpt under cut:

Dimly, Aziraphale was aware that his hand was wet. And in pain.

He looked down.

He had grabbed his steak knife, blade first. He was bleeding. Quite a lot.

Everything was an abrupt flurry of movement. Crowley rushed for him, cradling the underside of his hand, easing the clenched fingers away from the blade. Pressure was being applied to the gash, Aziraphale couldn’t be sure who was doing what. Gabriel appeared from behind a wall, he was calling someone on his iPhone, his voice muted and muffled as the adrenaline spiked in Aziraphale’s temple. So Crowley was the one applying the pressure. Huh.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley whispered, chin brushing the side of Aziraphale’s face in order to direct the words under Gabriel’s radar, “I know what you meant. It’s an avalanche,” his voice was distraught, wavering at the seams. It sounded like he was threads away from bursting, spilling out onto Aziraphale’s feet. Sheer determination seemed to be the last pull of gravity, keeping the splitting segments of him from shattering to dust. The whole of him was poured into his fussing, his movements, contrite and repentant, as though the wound in Aziraphale’s palm was the only place his frenetic energy could burrow itself.

“I shouldn’t have—” the sentence died a miserable death in Crowley’s throat as Gabriel’s shadow loomed over him. Aziraphale wasn’t really all there. He was in… shock? That’s the word they used in all the crime dramas, right? Shock. You got a special orange blanket, and shivered as the police asked you questions about that gunshot you’d heard.

Gabriel was handing items to Crowley, murmured words flittering between them. Nothing reached Aziraphale’s ears. The sting of an alcohol wipe, oh so gingerly dabbed across the slice in his hand, was the first thing to phase Aziraphale’s mental lock-down. Jaggard, acute pain. He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Sorry,” Crowley said, again.

“You should kiss it better,” they both startled as Gabriel spoke, pocketing his phone and ruffling Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale only smiled weakly towards his brother.

“And risk an infection?!” squawked Crowley, “I’ve only just cleaned all the broccoli bits out!”

Despite the indignation of his tone, the touch on Aziraphale’s hand never roughened. Crowley’s ministrations remained, soft and soothing as ever; the alcohol’s bite, quelled with the lick of wet gauze and cotton pads. It did nothing to dilute the wound in his gut, the writhing mass of blood and viscera that squirmed to avoid the hot-iron poke of Crowley’s words. A joking kiss to the hand, an idea shot down with brutal efficiency. But Aziraphale was good for nothing if not pushing too far.

“You’re going to deny me a little kiss?” he pouted, making his eyes as big and round as he could manage. He was leaning forward playfully, batting his eyelashes and nursing the slice on his hand. Even when made in light-hearted jest, Crowley froze at the proposition, mouth agape, his brain reverting to its old Windows XP shutdown jingle. Whelp, in for a penny, in for a pound. Aziraphale tried ramping up the absurdity to snap him out of his funk.

“I’m injured, Crowley!” he pressed his hand outward, “Look at my grave battle scar, my wound! My boo boo…”

With his palm to the sky, fingers outstretched as far as he could manage until the tugged edges were too painful to bear, it left his digits half-curled, the gnarly slash across his heart line, exposed and red-weeping. Irritated skin was a blooming flower, peeling outwards from the delicate tissue beneath, and pouring scarlet nectar from a severed network of holy capillaries. Crowley was the fuzzy bumblebee he was trying to coax into his centre, drywall dust like the sticky pollen in Crowley’s fur. The adrenaline tremble of Aziraphale’s hand as it was offered. The quiver of rose petals in the breeze.

“Dearest, please?”

Crowley swallowed, honeycomb eyes absorbed into darkest night, flicking from the injured palm to meet Aziraphale’s steady gaze. He leaned forward, slowly, incrementally. Cradling the disfigured blossom in a grip too gentle to be real, he hovered, mouth over the hand-heel. His breath ghosted the anticipation of a kiss across Aziraphale’s palm. Air caressing the hills and valleys of his sundered skin. Overwhelming and, yet, too little a touch to satiate the newly awoken ache in Aziraphale’s stomach. It felt like peristalsis in his bones, a new sense coming alive under the not-touches littered over him, an exhalation of electricity on a Faraday cage. He was starving for cyanide. This was the apple. A little death, hidden in the seeds.

“Anything,” murmured Crowley, the distance between them, a yawning void that halted the potential for an accidental brush of skin on skin. And then. And then, Crowley’s lips were on his hand. The sensation shot down Aziraphale’s nervous system, lingering at his elbow, then jolting around his rotator cuff, before it finally settled. Down, down, down. Deep in that hungry pit of him. In his empty core. There, it boiled into nothing but smoke. Crowley’s kiss lingered, only a fleeting few seconds, and then it was gone. It did not take the hunger with it. No, the hunger stayed, swirling in the padded fortress of Aziraphale’s abdomen.

“I’d give you anything,” every word Crowley uttered was a new kiss against his wrist, achingly soft and jittering through the slipstream of Aziraphale’s bone marrow. It was the coincidental flicker of Crowley’s mouth as he spoke, as well as the intentional decision to not move away from the grazing. Every sparkle of contact burned anew down Aziraphale’s spine, zipping to his toes and back. It hurt to hold this thing that wasn’t meant for him. This love, now angled in his direction, out of convenience. But Aziraphale had never been its true target.

This had been a very, very bad idea.

He didn’t know what his face was doing, but it couldn’t be any more pleadingly sincere than the lips at his wrist. In that, at least, he was safe. There was no social etiquette for this kind of thing. No decorum to be had, when a man knelt before you and offered up a pious devotion that wasn’t yours to keep. What was the protocol when your sanguine ichor dripped onto his chin, having escaped from your veins, abandoned to blemish his skin’s silk pearl? How was Aziraphale meant to respond, other than to brush away the spot with the thumb of his uninjured hand, and tilt Crowley’s jaw, upwards, eye to eye, to cease the oral torment on his palm. Crowley’s mouth had never wandered, never trespassed into the angry skin, flushed around the knife-split. Yet, Aziraphale suffered all the same.

“Uh,” Gabriel interjected awkwardly. Crowley reefed himself back from Aziraphale’s hold, careful not to disturb the wounded palm; meticulous, even in his moment of panic. The lurch of him shook Aziraphale out of his head, observing the scene as a voyeur, if only for a moment. Vaporously, he beheld the rendering of them, the mural that had been composed of their positions, shattered in the vacuum of Crowley’s shape as he recoiled.

[whump-me]

Martyr, Chapter 26: Gratitude and Dread

Chapter 26 of Martyr, a novel-length sci-fi whump story about a captured Martian rebel with a secret and the renowned interrogator who has waited a decade for the chance to break him. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: aftermath of severe injury, medical setting, restraints, ominous caretaking, wishing for death

---

Wraith

Wraith came back to consciousness in a series of jagged flashes. At first, it was pure white light. It was too bright, stabbing into his eyeballs even with his eyes closed, until his mind retreated into darkness again. But each time, the flash of light lasted longer, until finally he couldn’t retreat anymore.

Sounds, disconnected and meaningless, joined the light. Metal dropping on metal. A rush of footsteps. A muttered curse.

Smell came next. The sharp, sterile tang of bleach. The thick miasma of blood. The cooked-meat smell of a cauterized wound. His stomach churned. That sensation reminded him that he had a body, a realization he quickly regretted as fresh pains sprang to life all over. The worst was the one in his head, behind his eyes, throbbing with every heartbeat.

Why was his heart still beating?

He hadn’t thought it would take this long to die.

If the white light was here to usher him into the hereafter, it was sure taking its sweet time about it. And it was nothing like the gentle, welcoming light he had heard about. It was a weapon, driving into his eyeballs like a needle or a knife, so bright that squeezing his eyes shut didn’t fully block it out. He had thought the light was supposed to take the pain away.

And anyway, when people talked about going into the light, didn’t that mean it was whisking them away to heaven? He didn’t know much about what was waiting for him after death, but he could be certain heaven wasn’t it.

That thought, more than the pain, was what convinced him he was still alive.

That realization cleared away another layer of haze from his mind. He was still alive—otherwise it wouldn’t hurt this much. He lying on a soft surface—a bed? Not the cold floor of the interrogation room, that was for sure. His head swam in a way he remembered from too many post-mission visits to Gabriel’s medic. He had pain medication in his system, and a lot of it, if the seasick sensation in his head was any indication.

He winced at the thought. If the pain was this bad with medication, he’d hate to see what it would be like without it.

But he loved every bit of it. Every sharp stab when he tried to move, every dull ache, even the throbbing behind his eyes. He loved it because it meant he was alive.

There would be no noble end for him, no martyr’s death. No, he would go on selfishly drawing breath. Selfishly loving Gabriel more than Gabriel’s cause. Selfishness had never felt so good.

He drew in a greedy breath, even though the act of opening his lungs made a sharp pain shoot through his chest, so strong it brought tears to his eyes. Then he did it again. The air tasted of bleach and blood. It was the most glorious thing he had ever smelled.

A dark figure hovered over him, blocking out the light. He squinted his eyes open, but couldn’t make out more than a shadowed silhouette. Gabriel? he almost asked, and held the name back just in time. It couldn’t be Gabriel, anyway. Not in this place. If Gabriel was here, he had failed.

At least, if he was still a prisoner. Was he still a prisoner? And if he was, what did it mean that he was still alive?

It meant they weren’t done with him, that was what.

It meant Isadora wasn’t done with him.

A rush of cold spread out from his gut, chilling the fizzy joy of being alive. The throbbing in his head increased.

“Looks like you’re waking up,” came a woman’s soft voice as the shadowy figure spoke. Not Gabriel’s voice. But not Isadora’s, either. He squinted at her until more details resolved. She was young, with a kind face, and wore a crisp nurse’s uniform.

Could anyone who worked for Special Security look so kind?

He tried to answer. All that came out of his throat was a weak moan.

“You don’t need to talk.” A cool hand rested gently on his shoulder. He moaned again, in intermingled pain and relief, as the touch chased some of the heat from his skin even as her fingers brushed a tender bruise.

“That you’re awake at all is encouraging,” she continued. “For a few days there, I thought you might not make it. Rest. You have a long way to go before you’re fully recovered.”

Days? he tried to ask. And, Where am I? If he was still in the hands of Special Security, surely they wouldn’t have worked so hard to save him. Surely Isadora would have killed him by now.

But he had Gabriel’s name and location. They had been searching for Gabriel for a decade. Wouldn’t they do anything to keep him alive long enough to get that information from him?

“Where am I?” The question was more urgent this time. But his words came out garbled, unintelligible.

The nurse patted his shoulder. “Rest,” she urged.

He made a noise of protest. He had to know if he was safe. And if he wasn’t, he had to get out of here. Now. Before Isadora could get to him again.

He tried to sit up. Hands pressed him down on both sides, at his wrists, his ankles, his midsection. No—not hands. He was strapped down. He thrashed, then let out an animal yelp of pain as the motion jostled injuries he hadn’t known he had.

“Don’t move,” said the nurse. “Your body isn’t ready for that yet. You don’t want to set back your recovery.”

Was that the only reason for the restraints? But if so, why not just tell him where he was?

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep him sedated for now?” a cold voice asked from across the room. The sound sent a blast of cold running down Wraith’s spine. The chill traveled down his nerve endings, all the way to his fingers and toes.

He didn’t need to ask where he was anymore. He had his answer.

That voice belonged to Isadora.

“He’s still too badly injured,” the voice continued. “I don’t want to risk him damaging himself.”

“He’s been unconscious for several days already,” the nurse protested. “It’s important for him to have some moments of wakefulness as soon as possible. The longer he stays under, the more difficult his recovery will be, especially mentally.” Her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. The shape of her body blurred as Wraith’s brain stopped paying attention to her. The only important thing in this room was Isadora.

But one detail stood out on the nurse’s chest. The emblem of Special Security—the planet Earth with a golden star to either side.

Heavy footsteps crossed the floor. Isadora, her hair pulled back in a severe braid, looked down at him with ice in her eyes. He didn’t struggle against the restraints anymore. With her eyes freezing him in place, he didn’t remember how. But a full-body quiver ran through him. His body remembered her. It remembered what she had done to him.

And his mind knew she had kept him alive so she could do it again.

He closed his eyes, but unconsciousness didn’t rescue him this time. He knew she was waiting for him on the other side of the blackness behind his eyelids. He could hear her tightly controlled breaths and the frigid crispness of her voice as she argued with the nurse.

He was alive. But now that thought brought him nothing but dread.

He had no desire to die for a cause, but suddenly, he wished he had died that martyr’s death after all.

---

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[silversiren1101]

In universe everyone thinks the final blow that shattered Minovae's soul completely was her heart breaking from Regill sacrificing herself for her; classic collapse from grief. It's worse than that - she doesn't have it in her to correct that belief though.

The teleport had just completed. She and Yaker lying on Drezen's floor, him bleeding out from his own wounds and she so weak and sick and injured, filled with Abyssal corruption. They'd left Regill behind as he'd ordered, though she hadn't had much of a choice having being carried away kicking and screaming with what little strength she'd had. In desperation, she'd reached for the time travel ability the aeon had afforded to her before.

"Go back. Go back. Please, gods let me go back! Let me save him this time! Let me make this never happen!"

Only to hear in that cold facsimile of her own voice from the dying aeon declare: "You are not worthy."

The powers she'd purged herself of, freshly 'restored' to her by Ssila'meshnik and Paradoxified, were so different from what she'd wielded before--and still unstable as the Maelstrom itself. Her soul, having already been weakened severely by the Abyss and the stress of the removal and return of that mythic power, couldn't take it.

Metaphorically her fingers had just skimmed the surface of where that power had been when the spiteful jolt surged through her. She felt herself crack. Like watching a crack start and then steadily creep across a pane of glass, nothing one can do to stop its advance and undo it. She could only lay there on her front and elbows frozen in horrified realization of what she'd just done, those few seconds of the pieces holding together before the cracks splintered. Then feeling the cracks spiderweb outward into countless branching paths, further and further, a last thought of "what have I done" before everything inside exploded into countless separate pieces.

She could only describe it so much like being gutted and the knife being pulled out: the brief disbelief and numbness before time compress and you realize that you've just died, only a few seconds from now.

Just, "oh no."

And there's nothing that you can do about it.

[flowers-of-io]

Read on Ao3

Xivu Arath does not feel her sister die. Their connection severs with violent abruptness when Savathûn’s worm is exorcised, and though she has been bracing for it, proxy eyes intently watching the Ritual Spire, the moment it happens still leaves her breathless. There is no prelude to it, no gentleness of gradual fading — she is suddenly empty of her sister, whatever background noise her presence has been in her mind cut silent, and the yawning void it leaves behind feels like missing a step.

But she does not feel her die, and so does not find out until days later, when a diligent Knight brings her the news of a body found huddled on rocks somewhere on Earth. Under the Traveler, he says, the Witch heretical even in death, and does not manage to cough out anything else before Xivu squeezes his windpipe. He is fed to the Thrall endlessly gnawing at the legs of her massive throne and she listens to his screams with eyes closed and hands clutching the hilt of her axe.

She wants to see the corpse—she sends out a projection of herself all blurry and shivering like a weak signal transmission, cloaked in the green fog of her Wrath—but it is gone when she reaches the cliff, and an entirely new pit of grief ruptures open in her gut.

Her court is silent for days.

Only a few days, though — the Witness summons her with a chorus of whispers and when she ignores them furiously, still choked up on her sorrow, a resonant hand grabs her unceremoniously and dumps her on the floor of its dark palace. She leans on her axe to scramble up, fuming.

“Wh—” She begins, but it interrupts her before her ire gets the chance to fully blaze.

—-Your sister lives.—-

Xivu freezes with her hand clasping the hilt.

“No,” she says slowly. The Witness is turned away from her, a black triangular shape against a sea of blackness, ivory faces billowing and rising up, up to the endless ceiling. “No, she died on Earth under the fifty-third moon, after she’d severed herself from me.”

She regrets the bitterness in those last few words instantly. Never hand anyone the map of your wounds, unless you want a knife to trace the path through your heart; Savathûn taught her that. The black sea eddies as the Witness turns to face her and the cold revulsion in its eyes is so vast it bends the space around them with its gravity.

—-Your sister chose to wager her life on the Sky’s mercy and lost. The lie you’ve fought so hard to erase, the one Oryx died disproving, she is now the epitome of.—-

It keeps staring at her, piercing her with its gaze, and bile rises in Xivu’s throat.

—-How ironic for a god of lies herself.—-

She crashes back into her throne world in a ball of fire, hollering, rocks melting into magma where her burning feet land. Small creatures disperse in horror, fleeing her wrath and the curve of her axe, and Xivu yells until the path behind and in front of her is ablaze, until the whole court whines and cracks like damp wood cast into fire.

HOW COULD YOU DO THIS

Her axe rams into the statue, sending splinters flying. She swings again and howls as the rain of stone falls onto her head, dust clouding the air.

YOU TRAITOROUS WITCH

She moves through the court like a tornado, splitting rocks apart, tearing columns down bare-handed and ramming through walls with her shoulder. The ground melts and she trudges in it, flames climbing up her massive legs, and with every swing of the axe Savathûn’s statue falls, its shatters sinking into liquid asphalt.

I HATE YOU

Her sister’s temple is a spire of glass and metal, shimmering in a far corner of the throne world like a guard-tower. Xivu breaks every window and cracks holes in the walls, and when she finally gets to the top she spares only one glance to the statue’s face as she rips it apart and pushes off into the sea of fire below. It sinks slowly, and by the time the lava covers it whole Xivu is on her knees, claws digging fissures in the moissanite floor.

HOW COULD YOU DO THIS

[larathia]

TBHK Analysis: Chapter 90

Let’s start with “wow, I suck at predicting where this story will go, but AidaIro makes me not mind that at all.”

Okay. On with the analysis:

Firstly, yay I was right about one thing - they’re not dead yet. 

Now, from there...there’s two stories playing out here, side by side; SIx’s, and Kou’s. So I’m going to treat them separately, and start with the shorter one: Six’s.

From what Six says here, it seems clear enough that he did care greatly for Sumire - and may not realize she’s been with him this whole entire time, because from what both of them have said they haven’t seen each other or spoken to each other since their deaths. Sumire didn’t have the option. Six...I think didn’t have the curiosity. His entire existence was predicated on receiving commands, and from what everyone’s said in the story up to now, Six got the job of BEING ‘Six’ and then just...focused on that? Completely, to the exclusion of all else, which is why the other wonders know very little about him. And why he’d not know Sumire was in the heart of his domain this entire time - that would require a degree of self-knowledge he clearly just hasn’t got.

And that he regrets not having. 

Six does prove able to think for himself and to feel - he doesn’t hurt children, doesn’t WANT to hurt children. That’s a want, which for him is damn near unique. But he comes off in this chapter as very old, very tired, and very sad. 

I don’t know that I would call him dead at the end of this chapter, though, any more than I was willing to call Kou dead before. Hanako took several heavy strikes from that exact sword and is still around. Six is strong and Kou is not. There’s wiggle room in the narrative for either outcome.

Now, let’s talk about Kou.

The lid comes off the pressure cooker that is Kou in this chapter, and we get to see just how wound up he’s gotten, for how long, and why. He thinks of himself as weak (which is reinforced by Teru, Hanako, and now Six) and unworthy of anyone’s trust (which is...not entirely without merit, but I’d say it’s more that he lacks knowledge than power most of the time. Can’t blame him for thinking otherwise, though). 

We see, from his perspective, a terrified Mitsuba breaking up into doritos, which pretty much tells us where Kou was during the severance and what he experienced.  We see, from Kou’s perspective, Hanako cradling the unconscious Yashiro as he explains that Yashiro will die soon. These are not new pressures. They’ve been weighing on him for a while now (though, admittedly, seeing Mitsuba dorito out could only have been days ago in the story’s timeline, he’s been trying to help Mitsuba for longer, and seeing Mitsuba go out like that had to be another knife in the gut). We see Teru defeating Kou easily, and telling him he’s weak. That he’s playing the hero.

Now, what Kou says to Six is scattered over all the panels showing all this, so let me recopy it here into one paragraph because it’s worth taking what he says here and giving it serious consideration.

I’m weak and stupid, so nobody ever depends on me. Nobody ever needs me, either. But who cares about that! I’m gonna beat your ass! I’ll defeat you, and take back Akane-senpai. I’ll save my brother, who’s been badly injured, and Aoi-senpai too. If I ruin the ceremony, the boundaries will be reopened. All of the supernaturals that disappeared will return, and I’ll get [Mitsuba] to come back too. With your ability to control both life and death, I might even be able to do something about [Yashiro’s] lifespan. If I can just do that, then everyone’ll - It’s not about their expectations, or their hopes! I’m gonna make everybody happy. 

Just...read that. Read that in one go. And remember what Kou knows:

1) You can be a living supernatural. You have to eat a supernatural to do it.

2) Eating the heart of a Wonder can let you claim the Wonder’s power - and their seat.

“With your ability to control both life and death” is the most explicit he gets, but that entire speech is predicated on not just ‘defeating’ Six, but taking Six’s place. He wants Six’s power - would need it, to do any of the things he lists here. 

This is where I reiterate that we do not know that Six is defeated at the end of this chapter. But by goddamn I actually really hope he is, because honestly? Watching Kou take such a serious step, all on his own, disastrous though it might prove to be, would be a major character moment for Kou. He’s spent this entire manga playing second or even third fiddle to everyone, wanting to help but almost never having the power or the means to do anything meaningful. HANDING him that power, like this? Would REALLY shake the setting up and it could lead to some great future moments. What would Teru do, for example, if Kou saves Teru’s life by becoming the new Six? What would Akane do? How will Hanako react?

And Six’s final thoughts reiterate that Kou taking such a step would be a major shaking-up of the status quo. Happiness is something he never asked for, nor was ever asked for. It’s never been part of Six. But if Kou does what he strongly implies he’s about to do, the whole world’s going to feel it.

I for one really hope it happens. I am back to rubbing my hands gleefully for the next chapter.

[magpie-moon]

I am a dawn

My heart yearns for a bloom of fire, morning sun

to end this devastating numb

I have become a creature 

Bereft of comfort, habit consumed by harmony

It haunts, fair in golden-pale sunlight

I plead with a star blurred hope

That the crosses i bear will lessen with age

And the teeth gnawing on these hollow bones

The marrow sucked dry from

Luminous winter nights, over and under, trapping weaves in baskets keen

For warmth beneath this great dark eye, will finally glimpse

The sky and see

Purity, breathe through holes poked in the afterlife 

So bright, the fantomes fly home

A windless and cold tribunal

A funeral, staring at a body that might once have been mine

Dressed in the clothes they chose for me, my hair shines

Lips burn red, bright in candlelight

Igniting the waste

I am squandered on sympathy

Empathetic tyranny 

Understand my place, inhale with my lunges

And feel my heavy heart beat with every blood filled pump

I am deceased

Undercovers, find me 

I am lost, soul searching only left me

In a search of higher places 

In debt, my heart wants for wider spaces

To hold me down

The crying never stops, it only slows 

Keep me with you always, i might drown in brevity 

Aching for serenity 

Lover, love me dearly 

For if you ever stop i fear i might stop being

A person in this plane, existing for existence sake

I pray

For something

Someone to keep me safe 

But the fall of rain matches the patter of her breath

Footsteps heaving, hear her on the steps

Nightmares at the door, i slept so well these last few nights

But nothing, save nothingness, ever lasts. I’m breaking

Swelling at the seems, clashing, i’ve never been seen

Only perceived with preconceived notions 

Hold me back, i may run, dressed in nothing but a rash decision 

Caressed by darkness, give me strength to sever and create

Hold me still, for thrashing under weight only brings injury

My eternity, cut short, please exhale life unto me 

And give me another start, a chance at flight

Hold on to fragile butterfly wings 

They break so simply, try to see me. Truly see me 

Please 

Revive me in my hardship, running only makes them faster, grasping further with sticky 

hands

Devour my fear, my hunger, my sickness

Eat my innocence and retch it up, its hurts doesn’t it?

This frail naivete kept hidden, degrading under constant pressure

Understating its devine measure

Humiliation lasts a lifetime, praise but a second 

And I can only lie in bed and count my ceiling fan’s rotation as if they were sheep and i 

a shepard

An exodus of sleep rending me from tranquility. Its lovely, however, no answer to my 

many questions

And the hunger never ends, my sin an overwhelming din above a cliff’s searing edge

I was born and shall die with my eyes unmasked, not to be blinded by the pretty lies 

they said, its so telling

How he won’t have anything to do with me

A devil child of her own heart, raised and bred by her blood

And later trapped in his maw, surrounded by wolves so cruel and so drawn

I grew and became 

A sword too dull to use, i cannae cut anything but myself 

And even then it only bruises 

My words pierce like spears, thrown so hard i tumble in after them

Threatened and deceived by their violence, i am rejected by my own mind, i’ve been 

gutted

And i cannot harden this heart of mine

It breaks with every word

Starshine, no remedy, heals no wounds, only fills me with clarity

Cures of this kind only work for a time

Desperation looms, a flick of a knife

I will forgive her, bloody knuckles save me, give me momentum

Love me with strife, oh mother, my heart

Laden with tremulous oaths broken like original wedding china

Hold me gently, i bleed constantly

My fingers plucked clean of flesh and bone

Every morning, i awake 

To a light so blue it blinds

My skin frigid, nauseated, my stomach empty, crawling

I bend beneath iridescent luminance, forehead against cold porcelain

Stones driven deep with uneven breath, i tremble 

Take me home

Oh mother dear

Leave me be, save me from my malady and let me plod this path in peace

Sling your past from my back

My strength is failing. I cannot sustain your vice on top of mine, mother please, i beg 

of thee

Sing me to sleep, so i may know rest before death takes me

And what a shame that you ever spoke my name, made me a known entity

Exposed me to a poppy field of pain

Numbing all my hurt, even as you claw your way back into my brain

Your breath reeks of wine and decay, rot outshines its sweetness

Let me in, show me a sign

Of motherly devotion and i will grant amnesty for your crimes, yet you only play games

You set in motion

My decline, proclivities notwithstanding, i attempt to rise

Above your demise

I am a dawn, so clear, so eager to render anew 

Weep as woe-begotten tomes tell tall tales 

Of remembrance and honeyed betrayals, the bells ring out and time rectifies

Yet i am forever tied to this life of mine, and though we both may carry shame

You and i shall never be the same

[redux-iterum]

not related to warriors or the redux at ALL but i would absolutely LOVE to hear your thoughts on the last of us if you were willing to share!! honestly i don't think i could've ever asked for a better video game adaptation, i shudder to think what the original movie back in, like, 2015 would've looked like

I am very glad you've given me this opportunity. Thoughts under the cut.

So I just gotta say, up front, the story in the game is magnificent. It totally earned its place of being held up as one of the best stories in gaming history. Several scenes still make me wanna weep (I even hear someone say "baby girl" and my heart has a knife-wound immediately). When I heard they were making a show, I was very afraid - I don't think it's controversial to say that games being made into shows or movies just don't work out at all, ever. The Last of Us, the game, is especially one that, if you ruin it, you have fucked yourself over harder than the dudes behind the final season of GoT. I thought that you will never win over people no matter how good the show is, because the game is just so much better.

BOY AND FUCKING HOWDY WAS I WRONG

This fucking show! Is so good! Its version of the story, dare I say, is better than the game! I don't know how they fucking did that. It seems an impossibility. But their additions and translations and pacing are incredible! I'm watching a playthrough of the game right now for the story to compare, and I'm boggled to realize I prefer how the show did darn near everything! These goddamn writers made me care about Bill! How the fuck is that possible!?

They did make changes, but I love all of them. Especially when it comes to characterization. This Joel, I absolutely adore. Which, I wanna go into that real quick, because the comparisons between the two versions interest me greatly:

Joel in the video game was, to me, characterized as he plays in the game - that is, an unstoppable monster that the NPCs should be and are terrified of, because he can and will kill everyone to make things more convenient for himself. He gets stabbed in the gut and as soon as he gets one dose of antibiotics he hobbles out into the snow and the enemies run away from him; the protagonist equivalent of a boss fight just arrived, and they are not going to fucking engage. He is grumpy and stoic and terrifying, and it takes a long time to get through to his actual humanity, what little he has left.

That characterization works very well for a game, but the show is not a game. It needs a human being to be the protagonist. No one is going to support game!Joel in a TV show. So they softened him and dented his iron wall a good amount, and I love that. He's a person - he's old enough to have bad knees, his hearing is failing, he damn near weeps telling his brother about his desperation to keep Ellie safe - and what a compelling person he is. I loved him already, but the instant he started giggling over a stupid pun Ellie made, he beat out game!Joel by a wide margin for me. I just adore this version. He's a human being, not a playable character. It's perfect.

On another note, it is INCREDIBLE that I know everything that's going to happen in this show - I have watched multiple people do multiple playthroughs of the first game, I know this shit backwards and forwards - and their little adaptive flairs still make me wanna cry. Sam and Henry in particular killed me (I'll talk about that some other time because this is long enough), and even all these new characters that they made for the show have me so invested that, whether or not I can guess where they're going, I'm desperately hoping for a peaceful end for them. I will say that the scene that I cry at every time (the end of Ellie's confrontation with David) was probably the only thing I didn't find to be better than the game, but it still hurt and I am happy for that.

I have a lot more thoughts, but this shit is a textwall now, so I'll leave it at this: 123/10, will cry again.

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 1

Adverse effects | Unconventional restraints | "This wasn't supposed to happen"

Warnings: this is from the au equivalent of the Dumbarton scene, so there's reference to, and some description of rough, unpleasant sex. Plus drugs, plus violence (from slapping to uhhh knife-based skin art). Joleta is sixteen in the au, so legal in the UK but barely.

I didn't really mean to go so hard on day 1 of Whumptober but I did hit all three of the prompts in the one fic so. Yay?

--------------------------------------

By his head was a smashed lamp. Francis could feel shards of glass under his cheek, catching in his hair, sticking to his sweaty skin. He was lying on his back and there was a weight on his body - he thought of the ruined church in East Berlin and gasped, imagining he was trapped once more beneath the rubble. But when turned his face, he realised it wasn't stone and wood that were pressing down on his abdomen - it was another body, sitting heavy and brazen on his guts.

Joleta Reid Malett smiled down at him - a sight that half the population of Scotland would have killed to see for themselves. She was naked as a peach, her hair tousled by exertion, her lips swollen by kisses, strong and confident in her young body.

In her hand she held a pocket knife.

Francis' heart lurched - he realised he couldn't immediately remember the details of how he'd come to be there, naked himself but for the glass and the sweat, feeling like he'd been airdropped into the middle of someone else's nightmare. He moved to sit up, to push her off him, but there was resistance at his wrists, holding him back, and the minute he moved, Joleta lowered the point of the knife to his throat.

"I'm not finished yet!" she said, and a cold, wild look came into her eyes.

Francis stilled. He realised that his arms were both at an odd angle, pulled up above his head, and something stiff and plastic was wrapped tight enough round his wrists that his fingers were turning numb.

Joleta saw his eyes roving, trying to find out what was holding him, and with the knife still resting on his throat she smiled sweetly once more. "I used the lamp cable to hold you still. It's a simple design, but if I mess it up no one will know what it is."

Francis grimaced and tugged his arms for good measure, glaring up at her. The broken lamp didn't move - she'd tied the other end of its long power lead around the bed leg, looping it several times around his wrists along the way, using knots a sea scout would have been proud of. Between that and the knife held to his skin he couldn't struggle or fight her off.

He realised that something on his chest stung with new and fresh pain - the skin felt hot but there was a searing, cool agony at the centre of it, like a wound that was still wet.

How the fuck had he let this happen? The room was a scene of destruction and looked how he felt - bedding had been torn from the mattress, chairs had been tipped over, anything, it seemed, that could be picked up and thrown, had been picked up and thrown (and with force enough to damage the wallpaper and smash photoframes).

But he'd just come here to Dumbarton with a small band, just to play a set for Thompson, to get some information... Joleta hadn't even been on the line-up. He didn't have a record label that was going to pay for the room either - that was on him.

Francis' breathing had swiftly turned disordered and rapid. His chest rose and fell as, gently, without breaking skin, Joleta trailed the blade down his sternum like she was preparing to do an autopsy. Then she shifted her weight and Francis grunted as the air was forced out of him. Her hair fell over her shoulders as she leaned forwards; her round white breasts hung above him and he saw now that there were bruises on them - the prints left by rough handling and ungentle teeth. She shone with sweat like he did and it had made her mascara blur, so her eyes were rimmed with black smudges and she looked like she'd been crying. When he sought them out now, he saw the other marks of a fight: bruises and the little crescents of fingernail impressions on her thighs and waist, the way her cheek was coloured with waxy red lipstick that had been wilfully smeared away from her mouth. The dusting of white powder on her own breastbone and the way she scrunched up her nose and sniffed as she concentrated.

Cocaine. That partly explained it. Thompson probably explained the rest. Francis fought against the blacked out memories as he lay there, slowly becoming aware of the damage that had been done to his own body - his back itched against the carpet but he felt raw tracks on it too, like nails had clawed at him. His cheek felt tender, like he'd been slapped, and other parts of him, soft and sensitive skin, felt bruised, worn and over-worked.

Joleta moved the knife across to one of Francis' pectorals and, without warning, she pressed the point into the skin near where he'd identified the other, unexplained pain.

Francis yelled and swore and wriggled but Joleta increased the pressure and he felt the blade pierce through to the muscle.

"Get off me you crazy bitch!"

She sat up, but the blade was still in him, and she held the handle of the knife in her plump fist. Seeing the expression on her face, Francis feared she would draw her arm back and stab him with it as hard as she could. "Excuse me?" she said shrilly. "You said if I could catch you I could do what I wanted. Well you passed out and I caught you. So fucking lie still."

Francis clenched his jaw and tried to assess how far she would go by the glint in her aquamarine eyes. She was still high as a kite, and he supposed he must be too, which would explain why he was struggling to think of or articulate any plan to stop this from happening.

He fished around in the fog of his memories again and was rewarded with an authentic-seeming recollection, dredged up from the gloom like a rotting body.

"Not what you had in mind? But this is who I am, meine Schätzli..." He hadn't wanted to see her face so he'd pressed her against the bare mattress as she'd done all she knew how to in order to make him think she was enjoying herself.

He felt sick, and retched drily as the knife was removed from the wound. When she repositioned it, frowning thoughtfully at her handiwork, Francis began to remember more, and he knew he deserved this pain.

He was being too rough for her to keep up the pretence, and he'd known it. She'd hammered the words out, trying to sound seductive even with the weight of his body above her. "This is...nice...but why don't you let me on top for a bit? I could show you...real...good time..."

Restless from the amphetamines he'd taken, feeling like he was a long way from coming, bored and frustrated, he'd pulled out and rolled her onto her back. Her body was marked with red blushes where the mattress and her skin had rubbed together, her hair was splayed like gold brocade about her face.

"Shut up," he'd muttered, dragging her across the mattress to the edge of the bed, his hands on her hips.

The easy way he'd manhandled her must have clashed too hard with her own story of what they were engaged in, and she'd sat up and slapped him, hard. He had laughed. He had laughed at her and let her slap him again, then he'd picked her up in his arms, kissing her sloppily, biting her lips as she bit his, and he'd sat her on the sideboard as he fucked her again.

"You'll get your turn later," he'd said. He'd promised her that, all right, hadn't he? Even then, with the booze and the drugs lashing him, driving him to a cliff edge, he'd known it was too much and he would have to offer her some kind of recompense.

So let her mete out her vengeance for what he had done, he told himself. Let her carve her sigil so he'd never be able to do this again, so his body would always be a reminder of the dangers of letting himself lose control. He lay still and steadied his breathing as best he could, though he felt no pity for the girl herself, just a filthy measure of self-loathing. How many points had he proved that night, by taking Thompson's bet and then taking Joleta's too?

The next cut was a line or a curve, he didn't know how long the wound she made was, but he let his breath hiss out over his clenched teeth.

Joleta rubbed some of the fresh blood away with her thumb and then thoughtlessly swept a strand of her hair aside, so the evidence of his injury now streaked her round cheek. "It's not quite even..." she muttered, and the knife lowered again.

Pain on pain: Francis couldn't hold back his strangled cry, but he looked up at her when he was able to open his eyes and, though he didn't say it out loud, he let himself think an apology. This wasn't what was supposed to have happened.

Joleta sat back and smiled, flicking the knife playfully between her thumb and forefinger. "Ta da! Ready for me to write my masterpiece all over you..."

Francis dipped his chin to his chest to see the injury and, beneath dark, welling blood, he recognised a bass clef.

He looked up at her apprehensively, wondering if she intended to transcribe all of Henri O'Kelly's Polyorgane on his body. But Joleta seemed satisfied. "Now, how about I untie you and we do some more coke? The night is still young, Maestro, and I promised you everything..."

Francis smiled queasily back at her as she used her knife to cut his bonds. She bent to kiss him, and he prepared to betray her again: to throw her off him and clothe her and have her removed from his room. To stop this going any further than it had already gone.

First, he stroked her hair back and wiped his own blood from her cheek and murmured:

"June, what a chance you had—to be your best,

The fighting friend of Freedom in the West!

You could have said 'I'll give them placid seas,

Permitting nothing but an off-shore breeze...blue days...and not a cloud...'

Instead, sweet June, how sadly you have sinned..."

Joleta barely listened to the words - he was reciting poetry for her. She flushed, certain she had won her prize. Just as certain of success as Francis Crawford had been a handful of years ago, as he prepared to sign his life away to Margaret Douglas.

[damejudyhench]

💬💬💬💬💬💬 (hahaha yeah that many)

You asked for it…

💬That was wonderful, Captain. And what I said before, what we have… it’s no bad thing. I meet your needs, you meet mine - the Equation is balanced. It’s Verity.”

Max didn’t sound happy, but he sounded sincere. It was the Scientifical ideal of a relationship, Pearl knew; mutually beneficial, rational and productive. Back on Earth, she would have said it was her ideal, too; but she knew in her heart that there was a reason she’d never actually committed to it. And she knew why her own pride was wounded. Max was driven, hot-blooded and passionate, but he was still a Vicar of the OSI, and it had been foolish of her to hope for any different.

“That’s all we’re here for, huh? The Equation.”

“We are all part of the Equation, and through our actions we bring humanity closer to its ultimate fulfilment, yes. For example, from a teleological perspective, your purpose was to bring me to the scholar.”

“That’s from your perspective too, though. It’s funny how the Plan always seems to line up with what you want.”

There was real pain in his voice as he replied, and Pearl found herself wishing that they could talk like this at other times, times when they weren't fucked out and half drunk on the floor.

“Because my purpose is to solve it! My life has been dedicated to understanding the Grand Equation. Without that I have… nothing.”

“That’s your choice.”

Max sighed. “Not from my perspective.”

💬 The Captain liked to earn her bits and then spend them freely, and so she’d taken several rooms on the top floor of the Sprat Shack. Back when they had first arrived, and it felt the way he imagined a vacation might. Before Lucky Montoya’s puzzle had unfolded to reveal the truth of Gorgon, like one of those beautiful plants on Monarch whose petals concealed pods containing gastric acid and small bones.

💬Milo stepped forward.

“I’m skilled in combat - I was an extra on three seasons of Broken Jaws & Broken Hearts!”

Max scoffed. “Broken Jaws & Broken Hearts is utter nonsense. The tossball on display is ludicrous, and there are so many orgies it’s a surprising that anyone even has the time left over to play.”

“Sounds like you know a lot about it, Max.” Felix grinned. “Maybe I should check it out?”

“I was merely watching for research purposes,” Max snapped.

💬Unlike the cold steel corridors the floor is carpeted, and as his feet cross the threshold a sense memory assails him. Approaching the altar, barefoot and bare headed, the first time he was anointed.

(I just really like writing Max ok ok. Here’s some non TOW stuff)

💬The pleasure in her belly and the blood in her gut makes her feel sick and light headed all at the same time, like learning to smoke cigarettes.

(Midnight Mass)

💬They talked about the weblum, then about the balmera, which was apparently even bigger. All the creatures on Coran’s planet sounded fairly large and terrifying. He’d fought a lot of them,apparently, sometimes armed with energy weapons, once entirely naked and carrying only a knife. It sounded like some kind of special forces training, and his outfit did look a little like a sci-fi version of one of those Crimean war numbers, with the buttons and the long tails.

Then they talked about earth animals and their respective sizes, and how animals used to be much larger, and Malcolm realised with relief and delight that this guy truly had no idea who he was, or what a dinosaur was. Being able to talk about them in the abstract like ninety nine point nine percent of the population could, can you believe there was a crazy billionaire trying to clone dinosaurs, can you believe it, ha ha - it actually really helped.

(My VLD/Jurassic Park crossover. Genuinely proud of this for making It work)

[macksracks]

Dark wet spots lie on the bed where her head rest, curled up in a ball. Tears slipped down in a trail sideways onto the sheets, the owner silent other than for the occasional sniff.

She sat up, hands around her knees as she looked numbly at the wall ahead.

A couple moments went by until her gaze slipped down onto her leg, the word "UNPURE" staring back at her. It seemed harah and uglier in the dim, yellow light. The scarring appeared to be much more jagged than normal. All of the scars likely did.

Another pause.

She needed to see them.

She slipped off the bed and moved to a wide mirror nearby, footfalls near silent. Standing in front of it, she stripped until she was bare, scars presented before her. Turning around  she looked over her shoulder. Her hand went around behind and gently traced along where her wings met the rest of her body, terrible scars underneath, inhaling softly as the wings fluttered. The hand slowly moved downwards, now lightly feeling the long diagonal gash below her wings. It wasn't as savage as it had used to be, seeing as it had faded some, but it hasn't faded enough for her. The gaze continued downwards until it froze upon the deep, ugly word on the back of her leg. "FALLEN". He had carved that and the other word deeply into her skin with a knife. Since she healed so quickly, he had taken it into his own hands that everytime that were the words were healed over,  he'd recarve them, opening up the freshly field women for several, possibly even tens of hundreds of times. What had been left behind in the spots were horrific ugly reminders. Words carved into her skin, marring it. Near the end of those times, he'd made her do the rest of the carving of the word "IMPURE" repeatedly. The words dug their way into her heart, leaving permanent marks on her soul.

She quietly turned back around to trace the marks on her front. A front to back gunshot wound under the right side of her collarbone. A deep "X" carved right above her heart, over her left breast. A light scar under her right one, done with a claw. Another one down and to the left of that, a deep stab wound. And then one of the worst. A horrendous, jagged scar along her abdomen. Deep, ugly, and a terrible reminder. Her hands shook as she traced that one, arms quietly wrapping around herself. With that scar, came two things. He gutted her, repeatedly, but.. He had also taken one of the things most important to her. She couldn't have children. He had taken it from her. One of the few things that wouldn't heal back to the way just was. She could still feel his clawed, grimy hands on her, all over her. Tears began to fall again, faster this time as her knees gave out, falling to the floor, soft sobs shaking her body.