#get it blood sacrifice??? and hes cutting his hand in this piece???

[hollowed-theory-hall]

How does the protection magic that Lily's sacrifice placed on Harry work? On that note- how do the blood wards placed on the Dursley household operate?

Like- does the latter act as a notice me not/ fidelius of its own? Protecting Harry's location from other magicals? (It would have been easy for another Longbottom tragedy to occur after all) from what I remember the blood wards have no affect on the protection cast by Lily's sacrifice, and instead sort of extend the effect to the household???

Also on the topic of the protection- we saw the end Quirrel met. And... I just wondered- why didn't this sort of reaction extend to all the people - the Dursleys included- who laid their hands + spells on Harry with the intent to harm? By all means the blood wards should have fallen the moment The Dursleys tried to physically harm Harry. Can't see a protection powered by Lily's intent, extending to people who mean her son harm.

Unless of course the magic and the wards are targetted at Riddle specifically. Which brings the question- why didn't it set on fire/ harm anything considering even the traces of Riddle's presence/ influence. Eg. The people with the death Eater brands, the horcruxes, the soul shard inside Harry himself??

Ugh. Just so many questions.

Ps. Could the blood wards have been transferred/ worked in a residence comprising of the people Harry considered as his family and who reciprocated this sentiment? (based on the importance of intent to keep the spell going)

Wow, @ana-lyz, just like with the veil and death asks, I just started drafting a post about Lily's blood protections and what Dumbledore says about them. So...

Lily's Love Protection and Dumbledore's Blood Wards

Alright, strap in...

Okay, so let's start by seeing what we're told about the blood protections and whether we can gather something cohesive that makes magical sense out of it.

We have Voldemort's statement on this piece of magic:

“...I wanted Harry Potter’s blood. I wanted the blood of the one who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago . . . for the lingering protection his mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too. . . . “But how to get at Harry Potter? For he has been better protected than I think even he knows, protected in ways devised by Dumbledore long ago, when it fell to him to arrange the boy’s future. Dumbledore invoked an ancient magic, to ensure the boy’s protection as long as he is in his relations’ care. Not even I can touch him there. . . .

(GoF, 657)

Notice there is the lingering protection from Lily's magic and the ancient magic Dumbledore invoked. These are, I believe separate spells.

Dumbledore's statements:

“But why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?” “Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realize that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign…to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good.”

(PS, 215)

“But I knew too where Voldemort was weak. And so I made my decision. You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated — to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died to save you. She gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother’s blood. I delivered you to her sister, her only remaining relative.” “She doesn’t love me,” said Harry at once. “She doesn’t give a damn —” “But she took you,” Dumbledore cut across him. “She may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you. Your mother’s sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you.” “I still don’t —” “While you can still call home the place where your mother’s blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen years.”

(OotP, 835-836)

Here again, Dumbledore mentions the ancient magic he made the decision to protect Harry with as a separate thing from the lingering protection from Lily.

And (as per this post) the Dumbledore Harry hallucinates statement:

“He took my blood.” said Harry. “Precisely!” said Dumbledore. “He took your blood and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!”

(DH, 598)

And then we have what happened to Quirrell:

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell’s face — “AAAARGH!” Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain — his only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing a curse. Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off — the pain in Harry’s head was building — he couldn’t see — he could only hear Quirrell’s terrible shrieks and Voldemort’s yells of, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”

(PS, 212)

What we know from this

Well, from the above quotes we can divide the magical protections on Harry into 2 different spells as I mentioned above:

Lily's sacrificial love protection - the intention magic Lily cast by protecting her son. This is the magic that blocked the Killing Curse and killed Quirrell.

Dumbledore's blood ward - this is the spell Dumbledore cast that (supposedly) protects Harry in his relatives' home. Voldemort says Dumbledore invoked this magic, and Dumbledore also mentions it's a ward he left that built upon Lily's protection, but it's not a spell Lily left.

So, what can Lil'y Sacrificial Love Protection do:

Makes the Killing Curse not kill Harry.

Returns the Killing Curse back to the sender.

Continues to hurt that initial "sender" whenever he tries to kill Harry.

What about Dumbledore's Blood Wards what do they do:

Nothing.

Dumbledore and Voldemort say this magic exists but it never does anything. We never see it active, it never protects Harry from anyone, neither his relatives nor Death Eaters. So, we don't know what it's supposed to be doing since it doesn't do anything in the books.

Voldemort says it won't allow him to touch Harry in his relatives' house.

How I think these spells actually work

I'll start with Dumbledore's Blood Wards:

I simply don't think this ward actually exists.

Dumbledore isn't very consistent with how this protection works. He says Harry needs to return for a bit to live with Petunia for the magic to work, but if that's all the requirement, why long weeks? Couldn't he return for a shorter time? And each year he spends a different amount of time at Private Drive? Couldn't he always be sent back just for the minimal required time? At first, the ward was about love but then it isn't, he says this: "While you can still call home the place where your mother’s blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort."

Harry didn't think of Private Drive as a home:

Harry could hardly believe it when he realized that he’d already been at Hogwarts two months. The castle felt more like home than Privet Drive ever had.

(PS, 123)

“I believe he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to Professor Dippet,” said Dumbledore. “Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this school than he has ever been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been happiest; the first and only place he had felt at home.” Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts too.

(HBP, 431)

Harry never considered Private Drive and the Dursleys his home. Hogwarts was his first home.

If there is no love and it isn't a home, even if Dumbledore did cast a blood ward based on Petunia and Lily's sacrifice it won't actually be active. But personally, I don't think this ward actually exists.

Dumbledore needs a reason to keep Harry with his relatives.

Dumbledore needs Harry malleable, low on self-esteem, and lacking in a support network. Because he knew since October 1981 (but probably before) that he'd likely need Harry to die. He suspected Harry was a Horcrux from practically day 1:

Under a tuft of jetblack hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. “Is that where —?” whispered Professor McGonagall. “Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.” “Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?” “Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy...

(PS, 13-14)

And being raised by the Dursleys ensured that when the time came, when Dumbledore needed Harry to die to destroy Voldemort, Harry would be willing. Because Harry would not put much worth in his own life. Because of that, I think it's not outside the realm of possibility Dumbledore would lie about this ward to have an excuse to keep sending Harry to the Dursleys.

(Sure, Dumbledore would've preferred not to kill Harry if it could be avoided, but he had been preparing for the situation since October 1981)

It's not like he did anything to better their treatment of Harry until book 6, when he needed Harry to start trusting him more...

And like I mentioned above, even if the ward was there, it would not be active because Private Drive was never a home for Harry. And after year 4, when Voldemort took his blood, any protection from any blood-related magic would be moot. Because Voldemort would not be counted as a threat by the ward.

So Dumbledore sending Harry back to the Dursleys after he knew the wards he left (if they were there at all) were gone, proves to me Harry's placement at the Dursleys was never about the wards to begin with. Because if the blood wards are gone, literally anywhere else around wizards who could protect Harry would be safer than at the Dursleys, even when thinking of Death Eaters and Voldemort as the only threat. If they came to find Harry at Private Drive, nothing would've stopped them (except Harry himself).

I could guess wards like this, if they actually were active, would have been an extension of Lily's protection and stopped Voldemrot from being able to enter the Dursleys' residence. From what's said, it seems this ward seems to target Voldemrot specifically, and no one else. But, as I mentioned, I don't think it's really there.

Lil'y Sacrificial Love Protection:

I mentioned in the past how intention and emotion mean a lot for magic in the HP universe. Lily, a witch who we are told repeatedly was powerful, intelligent, and talented, could very well cast a powerful protection out of her love and intention to protect her son. That is 100% possible with what we see magic is capable of and how magic seems to work.

That being said, the fact this never happened before suggests to me Lily did something different than just having a very strong wish for her son to survive. Dumbledore says it's because she had a choice, and in a way it is, but not because Voldemort gave her the option not to die, but because she chose to die instead of Harry.

I'll try to explain it, bear with me.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” “Stand aside, you silly girl. . . stand aside now.” “Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—” “This is my last warning—” “Not Harry! Please . . . have mercy. . . have mercy. . . . Not Harry! Not Harry! Please—I’ll do anything—” “Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”

(DH, 297)

This is the "spell" Lily casts — the incantation. This is her wish moments before her death: "Not Harry, kill me instead," that's what she says, that's her promise, that's her wish, that's the magic.

Lily's protection only works on Voldemort because her spell essentially made a bargain with Voldemort (that he didn't agree to). that he'd kill her instead of Harry. Once he killed Lily, he couldn't kill Harry because that was the protection she left him, and Voldemort won't be able to kill him because she died in his stead.

That's why we don't see the same thing happen after James dies to buy Lily and Harry time, why when others die to protect someone they aren't protected from the killing curse. What Lily did is a combination of a few extraordinary circumstances coming together:

She's an incredibly powerful witch (shown by her childhood magic that was very controlled and advanced (not unlike Tom Riddle) and Slughorn's boasting)

She loved Harry dearly. Loved him enough to power an accidental spell.

Chose and intended to die instead of her son. She had intent when making her plea, intent required for any spell.

So what essentially happened is that Lily created a situation where Voldemort physically can't kill Harry because Lily died in his stead. If, for example, Quirrell touched Harry without intending to kill him (like he did when they shook hands in Diagon Alley or when he pulled Harry to stand in front of the mirror) the protection won't activate. All it does is stop Voldemort from killing Harry because he already killed Lily in Harry's stead.

So, Voldemort, as I mentioned in the past, wants to kill Harry, this is his only ambition in the 2nd war. So he takes Harry's blood into himself so the protection won't work anymore. And we see it doesn't in the woods when Voldemort casts the killing curse and it doesn't rebound back on him (which would've happened otherwise).

This love protection from Lily doesn't require anything to stay active. It was cast because Voldemort killed her and Harry doesn't need to do anything to keep it active. Staying with the Dursleys wasn't for the sake of Lily's spell but for Dumbledore's ward.

As for Lily's spell not protecting Hary from anything else, like I mentioned, the bargain was that Voldemort would kill her instead of Harry, it would only protect Harry from being killed by Voldemort. If Voldemort just asked a random Death Eater to kill Harry it still wouldn't have worked, but that won't be because of Lily's love magic, but because of Harry pretty much always being the Master of Death.

Basically, Voldemort was doomed because he had no chance of killing Harry. Ever.

But what about when Harry died in book 7 and said he cast the same sacrificial love?

Well, I don't think Harry cast the same sacrificial love. His feelings and intentions were completely different. In his case, I think he just took the mastership of the Elder Wand so it wasn't performing as well for Voldemort afterward.

Conclusions

There are actually two different and distinct spells referred to by the characters when it comes to the protections Lily left for Harry.

The first is Lily's Sacrificial Love Spell which worked like a bargain. She pleaded with Voldemort to kill her instead of Harry and after he killed her, he could no longer kill Harry because he was protected.

Voldemort taking Harry's blood does indeed circumvent this spell and allows him to kill Harry in the woods (if temporarily).

The second is the Blood Ward Dumbledore talks about that is supposedly placed on the Dursleys' home. This spell was invoked by Dumbledore and is not part of Lily's spell.

It's supposed to build on and strengthen Lily's protection from what's implied.

this second spell would've stopped its activity the moment Harry stopped considering number 4, Private Drive his home (which happened quite young, as he doesn't remember ever considering it a home)

Personally, I don't think this blood ward ever existed, but even if it did, it was moot from the get-go and never done anything.

Voldemort taking Harry's blood in year 4, circumvented this ward too.

Basically, Dumbledore kept Harry at the Durselys less because of the wards and more because it suited him to ensure Harry would become the martyr he needed him to be (something I should write a full post about eventually).

[skitskatdacat63]

His bullfighting days aren't over quite yet.

+

[dazai-ritualist]

Yan!Alastor with a sweet little doe reader that loves to stay close to them and is rather clingy? Cuddles are a must, light kisses on the chin, wanting to walk together with held hands, physical contact is basically their love language! 🥰 even going for his fluffy ears cause who wouldn’t?? I love your writing btw! It makes me happy whenever you have something new for us ❤️

SAY YOU’LL NEVER LEAVE ME!

— yandere!alastor x clingy!reader

— AGH!! this made me scream thank you sm i love you!!! violence warning! pure yandere fluff 😲

is in love with how clingy you are! you refuse to leave his side, and he didn’t even need to force you! alastor loves a submissive darling who’d do what he desires without asking

not to mention how innocent you are! how did such a sweet little doe such as yourself get into hell? st. peter must have been mistaken!

because of your pure nature, alastor would only want the best things for his darling! just promise him to be his forever, and the rest of hell will be in the palm of your hand.

alastor himself isn’t one for physical touch though. he doesn’t mind keeping you at his side nor does he mind the kisses, don’t get it wrong, he adores your kisses! touching his ears though may be harder to adjust to.

he hates the reminder that he is a prey animal, he himself enjoys being the predator. your gentle touch against his fluffy ears and antlers as he twitches under your touch makes him quite uncomfortable to the fact you’re touching his weakest and most sensitive spot.

eventually, he grows to accept the fact that to be yours, he must make some sort of sacrifice. and if it’s this, so be it…

although, because of your clingy behavior, it only raises his possessiveness. seeing you even talking to someone else would make his blood boil.

especially if it is someone alastor has conflict with; seeing you even be approached by lucifer or vox would make him jealous; his smile would grow strained, his murderous intent thick in the air, enough to cut with a knife.

against lucifer or fellow overlords, alastor wouldn’t act upon it. despite his huge ego, he knows better than to pick a fight with demons who are more powerful than him.

to those who are lesser than him… unfortunately, they’re not as lucky.

of course though, being the gentleman he is, he refuses to taint your soul with all the carnage and bloodshed he commits to keep you as his sweet doe.

‘LIVE ON AIR’ the neon sign in alastor’s broadcast station lit up as the speakers across pentagram city came to life. a man begging for his life, screaming as various noises were heard. one could only assume the radio demon was tearing his soul to pieces.

the sound of flesh being ripped apart was gruesome as the sinner’s bloodcurdling screams grew weaker. the sound of his corpse being hit against the walls of the station at least 40 times until alastor threw the body onto the floor.

when the man screamed no more, alastor’s voice was heard, sighing deeply, as if all his pent-up stress had just been released before joyful music started playing in the background. “good evening, sinners! take this broadcast as a reminder not to mess with what belongs to me! lest you’d like me to feast on your screams.” alastor warned before he laughed maniacally. and then he was gone once more.

after releasing all of his fury, he returned back to your shared bedroom, his cute little doe in pretty jammies he bought for you. so comfy in bed while hugging a plushie of a manically-cute red kitty, the antlers on its’ head resembling alastor’s. “alastor, what took so long?” you pouted as he began to retire in his nightwear, first taking off his bowtie.

“forgive me, my doe. there were many things to cover tonight on my radio broadcast…” he smiled, pinching your plump cheeks; so yummy and jiggly under his touch. “could i make it up to you tonight?” he smiled widely.

“ugh, then hurry up, please?!” you hit the sheets in frustration. “ahaha… just be patient, my darling.” he patted your head, getting into bed with you. turning off the lights before he wrapped his lanky arms around your waist, burying his face in your hair and leaving a trail of light kisses over your head.

the next time you’d see alastor’s broadcast station, a peculiar skeleton is pinned, adding a grotesque look to the hotel

[augustinewrites]

repost of an old drabble bcs shibuya arc is starting and i am thinking of nanami (head in hands sobbing)

“that was reckless of you. dangerous, even.”

nanami’s tone is firm yet gentle, but you recognize a reprimand when you hear one.

“i’m fine,” you insist, even as you lift the hem of your shirt to press the cloth to the edges of the cut on your side. it’s shallow, thankfully, but everytime you turn you know it’s going to sting. “isn’t that all that matters at the end of the day?”

“you very well could not have been.” there’s a vein of irritation lacing his voice, you aren’t sure if it’s directed at you or the situation, but it puts you on edge.

shifting a little on the countertop, you twist the tap on to run your cloth under cool water again. “yeah, well, the chances of me dying were low, anyway.”

“low, but not zero,” he says shortly, placing the first aid kit beside you. “if you’d just let me—”

“let you what, kento?” you snap, wringing the pink-tinged cloth over the sink. you can’t exactly blame him for being worried. shallow as the wound may be, the amount of blood that’s soaked through your shirt made it look a lot worse than it actually felt. “let you die?”

the straight line his mouth is pressed in twitches into a grimace. “that’s not the point.”

“you would have done the same for me, right?”

he doesn’t hesitate when he says, “of course.”

“then that’s the point,” you counter. “you look out for me, i look out for you. i don’t regret what i did.”

a frustrated sigh slips past his lips, and you hiss slightly as you press the cloth to the cut once more, trying to clean up the last of the blood. you’ll have to patch it up as best you can before going to see shoko, lest you bleed out on the way there.

you’re reaching for the first aid kit when nanami catches your wrist. his expression is hard to read as ever, but he’s watching you carefully, meeting your gaze with a hesitance that’s unlike him.

“it would be easier if i did it.”

wordlessly, you nod and let him take the cloth from you. nanami quietly moves to your side, letting you hold onto his shoulder while he lightly dabs at the edges of the cut. he does it so carefully, hands moving deftly and efficiently as he cleans up the mess on your skin, apologizing softly whenever you so much as wince.

you wonder, briefly, if this is the same man you know as the 7:3 sorcerer. as a fighter, he’s cold, ruthless. you’ve seen him slice through curses with the ease of a hot knife going through butter. you’ve seen him put his fist through the thickest of concrete, perform a black flash four consecutive times.

but this man, this torrential force of jujutsu sorcery, handles you so tenderly. delicately. as if he’s afraid you’ll shatter in his grasp.

“you shouldn’t do that again,” he murmurs as he cuts a strip of gauze and a few pieces of medical tape.

“almost get my side split open by a curse?” you chuckle. “i don’t plan to, no.”

his lips turn down into a frown as he carefully smooths the gauze onto your cut. “don’t sacrifice yourself like that for me. please.”

the playful smile on your face is quick to fade. “sacrifice? i took a blow i knew would be non-lethal.”

he shakes his head, pulling back to let your hand fall from his shoulder. “non-lethal this time, but what if there’s a next time? you shouldn’t risk your life to make up for my own shortcomings as a sorcerer. if i lost you–”

your brows raise when he cuts himself off, clearing his throat and trying again. “if the school lost you, it’d be rather unfortunate.”

“for the school?” you repeat.

he shrugs as he begins packing away the supplies. “they’d be stuck with gojo as their sole teacher.” there’s a blush bleeding past the collar of your his as he averts his gaze, and for some reason, it makes you smile.

“well, we don’t want that, do we?” you ask softly, slipping off the counter and patting his bicep. “come on, i’m going to need a ride to the school to see shoko.”

nanami just nods, his hand automatically moving to your lower back, gently guiding you out the door.

“gojo isn’t that bad of a teacher,” you say off-handedly.

his gaze briefly flicks to yours, as if to check if you’re serious.

you can’t hold back the laughter fighting its way up your throat, and nanami cracks an amused grin, chuckling, “i didn’t believe you for a second. handling him without you is…taxing.”

you nudge him slightly. “so you admit you need me, huh?”

the hand on your back circles around your waist, carefully pulling you closer. “more than you know.”

[hopepetal]

Read on AO3

Reblogs do more than likes!

--

They had been running for some time now, chasing after Gem and Scott ever since proclaiming themselves allies. Chasing, without end, prey that was an expert at evading. It was frustrating, and not to mention exhausting.

Pearl took a moment to gasp for air, her footsteps stumbling to a halt. It took Scar a moment to notice, but when he did he stopped as well, turning to look back at her. “You good, Pearl?” he asked, tilting his head slightly in question. 

“Yeah,” she got out, “doin’ lovely, mate. Don’t worry about me, just need a second.” She bent over, resting her hands on her knees as she gasped. Her lungs and legs burned from the strain, and despite his calm demeanor she knew Scar was feeling the same.

It took Pearl a moment to realize that her hair was cascading down around her, falling into her face despite the fact that she had tied her hair back earlier. With a groan, she realized her ponytail had come loose, the ribbon she had used still tangled in her hair. “Hold on,” she got out, straightening back up, “I have to tie my hair back up. Can’t be fighting with my hair down.”

“Wait!” Scar set down his shield and bow before stepping forward. “I have a better idea.” Before Pearl could protest, he gently took the tangled ribbon from her hair. 

Pearl frowned. “What are you planning, Scar?”

“Sit down, Pearl.” Scar lowered himself to the ground and sat with his legs folded beneath him. “I’ll braid your hair.”

Pearl raised an eyebrow, laughing. She still clutched her bow in her hand, looking around nervously– they were almost a full death game in, and she still was on edge. As if she was planning on winning. “You know we don’t have that kind of time, Scar. Gem and Scott are still out there, and who knows what they’re planning?”

Scar shook his head, patting the ground in front of him. “Sit down. We need this rest, you know. Can’t fight too well if we’re exhausted.”

Pearl sighed, reluctantly setting down her bow as she sat. She kept her shield in her hand, laying it across her lap and fidgeting with the handle. “Alright.” She felt Scar pull her hair back, gently beginning to comb his fingers through her tangled locks. “Y’know, the final fight would go a lot easier if you killed me.”

Scar shook his head, still continuing to carefully brush through Pearl’s hair. “You know why I won’t do that, Pearl. I don’t like all those ‘heroic sacrifices’.”

Pearl laughed, continuing to fidget with her shield. Something about her laughter sounded a little bitter, nostalgic for something that had never happened. “Yeah, I can’t imagine why.”

Scar began dividing her hair up into sections, humming softly as he began to braid. “You have nice hair,” he commented, “very shiny. And soft.”

“You think so?” Pearl asked, free hand drifting up to play with one of her free locks. “Honestly, it just gets in the way during these games. I’m thinking of cutting it.”

Scar gasped, though the smile remained on his face. “Oh, I can only imagine… this game hasn’t even given us hairbrushes, the nerve!” After a moment of silence, he continued. “If you cut your hair, I won’t have any to braid, you know. How’s a man supposed to keep his hands busy like that?”

Pearl laughed, finally seeming to relax slightly as she set her shield to the side. “Grow out your own hair, you goof.” There was a sadness in her voice that Scar couldn’t physically understand– he’d never had long hair, so why did she sound like she was grieving something that never happened? And something so small at that.

For Pearl, the reason why was simple. How could she not grieve the parts of her friends that they’d forgotten they’d ever had? A smile that was missing its mischievousness, a laugh that was missing its depth. A look that had no recognition, no shared secrets. Memories like missing puzzle pieces, lost somewhere unknown. That was what she saw every time blood stained the ground, every time family was pitted against one another like soldiers at war.  

Scar continued to braid Pearl’s hair, humming a cheery tune that Pearl knew he couldn’t recall learning. Deft hands paused, lightly holding the strands of hair, before Scar pulled away to grab something. Pearl heard him pick up his sword then hesitate, considering something. 

“Aren’t you afraid of me stabbing you in the back?” he asked, to which Pearl laughed. “What? It’s a serious question!”

Pearl turned slightly to look at Scar, giving him a smile. “If you were going to stab me, Scar, it would’ve been when I asked you to. Besides,” she added, turning back around, “even if you did stab me now, I wouldn’t be upset. You’d get ten extra hearts.”

“Eh,” Scar dismissed, far too nonchalant for a discussion of death, “I don’t need ten extra hearts.”

Pearl raised an eyebrow, though she knew he wouldn’t be able to see that. “You might not think the same when we’re fighting against Gem and Scott, mate.”

Scar cut something with his sword before setting it back to the side, his hands taking Pearl’s hair in them again. “That’s a problem for future Scar. Present Scar doesn’t kill his only friend in the entire server.”

Pearl felt a pang of guilt shoot through her. She knew that feeling well– loneliness, grief. Loneliness was an old friend that had once been her only companion. She recognized that in Scar, in his voice and his eyes. She had seen it once before, in the second game. Not that he would remember it.

He might, soon. The voice that whispered to her was none other than her own, her deepest thoughts given words. He could win this. He could become like us. 

I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, she shot back, unknowingly tensing up. It was a little silly, getting into an argument with herself, but Pearl had always been a rather silly person. Unconventional, even. At one point, she’d been called insane. Perhaps it was fitting.

And yet you want him to win. The voice made a good point– she made a good point. If she didn’t want Scar to win, she could easily just kill him now. She should kill him now if she so desperately wanted to spare him the fate of the victors. He’d put up a fight, and he was good with a sword. Pearl knew that much, knew that there would be a moment of surprise before his eyes narrowed and heart hardened and the battle began. She also knew that he wouldn’t win against her on the chance she did try her hardest, that she fought with all her might.

Scar knew this too, and perhaps that was why he teamed up with her in the first place. Maybe he had found kinship in their shared loneliness. Maybe he’d wanted protection. Maybe he needed a friend. It was unlikely, but maybe he’d felt drawn to her by a bond he couldn’t quite understand, one made by witnessing the violent and sudden end of a server he couldn’t remember. There were a thousand possible reasons as to why he’d chosen her, and perhaps she’d truly never left the tower after all, because the fact he had chosen her at all still slightly baffled her. 

Well. No matter. He chose her, and in the end they’d all die anyway. 

“You have gentle hands,” she commented. “Joel tried braiding my hair before. Nearly tugged my whole head off my neck, that man. It’s a wonder Lizzie’s put up with him this long.” No matter what memories they lost, it always seemed like Joel and Lizzie’s marriage remained an unchangeable fact. Maybe it had something to do with “‘til Death do us part’”, though Pearl wasn’t really sure. 

Maybe she’d try marrying someone when they got back to Hermitcraft, just to see if it carried over to the next death game. And wasn’t that a strange thought, the next death game? There would be another, Pearl knew, if Grian had anything to say about it. He was a little strange like that, but she’d come to expect those kinds of things from her brother. 

“Why thank you!” Scar was beaming, she could tell by his voice. “This just comes so naturally to me. Maybe I should’ve been a hairdresser instead of a trader.” 

Pearl laughed, remembering the intricate braids Scar would put his hair in during Last Life and their home server, Hermitcraft. Although he couldn’t remember them, he remembered how to do them. That was a small relief, at the very least. It was nice to know that her friends kept some parts of themselves, instead of being the blank slates she had originally thought when she first regained her memories. 

“Maybe,” she responded, starting to pick at the grass in front of her, plucking a small flower from the ground. “I’d go to you all the time if you were my hairdresser.” Her voice took on a teasing lilt as she continued. “Just as long as you promise not to do anything too crazy with my hair, alright?”

Scar giggled, his laughter another part of himself that he had kept even after the loss of his memories. “I can’t promise anything, sunflower! Who knows what might happen if you stop paying attention? I might turn you blonde if you aren’t careful.”

Pearl snorted, twirling a strand of grass around her finger idly. “And where do you suppose you’ll get the dye for that, mate? Or the means to make my hair lighter so it’s easier to dye? We’re not exactly exploding with resources here.”

“Hmm, true…” Scar hummed thoughtfully. “We’ve found ourselves in a bit of a pickle, Pearl!”

Pearl shook her head, rolling her eyes. “No, Scar, we aren’t. I didn’t want to go blonde in the first place, so there’s no need to get the materials we’d need for it. Just keep braiding my hair, you goof!”

“Aww, alright!” Scar laughed softly as he went back to braiding Pearl’s hair. “Almost done.” His voice took on an uncharacteristically serious tone. “How are you feeling? Injuries, exhaustion? General… mental state?” He gave a small chuckle on the last one. “I mean, other than the obvious. This game has been… a trip.”

Pearl groaned, stretching out her arms in front of her. “Tell me about it. I lost all of my Mounders.” Her shoulders slumped. “I really wanted them to win, Scar. I really did.”

“I know,” Scar murmured, “and I’m sorry you didn’t get to see that through. You did your best, Pearl.” He paused. “And what about you? I would’ve thought that after all your allies… got out… that you would want to take up the sword and win for them. But you haven’t really… been doing that. You even offered to let me kill you.”

Pearl held back a shudder, wanting to wrap her arms around herself to fight off the sudden cold that had settled over her. “I don’t want to win,” she mumbled, “Even if I did, I don’t think they’d be too happy if I tried.”

Scar made a confused noise. “What was that? I couldn’t quite catch it.”

Pearl shook her head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” She took a breath. “I just don’t want to win. Don’t see the point in all this, really. Never have. What’s a victory when everyone else around you is dead?”

Scar hummed thoughtfully, thinking about it. “I suppose you’re right. But in the end, isn’t it better for it to be them than me?”

Pearl chuckled sadly. “Not when you have to live with the consequences.”

Scar paused for a moment, as if struck by a sudden revelation. “...I think I understand. Thanks for, uh, answering my questions.” He continued braiding for another moment. “Alright, I think we’re all done!”

Pearl stood with Scar, reaching back to gently touch her braid. There was a shallow pool of water nearby, and she walked over to check her reflection. “Really, Scar?” Woven into her braid was a sunflower, which must’ve been what Scar cut with his sword earlier. 

Scar laughed, joining her by the water. “Doesn’t it look pretty? I thought it was fitting. And!” he continued, over Pearl’s soft laughter, “it adds some brightness to the whole ensemble!” He gestured at Pearl’s outfit, the same she had worn in her past games.

Maybe she would change up her red look next game. If there was a next game. “It does, it does,” she agreed, stifling her laughter. “Thank you, Scar. I look very pretty now, and my hair is out of the way.”

Scar looked over at her, eyes wide. “You mean you won’t cut it? You promise?”

Pearl smiled, reaching out and putting a hand on Scar’s shoulder. “I promise I won’t cut my hair, Scar. Not after you put so much effort into braiding it. I wouldn’t do that to ya, mate. That’s just cruel.” 

Scar grinned. “I knew I could trust you!” With that, he turned away from the water and walked back to where he had left his sword and shield. 

Pearl spent another moment there, gazing out at the water. Did he really mean that? Did Scar truly trust her? If so, had it just been this small moment that made him let down his guard? No, surely not. Scar was intelligent and cunning, and rarely did he let his walls down for anyone. Something must’ve happened for him to feel this way towards her. Something she had done, or said, maybe.

And that was just if he was being truthful with his words– she knew Scar wasn’t one to ignore the benefits of weaving lies and charm into his speech. He was a masterful manipulator, she knew many underestimated him for the cheery, unassuming front he put up. But that was just another reason as to why he was dangerous.

“Pearl?” Scar’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts, and she looked back at her ally. “You comin’?”

“Yeah.” Pearl jogged over, feeling much more energized than before. Picking up her bow and her shield, she did one last check to make sure everything she had was in order. Once she was certain, she turned to Scar with a smile. “Lets win this one, Scar.”

Scar grinned in return, red eyes shining. “Why, I think that’s a wonderful idea!” 

Lightning struck the ground as Gem took Scott’s sacrifice, and once again Pearl stopped Scar. “My offer still stands, you know. Kill me and take the hearts, you’ll stand a better chance against Gem if you do.”

Scar pretended to think about it. “I think I’ll stand a better chance against Gem if I have you on my team. So, no thank you! But thanks for the offer. Come on, we can’t let Gem get away!” 

The chase continued, feeling much more light-hearted than the ones at the end of Double Life had been. To be fair, she had gone a little insane in the last few days, but still. Maybe it was Scar’s jovial attitude about killing. Maybe it was the fact that she still had an ally this late into the game. Maybe it was something Pearl would never be able to put her finger on, no matter how hard she tried to think of a reason.

The two inevitably caught up with Gem, who had grown exhausted from the chase. Despite being enemies now, Pearl still felt guilty as she raised her sword to attack, Gem’s wide eyes and shouts of an unfair fight making her hesitate and pull back. It was two against one after all, and Pearl had no intentions of winning. Ganging up on Gem like that felt wrong, but maybe that was just her old bond to the other holding her back. Scar had no such qualms, swooping in when she pulled back to quickly cut Gem down. 

Pearl could hardly believe it had happened until lightning struck the ground, and silence rang between the two as Scar stood over Gem’s body. They’d discovered that bodies remained after the last death when Jimmy had died, but it was still a little disturbing to just see Gem laying there. Like she was asleep. 

It didn’t feel right. 

Pearl had to bite back a snort. Four death games in, and she was still disturbed by the sight of dead bodies. Honestly, it was a little pathetic. She’d killed, and been killed, and yet… somehow, it never got any easier. Somehow, it just got harder. The blood staining her hands had become so much that it was hard to hold onto her weapon, and her scars ached whenever she killed. 

Pearl brushed her braid back over her shoulder and lowered her bow, offering Scar a weak smile. “You did it, Scar. Good job.”

Scar laughed softly, not turning around to face her just yet. “It’s just us two left, then. The last ones alive.” “Mhm. What’s your plan now, Scar?” Pearl kept her voice casual, trying to hide the trembling in her hands. How are you going to do it?

How are you going to kill me?

Scar answered her question by turning and raising his bow. Pearl hardly had any time to blink before he shot her, the force of the arrow sending her stumbling back with a shout. Instinct took over then, and she ran as Scar continued to shoot at her. All thoughts of sacrifice fled her mind as she dodged the flying arrows that missed her just barely, reminding her just how good of a shot Scar was. 

“Going for it immediately, huh?” she shouted back as she ran, pulling her sword. Not that she intended to use it, not to kill. But she would put up a fight. If Scar wouldn’t let her sacrifice herself for him, then she would do the next best thing. She would fight him, and he would earn his victory. Not like the hollow sacrifice Scott made for her, where victory was force-fed to Pearl by his hands. No, she wouldn’t do that to Scar. She respected him too much to throw the fight. 

That didn’t mean she would try to win, not in the slightest. But she would do her best to not make it easy for him. His victory would be painful no matter what she did, but at the very least she could make sure it wasn’t a hollow one.

The next arrow hit her as she ran through the field of sunflowers they had been sitting in just earlier, when Scar had offered to braid her hair. It felt like a lifetime ago as she crashed into the ground, yelping in pain as she tried to scramble back up. “Really, Scar?” She couldn’t help but laugh as she ran, the pain shocking as adrenaline flowed through her veins. 

“This game!” Scar called, continuing the chase as he spoke. “There were more of them, weren’t there? And you won.”

Pearl stumbled, surprise catching her off guard mid-stride. She cursed and turned back, swinging her sword down and catching Scar in the side. He stumbled back, granting her more time to flee– but not enough. As she ran, Scar drew back the bowstring, aiming carefully. A running target was harder to hit, but Pearl was moving in a relatively straight path. All he had to do was aim a little ahead, steady, then release. 

It was over the moment the arrow flew, striking Pearl in the chest and pushing her over the edge of a cliff, sending her plummeting into the caves below. Lightning struck, and then all was silent. 

Scar stood, clutching his bow in a white-knuckle grip. “Pearl?” He took a step forward. The wind blew around him, rustling through his hair and shawl. Sunflowers bowed against the breeze, gesturing in the direction where she’d fallen. “Pearl?! Pearl, sunflower, where are you?” 

The breeze led him a few steps further in a stumbling haze, until he stood at the edge of the caves that he’d sent his friend? Enemy? falling into. He didn’t know what he expected– maybe to see Pearl gazing back up at him, a smile on her face and weapon drawn, hurt but alive– but as he looked down into the caves, he found only the body of his first and final ally.

A presence danced around him, heavier than the wind but acting just like it. She’s dead, Scar. You won. Five words whispered in his ear, as thin as the passing breeze. Five words that would’ve meant the world to Scar, once upon a time. Five words that now meant nothing to him as he gazed down at the body of his only friend.

Crouching, Scar swung his legs over the edge of the cave, slowly and carefully lowering himself down. He had to find footholds so that he wouldn’t fall and possibly lose his life as well– the fight with Pearl had left him with fewer hearts than he would’ve liked. “Hold on, Pearl,” he mumbled as he made his way down to where Pearl lay. “I’m coming to get you, I’m… I’m coming, don’t worry, I’ll be right there.”

He dropped the last few feet, wincing as pain shot up his legs and sapped at his strength. Luckily, the drop wasn’t far enough to cause any actual injury, but it was closer than he would’ve liked. He stumbled to catch himself, pulling himself to a halt in front of Pearl’s body. 

It was hard to look at her like this. Pearl was someone who was so full of life, always. She was strong and fierce, fighting for what she wanted every day, every moment. She never gave up, not once in all the time that Scar knew her. It hadn’t been long, and it was hard to really get to know someone during a death game like this, but Scar had always been pretty good at reading people. 

He knelt by Pearl’s body, brushing her hair out of her face and gently closing her eyes. He didn’t delude himself with pretending she was asleep– what was the point of avoiding death now, when he had caused so much of it? His hands were stained red with blood that he would never be able to wash off. 

Scar lingered a moment longer before shrugging off his shawl and gently wrapping it around Pearl. He was careful with her body, handling her as gently as he could as he settled her back against the stone. There wasn’t as much blood as Scar thought there should’ve been, but he wiped the blood that was there off Pearl’s face as best he could. 

Then, his hands went to the braid. It had held up well, keeping the sunflower he had woven in secured in her hair. He hesitated for a moment before untying the ribbon that held it in place and beginning to undo the braid. 

He began to hum while he worked. Slowly, reverently. A song that came from a place he couldn’t quite remember, a home he once thought he’d never forget. In another world, he would know he was humming the last rites for a loved one, to send them off into the stars. In this world, all he knew of it was the deep, longing ache in his chest and the tears that it caused to spring to his eyes.

Carefully, Scar took the sunflower from Pearl’s hair, placing it down in his lap. He gently combed his fingers through her hair one last time, before tucking it into the shawl. Picking the sunflower back up, he leaned forward and gently kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, sweet sunflower. And goodbye.”

He stood and once more began humming softly, climbing out of the ravine with the sunflower still in his hand. Scar took extra care to not crush the delicate flower as he pulled himself up onto solid ground. The sun was just beginning to set as he made his way toward the Secret Keeper, the intimidating statue that reigned over the entire server. The towering tyrant seemed to gaze down at Scar with eyes he knew he couldn’t see, taunting him with a victory that tasted at best bittersweet. 

It grew dark as Scar approached the buttons, but he held tight to the reminder of the sun’s light in his hand. It gave him the strength to push forward even as his legs threatened to give out from under him. He could not hide the trembling, however, that came from the rush of adrenaline and fear. 

He raised his eyes to meet the invisible ones looking down on him, a challenge held in his gaze, “You wanted me to be the villain?!” he called out, the weight of being watched settling on his shoulders. “Fine! Here I am!” He reached out and pressed the button to succeed. 

Welcome home.

And Scar… remembered. What sounded like thousands of voices overlapping filled his mind, causing him to stumble back with a yelp. He dropped the sunflower, clutching at his head as he was forced to his knees in front of the Secret Keeper.

Sacrifices offered and refused. Atonement rejected, forgiveness given. Arms outstretched, to offer a helping hand. Tears falling into blood-stained water as the two left locked eyes. “For all you have done to keep me alive this long, you may slay me and take the enchanter.”

Bloodied sand, prickling cactus spines, heat waves and cool nights. Two impossible friends, against the world. Traitorous actions, painful fists, a killing blow. “Scar, whatever happens, I think we can count this as a double victory.” 

A loneliness that echoed in the silence around him, howling as the wind at night. Bonds broken off entirely, leaving him with only the stars for company. “Everything that happened last season is null and void. Doesn’t count, okay?”

A bitterness that came from once tasting too much sweetness, like slightly burnt cookies. A loneliness that ached worse than when he had been truly alone, for this ache was born of lies and deceit. “I made them, they’re for your secret soulmate.” 

A moment of joy, in the midst. A time of family, friendship, and security. Before the secrets, before the lies and the pain, before the fire and the red wars. “We’re the cockers!” 

Allies for the first time in what felt like forever. People who truly had his back, no matter what. A place where he could let his guard down and smile, laugh, and live. If only for a moment, he knew what it was like to be loved. He was protected, and he was protective. “You don't go against the family.”

You are seated in a field, surrounded by grass blades, ebbing and flowing through the gusts of your imagination. Each of those blades represent a past life. Memories. Desires. Dreams. And past loves… By plucking one you shall reveal–

“Home,” Scar gasped out, eyes snapping open. “I need to go home.”

You are home.

The presence became louder, more unbearable. Each voice clamored for attention, every new memory begging to be heard. The weight of the universe pushed him into the ground, making him gasp for air in a strained panic. 

It was too much. All the memories, all the emotions– it was too much. Scar yelled in pain as it just grew louder and louder, the pressure growing as the weight pushing him down increased. Just like a volcano, it felt as though he was going to erupt at any minute.

And then a cold wind brushed up against Scar’s skin, weaving and dancing around him. “Enough.” 

The voices instantly quieted, the pressure vanishing as Scar collapsed to the ground gasping for air. He tried blinking away the tears and black spots that cluttered his vision, making it difficult to see properly. 

What he could see, though, took his breath away.

Pearl stood in front of him as a shimmering silver spirit, facing the Secret Keeper with her wings flared out to their full span. She glowed as if she were made from moonlight and stardust, and Scar couldn’t help but stare at her in awe. 

“He belongs with us. You will leave him alone.” Her voice was thin and brittle– as if it might snap were someone able to reach out and grab it. There was an echo to it as well, ringing in Scar’s mind as she spoke.

The feeling of being watched vanished completely, and Pearl turned back to Scar. She smiled a silvery smile, and held out her hand to him. “C’mon, mate. Let's go home.”

Scar took her hand, gasping at the sudden coldness that flooded his body– Death. He stood up, trying not to look down at his body that lay where he had fallen just moments earlier. As he stepped forward to join his friend, he couldn’t help but glance back and notice the sunflower lying beside his body, just inches away from his open hand. Nothing he could do about it now. 

Scar turned back to face Pearl, noticing the three other spirits that had gathered. He remembered them all now. The winners of the previous games. His allies, his enemies, his friends. His eyes caught Grian’s, and he couldn’t help but smile. 

“Well hello there,” he greeted his old ally with a grin, letting go of Pearl’s hand to bow dramatically. “Guess we finally cashed in on that double victory, huh?”

Grian laughed, rolling his eyes. His expression warmed as he took a step forward, reaching out to take Scar’s hand in his. “Little late, but I’ll accept it. How are you, Scar?”

“Well, he’s very dead, so I can’t imagine he’s doing great,” Scott interjected, ignoring the glare the two avians gave him. “What? I’m not wrong.” 

Scar shook his head. “That you are! I’m actually doing much better now that I remember everyone’s going to come back. Makes me feel a lot less guilty about killing all those people!” 

Pearl sighed, though she couldn’t hide the smile on her face. “Y’know, I felt the same way after I won Double Life. And now the games are so much easier for me! It’s nice to get all the murderous urges out now that I know everyone’s going to be fine eventually.”

“This is why everyone calls you two insane,” Martyn muttered, crossing his arms. “Now can we go back home now? I don’t like hanging out in these servers longer than I have to.”

Grian let go of Scar’s hand to pull up some sort of screen, typing commands into it. “Sure, just give me one second.” He continued typing on the screen, swiping through various options and closing others. “Good game, by the way,” he added, without looking up, “I don’t think anyone expected you to win.”

Scar gave a half shrug. “To be honest, G, I didn’t either! Totally thought Gem was going to get this one.”

Grian nodded. “But that’s just how these games go, mhm? Expect the unexpected. Pearl’s win should’ve taught us that much.” He spent another moment typing before closing the screen. “…Alright, we should be heading back to our respective servers soon enough.” He reached out to take Scar’s hand again, taking Pearl’s hand in his other. 

“Can’t believe we almost have all of the Boatem crew here,” Scar blurted out, “do you think Impulse will join us next time?”

Pearl laughed. “I hope so! I don’t think Mumbo will be winning any time soon, though. So we might just have to settle for four out of five.”

Scar nodded sagely. “You speak very wise words, Pearl. I fear Mumbo may be too… how do people say it? I fear he may be too much of a wet cat.”

Martyn groaned. “Oh, don’t remind me.”

Laughter rose from the group as the code began its work, and they all began to fade away. Grian held tightly to Scar and Pearl’s hands, locking eyes with the both of them. “I’ll see you both soon, okay?”

Pearl giggled, squeezing Grian’s hand in return. “See you soon, Griba!”

“Goodbye!” Scar called to Martyn and Scott, their responding farewells faint as the server faded away around him. 

And then there was darkness. 

And then Scar woke up.

[holylulusworld]

Indecent Proposal (4)

Summary: Your boyfriend wants to be part of their empire. You are the pawn he’s willing to sacrifice.

Pairing: Mobster!Stucky x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, shitty boyfriend, the reader doesn’t take shit from no one, sexy mobsters, slow burn (kinda), implied character's death

A/N: This is a shorter, interlude chapter. I wanted to go straight for the smut but decided against it because…I’m a tease :)

Indecent Proposal (3)

Indecent Proposal masterlist

“What’s this?” Steve holds up your scrapbook. “That’s pretty. It looks like you put a lot of effort into this book.”

“It’s a scrapbook,” you sigh, and grab the book. “Forget it. Whatever I dreamed of back then will never come true. Maybe I should burn it.”

“What do you mean, doll?” Bucky worriedly places his hand on your shoulder. “What did you dream of? And why do you think this will never come true?”

You sigh again. “Mr. Barnes, with all due respect, look at the mess my life is right now. My boyfriend sold me to you. And whatever you want from me is far from love. All you want is my womb.”

Steve frowns deeply. They didn’t think so far. All they had in mind was to make you theirs and fill you up. “Doll…we…” Steve shakes his head. “Buck?”

You wave them off. “No biggie. Life fucks you over most of the time. It could be worse, right? Scott could’ve cheated on me with his ex and sold me to his bosses.” You chuckle darkly. “Oh-wait. He just did that.”

“Y/N, we are not so bad,” Bucky grins at you. “We promise to never cheat on you. You are the missing piece Stevie, and I were looking for all our lives.”

You sneer. “Let’s try to be painfully honest. You want to stuff me with dick and knock me up. There is no way out for me. How could I escape you and your husband?”

You walk toward your bedroom, ignoring their boring looks. If they force you to accept your fate, you won’t roll over and just take it.

“You stole her scrapbook?” Bucky grins as his husband thumbs through your scrapbook. “You are a dangerous man, Mr. Rogers.”

“She wanted me to throw it away,” Steve huffs. “I took it with me to find out more about Y/N than her blood type and what she does for a living. If we want this to work out, we should…”

“Buy her flowers,” Bucky suggests. “And invite her to live with us.”

“Slow down, Buck. We should ask her on a date first. But flowers are not the worst gift for a first date.”

“How about we murder her enemies too,” the brunette grins darkly. “I know she doesn’t want us to kill Scottie boy, but I’d love to do more to him than break a few bones.”

“You know…” Steve dips his head and smirks darkly. “We could just let him disappear because he fucked with us. He lied and broke our deal by not telling Y/N about the deal.”

“I love how you think,” Bucky cups Steve’s face, looking him deep in the eyes, “and I love you, baby. You know that, right? Y/N is going to be an addition, but she’ll never take your place.”

“Buck, if I’d believe for one second you want to replace me you would end up bending over the table, your ass spanked raw,” Steve chuckles at his husband’s expression. “Oh, you’d love that, huh?”

“We will see, Stevie…we will see…”

“Far well, Scottie boy.” Bucky locks his gun and tugs it away. “This was much too fast and painless for that bastard. I should’ve broken a few bones or cut him open.”

“A shot straight through the heart. Good job.” Steve leans over Scott’s lifeless body. “Y/N can never know we killed him after she asked us to not do it.”

“We did it for us, not her. Y/N’s hands are clean. She had nothing to do with this, Steve. But I agree. She should never get to know about what happened tonight.”

“She wanted a dress like that for her wedding? Nice. Very nice.” Steve is obsessed with your scrapbook. He read every line and looked at every picture. Steve even ran his fingers over the fabric samples.

“Stevie, what are you doing with the scrapbook? Do you want to find the perfect wedding dress for her or more?”

“I want to get to know her better. Y/N put a lot of effort into creating this book. We should take our time and find out what she wants and likes.”

“Hmm…that’s not the worst idea, Steve. Give me that.” Bucky snatches the book out of Steve’s hands. “Let’s see what we can do for our doll…”

[ghouljams]

I come bearing an angsty thought at this late hour! (Because it's like 2am here but I feel the need to share my sad with someone and you're my unwilling sacrifice of the day)

Anyway, I was thinking about how since Simon has experience as a butcher before he joined the service, in his cowboy era he would probably be more than happy to volunteer for butchering duty when someone brings something back from a hunt or one of the animals is slaughtered for dinner. So, it's the first time he's doing it since joining Price on the farm, probably has Goose chatting with him as he works since she's not squeamish when it comes to skinning an animal, and everything is going well.

But then, Simon goes to hang some of the meat up on a meat hook and it's like everything comes to a screeching halt. His whole body locks up, and although he logically knows that he's not in any danger and he's done this hundreds of times before, he hasn't touched a meat hook since Roba... The hook is swaying slightly in the wind, and it looks so, so sharp, and just thinking about how easily it can tear through skin and muscle-

Goose probably needs to go get Price, because Simon is not okay.

Oooh, I love hurting the boy. Early-ish days, the first time Ghost needed to butcher anything at the farm.

"Usually we send bucks to the butcher," you tell him, "but we've got set-up for dressings at least."

"Field dressed it, just need a clean space and some decent knives," Ghost supplies, hauling the buck out of the truck bed and over his shoulder. He doesn't need to, could always pull the truck around properly, but he likes the way your eyes follow the flex of his muscles. It's not a far walk, and he can shoulder 200 pounds easy.

You're all sweet smiles and laughter, asking for the worst deer blind jokes of the day; Ghost doesn't know how you can be so... yourself. You pull the cellar doors open, easing each one to the ground and giving Ghost the heads up to watch his height on the way down. Ghost keeps his eyes on the steps, careful to keep the buck from scraping the low clearance as you click on the lights. He glances around the old storm cellar when he gets his feet on the dirt. It's cool, good for storage, there are already cans lining the shelves along the walls. There's a table in the middle, butcher block. Ghost smiles to himself.

"Whose kit?" He asks, dropping the deer on the table.

"My uncle's," You toss it over your shoulder, moving towards the back, "he was the butcher of the family, Daddy's a good hunter but he sure as shit ain't cutting into that with anything stronger than a steak knife."

Ghost chuckles, tugging his own hunting knife from his belt. "Not for everyone," He calls back, "but better than 'aving someone else take the best pieces."

"Says the man giving away backstraps," You grumble. Ghost shakes his head, he hopes you never let that go. Sweet thing. Some day he'd work up the nerve to propose, find some reason to give you that was better than just himself.

"I'm not 'earing you complain about that, am I?" He jokes, glancing back over his shoulder, watches you give a sharp tug at a ceiling beam and rip down a hook. It hangs in the air, curving its horrible point back towards the heavy chain that holds it in place, the metal black with dried blood. Ghost's breath catches in his chest, his vision narrowing onto a singular point.

"Get away from that," Ghost tells you, his voice short, his eyes darting over the metal. You say something a thousand miles away, and wrap your hand around the hook. Ghost's breath bursts out of him like a gag, heaving out of his chest, his ribs throbbing with the memory of hanging. It's like he can't get enough air it, it all comes out too quickly, and the whole room smells like iron. Iron and dirt. You hold your hand over the point, speaking again, gibberish, garbled nonsense, your accent is too close to a memory he wants to scrub himself clean of. It's when you press your fingers against the mean edge of the hook that he really finds it in himself to move.

He's too sure that you're going to spear yourself, that your stigmata might mirror his own, holes punched in your body from the same terrible instrument.

Ghost's hand grabs your arm and rips you away from the meat hook, his breath coming fast and wild. He can see it, he can see the way it would happen, he can feel the blood under his nails. The process of being lifted like meat onto the hook, the blinding pain of the sharp tip piercing through layers of fat and muscle, the curve of it forcing its way through his body and around his ribs. He can still feel the metal under his hands, the links of chain that he tried to pull himself off of. He can feel each slippery, blood soaked, attempt to free himself.

He can see the way he'd lift you onto the hook, can feel the weight of you under his hand, the way you struggle against his bruising grip, the thump of your hand against his chest. He could add another scar to your body, inflict it on you himself, you could match, you could hate him, you could know, and he could save you the way he couldn't save himself. He could hurt you. Does he want to hurt you? Why does he want to hurt you? He doesn't. He does. He doesn't. He's-

You grab either side of his face and drag him to look at you. Ghost feels like his eyes might vibrate out of his skull, his vision blurring, aching with the lack of focus as it darts to and fro. "What has five toes and isn't your foot?" You ask him.

Ghost's brain grinds to a halt. What? What are you asking him? What does that have to do with-

"My foot," You finish, giving him a little shake. Something bursts out of Ghost that isn't pain or shock. He barks out a laugh, the tension in his muscles squeezing it out of him. It bubbles up from his chest and boils over, his body shaking with the release of it. His breath is quick still, something tightening in his core that doubles him over and forces his hands onto his knees as his laughter gives way to shaking sobs. There are no tears, he can't feel any tears, can't feel much of anything.

He can hear his heart racing, his blood rushing in his ears, as he stares at the dirt floor. No blood, no wounds, no bodies. He grabs his chest, feels the joined skin over his heart, the cold beat of it, dry. Your feet move like you're going to leave. He grabs you again, swallows down the beg for forgiveness, and instead squeezes your hand tight.

"I'm gonna go get Daddy," You tell him quick.

"Don't." Ghost tells you, trying to stifle his breathing, trying to reign in the heaving of his chest.

You sound apologetic when you touch his cheek and tell him, "I have to."

He knows you do. Ghost squeezes his eyes shut, feels your hand slip from his grip. He's never going to be as strong as he needs to be, is he?

[grippingbeskar]

i wanna be yours

frank castle x fem!reader

warnings: explicit content minors dni! 18+ (mxf, lil splash of dirty talk, first time together?) swearing, mentions of canon typical violence

a/n: based on this request from the lovely @lemon-world1 you know i’d write whatever you give me okay <3

“Frank.” You breathe out at the sight of him. He’s the last person you would have thought would be on your doorstep. You thought… you could have sworn on your life that yesterday would have been the last time you’d ever see him.

It broke something in you, but it was for the best.

Your work was over. Whatever you did or didn’t have with him, all the late night stake outs and crammed car rides, it had to end when your business did. You both knew that. You didn’t live lives that were compatible with indulging the warmth he gave you every time he looked at you like he did.

Like he was right now.

He’s panting like he ran here, cropped hair sticking to the side of his face. Rain drips off his nose, slips over the healed cut on his cheek. You remember how he got it, how his blood splattered across your face and how you screamed his name. It was the first time you realised you needed him, that little scare.

“What are you doing here?” You manage to speak, but he’s not said a word. He’s just breathing hard, both hands gripping the edge of your doorframe, eyes boring into you. He’s so tall, he always looks down on you. Usually it doesn’t bother you, but right now you feel small. Like prey, waiting to be hunted down and torn apart. That’s how intense he is sometimes, and it’s impossible not to be sucked into it.

He steps into your apartment, and you step back to give him the room. Your eyes flutter, confusion and temptation swirling in a sudden battle in your stomach. This was not smart. You were a lone wolf— you worked alone. That’s how you survive.

You should tell him to leave.

Now.

His hand slips over yours, gently, to where your holding the door open. He takes over, and shuts it behind him. Your hand follows it, and when the lock clicks your fate shut, his hand doesn’t let yours go.

“Frank.” You say again, weaker this time. He lets his hand wander higher on your arm.

“I thought about it.” He says, his voiced dry and strained.

“Thought about what?”

“You. I’m always fuckin’ thinking about you.” He shakes his head, like he’s mad at himself for it.

You understand. You can’t get him out of your head, either.

“I’m not lettin’ you leave.” Frank says as he steps closer to you, and meets no resistance when you let him tug your hips closer to his. Despite the rain, he’s warm on your body, lighting up all the pieces of you that he’s made his own. “Don’t go.”

“I have to— our job is done here. This—“ You gesture between the both of you, where your chests nearly touch “— this has to be done, too. We put everyone in danger if I stay.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” He nearly growls it out. You bite your lip to stop a smile, his hands moving up to dance along your ribcage. He drops your eyes and scans your body, drawing along the line where the two of you meet. “I can’t let you go.”

“I don’t want to let you go, either. But what about—“

“I’ll figure it out. Just tell me you’ll stay with me.” His eyebrows furrow on his hardened face, and you want to smooth the lines of him. To take the tension out of his face like you know you can.

His words pull your heartstrings. You know you sacrifice everything, put everyone in danger if the two of you risk being seen together. But… the feeling of his hands along your body, the way his head dips and leaves a trail of zapping warmth along your jaw as he softly drags his mouth along your skin, tasting you. You couldn’t say no to him. You wouldn’t dream of it.

“Stay with me.” He calls to you again, and you’re already nodding when he claims your mouth and kisses you deep.

It moves quickly. It’s hard and fast, the way he scoops you up and wraps your legs around his hips. He spins you around, your apartment suddenly foreign to you as you get lost in the tangle of his tongue on yours. Things clatter and smash as he shoves you onto the nearest table, pressing your back to the wall. He groans when your hips roll against him, nipping your bottom lip with his teeth.

He grabs at your hips, your sides, your face— any part of you close enough to hold and pull closer is covered by his claiming hands. You drag your fingers through his wet hair, dragging the tips of your nails over his scalp. He groans again, muffling the sound against you as he starts to bruise your neck with his wandering mouth. You let your head fall back, feeling him suck at the skin under your jaw.

You want him to do it harder. More noticeable. You want people to know— you were his. Fuck everyone else, fuck safety. This was worth burning the world to the ground. His teeth nip at the sensitive skin, smoothing an apology with a warm kiss, and you moan his name.

“Frank.” The room echos it back to you, and you move again. Frank lifts you, attaching his mouth back to yours and encouraging the slow roll of your hips in his hands. He’s cupped your ass completely, gripping the flesh and slipping his hands under your shorts so he can touch more of you.

He was greedy like this. Always wanting more, wanting you to bare nothing to him. It was impossible to be insecure with him— he bathed every inch of your skin in adoration, whether it be with his mouth, his fingers or the rest of him. He was obsessive— hungry for it, and most of all he was fucking insatiable.

He lets your ass hit the cool marble of the kitchen counter, tugging the shorts down your bare legs as he kisses you deeper. He throws the scraps of material as far away as he can, like the further he throws it the longer you’ll be like this in front of him. Naked from the waist down, spread and warm in front of him. Just for him.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He mumbles against you, then one of his hands pushes your chest back. You catch yourself with your forearms, giving you a perfect view of Frank dropping to his knees and burying himself between your legs.

The moan you let out at the indulgent lick of his mouth through your folds is drowned out by his own. He hooks his arms around your body, letting your legs lock him in, and you feel the soft brush of his hair against your inner thighs as he drops lower, then comes back up.

He leaves no part of you without the pleasure of his mouth, messily fucking you open with his tongue like he’d fade away without the taste of you committed to memory. His lips wrap around your clit, and you feel the satisfied grin he gets when you cry out and shudder. He grips your thighs harder to keep you right where he wants you, and your eyes roll back into your head just as he looks up at you.

It’s too much— the skilled movements of his tongue and mouth against you. He knows you too well, knows exactly how to get you off in either the quickest or longest way. If he wants to give it to you, he can do it in record time. If he wants to tease you, he’d know how to keep you in bed for hours. Days, if he wanted. But right now, he only wants one thing, and it’s the reason why he’s being so giving. So, so generous.

He wants you to stay.

You tug hard on his hair, feeling the vibrations of his groan rush through to your chest. Your heart beats faster and faster, the pounding in your ears blurring everything to a dull white. When you cum, he just gets faster, wanting to taste more of you, feel the way your legs shake and your fingers wrap through his short hair and your hips ride his face through the high.

His head moves with you, side to side, up and down, the sounds so pornographic you think your neighbours will most definitely call the cops, but you can’t think enough to care. You scream his name, your body giving out and your back pressing flat against the countertop. Frank starts moving again when your breathing slows, the heat of his mouth kissing up your hip bones, leaving the mixed wetness of you and him along your skin and up your stomach.

“Baby… stay with me. Stay with me.” He tugs you closer, your legs dangling off the side. He’s now got you face to face, nose pressing against yours. In your post-bliss haze, time slows a little. You let your eyes drift over his face, fingers slip like the raindrops down his cheeks, soft and gentle. “I want you. Stay.”

“I’ll stay. I’ll stay.” You nod quickly, and kiss him hard. Your nose squishes his, and it only presses you closer when he wraps both his arms around your waist. You shuffle further on to the edge of the counter, and then your hands slip down further. “Here. Now.”

You had done a lot with Frank, but you hadn’t broken this barrier. You hadn’t crossed this final line, and you couldn’t think of a better time than now. To prove to him that you were his, that you wanted this as badly as he did. You didn’t know how to say it, but you could show him.

You undo his belt, and he just rests his hands on your hips and watches. Your deft fingers struggle just for a moment with the button, the watchful eye he gives you making you nervous. Your hands shake, and when you finally get them undone, he covers yours with his own.

“You tell me what you want. You call the shots.” He notices your nerves, and puts the gun in your hand. Hands over control. You shove his boxers down just enough, mouth almost watering at the sight.

“I want you. I want…” Your hand trails over his length, hot and heavy in your hand, and he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “I want this.”

His hands fall away, resting on your hips again, thumbs tracing circles along the skin. You spread your legs wider, accommodating his massive frame, and you both gasp into each others mouths when the length of him presses against your wet heat.

He looks up at you, and leans closer, pressing his forehead against yours. He kisses you, an attempt to distract, and it works so quickly you almost forget the pain of him sliding into you. You cry out softly, but it’s lost in the taste of his mouth, and you can feel him holding himself back, too. His grip on your hips is tight, and he can’t concentrate on kissing you when he bottoms out, instead pulling away and cursing.

“Oh, fuck.” He growls, then dives back to your mouth. He doesn’t move just yet, letting you get used to the stretch, but it doesn’t take long until your wriggling on the counter top, wanting nothing more for him to move.

The pain dissipates, and when he rolls his hips back into you again, it disappears completely. Instead it’s replaced by a foreign bloom of pleasure, one that no one else has made you feel. Maybe it’s because none of them have held your heart in their hands like he does. This feels different, because it is different. It’s terrifying and consuming you form the inside out, but it feels too good to stop, and you get lost in it before you can make sense of it.

“More, Frank. God— I want more.” You moan into his ear, and he bites gently on your shoulder as he speeds the snap of his hips. He hits you deeper like this, your legs wrapped around his back so he can’t get too far. Whatever you ask, he gives it to you ten-fold, so when you say you want more, he fucking delivers.

He drives into you, making you see stars with the approach of another rush of pleasure. One of your hands claws at his back, raking lines against the skin you’ve dipped under his shirt to find. His muscles flex under your harsh touch, and he fucks you faster when he feels your nails scratch along him. You know he loves the marks as much as you do— he’s yours as much as you are his, and he doesn’t care if people know, either.

“You feel so f—uhh-fucking good, baby. Fuck, I can’t last.” His voice is more broken than you’ve ever heard it, a scratchy sort of low growl as he buries his head into the crook of your neck. You can’t find words beside the strangled moans he fucks from you, and you just lock your legs behind him in a silent plea.

Your arms dig into him as you cum again, and he only manages two more strong drives of his hips against yours before he’s cumming with you, the feeling of you tightening around him pushing him over the edge with you. He keeps his head buried against you as he cums, singing a broken chorus of your name.

He stays buried inside of you when he picks you up again, your head not fully clear as your arms wrap around his neck and keep him close. You don’t know where he’s carrying you, and you think you don’t care until your body hits the bed— and then you sigh in relief.

Any tension that he didn’t fuck out of you is gone when he keeps you on top of him, letting your head flop and body relax against him and the fuzzy comforter you’ve chosen for the coldest nights in New York. His fingers push the fabric of your shirt up, and then dance along the line of your spine. The light sensation gives you goosebumps, and brings you back to reality, one that is almost as blissful as the dreams you’ve had.

“You’ll stay.” He says after a while, and you manage a nod. Just one, but it’s enough, a hum of satisfaction vibrating through his chest. When he wraps his arms around you, you drift into sleep, knowing you’d do whatever he asked.

But for now, you’ll stay.

[tomurakii]

My last post about bloodweave was pretty negative (though necessarily so imo) so I wanted to talk about the little things about the bloodweave dynamic that I DO like and want to see more of in fic (under the cut).

- the orb means Astarion can't start their relationship transactionally. Gale can't give Astarion blood, and also can't have sex with him (and presumably would refuse casual sex anyway). How would the relationship develop without Astarion being able to rely on the give-and-take, forced instead to just trust Gale will watch his back? Astarion isn't a plans guy, I imagine having to come up with something on the spot (considering none of the other companions are reeaaaally an option either) would lead to a lot more emotional vulnerability as he tries to take a route he has much less experience with. Not to mention that the flirty and standoffish front isn't exactly going to endear him to Gale, who approves of the capable, loyal, and righteous. How long can Astarion pretend to be invested in Gale's wellbeing before it becomes true?

- they both have bad ascension endings, but different natural outcomes. Gale is considered the more morally upstanding one, but in their solo states (without the player's influence) Gale will go through with ascension and Astarion won't. Would they goad each other on? Gale disapproves of Astarion's ascension, using arguments that could apply to himself about the personal sacrifice and loss of the soul. Would Astarion flip them around, become defensive? Their dynamic could mean the power hungry character ending up discouraging the pursuit of godhood, or the two of them hurtling over the edge together. Or, maybe, Astarion encouraging Gale to ascend and having to trust him to return.

- they're the party members with the most life experience, and they're also both pretty well-educated (even if Astarion's law qualifications may well have expired by the events of the game). He spent his time under Cazador sewing (like Gale in his Baldur's Gate epilogue) and learning languages (of which Gale knows four). They have enduring common interests beyond their circumstances. Gale can help Astarion rediscover the latent nerd potential he lost when he died, and lord knows he would love to pick his brain for a first hand account of the mid-to-late 12th century.

- Astarion recently regained hope for his future when the tadpole freed him, Gale recently lost all of it. While act 1 is a continuous series of positive discoveries for Astarion (tadpole frees him from cazador -> ceremorphosis is held off by the dream visitor -> tadpole can be controlled), Gale's life gets worse with time as his treatment stops working. It's a dynamic that could give Gale hope, force Astarion to practise empathy, or put them completely at odds.

- Astarion's all-encompassing desire to reclaim his life could be inspiring to Gale. Moreover, I imagine seeing just how passive Gale is about his death would infuriate him. To have so little regard for his real, mortal, free life? It's a great source of angst, and also a great starting point for Gale to start wanting to live again. Because after learning about Astarion's past he would agree, he'd recognise how much value a mortal life was supposed to have. He'd think himself ungrateful or impolite for entertaining the idea of throwing it away when Astarion would give anything to have what he had. This would lead to guilt, and potentially self-loathing, unless someone was there to help pick up the pieces.

- If Astarion meets Oblodra before Gale's act 2 romance scene, (or for a fanfic plot, just before Gale is confident enough to confess) they most likely won't have sex until the graveyard scene in late act 3 (or the post-ascension equivalent). It means that rather than the fuckfest we so often see from bloodweave fics, the relationship is almost entirely a slow-burning, emotionally intimate affair. I'd really love to see that play out, the progression from semi-horny yearning on both parts as the orb keeps them apart, to two love confessions that are followed by the both of them experiencing non-sexual intimacy for the first time in years. I doubt Mystra was one to hug her chosen, after all, or hold their hands.

I just love a bg3 ship that forces the characters to take different actions than they do in canon. It makes me feel like I'm developing a broader understanding of the characters, you know?

[capt-mactavish]

POW

Summary: Male reader whose part of the 141 gets captured during a mission and the team rallies to rescue them.

Warnings for: Graphic depictions of injury, torture, violence

Pairings: None, not really. Soap x M!Reader or Ghost x M!Reader if you squint I guess, but I didn’t write this with pairings in mind.

Authors note: I have not played the game, I’m poor, so if the characters are ooc please forgive me. I’m going by the fics and drabbles I’ve read.

Part 1/?

Pt 2 Pt. 3

Sacrifice

“Gaz, I’m gonna make you an opening! Get out of here! I’ll be right behind you!” you shout over the gunfire. 

Gaz looks reluctant, but nods anyway. 

You turn your attention back to the fire fight, and empty your last magazine as you lay down cover fire for your companion to get away. 

“Go! Go!” you shout, watching out of your peripheral as Gaz makes a break for it through a doorway that leads outside. 

Ducking back down behind the makeshift barricade you’ve taken cover behind, you pat yourself down for any spare ammunition. To no avail. All you have left is a knife and a grenade. 

You curse. 

It will have to do. 

Lobbing the device over the barricade, you ready your knife and wait for the grenade to go off before exiting cover to run after your companion. 

There’s a lull in the gunfire, but you barely register it as your heart pounds in your head, legs pushing you forward as fast as you can muster yourself to go. 

You’re nearly there. You can almost reach out and touch the wood frame of the doorway Gaz had run through just moments before. He’s probably already regrouped with the rest of the team by now, waiting for you to join them.

A lone gunshot rings out, and before you can process the pain in your knee, your leg gives out and sends you to the floor. The knife in your hand knocked out of your grasp, sliding across the floor. 

“Gah!” A pained sound manages to rip itself out of your dry throat as the pain finally blooms in your kneecap. 

The sound of footsteps behind you has your heart leaping into your throat and you scramble for the knife. But just as your fingers brush the handle of the blade, a boot stomps down on your hand. 

You hiss, and dare to look up at your assailant, only to see the butt of a rifle coming down at your head before everything goes dark. 

---

“Gaz, you made it! Where’s (Y/C/S)?” Soap calls out as Gaz jogs up to the rest of the team. Ghost is tying a cloth around Johnny’s arm, reddening from a wound where he was clipped by a bullet.

“We were pinned down… (Y/C/S) covered my exit… said he’d be right behind me,” Gaz huffs, trying to catch his breath. 

Gaz turns around, and everyone else looks past him as well, expecting you to come round the corner any moment. 

Seconds pass, nothing. Not even any sounds indicating your approach. Even the gunfire in the distance back where Gaz had come from had ceased and an unnerving silence had fallen over the battlefield. 

“Maybe-” Soap starts, but a single gunshot cuts him off and he, Gaz and Ghost are already running.

By the time they get there, though, the building is clear. No one, save for the enemy corpses you and Gaz had managed to bring down in your firefight, was left inside. 

“He said he’d be right behind me,” Gaz says again, his voice wavering, and Ghost gives him a pat on the shoulder as he walks past, a silent comfort that he isn’t to blame. 

“L.t., I’ve got something,” Soap says, his voice laced with disappointment. 

On the ground, just inside the doorway, (Y/C/S)’s knife lay discarded on the ground, along with splatters of fresh blood and the tell-tale signs that a body had been dragged away. 

“They got ‘im,” says Soap, more to himself than to anyone in particular. 

“Fuck!” Gaz curses, and kicks at a piece of old wooden furniture, smashing it to pieces.

“We going after them then, L.t.?” Soap speaks up again, an edge to his voice this time, a quiet rage building within him. 

You hadn’t been with the 141 long, but in that short time you had, Soap had already grown fond of you. They all have. Especially Gaz, who had practically become your best friend and teamed up with often. 

You fell in with the group so easily, like you had always belonged with them, even Ghost seemed to enjoy your presence among them. 

Ghost looks up from where he had been quietly studying the scene, dark eyes taking in every bit of information to be gleaned from what was left. 

“Negative,” he answers, his tone low and dangerous. Then he turns and makes for the exit.

Soap blinks, confused, and looks over to Gaz, who looks equally as baffled by the Lieutenants response. 

“Sir-” A protest already on the tip of Soap’s tongue, moving to follow him. But when Ghost whirls back around on him, the Scotsman’s lips clamp shut.

“They’re long gone, Johnny. And right now we’re not equipped to go after them. But make no mistake,” Ghost loomed over the Sergeant, brows knitted in what Soap could tell was a menacing scowl under the skull mask. “We will get him back,”

His eyes flick over to Gaz as he finishes, “Mark my words.”

---

You awake in the dark, tied to a chair by your wrists and ankles, presumably with some sort of sack over your head. 

The first thing you feel is the pain from the blow to the head that knocked you out. The second is the bullet still lodged in your kneecap and the third is the cold that seems to have settled into your bones, making you shiver. 

As you test your restraints, the leg of the chair you’re in scrapes slightly against the floor and the sound echoes around the room, telling you it’s probably some sort of jail cell. And as the bag is snatched off your head, you find your deductions to be correct.

The only thing in the room save for you and your chair is your captor, who stands in front of you, and a few guards by the barred entrance. The walls are made of a dingy concrete that look about as bad as you feel. Stained with who knows what, indicating you’re probably not the first person to have taken up residence here. The only source of light comes from behind you, you assume a small window high up on the wall that lets in the most pathetic amount of sunlight imaginable.

“Good morning,” your captor taunts, giving you a sick smirk. “I’m sure you understand the… situation you are in.”

You remain silent, giving your captor the nastiest glare you could manage.

The man continues, using his hands as he speaks in an almost casual manner, “This doesn’t have to be difficult. Your stay here can be as long or as short as you would like. It’s all up to you. I just have a few questions, and if you answer them honestly, you are free to go. Understand?”

Your lips, chapped and cracked from dehydration, curl back from your teeth in a snarl.

“What makes you think I would tell you anything?”  

Your captor sighs deeply and clicks his tongue, circling around to stand behind you.

“Shame. But you underestimate,” a rope falls over your head, and by the time you realize it’s a noose, it’s already tightened threateningly around your throat, pulling a choked sound from you as your airway is constricted. “In the end, we will get what we want.”

---

The days drag on, and the 141 are no closer to finding you than the day you were taken. Everyone has run themselves ragged trying to gain intel on your whereabouts, especially Ghost, whom Price has had to order to rest on more than one occasion. 

Everyone is exhausted and on edge, but hope is not lost, and when Gaz comes back with intel on a possible location, they all spring to action. 

“Sergeant, are you sure about this?” asks Price, going over the plan in the meeting room with the rest of the team.

“No,” Gaz answers honestly, “But at present it’s all we’ve got, sir.” 

“Why are we debatin’ this?” Soap chimes in, and all eyes are on him. “We should be stormin’ this place. Even if (Y/N)’s not there, we might find something else that could point us in the right direction. Besides,”

A dark expression crosses Soap’s features and he cracks his knuckles, “Wouldn’t mind cracking a few skulls in the meantime.” 

A hush falls over the team as Soap’s words are considered. But it doesn’t last long, as Ghost’s voice breaks the silence.

“Agreed. If there’s a chance, Captain, we should take it.”

Everyone’s attention is back on Price, who is looking around the table at the team in turn, noting the determination in their expressions.

“Right,” Price says at last. “Ready up. Let’s bring our boy home.”

To be continued...

[glitter-lisp]

@nart-is-a-monster said: Uhhh Hugo and Varian buying a lamp

"I hate it," Varian says.

"I think it hates you too," Hugo says, frowning at the display. "It looks, like... really angry for some reason."

"Why does it have so many corners?" Varian asks, reaching out to poke at one with trepidation, like he expects it to bite him. "Why would anyone make a brutalist lamp? This thing is a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"Does it even have a lightbulb?" Hugo asks, cocking his head to the side like the weird collection of sharp, metallic pieces will start to look more like a lamp from a different angle. "How do you turn it on?"

"I'm scared to find out," Varian admits. "I feel like you have to make a blood sacrifice, and it'll start to glow."

Hugo glances around the room. "I'm scared of all of these lamps. Varian, I've never been scared of furniture. What's wrong with these lamps and why are they so scary?"

"This is 900 dollars," Varian says instead of answering, squinting at the price tag. "Who would pay almost a thousand bucks for a lamp with no lightbulb?"

"We need to get out of these store," Hugo says fervently. "I know Rapunzel recommended it, and I trust her, but–"

Varian backs away slowly, eyes on the lamp like he's afraid it will start moving if he looks away. "But she's artsy as hell and also rich and forgot that we have to save up to afford McDonald's?"

"There's gotta be a thrift store nearby," Hugo says, taking Varian's hand as he starts to ease them towards the exit of the stupidly expensive furniture store Rapunzel recommended. Varian still doesn't look away from the lamp, locked in a staring contest with it. Hugo doesn't blame him. Half of the things for sale look like weapons, and as expensive as everything is, he wouldn't put it past them to come to life. "We can probably find one for like 5 bucks."

"I want to kill it," Varian says, and he's following Hugo but his eyes are still locked on that nightmarish floor lamp. "Hugo, we should see if they do payment plans, I hate that lamp so much–"

"We're not buying a lamp just so you can destroy it," Hugo says, hauling Varian towards the front doors. "We have to eat."

"That thing shouldn't exist," Varian insists. "I could be saving someone. Someone could buy that lamp and then cut their arm off because they walked too close to it. I could be a hero."

"Or you could buy a 5 dollar lamp from a thrift shop and leave rich people to waste all the money they want on their stupid deadly lamps," Hugo says, finally getting them out onto the street. He breathes a sigh of relief as they step outside, free from the insane modern art gallery masquerading as a furniture store that was unlocking homicidal tendencies in his boyfriend. "And still have money left to pay rent this month."

"God, that thing cost more than our rent," Varian says, rubbing at his forehead as he finally seems to break free of whatever lamp-fueled rage he was experiencing a few seconds ago. "What was she thinking? I work for her, she knows how much I make–"

"Thrift store," Hugo repeats, squeezing Varian's hand and starting to tug him towards a more familiar, less terrifyingly wealthy part of town. "Then lunch?"

"If we end up spending more than ten dollars on a lamp, I'm charging Rapunzel for it," Varian says flatly, but he squeezes Hugo's hand back as he follows him down the street.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Hi~ I just recently start watching record of ragnarok saw one of your post the other day! I really love your writing style! I want to make one request, if you okay with it.

I read the one post, an old post where reader is Shinobu and the ror cast arrive just in time to save her from being eaten by Douma... This is going to be a bit angsty, but can I request alternate one? They arrived but was too late and they watched as Douma absorbed reader into his body, her hand fall down to her side and her katana dropped to ground...

Not the ending! After they killed Douma, believing that the reader is death, his body turn into ashes and reveals reader, laying on the ground, alive but unconscious and extremely weaken. Practically just want them to get a huge scare

-You had spent years researching, looking at any piece of information you could find to deal with this, to deal with the Upper Moon that killed your sister.

-You finally had what you needed, what you wanted, the results you had been looking for, wisteria, incredibly poisonous to demons.

-However, getting it into the demons was another question entirely, coating weapons with it wasn’t enough to kill, only temporarily stun, at least with the stronger demons. Tengen and his wives were able to provide that information for you.

-The only thing that was coming to mind, at least for one specific demon, Douma, the only demon you were truly after, except for maybe Muzan, as you wanted revenge for your sister.

-You knew Douma, you knew how he would react to seeing you, and you knew it would involve your sacrifice to take him out, you knew he was going to eat you.

-You started small, injecting small amounts of wisteria poison into your body, so your body could get used to it without you feeling sick yourself, increasing the dosage over time, fusing your blood with wisteria.

-You told your closest loved one (Lover/Parental Figure) what you had been doing and what you planned on doing, showing them your determination to bring Douma down.

-They knew better than to push back, as they knew you wouldn’t listen, so they stood beside you, supporting this decision, with their own plan in mind, to help you kill Douma so you wouldn’t need to sacrifice yourself.

-The fight against Douma, they were late, rushing to get to you as soon as possible, to prevent your death, they didn’t want to lose you, not like this, not ever.

-He rushed into the room, seeing your broken and batter body in Douma’s grasp, a sadistic grin on his face, licking his lips like you were going to be the tastiest treat he ever tasted.

-Douma opened his maw and began to devour you, swallowing you whole as (Lover/Parental Figure) shouted out, “NO!!” your arm went limp, your sword falling from your grasp, not even hearing the shout as everything went back.

-Douma licked his lips, wiping his mouth as he had drooled a little before smirking at (Lover/Parental Figure), “You’re too late- I’m grateful for you letting me enjoy my meal~”

-Hearing his teasing words caused (Lover/Parental Figure) to see red as he charged forward.

-Douma had to admit, this opponent was much stronger, a smile of delight on his lips as he leapt back, dodging his weapon, “Did you love her? Does it make you furious that I ate her? Tell me- tell- URK!!”

-Douma suddenly coughed up blood, spurting from his mouth as he collapsed to his knees, his vision now hazy, feeling the burning from the inside out of wisteria. His eyes widened, realizing what you had done as he lurched again, coughing out more blood.

-(Lover/Parental Figure) immediately dashed forward, removing Douma’s head from his shoulders, remembering your words well, that to defeat a demon, the head had to be cut off.

-He stepped on Douma’s head, which was laughing loudly, thinking the situation was hysterical, and with just a bit of force, crushed the skull under his foot, causing him to dissolve into ash.

-He looked over at Douma’s body and he froze, his eyes going wide as his voice caught in his throat, seeing your body laying there as the ash vanished.

-You were breathing, but only barely, and you were unconscious, extremely weakened as he could see that you were covered in wounds, not only the ones he first saw you with when he entered, but new ones, caused by the poison inside Douma as he was trying to digest you.

-He remained by your side while you were taken to the infirmary, holding your hand as you seemed to sleep almost peacefully, just wanting you to wake up.

-As your eyes slid open, seeing him sitting there, not paying attention that you had woken up, you gave his hand a small squeeze, making him flinch and instantly his eyes met your own. You couldn’t help but smile softly up at him, seeing the relief on his face, “Is he gone?” he sighed deeply, his eyes closing in relief, “He is, thanks to your recklessness and I crushed his skull.” You were surprised by his words before tears welled easily in your eyes, slipping down the sides of your face, “Thank goodness!” He couldn’t help but smile at you, brushing your tears away, kissing you softly, making you sigh into the kiss, before telling you what had happened and that you were still recovering. You didn’t mind resting finally, your goal now accomplished, your sister was avenged, and the world was safe from Douma.

            -Thor, Lu Bu, Poseidon, Beelzebub, Zeus (platonically), and Odin (platonically)

-He knew that you were injured, but seeing your eyes open he immediately hugged you, hunched over you on the bed. His embrace was firm but warm and you couldn’t help but smile, leaning into the embrace, a soft sigh leaving you. Before you could even ask what had happened, he told you that with the poison in your body, which has now been flushed out, assisted in killing Douma, as it’s what gave him the opening he needed to land a fatal below, crushing his skull beneath his foot. You were surprised by his slight savagery, which did make him give you a small smile, “I was so angry when I thought I lost you- and he was the source of that anger.” You smiled up at him, giggling softly before he pecked your cheek gently, telling you to get some rest, which you had no issue doing, as Douma was now gone. You could rest quietly now.

-Hades, Qin Shi Huang, Nikola, Kojiro, Adam (platonically)

[turbulentscrawl]

Teehee hello hello!

Can I request Norton Campbell with an s/o (preferably male but gender neutral is fine too) born from nobility that acts like the opposite of him. They've been through so much in life, almost at par with his or probably worse. And yet they still care about the others, putting everyone else first before them. They are also a little too reckless, often doing body blocks from the hunter. They know how people can be cruel but they're still generous and thoughtful, although knowing when to stop and prevent themselves from being trampled over.

This is the first request I ever received here!

Just to be totally transparent, this one took so long to fill because I honestly don’t like the noble/wealthy reader x Norton dynamic. (As I’ve said several times before, he hates the rich. And being “the exception” to hatred/bias is neither a safe nor a healthy relationship.)  I’m still willing to accept requests for it…but the time I spend filling them will be far between, and frankly they won’t be the sweetest things you’ve ever read.

“So what the fuck was that supposed to be?” Norton asks as he approaches you in the infirmary. You look at him quizzically, and it’s a welcome distraction from Emily’s aching efforts to remove the spikes lodged in your back.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Don’t,” Norton snaps, though a bit more quietly after a pointed look from Emily. “Don’t play dumb. I’m talking about your reckless behavior in that match. In ALL the matches. We already had a win. We were at. The. Gate. And you went back? Against the fastest Hunters possible, no less.” To be more precise, you, Norton, and Emma were at the gate. Three of your four-man team.

“I wasn’t going to leave Jose like that,” you explain, recalling how he’d struggled against the restraints of the rocket chair. People’s desperation in those moments always made your heart bleed. Jose didn’t want to die anymore than you or anyone else did. Regardless of the method.

“So you thought it was smart to go marching back out to try and collect him,” Norton says. Emily is trying very hard to look like she isn’t taking in any of your conversation. One of those spikes finally comes out, and you hiss at the sting. Emily applies a disinfectant, and presses hard on your back to staunch the flow of blood. Norton somehow scowls more at your pained expression, and you have to remind yourself it was mostly out of concern.

“I did collect him,” you correct through pain-clenched teeth.

“And nearly got yourself chaired in the process. Then what? We’d still have a three-man win, plus the injuries to attend to.”

“But I didn’t, and now we’ve a four-man win,” you express softly. Norton throws his hands in the air, looking about ready to toss the infirmary. You have to remind yourself, too, about all he’s been through. By himself. That the selfish mindsets he has are born of strategy and survival, and not empathy.

Norton pauses in his pacing and looks at Emily. She finishes applying the bandage to the wound she’d opened, saying, “Don’t take too long. I still have to dig out all the little broken pieces.” You almost tell her not to worry, that they’ll be gone and healed tomorrow, but suspect she runs this infirmary to keep her own skills sharp as much as for everyone’s comfort. When the door was shut, Norton dragged a chair in front of your bed and sat down, straddling it backwards.

“You have to stop assuming you’ll be able to accomplish every good deed your head conjures up,” he says, cutting to the point. You’ve had this conversation many times before, and it always hurts when he brings it up again.

“I can’t, Norton,” you say. “You know I can’t.”

“You can,” he insists. “If I can get over my distaste of you being rich, if I can work with people I don’t like, keep the hunters off them in the middle of matches, then you can stop trying to play knight-in-shining-armor. Everyone here knows what we’re in for and that sacrifices have to be made sometimes. Yeah, sometimes your little plans work out for you. Today it did. But your plans have gone ass-up sometimes, too, and it costs us. A draw is not a win, okay? And at the end of the day, we’re all still hoping for some kind of reward for these wins. So if we have a win already, take it. I already hate you gambling your own safety, but it’s more than that too.”

“I can’t just accept that,” you finally say to him after a long, thinking pause. “This place…is so awful. If we don’t try to look out for one another, we’ve got nothing. When I see the others hurt, or scared…I can’t just leave them to think they’re suffering that alone. And it’s not like I just let everyone walk all over me.” Norton grunts a bit and stands from his seat. He’s clearly annoyed, but he ruffles your hair a bit in spite of that. A sign that he just needs time to calm down.

“Looking out for people doesn’t just mean bleeding for them,” he says, turning to leave the room. “I’ll send the doc back in. Rest up, see you at dinner.”

He shuts the door behind himself, leaving you in a quiet, white room, with no solution in sight to this repeat disagreement.

[ihatemyselfmorethanmydepression]

Follow me to live (pt1)

1.7k words

Triggers: child abuse, animal abuse, blood, violence, not directly but like defintley a hint at sexual assault in the past.

“You can’t just call me a bitch and expect me to respect you!” You shouted

“Well don’t act like a bitch if you don’t want to be one!” Your dad yelled. His eyes were piercing through your soul. He was trying to make himself bigger as if he was trying to scare off a bear.

You wanted to back down but held your ground. He had hurt you too much, he had scared you too much. It was time to show him that you were stronger than him.

“You’re just like your dad!”

One black eye later and you quickly shoved some of your shit in a trash bag. You left with your dad crying on the floor and apologizing.

So… here you are now. Living in little Russia surviving off ramen cups and a water filter. However, today you wanted to switch it up a little and find some happiness in your life. The cold air nipped your face as you began to walk outside.

Some parts of this shit hole were quite nice. You weren’t a religious person, but you were always impressed with religious art. Hence why you were here, mouth agape at the beautiful pieces of colored glass. However, it was starting to get dark and you did not want to be out after dark. You were about to turn around and walk back to your apartment when you heard something.

Was that a whimper?

You heard the soft sound again and began to follow it. Against your better judgment, you went behind the church and found a chained-up dog.

It was a gray pitbull, which looked abused and malnourished. Seeing the slight cuts on its skin and its ribs poking out made you want to cry.

“Hi baby” you crouched down slowly, giving the dog your hand. The dog sniffed your hand and began wagging its tail.

You unclipped her from the chain and slowly picked her up. “Come on girl, let’s go home.”

—————

You locked the door behind you and slowly put the dog down. You grabbed a bowl and began pouring water into it.

“Here you go baby” You softly put the bowl at her feet. You smiled softly as she gulped the water down.

You had some leftover rice that you decided to heat up and put some chicken broth in. Your guess of her being malnourished was proven right when she ate all of the food in one bite. While she ate you inspected a small gold coin that was attached to a leather collar that you had yet to take off.

“John Wick” you said while running your finger over the name.

“Is that your name or your owner's name?” You sighed and flipped over the tag to find any other information. Which, of course, there was nothing

“So you got like- a first name and last name?” She licked you in response. Taking that as an answer you got up.

“Alright John Wick, let’s patch you up.”

——-/

The next morning you were awoken by John licking your face. “You hungry Wick?” You smiled at the cute dog.

How could someone ever abuse this cutie?

You got up and went to the fridge, determined to find John something. The chicken immediately caught your eyes and your stomach started to growl.

“God I can’t believe I’m going to sacrifice my meal for a dog… worth it though.”

——-/

Two weeks passed, and you and John were now attached by the hip. She had begun to gain some of her weight back but was still healing from cuts. You had stitched them, which was easier than you thought. Wick was surprisingly very calm during the whole ordeal.

You two were snuggling in your bed listening to some podcast about celebrity gossip. “John, can you believe that the Kardashians are still relevant?” She sighed in response while eating popcorn out of your hand.

“Aye John. I was thinking… I have some extra nail polish.”

She glanced at you in response.

“Can I paint your nails?”

—

“Andddddd done!”

John Wick's nails were now painted a beautiful sparkly purple. You had decided to paint your nails the same color.

“John, we look so cute together!”

You hugged the pitbull as she licked your face.

——-/

“Alright, John! Today is the day, your first walk!” She wagged her tail and you attached the leash to her. The leash belonged to your old childhood dog, who also happened to be a pitbull. Moxie and you had a bond that transcended lifetimes. You teared up, maybe John Wick is my little Moxie.

Usually, you had taken John out for a quick piss on the little grassy area near the stairs. However, this was different, a milestone in her progress.

You walked with her around the town, smiling as she smelled everything around her. The walk was so peaceful and nice that you hadn’t even realized you passed the church. That was until someone jumped on your back and stabbed a knife into your shoulder.

“Jesus fucking-“

A hand covered your mouth and you slowly were back in a very very bad memory. Freaking out, you kicked the man in the groin, not once but twice. He loosened his grip and fell to the ground.

“John, are you okay?” You quickly scanned over her body trying to ignore the still, very visible, knife lodged in your shoulder.

Footsteps started to echo from the alleyway of the church. You tightened your hold on her leash and began sprinting.

Bullets started to skim past your body as a random car started to follow you. The footsteps and yelling behind you did not falter, even when you zigzagged down different alleyways.

You were about a block away from your apartment, hiding in the shadows of an alleyway. Their footsteps began to get louder as you held your breath. John, please don’t bark.

The men then passed your alleyway and you let out a shaky breath. “Maybe no more walks…. At least for a bit.” You pet her head and began making your way home.

—

You shut the door and turned on the lights. “Are you okay baby? You’re not hurt anywhere are you?” Searching her body more thoroughly. You sighed in relief when you saw no bullet holes.

“Thank god you’re okay John.” You pat the dog, trying to ignore the pain coming from your right shoulder.

Man that was my good arm too.

You stumbled your way into the bathroom, with Wick following shortly behind. Flicking on the lights, you screamed as you were met with a barrel of a gun.

“Who the fuck are you?!” You slowly stepped back and put a protective arm out. “Wick stay behind me.” You looked down at the dog but she didn’t seem to listen to you. She ran at the man with her tail wagging. He recuperated the love with a soft pet on her head.

“What did you call her?” He asked, still having the gun pointed at you.

“Wick. Her name is John Wick.”

He slowly lowered the gun, “No, MY name is John Wick.”

You gripped the door frame for extra support as all the adrenaline started to slowly leave you. Rubbing your head in confusion, you were trying to figure out what was going on.

“So… are you her owner or something?”

“Yes.” He slowly put the gun back into his jacket.

“Well, you’re a shit owner. I found her outside of the church, poor girl was starving and abused.” You glared at him. Still trying to keep up some facade that you weren’t going to pass out from the pain at any minute.

“She was kidnapped.” He said sternly as if he was trying to justify the poor dog's abuse.

“You look young. Where’re your parents?” He seemed to quickly want to change the conversation.

“Look man, I appreciate the concern and everything but-“ you glanced at the mirror gagging when you saw the knife in your shoulder.

He quickly made his way toward you and guided you to a kitchen aisle.

“What are you-“

“Lay on the counter.” He demanded.

“Man, I just washed this too.” Your warm skin was met with the coolness of the marble. That’s one thing that always really confused you about this place. Everything in this apartment was so shitty, but you randomly had marble countertops.

“I’m going to have to pull the knife out and stitch the wound.” He pulled out a first aid kit from his jacket.

“Don’t you dare.” You tried moving off the countertop but his one hand held you in place.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT- I’m getting used to it just leave it in”.

He began to grab wipes, a thread, and a needle from the small box.

“I never and I mean never broken a bone before! Not to mention stitches and a fucking stab wound!” You began wigging in place as he threaded the needle.

“Always a first for everything.” He hummed.

“I will scream-“

“Don’t forget that those Russian men are looking for you.” He scolded.

“They don’t belong to you?”

“No, but they are after me, now you too.” He walked away. You sighed in relief thinking that talking more was going to delay the whole process. He got a cup of water before starting where he left off.

“So- like how did you get involved with them?” You nervously asked. Maybe next you’ll ask what he thinks about the weather

“Talking more will make this whole situation longer than it needs to be.” You groaned at his answer.

He quickly put a hand over your mouth and pulled out the knife. His hand had muffled your screams, which really didn’t do much. You then kicked your legs out, frantically trying any way to get rid of the pain.

“You done yet?” He asked unamused. As if his kid was throwing a tantrum because they couldn’t get a toy they wanted.

You nodded and he removed the hand from your mouth.

“Alright time to stitch”

———/

Reader was like LEMME TELL YOU SOMETHING! LEMME TELL YOU SOMETHING!

Anyway this is new and very inspired by @arece so check their series out.

[whumpsday]

Power Play

Writing Masterlist

content: kidnapping, ritual sacrifice, begging, hand whump, impalement, mouth whump, knives/skin carving, demon whumper, creepy whumper, major character death, gore

this is my piece for @zineofgid !! this was such an awesome project to work on :)

you can still buy the guys in distress zine here! proceeds go to the charity RAINN. there are limited physical copies and unlimited digital copies, as well as some merch left. do keep in mind that while my piece is sfw, this is an 18+ zine and a lot of other contributors' pieces are very much NOT sfw!

this piece was done as part of a collaboration with @whump-queen, with ocs we made together! he made art that accompanies this piece, you can view it here! it depicts the end of the story so you might wanna wait til after you read it though if you care about spoilers (also linked at the end)

-

Jonah’s breaths came hard and fast as Reese dumped him out of the large duffle bag, onto the cold floor of his basement.

He immediately tried to struggle to his feet, but his wrists and ankles had been bound with way too many layers of duct tape, making it impossible. Reese easily kicked him to the floor, placing a boot firmly on his chest and keeping him there.

“Ah-ah-ah.” his captor tutted, ripping the tape off his mouth. “I’m sorry to say that you will never see outside this room again.”

“You’re crazy!” Jonah screamed, unable to keep the terror out of his voice. His heart hammered in his chest, right under Reese’s boot.

“You have been messing with my campaign.” Reese countered, as if kidnapping was equivalent to Jonah doing his damn job. “Arnett didn’t start climbing in the polls until she brought you on as manager.” He dug his boot in deeper, making it a little hard for Jonah to breathe, pressing his bound wrists painfully into the floor under his back.

Despite admittedly-minimal efforts to retain his composure, Jonah found himself trembling. “So, what? You’re going to- kill me?”

There was no way he could fight this man off. Reese was bigger and stronger than him; it was pathetic how little he’d been able to struggle when Reese had initially incapacitated him. Now he was bound with tape and at an even bigger disadvantage. The thought that he could really die here blared through his mind like a siren, urging him to do whatever he could to escape, as if there was anything he could do.

“Not exactly. I’m not going to kill you.” Reese finally stepped off Jonah’s chest, only to kick him over and press a knee into his back instead. “Don’t mistake this as petty vengeance. I needed someone, and you happened to be an enticing target.”

It was only then, staring across the floor instead of at the ceiling, that Jonah noticed his surroundings.

A large pentagram, easily five feet, laid painted red in the center of the room, a hammer and nails set next to it.

“What the fuck?” he whispered in cold horror.

“Thanks to you, it’s clear that a good, honest campaign by a good, honest man isn’t enough to make it in politics. Luckily, there are other ways to get ahead in life, if you do enough research,” Reese explained, like it made perfect sense.

“Is that blood?” Jonah asked, voice small, staring at the red of the pentagram painted meticulously into the floor.

“It is. My very own.”

Jonah’s line of questioning was instantly interrupted when felt the side of a blade against his forearm.

He writhed, his struggles renewed. “Get away from me with that thing!”

“Hold still, or I might nick you. You want that tape off, don’t you?” Reese leaned down. Jonah could feel his breath on the back of his neck as Reese’s knee pressed further into his lower back.

Jonah went still, barring the tremors he couldn’t control. As much as he hated to admit it, Reese was right: aimlessly moving around with a knife millimeters from his skin would only get him hurt. He didn’t resist as he felt steel slide harmlessly against him, the layers of tape cut away and peeled off.

Before he could even think about running, Reese grabbed both his newly-freed hands and dragged him over to the pentagram. Jonah started struggling again, but there was little he could do against the iron grip.

Reese pointed to one of the triangles making up the pentagram. “You will kneel or I will make you kneel.”

He didn’t know what else to do, and pissing off his captor seemed like a recipe for disaster, so he knelt as indicated.

Reese bound one hand to Jonah’s body with more tape, bringing the other to a point of the pentagram. He pressed Jonah’s palm against the star’s tip, stepping firmly against his wrist to hold it there.

“Now, stay nice and still.”

Reese picked up the hammer and one of the nails.

“What are you doing?!” Jonah tried to pull his hand away, but Reese just pressed his boot down harder.

“What I said. Just making sure you stay still.” Reese positioned the nail in the center of Jonah’s hand, the sharp tip pricking at his skin. Jonah’s breath grew rapid in anticipation of what was about to happen to him.

“Wait, don’t, don’t don’t no no no-!”

Pain exploded in his hand as the THWACK of the hammer hit the nail and pierced his skin, and Jonah finally screamed. He tried again to pull his hand away, to pull his whole body away, but it was useless. He was trapped.

“Stop! Stop stop stop, you’re crazy!” he cried, tears spilling over and running down his face. The nail settled on the floor’s surface, just barely poking through the tender skin of his palm from the inside, making its way through muscle and ligaments and tendons.

“You can think what you like. Doesn’t matter to me,” Reese commented nonchalantly.

The hammer came down again. Jonah’s second scream was less intense than the first, as if his voice itself were scared, breaking off into a sob. A few more taps left the nail buried snugly in the floor, the head resting against the back of his hand as a bit of blood escaped from under it.

Jonah panted hard, adrenaline coursing through him. His hand wouldn’t move from where it sat fastened to the pentagram even after Reese removed his boot from his wrist: even twitching his fingers sent a horrible jolt through it.

“Good job, you’re doing very well.” Reese praised, patting Jonah on the head. “And now, the other one.”

“NO!” Jonah cried. “Stop! You have to stop!”

“Shh, it’s okay.” The sheer calm Reese talked about it with sent shivers down his spine. “It’ll all be over soon.”

Reese freed his uninjured hand, and Jonah clutched it protectively to his chest, shaking. “Leave me alone,” he begged tearily.

His captor grabbed his hand and brought it to the opposite point of the pentagram, stretching him out painfully and forcing his head and chest to the ground. Much to his dismay, Reese stepped down on his other wrist and readied the hammer and nails again.

Jonah strained his neck to look up at Reese, desperate. “What do you want? I’ll quit, okay? I’ll stop running Arnett’s campaign, you’ll never see me again. Just stop.”

“Oh, Jonah. Like I said, I needed someone. It just happened to be you.” Reese started on the other hand. No matter how much he screamed, it wouldn’t stop. Unlike the first nail, which seemed to slip in between his bones, this one landed right on top of the small, delicate bones inside his hand and smashed through them uncaring, the pain blinding.

Jonah was a mess by this point, sobbing into the floor. “I don’t wanna die like this,” he sniffled.

Reese cupped his face. “Look at it this way. You’re dying for something bigger than yourself. More powerful. Now, I think that’s about enough complaining out of you.”

The grip on his face grew tighter and tighter, fingers pressing tightly into the sides of his jaw, until Jonah was forced to open his mouth. Reese grabbed his tongue and pulled it, touching it to the center of the pentagram. Even among the throbbing pain in his hands and the horrifying situation, Jonah’s face crinkled in disgust.

Reese grabbed another nail.

Jonah’s disgust was immediately forgotten, replaced by overwhelming terror. He tried fruitlessly to shake his head away, making what little terrified noises of protest he could manage, as Reese settled the tip of the nail against his tongue.

A whine of fear escaped him, and he looked up at his captor pleadingly. Please don’t do this.

“Just try to relax,” Reese advised, as if it was at all possible.

The hammer slammed against the head of the nail, sending it straight through Jonah’s tongue and into the floor. Jonah wailed with intolerable pain, hot tears slipping down his cheeks, no longer able to form pleas. All he could taste was his own fresh blood, running over Reese’s painted on the floor.

Reese gave it a few more firm taps until the head of the nail almost crushed Jonah’s tongue under it, undeterred by Jonah’s cries.

“There we go.” Reese disappeared from Jonah’s tear-blurry line of sight. A moment later, he felt the side of the knife against the back of his neck. He squealed in distress, unable to even thrash against his bonds anymore.

But the knife didn’t plunge into him. Instead, it glided downward to the sound of tearing fabric until Jonah’s shirt fell limply in front of him. Reese ran a hand over his exposed back, Jonah’s tense muscles shuddering under the touch.

“This is the final step.” Jonah jolted as best he could in his immobilized state as he felt the tip of the knife between his shoulderblades- not digging in yet, but threatening to.

“Nghh!” Jonah couldn’t say much else with his tongue nailed down. He couldn’t even shake his head. Nothing he could do to indicate NO would be enough here, anyway. Reese didn’t care for his opinion.

He screamed as the knife buried itself in flesh, not deep enough to touch bone, but far from shallow. It glided along his back in a sweeping stroke, before Reese lifted it and picked a new spot to carve into him, no matter how much he cried and tried to writhe away from the sharp, insistent pain.

Slice after bold, swirling slice, Reese painted a pattern in the splitting of his skin, spending the most time on an intricate design between his shoulder blades. Jonah was pretty sure it was supposed to be an eye, but he was too hazy with agony and blood loss to tell.

Finally, Reese pulled the knife away from his mangled back. “There, all done. Soon you won’t even feel it.”

Jonah could only sob in response, trembling from pain and fear. Everything hurt. His entire body felt like it had been through a paper shredder. He could feel the blood running off the sides of his back and pooling beneath his folded-up legs, soaking his knees.

He watched as Reese lit candles in a circle around him, painting the room in a warm glow, and began chanting in a language Jonah couldn’t understand- Latin, maybe? What a pointless thing to die for. What would happen to him when none of this worked and no demon showed up? Would Reese concede and let him go? Probably not. Jonah imagined the knife plunging into his chest, the last thing he ever saw the face of his murderer. At least the pain would stop.

Slowly, as Reese chanted, The sigil carved into Jonah’s back began to burn.

Just a little at first, but getting hotter and hotter until Jonah was writhing in pain, trying to free his hands despite the nails holding them in place and hurting worse and worse the more he tugged on them. What was happening to him? It felt like someone had run boiling oil through the gashes in his skin. It was unbearable. He needed it to stop. Jonah squeezed his eyes closed, releasing a sound akin to a dying animal at the excruciating pain.

When he opened his eyes… a figure stood in front of him, half-materialized, like it was creating itself out of thin air. The warm orange glow of the candles began to shift to a cold, too-bright violet.

He strained his eyes up to see, the angle much less than ideal with his tongue bolted to the floor. He wasn’t sure if that was the reason they looked so massive, or if they really were abnormally tall, but a glance at Reese for comparison proved it to be the latter.

Everything about them looked unnatural, all bright colors that might mark a plant or animal as toxic, screaming at his nailed-down body to run. Glowing fuschia markings slithered all over their skin, the pattern looking suspiciously like the one Jonah could feel carved into his back. A giant scorpion-like tail snaked out from behind them.

Jonah stared up at the- the demon, apparently. As their form became more solid, Jonah’s back burned less and less, the only thing he could possibly be thankful for in this moment.

The demon eyed him back threefold, an impossibly-wide grin full of sharp teeth splitting their six-eyed face. Jonah couldn’t help but whimper under their gaze.

“Izuloth!” Reese shouted, suddenly seeming so much less intimidating compared to the monstrosity before him.

Izuloth broke eye contact to direct their attention to him, their smile faltering and their eyebrow twitching with annoyance. Several of their eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I’ve summoned you! I’ve captured a sacrifice, carved your sigil, drawn this pentagram in my own blood. You will now grant me power, as promised,” Reese declared confidently.

The smile returned. “Awfully presumptuous, human. I don’t remember promising anything.”

“What- what are you talking about?” Reese sputtered. “That’s what it said in the book! You are now under my control!”

Izuloth smirked. “Oh, is that what it said. That was nice of them to put in there. Makes fools like you much more likely to summon me. Hm, I don’t think I care for your attitude, though.”

They snapped their fingers.

Jonah watched in horror as Reese’s body began to unravel in front of him. Skin peeled from muscle, exposing raw, bloody flesh and piling on the floor below in a wet heap that splashed Jonah’s face with blood- he could taste it on his outstretched tongue.

Reese tried to scream, but all that came out was a gurgle as his tongue joined the rest of his exposed muscles in shredding to bits, as if taken to on all sides, inside and out, with an invisible cheese grater. It was over within a minute: the remnants of his body collapsed to the floor, twitching with life for only a moment before going still.

Jonah was alone with Izuloth.

He whined in terror, too frozen to even try tugging at his restraints. If the demon could do that, it wouldn’t be any use anyway.

Izuloth, to his dismay, turned their attention back to him. “Now, where were we?”

They reached a hand down to pet his hair. Jonah squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body tensed up in anticipation.

Suddenly, Izuloth grabbed his hair and pulled. Jonah’s eyes flew right back open as his tongue ripped right out of the nail, bisecting it down the middle with an agonizing tear. His scream of pain cut short when Izuloth grabbed him by the frayed end of his tongue, their many-eyed face inches away.

“Pretty thing, I think I’ll keep you.”

-

ART BY AKIA WHUMP-QUEEN!!!

-

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

one-shots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthisiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

[braxix]

Imagining Elrond having been there to visit Celebrimbor during the downfall of Ost-in-Edhel. Celebrimbor taking Elrond and running. Running because he knows his cousin won't leave without him and no other reason. Sauron comes and cuts them off. Celebrimbor pushes Elrond into flight, his screams making Elrond look back to see Sauron tearing his cousin apart. Elrond runs now because Celebrimbor wanted him to run, to survive, to live, and he wasn't wasting his cousin's sacrifice.

Imagining Elrond crying into Celebrian's arms as he has nightmare after nightmare about Celebrimbor's death. Over centuries and millennia the nightmares cease.

Imagining Elrond's nightmares returning after Celebrian sails, but now it's her in Celebrimbor's place, dying for him. Now it's Celebrimbor's broken and bloody body he finds in the woods somewhere and does all he can to piece him back together. Sometimes it's both of them, sometimes it's Celebrimbor with Celebrian's screams. Always there is Sauron lurking just at the edge of the dream, waiting to catch him too.

Story after line break

I'd Die for You

"Bro, I'd die for you." Celebrimbor laughs as he falls back against the tree they are sitting under.

"I'd die for you, too." Elrond smiles at him.

"No, dude, I'd die for you."

"I'd die for you."

"No, I died for you."

Elrond looks over to see blood dripping from Celebrimbor's eyes. "Tyelpe?"

"I died for you. I DIED for you." Blood pours from his mouth.

"What?"

"I DIED FOR YOU." Celebrimbor's body contorts into a broken dying facade.

"I-" Elrond's heart rate spikes as he scrambles back. "I-"

"I DIED FOR YOU!"

"I'm sorry."

"I DIED YOU YOU! And this is how you repay me?"

Elrond looks away only to see Celebrian standing there with hollow eyes. "I died for you..." She whispers. "I died for you..." A long shadow falls away behind her into a great fire.

"I DIED FOR YOU!"

Elrond turns and Celebrimbor is dripping blood, a pole sticking out of his chest. Cruel laughter echoes around them as the garden falls away into ash. Fire burns behind Celebrimbor illuminating the outline of a Shadow.

Elrond screams as he sits up in bed. He presses his hands to his mouth, hoping he hadn't woken anyone. He sits there catching his breath as tears roll down his cheeks. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry." He sobs as he wraps his arms around himself in a failure to comfort himself. Celebrimbor and Celebrian's words echo through his head. They died for him. They died for him. They died-

A knock on his door. "Elrond?" It's Glorfindel. "Are you alright? I heard screaming."

Elrond stifles a sob, he doesn't want to worry his friend. "I- I'm alright!" His voice catches a squeaks.

"Another dream?" Glorfindel sounds worried.

"I'm fine!" Elrond just wants him to go away.

"You don't sound fine. Cover up cause I'm coming in."

Elrond barely has time to throw the blanket back iver himself before Glorfindel is barging in. "Get out!" He snaps as he looks away. He doesn't want Glorfindel to see him crying, see his weakness.

"It's alright to have nightmares, Elrond." Glorfindel says softly as he kneels next to Elrond's bed. "While Mandos has dulled the pain of death and healed me of the spiritual pain my death caused that doesn't mean I am not scarred by the deaths I witnessed."

"Go away."

"No."

Elrond wants to hit his stubborn friend, but he can't turn around. He can't see yet another face of someone who would die for him, technically did in a round about way. Glorfindel died protecting his grandmother and their people. Doesn't that mean he died for him? He died so Elrond could one day live. Another name to the list of people that had died for him. So many. So many.

"It's alright to mourn." Glorfindel says softly. "And it's alright to need help. Asking for help isn't a weakness."

Elrond knows Glorfindel can't read his mind, but he still hit so close to Elrond's own thoughts. "Please, just go away."

"I'm not leaving you to wallow in your pain. Come on, get up and get dressed. We are going for a walk.

And so it became tradition that after a nightmare Glorfindel would drag Elrond out to do something, even if it was the middle of the night and neither if them could see very well. Glorfindel would distract Elrond until his heartbeat was steady, his breathing calm, and his thought weren't spiraling. He'd tell Elrond stories about mundane life in the First age, and if Elrond was lucky something from Valinor.

It was Glorfindel that reminded Elrond how to live when his children left after Celebrian died, when Elrond needed someone to pull him out of the muck and mire that was his mind. And Glorfindel never asked for anything in return. A silent protector, even when Elrond wanted him to just go away. Glorfindel died once protecting the survivors of Gondolin and he'd die again if it meant protecting Elrond, but he'd never tell Elrond that.