#bone dead tired or whatever the phrase is

[merinelsa]

.

[torscrawls]

Spilt Coffee

Tim just wanted to get a coffee before work. Was that too much to ask for?

The universe seemed to think so as it first threw a potential new friend in line with him (yay!) and then promptly followed it up with an armed robbery (boo!).

But maybe he wasn't the only one in the coffee shop with a hidden side.

Words: 2 254

Can be read on AO3!

-

“Hey, is that any good?”

 Tim stood at the counter, waiting for his morning wake up kick-in-the-teeth, when the sudden question startled him out of his half sleeping apathy.

 He turned around and found himself eye to eye with a very tired looking stranger who stood in line to order. He looked to be around Tim’s own age and had black hair and blue eyes, a combination that Tim was very familiar with. As was the bone-deep tiredness practically oozing from the strangers' very being.

 Tim raised an eyebrow, guessing he was referring to the coffee order that Tim had just placed. “The Deathly Darkness?”

 The stranger nodded, eyes half open and underlined with almost impressively deep bags.

 Tim shrugged. “If you don’t mind a heart attack, but you look like you might need it. No offense.”

 “None taken,” the stranger said lazily and with a hopeful grin spreading over his face.

 Tim had the dawning realization that he was speaking to a kindred soul and despite the criminally early hour, he found himself laughing, “I have to warn you though, the fine print says that the shop isn’t liable for any health issues. I don’t want to be accused of causing your death.”

 He sent the barista a wink and they smiled back at him, more than used to his shenanigans and no doubt grateful that he took the time to inform the new guy so that they didn’t have to.

 The stranger waved him off, eyes still half closed and a carefree smile on his face. “Don’t worry, I don’t tend to stay dead.”

 “That's… great?” Tim blinked at the strange phrasing, unsure how to respond.

 The stranger opened his mouth to answer, but whatever he said was lost in the sudden sound of screaming voices from behind them.

 “Everyone, get down on the floor!” A man in a very tacky black ski mask screamed as he waved a handgun in the air. He was backed up by another, bigger, man with a bag and a baseball bat of all things.

 Tim had to suppress the sigh that almost escaped him.

 Of course it had to happen while he was actually, maybe, making a new friend for once—Alfred would be so proud of him.

 And of course it had to happen before Tim had even had his morning coffee.

 Speaking of his coffee, Tim watched in genuine horror and grief as his cup dropped to the ground beside the hunkering barista who had practically thrown themselves on the floor behind the counter before having the time to safely hand it over.

 The black liquid spread across the floor in a very accurate imitation of blood. Which it was. His lifeblood.

 “I said, get down!” The man with the gun screamed again as he aimed the weapon at Tim and the stranger, who were now the only people left standing besides the robbers.

 This time, Tim didn’t even try to suppress the sigh as he lowered himself carefully to the floor. It wouldn’t do to get shot in a café first thing in the morning. Alfred would kill him, regardless of whether Tim made a new friend or not.

 And it certainly wouldn't do to reveal his identity to spare a coffee-shop a few dollars. Bruce would have his hide. Even though it was the best coffee in town. Hmm… Maybe he could just…

 His scheming thoughts were interrupted by the man quickly walking over towards where Tim lay and he felt himself tense up, ready to fight back. What if this wasn’t just an ordinary robbery? Tim knew that he was a very well-known and public person, a very rich person, and that meant that sometimes people decided to try and use that against him. Or against Bruce. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened.

 But he would not be taken hostage today, thank you very much. He was planning on having a nice, completely normal day for once. Besides, his siblings would never let him live it down if he allowed himself to be taken hostage by a couple of idiots in ski-masks.

 He readied himself to subdue the man with the gun as fast as possible, but just as he was about to jump up, the man—

 The man walked right past him.

 Instead, the robber stopped just to his right.

 That was when Tim realized that the stranger he had been talking to and bonding with over coffee hadn’t laid down with everyone else.

 Tim risked a glance up and saw the stranger still staring up at the menu with a thoughtful frown and dead eyes, seemingly completely oblivious to what was going on around him as he swayed slightly on his feet.

 “Dude!” Tim managed to hiss out before the gun-man stepped in front of him and aimed the gun right at the stranger’s head.

 “Get. Down.”

 The boy blinked and slowly seemed to focus on the barrel in front of his face.

 Tim expected fear, expected a scream, expected wide eyes and panic. What he didn’t expect was for the boy to smile and simply go back to looking at the menu. As if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

 Movement out of the corner of his eye told Tim that the big man with the baseball bat had approached the standoff as well and Tim readied himself to intervene once again.

 Maybe he could have just sat this one out, but it was looking increasingly unlikely; a robbery with no one getting hurt was one thing, but a civilian casualty under his watch was something completely different.

 “Are you not listening?!” The gun-man raised his weapon up high and brought it down on the boy’s head.

 Tim winced, knowing how much a hit like that hurt, but the boy didn't even stumble. 

 “What the fuck…?” the gun-man breathed out, looking from his clearly metallic gun, to the boy, and back. 

 Tim had to agree with the statement. What the fuck? Maybe he wasn’t the only one in the coffee shop with a hidden side. Or, Tim thought a bit maniacally, maybe he was too tired to feel it.

 At least the hit to the head made the boy blink and focus on the robber as he slowly said, “You have to wait your turn like everyone else.

 The robber blinked. “...What?”

 And Tim couldn’t fault him for his confusion. Did… Did the guy think the robbers wanted coffee?

 He must be even more dead on his feet than Tim had first assumed.

 The boy gestured at the counter and then frowned as he finally noticed it was empty, the barista lying flat on the ground behind it and out of sight. “Hey, did they go on a break?”

 He then turned in Tim’s direction and blinked slowly at the empty space where Tim had been standing before slowly looking down at the ground. “Dude, what are you doing down there?”

 Tim only stared incredulously before pointedly gesturing at the man aiming a gun at the boy’s face. 

 It took a few more seconds before Danny followed his line of sight and frowned. “Oh.”

 The gun-man shook off his confusion and donned a somewhat strained evil smirk. “Yeah, oh you brat. Get down on the floor.”

 Tim had to give it to him, he and his buddy were goal oriented. A+ for effort. If it had been him, he would have simply walked out by now and called it a day.

 The boy was back to frowning at the robber. "That's a bit rude, don't you think? Besides, I'm waiting for my coffee.”

 At least his reactions were so outlandish that the gun-man and his baseball-carrying friend looked more surprised than angry. The baseball-man hefted his weapon and angrily asked, “Are you stupid or something?”

 A light bulb seemed to go off behind the boy’s eyes as he glanced from the baseball bat, to the gun, and then to the ski masks. “Oh, this is a robbery.”

 And the statement was followed by a wide grin and he seemed almost delighted as he said, “It's been so long since I've seen a good old-fashioned robbery.” Then he gave a slight frown and muttered, “At least by humans.”

 Tim really didn’t have the time or brainpower to unpack all of that this early in the day.

 His weird cheeriness seemed to unsettle the robbers—as well as Tim—as the big man with a baseball bat stepped up next to his companion and growled, "Hey, Kevin, we don’t have time for this. We really need to get a move on." 

 “Don't fucking call me by my—“ the gun-man cut himself off with a sharp sigh before raising the gun high. "Never mind, just take him out.”

 The big guy raised the steel bat high and, before Tim had the time to interfere, brought it down across the boy’s face. The resounding clang made Tim instinctively close his eyes in sympathy. There went his coffee-soulmate.

 But when he squinted them open again and looked up, it wasn't the guy’s face that had a new indent, it was the metal bat.

 Well, that explained some things.

 The boy had to be a meta. It had been a while since Tim had seen one in Gotham, not many dared cross the Bat and his clear dislike of them being in his city. Maybe this guy was new. Or too tired to remember to hide.

 Whatever the case, Tim had a brief moment of relief that his coffee-buddy was still up and standing.

 The big guy stared down at his weapon with wide eyes as the gun-man took a short step backwards. “You freak!”

 “Wow, that's the best you've got?” the boy said in a bored tone of voice before turning towards the counter and asking to the empty air above the cowering barista, "Don't you have an automatic alarm in here? Or a gun?"

 It was Tim's turn to blink. Why would the coffee shop have a gun?! 

 At least the hit to the head seemed to have woken the guy up, if just slightly.

 “Don't even think about it!” the gun-man snarled before whipping the gun around to aim at the barista over the counter. “I'm not gonna go to jail for robbing a fucking café!”

 The barista’s terrified shout rang out in the café and Tim had just made the executive decision to step in when the boy moved.

 As soon as the gun was trained on someone else, all signs of tiredness disappeared from him as if they had never been there in the first place and even Tim—who prized himself on being very well accustomed to different fighting styles and used to crisis situations—had a hard time following what happened next.

 He could have sworn the boy’s hand went through the gun at one point.

 It was all brutally effective, relying more on speed and strength than finesse, and it was scarily effective. The guy moved as if he didn't have to make the conscious decision to do so; as if his body spoke the language of violence without effort.

 Before Tim had the time to do more than push himself up off the floor, the two robbers had taken his place on the grimy tiles. The gun-man clutched at his arm with a scream and the big man was moaning as he cradled his left knee. 

 “Stop whining, I didn't hit you that hard.” The tired guy gave a huge yawn before he reached down and snagged the baseball bat from where it had fallen next to the big man, effortlessly bent it in half, and then dropped it to the floor where Tim's eyes followed it as it rolled to a clattering stop with a distinctly metallic sound, a hand shaped indent at either end from where the boy had grabbed it.

 Then the boy grabbed for something at his waist before he suddenly stopped and frowned. Tim had a split second of hope that he had finally realized what had just happened, and that he might finally say something that wasn't completely off the rails. But his hope was dashed when the guy turned to face Tim, opened his mouth and said, “What do I do with them? Leave them here? I can't really suck them into my thermos…”

 And he sounded so genuine in his question, as if his normal go-to action was to suck criminals into a soup container. 

 How in the world was Tim supposed to explain this to his family? The only words that found their way out of his mouth were, “Your what?”

 The guy, completely without sympathy for Tim’s plight, waved him off and turned back to the counter, leaned over it to look down at the wide-eyed barista hiding there and said, “I would like a Deathly Darkness, thanks.”

 His eyes caught on where Tim’s dropped coffee was still laying spread out across the tiles and the sad look that crossed his face was the most expressive Tim had seen him yet. He cast a quick glance Tim's way, and added, "Make that two cups of Deathly Darkness, please." 

 Okay. Maybe Tim didn’t have to tell his family just yet. The guy didn't seem like such a bad person and it would be a shame if Bruce chased him out of town before they had the time to talk.

 Anyone who would buy him coffee was a good guy in Tim’s book.

[two-white-butterflies]

As Lovers Often Do - c.4

Description: Alyssa Strong was born to be Aemond's wife. As the dance occurs, certain consequences are levied upon her.

"An eye for an eye. A son for a son."

series masterlist | part three

"But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me." - Madeline Miller, Circe.

Alyssa Strong couldn't breathe in the presence of her grandfather. She knows his face - memorized it by the years she spent in his court, but he's only spoken to her as much as her fingers could count. She could remember his voice: hoarse and tired. Parts of him were more dead than alive. "Your lessons with your Septa are good?" he inquired with a bitter smile, eyes dancing along her visage in order to soak in her features more properly.

"Enjoyable, your grace." she responded in a soft voice. A smile graces his lips. Alyssa looked exactly like Rhaenyra as a child - hollow cheekbones with wide eyes. A certain petulance was evident in her lips too - it was interesting to see the second-coming of Rhaenyra carved from the bone of the sister that she rebuked. "You remind me of your mother, she seldom missed her lessons too." he coughed.

"Keep up the good work and a path akin to your mother's will open." he encouraged and she could only nod her head silently. Viserys and Alyssa were from the same vine - yet they were strangers. He was an absent father and grandfather, an incompetent king. "I can only pray that my life will be as joyous as my mother's." Alyssa openly complimented her mother's lifestyle.

Queen Alicent shifted in her position.

"Have you already spoken to suitors, Alyssa? I'm sure that a lady of your age already has engagements lined up." Helaena smiled innocently, unaware of the imposed question that she asked.

Viserys turned to his daughter - the first time in decades that he has spoken to her.

"Alyssa must take her time - she is a princess of the realm. She has all the time in the world." Viserys interrupted, Alicent clenched her fist. It was a reminder of his favoritism towards Rhaenyra. "But what about Helaena, lord husband? She is a princess of the realm too?" Alicent tilted her head, carefully treading the delicate trail of her husband's sanity. "I entrust her future in your hands, my Queen." he responded in a dismissive tone.

"I see." Alicent could only hum in return.

"Something bothers you." Alyssa pointed out, sitting beside her uncle under the Weirwood Tree. In all their years of being friends, there wasn't a single secret that they kept from each other. She could read him as easily as her fortune in her palms and he, likewise. "It is a matter that does not concern you," he breathed and she frowned.

Everything that concerns him, partly concerns her too.

"Hence, you should be willing to share it to me." she crossed her arms, oblivious of the pairs of eyes nailed upon them. "Since when have you been interested in my life?" he rolled his eye and she shrugged. "I've always been, but alas, you are a man. You do not notice it." she accused. He turns to look at her; a smile on his face.

Whatever made her annoying - also made her good company.

"I apologize for being born, I cannot help it." he replied, with a second meaning. "I merely think about our family, that's all." he admitted with another deep breath. It was evident that his father favored another side of the family - a side that didn't include him. "Ah, and now I understand. Our family has always been flawed." she agreed.

Her eyebrows furrow slightly - remembering the phrase that Helaena recited while sewing. "It is our fate to take what belongs to another." she whispered, almost like another voice had taken over her. "This kingdom was not ours to begin with - and maybe you're longing for something that used to belong to us." she attempted to help.

"The gods give us what we take." he recited a phrase too - one that he heard his uncle mumble in a drunken stupor. "- and we've taken everything." she whispered, a small realization dawning upon her. The destruction that the Targaryens were currently facing was long overdue - since the moment that dragons landed upon the continent of Westeros - they were doomed.

There was silence - the kind of silence that equated to understanding. "I'll go hunting tomorrow, will you come with me?" Aemond offered and Alyssa paused. "Where?" she inquired. "A few hours away from the Red Keep - I was told that your mother has a keep near there, mayhaps we can borrow it?" he asked.

"Of course, tomorrow right?"

"I'll meet you in the Dragonpit."

A few years later, Aemond would hear about a song written about their fateful hunt. The bard who sang it hailed from Harrenhal and his voice wasn't exactly favorable. 'A key of dissonance': Aemond referred to it as it took out the affirmative effect of music - he actually couldn't remember the song properly. Only that it made him remember what he sought to forget.

"What do you think would've happened to the realm, if Targaryens never conquered the Six Kingdoms." Alyssa asked, walking across the lush forrest in an attempt to find their dinner. "Chaos." he chuckled, weaving through the labyrinth with confidence.

"It was a good thing that Aegon the Conqueror came, he brought unity to the realm." his lips turned into a thin line hearing her scoff. "What?" he raised an eyebrow and she chuckled. "I'm sorry - I cannot stomach that word." her chuckles died down. "Unity?" he inquired and nodded her head. "Tis' not real." she antagonized.

"Unity was not achieved when Aegon conquered Westeros. Unity can never be achieved as long as men follow their desire - they are not united because they have different causes." she explained, and he paused for a second. "Dearest Isa, I wasn't aware that you held such beliefs - why is it that you never speak about this in the King's courts?" he questioned playfully.

"I am careful," she confirms. "- too careful." she adds.

ALYSSA I

We laid together in my wide blue bed - bare as the day we were brought into the world. "I never wanted to be a princess." I admitted, wrapping my soft arms around his chest - burying my face in his scent. "I remember crying every time my mother called me one." I remembered - earning a soft chuckle from my lover.

"- but we can never escape from the bonds that tie us." I add in a solemn tone. The world was such a cruel thing - always providing things to those that do not want them. Wealth to daughters and duty to sons. Neither one of those wanted such. "We are luckier than most," he answers, I can hear his heart beat from inside his chest - the gentle rising and falling as he breathes.

"When I was younger - I wanted to be King of the Seven Kingdoms, not because I wanted to wear a crown, but because duty allured me. Everyone always talks about battle and glory. Kings have fought battles, and I wanted to be just like them." he shared, the sides of my lips turned upwards. "You have realistic dreams, Aemond. When I was young - I wanted to be siren." I giggled, feeling the heat of the fireplace illuminate our features.

Staring at him felt like staring at a mirror. The same nose - the same cheeks - the same eye/s staring back at me. It was beautiful. Wrong, but tragically beautiful. Is this what Rhaenys felt when staring at Aegon? Is this what Alysanne felt when staring at Jaehaerys? Either way, I'm sure that this feeling is endemic to Targaryens, only us dragons could feel this type of love.

"What now?" I pondered, rubbing circles on his chest. "We'll tell the truth - I'll marry you in the traditions of our house." Aemond looked far into the future, I couldn't help but blush. "But how?" I inquired.

I could feel his hand on my behind.

"Leave that to me, Isa."

.

.

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[mjwiththefangs]

Trickery & Daggers - Chapter 6

In which a hungry vampire comes calling. Also on AO3 Masterlist Word count: 1875 Warnings: Vampire bite scene, blood loss.

--

Astarion is hungry. By the nine hells, he's so hungry. His stomach hurts. The animals he's been feeding on lately have been a welcome improvement for his paltry diet, but even so, it never quite satisfies the overwhelming gnawing in his belly.

 Morgana is crouched down, inspecting a dead boar in the road. Ah. Astarion really must remember to clean up after himself in future, he notes. If they discover his nature now, he'll be ostracised, abandoned. He needs the group, he needs her and the protection she grants.

 Since he peeked in her journal, and caught her limping, she's been a bit more on edge around him, more withdrawn. He's trying to figure out how he can use what he gleaned to his advantage. Should he casually drop a few elvish phrases in her ear and see how she reacts? The possibilities. 

 The woman is eyeing him carefully, trying not to be caught looking.

 How cute. Well, it would be anyway, if he couldn't see the way the cogs in her head are turning, or feel the vaguest suspicion in her gaze. Curiously though, he can't sense hostility. 

 That would be something he would remember later.

.

It is night. They've had a long day, batting at goblins and checking out an abandoned village, even rescuing a gnome from a windmill. They plan to go back tomorrow.

 For once, Morgana is not on watch. She's tired to the bones. Her leg has been aching recently. Normally, of course, she can cope and get by just fine. But normally, of course, she isn't hiking every day, or battling or even sleeping rough anymore. It's starting to wear her down.

 So, in an attempt to take care of herself, she lies on her back, staring at the roof of her canvas tent, and has a pillow stuffed beneath her knee to alleviate the discomfort.

 Her stomach growls as she tries to get comfortable. She has eaten, of course, Gale did rather good with what meagre offerings they brought to him and it went down very nicely with a bottle of blackstaff.

 With a sigh, she closes her eyes, trying to shut out everything around her and count her breaths and drift off. 

 Perhaps it is because she hears something, or she's uncomfortable or even the distracting hunger deep in her belly keeping her awake, that her eyes open at the right moment.

 Astarion leans over her in her tent, his mouth wide, revealing a pair of sharp glittering fangs.

 “Shit.”

 In one hasty motion, he scrabbles back in the small tent, holding one arm in front of himself, exclaiming “no, no- it's not what it looks like!”

 “What was it supposed to look like?!” She snaps, hissing under her breath in an attempt to not wake the others.

 His mouth opens and closes, failing to come up with a quick answer.

 She groans, dragging a hand down her face. She crosses her legs and wearily stares him down.

 “You're a vampire.”

“I- yes.”

“Have you killed anyone?”

“Well. Not for food.” his lips quirk at the corner.

 She really should have seen this coming. He was far too nonchalant about the dead boar they found on the path. A long pause passes between them. Astarion squirms uncomfortably and Morgana ignores him. It all makes sense, after all.

 They both jerk when their tadpoles suddenly react, and she catches a cold glimpse into his unpleasant memories. She feels the ugly blood of a dead rat wash over her tongue and choke her. But it is all the master will allow her to eat.

 Then, they're both still. Her eyes meet Astarions, where he glowers from the other end of her sleeping bag.

 “You… you ate rats?”

 He rolls his eyes. “Yes. Rats, bugs. Whatever… my Master -” he sneers the word “- deemed me worthy of.”

 There's a clear distaste in his words, laced with bitterness and venom, and it becomes clear that he would rather not discuss it. So they don't. Not now, anyway.

 He's returned his attention to her, leaning forward slightly, imploringly. “I just need a little blood. I could think clearer, fight better- please?”

 Can she trust him? Probably no, she reasons, though he hasn't hurt her yet and it's clear his secrecy is formed from self preservation. He's hungry and that's something she's all too familiar with. Maybe they aren't so different after all. 

 Morgana can feel the persuasive pull of his words, the finely woven manipulation within his soft spoken plea.

 She knows this is a bad decision. She knows. And yet, she just can’t bring herself to let him starve.

 “Ok.”

 Surprise briefly flits across his features before he carefully schools his expression into a smooth grin.

 “Let's make ourselves a little more comfortable, shall we?”

 And that's how she finds herself on her back in her tent, avoiding looking at the handsome man looming over her as he eyes her throat. Her heart hammers in her chest, waiting, the anticipation is almost too much.

 His head dips and she squeezes her eyes shut, bracing.

 “Remember to breathe, darling.”

 His voice ghosts over her skin before his fangs suddenly pierce her.

Her body jerks and she sucks in a sharp gasp, her eyes snapping open.

It’s like shards of ice in her neck. The pain burns, then fades to a numbing sensation. A soft groan slips from Astarion, his lips latched on her neck, drawing deep of her life blood.

 She can feel his hard body pressing closer to her, steadily getting warmer as he drinks, or maybe she's just getting colder. His arms snake around her, clutching at her like a man starved, gripping her tightly.

 It feels oddly intimate. Very intimate. But, she finds herself not minding so much. In her peripheral, she can just see the tips of his ears flushing a pretty pink hue.

 Cute.

 His ear twitches. Her hazy eyes struggle to focus. He can’t have heard me.

 Oh, but he did. It takes her a moment to realise what she’s done. Without thinking, she’s inadvertently linked their tadpoles. She can feel his giddiness, how he’s utterly enraptured in her blood, unable to think of anything else. She can feel him growing stronger. She can feel how good it feels, her own warm rich blood washing over his tongue, penetrating all his senses, satisfying a deep rooted craving and need in him.

 Unthinkingly, her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and another soft noise comes from him. She knows she’s playing a dangerous game, she knows she’s giving him too much, and of course realises he’ll know too, as her thoughts brush against his. He can’t feed for much longer, not if she wants to wake up in the morning anyway, but she just can't bear the thought of leaving him to his hunger.

 So she relaxes beneath him, absently reaches for his silver curls, twirling a lock around her finger until her limbs start to feel heavy and her fingertips are numb with cold.

 She tries to clear her throat. “Astarion. That’s enough, ok?”

 Her voice is soft, the hand she meekly pushes against his chest more so.

 It’s like she’s pulled him from a trance, and then suddenly the thread between them breaks, her thoughts her own once again.

 He gulps down the last mouthful of her blood, pulling back and dragging his tongue once over the wound, wasting not a drop.

 When he finally sits up, his pupils are blown wide, almost completely drowning out the reds of his iris’. A line of red runs down his chin. He looks ecstatic. His face is flushed and he wears a silly grin, his fangs on full display. Morgana hasn’t seen him like this before, and briefly finds herself thinking it suits him.

 “That- that was amazing.” He laughs breathlessly, full of wonder. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong, I feel… happy.”

 Morgana pushes herself up onto one elbow and brushes hair away from her face to look at him. Hells, she’s getting dizzy. Meanwhile, he’s practically glowing, he looks so alive. Her head tips and she shoots him a tired smile.

 “I bet you could really kick some ass.”

 It seems like he’d almost forgotten she was here, his attention snapping back to her and he almost seems thoughtful. “Yes. Well, that shouldn’t take long, so many people need killing.” He breezes.

 She chuckles again. What a strange elf he is.

 Her body feels so heavy. The feel of her pillow under her head is a welcome one and she melts into it, spots swimming in her vision.

 “Are you alright?”

 Oh. Astarion is still here. 

She must be taking too long to answer.

 “Morgana?”

 Her eyes blink a few times, finally locking on to his handsome features. Her blood is still on his chin. He’s cautiously scooted nearer, hovering not too far from her. Has he ever said her name before? She’s not sure.

Oh, wait, she needs to answer him.

 With some effort, she waves her hand. “I feel tired. Woozy. Like I need to sleep for a week.” She sighs, further sinking into her bed. “I’ll be ok.”

 That seems to have been a satisfactory answer.

 “In that case, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.” The vampire mock bows to her and rises to his feet, carefully stepping towards the tent exit.

Part of her wants to ask him about himself, or just to confirm that she can and will be asking him come the dawn. Alas, she doesn’t have the strength.

 Astarion stops short just before the exit. Curious. 

 He turns, looking over his shoulder. “This is a gift, you know. I won't forget it.”

 And with that, he is gone. She forgot to tell him he missed a bit.

 As she drifts off, back into a dreamless sleep, listening to the vampire’s footsteps fade into the distance, a vague part of her mind notes that she doesn’t feel hungry anymore.

.

Astarion’s undead heart is thrumming with life. His body feels as though it is buzzing beneath the surface of his skin, stronger than he has felt before, brimming with a power all his own. All thanks to her; to her blood.

Honestly, he hadn’t expected her to allow him to bite her, but then she had been more curious rather than hostile earlier that day.

 The blood of a thinking creature. 

 He had tasted her, bit her, drank deep of her blood, and not only had she let him, but he learned something.

 He can deny Cazador. 

 He won’t ever control me again.

Astarions mouth stretches into a feral grin. He’s free.

 His pulse thrums, full of energy. He is itching to hunt. His senses are stronger than ever, he can hear for what must be miles, from the rustling in the grass, to the sound of his willing blood donor as she rolls onto her side to sleep. Even her weakened heartbeat, still stubborn and beating despite its lethargy.

 He is desperate to hunt and kill and drain something. Anything.

 In the near distance, he catches the scent of young stag.

 Yes, that will do nicely.

 Astarion sets off running.

[awaytobeunshaken]

It wasn't quite the same as before. Didn't hurt as much, for one thing. Waking up after his fall had been a bitch; jerking out of nothingness into a body that screamed with the pain of every shattered bone, until he screamed out as well, summoning Milo just for them to tell him everyone else had already made a run for it.  

This time they at least... had known they’d been dead, maybe. Remembered dying somehow, at least. Whatever that fucking wizard had flung at Ashton had taken them out quicker than the fall from Hexum's attic. They still couldn't quite remember being dead, not the way Orym or Laudna had described. And they still felt real fucking tired, like they’d been in the middle of the best sleep of their life before someone dragged them out of it. Which wasn’t totally inaccurate. 

Grass was bent over him, hands on Ashton's chest. Well, sure, someone still had to do the work of bringing them back. "Ashton!" he called as Ashton's eye fluttered open.  

That's when Ashton noticed the hand tucked into theirs. "Letters, you did it! Or she did, I don't really know how it works, but... Oh, Ash!" Ashton gasped as Orym put his arms around them, pulling them half sitting. "Sorry," he said, releasing his grip as Ashton winced. "We... we really thought you were gone."  

"It's okay," Ashton muttered, barely even looking at Orym now as he propped himself up on one arm and took in the space around him. They were in a sloppily assembled tent, presumably somewhere near the battlefield where he fell. Laudna had been sitting behind him, he realized, her hand resting on his shoulder. Imogen, Chetney, and Fearne were approaching now, thankfully allowing him some space but “What’s everyone doing here? Don’t we still need to destroy that thing?” 

“Ashton, it’s done, ”Imogen said. “That was all yesterday.”  

“What?” They looked at F.C.G. “How? I thought your shit only worked right after someone goes down.” 

“I couldn’t get to you right away; I didn’t have a diamond to use. Fearne found a big one digging around through the machinery, but that wasn’t until later. But, y’know, I remember seeing what Pike did with Laudna, and with getting to know the Changebringer better, I thought it was worth a shot. So I had everyone talk to you, and I talked to her to see if she could still guide you back, and... well, I guess she found you.”  

Orym gave their hand a squeeze. “We’re just lucky it was Da’Leth that got you, and not Thul.” 

“So what all happened with them?” And what did he mean by we? What did they want with him after all this? One thing at a time, though. 

“Da’Leth’s back in Wildemount. Apparently a friend of a friend of the Tempest works with some kind of internal affairs group or something? She’s been wanting to get him on something for years.” 

“And Thul and my mom made a break for it while the fighting was still going on,” added Imogen. “Guess they saw where the wind was blowing.” 

“Then why the fuck are you here?” Ashton looked from Imogen to Orym. “Why are you even bothering with me?”  

“Because they’ve been gone a long time,” Orym said. “And I can’t bring them back. But there was still a chance for you. And I don’t want to lose anyone else.” Okay, that made some sense; they’d seen Orym’s martyr complex in action often enough after all. It wasn't anything personal. 

“And you should get to have people with you when you come back,” added Laudna from behind them. 

Unfortunately they hadn’t been drunk enough the other night to erase that conversation from their memory, and Laudna’s phrasing brought it right to the front of their mind. Had she talked everyone into this based on his stupid alcohol-fueled feelings dump? Did she really think this was the main thing he wanted from any of them? 

“How the fuck am I supposed to make this up to you?” 

“Like this,” Orym snapped. “By being alive. I really hope we’ve moved past a place where this is all about trading favors.” 

“Or debts,” Laudna added gently. “We want to be here for you.” She reached out a hand to take Imogen’s. “When you decided to work for Hexum, were you thinking that if you did enough, if you suffered enough, that they’d come back? Or was it because you cared about what happened to them? I know which one would hurt more.” 

“I’ve seen how much you care about people,” Orym continued. “I saw you with Professor Sumal, I see how you are with Letters all the time; I don’t think you’re expecting anything from them. And the only thing I wanted out of staying here today was to have my friend back. I don’t want to lose you, Ash.” 

Fuck you, he wanted to say, to pull away, to insist that Orym and Laudna and all of them were completely wrong about him. That of course he was expecting something, or paying something else back, because that was how the world worked. 

But... they had stayed. Not just at camp, but here in this cramped tent, around this makeshift altar, to make sure he came back. And hadn’t asked a thing. Today, at least, Ashton could almost believe they actually gave a fuck about him. 

They just hoped they could still believe it tomorrow. 

also on ao3

[idabbleincrazy]

Spike's Meme

Prompted over on LJ on the Nekkid_Spike comm. Did one for Spike, and one for Angel....

Spike:

1. Who is your biggest celebrity crush?

That bloke on Bones, David something…Christ, there's a shag I'm sure I'd never forget.

2. Name 3 things you've done that your parents would disapprove of.

Had sex outside of marriage, lots of it. Murdered, again, lots. And, I'm sure they'd have disapproved of my letting myself get turned into a bloodsucking demon.

3. Who is the one person who can always make you smile?

Fred. Sweet bird always knows how to cheer me up. Pure soul, that one.

4. What is your biggest fear?

Christ, you better not let Angel see this, or someone's gettin' their guts ripped out. I'm afraid of being alone, alright? Never could stand being on me own.

5. What is your favorite love song? And your favorite break-up song?

Oh, c'mon who wrote this poofy crap? Fine…A Thousand Years by Christina Perri, and Cryin' by Aerosmith. If Angel finds out about this, heads will roll.

6. What talent do you have that you think people would be surprised about?

Well, see, there's this thing I can do with my tongue…

7. What 3 things would you take to a desert island?

My smokes, a crateful of liquor, and a Keats book. 'Course, I'll be dead once the sun comes up, so…

8. What unpopular opinion do you hold?

Angel is not the golden boy everyone thinks he is. The demon's still there, it's just on a leash.

9. Have you ever called someone the wrong name during sex?

Whatever Harmony told you is a lie.

10. What are your feelings on clowns?

Look, don't know as how clowns are today, but when I was human, they always seemed like creepy pervs.

11. Is there something that you've always wanted to tell someone but been too scared to?

Yes, but I ain't tellin' you. I'll tell him her when he's she's ready to hear it.

12. Have you ever kissed someone that you really shouldn't have?

That first kiss with Harmony opened a whole can of worms. Oh, and probably shouldn't have kissed Xander that once, but the whelp was so bloody depressed, looking like a kicked puppy. It was reflexive. Donut boy didn't seem to mind too much, though.

13. What word or phrase do you absolutely dread hearing?

Gettin' real tired of the words 'get out'. One of these days I'll listen, and then he'll be sorry.

14. Have you ever been caught having sex?

Please, I lived with Angelus for nigh on two decades. Think the bloke got off on being caught out.

15. Finally, what makes you totally awesome?

Hello? Everything. It's me we're talking about here.

~~~~

Angel:

1. Who is your biggest celebrity crush?

Hedi Lamar. She's a vengeance demon now, did you know?

2. Name 3 things you've done that your parents would disapprove of.

If you asked my father, everything I've ever done is worthy of disapproval.

3. Who is the one person who can always make you smile?

I know who you're expecting me to say, and maybe that was true once, but the bloom is a bit off the rose these days. For Angelus, it was William. For me, it's Spike. He may irritate me to no end, but he knows how to get to me like no one else can. He's the only one who can pull me out of my funk anymore.

4. What is your biggest fear?

Losing my soul. If I did, I'd lose so much more along with it.

5. What is your favorite love song? And your favorite break-up song?

Ready to Take a Chance Again by Barry Manilow, and Mandy by Barry Manilow. Spike's not gonna see this, right?

6. What talent do you have that you think people would be surprised about?

Look, I might be shit at modern dance, but you don't spend over a century rubbing elbows with the snobby elite of Europe without knowing how to waltz.

7. What 3 things would you take to a desert island?

I'm a vampire. It doesn't matter what I bring to a desert island if I'm just going to end up as dust because there's no shade from the sun.

8. What unpopular opinion do you hold?

A soul doesn't stop you from being evil. It's a conscious choice you make every day of your life.

9. Have you ever called someone the wrong name during sex?

Uh, yeah…Darla wasn't very pleased about it either.

10. What are your feelings on clowns?

I think most of them are actually demons under all that makeup.

11. Is there something that you've always wanted to tell someone but been too scared to?

Yeah. I don't have to tell you though, do I? I really think he should hear it face to face.

12. Have you ever kissed someone that you really shouldn't have?

I suppose if I had only kissed people I should've kissed, none of this ever would have happened to me. I know I definitely shouldn't have kissed Sean O'Donoghue's fiancé. Or the butcher's daughter. Or half the population of Galway.

13. What word or phrase do you absolutely dread hearing?

Peaches.

14. Have you ever been caught having sex?

Heh. Next question, please.

15. Finally, what makes you totally awesome?

I mean, I don't know that I am, really. I try to be the best version of myself that I can be, but is that enough??

~~~~

@leatafandom

[gilded-gheists]

"You're Dead. And you just want everyone else to be." -Bizly, joking about William Wisp.

But what if, William was a premonition of death. And that statement, from the moment he thought it, held true.

just a drabble, a word vomit story kinda beat 'm tired. I've been thinking about this phrase Bizly said ever since he SAID it. Major character death throughout. Be warned.

You had woken up in the snow, crimson stained your snow-angel below you, bones were cracked out of place and legs hung limp. It was a shock to your system and you tried to gasp for air that at the time you were thought would help. Though trying to do something you can't was never going to work, whatever comforted you at the time helped. You'd dragged yourself onto your stomach, dragged the mangled corpse through the snow, tracked blood with every sweeping movement and groan you made. Of course, you didn't think you were dead, so you just kept moving, you were desperate to survive.

"Make sure to hop in the shower before dinner, William!" Your mother yelled up the stairs.

Your mother meant well but you'd sighed, clicking your crutches across the landing to the bathroom.

"William," Your father had said, "You smell awful, get some axe."

You'd brushed off your father's remark. He wasn't around enough for you to care.

"You smell like death, Will, take a shower." Your brother sneered at you one day.

Your brother was never around. His words meant nothing.

You left deadwood a few weeks later, the uptick in monster attacks were clearly your fault, you decided.

When you'd reached the edge of town, you were panting, eyesight darkening and world spinning. You coughed up some more blood as snowflakes landed on your nose, sitting and gathering upon impact. Your hair was dusted white with heavy powdered snow and you lay there, staring dead ahead at the battered path into town from the forest. It was night and the streetlamps were on, flickering with moths flitting around it. A groan came from you as you lurched further into town. Desperate for someone- anyone to find you at the time.

Years later you'd gotten onto the train with some friends, dressed up in gaudy purple costumes as a joke. It was nothing else but a joke at the time. Then the train got highjacked and a bullet had came barreling towards you.

If you were alive, you'd of felt bile burn at the back of your throat, threatening to come out. You'd of felt it spill past your warm lips and tumble down your crust pants, pooling in chunks at his body. And the smell of it would have made more come from your lips until it was nothing but flem and tears. Well, if you were alive, he wouldn't have been shot, you would have. But that was besides the point.

Because you're not alive. And you'd simply stood there. Lips cracked, lips blue and parted, staring down at his body as it fell. As if you were tangible you'd reached out for him, as if you could grasp his body and cushion his fall. You'd skidded to your knees with this, probably ripping some stitches in your pants as you came to his side.

Not the shoulder -like you'd thought initially- but the heart.

It was one of your friends who'd found you after hours. She liked walking out at night like this, umbrella in hands and thick boots clunking tracks in the snow. She was like you in a way, a social outcast. Her umbrella fell to her side when she found you though, black tights digging into the snow and knees becoming red and angry quickly. She'd tugged you to your feet, heaving you up as you cried out in agony, foggy breath mixing with hers and fading out together. She'd screamed and yelled for help. Thankfully there was a diner nearby that was open still and people came out to help. Deadwood was a tightly knit-community after all.

His smile was beautiful.

You'd always loved the way he smiled; the way he snorted when he laughed; the way his ears perked up when you called his name; the way he leaned his head atop of your own when the two of you were in deep though - he was beautiful and you were nothing. Perhaps your feelings were no more than puppy love but it was a helpless feeling that was making you feel more alive than any moment you'd ever felt in your life. He made you feel feelings you did and didn't want to all at once.

"You're real. I see you!"

His smile was beautiful,

even when your tears were fading through his face as he lay on the broken concreate, skull cracked open on the floor. Even when your friend was cradling his head, brushing his purple hair out of his eyes, violently sobbing. He was beautiful dead or alive and still it stung. It stung so so bad to lose someone again. And even thinking that he looked pretty in death sent shivers down your spine as you'd buried the thoughts.

Never again. You'd decided. You weren't going to lose your last friend. He means too much to you. He's all you've got left now.

You woke up weeks later being lowered into a casket, eyes shooting open and body lurching forward as you made contact with the cushioned base. People screamed, you screamed. It was...eventful. A few weeks later you were hobbling around the house on crutches whilst you learnt how to control these weird powers manifesting within yourself. The stench of death clung to you like the plauge, no matter how much you washed it stuck. Nobody understood why your hands faded through them. Nobody understood why you were always ice cold to the touch, even in the heatwaves of summer. Nobody got why your teeth began to rot and fall out or why your skin was cracked and cheeks were bloated compared to your figure, they just laughed. you're only 16- this shouldn't be happening after all.

When Dakota offered you his heart? you were hesitant to agree to say the least. The doctor was unstable, he was mentally unstable and blinded with his metaphorical heart on his sleeve. But he wouldn't take no for an answer, and maybe, just maybe you thought being alive would make everything better. And you wouldn't hurt anyone else again. And naievely you agreed.

First he went under, then yourself. And when you came to...

The gentle blip of a lone heart moniter and a solem expression on the doctors face spoke a million words you didn't want to hear.

You're dead. And you just want everyone else to be. Maybe they'd get it then.

You were no longer dead. And you don't want your friends to be. But they are.

[mblematic]

5 Things You Never Get Tired of Writing

thank you for the tag @second-sister !! I have so many tumblr games saved to play because I am the slowest but I HAD to play this one immediately because Boy do I have five things!!

rules: list five things you never get tired of writing. it can be tropes, themes, characters, phrases, whatever brings you joy. then tag five people!

Mutual pining/Idiots in Love/Friends to Lovers !!! These all fall in the same pile for me, I am OBSESSED with two idiots who have been best friends forever and who have both independently realized that they desperately want to bone down but the stakes!!! They are SO HIGH!!! I love this I'll eat it for breakfast lunch dinner for the rest of my life. You can pry these three tags out of my cold, dead hands

"Oh. Oh." moments but in different formats. Not love confessions but love realizations, when one person looks at how another person is looking at THEM or acting around them and suddenly they're like.... wait just a darn tootin' minute are you IN LOVE WITH ME. BAHAHA i love that

I love writing characters who are smarter than me, because it's way fun to write a very quick clever character who is also SOOOO DUMMMMB

Love the kind of character dynamic that's goofy/wild vs cautious but suggestible. Extrovert/introvert dynamic. Golden retriever/siamese cat dynamic. Love writing this because I am the overly cautious cat introvert and all I want is to find a golden retriever true love.

FIRST KISSES

literally the way i opened my computer this morning and immediately started this list, I have more things even, it turns out I only have two kinds of fic and I write them over and over and over and over and over you get it

tagging @broomsticks @tahtahfornow @billsfangearring @direwolf-summer@everythingbutcoldfire @femme--de--lettres and anybody else who wants to!

[noxcomnia-a]

@vowield​ asked: i’m  sorry  that  i  couldn’t  say  goodbye .  white for snow

" I DID NOT WANT THIS. " YOUR VOICE IS SHARP AND HARSH against the cold backdrop of the rising sun against the blood-stained snow. Even if when a wizard dies they leave no body, that does not mean they do not bleed. Blood can be spilled over and over again during a fight before someone finally collapses and turns to those colorful mana stones. That is how Mithra gets bones from dead wizards or, in this case, how you are bleeding and have caused such a bloody mess A̧͡s̭̆̒ ̷̀̚ỳ̮ou'̧̝̘v͔e ͗k̶͠il̵̢̧l̓͒͊e͐d͂ͯ ̶y͑ou̴rͦ bro͞ṭḥ͙er

Your heart is still racing even after you've completed whatever dark arts you drew from the depths of your mind to bind his soul to yours. The sheer pain of going through the process is still wracking your body as you hug yourself. Even if it worked, everything is still settling in. 

EVEN IF WHITE IS HERE, HE IS DEAD. YOU DID THIS.

" I'm sorry ... I'm sorry... " It was a repeated phrase as hands clenched snow between them. It's cold, it hurts, but nothing hurts compared to the weight in your chest and the way that you can barely breathe as you keep gasping for air between sobs. It doesn't feel right to be sobbing for something that you did- This was your fault. If you had just listened this wouldn't have happened. You wouldn't have lost half of your power, you wouldn't be without your brother beside you, and you wouldn't be hurting as much as you are now as you sob uncontrollably.

You were always the more emotional of the two of you, but you can now sense all of White's emotions as well. The sadness, the anger, the betrayal, the twisted gratification, and the want to comfort you. These are all so contradicting that it's very befitting of the two of you. Two northern brothers with far to many emotions and never quite understanding how to express them. That is the sacrifice you make for simply being born a Northerner. 

" I'll do anything- " It comes out as a half sob, you can't stop crying. Tears are staining your face as you can barely keep your eyes open because they burn. Your body is tired and you can barely raise your arm to try and reach out to your brother. " I'll do anything, please forgive me. "

[tryalittlejoytomorrow]

Rules: List five things you never get tired of writing; it can be tropes, themes, characters, phrases, whatever brings you joy. Then tag five people!  

Tagged by @winterlovesong1 , thank you dear 💜

1) Angst and Hurt/Comfort: as evidenced by my body of work - a good 75% of my fics, I’d say - I love nothing more than to explore the angst and give my babies the emotional comfort they deserve and of which the original content often deprives them of, or doesn’t do justice to their pain/trauma. I’m not a glutton for pain for the sake of pain alone, I love writing angst and comfort as balancing each other out.

2) Pregnancy and Kid Fics: I mean, I wrote a 290k fic about a one-nigt stand turning into a surprise pregnancy and a love story for the ages, so...really, who’s surprised here? 😹 honestly, just pry this out of my cold, dead hands. I just love writing seasons of change, and pregnancy is just such a delicate, terrifying, beautiful moment to write about in a relationship. I don’t necessarily see all my ships with kids, but when I do - oh God, when I do, I need to give it to them. And I love the rawness and the vulnerability that goes with knowing the world is a broken bone but still wanting to bring joy and sense to it. (Also: bonus point for the sexiness of attractive people interacting with children, makes them extra hot. 😹)

3) Modern AU/Setting: okay, sure, your world is on fire, it’s war, your husband is being accused of murder, yeah, yeah, I get it, but picture this: what if I wrote you in a modern setting where everybody lives and you’re a Christmas enthusiast or planning your beloved cousin’s wedding? Yeah, what if? God, I love modern AUs. College AU, coffee shop AU, tattoo artist/flower shop AU, gotta catch them all.

4) Pretend Relationship: fake dating but #oops I love you for real, with a big slice of mutual pining on the side, please. This might be my favorite trope ever. Nothing gets me going more than hey, come here, my boyfriend just dumped me and I can’t go home for Christmas without a man or else my mom will nag me for it, please be my boyfriend??? and omg it’s the best friend who’s been in love with her forever and who never dared say a thing??? and she slowly realizes she loves him too, always has, always will??? KICKING MY LEGS CRYING SCREAMING THROWING UP, I just love fake dating so much. Or fake married too, obvs.

5) Metaphors and parallels: it’s not me if there’s no true north/anchor/steadiness/hands/flowers metaphor at some point. This is who I am. And I love echoing those metaphors to show the evolution of the character’s feelings and thinking. Bonus point if it draws a parallel between my otp. Takes one to know one.

(it’s not a good Five Things if there’s no +1 at the end: bonus point for writing about loose hair falling across the face and tucking it behind the ear my beloved)

Thinking of all these things reminded me why I love writing so much, even if I don’t love fandom so much atm. It also reminded I’m behind schedule for updating #oops 😹

tagging @queenofchildren @lochrannn @gizkasparadise  !

[prolix-yuy]

Ache

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of illness, Mando takes another step.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, illness (not graphic), descriptions of male and female bodies, fingering (f receiving), grinding, male masturbation, allusions to sexual acts, we’re still yearning because we have trouble letting ourselves have nice things. 

Notes: First I’m making up things about space banks, now we’re speculating about space doctors. I hope in the great Star Wars universe they’ve figured out things like (galactic?) health care and insurance premiums. Poor little Grogu is suffering in this one, but I promise he’s in good hands.

Takes place after Bloom.

Cross-posted on AO3

I Think of You Series Masterlist

You’re tired.

No, maybe more than that.

Bone-deep, drop-dead, some-other-cute-phrase tired.

Your hands are braced on the edge of the ���fresher sink, body leaning over so your head can hang between your shoulders. This stretches your back, relieving some of the tightly-screwed muscles that had been screaming at you all morning. Much like the cause of your all-encompassing exhaustion.

The child had been fussy after you left the green planet. You didn’t think much of it. Mando told you he just gets tired of being on the Crest for such long periods (don’t we all) and sometimes throws a fit when the days spent planetside are cut short. The day after blaster training (the memory of it still heating your face) had been one of those disappointing days. Looking up to see Mando galloping around a corner, blaster bolts screaming past him and puffing into the dirt at his feet, you had to take off without whatever forest treat was occupying the child’s attention. 

He definitely hadn’t let either of you forget it when he tipped his ration pouch out onto Mando’s lap while looking him right in his visor, deadpan baby face daring you to be angry about it. 

(it made you have to hide a smile behind your own dehydrated meal)

It had taken a few laps around the Crest for Mando to regulate his breathing again, the stresses of the day coming to clash against the child’s sass. A curious villager turning informant. The scream of TIE fighters overhead. A flash of white and a race off planet. A reminder that yes, you are indeed still being hunted (the reason why Mando brought you on his ship, right?) and dallying on planets puts more than just you in danger. The child should know better than to pout but he’s also, well, a child. 

So you didn’t recognize at first that the grumpiness he was exhibiting wasn’t normal “green baby smarminess” and instead something to be worried about. You began to take notice when he stopped sleeping, not because he wanted to play or be mischievous, but because something was obviously bothering him. His baby squeals and screeches were pained, the first time you’d ever heard that, and it made you dash to your datapad to try and figure out what might be wrong.

Having his unique physiology, it was hard to find anything to compare it to. Maybe a routine illness, but you weren’t sure what could bring him relief. Would regular medicine be fine, or would it be too strong for his small body, or not metabolize correctly? 

After recalculating the jump drive algorithms and leaping back into hyperspace, the third time in as many days, Mando descended the ladder and found you scrolling frantically through your datapad, the child wheezing and crying in his hammock. You weren’t much better, anxiety and worry making your sight bleary and your nose run. Mando rushed up to the cot, hands fluttering over the child as he recognized his father, little baby arms outstretched to be coddled. Mando picked him up immediately, soothing him with soft shushes and examining him head to little toe.

“How long has he been like this?” Mando asked you, and you hurriedly ran through the progression of symptoms without lifting your eyes. 

(can’t let anything happen to him, Mando’s child, you promised you’d keep him safe)

“Hey,” Mando said sharply, making your eyes snap to him. He filled your vision with darkness and beskar and you couldn’t help the grimace that wracked your face.

“I don’t know where he got it, or what it is, or how…how to make him feel better,” you shuddered out. The child’s wet cough was a blaster bolt to your chest. 

(take it away from him give it to you)

“Stop,” Mando said firmly, kneeling down to your level. He put a heavy hand on your shoulder and made you look into his visor. “We’ll figure it out. He’ll be okay. He tried to swallow a live pylat bird once, he’s been through worse.” 

Mando’s attempt to break you from the cycle of misery helped, and you nodded and rubbed snot from your upper lip. 

Two days passed as you used Mando’s connections to find a medic who could give you proper medicine for the child. A round of antibiotics to clear any foreign pathogen, a syrup for the cough, and hot showers and lots of sleep to let his body heal. It sounded so simple when she said it, giving you a small bag with clinking bottles, but you had felt out of your mind with worry. You barely slept the last few nights, the wet breathing and occasional sniffs and coughs keeping you too alert to the child’s condition.

Now, it looked like the medicine was doing the trick. The child’s color was coming back to a vibrant green from the sickly color it held before. The hot showers, held in yours or Mando’s arms (whoever’s turn it was), cleared a lot of the phlegm that tortured him at night. He was finally starting to sleep again, and you suspected he would have a few marathon nights now that he could rest uninterrupted by his body’s rebellion.

That didn’t change the fact that now you couldn’t sleep. It’s as if your body is conditioned to every small noise in the ship, waiting for a dangerous silence to fall. You want to scream in frustration, but the child just got to sleep after shrieking up a storm all morning (appetite’s back) and working through a burst of energy that depleted your final reserves. You think he’ll sleep through until dinner, and keep telling yourself you should too. 

Mando is far less affected by the days of restless nights and lost sleep. “Not much different than hunting,” he says quietly, stroking the child just behind his ear. It works like a charm, eyelids drooping as he falls off. Mando neglected to set coordinates for the next stop until the child was settled, instead spending the days on the ship giving him medicine and attention. 

(the kid does love that part)

(you do too)

But the child is asleep, a good sleep too. And you cannot for the life of you get your body to do the same. You know you need it, desperately, but the adrenaline in your blood is coursing through you like electric shocks.

With a moan you straighten back up, looking in the ‘fresher mirror. Your eyes are bloodshot and tired, face puffy from rubbing it constantly. Your hair is wet from the “relaxing” shower you tried to take, but it only made sleep crawl further from you. You put the heels of your hands to your eyes and sigh loudly.

“Kid’s still asleep.” Mando’s voice envelopes you from where he’s now leaning in the ‘fresher doorway. 

“Yeah, great, that’s perfect,” you say, no feeling behind it. “He’s got the right idea.”

Mando chuckles as you finish hanging your towel. The wetness from your hair has seeped into the back of your shirt and you’re annoyed at the sensation. Everything feels wrong and uncomfortable and you just want. To karking. Sleep.

“Looks like you could use a nap too,” Mando offers. 

(no shit metal man)

“Oh yes, definitely, if I could just get my Maker-damned brain to shut off,” you huff, a tired grimace on your face. Mando straightens and watches you a little more closely. You can see him in the mirror’s reflection, half shrouded by the low light of the hall with golden gleams reflected off the beskar. 

“When adrenaline runs too high, sometimes you can’t get it to come down,” he says, and while you're half bent over the sink you notice him sidling up to you. Slow, his feet barely lifting off the floor. 

“Not sure how I’m supposed to deal with that,” you snark back, squeezing excess water out of your hair. You feel stuffy and swollen with exhaustion, your eyelids heavy but the deep pull of sleep not following when you shut them. Which you do, Mando’s voice is often a nice soporific when you’re bored in the cockpit listening to him make intel calls. You’d fallen asleep uncomfortably in the jumpseat several times just listening to the deep hum of the vocoder reading off coordinates.

“There are a few good ways to bring yourself down. Deep breathing,” Mando’s voice is becoming hypnotic as you listen with your eyes closed. 

(Stars, maybe this will do it)

“Meditation…” he offers, which you scoff at. His voice sounds closer now, almost behind your shoulder.

(If you fall asleep on your feet, will he carry you to bed?)

“Would you like to know how I do it?” Mando practically purrs, and his voice is right by your ear. You force your eyes open, a light furrow in your brow, to see Mando standing directly behind you.

The gleam of the paudrons spans past your shoulders, the helmet hovering by your ear. It’s tipped towards you, the visor trained on your face, before turning to look at you in the mirror. You glimpse your lips, open in surprise, and the lift in your brows before both of Mando’s arms come up around you, fingers gripping the fresher sink next to yours. He’s barely touching you, boxing you in but not crushing you.

“Mando…” you squeak out, and the helmet tips enough for the bottom lip to press against the crook of your neck.

“I take my cock and think of where I’d rather be putting it, and fuck my hand until I cum,” he grits out, his words alone igniting a heat in your cunt. Your knees feel weak for a moment, your body threatening to collapse back into him.

“Can I do that for you, Mesh’la? Fuck you with my hand until you cum?” You gasp, fingers tightening on the ‘fresher sink as you squeeze your thighs together. One of Mando’s hands comes up to cover yours, his warmth contrasting the coolness of the metal under your palm. The other drifts to rest on your stomach, fingers splayed. You can see the orange of his gloves bright against your dark top, thumb making soft strokes against the fabric. 

“I promise it will help you sleep,” he whispers sinfully into your ear and your eyes roll shut. You’re drunk on his words, body responding wonderfully to his touch, as you nod once, lower lip between your teeth. You remember the ecstasy of his hand cupping you on that forest planet, how badly you wanted him to make you scream around his fingers. The rush makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

(let him claim you)

Mando’s gloved hand drags down your body to rub you over your pants, the press of his fingers between your legs giving some sweet relief to the ache. The moan you let out is more air than sound, but you feel Mando’s hum of approval against your chest. 

“I’ll take care of you, Mesh’la,” he purrs into your ear, hands lifting off you for a moment. You open your eyes to see Mando stripping his gloves off, thwapping them into the sink bowl. He covers your hand again, but this time he laces his fingers between yours. The skin is rough along his knuckles, smooth in the cup of his palm. He huffs out a breath and you remember how few times he feels his skin on another person’s. 

(give it all of it anything you can have you want) 

His other bare hand moves to the waistband of your pants. You’re in comfortable leggings today, too tired to manage anything with zippers and buttons, and his fingers slip under the fabric easily. A gentle finger teases at the edge of your underwear, waiting for you.

In response to his touch, you arch back against Mando, the cleft of your ass pushing firmly against his groin. Instantly you’re met with the heft of his cock, pressed tight against him in his pants. Your mouth drops open and a real moan tumbles out, dragging your plush ass against him. He stutters out a groan and dives his hand down into your folds, his thick middle finger gliding over your clit. Using the flat of his palm and the heel of his hand, he pushes you back against him, surging up to meet you. The armor presses into your back and thighs at contrasting angles, the vambrace against your stomach grounding you against him.

“Fuck, Mando, feels so…” you try to say before he slips his fingers further into you, dragging through your slick to bring it to your clit. He begins making small firm circles, the motion frictionless. 

“Mesh’la…” he groans, and it’s needier than you thought it would be. “Ohhh fuck, Mesh’la,” he continues, and the broken way he’s moaning to you is tightening everything. 

“Mando, please, please,” you beg, rocking back against him as he gives you nowhere to go to escape the mounting pleasure. You can feel his hips grinding against your ass, his cock sliding over the curve and against your lower back over and over. You look up in the mirror and if you weren’t trying to prolong your pleasure you would have cum from the sight alone.

Mando is bowed over you, helmet resting lightly in the crook of your neck. His armor is bathed in the soft glow of the ‘fresher light, golden streaks contrasting the cool silver. You can see the roll of his hips in the way his shoulders flex, the expanding rise and fall of his chest. His thick arm disappearing into your pants and the lewd way you can see the outline of his hand against your cunt makes you keen out a long moan. 

“Can I put my fingers inside you Mesh’la? Feel you cum around me?” he asks, a hair short of begging and you pant out a yes. He cups your mound in his large hand, two fingers delving down to rub softly at your entrance before buying them inside you. The stretch is exactly what you need, and as he seats himself inside you can’t prevent a shout from echoing in the ‘fresher. 

“Fuck, Mando, yes, theretheretherethere,” you cry throatily, hips bucking against him as he curls his fingers inside you, dragging past the spot that will make you cum on his hand. He grinds against your clit and uses his other hand to squeeze your fingers tighter. 

It’s a sandstorm of sensations, breaths and pleas and chants echoing off the walls. Mando is punching out growls behind you, his cock aching against you and if your release wasn’t a moment away you would have begged him to fuck you. But he hits the sweetest spot and you cum around his hand, gasping moans as you begin to fall forward. Mando is too quick for that though; his other arm bars between your breasts, hand spread wide at the base of your neck. He pushes you back against his chest, your head lolling back to rest on his chestplate as you rock out the aftershocks of your orgasm. Both of you lean back against the ‘fresher wall, panting, his hand still down your pants and the desperate hardness of his cock against your back. 

When your breathing slows Mando removes his hand from your cunt, sliding it up to rest his wet fingers against the bare skin of your stomach.

“Feeling tired now?” he chuckles breathlessly in your ear. He’s right, of course. The exhaustion you felt before has morphed into a jelly-like feeling in your limbs, one that promises deep restful sleep. 

“Yeah, I’d say so,” you shoot back. Something heavy hangs in the way you look at each other in the mirror, as if actually meeting eyes would make you have to answer to what you did.

(he made the first move and pulled a devastating orgasm out of you)

(just like the first time)

You know this is the step you’ve both been waiting for. The heaviness of the air colors you with significance. He’s not hiding from you anymore. It should only be a matter of time and circumstance before you take the leap together.

(you hope it will develop into more)

That will be for another day though, when your emotions aren’t so raw and you can think straight.

“Can you get to the bed yourself? Or do you need me to carry you?” Mando murmurs in your ear. His hands are still wide and possessive, spanning as much of your skin as he can. You like the way he looks on you, all warrior and man wrapped around your flesh. 

“Think I can manage,” you pant out, reaching up to trace his fingers with your own. He drags them down your body, resting them on your hips. “The real question is what we should do about this,” you say, rolling your hips back into his cock. You watch Mando’s head drop against the ‘fresher wall, a grunt and heavy exhale echoing.

(you could find a little more energy to watch Mando cum)

“Not tonight, you need the rest. I’ll check on the kid while you’re sleeping.” You hum quietly and brush your hands against his, the size difference making your stomach flip pleasantly. Stepping away from him on wobbly legs, you move to exit the ‘fresher. Pausing, you look back at Mando, who’s half leaning against the wall.

(what do you say to not scare him off?)

“Thank you for helping me,” you say, giving him an affectionate, tired smile. “Let me return the favor sometime?”

You think you hear a choked sound behind the vocoder before Mando nods, and you tap your fingers on the doorframe with a wink before leaving. Stumbling back to your bed, you puddle into the blankets and drop off to sleep almost immediately. It’s a dreamless slumber except for flashes of regal silver and sunkissed gold.

Din turns on the shower, water masking his pained grunts and gasps as he masturbates to completion shockingly fast. He stripped the armor and layers in record time, his skin burning for release, before he drove himself over the edge replaying the way you moaned for him. It barely curbs the hunger he feels, the need to devour you and surround you and make you scream over and over. He wishes he didn’t hurry under the spray so quickly, the water rinsing his hands before he could taste you on his fingers. 

Kriff, he’s been trying his best to curb his flirting, not confuse you with his wants and intentions, and one exhausted look from you made him toss caution to the wind and give you what you needed. Well, maybe it’s what he needed too. Your smile, your body that responds so eagerly to his touch, your company, the look in your eyes as you came shuddering and gasping against him. It’s as addictive as he remembers, his need to wrack your body with pleasure as satisfying as taking his own.

His arousal is mounting fast again, and with one half-frustrated whack of his palm to the ‘fresher wall he takes his cock in hand again and loses himself in the bliss of your smile and the desire in his heart.

END

“lean in to kiss me

in all the places

where the ache

is

the most special.”

― Sanober Khan 

Part 7 of the I Think of You series.

The story continues in Episode 8: Both Sides of the Door

[arthurtristankingsmen]

Hey remember this from forever ago? Guess what! I wrote a sequel!! Based on this addition :D

He never was one to fall asleep fast.

Arthur struggled when it was time to rest. Where Vivi might be asleep before she even touched the mattress in a boneless sprawl and Mystery could nod off in the time it took to remove his shoes, Arthur languished in bed. Most nights he stared at the ceiling while the minutes crawled by, seranaded by the quiet breathing of Lewis, the wuffle under Mystery’s breath as he dreamed, and Vivi’s signature rumble-snores.

Lewis would tease him- he couldn’t sleep because his mind was always at work; the gears were always turning, he didn’t know how to put his brain in park, and whatever other clever turn-of-phrase his best friend could think of. Lewis caught him more than the others did, what with their tendency for sleeping like the dead, and often he’d spout his playful ribbing while brewing something warm for Arthur to drink in the hopes it would settle him.

Lewis scolded him at times too. Arthur found it easier to get wrapped in a project at night, scratching the hours out on paper with designs until exhaustion sunk into his bones, mind burnt out from mulling over every line he’d laid on paper. It was easier to rest when he pushed his limits, as much as it made Lewis fret like the babysitter he was when Arthur found himself caught. But making work for himself accomplished far more than counting the popcorns on the ceiling and waiting for hours until sleep claimed him.

So it surprised him, then, when his feet slowed behind Lewis in the tunnel, a tickle of something numb and drowsy at the nape of his neck. Walking up the shallow incline became trudging through damp mud, every step a little more of an effort, and his body tingled like feathers brushed at his skin, until gooseflesh rose the hairs on his arms.

Arthur shook it off, focusing on Lewis’s back, where the light of the torch was snuffed by Lewis’s larger frame, his royal purple vest turned black. His fingers ached to reach out for the comfort he knew he would find there, wound in the fabric, but he refrained; Lewis’s voice was rumbling in the cavern. He needed to focus.

He could tell Lewis’s voice was stopping and starting, shifting between words, and momentary lapses of silence. He could hear his voice, knew who was speaking, but the words were steadily losing comprehension.

He could tell by the way Lewis’s hands fumbled that it was important. That the gaps of quiet were nerves holding the next word hostage, until courage managed to untangle his tongue a few moments longer. But they didn’t coalesce, didn’t gain any clarity, Lewis’s voice just a lulling echo in his ears.

Even as they reached the ledge- even as they could see all the vibrant greens coiling in mists around each stony spire below- Arthur felt an edge of something, like the nerves he’d had on entering. But now the feeling was muted; he teetered on the edge of exhaustion, the trek up burning the last of his energy. Lewis leaned over the edge and Arthur’s eyes grew heavier, mind scrabbling to stay awake. He watched with a dampened sense of worry as Lewis bent further, the torch illuminating the overhang and bouncing orange light off the greens of the chasm and the walls near the ledge.

Be careful- you could fall, he wanted to say, but the words didn’t form on his tongue right, misshapen and clumsy. His eyes were falling shut, the lids too heavy and his brain too fatigued. He’d slept on the trip, hadn’t he? They’d been so happy in the front without him— he’d dozed a little to not think, the engine of the van rocking him with it’s reassuring vibrations. They’d roused him with singing only minutes from the cave.

So why was he so tired?

The thought escaped, and the rest fragmented into white noise. For a few beats, he only heard his breaths in the cavern, echoing off the stone and through his mind in the unnatural silence. He was smothered, too hot, cocooned in himself in a way that trapped him, and the fog coiled like green fingers pressing close and gripping at his skin. The cave walls inched ever closer. Tingles ran up his arm.

Arthur broke that oppressive quiet as his eyes continued to droop, fingers grasping for comfort from the one source he knew would provide it.

“Lewis…..”

He saw his best friend turning towards him, and his eyes slid shut, leaving Arthur weightless in the void as he tipped forward.

~

The dreamless dark didn’t last. Green filtered in, like the fog was in his brain. The colors of the cave swirled in front of his face. Everything was blurred like an out-of-focus photograph and left afterimages as it moved. He thought his eyes were closed. Was he asleep…?

Everything was numb, down to his very core. If he was standing before- Arthur wasn’t sure he was now. His feet didn’t feel like they touched the ground. He wasn’t falling, but there was no sense of something solid beneath him. The air in his lungs and that clung to his skin was humid, almost too thick to breathe, yet he felt cold to his bones.

His vision continued to fuzz- colors blending and blurring as if the world forgot what lines were, what solidity was. Everything was tinted green. It was still the cave, but it didn’t look right- it was further in the tunnel, and the walls wavered like the mists did, the greens shifting from wavering hues of moss to sage and back again, playing off the stone like torchlight. Beyond the walls, the tunnels blackened into suffocating darkness. His breath was visible in a soft cloud of fog with every exhale. Arthur called out, could feel his lips part and the thrum of his vocal chords, but no sound broke the silence.

Something purple formed ahead in the fog. It was still out of focus, but it threaded in and out enough to draw his eyes. Stumbling towards it on deadened feet, Arthur called again, still mute. The greens were getting brighter. He left black footprints with each step that started to loose green fog.

His hand moved without his say. He watched it distort the air, watched the space ripple, with a detached sense of fascination one had in a dream. The arm lifted, fingers touching and palm flat, towards an amorphous purple expanse before him. He heard his voice from nowhere, a whisper in his ear, and the shape turned towards him, until he could see a smile and a face in watercolored vision.

Lewis?

Something spiked in his chest as his hand touched fabric. The green around them seeped into everything, even his own skin, and burned like the sun on the surface. Inside he was frostbitten though, liquid nitrogen running in his veins. He couldn’t pull back.

He watched in slow motion. The fabric where his palm pressed into Lewis’s shirt bunched and wrinkled with the pressure, but his arm kept moving forward until it cracked and pieces of purple fell away. The spike in his chest tightened. He sucked in a breath and willed his hand to pull back, to stop moving. But it continued to pitch forward, until what he could see of Lewis tipped backwards with the sound of shattering glass.

He put everything into reaching out. Every scrap of will, every desperate effort, every fiber of his heart and soul into moving, into reaching out, into grabbing Lewis’s shirt or his hand or something to stop what he was only seeing in a haze. But his left hand didn’t listen, didn’t even twitch despite the inarticulate screams lodged in his throat. His right hand moved, but the air was molasses that tugged and pulled and fought nearly as hard as he did for every inch. He grabbed the left wrist, to try and pull it away. To stop it. He wasn’t sure.

This was a dream. This was a dream—this was a dream no this wasn’t a dream it was a nightmare WAKE UP!

His fingers encircled his wrist, but Lewis’s soothing purple had vanished beyond the precipice. Arthur buckled forward, hitting his knees at the ledge. He didn’t feel it. But he could see. See Lewis falling with a clarity he didn’t have before. He could see every line on his face, where shock was etched. The whites of his eyes and pale shade his skin had taken, the way his lip had split from how open his mouth was, locked in a silent cry (was it silent? Or could he just not hear anymore?). He could see every crease in his shirt, the seams of his vest, and the whorls of his fingers on the hand still reaching up for him. He could see the rustle of each strand of hair, of his ascot and his sleeves, as the air pushed past him.

Lewis was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

F

a

l

l

i

n

g

Falling—

And then Lewis wasn’t.

Flesh gave way to stone, flowers of red blossoming and spreading in a carpet. Blood-red roses vined in tendrils all over Lewis, crawling out his mouth and nose and ears and where his chest should be. The landing echoed in his ears, in his brain like a song that lodged itself in his head. It was hard and it was wet and it was fabric tearing and bones breaking and his whole world unraveling. His heartstrings snapped like a violin’s, adding to the discordant melody. Bile was climbing to his mouth, burning everything it found along the way.

This was a nightmare—this was a nightmare wake up wake up wake up wake up wake u-

He heard shrieking and he thought it was him, but his throat wouldn’t open. The sound broke the chamber like glass; it was the next note in the melody in his head, sandpaper on his skin. His face was wet and he couldn’t move. He could only listen, could only know.

Vivi was screaming.

His mouth finally opened, and a laugh escaped. Another did, and another, as he stared downwards. They couldn’t stop, harsh and gleeful and glass shards in his mouth. The sounded louder than the screams as tears blurred his vision, as Lewis turned red and Vivi came into view, rushing to him and catching red as she touched him and kept screaming—screaming Lewis’s name over and over until the words bounced around him so much they lost meaning. Pieces of the floor were floating to the ceiling and cracks ran like spiderwebs over the floor. He hoped it broke and he fell too.

He could see in his periphery something green- something too green and too bright and curled upwards like a smile as he still laughed with half a mouth, tears and nose streaming and gasping breaths making him dizzy.

It was a nightmare it was a nightmare Lewis was okay he just fell asleep right Vivi was okay Lewis was okay none of them were hurt it was fine please pleasepleaseplease it’s a nightmare please—

Something growled in his ear, dark and deep and dangerous. Ice needled Arthur’s back before sharp knives began to tear flesh, tore him away from the ledge and into a gaping maw of endless teeth.

All his thoughts turned red.

~

Vivi slipped on blood. 

Her head was spinning, she could hardly think. Something was pounding at her mind, her heart was beating with a name she couldn’t remember, but she grit her teeth and pushed to the hospital doors. She kept his right arm-- his only arm-- wrapped over her neck, and her other hand gripping his waist. One finger stayed through the belt loop of his jeans, keeping him up. Arthur’s feet scraped on the asphalt the entire trek, and blood slicked her, but it didn’t slow her.

The doors slid open automatically, and she stumbled inside. Arthur’s head lolled, hair limp and body slack. He mumbled something as Vivi screamed. “HELP! I NEED SOME HELP SOMEONE PLEASE!” She slid on the tile, blood slaking her mary janes, and she nearly dropped Arthur, but she held on to keep him from falling.

Everything was blurry from tears, but there were definitely people there. Arthur struggled, half-hearted and then with more desperation. “Mmmmhg---” His one arm pushes against them but the fighting causes her tourniquet scarf to further darken.

“Arthur please--” Vivi’s voice breaks. Someone is trying to talk to her, but she can’t look away from Arthur. All she can see is red. Her heart is twisting tighter and she can’t breathe. She wants to vomit. All the noise is ringing like tinnitus in her ears. She’s still crying and she wipes at her eyes.The tears glint purple in the hospital light.

They have him on a gurney, and he’s still struggling. How long has it been? Time isn’t moving and at the same time it’s racing. She’s the only thing moving, or she can barely move as it all rushes around her in blurs. She moved to one side in her molasses, touching a now leather-strapped wrist. She holds his hand, fingers lacing over his straining knuckles. “Artie-- Arthur---” She sounds like she’s begging. She is. She’d rather it was her on the bed right now, being wheeled towards double doors.

She’d give everything. Anything.

One of the white blurs pulls out something. When it sticks him, Arthur comes alive, squirming. His rending words cut through the static. “PLEASE! NO! NO-- I can’t---! I don’t wanna sleep! I can’t sleep! I CAn’t! NOT AGAIN PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME SLEEP!”

Her eyes watered more as he continued screaming, struggling against his bond. He broke away from coherency, falling int pleases, over and over and over. It was all she could hear. Please please please please pleasepleasepleaseplease. He’s crying, he was before but it’s so much, it’s all she can see, blood and tears. His voice is cracking, breaking, it’s tearing apart like shrapnel on her ears and skin, and she’s sobbing too, as he keeps speaking, but the volume drops, fades. His voice peters out, his eyes rolling back and his mouth hanging open.

She has to remember. To remind herself he’s not dead. He’s not dead, not dead, he passed out he’ll be okay he has to be okay please let him be okay.

They pass the doors. Someone grabs her shoulders, holding her back. Her hand parts from Arthur’s, as the gurney continues down the hall. She fights back a few moments, before she’s shaken by the orderly, just enough to click back into the moment. Her hand stayed extended, where the memory of Arthur’s fingers had been.

It feels like someone should be there to hold her, but she’s alone, staring after Arthur, until he turns the corner.

She sinks to the floor, knees splayed, and covers her face with her hands. Arthur’s blood is staining the floor, pooling all around her. But it isn’t all Arthur’s. He hadn’t lost this much. Some of it is Lewis’s---

There’s a snap and all her thoughts turn pink.

[nachosforfree]

hrrn hrrn fanfiction me gusta

ao3 link

The two players the young pigman had approached were so nice to him. They cooed at him, one crouching down to hand him a gold ingot, the other remarked something in a strange language. They placed a boat in front of him, and he curiously got in. The players grinned and started pushing the boat. He looked around, wondering where he was being taken. They soon arrived at a large, purple portal.

The players were speaking in the strange language, and one held up a name tag. The pigman looked down at his gold ingot, rubbing it and smiling at the shiny surface. He jumped as the name tag was pinned to the back of his shirt, giving a small squeal that the players seem to delight in. They pushed his boat through the portal and he shut his eyes at how bright the purple was.

When he tried to open them, he was only further pained by something large and bright far into the sky. It was brighter than lava, and hurt his eyes badly. He rubbed at them and squealed again. He heard the players utter things to each other, before they began to push the boat again.

He used the gold ingot to shield his eyes, and the players cooed again, finding it to be the cutest thing despite the fact he was in pain.

Soon they pushed him through a forest, the large trees shielding him further. He looked around with curiosity, the trees here were nothing like the ones in the nether. They were brown in the trunk and their leaves were green, the ones in his home were red or blue.

One player groaned out a complaint, and the other scolded them. He wished he could understand them, but whatever language they spoke wasn’t at all what the pigmen back home did.

Soon, he was pushed to a large archway, a small city beyond it. One player cheered, pulling their arms away from the boat to rub their tired muscles. They spoke to the other, before dashing off into the city. They soon returned, a man now following.

He stared in awe at the man, who had black, glistening wings that folded behind his back. His brow was shadowed by a striped hat on his head, but his blue eyes seemed to glow even so. The player who led him here gestured at the young pigman, speaking quickly. The man nodded and walked over.

He took hold of the pigman’s collar, and remarked something, presumably about the name they’d given him.

He said something else to the players and they both smiled before saluting him and running off into the city together. The young pigman was lifted out of the boat and held in the man’s arms, and the man smiled at him. He was carried into the city, glancing over the man’s shoulders at the forest and boat behind them.

As the man walked, the pigman couldn’t decide where to put his eyes. Everything was so new and interesting. There were so many different mobs and types of players. Some players even looked like mobs. Some looked like him, pigmen, but they also spoke in the strange language. They would catch his eye and smile brightly.

He felt safe here. It was strange.

They entered a building, and the man put the pigman on his own hooves. He crouched down to be at eye level with him, the kind smile still on his face.

He spoke perfectly in the pigman’s language, “Hello there, Techno-Blade.”

The pigman tilted his head, “Technoblade?”

“That’s the name those players gave you, I hope you like it. You can always change it if you’d like.”

The piglin looked at the floor for a moment, contemplating the name. It seemed much cooler than the one his parents had given him. The thought of his parents made a spike of sadness go through his heart. Yeah, a new name sounded good.

“It’s cool.”

The man laughed, and stuck out his hand, “I’m Philza. Philza Minecraft.”

Technoblade wrapped his small hand around Philza’s, shaking it.

Philza stood up again and a player approached them, speaking in the language from before. Phil cleared his throat before responding, motioning to Technoblade. The player nodded and smiled down at him, reaching out their hand for him to take. He did, and they led him to a small room filled with twisting vines and warped fungus. There was a blue bed in the corner.

They said something before patting his head and leaving the room, shutting the door behind him. He stood still in front of the door, not exactly sure what to do next. He turned and walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. It was big, big like the one he’d had in his home.

He missed it. He missed his big house, and his family, and the small crown he had to wear when his parents had guests over, and the plastic sword he would swing around and get scolded for hitting the house workers with. Before he knew it, tears were falling down his face, and he sniffled, trying to wipe them away. Everything had been okay until the people living under his parents had gotten angry, storming their house and cornering them.

His sniffles turned to loud sobs as the images of his parents lying bloodied burned his mind. Blood for the Blood God, the people had chanted, some raising their swords at Techno, ready to finish him off and leave the entire family dead. He screamed and ran faster than he had ever run before, dodging past other pigmen’s legs. Some of them smelled of slowly rotting flesh, and the scent mixed with blood made him gag.

The thought of it now made him gag again. He lurched forwards and emptied his stomach onto the floor, hiccuping and sobbing as he retched.

“Oh shit.” He heard from the door.

He tried to apologize through gasps but couldn’t get the words out.

Words were shouted down the hall and then there was a shadow over him, arms reaching out to try and grab him. He screamed and threw himself back against the corner. The shadow over him cursed and stepped back.

“It’s okay, Technoblade, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Someone else entered the room, holding something in their hands, they knelt down near where Techno had vomited and began to clean it up. They didn’t talk.

The first person reached out again, slower this time. Techno could barely breathe. He slashed his claws at their arm and they flinched. Blood dripped down from where he’d scratched, and that only filled his mind with more panic.

Blood.

Blood.

Blood.

Blood for the God.

For the Blood God.

Blood for the Blood God.

The phrase repeated itself over and over in his mind, drowning out any other thoughts he could have, slashing and clawing at his brain. His head throbbed, he felt like he would throw up again.

The person backed away, giving up on physically consoling him.

“Technoblade, look at me.”

He could barely hear the words over the chanting, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open, his red ones meeting glowing blue ones.

“Breathe.”

He listened, gasping a few times before trying to force his breaths to settle into something calmer. It was barely an improvement, still certainly not getting a good, stable amount of air in, but it was progress.

“Good, good, keep breathing. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Safe, that’s what he had felt when being brought here. He remembered safety. It felt so far away right now. Safety was in the arms of people larger than him, in smiles and head-pats and hugs that squeezed his bones. The thought of being touched was sickening right now, but he desperately craved it.

The person who had cleaned up his mess quietly stood and exited the room, not wanting to cause the young pigman any more distress by staying.

Soon, Techno’s mind cleared enough to realize that the person standing before him was Philza. He felt more tears fill his eyes, and he stuttered out an “I’m sorry”.

“It’s okay. Are you okay if I come closer?”

He nodded, and Phil gently sat down on the edge of the bed, still keeping his distance a little. His arm was still bleeding, and Techno tried desperately to keep his eyes away from the sight.

“What happened?”

“I- I just, I was…” Techno hiccuped, bringing his hands up to rub at his eyes. “My mom and dad are dead! They died and I didn’t save them at all!”

“Oh…” Phil muttered, a look of concern in his shaded eyes. “I’m so sorry to hear that, but Technoblade, I doubt that it was your job to save them. Sometimes things just...happen. Young boys like you shouldn’t be held responsible.”

Techno sniffled, looking up at the man through his hands, “But…”

Phil scooted closer, “No buts about it. Whatever happened, it isn’t your fault.”

Techno dropped his hands into his lap, looking away silently.

They sat in silence for a few heavy moments, before Phil spoke, “Do you want to go get some water? You probably need it right now.”

“Water?”

Phil paused, realizing that due to his nether origins, techno had likely never seen water before.

“It’s a type of drink, to keep you from getting thirsty.”

“Oh… okay.”

Phil stood and held out his hand for the pigman to take. He stared at it for a few seconds before grabbing it and hopping off of the bed.

They walked through the building together, Techno seeing that there were many other rooms like his, some also having pigmen in them.

“Why are there so many pigmen here?”

“There’s a rot going around the nether,” Phil explained, “We want to get enough pigmen away from it as possible. It’s dangerous.”

Techno shuddered, remembering the smell of the rotting pigmen who’d attacked his family, “Oh…”

Phil stopped at a door, and opened it to reveal a large kitchen. He pulled Techno inside and gestured to a bench for him to sit on. As Techno sat, Phil picked up a glass bottle and filled it with water from a cauldron. He handed it to Techno and filled another one up for himself.

Techno took a sip and hummed, feeling the liquid cool his now aching throat. He took a big breath before chugging the rest of the bottle, hearing Phil laugh as he did.

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected,” The man chuckled.

“It’s really good.”

Phil nodded and sipped his own, “What do you all drink in the nether, anyway?”

“Mostly milk from hoglins.” Techno answered, watching Phil grimace at the idea.

“Oh.”

Techno glanced back and forth between his empty bottle and Philza’s face.

“You can get more, if you want. We’ve got plenty.”

Techno awkwardly sunk into himself for a moment, before standing up, walking over to the cauldron and dipping his bottle into it. He filled it to the top and drank.

He sat back down on the bench, drooping his head back and closing his eyes, tired from all the crying and panicking he’d done.

He was lifted into Phil’s arms, but didn’t resist this time, and was carried off to his room. Phil laid him in his bed.

“I’ll wake you for supper later,” The man promised softly as he turned and exited the room.

Techno watched him close the door before burying himself under the blankets and shutting his eyes, swallowing and thinking about the nice tastelessness of the water as he drifted off.

[moonbeamwritings]

street light serenade

Summary: Unable to sleep, you call up a certain mangaka for company, convincing him to drive around Morioh with you in the dead of night. What comes next exposes much more than what his most recent draft is focused on.

Author’s Note: Rohan simps come get y’all juice 🗣️🗣️ I hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think!!

Sleep eluded you, as it often did when you were overwhelmed with university work, tossing and turning for hours on end as your mind swirled with all of the assignments you were too worn out to finish. It was nearing twelve o’clock and you couldn’t bring yourself to pick up a pencil or read any more academic journals.

Finally deciding to just get up and move around, you ventured down the hallway and out into the kitchen. A cup of tea could do some good, you thought.

With the tea kettle on the stove, you hopped up onto your counter, mind reeling with other ways you could get yourself to fall asleep. You could go for a walk, watch tv, or listen to music. Maybe going for a drive could help alleviate the stress crowding your brain.

As the kettle began to hiss, your mind was made up. A drive around Morioh sounded perfect, but one question remained. Should you go on your own? 

Without a second thought, you pulled your phone from the wall, eagerly dialing the number of the only person you thought would be awake at this hour.

Rohan Kishibe.

It took a few moments for him to answer, casting doubt on the possibility of your plan coming to fruition.

“What do you want?” His voice was sharp and biting, clearly not thrilled about being pulled from whatever he was doing.

“Hello to you too, Rohan. Do you want to come for a drive with me? I can’t sleep.”

Rohan’s response was immediate, sparing you no kind words or easy let-downs, “No.”

“Come on, please. I’ll pick you up! You don’t even have to do anything!” You knew you were beginning to grovel, trying to sway him to indulge your midnight whims, but you didn’t care.

“I’m not getting caught dead in that tin can you call a car.”

“Some of us have student loans to pay off, you know. Plus, who would see you anyway?”

You could hear him scoff through the phone, a short judgmental sound followed by a few long moments of silence. As soon as you thought he had hung up on you, he spoke, “I’ll pick you up in five minutes. If you’re not ready, I’m going home.”

A click sounded before you could get a word in. He was such a pain in the ass.

Rohan wasn’t easy to like, or easy to get along with, and he knew that, but you searched for his company often, asking him to coffee or lunch or stopping by to give him a new book he could use for research. At first, he would roll his eyes and scoff at your presence, annoyed at the prospect of someone so wholeheartedly thrusting themselves into his quiet little life. However, as time went on, he began to crave conversations with you, though he would never admit it.

So when you called, practically begging him to go for a drive, he couldn’t really say no, despite the apathetic lilt to his voice. Reluctantly, he pushed away from his desk, gathered his keys, and headed out. He would indulge you, if only just this once.

With your teacup long since forgotten, you raced around your home, throwing a comfy sweatshirt over your head and slipping into your shoes. Casting one final glance at yourself in the mirror, you lept out the front door, seconds after Rohan pulled up.

Plopping yourself into his passenger seat, you let out an excited greeting.

“You’re far too energetic for this time of night.” He replied, hand reaching across the gap to land on the back of your chair as he backed out of your driveway.

“What?” You whined, pouting at his tone. “Car rides are fun!”

“You sound like a dog.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

The car fell silent as he began to drive, taking random turns and heading in whatever direction he pleased.

You brought a hand up to the radio, fiddling with the dials and buttons until you landed on your favorite station. You lowered the volume, sending the music into the background, rather than allowing it to ruin the calm energy in the car.

Rohan glanced over at you every so often, admiring the ways that the street lights mixed as they sped by, molding together to cast interesting shadows along your face.

The whole experience felt almost surreal in a sense, traveling through liminal spaces as some silly pop song played softly through the speakers. Just the two of you, the street lights, and the rumble of the car.

After another turn, you began to ask Rohan more about his life. What motivated him, what he was currently working on, when he was traveling again. Every question on your mind seemed to pass your lips, eager to become closer to the man that tried so hard to keep you at arm’s length.

He humored you, of course, but not without little complaints and jests, “You working for a gossip magazine or something?”

“No, I just want to get to know you. That’s all.”

Your response made something tighten in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had shown genuine, unmotivated interests in his thoughts and feelings. He was so used to the same questions, people entertaining his presence in order to weasel their way in, hoping to get some money or fame through his friendship.

You were different, a welcomed change.

When you exhausted your questions, he picked his own. How were your studies going, did you have anything lined up for once you graduated, what had you so worked up you couldn’t sleep. If you were going to know more about him, then he would like to return the favor.

Growing tired of taking the same turns, Rohan directed your little mission to a scenic overlook, angling the car so you could both stare out at the ocean.

It was peaceful, sitting under the light of the moon with you, watching as it bounced off the waves below, creating swirling patterns of dark sea and pale moonlight.

The orange glow of the streetlight on his side of the car casted a shadow along the side of his face, illuminating his high cheekbones and green eyes. Your eyes traveled down his neck, absorbing the way that same shadow warped against his neck and collar bones. In your eyes, he was rendered ethereal in this light, an untouchable being with an indescribable beauty.

“I didn’t know you had a staring problem.”

He could feel your eyes boring holes into the side of his head and it was starting to bother him. You can’t just stare at people, refusing to utter even a word. It was annoying.

Still so hypnotized by the light playing against his face, you responded without a second thought, “Rohan, you’re beautiful.”

Your words left you both speechless, rendered even more silent following your confession. You were embarrassed beyond words and Rohan was in absolute disbelief.

“What?”

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Just the,” you floundered, hands rising in falling in a desperate attempt to collect your thoughts, to form some sort of explanation, “the light.”

You cleared your throat, “The light behind you… it’s casting a pretty shadow. That’s all.”

Through your pathetic attempt at deflecting his question, he examined you, turning in his seat to really take you in. The same light casting shadows on him created a perfect beam on your own face, your soft skin and kind eyes on full display. He laughed, the whole situation both ridiculous and welcome at the same time. A mix of literal and subjective interpretations of the phrase “seeing someone in a new light.”

He scoffed, a smirk lighting his face as he pulled you closer, closing the distance created by the center console, “You talk too much.”

With that, he planted his lips against yours in a searing kiss. Your hands came up to trace along his cheekbones while his hand remained on the back of your head.

Rohan wasn’t one to wax poetic about just anyone, that much you knew. So as he pulled away, still holding your head as he began to describe how you looked under the light streaming in from outside, you felt your face warm. The slope of your nose, the curve of your cheeks, the delicate dip of your cupid’s bow, all made beautiful under Rohan’s diligent stare.

When he was finished, he readjusted his position to sit facing forward again with his hands resting on the steering wheel, “You’re alright, I guess.”

That’s the Rohan you knew and loved.

The two of you remained at the overlook for another hour, chatting and listening to music, but as he watched your blinking begin to slow, your eyes begin to grow heavy, Rohan elected to take you home.

As he drove along side streets, passing neighborhoods and businesses, he stretched a hand over to land against your thigh, gently squeezing it every so often.

Maybe he could afford to put this side of himself on display more often, if only for you.

[amethystpath-writes]

P2 A Nice Catch

Part 1 here

(NOT A PROMPT)

Oooh, A Nice Catch was *chef's kiss*. Could you continue it? Maybe completely, not thinking straight, grief-stricken villain goes after Supervillain and the supervillain hurts him because the villain is very dangerous/angry and then maybe the Supervillain has to caretaker because they have a bleeding, sobbing villain at his feet.

Sorry if that seems bossy or specific, but i really loved the piece and my brain went haywire with all the possible endings. But do whatever you want to.

Not bossy at all <3

******

Flashing red lights on a Saturday. Supervillain sighed. The sound was probably the most obnoxious part of it all. No matter. Needs to be dealt with. Even his thoughts were gruff and tired. He would never admit it to anyone else but tracking down that little rat and weakening her was difficult. No wonder Villain struggled with her so much. Doesn’t explain how he developed feelings for someone so righteous though.

‘I don’t know what your life has entailed but there are other ways of healing. I can help you.’ Hero had said to him upon being captured.

Healing. Supervillain scoffed as he urged himself off the couch, turning the television off, and flipping off the lights, trying to make the quarters look vacant. There were various other electronics still on, but they were necessary for security- which was currently blaring.

I don’t need healing. I need power. Power to take down all those shitty, rich neighbourhoods. What good were they when so many people were left on the streets, starving, and begging for pocket change? The rich didn’t care, and for it they would perish. Villain used to agree.

Now, Villain was bent on a ‘The rich are a necessary part of the economy. Without them, there would be a middle class and the rest of the economy profits off the middle class,’ idea.

With a grumble, Supervillain left his lounging area, walking instead to the monitor room.

“Camera one, good. Camera two, fine. Cam three. Four. Five. Six. Then why the hell are the alarms going off?”

Not a single room revealed even a twitch of movement or a breeze to rattle lobby plants.

Ker-pshhh. The radio. The only other people working right now were part of the security faction. Meaning, Supervillain needed to respond, especially since the radio was going off. He grabbed the speaker off the side of the metal box and brought it to his mouth while holding the button. “What is it?” It no doubt had to do with the alarms.

“Sir? There’s been a breach in Building 2, third hall monitoring room. One body confirmed to be dead.”

“Any others?”

“No response from Radios 8 through 13. I’m in room Fourteen now…Sir? I think I’m next.”

Supervillain pinched his brow. “Have you gotten into contact with Buildings 3 and 4 yet?”

“No response from them. I’d gotten the alert from Radio 21 and sent it to Building 1 as soon as I got it. I don’t know who it is, Sir, but if they’ve made it as far as they have then I’m afraid-”

There was a crash on the other end of the radio before it cut out. Supervillain cursed under his breath before slamming a hand on the counter before him. He squeezed the button on the radio. “Whoever you are,” Supervillain growled into the speaker, “you’re dead.”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Ker-pshhh.

“Oh, I’m very much alive,” a voice said. A voice which made Supervillain groan and slap his forehead with the blunt of his hand.

“Villain, what the hell are you doing?” His voice was more disappointed than anything and he released yet another groan. “Don’t tell me this is because of the rat.”

It didn’t take a second for Villain to respond. “She isn’t a rat.”

Isn’t. Oh boy, this was a case of grief, wasn’t it? “You didn’t dress her up and put her in your kitchen to eat breakfast with, did you?” Supervillain joked. “Probably had to spritz her with some of your cologne a few times, huh? Would smell like rotten meat otherwise.”

“You must want me to kill you. It’s why you tried to kill her, isn’t it? Isn’t it? You’re sick of living this sad and vengeful life, so you did the one thing that would piss me off enough to do this- to sabotage your own business.”

“Villain, old buddy, you’re in over your head.” A sigh. “I killed her, alright? She’s dead.” Supervillain refrained from calling Hero a rat for another time, seeing as it sent Villain over the edge. “And it was for your own good. You were becoming weak, and your business was falling because of it. Do you even realize how much fell apart all because you let her slither into your heart?”

“The old boxing pit on Third Street,” Supervillain explained, “underwent construction shortly before you were about to buy it. You know what was left at the scene- what the media didn’t cover? A mallet with Hero’s DNA on the handle. She smacked at the foundation, Villain, until it was bad enough to need repaired. What’d you go and do then? You bought a greenhouse instead- reported to your employees that it would benefit them because they wouldn’t need to go buy a lunch for themselves. She manipulated you, Villain, into someone you’re not.”

“She helped me become the best person I could be,” Villain gritted out, but his voice sounded with an echo. Supervillain paid it little mind.

“The rat changed your priorities.”

“They needed to be changed.” Supervillain squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing at the door slamming against a wall as Villain came crashing in. Well, that’s why I heard his voice twice. Once through a radio, and second through the door.

“That’s gonna cost you, but I tell you what.” Supervillain spun on a heel and told Villain, “You go in halfsies and I’ll let this whole thing slide.”

Nothing could have stopped the fist which Villain sent towards Supervillain, one nearly bone-crushing. One which sent Supervillain staggering back into his radio, pushing it up against the wall with a bang.

“I’m the one in the position to grant mercy, not you.” Villain began walking towards Supervillain as he regained himself but as Villain raised a fist, his old friend launched a hand of his own forward, grasping it tightly. In Villain’s shock, he lacked the response to pull away, and was instead pulled towards Supervillain while being turned, his back flush against Supervillain’s chest, his arm skewered behind his own back.

Of course, Villain fought against his old friend, wanting nothing other than to send another fast-flying fist in Supervillain’s face…or his groin.

“Villain. Villain, hey!” This made the more vengeful of the two cease his struggle. “Look, I know you’re mad, alright? You loved the ra- Hero, and you were blinded by that love, so much so that it clouded your judgement. It happens to the best of us, Villain.”

“You killed her.” Villain gave another jerk, this time with a tear in his eye. Realizing such raw emotion was leaking out, he corrected himself with a shout, “She was everything I had!”

Supervillain sighed, tightening his grip as Villain continued fighting him. “Yeah…you said that one before.” Supervillain let go, not waiting a moment before pushing Villain’s back, causing him to stumble forward, nearly passing through the door which he left open when he so rudely barged in. “Villain, listen to me, bud. You are better off without her. That love you felt was going to cause you to lose everything you worked so hard to build, and even if that weren’t the result, you would always have this internal conflict- to do-”

“To do the right or wrong thing?” Villain seethed, righting himself against the doorframe which Supervillain pushed him towards. “Supervillain, we’ve been doing wrong this whole time! Nothing we have done has been good by any moralistic means. We kill people.”

We kill people. Supervillain could almost laugh at the irony. “You killed at least one of my men today. One, which was confirmed out of twenty-eight. You’re just as bad as me.”

“Because you killed the one person in this world I could ever find myself loving.”

“You depended on her dammit! Don’t you see what I’m seeing? You don’t even know who you are without her coaxing her own ideas into your ear. You needed this. You needed her gone.”

“I needed her.” Villain’s voice finally broke like the day Hero was killed, when she was shoved through without remorse, discarded like a candy wrapper, and called a ‘rat’ without pause. “I needed her, and you stole her from me.”

Can’t bring her back, now, can I? But Supervillain didn’t say this, for he knew it was entirely pointless. Villain would just keep repeating those same few phrases, which Supervillain heard as, ‘I’m sad. You’re a monster and I can’t acknowledge myself as one. I miss my crutch and my ankle is always broken. Blah. Blah, blah. Blah, blah.’

“You need someone who you can rely on, who can rely on you just as easily, Villain.” Now onto the more sensitive topic once again. “I don’t remember you stepping forward to help Hero when she was shaking beneath my arm. You loved her, but not enough to sacrifice what we have here. We’re friends, Villain. We’ll always be friends. No one knows you as well as I and no one knows me as well as you.”

“Come sit down with me,” Supervillain finished. “In the lobby. I’ve got a few fridges, one with your name on it- literally. You stopped coming around, but I keep a stock of that weird soda you like.”

Supervillain was so casual, so friendly. It was as if he actually cared, had wanted to continue being friends, and had done everything he could to be friends. As much as him killing Hero hurt, as much as Villain wanted to hate him for it…it seemed as though Supervillain did it to help. Because Villain did rely on Hero, didn’t he? He looked to her for everything- even what food to buy. And the timing of the boxing pit was odd; what if Hero really did destroy it so that Villain would buy something else? Something that catered more to her own thoughts and reasoning than his own?

“I’ll sit down for one soda,” Villain said. “One.”

******

@digitalart-tw I considered being kind and bringing the Hero back. I really did. But the evil runs rampantly through my veins and knows no end.​

[stxphxn-strange]

playing pretend

a/n: hello hello hello! i have a prompt fill for this Dark!Stephen AU from @ironstrangeprompts and im just gonna post it before i can start second guessing my writing lmao

tw: mentions of torture, injury, implied past abuse

Prompt: Dark!Stephen AU. The avengers never really notice Stephen’s pacifist to-a-fault superheroing style until one day a magical incident corrupts him/magical entity possesses him. They’re treated to a completely unhinged and lethal Stephen, the avengers realize just how much Stephen was holding back, what with his quick work dispatching all of them, resulting in very heavy injuries. However, he takes special interest with Tony Stark, whom he has been dating for a few months now. He has Tony all strung up in the middle of the battlefield in front of the other broken and beaten avengers, he taunts and tortures him. “Being a doctor and a sorcerer is so very useful, I can break you in very precise manners, put you back together and then do it again.” When he gets bored of Tony’s screams and decides to end him permanently, Stephen suddenly snaps back to normal. The real Stephen has been battling internally to gain back control, knowing that he’s about to kill the love of his life gives him the final push to break free. He portals them all to safety and to receive medical help. Cue heavy angst and Stephen trying to make it up to them but especially Tony, who insists that everything is fine and that he knows it wasn’t the real Stephen. However they both know that Tony is just putting up a brave front and is undoubtedly traumatized by the incident. Up to the author on if they want to end it in a bleak or hopeful tone.

It took Tony a few minutes to register his surroundings when he woke up. He wasn’t lying in a makeshift coffin of bent metal, broken bones, and the ruins of the building. The familiar baritone, the melody of his waking world, wasn’t hollow and cruelly taunting him. Stephen sounded like himself, soothing and loving and reassuring but worried and tired all the same. Tony heard guilt in his partner’s voice, delineating his dream, his memory, from the present. He wanted to follow that voice, the real Stephen’s voice, and leave the past behind them. Guilt was eating away at Stephen as he tried to calm Tony down and wake him up. He defaulted to the standard promises and phrases when Tony had nightmares, but this time was different. This time Stephen was the cause of the nightmare, and he knew it. No matter how much Tony said it wasn’t his fault, that everything was okay, Stephen knew he had to repair the pieces of Tony’s trust he’d obliterated.

Tony thrashed again in his sleep, feebly kicking the air in front of him just like he did on the battlefield. “Stop!”

“Sweetheart,” Stephen began, unsure of what to say. “Tony, wake up. You’re safe, no one will hurt you.”

“Stephen!” Tony groaned and thrashed again, his eyes still shut as he fought to wake up. “This isn’t you… don’t do this.”

Stephen barely held back tears as he spoke again. “It’s over Tony, I’m back. I’m me again. I won’t hurt you, I promise I’ll never hurt you as long as I live.”

Tony was shaking when he finally woke up, unsure if he was even breathing. He opened his eyes hastily, studying the look on Stephen’s face. Stephen looked concerned, even worried, but unsure of himself as he murmured soothing nonsense to Tony.

“Breathe, Tones,” Stephen said. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’ll be okay, I promise. Just breathe, we’re alright. I’ll leave you be once I’m sure you’re okay, and—”

Tony wrapped his arms around Stephen and hugged him tightly. “Don’t you dare. Don’t go… please don’t go Stephen.”

“I can’t risk scaring you again Tony. I’ve already hurt you enough, it’s not fair to keep putting you through this,” Stephen argued, fighting his urge to hug Tony back.

Tony only held on tighter, determined not to let Stephen leave.

Stephen still wanted to disappear, but he quickly understood that Tony wouldn’t let him go that easily. The mechanic was still shivering and trembling, slowly starting to calm down as Stephen hesitantly hugged him back.

++++

They both woke up at the same time, almost four days later. Stephen woke up slowly, feeling like he was underwater or in a fog, while Tony started awake across town.

It was pitch dark in the room, the heavy curtains drawn shut to keep out any intrusive light. It was the middle of the day, judging by the clock Stephen kept on his nightstand, but he couldn’t feel the sun on his face, or see any light from his window. He was bathing in pitch black. At first, he thought he was dead, doomed to an eternity in darkness, when something red bloomed and came to life beside him. Even now, his Cloak was always dramatic, comforting as it covered him like a blanket.

As his eyes adjusted, Stephen registered Wong and Christine on the other side of the room, just studying him.

Christine was the first to meet his stare, rushing to his bedside. “How do you feel?”

Stephen grimaced in pain as he shrugged. “Not great, thanks.” There was something else on his mind, but he was too afraid to ask. He was almost too scared to hear the answer.

Luckily, Wong spoke up before Stephen could ask. “You slept for three and a half days, Strange. How much do you remember?”

“Something attacked the Compound… I think it was me,” he mumbled.

“Not exactly,” Wong began, gentler than Stephen had ever heard him.

“Possessed or not, I still attacked!” Stephen sat up, paying the price as he rose quicker than his body could handle. “It doesn’t matter if I saved everyone, not if I almost killed them first.”

Neither Wong nor Christine spoke, and the cloak simply wrapped tighter around Stephen’s shoulders.

“You did save everyone,” Wong said finally. “And you banished whatever entity possessed you. We still haven’t figured out what it is, but…”

Wong’s voice trailed off as Stephen stopped listening. His head started to hurt as he remembered, in searing detail, more of what happened and what caused him to snap out of the state he was in.

Tony was near silent, his voice failing him after hours of tortured screams. Somewhere, somehow, Stephen knew that he was the one hurting him, the one causing Tony so much pain even though he promised never to hurt the hero. He wanted to stop, to end all of the carnage he’d brought to the Compound, to his friends who were starting to feel like family, to Tony… but he couldn’t. The hand controlling his impulsive strings was strong and steady, and it wouldn’t rest until Stephen finished its bidding.

His movements were mechanical as he strode, like the marionette he’d become, to stand in front of Tony.

And Tony just looked at him with a defeated, almost calm look on his face.

Stephen’s voice sounded distorted when he spoke, preening with a twisted smile as he bent to look upon the man of iron. “Accepted your fate?”

“You won’t be the first person I’ve loved who’s hurt me,” Tony said, between pained breaths. “There’s nothing to say.”

Stephen tried to back up, to keep himself still, but he couldn’t fight the influence of his controller and struck Tony again. “Arrogance is unbecoming.”

Tony inhaled again, deeper and more pained this time but somehow even calmer. “Go ahead and finish the job. I won’t hold it against you, Stephen.”

Stephen was hyperventilating when he heard Wong’s voice again, pressed against the headboard of his bed like he was backed into a corner.

Christine approached him tentatively, resting her hand on one of his shoulders.

Stephen recoiled away from the touch and curled up on himself like a turtle retreating in its shell. He ducked his head under a pillow, shaking in fear and pain from moving too quickly. “Did I… did I kill him? I remember everything until I was about to… please tell me I—”

“You didn’t.” Christine cut him off, hoping to keep her friend from spiraling further. “Wong said you saved everyone, and that includes Tony.”

Stephen sobbed just hearing his partner’s name. Guilt wracked his entire body as he cried harder and harder, his magic running through his veins. Was he not this exhausted, he’d probably set fire to something from his high levels of stress and fear, but all he could do was cry until he fell into painful sleep.

++++

He didn’t finish it.

He didn’t listen.

Tony remembered the horrified look he saw on Stephen’s face, the remorse in his eyes as he sent a vaguely corporeal figure of dark energy through a portal.

Tony remembered the way Stephen apologized again and again as his eyes started closing, overwhelmed by the pain seizing his mind and body. A part of him hoped that Stephen had listened, that maybe the last thing he’d see in this life would be the face he’d come to absolutely adore…

… But he’d woken up sometime later in the MedBay, wanting to see Stephen more than anything. In spite of everything that’d just happened, or maybe because of everything that’d just happened, all Tony really wanted was to go back to sleep, preferably in his partner’s embrace. That really didn’t seem like too much to ask for.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Stark?”

Tony almost didn’t notice Peter pacing around on the ceiling, in fact he didn’t know his pseudo son was even in the room until he suddenly landed a few feet away. “I feel great, Kid. Definitely not like I took a ton of bricks to the face.” He didn’t remember the gory details of the fight, so Tony couldn’t say whether or not he was being literal.

“Welcome back, Boss,” FRIDAY said, a hint of worry in her voice. “And good morning. It’s currently half nine on Tuesday. I’ve been asked to inform you that Col. Rhodes has returned from Washington and has volunteered to lead all reconstruction projects for the Compound. He’s also asked me to keep you updated and will be coming to see you this afternoon.”

Tony sighed. “Thank you. Wait… that means Rhodey came back early?”

“He did,” FRIDAY replied simply. Her voice sounded like what a nod looked like as she continued. “Would you like me to tell him that you asked about him?”

“Sure, but don’t bother him. He doesn’t have to rush to see me,” Tony replied, knowing that Rhodey would probably come anyway. He was maybe the one exception to what Tony had told Stephen earlier, before…

“Col. Rhodes will be here within the hour,” FRIDAY announced.

“Thanks Fri.”

Peter, who had started pacing on the ceiling again, asked what Tony had been wondering since he woke up. “Where’s the Doc?”

“I dunno, Pete. I’ve been wondering that myself,” Tony admitted. “Fri, you wouldn’t happen to know… would you?”

“As far as I can tell, Doctor Strange returned to the Sanctum following the… altercation… on Thursday,” the AI reported.

“What? Altercation? What happened?” Peter landed on the floor again, looking more worried than Tony thought he deserved to.

“There was just a small wizarding mishap, don’t worry about it,” Tony said. He shrugged, trying to reassure Peter as much as he could. “Not even an emergency, Underoos. We would’ve called for you if it was.”

Tony also didn’t want Peter to see what happened. Maybe he was sheltering the kid, but he didn’t want Peter to ever find out about the attack on the Compound. It was bad enough that the team, even in their varied states of consciousness, saw what they did. They saw the fear in Tony’s eyes, saw him slowly surrender to Stephen’s ruthless attacks until he just stopped trying to fight the sorcerer. Tony knew he couldn’t parry these magical attacks, couldn’t break the spelled restraints… but he didn’t want Peter to see how easily he’d given up.

If Peter had more to say, he simply chose not to ask about it. Instead he just shrugged. “Glad you’re okay, Mr. Stark. May heard from Pepper that you got hurt, so I wanted to swing by… no pun intended.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that calling me ‘Tony’ is fine?” Tony asked, rolling his eyes warmly. “I’m fine, Pete. Not up for working in the lab today, I’m afraid, but—”

“That’s okay! My suit isn’t going anywhere, we can upgrade anytime,” Peter replied. “I promised May I’d be home for movie night, but I just wanted to come see you.”

Tony smiled softly. “You’re a good kid, Son. Get home safe, and I’ll give you a call when I’m back in working condition.”

“Thanks IronDad!” Peter was gone in a second, leaving Tony in the quiet with his thoughts.

“Fri?” He asked after a few minutes.

“Still here, Boss.”

“Will you… will you tell Stephen I want to see him?” Tony asked.

Maybe he was the spoiled brat everyone believed, or maybe he was exhausted and touch starved and showing signs of an addictive personality. Tony didn’t know, he didn’t care, and he just wanted his sorcerer back.

“I’ll let him know,” FRIDAY replied, softer than normal.

++++

“Stephen, it’s been days. Days since the attack, days since you holed yourself up in my library like you’re going into hibernation—”

“Good morning to you too, Wong.”

Wong may have laughed at Stephen’s attitude if he didn’t feel so bad for him. Stephen was completely out of it, so much so that he didn’t even realize how late in the day it was. “It’s almost eight, Strange.”

Stephen just sighed. “Did you need something from me?”

“Stark is asking for you again. I think you should see him.”

“You said that yesterday,” Stephen muttered.

“I’m saying it again now. I know you, Stephen, I can read you like any book in here.” Wong began. “You’re trying to outrun your guilt but you know it’s not that easy. Ignoring Tony isn’t going to make things go away, and it’s not going to make either of you feel better. He misses you, and I know you miss him too.”

“I don’t know how I can even look at him after what I did… he trusted me,” Stephen whispered, looking down at his lap. “I broke his trust.”

“Not willingly, and he knows that,” Wong reminded him. “It wasn’t you, Stephen.”

Stephen ignored him, beginning to tremble as he thought back to what Tony had said to him. “He told me he wouldn’t hold it against me… that I wasn’t the first of his loved ones to hurt him. I don’t know what I could do or say to prove to him, let alone to the team, that I’d never hurt them again.”

“Hiding away in here isn’t helping to prove that,” Wong said.

“You just want your chair by the window back,” Stephen accused him.

“Of course I do! But I also care about you and your happiness. If you need anyone to vouch for you, I’ll be here,” Wong replied.

“That sounds like you’ve made up my mind for me.”

“I have. Go now, before it gets too late.”

Stephen opened a portal to the tower, just outside of the lab. “I doubt Tony would be asleep, he’s always awake.”

His suspicions were confirmed as he closed the portal. Tony was in his lab where Stephen thought he’d be, a mug in one hand and a pen in the other.

Stephen’s entire body trembled with nerves as he opened the door, the cloak knocking loudly and dramatically to make his presence known.

“FRIDAY, Quiet Place Protocol please,” Tony said. He looked up and smiled sadly at Stephen as the lab’s usual blaring music shut off. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Stephen suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. He was too scared to get any closer to Tony, afraid to hurt him, but at the same time all he wanted was to hug him.

The cloak made the first move, flying off of his shoulders and resting on Tony’s.

“Aww, hi Levy.” Of course Tony had a nickname for the relic, he had nicknames for everything and everyone.

Stephen found it annoying in the most heartwarming way, and he couldn’t help but smile as Tony sat down at his workbench.

“You can come over, you know?” Tony asked, half teasingly. “I told you I don’t bite, Steph.”

Stephen felt like a marionette again as he walked towards his boyfriend, but his heart was in control this time. He wanted to protect, to cherish, and to spoil the man in front of him with nothing but love and attention. He was just afraid, still unsure of himself as he studied Tony’s face. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey… I know.” Tony opened his palms on his lap, silently asking to hold Stephen’s hands.

Stephen let him, trembling harder as Tony held him gently. “I don’t know what happened, Tony. Something took over me, and I couldn’t stop it. I’ve never been overpowered like that before, and I didn’t know what to do. But please listen when I say that I promise it’ll never happen again, I mean that’s a given if you leave me, but—”

“I’m not leaving you,” Tony said firmly. “I know you weren’t voluntarily doing all of those things.”

“I never, ever wanted to hurt you. I still don’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Tony…” Stephen took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Tony I could’ve killed you. The entire time I was trying to break the curse, to get that thing out of my system, I almost killed you. And you almost let me do it.”

“I did.”

Stephen didn’t know what to say. Tony had that calm, accepting look on his face mixed with a kind, trusting expression. It was the same look he’d given Stephen in the ruins of the Compound, and it hurt. It didn’t feel like an apology would be enough to make things right, but what else was there to do now? “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony slid his arms around Stephen’s waist and pulled him into the hug they’d both been needing. “I’m fine baby, it’s okay. It’s over.”

Stephen knew it wasn’t just over, and he knew Tony knew it too. But in the moment he was too fatigued to fight about it and let Tony hold him closer. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Trying to,” Tony replied. “Not to be cheesy or whatnot, but I do sleep better with you next to me.”

“May I take you to bed?” Stephen asked, sounding even shyer than when he normally asked that. “Please? I know it’s early, but I wouldn’t object to a nap.”

Tony nodded, shifting to press a chaste kiss to Stephen’s lips. “That sounds nice. FRIDAY, save and shut everything off please.”

“Engaging ‘You Shall Not Pass’ protocol, Boss,” FRIDAY reported dutifully.

Tony scoffed. “Remind me to never let you and Peter give Fri name suggestions again.”

“You could just change it if it bothers you that much.” Stephen chose to remind Tony of that instead, even though they both knew Tony was secretly fond of the movie references hidden in his protocols. “Besides, that serves you right for calling me Gandalf all the time.”

“If the shoe fits, babe,” Tony said. He stood up, keeping an arm wrapped around Stephen’s waist as they left the lab and headed for the elevators.

Despite feeling safe and loved in Tony’s arms, more than he could have ever hoped to be and probably more than he deserved, Stephen was still anxious. He felt out of place in the Tower, never mind the fact that he usually spent half of his time there, and he felt even more out of place amongst the team.

“How are the others?” He asked quietly, afraid to hear the answer.

“They’re getting better.” Tony saw no point in sugarcoating the truth. Stephen would see right through it, and that wouldn’t help him process everything. “Carol and Thor are both bored of training with each other, but no one else wants to spar with either of them yet. Or with Natasha, for that matter.”

“Does anyone ever want to spar with them on a good day?” Stephen asked, trying to keep the mood light.

“You’re all a bunch of sore losers who can’t rise to a friendly challenge” Natasha quipped, suddenly materializing in front of the couple. “Tony, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why is he here?”

“Natasha, I—”

Natasha pointedly ignored Stephen. She never disliked the sorcerer, she was actually indifferent and had no issues telling Tony that, but Tony’s trustful, rather soft nature was a concern of hers. It worked in her favor, sure, but she was really trying to be a better friend to Tony and look out for him more. It was this concern that motivated her to look at Stephen with disgust. Natasha wasn’t scared of him, she took heavy damage in the attacks but it was more minimal compared to some of the things she’d put his friends and family through.

Tony was acting as if none of that happened, and that couldn’t stand.

Natasha frowned and glared at Stephen as she addressed Tony. “Tony what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t play dumb and tell me you’re not following. What are you still doing with him? You barely sleep more than an hour without waking everyone up screaming from phantom pain and nightmares! Do you think we can’t hear you yelling and begging for Stephen to stop torturing you and just kill you? Because we all do!” Natasha took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And after all that, you’re holding him like nothing is wrong? I don’t understand how you can be so forgiving sometimes.”

She stormed off before Stephen could defend himself or before Tony could respond. Her words echoed in Stephen’s head as Tony continued to lead him down the hallway, into the elevator, and into the penthouse.

Stephen sat dejectedly on the bed as Tony shuffled around the room, grabbing a few blankets from the closet. He didn’t say anything as Tony made a little nest of pillows and blankets, the cloak joining the haphazard pile the minute Tony curled up under a throw. Eventually Stephen allowed himself to lay down, offering no protests as Tony hugged him again.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again, mumbling into the soft fabric of Tony’s shirt.

“I know,” Tony said simply. “Relax sweetheart, it’s okay.”

He was still tense, curling up smaller in Tony’s arms. “Are you okay?” The sorcerer asked.

“I’m fine,” Tony reassured him. That was half true. He was fine, to a point, but there were things bothering him that he had no idea how to tell Stephen about.

Eventually they would have to face the music and talk about everything, and they both knew it. For now, Tony was somewhat okay with ignoring it, clinging to the hope that having his Stephen back would keep the memories at bay.

Tags: @stark-strange-love2 @salty-ironstrange-shipper @funkylittlebidiot @richieleeparker @chocopiggy @hatakehikari @taruyison