#clutching stomach... keels over & DIES

[cuteidiot]

marinette in stardew valley shes a FARMER !!!! she plants little blueberries & waters them so tenderly.!!!!!! & she frequents the sewers

[pinkanonwrites]

"Oh! That's What That Does?!"

All art by @archie-sunshine

G1 Rumble/ Mechanic Reader - 2400+ Words NSFW, Valveplug, Plug 'N Play, Mild Sparkplay, Accidental Stimulation, Edging, Human Reader, GN Pronouns

Ahh, the inherent eroticism of repairing your machine.~ I've had this one cooking for a while, so I hope you all enjoy! I've also gotten pretty attached to this mechanic Reader, so they'll likely pop up again with other cassettes (and maybe even some other Decepticons!)

NSFW WRITING AND IMAGERY BELOW THE CUT!

“Ey… EY! Careful wit’ dat! It’s touchy!”

“Rumble,” You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You're making this way more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I wouldn't be complainin’ if you'd stop touchin’ all up on bits that don't gotta be touched! Rootin’ around in there like I'm one’a your crappy organic machines!”

Removing your hands from Rumble’s open chest, you tossed them roughly into the air. “Y'know what? Fine. Do it yourself. Better yet, get Frenzy to pull the shrapnel out of your chest. That'll go great.”

You would have slid off of Rumble’s lap and stormed off, if not for his massive servos closing around your wrists with an unexpected delicacy. Your efforts to remove your hands only reinforced his grip, using just enough force to keep you from leaving without crushing your wrists entirely.

“H-Hey, no need ta be so hasty! Look, I’m just steamed cause'a the battle, dat’s all. Frenz’ can't do dis, it's gotta be someone more… dainty. Y’know. Little human hands and all dat.” The harsh glow of his visor had dulled slightly as his gaze cast down to your hands. You rolled your eyes, wrists finally slipping from his grip as you settled back in. 

Dangling wires and sparking shrapnel dotted his open chest cavity, illuminated by the light of his spark chamber. Rumble had staggered off-balance into your workshop whining about the prodding pieces of broken metal keeping him from transforming properly, yet you’d barely managed to get two wires back in place before he started squirming and whingeing and slinging verbal abuse at you.

 Not that you weren't used to it, any interactions with Rumble and Frenzy usually involved some level of bullying. Fortunately, the two cassettes are also incredibly predictable. As soon as you would threaten to take away or withhold what they're asking for, they’d start falling all over themselves with apologies and placations. After all, you may not have been the only mechanic in the area, but you were certainly their favorite.

“Are you going to actually let me work? Or are you going to start yelling at me again?”

“Yellin’? Who's yellin’? Yer the mechanic here, my spark is in your squishy little hands. Do your magic, doc.” He sat back again, servos clutching the edges of your workbench in a show of effort, a genuine attempt to keep them still (or however genuine any show of rule-following from Rumble could be.)

“That's what I thought. Now let me actually fix a few things before you start whining again.” Your gloved hands dipped back into his chest cavity, skirting the edges of his spark chamber to pick away at the bits of loose shrapnel stuck in some of the wires. His frame shuddered, a hiss of steam escaping through his dentae as your knuckles brushed the underside of the spark casing.

“C-Careful,” He said again, with significantly less bite to his tone.

“Does it hurt?”

“Somethin’ like dat.”

“I'll be careful, so let me know if it gets to be too much.” You smoothed a palm down the armor covering his stomach, flinching back when you heard another sharp hiss of steam.

“I’m fine! It's fine! Just… do ya gotta be all on top’a me like dis?”

“I can't reach properly if you're laying down. If you're standing you might keel over on me, and I really don't feel like being squished to death today.” He let out a low grumble as you jacked another cable back into its proper port. “I'll try to be quick, that way you won't have to worry about my ‘human germs’ and you can get outta here. Deal?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just-”

“Be careful. I know.”

And with that you went to work, separating and organizing cables, taping off leaky tubing and removing pieces of scrap metal as gently as you could. Every once in a while Rumble would jerk or twitch beneath your touch, letting out a muffled curse or huff but sparing you from his usual complaints. It was… uncharacteristically quiet, for sure. This was the most extensive repair you'd ever done on him, though, so maybe he was just having surgery jitters.

“Okay, I've gotten most of the shrapnel out. But there's a piece right behind your spark casing.”

“Well? Get it outta there!”

“I'm going to, but I need to get my whole hand in there. I'm warning you now because it's going to be bumping up against your spark casing a lot. I'm going to do my best but you have to tell me if it hurts too much.”

Rumble let out a long, pathetic groan. “Actually doc, maybe you can just leave dat one in there? F-For funsies?”

“Eh?! Rumble, I’m not gonna just ‘leave it in there’! It's gotta come out.”

“Something's gonna come out if you keep proddin’ around in there like dat…”

“What was that?”

“Gh! Nothin’! Don't worry ‘bout it!”

“...Okay. I’m gonna start now. Are you ready?” Rumble only responded with gritted dentae and a tense nod. Working your gloved hand under his spark chamber, you could feel the ambient energy making the hairs on your arm stand on end as you felt for the jagged edge of broken metal. Your glove blocked your view entirely, so you were left blindly groping your way up the metal surface, feeling for anything bent or out of place. When your fingers could no longer reach any further while still avoiding the casing, you slid forward and ducked slightly into Rumble’s open chest, the back of your hand pressing up against the underside of his spark chamber.

CLANG!

You jumped, and if it weren't for Rumble’s arm wrapping around you and almost crushing you into his open chest you may have jostled the sensitive chamber even further. You slid your hand back again, easing off of the reinforced glass, and his grip receded.

“What the hell was that? And what was that clang?”

“I said don't worry ‘bout it!” He hissed, voice glitchy with static. “Everythin’s totally normal, I dunno why you're getting all jumpy ‘bout- MMNGH?!” You moved your hand up again into the same position, and Rumble let out an embarrassingly high whimper. You glanced up at his face, a flush of pink behind the usual grey and beading with coolant… and something clicked.

“Oh my God are you getting off on this?”

“N-No!”

Behind you you heard a sharp snikt, and the sound of pressurizing hydraulics.

“...Maybe?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“H-Hey, don't go gettin’ a big head or nothin’! A bot’s spark chamber is sensitive! Don't go thinkin’ this is cause of your squishy frame or your soft little digits or nothin’!” He seemed to almost shrink in on himself, face plate practically glowing as his shoulders pulled up around his helm. You'd never say it to his face, but he looked surprisingly… small, at this moment. You heaved an exhausted sigh.

“Okay. Okay. I'm going to get this last piece out, alright? It's the last one. And whatever happens while I'm doing that..? It just happens. We won't bring it up again, no need to be embarrassed. Deal?”

“‘Deal?!?’” He squawked, positively scandalized. “How do I know yer not gonna gossip with Frenz’ the next time he's in for a tune-up?”

“Well Frenzy usually never lets me get a word in edgewise, first of all.” You huffed. This was way more than you'd signed up for. “I'm not going to make fun of you, Rumble. Let’s just get you patched up, then you can head home. Okay?”

His mouth was pulled into a tight, wobbly frown as he glanced down at you, choking out a single word. “...Promise?”

“I promise.”

“...Slag. alright, let's get dis over with.” He lolled his head back against the table with a clank, resigning himself to his fate. This time, when your knuckles brushed his spark casing, he couldn’t stifle his soft moan. Your fingers felt further and further up, until almost your entire hand was behind the glass bubble containing his pulsing spark. Finally, you could feel the jagged piece of metal. You wrapped your fingers around it and gave it an experimental tug. It stuck fast, and your hand bumping against Rumble's spark only pulled another surprised moan from him.

“W-Watch it!” He yelped, sounding too fucked-out to come across as actually threatening.

“It's really stuck in there. I'm going to start working it out, so let me know if you need me to stop.”

“Wh… workin’ it out? Whadda ya- ohhh…~” 

With your thumb and forefinger gripping the edge of the broken metal, you began to wiggle it gently back and forth to ease it from the plating and wires around it. Each time you moved the back of your hand rubbed up against the far side of his spark chamber, warmth radiating through your glove as Rumble started to vent more harshly.

“Slag… slag! Don't think it's ever been touched back there before. Feels… feels crazy.” He moaned. The metal of your work table shrieked and crumpled like cardboard under his iron grip, desperate to keep his servos off of himself or, Primus forbid, you. The piece stuck firm, and as you braced your other hand against the outside paneling of his chest to readjust your balance he let out a sharp, staticky yelp. “S-STOP!”

You froze immediately. “Are you okay? What's wrong?”

A few shuddering vents were your only response for a moment, Rumble’s visor lights flickering frantically as he tried to steady himself. “Whooo… Almost blew my top for a second there.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey! Yer the one that told me to tell ya if I need ya to stop! I'll be slagged to the Pit before I let some ‘squishy’ run my charge like dat.”

“...Can I start again? I’m making some progress here.”

“...Y-Yeah. Yeah. Yer good.”

You let out another soft sigh, trying to focus on the rhythmic sktch sktch sktch of metal on metal rather than Rumble’s shivering whines. His vocalizer pitched and warbled with static, attempts to stifle his own words slowly giving way to a deluge of fucked-out babbles.

“Ah! Gh! Ohh, mmnh, stupid little hands feelin’ all- nnh!~ Jus’ get it outta there! Please?”

I’m working on it. You’re doing good, just hang in there.” Your placations only resulted in another desperate moan. After what couldn’t have been more than another thirty seconds or so, he blurted out again.

“Ah! Stop!”

You retracted your hand for a moment, letting Rumble gasp for breath above you in a futile attempt to cool his core. You rubbed at his chest paneling as he shivered beneath you hard enough that you thought bolts were going to start coming undone. Even the paneling you were seated upon was burning up, heat seeping through the fabric of your coveralls. His glowing face plate was slick with coolant. Without thinking, you reached up and swept away a bead of it with your thumb, making him jump.

“H-Hey, quit dat…” He groaned, all bite lost from his tone.

“Rumble… The more you keep stopping me the longer this is going to take.”

“You think I don’t know dat?!” One of his arms draped dramatically over his face. “I’m tryin’! But you just keep pokin’ around in there and it’s all touchy and it’s makin’ me feel like my spike’s gonna burst and I can’t take it anymore!” He sniffled. Could Cybertronians even sniffle? You weren’t sure, but he sounded close to tears.

“Rumble… Have you ever actually edged yourself before?”

“Whu- Whuh? How’s dat any of yer business?”

“I’m just thinking…” You ran a placating hand down his shivering plating. “If you haven’t it can be really overwhelming, and-”

“I can handle it! I-I can!”

“Let me finish. It can be really overwhelming, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself further. Just… take a deep breath for me, okay?” You took a slow, steadying breath, and after a second he mimicked it. “Good. Just think about letting go, okay? I’m not going to judge you. Just think about it.”

He let out a low, pitying grumble, peeking at you from behind his arm plating. “...You can start again.”

Once again, your hands dipped into his chest cavity. Only this time you slid both hands up behind his spark casing, gripping as much of the broken metal as you could reach. As you rocked it back and forth Rumble’s moans returned with a fervor, one servo finally flying to cup your lower back.

“Ah! Ah! Slag, oh slag please! Please don’t stop I’m so fraggin’ close.” He fisted the back of your uniform, crumpling the cheap fabric between his digits. “C’mon, c’mon c’mon c’mon I need it!”

“Shh, I’ve got you baby. Just let it happen.”

With a metallic shriek and a gush of brackish oil the shrapnel popped free, the force enough to send you sprawling if not for Rumble’s servo in the small of your back. Of course, said unexpected force also slammed the backs of both your hands right into the underside of his spark chamber, and Rumble’s voice box screeched into a wail of radio static. Something hot and sticky splattered up the back of your coveralls; said something you decidedly were not going to look at until later. His frame rattled and shivered beneath you, steam venting and joints glitching and spark pulsating a near-blinding glow.  Finally, after a burst of noise and sparks and twitching, he went slack beneath you, helm clanking against the workbench as his optics flickered.

As delicately as you could, you removed the oil-slick shrapnel and let it clatter onto the floor before shedding your gloves and dabbing at his face plate with the cuff of your sleeve. With the whir of an old monitor blipping back to life, his visor blinked back up to its standard brightness.

“Whuh… Wheh?” He garbled.

“How you feeling, hun?”

“Like I got struck by lightnin’... but in like a nasty way.”

You choked back a snort. “Well, I’ve got all the worst of it over with. Feel free to rest for a while if you need it. I’m gonna go change my jumpsuit.” 

He let you slide off his lap without a fight, not even commenting until you’d turned around to make your way over to your office. Only then did he let out a low, salacious whistle when he’d finally caught sight of the back of your uniform.

“Comm me next time yer free, doc. Then I can repay da favor.”

[sl-walker]

Preview...

...from the next yet-unposted chapter of Stardust.

--

“I could eat at least three horses right now,” Booster said, looking over his array of plates and bowls, completely undeterred by the fact that it wasn’t even seven in the morning yet and the only people as awake and ready to go as him were the various geriatrics in the IHOP getting an early-bird special.  The way he saw it, caffeine existed for a glorious purpose and while he hadn’t needed any to get moving today, he had been in an insomnia-hangover himself a worrying number of times and therefore he held no mercy (and only conditional compassion) for those who were dawdling on waking up. “Maybe three and a half.”

“Oh no, Secretariat goes cannibal and destroys his brethren in his haste to fill the empty pit of his stomach,” Ted fired back, though it was with laughter in his voice as he clutched his mug of coffee like he’d shank whoever might try to take it. “Thoroughbreds everywhere react to the scandal tonight on CLTV in a stunning exposé!”

Brenda, Paco and Jaime were all nodding over their plates, looking like they hadn’t even actually woken up to roll out of bed.  Even then, Brenda picked her head up and squinted blearily at Ted. “Aren’t thoroughbreds the high-strung horses that keel over if you look at them cross-eyed?” she asked.

“I literally just asked that myself yesterday!” Booster said, pointing at her with his fork and well-speared sausage.  “Gotta say, I’m not sure how I feel about being compared to a critter that dies so easily.”  He was, however, a little more worried that the ‘high-strung’ part might be too on-target for his comfort.

“S’okay, I might have to kill you for being so awake right now,” Jaime mumbled, teetering over sideways until he was tucked halfway between Booster’s shoulder and the back of the curved booth. “And so happy about it.”

“It’s not my fault you stayed out so late.”  Still, Booster set his fork down long enough to reach across himself and lightly ruffle Jaime’s hair in something like a mixed apology and commiseration. “C’mon, today’s gonna be great.”

“You were out running by 5:30, ese, humans don’t do that,” Paco said, before shoving his plate of bacon and eggs away so he could fold his arms on the table and drop his head down onto them.  “Not normal, sane humans.”

All things being equal, Booster was an early-riser by nature, if not always factually; that he’d slept as well as he had the night before meant he felt pretty amazing right now, though. “In fairness, Paco, you were still awake when I left to go running.”

Paco groaned and shook his head against his arms. “Only ‘cause you were channeling Maria von Trapp in the kitchen.”

Booster opened his mouth to ask who the hell that was, but Ted shook his head with a grin and held up a finger before pulling his phone out and aiming at them.  When Booster raised his eyebrows in question, Ted mouthed, ‘Bianca,’ then took a shot of him and Jaime, the latter of whom might have fallen back asleep in the less-than-a-minute since he’d last spoken.  Booster made sure to beam for the camera, though, because he knew it would make a funny contrast to the probably-asleep teenager using him as a blackout blind and pillow.

Whatever Bianca texted back must have made Ted happy, because he smiled.

“Who’s Maria von Trapp?” Booster asked, before diving back into his breakfast.

Brenda finally managed to rally enough to drag her coffee close and start into her pancakes. “Who hasn’t seen the Sound of Music?”

“I don’t think they have whimsical anti-Nazi musicals in his time,” Ted said, sliding his phone over, presumably so Booster could both see the picture and Bianca’s response.

Booster dropped his fork again just to snatch it; the picture was admittedly very cute.  Bianca’s string of emojis in answer was every bit as cute.  Booster quickly sent the picture to his own phone and then slid Ted’s back to him. “I wouldn’t be against watching some whimsical anti-Nazi musical,” he said, on a delay.

“If you show him that, we are never, ever, ever getting back together,” Paco said, rolling his head to the side towards his-- maybe girlfriend?  Ex?  Who even knew, Booster couldn’t keep up with it, it seemed to change by the day.  “We would never stop hearing it.”

“Oooh, incentive,” Brenda snarked back.  Then, casual as can be, she wet a fingertip in her mouth and stuck it, wiggling, into Paco’s ear.

The subsequent shriek made every single person in the vicinity -- regardless of their hearing aids or lack thereof -- jump half out of their skin.  A line cook in the back swore something that sounded Eastern European in origin.  Jaime jolted out of his hiding spot and Booster was certain the reason the kid didn’t armor up and have a cannon cycling, ready to go, was because both Booster and Ted immediately reassured him that it was safe.

Brenda had turned fire-engine red.  Paco was glaring at her while swiping at his ear.  Jaime was looking around with his mouth hanging open, clearly having lost the plot.

Ted chewed his bottom lip, obviously about to bust up, even as someone managerial-looking started in their direction, IHOP nametag glinting menacingly in the sun.

Booster put on his most charming smile and said, “Perfect timing!  Can we get the check?  And some boxes?”

[gimme-gimme-georgie-weasley]

Even After all Those Years. [G.W. x Reader]

Part 2 of “That Cold, Wintry Night.”

Summary: You and George reconcile after the war after having a disturbing nightmare about Fred’s death.

Warnings: avada kedavraw

Word count: 1.3k

a/n: i’m so sorry the ending seems rushed and the lack of length oh my god

--

Green and red. Crucios and the dreaded Avadas. Your dreams had been plagued by the events of the battle. Sometimes you'd even dream of the tragic Yule Ball. Night after night, you woke up in a cold sweat clutching your sheets as though something was going to sweep you away.

 'I'm sorry, Y/N,' the voice echoed, with baleful undertones.

 You were caught in the middle of a blizzard, keeled over in front of George, crying desperately as flakes of snow piled on top of you. You were like a snow-capped mountain that moaned with grief as you begged for him to look at you just once.

 'Why?' you cried out, voice hoarse from grief. Your sobs reduced to snivels, 'Why didn't you tell me?'

 Suddenly, an emerald green light flashed in front of you, then a wall exploded far off in the distance. Voices, familiar voices, wailed in grief.

 'Fred...!' the voices howled, disembodied. Fred had died in the explosion, but how? Wasn't he running the joke shop in Diagon Alley with George?

'Avada...!'

 You shot up from your bed, covered in sweat, once again, and panting. Only this time— you worried about Fred. You knew he was alive, you'd see him and George every day through the window of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, but the dream seemed too real to ignore.

 You slipped a coat on, not bothering to change out of your nightgown. Slipping your feet into your boots, you tapped them on the wooden flooring to ensure they were snug before you headed to your fireplace to help yourself to a handful of Floo powder. You were fighting with time.

 "Diagon Alley!" You shouted with purpose, though you breathed in a bit of the ashes. Your body was engulfed in emerald green flames as the world around reduced to twisted disfigured streets. Then, you were met with a dimly-lit street that led up to the shop. You coughed and wheezed as you tried to expel the ash that entered your system whilst travelling by Floo.

--

 You hastily made your way up the cobbled winding street. The shop had just closed for the night, and you banged desperately on the door. With each thrust your hand made, you could've sworn that the door was on the verge of collapsing.

 'George?! Fred?! Anybody—?' You called out, but was immediately silenced by the rustling of feet. The door swung open, greeting you with the sight of the twins who looked just as disheveled and perplexed as you.

 'Y/N?!' said George incredulously, 'What are you doing out here a quarter to midnight?!'

 ‘I saw,’ you paused to look at Fred, who looked back at you, seemingly unscathed, ‘ I saw visions,’ you shuffled in your spot uncomfortably as George’s gaze bore deeply into you, ‘Horrible, horrible visions.’

--

 The twins beckoned you inside as the night grew colder by the second. They ushered you upstairs into their apartment, where lie prototypes of their newest products. The wall was tattered from small explosions. Tiny vials of unfamiliar substances were scattered across the shelves. You looked out the window to see the night sky blossoming with stars.

 ‘It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?’ George called out from behind you, ‘I believe it’s about to start snowing soon.’ You kept quiet and only hummed in agreement, remembering the unfortunate circumstances between you and George.

 Ah. Snow. You forgot about the advances of winter. You ran your finger across the windowsill, seemingly deep in thought. Your mind raced. That day was the day the Yule Ball was held. Then, in the corner of your eye, a flake of snow fell. Then two, then three, then the world started to glimmer with white.

 ‘Y/N,’ George started towards you, ‘I didn’t mean to leave you that night,’

 Your stomach lurched. Then, you turned to him. Fred had retired to his room, leaving the two of you alone in the living room. It was dimly lit, the only source of light being the candelabrum that stood in the corner of the room. The howling of the wind signaled that a blizzard had formed outside.  Your eyes danced around, refusing to make contact with his as he advanced closer to you.

 ‘Y/N, please,’ he grasped your shoulder. Your eyes finally locked with his. Suddenly, the whole world was at peace. Death Eaters were a thing of the past, now that his presence graced you.

 ‘Then why did you leave?’ you asked, rather weakly as your voice wavered; as if you were holding back the same tears you spilled that night, years ago. It was years ago, but the scar forever remained.

 ‘I just-’ George paused to wet his lips and search for words, but nothing came out. He ran his hand through his hair. The locks that raked through his slender fingers fluttered messily back into place.

 ‘George Fabian Weasley,’ You beckoned, now grabbing his full attention. Everything seemed to fall in place, just like that night, ‘You knew. Everyone knew.’ Your voice began to break. All those years ago, but your feelings never once wavered like how your voice did in that moment.

 ‘And even after all those years,’ Your breath then hitched, ‘I still loved you so,’

 Just like a rubber band stretched to its limits, you snapped. Everything came gushing out. All those years of pent up longing and desire, wishing you were in the warmth of his arms. You were vulnerable. Your glistening, red eyes broke contact with George’s deep eyes as you crashed into his arms. He welcomed you into his embrace, snaking his arms around your waist. He rested his chin on the top of your head, as his hooded eyes seemed to glitter with slight relief; the relief knowing you still chose to seek refuge in his arms despite everything.

 ‘Even after you confirmed your feelings for Angelina, the flame in me never fanned out.’ You breathed out in between your sobs. George felt the strings of his heart pull. George rubbed your back gingerly as he led the two of you to the moth-eaten couch, propping you down gently with a small huff.

 ‘I’m sorry, Y/N,’ George whispered into your ear. His voice was soft yet raspy, it almost cracked, like a small firework. The guilt ate away at him, ‘I knew everything, you were right,’ Your sniffles died down.

 ‘Night after night, all I dreamt of was the war. I dreamt of the Yule Ball, how I knelt in front of you. It was pathetic,’ You chuckled at your confession that seemed to slip out on its own. You smiled up at him weakly, your puffy eyes formed crescents as your plump lips quivered, ‘Then, I dreamt Fred died. It was a dream, but it was too real to ignore. I heard your family’s cries,’

 George’s eyes were wide in shock. For how long had you been plagued by nightmares? Nightmares of him? He pulled you closer, as if you would be blown away if his grip on you were to loosen even in the slightest bit.

 ‘It’s okay,’ He soothed you as he brushed the hair out of your face, ‘It’s okay- Fred’s here. I’m here.’ Then, he placed a kiss on your forehead. It was gentle, like a warm feather tickling you. For a brief moment, sparks shone.

 You looked up at him in disbelief. Your tears stopped, as if his kiss magically stopped you from crying. Your lips curled up into a weak smile. Your face was flushed from all the release of your pent-up feelings.

 You stared at him, dumbfounded, ‘Is this a dream?’ You murmured.

 ‘No it isn’t, love,’ George tittered at your shock.

 ‘Pinch me-- OUCH! Not literally!’

 Then, the two of you broke out into loud, melodious laughter. The world didn’t matter anymore; for it was both of yours now. The rest of the night was spent catching up, talking about the battle, reminiscing about your Hogwarts days, and reconciling.

--

 ‘I hope this means we can turn over a new leaf?’ George looked down at you. His eyes glittered with hope. You felt your heart stop at the way he grinned at you. You stopped to bask in him. This was the boy you had loved since the moment you laid your eyes on him.

 ‘Definitely.’

--

[GIF not by me]

[midnightprelude]

Major Arcana: Tower

Written by @oftachancer and I for the @30daysofdorian event!

Masterpost | First | Previous | Next

CW: Blight sickness; conversion therapy (aftermath); successful blood magic ritual; recovering from trauma

Dorian nudged the door to Felix’s chambers open with his hip, holding the heavy tray of foul-smelling tea out in front of him. The room was scorching, even hotter than the Tevinter summer sun beating down on Asariel, to try and ward off the chill that threatened to consume the heir to House Alexius.

“Felix, your father sent me up with your afternoon tea,” Dorian called, already starting to sweat. “I nicked a few of those cinnamon cookies from the kitchen to go with it.”

He was pale and thin, shivering in the baking space, rocking in a nest of blankets and multi-layered robes. Felix lifted his gaze miserably. “The healer said no sugar.” The once dulcet tones had turned to sand in his throat. He held his hand out. “Nevermind. I can’t possibly get worse. Thank you.” He ran his hand through sweat-damp hair and came away with a few dark strands caught in his fingers. He winced and brushed them off hurriedly. “Not long, I think.” He said that every day now. “I was thinking- maybe instead of a choir, just a collection of the loudest drums you can muster? A cacophony. It would be fun to go out in a cacophony.”

“Yes?” Gereon hated to hear him talk like this. He’d grow sullen for days, not saying more than a few syllables to Dorian at a time. Felix had been planning his funeral for nearly two years.

“Rilienus says they play drums at all the funerals in Rivain. Some of them are as big as a house, he says.”

Rilienus. Rilienus Maecilia. An heir in his own right, studying in Rivain. Why did that-

“We could go there, if you like,” Dorian offered, even though it’d involve travel by sea, which neither of them particularly fancied. “Would you? It’s warmer, I’ve heard. Sweltering, even. We could meet his mentor.”

Why would they? What business did they have with anyone else when Felix was wasting away?

“No,” Felix shook his head, wincing as he swallowed down a gulp of steaming tea. “No. I want to stay here, where I know I’ll be able to see the Nocen. I wouldn’t mind hearing some more of Rilienus’ stories, though. Do you think he’d eschew his harp for a set of drums for me?”

Sound like liquid starlight, eyes closed in concentration. He could almost hear a melody on the wind, if he strained.

“I think he would, with some cajoling,” Dorian murmured, lowering down to sit at Felix’s bedside. “Your father thinks we’re getting closer,” he admitted softly. “I’ve my doubts.”

“He needs to think that.” Felix frowned, looking down. “Can you ask Rilienus to come back? I’d like to see him before… And I think Father will need the support. You shouldn’t have to shoulder it alone.”

Alone. When had he been anything but alone? There was a buzzing between his ears, the tightness in his stomach returning.

“I’ll ask,” Dorian said with a slight smile, patting Felix’s slender leg gingerly. “I know you appreciate his company, especially when we’re working.”

Felix nibbled on the cookie, leaning back against his pillow. “I wanted to be your best man. I was looking forward to it. Maybe you can get Maevaris to read my speech for me?” 

“My-“ His voice faded, replaced by a crashing dissonance. Dorian clutched his ears, keeling over onto his knees, screaming as the sound threatened to tear him apart. The walls quaked, dust filling the air and his lungs as they crumbled. “Don’t make me go!” He shouted into the void, the floor falling out from under him, tears carving rivers through the dirt that collected on his cheeks. “Felix, don’t-“

Strong, steady arms wrapped around him, holding him tight. The man they belonged to smelled of ink and parchment, of nights reading by firelight and mornings lazing in the sun. Dorian could hear the plucking of strings faintly in the distance, ethereal and full of sorrow.

“Rilienus,” Dorian whispered, without withdrawing. He didn’t need to. He knew that scent, the feel of those hands, as well as he knew his own name. “Rilienus, where- What is happening to me?”

“We’re getting there, Dorian.” His breath was warm against the back of Dorian’s ear. “I hadn’t even thought of Felix. That’s new. New is good.” 

“I don’t know what’s going on.” Dorian leaned against him, relying on his strength. “Why is everything so muddled?”

“…I’m not sure. I have theories. You have walls as steep as the southern Steppes around that. But I can tell you this: you’ve been lost and this is the first you’re hearing me, hearing my name, in a long time. We’re going to find out together, love.”

Love. His love. Words as solid as marble, truth etched in stone. Dorian felt as though he might crumble in Rilienus’ arms. “We were- Felix said he meant to be my best man.” He pressed his cheek to Rilienus’ shoulder. “We meant to marry. Did we not?”

“Two months ago. You were missing. I found you.” Rilienus said each sentence slowly, holding him, invisible while Felix laughed and smiled and planned his funeral silently in a fading room. “I will find you again. I always will. Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Dorian said the word in an aching gasp, clinging to Rilienus as though he were the last rope mooring him to reality. “I believe you, though. I don’t- I don’t entirely remember why I do, but I do. I’m- you must hate me for forgetting.”

“No. I hate this spell. You’ve always been quicker at taking apart these kinds of things than I am.” His words were a tumble, his heartbeat ricocheted against Dorian’s back. “I have missed you, my dawn light.”

“…months, you said?” Dorian whispered, afraid of the answer. “Where- My memories. What’s- A spell?”

“A very thorough spell. Rishiri Arcana style. It’s… heavy. And complicated. A labyrinth with a lot of doors. We’ve been through several of the same ones, but you’re starting to find your way. I tried pressing through the walls, but you started screaming-“ He took a slow breath as his voice thickened. “It’s your mind. Your precious mind. Your wondrous heart. I can’t take risks with either.”

“Rishiri Arcana…” Dorian closed his eyes, searching- “Blood magic? On my mind. To change my memories. To- What end could that possibly serve?” 

“I could tell you what I think,” Rilienus murmured. “But you’re having enough trouble with what you know.”

A horrible thought occurred to him and he cupped Rilienus’ cheeks. “Will I forget you again?”

“It’s alright if you do. I’ll be here when you remember.” Hands covered his own and he could see bright green again, soft and warm and loving him. “He’s here, you know. With my mother. Bald, but it suits him. He’s here.”

“Felix?” Dorian murmured, holding his face as though it were the most precious thing in the world. It was, he knew, the knowledge from somewhere deep and slumbering. “He’s alive? Can I see him?”

Rilienus hesitated, thumbing his cheek. “When you come back, yes.” 

“My memories,” Dorian said softly. This wasn’t real. Or it had been, once. “Right. Can you guide me towards one I’ve forgotten?”

Rilienus nodded slowly. “I wasn’t there. But I’ll be with you, even if you don’t see me. Maybe it will guide you towards something I don’t know about.” He kissed his cheek gently. “You’re ready?”

[ao3feed-crimeboys]

So Now You Know How It Feels

by DesperateForIndigo

“It h-hurts,” Tommy had said, weakly. “Please, it-“

  “All powers hurt, kid,” The Blade had interrupted, dully, as Tommy keeled over, his body overwhelmed with excruciating agony.

  Tommy’s eyes had widened. “But-“

  “Grow up,” Siren said, his voice slick as it always had been, cold.

 Seven years later, Wilbur was staring at Tommy in disbelief, his hand clutched to his stomach as he felt Tommy’s pain. His legs gave out from under him, onto the same floor Tommy had almost silently died on, and cried out in desperation. “Tommy! Tell me it didn’t hurt this much for you!”

Tommy sighed sadly, his lungs tight, “I tried to tell you. You told me to grow up.”

And Wilbur remembered.

-

Or, Tommy and Wilbur get their powers swapped. And Wilbur discovers just how painful Tommy’s powers really are.

Words: 1748, Chapters: 1/4, Language: English

Fandoms: Dream SMP, Minecraft (Video Game)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Characters: TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson | Philza, Wilbur Soot, Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo

Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit

Additional Tags: TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Siren Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade are Siblings, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, dream team are villains, Angst, Tags Are Hard, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SBI are heroes, internal injury, Derealization, Electrocution, Power Swap, Superpowers are normalish, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pain, SBI except for Tommy are kinda jerks, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Additional Warnings In Author's Note

[audioaujom]

4: Pushed Down Stairs [wrong end 3 ★5]

Corpse Party Hub, < prev, next >

This is wrong end 3 ★5 from Chapter 1!

Pairing: Ranboo and Tommy

Word Count: 1253

Chapter TWs: Mind Manipulation ("Darkening"), Graphic Depictions of Violence, Character Death

--

“Somebody died here… I can hear their voice.” Ranboo commented quietly, one of his eyes twitching as his head started to hurt. The sudden pain blossomed quickly, spreading out of his head and forming a tight, circular ring around his throat. He felt his eyes glazing over as he suddenly was floating away from his body, harmlessly lost in a dreamlike ocean as he began screaming with a voice he didn’t recognize as his own. “No… No… Please, don’t do this!”

“What’s wrong?!” Tommy watched as Ranboo keeled over, clutching desperately at his head, instantly placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder and trying to get his attention.

In his distant haze, the only thing Ranboo was certain of was the overwhelming need to breathe, the pain in his throat becoming stronger. His gaze was bleary and out of focus, his legs carrying him out of the bathroom before he could even fully register where he was. “NO!!”

“Ranboo!” Tommy instantly ran after him, worriedly throwing glances around as he tried to catch up. It took him a moment, but he finally found Ranboo standing in a corner and facing the wall, mumbling to himself. Approaching carefully, Tommy noticed the far-away look in his eyes as he got closer, unease starting to eat away at his stomach. “Dammit! What the hell is going on here?!” Tommy hesitated as he started to reach out to his friend again, dropping his arm as he remembered what just happened in the bathroom. “Ranboo, are you alright?”

“Bring me more… I’ll do whatever you ask of me…” All of the words coming out of Ranboo’s mouth were strange, his voice pitching up and down unnaturally as he continued to stare blankly at the wall. He occasionally would twitch just a little, but his haunted gaze never left the wall in front of him. “I don’t care if you’re innocent, you’re listed as ‘buried alive’, right?!” Every new sentence was concerning to Tommy, who could only watch helplessly as Ranboo continued to talk to himself as if Tommy weren’t there. “They’re mine! I’m sure as hell not sharing with the likes of you! Cleanup is a real pain in the ass, too, you know! Have some pity!”

“Ranboo, fight it!” Tommy suddenly yelled, his hands tightening into fists at his sides as Ranboo still wouldn’t look over at him. "Whatever ‘it’ is.” He mumbled distastefully, before noticing that Ranboo was slowly turning to face him. He instantly brightened up, reaching forward for his friend before being shoved roughly back and landing hard on his ass on the wooden floor. “Hey, the fuck?! That hurt!”

“I believed in you!” Ranboo was screaming, but his face continued to stay passive and his eyes empty as Tommy frantically got back onto his feet and backed away from him. “Why doesn’t anybody listen to me?!”

“What the hell are you talking about?! You’re not making any sense, man!” Tommy tried again, only to earn a deeply disturbing laugh as Ranboo didn’t move his spot, his lifeless eyes now focused on a spot on the wall behind Tommy. “This is some wild shit! What is even going on…?” Tommy didn’t like the way Ranboo seemed to be staring straight through him, backing away before walking off quickly into another room. “I can’t leave him like this.” He paused, but in turning and seeing what remained of his friend still mumbling and staring blankly ahead he excused himself into the small top landing of the steps that went down to the floor below. “But I’m honestly so scared of him right now… What did this to him?”

Tommy sat down with a small huff, looking around as he pondered over what to do. He blinked as he thought he heard Ranboo’s voice from outside in the hallway, tensing and not turning to look until—

“Why the hell are you doing this?!” Ranboo’s voice was suddenly nearby and rapidly growing louder, Tommy fully perking up and starting to stand as he was then right behind him in the stairwell. “Answer me!”

“Ran—” Tommy’s voice died in his throat as Ranboo ran straight into him, the already questionable balance from his half standing position giving out as he then toppled backwards. 

His head collided last, stabbing lines of pain from each individual step running up his back in quick but steady intervals until he was only half-conscious as his legs folded over his stomach and he continued to roll backwards. The next several steps hit new places along his back and side, before one jutted painfully into his neck and he cried out before hitting the landing full force.

Hazy eyes at the top of the steps began to clear as Tommy bled out rather quickly, a good portion of blood already lost before he was all the way down the stairs. He twitched a little and let out an inhuman groan of agony, but he was already slipping away.

“Tom— Tommy?” Ranboo’s voice had returned to normal, the dark fog and strange sensation that came with the lack of control of his body lifting, the blurry memory of watching himself shove his friend drifting to and from the front of his mind. “Oh god… Tommy!”

One of Tommy’s legs was bent back unnaturally far on one side, a sharp shard of bone protruding out of his shin as the rest of him was splayed out like a ragdoll. Jogging down the steps to try and help despite the vomit rising in his throat along with the concern he was already too late, Ranboo nearly slipped in a particularly large puddle of blood on the landing, dropping to his knees beside Tommy’s body. A long tear in the side of his shirt revealed slowly growing red splotches, which would soon turn into dark bruises, a sickly shade of yellow already starting to tint his stomach and the available skin on his arms and neck—which was twisted awkwardly through the film of blood that ran down his chin from his open mouth.

“Tommy, can you hear me?!” Ranboo panicked, his hands flitting around in the air above his friend, whose eyes were slowly glossing over and didn’t seem to register the presence beside him. “Tommy, please! It wasn’t me, I didn’t mean to!”

Truthfully he wasn’t sure how he got here, crouching over a body that was slowly losing its warmth as the last bits of life flickered out in Tommy’s eyes. Something strange and fuzzy had taken over him in the hallway, his vision blurry and head full of cotton that muddled his thoughts and hearing. By the time he’d wrestled himself back to consciousness he saw Tommy falling, easily enough putting together the pieces of how he’d ended up dead at the bottom of the stairs.

“It wasn’t me…” He mumbled again, but this time no one was able to hear him except himself. His composure was already a mess, but he cracked even further and slumped forward to hug Tommy’s body, despite the blood that began to soak into his hoodie and smear across his face and hands. “I’m so sorry…”

The guilt was overwhelming for only a moment before it started to suddenly diminish, an odd fog slowly starting to overtake his mind. His panic and despair gave way to an odd hollowness, dropping Tommy’s body to the floor as the tears that had at some point started streaming down his face slowly stopped and he was left alone, feeling nothing but emptiness.

[nonbayanary]

“I’ve connected the two dots!” Sena exclaims triumphantly to Hiruma. A few streets back, he started suggesting meme-based moves that Deimon’s Eyeshield 21 could pull off during games.

“You didn’t connect shit!” Hiruma guffaws, lungs almost exploding from laughing so hard. “You cannot fucking Naruto-run on the field, idiot!”

“I’ve connected them!” Sena insists, hands gesturing a mile a minute. “The team will get a lot of clout if it trends on social media! It’s good for marketing!”

Hiruma almost keels over as he clutches his stomach, tears in his eyes. “You’re motherfucking insane!”

“I’ll run properly when the ball’s in my possession,” Sena promises earnestly. “It’s not dangerous if the ball’s not with me.”

“Just do whatever the fuck you want!” Hiruma wipes the tears from his eyes as his laughter dies down. Fuck, this chibi is a riot!

Archive of Our Own   ||   Fanfiction.Net    

[mintymusings]

tbh the queen should have at least died with spectacle, give her a few dips and rises in health, and after nearly squeaking by with her health have her give a speech on the balcony of her hospital room then have her clutch her stomach as she keels over and falls off dying before she splats on the concrete below.

[marvelslegacies]

Biron | Darkness Followed Him Home | Past Paragraph

Everything hurt. Every fiber of Biron's being hurt with such excruciating pain that he wanted nothing more than to curl up and die. He'd lost someone he cared about. He'd lost someone he'd almost had the chance to care for. These catastrophes happened so quickly and so closely together that they created a secular pain, almost perfectly sequential. As if the crushing emotions that overwhelmed him so violently from each separate happening weren't enough by themselves, they were so neatly intertwined that the combined weight of them suffocated him. He felt like he could black out from the pain of just thinking, just remembering what had happened. He wanted nothing more than to be dead and silent and rid of this pain, rid of this world and everything it had ever given him.

He finally decided, frustratedly, that he could not just sit there wishing for death. If he truly wanted to be relieved of his shame, his remorse, his agony he needed to bring death to him. He had to clutch death by the throat and demand that it take him away. He rummaged around in his backpack bitterly, without looking. He felt his way around books, a jacket, a calculator, a cell phone... until finally his fingers closed around a small plastic bottle. He squeezed so hard on the small, hard plastic tube that he wondered if he might break it into countless tiny pieces. He pulled it out and looked at the label.

The word printed cleanly on the label he could not read nor pronounce. The pills were fainted blue horse pills and he smiled a sick, nasty smile. If he took five or six of these pills then that could do the trick. He had planned to take them all at first, seeing a dramatic scene of himself choking down pill after pill voraciously in his mind's eye... He realized his brain was stopping him from doing what he wanted to do so badly, his brain was holding him back, slowing this treacherous process. He grew even more furious with himself and placed his palm flat over the white bottle top. He pushed down with unnecessary, brute force and twisted the cap. It came away from the container with a pop and he carelessly dropped it to the floorboard of his truck.

It was only then that he noticed his vehicle was still running, burning gas and oil. He thought to turn it off to save himself the money but then he reminded himself how little it would matter, how much gas he had in his tank the night he died would be considered the most miniscule of details. He left it running and held the bottle, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, up close to examine. He stared down the giant, pale blue pills with a grimace even he couldn't help but show. I guess this is it, he thought grimly, and a terrible, intoxicating wave of fear rose up inside him so large and effective that he almost keeled over out of his seat. He held himself steady and together, though, and then poured the pills out into his hand. A handful came tumbling chaotically and formed a small pile in the palm of his hand.

He shut his eyes, afright for only a moment, he gulped an uneasy gulp and brought the handful of pills to his mouth. He hesitated for less than a tenth of second before shoving the once beneficial drugs into his already painfully dry mouth. He gulped hard several times before gagging and finally choking the last of the pills down.

After a while he felt his body changing, reacting to the over dose of unwanted, not needed, and potentially detrimental drugs. He felt sick to his stomach in a matter of seconds and his vision began to blur, he felt woozy and terrible, physically. He leaned his head back against the headrest, painfully ever so aware of the shaky vibrations from the car's running engine. He reached out with closed eyes, fingering for the key. He killed the engine, pulled the keys out and dropped them to the floor board to join the bottle cap in lonely uselessness.

It was a few minutes later when he awoke from what must have been a wave of a black out, though he didn't realize he had even dozed off, nothing mattered in this state of anesthesia... He could have been dead already and it wouldn't matter to him in such a somniferous state. Then suddenly a whole new wave of emotions, twice as strong as the originals and much closer to the heart, serged up and seized him. His mind was filled with reveries, dreams, and thoughts of his immediate family. His brother loved him, raised him into a man when his parents were negligent to say the least His brother who had depended on him, trusted him. He needed his brother more than he could ever need anything in the world.

Tears came hot and painful from his eyes and stung his face in definitive streaks. His heart and chest ached so unbearably he thought for certain the heartache would kill him faster than the drugs he consumed. He loved his brother, his brother’s girlfriend and their child… he had no idea how much he had truly loved each of them until this very moment of pain and suffering. He loved them, wanted to be with them, needed to see them again, more than anything. He could die another day if he could just be with his true family once more. It was in this moment of hopeless desiring that he realized the most terrifying truth any mortal being could ever attain: He did not want to die.

His whole body shook with pain and agony, his lips trembled and his teeth chattered violently. His fingers and hands shook as if he had the most severe case of Parkinson's disease and his legs quivered painfully making being jet-lagged seem like a feeling of simplistic exultation. He had never felt a stronger, more destructive combination of physical and emotional pain before in his life, he'd not even imagined such a horrible fate should be cast upon the worst of people.

"Biron, Biron." He heard a delicate but perturbed voice that was all too familiar to him.

"Oh my God, Biron." The voice was horror-struck at the scene.

"Alec." Biron said in an oscillating voice. "Please. I don't want to die." He sobbed hopelessly, his eyes were still closed and they still stung too painfully for him to bear.

"I don't want to die. I don't want to die." He repeated over and over until the words almost lost meaning in his ears.

"Biron, what did you do?" The voice was more concerned than disappointed or accusing, but more than anything the voice was scared. Biron's older brother took the bottle and silently read the label.

"Biron!" He exclaimed in fear, "How many of these did you take?" Biron shook his head guiltily. Now he felt he could die quicker of shame and embarrassment than from those deceitfully slow destroying pills.

Alec drove his baby brother to the local hospital and had him checked in. The whole time he drove, the whole time they walked, he had to support his big brother. The whole time he waited, the whole time he sat with his girlfriend and his daughter, he felt like crying. Crying until his lungs were bruised and his eyes were sunken in and raw. He felt he could die just from the sorrow, the feeling of knowing that his idol, his role model, his hero stood on the brink of life. He had never really seen Biron as vulnerable and he had never truly considered the actual mortality of Biron either. He was always almost inhuman in Alec's eyes.

He, in fact, thought on more than one occasion that if Biron died from this then he would die right along with him. He even theorized that Brion and he would die together, their lives smudged away, effectively forgotten. His family would be destroyed and everything would turn to absolute nothingness.

[hartigays]

please take this as a prompt to write as angsty a fic as u want. mwah mwah (💌 — astrid)

(to preface: this is basically just canon divergence nonsense after barry burns rafe’s arm on his bike in s1 👹)

rafe jerks awake with a start.

he’s not sure what roused him from his (not so peaceful) slumber, until he hears the sharp knock again. it’s something hitting one of his bedroom windows - the one closest to his bed.

the room feels like a deep freezer when rafe crawls out from between his sheets. he likes the room to be cold when he sleeps - he has dreams, and dreams make him sweat.

(maybe they can be classified more as nightmares. but no one is asking, so it doesn’t really matter either way.)

rafe enjoys the cold significantly less when he has to walk through it in the middle of the night. it feels good on his arm, at least, where barry burned him. it soothes the sting that he’d been able to ignore while unconscious.

when rafe walks up to the window to investigate, he nearly keels over and dies.

because the source of the noise is none other than barry the fucking coke dealer himself.

speak of the devil, and whatnot.

rafe shoves the window open with a grunt. it opens outward, nearly knocking barry off the roof and onto the ground below. the corner of rafe’s lips twitch - he really would’ve liked to have seen that.

if he knew barry had such bad balance and coordination, rafe probably would’ve shoved the window open a little harder.

“i said i’d get you your money,” rafe says, the first to speak.

barry just rights himself, arching one brow. “i know.”

“so why the fuck are you here?”

barry doesn’t wait for an answer. he simply stares at rafe for a beat, before crawling through the window, elbowing rafe out of the way in the process.

the movement makes rafe’s arm throb, and he clutches at it with a hiss.

not sparing rafe a single glance, barry just circles the room, whistling. far too loud for this time of night.

“sweet setup you got here, country club,” barry tells him. he finally turns to look at rafe head-on, his dark eyes unreadable.

rafe is still clutching his arm, wincing. “thanks. it looks nicer without you in it, so. bye.”

barry laughs, a full-bodied thing that should make rafe want to kill him. it certainly shouldn’t make rafe shudder like a bitch in heat, but it does.

it does.

“ain’t getting rid of me that easy,” barry snorts. then, his gaze zeroes in on rafe’s hand grasping his wounded arm. “get over here and lemme see that.”

“no,” rafe answers, immediately, shaking his head. “no fucking way.”

barry purses his lips. he stares at rafe like he’s staring into his soul, and rafe wants to gouge his eyes out so he’ll stop.

“wasn’t aware i gave you an option, baby boy.”

rafe’s heart does a messy little dance in his chest, and his insides feel like a puddle of goo.

he hates barry, he really does. the fucker gave him a 3rd degree burn not even twelve hours ago. and yet. here rafe stands, eyes and stomach full of hearts and butterflies and all that disgusting shit, all because of something as pathetic as a nickname.

it’s not even an affectionate nickname. it’s condescending, and it should make rafe want to tear someone’s head off. preferably barry’s.

it doesn’t.

rafe moves closer, cautiously. when he’s within reach, barry just reaches out and grabs rafe’s bad arm, yanking him in and closing the distance.

rafe bites his tongue so hard he nearly draws blood, trying to stuff his pained groan right back down his throat. it doesn’t really work, and barry notices, but doesn’t comment on it.

instead, he takes rafe’s arm and examines it, like the burn is something he’s never seen before. like he’s not the one who put it there.

“lemme fix this up for you,” barry mumbles, still staring at rafe’s arm. like maybe the burn will magically sprout legs and run off into the night, never to be seen again.

“why?” rafe asks, swallowing around the lump that has been steadily growing in his throat since barry’s arrival.

barry uses his free hand to grasp rafe’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “because you ain’t in control, rafe cameron. and you need to get that through your pretty little head.”

“that doesn’t answer my question, like, at all,” rafe mutters, then winces when barry’s grip on his arm and chin both tighten.

“because i’m in control,” barry continues, like rafe never even spoke at all, “you got that? you ain’t making the decisions around here no more.”

“wasn’t aware i was making any decisions in the first place,” rafe mutters, glaring down at his arm.

barry lifts rafe’s arm up, releasing his chin to gently trace his fingers over the tender wound. rafe winces again, and barry grins like a shark.

“quit arguin’ and be a good boy like your momma taught ya. and while you’re behaving, go get me some first aid shit.”

rafe feels like he’s frozen in place, the words turning over and over and over in his head. until barry’s nails dig in, and then he’s crying out, stumbling backwards. he’s out of the room a second later, practically tripping over himself as he heads down the hall to the storage closet where he knows ward keeps emergency supplies, disoriented.

by some miracle, the first aid kit is sitting right in the center of the middle shelf. rafe snatches it without a thought, turning to head back to his room before pausing.

barry has never been in control. it’s a pathetic illusion, rafe decides. he won’t gain control either - another thing rafe decides. and barry needs to be made aware of that.

rafe steels himself, trying to keep his chin up as he walks back into his room. he’s not going to let barry play this little game - not in his house, not after that little shitshow of a display this afternoon.

barry has his back turned, looking at some of the paintings hung on rafe’s walls. rafe walks up as quietly as he can, but he knows the moment barry realizes he’s behind him. because barry’s body tenses just so, just enough for rafe to notice.

when barry turns, rafe swings.

barry catches rafe’s fist easily, and okay. maybe barry isn’t as unbalanced or uncoordinated as rafe had thought. in a split second, barry has a hand wrapped around rafe’s throat, squeezing tight enough that rafe wheezes.

walking them back towards rafe’s bed - forcibly, rafe would like to make that clear - barry’s face twists into a furious snarl.

rafe collapses onto the bed with a gasp when barry lets go of his neck, coughing and wheezing as he tries to catch his breath.

“try that shit one more time,” barry warns, “and you ain’t gonna like what comes next.”

then, barry leaves rafe sprawled on the bed, massaging his throat, and makes a beeline for the first aid kit. rafe can hear him rummaging through it, grumbling to himself, before returning with a few assorted items.

when barry kneels down in front of him, right on his knees, rafe almost passes out again. he feels like he’s trapped in one of his nightmares, with some added sexual tension to spice things up a bit.

“gimme your arm,” barry orders, and rafe complies.

his throat is still aching, and he’s not particularly interested in barry making that worse, too. it’s already bad enough that barry is probably about to skin him alive - he doesn’t need any more choking involved. unless it’s the sexy kind.

but even then, rafe isn’t particularly interested. not when slaughtering barry in his room feels so incredibly tantalizing right now.

instead of skinning him alive, barry just smooths burn cream over the blistered mark on rafe’s arm. the way barry rubs it in is almost soothing; a smooth circling of his fingers, his touch almost featherlight.

when the burn cream sets, barry grabs some gauze from the pile next to him. he’s about to plaster it onto rafe’s arm when he pauses, staring at the burn like he’s been hypnotized.

“you sure are pretty when you all marked up,” barry says, breathless, like just the thought of marking rafe leaves him reeling.

rafe wishes, fleetingly, that barry would be interested in marking him in ways that wouldn’t leave him in agonizing pain afterward.

but wishes never really do come true, do they?

barry finally places the gauze on rafe’s arm, carefully, then wraps it up in a sticky bandage. he looks up at rafe when he’s finished, finally not staring at the burn like it’s something fucking holy.

“you’re not in control,” rafe tells him, his voice trembling. “you’re not. just because you did this doesn’t- ”

“you damn right i did this,” barry hisses, lurching upright so he can tower over rafe.

it’s the only time he can, really, what with rafe being a walking skyscraper and all.

“i gave the pain, i took it away,” barry continues. “ain’t that control, princess?”

“no,” rafe argues, shaking his head furiously. “no.”

“what would you call it then, if you so damn smart?”

rafe glares up at him, gritting his teeth. “i don’t fucking know, sadism? narcissism?”

barry snorts, then leans down and plants both hands on either side of rafe’s head, boxing him in. “then we one in the same, rafe cameron.”

this is the part where they should angrily kiss, rafe thinks. but barry doesn’t kiss him. he just straddles rafe’s hips, pinning him down before closing the distance and sinking his teeth into rafe’s bottom lip.

rafe arches up into it, trying to tangle his fingers in barry’s hair, but barry just swats his hands away. when he pulls back, he runs his thumb over the teeth indents now decorating rafe’s bottom lip.

“i hate you,” rafe pants, staring up at barry, his pupils blown wide. “i’m gonna kill you, barry. i’ll slit your throat while you’re asleep in your shit trailer and you can die in your own filth. and i’ll like it.”

barry moves in again, biting down on rafe’s jugular. this time, he draws blood. it’s staining his teeth when he pulls back.

“not if i kill you first,” barry says, softly, like it’s a sweet promise and not a harsh threat. “in my shit trailer, where you’ll be sleeping, because you gonna come running back, rafe cameron. and you can die in my filth, all marked up by me, so everyone will know who you belonged to when they put yo’ stupid ass in the ground. six feet deep.”

rafe wants to argue, but that’s part of the problem. he wants too much with barry. and he knows he’s right. rafe will come running back, someday, some way, somehow. he will.

when barry climbs off of him, rafe feels like he’s lost a limb. he keeps losing things to barry. and this whole thing between them, it’s a death sentence. at least for one of them.

rafe shouldn’t feel emptied out, hollow and lifeless, when barry pushes open the window he’d come through and crawls back onto the roof.

barry turns back, just for a moment, to flash scarlet-stained teeth at rafe before speaking.

“see you soon, country club.”

[remmushound]

Damage, part 4: Shellshock

CONTENT WARNING CONTENT WARNING CONTENT WARNING!! Details of extreme violence, wounds, blood, gore, evisceration, PTSD, depression, and minor acts of self harm are described in the following chapter! Viewer discretion is advised! @errorfreak88 @brightlotusmoon

Donatello didn't want to do much of anything anymore. He’d do what was needed to keep his brothers healthy. He’d help Raphael clean his carapace and apply Raphael’s ointment before bed, and he’d run Michelangelo through his leg exercises twice a day. He’d make sure Raphael and Michelangelo were wearing their covers, and he’d make sure Leonardo wasn’t pushing himself too hard. He’d do routine work on his tech whenever he wasn’t entirely exhausted, but work that should have been done daily was lucky to be weekly.

It’s not that he didn't want to do it! He’d wake up knowing it had to get done and go through the day telling himself he needed to do it. He would do it in thirty minutes. Then forty minutes passed and he told himself just ten more minutes of rest. He’d tell himself that he’d get to it after he ate, but then he wouldn’t eat. And it would be night and he’d be too tired to do anything but pass out. In the morning, it would start over again.

He didn't have a reason to be like this— he knew he didn't. He wasn’t crushed like Michelangelo or slashed like Raphael or damaged like Leonardo. He hadn't been hurt at all in the assault due to Raphael’s heroism. All Donatello had to show for the battle that took so much from his brothers were bruises— and those hadn’t even been from the Shredder! It was just from where Raphael had held him too tight protecting him. Wasn’t that pathetic? He got hurt being saved! The only thing he had been good for was dragging his hurt family through Mayhem’s portal and getting them all back to the lair.

Donatello played solitaire on his phone. It was boring. He was gonna switch to a different app after he finished this last game. Then it was five rounds later. Eight rounds. It was so incredibly boring, but he just kept placing the cards. His phone dinged as a message from April popped up.

It read: Donnie, please talk to me.

Donatello silenced his phone.and went back to his game. He ignored the vibrations as she tried several times over to text and call. His phone died. He wanted to charge it, but that required rolling over and plugging it in. Instead he just laid the phone on his chest, stared up at the ceiling for a moment, and then closed his eyes.

He had no right to complain…

He had pulled his family into the portal one-by-one. Their blood on his hands and on his face and on his shell. Michelangelo was conscious, crying in the agony of having been physically torn apart. Donatello didn't have anything to give him for the pain.

He had no right to complain…

Donatello didn't know what to do. At the time it was like he had to choose who he wanted to live and who he’d let die. Whose wounds could be left to fester and whose had to be addressed first. Every choice could mean Leonardo dying or Raphael dying or Michelangelo or Splinter. He was playing God with his family's life!

Tears ran down his face and heat bubbled in his chest. He had no right to complain…

Michelangelo was awake and crying out in agony, thinking Donatello was ignoring him and his pain but Donatello wasn’t. Leonardo was losing too much blood and then Raphael was choking on his blood and Splinter was getting cold— Michelangelo was the most well off of them, he could wait, but Donatello just wished he wasn’t conscious!

At one point he remembered trying to move Splinter onto the couch, but he must have missed a wound on the mutants stomach—

Stupid stupid STUPID STUPID STUPID! Donatello slammed his fists repeatedly into his head until his thoughts started to spin.

The feeling of Splinter’s entrains spilling out into Donatello’s hands. The movement onto the couch splitting Splinter in two. Having to reassemble his father from the inside out while Leonardo’s blood pooled on the floor and in that moment Donatello thought he was choosing his father over his brother.

It was a dumb choice! Dumb dumb dumb DUMB!

It had taken almost a hundred stitches to sew up the wound, and the fact Donatello had to work around the thin hair of his father’s belly wasn’t doing him any good. By the time he got to Leonardo and felt for a pulse he was almost sure his brother had… there was so much blood he…

But Donatello felt a pulse. And he got to work on Leonardo. And then Raphael. And Michelangelo last. Drilling into their shells and using fucking wire to hold his family together! The only thing keeping them alive were screws and wire!

Donatello didn't sleep for two weeks. Of course, he knew he had to have slept some time during that month, but he couldn’t remember it. Every waking moment of every day of those fourteen days were spent pacing around the lair, from brother to brother to father. Checking their wounds, checking their pulses. Checking if they were still alive— he didn't know how they were still alive! But they were.

April came by every day to try and help and every day Donatello tried to turn her away. But she kept coming back and kept telling him to sleep and eat and wash and he just got so mad! He didn't mean to hit her, but he did. The solid thwack of his bo staff against April’s side echoed in Donatello’s mind and her crying out in pain. She didn't come back after that.

Much of those days were spent trying to keep his family sustained. Shoving tubes down their throats into their stomachs to pour in water and soup. So much soup. Donatello made sure to keep himself hydrated, if only so he could keep up with his family’s needs, but he didn't eat. He didn't need to eat— eating so often was unnatural for him anyway. He couldn’t afford to feed himself when he had to feed them. His pained hunger was but a small price to pay for his family.

Michelangelo had been the first one to wake up. Donatello had thought the sounds of sobs and whimpers were just one of the many hallucinations that had plagued him during his isolated period. But then he saw Michelangelo moving. And trying to walk. A few days later Leonardo woke up, and then Raphael. Splinter had taken a whole extra week. But they were alive. They were alive and well and thriving in days and yet after almost six months Donatello still couldn’t get himself out of bed! While he slept and stewed in his own self loathing, they were out there healing and training and doing so much more than him… they were so much more important than him...

Donatello sat up suddenly with a furious wail and launched his phone at the wall, watching it shatter upon impact. He immediately regretted the action and keeled over clutching his stomach in despair and sobbing loudly into the empty room.

Another hour passed and the quiet stupor he had returned to was interrupted by a familiar, annoying presence busting his door off the hinges and forcing light to flood into the dark room.

“ALLONS-Y!” Leonardo had Michelangelo tossed over one shoulder and was pointing like a valiant traveler who had just discovered a new land mass. “Donald!”

Donatello squinted against the light and hissed as he blocked his eyes. “Nardo…”

“You’re coming with me!”

“What— why—?”

Donatello didn't get an answer. Instead, he got a strong hand hefting him up and tossing him over Leonardo’s shoulder.

“Hey— this is indignant!” Donatello struggled.

“Hi Donnie!” Michelangelo waved and smiled brightly, “We’re making a new shell for Raph and you’re helping us.”

“Do I get a say in this?”

“NO!” Leonardo and Michelangelo said at the same time.

[holylulusworld]

Alpha mine

Summary: A bad blind date, you not being a prostitute and hurt balls. What can go possibly wrong?

Request: Can I have Alpha Dean? I don’t have a specific idea. I just want Alpha Dean and some angst. Maybe smut too. Happy ending please.

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

A/N: This is an AU setting.

Warnings: language, arguments, smut, unprotected sex, knotting, claiming, true mates, blood, use of handcuffs, hurt testicles (it’s painful, poor Dean), awful names for balls/a dick, fun, crack!fickish, mentions of medical eximinations, A/B/O

Sequel to: Omega for rent

“I am going to knot you good…god…” Dean needs to stop walking as the pain in his groin becomes unbearable. “I think you made sure I’ll be…” Choking Dean has the feeling his stomach fights the breakfast.

“What’s wrong?” Walking out of your bedroom you must watch Dean whine again. He keels over, curls up in a fetal position as you kneel next to him. “Dean?”

“My balls feel like the little pup-producers are bruised.” You want to hold back a chuckle but seeing the tall alpha whimper and curse at the same time let little snorts escape your lips.

“Sorry. I’ll help you, Dean.”

Carefully helping Dean to get up you take small steps to help him sit on your bed. He hisses in pain, whining again as you help him lie onto your pillow.

“Okay. I’ll help you out of these tight slacks. I think your balls need more space. Hang free and all…” Giggling at your words you hold back the snorts.

“That’s not funny.” Dean grunts. “I wanted to knot you…”

Ignoring Dean’s words, you remove his shoes. “Breathe slow and even. I will open your pants now and try to be as careful as possible. Just relax.” A smirk on your lips you unbuckle his belt.

“I won’t kick you again, alpha.”

“You ruined my dick…” Watching you drag his pants and boxers down Dean gasps as he sees a tiny bruise at his left testicle.

“Oh—crap! You ruined leftie!” Now you cannot hold back the snort as you have a close look at his balls.

“Dean, that’s a fuzz.” With skilled fingers, you removed the fuzz and the tall alpha sighs. “Looks good to me. I suggest you lie flat on your back, cover your body with the blanket and I’ll bring you water. We need to replenish your fluids.”

Dean eyes you warily, not trusting you at all. “You want to make little Dean fall off. I know it.” Eyes narrowed Dean looks around your room. “I’ll sue you if I lose my dick!”

Giggling you sit next to Dean to pat his chest. “I know what I am talking about, okay. “

“Why? Do you kick a man in the groin every day? How many balls did you damage so far? You hurt leftie. I am not sure rightie will forgive you.” Lips pressed into a hint line you try to suppress the giggle bubbling up, but you can stop it.

Pressing your face into Dean’s neck you peck his mating gland before you burst into laughter.

“Honestly, you are the second guy - no wait the third. The first was a boy in high school. He tried to grab my tit and I kicked him.”

“That’s justified…” Humming you check on his balls. “What are you doing? Do you want to ruin me some more?”

“I am checking on your balls, now be silent. I said that I know what I am doing. That’s my job after all.” Dean’s eyes narrow again as you look at his crotch.

“You have a thing for my balls…” While you try to cover Dean with a blanket, he’s busy giving you one of his cocky smirks.

“I am a proctologist, Dean. Now let me…” Dean shoves your hands away, shaking his head furiously as you try to help him.

“You are one of the guys shoving a finger into a guy’s ass?” Face pale Dean clutches, the blanket to his chest to protect his anus for dear life.

“We are not doing this all day, Winchester. Now let me get you something to drink and some painkillers. Relax. I won’t kill you, idiot.”

“How can you do a job like that? I mean…” Choking on his words Dean scratches his head. “…Why did you choose a job which includes poking a guy’s ass!”

“Dean, we do not slide a finger into your ass to have fun. It’s a needed examination to check on your well…anus…” Not convinced Dean scrunches up his nose. “I know men do not like it, but we save lives.”

“By fingering my ass?” Throwing your hands up in surrender you take a deep breath. “Cancer, Dean. We do this to help people. Do you believe I like poking my finger into random guys assholes?”

“I do not know you long enough to answer your question.” This time Dean needs to hold back a chuckle. “You look like a kinky chick.”

“Gosh, you are one of those idiots making fun of my job. I chose it as my dad died of cancer. If he would have gone to see a proctologist before the pain became unbearable he could be still alive. Now shut up and let me help you…”

Grumbling you storm into the bathroom to wash your hands and get painkillers for the annoying alpha on your bed.

“I…I am sorry, Sweetheart. Uh—it’s just.” Chortling Dean bites his finger. “Imagining you shove a finger into my ass…”

“Did you forget my name again?” Poking your head into the bedroom you give Dean a dirty look. “Winchester?”

“Y/N. Your name is Y/N and I’d like to knot you again, even though you hurt leftie…”

“You’re unbelievable, Dean. One minute you whine about your hurt balls and the next moment you want to knot me. Hell, you are a rollercoaster of nonsense…”

“You forgot charming! I am adorable and charming!” Dean insists as you place the painkillers onto the nightstand.

“I will not encourage you, Winchester. Now stop wiggling your naked ass on my silky sheets.” Leaving your bedroom, you hear Dean purr into your direction. “Won’t get you any…”

“You will fall for me sooner or later.” Laughing you shake your head as you walk back toward the bedroom. Food, water, and a sports drink in your hands you watch him rummage in your drawer.

“Uh-huh! Dirty girl, kinky too.” Holding handcuffs, a vibrator and lube in his hands Dean looks like the cat that got the cream. “You will not need that tiny thing any longer, but we can keep the handcuffs and lube.”

“Can you not make fun for a few minutes? You need to drink a lot, take some painkillers and then we will have lunch.” Lower lip trapped between his teeth Dean looks at the food on the tray.

You warmed up some Chinese leftovers and he can barely hide the rumble of his empty stomach.

“You know how to get the guy. Naughty sex, perfect scent, and food. You want to bribe me…” You would roll your eyes, but Dean looks up at you, a soft smile on his lips and you remain silent.

“Drink, Dean and then give me a break.” Humming Dean gulps down the sports drink, not taking his eyes off you as he follows your advice. “I hope your balls feel better soon…”

It’s a restless evening as Dean didn’t stop to hit on you. Followed by a restless night as he tries to rut his aching crotch against your ass, whining as it still hurts.

“Dean, give up. I am tired and tomorrow is Sunday. I want to sleep without an  alpha keeping me awake.” Not giving up Dean ruts closer to you, rubbing his cock against your ass, ignoring the pain.

“Want you…”

“You’re a needy bastard, Winchester. If you stop keeping me awake, I let you knot me when you are better. Now let me sleep.”

Dean’s arms wrap around you as he is nuzzling his nose into your neck, but he stops to rut his cock against your ass.

“What’s that green rubbish?” Shoving the broccoli off his plate Dean retches as he spits parts of the healthy vegetable into his napkin.

He is residing on your couch, two pillows stuffed behind his back, feet propped onto your couch he watches you narrow your eyes.

“Winchester! I do not believe you one bit that your balls are still hurting! I know you are lying to get my attention. Needy bastard.” Humming to himself Dean looks at the food you cooked for him.

“You are taking good care of me.” Dean’s voice is barely above a whisper when he looks at you. “I’ve missed someone taking care of me.”

“Dean, we barely know each other. All we know are certain body parts. You can’t occupy my apartment for longer than needed.” Your fingers slide through his hair and you need to hold back a purr as he sighs every time you touch him.

“I…I don’t want to leave you…”

“How about a deal, Dean. Playing with his short locks you press a soft kiss to his ear shell.

“If you can walk, you can knot me, Winchester. You can stay till tomorrow morning and then we will see where this will lead us to…” Dean’s eyes darken, and you feel his hand cup your tit as he smirks up at you.

He’s wild, loud and full Alpha again.

Your face pressed into the cushions; hands restraint behind your back with your handcuffs you can only take what the man you barely know offers.

“Such a good girl now…” Purring the words Dean smirks as he can feel your slick cover his dick with every thrust. “I could fuck you for days.”

“How’s leftie?” Giggles leave your lips, but Dean does not seem to care. While you try to push back onto him, he grips your cuffed wrists.

His brows are knit together as he watches his cock disappear inside of your slit. He can read your body; can sense you are close to your high.

“You feel perfect around me, Sweetheart. I think…” Pushing against your shoulders Dean causes your body to fall flat onto your mattress.

Helpless you wiggle against him as he holds you down with his weight.

“Dean…I want to cum.” You would scratch or bite him, even kick the cocky alpha again but the handcuffs around your wrists and his hands holding you down, bending you to his will, make you immobile.

“Sweet, so sweet for me…” His tongue slides over your mating gland and you shiver, knowing what Dean is up to. “Going to make you mine.”

Before you can give him a snarky comment his hips start moving again and your body gives in. Walls clenching tightly around him, sucking greedily at his thick length you can feel his teeth sink into your neck.

“Fucking asshole…” Dean does not care about your insults or that his orgasm hits him hard.

He will not let go of your neck, even holds you down to mark you as his omega.

“At least you can fuck like a stallion…”

“Love the way you say, ‘I love you’.” Dean grins before his tongue soothes the light sting. “The wound is already closing, Omega. Looks good on you. Perfect bite mark.”

“I guess this means your cute alpha ass is all mine now, including leftie and rightie. Now release my wrists and let me have a look at the mark. I dare you if you ruined my look.”

“It will heal completely and looks good at your neck.” Dean cannot take his eyes off the mark, wants you to not put a band-aid on it but you slap his hands away.

“Let me put a sterile band-aid on it before I kick your balls.” He is looking at his mark one last time. “Barely any blood. Did you do this more than once?”

“No…I swear, Y/N. You’re my first…” Your hand slides over his naked chest and you look up at Dean, a dirty grin on your lips. “I was your first, lover boy?”

“That is not what I meant, Omega. Now be good and behave.” Face straight, eyes focused on the mark at your neck Dean tries to play the dominant alpha, but you simply pat his cheek.

“Oh, sweet alpha. I think there was a failure in our communications from the beginning. It’s more that you alpha are mine now…” Amused Dean drops the towel around his waist, gives you a dirty grin before he steps closer.

“All yours, Y/N. Now - where do you want me?”

Tags in reblogs.

[jonesinghardy]

No More Spitting Feathers 01/?

PAIRINGS: Warren Worthington III x Reader WARNINGS: injury, blood RATING: T+, will be raised later. WORD COUNT: 1.3k  AUTHOR’S NOTE: I haven’t written fic in AGES but I have had Ben Hardy brainworms for weeks, and caved and wrote this idea out. Featuring some google translate German, so apologies if it’s not accurate. Dedication and thanks to Monica @rosesvioletshardy​ , Andi @venombxby​ and Wella for inspo and discussion. This is written in second person bc I have never been able to get on board with Y/N trends, and the reader is a mutant with a limited mix of healing, telekinesis and some empathic inclinations.

You’ve been running for eight blocks barefoot in a cocktail dress since you ran out the service exit of the high-class club you’d snuck into. You were caught with one of the patrons, but it’s not clear whether they think you were soliciting or if they saw you using your powers. You were so careful, you only wanted to help, and you’d taken the risk knowing the likely consequences. 

The club district has fallen away to warehouses, traffic is still in earshot and you should really grab a taxi, but you’re listening to your gut. The fewer people around the less likely you are to draw attention to yourself, and besides the dress, without your shoes and with the nosebleed you’ve given yourself, you expect to draw some gazes. 

“Ich sah sie diese Gasse hinuntergehen!” I saw her go down that alley! The voice is clear but it’s far enough away that when you shrink back into the nearest dark doorway you’re sure they haven’t seen you. Standing still makes your feet ache and throb, and your throat taste like blood while you try to gulp in some air. You close your eyes and concentrate, slow deep breaths, and after a moment your feet don’t ache and your nose stops dripping. “Suche nach blutigen Fußspuren!” Look for bloody footprints! 

They’re too close for you to make a run for it and despite your efforts to calm yourself, you can’t locate them with your powers. Something metal clangs nearby and you hold your breath, glancing at the door behind you. Here is a place to hide. You can’t tell if it’s instinct or fear that drives you to thrust forth your hand at the lock, but it you hear it scrape and click. At a distance, with your other hand, you smudge your bloody footprints on the ground behind you, as far as you can before you feel the hot wet drip of blood from your nose again. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, wiping your nose with the back of your hand before opening the heavy door as little as possible to let yourself in, locking it again behind you. When you turn around you find the space empty. Your stomach drops, there’s no way to hide here, you’re exposed. You can hear music playing somewhere above you and immediately hold your breath. The only saving grace is that it’s dark, the only light coming in from skylights above the rafters. 

Is there a security office here? In an empty warehouse? You can’t make any assumptions here. You take a few deep breaths and start crossing the space, trying to stay in the shadows, heading for the opposite door which would put you in a better position to get somewhere safe. 

“Eindringling!” Interloper! A man’s echoing shout comes from above.

You slam your hand over your mouth, barely muting a scream as you jump in fright. You’re about to plead your case, play the damsel, beg the man that shouted to let you go, but then the music stops. It’s still too echoey and too dark. You feel cold now that you’ve stopped running, paranoid. Your head hurts. The longer you stand there the more an ache creeps into your shoulder.

“Dies ist kein Ort für ein häschen!” A bottle smashes a few feet away and you yelp, staggering back, looking up to the rafters from where it came. Wings. Huge wings. Your breath gets caught in your throat and a startled sound leaves your mouth. 

He drops from above in shadow, boots crunching on broken glass when he lands. He’s clutching another bottle in his hand. He stalks toward you and you back up, tripping and falling with a grunt onto the dusty floor. You throw your hand out and he stops his advance when he collides with a lucky telekinetic shield. Your nose is definitely bleeding again.

He’s a mutant.

He’s hurt.

He doesn’t try to come at you again. You can see now why your shoulder aches, so strangely too, as he steps into a patch of light. His left wing is burnt, drooping— the pain you feel radiating from him tells you it’s broken. You wipe your nose with the back of your hand, coughing from what you assume is the dust.

But then you realize what he said. This is no place for a bunny!

“Ein häschen?” A bunny? you ask stupidly. You touch the obnoxious necklace you wore to the club, all the VIP girls wore something similar; a thick twisting gold chain with a Playboy bunny charm on it. 

He exhales, something between a scoff and a laugh. “If that’s what you want it to mean.” He doesn’t sound German now. Some mix of British and American. 

“You’re with them,” he says, assuming, bringing the bottle to his mouth and drinking, letting it drip over his chin and onto his chest.

“What?”

“The cage.”

“I don’t kno—”

He turns his back on you then, starts walking away with this drunken swagger, making you understand why your head hurts— your clarity returns when you feel a jolt of pain.

“Wait!” You throw out your hand, straining your powers to keep him from using the broken wing. This time he staggers, his pained yell echoing throughout the warehouse as he drops to his knees, his bottle smashing next to him.

“I can help you!” you gasp, wiping your bloody nose on the back of your hand again.

“I don’t want anything from you!” he growls. 

“I can help you,” you repeat stubbornly, pushing yourself up, kneeling now, arm still outstretched. You feel the ache in your shoulder and trace it back to him, feeling a tingly coldness in your body as you strain your powers to heal him. It’s more than you can handle and you know it, you’ve already healed someone and yourself tonight, but you keep going. 

He gasps when the relief washes over him, groaning and trying not to cry out at the healing pains that follow. 

You push yourself until your head is spinning and your vision goes hazy black. You growl in frustration and lean forward, choking from your bloody nose, which you wipe on your arm. 

“Blöder häschen,” he mutters, half amused, half reproachful. Stupid bunny. “You’re too weak to help.”

“I can finish it,” you retort. “Don’t try to fly… I just— I just need to rest.”

You look up to find him staring back at you, a conflicted expression on his face. Dizziness threatens you toward unconsciousness. You put your head back down reluctantly, leaning it on your arm. You cough again, your throat stinging and your tongue feeling gritty.

“This isn’t a good place to rest.” His voice is closer now, you didn’t hear him get up.

“I have a place,” you say, trying to breathe through your mouth. This is what you get for pushing yourself this hard. If you could relax you could heal yourself enough to stop the nosebleed. “It’ll be good for you too, it’s big enough.”

“Where?”

When you tell him, he gives a slight grunt of acknowledgement. “Fine.”

You sigh, still leaning your head on your arm. You don’t want to think about how you must look; bloodied and barefoot, dusty, in a little cocktail dress, keeled over in something approximating child’s pose.

“What’s your name?” you don’t look up to ask this. 

“Why do you want my name?” Now that he’s not in so much pain, his personality is coming out. He’s stubborn. You don’t blame him. 

“Why not?” 

“So what’s yours?” 

“I won’t tell unless you say it first.”

He scoffs. “Keep your name, häschen. Call me what you want.” 

Still leaning your head on your arm, you turn to look at him. His wing looks better, not dropping as badly, but your efforts didn’t touch the burnt feathers, which look so stark against his white wings, pale skin and light hair. At least he looks calmer. 

“Dove,” you finally decide.

He look like he was expecting you to pick something else.

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 4 - 1

Honor Bound 4 - 1 (On the Run) @badthingshappenbingo​​

Requested by anon.

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

~

This is a series. We resume from where Honor Bound 3 ended here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, and Honor Bound 3. 

AO3

Cw: dissoci@tion, briefest mention of possible suicidal ideations, blood, ketamine mention, thoughts of death, narcotics mention, past noncon mention

~

Isaac felt like he might keel over and die right in the middle of the road. His hands were tightened into fists on the wheel as he drove slowly into Crayton, just one car on his tail this time. He glanced at it in the rearview every few seconds. His throat worked around a nervous swallow as he returned his eyes to the road.

Vera sat rigid beside him. Isaac didn’t think she’d taken a breath in at least thirty seconds. Every now and then she glanced back at Tori. Tori sat slumped against the door of the car, eyes blank and unfocused, staring out into the dark. It was almost midnight. All of them had barely slept since yesterday.

They’d all caught snatches of sleep every now and then, nodding off onto the shoulders of the people next to them, jerking awake moments later with a jolt of terror. We still aren’t safe yet. We still have to get to Gray.

Ellis sat next to Tori. One hand sat gently on Tori’s hand on the seat, and the other reached back towards Finn. Finn clutched at Ellis with one hand and with the other touched Sam. On their hair, on their back, on their leg. Constantly moving. Constantly desperate to help. Constantly able to do nothing.

Isaac was almost grateful he couldn’t see Sam in the dark. He knew exactly what they would look like; they hadn’t changed in the entire drive north, starting yesterday afternoon, stretching through the night, through the entire next day, and now halfway through this night. Everyone had driven except Sam and Tori. Everyone was barely able to stay conscious. Isaac wished he could sleep and never wake up.

Even though he couldn’t see Sam, he could hear them. Hear their whimpers, their ragged breaths, their cries every time he drove over a bump. He knew the seat must be soaked in their sweat and stained with blood. Finn had stopped the bleeding in Sam’s arm at Lucy and Topher’s house, and it hadn’t started bleeding again. Their whip marks, on the other hand, had broken open and bled into the fabric of the seat as they writhed against the pain in their arm. The pain had started just a few minutes after they left the house.

“Ketamine doesn’t last very long,” Finn had offered as an explanation. As if that was all Isaac needed. As if could rest easy in that knowledge, with Sam nearly delirious with pain, the pills Finn was feeding them seeming to do almost nothing. “They’d be screaming if they didn’t have them,” Finn said. “Believe me, they’re helping.” Isaac’s chest ached with every little sound Sam made. His hands tightened further on the steering wheel.

He started slightly as Vera brushed the back of his hand with her fingers. “We’ll be okay,” she murmured. “We’ll get through. No matter what, we’ll get through.”

Isaac swallowed hard. “What if they—”

“They won’t.” Vera’s mouth hardened into a line.

“But what—”

“If they do…” Vera drew in a deep breath and pushed it out slowly. “…we’ll handle it. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

If we have to shoot our way out of this, we’ll start a war with the north. We’ll never be safe, north or south. We’ll always have to run. We’ll always be days or moments away from being killed. How will I keep my family safe, then? How will I protect them all when the entire world wants us tortured or dead? Isaac’s eyes filled with tears. How many times will I have to try to die for them before I actually keep them safe from something?

He already knew the answer. As many as it takes.

Vera pushed his shoulder and he started again. He shot a glance at her. Her skin was almost black in the darkness, but he could see her eyes burning into him in the light coming from the headlights. “Stop it,” she said gently. “I can see you’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Isaac said, and consciously relaxed his hands. “I’m… um…” He shrugged. “…worried.”

Vera kept looking at him even after he looked back at the road. “Okay,” she said softly. She turned back to face the front. “Okay.”

By now, they’d passed most of the houses and were entering Crayton proper. The streets were wider, albeit still torn up, haphazardly paved. Done with the best the town could do. The gatekeepers of the north, defending all the people beyond it from the meager attempts the syndicates waged to tear them apart. No one cared about the north.

They would, if they knew where we were.

Isaac pulled into the square and slowed the car to a stop. He carefully opened his door, his hands raised. A floodlight attached to the car following them blazed on and blinded Isaac. He blinked and turned his head away from the light.

He couldn’t see past the light, but he could hear two car doors slamming, and the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. His hands shook. He tried to hold them steady. He heard a short intake of breath as two figures stepped into the floodlight.

“Are… are you… Isaac Moore?”

Isaac bit his lip. Oh, god. Please let that not be a bad thing. “Y-yeah,” he rasped.

“And you… did you really…?”

“Please,” he breathed. He motioned to the car with his head. “Please. We’ve got… we’ve got a few who are hurt. We just escaped from C-Colleen Stormbeck, and… please. We need to find Gray Uriah. They’re our family and we just need to… just need to find them.”

“Who else is with you?” the other voice asked nervously.

“My family,” Isaac said weakly, turning and gesturing to the car. The others were all slowly climbing out. All but Gavin.

Gavin’s not with us. Have to sell that. Have to make them believe it, too. He couldn’t let them know that Gavin crouched on the floor in the back seat, huddled under a blanket, probably praying just as hard as Isaac was that they wouldn’t search the car too closely.

Tori hobbled away from the car and Vera rushed to her side. Ellis got out of the car and immediately went to help Finn pull Sam out. Sam’s head lolled on their neck, sweat shining on their skin. Isaac’s stomach dropped. We need to get them help. More blood, maybe. And rest.

Isaac let his hands fall to his sides, slowly, slowly. One figure appeared in the beam of the floodlight, a gun held tight in his hands but low to the ground. Peering at the family. Nervous, but not suspicious.

Not yet.

Not helpful.

The other stepped into the light and stopped by Isaac’s side. “Did you really kill Colleen Stormbeck?” she murmured.

“Yes,” Isaac said weakly. “But we have to get to Gray Uriah… please… please…”

Isaac turned and the man was peering through the windows of their car, shining a flashlight in each one and moving on. He opened the trunk and nodded when he saw the meager supply of food the family had left over from their twenty-hour sprint to the north. He finally turned and went back to his partner’s side. They both holstered their guns.

“You were here before,” the man said. “A few weeks ago. You were going to go…”

“And we killed her,” Isaac said, desperation growing. Sam stumbled and fell against Finn’s side. They cried out weakly and staggered, nearly falling to their knees.

Isaac’s hands curled into fists. Tears threatened in his eyes. “Please,” he whispered.

The silhouettes of the man and woman looked at each other, then looked back at Isaac. The woman spoke. “…and what happened to Gavin Stormbeck?”

Isaac wet his lips and shivered in the cool night. “He’s, um, dead.”

The woman sucked in a breath through her lips. “Him, too? The entire Stormbeck family is dead?”

“He didn’t die a Stormbeck,” Isaac whimpered. “He died one of us.”

“He was never one of you,” the man snapped. “They don’t change.”

“He did,” Isaac said, a little firmer. Arguing with them is pointless. He isn’t dead. But Sam is hurt. Sam is bleeding. He shook his head. “Please,” he begged again. “Please. Gray Uriah. We just want to find them so we can recoup. Please.”

The two looked at each other again and held each other’s gaze for a long moment. The woman nodded. The man looked to Isaac and gestured with his hand to the car. “Go,” he said softly. “I know your names. I’ll get you checked in with the city hall.”

Isaac’s breath rushed out of him. “Thank you.”

The man shrugged. “If you killed Colleen Stormbeck…” He spread his hands. “…it’s the least we can do.”

Isaac wet his lips. “And… and Gray Uriah?”

The man gestured past the car, pointing north. “Keep going. They moved to a farmhouse with the young one… what was her name?”

“Edrissa Clarke,” Isaac and Vera said at the same time.

“Right,” the woman murmured. “Head north out of Crayton. They’re a few hours out still. This road will take you to Burmingham, take a right on first street there and follow that out for about twelve miles. There will be a fork. Take the right one. On the left will be a lake, and the farmhouse is just past the lake on the left.”

Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, visualizing the directions. “Take this out of Crayton, go to Burmingham, right on first, twelve miles, fork, right, pass the lake, farmhouse on the left.”

“Right.” The woman shrugged awkwardly. “So… I guess…”

Isaac was already turning to go. “Thank you,” he said in a rush. He went immediately to Sam’s side and half-carried them to the back seat. They flinched and wailed pitifully as his arm pressed against the whip marks on their back. “I’m sorry,” Isaac murmured as his eyes filled with tears.

“I-Isaac,” they whimpered. Their left hand closed on his shirt. “Isaac, it… it hurts…”

Isaac looked desperately at Finn as he helped Sam into the car. “Finn…?”

Finn shuddered and shook their head. “Can’t give more Vicodin. It has Tylenol in it, Isaac. If I overdose them, I fuck their liver. Tylenol overdoses are very hard to manage, even in the hospital. I c-can’t… help them…” Finn dissolved into a sob.

Isaac grabbed Finn and dragged them into a crushing hug. “Not your fault,” he whispered. “Not your fault. Let’s just get them to Gray. We’ll see if Gray can get them something else. Do you think they’ll need more blood?”

Finn ran a hand through their hair. “Fluids, at least,” they said, biting their lip. “Maybe blood. I don’t know. I haven’t checked a pressure in a while.”

“Let me know,” Isaac said as he stepped away. He rushed to the driver’s seat and jumped when he saw Vera already sitting there.

“I’ll drive,” she said as she stuck her thumb at the passenger seat. “It’s only a few more hours. I’ll drive.”

“Are you sure?” Isaac said weakly, already moving.

“Sure,” Vera said as Isaac appeared on the other side of the car. “No problem. Let’s just go.”

Isaac nodded slowly and pulled the door closed. Vera glanced in the rearview to make sure everyone was in, and slowly got the car rolling. Isaac thought he could see Vera’s jaw clench and he was sure she was looking at Tori.

He reached out and squeezed Vera’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “We’ll get her back.”

Vera sniffed. A tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. Finally, she said, “You don’t know that. She’s never been gone this long before. She’s never…” Vera swallowed hard, and Isaac could hear the sob she was fighting down. “She’s… god, Isaac, look at her. She’s…”

“She’s not broken,” he said gently. “Not completely. You found your way back from this. You found a way.”

Vera cast a glance back at Tori, then back to the road. “We’re all broken,” she said bitterly.

Isaac opened his mouth to protest. He closed it slowly.

She’s right, Isaac thought heavily. We are all broken. Tori’s hurt beyond repair, Ellis nearly lost their mind, Finn is eaten alive with guilt, Vera’s voice was taken away again, Gavin thinks he deserves to die for hurting us when he’s the only one who could have gotten us out, and Sam…

Isaac’s mind cried out when he thought of Sam. Over and over, unbidden, images flashed across his mind of Sam’s bruises, the lines on their back left from the whip, the marks around their neck from where they’d been dragged and pinned and strangled with the collar. Their whimpering sobs cut through him like a knife. I told Sam I hate them. I let them hurt Sam. I begged them to hurt them. They’re broken, shattered beyond repair, and it’s because of me. Scalding rage moved through his chest. This is all because of me.

He couldn’t think at all about the ways he’d been broken. He couldn’t think of his own scars, his own wounds, his own pain. He pushed it down. It was irrelevant. Unimportant. His pain meant nothing, because he was supposed to suffer for his family. That’s what he was for.

No. He pulled himself back from the edge of that cliff. I hated myself before I ever loved them. His pain meant something, because what if he wasn’t meant to hurt? What if he was meant for something else, instead?

He couldn’t think of how broken he was, because he was most broken in his mind. He was so broken, he’d gotten feelings for his one-time captor. For the man who beat him, scarred him, very nearly killed him. Very nearly killed Sam. He now felt something for the man who had changed. Who had renounced his name and his birthright, who gave up on everything he’d ever known to come be a captive and an informant on his own family. Who had found a way to be good, despite everything he’d done, everything he’d been through. He felt something now for the man that sacrificed his soul to keep his family safe. He felt something for the man that had hurt him. Violated him, on his mother’s orders. He felt something for the man he’d asked to make him feel good, to make him feel like he was being made love to, instead of being chained down and raped.

I could never love Gavin Stormbeck, Isaac thought. But I could be in love with Gavin Uriah. I could be with him, if only he wanted me, too.

Isaac swallowed hard. When they finally left Crayton, Isaac turned.

“You can come out now,” he said softly. Gavin emerged slowly from behind the seat, eyes wide and terrified. They found Isaac’s and didn’t let go until Isaac turned around to face the front.

Continued here

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[bisexualsforprompto]

Miraculous: Reborn (Maribat Injury AU)

AO3

One (Here)            Two

“G-good morning,” a young blue haired girl begun in shakily in English. “My name is M-Marinette D-dupain-Cheng and today I-I-I.” The red haired teacher at the front of the class put a hand on the small girl’s shoulder and spoke to her soothingly in French, “It’s okay Marinette. Just do your best, English is hard sometimes!” Marinette smiled a toothy grin, she was missing her two front teeth like most of the other ten year olds in her class. A blonde girl filing her nails with her hair tied up in two twin braids scoffed, “Dupain-Cheng can hardly do anything right. Just move along to the next presentation!” The carrot haired girl in glasses next to her giggled.

“Now Chloé, not everyone is a natural at English, and besides, Marinette-“

“I can so do things right Chloé! Just you watch and I-“ Marinette stomped as she brought her notecards up to her chest, then she felt a stabbing pain in her stomach. She fell to the ground and covered her stomach. Chloé laughed, “See you cant even stand right!!!” The class save for a young boy in a red cap that was far too big for his head and glasses who was Marinette’s best friend started to snicker. Marinette couldn’t react to her classmates harsh words and giggles, the stabbing pain was back and worse this time. She clutched her stomach and felt panic when she felt something sticky and wet clinging to her shirt. 

Rolling over to lay down on her back she drew her hand away from her belly to be greeted with a sickeningly salty red liquid that smelled metallic. Marinette heard gasps come from all around. She recognized her teacher coming over to Marinette to help and the redhead muttering, “It must be her soulmate.” Caline Bustier started to scream as a long cut was being drawn across her pupil’s throat from an invisible blade, “I NEED HELP IN HERE RIGHT NOW!!!!” Screams erupted as the class saw the blood gushing from their fellow classmate, a small petite blond in pink started to cry as she was shielded away from the scene by a tall black haired girl. Nino couldn't look at his best friend without bile rising in his stomach, this couldn’t be happening! It was all a bad dream! He’d wake up, and Mari would be fine and her happy loving self!

Marinette couldn’t stop wheezing, it was like she her lungs were burning. She was trying to breathe but she couldn’t. She felt something sharp pierce her neck. She felt her blood moving into her mouth. ‘NO NO NO!!’ all her senses screamed at her. She couldn’t think straight, it was as if alarms were ringing in her head but they all kept building louder and louder into a cacophony that gave her a headache. She choked on something and coughed up that same thing. She realized it was blood when she saw her horrified teacher with her blood she previous coughed up standing above her.

The last thing Marinette heard was her best friend shouting, “MARI! MARI NO!” 

The last thing Marinette saw was her teacher’s terrified yet helpless expression.

The last thing she smelled was a metallic salty substance that overused all the other smells she had ever known.

The last thing she tasted was her blood, like she was drowning in it.

The last thing she touched was the first scar she had ever received from her soulmate as she thought of how much she loved them even though she didn’t know them yet, how much she loved her parents and Nino.

Then black.

Sabine traced her fingers on the grain of her daughter’s maple coffin. It had been months and she and Tom were still too heartbroken to bury her. They had given her a proper funeral but refused to bury her, ‘it made it too real,’ Sabine mused. Sure people thought it was weird for parents to keep their dead child’s coffin in the room their child used to live in but people also thought it was weird for a ten year old to die because her soulmate was brutally murdered.

Sabine sighed, she and Tom had prayed so long for a child only for her to be taken away. Oh the resentment that brewed inside Sabine from her daughter’s soulmate… The soulmate bond, like the one she shared with Tom, connected the two hearts through spirit and body. The spirits of those in the bond would gain the injuries that the other had received. Sabine glanced down at the scar which led her to her soulmate. 

She had been in the bakery when a rather klutzy young classmate ran in and crashed into the door. Sabine had giggled and then realized a bruise appeared in the place bruise that the man had run into the door. She cherished it that’s when she had finally met her soulmate, the one she was destined to be with forever.

Sabine had always loved soulmate bonds, only about half the population had one, but when her pride and joy was dead because of the soulmate bond she was beyond angry. She knew Tom felt the same way, but he wasn’t as good at articulating it. 

Everyday she and Tom would find separate times to talk to their daughter. It had been this way since she died, Sabine relished the times she got with her daughter. She just said the little things, how her day was going, how much she missed her daughter, and how Tom was. One day she found herself so sick of missing her daughter, all sorts of parents and their children had visited the bakery that day. Sabine cried more than she ever had and cursed the very day Marinette’s soulmate was born.

Sabine closed her eyes at the memory, it wasn’t her proudest moment but she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t stopped resenting. Sabine sat on her daughter’s old bed and straighten out the covers. She felt tempted to open the coffin, she her beautiful girl one last time, but she couldn’t.

She remembered the time when she experienced her first loss, her grandmother. Her father had warned her the day of the funeral that when she saw her grandmother she wouldn’t be looking at the same person she knew for thirteen years. Her father said it was in the eyes. The eyes read the spirit of the soul. Sure enough, Sabine found herself, just a meager teenager, standing in front of the casket of her grandmother being haunted by the lifeless eyes that laid before her.

The eyes plagued her nightmares for weeks.

Choking out a sob, knowing that she had seen her daughter’s lively, bluebell eyes for the last time Sabine clenched her fists. She began to hear the cacophony of emotions calling her.

Anger, for the one who put her daughter there.

Fear, for the daughter who must have had so much before she died.

Sadness, for the girl she had loved so much.

And betrayal, betrayal from God himself. Sabine had never been overly religious but it was easier to have more to blame for the tragedy that befell her daughter. Sabine cursed Him, how dare he choose to take the one thing that mattered from him. Her sunshine, her daughter, Marinette.

Sabine felt her vision cloud, she started to feel her eyes cross over but remembered the trick her therapist taught her, ‘five things I can see: Marinette’s pink bed sheets, Marinette’s desk, Marinette’s window, Marinette’s balcony, Marinette’s...coffin.’

Sabine shook herself, she needed to stay focused, ‘four things I can touch: Marinette’s bed, Marinette’s old sketchbook, Marinette’s favorite dress, Marinette’s...coffin.’

Sabine gulped and took a deep breath as she continued, ‘three things I can hear: the birds chirping outside, the mixer whirling downstairs, Marinette…’

Wait, Marinette?! Sabine shot up. She knew she wasn’t in her best frame of mind but she knew what she heard. It sounded like a whimper and then it disappeared. Then she heard it again, this time a scream sounding like her daughter’s and a pounding on wood. The pounding got stronger and the screams got louder. Sabine held her head as she keeled over. 

‘Where is it coming from?!’ She asked herself, until she realized exactly where it was coming from. It was coming from the place she dared not to open. Sabine had to though, if there was even a small chance that her daughter was screaming. A small chance that it wasn’t Sabine’s imagination, she had to take it.

Sabine Cheng thrust open the coffin to her daughter’s eyes.

They weren’t dull like her grandmother’s eyes, there were rich, gorgeous, and alive. She stared in wonder as her daughter stared back, no longer screaming.

Marinette caught her breath before sitting up in the wooden coffin,

“M-maman?” She whimpered as Sabine wrapped her child in a hug. A now revived Marinette embraced her mother back as all her memories came back. She remembered the biggest memories first: the ones she loved, her favorite days and the moment she died. It was one thing to die, Marinette realized, it was another to die and then realize you were living. 

‘A miracle,’ Sabine cried, ‘My daughter is miraculous.’

And at that moment two souls, two halves of a whole, were gone no longer.

They were reborn.

Taglist:

@persephonebutkore @northernbluetongue @vixen-uchiha @caffeinetheory @18-fandoms-unite-08