#but i bled so much once that i had to get my nose cauterized so

[sugardecay]

when i got a bloody nose but i was stuck behind a train

[mourninglamby]

whats a ctommy headcanon that you have but rarely comes up/ gets talked about

post revival anemia -___-!!! I had rly bad anemia when I was younger + weak blood vessels so I’d bruise SUPER easily and my nose bled so much I had to get it cauterized (once a day, + some other gross scary details that lead to police tape around my school entrance and a big blood stain 😭)

That’s why I draw him with so many bandages 💗 ah think he’s more fragile after revival. although I doubt that’s an unpopular headcanon lol

[darkthingshappen]

Three Days: Chapter 10

This is a collab with @quietly-by-myself for @the-whumpers-soiree. It features Faolan from their Mercury and Time series (link here) and her original whumper, Finlay Iver.

This story will contain elements of explicit noncon, references to past violent events, including noncon, torture, among other adult/dark themes. Reader discretion is advised. It's much darker than what I normally post. Minors DNI.

TAGS: @oddsconvert

CW: branding, PTSD, mock execution - hanging (sort of), flashbacks, cauterizing wound, defiant whumpee, threats of future noncon. past noncon, implied future noncon, intinmate whumper.

Finlay pushed the sweaty hair out of Faolan’s face and kissed his forehead.  “So perfect, little Faolan.  You lasted much longer than I thought you would.”  He’d give the boy a few minutes to come back to himself on his own before he tried to rouse him.  He examined the wound to make sure all traces of the brand were gone.  It looked like he’d been successful.  The wound bled freely due to the sharpness of the blade.  It had gone faster than he’d expected, so that was good.  He went and checked the instruments that were in the fire-place.  They were glowing hot and ready.  He’d cauterize the wound once Faolan was awake and then let him rest for a while.  

Finlay gave Faolan a while before he got a bucket ready with cold water to rouse the young man.  He checked his watch.  It had been a good twenty minutes and the wound needed to be cauterized.  He leaned him back a bit further.  He pinched Faolan’s nose and splashed the water over his head.  

As the water hit his face, Faolan bolted up. The next thing he knew, he was coughing from the sudden gasp. However, the coughing made him want to scream in pain. Why?

Reality hit him - the brand was gone, leaving only a hole in his side in its place. It was still bleeding, though much less than before from the looking of it. 

Panic hit him next as he thrashed and whimpered from the all-consuming agony. 

No. No. No. I can’t take this. It hurts too much. It hurts too much. The words played over and over in his head in a loop.

“I told you I didn’t want you to remove it!” Something about having been out for so long has renewed his fight. “I didn’t need it gone.”

“And I told you, little pet, that I would not have another man’s mark on my things.”

Finlay picked the leather strip up from Faolan’s chest where it had fallen when the boy’s jaw went slack and held it back up to his mouth.  

“I have to cauterize the wound.  So I suggest you bite down.”

Faolan looked at Finlay with rage in his eyes. “Your thing. I’m nobody’s thing. I’m not something to just be passed around or sold.” There were tears in his eyes. Not just angry, but also scared and worried.

“I beg to differ, little pet.  You can’t even decide if you want to be gagged or not.  You need someone to decide things for you.  Nearly every decision you’ve made here has been difficult for you.  You clearly struggle with autonomy and need to be told what to do and how to live.  You can’t even follow simple instructions like get on your knees and bow your head.  You require guidance and direction at every step.  I’m not angry with you, merely observant.”

Finally gave him a condescending smile, still holding out the leather for him to bite down on.  

The mix of blood loss, pain, and adrenaline was making Faolan lose control of himself. What exactly he was trying to accomplish by taunting Finlay, he didn’t know. However, that overwhelming sense of rage at someone else marking his body, making decisions about how he would like it, was hard to control.

“You try being a fucking prisoner of war then. See how you like it for a change!” He was fuming. “You try living your life by the orders of another for your country and have your friends hung in rows in front of you. I’d like to see if you came out the other side in one piece. People like you are weak. You get a doctor to write you a letter about your bad back or bad hips when the time comes to fight.”

Finlay dropped the leather strip back on to Faolan’s chest and walked over to the fire where he retrieved the glowing fire poker.  

He said nothing more to Faolan before he touched the long edge of the rod to Faolan’s open wound and began rolling it across the raw flesh.  

The feeling of the poker across the open flesh of his wound made Faolan scream like he’d never screamed before. He thrashed and fought against the restraints as the world got blurry. If there was one thing the human body wasn’t meant to handle, it was burning flesh. Faolan yelled and swore, but eventually, it all came out choked. His breathing picked up before his vision went narrow and he fell limp again.

Finlay finished cauterizing the wound.  Once it was done and there was no blood, he grabbed a disinfectant spray, which would have burned going on if Faolan were conscious, but it would have been nothing compared to what he’d just done, so he left him drifting in unconsciousness.  He sprayed the wound and then applied a burn cream before bandaging the large wound in the boy’s side.  

Foalan was forgetting his place.  Suddenly an idea struck Finlay.  He walked over to one of the cabinets and pulled out a length of rope.  It took him almost no time at all to fashion the end of it into a noose.  He slung the noose up over the beam in the ceiling just behind where Faolan was restrained.  At this angle, Faolan couldn’t see what he was doing.  Plus the cauterizing had left him a bit delirious.  

Finlay splashed Faolan with more cold water and waited for him to come back to himself.  Once he was certain that the boy was paying attention.  He slipped the noose over the boy’s neck and pulled the rope tight, not enough to strangle, but enough to instill the fear of strangulation.  

“Now, little Faolan, what were you saying about your friends?  About how weak I am?”  Finlay smiled at the absolute panic on Faolan’s face.  He loosened the noose so the boy could speak.  He was clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice just a few moments before.   

Faolan awoke to the feeling of rope on his neck. Suddenly, he wasn’t there anymore. No, he’d been teleported back years in the past. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

He felt nauseous despite himself. Part of him could still smell every smell of that day, feel every touch, and see every ray of light.

It didn’t take long before Faolan was reduced to tears. “Please don’t do this. Please.” His tears were quickly turning into sobs. “No. No. I don’t want to die. You can fuck me as many times as you want. Just please don’t do this. I can’t die like them. Please. I don’t want to die.”

His chest heaved in milliseconds, a horrible combination of panic and grief. He could see the bodies of his friends in front of him. “I can’t. I can’t. Please. No.”

“If you don’t want to die, then maybe you should remember your place in life.  You’re mine!  You understand?  Mine!”  Finlay yanked on the rope one last time, fast enough that it would leave red rope marks around his neck, just under his chin, ben then he loosened it again.  No sense in actually strangling Faolan.  It was much more efficient to have him scared out of his mind and compliant.  

“Say it!  Little slave, Tell me who you belong to.”

Faolan couldn’t speak, much less say what Finlay wanted him to. He was crying so badly that tears had made his neck and chest wet. In between the sobs were coughs. Eventually, he gathered himself enough to speak, but could only repeat the same words he had that day.

“Please. I don’t want to die. Use me as much as you like but please. Please. Don’t let me die here. Please.”

Finlay pulled up on the rope again and forced Faolan’s glance up to his.  “Tell me.  Who do you belong to?  Or I keep pulling.”  He tugged on the rope to prove his point before loosening it again to let him speak.  

Faolan forced himself to breathe a bit so he could speak properly. “Yours. I’m yours.” His voice broke around each word. He could hardly get them out. “I’m your slave. I’m stupid. I need your guidance. Everything I do is to please you, Master. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just don’t let me die here. I don’t have any good ideas. Please.”

“Good.  Better.  Don’t forget it.  You are stupid.  You don’t have any good ideas.  You do need my help for even the most basic things.” Finlay said, patting Faolan’s cheek.  “And for good measure, you’ll wear the noose like a necklace until we retire for the evening.”

He opened Faolan’s jaw and pushed in the wiffle ball gag.  He smirked as he turned away from Faolan, leaving him to rest.  That was worth it.  Faolan would be very compliant.  Foalan letting that little nugget about seeing his friends hang slip had been all Finlay needed to get through to him.  

*!*!*!*!*

Faolan awoke to a torture room with no Finlay. The pain in his side was impossibly painful. He couldn’t even breathe properly. The wiffle ball gag didn’t help, but even Finlay’s threat of force feeding had fallen flat because he’d already earned that as a semi-permanent punishment.

Memories of what had happened before came back to him. Immediately, he realized the rope around his neck. Now that Finlay wasn’t around, Faolan allowed himself to cry, differently than he did before. He tried in a truly self-assuring way that he couldn’t muster around Finlay, lest he be accused of throwing himself a pity party.

However, his crying didn’t last long before the numbness set in. He was weak and hopeless. He’d admitted what he never wanted to. What would Finlay do now, with that? What would he be like?

Faolan could only wait and find out.

Finlay didn’t return to the room for several hours.  He was plotting.  Faolan thinks he’s weak, but the little pet can’t even get through a meal without whining.  Well, maybe he didn’t have to eat.  Maybe he could just drink.  And oh, could Finlay make him drink.  He’d brand him and then bed him tonight and then after he was chained back in his room, he’d get everything ready for tomorrow.  

Finlay smiled to himself as he sipped his whiskey before heading back down to the torture room.  He pushed open the door with the glass still in his hand.  

Faolan immediately smelled the whiskey, even before he realized that Finlay was coming towards him.

Finlay smiled at the state of his prey.  He had felt a fire ignite inside him at the boy’s defiance, but his brokenness was even better.  He stroked Faolan’s hair and tilted his head up.  “Thirsty, little Faolan?”  He didn’t wait for a response before tilting his whiskey glass and poured the last of it through the wiffle ball gag into Faolan’s mouth.  

The whiskey burnt his raw throat and made him cough and choke. The wound on his side screamed in pain as he visibly winced, hardly able to breathe from the pain. Each breath was painful, not to count the forceful coughing.

He whimpered a bit, his eyes pleading with Finlay for some sort of mercy from the horrible day he’d gone through.

“We have one more session to go, pet, before you and I head to bed again.  I let you rest all afternoon.  Now it’s time to mark what’s mine.”

He pressed his lips to Faolan’s around the gag, running his tongue along his lips and then pulling away.  

He walked over to the fire and pulled out the rod that had the glowing brand on the end.  

“It may not be a family crest, but you'll still bear your master’s initials.”  He stalked towards Faolan's twisting and struggling form.  

His thrashing eventually stilled as he forced himself to stay in the moment, remembering the threat of the vat of ice. He wouldn’t be able to handle that with the new burns.

He wanted to beg. He wanted to force Finlay to stop. Break his hand or his face. Stop him in any way possible. 

Instead of that defiant glare, he gave Finlay a pleading look. Would he get pain medicine, if Finlay was going to fuck him with his two open wounds? He was already in so much pain. He couldn’t take another burn, more neuropathy.

Would Atticus even be able to care for him, knowing that he’d brought this on himself? That he bore the mark of another man again? That he was so weak as to allow this to happen to him twice? Thoughts raced through his mind and he wished they would all stop.

Finlay stopped just beside Faolan, admiring the way the boy held suddenly perfectly still, his chest heaving with clear terror.  And now, the defiance was gone and the lovely pleading look was back on his face, his eye brows knit together, begging without saying a word.  Too bad this was inevitable from the moment that he’d begged him not to brand him.  Sure, he had a brand ready to go, but he didn’t always use it.  Sometimes, he only used the fire poker and burned dots and lines and little intricate designs into his pet’s skin.  But this one was positively begging for a fresh brand.

Finlay moved the hot iron brand close to the boy’s skin, just below the ribs on the opposite side.  He didn’t touch it to his skin… not yet.  He was debating.  Sure he could put it there, but why let the placement of another man’s mark determine where his would go?  No.  He moved it up to Faolan’s chest and pressed it in, just above his nipple across his pectoral muscles, just above his heart.  And then he held it there.  

Despite the gag, Faolan still tried screaming, only to choke on the dryness of his throat. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as Finlay held the brand there longer than he’d expected. Had William held it there that long? It just kept burning and burning, but something in him refused to faint.

Please, make it stop. Please, make it stop. Please. I can’t take any more of this. 

For a moment, he might’ve even forgotten what was to happen next.

Finlay pulled the branding iron away.  The burned flesh was still smoking.  But he could clearly make out the stylized swirl to his Monogram initials, burned into Faolan’s chest.  

He ran his fingers over the fresh wound, smiling at the pained hiss it elicited from Faolan.  “It’s perfect.  It looks absolutely perfect there.  Like you were made to be marked.”  He was frankly surprised that Faolan was still conscious.  

Faolan’s chest heaved around the brand as he sobbed. He was branded again. It was so much more visible this time around. He’d never be able to wear a tank top or v-neck again. He was curling up internally, wanting to never have another person see what he’d let happen. It was all his fault. He couldn’t believe he’d let himself be branded again.

That feeling of brokenness came back as he realized he truly was Finlay’s. Finlay was going to bed him again that night. Would he be gentle again? Or rough? Faolan didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to be taken against his will again.

Whatever Finlay had in store was squarely his fault, he realized. It was his fault for going to the party. It was his fault for not listening to Atticus. It was his fault for disobeying even if he knew what to do.

Faolan’s tears picked up at the dread of what was going to happen next. He knew it was inevitable. He could only hope that Finlay was worked up enough to finish quickly tonight.

Finlay took out the disinfectant spray again and sprayed off the wound.  He knew it would sting and he enjoyed the fresh tears that it brought to Faolan’s eyes.  He was ready to take him to the bedroom, so he didn’t waste as much time in dressing Faolan’s brand as he had the wound on his lower side.  

He covered it completely with soft gauze bandages, taping them into place.  He then undid the strap across Finaly’s head and chest.  He wound a cloth bandage around the boy’s body, across his chest, under his arms and around his back so that the bandage would stay in place.  

“You did very good staying awake through that.”  He pulled the wiffle ball gag out of the boy’s mouth.  “You have not earned the use of your hands back yet.  But would you prefer the tube or for me to feed you?”

“Please feed me yourself. I don’t want the tube again. Please.” He was whimpering a bit with each plea to not have to suffer the tube again. He looked down at himself, seeing his torso covered in bandages, and felt another wave of sadness wash over him. He looked awful. He hated himself more than he could put into words.

Finlay mussed Faolan’s hair.  “Be back in just a moment with dinner.”

Once Finlay was gone, Faolan allowed himself to truly sob. Big, ugly sounds of a man who had lost utterly everything.

 “Fuck this. Fuck everything.”  Faolan grew in his self-hatred. “It’s not fair. I can’t keep going like this.”

He tried speaking to himself to soothe himself, to get the words out, but it only seemed to make him more sad and cry harder. He would never allow Finlay to see him in such a depraved, ugly state. He would never endure that humiliation. But alone, he would cry more than he had even with Atticus.

“I miss you, Atticus.”

What he wouldn’t give to be with Atticus right then. He wanted to see the man and have him tell Faolan that everything would be okay. That this was all a nightmare he could wake up from.

As time passed, Faolan forced himself to get together. He would survive, even if Atticus didn’t find him right away. Right?

Finlay returned with a tray and a silver cover on it, like it was a gourmet meal.  

“I keep a chef, and I thought, if you were good and got to eat a proper meal tonight, you’d need something that would be nutritious and easy on your stomach.”  He pulled off the cover to reveal a roast chicken breast, green beans, and mashed potatoes.  “The green beans are steamed.  The mashed potatoes are from scratch and made with chicken broth to minimize the dairy.”  

Faolan could’ve cried when he saw the meal. It was absolutely beautiful after a day of hunger and being force fed microwaved eggs in lemonade. “Th-thank you.”

“No fancy titles?  I don’t understand you.  You use them when I’m hurting you, and then when I do something for you that's nice, you don’t use them.  Are you just trying to butter me up so I will let you off the hook when you’ve been bad?”

Watching Finlay’s hands with the food, he froze. Finlay had figured it out. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was something you wanted out of me.”

He’d done it with William. He’d call William “my lord” to calm him down from a particularly dangerous mood. However, it seemed that Finlay wouldn’t allow the same thing to slide.

“Go ahead then, thank me properly for dinner. Thanks to you, I like the titles.  I will accept my lord or master from now on.  I’m not mad.  I was just confused.  But let’s not say any more about it other than that is how I want to be addressed from now on.”

Faolan froze. He hated using the titles. He couldn’t give Finlay so much, even if it had seemed so easy before. 

Something in him was too tired to face more pain, though. He wanted to resist. He wanted to tell Finlay to go fuck himself and his stupid titles. Finlay would never let such a thing slip again.

While stuck in his loop of anxiety, Faolan was silent for many minutes as he tried to find the courage to say what Finlay wanted him to.

“”Do I need to put this meal in the blender too?  With more lemonade?  And use the tube?”  Finlay stared him down, letting the scent of the chef crafted meal waft over him.  

“No! No you don’t. Please, not that again. Please.” His voice quickly broke into sobs. That feeling of brokenness washed over him again. “No…”

“Then let me hear a proper thank you.”

Biting back tears, Faolan mustered the strength to offer a proper thanks to Finlay. “T-thank you, Master. Thank you for the beautiful meal, Master.”

Small sobs shook his body as he finally gave in and spoke those horrible words. All for a real meal that he would’ve had at home on any ordinary day.

“Much better.”  Finlay set the tray down and cut up the chicken.  He put a little of each item on the fork and fed the meal to Faolan.  

Finlay let Faolan take his time with each bite.  He offered no tricks or slips, he just slowly fed him the meal.  Neither of them talked.  It was the quietest they’d both been without one of them being gagged.  

When he was finished he wiped Faolan’s mouth with a soft napkin.  “All done?  Would you like something to drink?  Some water perhaps?”  Finlay kept the smirk off of his face.  He couldn’t wait to see how the boy reacted to what he had planned for him tomorrow.  But enough of that.  Stay in the moment, he told himself.  

Faolan nodded a little quietly. “Thank you, Master. May I please have my second dose of Pepcid, Master?”

He gave Finlay an anxious whimper at the twitch in his face, breaking that sacred, peaceful silence they’d had just moments before. He hoped that Finlay wouldn’t take the question or the whimper the wrong way and reprimand him for it.

“I think you’ve earned that.  Will you need any more Tums as well?”

“N-no, Master, but I would like another pill of my Zofran if it’s possible.” Things seemed to be going smoothly with Finlay. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be okay.

“That’s fine.  We still have a few hours before bed time.”  Finlay got his pills and held out his hand to him.  His other hand holding the cup of water.  Foalan licked the pepcid off of his hand as he’d done before and then tucked the zofran under his tongue.  Finlay held the cup of water to his lips and let him drink.  “It’s well water, this far out.  It’s always cold and crisp.”

Faolan happily accepted the water to get rid of the awful medication taste. He swallowed down the water in large gulps, happy to get relief for his horribly sore throat as well. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. You just need to endure a little bit more. Then, he’ll be kind for the rest of the night. You can do this, Faolan. You can do this.

“Thank you, Master. Thank you for the water, Master.”

Finlay stroked his hair gently.  “Such a good boy.”  He kissed Faolan’s forehead and then got up and went to the door.  He called for his two henchmen and they came in to escort Faolan to the bedroom.  

Panic filled Faolan’s chest as the henchmen came in and grabbed his arms to lead him away to Finlay’s bedroom. At some point, he stumbled to the ground, unable to support himself much on the side where the wound was. He forced himself to take deep breaths as he tried to stand, scared that Finlay would shock him.

Finlay offered his hand and put his arm around his waist to help support him as he tried to stand up.  “Not much farther.  You can make it.”

Taking deep breaths, Faolan stood with Finlay’s help. A building sense of dread formed in his stomach as he caught a glimpse of the door to Finlay’s bedroom. He knew what came next. He doubted he was strong enough to face it.

[akutagawasbitch]

Memories: Chapter Two

Hey guys this is the next chapter in my OC fic I hope you enjoy! As usual feedback is greatly appreciated! Love you all <3 

Chuuya groaned, kneeling next to Yukiche, gently prodding her. “Great she passed out. What did you do Akutagawa?”

Akutagawa coughed and stiffly replied. “I was following orders. I don’t understand why you are interfering.”

Chuuya was silent and stared at Yukiche’s unconscious body. “I owe her a favour.” He replied coolly, his thoughts drifting back to the night they met…

“shit Shit SHIT!”

Gunshots were heard in all directions with bullets flying everywhere. This normally wasn’t an issue for him, but he’d been stabbed so he was in no state to use his ability. “FUCK” he yelled, thinking he was utterly and truly fucked. But he wasn’t going to hide and die like a chicken, that’s not who he is so with a deep breath in, he ran out and threw the bullets back at them killing the whole lot of them. Panting he gripped his side and started the walk back to base, slowly and painfully. Each step was agonising, blood seeping through his shirt. Finally, he collapsed in the alleyway behind a bar, knocking over a bin. Lying there his eyesight became more and blurry, a figure coming out of the bar yelling something he couldn’t quite hear until finally his vison turned black.

“Why am I wet?” he thought to himself groggily.

Slowly opening his eyes, his eyesight natural started to refocus. Looking down he saw he was sitting in a puddle of water and blood. He went to push himself up, but he couldn’t move. Frantically looking around he noticed his hands were cuffed to the pipe. “Fuck this is bad” he thought to himself when noticed the handcuffs were slightly loose. “What idiot doesn’t properly handcuff someone?” he silently thought to himself.  Carefully, he yanked the handcuffs and they snapped in half, freeing him. Rubbing his raw wrists, he planned his captors murder. He was pissed. “Whoever did this is going have their skull bashed in and pulverised into a pulp” he muttered to himself.  He quietly explored trying to find them and punish them for being ballsy enough to try restraining him.

He heard a loud yell of “FUCK” and cautiously wandered over to the source of the voice. He saw a young woman, about 20 years old with raven black hair tied up in a messy bun. She was running into the bathroom. Since the room was getting flooded, he could assume she left the tap on or something like that. “What a fucking idiot” he thought to himself and quietly crept behind the bar to watch her. From his view, he could see her features much clearer.  Her raven hair was curly, with an undercut underneath. Her eyes were hazel brown with flecks of green, and she had a scar underneath her right eye.  She was cleaning up the water and blood all over the floor. “Blood? Why is there blood?” he frowned. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. Looking down he saw stiches across a wound, which was still bleeding a little.

“Fuck. She fucking stabbed me. I am going to fucking pulverise her!” He hissed quietly, trying not to alert her to his whereabouts. He couldn’t help it though; he was seething with anger. His ability started to activate, but a sharp pang of pain stopped him. Fuck. He couldn’t use his ability.

Chuuya’s mind was racing, thinking of all the possibilities. Was she an enemy from one of the lower gangs sent to attack him so he’d be vulnerable? Was she a kidnapper trying to hold him for hostage money? The answer didn’t matter. In the end, she’ll still be a puddle of blood and gore on the floor since she was going to pay for this. No one stabs and handcuffs Chuuya Nakahara and gets away with it. After all, he was an executive for a reason. His power and strength was unparalleled, and his short temper was renowned.

“She stopped cleaning” he thought to himself, watching her. She looked panicked, frantically looking around. “She must have noticed I’m gone” he smiled to himself. This was his chance. With her guard down, he snuck up behind her and grabbed her by the neck slamming her into the wall choking her while pointing a knife at her throat.

“You have some fucking nerve pulling this kind of shit on me.” He spits out, squeezing her neck.

Gasping for breath she grabs his hands and tries to pry his hands off her throat. He laughs and just applies more pressure, crushing her windpipe lightly.

“Nice try but I’m not letting you go that easily. You’re going to fucking pay.” Chuuya snickers, his blazing blue eyes burning holes into her hazel ones.  “You are going to tell me who the fuck you work for and why my blood was all over your floor. Then I’ll repay you with making you bleed all over your floor. For each drop of my blood you shed, I’ll make you bleed twice as much.” He spits out, lighting digging the knife into her neck. Her eyes filled with fear and a tear rolled down her cheek.  She hangs her head and he lets go but still points the knife in her direction. Rubbing her neck, she swallows and winces from the pain.

“I don’t work for anyone. I found you passed out in a pool of your own blood outside my bar. I took you in and cleaned your wound. I see it was against my better judgement. I should’ve left you to bleed out in the trash.” She whispers viciously, her voice hoarse.

Chuuya blinks at her comment and growls, punching her in the stomach. She yelped in pain and doubled over, eyes watering.

“False lies won’t do anything but piss me off and prolong your suffering. Tell me the truth.” He snaps angrily. His patience was already thin from the pain he was in but her snide comment pissed him off.  Shakily pushing herself off the ground with her arms, she sits up.

Looking directly into his eyes, she repeated what she said. “I don’t work for anyone. I found you passed out in a pool of your own blood outside my bar. I took you in and cleaned your wound.” Chuuya punched her again. “Stop lying!” he yells getting even more annoyed. She cries out from the pain but just repeats the same phrase again and again. Even after he’s nearly broken her jaw, she repeats. No matter what he does, how much pain he inflicts: she always repeats that exact phrase.

Chuuya’s rationale began to falter a little. “No matter what I do, she repeats that fucking sentence. Maybe she is telling the truth…” he mutters to himself. He stood there quietly, thinking about what his next move should be. He studied the woman’s figure in front of him.  She was breathing heavily, blood trickling from her nose, she certainly was at least bruised. Perhaps a few broken bones. Letting out an annoyed sigh, Chuuya walked off. She learned her lesson anyways even if she wasn’t telling the truth. He began to walk towards the door when the pain in his abdomen flared up, causing him to collapse due to the excruciating pain. Hissing in pain, he tried to get up but collapsed again. Fuck this was bad. He thought to himself.

“You shouldn’t try to move. All that punching tore your stiches. You’ve exasperated your wound and now its bleeding. If you’d like to live, I’d recommend not moving.” The woman croaked out, her voice still hoarse from being choked. She shakily stood up, clutching her bruised stomach. She knelt next to him and examined his wound.

“Hmm it’s deeper than I originally noticed. I used the wrong type of stitch, so it’s reopened.” She muttered to herself, now sitting next to Chuuya.

“It appears you’re in a lot of pain. As I said I wouldn’t move. Since I did such a hasty job and used the wrong type of stitch, your wound has reopened. I can re-stitch it properly for you and also cauterize the wound, so it heals quicker. But that’s only if you trust me. I can’t do it if you keep trying to attack me” She calmly said, while examining the wound.

Chuuya winced from the pain. He weighed his options. He could either trust her and let her stitch him up or he could pummel her into a pulp and try get back to headquarters or call for backup. The latter option would take too long, besides backup is useless if he’d already bled out. So, it looks like his only option was to trust her. Besides if she tried anything funny, he could just crush her.

“Fine. Do it. But I’m watching you. Any funny movements or any odd behaviour and I’ll crush you like a piece of candy.” He responded; his tone rather curt.

“Interesting analogy. Anyways let’s get started since you’ve decided to make the smart decision and trust me. Now you’re going to need something to numb the wound.” She commented, getting up and walking over to the bar. She grabbed a bottle of vodka and a bottle of whiskey. Pouring the two into a shot glass, she walked over after also grabbing the medical kit.

“Drink this. It will numb the pain. It’s the two strongest types I have so it will numb you pretty quickly.”

“Don’t you have anything made for pain relief?” Chuuya asked apprehensively.

“This is a bar not a hospital. The only pain relief I serve is alcohol. Now drink” She said, pushing the shot into his hand.

Grimacing he took the shot. It burned the back of his throat and hit him like a brick wall. Immediately he began to feel warm inside. She pinched his hand

“OW! What was that for?” He snapped.

“Checking if it limiting your pain response. It is slightly but there’s no time to wait. So, you’re going to have to bite on his.” Before he could protest, she shoved a rag into his mouth. “Bite down this is going to hurt.” She instructed him; her face slightly contorted into a frown from concentrating.

She began to clean the wound with ethanol once more since it had been bleeding. Chuuya raised his eyebrow.

“This doesn’t hu- FUCK” he yelled out in pain as she pierced his skin with the needle. She ignored his yell of pain and started stitching, doing much tighter and neater stitches than before. After five minutes of him sitting in pain, using all his strength not to scream out in pain, she finished. She rubbed some cauterizing ointment on the wound and then wrapped bandages around the now closed wound.

“You can take that rag out now. I’m done.” She commented, putting away all her medical supplies back into her kit.

Breathing heavily, Chuuya propped himself up and looked her. She did it. She helped him without any ulterior motive. If she had helped him then… she must have helped him before. “She really was telling the truth.” He thought to himself.  He watched her, curious as she placed back the bottles and tided up around him.

“Thank you. For helping me. I apologise for my demeanour earlier.” He said quietly, half hoping she didn’t hear him.

“I accept your apology. If I woke up shirtless and handcuffed, I’d panic too. It’s a perfectly natural response.” She responded, not looking up from what she was doing. “Just next time don’t pull a knife on them and crush their windpipe. Some people might not be so inclined to help you again after that.“  She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling with a hint of cheekiness.

Chuuya laughs light “Yeah I suppose so. What even is this place?” he asked looking around.

“It’s the bar I work at. I take care of it for my mentor while he’s gone.” She replied, her voice had a slight sad tone to it though

“While he’s gone? So, what do you do when he’s here?” He asked curious.

“Oh. He’s always gone. He’s dead you see.” She said looking at him with a sad smile. “But I won’t leave this place. I will continue to care for it and run it just like I promised him. You see he saved my life just like I saved yours. He found me outside in a puddle of my own blood, just like I found you. So, I owe him my life. I never got to pay him back though, so I’ll forever be in his debt. All I can do is take care of the bar and try fulfil his dream to honour his memory and help his soul rest.” She explained, her voice filled with sadness. A singular tear rolled down her cheek as she reminisced about her mentor Haru. He loved her like his own child.

“I miss him terribly, so I suppose me working here is my selfish way of holding onto him.” She laughed lightly; her eyes still filled with sadness.

Chuuya observed her. What an intriguing woman. Someone who continued to follow through on a debt to a dead person and even go as far to fulfil their dream for them just purely so their spirit can rest. He hadn’t seen that kind of empathy and humanity before.

Intrigued he asked, “What is your name?”

She blinked a few times, clearly surprised by his question. After a few moments she smiled softly. “My name is Yukiche.”

“Thank you Yukiche. For saving my life. Twice.” Chuuya replied with geinue gratitude in his voice.

“I appreciate your gratitude, but it was more a business move. I can’t have a Port Mafia executive dying on the doorstep of my bar. I don’t think it would end particularly well for me.” She said in a light cheery tone.

“Y-You knew I’m part of the Port Mafia?” Chuuya asked, taken aback by her knowledge.

“Well its pretty obvious. Your face is plastered all over Yokohama on wanted posters. It would pretty hard not to recognise you.” She replied coolly.

Chuuya blinked a couple of times before asking “It doesn’t bother you that I’m Port Mafia? You’d show kindness to even the most violent organisation in Yokohama?”. He was genuinely confused. Everyone either hated or feared the Port Mafia. Most people felt both anger and fear. Yet she didn’t… it was confusing.

“Well as I said, it was a business move. Besides….” She paused for a moment, staring at the glass in her hand. “Who am I to judge someone for their decisions and actions. Everyone has a story. Everyone has reasons. I’ve committed great acts of violence and hurt many. Thus, it would be hypocritical of me to act like I despise you purely for the Port Mafia and its past actions.” She replied, her voice soft yet strangely harsh at the same time.

Chuuya stood up and walked over to where Yukiche was standing. “You said this was a bar? Can I get a drink? After all I was stabbed.” He asked, with a cheeky smile on his face. He couldn’t lie. She intrigued him and he wanted to learn more about her. She smiled and started to speak when Chuuya’s phone began to ring interrupting her. He sighed and answered the phone

“Hello? What is it? … I see. I’ll come by and deal with it now.” He hung up the phone.  Looking down, he suddenly was a lot more aware of his lack of a shirt. “Can I have my shirt? I need to do executive business and I need a shirt for that.” He asked.

“Oh right your shirt… It’s in the bathroom. It may still be a little wet. I tried to wash the blood out of it.” Yukiche replied, sheepishly. She was rubbing her back of her neck and slightly blushing.

Chuuya raised his eyebrow. He did not want to wear a wet shirt and sit through an executive meeting wet and uncomfortable. “Do you have a dry shirt I can borrow?” He asked, slightly annoyed that his shirt was wet.

“Yes, I do” Yukiche walked off to the storage cupboard and pulled out a white shirt. “There you go, see if it fits.”

Chuuya gave her a grateful smile and took the shirt out of her hands and quickly put the shirt on. It fit perfectly well for its purpose. Not as fitted as he usually liked but it would do. Putting his coat on over the borrowed shirt, he adjusted his hat and walked to the bar’s exit door.

“Thank you again Yukiche. I owe you a favour. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He say waving his hand as he left. He stopped in his tracks and turned around with a devilish smile. “Oh, I’ll be back for my shirt by the way.” After that he left, the bar’s door swinging shut behind him.

Chuuya's trip down memory lane was interrupted by Akutagawa's coughing. Sighing, Chuuya knelt down next to Yukiche’s unconscious body and checked her pulse. She was alive. He assumed such but still. Worth checking.

“What do you mean you owed her a favour Nakahara-san?” Aku asked stiffy but there was a slight hint of curiosity in his voice.

“That’s none of your business Akutagawa. Now go complete your other mission. That’s an order.” Chuuya replied coolly. Akutagawa scoffed slightly and turned on his heel, walking out grumbling to himself.

Sighing slightly, he commented to Yukiche’s sleeping body. “You sure have a habit of attracting trouble. Consider this your favour.” Standing up, he walked out after leaving a note next to Yukiche.

The note simply said, “Consider your favour completed.”

[whitewallwhispers]

Little Lies

Narcos - Javier Peña - Series

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine

A young writer moves to Colombia to perform research on the drug war for her latest novel. She’s willing to do anything for information, which leads her down a rabbit hole that begins to blur the line between pretending to be someone and becoming something she might not be ready for.

Despite the best efforts of D.E.A. Peña, she finds herself out of her depth and everything is falling apart.

Warnings: Mentions of burns, gunshot wounds, blood, stitches, and scars. Description of a panic attack. Strong language (pretty much every expletive under the sun).

My hope is that you can imagine this character as any race with any style of hair (as someone with short hair I get annoyed when every fic mentions long locks and ponytails).

Author’s Note: Javi doesn’t appear in this chapter, but don’t worry. He’ll be back.

Tag List (Open!): @fanfiction-trashpile | @sophster1881 | @theringostarfanclub | @thinemineours | @fatbottomedcurls | The OG: @courtneybgourtney​

It was a bleak and lonely two days at the hospital.

Only family members were allowed to visit, and she certainly didn’t have any of those nearby.

Or maybe, in fact, any that would want to see her at all.

It’d been nearly a month since she’d last heard from her parents. She thought about calling them to tell them what happened, but they’d probably either disown her at the first mention of selling herself or come to get her at the first mention of any of her injuries.

And if she had to leave, it’d be on her own terms.

Perhaps she should, though.

For fuck’s sake, her old contact tried to kill her. She’d been shot. She’d almost died.

And once again, that only placed her more firmly in debt to a certain D.E.A. agent. 

Javier Peña.

She’d have bled out in her apartment if he hadn’t come for her, would’ve bled out on the way to the hospital if he hadn’t thought to cauterize her wounds first.

First, he hadn’t been angry with her when he found out she’d been lying to him.

Second, he’d agreed to give her information she could use for her book.

Third, he’d saved her life.

When she first came to after she was admitted to the hospital, one of the nurses handed her a note. 

Call me when they release you. - Peña

She’d held onto it ever since, reading and re-reading it in the hours she was awake, turning it over and over in her left hand. Her entire right arm still hurt too much to be useful. It’d hurt for quite a while.

Both bullets had missed arteries, but just barely. The one in her hip must’ve gone through her human shield’s body first, because it didn’t make it deep enough to pierce her organs, instead lodging itself within the muscle. It would be too risky to operate to remove them, the doctors told her, so they’d remain inside her. She was to stay for another day on an IV drip of antibiotics to stave off any potential infections from the cauterization, then she’d be sent home with a week and a half’s worth of pills and that would be it. 

Her shoulder and hip would be scarred twofold. First, the long, crackling burns from where the knife had seared into her, black and charred around the edges. Then, in their centers, the rough-hewn stitches from when they’d investigated the bullet wounds to see if they were worth removing.

As she brushed her thumb across the words on the small scrap of paper she remembered Javi running his thumbs over her hip bones. Digging into the flesh. Leaving bruises.

Not anymore.

She’d miss it far more than she cared to admit.

It was probably time to go home. She’d have to go weeks without working for her body to heal, and she hadn’t saved enough yet to make that possible. And where would she live?

She couldn’t stay in her apartment. In fact, no one could probably live there anymore. Not now that it was riddled with blood stains and bullet holes and worse.

And she couldn’t ask anything more from Peña. He’d given her enough already - too much, in fact. At this point she could never repay him, in money or favors. All she’d done since they’d met was take. Take his information, his money, his time, his effort. He had enough on his plate with Escobar on the loose.

When she was discharged, she didn’t call him. 

There was a new keypad beside the door, and a new door in the frame. Newer, nicer than the old ones.

Perhaps I did the building a favor, she thought to herself grimly. She punched in her code and pulled at the door. It remained locked. She tried again. Still nothing. 

Of. Fucking. Course. 

She broke out in a cold sweat, beginning to panic. Next she punched in the code that connected to the landlady’s intercom. For a few moments there was nothing, then a crackle of static. 

“Yes?” Maria’s voice was terse, an unusual tone for her.

“Maria, it’s me. From Unit 3C. I just tried my code in the door box, and-”

“Oh, you’re back already! Listen, there’s something...you know what? I’ll come down.” Maria’s voice was once again as warm as ever, even when tinged with apprehension. 

“I, uh, okay,” she stammered.

It did nothing to calm her anxiety. So she stood and waited, nearly all of her weight on her right leg, her left hand stuffed in the pocket of the hoodie the hospital had given her, her right hanging limply at her side. All of what she wore had been donated to help patients who didn’t have access to other clothing. Even her underwear. She shuddered at the thought that it might be a hand-me-down.

Maria appeared then. But she didn’t open the door to invite her in - instead, she stepped outside and closed the front door behind her.

Fuck. That was a bad sign.

“How are you?” Maria asked kindly. She was a tiny little woman, her flyaway brown hair streaked with grey and pulled up into a bun and large, thick glasses that made her small, soft eyes look enormous.

“I’m fine, but I need to get my things from my apartment, and when I tried the door code -”

“All your things are gone,” Maria said, seemingly confused. “They came and took them.”

“They?” 

“Those men. They said they knew you, that they were taking them to you.”

“What men? Police officers?” She could feel bile rising in her throat. Please, please say police officers.

“No,” Maria shook her head. “Not police officers. They had already left.”

So that left only one answer: the cartel.

They knew where she lived. They’d know she killed, or at least played some role in killing Manuel and the others.

That meant she wasn’t safe - she had to leave. Now.

“Right, okay. Thank you for letting me know.”

Maria called after her, asking something about money for the repairs before she could move back in, but she was gone, limping away as fast as she could.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Where could she go?

What could she do?

All of her money was gone. Her manuscript, her clothes, her passport, everything. 

She was alone, completely alone, with nothing but the borrowed clothes on her back and the bottles of painkillers and antibiotics in her pocket. 

Her head began to swim, breathing becoming short and heavy.

A panic attack.

Her thoughts began to cave in on her, a cataclysm of fear and sorrow and hopelessness.

Before she knew it she was leaning against the wall of the nearest building, her breathing reduced to shuddering sobs, the entire world going dark around her. She crouched and held her head even though it made her hip and shoulder scream with agony. 

She didn’t know what else to do.

You’re going to die.

You fucked it all up.

Everything is your fault.

You should’ve bled out. You should’ve let them kill you.

You should die.

You’re going to die. 

On repeat. Over, and over, and over.

She didn’t know how long it was before she was able to open her eyes. Her breathing had slowed, as had her thoughts. Not from any conscious effort on her part, but from pure exhaustion. She was already weak, and her body didn’t have the strength to let her panic for long.

When she rose to her feet, she was completely numb inside, a low humming of emptiness emanating from her chest and running up her spine to her head, which suddenly felt unbearably heavy. A few people from the nearest houses looked on at her with confused curiosity. 

She began to walk. With no destination in mind. With no idea what the hell she was going to do or where she was going to go or how she was going to get home. At this point, she couldn’t even call her parents from a pay phone. She didn’t have a single penny or peso to spend. Perhaps she would try begging on the streets, perhaps, perhaps...perhaps…

Before she knew it her feet were leading her someplace where the streets and buildings began to look familiar, but even then, she couldn’t place why. Her limping had grown to more of a hobble as her hip protested each step with ferocity. The doctors had told her to go home and rest - lay down as much as she could, only get up when she had to. Ha. So far all she’d done was walk and stand and crouch and walk again.

Then she came to a stop outside of the door of a nondescript looking house in an okay neighborhood. A house with a red door and faint music flowing out from within. Several women stood on and beside the stoop - hair done, makeup perfect, clothing suggestive, several smoking.

“Hey, it’s you!” one of them called. Her hair was dyed a dull blonde and pulled up in a high ponytail that curled its way down to the small of her back. Her perfectly maintained brows framed her beautiful face - high cheekbones, large brown eyes rimmed by thick, dark lashes, a short, straight nose, and full lips.

Oh. 

So that’s where she’d gone.

The brothel where she’d interviewed the prostitutes. 

And there was Luciana, her main contributor, beckoning her over with a freshly manicured hand that held a half-gone cigarette aloft. 

“Come here! Where have you been? How’s your little book going?” The other girls made room for her as she approached. Slowly. With stilted steps.

“It’s been better,” she answered honestly. Luciana frowned.

“What’s wrong? You look hurt! Here, have a cigarette.”

She took it gladly and Luciana lit it for her, her precise brows furrowing in worry.

“What happened to you?”

The other girls crowded around. She recognized more of them as she gave herself time to take in the scene. Isabella, Sofia, Jimena, Guadalupe.

“Made a client angry. Got shot,” she answered simply. Luciana gasped.

“A client? I thought you were a writer?”

“I was. I used your advice to help me get men to talk,” she answered with a forlorn smile, “and it worked for a while.”

“What are you doing here, then?” It was Sofia who spoke next, placing what was meant to be a comforting hand on her shoulder. Unfortunately, it was the shoulder where she’d been shot. She winced.

“I don’t know. I’ve just been...walking.”

“You don’t look like you should be walking,” Guadalupe noted.

“Probably not. But I have nowhere to go. My apartment was shot up and robbed.”

Luciana gave her a sympathetic look but didn’t say anything - instead she whispered in Isabella’s ear, who nodded and headed inside the house.

“So you’ve been working…?” Jimena asked hesitantly. 

She nodded. “Yeah. At first for information, then for money as soon as things got...complicated.”

Complicated.

That’s all her life had been for months.

Complicated.

 “When did this happen?” Sofia began to run gentle fingers through her hair, trying to make it look presentable. It was a lost cause. 

“Two, three days ago? I’m not really sure.”

“Oh my God, and you’re already walking around? You need to sit! Come inside, sit, sit!” Guadalupe insisted. The other girls joined her in a chorus of worries. Before she could say anything she was being herded inside the house into a side room, separate from the main sitting area which hosted several gruff looking men eyeing them hungrily as they passed.

“Waiting for girls or beds to open up,” Jimena said with a smirk. “Sometimes, if we know they’re rich businessmen on their lunch break, we’ll make them pay up front and then just have them wait with a girl on their lap for an hour.”

It brought a smile to her face. It made her laugh. The first laugh she’d had in what felt like forever. The girls all but pushed her down onto a beaten chaise lounge on the far end of the small room as they closed the door on the leering customers.

The rest of the room was dark except for the sparse working lightbulbs that surrounded the mirrors of the outdated, well-worn theatre vanity. Given the number of makeup bags and hair curlers strewn across and beside it, she supposed this must be where the girls got ready before work and touched up between clients. It made sense that it was near the door - best to look as fresh as possible when greeting the men they’d be pumping for money. 

Isabella came in then, followed by a man who was sharply dressed and styled. His inky black hair was pomaded perfectly atop his head, his beard and mustache well manicured. She thought he might be wearing a hint of eyeliner, as his large, round eyes seemed too defined to be natural.

A single extravagant dangling gold and pearl earring was fastened to one ear, a modest, small gold hoop in the other. He wore a sharp Italian suit with a peacock feather patterned shirt beneath it. Freshly pressed. Expensive. He had simple gold cufflinks and well oiled leather shoes. A navy silk ascot was wrapped around his throat. He looked poised and polished, as if he were putting on a show - a show of wealth, to be exact.

He must run the place.

“Gio,” Luciana announced. “This is her.”

He surveyed her, his expression unreadable.

“You need room and board?” He asked, voice silky and lilted.

The blatant question took her by surprise.

“I, uh, yes,” she stammered, caught off guard.

“You have experience in this line of work?”

She nodded. “Not much, but some.”

“You’ve been injured recently?”

She nodded again, swallowing nervously. “Shot.”

His eyebrows went up at that, his hand coming to rest on his chin as he cocked his head to the side, observing her more intently. His fingers were laden with gold and jeweled rings.

“Where?”

“My shoulder and hip,” she answered, gesturing to her wounds. Where was he going with this?

“Hmm,” Gio hummed. “I don’t know if we can work with that.”

“She can do all the easy stuff,” Sophia piped up. “The hand stuff and blowjobs.”

Oh.

The girls were trying to get her work and a place to stay. It was so unexpected that she felt tears prick at the back of her eyes. Everything had been so awful, she’d felt so hopeless. And out of nowhere, with no cause, these women were trying to save her. 

Would she ever not be in someone’s debt?

“We’ll try her out tomorrow night. When the room closest to the stairs opens up, you can have it.” He gave her one final look over before turning towards the door. “Back to work, ladies.”

She didn’t know what to say. In a matter of minutes she’d gone from homeless and jobless to having a place to sleep, at least for one night, and the chance to earn a job.

“Thank you,” she stammered. “I don’t -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Luciana waved her off. “A spot opened up recently, and we already know we like you.”

She nodded, not knowing what else to do. Isabella took her by the arm then.

“Do you want something to eat?”

She hadn’t realized it until just then, but she was starving. 

“Yes, please.”

A few of the girls led her from the room, eagerly scurrying back to the kitchen, while others stayed in the sitting area, greeting the men who had been waiting for them.

[ackbang]

1300

thank you for all your support, loves.

It had been nearly two days before Kenny found Levi. The rot had already set in, the smell not an unfamiliar one found among the Underground. But there was the faint smell of flowers–something called a dandelion–that Levi had sprayed in the room. He thought it would help, thought it might wake her up. It was her smell. But it didn’t settle on her skin, didn’t get absorbed into her warmth, didn’t bring that feeling of safety and comfort.

It didn’t smell like her.

Kenny came. Two days later, and the smell had already found its way into the fibers of Levi’s clothes. Kenny picked him up like a sack of meal over his shoulder. He smelled like leather and copper and tobacco and booze. Levi didn’t look back. The smell of dandelions faded from his nose, and over the years, he slowly started to forget it altogether.

But Levi had smelled real dandelions now. They weren’t anything special. He’d learned from Hange they were a type of weed, just like grass found on the fields among the walls. They were cheap, invasive things, but Hange insisted that their greens made good salads. One day, he had tried it in the mess hall but the taste was sour, bitter, rotten like meat left in the sun, and he decided on tasteless oatmeal instead.

When they brought Erwin back, he was unresponsive. Emotions revealed weakness, and Levi didn’t often show weakness. Especially not since that day in the rain.

But Levi shouted.

The jacket shrugged off of his shoulders, his legs struggling to keep pace with the doctors and nurses that rushed down the hallways of headquarters. “Is he alive!?”

“Yes, Captain, but–”

“Where the fuck is his arm?” He said, hysteria rising in his voice, like a child, as if he were watching his mother die all over again. But he was surrounded by people this time, people that could watch him crumble. He clutched at the front of his shirt and heaved once and found the last remnants of composure somewhere in the spaces between his ribs.

“Reports say he cut it off, Captain,” a trailing nurse assured him. Her pace quickened to follow the team carrying the stretcher. He grabbed her arm before she could escape him. “Sir!”

“I need to be there.”

“But–”

“I need to be there.”

Their eyes locked as they came to a stop. Her eyes were auburn, caught torch light like ambers in sunlight, under tree canopies, looking up at him, begging. She nodded once and offered her arm as a crutch.

Burning flesh wasn’t the same as burning meat. It smelled like rusty blades caught in a titan’s nape, like the oppressing waft of death from a slaughterhouse on a hot day, like blood and tobacco and ginger beer. It cracked and hissed like a match striking a flint. Skin bubbled, turned dark pink to red, and Erwin didn’t flinch.

Erwin didn’t flinch.

“I heard they had to kick you out.”

Levi leaned his arm heavily on the back of his chair, uncrossed his legs, and crossed them again in the opposite direction. He shrugged.

“Did you eat?”

Levi’s lips quirked into a frown, thin eyebrows bowing. He grunted.

“Mike…”

Levi looked up at him, blue eyes staring off into something Levi would never be able to see. His lips parted, his jaw growing slack, but he couldn’t find words.

“He didn’t make it back?”

Blue eyes looked at him, begged him for relief from the pain that tingled up through his phantom arm and into his chest. Levi’d never seen him so exposed. So raw. Levi wished he could bring a heated blade to his heart as well, cauterize the pain of lost friends and comrades along with all the physical injuries that painted his body with broad brush strokes of scars.

“You must trust in me one last time, Levi.” Erwin said. There was a hollow space to his right, the sleeve of his white cotton shirt sitting like a surrendering flag. But Erwin was not about to yield, even though his bandages had bled through and spotted the area on his sleeve with dark red constellations.

“The last time you said that, you lost your arm.” Levi turned his head toward the door, the anger catching his throat tight. His head felt heavy, fuzzy, weighted with the thoughts of royal princesses and monstrous brats and governments that knew too much.

“We know the enemy now.”

A Commander that gambled.

Levi shot a glare at him. “Who?”

Erwin crossed the room. Levi couldn’t take his eyes off the spots on his sleeve, couldn’t get the smell of rusted buckles out of his nose. He leaned back in his chair as Erwin went to the bed and sat at its edge. Erwin’s body slumped down, his elbow resting heavily on his thigh. “My entire life,” he started, but the sentence dragged on as his fingers flexed.

“What are you up to?” Levi watched him with interest, his exoskeleton crumbling after too much wear and tear.

It came out raw, slipped between his lips before he could stable it. “Sit with me, Levi.”

Levi curled his fingers along the edge of his seat and narrowed his eyes. He slowly lumbered forward out of his seat and shuffled three long strides to Erwin’s side, looked down on him with his arms folded across his chest. Erwin’s arm came up, his hand resting on Levi’s hip. Levi stood solid, not weathered by the strength that remained in his muscles, in the need he still felt for his Commander despite his anger. His rage. His dedication to him, his fear of losing him, his…

“I can’t hold you.”

Levi caught a breath in his chest, his fingers digging into his forearms under the privacy of the lapels of his jacket. He remembered to breathe when his lungs burned, when his eyes stung, when his eyes went dry. “Erwin,” he warned, because he knew if he said anything else, if he…

“I’m sorry.”

The ground, it shook, and with it, Levi’s knees. They buckled into the side of the bed, the jacket falling again from his shoulders as his arms came up to wrap around Erwin’s neck. His nose buried into the crook of Erwin’s neck, clean. Familiar. A touch of lamp oil, a sheen of sweat, the smell of worn leather that never quite left their bruised skin, rubbing their skin thin. Levi groaned softly into the skin, bringing their bodies closer, the feeling of one arm around him reminding him of open fields full of dandelions. Blood baking, steaming, cooking, evaporating into warm summer air.

“I’m so sorry.”

Levi squeezed him closer. He shook his head, dug fingers into the white shirt, wanted to discover new constellations under the fury of his love across the plains of Erwin’s back. How dare he think he could make him remember. How dare he think he could soak his clothes in the smell of him, only to threaten to take it away. To stain them with greens and reds and yellows that smudge into a million scents that make him want to scrub his skin away. The dirt, the stains, the smells, the mold, the world. The world. His world…

“Trust me one last time…”

Levi drew back. The candlelight carved away half of Erwin’s face, paled his eyes to a hollow blue, haloed and kissed with orange. And the sadness, the pain, the loss–the lost friend and comrade reflecting onto him–onto Levi. “Erwin,” he warned again, but his voice betrayed him, his fingers digging deep into the muscle of his shoulder blades.

“We’ll give what these people deserve; we’ll give them freedom.”

“What about us?”

Erwin ran his hand along Levi’s back, a smile creasing his cheek. “We will have it as well.”

Levi leaned forward, breathed in leather and sweat and blood and dirt. Felt his heart swell, felt a world he wanted to keep. To protect. To remember. His lips touched the softness of Erwin’s neck, tasted the scent on his lips that he swallowed. “You know you have me until my final breath.”

Erwin turned his head, looked down at Levi with a smile that touched his eyes. He drew his hand up, tilted his chin up and touched their lips together with a promise, a vow, that when they left this quiet solace in a couple of hours, they would return to each other–men one step closer to freedom.

[eclissy]

I can’t think of a title but if i did, it’d probably be the most emo thing like how this is probably the most emo thing i’ve written. I’m also assuming a tone of things, like relations between characters, thought processes, yada yada, baldir only has maybe 30 lines, still hope it’s readable since some of the scenes sounded good in my head and I really wanted to write them :3

It was deep into the night and the trees were illuminated with purple light. The half re-formed Crystal of Beginnings was crumbling as Vane began to wake.

“Percy?” Vane groaned, struggling to sit up. A sharp white hot pain from his leg jolted him awake and he threw his head back on to Aracelia’s lap, grinding his teeth in agony. The stab wound in his thigh had been cauterized by the same fiery sword stolen from his friend. “…Celia? WAH! Celia!” He exclaimed as his vision refocused. Grabbing Celia’s arm, he begged “You need to find Percy! J-just leave me here,” His voice shivered despite the sweat drenching his forehead. “I’ll be fine but Percy! Th-th-that jerk knows we f-found out, I don’t know what he’ll do with Per-rcy. Ara—“

Celia looked up in the direction she had sent Ezecrain, ensuring that he would go the wrong way.  

She kept watching, biting into her lip until it bled, waiting for the jangling of his chains to trail into silence. Now, it was safe to find Percival. Leaving Vane alone left him open for any monster or bandit to find but she had a choice between taking a chance and letting both of her friends live, or stay and guarantee that one dies.

Gently, Celia lifted Vane’s head and pillowed it on her folded coat.

“Thank you, Celia.” Vane grinned wide and even when he was as pale as bone, for a split second, it felt like nothing was wrong.

“I’ll get Percival back, I promise.” Celia whispered before she gingerly stood, clutching her badly bruised side. With rushed steps, she limped back through the woods to the Grandcypher.

The cut wasn’t bleeding as badly as it could have. She had surprised Vane’s captor and he had swung wildly, hurting her without meaning to. Celia could tell from how upset he looked.

Maybe that meant that Percival was starting to wake up.

None of this was his fault. Finding the salvaged remains of the shards wasn’t his fault. That was because Celia had been careless and everything that had happened after was from her being willfully blind.

It was obvious from the start that Percival hadn’t been acting like himself.

His swordplay wasn’t right. Percival seldom unsheathed his blade and when he did, Celia didn’t see how he defeated the monsters. The few times she caught the knight testing the weapon’s weight, he lodged it into something or an unfortunate someone nearby.

He didn’t speak the way he usually would either. Percival had always been a little, maybe a lot, curt. Harsh and insensitive at the most tense of times but he would never say anything solely to hurt someone.

When Lancelot tried to find out why his friend had been avoiding him, Percival gave some choice words to his concern. Though Celia didn’t hear what he had to say, she did have an inkling that it had something to do with Lancelot immediately assuming Siegfried had been insane when he had apparently acted out of character too. Not just any small argument could send Lancelot storming into town to disappear for half a week, only returning when Vane ran hollering through the streets.

Meanwhile, Percival would hardly sleep, jolting awake when he did. Celia would see his fright slowly twist into an ugly scowl, hearing something break or see his fist denting the wall when his anger boiled over.

This Percival was a stranger to Celia and she was stupid enough to chalk it up to grief. The anniversary of his mother’s death had been approaching and even when he never acted out like this before, loss and grief were unpredictable monsters to Celia. Her mistake was thinking that Percival didn’t handle them better than she did.

“Mmph.” She stifled a pained grunt, tripping over the debris the Grandcypher had left when it crashed. Its hulking hull had slid to a stop at the base of a mountainside, leaving a hole low enough to the ground for Celia to climb into.

There had to be some kind Astrals out there and Celia thanked them for having Lyria and Vryn leaving the ship an island back. They had only stepped off the Grandcypher when it was hijacked and flew off into the evening.

If they were here, Celia was sure she’d lose all control and bawl her eyes out in front of them. Both were kind and gentle, something Celia couldn’t be right now.

Scaling the stray ropes dangling from the mast, Celia was able to haul herself into one of the halls and stood, willing the moisture in the air to gather in her hands. They hardened into a double edged icy sword, wreathed in a frosty fog that spread over the floor as Celia made her way to Percival’s room.

The door was ajar and Celia pushed it open, waiting for the room to light and for fire to rush at her face.

What she found instead were all of the books she had offered to translate for Percival, stacked in eight different piles. He tricked her into thinking that the research was going to be use to help Aglovale. Percival’s older brother may have been suffering from the lingering effects of dabbling in that otherworldly magic. These books that had been collected over the course of the Grandcypher’s journeys could hold remedies.

How did books on curses, live sacrifices, and living mana fuel sources help him?

Not at all.

‘It’s good to know,’ Percival had said, patting a dusty tome. ‘That’s another option to cross off the list. A shame that all of the author’s work is going to waste.’

At the time, Celia didn’t delve into it and didn’t try until more than half of those books had been translated.

That was because most the work was done at Percival’s desk, sitting so close to him that Percival would sometimes doze off on her shoulder. It was fine. Yes, it did make concentrating difficult because of how loud the blood rushing through her ears was but she managed. Percival took it as a sign that he could drape himself over Celia without any pretense of exhaustion.

‘Why so nervous? Lyria holds your hand all the time and Vryn gets to sleep on your lap. Aren’t we friends?’  He asked. ‘Aren’t we?’ He repeated in a whisper, snaking his arm around Celia’s waist and buried his nose into her hair, deathly starved for warmth.

There was a deep fear rooted in Celia, a seed her father had planted when he left her and Vryn alone. He treated his parting with her with as much care as someone would a complete stranger. For years, Celia had gone quiet and kept herself far away from the rest of the villagers. It wasn’t until Lyria and Katalina came crashing into Zinkenstill that Celia remembered how to speak and laugh.

So what if someone she loved left again? What if someone she loved dearly went away and it confirmed her worst fears about how being abandoned wasn’t beyond her control. What if people left her because she was the problem?

‘Aren’t we friends?’ The phrase posed gave her a place to meet midway. If they were just friends, it made it easier to lie about it not meaning as much.

‘We are.’ She had said, curling into Percival’s embrace. The knight had suddenly gone stiff; like he hadn’t expected her to so confidently agree to the arrangement.

What was so strange about it anyway? Percival was freezing. Celia could feel the chill in his skin through his clothes. She had only been helping him feel warmer.

“What’s wrong with me?” Celia grimaced, dearly wanting to take her sword and split that chair in two.

To avoid the temptation, Celia took her gaze away and found herself staring somewhere even worse.

‘Percival! Percival, it’s ok!’ Celia was at the knight’s bedside after he had finally fallen asleep during one of their research sessions. The captain was glad to carry him to his bed but Percival wasn’t prone for long.

The moment his head touched the pillow, Percival snapped awake and grabbed for her throat. Celia’s neck cracked from the effort Percival threw into holding her down, eyes burning with self-righteous rage. Once he realized where he was, the knight pushed himself away and was about to leave the room, callous to Celia’s shock and burdened breathing.

‘Where are you going?’ Celia had grabbed for Percival’s arm. ‘Please, Percival! You need to tell me what’s going on! Let me help you!’ The leer he gave her made Celia want to melt into a puddle and seep into the cracks in the floorboards. It was as though he hated her as much as the soldiers from the Erste Empire did.

But moments before, he had been scared. Why scared?

Then Celia’s mind went back to the date, how close it was to the anniversary of his mother’s death. A new idea formed, a wild stab in the dark that let him get off scott free.

‘Dying isn’t like falling asleep. You don’t need to be afraid to go to sleep,’ She assured him, calm washing back over her. ‘You’re not going to slip away.’

Percival laughed in her face.

‘I don’t need you to patronize me. If I wanted to get babied, I’d go look for E…hm,’ Percival turned towards her with his thumb hooked in his pockets, posture slouched in a way he’d usually find unbecoming. ‘How would you know anyways?’

He hadn’t completely wanted Celia to leave if he hadn’t shaken her hold off. Celia pulled his hand over her stomach. The scar there was so pronounced that Percival could feel its outline through her clothes.

‘If Lyria hadn’t saved me, I would have stayed dead,’ Celia released his arm but he didn’t move away. ‘I didn’t realize how much I feel things when I’m alive. When I stopped being able to see and hear, I also stopped caring. I wasn’t angry or lonely, I was blank. It was actually sort of a relief until I heard Vryn crying.’ Celia reached up to cup Percival’s guarded face, letting her heat sink into his cheeks. ‘Sleeping isn’t like dying at all. Your worries follow you into your dreams,’ Carefully, Celia slid her hands behind Percival’s neck and pulled him into a hug. ‘And so do all of the good things. There’s nothing wrong about being angry and afraid but try thinking about all of the good things first.’

Percival’s arms wrapped around Celia suddenly, crushing her against his chest. They fell on to his bed and he hung on to Celia for dear life.

‘What were you afraid of?’ That question startled Celia more than the embrace.

‘I don’t think I could live on my own.’ Celia replied in the vaguest way she could. Oddly, this wasn’t uncomfortable. Not even awkward. They were only friends after all.

‘I think you did,’ Percival said. ‘Isn’t it frustrating? You do all that you can to make people see you and once they do, they pick apart everything you did. Always twisting it as something wrong so they can throw you back to the side.’

Celia experience wasn’t exactly like that but she could empathize. Percival being the youngest of three noble boys, under the both the scrutiny and lower expectations set by the people of Wales and even his family. Hearing about that made Celia feel much better; someone who shined as much as Percival could feel the same selfish things as her.

Shocked back into the present, Celia had to stop the memory there. Any farther and she would be going over all of the things she had told the person that had possessed Percival. He knew everything about her life in Zinkenstill, the fears she still had on the run with a family she was scared could scatter at any moment, and had traced all the scars she had gotten from keeping her promises.

Worse, he didn’t even pretend to be Percival. For days, he talked about stories from the village of Amethysts in all ways but name. And she had eaten all of it up.

That, and effectively let him cut her off from Lyria and Vryn the entire time. While she fell asleep to the beat of Percival’s heart, he had used the research to restore the Crystal of Beginnings at the low price of the rest of the crew’s lives.  

The shards of the Crystal fell out of the desk drawer right when the Grandcypher was forced off course, waking Celia from her dream. A few bits were still on the carpet.

Celia bit her lip so it wouldn’t tremble, taking to searching through all the books and materials he left behind. She made a quick mess of a room, concluding that he hadn’t returned to resort to a plan B now that his first attempt had failed.

“Where could he have gone?” Celia was relieved to leave the room, sprinting through the Grandcypher searching for a blood trail to the villain.

With no signs to be found, Celia couldn’t think of anywhere else on the ship he’d go to take cover. That meant he was out on the run and Celia had no clue what he was planning. That was arguably worse than using the multitude of other heinous spells she had helped him learn.

Swearing at herself, Celia made a stop at her room to grab runes, the Revenant dagger, and whatever else could possibly help. Then, Celia went to leave and found him leaning against the door, flitting through the pages of Percival’s journal.

“Baldir!” Celia raised her sword, itching to run him through for what he had done.

“Did you think Percival was a diva too?” Baldir asked, striding towards her in Percival’s body. He didn’t look up from the journal or particularly care that Celia had the point of her sword against his belly. His mannerisms were no different than before and Celia was ashamed she had done nothing about it. “He won’t drink wine that’s younger than ten years, he keeps that gaudy armor so shiny I can’t believe he hasn’t polished it into dust, and he has to keep himself so groomed that a misplaced hair makes people worry.”

“Stay back!” Celia ordered and it fell on deaf ears.

“His mother dying on this same day saved me a lot of trouble keeping up,” Baldir flipped to the next page. “Everyone, even the mongrel he says gets on his nerves so much, remembered and I didn’t even care to look up her name.” He closed the book one-handed, smirking at the cute snarl Celia had.

“You were going to kill Vane!” She hissed. If Celia and Ezecrain had caught on to the scheme a second late, Vane would have been dead.

“That’s one thing Percival and I have in common. We didn’t think that mangy dog paid that much attention to him. Almost got away with burying him before you found out too,” Baldir’s mouth twitched into a scowl for a moment and it was then that he decided to acknowledge the weapon aimed at his gut. “Relax,” He held up his hands. “I’m at the end of the line.”

When Celia refused to budge, Baldir pushed by her blade and tilted her chin up. They were seeing eye-to-eye and Celia jerked away, swing her sword back to cleave him in two. Baldir watched the blade hang in the air.

“Do you want to take a shot at me? Now’s the time,” He turned his hands over in a shrug. “You can make that sword phase right through Percival and kill what’s left of me. I know how much you put into studying magic. In fact, there isn’t anything I don’t know about you,” Baldir tilted his head back and laughed in a way so condescending, Celia could barely believe in Percival’s voice. “It’s flattering how charming you think I am.”  

“You tricked me!” Celia shouted, gripping her sword so hard that the hilt began to crack. “I wanted to help Percival and you used him! If I knew it was you—“

“But you weren’t talking to Percival.” Baldir tsked, shaking his head as he walked closer to Celia. “No, you were talking to me. You wanted to know about me. You wanted to stay with me!” Becoming increasingly erratic, he lunged at Celia and swiped at air as she jumped out of the way. Just that effort made him fall to his knee, already drained from having to keep Percival in check with only slivers of his soul. “Ha…Haha…” He panted, watching Celia’s shadow fall over him. “What? Am I wrong?”

Using all of the fury building up inside her, Celia slashed her sword down with a shout. It smashed into pieces, leaving only the fractured hilt in Celia’s hands. A piece of the sword had bounced off of Baldir’s chest but nothing more.

Celia kept her chin down, keeping her contorting expression hidden. Her lips were pressed in a hard straight line and her eyes were squeezed shut in an attempt to keep from sobbing. A stray tear managed to escape, dropping between her boots.

Baldir said nothing, hand hovering over Celia’s long blue hair. He braved brushing his hand over a strand, looping the soft lock around his fingers so gently, Celia couldn’t feel it.

“Using Percival as a host isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me but it comes pretty close.” Baldir stood to go sit on Celia’s bed.

It reminded her that a couple of times, Baldir would go to her room for no reason other than to visit. Perhaps to keep up the pretense that he was Percival but, to come here at his most vulnerable, Celia knew why and refused to acknowledge it.

“I glanced at a mirror and I thought I repossessed my own corpse by accident.” Baldir went on as Celia wiped her stinging eyes.

Percival’s hair was close to the same shade as Baldir’s, he had a similar lean and muscular build, and was even around the same age Baldir was when he was shot dead. This was the closest he could get to being alive.

“It’s ironic how close we look like each other but he has everything from blue blood to—“He let out a strained laugh. “—actually being compatible with the crystal.” He tried to use the chain and gem he had stolen from Ezecrain’s cabin one last time for any sort of answer.

It pointed at Celia again.

“No, it’s not ironic,” He flung the chain into the corner of Celia’s cabin. “It’s infuriating! One last insult before I go blank.”

That got Celia to look at Baldir falling back on her bed.

“I’m actually glad. If finally dying is just like how you said it’d be, I’m going to welcome it.” Baldir had been able to take a host thanks to the shards of the Crystal being clumped together. But Ezcrain shattering the crystal like weakened him terribly. His hold had a limit this time and he had wasted the last of his energy on that outburst. Now, he was going to disappear in a handful of minutes and at best, his boasting sounded flat. At worst, he sounded pleading. “I won’t need to see Ezecrain again and your crew won’t rip me apart for breaking their dog’s leg.”

“Stop talking.” Celia said, crawling to the side of the bed.

It wasn’t despite Baldir’s atrocities that Celia reached out to clutch his hand. It was because of them. The real irony was that on his final breaths, kindness would hurt the most.

Celia could be as greedy as she pleased.

“Aracelia,” Baldir regarded her in a way she would never let anyone else. She didn’t see a smirk or a sarcastic sneer. Celia saw a smile so sad, it almost made her stop hating him. “Isn’t he your Prince?” He asked with a dry throat, recalling what Percival wrote in his journal about his vassal staying by his side when he was injured. “You need to kiss him awake.”

A thought crossed Celia’s mind; one where she and Baldir grew up in the same place. Maybe if they were lonely together, Baldir wouldn’t have done such awful things and Celia wouldn’t be such a desperate person.

Taking those meaningless dreams, Aracelia climbed on the bed and cupped the side Percival’s cold cheek. They held each other’s gazes, Aracelia feeling his cold breath tickling her skin. She shuttered her eyes slowly, almost able to see Baldir in the dark when her lips brushed against his.

Baldir’s breath hitched and Aracelia took her chance, kissing Baldir deeply. He slid his hand under her clothes and over her ridges of her back, tangled his fingers in her hair, and bit at her soft lip. Baldir did everything he wanted to do when he had only wanted to be near her because he had been cold for so long, and more when he learned her name.

On Celia’s part, she dug her nails into his skin, wanting Baldir to regret everything he never had. Holding her breath, she enveloped herself in this horrible mistake, hoping Percival would do the right thing and never forgive her. Celia’s regrets rose in a crescendo, turning away from Baldir right at the end.

His last act was lifting his head, touching his forehead to the crook of her neck. Baldir hoped Aracelia had lied about what it was like to die, filling his thoughts with the one good thing he had.

Choking on a lump in her throat, Celia cushioned the back of Percival’s head when it fell back. His eyes gradually opened and it was the knight that was gazing back at her.

“Celia?” Percival knitted his brow, wondering why he ached from head to toe. The captain hugged him tightly, hiding her face in the pillow. “Celia, did something happen?”

The captain kept holding her breath, concentrating on her slowing heartrate and the warmth returning to Percival’s body.

“Don’t worry about it, Percival,” Celia sat up, giving him a reassuring grin. Her tone was the perfect picture of cheer but Percival couldn’t overlook how drained Celia appeared. “Rest. Vane’s injured out there so I’ll go get him first. Then, I’ll tell you everything, I pr...” She cleared her throat, coughing into her fist.

‘Do you promise?’ Percival thought to say, scrambled as his thoughts were. There was a voice in the back of his mind that stopped him; warned him that this was for Celia to choose.

“I’ll wait for you.” Percival said, hand sliding out of Celia’s once she moved away. Her gaze lingered on Percival, at ease as the sun began to rise, shining through her window over him.

Celia hugged herself, leaving with that sunrise in mind.

[movedto-peachydeacy]

so what happened to you??? are you okay?? what's next???

I’m okay, don’t worry. 

I woke up Monday morning with a nosebleed, but I didn’t think anything of it–I get nosebleeds all the time–but after a couple of hours, the bleeding hadn’t stopped, and I was also heading into work that day. 

Once I got to work, though, I was on my feet and my nosebleed–which had kind of died down by that point–was far worse. I had blood all down my neck, hands, and clothes. From there, I went to an urgent care, where the cauterized my nose to stop bleeding, but I bleed through the packing in around 15 minutes. 

After that, my sister took me to the emergency room, where I stayed for seven hours. They finally stopped the bleeding, but I had lost a lot of blood, so I was kind of disoriented and in a lot of pain. I also threw up a lot of blood, which was gross (and really scary) to say the least. 

 They gave me morphine, but then my pressure bottomed out, so I had to stay a little longer than they expected. 

They still don’t know why it bled so much. It could be a variety of things, from a tumor to a disease where my blood doesn’t clot correctly. Those are WORST CASE SCENARIOS, and I'm probably fine. I won’t know until I go to an EMT, and from there, I go to my regular physician, and to more specialists if they can’t figure out what’s wrong. 

I am okay, though. I’ve been really tired and slept most of these past two days, but I’m okay. Thank you to everyone who has asked and double checked on me these past couple days, but I’m okay!