#but Shrapnel knows a thing or two about being hungry

[whetstonefires]

heavier than a mountain, lighter than a feather

[my take on @misskirby's not-prompt about obi-wan beating palpatine to death with an office chair]

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Obi-Wan had once touched the cold-burning edge of the Dark Side to give himself the extra edge he needed to cut down the Sith who had cut down his Master. He had fought with rage pushing him, he had fought with all the fear that Qui-Gon lay expiring on the reactor floor, that he might yet win and find himself seconds too late to bring the emergency med-treatment necessary to survive a lightsaber to the chest.

(Not that it had mattered; all he’d gotten from his desperate, hasty win was a few seconds of farewell bereft of comfort, and the burden of Anakin hung around his neck, and oh, he wished his padawan was not a burden. There had been no option but to take him and thus taking him must have been right, but no one should take on a student they did not feel ready for, and he had.)

If he had fought that way this time, he would have lost.

The Sith Master would have done what the apprentice could not, and twisted the Dark Side within him as it rose, and snared him in it, so he could not find his way back to the Light, and used that grip to bear him down with Sidious’ greater power, because the Sith said the Force will free me but it was the way of the Dark to place one will over another by pure force, so even what narrow freedom there was on the dark path was offered to one alone. Even in the best case, he would have been overwhelmed too heavily to fight for more than long enough to finish him.

Perhaps he would not have been killed. Perhaps he would have been kept alive to be used as leverage against Anakin. But assuredly he would not have been able to win.

Obi-wan however had what he would have thought of, if he had allowed himself to think about it, a trick for using his attachments and the desire not to lose them as fuel without reaching into the destabilizing, consuming whirlwind of the Dark Side. It was a dangerous, stupid trick, really, at least the way he used it, although Obi-wan thought of that way as fundamental to being a good Jedi, which would have explained a great deal about him if anyone had known.

The trick was this: it was easy to push yourself to where your limits should have been and beyond using your attachment to a person, without falling into the hungry selfishness of the Dark Side, if you simply did not intend to survive.

When he was thirteen, he had tried to persuade Qui-Gon Jinn, who had not yet been his Master, to use the bomb in his recently fitted slave-collar to blow open a door, killing Obi-wan but allowing him complete the mission, which was not Obi-wan’s mission

It was not difficult to return to that place, that space in himself where serenity came easy because soon there would be nothing left to go wrong or to lose—Anakin had made it difficult, for a long time; Anakin he was obliged to raise and train. Anakin who needed him.

All his obligation to the war and the Council and all the men under his command had not pinned him to himself the way his duty to Anakin had, and—knighting him had been helpful. It had been a relief, to finally cast off that weight. There is no death, there is the Force was much easier to believe of oneself than of those one grieved, and some weeks Obi-wan breathed it in and out with every breath, and there was no fear.

He knew several things, as he entered the Senate through an entrance that was technically, perhaps, a window. One that did not open, at that. That the Chancellor had some kind of failsafe embedded in the GAR’s brains. That the Chancellor was a Sith Lord. That the Chancellor had been using his access to Anakin all these years to hurt his Padawan.

That if he took the time to assemble the rest of the Council and try to stage this as a proper arrest, word would have time to reach Palpatine of Obi-wan having been publicly informed, because Maul was the least subtle sentient Obi-wan had ever had the misfortune of meeting more than once, and that if Palpatine knew the jig was up he would use his fail-safe.

So Obi-wan needed to do this alone.

It was possible, of course, that it wouldn’t be difficult. Sidious was a creature of stealth and insinuation. He spent most hours of his life maintaining a posture of harmlessness. When could he have found the time to do regular lightsaber drills, let alone practice live combat?

But Maul probably feared the man for a reason. So Obi-wan was going to do this as quickly as possible, but he wasn’t going to be hasty.

Spring the trap.

He’d closed himself down in the Force before he got near the Senate building, jumping through the hole he’d sliced into the window with only his physical strength and no Jedi edge, and only when he got near the Chancellor’s office did he reopen his senses just a thread, to make sure there was no one in there meeting with Palpatine whom he needed to keep alive. The Force didn’t slam into him with a warning, which would have to be confirmation enough.

Obi-wan yanked the door open, hurled five primed thermal detonators in the direction of the great ship-like slab of an occupied desk, slammed the ornate portal shut again, and threw himself to the ground at the foot of the wall, as far away as he could get, head tucked under his arms. He was fairly sure he’d seen Mas Amedda in there, standing beside the desk as the Chancellor in his thronelike chair raised his head with a gratifyingly startled look on his face.

Pity. The Vice-Chancellor could probably have explained so much of what had been going on behind the scenes, all this time.

The blast left the office door half-shattered, belching smoke, but Obi-wan escaped with just one splinter, not terribly large, in the back of one calf. His robes and boots had absorbed the rest of the shrapnel that had made it that far. He tugged it out as he got up—no time to do anything more, it wasn’t bleeding much. He drew a deep breath of half-clean corridor air and dashed into the opaque ruin that had been the Chancellor’s office, senses fully unfurled now that the time for stealth was over. Though in the interest of not being an irresistible target, he did not ignite his lightsaber just yet.

The Force guided him through the smoke, and he brought his sword to light even as he swung it through the murk.

It stopped, humming, against a bar of red light that hissed into being at the last instant, and that felt equally inevitable.

“You.” Sheev Palpatine’s face looked like a Sith Lord’s now, twisted with hate and lit red from below. And, gratifyingly, somewhat scorched. His hair had sizzled from the heat, and his left arm seemed to have something at least mildly wrong with it. Obi-wan hoped the explosions had affected at least one of his legs, as well, since his own maneuverability was cut by the shard of door to the calf.

“Me indeed, Chancellor,” he said, taking advantage of his two-handed grip to bear down against the block with extra force. Palpatine bore up admirably, but as his snarl tightened it was clear that it was not without cost. “Or should I say, Lord Sidious?”

The smoke was starting to thin, leaking away out of the shattered room. Sidious was still behind his ruined desk with its weakly sparking console, which seemed to have taken much of the impact for him—he was standing, anyway, sadly. Mas Amedda’s corpse, on the far end of the desk from the one Obi-wan had circumnavigated, was one of the things that was still smoking. Most of the brocade and other decorative fabric in the room must have been thoroughly treated with fire-retardant, but he had not been.

“I thought you might have learned my true name,” Palpatine said, far too complacently for someone whose long deception had been uncovered and who was staving off death one-handed. “But what brought you racing here in such haste?”

“Well, you see, they used to call me Sith-killer because of Maul, and since that’s been proven regrettably in error, I thought I had better—” Sidious tried to fling him back against the opposite wall with a sharp jerk of his wounded hand, and Obi-wan had to push back with the whole of his will and stance to slide back only a few feet.

This had freed their lightsabers, though, and Sidious chopped low with a terrible speed. Obi-wan leapt clear, knowing the blood soaking into the pale fabric of his pants was betraying the weakness in his leg—Anakin had had a point, he admitted grudgingly, about black hiding all kinds of stains.

For better and for worse.

He tried to catch Sidious with an overhead slash while he was up, to keep that red lightsaber busy for the most part, and when it was intercepted used the force of that impact to somersault back in a momentary return to his master’s old Ataru style—not too far, though, at all costs he must prevent the Sith Master’s escape.

Sidious wouldn’t need to get far, just to a room with a working holo transmitter, to destroy everything.

He flung himself back in.

Palpatine sidestepped his next attack, parried another, stepped back with the third. His single arm was telling against him, and while he was regrettably fast his movements were stiff enough that he had clearly taken at least one other hurt. Probably somewhere in the right hip. Obi-wan stayed on the offensive—it was how he’d beaten Maul, after all, though he was at pains to avoid overreaching to the point of recreating Anakin’s loss to Dooku.

His attacks did more damage to the sparking desk, bisected the thronelike monstrosity of a chair, which turned out under all the gilt, padding, and chromium to be mostly of durasteel, got close enough to put additional charred rents in Palpatine’s ornate sleeves. Nearly a minute had passed since he threw those detonators, and Sidious was still alive. Too long.

“Really,” said the politician, dropping his stance to one that would allow him to parry more from the shoulder, his first hint of fatigue. His style was not quite Makashi even as he adapted to the one-handed approach that was clearly not his preference, but there were some notes to it that rang so strongly of Dooku they could come from nowhere else. “What do you hope to achieve?”

“You won’t have Anakin,” Obi-wan said, the plot that had been in retrospect laid so horribly bare with just a few sentences from Maul, supported by a few more from some of their most trusted troopers, put together with a hundred hints and oddities and he should have guessed on his own.

Sidious grinned, the amiable wrinkles of his face lying deeper and more correct, somehow, in this attitude of wild, infinite gloating. “Possessiveness, Master Jedi?”

“No,” said Obi-wan, and it was true because he had given Anakin up, given everything up before he came here. He was holding onto nothing, he was an object in free-fall but not falling, because he was at exactly the right place and momentum at the outer edge of a gravity well that would let him remain at a constant height.

Orbits degraded, given time, if not carefully maintained. And if they were disrupted sharply enough it meant a violent, flaming spiral down into explosive doom, or sometimes out into the fathomless dark. This was not a true, secure serenity like a Jedi should strive for. But it would serve. For today, it would serve.

He fell on Sidious again in a flurry of blows, pushing his physical advantage, but although the Chancellor was clearly straining to keep up this defense, his stamina continued to fail to run out or even noticeably decline, as though he had learned to subsist on some constant well of the Force alone.

Probably he had, because it was welling up out of him, filling the room, an endless pit of the Dark that had lain concealed like a trap under pinned canvas and scattered leaves all this time. He was drawing heavily upon the Dark Side now and that wasn’t precisely goodbut it was promising.

He was beginning to develop something that was not quite optimism or confidence but approached both by the time the progress of the humming, crashing process of the duel took them past the far end of the desk, back into sight of what had been Mas Amedda. Palpatine angled his next fractional retreat toward the corps, away from the cracked and blackened windows, avoiding the treacherous footing of a shattered vase that had probably been a valuable antique.

Obi-wan tried to take advantage of the change in angle in the next rapid, whirring clash of lightsabers.

Unlike every other time they had crossed blades this duel, Sidious simply—shut his off in the moment before contact.

Obi-wan had committed a little too much of his weight to the blow to abort it entirely. Sidious ducked away from the remainder with a sinuous grace even as he activated his weapon again, now on the inside of Obi-wan’s guard—trakata, executed with terrible excellence.

The need for the dodge was the trakata maneuver’s great weakness, and gave Obi-wan time to avoid the worst of the stroke, but even still the red lightsaber clipped him across the wrist—not a clean sweep slicing off the hand entire, but a glancing blow, that seared through the skin and flesh and took a significant bite out of the ulna.

Obi-wan didn’t try to repress his strangled scream, and Sidious leaned into it in the Force, pressing at the pain, stoking it and encouraging it to drag him down into the Dark, where he would be the Sith Master’s plaything. He was smirking now, more deeply and honestly than ever, a laugh rising into his mouth, for if Master Kenobi had had a slight edge in their fight with two hands to one, with the Jedi’s primary weapon-hand incapacitated, the Sith would surely dominate.

In that moment, Obi-wan moved to rebalance the odds. His blue lightsaber chopped down—not onto Sidious’ flesh, which it was clear he guarded with the preternatural awareness of a being whose own self was as valuable as all the Galaxy else, but to sheer through the emitter end of the crimson lightsaber.

It spat and burst but, unfortunately, tragically failed to explode.

As Sidious raised his eyes from the ruined weapon looking like he might explode in its place out of pure outrage, Obi-wan brought his sword back up to go for the decapitating blow now that the Sith had no weapon to block with, but in that moment Sidious’ burnt and broken hand jabbed up, and shot a gout of lightning into his face.

His back arced so violently it threw him off his feet, and it was all Obi-wan could do to keep hold of his lightsaber in his good hand and deactivate it as he went down, to avoid doing himself a worse injury than Sidious had yet managed. The lightning followed him down, scouring its way from just beside his left eye down every nerve ending he had in a screaming, jerking chorus of pain.

The deep lightsaber burn on his right wrist somehow hurt more now than it had to receive, but the force of his constant convulsions kept him from screaming again.

Then it stopped. He had no idea how long it had been, and wondered if Palpatine had become too fatigued to keep up the electrocution. There had to be a limit to how long he could maintain that kind of power output. His chest was heaving, trying with animal need to make up for lost oxygen. Smoke and the scent of dead Chagrian weighed down his sensory world, since his eyes declined to open and most of his body would only say pain.

The whisper of expensive Senate slippers crunched toward him over the rubble of the ruined office with a surefootedness that no one would have expected of the elderly Chancellor. At least he was still here; Obi-wan had angered him enough to bother sticking around to kill him rather than running off to activate the troops.

Or maybe he was confident he could spin this whole event to his benefit—Obi-wan had destroyed the security cameras that would have recorded his Sith activities, after all. Maybe he would say Master Kenobi had been tragically killed defending him from the dreadful Sith Lord. Maybe he would ask Anakin to become his constant protector in Obi-wan’s memory. Anakin would do it.

He was struggling to turn his lightsaber back on and raise it, though getting it between him and the next round of lightning seemed unlikely when he was exposed in a supine position, when Palpatine kicked it. Kicked his hand, actually, so hard at least one bone cracked and the lightsaber went flying.

This weapon is your life.

“Should I summon it back and use it to kill you?” Palpatine murmured, with a deadly, vicious good humor that suggested he knew very well Obi-wan had no backup coming, that the only interruption they could expect would be Commander Fox and his men in red, here to protect the Chancellor. “Or should I step on your throat until you breathe your last? Or should I keep you alive and put you on trial, and drag the name of the Jedi in the mud through you, so that when your Order falls it will be your name that the Galaxy uses to call the killing just?”

Horror twisted in Obi-wan’s chest and Palpatine chuckled, a whispering foul sound that still resembled his polite politician’s laughter. “Yes, very good. I’ll make young Skywalker believe you tried to kill me out of pride and greed and because you despised him, until he curses your memory. Everything that happens now will be your doing.”

The rage and the fear that he had left behind when he entered were flaming up now in Obi-wan, the orbit deteriorating, the gravitational pull of abandoning them and letting the Order down and ruining everything and too little, too proud, the same hopeless arrogant padawan and of that terrible, world-tearing no dragging him down to shatter in fire against them, like he had on Naboo all those years ago but so much more utterly and irrevocably and--this wasn’t all him.

He sucked in his breath, shaking through teeth still clenched too convulsively tight to pull apart for a witty retort to all that poison, and melted away inside himself.

Over him, Sidious frowned, feeling the Jedi escape his grip in the Force. “Are you dying already, Master Kenobi?”

He thought Sidious had mentioned summoning his lightsaber through the Force to encourage him to try it. It wouldn’t be impossible. He knew the feel of it in the Force like he did few other things in the Galaxy; he didn’t need sight to reach for it.

But it was too small, and too far away, and his senses were too scorched and blasted by that awful lightning. Long before his weapon could make it to his hand, Sidious could kill him, even with no working lightsaber of his own. He couldn’t win that way, or even (that far lesser goal) live.

Instead, Obi-wan grabbed for the closest large object he knew to look for that wasn’t a corpse: the sliced-loose upper half of that baroque monstrosity of a desk-chair, conveniently bulky and only a few long steps away, just behind the desk he’d fallen from behind.

It came, and in coming swept Palpatine’s legs from under him, knocking him not quite sprawling, and then the curve of it had smacked into Obi-wan’s outstretched left palm, jolting the broken bone which did not matter in the slightest, and he rolled up onto his knees, graceless but fast, the slab of steel and leather still moving with the momentum that had dragged it to him, and clobbered the sitting-up Sith Lord across the face with it.

One of Obi-wan’s many faults was his tendency to take a vicious glee in striking low his enemies, but he did not think he had ever taken quite the joy from any beautifully executed maneuver that he did from watching Palpatine knocked to the floor by a slab of office chair. Obi-wan lunged after him, not bothering with niceties like getting to his feet, and brought the chair-slab down on his face again, this time with the strength of both arms—his right hand was mostly numb but for hurting, only the thumb and forefinger would move at all, and it was very weak, but none of that interfered with placing his whole forearm against the upholstery and slamming the searing-hot, bare metal inner side down.

There was a crunch, probably nose, and then instead of diminishing the awful seething presence of the Dark Side rose like a hurricane, and Obi-wan felt his throat close as from a powerful phantom hand, cutting off all breathing.

This caused him not an instant’s hesitation, because he had come here fully intending to die.

He raised the sheered-off slice of chair, adjusted the angle so the sharp edge where he’d cut the durasteel was pointing down, and aimed for the throat.

The ensuing explosion threw him after his lightsaber, and he knew nothing after hitting the wall.

[jangofctts]

Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one) 

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to. 

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.    

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you— 

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.           

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible. 

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here. 

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction. 

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.” 

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning. 

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.” 

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either… 

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.  

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.  

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow. 

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.  

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are. 

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?” 

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it. 

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”  

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”        

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you. 

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.   

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air. 

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.  

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter. 

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.     

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more. 

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.     

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.” 

Touching. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…   

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow. 

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“ 

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.” 

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.   

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen. 

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor. 

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.” 

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three. 

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand. 

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop. 

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.  

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.   

You scowl. “It’s fine.” 

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose. 

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums. 

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”  

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel. 

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face. 

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.   

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep. 

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.” 

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.  

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin. 

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.    

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.   

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward. 

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.” 

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you. 

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers. 

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw. 

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers. 

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”   

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not. 

Whatever.       

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare. 

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.    

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need. 

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp. 

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.  

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”  

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.    

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet. 

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides. 

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away. 

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off. 

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.  

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no. 

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head. 

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat.  Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts. 

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter. 

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise. 

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans. 

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world. 

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull  as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.      

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.  

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

[there-must-be-a-lock]

For Us Sinners

Soulless Sam x Reader

Word Count: ~4130

Warnings: This is 100% pure smutty religion-themed filth. Sam is dressed as a priest. There’s sex in a confessional, severe perversion of the Hail Mary prayer, and a lot of blasphemy happening. Like. A lot. Orgasm denial. Squirting. Non-explicit mentions of Winchester threesomes, gun play, and knife play. 

A/N: For @stusbunker​‘s “Jam Basket” fic exchange! This is for the lovely @rockhoochie​. I managed to squeeze a decent amount of her jams in here. Sarah, my dear, I hope this makes you even a little bit as happy as your friendship makes me. 

Thanks to @cracksinthewalls​ @fangirlxwritesx67​ and @fookinghelljensensthighs​ for lore, encouragement, and inspiration! 

You’re frowning at the trunk arsenal, wondering if it’s possible to sharpen a machete too much, when movement catches your eye. Sam rounds the corner of the old warehouse, and you grab a knife and a whetstone just to have something to focus on that’s not him and his stupid smirky face or the way his shoulders look in that suit. 

The whole priest thing is a really good look on him. 

“Dean’s not back yet?” he asks, without preamble, sitting on the edge of the trunk next to you. You focus very intently on your knife. 

“Nice to see you too, Sam,” you snark, to cover the way you’re blushing. “Why yes, I did have a super fun afternoon of doing fucking nothing! Waiting around for you two is exactly how I wanted to spend the last three hours, thanks for asking.” 

He laughs. “Weren’t you just telling me that I should stop pretending to be normal polite Sam?” 

“Whatever,” you mutter. 

“Lemme see that,” he says abruptly, and plucks the knife from your grip before you can protest. He takes one look at it and laughs at you, twirling the blade in his fingers. “Working out some frustration, huh?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“What’s really going on? You’re only like this when you’re hungry or horny.” 

“Bullshit,” you snap, but he’s totally fucking right. He’s way too perceptive these days. 

You’ve been refusing to play poker with him ever since this whole soulless deal came to light. He’s like a walking polygraph test… a very attractive, muscled polygraph who’s really good in the sack. 

He’s analyzing your expression with his head cocked. “The knife thing?” 

“I don’t know what you’re — that’s not—”

He holds the tip of the blade to your throat, and you stop stammering immediately. You close your eyes and swallow hard. 

“That’s not new, though,” he says thoughtfully. 

When you open your eyes, ready to protest, he’s tucking the knife back in its sheath and twisting to set it in the trunk. 

“How’d you know about that?” you ask reluctantly. 

He just smirks, that godawful not-Sam not-smile, with his dimples popping and his eyes glittering. 

“One of these days you’re going to realize that I’ll never judge you,” he says, low and sly. “C’mon. Tell me.” He puts on a prim, sanctimonious face, pointing at the collar, and says, “Confess your sins and all will be forgiven.” 

He ruins the pious effect by licking his lips and aggressively eye-fucking you. 

You try to laugh, but it comes out all squeaky. You’ve never been good at poker, and if Sam’s smirk is anything to go by, he can see exactly what’s written all over your face. 

“Shut up,” you say preemptively. “Asshole.” 

“This is totally doing it for you, isn’t it?” Sam asks. 

“Shut up.” 

His smile is gleeful. “Oh my god, it is!” 

“That’s not — I’m not—” 

You grit your teeth and stand up abruptly, and it’s not like you can go anywhere but you need to move; it’s impossible to think straight when he’s right there and he smells so good. 

He gets up so quickly you barely have time to blink before he’s in your space. He backs you against the warm metal of the door, caging you in with one big hand planted on either side of your head, and you have to tilt your chin up to meet his wickedly sparkling eyes. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, soft and heated, lips curling up in a familiar dangerous smile. “Lying is a sin.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you huff, but you can’t stop staring at his mouth. 

“Besides, I can always tell. Admit it.” 

“You are so fucking—”

Without warning, he’s tugging at your zipper, yanking the button open, and shoving a hand roughly down the front of your jeans as he murmurs, “You are so fucking into this.” 

Before you can protest (not that you’d really want to) he’s got two fingers sliding into you, curling sweet and easy where you’re ridiculously, undeniably, outrageously into this. 

“Maybe a little bit,” you sigh. 

He’s just smiling, watching you squirm, playing with you like a cat might play with a mouse, and as much as you’d like to be angry about it, he knows exactly how to use those clever fingers. Then — 

“Dean’s back,” he says calmly, and before you can even process that, he’s sucking his fingers clean and walking around the car to greet his brother. 

You have about three seconds to button your pants, thank your lucky stars that you were on this side of the car, and generally get your shit together before it’s back to business. 

“It’s a goddamn garden statue,” Dean is saying. “Some crazy old bat donated it to the church and then just up and left town. First person disappeared the next day.” 

“So we wait til dark, take it down, break the curse.” Sam shrugs. “Easy enough.” 

“Like a chant ‘n’ smash,” you offer. Both the boys give you blank looks, and you try to pretend like your brain isn’t totally scrambled. “You know. Like a salt and burn. A good old-fashioned chant and smash… no? Okay, whatever.” 

Sam is barely containing his laughter. Asshole. 

“I could use a nap before we do that, I’m wiped,” Dean grumbles, taking off his clerical collar as he slides into the driver’s seat. Sam keeps his on. 

As you’re all getting buckled, he says, “Why don’t you just let us handle this one, Dean? You should take the night off.” 

“If you guys want some privacy to bone, you can just say so,” Dean grouches. “But get another motel room, don’t bring Baby into it.” 

“Yeah, we know. We will,” Sam reassures him. 

Dean does not seem reassured. He looks at Sam suspiciously. “So, what, you’re just being nice?”  

“Oh, absolutely not,” Sam says bluntly. “You look like shit and I don’t want you hunting with me when you’re this sleep-deprived.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, that I buy. Man, this whole soul-free honesty shit is gonna take some getting used to.” 

“You and me both,” you sigh, and Sam gives you a wink in the rearview mirror. 

 * * *

“That is the creepiest-looking angel I’ve ever seen,” Sam comments, striking a match. “And l’m including Zachariah in that. Okay, here we go.” 

He lights up the little bowl of herbs he’s concocted and says a few things in Latin, and then the smoke coming up from the bowl turns eerie green and seems to sink into the worn concrete. 

“Is that it?” you ask dubiously. “How do we smash it?” 

“That’s the fun part,” Sam says. He attaches a silencer and loads his gun, quick and practiced, and when you’re both out of shrapnel range he aims almost lazily while you try not to stare at his fingers. Bad enough that he’s still wearing the priest getup. Watching him shatter an angel with a few perfect shots shouldn’t be a turn-on, but…  

“Shouldn’t” is one of those words that lost most of its meaning when you and Sam started fucking. In the last two weeks, he’s managed to discover kinks you’ve never even admitted to yourself. 

Speaking of — 

“C’mon,” he says, and when the gun is deposited safely back in the arsenal, he grabs your hand without waiting for an answer, leading you around to a side door. The door isn’t even locked. Sam’s smile is gleeful in the moonlight. 

“What are we doing?” you ask, as he leads you inside. 

It’s almost completely dark, just a faint glow from the emergency exit signs to light the sanctum, until Sam takes out his matches and lights a few of the tall pillar candles that are arranged in nooks around the altar. The golden glow flickers and dances on the walls. 

Sam grabs you by the wrist, and you halfheartedly attempt to tug your hand away. He’s got that glint in his eye that can only mean trouble. 

“We really shouldn’t be here,” you hiss, as he pulls you over to the confessional. 

“What are they gonna do, condemn my soul to hell?” he says flatly, and you stifle a giggle. “We established a while ago that my immortal soul is fucked.” 

“Mine isn’t,” you mutter. 

He looks at you with another of those smirks and says, “That’s why you’re the one who needs to confess.” 

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” you sigh, but instead of answering, he crowds in close, pressing you up against the smooth dark wood of the confessional, and kisses you, all teeth and tongue and liquefying heat, until your lips feel bruised and your entire body is tingling. 

“Confess,” he whispers, and with one last grin, he points you toward one curtain and slips behind the other. 

If you’ve learned anything about Sam over the years, soul or no, it’s that there’s no point arguing when he’s made up his mind about something. 

Sam seems to have made up his mind. 

You pull the curtain closed behind you and sit on the little bench, and you have to breathe through some long-buried memories before the words come to your lips. 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you whisper.  “It has been… a long time since my last confession.” 

The flickering candlelight cuts through small gaps around the curtain, casting dancing shadows through the cramped space. Your cheeks are burning. 

“Sam?” you ask tentatively. “This feels stupid.” 

He lets out a low, cocky chuckle, and his voice is all sorts of promising when he replies, “Trust me, I’ll make it worth your while. Play along for me.” 

Fine. 

“Where do I start?” you mumble. “I drink, frequently. I have been dishonest. I gamble, and I do not dress modestly, and — I don’t know. What else?” 

“Do you have impure thoughts?” You can hear the smile in Sam’s voice. 

“Yes.”

“About what?” 

You swallow hard, closing your eyes, thinking about the way he looks right now. No preacher has ever looked so good in that black suit. “About… about you.” 

“Go on.” 

“About the way you feel inside me. About the way you fuck me.” 

“What did you think about last time you touched yourself?” 

Your breath hitches. “I thought… I imagined that you —” 

“Lying is a sin.” 

Fuck. 

That’s the thing about Sam; he won’t let you get away with politeness, or with half-truths, or with telling him what most guys would want to hear. 

Fuck him and his creepy polygraph spidey senses. 

“I imagined that it was Dean,” you whisper, cheeks burning. 

“And how did that go, in your fantasy?” There’s no trace of surprise or hesitation in his voice. 

“I was — he bent me over the hood of the car.” 

“That’s not the first time you’ve thought about him, is it?” 

“Sam, I don’t — this is weird,” you say, squirming slightly. 

“Why?” he says, and you keep waiting for the jealousy or the disgust to color his words, but all you can hear is curiosity. “Do you think about him while I’m fucking you?” 

You let out a long, measured exhale. “Yes.” 

“Have you thought about him walking in? Listening to us?”

“Yes. Sam, I don’t—” 

“Were you thinking about him a couple days ago, in the middle of the night? When you couldn’t seem to keep quiet?”

You shudder, pressing your thighs together. “Yes.” 

“Tell me.” When you hesitate, he continues, “I wondered… felt the way you were squeezing around my cock every time it got too loud. You wanted him to hear.” 

“I wanted him to — to imagine. I hoped he was awake, and that he was turned on, and—” 

“You wanted him to join in,” Sam supplies, when you falter. His voice sounds husky, now. “You were imagining both of us, huh? What else?” 

“Sitting in your lap, in the backseat, while he watches in the rearview,” you mumble, and now that you’ve started talking, it’s hard to stop: “I think about getting on my knees for both of you. Letting him have my mouth while you fuck me, or… one of you holding me down.” 

“Have you imagined us handcuffing you? Taking turns with you?” he asks calmly. 

“Well now I’m imagining it,” you huff, and your nervous giggle breaks the tension for a moment. 

“I know you’re holding out on me,” Sam purrs, when the silence starts to stretch. “Leave my brother out of it, if you’re getting all hung up on that. What else?” 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. 

“Trust me. God isn’t judging you and neither am I. Tell me what you want me to do to you.” 

You can’t bring yourself to spit it out, even like this. “That’s it.” 

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice is silk and steel now. “Why don’t I take a guess?” 

“Fine.”  

“Knives,” he says bluntly, and your inhale is too sharp to be innocent. “You like the way a knife looks in my hands, the way it’d be dangerous if I didn’t know what I was doing.” 

“Yes.” 

“You want to know what it’d be like: cold metal on your skin. A knife at your throat, or... a gun to your temple.” 

You’re shaking. 

“How’d you know?” you whisper. 

“I pay attention,” he says simply, voice ragged, and then there’s a long pause before he asks, “Is that the end of your confession?” 

You’d almost forgotten where you are. You’re grateful the screen is still between you and Sam. 

“Yes,” you say, and because old habits die hard, you add, “I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past lives.” 

“As for penance…” You can hear the teasing note in it, and some of your self-consciousness dissipates. “You can begin by taking off your clothes.” 

“Here?” you laugh. “Sam…” 

“Here. Now.” 

You let out a tiny, nervous whine of protest, but you’re too turned on to care, not when you’ve already crossed so many lines tonight. 

Then you strip, taking off your clothes with shaking hands and setting them in a neat-ish pile in one corner of the tiny booth. It’s chilly, and you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling goosebumps run down your bare skin. 

“Okay,” you say softly. 

“Now... you can say ten Hail Marys,” Sam says, with that smirk in his voice again. 

“I — really?” you ask. 

Just as you’re thinking that’s all?, Sam is ducking through the curtain of the confessional, crowding you in and pushing on your shoulder until you sit back down on the narrow bench. Even in the barely-there flickers of light you can see the wicked smile on his face as he drops to his knees in front of you.  

“And you may not come until you’re finished,” he orders coolly. 

Then he’s hooking his arms under your knees, grabbing you by the hips and pulling you forward so that he can get that filthy smirking mouth on you. He licks a hot slick stripe up your center, swirling his tongue over your throbbing clit, and —

“Holy fucking shit,” you gasp, letting your head fall back against the wood with an echoing thunk, because whatever Sam’s doing with his lips is sending sweet fluttering waves of heat through your belly. “Oh my God, Sam, that’s—” 

“If you keep taking the Lord’s name in vain,” he growls, nipping at your inner thigh, “I’ll double it.” 

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” you start, and it’s been a while; Sam’s not the only reason you have to pause. “Fuck. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the — the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now—” Your voice breaks as you whimper, and you finish in one long rushed breath: “— and at the hour of our death, amen.”

“There you go,” Sam says, practically moaning the words against slick skin. You’re already having trouble thinking straight. 

You start all over again, trying to rush through it as quickly as possible, but you stutter as Sam fucks you shallowly with his tongue.  

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Sam says, curling two long fingers into you.

Except it’s bad. In the short time you’ve been doing this, Sam has learned your sweet spots like nobody’s ever learned them before, and he’s not touching them now. This is barely a tease, compared to what you know he can do to you. It’s bad, and it’s going to get so much worse. 

You start to stammer through the third prayer. You’re so wet — from the thrill of the setting, as much as what he’s doing with his tongue — you can hear the slick thrust of his fingers inside you, dirty and distracting. 

When you pause for breath between “Mary” and “mother of God,” Sam hums low against your cunt, and you know he enjoys this, you know he gets off on it, but he lets out these noises that never fail to make you feel feverish, and now is no exception. It doesn’t feel chilly any more. By “amen,” you’re burning up. 

“Three down,” Sam murmurs. 

On the fourth “grace,” he closes his lips around your clit and sucks gently, and you make a high, squeaky, mortifyingly desperate sound. Your voice keeps breaking as you stumble through the next lines, until you end on a long, relieved groan. 

“Good girl,” he croons. “Six more.” 

“I can’t,” you hiss. 

“You can. And you will.” 

On “full,” Sam twists his knuckles, and you gasp, arching your back, squirming. He fucks you in the same rhythm as your words, dragging friction across your g-spot with every syllable, and when you try to speed up, rushing through it, you can’t even get to “sinners” without breaking off in a moan. He stops completely as you pant for breath, and as you mumble through the last lines, painfully slow, you’re rolling your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, desperate for more. 

“That’s five,” Sam says. “I’ll give you a second to catch your breath.” 

With his free hand, he grabs one of your wrists, guiding your hand to the back of his head. His eyes flick up to you, watching hungrily, until you slide your fingers through the silky strands and tug lightly. 

You sigh. “You’re gonna kill me.” 

“Hope not,” he says, smirking against the crease of your thigh. “I’m into some weird shit, but I like ‘em warm and breathing.” 

“Ha fucking ha, Sam, that’s — fuck,” you choke, as he fits his mouth to your clit again, and this time he sucks lightly in time with the slow thrusts of his fingers.  You forget what you’re saying, somewhere around “God,” and stumble to the end in bits and incoherent pieces. 

“Six.” You realize you’ve got a death grip on his hair, all your muscles tensed-up and rigid with electricity that’s got nowhere else to go, but when you ease up, he pumps his fingers in deep and growls, “Harder.” 

He adds a third finger, and it’s so fucking good, so fucking much, filling you with fizzing pressure, and it takes most of your willpower to stop yourself from going under. 

You grit out, “HailMaryfullofgrace.” Lightning lances up your belly, and you squirm— “TheLordiswiththee.” — twist your fingers in Sam’s hair— “Blessedartthouamongwomen.” — muscles quaking, cunt clenching around perfectly curled fingers— “Blessedisthe. Fuck. Fruitofthywomb. Fuck — Jesus!” — tension surging and swelling  — “Holy Mary, mother of God, prayforussinnersnow, fuck, Sam!” — you’re almost there, almost, and he stops, refusing to give you what you want as you gasp out, “And —at the— the hour of our death, amen.” 

“Seven,” he says harshly, and you can feel him breathing hard, damp hot air teasing your slick swollen skin, and his mouth is so close to where you want it. He gives you a second and then: “Keep going.” 

You babble out a few words at a time, and your voice is ragged and broken, but it must sound close enough to what he wants; he’s winding you up again, fingers crooking expertly against that sweet spot. The heel of his other hand digs into your lower belly, right over that point of white heat, and it’s so intense, suddenly, that everything goes sparkly and distant.  

“Pray for us,” you groan, and he sucks, fast and hard. “Pray for us — us sinners —” 

There’s this pressure, right there, right where his fingers are stoking a fire, and it’s blazing, and —

“Sam, I can’t. I can’t, I’m gonna—” 

He’s not holding back, and you can’t either. You buck helplessly against the incredible suction of his mouth, holding him with both hands fisted in his hair as you bow up and cry out. All that pressure peaks, crashing down in wave after wave of relief, pulling you under like a rip tide as you come dripping-wet and messy. 

It blinds you, for a moment. You’re out of your body for who knows how long, lit-up and paralyzed by the high-voltage shock of it. 

When you come back to yourself, Sam is scooping you up and swapping places with you in one smooth movement, manhandling you so that you’re straddling him; he’s got his pants open just enough, can’t seem to wait any longer, and the breathless urgency is so unusual for him that your head spins. 

You’re still clenching through the lingering quakes of your orgasm, trembling, boneless like a rag doll, and it’s not you sinking down on his cock so much as him pulling you, filling you up inch by inch as you squeeze and quiver around the thick length of him. 

When he’s as deep as he can be, his arms wrapped around you and practically crushing you to his chest, you both pause and take a ragged gulp of air. 

“What even was that?” you slur, bracing yourself with a hand against the wall and trying to adjust. He lets out a rough groan through gritted teeth. 

“That is what I’ll be seeing every time I look at a confessional now,” he pants, starting to rock up into you. “Never gonna be able to walk into a church without getting hard.” 

He wraps an arm around your ribs, and the heat of his splayed hand on your shoulder feels like it spans half your back. Your naked skin seems even more obscene as it brushes the stiff cloth of his suit, and you can feel your own wetness soaking the fabric in places. You shiver, roll your hips, and you can feel the way he reacts, shuddering under you. 

“Seems like I’m not the only one who likes this a little too much,” you say, breathless. 

“Who said anything about too much? No such thing.” He barks out a laugh, bucking up in a way that makes you moan. “I’ve been to heaven, and trust me when I say, this right here—” He twists his hips viciously to emphasize the word. “— this is so much better.”

“God, this is so —” you whimper. He fists a hand in your hair and bites your neck, and you jerk helplessly against him. 

“God doesn’t care,” he growls. “God wasn’t listening to you just now.” 

“That’s not —” You’re pretty sure he’s missing the point, but with the way your cunt is throbbing at every perfect thrust, you can’t remember what that point is; you can’t remember anything. 

“God’s not going to answer those prayers,” he says hoarsely. “I’m the one who’s going to handcuff you and bend you over the hood of the car and fuck you until your legs give out.” 

“Holy shit, Sam.” Your brain is shorting out. 

“I’m going to make sure Dean sees you when you’re all strung-out and begging for it,” he promises. He jerks up with a vicious twist of his hips, and you grind down to meet him, every inch of your skin singing. “I’m going to hold a gun to your head while you ride me. I’m going to give you anything you want.” 

“Please.” Your moan sounds more like a sob, and you can’t see straight anymore; it’s all going distant, until the only thing that feels real is the aching, pulsing heat of him inside you. 

Sam claws at your back, dragging his open mouth up the side of your neck until he can snarl against your ear: “God doesn’t answer prayers, but I do.” 

He surges up to meet you one last time. Your vision flashes bright white as you come, one exquisite pulse after another rolling through you, and it feels like a purer sort of ecstasy than any religious experience you’ve had in a church.

This is worth a little hellfire. 

.

.

.

There is now a follow-up drabble here!

[vagrantblvrd]

Thinking about RDJ squirreling food away on sets while filming MCU movies and that AU where Howard tested a the super soldier serum on Tony in secret.

Because Reasons.

Reasons like suspicions about HYDRA infiltrating SHIELD and bad parenting instincts and paranoia because, okay. HYDRA has to know what he’s been working on and they’ll be after it, and it’s like. He knows his sins, but he’s got a wife and a kid and maybe he’s been drinking and and anyway.

He’s protecting his kid by doing this and the paving on the road to hell he’s been on since Steve put that damn plane in the ice is all fucked.

(If he’s honest with himself, it was before he met the man who’d become Captain America, you know? Knowing Steve just made it easier to see in hindsight and all that.)

So Howard gives Tony the serum and watches the hell out of him in the aftermath, but before he can determine if it’s had any effect on Tony (small mercy in it didn’t kill Tony, but he deliberately didn’t think about that the night he injected Tony with the serum because of he couldn’t, wouldn’t let himself think it) the Winter Soldier takes care of him.

And Tony, okay.

The aftermath of his parents’ death is a clusterfuck and he doesn’t think anything about surviving it.

(Rhodey does, and so do Jarvis and Ana and Aunt Peggy because Tony damn near - should have, with how hard he tried - drunk himself to death but he survived all that and went on to do better/worse things before he leveled off somewhere down the road. Still reckless, but that hard edge was blunted and anyway, he lived, right? Small miracles and all.)

Tony doesn’t really notice anything’s odd right away, okay. Maybe it’s a late growth spurt - he’s still short, but he gets a few inches he wasn’t expecting so the jokes aren’t as bad.

Also?

He’s hungry all the fucking time.

Metabolism thing, probably, weird trick of genetics or whatever, so he takes to keeping stashes of snacks all over the place whenever he gets hungry.

(Keeps people from nagging him about eating and whatnot when he’s down in the workshop or whatever because look! He’s eating! Not just the shakes DUM-E makes him and so on.)

He’s strong, right? But that comes from the kind of work that involves hauling metal and what the hell else around all the time, and if he’s extra clumsy for a while after he comes out of that nightmare time after The Accident, well. That’s probably not unusual too, right?

(The thing with his senses being a little sharper, clearer? He was out of for a while, probably forgot how good they were before.)

He just.

He’s so busy with the company and whatever else that he doesn’t stop to dwell on the changes, always has some handy excuse and anyway, it just never occurs to him, right?

But then the thing with the JERICHO missiles and Afghanistan and it’s a goddamn miracle he survived the surgery that resulted in him having a nightlight in his chest, right?

Afterwards, all anyone can talk about it how Tony built the first Iron Man suit from a box of scraps in a cave, but no one bothers to ask how he lived long enough to do that. Maybe he doesn’t make it public, the bit about the shrapnel in his heart and Yinsen saving his life and all that? But yeah, no. By all rights he should have died there.

From there it’s all the superhero antics that should have killed him and just...doesn’t.

The initial tests on the Iron Man armor and the fight with Stane and so on.

Palladium poisoning.

Vanko.

The shitshow of the Avengers coming together to thwart an alien invasion.

The Avengers themselves, because Steve insists Tony learn to defend himself out of the suit and no one’s trying to hurt him, but he gets knocked around a bit in sparring.

Tony’s smart mouth and a limit to the others’ patience and they’re all sharp edges in the beginning, and he gets knocked around. Nothing worse than a bruise or two, a sprain that time he lands badly but he heals fast.

(Funny thing, though, he can’t remember if that was always true, and surely that would have slowed down as he got older? But not so you’d notice and also,also, he doesn’t look - or feel - as old as he knows he is. Especially with how hard he gets hit in the suit, big shiny metal target that he is and all.)

And so on and so on, and after a point the others start to notice?

Like.

Natasha and Clint because they’re the other squishy humans on the team and Tony makes them better body armor and such but they still get hurt.

And then there’s Tony, out there getting thrown through buildings and walls and slammed into the ground. Taking hits that would have killed anyone else and he just plops down on the couch with an ice pack and a tablet grumbling about repairs he has to make to the suit.

Maybe a glorious black eye and cut on his face or something else to indicate that he gets knocked around in the suit, but even those signs are gone in a day or two.

And it’s like.

This gradual realization that something isn’t quite normal about Tony?

(Because the sparring thing again, you know? The way Tony can’t keep up with Steve - squishy human and all - but he does better than people might think for being a squishy human. Enough to hold his own long outside of the suit to satisfy Steve and the others.)

Bruce is like huh, because yeah, now that they mention it he sees it too? And the three of them are like.

Junior detectiving the shit out of the mystery of Tony Stark And The Shit That Should Have Killed Him (But Didn’t) while Tony is like, doing his best not to ask because he’s pretty sure he’s better off not knowing?

(They think about getting Steve in on it, but Steve would totally tell Tony and ruin their little junior detective club and anyway, killjoy, so.)

Shenanigans such as occasional abductions and missions that go wrong and Tony ending up in medical but he always - always - stirs up shit until they’re lad to let him sign himself out as soon as he can.

He limps around the tower after that, sore and hurting and relieved to be back home and anyway, Steve, stop with the puppy dog eyes, Tony will be fine in a day or two.

(And he is, every damn time, no matter how hurt he was.)

And then!

There’s a Thing with Steve and Natasha (and new friend Sam)  discovering HYDRA’s infiltration of SHIELD and the whole identity of the Winter Soldier and it’s a mess, okay, a damn mess.

Only Steve goes to Tony the moment he can about the truth in Howard and Maria’s deaths and that -

Another mess, but Tony has people now, right?

(He had people before, too, a precious few, but it was different then and he knows they tried, but this is different. Hurts in the same way, but he’s older now, not so much wiser as...something, and it makes a difference.)

And anyway, anyway.

Barnes comes to them, walks himself right up to the tower - or, really, a back loading bay, but JARVIS is watching and JARVIS sees him and it’s better if no one else who shouldn’t does, so.

Barnes shows up and they get him the help he needs and he reclaims the parts of him HYDRA ripped away, pieces them together in a way that fits, works.

And then!

“So what’s up with Stark?”

Because Bucky, okay, Bucky.

Outside perspective and better able to see that Tony is kind of super not normal?

Sees the way he gets tossed around on missions and comes back with a couple of aches and pains, a new bruise or whatever, and it’s the suit. Of course it is, but he’s still inside the damn thing, and walks off whatever injuries he picks up a hell of a lot faster than he should.

(Natasha and Clint take longer to heal, and they’re younger than Tony. In peak shape nearly all their lives and so on.)

Other things like that, and it’s like.

Natasha, Clint, and Bruce haven’t really put in serious effort to figure out what the hell is up with Tony for a while now. Just put it down to Tony being Tony and no little luck.

But with Bucky pointing out the obvious, even Steve takes notice.

Tony is like “Good genes” and other excuses, but after a while even he can’t ignore the obvious.

So tests and whatnot and “Goddammit” because of course something’s off and there’s a whole Thing when they realize what happened - and it’s like.

Tony’s version of the serum isn’t the same as Steve’s, isn’t even what Bucky got.

Weaker, maybe, flawed.

Something.

Just enough to make him less breakable, more durable.

Able to survive the shit he has, will, and it’s like.

More reasons to curse Howard’s name, and the man he became (or always was?) if he could experiment on his own kid like that.

But he’s still alive, survived everything life’s thrown at him with more in store, and he’s got a good thing going right now.

A family of outcasts and misfits the world call heroes joining Rhodey and Pepper and Happy, and if Howard hadn’t given him that bastardized version of the serum he wouldn’t have that, so.

(Besides, can’t change things now, just have to live with them, and it’s like. What else can he do?)

So, yeah.

Of course, though, this means that Steve and Bucky - and Natasha and Clint and everyone else who loves tossing Tony around in the name of sparring and such - stop taking it so easy on him.

Which.

On one hand, flattering? But the other, ow, because they know he can do better and it shows in those first few days before they discover where his new limits are.

(Bruises and such and he could totally guilt Steve and the other if he wasn’t just as curious himself as what his limits are, so yes.)

Anyway, anyway, yes.

Tony with a version of the serum who has no clue about it for years, like the guy who doesn’t know he’s a vampire for the longest time because reasons???

(Gen or Steve/Tony or even Bucky/Tony - or because reasons Steve/Bucky/Tony???)

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[crystalas]

Medical Muddles

Medical muddles

More of the Demon Bull Divorce AU, another one shot wherein Tang gets a phone call from a panicked Mei about an exploded truck and Red Son needing the hospital. Red Son blurts out a few secrets in the process…

also send me prompts if you want more of the Demon Bull Divorce

 Tang was sitting in his study at the university when he got the call from Mei, from what he managed to decipher from Mei’s panicked ramblings is that he needed to get to the garage and fast. Red Son and Mei had been working on the Noodle Truck while Pigsy and MK were at a Food Hygiene training course [she mentions something about installing a nitro and Tang made a note to tell Pigsy before he drove it again.] She had gotten a phone call from her dad and left the garage to answer it, luckily, she had managed to turn a corner when there was a massive explosion that shook the building besides her. She had found the truck’s fiery remains, a decimated garage and Red Son slumped against the far wall.

To be fair at this moment during the call Tang wasn’t that worried. He had seen Red Son take a jet bike to the face and only be temporarily stunned, heck he had seen on live TV the fire demon being ejected from a high speeding racing car onto the road and walk it off! Blunt force trauma was nothing the demon couldn’t handle. But Mei quickly swept away that peace of mind when she continued to tell him how Red Son had been impaled through the shoulder to the wall by a large piece of shrapnel. He told her to keep calm and wait for him and by no means call an ambulance!

By the time Tang had gotten there Mei was freaking out, she hadn’t mentioned the blood! It was splattered all around garage wall and the guilty piece of metal laid on the floor coated in it. Red Son was passed out and Mei was clinging to him trying to put pressure on the wound.

“Mei what happened? You know better than to remove objects from wounds like that!” Tang cried as he rushed over.

“It wasn’t me!” she squeaked as he checked him over “I was keeping him conscious when he just muttered something how he needed to get on with clearing this up and just yanked it out!”

Tang checked him over, he had cuts and scratches all over and the smaller ones where quickly healing, it was big ones that he was worried about. Red Son may have demonic healing abilities but even he could bleed out it seems.

“Help me get him into the car, we need to get him to Sandy’s” Tang declared as he tied the fabric Mei had been using tighter onto Red Son’s shoulder, the demon muttered something incoherent as they dragged him to Tang’s small city car.

“Hang on…Sandy’s?!” Mei asked “We need to get him to a hospital!”

“Trust me a hospital would only complicate things!” Tang declared as he drove off with Mei in the back with Red Son keeping him steady as Tang drove like a mad man through the streets, “He’s a demon remember? They don’t do well with purified water and saline would be the first thing they try and pump into him, not to mention blood types, physiology and all sort of other complications.”

Tang couldn’t help but remember the time Pigsy had cut himself badly while in the kitchen; if he remembered right Pigsy was trying to show off his vegetable dicing skills and it had gone very wrong with a deep gash on his hand. Tang had rushed him to A&E only for the nurse on duty to give him a look and told him that the veterinary clinic was two blocks away. This was twenty years ago mind you but it still put a bad taste in his mouth when he thought about it.

They got to Sandy who Mei had been called on the way there, he was ready and waiting for his patient when they skidded to a halt on the peer. Sandy wasted no time quickly tending to red Son’s wounds and applying medical balms and applying bandages and gauzes, giving Red Son a small cup of syrupy tea to help with the pain. Mei hovered close by and watched how Sandy worked with practised ease.

“Don’t worry Mei Red Son will be fine, he just needed a little help this time that’s all” Sandy declared once he was done “He’ll be up and about in…”

Red Son stirred and sat up groggily.

“Well right about now it seems” Sandy amended, Red Son looked around blearily before smiling at Tang and waving weakly.

“Heeeey Mr Tang…” he slurred “why do you smell like beetles and gold? And why does that make me hungry?”

“Red Son, how are you feeling?” Tang asked and sat in front of him who wobbled slightly as he tried to focus on the scholar before giving a happy smile.

“It’s so weird that you smell like that…oh hey Mr Tang, I feel fiiiiine!”

“Sandy? Is this normal?” Mei inquired looking at the gentle blue giant, he coughed nervously.

“I may have given him a bit too much pain relief…” he muttered.

“Dragon Horse girl!” Red Son cried happily and beckoned her over, “Great you’re here we need to get moving!” Red Son struggled to get up but failed due to his injuries.

“Red you need to keep still” Mei said gently as Tang pushed him back into the bed.

“No, no, no, no I need to get back to work on the truck!” Red Son declared “Pigsy can’t know I messed up; we need to fix it before he gets back!”

All three exchanged a look of disbelief, Red Son was pale and clearly not thinking straight. Mei knelt down in front of Red Son’s bedside so she could look him in the eye.

“Red the truck is totally trashed” she said slowly as if she was talking to a small child “there’s nothing we can do right now so why don’t you just rest for now…”

“Trashed? That means I need to work quicker!” he stated and wiggled out of bed but his legs gave out before he could even take a step and Mei caught him before he could collapse on the floor. “Maybe I could find a transmutation spell! I mean if noodle boy can do it with a stick I can do it with fire magic, Com’on dragon horse girl I need to get moving!”

“Red you nearly bled out, you need to rest!” she tried again but Red Son shook his head and was becoming distressed. Mei helped him back onto the bed but he just curled up gripping his hair with his good hand.

“I’m trying so hard this time!” he whimpered “I’m trying so hard and I’m still screwing up!”

“Red…”

“I can’t afford to mess up this time!” he cried out tears now pricking his eyes, “I have no where else to go! I don’t want to stop playing pretend!”

That last bit got the three’s attention and Tang could see Mei bristle angrily as she grabbed Red by the unharmed hand to get his attention.

“What do you mean ‘play pretend’?” she demanded, “This better not be some long con you and your parents cooked up to get us to lower our guard!”

“I wanna keep pretending that you guys like having me around” Red Son whimpered “I like it when you guys listen to me and pretend that I’m doing a good job…I know it’s only a matter time before you guys get sick of me and want me gone…I…I just don’t want that to end…I don’t want to go back to feeling alone and despised all the time…” at this Red Son broke down into tears. Mei’s suspicious anger dwindled away as she tried to console the now sobbing demon boy.

Tang glanced at Sandy who gestured at his kitchen, he gave a nod and Sandy went to go make some sleepy time tea. Tang was angrier at himself than anything now, he had hoped his experience with helping MK through his issues would have given him a sort of template to help Red Son through his. He had assumed that because Red Son hadn’t been showing any ill signs like MK had when helping him deal with his family and abandonment issues that Red Son was coping with it all. That clearly wasn’t the case and he now realised where he had made a very foolish mistake on his part.

MK had only a few years to build up his emotional walls and learn how to put on a façade, Red Son had centuries to work on his. After all it had taken him and Pigsy weeks to notice how much Red Son was reluctant to go home or the faded bruises.  

Sandy came back with the tea and handed it to Tang to give to Red Son so not to crowd the already upset boy, the poor demon looked up at him forlornly as he approached.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered “Please don’t hate me…”

“I don’t hate you Red Son, none of us do” he said tenderly as he gave him the tea to drink “I’m more upset by the fact it’s taken nothing short of you loosing a couple of pints of blood and being off your head on pain killers for you to be emotionally honest with us.”

“I’m sorry…I’ll try not to mess up anymore…” Red Son mumbled.

“Just drink this and try to rest, ok? We’ll talk more when you wake up.” Tang exclaimed Red Son downed the tea before flopping back onto the bed, his eyes fluttered shut and soon he was asleep.

 Red woke up slowly his shoulder hurting like a bitch along with other body parts. Red Son and pain were old acquaintances at this point so he took note of what might need attention as he tried to move his aching limbs; he attempted to recollect what happened.

He was working on the Noodle Truck; Mei was there he remembered that because they were discussing the logistics of installing a nitro into the truck. He was doing some routine maintenance while checking where improvements could be made when Mei got a phone call, he had begun to check the oil levels when he heard her answer the call.

“Hey dad! How’s things?”

That innocent question struck a chord in Red Son that made his heart clenched painfully and then he did something he hadn’t done in what seemed like centuries…he lost control of his powers. Before he could even think about it flames licked up around his body and normally that wouldn’t have been issue had he not been currently working near flammable liquids.

There was an explosion and he remembered being thrown against a wall from the blast, aching agony erupted down his spine followed by several sharp pains across his body the biggest one in his shoulder. His ears were ringing as he saw Mei rush up to him calling to him through what felt like walls of cotton wool. He saw the truck…oh god what a mess he needed to fix that before Pigsy saw it…he tried to get up and only then saw the large chunk of metal pinning him to the wall.

Mei tried to fight him as he grabbed the metal and tore it out, by the gods that hurt but he needed to get moving, there was work to be done and besides this wasn’t the first time he had done this. However, when he tried to cauterize the wound shut Mei was putting her hands over it with her jacket and getting in the way. He didn’t want to burn her by accident but she wouldn’t let go of him… he didn’t remember what happened after that because things got very fuzzy very quickly.

His last thoughts before he blacked out was that he needed to remember to grab a mop there was messy puddles splattered all over the place…

He finally opened his eyes and looked around and saw Pigsy sitting next to his bed, wait how did he get here? Oh crap Pigsy was here! He hadn’t fixed the truck!

Pigsy glanced down at him and noticed he was awake, Red Son felt his gaze burn into his skull.

“How you feeling?” the pig man asked gruffily “Heard you got hurt badly”

“I’m fine!” Red Son blurted “I’ll be up and moving in no time, don’t you worry demons heal fast…” he sat up and tried to move he wobbled but stayed up straight. “I’ll get back to work now okay?”

“Sit back down!” Pigsy barked and Red Son looked at him annoyed to be ordered around but saw that look of displeasure and sat back down. Cold dread now filled Red Son’s chest, he hadn’t fixed the truck he had left a huge mess and Pigsy was obviously mad at him. But if he was going to get punished then he was going to at least face it like the demon prince he was.

“My apologies, as soon as I am able I will repair the…” he started but Pigsy just glared at him even more angrily.

“You seriously think I’m worried about the truck?!” he snapped “Tang told me what happened! You had been skewered and nearly bled to death!”

“Oh…” Red Son stuttered.

“Don’t worry about the truck, MK has trashed and reassembled that thing so many times I’ve lost count.” he explained,

“So…you’re not mad?” Red Son ventured softly.

“Listen Red, I’m more upset about the fact that you are more concerned about a freaking hunk of junk than your own health!” he explained.

“So, I can stay?” came the quiet reply.

“You thought I was gonna chuck you out because of this? Red if I did that MK would have been out on his butt several times over!” Pigsy explained “What matters is that you’re ok, you really scared us there”

“You’re really not mad at me?” Red Son asked again, the idea that he wasn’t getting punished for this wasn’t quite sinking in yet.

“No, I’m not mad and I’m not going to kick you out or punish you or whatever else messed up thing you got cooked up in your head!” Pigsy declared “What we will be doing is talking about this idea you got that your place in this family is based solely on what work you can do, cos it ain’t! you’re a good kid Red you don’t need to keep proving your value, you need to be able to see that we care despite what you can or can’t do…”

Red Son was looking down at his fists that clench and unclenched at the blankets on the bed. Pigsy was worried for a second that none of that had sunk in and if anything he might have made things worse somehow until he heard a hoarse whisper.

“You said…This family…” Red Son repeated so quietly “I have a place in this family? You really want me around?”

“Yes!” he sighed happily and put his hand on Red Son’s arm. “Yes we do!”

[ghstandpucks]

Cutting Edge ~ Nathan MacKinnon Ch. 8

Hi everyone! I hope you are all doing well! I’m sorry this chapter took so long, but I hope you all like it! After school is done for the semester I will have time to update more frequently! This chapter kind of just feels out their relationship, setting up for the final chapters to come! Enjoy and let me know what you think!

I hope you all have a happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate! Be safe and stay healthy!

Prologue Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7

  Monday afternoon found Nate and yourself at the rink after practice was over. The two of you had spent a lazy Sunday together, working out how this relationship was going to work. You both decided to keep it quiet, seeing as neither of you were fond of the media to begin with. Also, you did not think it would look good for you and the program if word got out. The two of you wanted to enjoy the fun that’s supposed to come with the beginning of a relationship and not feel pressured by outside sources. You also decided that the team would find out as they found out, agreeing that it would help to have people on your side if word were to get out to the public.

All of this didn’t matter though as at the moment Nate had picked you up to move you to the side as he shot a puck into the net. “Not fair!” you yelled, laughing as Nate skated back over to you, kissing your forehead with a smirk. “That has to be a foul.”

           “A foul?” Nate questioned you.

           “A flag?” you questioned as he shook his head and chuckled. He was about to correct you when you jumped in. “Oh wait, a penalty! Yup! That has to be a penalty!”

           “Come on Coach, you really should know the terminology better by now,” he grinned, snaking his arms around your waist.

           “Guess you’ll have to do a better job at teaching me,” you smiled up at him, wrapping your hand that was not holding a hockey stick around the back of Nate’s neck.

           “Is that so?” he questioned, leaning in. You nodded your head as he kissed you. You were thankful for your toe picks in that moment, allowing you stand on your tip toes without taking the both of you out. Nate held you tight to him as he deepened the kiss, and you were about to let go of your stick when someone cleared their throat. The both of you jumped away from each other like shrapnel, looking over to see who caught you. Gabe stood at the edge of the rink with his arms crossed.

           “If the two of you are trying to keep this a secret, maybe don’t make out in an open space,” he said, then grinned at you and Nate. He couldn’t help it; he honestly liked the thought of the both of you together. That and both you and Nate were bright red with embarrassment of being caught. “Are you trying to keep this a secret?”

           “I think more just quiet,” you said softly, looking over at Nate. He nodded in agreement.

           “We don’t plan on telling anyone. Just if they find out, then they find out,” Nate clarified for you. Gabe nodded.

           “I won’t say anything. Besides to Mel that is. But seriously guys, hide better if you don’t really want word out about this. I know he’s concerned about your program Coach, so I’m assuming you are too,” Gabe said matter of fact. It was your turn to nod. Nate grabbed your hand and started to skate over to Gabe.

           “Thanks man,” he said once you got closer. Gabe smiled, looking between the two of you.

           “Of course. I’m happy for the both of you. But he better not get any special treatment Coach, or I will call you out,” he tried to act seriously, but you could see the amusement all over his face.

           “Oh please, he’s the only one I’ve made skate extra laps before,” you giggled, bumping your hip into Nate’s, which was more of his thigh at your height difference.

           “I’m going to hold you to that,” Gabe chuckled, and you dramatically saluted him. “I’ll see you tomorrow guys.” After he left, the two of you decided it was time to leave also.

           “Maybe we should be a little more discrete,” you said as you were taking your skates off.

           “I didn’t think anyone else was here. I definitely didn’t think of anyone coming back in,” Nate said, cleaning the ice off of his.

           “It’ll be fine right, if word gets out that we’re dating?” you asked, and Nate could tell you were beginning to overthink. He placed his hand on top of yours and gave it a slight squeeze.

           “We’ll be just fine Y/N. And I’ll be right there beside you,” Nate reassured you and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your lips. “But, we probably should be a little more aware of our surroundings. So, lunch at your place or mine?”

~ ~ ~

           Later that month the team had just arrived back in Denver after a week-long road trip. You had been more careful in your relationship with Nate, texting more on the road instead of sitting next to each other. Finally being back home though gave you two the privacy you wanted. You were currently sitting crossed legged in the middle of Nate’s bed as he unpacked his clothes, having stolen one of his Avs’ hoodies. After arriving back home, Nate had asked you to come over instead of going home first, as he figured you would pass out the second you hit the couch, or bed in this instance. “Can we take a nap?” you lazily watched him bustle around his room. It wasn’t the first time you had been over, but it was the first time you had been this comfortable. As soon as you had walked through the door of his apartment you changed into a pair of leggings and stole his sweatshirt, the chill of the vacant place getting to you. Nate was about to give you a hard time, until he looked at you and it seemed like his world stopped. He loved seeing you dressed up for games and then skating at the rink, but now he thinks that this is his favorite look on you. He walked over to you and placed a kiss on your forehead, laughing as you gave him your best puppy dog eyes.

           “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, as you had been complaining about how your stomach was starting to ‘eat itself’ as you put it.

           “Cuddles first, then food.” You responded as Nate sat on the bed and tackled you down, causing you to giggle.

           “You’re so demanding,” he mumbled, tracing the 29 that was on your shoulder.

           “All part of my charm,” you stated, snuggling into his chest as Nate chuckled. Nate started to tell you about the Mile High Dream Gala coming up as you slowly drifted off, feeling warm and content in his arms.

           About an hour later, a phone ringing woke you up. You cuddled into Nate’s side, one of his arms under you and resting on your hip as the other held your hand that was resting on his chest. You grumbled, rolling over as Nate answered his phone. You could hear Andre on the other end. As you started to drift off again, you had the sudden urge to sneeze…and it came out much louder than you anticipated. You stifled a giggle as Nate absentmindedly said “bless you.” Andre must have asked who he was talking to because the next words out of Nate’s mouth were, “Y/N just sneezed,” and both of your eyes went wide. Time to put Andre on the list of people who knew. Nate told him the two of you were keeping it quiet, and he seemed to understand from the look on Nate’s face. Once Nate hung up, you sat up and started to scoot yourself off the bed. “Where are you going?” Nate mumbled, grabbing the fabric at the back of your stolen sweatshirt.

           “I was going to go get those take out menus you have so we could order dinner,” you stated, falling back onto the bed and smiling up at Nate as he trapped you beneath him.

           “Five more minutes,” he whispered, kissing you softly then moving to kiss your neck.

           “Five more minutes,” you hummed.

~ ~ ~

           A week later the Gala had arrived and you were finishing putting on your earrings, staring at the dress Mel had helped you picked out in the mirror. When you told her that you weren’t sure what to wear, she had picked you up and took you shopping. You ended up with a deep blue floor length dress with a slit up the side. Slipping on your nude heels, your phone went off with a text from Mel saying that her and Gabe were there to pick you up. While Mel was gushing about how adorable she thought you and Nate were, you admitted that you didn’t think arriving with him to the Gala would be a good idea. She told you not to worry, then called you the next day to tell you that her and Gabe would pick you up, then have to leave before you and secure you a “ride home” with Nate. You laughed at her scheming, but were also grateful to have someone like Mel on your side.

           “You look amazing!” Mel said as you hopped into the back seat.

           “Thanks! So do you!” you smiled back at her. “Thanks for the ride you guys.”

           “No problem Coach. You do look very nice,” Gabe complimented you, shooting you a smile through the mirror. You thanked him and talked with them the rest of the way to the Gala. Once you were there and about to walk in, Gabe offered you his elbow to hold on to as Mel was at his other side.

           “Are you trying to have two hot dates?” Mel teased her husband as you placed your hand in the crook of his arm.

           “I mean, who doesn’t?” Gabe chuckled. “But I think someone might fight me for this one…” he tilted his head toward you. “…so I guess I’ll stick with you,” he kissed Mel on her cheek and you couldn’t help but smile at the happy couple. Upon entering the hall, the smell of wonderful appetizers filled your nose and chatter filled the air. Looking to the left, Bednar was the first to spot your little group arriving and made his way over, introducing you to his wife. As you exchanged pleasantries, you felt a presence stand next to you and smiled wider as you looked over at Nate. He was in a grey suit that fit him perfectly, and it took everything in you to not wrap your arms around him. His tie was blue, and you laughed at the unintentional match. You hadn’t shown him your dress, or told him the color for that matter because you liked keeping things a surprise every once in a while.

           “MacKinnon, you didn’t bring anyone?” Bednar asked, shaking Nate’s hand.

           “No sir,” he responded with a soft smile.

           “Take this one. Two dates are a handful,” Gabe nudged you into Nate as Mel smacked his arm playfully.

           “Rude,” you laughed, hoping you weren’t blushing too much in front of Bednar. But if Bednar noticed anything, he didn’t say and just chuckled.

           “We have a table Y/N. But if you’d rather sit with them you are more than welcomed to. I know you’ve become friends with some of the players,” Bednar said, motioning to the Landeskog’s and Nate. You opened your mouth to say something that still made your relationship with everyone seem professional, but he cut you off. “Which is a good thing. They trust you more that way. And I trust whatever relations you have you are using your best judgment.” Bednar smiled at you as you nodded.

           “Of course,” was all you could say as Bednar took his leave. You turned to Nate, slightly uneasy. “Does he know?” you whispered.

           “I didn’t think so,” Nate said, looking at where his coach had walked off to. When he turned back to you, he grinned. “You look beautiful.” You ducked your head as you felt your cheeks heat up.

           “Thank you. You clean up nicely as well,” you responded as Nate offered you his arm to walk you over to the table Gabe and Mel had set up at. Mel eyed you as you approached.

           “You guys are disgustingly cute. I can’t with either of you,” she said.

           “I think Bednar knows something,” you said as you sat next to her, Nate sitting on your other side.

           “What did he say?” she questioned you.

           “He said he knew I was becoming friends with the team and that he trusts I am using my best judgment,” you filled her in. Gabe chuckled and you quirked an eyebrow at him.

           “You guys don’t realize it but you kind of gravitate toward each other at practice. It’s not anything too noticeable, but if you are paying attention you can see that at the least the two of you are comfortable in each other’s presence.” Gabe filled you in. You turned to look at Nate and he just shrugged.

           “That’s not a bad thing,” he said, and you agreed. At least Bednar didn’t seem upset by it. As the night continued you had been introduced to many new people and had answered many questions about why integrating figure skating into hockey was useful. You found you way back to your table and sat down, your feet starting to hurt. No one said 3-inch heels was a good idea. You had also lost Nate somewhere in the sea of people. You were about to go looking when Andre slid into the seat next to you.

           “How’s it going Coach?” he asked.

           “Good, exhausting,” you laughed and he nodded in agreement.

           “Has Nate danced with you yet?” Andre questioned, motioning to the dance floor that had many couples dancing on it.

           “No,” you said. “We’re keeping quiet so I don’t think a dance would be good.”

           “It’s just a dance.” Andre said, standing up. “Come on Coach,” he offered you his hand.

           “Andre…” you started to protest but were cut off.

           “Come on. Live a bit Y/N! You look too nice to just be sitting here,” he argued. You rolled your eyes but took his hand and let him lead you to the dance floor. He put one hand on your waist as he held the other; your other hand resting on his shoulder. You were laughing at a stupid joke he made as he spun you around and into Nate. “Lovely dancing with you Coach,” he dramatically bowed, and you did a small curtsy to play along. Nate chuckled as he took the same position Andre had, but holding you closer to him. To anyone else it would look innocent enough, but the way his hand held firmly to your waist as he looked at you adoringly made your heart speed up slightly. Nate deftly tried to spin you, and you laughed as you came crashing back into him.

           “You’re a terrible lead MacKinnon,” you teased.

           “Maybe you just aren’t good at following,” he quipped back. You danced for the next few songs, noticing the evening was winding down. Walking back to the table, you both sat down as Mel and Gabe came over.

           “So, we’re going to go. Nate, can you give Y/N a ride home?” Mel smiled innocently. You tried not to laugh as Gabe sent a wink your way. Nate rolled his eyes but was smiling anyways.

           “Of course. If that’s ok with you,” Nate nudged you. You smiled back at him.

           “Good. Have a good night you guys,” Gabe said, leading Mel out of the room. After making your rounds to say goodbye, you walked out with Nate. He opened the door of his car for you, and held your hand as he started to drive. The two of you were lost in conversation about the night that you hadn’t realized he drove to his place and not yours.

           “Um” you said, looking over at him before you got out.

           “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I can take you home if you don’t want to stay,” Nate said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

           “It’s fine,” you said softly. Though the two of you fell asleep on your couch that first night when you got together, you hadn’t stayed at each other’s places since then. Quite frankly, you had always been so busy with skating that you had never actually spent the night with anyone. Nate was different though, and he made you feel safe. Even if you weren’t ready for that next step, you couldn’t deny that you wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. Finally the two of you were away from prying eyes and you could be yourselves. As you walked into his apartment and he locked the door, Nate grabbed your hand and pulled you back into him. He smiled down at you, dipping his head to bring his lips to yours. You let your arms wrap around his neck, and smiled brightly when he pulled away and rested his forehead against yours. Nate knew you didn’t have much experience with dating, and wasn’t looking to push you. He honestly just didn’t want to let you go for the night.

           “I’ve been waiting all night to do that,” he whispered and you giggled. “Have I told you that you look beautiful?”

           “Yes. But you can always tell me again,” you responded, laughing when Nate bent down and threw you over his shoulder. He walked to his room and tossed you unceremoniously on the bed. You started to take your heels off as he rustled through his drawers.  

           “Here,” he said, tossing some clothes onto the bed.

           “Hey, I’ve been looking for these!” you said as you grabbed the pair of leggings you thought you lost from traveling two weeks ago.

           “I think they fell out of your bag when you changed over here last time after we got back from the road trip. I just washed them with my stuff and kept them here for you,” Nate shrugged, sitting on the edge of the bed to take his shoes off.

           “You kept my leggings?”

           “You stole my sweatshirt,” he chirped back, and you laughed. You did indeed take his sweatshirt home with you with no intentions of giving it back. Not that Nate actually minded. You couldn’t wear his jersey to the games like all the other girlfriends and wives, so he liked seeing you in something with his number on it. After changing into said leggings and one of Nate’s Avs shirts, you brushed your teeth with a tooth brush Nate claimed as yours from here on out. Then after washing the make up off your face, you crawled under the covers of Nate’s bed and waited for him to finish up. He came back into the room with just basketball shorts on, and you couldn’t help but stare at his toned body. “Like what you see?” he teased you.

           “Maybe a little,” you blushed at being caught. Nate laughed and got into bed next to you.

           “Is this alright? I can sleep on the couch if you want me to,” he said softly and you shook your head.

           “Stay here,” you whispered back, scooting up to kiss him. The kiss was soft this time, almost like a silent prayer, and you cuddled into him as he wrapped his arm around your waist.

           “This is going to work Y/N. Whether people know or not. We’re going to work this out,” Nate said as you pulled back, running his thumb over your cheek.

           “I really hope so,” you spoke, tucking your head under his chin and letting his strong heartbeat lull you to sleep.

Tags: @bqstqnbruin​ @avsfans95​ @andreiaafaria​ @gravygravygravy​ @comphybiscuit

[whump-town]

Been Having A Hard Time Adjusting

Summary: Alternative to the peaceful homecoming of Emily Prentiss - Aaron Hotchner never truly comes home with her.

Warnings: medical trauma, amputation, scarring, blindness, mental health, hallucinations, sexual assault, self harm, and just sad stuff

Part One, Part Two

They find the sweet spot where nothing exists past the tip of his nose. Where his mind slips and he dissociates, gets caught in the old wall just a few feet away. In the spackled off-white paint. His eyes unfocused and unmoving. A nestled warmth where he finds himself outside his mind and body and bathed in entire numbness. Compliant to their overwhelmingly constant touches and questions. Without the heavy thrum of sedatives in his veins, he’ll kill himself. Tears stitches back open with his searching fingers to find where to dig and rip into the skin to feel the warmth of his blood.

“Is there someone we can call?” he’s given up. His fight depleted to leave him bareboned and dying. “You didn’t list anyone in your files but if you give us a name…” He hadn’t listed anyone for a reason. He’d wanted his death to be as nonexistent, as unpleasant as his life. So that the others might be given the chance to move on. So that his son will not think of him. He’ll slip through the cracks and they’ll just forget. It could go unnoticed. Now, he’ll be left to go slowly. They can place feeding tubes and restrain his mobile limbs but that will not breathe life back into him. He’s not active by any means but he’s reserved and he’s lost. He doesn't want to stay. He’s done.

He’s been fighting his whole life but he’s never been good at knowing when to give up.

There had been life in him, initially. In the back of his mind, he’d hoped for this eventual returning to his life. His old life. It’s a complicated, convoluted thought that he carries for a week. His presence of mind comes back slowly and the drugs can not hide what he knows intuitively. He finds the wounds on his face, holds his fingers near his right eye and the sight is… The doctors tell him it was shrapnel and that he’s lucky he has some sight in it at all and that there is no perceived brain damage. He looks at himself in the mirror. Looks at this man that he can not recognize.

There is a mass of bruises and wounds on his face. His eye isn’t easy to notice the pupil blown wide and a well-meaning doctor tells him that the scarring he’s typically used to seeing will happen over time. Just as many of the wounds on his face, they just need time to scar.

They sit with him, run their fingers along the wounds as they guess at which ones will heal and which ones he’ll never get rid of. “This one looks like lightning,” a nurse tells him like he’s supposed to appreciate finally understanding what Harry Potter looked like. Does she think Jack will appreciate that? That he’ll look at his father’s face and see a hero and not a horrible mess of these warped scars?

It’s sick, he knows. He’d never think these things about anyone else. But he looks in the mirror and he sees someone that he hates.

And it all goes to hell when Dave shows up.

It’s… He doesn’t know what day it is anymore but he’s turned away from the door of the room. Propped up on pillows and looking out the small window in his room. The physical therapist had come in to move him, forced him to practice moving from the bed to the wheelchair, and then from the wheelchair to the recliner, a nurse had kindly pushed in. He’s left alone because he’s content like this, turned like a flower to the sun. Eyes closed and nearly forgiving, compliant.

“Hotch...”

He jerks at the sudden intrusion. Panicking at the sight of the man before him. It’s a little too much. “D--Dave?” he hasn't spoken in so long that his voice grates and cracks. Tears sting his eyes and he chokes, crying as Dave steps towards him. Sobbing as Dave bends down and shakes his head, his own eyes filling with tears. “You came,” he whispers, leaning into the palm that Dave presses to his cheek. Warm and rough and here and he hadn’t realized how lonely he was. How tired of his own mind…

Dave looks like he always does, carefully suspended between two ages. His hair greying near the temples but his eyes betraying him and his age. He’s tanned, dressed softly in a way that makes Hotch feel like a young cadet all over again. As if he’s marching into the bullpen to meet his hero. But here he is. Dave is right here.

“You’re too thin,” Dave whispers, stroking his cheekbone. “Being a pain in their ass, huh?” He smiles, fondly and softly and Hotch feels its warmth in his chest, in his face. He nods and smiles even harder when Dave brings their heads together. Rustling Hotch’s hair playfully. “It’s good to see you, Hotch.”

He nods, unable to trust his voice. He closes his eyes, leans entirely into the touch.

“Aaron?”

He hums.

“I brought you lunch, sweetheart.”

Eyebrows furrowing at the sudden change, he opens his eyes. The room is empty. He’s still in the recliner. He looks for Dave, going frantic as he realizes there is no proof of Dave ever having been here. But he must have just fallen asleep. “I’m not hungry,” he whispers and lays limply, bites down against his tears as they hook up to the supplements they pump into him. The only way they can think to keep him alive for just a little longer.

Dave keeps coming.

He shows up as Hotch’s falling asleep, whispers through the exhaustion about the next morning. Smiles and assures Hotch he’ll be here when he wakes up. He never is. Emily comes. She brushes her fingers through his hair and he asks her to tell him one more time the names of the countries that she visited as a child. The ones she loved best. He needs her to do the accents to squeeze his hand and throw her head back with laughter but she squints her eyes. She shakes her head and never answers. Never tells him.

“Who are you talking to?”

Hotch blinks, confused but not nearly enough. Some part of him knows what this is but he needs them so desperately that it keeps him from falling apart. He’ll lean into this delusion because it is all he has. “No one,” he whispers but they know. The nurses, the doctors, the therapist. They've noticed.

He doesn’t know why (he knows exactly why).

There are no thoughts leading up to it (it’s everything, it’s all too much).

No ideations (he just wants to sleep…).

It hurts. He rips the IV from his hand with his teeth, grunting at the pain as the needle comes free. He means to run away but he looks down at his leg - to where his leg should be - and he sees red. He feels red. Digs his fingers into the gauze, crying out when he finds the stitches. The hole of mangled flesh and the warmth of his blood coating his fingers. He doesn’t get very far. Isn’t capable of enough damage - not to him, at least. He wants to do worse. To hit and scream and throw himself somewhere dark and cold to die.

He passes out in a puddle of his own blood. Wakes enough when the nurses come in, dragging in crash carts behind them. The head of the bed falling and his hands being moved away. He’s floating. Not really there. He feels the odd little dance of his heart in his chest like it’s stomping quickly to a rhythm not quite right.

He wakes… alive, unfortunately. They restrain him - his two mobile limbs. His left arm still pinned with crap he doesn’t care enough to look at. It’s not as humiliating as it would have been just a year ago. He’s too drugged, too laden to care about the strap they have to put over his thighs to keep him from moving the stump of his right leg. His right hand is held to the bed by the wrist. He looks at it, occasionally, tests the flection of the fingers, and sleeps.

He’s restrained for three weeks but he doesn’t try anything. Doesn’t move or speak. Just looks at the wall. For three weeks they watch him - it’s suicide watch but unbothered. He’s more of a pacifist, anyhow, maybe it would be helpful to know that’s a return of character for him - to just wither away instead. For a week they have this grey area where he’s never left alone during the day and the restraints go back on during the night. They turn on the TV and try to get him to eat but he can’t or maybe he just won’t. He ignores them.

Dave doesn’t come back.

He’s just too tired to care anymore.

He’s there for a month and makes no progress.

“Agent Hotchner.” His physical therapist lets himself into the room. There’s no use in asking to come in, he won’t answer. “I was thinking we work on transfers today,” the other man informs him. He pushes the wheelchair into the room. There’s no point in working with prosthetics, he fluctuates in weight too dangerously to keep them to size. Besides, he is too weak. Too weathered and caved to hold himself up. His left leg is cramped in that bed. He isn’t’ strong enough.

Hotch doesn’t do what they ask but he goes numbly into their directions. Spurring to life like a machine before sputtering back out. He’ll sit up but his movement is mechanical.

He goes elsewhere because they can’t come here.

To Derek. Falling asleep after long cases in the backseat of whatever beat-up car Gideon rented, their shoulders rocking back and forth. Waking for just a moment either leaning, if not held, in Morgan's lap or to find the other man sleeping on him. The unspoken nature of the two of them. Laughing in the bullpen and the time that he carried Morgan across a field because they fell down from some rafters of a barn that Gideon warned them about. They made it to the driveway and laid atop one another called Gideon to come get them. He remembers cracking his eyes open when Gideon had stood over him, shaking his head. “The two of you are nothing but trouble.”

It distracts him from the pain and the way that he can still feel his right leg. They tell him it’s phantom pain but he feels it. He wakes in the middle of the night certain he can wrap his fingers around where an ankle or a calf would be. Is certain his toes hit the end of the bed. He moves to transfer from the bed to the wheelchair and he still tries to put either on a leg that isn’t there.

He’s stationary and that’s how they find him.

Penelope finds him on Tuesday and it feels far too much like the morning she spent frantically calling hospitals to find him. His name isn’t given - not public because he’s American and he’s in a veterans hospital because the federal government won’t fork over the money it’s going to take to airlift him home. Besides, he’s got no family listed. No one to call and raise hell to get him home. No one to care. It’s hard to say they did until just a week ago… Hotch was always good at hiding in the emotional sense but he’s never been good at hiding himself. It made his childhood miserable for reasons with much higher stakes than just children’s hide and go seek.

Dave goes because the plane ticket is nothing and his absence will be fine. Emily tries to come but he tells her to stay, makes her stay. Hotchs’ done all this for a reason and he fears the state he’s going to find him in. Never mind, Emily’s still dead to Hotch - still someone who is dying and needs protection. It’s too much.

Dave drives an hour to Washington D.C. and takes a one stop flight straight to Pakistan. It’s nearly eighteen hours and with too little sleep he arrives at the hospital at 3 p.m.

David had taken to Hotch effortlessly. He’s just that sort of person-- the sort that draws you in with their mystery, with the kindness they couldn’t be bothered to pretend it’s so challengingly genuine. That’s just how Hotch’s always been. Honest but somehow so intuitive, knew things you could never remember telling him but right still. Always says the right things without ever telling you a thing. Until you’re a decade into a friendship with him and you can’t remember if he’s from the east coast or if he’s from the south or maybe if he’s ever had a pet or even what his favorite color is. Not because you didn’t pay attention but because he’s careful. Never tells more than necessary and he’s got that perfected.

And it’s how Dave knows something isn’t right.

Because Hotch could be dying and he’d never bother you. He’d never put you off by asking for a thing.

“At the two week mark he got an infection, his right leg was severely damaged in the accident. The wound and the leg started to necrotize. His organs started to shut down. Sepsis set in--”

Dave’s eyes snap to the doctor’s, sepsis. He looks back to the man in question. Hotch had this way about him, the way he moved and breathed and lived like those old stop motion pictures. Every moment so carefully constructed to create this flowing motion, entirely soundless. Dave has always thought he looked like the grasshopper from James and the Giant Peach with his too long limbs. Thin and pliable. Now, he rests heavily. That grace and flow stolen from him.

“Agent Rossi?” Dave tears his eyes away from Hotch, forces himself to concentrate once again on the doctor. “He’s… He’s been experiencing some rather unpleasant signs of post-traumatic stress. He won’t speak to the therapists on staff--” The doctor looks hopelessly to the man so oblivious to them. “We had to perform a unilateral bk-- we-- I amputated his right leg just below the knee.” By that time, Hotch had lost his abilities to make these decisions himself. Mind ravished by fevers, he was hallucinating. Seeing people that weren’t there.

Dave feels a knot form in his throat as his eyes wander. Slowly over those thin shoulders, down the curve of his back and the bones betray, the bones that protrude through his thin t-shirt. Down to… to see where one foot sits in the rest and the other stops. Where they’ve tied the access material of his sweatpants off.

“He has a prosthetic,” the doctor sighs. “We’ve had to resize it twice. We can’t-- We can’t do it again.” The doctor looks so impossibly exhausted. “They have to be... the prosthetics are advanced but fluctuations in weight ten pounds, even, that throws them off. He can’t keep weight on him and so we size them and then he loses more weight and he’s not getting stronger.” And it’s pointless. He won’t walk on the damn things. Refuses aids and he could walk, by now he could likely run and leap and move but he refuses much else aside that damned wheelchair. “He’s damaged the nerves, the bone, that I don’t know if he’ll be able to use a prosthetic.”

Dave doesn’t need any of that explained to him.

He understands it all too well.

Dave shakes his head. Clearing his throat rouses through his trousers, pulls out his wallet, “if money is the issue--” He hands the man the cards Dave thinks he might need. “Size them,” he asks. “Size them one more time and let me take him home.”

The doctor shakes his head, “Agent, maybe… maybe I’ve betrayed your confidence here.” He sighs, “sir, he’s not well. He doesn’t speak. Not to a soul except in his sleep and he screams. In-- In agony, in fear. He wakes and he has no memory of this happening. Denies our therapy. He doesn’t eat. He sustains on intravenous fluids and a feeding tube which he once fought but now doesn’t even… He’s prone to chronic infections.” The doctor frowns sympathetically to Dave and he is truly upset with this prognosis. Of his patients' negligence to himself and it might be good to finally have someone here for the man but he can not be released. Not without imminent danger. It couldn’t even be recommended he make the trip to another hospital.

“Do what you can?” Dave pleads.

And the doctor wants to break down, to confirm that they have. Everything they can think of. From tough love to entirely too understanding. Everything they have ever been trained to do. He isn’t responding. But Dave isn’t hearing it.

Dave crouches down in front of Hotch, placing himself directly in his line of sight. “Hotch?” He reaches, slowly, up towards him because Dave knows to expect a flinch. No matter how many miles Hotch puts between himself and his childhood, it still comes back in the little moments like these. But Dave’s fingers ghost across cold, pale flesh and there is nothing. No flinch or recoil or even an in-take of startled breath. Only empty eyes.

He’s still so foolishly hopeful. There has to be something, an ember to send to life. He’s just in need of a little poking, the right words and the right commands and he’ll come back. “Hotch,” Dave calls once more. He smiles, cupping Hotch’s cold cheek in the palm of his hand. “Aaron,” he amends because, of course, Hotch won’t answer to his first name. It’s impersonal. Everyone knows it. Hotch is sacred. It’s something entirely their own.

Dave had assumed the doctor was a fool. What could this stranger know about his Aaron? But… this isn’t even his Hotch. This isn’t Hotch at all.

David Rossi has no idea who this man is but he’s not Hotch.

The physical therapist makes his way over, wheelchair pushed out in front of him as he edges closer. Looking between Dave and Hotch, trying to make sure the doctor’s okay for him to come is genuinely welcomed. Dave stands up out of the way, taking a short step back as he watches, numbly, the way the therapist talks to Hotch. The gentle way he kneels down and makes sure that Hotch’s eyes find him before he speaks again. “How are you doing, big guy? Up for the trip back?” he gets no answer, which Dave is growing to find less and less surprising.

“Alright,” the therapist answers as if Hotch has said something, like he’s even acknowledged the other man’s presence. “I think that pretty nurse--” the therapist locks the wheelchair and sets it up for ease transfer. “You remember?” the therapist asks all without breaking stride, like he’s having an active conversation with Hotch. “Well, I”m sure you remember, don’t you? You know, the pretty nurse Amy? Tall? Brunette? Damn, man, I swear I’m in love.” The therapist taps Hotch’s right knee and it spurs Hotch to life. He sits up and the therapist keeps talking as Hotch makes slow, lazy movements to push himself to the edge of the chair. “She asked me out for drinks tonight.” The therapist puts his arms under Hotch's, ready to step in and guide if Hotch can't do it himself. “I’m getting drinks with the hot nurse, isn’t that great?”

Dave watches silently.

Hotch maneuvers himself easily enough, his left hand is still covered in bandages, but he places his weight on one arm and one leg. The movement isn’t entirely sophisticated but it gets him where he needs to be - seated in the wheelchair without help from either of them men standing close.

The physical therapist kicks the breaks down. His smile startles Dave, mostly because of its brightness despite the dreary mood of everything else around them. The physical therapist grins at both of them - his spit and shine nearly a bit too much. “So,” the therapist hums. “Do I need to worry about this guy taking my spot as your best friend? I mean, we’re friends, right, but do we have to compete for the throne of best friend?”

Hotch’s head raises, glancing up at the therapist and Dave feels himself choke, as if punched at the look in his eyes. They stop, the therapist shooting Dave a glance before he kneels down. He places a hand on Hotch’s leg, the two of them eye-level with one another. The therapist clears his throat, solemnly offering, “he’s real, Aaron.” He glances up at Dave, motioning him closer.

Dave takes a stiff step closer - biting down to prevent himself from huffing an agitated breath at the younger man when he’s only beckoned closer. Until he’s kneeling down beside Hotch as well, his chest tight at the way Hotch’s eyes dart to him but seek comfort in the therapist.

“Who is this, Aaron?”

Hotch’s eyes dart to Dave, his dry lips parting but falling closed without an answer. He looks away, flushing with embarrassment at his inadequacy. Dave feels his throat tighten like a vice, begging someone to explain what’s happening here. He’d been told Hotch didn’t have any brain damage and that while nightmares and hallucinations had plagued his waking state, he was fine. Those were symptoms of PTSD and the hallucinations had abated and likely, the nightmares would too once his physical body is able to start to heal.

“You know,” the therapist prods. “Introduce me, Hotch.”

Dave moves, shifting as if to speak to beat Hotch to the chase and the therapist cuts him a look. He doesn’t say a word.

“Aaron,” the physical therapist takes his unharmed hand, trying to solidify Hotch’s attention. “Please? He’s real. Just like you and I, okay? You can tell me.”

Hotch turns his attention to his knees and Dave feels his conviction, feels the way Hotch has solidified his final opinion - Dave isn’t here. He looks at his lap, pulling his hand back to pick at his nails. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. He can’t bring himself to say it. Doesn't want to look at Dave and have him disappear again. Doesn’t want to feel his heart get broken again when Dave disappears.

Dave is stopped, he means to move forward to maybe grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Hotch does know. Of course he knows. Dave has known him since he was a twenty-something punk-ass kid with untailored suits and a shitty Windsor knot. He’s his best friend…

“Okay,” the therapist caves and shoots Dave a look that conveys all that it needs to: he’s to fall back. “That’s okay,” the therapist assures him. It’s pointless, Hotch has worked himself to the point of tears over what Dave had thought was a simple question and Dave feels like he’s been kicked in the head.

They go on without another word. None of them speaking. Dave watches Hotch cry, a few soft tears that trail down his face while he glares down at his lap. He wants to say something. To reassure Hotch or to remind him. Hell, anything is better than this silence that they’ve fallen into.

[counterpunches]

End (Beginning Movement)

Fandom: The Haunting of Bly Manor Pairing: Dani Clayton/Jaime Taylor Rating: T Wordcount: 4,137 Note: all the thanks to the incredible @foomatic for being a fantastic beta and even better friend. so much so that she actual recorded herself reading the story to help ID and fix all the tenses to make it coherent and then just straight up turned it into a podfic set to the show's musical score. Its way cooler than I ever thought it'd be, so feel free to please check it out here

Summary: If standing silently and bearing witness was all Jamie could do, she gladly took the weight of it if it meant one less thing for Dani to carry. Jamie coiled it tight back into herself and created her own waiting, lurking beast. Jamie was quiet with her rage for a while, until she was shaking with it. Until it threatened to explode out of her skin like a bomb and she wouldn’t ever - ever - let Dani come close to the shrapnel. Instead she was the steady rock that Dani needed and imploded later, somewhere else, somewhere safe. She just wanted to fucking break something. Couldn’t get her hands on the Lady, couldn’t pull her out of Dani, so she had to find the next best thing.

Also on AO3 

It was easy, Jamie thought, as her head pounded and temple throbbed. 

Well, not so much now, at this moment, with a hangover thundering out a pulse on the timpani of her skull as she clung to the toilet like a lover in the night. Every joint and muscle aches, a combination of sleeping half slumped over in the bathroom, age, and the consequences of booze. She leans back with a groan, back twinging, shoulders popping, and as nausea roils, takes a few deep breaths to settle her stomach. Evidently spending the rest of last night praying to the porcelain god didn’t buy her any grace today.

But in general, it was easier, spending the night chasing the bottom of a pint glass, in a way nothing else was these days. Christ, even breathing was hard. Been hard since the day her lungs fought for surface despite her best intentions. Been burning with it, since, taking in air in a world that Dani Clayton no longer existed in. 

The water refused to take her, so she’d found another way to drown. 

So yeah. It was easy, sliding into bad habits like an forgotten favorite jacket. A glass of wine became a bottle. What was one or two nights to forget against a million more? A bottle quickly became too slow. Why waste time, Jamie thought, chasing one cup after another? Best to jump straight to the hard stuff, then.

Jamie never beat around the bush before, seemed no point in starting now, her bluntness having been softened over the years by Dani’s love. The very edges of her ebbed into the waters of an ocean that was no longer there. Jamie was parched. She was so thirsty. So she drank. 

Wrong kind of love can fuck you up. Right one can, too. 

Just as bad, really. 

Worse, if you’re lucky. 

Love and possession may be opposites, but Jamie had given her heart away a long time ago and she didn’t know how to keep it beating when it was no longer hers. Everything she was had already been given over to Dani. Given eagerly. Freely. Like all things best loved are. And that’s the thing about a freed thing, isn’t it? Doesn't come back just because you want it to. Just because you miss it.

This part of her - it isn’t peaceful, Dani had said. And Jamie had understood. 

Understood in blood and bone, in the way something so small and insignificant can snap. Remembers how rage can end with kneeling in a rain-soaked alleyway, groaning from an ass kicking she probably deserved, probably was searching for, blood trickling down from a split eyebrow. Remembered how she grimaced, the twinge in her ribs matching the bitter taste of metal in her mouth, but it’d hurt and there was a sick measure of comfort in that; making part of the world match the brokenness inside her. 

So yeah. She knew rage. Recognized it. Hated that something so ugly and angry and raw resided inside of Dani, something that couldn’t possibly exist naturally - there wasn’t an atom of that kind of violence in Dani’s body. She wouldn’t give into the wrath, Jamie knew even then, in the cradle of knowing her. Dani would never. And the unfairness of her having to suffer through the struggle of it anyway made the part of Jamie that resonated in recognition with Viola burn. 

It’s you. It’s me. It’s us, the rage said, taunting her through the fissures of Dani’s struggle.

It was all she could do to hold it in that day, her teeth cracking under the weight of it, in the horrible quiet of the room as Dani confessed. As she gave voice to the terrible truth that now resided in her. She’s waiting, Dani had whispered. If standing silently and bearing witness was all Jamie could do, she gladly took the weight of it if it meant one less thing for Dani to carry. Jamie coiled it tight back into herself and created her own waiting, lurking beast. 

And Jamie knew from past experience that the only way to control the beast was to let it out of captivity from time to time. To let the monster run wild and exhaust itself so she could wrestle it back into the cage. 

The rage festered. Jamie felt it rumbling deep in her chest.

So when Dani finally left the room with a shaky determination (“Better find out what those kids are getting up to,"), Jamie knew she had to let it breathe.

No one would remember where the dent in the wall came from. It was chalked up as an accident, caused by one of the many pieces of furniture having knocked into things on its way out to the moving truck. Jamie had to hold in the scream that broiled inside and searched for a safer place for it to land.

She still had to walk by that fucking lake to get to the greenhouse. 

Under cover of the potted sanctum, Jamie let loose the beast. Anger clawed, scratching out her throat. The greenhouse was excellent at absorbing sound, plants and leaves shaking with the echoes of her cries, and if Jamie’s voice seemed a little hoarse, it was easy enough to blame it on something else. Easy enough, to explain away her split knuckles on mis-gauging the distance while bringing one of the heavier boxes outside. Or scraping it against some gravel. Or anything other than slamming her fist into the wall again and again and again. 

It was new though, needing to find ways to hide it from Dani. Never had to hide it from anyone before. She used to display her beast proudly, a mark of pride that said ‘don’t fuck with us.’ Didn’t have to hide her beast in prison, either. Everyone had one of their own; it was why they’d all ended up there in the first place. More than a few learned how to deal with it in therapy. Jamie tamed hers in the jungle of a garden.

Not a single part of her looked in the rear view mirror as they drove away. Would never have stopped the truck if it could’ve kept Dani safe. So she did what little she could do. All the fear, the terror that already threatened to split Dani further in two, the new shell of a person Dani had to live with, Jamie took it from her. Buried it deep within herself, felt it so that Dani wouldn’t have to. Drew out the poison from Dani’s soil and into her own roots.

And then, in her most private moments - few and far between, really, for there was nothing unshared between them - Jamie let out the venom, the resentment, the fury, that she collected. Outrage that the world dared spin, indifferent to the unfairness of it all. 

She just wanted to fucking break something. Couldn’t get her hands on the Lady, couldn’t pull her out of Dani, so she had to find the next best thing.

Viola was quiet in her rage. Jamie wasn’t with hers. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She was, for a while, at least.  

That first year was full of small moments: the way Dani’s shoulders would never fully relax, tension rarely leaving her body, even in sleep. How she kept looking over her shoulder at rest stops and gas stations, as if the Lady were a drifter, following them on the highways, across states, through the unfolding ribbon of their adventure. Jamie found she could cover up those incidents with the smug satisfaction of having bested the unavoidable for another day. Another week. Another month.

Her demon was dormant for a good long while, in the solace of Dani’s love. Dormant like Viola’s fucking ghost, it turned out. Things were so good for so long, it almost seemed to purr, content in it’s hibernation.

Jamie’s beast woke with a sudden and curious start, after that night in the kitchen after Paris. Started to sniff, hungry for any little scrap. Found too many for comfort - the way Dani started to wake up earlier, as if perhaps she hadn’t slept at all; how it would take her just a moment longer to turn off the water; the times Jamie had to repeat Dani’s name until she jerked, as if suddenly finding herself transported somewhere new - it began pacing in its cage, hungry now, banging on the bars.

Jamie was quiet with her rage for a while, until she was shaking with it. Until it threatened to explode out of her skin like a bomb and she wouldn’t ever - ever - let Dani come close to the shrapnel. Instead she was the steady rock that Dani needed and imploded later, somewhere else, somewhere safe. 

She could see how close to the edge Dani was, on some days. How it seemed even the barest breeze would blow her from herself entirely, leaving an empty, unblinking husk behind. It was all Jamie could do to steer her back from the cliff each time. 

Jamie had to coax Dani back to the world, breathe life into her lips some mornings as she stared into the ceiling, eyes open and blank; her very own Sleeping Beauty. Each time it felt like a kiss goodbye. Stay with me. Please. Come back to me. A miracle, when she did, even if Dani slipped further and further away each time like a boat on the horizon. Jamie would stroke her face with trembling hands, afraid even the gentlest touch would cause the delicate thing to disintegrate beneath the pads of her fingers. 

Dani always came first. Even as Jamie’s own creature grew stronger and louder, she held it in. Found controlled environments to let it run wild.

There was something oddly comforting about the alleyway. There’s a familiar landscape all back alleys share - brick, concrete,  dumpster, a car or two, usually a fair amount of scattered garbage, and the near ubiquitous empty, overturned storage crates used by the weary for smoke breaks or breakdowns of all shapes and sizes - an alley was an alley was an alley. 

The only thing that marked it as theirs was a few hanging ferns on the corner of the doorway. Something to signal the threshold, announce the life bursting and growing just inside. Something growing in the barren landscape of a back alley. Something to remind a younger Jamie of what could lie on the other side, if she stood long enough to reach up for it. 

So she destroyed things in the alleyway. When the cruelty of the matter absolutely broke her - when Jamie had to sew the fraying pieces of Dani back together because Viola was slowly pulling the seams of her apart; when she desperately scooped handfuls of Dani even as she was slipping through her fingers like sand - Jamie would break something else. 

Jamie took her rage, and smashed it against the brick or asphalt in a shower of pottery in the alleyway. Pots, planters, saucers, she grabbed damaged items from the shop and broke them even further, until her chest heaved and panted from the effort of it in the shards under her feet. When the alley wasn’t a possibility and her screams of frustration and the clatter of smashing ceramic would would threaten to draw Dani out from the thinning fragility of their life together, Jamie would punch bags of soil in the storage room until the they burst, earth pouring to the floor, and leaving her standing in a shallow grave of her own making.  

Nothing to hide, once Dani is gone.

Easier to get lost in the anger, and Jamie let it consume her like an uncontrolled blaze until nothing but ash remained. Fitting, she thought, for the daughter of a coal miner. It came to claim her, pulling her into itself, not to grow, not to nourish, but to press her into something that burned. And oh, she burned. 

It would scare her, she thought, that she hadn’t changed. In all this time, in all these years, underneath the layers of soil and earth, below the roots, the same creature lurked in the dirt of Jamie’s own jungle. A monster that threatened to take her too. That she wished would. A demon of wrath and anger. Of pain and suffering and the shit end of the stick every time. 

Despite the years, despite the love and relative calm that settled over her life - since gardening, since Dani - she was still the same enraged, lost, thing. Every living thing comes from every dying thing and it’s natural and she knows that but what she didn’t understand is how to keep living when the core of you is already dead; how was it possible for these two things to co-exist at once. The impossibility of the thing. The decaying mortality. This unholy living. Feels unnatural. 

Jamie couldn’t breathe. She couldn't, she couldn’t-

And there, there it was. Specks of dried toothpaste on the mirror. It shouldn’t have been the thing to undo her. After all, it could’ve been hers or Dani’s. But it could have been. Dani’s. Such a casual, mundane thing - a flick of the wrist, rinsing off the toothbrush, spitting into the drain - leaving behind a stain. A mark. Something to be thoughtlessly wiped off and cleaned later, leaving no sign it had once been there. No indication someone had been there at all. No impression of a life built together, their hips casually leaning against one another while flossing, or the yelp of surprise at the shock of cold water after flushing the toilet while the other is in the shower. The apology that came after, sliding through the shower curtain to make it up to them, a tongue sliding into the folds of their ear, hands slipping down to the folds of thighs, into slicks of wet and warm. The absolute mess on the floor afterwards of errant water sloshing out the tub. 

The tub. 

The floor. 

The water that had taken them both. The water that refused to take Jamie. 

Not the water, she corrected. Dani. Dani, who refused to take Jamie along on one last adventure. Do you want company? She had asked, all those years ago. Can I walk by your side? Will you take me with you?

And there it was - her beast - clawing up her spine, smashing with a roar into the mocking mirror pane. Again she roared, again she cried, until a dozen fractured shards were all that was left of the toothpaste, left of Jamie’s broken heart, all that was left of Dani. Again and again she struck the mirror until the pain from her bleeding knuckles pulled her out of it and she sank, depleted, sobbing on the floor. 

So she drank.

And got into more than a few fights while she was at it. Needed a better opponent than flower pots and dirt, though - she’d already destroyed a decent part of the shop. She needed something to twist her fists into, something that would punch back, something that would make her hurt. 

When she drove home, she’d try to ignore the voice in her head that sounded so much like Dani (“You could kill somebody, Jamie. Jesus!”) she almost veered off the road looking at the passenger’s side.

Left the fucking mirror in the bathroom where it was, a broken and half empty self-portrait. Tossed the glass in the bin and swept it away where the edges of a life that no longer existed wouldn’t cut her. Pleased there was nothing to look at getting ready in the mornings, nothing to catch her eye stepping out of the shower, nothing to reflect. Nothing to look at. Nothing at all. 

And so it stayed as the weeks wore on. The medicine cabinet pulled open for badly needed aspirin after a particularly rough night or tougher morning, band-aids for the cuts on her knuckles, no mirror on the outside to mock the bruises on her cheek or the split eyebrow from what might have been a night of bad choices but were the only ones that seem to make sense anymore. 

The only thing that helped ease the ever-throbbing, dull ache from every corner of her heart was to press the hurt. A walking bruise, Jamie desperately sought solace to cauterize the bleeding wound of loss.

The less Jamie had to look herself in the eye for it, the better.

Which left her here: waking up on the bathroom floor, slouched over the toilet, curls of hair plastered on her cheek from a substance she can only assume to be last night’s dried vomit.

Left here, on the bathroom floor, as empty and hollow as Dani had been in what turned out to be her final few days.

Left here, left behind. 

If Jamie squints, she can almost see the glimmer of Dani, twinkling like fairy lights on the tile. 

But the longer Jamie sits there, legs growing numb from her cramped position, the sparkle doesn’t go away. Matter of fact, it starts to get annoying. She swats at it, trying to suffer her grief and hangover in peace.

She pulls her hand back with a hiss. The light has an edge to it. It bites. 

A piece of the shattered mirror. Must’ve been there for weeks now, having fallen behind the toilet, forgotten. Jamie holds it carefully, staring at the broken reflection of her face for a long time. Stares until it stares back. Until the beast, she realizes finally, the one who has stalked her her whole life, has quietly slinked away. She listens for it - the telltale heat of it simmering just under her skin. But she doesn’t feel anything.

The unfairness of it all remains. But there’s something else in the emptiness, she realizes.

Dani. 

There’s a chance - far fucking fetched, she knows - but a chance that maybe, just maybe, the emptiness will stare back. And it will look like someone she loved. Loves, she corrects. Loving Dani will always be in the present. Jamie, crumpled on the floor, bleeding from an aching heart, will always be surrounded by the ghost of Dani. Haunted by a life built and shared and grown. A life taken. Cut short. A leafling, snipped from the vine at the most beautiful stage of maturation. Haunted, sure. But not alone. Something to be said for the chance that Dani will appear. 

Jamie will be haunted by Dani for the rest of her days regardless, she knows, phantom or no. Might as well wait, Jamie thinks wryly, got a lot to tell her off for. 

She spent more than a few years living with ghosts, anyway. Only difference is, this time she’ll be aware of it. Besides, no one else she’d rather be haunted by. It was Dani forever. Said as much herself that day in the shop. I’ve got a problem, Poppins. Dani would always be it for her. And some problems can’t be fixed. Can only sit and learn to live with them like old friends. 

So Jamie scrapes herself off the floor. She shuffles to the kitchen to grab the broom and sweeps the broken pieces of the last few broken months into the bin, cautious of the edges this time. 

She gets dressed. Puts away the bottles. Collects the half-eaten take out containers and napkins that litter the apartment. Takes out the trash. Waters the plants. Prunes the dead leaves. Repots herself and let her roots overcome the shock of replanting, remembering the work of living. 

Drives to the hardware store and buys a replacement panel for the bathroom. Mounts it in the frame, reverently touching the mirror’s edges. Because if there’s a chance, even a single chance - weeks, months, years from now - that Jamie’s personal ghost will come back to haunt her, she doesn’t want to miss a second of it. Doesn’t want to risk being too drunk, face down in a toilet somewhere, too angry to remember seeing Dani’s face. Doesn’t want Dani seeing that. 

Doesn’t want it all to be for nothing, hiding her secret beast for all those years. Having worked so hard to make sure Dani never saw that part of her, the one who went wild and feral, hissing and clawing at the world and it’s indifference. Never wanted to let her beast get close to Dani, close enough to scratch. Not Dani, who struggled so hard to keep tame her own demons. 

She’d be a rather shit wife if she started now. Just because Dani was gone doesn’t mean Dani wouldn’t see. 

Doesn’t mean it’s easy though, either. It’s hard. Hardest fucking thing she’s ever done, since pulling herself out of that lake when all she had wanted to do was drown in it. That wasn’t difficult, that was instinct. This will be a choice. Every day, for the rest of her life, will be a choice. One she has to make again and again. 

Jamie longingly traces the pair of earrings lazily forgotten, left out on top of the dresser, in a bygone act of normalcy to be left now in memoriam, and pulls out one of Dani’s favorite shirts from the drawer, that awful slinky pink one that snagged on every last thorn and branch in the shop. Pretty in love with you, it turns out. Inhaled. Breathed in every last atom of Dani until her lungs were trembling with her. She slid the shirt on like armor and prayed the delicate fabric would be strong enough to help withstand the weight of the world ahead.

She took a few steps to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and did battle with the first night of the rest of her life. Let the sink fill, stared at the water, and took a deep breath. 

It took years for Dani to see the Lady. They were grateful for it then - relieved, actually, that they managed to get so much time. But now, all Jamie wants is for the haunting to come quickly. Do you want company? 

For a long time, all Jamie Taylor wanted to do was forget. Forget Lancashire, forget the taunts, the sound of banging, of Louise’s girlish flirting, Mikey’s crying. Forget the whirl of sirens, the creak of a door opening in the dead of night, a weight dipping on the bed next to her. Forget London, forget prison, forget her, forget all of it. Forget Bly, forget the Lady, forget Viola was ever a dark spot to stain the bright garden of their life. She drank thirstily, fought desperately, all to forget the pain, forget that Dani was gone, was never coming back, and that she doesn’t remember how to be Jamie without Dani by her side.

Except now, she realized, on the off-chance Dani’s face would stare back in the mirror or from beneath the water, she wanted to see every last line, every curve of her face. If that meant suffering the empty, aching, endless days to do so, then so be it.

It’s you. It’s me. It’s us, she’d screamed to the Lady, to the hatred inside both of them, the fury that stormed stronger than death. 

But after the flames expunge and the coals cool, Jamie remembers now, there’s more than just rage in the quiet parts. There’s patience. Love. Kindness. That things grow with just a little bit of water. A little, instead of all at once. 

Water can give life, not just take it away. 

It was easy to forget that small truth when the waves crashed and swept her below, unable to gain footing before another came crashing down and pulled her under. She did it once, on her own, in her youth and loneliness. She can learn how to do it again; to exist in stillness and quiet without Dani. A little, instead of all at once. 

She lets loving Dani warm instead of burn. Like a comforting hearth beckoning the weary home. 

She ran her fingers along the cool porcelain of the sink, reverently, as if it were Dani’s skin she was touching; Dani’s face she was caressing; Dani, she was loving. 

Jamie takes a deep, shuddering breath, and looks up. Squares her shoulders, baring all of herself to the mirror, forces herself to look.

She’ll wait forever if she has to. 

But first, just one night. 

Beautiful things worth loving and tending to can bloom at night; under the blanket of darkness, there’s still life. And if she keeps pouring all her love and effort into it, maybe one day it’ll all make sense. She can see where it goes.

[vegalocity]

5 and 21 for Spicynoodleshipping?

Prompt meme

5. Reunion kiss \\ 21. A promise

Hell yeah Hell Yeah Hell Yeah

--

“Look, splitting off fully from my parents is going to be rough. There's a lot of...things that are gonna make this difficult. Both physically and..mentally. So I will have to be gone for awhile, I have a few favors I need to call in and if we want even a modicum of peace afterward i'm going to need to really make my departure inconvenient. It may not be much, but I can at least break what i've built over the centuries.” Red Son had taken his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, eyes shut as though to savor the moment “But I will return. Nothing will keep me from returning to you, I swear it.”

That was four months ago. And he hadn't heard anything from Red Son since. Or anything from the Demon Bull family. Of course things weren't necessarily quieter, they never were nowadays, but it was mostly at the fault of random infrequent demons trying their luck rather than anything planned. Mk was worried. He'd started getting worried after that first month had passed, when the second month had gone through doubt had niggled at the base of his spine, the question of if this whole thing was even real. No, no if it was fake if Red Son had been playing him this whole time he wouldn't have just vanished he could have just.. Killed MK and be done with it, he'd had more than enough oppertunities how many nights they'd speant together by that time. How many times MK had been in a dead sleep trusting that Red Son ould either be asleep at his side or sneaking off in the night to return home.

But no, their...arrangement had grown in the time they'd been together, and when Red Son had to return to playing the 'dutiful son' role he'd been growing more and more reluctant. MK knew he felt trapped by his parents, unable to break away quietly, but he'd been stalling their progress behind the scenes for months before he'd vanished. Red Son had switched sides, MK could trust him. He could trust he'd be back.

And then the third month passed and a new doubt began to arise. What if he'd failed? What if he'd done what he could, called in his favors, left a trail of explosions and broken tech in his wake and shouted to the heavens and his baffled parents that he was moving out, but he'd failed?  What if they'd caught up with him before he'd made it back and locked him away? What if he was bound to his room in the firey mountains, unable to contact anyone or escape and his only optionw as to wait until Mk grew tired of waiting and went to find him? DBK and Iron Fan weren't exactly kind but they wouldn't hurt him would they? Red Son and Iron Fan had helped him in freeing DBK from the White Bone Spirit because they knew he wouldn't try to hurt Red Son unless something else was in control. But what if they found out that Red Son was intending on leaving them? On turning against them? What if-

When the fourth month had hit MK was one confirmation that Red Son wasn't okay way from going from hero to vigilante and just hunting the bull family down himself and demanding Red's releasement from wherever they'd imprisoned him.

The others had long since noticed his unease and MK knew they were all worried about him, but he was gonna keep his mouth shut about it until he had confirmation one way or the other. Mei could try to pry to her hearts content, Pigsy could do that thing that he does where he gripes about Mk's delivery ethic slipping but shooting him those uncomfortable steady looks, Tang could make as many vague statements with that vague 'knows too much already' expression, and Sandy could bribe him with as many cat cuddles and fancy teas and snacks that he possibly could. MK would rather spend hours if not days on end with Monkey King working on meditation because he wouldn't actually move on with their lessons until he actually told him what had him so freaked than deal with spilling the secret prematurely. If Red Son was not actively by his side when he told his friends everything he knew exactly what would happen if any of his friends found out about them.

Questions upon questions on if he was sure that this was Real, and for all he knew right now, Red Son had been playing him and got bored, and what do you mean you let him into your flat what do you MEAN you actually slept with-

But here he was, four months and five days into this endless worrying, it was starting to become route at this point. Being as okay as possible so his friends didn't think he was TOO freaked about things and eventually decide not to take no for an answer, tumbling back into his flat at a dark hour, make something simple if he was still hungry, and then lay in bed worrying for a few hours before he finally passed out.

But today was different, though it didn't seem like it at first. He'd just changed out of his work clothes and flipped his TV on to some random infomercial channel to fill the silence and there was a soft 'click' indicating his window being unlocked. He'd stiffened, four months of anxiety and far longer than that of Monkie Kid training making him ready to fight at the drop of a hat.

But then he heard him.

“A little help please?”

“Red Son!” Mk whirled in place and raced to the window, crossing the room in only a short few strides and grabbing hold of Red Son's arm, pulling him through all the way. Red Son hissed in pain as he planted firmly on the ground, and MK noticed a bit of blood training down from a ripped sleeve.

“What happened?! Are you alright?” did they hurt you?

“I'll be fine, I made a small miscalculation in the fuel output of the Bull Clones i'd set to self destruct and got a bit of shrapnel in my arm for the trouble.” He shrugged as though it weren't a big deal and shrugged the two bags he had with him off of either shoulder, the overstuffed duffel going down with a heavy 'thud' and the camping backpack with a light 'pomf' “But it got the message across.” he wiped his cheek with his uninjured arm, the soot on his sleeve rubbing off. “You know I never really realized how much of either of our homes were based on my own tech until I started sabotaging everything and realized I had to dial it back a bit so I wouldn't kill anyone.”

The relief that crashed through MK was near overwhelming. Four months worth of stress and anxiety lifting in a rush and making him lightheaded. MK cupped Red Son's cheek with his hand, trying to rub the soot off of his cheek, only to dirty his own hand instead. “You're back.” Red Son smiled at him, placing his hand atop MK's.

“Nothing could keep me away.” He turned his head just a bit to press a kiss to the heel of MK's hand. “I missed you.” the sudden rush of relief when he'd spent so long highstrung and ready was already making him crash, he felt weak in the knees.

Instead of answering with his own traded 'I miss you' MK surged forward and pressed his mouth against Red Son's. Pouring the emotion into the kiss instead.

--

Prompt meme

[akatsukinojutsu]

𝐼 𝑅𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇 - Pain (Yahiko)

That vibrant orange hair... that face. The last time you saw Yahiko, he died as he fell into Nagato and flat onto the ground as the rain cascaded down on his lifeless body. So, why was he here? Now? [originally posted on my ao3 and based off of my oc]

You cried in the rain as you felt your stomach growl with hunger. The Second Shinobi War left you an orphan.. just a child left to fend for yourself and no adult to care for you. You found yourself digging in dumpsters and stealing food from local restaurants. Your stomach rumbled loudly as you eyed a bowl of rice sitting on the bar of a struggling shop in the heart of Amegakure. You hid behind a bush in the pouring rain as you staked out the establishment, making sure that the owner wouldn't come around and catch you.

When you decided the time was right, you swallowed your fear and took off in a quiet, quick sprint. Quickly you performed a variety of hand signs, "Uma, Tora, U, Tatsu, Saru, Mi." Right eye changing from your typical [E/C] to a shade of deep magenta. Thankfully your seismic ninjutsu techniques aided in your tasks of thieving. You were able to perform jutsus that utilized the vibrations in the Earth and air, giving you the ability to perceive the environment far beyond basic sight. Using a variance of spatial perception, you scanned the area to further ensure no one was around. People appeared like echolocation, their beings displaying like sonar. Threats appeared as red and allies as blue, typically you found yourself sensing those with red, malicious echoes.

A country torn by war and people ravaged by a thirst for blood would do that... threatening even a child if it meant to be a source of release for the anguish. You fought against those who tried to harm you, killing your first human at a young age. Just a kid. You quickly and quietly made your way to the bowl of rice. When your fingers wrapped around the ceramic yet they met another pair. "What the-?!" you yelled out, your gaze meeting that of a set of brown eyes. "Hey, back off. I was here first." a boy with spikey orange hair growled, his eyes narrowed. "Yeah right," you snarled in return and yanked the bowl away, sucking in your lower lip with a gleam.

The orange hair boy leaped toward you but you jumped away and he fell down flat onto his face. You giggled as he pushed himself up and brushed off his knees. But the look in his eyes was the same that you had seen in your own. You could tell he was tired and hungry, just the same as you. However, he barked insults at you, waving his fist in the air wildly.

You sighed in defeat, 'I'm probably gonna regret this...' you thought to yourself. "Look, why don't we share it?" you held the bowl out and it sat in your open palms. His eyes widened as he stopped his yammering and you could sense his guard lowered, his lips turning from hard pressed to a small smile and then into a cheeky grin. His white teeth were the brightest thing in the gloomy atmosphere. Years passed. Jiraiya trained the four orphans that were your group from Amegakure -- Konan, Yahiko, Nagato, and yourself.

The four of your dreamed for a world of peace. Your feelings for Yahiko blossomed since the first troublesome meeting. The two of you shared tender moments, like your first kiss. However, Konan also admired the orange leader of the foursome -- this caused jealous feelings to arise in you.

This caused friction in your relationship with the blue haired kunoichi. She was tender and sweet, her appearance was like that of a doll. You loved her, she was your sister. But you couldn't help but feel envy. Nagato tried to intervene as he wished to keep the peace between the two of you. Konan was aware of the closeness between the orange haired orphan and yourself -- despite feeling envious herself, she wished only the best for her adopted siblings.

The tribulations the four of you endured would last the test of time...

But that kiss, that tender moment... it would outlast any pain.

Yahiko took you out on a scouting mission to get a detailed record of the surrounding landscape of Amegakure for the newly formed Akatsuki. Your orange haired companion practiced sparring with you. He managed to knock you several yards with his Wild Water Wave, coating you in mud and barbs. You yelled loudly in anger and annoyance, shaking your fist. "Yahiko, you asshole!!" you wiped thick mud away from your forehead.

The male ruptured in a fit of laughter, doubling over and holding his side. Your face grew red with embarrassment and you took off in a sprint away from him. His laughter halted immediately when he noticed you had taken off in a fit. You rushed to the bank of the large lake that surrounded the area and stripped yourself from your cloak.

Only dressed in your mesh bodysuit, you quickly dipped into the cool river and began washing yourself of the thick mud. Splashing the water into your face and plucking the burrs from your hair, frustration boiling over -- curse words flowing from your lips like a geyser. Sounds of footsteps caused you to cease your blabbering and turn around quickly.

"Ooooh, Yahiko, you pervert! Quit peeping on me and just leave me alone, damnit!" you shook a fist in the air wildly before dropping it when you noticed a flower being held up to you.

"No pervert, just admiring." he held the flower out further, "Here." You hesitated, your face growing warm with a blush.

You took the flower, it was Baby's Breath, your favorite. Despite the constant raining of Amegakure, the little white flowers grew well beside this specific bank. Yahiko rubbed the back of his head nervously, his face taking on an embarrassed look. "Sorry, [Y/N]." his eyes closed for an awkward grin but you took this opportunity to embrace him. You tightly wrapped your arms around his neck and he wrapped his around your lower waist.

The two of you stood in the drizzling rain in silence, just embracing the moment for what it was. You pulled away and stared deeply into his brown eyes. He stared back, you pursed your lips and placed a small kiss on his lips. You could feel Yahiko shudder for a moment which caused you to pull away to try and take a step back, however, he reeled you back in. He cupped your face in his calloused fingers, his eyes examined your face as his irises darted around your features. He closed his eyes and pulled your face to his, then he kissed you deeply. It was a moment that lasted a lifetime. However, That dreaded day...dreaded night... it forever haunted your memories and soul.

The other Akatsuki members which included yourself but not Konan, Nagato, and Yahiko were all asleep after a relaxing afternoon of drinks and food. Kyusuke woke you with a yell, yammering loudly about where Yahiko and Nagato had gone off to. The entire group and yourself sprung into action to rush to their aid. However, two adversaries stood in your way and didn't allow any to pass. "[Y/N]! Go!" Kyusuke cried out as he was willing to sacrifice himself to allow you to aid your friends.

You hesitated but he insisted, you performed the hand signs for your environmental vibration melding. With an intense concentration of chakra in your core, you can meld into the vibrations that occurred in the air or water. Evaporating into nothingness and able to traverse the battlefield in invisibility. You were exhausted by the time you reached the trio, Konan was being held by Hanzo up on top of a cliff.

You took off in a sprint and nearly tripped over your feet on the slick ground in a desperate attempt to reach Nagato and Yahiko. But you were too late. You watched as if it happened in slow motion...Yahiko thrust himself into the kunai that Nagato had in his grasp. Your knees buckled and you fell in tandem with Yahiko's lifeless body, screaming out his name. You fled from the two remaining orphans and decided to travel the world; made the decision to run from the pain versus do something about it.

You wanted peace and for a world without war and pain but the pain you felt inside overpowered any pride. You found yourself lodging in Konohagakure for several months, to keep a low profile. Attention was the last thing you wanted. You had committed your fair share of crimes in each village, just to try and feel something again.

It seemed fruitless and it crossed your mind often how long you could continue on like this. Even after meeting a handsome Konoha Tokubetsu Jonin named Genma, it was hard to get close because you just feared the pain. The Jonin was willing to share the pain with you but you refused to allow him to dig deep enough to know the truth of Yahiko and the other two Ame kin. Just when you were ready to call it an end.. An unlikely visitor appeared at your lodge's window late one evening...

Tap, tap, tap... Tap, tap, tap...

A light tapping at your window drew your attention and you pushed yourself up from lying down, then slowly walked toward it, noticing a white paper origami dog. "Hmm.." there was only one thing you could think of when you opened the window to grab the object. "Impossible." you whispered, remembering your blue haired female compatriot. You held the origami dog in your palm, bringing it closer to your face as you studied and examined it; it looked like her work, her jutsu. A faint sound of hissing came from the paper and you realized what it really was. A paper bomb.

You cursed loudly as you attempted to throw it out of the open window and into the city below. But you were too late and flew backward from the force of the explosion. The windows exploded and glass flew like shrapnel into the room. You shielded your face with your right arm, shards of glass embedding their sharp edges into your skin. As you lowered your arm, you noticed two figures now standing in front of you but their identities were concealed by the white smoke. Once it cleared and you recognized the two, your heart skipped several beats. You could feel each thump in your head as the world around you grew still.

Blue haired female. Orange haired male. It couldn't be. No. Impossible!

Your eyes blinked several times quickly as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing. "Konan? Y-Yahiko?"

"Hello, [Y/N]. It has been a long time." Konan spoke, her voice sounded the same but more mature. You remained on the floor, motionless. It was as if you were seeing ghosts. To her right was a face that you could and would never forget but he was different. His face was littered with black piercings, studs and spikes. He too has matured but it was still the face of the one you admired. However, his eyes were no longer those of the warm brown but that of the Rinnegan. Nagato.. he had those eyes.. where was he?

Maybe he was dead and gifted Yahiko them as you've heard of the process before. You wished to see the red haired boy again but you needed to focus on the two that were here now. "[Y/N]." Yahiko's voice was deep and modulated, not the silvery voice of his younger days. "I-I watched you die," you sobbed as your eyes welled with tears but you hurriedly wiped them away to avoid your weakness being shown.

"There is much to discuss, we may assess it later." he lent out his right hand down to you. His fingernails were painted mahogany, his thumb had a white ring. You hesitated to accept his offer but nonetheless you did with a shaky hand; he took it with a firm grip. "Yahiko, I-," he raised his free hand to interrupt you, "Pain." Hmm, odd. Things were odd and not exactly adding up in your head but you chose to put that thought into a different place.

Your mind was scattered with hundreds of thoughts and sensory overload was imminent. You looked over to Konan who gave you a small smile, placing her hand on your shoulder. Paper surrounded the three of you and then you were gone. It felt almost nauseating to feel the rain of Amegakure again. It had been longer than you realized since you been in your homeland. You fled soon after the "death" of Yahiko. Defecting from the Village Hidden in the Rain and becoming known as a missing-nin.

As you traveled between villages, you met shinobi from all walks of life. Little did you know you would see some of them later in your travels and become well acquainted. You came to know each village fairly well as you spent several months in each, under a different guise each time. Konohagakure being your favorite -- Sunagakure was your least. (it made using your ninjutsu difficult as the sand on the ground and in the air made everything "fuzzy")

But home was indeed home, the rainy village felt as nostalgic as it did sickening. Konan used her paper jutsu to whisk the three of you away and dropped off at Pain's Tower. The location was his base of operations and where he and Konan resided on off hours. You stood before a massive tower that dominated over the already tall buildings of the industrialized village. You looked up to try and see its point but the rain dripped into your eyes. You hadn't realized that Pain was not with you and it was just you and Konan.

She touched your shoulder, "Come." her arm dropped from your shoulder and she silently led you into the metal skyscraper. It was dark inside. Long hallways stretched in different directions. "Pain wishes to speak to you," she pointed up, "Atop of the tower." She turned away and walked into the darkness, leaving yo to travel the halls yourself. Gee, thanks. Of course it had to be all the way up there. You hated heights and winced at the thought of traveling to the top of the massive building. It took some time making your way to the top; you stumbled across more locked doors than unlocked. Finally an archway led to a flight of stairs which spiraled upward. 

Your stomach turned as you could feel yourself ascending higher and higher. 'Damn those two...' They always found a way to get you to do things you were afraid of as a way to better yourself. Some things really never change - even if the people themselves seem to. You could hear the rain pouring as you reached the final door. Taking a deep breath, you slowly pushed it open to see Pain sitting at the edge of a tongue that was part of the massive face sculpture which decorated the skyscraper. "Pain..." it felt strange calling him by that "name".

His head turned to the right as he acknowledged your presence. You took a step out the door, closed it but remained pressed against the wood firmly. "Are you afraid?" he asked. You chuckled quietly, your tone taut, "Heights aren't exactly my favorite. Remember?" He hummed as he recalled times you were petrified of traversing a mountainside. He urged you to continue on then and he would now. He pushed himself up and stood, his gaze not leaving the horizon of the urbanized sprawl. Pain teleported from his original spot to directly in front of you. His presence felt intimidating.

You trembled for a moment as you could see his chest rise and fall from beneath the black cloak decorated with red clouds. He raised his hands and rested them on your shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. Your gaze raised from his chest to meet the Rinnegan eyes that he now possessed. They studied you, irises dilated and constricted as he processed his thoughts in silence. It was as if he could sense the insecurity that you felt. It was like you were in the grasp of a stranger. He pulled you into an embrace and his arms felt powerful as they held you. No longer that headstrong teenager.

But an established man with an ambition -- and a man of great power. It took several moments before you embraced him as well. You wrapped your arms around his sturdy frame and breathed him in, hoping that it wasn't just a dream. You closed your eyes and a smile formed on your lips, a small tear forming in the corner of your right eye. A swift brush of wind stirred you from your brief moment of delight. Your eyes opened as you were now facing downward and over the edge of the building.

You couldn't see the ground as it was hidden underneath a blanket of fog from the downpouring rain. But the only thing that kept you from plummeting to your death was Pain's grip on the back of your shirt. He was dangling you over the edge and one slip of the hand would mean your end. You swallowed your scream but fear still coursed through your veins as your breaths turned shallow and quick. "Do you trust me?" Pain asked.

Nonsense sputtered from your lips as the ground seemed to warp in and out. Just when you thought it was going to be all over, you felt yourself being reeled back up and onto the solid platform landing. "No." you barked as you wiped your face of the rain. He hummed in amusement which you reacted to with a shove. His body did not budge from where he stood. You continued with the shoves as frustration built up and was starting to be released. Several times you spat out insults as to how could he be alive the entire time and not try to find you or give you a sign.

You summoned your chakra in your palms, the seismic blasts pushed Pain back and slammed him into the wall. Konan felt the rumble from inside the building and looked up, curious as to what was going on but refrained from interfering. She knew it needed to stay between the two of you. The man shrugged off the blast as if were like a prod from a child and pushed himself out of the impression created in the wall. He brushed off some debris from his cloak and huffed in annoyance, "I can sense that. But I assure you, [Y/N]. I waited for a reason. I need you to trust me." There was a moment of silence before he continued, "I wish to continue our need for peace but no longer by the means of prior philosophies." he paused as he took several steps in your direction, "Only by means such as direct experiences of anguish would anyone truly want and strive for peace." 

"That is why I dangled you over the edge. Only direct action gives honest results. Often the ones we do not wish to hear." His hands touched your shoulders again and his thumbs rubbed the skin of your chin, "I wished to hear you do trust me, however, that is not realistic at the time." Pain stretched a hand out and swept it along the skyline of Amegakure. "I am a God. No longer a man. My words and thoughts have become absolute." The hand still on your body grasped your chin lightly and his gaze returned to you, "I wish to have you aid me in this conquest. World domination. And there is no other that I wish to have by my side.. than you, [Y/N]." A shocked expression displayed on your face and your pupils dilated at his speech. 

"This world shall know pain. As you and I have both felt." Pain pressed his forehead against yours, the cool metal of his forehead protector brought goosebumps to your skin. His Rinnegan burned through your eyes as you processed his words. "I knew I needed you now and not then. I will make it up in the future, I promise. But only if you wish to be my kin once again, [Y/N]." 

You raised your right hand to his cheek, your thumb brushing against the cool metal of his labret piercing. "Yes."

[werezmastarbucks]

dayton

honeymoon masterlist

word count: 2631

music: air catcher by twenty one pilots

The tiniest part of you wanted to go to Columbus, because you loved that place. But the bigger part, the one that connected your brain to your hands clutching the wheel, told you if you fail, you’ll have all the time in the world to go back to Columbus. To wherever the fuck you want. Kai said he can operate practically any type of transport, but doesn’t like ships. Flying was fine with you as long as he really knew not to crash a plane. You had to constantly remind yourself that he had many years to learn everything.

As you drove, you were revising the CDs Kai found in the car. He was putting the disk in and pressing play, or sometimes he just read the names of the bands. He opened the window and threw away all the CDs that were named trash. Now that you two were misplacing them, they were supposed to stay there on the road after Kai sent them out of the window, you were asking. Right? But, crashing on the ground, they were damaged, so did it fall under the order part of the spell? Were they to return into the car after you deliberately got rid of them? 

“You’ll know tomorrow”, Kai replied playfully. Surely he knew how that works, but it seemed he was unwilling to just tell you everything about this prison, and wanted you to discover things for yourself. 

Dayton was empty, too. Just like Roanoke and Huntington on the way through. You found this stillness somewhat soothing. You didn’t like gatherings and crowds, didn’t like noise and people. You decided to dive back into the three foot world, and just enjoy the empty roads for once, and start worrying when the realization of utter loneliness settles in.

You looked on your right, where Parker was sitting, staring at the cover of “East of the Sun, West of the Moon” by a-ha (do not throw them away under any circumstances!) in his hands, with one brow raised, belt across his chest. You still felt like you were alone here although he was next to you. He still didn’t feel like a human person - more like a part of this world. As inanimate. He was remarkably quiet, and you knew it wasn’t for good. 

On the Germantown Street, you stopped the car, feeling tired. The sun was about to set down completely, the May angle leading it onto your left. You got out and stretched, and Kai stepped out of the car a minute later.

“Where will we sleep? Any good hotels?”

He shrugged.

“I haven’t been in Dayton”.

“You haven’t been to Dayton?” you repeated.

“That’s what I said”.

“Ever?”

“Ever”. 

He looked around and stared at the sky again. Parker has been glitching like that since last night, when he stared up as if trying to cope. You looked at his upturned nose and his youthful face, thinking, he is in his forties. This dude is going to be fifty years old soon, and he is a nut case, and I have him on my hands.

He looked back at you.

“Adventure begins here”, his tone was half-questioning, and he smiled. The way it curled his capricious mouth, his eyes glowing, told you he didn’t really believe in getting out. You’ve only spent here a day, but he gave up already. He knew there was no getting out, and he just took it as a long journey, to keep his girlfriend sane. You had no idea where he thought he was going. 

You walked back to the car and took your bag and the phone. Kai’s eyes wouldn’t leave you.

“You’re changing the car again?”

“Uh-huh. Why not? It’s not like someone’s going to report them all?”

He smiled again. 

You walked down the street, ghostly and quiet. No stray dogs, no garbage being thrown around by the wind - but that’s likely due to Dayton being very clean. Kai wouldn’t bother taking the bag out of your hands, walking with his head turning right and left. You felt like in a museum, observing the 90s’ fashionable displays and stores. The eerie sight of clothes you had a habit of associating with your mother’s youth, and the lighthearted, distant, happy past years, the square thick screens and simpler times, were now a reality for you. You could reach and touch that sky-blue blouse on a slim mannequin, wearing posh plastic necklace, a picture from an aesthetic lookbook for inspiration. Aesthetic and nostalgia, that’s what the nineties were to you, but now they were here, brought right upon you, by magic, and they were very real. 

You slowed down in front of one of the windows of the Dayton Mall, a low, nice-looking white and green store, and looked at the leather jacket displayed.

The bag dropped on the ground as the understanding slowly creeped into your mind. Kai was standing few steps away from you, with his head cocked, watching you yet again. He seemed like a tour guide, a museum security guy who was more concerned about whether you enjoy this experience rather than keeping it all intact.

“I can do whatever I want”, you said slowly. 

“Absolutely everything. There’s nobody to stop me”.

“Don’t headbutt the glass”, Parker warned you, and there was this note in his voice that told you he’s talking from personal experience.

You took off your hoodie, the evening air a bit cool for only a tank top. You wrapped your hoodie around your hand and swung it, breaking the display.

The glass shattered loudly, pieces of it falling to your feet with ringing. Interesting, you thought, you get here, into this world of opportunity which poses as prison, and the first thing you do is vandalize.

The jacket wasn’t even that cool, so you didn’t aim for it. You looked down the street full of windows, and you could feel your blood boil. There was something inside of you, trying to get out, like the fuse that suddenly got lit. Everybody has it. Anybody would do it. You turned back to look at him - no need to mention his name, there is nobody else but this guy - and he grinned half-invisibly. It was a grin of indulgence, a hidden smile that lit his face when he did something bad: you recognized it from last week, when he said he’d kidnapped Elena on the first week after he got out of prison. It was the smirk that bloomed on his face as he spoke about how he gutted his own mother, and god save you, it was the same smile he had after you opened your eyes and still had a taste of his mouth in yours. 

You ran along the Germantown Street with the red pipe wrench you fished out of a car you found in the street. It was heavy in your hands as you swung it, crashing it into the glass, bothering the headless and armless mannequins, startled and falling down, creating the mess on their places. The glass was cutting your hands, flying in all directions, spitting sharp shrapnel like rain. With each broken window, your shoulder ached more and your head ached less, and you felt less like crying. Maybe there was a wake among that act of desctruction, but you missed it amongst the wild excitement of complete permissiveness. Parker walked after you, smiling quietly, as you raged around him, carrying the bag, and looked around. Finally, when you got tired, he sat on the asphalt next to you and looked at your hands.

“You’ve tapped one percent of what you can do here”. 

His sly hand took your palm, and your skin stung a little. It wasn’t as bad as that burn yesterday. You watched your own hands not believing pain could live longer than physical manifestation of it. Kai’s fingers wrapped around the cuts tightly, making you sigh sharply. He was so full of magic now, fresh prince of everything, that it radiated out of him. You could swear you felt it coming from his hand to yours. The cuts started sucking on themselves, and the ache stayed deep inside slender bones, phantom. 

“Another”.

“You shouldn’t waste your magic. Who knows how long we’re going to stay here”.

Kai gave you a meaningful look.

“Well, we decided we’d find a way, right? So, I’m doing it soon”.

“You know you’re lying. You’re only going to Oregon because I asked you”.

“See how nice I am?”

Your palm snaked out of his hand as soon as he healed you. 

“That’s what I don’t like about it”.

Parker eyed you down.

“You’re really hard to please, aren’t you?”

“I’m a bit grumpy cause I’m stuck here with you”.

“I have told you before, I never asked you to”.

You didn’t really have the energy to fight now. You wondered how you’re going to cope with his breakdowns in the future - and they’re bound to happen from time to time. Maybe become just like him, emotionally volatile. Seems easy enough. So far, everything here has been too easy, and you were waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Darkness fell on Dayton, and there was intense white glow somewhere beyond a row of buildings in Madden Hill.

“There it goes. I think it’s a cool hotel. You should go to sleep, you have a long drive tomorrow”.

He got up and offered you a hand.

“It’s weird you’re not driving”, you noticed.

“I don’t like driving”.

You stood up without his help and he frowned again, like he was noticing every little thing crossing your mind. 

“How is that? I thought you liked being in control”.

“I am. I’m making you drive me everywhere”.

You sniffed.

“I do it because I like driving”.

“Then it’s a win-win, right?”

He patted you on the back and removed his hand as if afraid you’d bite. 

You walked on towards the glow, crossing lit and dark streets. Here the lightning is automatic, and here is not, Kai was commenting. He was commenting on everything which indicated he was in a good mood. 

“That’s the best ‘94 can do?” you inquired, looking at the tall rectangle building. 

“It’s a Hilton”, he noticed.

“It’s an ugly ass hotel”, you grumbled. Kai snickered and followed you inside.

“Are you hungry? I’m hungry”.

Parker knew his way around everything. He knew where the kitchen was, and, while you were coming up choosing a room, he went on raiding the huge space filled with food.

He was devilishly good with it, too. 

That evening, after you’ve eaten, you went strolling around the place and found out one more thing: you didn’t like being without him while you knew he was around. 

Empty space that was supposed to be filled with people creeped out your unprepared mind. The stairs sounded hollow, and you expected somebody to jump out of the long, empty corridors. In the windows of the hotel, there shone an empty city, lit for nobody. Shadows and silhouettes were floating around in the dark sky. You decided not to butcher every thing that came into your way and fought the desire to break the window to look outside. What will become of you if you use the foot and fist method for everything just because there’s no one to stop you? Kai wouldn’t mentor you. He’s more of a devil on the left shoulder than the voice of reason. He will definitely be willing to spoil you until you’re flexible material he can use.

You now had a great opportunity to reflect on all that, Parker included, and decide on your course of action, separate yourself from your cell mate. But instead of staying away to think you found yourself drawn to the place where he was, because the empty ugly Hilton was scary. 

You returned into the room and found him, sitting on the floor of the big top floor suite, with the little bedside light next to him, crouched over something. Walking closer, you found it was the charger from your phone, and something remotely resembling a part of a boombox. One of the loud speakers from it was torn out, and laid at his hand, and you couldn’t understand a single thing he was doing.

“What is it?”

“I’m making you a portable speaker, like one of those bluetooth things kids have”, he said shortly. 

You looked down on him, a little surprised, because he’s never acknowledged his own age or the era he’s lived in before. Preoccupied, he looked very smart, and completely normal. He even rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie.

“How?”

“See this thing? It’s from that player”, he motioned his hand towards a player lying afar on the floor. Looked like he’d kicked it away with force.

“I’ll adjust the wire so that it can see your iPhone, and voila”.

“But I need the charger”.

“It’s gonna work”, he nodded.

“Are you sure? Kai, I can’t lose my phone!”

He sighed, and looked up at you.

“Did I mentioned I studied at MIT?”

“No. You know there’s been a shooting?”

You didn’t know why you mentioned it immediately.

“Wasn’t me”.

“Clever motherfucker”.

Kai shifted as if you touched him. He looked at you as you walked away. Coming close to the bed, you felt you were almost collapsing with exhaustion even though you didn’t do much.

Just before you fell asleep, you looked at the time on an electronic clock next to bed. It was almost midnight.

You woke up as if someone hit you. The silence was pressing on your ears, pressing your head, and moreover you didn’t know where you were. Without opening your eyes, you tried to remember the place and what happened. The darkness was blue and black, and it was so warm you tried to pull the covers off of yourself, and failed.

Kai moaned, displeased, right behind your ear, and you realized his arm was wrapped around you, and that’s why you felt like you were lying in a cacoon. 

You rolled halfway, not without a struggle, and saw his face very close.

“Kai, what about personal space?”

His body was so close you could feel the heat coming off of him. Of course, he’s one of those boys who turn into stoves when they sleep. Somehow his body just did that, so that you didn’t really know what he was unhappy about. You were scared of how well your shape adjusted to his, and you were lying comfortably in such a position that you usually get when you wake up in the morning. Even if bed seemed uncomfortable last night, in the morning you don’t want to move an inch, and the pillow seems perfectly soft. 

Still, you could feel his invasive mass, almost pushing you off that king sized bed, cornering you to the edge, like he was trying to scope you and win over the bed at the same time. You felt for his hand against your ribs and found he formed a fist, clutching the fabric of your shirt, like you were about to roll away.

“What personal space?” he murmured. 

Fair enough. In this world, that was all yours and nobody else’s, this crowdless, lifeless planet, thounsands and thousands of miles of nobody’s land, in this spacious cursed desert, there was not space enough for the two of you to move separately. You had felt it while wandering around the hotel, when you decided to run back to where he was just to see another human next to you, to make sure you’re not alone. This prison was as claustrophobia igniting as it was hollow. There was no personal space here.

[arcanigenum]

hey look i’m moving this cool guy to this blog:

NAME: Haq’rhá ( /Hɑq'ʀ̥a/ ), meaning chipper AGE: Equivalent to a 45 years old human SPECIES: Yautja (predator) PLACE OF BIRTH: - SEX & GENDER: Male SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Sexual

→PERSONALITY

adventurous, hungry for knowledge, curious, fiercely independent, data and fact-oriented, impulsive, takes risks for little gain, easily bored, observant and notices details, the more action the better, a lot of humor, extroverted and chatty, hands-on, easily excited, very energetic, talks to himself if no one’s around, difficult to calm down and relax, rather does what he’s currently interested in (or obsessed with) than things that need to be done, whimsical, impatient, defiant and goes his own way, short attention span unless things are really interesting

→ BACKSTORY

They tried to make a fierce hunter out of him and… failed. Well, not really. Haq’rhá did go through all of the training and trials and came out among the top of his group. He does enjoy a good hunt. He has even taken the time to master the spear and bow. However, his thirst for knowledge was greater than the thirst for blood. Haq’rhá wanted to know how the world and universe worked. The elders knew he was bright and thought he should put his intellect and ideas to good use. With the elders’ blessing, Haq’rhá left the clan to study and became a scholar.

He took an interest in the natural sciences, such as genetic engineering and molecular biology. He’s also fascinated with the flora and fauna of different planets, at times the geology too, and just the whole ecosystem that makes everything work. The only time Haq’rhá could be still was when diving into these topics and devoured all of the available information. Instead of joining hunting packs, he joined groups of other scientists to explore and do research in the field. It didn’t take long before he eventually went out on his own, determined to make new discoveries.

While doing the occasional hunt on the side, he learned about other civilizations’ cultures and languages, took samples of willing creatures, or simply kidnapped one. His experiments have been bordering on immoral (a handful of other yautja may or may not have been aware of what they got themselves into), but he’s also had a couple of breakthroughs and laid the foundation for further research. The foundation for the mega predator? Yeah, maybe.

→ APPEARANCE

Haq'rhá has an asymmetric chimera like pattern of purple, greys and light grey. Some parts of it is split directly in the middle on his body, and it consists of various spots and blotches here and there like someone threw paint on him. The “hair” is also covered in spots of the same colors, some tendrils have more than others. Picture HERE.

Stands at 8’1½” / 248cm. His eyes are bright blue and green, and the iris covers most of the eye with little to no black sclera visible. The tongue is snake-like, being rather thin and forked. The “hair” is not hair, it is flesh with a rubbery texture and it bleeds. His skin is reptile-like and rather dry compared to other Yautja who can be damp and clammy. He is muscular and lean with narrow hips and broad chest, both agile and strong.

Yautja gives off a musk that other yautja and canines can detect, while humans can not. Unless they’re angry, when there’s a prominent bitter and oily scent. Bleeds green glowing stuff.

SCARS: Scars are scattered across his body, both from being scratched, impaled and shot. He has his clan’s mark on his forehead. Two scars run across his face, from the right eyebrow and down over the ‘nose’ and ‘lip’, to the left skinflap which has been torn on the edge. His left upper fang is broken off at the base.

→ NATURAL ABILITIES

Thermographic vision. Can’t see like humans do, and the field of vision is smaller.

Breathes more methane, needs the bio-mask to survive outside his own atmosphere. Can survive up to a week without it, though.

Can hold his breath for several minutes.

Stronger and more durable than humans. As in, can tear open a steel door and rock walls, can easily tear apart humans etc. with his bare hands, only breaks a rib or two from getting shot with bazooka or having a handgrenade blown up in his face, can jump three times his height, and can fall ten times his height and land on his feet.

Can mimic and imitate speech/sounds of other species, but doesn’t necessarily understand it. Mimics voices. Picks up new languages quickly.

Can hear a whisper up to 50 feet away.

Impervious to heat (boiling water gets uncomfy after five minutes), invulnerable to electricity and to radiation.

Can shrug off most small-caliber bullets thanks to the tough hide.

→ EQUIPMENT & WEAPONRY

Wire mesh suit: keeps the yautja warm, even if it’s -50C.

Bio mask: Has sound amplifier, multiple vision modes, zoom function, diagnostic capabilities, recording system, and tracking and target for the shoulder cannon.

Cloaking device: Provides with active camouflage, bending the light around the wearer, rendering it partially invisible. Works the best at longer distances. Water will damage it.

Medi-kit: Small case that contains various medical supplies.

Plate Armor: Does not cover the whole body. Very light and strong, can stop bullets but be penetrated by Xenomorphs’ stinger.

Sat-Com: Portable computer housed in the Wrist gauntlet. Projects holographic schematics of a particular object or building. Can also display the position of mines or lasers nets in the area, and damage radius.

Wrist gauntlet/Wrist computer: Houses several features, including a self-destruct device.

Plasma caster/shoulder cannon: Long range energy projector capable of guiding armor-penetrating plasma bolts at distant targets. The bolt also explodes on impact in a burst of plasma shrapnel, damaging other enemies close by.

Wrist blades: Retractable, twin serrated blades. Sharp enough to cut through bone and hard enough to cut sever a chopper. Can be fired as a projectile as a last resort.

Combi stick: Telescopic spear-like weapon that is about 2-2½ ft long when closed up and around 8ft when fully extended.

Smart disc: Extremely sharp circular weapon that acts as a combination of discus and boomerang, and contains a form of guidance system. Extremely powerful, shown to cut through half a dozen of cattle carcasses and a man in Predator 2 without any effort.

Net launcher: Handheld device, fires a wire net with sufficient velocity to hurl and pin target to a wall. The net also features a built-in tightening mechanism that will cause the net to retract and slice into the target once they are pinned.

Gauntlet plasma bolt: Housed in the wrist gauntlet and used as a back up.

Shuriken: Functions much like a smart disc, but without the return function or guidance system. Has retractable blades that extend when ready for use.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 4: City Of Dreams]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, not really angst but you can FEEL that the angst is coming, pre-angst???

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​  @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

He calls you at home, at the bare-bones flat you share with two Imperial College nursing students; he calls because he knows you want to see the world. He can’t give you the world yet, he can’t quite afford that. But what he can afford are two tickets to the British Museum, which are, incidentally, free.  

Roger shows you the Rosetta Stone, a column from the Temple of Artemis, the Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser III, the River Witham swords, the Benin ivory mask of Queen Idia, Chinese jade, Incan gold, portraits of Anne Boleyn, bronze busts of Hadrian and Claudius, Rembrandts and Da Vincis and Van Goghs. He shows you the treasures of the living and the ruins of the dead, their currency and their gods and their flesh: skeletal mummies of people who walked the earth a millennium and a half before the Mayans, three thousand years before Alexander.

He’s uncharacteristically patient. He takes his time. He studies the maddeningly small words on the displays and asks you which relics you like best, whether they speak to you, what they say. He doesn’t want to leave even when you offer, even when you can see he’s restless for a cigarette, when he drums his fingers against his hip and gnaws his lower lip with those tiny canine teeth. Maybe there’s something else he’s even more ravenous for.

Roger wants to show you everything. There are alabaster-white, echoing corridors roped off for renovations, but that doesn’t stop him. He sprints with you down dimly-lit hallways—your fingers interlaced with his, your hair flying—and raises curtains and murky sheets of plastic to reveal marble faces, Anglo-Saxon helmets, Viking blades, fifth-century scrolls. He keeps watch as you look; and when he hears the footsteps of security guards he pulls you into the shadows, presses you flat against the wall, giggles in whispers as he clasps his palm over your mouth and begs you to be quiet. I’m trying, your gleaming eyes tell him, and when he lifts his hand away his burning sapphire gaze drops to your lips, and you think he might kiss you, and you think you might let him. But at the last moment you turn away, pretend you hadn’t noticed, tell him you think the footsteps are gone.

And the words ricochet perilously through your mind like shrapnel: I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

That once felt like a promise; now it feels like a plea.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have a deeply philosophical question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

John is laying across the studio couch on his back, using your maroon-tights-and-golden-sundress-clothed thigh as a pillow, holding his notebook with one hand and a dulling pencil with the other. You’re working through a pile of the band’s outfits that need mending, denim and leather and knits and polyester strewn over your lap; you are excellent at stitching, whether in fabric or flesh. Every once in a while you twirl a lock of John’s feathery hair, and he doesn’t seem to mind. “If Brian was a superhero, who would he be?”

“Spider-Man,” you reply instantly. “The limbs.”

“Ahhhh, of course! He’s a regular daddy longlegs, isn’t he?” John begins sketching. “I already have Roger as Thor—blond and ragey, likes to throw things—and Freddie as Iron Man. Innovative and unstoppable. Fearless leader. Shamelessly opulent.”

“How about you?”

John smirks, but maybe he winces a little too. “Doctor Strange.”

You frown down at him. “You aren’t strange, John.”

“I am,” he says simply. “But that’s alright. I make do.”

“I don’t find you strange.”  

“Yes, well. You’re accustomed to patching together damaged things.”

Freddie explodes into the room, his tall black boots clopping on the linoleum floor. He waves his arms hysterically and thrusts his notebook towards you. I need your help, he’s written.

“Sure thing. Ask away.”

He scribbles another line and turns the notebook so you can see. Tell Brian he’s a twat.

You sigh. “Freddie, no.”

Behind the soundproof glass, Freddie, Roger, and Brian have been working on In The Lap Of The Gods: first Roger’s falsetto parts, then Freddie’s piano. This has been no easy task. Freddie is on complete vocal rest after being diagnosed with laryngitis, Brian is recovering from a duodenal ulcer (on top of his residual fatigue from hepatitis), and they’re all ready to strangle each other. Freddie opens his mouth to protest.

“Don’t you dare!” you cry, leaping to your feet. You start a fresh pot of tea on the hotplate and grab the flashlight from your bag. You’ve registered with a London-based travel nurse agency and, after heavy lobbying from Freddie and Roger, have officially been signed with the record company as Queen’s tour nurse. Assuming, of course, that the next tour ever happens. “Let me see.”

Freddie reluctantly plops down onto the couch so you can shine the flashlight down his inflamed throat.

“I better not find out you’ve been bitching at people,” you tell him. Freddie winks and flips his hair.

From the other side of the glass, you can see Roger jabbing an index finger at Brian, shouting, swearing, needling until Brian flings his hands into the air and stomps out of the studio.

“Well,” John says. “I’m glad that’s going well.”

You aren’t terribly alarmed; you’ve seen this before. Brian will spend a few minutes outside, pacing and muttering to himself under the sweltering August sky, and eventually he’ll right himself again—like a sailboat gaining traction in a storm—and return for round two or twelve or twenty. You pour Freddie a cup of piping hot tea with honey and slip into the live room, Freddie and John following behind you.

“How are things?” John asks cheerfully.

Roger is wearing a half-unbuttoned leopard print shirt, tight black leather pants, and black sweatbands on both wrists that he tugs at when he’s frustrated. He snorts in reply and rolls his eyes. Then he glances over at Brian’s Red Special. The guitar has been left unattended on its stand, shining and forbidden. Oh no.

“I wouldn’t,” John cautions.

But Roger does: he pulls the Red Special into his lap and begins to pluck away at it. You recognize the mournful intro riff of Stairway To Heaven. John whistles nervously. Freddie crosses his arms over his chest and taps the heels of his boots against the floor in disapproval.

“Roger, please,” you say. “Don’t stress the man out, you’ll give him another ulcer. You realize if he sees this he’s going to murder you. Hack you into tiny bits. We’ll never find all the pieces.”

Roger laughs. “Calm down, nothing’s gonna happen—” And then, as soon as he begins to adjust it, a tuning key pops off the head and rolls away. Freddie’s teacup shatters as it tumbles out of his grasp. Roger gapes at you and John and Freddie, horrified. “Oh no.”

“Roger!” you yelp, palms cupping your flushing cheeks.

John scoops the tuning key off the floor and rushes to Roger’s side. “Give it to me.”

Roger shoves the Red Special into John’s outstretched arms and begins hyperventilating, yanking at blond hair that you’ve learned is the product of cheap boxed dye. “Oh my god, Brian’s gonna...he’s...he’s...he’s gonna...”

Freddie bolts through the door and disappears outside, still clutching his notebook; he’ll try to delay Brian as long as he can. You wonder if you should join him, if that would make Brian even more suspicious, if there’s anything you can do. Roger paces like a lion behind iron bars.

John says softly as he works: “If I can’t fix it before Brian comes back, I’ll tell him I did it. He already hates me.” That’s not exactly true, and you all know it; but Brian and John clash better and connect worse than any of the rest of them. You marvel, momentarily, at how it can be possible for you to care so consumingly for four men who are so astronomically different. Ah, but perhaps you don’t care for them all in the same way.

“I can’t let you do that, Deaks,” Rog replies. Beads of perspiration are springing up along his temples, his collarbones, his neck. Don’t look, you tell yourself, feeling something scalding and hungry rippling through your skin like goosebumps.

“What can I do?” you ask desperately. “John, can I help...?”

“Almost there.” John is twisting the tuning key. You hear thumping against the door.

“Freddie, move!” Brian is shouting outside. “Move! What are you doing? What are they up to in there?!”

There’s a frantic commotion as John and Roger rush for the guitar stand. You spin to watch the door as it opens. Brian steps inside, his hawkish eyes narrowed. A frazzled Freddie materializes behind him. Your gaze darts back to the Red Special. It’s resting on the guitar stand where Brian left it, orderly and fully intact. Roger and John are chatting nonchalantly by the drum kit and trying to conceal the fact that they’re gasping for air. Oh thank GOD.

Brian peers back at Freddie. Freddie flashes an innocent grin. Brian props his hands on his waist and examines the room, taking long determined strides, fidgeting with the beaded choker around his neck. “Roger,” he says at last.

Roger bats his long eyelashes and casts you a knowing smile. “Hmm?”

“Why is there tea all over the floor?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Summer bleeds out, and autumn floods in like the tide. With dying leaves and cutting evening gales come other eventualities as well: a release date for Sheer Heart Attack, Killer Queen’s roaring reception as the album’s lead single, radio play and fanfare and the announcement that Queen’s first world tour will begin on the day before Halloween. So I might finally see some return on investment, you teased Freddie when he told you. He shot back: Just keep my vocal chords humming, bitch.

Tonight you’re at Top of the Pops with the rest of Queen’s usual entourage: Chrissie and Mary, Josephine and Veronica, assorted representatives and assistants from the record company Trident. The show has laid out a spread of fruit and meats and cheeses and cookies—biscuits, you remind yourself, you have to call them biscuits now—and alcohol...including Moët & Chandon, of course. You circle the table with Chrissie, piling free food onto your plate and sipping champagne, chattering mindlessly to distract yourselves from how petrified you all are. Freddie and Brian are still in hair and makeup; Roger is berating the producers for forcing Queen to perform to playback; John is compulsively snacking in some shadowy corner somewhere and avoiding the crowds, presumably with Veronica. You don’t dislike Veronica. She’s polite and gentle and undemanding, if a bit reticent around the band. You don’t think she would ever try to exploit John for the novelty of being with a musician, nor for the possibility of money and fame. But you sometimes wonder how much of John she really sees.

“Is this white cheddar?” Josephine asks as she stabs a cheese cube with a pink foil-tipped toothpick. “Or maybe gruyere? Monterey jack...?”

“I think it’s halloumi,” Chrissie offers.

“Ohhh, exotic!” Jo takes a bite. “It’s good, whatever it is.”

You pop a sliver of pineapple into your mouth. “My goal is to eat at least three of everything. And wrap extras in napkins to smuggle home. It’s a hard life, you know. Roping one’s fortunes to an almost-famous rock band.”

Jo smirks and shakes out her hair: dark, full, freshly trimmed. “I’ll have to live vicariously through you. I’m watching my figure.” She glances pensively down at her svelte body, which is sheathed in a silvery mini-dress.

“Love, you look amazing,” Chrissie says, somewhat pained. You’ve learned that when anyone suffers, Chrissie aches right along with them.

Jo just wrinkles her nose and shrugs. Jo is wilder than Veronica, edgier than Chrissie, less saccharine than Mary, more glamorous than you. She’s the only match you could imagine for Roger; and this brings you down some days, drags you low, sinks you into indigo melancholy. But lately Josephine has been the blue one, the quiet one. And you suddenly find yourself wondering if perhaps there is no match for Roger at all, no perfect counterbalance, no one soul that could tame his anywhere in the world.

“You’re flawless, Jo,” you tell her, but it feels hollow and anemic.

Mary appears, stroking her large gold earrings restlessly. “Fred’s almost done. They want to start in twenty minutes.”

You toss your empty plate into the garbage—rubbish, you amend mentally—and shake the crumbs from your dress. “I’ll go get John.”

You scuttle around the set, checking gloomy forgotten spots and the dressing rooms and broom closets. As you search, Roger finds you.

“Hey,” he says, mostly confidently, a dash apprehensively, his hands buried in his pockets.

“Hi. I’m trying to locate your bassist so you can pretend to perform in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s kind of you. I just passed him, though. He’s with Freddie. Everything is as it should be. Can I talk to you?”

“Um.” You stare at him, confused. “We’re already talking, aren’t we?”

“Yes, alright, true, but I have something important to say.”

“Okay.” You study him warily. Roger clears his throat and glimpses around. The two of you are standing in the shadow of a monstrosity of a lighting rig and are very much alone.

“I just...I wanted to inform you that...um...I’ll be...ah...well, you see...” He shakes his head and forces it out. “I’ll be breaking up with Jo soon. And I just wanted you to know. For you to be the first to know.”

You recoil, stunned. “Why would you break up with her?”

He smiles. “So I can take you out, of course.”

Oh my god oh my god oh my god. A furious barrage of images cascades through your mind: touching him, being touched by him, whispers in the darkness, rings, chapels, children, and then: Josephine. What it must feel like to be Jo, what the beginning looked like for her, what the end will: scorched earth and desolation. “I’m not interested,” you say, pleasantly surprised by the steadiness in your voice.

“Sure you are,” Roger replies, undeterred. “We’re going to be travelling all over. It’ll be museums and monuments and libraries and natural wonders galore. I can show you the world.”

“I’m really not.”

“Why wouldn’t you be interested?”

“Because I’m not looking to get played. And you seem like someone who might play me.”

Now he’s wounded; those massive pale eyes are glossy. “I most certainly would not.”

“Roger, I’m completely enchanted by you. You’re brilliant and fun and caring and so much smarter than people assume you are—”

“Thanks...?”

“—And you’re a fantastic friend. But if we do this and it doesn’t last...which, let’s be real, it probably won’t...I’ll lose you forever. And the band. And my job. The math just doesn’t work for me.” But, oh god, I’d do anything to rearrange those numbers.

Roger mulls that over, shuffles his feet, lights a cigarette. “I have a list, you know. Not a written list. It’s just in me, a part of me. Here.” He points at his chest. “It’s not long. It’s only things I can’t live without, or things I wouldn’t want to. There’s becoming a musician. There’s leaving Cornwall. There’s finding a band worthy of me. Check check check.” He takes a drag and exhales smoke into the air. “Next there’s becoming a famous rock star, seeing the world, providing for my family. That’s all coming together presently.” His eyes find yours. “You’re on that list now. And once something’s made the list, it never comes off.”

“Not until you’ve had it.”

That knocks Roger back, makes his brow furrow, makes him blink as it rolls through him; because maybe that cuts just a bit too close to the bone. Then his face clears like a cloudless sky and he smiles, brightly, blissfully, as he always does. “I’ll just have to change your mind.”

“You can try.”

He takes your left hand, skates his teeth lightly over your knuckles, grins mischievously. “I’m going to need one last toast for good luck.”

Roger leads you back to the snack table and pours three flutes of champagne: one for you, one for him, and one for Chrissie, who’s waited for you. John, Freddie, and Brian are testing their equipment on stage; Mary, Veronica, and Jo have commandeered spots with the best view and refuse to abandon them. The three of you toast, drain your champagne, and watch the preparations from afar. John is bopping around the stage as he strums his bass, lost in the music in his head.

“Such a strange man,” Chrissie murmurs, although not unkindly.

Roger immediately bristles. “He’s only strange if you don’t bother to try to understand him.”

“Oh hell, Rog, come on, I didn’t mean it like—”

But Roger pushes by her and breezes away. He swipes a pint of beer and a bunch of grapes off the snack table, saunters over to where John is playing, and gnaws the grapes messily as he points and asks John questions.

Chrissie sighs and turns to you. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You know I adore John.”

“I know it.” And of course, you adore him too. But you have something else on your mind. You tilt your champagne flute towards Roger. “What was he like when he and Jo first got together?”

“Why?” Chrissie asks, eyebrows raised. “You mean...was he the same way he is with you?”

You twirl your empty glass morosely. “Sure. If I am in fact that transparent.”

Chrissie chuckles and rubs your shoulder reassuringly. “Now now, don’t be grumpy.” She lights a cigarette and thinks. “Honestly, no. He’s different with you. More himself, less dramatic. Less always trying to be the dashing playboy. Just pure energy, that enthusiasm he has that’s almost childish. He’s happy. Really happy.”

You nod. “So you think I should give him a chance if he asks for it.”

“Absolutely not.”

You startle and whirl to her, not understanding.

Chrissie smiles tenderly, sadly, wishing she could change it. “He’ll ruin you. He ruins everyone. Now if he asked you in ten years? Fifteen years? Maybe. But if you say yes now, he’ll burn through you like battery acid. He’ll love you until you can’t imagine a world without him, until everything you were before is quarried from your bones. And then he’ll move on. He can’t help it, that’s just who he is. Reckless and wonderful and insatiable. And good luck trying to find anything on this whole fucking planet that can replace Roger Taylor.”

“I understand,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

You watch Queen up on the stage as they count down the minutes until showtime, how Freddie fluffs his hair and checks his eyeliner, how Brian meticulously rehearses his notes on the Red Special, how John and Roger exchange comments and jokes. And it occurs to you how symbiotic they are: Roger bringing passion and dauntlessness and fire, John tempering that when necessary and contributing something so dissimilar and yet vital, something steady and pragmatic and immutable. Brian’s a willow tree, Fred’s a lightning storm, Roger’s wildfire...but what is John?

You can’t decide. Roger is tapping away at the hi-hat and it sounds like a metronome, like something hypnotic, like a spell older than the pyramids.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

[thelordstears]

Hohohoho- did this mother fucker do some writing? Why of course.

"I want you to live and die in the same breath, and so with a revolver glistening silver underneath your childhood home I will make the bullet the breath you breathe."  - Caldvain Lucelo

"My name tastes like a hungry tiger on my fucking tongue." - Vokard Killjaw

"The only thing money buys you is enemies." - Myles Catsenberg

"People in power like to step into the shoes of the weak just to see how best to break them. And I swear as I stared into the eyes of that living, breathing embodiment of everything that's wrong with humanity, I could feel miles that weren't my own being walked in boots I recognize." - Gerard Bronko

"The shadows, they dance, my friend. In the dark they sway, in the light they wither, it's a serenade melody of shadow and decay." - Ruvickza Havinsaw

"I dance with death as if she were a pretty woman, but soon as she steps cold heel on my toes, I'll succumb to the cold waters of this darkness I'm drowning in." - Jared Ashes

"I don't think the forbidden fruit was ever, an apple sitting in the tree. It was always a metaphor. We all have our own forbidden fruit. For some it's lust, desire, greed. For others it's murder. But it was always a bit more specific with me. My forbidden fruit sits like a rotting orchard in my chest, whispering to me all the secrets that killed me." - Exton Varkno

"I traded my life for violence the day I stepped into a battlefield, bullets between my teeth and gunpowder in my lungs." - Dust Tilvain

"There's something dark, brewing inside of me and it stems from the cruelty that hunts me with knives of shadow and sin. I can't tell whether or not I'll come out the other side of this battle me, cause soon as that blade swings through the air and crimson smiles haunt my mind, I know that I won't be Jolt Netz. My tombstone would be etched with infamous names and killer's identities." - Jolt Netz

"He sits like a bullet on my tongue, tearing into the essence of life with fangs of gold and horror. And as he smiles, you know that it is not of kind nature, but a warning that Hell hath no fury like a scorned devil." - Ruva Buckrein

"They call us damned, they call us cruel and unjust. But darkness lives in the hearts of man, and my friend, all we are doing is returning you to humanity." - Virgillio Kreuten

"There's something cruel about how Heaven dances before the angels who fell. As if it mocks their pain with a pearly white smile filled with angel toothed fangs." - Kristen

"I was a bullet fading memory sitting on the edge of another man's revolver. I'd do anything to get my next fucking hit, my next fucking high. And so I stand here with broken bullets sitting at my boot, wondering if this is the price I payed to become nothing more then a silhouette of who I shoulda been." - Bovako Stillsworth

"I was a pawn, once. But I moved through the white and black checkered board, shifting through identities at rapid speeds. I've been the brook. The knight. The bishop. But as I reached the end of the board, my friend. I said checkmate and became something far more powerful then a King, or a Queen. I became he who controls the board, rolling die as if they were the seers golden strings." - David Faim

"Safety is an illusion, created by society to keep us quiet." - Quentin Satchel

"He's a pale white ghost that sits like a dream in the shadows, and before you know it, my friend, he'll snatch you in his nightmare hungry maw, and all you know will become dark." - Arthur Wellburn

"I stared into eyes mad and unwell, sinking in oceans that were never my own. And as I tripped over my boots, I came to realize these boot-prints were never mine either. I'm just a stranger walking in Cage's skin nowadays, wondering when the fuck I'll be myself." - Cage Azvinka

"Death doesn't taste cold. It doesn't taste of dark things and chaos. Death tastes like the lips of someone you've lost, it tastes of rose petals and lust, of nights spent in each other's arms and worst of all, for some people. Death tastes of love." - Norman O'Driscoll

"You know how it is, we all think we're good people. We all live as if we're the hero in our own fucking comic book, but then you gotta make choices. And none of 'em are favorable. All of 'em end with some form of death, and you get to thinking if this is the new normal, and blood runs red on the mellow streets of innocence. What the fuck does that make a hero but a villain hiding behind his regretful eyes?" - Kyro Bellford

"I stood for nobility, for peace. For something the world could be proud of in the end. But my world fell apart as sinister smiles surrounded me and darkness swooped in on every god don side. What a cruel thing it must be, to fall into the dark when light is right around the corner." - Jenvick Hester

"I am a revolver of secrets and lies. Each chamber holds a bullet, my friend. Dare you step into the firing range of these gunpowder identities that'll cling to you like shivering shadows?" - Caveston Gustello

"This world is fucked up. No wonder I wanted to escape it, right? No wonder I wanted to drift away from reality on wings of cocaine and hallucinations that left me bleeding from the heart. I just don't know why, out of all the things I can't run from, it's the fucking ghost that sits in my memory like a cruel, barking and biting dog. It'll always be there. It'll always remain, there. Because to be rid of the addiction ghost would be to be rid of who I am, too." - Rain Morvosina

"I sit very quiet in my mind, as if I fear even a whisper would shatter the glass of me. I thought, as I held my child in my arms that I had found life blossoming inside of me, for once, finally. I had found it, I had lived. But it was not life I had given to the world, but decadent and starving death. With his reddened teeth and decaying angels, he rips my mind apart with his existence alone. I have committed an awful, dreadful sin. One that can never be forgiven. For I am the mother of evil, and that, is nothing that God can love." - Francine Flowrick

"Reality always crashes down on the weary. It comes for the broken with claws, sharp, rotting things they are, tearing at the fabric of beating hearts and minds that think and remember, that hurt and scar so easily. I've always been the thing that hunts the bad things. The quiet bumps in the dark that haunt childhood minds and whispered madness that haunts the well and lovely of society. I was never really a man, was I? I was always something to be feared by the dark. So does that make me an invisible shadow?" - Mosrvey Vitinbow

"You know how it is. When you see someone that's broken you think you can fix them, you think you can save them from the darkness you'd seen yourself. But she was never broken. She was never something anyone could fix. She was cruel. She was delusional and wicked. And I'd never seen that in someone before. But a young heart had become a decaying one before I even had a chance to watch daisies and roses bloom in her chest. Love never stood a chance with something cruel and animalistic as her." - Moana Steenfield

"They called me something sinister, as if who I am could be defined by words pulled from the darkest poets man kind has ever known. But I was never poetry, I was never something that could be explained. Death came for me with rotting fingers and a smile, and up in flames went the pain. Up in flames went all the horror in my heart. If I wasn't this rotting, dying thing of cruelty and bloodstained lip, who would I be? Perhaps I wouldn't be Bethy, if I wasn't wicked, if I wasn't something mad and quiet. And to be myself, perhaps, is my loveliest sin of all." - Bethy Angelice

"Monsters don't follow a code of any sort. With their fangs of humanity and grins of dark, they sit still like starving vultures, waiting to drag another dead man's soul into the quiet emptiness of their madness. I've met monsters. I've met cruelty. And often I wonder, is it such a cruel sin, to send a beast into the dark from whence he came?" - Ozbey Crocker

"She was broken before the Devil of delusions had ever gotten to her. As if her mind was a paint peeled mansion, creeping at the edge of an abandoned ghost town. I had never met such cruelty in someone so young until she sat at the edge of a boy's bed, hatred and something sinister dancing in eyes pale and lifeless." - Paul Daykos

"He came for me with ashen bone fingers, his eyes dancing with unheavenly delusions. Dark and quiet was the punishment for my madness, for my devilry wrapped in child like horror. He told me that they call us a murder of crows. And what a heavenly thing it must be, to hold black feathers divine beneath your nails, ripping into the threadbare and gentle animalistic nature of the beaked beasts that caw little whispers of death in the sky. What a cruel, decadent beast he was. Sitting at the edge of insanity with his eight ball and shaky ashen bone fingers." - Bethy Angelice

"I ripped my blade from out a dying man's chest, and it was with, some sense of dread and a cruel form of poetry I realized it was my heart on the tip of that blade." - Richarlosse Caldwane

"Ya know, I think we're all just hearts, tryna find our way through the darkness in our ribcage. All it takes is a spark or two of some, curious emotion to light the way." - Markino Ravine

"My tears roll down my cheek like a brand seared into my memory. As if my sorrow is forever with me." - Jimmy Rummers

"I would swallow my grief, but I fear if I were to do so I would consume his memory." - Marvel Felinmote

"The world has no care for girls like me, but since when did that mean I don't get to have any care for someone like me? I battled with my demons until they became my friends, the angels with horns on my shoulder. Isn't it beautiful, to turn your nightmares into dreams with a forgiving smile?" - Emnia Ruzit

"I'm nothing but broken bottle amens spoken too fucking late." - Ash Caesar

"I marched into the battlefield me, but as the shrapnel and gunfire started surroundin' my heart on every side, it felt almost as if, history had begun etching my name away into the oh so infamous name of war." - Carickstan Spellman

"I wade in these depths unfamiliar, quiet madness creeping up the edges of my weed infested skull. This quaint little garden of insanity and unwell morality is mine, I tend to it with dagger like rain, letting the sun set it ablaze as Winter's ice cuts into it as if it were, a fresh cattle on the hook. This mind of mine is a shattered, broken, dying thing. But perhaps more so then ever I fear, that this garden has rotted, like seaweed left too long from out the ocean's waves. I am seafoam madness and coral reef sorrow, sinking into this ocean of who I am, drowning in things I never knew, nor perhaps, ever wanted to see." - Azekiel Gynsello

"I sit on the edge of violence like dark poetry unspoken. I am the ebony crow, soaring through dreams, weaving them into nightmares and shadow." - Everett Beaumont

"I once stood strong, like a soldier on the battlefield, knowing his country would win the war. But as my rifle fell from decaying fingers, clattering to the dirt, I found that hope, is a dead end dream, cause damn brother, the future turns against your promises." - Ramo Bonewitz

"My mother was an empty powder keg, but slowly, ever so slowly she filled herself with gunpowder rage, sinking into the depths of her anger. And as she looked at me, with perhaps, eyes that yearned for something more then the beast she'd become, I stared her back, with eyes she just couldn't love." - Rain Morvosina

"I tap my fingers against a type writer, tip tapping away as my memories are on display, like ink on a page that documents the misery of a man who doesn't know any other life. And as these poems and prose bleed into my fingers through the black letters I touch, I come to wonder if it was wrong of me, to escape reality with a writer's eyes." - Bovako Stillsworth

"My daddy always used to say that hate isn't the majority, they just scream louder then those who fear the stripping of their voice for speaking out against injustice. And he's right, cause as I shiver and shake in the face of someone's anger, I fear the consequences of speaking against violence." - Harmoni Thievesmire

"Regret is a chamber in which I sleep." - Romiro Smilowitz

"There's secrets in your heart. I would suggest casting them from your ribcage so they don't start tumbling from your lip, because if you so much as whisper of the darkness in me rest assured, you'll lose yourself in the span of  a revolver chamber's glistening silver." - Markston Valentine

"You went walking into Hell thinking it was the sun, didn't you? Don't you know beasts look like you? You've been a man of the law, for how long? And you didn't think twice what laid behind my smile?" - Markston Valentine

"To some I'm a death omen, others call me a bad man. Some people look at me as if I were some extant revival of Judas, sticking my knife in the back of justice, but to you, I'm a savior wrapped in the blood of the monster under your fucking bed." - Galio Brute

"I got an army inside this little chamber, and all of my bullet soldiers want you dead." - Galio Brute

"I'd ask forgiveness for killing the man who hurt Marigold, but I don't think Karma much cares for men who sit on the edge of violence with a grin." - Jakoby Fallhurst

"With my heart beat quick and rapid, the pullin' of my trigger came and went in the blink of that soon to be dead man's eyes." - Jakoby Fallhurst

"I used to sit at the edge of a revolver, right on the barrel. And as the gunsmoke wisped around my head, it felt like I had died while I was a livin', but all it took was a single leap of faith ta find myself outside that chamber 'a dead ends and sorrow glimpsed eyes of mirrored fates." - Jakoby Fallhurst

"Who you are is, patches of dead skin clinging to the tips of your fingers, it'll start with the blood drip, dripping from off the feeble hangnails of your identity, dripping away like wax from a candle ever roaring. Your identity will cling to you, but it will decay. Eventually, it'll start falling off in clumps of hair, dripping away from you forevermore, but it shall be ripped from you, like the first layer of your skin." - Mekivalla Brimsburn

"You call me human, but your panic beating heart unravels me as something eldritch in nature." - Mekivalla Brimsburn

"Do I, sit on your tongue like a sorrow danced question? Do I lay in your heart like an edged razor blade, carving little pieces off of who you are with memories of my smile and actions?" - Mekivalla Brimsburn

"I'm a, threadwork illusion, I slink into shadows unseen and appear like a ghost on the wind, sitting idle on cold cases and graves. Wherever I wander death is sure to follow, and as I look to this, field of open graves, I wonder which one is for me." - Morsvey Vitinbow

"He stared at me with a knife like smile, carving my identity from off my back like angel's wings burning in the midnight sky of Heaven. And as he ripped into the threadwork maze of my mind, he told me that he was just the point edge of a razor, carving pieces of me into pieces of him." - Bosko Hallramo

"His mind was a whisper of humanity, but if he had the courage he could've found a victorious shout of it echoing in a healed scar." - Malachi Razor

"Mystery called to me from the shadows of a forest, and as I discovered what the sinister tune's song meant, I felt as if, something started to die deep inside my bones. Like roses blooming from an open grave." - Abram Gothenburg

"My name sits like a dying raven on my tongue." - Hackton Acokliney

"You're stronger then you know, Gynso, it doesn't take shoving bullets in a chamber to find strength. All it takes is to accept your heart as it is, rainbow, decaying or golden. All hearts are equal, but some wither. Don't dig your heart a grave in an attempt to find yourself." - Keller McVito

"Don't you know, I was just like you once? Fighting for the people, bleeding, for the people. But, when push comes to shove sorrow and rage aren't enough to fill an empty chamber of revolution, so you have to put little pieces of you in those bullets, and eventually, you die, Keller." - Godfree Fallows

"In life, we are presented with two choices. Either you shove who you are so far down your throat that not even you, could reach him, or sit down and think, "Who am I?" and as the answer swirls in your mind, accept that, and become a gentle answer, rather then a forever burning question." - Keller McVito

"Her lips tasted like death ripping cold through my throat, her fingers daggers and knives digging into the notches of my spine. But worst of all, her heart tasted like an unholy omen of my death, sitting idle on her bare back." - Father Vorkaine Thorrel

"We aren't stars blinking out of the light, we're human. And with that, comes the capability to fight back, tooth, and bloody knuckle." - Father Vorkaine Thorrel

"It's once you call yourself holy that you realize you never were." - Father Goriah Thorell

"I place a weathered and scarred hand on my broken and damned heart, praying that I die a man I am." - Nathaniel Wessonlock

"Somedays, when I sit and wonder if I was ever really, a good man I feel a tinge of sorrow beat like a fragile rain drop in my heart. And as my mind tells me the blood staining the forest ground is on my hands, I come to wonder if the act of not noticing, the act of inaction and the act of cowardice, is perhaps more damning then pulling the trigger." - Bart Vanstick

"I don't believe in Karma, justice or anything like that. Those things have never worked in the favor of man, but what I do believe in is my pistol and the will to kill." - Nial Mooranan

"You've poisoned the river's in me, you stripped me screaming from who I am. And I have no fucking problem doing the same to you." - Nial Mooranan

"I'd watch your back, from here on out. There's serpents and vipers in the grass, and your heart is starting to look like a feast." - Sirius Mortales

"I'm a very powerful man, I'm practically a ghost, Ramo. I can be anywhere at any given time in many different vessels, I have eyes in the shadows of Evergreen's Bay. And you, my friend, have been ensnared in death's cold, hungry and starving maw." - Quentin Satchel

"You'd best know I hold a deadly grudge." - Quentin Satchel

"Underneath the shadows of foreign ravens and darkness blotting the cloud's of my heart, I fell, like a decaying angel in the night sky. And humanity called me a beautiful shooting star, and as they wished upon my burning hubris and wax, it was death and a curse they'd receive for wishing on shadows and dying angels." - Mallonzi Heckzen

"There were castles in his bones, pillars that held up his marble floor strength." - Abram Gothenburg

"You, are a dying question, you have no answer ricocheting in those mad bones of yours. And as you choke on your blood, it is insanity and a lack of humanity you'll taste on your teeth." - Ashvallio Bradburry

"That's what I want, don't you see! I don't want, to be human, it caused me such, aching pain, to be man. So with a howl and death in my throat I became something less then that. Something greater, then that." - Burns Mataugh

"I'm king 'a this hill, my throne is secured by my hammer and wit alone, and this hill is littered with the bones of those who tried ta push me. Dare you become bones?" - Shawn Werdesltein

"It was always humanity, that turned men to phantoms. Or the lack thereof." - Crow Sandelfreicks

"I've died, really. You can etch a stone with my forgotten name and seek whispers in the soils of my heart, but deep down, you'll see the bones of decay and raven beaks, wondering why such a merciful man's ribcage is stained with gunmetal and blood." - Crow Sandelfreicks

"You have come to the place saint's go to arise from their feeble skin, and out crawls the sinner hidden deep within the ribcage of hollow bone." - Farquad Debellio

"You've made a merciful man's heart beat with murder." - Crow Sandelfreicks

"In my brother's eyes, I saw shadows he didn't want, in his heart, though, I saw scars bleeding from a broken man's chest. And with some, sad sense of joy, I felt as if I needed to be his hero, for all my life, he's been mine." - Monica Hallmoore

"They called me a shadow, and as I first slipped into the dark, it became a truth sliding from their snake tongues." - Morello Hallmoore

"You will die, decaying like a gentle rose in my garden of withering willow trees, and by the end your petals will be black, your thorns will be covered in crimson pieces of yourself. Dare I say, you'll die a reflection of me?" - Allinza Harzvi

"I met death underneath decaying streetlight, and what a regretful thing it must be, to hold a scythe for something other than harvesting crop." - Greendale Moonwalk

"I, am a killer. A thief of life, and if you want to stop me from grasping at revenge with decaying and moss covered fingers, you will have to kill me." - Porter Blackburn

"To kill a monster you must become one! You can't hide in shadows as if you were a torch, no. You have to be an empty nebula." - Porter Blackburn

"I sit here, decaying in a broken chest, wondering if perhaps it is the sanity that rotted from my corpse." - Ebenezer Vanderholts

"My heart lays on the gallows, blackened and decaying. And the only thing I can ever do is watch the ghosts of my past let it swing." - Mirnivia

"I sing a tune on this three stringed lute, and all the damned beasts of Hell come running, thinking my song of salvation." - Serven Grimes

"Oh I didn't stand a chance in the hallways of sanity and peace, brother. But in this place of decaying laughter, I'm home." - Farquad Debellio

"I lost my mind in the echoes of the sinner's steeple, and as I stumbled blind towards salvation, echoing like a grin in the night, I knew that perhaps, to have no mind was a fate not much unlike death." - Farquad Debellio

"A heart unwell can't be revived, I fear. It can be risen from the dead, but in a sense it will always lurk with a sinister scent of death beating like sick blood in veins dying." - Draven Scotchfuel

"Thing is, I can't remember everyone I've killed. You're just a cold case to me brother." - Ewan Hanstammer

"When you become skin and bone, heart falling from your decaying chest, what do you do? Sometimes I wonder if I should shut off the lights of my flickering mercy, but other days I wonder if all in all, I'm the wick of a dying candle, doomed to fade away with the gust of hurricane rage brewing inside my cracked ribcage." - Harvano Axtortley

"Emotions are liars and bastards Clive, listen to them at your own risk." - Sandro Colorfeid

"In the foreign call of the ravens and crows I find not death omens, but squawks and signals that I am alive. I am breathing, and as the wolf howls to the moon, I know it is not my blood on his muzzle, but the blood of cruelty in the flecks of grey and brown." - Harmania Ackwallow

"I sat in a Church, feeling far off from God, miles away from salvation. And as that silver cross dangled like, faltering faith in the night sky, I knew that perhaps, the worst sin of all is to watch an angel fall." - Genesis Contritum

"You won't find salvation in that town, brother, you'll find four sin clad devils, and brother, I'm only the first mile on the highway to Hell." - Allinza Harzvi

"Sometimes, who we are isn't determined by our choices. Rather it's found in the echoes of someone else's cruel, wicked pieces of fate." - Tabbi Mariwitch

"You can't be the good guy in this place, it reeks of the death of minds and sanity alike. So you have to blend in, study the behavior of the unwell. Become, the unwell. In this place, being yourself is a suicidal act." - Ashvallio Bradburry

"You really think you know this place? There's madness creeping up every corner, girl, and if you wish to survive in this land of shadows, I'd suggest becoming one." - Ashvallio Bradburry

"You should fear the man with no identity, for he will change in the blink of an eye just to watch you fall." - Arthur Wellburn

"You can't just, look me in the eye and find your reflection. You'll find madness, you'll find flicks of love and pieces of grace left behind in your murderous stride." - Arthur Wellburn

"If this life I've lived is Hell, then his hand on my cheek or lips against mine must be what Heaven tastes like." - Annamarie Ghostwallow

"It feels as though, I have died while living. I wander white walls etched in the scars of the unwell, scratching at the confines of a skull that has a hard time containing a mind such as mine, and as I find myself shackled to a past that feels like a ghost following me, I know that perhaps, this is not life, but God's personalized Hell for a girl like me." - Annamarie Ghostwallow

"I once met a man in the shadows of pine trees and lights that flickered in his presence, and as he kneeled to my level and whispered that I was doomed, it was like a promise had seared like a brand in my mind." - Kurt Esterly

"He stood over me, with claws in the shape of human fingers and told me death yearned for the gentle souls rocking back and forth in the decadent night. And as he swooped down like a vulture decaying, I knew that he'd given me a grave without once digging talons into my flesh." - Melessia Maeson

"It was a gentle decay, the funeral of me." - Iresa Ramstead

"Beg for mercy child, get on your knees and wail to the Heavens divine that you may be spared of my wicked blade, but God was never listening to you, was he?" - The Begotten Wolf King

"Ya can't lose, life. You can't exactly win it neither, life can only ever be lived, really, but some people stare at ya with champion's eyes and hunger for something grand, and those are the kinda people who become wolves. Whom become something a little less than human." - Dixie Spindrift

"It is almost as if, when I look in the mirror I can see every single life flashing in my pupils like a threadwork book of memories and pieces of me I'll never truly hold. But perhaps the greatest tragedy of all, is watching as mercy crumbles in the heart of a kingdom of rust." - Delvina Sunset

"You can't just live life in the slums of your sorrow, you gotta let people reach down and give you a helping hand when all seems lost. Don't let the cruelty get to ya, more often then not, it's a shadow, and the sun will watch it wither." - Morgerra Kent

"They told me it would be wonderful, to rise with strength and gunmetal in my bones. But as I pulled a trigger against a criminal's skull, the concrete pooling red with pieces of my mercy, I knew, that they'd lied. Because this isn't strength in me, it's a cruel sense of power that doesn't leave a single soul the same as he was." - Nolan Walkenstein

"I feel as if, I faded away from myself. It wasn't a single violent action, I was not ripped away from this person I am, but rather, soft gusts of wind came on by and with it, left little pieces of me. And eventually, as the hurricane rolled on by, there was nothing left." - Vaughn Bonevarrow

"We were both, black roses, decayin' in some, odd way. But I feel as if, when our petals danced across each other's stems, that perhaps, tinges of red started takin' over the garden of our hearts." - Sandro Colorfeid

"I imagine we too, 'ave become monsters. Even if it weren't our intention." - Jasper Pollymore

"My mind is nothing but cobwebs and dust, barren of any spider to tell me how the silk was spun." - Pam Maywood

"I will stand before you, blade washed in your dreams." - The Begotten Wolf King

"As my father told me of the family name's curse, to bare burns of a torch they'd never hold and he said to me, "Daughter, you run from this home, it's a decaying matter of flesh and flickering torches." And as I told him he's my hero, and regret flickered in his hazel brown eyes, I ran from a heritage that never should've been my own, praying that my father escaped cruelties shadow." - Gwenda Malrosa

"Like bombs fading in the night sky, the boy I raised became nothing but sizzling cinders of explosive horror." - Aphrodite Bonstellos

"In the essence of life and death they whisper, "You are free, sinner's child, fly free like the dove holding parsley in his beak and bring forth a new era of peace." But peace was an illusion, built by the powerful and cruel, and so as I stare into the ever flickering eyes of chaos and sacrifice, I shall hold not parsley and peace in my beak, but threadbare and dying secrets in my bloodied maw." - Unknown McDonaghue

"No matter how many devils climb upon my shoulder, I will make sure they wither with the howling snarl of my rifle." - Espifanio Vanderhoof

"I look at history with the eyes of a warrior, and I know it can't have been easy, to die for causes not much unlike the one I find myself in now. But as I let my past flow through me like strength in my veins, I know I won't die a nobody." - Callenmire Bloodfire

"You can't just stand above peace like this, chaos ain't supposed ta be fair, love ain't sposed ta be this fantasy we can't ever god damn reach. But you sit here, with a grin of steel and bullets and tell me that peace is a fuckin' shadow." - Carleton Kazelstoh

"It always has been, it fades when the night comes down on us weary bastards of the dead world. So why the ever living fuck, would I call peace a friend when she leaves me every time the sun sinks?" - Estus Hunters

"My brother's mercy died in a bed of roses and slick cards, and if he were to stand above me with a razor edged blade, would he revive his mercy, or let it fade in the crimson flash of my death?" - Farstead Newton

"My heart beats sick with the dying cries of wicked bastards who threaten a dynasty pure and mighty. But I shalt not let this heart of mine fall threat to the decaying sense of shadow in the darkness' grin." - Brovalla Bladestone

"When the world threatens to tear who you are away from your bones stand strong and tall, for you will build a new identity from the strength it took to crumble." - Missouri Jolana

"The Devil whispered in my ear, "Succumb, broken child of the graveyard town filled with hollow secrets." But an angel in me told me that no man should find his grave etched with a name that is his own before he lays beneath it." - Scythas Hoffs

"As death drifts like smoke on the wind, spilling from the cigarette between my lips and I breathe in the essence of the huntsman's woods with a wicked grin creeping up my lip like a crease in paper folded by untethered hands, I know that this origami dove has become a wolf of paper and crimson claws." - Morias Doorvensteil

"I stick a match stick between my teeth and call it fangs of explosive nature. But alas, all I do is burn my tongue on bitter beliefs." - Varzol Rothschild

"A sense of belief is only useful when faced with wonder, I have found. For when faced with grotesque horror, belief will find you dead at the bottom of a dead man's loaded gun." - Byron Javellanos

"My heart were never a place I could call home, for as it clambered at me with angry claws and a maw of dagger like fangs I came to realize in the midst of all my hurt and pain, oh I wasn't me, but a threadwork beast made up of patches of sorrow and little pockets of memories. I ain't me, but maybe, I really fuckin' shouldn't be." - Gaston Mckinlay

"You know, dad, I don't think the gunfire makes you who you are. I think the gunfire and smoke builds broken pieces of who you are, but the regret, the love and the joy beating inside your chest is what makes you a soldier." - Liam Holwane

"It lays fresh in my mind, like fish reeled in too early, and I can't help but think I'm a bad man. Perhaps the war cheats in whispers, but if you call me your hero, son, I will accept a cape 'round my shoulders." - Brett Holwane

"My father once told me that the gunfire smoke blinds the vision of morality in soldier's eyes. And I get to wondering if with all this cigarette smoke and shadow blinding me, if it'd be wrong to deem myself a moral man." - Liam Holwane

"No one was there for me until I heard quiet whispers in the flowers others would've chosen to crush for speaking of truths in quiet." - Benjamin Diggory

"They called me a rose pin grenade, and with regret I showed them my shrapnel." - Hallana Ragecue

"My heart wilted away as a ghost I know all too well lingers over my shadow, frail and gentle like the flower of hearts and roses he was." - Harlene Ballendger

"I can taste war dyin' bitter on my tongue, and as I place a weathered hand over my old sailor's cap, breathing in fresh ocean air and dying poems of people long gone, I get to wondering if the war is over, why do I still tremble in the presence of the past? Perhaps all war ever was is a ghost, sitting lonely on soldier's shoulders." - Stickzen Myadro

"In this world I have learned two things. You have to kill who you are to survive, and living and breathing are not the same thing, so as I pulled the trigger of my identity and died a woman I am not, I started living, breathing in the essence of death on a sunny day." - Minzina Strumvell

"She's dying lights in my head, dancing in the monotony of my grey splashed canvas." - Helzano Borvenkayer

"Humanity is just one big fuck up on God's part.” - Darlo Vanishpoi

“ This world is just, a crushing coffin that lays heavy on my chest, with an annoyed sigh I rise in the morning knowing that today is just another cigarette hazed Monday, a booze infested morning. “ - Darlo Vanishpoi

“ Is that all God is? A beast of many colors breaking his creations out of rage and disappointment?” - Darlo Vanishpoi

“ Truthfully, I'm trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel. But it looks oddly familiar, you know? And as I squint to see better in the darkness I'm surrounded by on the daily, I come to realize the light is just the spark of another cigarette, and like a moth, I trot towards the buzzing lights as if they wouldn't god damn kill me. Guess that's all broken men are, moths, drawn to the hazed and dancing lights of another forlorn day." - Darlo Vanishpoi

“ Sweet dreams, my friend, are nothing more then an illusion spun by the mind, and as you drift to the land between dreaming and reality, remember, that nightmares have always been a twisted version of reality, and so they hold some, sinister sense of truth behind their monsters and hallways full of mirrored images of who you're not. “ - Ghost Shiv

“ Don't you find it peculiar, how we call humanity beasts and animals because they spill the blood of their own kind? But tell me one predator that hunts its own kind. Tell me one species in this universe, besides human, that will rip its own kind to shreds because they felt like it. You'll find that humanity is the darkest kind of animal to roam the planet, and with my empty smile, I seek to prove it. “ - Ghost Shiv

“ Someone I know once told me that the broken have to stick together, and, that's such a peculiar thought. Because as soon as a mirror drops to the concrete, the glass pieces scatter away from one another." - Ghost Shiv

“ I was born in a world of shadow, sitting at a long table of bones and roses, and as I scarfed down every meal of death I could find life gave me a scythe in which I could reap with. “ - Clementine Ashburnum

“ Violence for violence is the rule of beasts, they say. But I say violence for violence has always been the rule of humanity, for we were never much good at hiding our fangs, where we?” - Clementine Ashburnum

“ I was born to rule this land of shadow and bone, and so I sit atop my throne of violence and thank the beasts for swallowing me whole. “ - Clementine Ashburnum

“The world doth not spin kindly. It thrashes like a violent wave and fills the ship of humanity with cold, black water, firing cannons into the mast and oak wood of our boat. And so the storm destroys what is left of humanity, and thus we become beasts.” - Clementine Ashburnum

“ I've been kicked down and broken my whole life, choking on things that shouldn't exist, my pops always told me that we'll make it through another day. We just gotta go day by day, we just gotta get our minds through another damn week. And I say sorry to the clouds that he didn't damn well make it, cause as I lay roses at his grave tears roll like anger from my cheek and I clench my damn fist. Cause life just ain't fair, is it?” - Arnoldo Hungaris

“ Some people are born in Hell, and there's no way out of the flame. “ - Arnoldo Hungaris

“ All my life I've just wanted to be a somebody, but the day I was born the world looked down on me with a cruel grin and said that I just weren't born to be someone. So I picked up pieces of identity off the gravel road I'd been travelin' and played myself a game of identity roulette, never knowing who the fuck I'd be with the next pullin' of my dead man's trigger. “ - Arnoldo Hungaris

“ You ever feel as though your sense of self is dyin', witherin' away inta something that just don't god damn exist any longer? Cause this person I am has been fadin' from me for a long forty five years, and I'm just tryna catch the little pieces 'a identity as they flitter away like cinders in the damn breeze. “ - Dante Dunbar

“ My son looks ta me with sorrowed eyes and my daughter looks at me with wonder and joy, tellin' me I'm a good man. I'm the best go don' father she ever could'a had. But there's secrets sitting idle on my breath, but they don't ever leap from off my tongue, cuz I'm scared 'a what'll happen when all my darkness tumbles out from this box of pain I've shoved it in. It beats against the cage of pinewood and chain, roaring a melody of violence swearin' up and down that when it gets out I'm fucked and there ain't nuthin' I can do 'bout it. And I start ta believe the dark and toxic thoughts.” - Dante Dunbar

“ I grew up fast brother, and I didn't quite grow up so kind. So as I tell you I'm a bad man with regrets, don't you praise me without knowin' what them deadly sins is. “ - Dante Dunbar

“ Sometimes life will damn you to a fate so cruel and demented that you don't really come to figure kindness exists. Every eye seems like a stalker's gaze, every word feels like a lie off a tongue of silver, but some people are good, I've come to learn. “ - Clover Delecroix

“ I'm just a man trying his hardest to survive in this fucked up world, but my life was stripped from me so fast by four Devils who claimed themselves unwell and cruel. And as they came for me with insanity riddled grins and monster filled eyes, I came to realize that monsters will always wear the skin of man, because it's the easiest way to blend in, man. “ - Clifton Arslania

“ Ya know, my mom used to say that the kindest angels make the cruelest demons, and as I look to my scarred and weathered hands I get to wondering if I was an angel, once upon a time. But my halo's starting to grow horns and my wings are falling off my back feather by feather, and in the end, I'm just gonna be another man who let his demons take over the house in his head. “ - Clifton Arslania

“ I was just a kid when my whole world fell apart, and now I'm six feet from the edge of my fate, and I'm starting to wonder if it would be such a long fall. “ - Clifton Arslania

“ I can still remember her laugh, the way she'd fight back a smile when I told her how proud I was. She was a rebellious kid with trouble in her heart but hope in her smile, and without her.. I fear all I am is trouble and cigarette smoke, holding onto memories I swear I'll never forget. But these memories start to slowly fade, as if an eraser strikes at them, little pieces of them drifting away. I begin to forget what her laugh sounded like. I begin to forget the way her smile danced, or how she'd show me these, stupid, fucking internet things I never understood. Or how she told me all about the boy she liked, how she even thought that, she might have a future with him. But the future was ripped from her like a shadow, and I fear, with her future I too, was lost. “ - Darlita Romilez

“ My name tastes like a bitter drug on my tongue.” - Darlita Romilez

"I met a man full of ghosts in the haunted streets of my hometown, and as he rose specters from the grave of secrets and lies, I came to realize why people fear the dark. It isn't because of the shadows, but what owns said shadows, what lurks alongside, said shadows. You see, there's always going to be monsters hiding in the dark crevices of humanity, and they'll always say that the light is their domain and us kind hearted saints have taken it forcefully from their clawed hands. But monsters lie, my friend. It is only monster nature for them to smile with blood in their teeth, for as soon as a man spills blood for his own self gain, he becomes something very much less than human. “ - Fred Douglass

“ My heart is an old one, it has been since I turned thirteen and spilled my secrets from a chipped tea cup, my parents using the single shard of glass to try and cut the truth from out my rainbow heart. But they never could. Because the truth, it doth not die. “ - Fred Douglass

“ I heard once that the truth is like a lion, let it go, it will defend itself. And this, is very well true. But lies are like cowering, frightened little crows, and soon as you throw a stone their way they squawk and caw, fleeing like a deer from a wildfire.” - Fred Douglass

“ I'll raise my revolver to the misery and pull the trigger, because a man who has something to fight for is always gonna be stronger than the man who has nothing left to die for. “ - Sav Gothenburg

“ Life, in all of its sorrow, is a story, we gotta read every chapter of our life. No skimming. No skipping pages because the pain is too much to bare. We gotta let our story be complete. Sometimes the ink will warp and twist into blood and bone, but we gotta pick up the quill and write a story that ain't all that bad. “ - Sav Gothenburg

“ I've always been an odd girl, chasing shadows because they intrigued me or finding warmth in the cold pale glow of the moon. “ - Claire Orwell

“ I'm just a tragedy away from fading away into the night from whence I came.” - Claire Orwell

“ I'm afraid of the dark because it's where I've resided all my life.” - Claire Orwell

“I was not loved as a child. I can still hear booming shouts that forced me to hide away from reality, I can still feel the broken bottles against my cheek, or the way my covers felt like a safe haven away from all the rage inside my childhood home. But I hath no covers to hide under to escape my mind.” - Claire Orwell

“ I'm just a girl of trouble wondering where the hell the light at the end of her tunnel has gone, cause I keep tripping on barbed wire and regret, wondering if any cars will catch me on my way to salvation. “ - Christie Shadow

“ I met a man at the edge of the streetlights, he sparked up a cigarette, tattoos flickering in the orange glow like scars of battle, and he told me that he could give me an opportunity to be someone. To actually matter. And with a foolish smile, I followed him, like the deer who didn't mind the bloodstains on the wolf's maw. “ - Christie Shadow

“ You know, I always just wanted to be somebody. I wanted to live a life I could be proud'a, but when you're born on the streets with a mother who doesn't care and a father who left a long time ago, you don't much get that chance. She was just a drugged up ghost, sitting on the edge of her deathbed with red eyes and a smile. So I followed a path that I thought would be my one way ticket out of Hell. But the cruel men always hid paradise behind their smiles, huh?” - Christie Shadow

“ I tried to pick up a dagger and toss it at my misery, but it always sinks into my peace like fangs of cruelty, chipping pieces of me away with the edge of a scalpel. “ - Christie Shadow

“ People are always trying to say that humanity is inherently wicked, but that was never true. I've seen the kindness in men's hearts, but I've also seen the wickedness that flows like death in the veins of a man who called himself a wicked and lean vulture sitting atop the Church to consume the flesh of the saintly and good hearted.” - Chester Bronkzeim

“ My identity is like wallpaper from an old mansion, sometimes it peels away, it cracks and starts to show the true colors of who I am. And there's a secret or two in my walls.” - Chester Bronkzeim

“He grins, the blood of my identity on his fucking teeth.” - Chester Bronkzeim

"Don't you understand, the beasts have always been hiding in the public eye? They look like your every day people. They smile. They laugh. But don't you dare trust the bad man's grin, it's filled with broken promises and hearts he's stopped on a fucking whim. “ - Leo Griggs

“ They've always praised the wolves with blood on their fucking teeth, so I just learned to blend in with the crowd and flash a crimson stained smile to the crowd. Woops and cheers from society sound like a melody of violence to the powerful.” - Leo Griggs

“ My ribcage has always looked like the open doors of a slaughterhouse.” - Leo Griggs

“I stand like a death omen, sitting atop the old graveyard of saints, laughing at the way they've been buried underneath my fucking power.” - Charlie Griggs

“ Why would I be kind, when I could be powerful? “ - Charlie Griggs

“ True power does not come from kindness, my friend. Take a look at the fucking history books won'tcha? Nothing was ever done without a little multitude of violence and sin. Wanna free the slaves? You're gonna have to take up arms and spill some blood for the cause. Violence is the foundation on which humanity stands, has been ever since Cain struck down Abel, and in my eyes, it always will, be the foundation on which we stand.” - Charlie Griggs

“ Humanity is a tapestry of the Devil's dreams, and damn, if I ain't a testament to all the lord tried to condemn. “ - Charlie Griggs

“ When I first stood with blood on my hands and murder in my black heart, I knew that who I am had died a heart wrenching death. He choked on the same bullet as the man who laid dead at my fucking feet.” - Charlie Griggs

“ This world's not kind to those who live by the code of honor and kindness, but you can't let this beat you down. You can't let this kill ya. Or else the world will become a graveyard of dreamers who gave up. “ - Gavin Rustington

“ Most of those who fall subscribe to the ideology that others deserve the fall with 'em, so they reach claws from out the depths of their misery and pull others down with them. This creates a perpetual cycle of violence and death. Don't dare swallow the idea that your pain is a violent raging melody that everyone deserves to hear sung so darkly into the night.” - Gavin Rustington

“ Not all villains were angels, but not all Devils are cruel, and not all angels are kind. The world's just not so black and white." - Gavin Rustington

“ My heart beats a melody of rage and cruelty sinkin' inta the miserable depths of my revenge, and as the flames flicker in my eyes, I feel like a reflection of the tragedies that broke me down ta a vengeance driven beast, sippin' on blood red streams as if they were clear. “ - Vokard Killjaw

“ Brother, there's blood on my cold teeth and some sense of decay lurkin' in my jaw, so as I smile and my fangs start a rottin', you best know that life took this whole boy and turned him inta an arson lullaby, bitin' down on bullets etched with a name all too familiar. “ - Vokard Killjaw

“ I met death in the flickerin' flames of Hell and with a silver drenched smile he told me tragedy lurked in the veins of all whom seek a higher purpose. And as I cut open my wrists, tragedy mixed in with my blood, my vision blurrin' with delusions of peace, I found that rage tastes like my name on my tongue, and death tastes like mercy on the teeth of the vengeful. “ - Vokard Killjaw

“ I struck out at the young age 'a thirteen, choking on my halo of dust and decadent stars, prayin' ta the lord that he'd save me from the Devil that wore my father's eyes. But he never did. God don't listen ta the broken, he watches 'em fall, he watches 'em stumble through thorns and blackberry bushes, but he don't ever give a helpin' hand, do he? Cuz I sit here in my corner of nowhere and drink myself a quiet hummed lullaby of whiskey regrets and cigarette stained memories, wondering how the Hell I became my father. “ - Denzel Thievesmire

“ I'd say sorry for what I done, but it won't change a damn thing, it won't bring together the hearts I broke, it won't heal the scars I etched, so I let fate take me on down ta the river in which I may drown in my sins.” - Denzel Thievesmire

“ My sister once told me that life is a colored blade, and depending on how true our heart is, the blood will be a different color. So I gotsa wonder why black blood drips from the blade of life as it etches me with scars of my human nature.” - Denzel Thievesmire

“ I didn't want trouble, but brother, trouble wanted me.” - Denzel Thievesmire

“ The man who raised me was a shadow in the daylight, standing above who I could be with a scythe, willing to reap my identity from me as soon as I found out who I am. And I always accepted that, because I had never known any other life. But as Olly danced his fingers across my cheek and told me that freedom is not a house of four walls and staying shackled to a single place, I knew that, maybe I could finally be somebody. Maybe I could finally be me.” - Stenlana Borswell

“ I'd read of romance in so many novels, envying the girls and boys who found a happily ever after at the end of their story. I was jealous of fiction because I had never really lived in reality. But as soon as his lips pressed against mine, my heart started to beat with colors it had never seen, as if our love was a tapestry of what could be, and what would be. I found love in front of me, and I couldn't just let it escape. So with courage in my heart I ripped myself free from cruelties shadow, soaring on pale white wings of bravery and identity I'd never known. “ - Stenlana Borswell

“ Hate, my friend, is as old as time. But so is love. “ - Celdvel Creitz

“I strap this old hat to my head and strike a match, creating a spark of revolution in the air of cruelty and division.” - Celdvel Creitz

“ I reserve my hate for those who stand above peace like shadow lickin' flames, sittin' at the edge of a cruel man's revolver swearing up and down, this is the only damn way. There's wolves hidin' in the shadows of the revolution, and brother, they blend in with the sheep, they always will. Cause monsters always shared human qualities.” - Celdvel Creitz

“ My life hasn't been a kind one, I'm shotgun shells and violence on the cold shore of peace, and as I stumble blindly on a path that was never truly my own, I come to realize that a man who's seen violence will never be the same. Any man with blood on his hands will never be an angel, after all, we're human, we're fragile and kind, decaying as we walk towards another day with hearts of violent tendencies.” - Cavinsta Tilvain

“ It is as if my mind works in agony, slaving away at a factory, spewing out toxic thoughts and packaging them to deliver to my fragile heart, as if my mind is an overworked employee, enraged by the conditions in which he is worked.” - Cavinsta Tilvain

“ Since our minds were starving, they devoured themselves in search of a meal.” - Cavinsta Tilvain

“ I'm not a fighter, I'm a killer. There's such a fine difference in that. A fighter raises a fist or two for what he loves, a killer raises a revolver in search of another day, praying that he'll survive this murder of self. But he never does, hm? “ - Cavinsta Tilvain

“ I just wanted to see my sons grow up and be strong, capable young men. But the past follows us close, and no matter how many miles we run, its always that much faster, gripping our scars with razor sharp claws, carrying us away with fangs we recognize. Cause we've been bitten by them before. “ - Cathleen Colt

“A shadow is only as dark as he who walks alongside it.” - Cathleen Colt

“ I'm scratched up and fucked in the head looking for a way out of this maze of memories and shadows, but I'm always finding dead ends, man. And I fear I always will. Because sorrow doesn't let the kind girl go, it holds her down and rips the tears from her cheeks with blood dripping fangs, holding her still, holding her down forevermore. Licking pieces off of you with a razor sharp tongue, and as you weep, she always collects your tears. “ - Carvoxi Crickenmow

“ I stand still, frozen by the fear and sorrow, and every single time I take a step, the beast in me stirs, as if awoken by the sound of my foot shuffling against concrete. “ - Carvoxi Crinckenmow

“ What a sorrowful thing it is, to hold onto the memories that killed me because they're all I have left. “ - Carvoxi Crickenmow

“ Chance, I have learned, is everything. “ - David Faim

“ Think of life like a game of Russian roulette. We all have different chambers. We all have a different amount of bullets. It's up to us when we pull the trigger. So I sat in my quiet office, picking at the fabrics of my heart, and with a sigh I put the revolver under my chin. And with one action colors burst from my skull, pieces of me splattered against the white walls in red and grey, and as I slumped against an old chair, who I am died. And who I am would stay that way. I had always been lost, ever since that fateful Christmas Eve, clutching to the pieces of me I wished I could keep, uttering the same word over and over again, as if I were some distorted echo. "Why?" I cried. "Why?" I screamed. "Why?" I whispered. But answers never came for the weary ghost of David Faim. “ - David Faim

“ Chance doesn't care about who you are. It comes for you with greedy fingers that look like golden bullets, and as it digs into your mind it searches for misery, and if it can't find any. Well rest assured it will make some with gunpowder and regret. “ - David Faim

“ There was a locked door where life was supposed to be, my friend, and death was the key that'd always been hidden in plain sight. “ - Ioza Ragmathora

“ You can not find me in the Heavens nor below in the fiery depths of Hell, for I am a being so dark and twisted that the world doth not give me damnation or salvation. For I would corrupt both. “ - Ioza Ragmathora

“ I chose violence over peace because it gave me a chance to live. “ - Ioza Ragmathora

“ I sit like a whisper in my mind, decaying like a rose in the Winter, stem and thorn falling apart as the breeze drifts past me. I've never been a girl of peace, always did darkness know my name. And the shadows knew that. It's how they tricked me into following the colored lights. Because to a girl who's known darkness her whole life, light of any kind feels like salvation, like grace. Like Heaven. But I found that it was the flames of Hell I had followed, like a doe trotting just behind her mother, finding that it was blood trails she'd been following all along. “ - Kemlia O’Sullrain

“ I have bled so much from my wrists. Humanity. Peace. Joy. Everything that makes me Kemlia O'Sullrain has bled from my veins like a river splashing against the shores of Heaven. “ - Kemlia O’Sullrain

“ There is no peace for the beasts of this circus. We howl, we laugh, we cry. But we do not die. We never do. Which is perhaps the most sorrowful thing, to live in a world that never loved you. That never cared. “ - Kemlia O’Sullrain

“ You know, when you're just an orphan that no one wants, you get to wondering what the fuck your purpose is in this world. And then you get adopted, and you think life will look up. But perfect doesn't last. Not in a world of violence. Not in a world of hate. “ - Wendy Pazcko

“ Justice has never looked so cold in his eyes.” - Wendy Pazcko

“ I prowl underneath the shade like a shada' of violence, sinkin' unholy fangs inta the deer and sheep who think cougars will spare the peaceful. But there's never been a rule 'a violence that didn't kill the good hearted. So I sling a rifle over my shoulder and become the violent. “ - Carter Burningham

“ Ya know, a young girl once told me that I was damned for what I'd done ta her heart, and so I flashed her a yella grin and told her I know, that's why I fuckin' did it. Because I've lived a life chock full 'a sin, so what's one more? What's ten more? Hell, what's another lifetime 'a damnation ta the sinnin' man but paradise? “ - Carter Burningham

“ It is not often, that a soldier can hear the sound of silence.” - Carrick Miles

“ I would never call myself a hero. Because every war has its sides, every soldier has his story, so in turn every man I ever killed had a past, a family. People who loved him or her dearly. And with one bullet, I damned them to a sound of silence and regret, sinking into their skull like gunpowder misery. I'm not a good man, I'm not a hero. So please don't call me one. “ - Carrick Miles

“ I'm a soldier, yes. But a hero? I never could've been. For destiny told me to pull a trigger against my heart, and with a lonesome little sigh and a voice soaked in the tears of angels and saints alike, I pulled back the hammer and said, "Yes sir." - Carrick Miles

“ "When da world kicks ya right in ya bloody snout, you oughta stand tall and mig'y like the oak tree in a garden 'a withering willows. I mean, If ye sit 'round like a lazy bum and say I did all I could, ya're just the butt of a cigarette, sittin' lonely in da fuckin' ash tray. “ - Caldayo Blousey

“ I's learned that love is a war, and often, it's hate that'll shoot ya down like a bird soarin' through the sky, crashin' inta the trees without wings ta guide ya.” - Caldayo Blousey

“ If ya wanna fuck with da Blousey's I suggest turnin' da other way, cause mate, we ain't sheep, we ain't angels, neither. We're dogs, loyal as can be.” - Caldayo Blousey

“ I was just a kid of the streets, running towards destiny with tattered sneakers and a grin so big you'd think it was cut into my cheeks, but that kid died, man. And he's not coming back. “ - Cage Azvinka

“ I'm just a broken nobody in a world that demands I be someone.” - Cage Azvinka

“ It honest to God feels like I'm cursed. By what, I can never god damn tell, maybe it's me, maybe it's something old as time that creeps up my sinner's bones, but whatever this is, people call it reality. They call it destiny, fate, or anything else that excuses them from their actions. “ - Cage Azvinka

"If you wanna find a heart, stop looking in my ribcage. “ - Bone Hungarson

“ I used to feel, it was such a wonderful, beautiful thing. But as I slide razors across my wrist it must be the empathy I'm bleeding from me, all the things that make me human running from out my veins in crimson splotches. “ - Bone Hungarson

“ I wish to control my thoughts, but demons nag at my skull, tearing little pieces of my mind off with a hungry maw and bleeding teeth. So I accept this monster I've become and become friends with the demons that seek to kill me. “ - Bone Hungarson

“ I never wanted to be a gunmetal soldier, but here I am, with a spine of smoke and wildfire, sitting at the edge of war with a pistol and an aim that was earned through the death of others. “ - Gordon Jackson

“ I've fought in countries I can't fucking name, killed men I can hardly remember, and I know they say only the mad man remembers everyone he ever killed. But maybe it's the only way to stay sane. “ - Gordon Jackson

“ That's the regretful thing about life, it tears people away from you that you thought you'd have for a long time.” - Gordon Jackson

“ I sit on the edge of revolution, wondering if I'll have to raise my fists, or a steady revolver.” - Lily Van Velk

“ He's a shadow that's been cast over our town, and so we gotta be the darkness that vanquishes him, we gotta be the dark so that we can find the light. “ - Lily Van Velk

“ My ma didn't raise no fool, she raised a woman who fights her battles with wit and a trusty ol' revolver etched with the family name. I see pieces 'a my ma in my reflection and as I load this chamber with pieces 'a myself, I pray ta every God listenin' that by the end of the war 'gainst peace I'm still me. “ - Harmalene Stagner

“ I am a whisper on the horizon.” - Raimunduss Wolffes

“Having power, and being powerful, are two very different things.” - Raimunduss Wolffes

“ They call me a phantom, a bastard drunk off of power and sin, but in truth, I am drunk off the idea of immortality. The Gods can not create something eternal. For everything withers. Everything dies. But there's little pockets of their Godhood hidden in cracks and corners, and perhaps as I travel the world with my ever steely gaze and strong sense of belief in my goal, that I can change the perception of immortality. “ - Raimunduss Wolffes

“ We're all just trying to find ourselves in a maze of who we're not, shuffling through different identities, wondering when we'll find ourselves in our own damn skin. And as I brushed my fingers against my own cheek, looking at this woman I'd become, I knew that I had finally found the end of the maze. All those dead ends and, I'd finally found home in arms that were my own. “ - Blossomwitz Dakota

“ My identity slips from between my fingers like the river's water, and as I sink into this ocean of black blood, I know that perhaps, I was never an angel, just a devil who didn't know what sin tasted like. “ - Betty Shalfien

“My tears don't change a thing but the hue of the soil.” - Betty Shalfien

“ Life doesn't ever treat people fairly, bad things happen to good people simply because, the world doesn't really operate on what's right or wrong, it doesn't operate on karma or social status. The world just spins while we move with it, and people are always blaming the bad things that happen on the world. But usually the fault is always behind the person who pulled the trigger, or the person who used the knife to cut scars into your fragile heart.” - Barb Riverbrook

“True weakness comes from the black heart.” - Aura Honeybadger

“ It is not often the kind man survives the chilling and calculated wrath of the powerful, cruel one, for as he sticks by his morals and says he'd never stoop to my level, this old and decaying tombstone of mercy swoops down like the guillotine's shadow, cutting his head from off his neck. Who do you think won? The kind man who wouldn't kill? Or the cruel and unmerciful shadow of a man standing above the kind man's grave with ghosts of roses to lay at his forgotten and unmarked grave? “ - Clayton W. Scarrberry

“ I believe that, on that cold Autumn evening I met death dancing under the pale and flickering streetlights, for no one else could truly rip at the seams of mercy like her. No one else could've torn heroism from my heart but her. Death won't always come for you with a scythe, my friend. Sometimes death looks at you with loving, human eyes and steals you away with a cold kiss that feels much like the opposite of life. “ - Clayton W. Scarrberry

“ I'm a hollow secret sitting at the edge of peace, waiting for fools and saints to clamber on by to ask me for advice, and as they hear my words tumble from a lip bruised and silver, they're satisfied, for awhile. But as soon as my words twist and turn into curses, they regret talking to the old raven who knows a thing or two. “ - Royal Hondros

“ I see my daughter look at me with sorrowed eyes, telling me that I'm a bastard, a cheat, a horrible father. And she can bark, bark and bark all she likes, but deep down she must know, she'll never bite. She is no wolf, neither am I. But she likes to think herself one, so I'll sit in quiet anticipation and watch as she riles herself up, until eventually she tires herself out and finds that, to die, does not mean to be buried.” - Royal Hondros

“ Man, I've met a lot of the darkness in this world, most of it in the eyes of a man full of specters and dead railroad ghosts, selling his nightmares to all who wanted to find peace of mind. He's the reason, I've got blood on my fucking hands, and that, man, I just can't forgive. But if I ever could, I'd spill blood again just to watch him fall down his sinner's tracks, caught between the two trains he's ruled by. “ - Mark Bellwitz

“ I've led a life of trouble and cigarette smoke, chasing daydreams and girls when I was just a young gun with his smile wide and bright. But sometimes, life, it pulls the dreamers down to reality and tells them to walk on without their dreams, because life is harsh, it's cruel, and a dreamer can't survive without a little bit of nightmares. So I walk through a valley of nightmares praying that I'm enough to survive, and as Ciri takes my hand I know, maybe I'm not enough to survive on my own, but with her? I've got one helluva fighting chance. “ - Mark Bellwitz

“ I'm just a howl drunk beast, rippin' through the skin 'a Laramie Diamond.” - Laramie Diamond

“ There's two wolves in me, mate. One howls and bites, gnawing at the confines of me skull, crackin' little pieces of me mind on 'is way outta me, but da other is a loyal bugga', sittin' at da edge of wisdom with a song in 'is fur draped heart. And dey say the wolf who'll win is da one ya feed. And so, with a soldier's broken sigh, I pull another trigger and feed da beast in me. “ - Laramie Diamond

“ I'll be honest, somedays I feel lost, somedays I'm wondering in a quaint little maze, walking towards the edge of my sorrow, wondering what it would feel like, to leap into the waters below. But I have people all around me who help me when I'm down, and I think that's a beautiful thing, ya know? Sure, I miss my dad.. a lot, but he'd want me to keep on pushing forward, he'd want me to manage to, move on, not forget, but move on. “ - Aurora Hop

“ I know that perhaps, my father lives in these quaint little mazes of me. I've got a lot left to live for, ya know? Like uncle Ickden and Orin, they've always been heroes, shoving me out the way of danger and brandishing quills and pens like revolvers of truth. And I hope they both know, how much they've helped me. Because when my father vanished in the wind, they built me a new pair of wings and told me to soar, even if the new wings were built from torn off pieces of theirs.” - Aurora Hop

“ I don't wanna be just, some guy, I wanna be Ashton Worthington, the boy who became something. “ - Ashton Worthington

“ Usually what you ponder on will become you, so if you start thinking deeply about yourself, eventually you'll become him, right? Conjure who you are into reality with simple thoughts and deep love for who you are. “ - Ashton Worthington

“ You can't be who you're not, because in the end, that person will rip through you, whether it's a violent matter or not is entirely up to you. “ - Ashton Worthington

“ My sister told me her truths, letting them spill from the gentle river's of her heart, and as I told her I still look up to her, and I always will, I remember her crying a little bit and giving me a big ol' hug. Because she's always been my hero, ya know? She doesn't wear a cape, but she wears fancy gowns and hoods I don't know the name of, and as she smiles wide with that amazing wife of hers, I know that she's a happy, hero. “ - Andrina Prinscella

“ I once stood like a reaper in a field of forgotten graves, sitting as rage dying in an empty chest, pulling the trigger of my revolver because I had something in my fucking chamber, but then, life came along and built me a new pair of wings in the eyes of a man who's troubled but beyond all reason and doubt, loved. His lips taste like redemption, his eyes swim with my peace, and when I hold his hand I know that perhaps, he and I heal each other with little pieces of ourselves. “ - Mary Adler

“ I think it's beautiful, that a hurting soul can become a loved one within the span of a few weeks, a cruel woman like me can find life in the eyes of all she loves within months. “ - Mary Adler

“ I am a question rattling in my throat and dying on my tongue.” - Geras Creek

“ She once, asked me who I am, and, it's such a simple question, but a difficult one to answer.” - Geras Creek

“ Blood that is not my own forms like bruises on my lips.” - Geras Creek

“ I'm road kill sitting on the side of a dead end highway, a deer with it's ribcage ripping through its flesh, and as I rise from this grave of concrete and gravel, I become less and less familiar with my humanity. And one day, my humanity shall flicker and fade away like a candle's flame in a gust of hurricane winds, dripping down the wick like a forgotten secret in the wax. “ - Geras Creek

“ I often wonder what it would be like, to succumb to fantasy, where I could hold my son again, or love the world as it is, but this world isn't beautiful, it's cold and ugly, reminding us humans that we're just a plague infecting the notches of its gentle spine, sitting on its heart like a flower that never should've bloomed. “ - Moonshine

“ I remember the man who killed me, he sits like a poltergeist in my fragile mind, screaming and shouting in empty sins and cruel man's shadow eyes. He once told me that I was nothing but a doll sitting quiet on the shelf, dust and mildew creeping up the edges of my dress as I decayed and rotted with all of God's other forgotten toys. And with a tear glossed cheek, I realize the cruel bastard was right, because I weep myself a lullaby of ponies dancing in a field wishing I could join them. “ - Moonshine

“ My children look at me with mourning eyes, tear glossed and sorrowed, like, glass reflections of my heart. “ - Leonard Bakers

“ I can still remember everything about Kristin, for she sits here in my mind like a ghost I don't wanna expel from this world, you know, I can still see my fingers coiled with her bright orange hair, or how she'd scrunch up her nose to keep her glasses from falling off her cute, pretty and beautiful face. Or how, her eyes told a story, something beautiful and intensely poetic, and as she danced her fingers across my cheek, or pressed her lips against my skin and my bruises, I thought that I had found life in her whispers. But a man tore my love from me, and as she screamed and cried for mercy, God turned his back on the world and left it a quiet whisper. “ - Leonard Bakers

“ Time doesn't heal all wounds, my friend, it just teaches us how to live with scars on our fragile and decaying hearts of gold." - Leonard Bakers

“ I quite often feel as though I am far from myself, sitting like a pale white raven, pecking at the seams of graves he's dug, some are me, some are other people, but either way, these white feathers pale don't reflect my heart. “ - Alejandro Lepo

“ I am like a dying, withering daisy and as the gardener comes to tend to her crop, she would cut me from this bed of soil and mourn for this poor little decaying thing she couldn't save. “ - Alejandro Lepo

“ There's blood on my hands where the empathy used to be.” - Quentin Satchel

“ On a whim I could have, anything I wanted in my hands. I'll admit, I've sinned deviously. Hunted man in the forests of my mansion, gunning young girls down as if they were lions in the deserts of Africa and spilt blood all because, well, I felt like it, really. “ - Quentin Satchel

“ Anyone, could've become me. “ - Quentin Satchel

“ I met death at the young age of ten, watching as blood splattered the halls of my home, a dying cry of mercy ripping through everything I ever knew's throat, and as I sat there in silence, I think something might've broken in me, perhaps it was my purity seeping like crimson omens from my veins. “ - Cavos Von Glorenstein

“ My friend, this world is not so kind, I am a fair example of that.” - Cavos Von Glorenstein

"What do you do when home is a person you've lost? “ - Addison Von Sparrow

“ I remember when I first met him, his bones filled with sorrow scraped scars, his heart rotting like a dying star in his chest, and I felt as if, when I traced my fingers across his bare chest, little pieces of him began to heal, as if he was finally becoming himself. And so I kissed his scars and his bruises, running my hands through his thick hair as I loved him without regret, without a drip of doubt. And as he held me in his arms and kissed my cheek with lips fraught with troubled sins and shadows, I knew that love was always beautiful, and it always will be. “ - Addison Von Sparrow

“ My childhood home reeked of death and gunmetal smoke, old whiskey stain sins hiding in the breath of my father, and as my heart was torn from me kickin' and screaming, I came ta learn that it's a lot better, to die while breathing then to live your whole life powerless. “ - Sarvel Humington

“ I was just a weak lil boy in the streets of war, but I met a woman on the edge of mercy's spine, wicked and tall she stood, monsters fangs hidin' 'neath her gums, and she told me I could be a King of the streets, patrollin' the Devil's country with a backbone of gunmetal bones and black blood veins. So, with a crooked lil grin and eyes alit with the death of my innocence, I tipped my hat and said, "Yes ma'm." - Sarvel Humington

“ In this here place, we're all reapers of oneself, strippin' who we are from our veins so we can survive the town Heaven never knew. “ - Sarvel Humington

“ I think people like to shove the kind down because they know that they stand a chance when faced with cruelty.” - Estina Piscator

“ I'm not gonna be ashamed of who I am, I'm not gonna let people say this isn't who I am, because I tried to tell myself that for a long time, but eventually I had to accept myself. I don't need no man in my life, because in truth, I've always wanted a Queen of a princess to come on by with a flowy gown and a cute smile. I'm not afraid to say it, I'm a god damn lesbian, and anyone who has a problem with that can go back into their little hole of ignorance and die shallow and stupid. “ - Estina Piscator

“ My name tastes like revolution smoke and death on my tongue.” - Teresa Vanderboom

“ Somedays I fear God looks at me with scornful and hateful eyes, telling me I should be one with her angels, but I sit here, like a gentle and decaying rose, wondering why my petals stick to me when all I ever was is thorns and a broken stem. “ - Teresa Vanderboom

“ I don't know what the world wants of me, but as I dance with my lover underneath the moon's golden glow, I know that perhaps, to be alive is beautiful for most. But when you live past your death, it becomes something ugly, to breathe. “ - Teresa Vanderboom

“ I look in the mirror only ta see somebody that's not me, the heart of Rupert Vanderboom is still there, but there's a stranger's eyes starin' back at me, and sometimes I wish I was just a coffin, with who I am rotting in the marble material above me. “ - Rupert Vanderboom

“ She once told me that though we look different, there's still something she loves about me dancing fragile in my heart. But sometimes I wonder if my lips feel like a stranger against her skin, or if my fingers curling into hers feels unfamiliar. “ - Rupert Vanderboom

“ They always tell ya you get kicked down, that's life, it's a journey from one tragedy to the next, lookin' for the intervals of peace in-between the chaos and sorrow. But I'm just a tragedy who never found the peace, because throughout this life I've lived I've met many people, all whom are different, but I always stay stagnant, regretful, sorrowed by the years that pass me by. “ - Rupert Vanderboom

"When the world is fallin', mate, we gotta rise.” - Matilda Blight

“ I was just a woman 'a the streets, looking after her two boys, wonderin' why life didn't love me enough ta give me shelter under her wings, and as I clutched at the stars with human fingers and a will ta live breathin' in me heart, I knew that perhaps, life didn't need to love me, for me to love her. “ - Matilda Blight

“ Janette is a beautiful and war torn soul, and I hope that as I hold 'er hand she feels a little less cold, a little more human then she did all those years ago, livin' under the shadow of mercy. I love 'er, ya know, when she first pressed her lips against mine, or our skin collided in tangled sheets and a bed of roses, I knew wot love was, and I knew I'd always wan' it. “ - Matilda Blight

“ I sit in a lake of ice, the crowd gasping at the man who froze, and as I sink into the depths of my rage, I know that perhaps, this beast is all that I can ever be. “ - Maxadon Destodel

“ I'm swinging from this noose of my rage, wondering why it won't snaps and let me breathe for a single second, and as I lose myself to the anger that seethes like death in my veins, I know that all who come to know me must see a beast swimming in my eyes. All except for her. I met her in a pinewood forest, wondering if it was perhaps, Heaven I had found after all my years spent living in a Hell I call earth. She dabbed at my wounds gently, telling me that all would be okay, just listen to the gentle hums of nature, and a strange sense of peace I'd never known washed over me. But as I was ripped from her by ghosts wearing white lab coats and needle prodded gums, I knew that I would never hold peace in my gentle fingers again.” - Maxadon Destodel

“ I'm a guilty man with ghost blood flowin' through his veins.” - The Sheriff

“I'm the reaper of my own heart, sittin' in the essence of death like a question no one should ask, and as I pull back the hammer of this old revolver, I know that death shall come for me one of these days, and I shall stand here, ready to face her as I have so many damn times. Ya see, death comes to you like a mistress, she sits there in a dress of feeble lies, but they look like shimmering truths. She stands like a lovely question you wanna answer, and as she places a finger on your cheek and kisses your scars, infecting them with the decay of vultures and crows, you know that you've died, and you can't do nuthin' to stop it at that point, for you're tangled in death's sheets, wondering why you can't escape the spider's web.” - The Sheriff

“ I pull back my hammer and put a bullet of fatal identities in my skull, death lulling me to sleep with gentle, boney fingers that force who I am to decay. “ - The Sheriff

“ My sister asked me who I am, once, and sadly, I'm just a ghost of who her brother was." - The Sheriff

[hawksmagnolia]

Swallows at Dawn

Summary: Further continuation of the Lt series. You can read part one, Queen of Swords, here and part two, Never Falter, Never Fail, here. Destroyer!Chris being soft after the nightmares have faded. 

Who: Destroyer!Chris x reader

Word count: 1,280

Warnings: Swearing, PTSD, flashbacks, mentions of blood, nightmares.

Authors Note: This begins as angst but I promise it has a good ending. I did not serve in the USMC, but my husband did. I consulted with him about parts of this story so I could stay as true as possible to actual realities of deployment and PTSD. This is one of the hardest things I’ve written thus far and honestly I’m damn proud of it. Anything in italics is part of the nightmare. Much love y’all. Allie.

It’s just routine. Walk the same road, just farther down than you went yesterday. You and your team clearing the way so the medical convoy can get from base to a small village in desperate need of supplies. You wanted to go farther yesterday but you’d lost the light.

It’s not safe they said.

Don’t they know it’s never safe? It’s war. There is no such thing as safe in war.

You linger towards the back. You allow your dog to go a bit farther to the side of the road. He’s the most experienced, you should probably be leading but you prefer to double-check.

Just in case.

You pull once on the leash, he comes trotting back to you. Your fingers dig into the fur behind his ears, grounding you back to the task at hand.

There is no warning. It happens too fast for a shouted signal. Just the white-hot burst of flame and darkness.

It’s the sound of your thrashing that wakes Chris first. He bolts upright, his left hand going for the pistol on the bedside table. Even before his eyes adjust to the predawn gloom, the sight is trained on the door.

Silence.

He can’t help but wonder what he heard.

Your sense of smell returns first. There is a distinct scent in the air. The eye-watering, throat burning scorch of hot metal and burning rubber. There is no sound but the hollow ringing in your ears. Your skin feels like it’s being flayed from your bones. The blistering sensation of flesh that’s burnt. You’re pretty sure there is blood dripping from your scalp. You attempted to scrub your face before opening your eyes. Whatever it is, it’s mixing with the sand to create a gritty paste.

There is so much blood on your hands. The bright red looks almost fake, too garish in the sunlight, almost like a gruesome prop. But this is all too real.

You don’t know if it’s all yours.

And then the screaming starts. Horrible, gut-wrenching, terror-filled. As he turns back to the other bed, and the gun falls from his hand onto the mattress. Back arched, hands fisted into the sheets, your body contorts.

“Shit.” He jumps from his bed and onto yours.  Straddling your legs and grabbing your shoulders, he almost shocked by how soaked in sweat you are in the chilly room. He pulls you close, cradling you into his arms and against his chest.

“C’mon sweetheart. I’m here. You’re here. You’re not there.” He’s not exactly sure where you are but he has a good guess.

Your eyes fly open as you try to fight free from his grip. Heart pounding, you’re still half trapped in the nightmare dreamscape of your memories but his arms hold you tight.

There is no sound in the room but the muffled sounds of a tv in the room next to yours and your own ragged breathing.

“You back?”

You nod, too broken to care that he saw what you’ve hidden from everyone. Your nighttime secret. Normally you take medication to sleep. Little white pills that keep the demons at bay, but the medic advised against it tonight after your brush with heatstroke earlier in the day. They’d wanted to keep you overnight at the naval hospital at Camp Pendleton and you’d refused. Too many memories in that place. You’d argued until Chris offered to let you stay with him. He could keep an eye on you he’d reasoned. You’d only accepted when he mentioned there were two beds. Despite your odd history with him, you weren’t willing to share a bed. Too much intimacy in that.

He goes to move off your legs but your arms wrap around his abdomen, clinging to him. He rests his chin on your head as you press your forehead against his chest.

His phone rings, startling you all over again. Keeping his right arm around you, he answers.

“Yeah, we’re good. No, don’t do that. She’s fine. Yeah. Ok.” He thumbs off his phone and tosses it onto his empty bed.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Swallows.” You croak, voice spent from screaming.

“What?” He hands you a bottle of water and you drain it.

“My swallows.” He runs a finger over the three birds at your hairline.

“Do you want to tell me? Or do you want a distraction?” He tilts your head up, his blue eyes searching your face.

“Can it be both?” You give a shaky laugh before he captured your mouth in a kiss. You immediately fall into it, your lips parting so he can taste you.

When it ends, you’re both breathless. He gently tucks strands of hair behind your ear and kisses your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin.

“It was just a clearing. Nothing major.”

“You were EOD?” He’s referring to the bomb disposal squad.

“No. K9. We were detection, not disposal.”

“How many deployments?”

“Two. Both in Iraq. Ramadi and Fallujah.”

“Who was your partner?” You appreciate the fact he refers to your dog as your partner. He was, you were two parts of a single entity.

“German Shepherd. We called him ‘Hawkeye’ because he had this marking on his face that looks like his mask.”

“What haunts you, sweetheart?” He watches your face as you talk. There is no judgment there.

“There was an IED. Somehow the front team missed it. We never did find out how. The Humvee rolled over it. Killed three. Front team and driver of the Humvee. Four more almost died. I was behind them. Hawk and I got thrown from the blast. Nearly 30 feet. Blew out both my eardrums, embedded some shrapnel in my scalp. Six months of recovery. I was a lot luckier than the rest of them.”

“You still feel guilty.”

“Every damn day. I came home alive. Three of my men came home in boxes.”

He tightens his arms around you and you both sit in silence. It no longer feels like you’re suffocating or that your heart is going to explode out of your chest. The heavy on your shoulders, on your heart, doesn’t seem as leaden. You’ve never had anyone ask, never had anyone just sit with you until the panic fades. Outside, the sky has lightened into full dawn outside, light filtering through cracks in the curtains.

Your stomach growls loudly, ruining the moment.

“Hungry sweetheart?”

You nod, it’s been almost 36 hours since you ate anything beyond a protein bar.

“There is a diner nearby.” He climbs off your legs and you feel the rush of blood to your toes. You watch him strip out of his damp t-shirt, standing in just a pair of black boxer briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination and he knows it.

“Named your dog Hawkeye. Never thought you to be a nerd. You’re a woman of many layers.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Do not quote Shrek at me. I have two others now too. Avalanche and Ren.”

He pauses, holding a clean shirt in his hands. “Ren. As in Kylo?”

You scowl and he laughs. “There’s the woman I know. Feeling better?”

As you slide out of bed and you see him admire your tattoos, none of them hidden by your idea of pajamas- a sports bra and boy shorts. “Change your mind about breakfast?”

He considers as he pulls on jeans. “Food first. Further distracting later. I have a late checkout. I mean…” his handsome face is suddenly unsure.

Putting your hands on his to still them, you lean up and brush your lips across his. “I guess you’ll find out.”

@nano--raptor @cchellacat @eurynome827 @jobean12-blog @book-dragon-13 @aesthetical-bucky @marvelgirl7 @sallycanwait68 @buckys-broody-muffin @softpeachbarnes @godofplumsandthunder @azurika-writes @ikaris-whore @this-kitten-is-smitten @randomfandompenguin @bugsbucky​ @littleredstarfish​ @imgaril-lindru​ @becs-bunker​

[ellewritesathing]

So Close - S.S. XXXI

Summary: The universe has a funny way of putting the things you want right in front of you, but just out of reach. Stiles and Y/N have been best friends ever since Scott brought him home, but when Stiles realizes that he might want to be something other than best friends, she leaves to go to some fancy private school up North. Now that she’s back though … maybe he’s got a shot? A Teen Wolf AU in which the reader has always been so close to Stiles and yet so far.

Masterlist Prev. | Part 31

Word-count: 4k+

A/N: soooo uh some rambling ahead but you can skip this if you want!! i’ve been writing so close on and off since like august of 2019 which is a little insane to me. i loved the beginning of so close because it was just like whacky incidents, and i realise i can’t change the entire teen wolf plot but it’s my fic and i can make it lighthearted if i want to. so here’s to trying to fix the mess i’ve made and get back to the fun stuff!! hope you like it!!

Deaton wanted to keep you overnight for observation, but there was no way your mom was letting you stay in the animal clinic by yourself. Melissa was a force of nature when it came to her kids, and the only person who could convince her that it was okay to let go was you or Scott - and Scott was never any good at arguing. 

“Mom,” you said quietly, taking her hand in yours. Her voice was so loud and strained that she didn’t seem to hear you at first, so you gripped her hand more tightly and tried again. It was hard to focus with the lights so bright. “Mom, I can stay here. It’s one night.” 

“One night?” Melissa repeated, still strained but quieter. “It’s not one night. You haven’t been home in- Do you even know what day it is?” 

“Mom, it’s one night.” 

“Months. It’s been months,” Melissa argued, barely even listening. “You weren’t even here for your birthday! It is not one night. It’s- it’s-”

“One night.” Your voice was hollow but you needed to keep it together. For her and for everyone else. “You can stay here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere else. I promise.” 

Melissa was quiet. She looked at you, then over your shoulder to Scott, and then to Deaton. You could feel her heart rate dropping in your hand as she came to a decision. “Alright. One night.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead with her free hand. “Do you need anything from home? I’ll bring you some pajamas, toiletries, your pillow… anything else?” 

You shook your head and Melissa squeezed your hand again, shaky as Scott pulled her back and helped her out to the car. Once you were sure they were gone, you put your head in your hands and started sliding down to the floor. 

“Hey, hey, hey-” You weren’t sure where he came from, but Stiles put his hands over yours and tried to get your attention. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.” 

“Stiles, I’m not okay,” you whispered. Your eyes burned, maybe from the tears, maybe from the lights. You couldn’t tell. “I’m seventeen now. I- I missed my birthday and I’ve died at least twice in less than a year. And I’m- I hurt you. So badly. There’s no coming back from that.” 

“Of course there’s coming back,” Stiles said. He didn’t waiver, no matter how much you tried to push him away. “Y/N, I have done so, so much worse. And you’ve never given up on me.” 

“That’s different.” 

“How is that different?” 

“It just is!” You pulled your hands away from your head because it wasn’t helping anyway. It was still too loud. “Because you didn’t hospitalize Lydia. Or kill Scott. Or blow up-” 

“Well, I kidnapped Lydia. Maimed Scott. And I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for at least two shrapnel bombs,” Stiles said. “So. You know. It’s kind of the same.” 

You were quiet enough that Stiles took it as a sign that you agreed, or at least that you were considering it. He laced his hand through yours and it was difficult to focus on anything that wasn’t the blood flowing through his fingers. 

“Stiles,” you said carefully, “It’s different because we’re sitting here and I- I can’t focus on how guilty I am because all I can focus on is the pit in my stomach. I am so hungry, and it’s so selfish. All I can think about is-” 

“You’re still hungry?” Stiles asked. “You ate like an entire pizza an hour ago.” 

Somehow, you managed to avert your eyes when you were already avoiding eye contact. “The food made me feel sick.” 

“Okay, well, it’s not a full moon ‘cause that was a week ago. So maybe it’s just because it’s been a while since you had anything to eat,” Stiles said. “Your stomach just needs to adjust to normal again, that’s all.”

You wanted to believe him, you really did, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. All you could do was muster up a smile and let Stiles kiss your forehead, doing your best not to think about how badly you wanted to rip his throat out.

--- 

You weren’t sure what was worse: spending the night on Deaton’s exam table or knowing that your mom, Scott, Stiles, and Deaton were all watching you. They didn’t even take turns; all far too concerned for different reasons to sleep. To be fair, it’s not like you slept either, but that wasn’t out of concern. It was because they were too loud and you were too hot. 

A cold shower once you got home did nothing to help the pounding in your head. The water hit the shower walls so hard that it was deafening, and you couldn’t cool down no matter how low you turned the temperature. Just like the night before, it was insufferable. 

And you were still hungry. 

You dug through the fridge and stuffed all the food you could find into your mouth before one of your loved ones came to check on you. That’s how Stiles found you on the kitchen floor, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle. He got a weird smile on his face and you nodded at him. 

“I thought a couple of raccoons broke in,” Stiles said, head tilting to the side as he gestured to the trash can piled high with wrappers. “But I’m pretty sure raccoons are less messy.” 

“Very funny, Stilinski.” You rolled your eyes and patted the ground next to you. “Sit with me?” 

“I’d love to, but I can’t,” Stiles said. He rocked on his heels as he pretended to think about it. “Got a surprise for you that isn’t on the kitchen floor.” 

“A surprise?” you asked, pulling your legs up to your chest and setting the juice to the side. “What is it?” 

“God, do any of you know what the word ‘surprise’ means?” Stiles said with an exasperated sigh, clearly more at something or someone else than you. He held out a hand to you. “Come on. Come here and I’ll show you.”

You let Stiles pull you up but didn’t say anything else as he did. Whatever this surprise was, you were sure that you deserved it. So much had happened, even if everyone wanted to pretend it hadn’t. Even as Stiles led you through the house, you could hear your mom on the phone with the school upstairs. It made you feel sick. 

“Stiles, I think we should just-” 

And then he opened the door and you saw a very familiar, very beat up Porsche on the street with some very familiar, less beat up people leaning against it. 

“Oh, my god. Is that-” 

You looked at Stiles for a second and he nodded at you, then you made a run for it. Isaac caught you, but you’d sprinted into him at such a speed that you knocked the wind out of him and rocked the Porsche. He laughed and said something you didn’t process as you turned and wrapped Cora up in your arms. She was uncomfortable under your grip but she let you hug her to your heart’s content. 

“What are you guys doing here?” you rushed out. You were holding their hands to keep from drifting away. “I thought you were still in Argentina. The last time we talked-” 

“We were,” Cora interrupted slowly. “Then you stopped answering our texts, and a few days later Stiles called.” 

“And you actually answered?” you teased. 

A few months ago, that would have made them laugh. Now it made them smile in a way that didn’t quite reach their eyes and broke your heart. 

“So how much of it have they told you?” you asked. 

“Told us what?” 

“Don’t you dare, Lahey. You can’t lie to me for shit,” you said, pulling your hands back and crossing your arms over your chest. As the conversation became less ecstatic, you became more aware of the sun scorching your skin. “Cora, what do you know?”

Cora took a breath and looked at Isaac before speaking. “We know you were possessed by the nogitsune and then Scott turned you. Into what is unclear, but Derek said that if it’s you then it can’t be anything that bad.” 

It made you smile at least. Derek never would have said anything that mushy to your face. You took a breath and focused on relaxing your muscles. “Okay, okay,” you sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m a little-” 

“Crazy?” Isaac asked. 

You glared at him and he shrugged it off, but you still held his hand as you led him and Cora inside. They didn’t ask questions about what happened or how you were dealing with it, they just sat with you and talked about anything else. Scott and Stiles joined you guys after a few minutes, and so did your mom when she eventually needed a break from all the bureaucracy. 

Even though Isaac insisted he was fine, Melissa still came back with bowls of food and some drinks. She made his plate just like she did when he came over after fights with his dad and when he was staying with you. For the hour or so you spent together, everything felt normal. 

And then Stiles bumped over a glass during one of his stories and scrambled to pick it up, cutting himself in the process. It was like someone electrocuted you. Everything inside of you lit up and it took all you could not to attack him. A sickening feeling of not being in control flooded inside you - a ghostly reminder of being possessed - when you called out for Scott to get you out of the room. 

For a second, Scott didn’t look like he understood. He clicked but Cora was faster thanks to growing up with plenty of werewolves still learning control. She had you out the room and up against the stairs in seconds, claws sinking into your arm. You cried out and pushed her away but Cora was far stronger than she looked. 

“Hey, look at me,” she said, hand coming up to hold your head in place once Isaac took hold of your limbs. “Breathe. Stop focusing on the anger. Focus on the pain. Pain makes you human. Pain makes you heal. You understand?” 

“Let me go.” You didn’t recognize the growl that came out of your mouth. Everything about this was so disgustingly similar to being controlled by the nogitsune, so you did your best to listen to Cora. “Pain makes you human,” you repeated in a labored voice. “Pain makes you heal.” 

Isaac let go before Cora did, and she let go before you were ready for it. Your breathing slowed back to normal but your brain was pounding out of your skull. 

“Is that- Is that what’s gonna be like?” you asked. “On the full moon, I mean. Am I just going to … to lose control like that?” 

Cora looked over at Scott and Isaac shifted uncomfortably next to her. Scott sighed and sat next to you on the stairs. 

“Not always,” he said, very carefully choosing his words. “It’s going to take everything you’ve got on the first few not to lose control, but it will get better. You’ve seen it with Isaac and Boyd. With Liam. You know how to do this.”

“I don’t think I do,” you said in a small voice. You looked over Scott’s shoulder and between Cora and Isaac and your eyes landed on Stiles. He was looking at you too, but his eyes were full of concern for you while yours were full of something else. Guilt. You could have killed him. “I think you should take me back to Deaton.”

It didn’t take much convincing to get them to take you back. Scott and Stiles stayed with you while you explained everything to Deaton from the light and sound sensitivity to insatiable hunger and then losing it altogether. He was quiet for a few moments as he thought and then he retreated into the backroom. 

You did you best not to eavesdrop but it was difficult with the new hearing that you couldn’t control yet. Luckily for you, Stiles squeezed your hand and it was almost impossible to focus on anything else. 

Deaton came back with a metal drinking bottle. He set it down in front of you and gave you a smile. “You’ll feel better after drinking this.” 

“What is it?” you asked, untangling your hand from Stiles’ to grab a hold of the bottle. As soon as you unscrewed the top, you felt that electricity turn back on. 

“I think you know.” 

“Well, I don’t!” Stiles said next to you. “Is someone gonna explain to me what’s going on? What’s in the bottle?” 

“Blood,” Scott said. You should have known he could smell it. 

“Blood?” Stiles repeated. “Why blood?” 

“I was hoping that it wouldn’t come to this,” Deaton said. “But it seems Y/N spent too much time without a beating heart. She needs something to keep her alive and in control, and that’s what the blood is for.” 

“Does this look like control, Doc?” Stiles asked. “Black eyes and a death-grip on a water bottle?” 

“I think it looks like someone who’s trying,” Deaton said. “And who needs a moment alone to drink.” 

Stiles looked ready to argue again but either the look on your face or Scott’s hand on his arm got through to him because he closed his mouth. Then he wiped his face and nodded just before Scott led him out of the room. 

Deaton disappeared again and then it was just you and the bottle. 

The bottle full of blood. 

Blood that was sticky and warm as it slid down your throat. Blood that made your entire body tingle and feel alive. Blood made the light not feel blinding and finally, finally drowned out all the noise. Blood that fixed your hunger.

--- 

“Are we all good?” Melissa asked when the three of you got home again. She looked like she’d been pacing ever since you left, stopping only when she heard Scott unlock the door. “Or do I need to get Cora back in here?” 

“We’re all good,” you said, squeezing Stiles’ hand lightly. He still seemed freaked out from earlier but you knew he didn’t mean it. “Why do you look like you have bad news? Did something happen to Dad? No one’s said anything about him since I got back-” 

“No, honey. No, it’s nothing like that,” Melissa said. She was about to reach out but seemed to think better of it. “Why don’t you sit down?” 

“Mom,” you said hesitantly. Your hesitance didn’t stop you from sitting on the couch and holding onto Stiles’ hand with two of your own. “What’s wrong?”

Melissa took a breath. “So I talked things through with the school. They’re willing to let you finish summer school and test out with them so you don’t have to repeat sophomore year.” 

“Wait, that’s it?” Stiles asked. “Summer school?” 

“Because you missed the last few weeks of school, it’s either this or repeating the year,” Melissa said. When you didn’t answer, she continued, “The tests are at the end of this month.” 

“The end of the month?” you repeated. “That’s in like-” You stopped to frown. What day was it? 

“Three weeks,” Scott said, sounding awkward from his armchair. 

“Three weeks.” Every single thing that could go wrong in the next three weeks flashed through your head, as well as the realization that passing these tests would take up every waking moment of the next three weeks. “I can’t do that in three weeks. I- I just got back. I don’t even remember what I was doing before I was- you know. I can’t- Three weeks?” 

“Hey, hey,” Stiles said, wrapping his hand around yours. You didn’t realize how rough you’d been on them during your freak-out until he held them still in his own. “You can do this. Lydia can tutor you when you’re not in class and I can-” 

“Stiles, isn’t there a full moon in three weeks?” you asked. “You said the last one was a week ago.” 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Stiles said. He shifted slightly and looked at Scott. “But we can figure that out.” 

“Can we?” you asked. 

“Of course we can,” Scott said, snapping your attention back to him. “We’re all here for you and we’re not going anywhere. Okay?” 

You bit the inside of your lip. He wasn’t going to listen to your doubts; that just wasn’t how Scott was. He believed the best in people. “Okay,” you said eventually. Taking a deep breath, you stood up and made a list of all the things you needed to do. “Okay. I’m gonna get my stuff together. When do I start school?” 

“Tomorrow,” Melissa said. “It’s Tuesday.” 

“Tuesday,” you said under your breath. You nodded and started heading for your room. “Tuesday. Three weeks. Full moon. I can do this.” 

You reached the top of the stairs when you heard them whispering downstairs. Despite how wrong you knew it was, you focused your hearing on the whispers. Somehow, it worked. 

“You really think she can do this?” Stiles asked. 

“I have no clue,” Scott said. “But I think she’s gonna try.” 

---

Apparently, spending ten hours a day locked up in your room studying and only taking breaks to train with Isaac and Cora wasn’t exactly how everyone pictured you spending your time once you came back home. They were worried about you, they said. You needed a break, they said. Come to the scavenger hunt with us, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. 

So now you were in Deaton’s animal clinic, sandwiched between your friends and thinking about the mountains of chemistry you had to get through when this was all over as you listened to Lydia explain the rules. 

“Okay, any questions?” she asked, hands on hips, after wrapping it up. 

Isaac held up a hand. “Uh, yeah, I’ve got one.” He jutted his chin out in Liam’s direction. “Who’s the kid?”

“I’m Liam. Scott’s first beta,” Liam answered. He looked at Scott before adding the ‘first beta’ part but he should have looked harder and talked less. 

“Oh, you are not his first beta,” Isaac said, pressing himself off the wall. 

Liam was getting ready to square up and you jumped out of your corner to put one hand on Isaac’s shoulder and wrap your other arm around him. “Okay,” you said, forcing a smile. “Isaac, this is Liam, the kid Scott and Stiles kidnapped. Liam, this is Isaac, turned by Derek but-” 

“What I meant was: any questions about the scavenger hunt?” Lydia asked, straining her voice to keep calm over the noise. 

“No,” you said, nudging Isaac lightly. “Right, guys?”

“No,” Isaac repeated after a few seconds, eyes not drifting from where they locked on Liam’s. “No questions, right, Liam?”

“Right,” Liam said after another few seconds. 

“Great,” Lydia said. “Grab your first set of clues and partner up. No cheating.”

You didn’t want to leave Isaac when he still seemed ready to pick a fight with Liam, but he was already skulking towards the table with the clues and maps. He picked one up and asked Scott to be his partner since Malia and Cora wanted to be together. Stiles grabbed the things and rushed over to you before Kira and Liam had the chance to scramble together the stuff to be your partner. The two of them looked very awkwardly at one another while you bit back a laugh. 

“Well, why are you all still standing there?” Lydia asked. “Go scavenge!” 

Not only were you and Stiles an excellent team, but the two of you were also extremely competitive. That’s why you were surprised when - after blowing through most of Lydia’s clues - Stiles pulled you into the alley that stood between the store and Jeep. 

You laughed as the two of you got tangled up and almost fell into the wall as a result. “And now?” you asked, holding onto his arm to keep you both steady. “I thought you wanted to win.” 

“Of course I wanna win-” Stiles was so close that you could have heard his heartbeat without the super-hearing. “Liam and Kira? They’ve got no chance.” He pressed a kiss to your neck and looked back up at you. “Scott and Isaac? Please.” Another kiss. “Our only competition is Malia and Cora and the emotional baggage on that team is-” 

“Nothing compared to ours?” you teased, lifting a hand to the side of his face. Your thumb traced his cheek and you leaned in to kiss him. “I miss this,” you said with a sigh after pulling away. “I miss you. These past few weeks-” 

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles said. He moved some hair out your face and dropped his hand to your neck. “We’ve barely seen each other.” 

“After my finals,” you promised. You leaned in and gave him another kiss. “Now let’s go kick some scavenger hunt ass.”

“Oh, you know it!”

---

Three weeks - that’s how long you had. Three weeks of awkward study sessions with Lydia because you couldn’t stop feeling guilty about hurting her. Three weeks of training with Scott and getting your ass kicked by Isaac and Cora. Three weeks of spending absolutely no time with Stiles. 

Your three weeks were up. 

After tossing and turning the whole night, slowly going crazy from the lack of sleep and the near-full moon in the sky. Sighing, you rolled over and checked your phone. Four hours until you had to be up to take your test. Hesitantly, you opened up your chats and clicked on Stiles’ face. 

‘Hey, are you awake?’ 

You put your phone on your chest and stared up at the ceiling while you waited for a response, but it turned out you didn’t need to. Not even three seconds later and your phone started vibrating. 

“Did I wake you?” you asked in a low voice. 

“No, I, uh- I don’t sleep that well by myself,” Stiles said, even though it sounded like he’d just woken up. “Are you alright?” 

“Nervous.” You stretched out and started fiddling with your covers. “Stiles, what happens if I show up today and someone gets a papercut? Am I just going to freak out and attack some poor kid?” 

“No, of course not,” Stiles said. You could hear him shaking his head. “Scott’s taught you how to control it, alright? And I’m gonna be right outside with a very special juicebox. Nothing’s gonna make you freak out except the Geometry Section.”

He always knew what to say, but something still didn’t sit right with you. It wasn’t something that you could explain, but Stiles was one of the only people who’d listen to you try. Listening to him breathe over the phone, you knew that tonight wasn’t the night to try to explain it. 

“Thank you,” you said softly. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too. I feel like the only time we had alone was at Lydia’s scavenger hunt,” Stiles sighed. He stretched out in your mind and the thought made you smile. “Got any plans after your tests?” 

“Lunch with the most understanding boyfriend in the world?” you asked. 

“Okay, well, then he’ll understand if you cancel on him and go out with me, right?” Stiles asked. “Or, like, I could go with you guys and we could all pay separately-” 

“Shut up,” you laughed, tilting your head back into your pillow and trying to be quiet. The line went silent after you did and, even though you could still hear Stiles’ breathing, you asked, “Hey, you still there?”

“Always,” Stiles said without missing a beat. “I was just listening to you laugh.” 

Despite the fact that it made your heart jump, you said, “Weirdo.” 

He laughed and then it got quiet again. So quiet that you thought he’d fallen asleep again just before he asked, “You still there?” 

“Always,” you said quietly. “I should get back to sleep but, uh, will you stay with me?” 

“Of course,” Stiles said. “And I’ll be there at seven to take you to school, okay?” 

“Thank you,” you yawned. “I love you, Stiles.” 

“Yeah, I love you, too.”

Part 32