#heed the warnings

[vase-of-lilies]

❀  Pairing: Dark!Mermaid!Wanda x Sailor!Reader

❀ Non-con, dubcon, Captivity, restraints, slight experimentation, shapeshifting! Wanda, the ocean, sailing on a boat, a storm, shipwreck, a little bit of violence, virgin!reader (she has never had a sexual encounter, period. So she is very innocent), Wanda doesn’t know human anatomy lol, oral (r receiving), forced orgasm, overstimulation, fingering, (this next part is major whump, so PLEASE heed the warnings) Sewing readers legs together for a punishment, holding reader under the water until they pass out, screaming, lots of screaming, making someone stay unconscious with telekinesis, quick acceptance, soft-ish wanda, some fluff, Stockholm syndrome, (if there is anything else PLEASE let me know!!)

❀ Disclaimer and Authors Note: The pictures only represent aesthetics and themes. There is no certain skin color, body type, ethnicity, or description other than Y/n and “you”. I hope you like this! The pictures go to their rightful owners on Pinterest, and the comic-style picture belongs to the beautiful artist Jenifer Prince. I also have a really big feeling that Mermaids' love language is gift-giving. Because… stuff is all they find lol!

This is for @eloquentreverie 's Dusk Till Dawn writing challenge! I chose the lines “All you are is a liar…” “My love for you is not a lie.”

Bright rays of sunshine reflect off the water, not one cloud in the sky.  The perfect conditions for sailing. You had been planning this trip for ages, and the perfect time has never been seen before now. Packing your bags was an easy task, all that was left was prepping your boat. Aphrodite is what you call her. The beautiful sailboat your father had left for you.

The sails are off-white, the texture of a canvas. In a way, this boat is its own form of art, and the beautiful name that your father picked fits perfectly. She was small, livable, and durable. It could withstand the fiercest of storms, waves, and monsters. Monsters, that you at least think are real. They were all just myths your mother told you about. 

Mermaids that left trinkets on the helm of each ship they came across, an octopus-like creature pushing the boats in the wrong direction, and even the ocean itself; a lively source of nature that will always lead the way when these malicious creatures have any form of malicious intentions. 

Making your way down to the pier, you are stopped by a villager, an older woman who knew your father very well. “Y/n! Y/n! Come here, I have something for your travels!” You hear from her frail yet powerful voice. She gently grabs your hands and pulls you into her home, making you giggle softly as she sits you on her couch. 

“Now, I knew I would see you today because of the conditions out… there. I have this for you, wishing you safe travels and return.” She puts a dainty necklace in the palms of your hands. “It was a gift from your mother, she had told me to wait until you were older, and I think now would be the perfect time.” She smiles as you look at the beautiful oval-shaped locket. 

“My family and I really love you, Eleanor. Thank you for taking such good care of us.” You smile up at her, closing your fingers around the locket with a picture of both your mother and your father. “Thank you, really, for everything.” 

She shakes her head, “The only thing you owe me is a hug and a proper goodbye.” She says, opening her arms for you. You happily oblige, wrapping your arms around her hunched body. She was like a grandmother to you even when she was just a family friend, but you most definitely loved her as a grandmother. 

“I love you so much, and I will most definitely bring you some trinkets if mermaids ever leave anything for me.” She chuckles in response and waves you off, sending you on your way to uncertainty. 

Entering the deck of your boat was a feeling of freedom that you had longed to feel ever since the death of your parents. It was difficult to make it through the day without breaking down into your most vulnerable form; A sobbing, shaking mess. 

Standing at the helm brought mixed emotions. You were finally here. You were finally able to feel like the woman your mother described you as. “You are a brave, independent, beautiful girl Y/n. You will do amazing things one day. That may be tomorrow or ten years from now. But amazing things they will be.”

Those words stuck with you from the day she died. Those words were what drove you to sail alone after all these years. She told you that you were brave, and that was all it took to motivate you to learn, grow, and persevere in your passion for sailing. 

Now all you had to do was make sure you had enough food, water, and supplies in the cockpit, untie the sails, and mark the coordinates on your map. Once those subjects were taken care of, the last was to untie Aphrodite from the pier and raise the anchor and you are all good to go!

With the small gusts of winds every now and then, it would take about 6 to 7 hours for you to make it to your destination. That is if there is no storm, headwind, or pirates that you have to worry about. Crossing Captain Barnes is on your list of “most feared encounters” and you could not imagine getting stuck with him, let alone see him. Rumors say he lost his arm to the Kraken and used the gold from a found treasure to make a new arm. A much more dangerous one than he already had. 

The thought of seeing him gives you chills in of itself, so you decide to put your mind to something else. You begin to steer the boat in the direction of your destination, your blue navy-themed sailing dress your mother made you flowing in the wind. You smile as the smell of salt and cold water fills your nose, the ocean and wind guiding you in the right direction.

~~~~~~~~ 3 hours later ~~~~~~~~

The clouds had come out of nowhere, casting a large, dark shadow over Aphrodite. The wind was skin-biting and strong, the waves getting unruly as she becomes angry with something. What? You had no idea. You had prepared for this, but the worst thing that could happen happened. 

As you put on your dark blue cloak to keep warm, a large wave crashed over your boat. With much luck, Aphrodite held strong and pulled back up from the water. Raindrops soaked your clothes as well as waves that rolled over the surface of your boat. As you were pulling on the sails, you froze in fear. A colossal wave formed. Bigger than anything you have seen, towering over you. At this point, you knew your fate and you fully accepted it. 

As the wave crashed over your boat, the water engulfed you into a frigid and bitter hug. The sheer force of this wave cracked your beautiful boat in two, ripped the sails a part as if it was cut by scissors, and lastly shredded your near-perfect map to shreds. It was a saddening sight to see to anyone on the outside. 

As your vision fades to black, numbness takes over your system and you are finally at rest. 

Or so you thought. 

“Is she ok? She- Oh she’s breathing! She looks ok, just a little roughed up.” 

‘Squawk!’

“She’s a human! She’s beautiful, she looks so cute in this little dress of hers.”

‘Squawk!’

“Can we keep her?”

A pause…

“Let's bring her inside, but we have to make sure she doesn’t escape. Grab some of the rope from her boat, that will hold her.” 

“She scared? She scared?” The animal squawked. 

“For certain…”

The voices were faded and muffled, and you felt like you were held in a bubble. Everything was quiet. The voices were smooth, siren-like, minus the power. There was something dark in the woman’s voice that hovered over you. There was something in her voice that sounded almost… dark and evil. As if she had malicious intentions with you. 

Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of waves crashing against the sand, but you were not on the beach anymore. You were in a cave, a dark, cold, dreary cave. With a pounding in your head, you moved your hand to your temple. Well, tried to. You look to your left, letting your eyes get used to the darkness and you see rings of rope around your wrist, holding you to a rusty bed frame. Looking to your right you see the same.

Struggling was your first instinct, but you were frozen in place. It was fear taking over your body and you didn’t know what else to do. There wasn’t much you could do in your state. It was so cold, and you couldn’t find a way to get warm. 

“H-hello?” Your voice echoes in the abyss of the dark cave in front of you and you have yet to hear anything other than that. But moments later, other voices fill the cavern's echos. 

“I wonder when she will wake up, oh I sure hope it’s soon.” One voice said. Were they talking about me? You think to yourself. 

“Well, when she does, it will be quite the surprise don’t you think?” That voice, it was the voice that sounded evil… 

In an instant, the dark cave was filled with lowly lit torches. From what you could see was a room full of different trinkets, a makeshift vanity with a sea-glass mirror, shelf portions of the cave filled with sea shells, and lastly her.

A beautiful woman walks into the cave carrying what looks to be wood, sail rope, some canvas sails, and cloth. It took you a moment to realize that these were parts of Aphrodite. Your precious boat. 

“Ah, she’s awake.” The woman says to her accomplice, a parrot on her shoulder. 

“Awake! Awake! Awake! Awake!” The parrot responds, making the woman let out a soft chuckle. 

“Please, let me go!” You plead. 

“No, you are mine now and I get to do what I please,” She gives you a smug smile and sets her trinkets and shells down on her vanity. You watch her carefully, salty tears falling down your cheeks as you pull at the ropes around your wrists. “There is no coming out of those ropes, darling. I know how to tie a good knot” She emphasizes the ’t’, making you jump slightly in response. 

“Such a curious creature humans are. They move around on these water contraptions just to go see another piece of land. Can you imagine that?” She says, chuckling at her own question. “Well of course you can, you were doing just that!” She moves towards the makeshift seaweed and canvas bed and sits on the edge. 

“I have yet to see a real human up close and see what they are really like. How much pain and torture they can take, just like my sisters had to endure.” 

Her intentions scared you, and her smirk told you that she already knew that. “P-please don’t hur-” she cut you off with a laugh and a mockery of your fear. 

“Puh puh puh, please! Oh don’t be so cute, I love hearing screams of fear…” She leans close to your face, her tongue sliding against your cheek and picking up a tear. “Mmmm, tastes so good. I can’t wait to taste the rest of you.” You whimper as her eyes turn bright red and before you know it, the clothes are ripped from your body leaving you nude, cold, and exposed. You flail your feet attempting to kick her, but she quickly pins them down and wraps more rope around them, connecting them to the bed posts at the bottom.

She shakes her head at your action and gently slides her fingers over your now exposed belly, “Nuh uh, none of that. We don’t need anyone else to get hurt, right?” You shiver in response, making her smile grow even bigger. “Oh, so you feel me…” She realizes and she runs her fingers up your belly, and to the valley of your breasts. 

Your reactions are very minimal at first, but then she starts going in other directions. “Hmm, I have little buttons like these too, I wonder what yours do?” She moves and grazes her fingers over your nipple, making you shudder. A new feeling has come to you, and the woman takes note. “Ah, how interesting. This little bud of skin is much more sensitive than the skin over here…” She does the same motion of rolling her fingers but with just a small section of skin from your breast. 

“What if we do both?” She inquires, moving both her hands above your breasts. Taking both nipples in her fingers, she smiles at your reaction of curling in on yourself. The little noises you make are what set her off. “Wow, how amazing,” She whispers, smirking at your reaction. As you whine and shake your body slightly, you try to get her off of you, but she is just pulled towards you again. 

“Someone is a little feisty,” She slaps your breast harshly and you yelp in pain. She chuckles and stands up. “Now let me introduce myself. I am Wanda, and as you can see I take the shape of a human, like you. But I am nothing of the kind. I have morals.” She pauses, and moves between your spread-open legs. “When I got the ability to use my shapeshifting power, I first wanted to try to be human. Just to see what it feels like to walk and run. I liked it at first, but then came this feeling that I can’t describe. It is like a fire was lit right here,” she puts her hand just above your lower regions, goosebumps pebbling at the touch of her skin on yours.

“There was nothing I could do to put it out. So I explored down there… I have a button down there just like up here,” She rolls your nipples in her fingers once again, making you whine in protest. “Oh, my Poseidon… it felt heavenly when I rubbed it just right. I thought the feeling would never end! But then it did… it felt like I exploded. It was like getting caught in a wave, only to fall back down into warm water again.” She smiles down at you from her spot between your legs. 

“I want to see if you feel it too.” She smirks and you whimper as you pull at the restraints around your limbs. Dismissing you, her fingers spread your slick petals and she gently rubs around the top of your pussy. A soft moan emits from your mouth and she gasps. “Oh, I think I found your button too,” Wanda continues to rub your clit, loving every single reaction from your mouth. With curiosity, she pokes at your entrance with her fingers. When she enters her fingers into your wet cunt, the moan from your mouth is beautiful. 

“That was beautiful, I need to see more!” She exclaims and starts to move her fingers in and out of your hole while rubbing your clit. With never feeling these things before, you are like an exposed nerve and are oh, so, sensitive. 

You soon start to feel what she was describing, the fire, the riding up the wave, and after seconds, the falling from that wave and into warm water. As you cum, she smiles at the feeling of your walls clenching around her fingers. “It feels nice, doesn’t it…” she states, not addressing it as a question. You vigorously shake your head, denying her. She smirks, knowing deep down you absolutely love it. 

The ropes burn your limbs and you were tired. But Wanda was far from done. She had so much more planned as she was infatuated with your pussy and how it pulsed around her fingers. “Should we see how many more of these little episodes we can see today?” 

“N-no! No, please no more, I- I want to go home, please,” You beg, knowing deep down you most likely won’t make it out of here. Not without a fight. Already you were scheming how you could possibly escape her, but your thoughts were shut down as Wandas' fingers intruded your hole at a fast rate. Her fingers moved in and out of your cunt, a burning feeling bubbling inside of you once again. 

“Oh, you’re so wet down here, little one. I swear if I go too fast, there may be a tidal wave coming at me.” She smirks at her words, not slowing her pace as she curls her fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion. Your moans were music to her ears, like putting a sea shell to one's ear and hearing the beauty of the ocean on the other side. 

Failing miserably, you try to quiet your moans. But the feelings are just too intense for you to handle. She leans down as she continues to pump her fingers inside of you and smiles as she licks along your red, hot clit. Your legs jolt once a more sensitive wave of pleasure falls over you, her tongue moving expertly over your little bud. Your back arches as much as it can with the bonds keeping you down and you try to enjoy your current state under Wandas' domination. 

In a matter of seconds, you are crumbling at the feel of Wandas' three fingers inside of you as well as her tongue licking your clit over and over again. Cumming a second time was even more of an experience. You saw white as your orgasm came crashing over you once again. Whimpers come out of your mouth as tears are falling down your cheeks. It’s too much, and your cunt feels like it's on fire. 

Finally, Wanda has had enough, and she lets out a sigh as she looks down at your abused petals. “Aw, look how red you are. You must be so sensitive, hm?” She chuckles at your fucked out sounds as she grazes your clit with the back of a finger, your hips pulling away in retaliation. You whimper as she suddenly stands up, her other fingers leaving your hole in an instant. You shudder at the emptiness, letting out a sob as your emotions take control of your body again. 

“Sweetheart, don’t cry, we have just barely begun.” Her smile is malicious and full of evil. There is nothing welcoming about her smile, almost like the waxing gibbous, right before a full moon. Only a sliver of a smile of the night sky, then the werewolves come out. Her teeth were sharp but smooth enough to look human. But she was far from human.

You found out she was a mermaid while she let you roam the beach a little bit. All she gave you for clothing was a paper bag-type dress made out of the canvas of your sails, and a rope around your middle as a belt. She took the chains from the anchor of your boat and kept it around your ankle, the other end under a very heavy bolder that she moved with her powers. 

While you stayed on the beach, chained to the rock that gave you the shade you needed, Wanda was hunting. There was a little bit of forest above the cave you both took shelter in, but she warned you to never go in there. Well, not without her. You were curious as to know if there was danger, or if she just didn’t want you out of her sight. But it was easy to say, she did not want you going anywhere. 

Sitting on the beach was the little bit of freedom that you looked forward to every day. One hundred and eighty-two (182) days of being in Wandas' captivity. You learned on day seven (7) to never run away from her. She will make everything hurt. She will take everything away from you if you try to take yourself away from her. 

On day seven (7), you found a way to rub the chain links together and break the loop off of your foot. Making sure she was in the water, you made a run for it on the wet sand of the beach. Trying to go around the island and then out into the ocean was your goal. Wanda sensed you were gone the second the chain broke. It was no use trying to swim away from a mermaid. 

She caught up with you in a matter of seconds, her webbed tail making her swim much faster than you; A mere human. She grabbed your ankle from underneath the water, dragging you down to the ocean floor. Not too deep as she knows the pressure builds, but deep enough where you would not be able to escape. She smiled as you thrashed against her iron grip, your arms trying desperately to reach the surface, and the last few bubbles exited your mouth as you finally fell unconscious. 

Once you were out, she pulled you to the beach, getting the water from your lungs and making sure you are breathing again. She sent a wave of energy over your body, keeping you in an unconscious state. Picking you up, your head hung over her arm as your legs hung over her other arm. She looked at your sleeping face in slight disappointment as you were doing so good the few days before this. She knew that the time outside was going to be limited as part of the punishment she was going to give you. 

Laying you on the bed, she gathers a few trinkets she has found. Including a sewing kit. She looked over your body and stripped you of your canvas dress. She laced the rope around your arms and fastened them to the rusty bars above your head. Angrily, she stares, thinking of the things she is going to do to you when you wake up. She growls and pounces on top of you, grabbing your legs and putting them together. She takes more rope from your boat and wraps your thighs and ankles, rendering you unable to walk. 

Now comes the painful part; She threads the thread through the eye of the needle and pinches the skin of your thigh. Carefully she puts the needle through your skin, puncturing through the layers mercilessly. As she pulls the thread through the hole in your skin, she meticulously sews your legs together in an intricate zig-zag shape from your left leg to your right leg. Once she gets to just above the rope around your ankles she hums at her work, making sure that you won’t be able to pull the thread out of your legs, even if you tried as hard as you could. 

Waving her hand takes away the power keeping you unconscious, and she makes her way out of the cave, not wanting to hear your screams as you realize what she had done to you. Of course, she loved to hear you scream, but not in pain. It was never meant to be this way. If you had just listened and stayed where you were put, this never would have happened. As she transforms into her mermaid form, she dives into the ocean to cool off as she was much too angry to argue with you, worried she would kill you in the snap of a finger if you said the wrong thing to her. 

You started to come to, becoming more and more aware of your surroundings by the second. Once again, you tried to move, only to be stopped by the ropes around your wrists, but there was much more than what was done to you last time. You looked to the source of the tension of your legs and your panic set in. Screams of pain and horror echoed through the cave, tears and sobs were heard for miles outside of the cave, and Wanda was nowhere near where she could hear them. 

~~~~~~~

More than a few hours later, your sobs had calmed to nothing more than whimpers. Your legs were screaming in pain, blood dripping from each of the holes Wanda's needle had made, soaking the thread and keeping them together. You closed your eyes, hoping that someone would find you, help you, kill you. But your wishes were only met with more fear.

As Wanda entered the cave, she had a whole net of fish, more shells, and trinkets from the ocean floor, as well as the part of your ship you were going to miss the most: The picture of you, your father, and your mother. It was still in its gold-plated frame, the monotone black and white of the picture still prominent. “I brought you a couple things,” Wanda says, unapologetically. Setting the net down, she places a pink and coral-colored conch shell next to you on the bed, the picture, and what looks like a shell necklace that she put together herself. 

You did not acknowledge her in the slightest. From the moment she walked into the cave, to the moment she begged you to talk to her. She even untied your arms and helped you sit up, but you didn’t say a word. In a fit of rage, she throws your body against the bed, letting you curl against yourself as you try to undo the thread. 

“It's not going to come off. I put a spell on it, and until you talk to me, it will stay that way. Do you understand?” She holds your chin in her hands, her sharp nails digging into your soft, beautiful skin. You whimper in response, tears pooling in your eyes. A few fall, but Wanda is quick to wipe them away as you look up at her. She gives you a soft smile and your brows furrow. This smile is different, it's out of pity, and out of a different type of intent. “Please, say something…” She whispers, tears of her own filling her eyes.

“Wh-why did you do this to me?” You whimper, pulling your hands away from the thread and to your chest to cover yourself. 

“Because you ran away… I told you to stay here, and you disobeyed me. This never would have happened if you just stayed, and enjoyed the sun like I so generously allowed you!”

Her eyes close, and she covers them with her hand. As she removes her hand, she sits down on the bed and her eyes soften as she looks at you. “I never wanted this to happen, love. You are mine, but I never wanted to hurt you.” 

"All you are is a liar..." You respond, with no emotion in your voice, eyes, or heart. Wanda sighs and helps you sit up once again. 

“My love for you is not a lie.” She says, moving to the floor as your legs drape over the side of the bed. She unties your thighs and ankles, her hands glowing a soft red color. Your legs lose feeling for only a moment, and you watch in awe as the thread is removed without pain or discomfort. It floats out of your skin, and the holes where it once was were closed. “Please forgive me, my little human. I won’t do this unless you make me angry. You won’t be punished if you don’t do something punishable. Do you understand me?” 

You nod softly as the feeling returns to your legs. You stand up, as does Wanda. You stumble at first, but you slowly make your way out of the cave and over to the rock where your chain lay. You wrap the chain around your ankle and hold it up for Wanda to seal with her magic. She looks at you, confused. 

“What are you doing?” She asks. 

You sigh and you hold up your foot again. “Im showing you I can be good. That I can keep a promise of being good.” She understands and seals the lock over the two open links. You stand up again, and you make your way to the water. You have already accepted the fact that will rip the dress off of you when you get back inside anyway, so you stand in the sun, bathing in the warmth as you stand nude. You are grateful that the chain grants you the length to reach the water. 

The waves make you sway slightly, and you close your eyes. Your destiny has proven itself, and you were to stay captive with Wanda. 

Soon enough, day three hundred sixty-five (365) hits and you are smiling with Wanda. Happily letting her devour you every night to her heart's desire, as well as shower you with gifts and jewels she finds on her hunting trips. In a form of trust, you both agree to a collar around your neck. One that claims you as well as keeps you on the island when Wanda is away. It was a way for Wanda to make sure you were safe, and a way for you to feel secure in someone's watch. And if any pirates come to the island, it would notify Wanda if you were in danger. 

She loved to see you in the sun, the jewels around your neck shimmering in the bright sunlight above you. A bright ruby right at the center of your neck, represents the love that Wanda has gifted upon you. Every morning when you woke up in her arms, you felt safe and sound, and no longer in danger of her. Of course, you were never going to make it home to Eleanore, so you threw a bottle with a letter in it into the ocean hoping that it finds her well. 

Yours and Wandas' routine grew every day, her even letting you go for a swim. She would transform into her mermaid form, and you would hold onto her shoulders as she sped through the water at speeds you have never felt before. On other days, she would take you to the edge of the forest above her cave. She told you stories of the cannibals that lived among the trees but willingly agreed to keep on their side of the island and never venture past the river about a mile into the grove of trees. 

You would tell stories of when you sailed with your father and cooked with your mother. Wanda loved to hear about humans and the hobbies or skills you can acquire with the right supplies and practice. She was infatuated with humans just as she was with you. 

One of your favorite things to do with Wanda was lay out on the sand at night, a soft seaweed blanket underneath you both, the water reflecting the moon, and the stars shimmering above you. For every shooting star there was, you would point to it and give Wanda a soft kiss on her cheek, making her smile and return the kiss. That was a nightly ritual you both had and when the both of you had soaked up the moonlight for the perfect amount of time, she would take you inside and make love to you. She would worship you, and care for you. She gave you meaning in a world where you had no one else to be there for. 

She loved you.

Your keeper loves you, yet you love her too.

[hyperfixat]

hbd to me!!!!!!! here’s a vent fic i wrote a few months ago so proceed with caution; reader attempted suicide, reader continues to have suicidal thoughts/attempts, reader seeks harm onto themself (both from external sources and self inflicted), reader is depressed!!! be sure to evaluate your mental state before reading this fic :3. this also contains a scene that i felt compelled to write for some reason involving assisted hygiene: idk i felt that needed a little acknowledgment..

ik its my birthday fic and it proably should be happy, but theres a bit of hurt comfort to this that i love and i polished it up to share so that hopefully u like it too.. again heed my warnings^

also final note; formatted on my pc, sprry if its funky

The first thing you feel upon waking up is disappointment.  This… you rub your face with your hands.  You can’t do anything right, you sigh.  Waking up is a clear sign of a failure as to your plans.

Although you frown as you observe your surroundings, this isn’t where you would be if someone had caught you attempting to take your life.  You wouldn’t be dumped in the middle of a sunny field.  This isn’t a hospital or ward, in fact there’s no sign of any modern buildings from where you sit.

Just where are you…?

You use shaky arms to lift yourself up, and begin to attempt to find a way home.  Or for something to just kill you.

What luck, you realize morbidly, you spawned on a plateau, and that’s all you allow yourself to think before breaking into a sprint and running both to and over the edge.

You hit the plains with a crack and you wheeze out a pained groan.  Before you can lift yourself up to try again or seek help or check for any witnesses, you feel your body fade away. It’s a weightless feeling as you sink into the earth of Teyvat.

There is not much pain, not as much as you had hoped or expected.  In ways this is a pro, for you are a coward in the face of pain no matter deserved or otherwise.

You fade, but not into the hold of death, at least you don’t think this is death, rather you fade from your spot crumpled on the ground into a sitting position firmly in the arms of an Anemo Statue of Seven.  The marble orb of Barbatos’ lookalike stops you from falling out of the statue’s arms and you heave a sigh.

How unfortunate.  It seems you cannot permanently die here.  Though… what if it was a fluke…?  With another bone deep sigh you fall to the ground and walk back to the ledge and stare down at the fifty foot drop.

Before you work up the courage to take the plunge a high, excited voice calls out for you.  You flinch, opening your eyes to see a youthful bard dressed in Mondstatian green, holding his hands out for you.  Venti is sprinting towards you and you take a step back nervously.  He seems to recognize you… but how could that be?  

His face falls as you back away and his sprint slows when he’s a few yards away from being able to reach out to you.  Venti calls your name again.  He falters, the smile adorning his face slips.

“Wait…” his voice wavers.  “What are you doing, Divine One?”

Why did he call you that…?  Is it some Mondstat greeting of sorts?  You can’t kill yourself in front of him and retraumatize the poor guy, so you allow him to get closer to you, and you don’t stop him when he sweeps his lythe form down into a kneeling bow.

“Hello.”  You greet, unsure of how one is supposed to act when approached by a fictional character.

Venti lifts his gaze from the ground up to your face, looking downright awestruck.

“I, we, have long awaited your descent, Divine One, it is an honor to have you grace the lands of Freedom with your presence first.”  

Uh-oh.  He seems to have confused you with someone else, because you are certainly no one special and definitely not any sort of divine.  How are you gonna break that to him without too much embarrassment on either of your parts?

“Please, come with me to the city, I’m certain the people will be delighted to host the one who shaped the world.”  His voice is high with a musical lilt, and it’s hard to decline him.

“I’m sorry,” your voice comes out dry, and you realize you’re terribly dehydrated.  “I think there’s been a mistake.  I’m not whoever you think I am.”

You take a step back, backing yourself up the hill onto higher ground.

“Whatever do you mean, Divine One?  Your presence is unmistakable.”

You shake your head, stepping further away from the Archon.  Venti reaches his hand out to grasp at the bottom hem of your pajama pants.  “Please!  I’ve waited so long for you.”  He falls onto his knees to beg.

Fuck, his eyes are so pretty when he pleads.  You don’t want to risk angering whatever God he’s mistaking you with, though, “Venti….”  

The blue-green sky of his eyes turns to the color of the ocean as tears well up in his waterline.  His whole body shivers when you utter his chosen name.  “I can keep it a secret from the public.  Surely only Archons and those blessed with a Vision will be able to sense you.  We can keep it quiet, please, Divine One, I beg of you.”

“I’m not this Divine One you speak of,” you kneel and place a hand on his hat.  Venti’s eyes search yours with confusion. As he lifts his head, your hand presses into the curve of his skull, making him lean harder into your touch.

“Th-That’s okay, please just stay in Mondstadt for a night, that’s all I wish.”  He doesn’t believe you, that’s clear, but he seems so eager to appease you.

You pause, looking away from the pathetically begging archon.  His hands clench on your pant fabric.

“Okay.  Just for the night.”  You hope no one else from Mondsat is as strange as Venti is…

“I don’t have any way to pay for this,” you smile at Diluc, placing a hand on the side of the glass to push it back across the counter.

“I wouldn’t dream of making you pay, please drink all you wish.  Let me know if it isn’t to your taste.”

“Does that apply to their guide as well, Master Diluc?”

“No.”

“A shame,” Venti sighs, taking a deep drink from his glass.

You have to hand it to Venti, he is a good guide.  He’s quick to shut down any vision holder you come across with a quick whisper in their ear, and he truly knows Mondstadt in and out.

The bell above the door jingles as it swings open, and you glance behind you in time to see Rosaria come strolling in with a timid Barbara clutching the back of her cathedral robes.  She must not visit the Angel’s Share much, seeing as the hydro-user looks around with quick, nervous eyes.  When her eyes land on you they widen comically, her small hand darting out to steady herself on Rosaria’s forearm.

—

“Farewell, my Divinity,” “Safe travels, Divine One,” and “May the wind bless your travels, Your Grace,” follow your retreating form as you make the hike to Dragonspine.  

Honestly you aren’t certain where you’re heading.  If the other nations treat you the same as Mondstadt, that's a no-go.  You won’t know unless you go, though.  Maybe you should head the same route the Traveler would.  That would mean Dragonspine is your next destination.  

Who will you meet there?  Albedo…?  He’s the only one you can think of that stays there.

As you begin the trek you realize; he’s a research-type dude, you hesitate to say scientist, but he does experiments and such.  Perhaps, you can make use of yourself by giving your body up to him to work on.  Surely an undying body would greatly interest the research of life?

After a surprisingly simple search you find him and present your proposition.

“Absolutely not,” Albedo dismisses you without thought.  He doesn’t even bother to spare you a look.  “That is blasphemy of the highest order, I’d suggest giving that attitude up sooner rather than later.”

You flinch back at the words, taking a step back into the chill of Dragonspine.

“I can offer you sanctuary here if you seek it, but I will not harm you.”  

“That’s…” not at all what you want.  “That’s very kind of you to offer, but I must decline.”

His haunting blue eyes follow you down the snowy path to Liyue.  Once you are far too away to hear, he states calmly, “safe travels.”

As you walk down the icy paths lining the gravel streets you think… Albedo had rejected you just like that.  What’s the next step?

You might as well stop by Liyue Harbor, maybe meet some characters before… before maybe heading to Sumeru?  

Ahhah! It hits you then, the harbinger introduced in Sumeru: Il Dottore.  If Albedo had reservations, then Dottore would have none.

Even still, Liyue is a harbor.  You’re sure to find a way to Snezhnaya from there.

You almost get to the docks without drawing any attention to yourself.  Almost.

Your mistake laid in the fact that you passed the Golden House, the weekly Childe Boss fight.  In your defense you didn’t actually think he’d be in there.  And it’s not like you even went in, only going up the steps and around for a detour.  

And it was a quick route until a strangled gasp came from behind you, making you spin around in alarm.  There, Tartaglia stood, with pupils nearly the size of his gray-blue eyes, staring, completely enraptured by your visage.  Your knees buckle and you make to sprint, but your body is no match for a Fatui Harbinger.

In retrospect you’re not entirely sure what drove you to run, perhaps some fight or flight instinct buried inside of you.

His long hand wraps around your forearm, tugging you to a stop, you face him, and your face must portray your panic clearly because Tartaglia’s twists into sorrowful sympathy.

“My Divinity… it is an honor to meet you in the flesh.”

“Let go.”  He does, promptly so. 

“I’m sorry, I got ahead of myself.  May I ask where you are headed, and if you are in need of company?”

“No.  Thank you, Childe.” 

His face shifts into a serious look, nodding.  “Do you need an escort to Liyue then?  Is that where you’re heading?” 

“No.  I know where I’m going, and I much prefer to go alone.” It’s not entirely false, you know where you’re headed, just not how.

“Well… be safe, okay?  I hope to see you again.”

“I will.”  The lie comes out and you cringe, because its delivery falls flat and its so obviously untrue.

“Does Mr Zhongli know you’re here?  Surely you’re here to see Morax?” He strolls to your other side, offering a hand to lead you to the city.  You ignore the hand.

“Goodbye, Tartaglia.”

“I can’t let you leave alone in good conscience…. You don’t seem well.  Let me lead you to the harbor at least.”

Since he is as unmoving as stone, you let him take you to the main city, managing to ditch him before more people can know about your presence.

The boats docked at Liyue Harbor are hopeful.  “Where is this ship headed?” you ask one of the dock workers.  They look up at your voice before glancing at the ship they’re loading up with lumber.

“Snezhnaya.” They say glancing up at the grand vessel.  “Why?  Where’re you tryna go, friend?”  

“Snezhnaya.  How much does the fare cost, one way?”

—

“News of your travels have reached Snezhnaya, Divine One.”  Dottore starts, fixing his posture from a lean on a surgical table to something more proper.  You shake your head, the weariness you’ve accumulated on your journey weighing down on you.  You’re finally where you deserve to be.

“I’m not the Divine One you speak of, Dottore.”

“Hm?  Do you think so little of my intelligence?  Your presence is unmistakable.”

“No, it’s not that.  But I’m not.  I’m just a regular person.  And I came to you for a reason.”

“Oh?  The Creator themself, seeking me out?  It’s an honor,” the doctor bows to you, smirking at you from beneath his beaklike mask.

“I need you to hurt me.”

“What?”  He pulls himself up with a startled question.  “I’m afraid I misheard you, Divine One.”

“I can’t die, Dottore.  I’m giving myself to you, you…” you heave a sigh as you explain your reasoning.  “You could make use of me.  I’m not whoever you think I am, please just take me.  I don’t care what you do to me.”

“You’re… giving yourself to me?”  

“Yes.”

“Do you know what happens to my… patients?”

“Yes, that's why I’m here.  I can’t die, I imagine I would make a good test subject.”

“Is this a test?”  Dottore seems to be speaking to himself more than anything.  He pushes away from the table and paces to the back room of the lab, muttering madly to himself as he does so.  The door swings open with a loud screeching and you catch sight of multiple mops of blue hair and masks.  

His Segments.

You can hear a conversation ongoing between all of the parts of Zandik, it seems he doesn’t want to be rash and take you in too hastily.  You can understand his (their?) hesitancy; if a god offered themselves up to you, you would surely think it was a trap.  But you aren’t a god, so it should be a no brainer for him.  How often does he get consenting test subjects?

It seems this absurd idea of you being a higher power has infiltrated Snezhnaya as well, which is… not good. Everyone is saying you’re more than what you are, you can’t be a god, you barely consider yourself a human.

An older, completely unmasked Segment sticks his head out of the door, frowning once he makes eye contact with you.  There’s gray leaking from his roots into the teal of Dottore’s hair, and visible aging lines on his face; crows feet and tension on his cheekbones.  Glowing red eyes narrow upon meeting your own, mouth pulling into a tight line.

A younger segment, smaller in size and stature, with a nearly full face mask, only showing part of his mouth.  You think that is the one that the Fandom surrounding him dubbed Webttore.  You usually see pictures of him with a wide, jagged-tooth smile, but, like his older part, he looks solemn.

You wonder just how many Segments Il Dottore has, because you can still hear an entire conversation going on without the two.

The conversation seems to be dying down, not ending without a few red eyes peeking out from behind the door at you.  It’s surreal seeing so many versions of the same person at once; the youthful ones, eyes wide, and the older ones with wrinkles built with time and age, all at the same moment in time.

Eventually though, they do seem to come to a verdict: the Omega segment, the one you met upon walking into his lab, exits, closing the door behind him with a click that resonates through the room.

His answer is a simple word.  “No.”

Your heart drops and stomach sinks at the rejection, and based on il Dottore’s reaction it must show.  “Why?” your voice is small and sounds foreign to your own ears.

“I cannot forsake the true god in such a way, whether you acknowledge it or not, you have that power.”

All the turmoil and hardships it took to get here come crashing down, the light at the end of the tunnel is rejecting you.  You hadn’t known this was something that could happen, your… your savior, the one you were looking for is telling you no.  He won’t lay a finger on you, and it’s tearing you apart.  This was the only thing that kept you from burying yourself in the deep forest of Sumeru and letting yourself rot.

“Oh.” It’s shaky and you nod, trying to take it maturely.  “I see.”  Your voice is warbling like you're on the verge of tears.  Blinking rapidly to dispel the water from your eyes, you lower your head and make to scamper out of the lab.

Dottore lets out a heavy sigh, and his leather gloves wrap around your wrist.

“Wait.”  You nervously glance up at his mask.

“You said you would ‘give yourself to me,’ no?”

Your heart pounds heavily in your chest, “yes.”  Has he suddenly changed his mind? You shouldn't get your hopes up.

“I will take you.  I doubt you will appreciate my intentions, but if I were to own you, you wouldn’t be able to complain.  After all, you will have done it to yourself.”

You don’t know what those words mean, but the stinging rejection welling up in your eyes turns to relief. “Thank you,” he doesn’t stop you from dashing to his side and wrapping your arms around his waist.  You press your face into his abdomen, letting his clothes soak up your tears.  A hesitant hand rubs over your spine, an effort to soothe you.

You pull yourself together, sucking in a deep breath of the sterile lab air.  

“Alright,” Dottore says after he deems you put together enough.  “Come.”  His hand covers your wrist, gently tugging you behind him.  You aren’t sure where he is leading you, as he takes you out of the lab.  The halls are tall and gorgeously crafted, intermittent with intricate moldings on the wall.  

It’s a small room you find yourself in, but it is infinitely better than the wilderness.  The size is comparable to an average hotel room.  Dottore instructs you to sit and stay on the bed, which you do obediently.  Nerves swirl inside of you, as to where he has gone and what he will bring back with - when he will return, if at all.

Il Dottore knows.  While he is not well versed on human, much less godly, psychology, he can tell you’re depressed when you first stumbled your way into his workstation. Besides, he’d be hard pressed to deny the rumors from various agents that had been located in places you’d traveled through.

With a small caddy in his hands Dottore kneels next to the nightstand and places a hand on your shoulder to force you to lay down.  “Arm.”  Is what he prompts for you to let him maneuver your arm to lay open and flat over the edge of the bed. 

The scent of alcohol alerts you to the sanitary wipe before you feel the chill of it.  You keep your eyes trained on the ceiling as you feel the slight pinch of a needle  and a clicking as an IV is deposited into your arm.  Out of the corner of your eye you see Dottore set up a drip, but you don’t bother to ask what it is, the excitement of the day catching up with you.

Il Dottore eventually leaves the room in silence after pushing an odd vial of liquid into the drip, not bothering to look behind him as he closes the door and leaves with confident strides.

Although it’s entirely possible it’s simply the Placebo Effect, as the drip spreads throughout your veins you can feel your eyes getting heavier and heavier.  Before long you can no longer keep them open and slip into a dreamless sleep.

You wake up to a Mirror Maiden tidying up the nightstand next to you.  You observe her work, wondering how she can manage to navigate with the blind pulled over her eyes.  She startles when she catches your eyes on her, though returns back to work, quietly disposing of the used needles from earlier.  You wonder what The Doctor has injected you with; wonder if he added more of whatever it is while you were unconscious.

There’s a brisk, impatient knock on the door and the Maiden straightens up, taking hold of everything to discard and striding over to change positions with Tartaglia behind the door.

You stay flat on your back, looking at the ginger in mild surprise.  Last you saw him he was in Liyue and set to stay for quite a while.  Had he heard you gave yourself away to Il Dottore?   Is he here to plead for you to change your mind?

But to your bemusement he stays quiet, walking over to and kneeling next to your bed.  Instead of speaking he merely rests his head on the nightstand, dull blue eyes gazing at you sadly, yet reverently.

You’re unsure of how long you look up at the ceiling, doing your best to ignore Tartaglia’s eyes on you.  His gaze is unwavering, and eventually, you turn your head to the side, meeting his eyes.

“I’m sorry for my behavior in Liyue.  I was too excited to see you, and my manners deserted me.”

“It’s okay.” You croak, throat dry from sleep.  “I was dismissive as well.”

Dottore doesn’t bother to knock when he comes in.

“I see you’re awake and seem to have found a stray harbinger.”

Tartaglia doesn’t react to his entrance, merely moving to the far end of the bed, laying his head on the covers near your feet.  You realize someone has drapped a plain, solid color duvet over your body when you slept. 

“Are you feeling anything out of the ordinary?” Dottore asks, checking the emptied IV bag.  He unclips it and pulls a fresh one from his lab coat pocket.

You take the moment to assess (how do you spell it) your body.  In all honesty you’re feeling much better, the hydration from the drip really made a difference.

“I feel hydrated.”

Dottore hums, he sounds disinterested.  “How’s your appetite? Can you stomach anything for me?”  He clips a new bag onto the pole, screwing it into your IV’s tube. “Stand if you can.” 

Dottore’s eyes watch you intensely behind his mask, observing how you tremble when you put a leg onto the floor.  “Childe, help them and follow me.”

Tartaglia scrambles to steady your arm as you fully get out of the bed, wrapping the one without the needle in it around his shoulder to support you.  You stiffen, but aren’t in any position to be able to get around without him, not with the emptiness of your stomach and the way black fades into your vision when you stand.  “Get them to the restroom, take care of their needs.  I will return with what they will eat.”

“Come on, I got you,” Tartaglia assures as he leads you to the ensuite restroom. It’s nothing too fancy; simply a sink, shower, and toilet.

You eye the toilet, realizing how long it’s been since you’ve relieved yourself.  A shower would also be nice…

“Allow me to assist you, Divine One,” Tartaglia remains stoic and respectful as he shimmies your pants and underwear down your legs, letting you support yourself on his broad shoulders as you step out of the pant holes.  After making sure you get to the toilet safely he turns around and starts the shower faucet.

The sound of the water helps you get over your pee shyness and by the time Tartaglia finishes soaking and preparing a cloth for you, you’ve finished and are ready to bathe.

With weak arms you gather the hem of your shirt in your hands and remove the remainder of your clothes.

Tartaglia helps you get clean with warm, respectful touches, passing you the cloth for you to clean more intimate areas, before helping you out of the shower and wrapping a large, soft towel around your body.  It’s huge, covering the top of your bust to well past mid-calf, looping around your body almost twice.  He tucks the towel tightly with practiced precision. 

“Il Dottore will be back soon, I’ll help you get dressed before he returns.  Do you have any material preferences?”

—

You sit up in bed, feeling marginally better than the day before.  The day after that, and the day after that all proceed in a similar fashion; each time you feel just a little bit better.  More clear headed, a better appetite, less like a corpse walking.

Only after Dottore deems you well enough to remove the IV do you get your suspicions that it was more than just the proper nutrition making you feel better.  He still stops by your room twice a day for some shots; he encouraged you to choose where he would deposit them (when you said into your brain or through your chest, it did not amuse him).  It feels suspiciously like the antidepressants you’ve been on before.  

It only further confuses you, though.  Does he want you in a proper state of mind for something?  He has no reason other than unfounded faith to help you, you don’t like it.  It’s … uncomfortable receiving this type of care, knowing it’s only because they think you're better than who you really are.

The food they feed you, the clothes they dress you in, it's all much more than you deserve.

“What are you doing to me?”

“Pardon?” Dottore sets the syringe down with a metallic click.  Through his mask you can feel his gaze on you.

“You’re… you’re trying to— to…” the words fail you.

“Mitigate your depressive symptoms?  Yes, I am.  What of it?”  Il Dottore picks the syringe back up, pushing the knob back before stabbing it into the vial in his hand. He pulls the liquid up with ease before removing the needle and pushing to remove the excess air in the syringe.

“Why?”

“Hm?  Why would I not?”  He flicks the syringe and some liquid flies from the point of the needle.

“If I were anyone else you wouldn’t be doing this.”

“Indeed.”

“Haven’t you realized by now that I’m not who you think I am?  That I’m just a normal human in a horrible situation of being unable to die?”

“That is not so.  Your skin cultures and biopsy results do not share that conclusion.  Even if you continue to deny your god-hood, it changes nothing. I know for certain who you are, and you will remain in my care until you utilize your divine right to revoke such.”

Biopsy? When on Earth — Teyvat? — did that happen?  But there’s more important things to discuss with him for now, not that you care how or when it happened.  You’re more surprised you never noticed, that’s all.

“You’re wrong!”  You wail, tears finally coming for the first time in a while.  You had thrown your head back to speak, but now you collapse in on yourself with your head between your arms and legs.  It’s humid, but saves you from having to look at the doctor and his unreadable bird mask.

“Oh my,” you hear Dottore murmur, then he sets his medical supplies to the side and places a hand on your shoulder. He remains there while you sob, when finally the lack of speech seems to reach the boiling point, he heaves a sigh.  “If it is of any consolation, if it were to come to my attention that you are not in any way godly or divine, I would treat you the same.  I’ve put far too much care into you to just toss you aside..”

That consoles you, if only a little, damn the drugs making you want to continue life to see the future.   But you broke the dam of tears, and it’ll take a while for them to stop; you need to cry out everything that led you here….

Your… attempt that put you in Teyvat, the one you tried right after arrival, the false death, all the eyes and praise that aren’t meant for you.  It’s dysphoric.  

The lurches of your body with your cries, stitches your sides and you sniffle harder into the crevice your body makes, the moisture of the confined body space blending in with your tears.

“There now,” Dottore says, quieter as you get so as well.  “Perhaps some more rest will do you good.  I’ll be at the ready whenever you wake.”

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Still Love Me?

This will fill the "I want you to leave marks." space on my @jacklesversebingo card. The prompt will be bolded.

Summary: Y/N wants to help Dean deal with the mark - in whatever way he needs.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Smut. Pretty much all just very filthy smut. MOC!Dean. He is harsh, and fairly brutal. Hard, rough, brutal, unprotected P in V sex. Pain/pleasure dynamics (all consensual). Spanking (brief). Tit slapping. Throat fucking. Hard, rough fingering. Spitting. Spit as lube. Brief anal fingering. Name calling. Face slapping (just once) Choking. Oral (f. receiving.) Brief orgasm denial and overstimulation. Reader tied up. Dom/sub vibes. Dom drop. Also angst. Soft Dean. Aftercare. And believe it or not, some fluff.

Pairings: MOC!dean x Reader (You)

Word Count: 5,074

A/N: Blame this fic on raging hormones, and a rewatch of S10. 🤷‍♀️ All I'll say is, heed the warnings. ⚠️

The beautiful dividers used here are created by @talesmaniac89

You awoke from a dream that you immediately forgot, reaching for Dean beside you. But he wasn’t there. You sat up quickly, surveying the room in the dark, and seeing no sign of him. 

You stood up and grabbed Dean's white button down that he’d worn earlier in the day before carelessly draping it over the arm of the chair. He never put his clothes away. A little imperfection of his that made you love him even more, even if it also made you wanna pinch him sometimes. 

“The drawers are RIGHT THERE.” You’d remind him, frustration leaking from your pores. Inevitably he’d smile his charming, irresistible smile and nuzzle his face into the side of your neck, licking and nipping at you and rubbing his scratchy scruff against your sensitive skin, making you giggle and shiver.

“Still love me?” He’d ask teasingly, his little boy expression making you fall in love with him all over again. Every time. 

But under his teasing -  no matter how minor your annoyance with him was, or how happy he was in the moment - beneath that you could always see his genuine fear that one day you’d say no.

Dean Winchester broke your heart sometimes.

You padded out of the bedroom in only Dean’s shirt; Sam was away in Lebanon for the night, having finally asked out a waitress he’d liked for more than a month. He’d texted earlier to say not expect him home before tomorrow. Or maybe the day after.

Go Sammy! you thought with a smile.

You wandered down the bunker’s hallways, checking for Dean in all of his usual haunts; the kitchen first, naturally, but also the library and war room, the Dean cave, the shower room, though you didn’t hear a shower running. Beginning to get a little worried, you decided to check out the basement. As you came to the bottom of the staircase you heard grunting coming from down the hall and frowned.

It sounded like it was coming from the gym. You went to investigate, although you began to suspect why he was awake and hitting a punching bag in the gym in the middle of the night. You walked into the dimly lit gym and stopped to gaze at Dean in awe.

He was wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and no shirt, a sheen of sweat covering his skin as he moved from foot to foot, pounding on the two hundred pound heavy bag in front of him. Each punch was landed with a grunt of effort, and sometimes his hands moved in combinations too quick for you to follow. He was an extraordinary fighter, beautiful and graceful, and extremely powerful. 

You didn’t get to spy on him for very long. His instincts and sixth sense tended to border on the prescient, so he quickly turned towards you, his face relaxing somewhat as he saw that it was just you. He pulled one of his ear buds out with his taped up hand, breathing heavily. You could hear screaming metal music tinnily coming through the tiny speaker before he shut off the music and stuffed the headphones into his pocket

“Y/N. What are you doing up?”

You smiled and walked towards him. “I woke up and you were gone, so I came looking for you.” You came to a stop in front of him and reached out to wrap your arms around his neck, but he pushed your arms away and stepped back quickly. You frowned at him, more confused than hurt.

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, nothing. Sorry, I just…” he swept a hand across his chest. “I’m all sweaty and gross. Trust me, you don’t wanna be near me.”

You chuckled and gave him a mischievous grin. “Been around you all hot and sweaty plenty of times, Winchester; hasn’t bothered me yet.”

But when you closed in on him again, he backed up further, holding up a hand. “Y/N stop it!” He barked at you.

This time his anger at your approach and his obvious disinterest did hurt you a bit, but once again, you thought you knew the problem. You frowned at him.

“Okay. Talk.”

But Dean just shook his head. “Look, I’m just…I just wanna finish my workout…and, you know…” he trailed off.

You put your hands on your hips and tilted your head at him. “You wanna finish your workout? What are you Sam all of a sudden?” You said with a chuckle, trying to lighten his dark mood. 

But he remained dark. His green eyes were hard like flint and his jaw ticked. You began to notice a sort of dangerous, menacing energy rolling off of him. It was the kind of energy, you had to admit, that would make you turn and run in the other direction if you didn’t know and love him.

But his mood wasn’t at all surprising. You’d suspected all along what woke him, why he was down here, and why he didn’t want you close to him. You looked at the mark that sat like a scarred brand on his inner right forearm and felt your stomach clench. You reached out to touch it but Dean yanked his arm away. 

“The mark acting up?” You asked, trying to sound nonchalant, as though you were discussing a toothache instead of the curse that had turned him into a demon once already. You knew it had been getting worse in recent weeks. He used to talk to you when he woke up from a nightmare brought on by the mark, but lately he’d been just brushing them aside. 

“Same as always.” He answered now, as he’d answered many times before.

You shook your head. “Don’t do that, Dean, please. Tell me what you dreamt. Talk to me about what you’re going through. I wanna help.”

Dean shook his head and laughed humorlessly. “You can’t help, Y/N, and I don’t…” He ran a hand over his face and then turned back towards the bag. “I don’t want you around me when I’m like this.” He said, before landing a blow to the heavy bag that made it swing back and forth.

You swallowed and tried to ignore the primal part of you that tended to get animalistic when he was like this. Your body flushed and your core muscles fluttered whenever you could see that hard, hot, hungry look come into his eyes.

You knew it scared him and you wanted to support him; you wanted him to know you'd always believe that underneath everything he would always be the same good, loving, kind man you'd known all these years. 

But sometimes he exuded so much raw masculinity and virility, that it was like a siren song, pulling you in and you were more than willing to risk being dashed upon the rocks if it meant feeling that energy, that power, vibrating around you.

You stepped closer to him and he backed away again, but you pursued him across the gym floor. He scowled deeply at you, nostrils flared. 

“Y/N, what the fuck are you doing? I told you, you shouldn’t be around me right now.”

You shook your head. “You’re wrong, Dean. I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here if you want to talk…or…anything.” You said, voice laced with too much meaning for Dean to miss it.

Again his jaw clenched, and his eyes flicked down your body, obviously enjoying the sight of you clothed in only his shirt. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you're asking for, Y/N.”

You stepped closer to him, pushing him back against a stack of mats. “I think I do. I know you wanna fuck me, I know your body is as hot and aching as mine.” You reached up to wrap your hand around the back of his head, playing with the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m here for you, for whatever you need. If you want to expend some of that excess energy, I’m right here - ready to go.”

The only sound in the room was the rough, shallow breaths coming from both of you. Suddenly, quick as a flash, Dean’s hand shot out to bunch your shirt (his really) in one fist and wrench you closer to him. 

“You’re not listening to me, Y/N. Two hours ago I was dreaming about slicing people up, pulling them apart with my bare hands. That violence, the lust, the pounding need to destroy something is still pumping through my veins. I want to fuck something or break something or maybe both.” He dropped his hand from your shirt and pushed it through his hair. “So get away from me unless you want me to do something we’ll both regret.”

Your blood was pumping so hard in your veins, you were surprised Dean couldn’t hear it. You licked your lips and shook your head. “No. I won’t regret it. I want you to use me, I’m here for you, I’m giving you permission to use me…however you need.” You paused for a beat before admitting, "I want you to leave marks."

Dean’s face was almost feral in its intensity and you felt the slick begin dripping down your inner thigh.

"You don't really mean that, sweetheart." Dean grit his teeth, and spoke in a growl.

"Don't I?" You whispered.

You unbuttoned the few buttons holding his shirt closed and let it fall to the floor, leaving you in nothing but a white, lacy thong. Dean clenched his fists over and over as his burning hot gaze scorched you completely.

"Last chance, sweetheart. Run." He warned, his voice low and slightly ominous, causing you to shiver.

You shook your head. "No." You said simply; anything more was beyond you at the moment.

A split second passed before Dean pounced. He grabbed you roughly by the throat and landed his open mouth on yours, sweeping his tongue inside. His body radiated restrained power as he kissed you, consumed you. Moving down from your mouth he sucked on the skin below your ear, beginning to make the marks you wanted to see in the mirror the next day. 

He broke away from you and pulled you aside so he could yank down one of the mats from the pile, and toss it on the ground.

"Get down." He ground out, before pushing you to the mat when you didn't move quick enough.

He towered above you, staring down at you as he slowly pulled the tape off his knuckles. His eyes were dark, and wild and made your body shiver slightly in anticipation.

"Take off your panties. I want you on your hands and knees." He told you when he was finished. "I'm gonna fuck you into oblivion." He pushed down his sweats, making you moan deeply as you saw he wasn't wearing underwear. 

You reached for his rock hard cock, but he slapped your hand away, kneeling down and manhandling you into the position he wanted you in before tearing your panties from your body. 

He set you on your hands and knees and pushed against your back until your cheek was pressed tightly against the mat. The position left your ass and pussy completely exposed to him and he took immediate advantage of that, roughly driving three fingers into your dripping hole. 

A cry escaped you and he growled deep and harsh, clearly enjoying the sound. He chased it again by pulling his fingers out and then slamming them back into you, even harder.

"Unf - fu-huck." You gasped out, your whole body vibrating with need. He pulled out and added his fourth finger, ramming into you and forcing your cunt to stretch wide. With most of his hand sunk deep inside your pussy he pressed against your g-spot and made you scream.

He pulled back from the sensitive spot and then punched back into you so hard he almost knocked you over. But he grabbed onto your hip in a bruising grip. His hand was so big, his blunt fingernails dug painfully into the crease of your thigh.

Buried deep inside your cunt he turned his hand so that his thumb could circle the tight, puckered hole of your ass. His hand moved from gripping your hip to spreading your cheeks open.

He spit onto the ring of muscle and you gasped. You had no experience with anal sex, and your stomach flip-flopped half in fear and half in excitement. He spit on you again, rubbing his saliva over your hole with his thumb before breaching it, pushing just the tip in at first. He pulled out and then pushed back further, to his first knuckle. 

The sensation was strange but pleasurable. He pushed his thumb in as far as he could and the unfamiliar stretch burned. He moved his other hand forward and began to push in his other thumb. He spit on you again to lube up the way for his probing fingers. As he pushed both thumbs in completely he pried you open slightly, stretching you and making you whimper, half pain, half pleasure. 

You felt stuffed full of him, both holes stretched open and stinging. Then he pushed his fingers against your sweet spot again, rubbing and pressing there until your walls clenched tightly around him as you exploded, yelling out a rough, ragged sound of pleasure.

As you were coming down, he pulled his hands out of you and stood up. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking on it hard and making you cry out in pain as he used it to pull you to your knees.

Without pausing, he wrenched your head back so your face was turned up to him. Then his hand came down across your cheek, stinging sharply.

"Open your fucking mouth. I wanna make you gag."

You did as he said immediately, feeling your belly clench in spite of the pain, or maybe because of it. He shoved his cock roughly down your throat, getting what he wanted as you choked around him. 

He pulled out and cum and spit dribbled out of your mouth before he pushed back in, even further down your esophagus. He took his free hand and ran his thumb over your bulging throat. 

He pulled out again, letting you barely catch your breath. You coughed hard, your throat already aching from being used so roughly. But Dean held your head in place by your hair and shoved himself in again, until he was fully seated in your throat. 

You gagged around him over and over, but he just wrapped his big hand around your throat and squeezed, gripping his own cock buried deep inside. His fist squeezed tightly and you stopped gagging simply because the immense pressure of his fist allowed for no movement. 

You began to see black spots moving in around the edges of your vision before he finally let go and pulled out his cock. You coughed horribly, raspy, gravelly sounds emanating from you as you struggled to bring oxygen into your lungs.

Before you really had time to recover, Dean yanked you to your feet, his hand still bunched in your hair. Your legs were wobbly, but he pulled you over to one of several workout benches around the room and pushed you down over it, finally letting go of your hair. 

"Don't move." He told you; his voice was dark and sinister and made you start shivering. Your body was aching, but also humming with need. 

You couldn't see what he was doing behind you but suddenly his mouth was buried in your pussy, his hard tongue penetrating you. 

"Dean!" You screamed out, and it hurt your raw throat, but you couldn't help it as his delicious mouth sucked and licked at your throbbing cunt. You wriggled against his mouth and he pulled away making you whimper with want. 

Then you felt his palm crack hard and heavy against your ass and your whimper turned into a gasp and then a moan of pain as he delivered a second blow, making heat bloom and spread across your cheeks.

"I told you not to fucking move." He growled at you. 

You nodded your acknowledgement, a whine leaving you as he returned to pulling you apart on his tongue. You tried hard to stay still, but as he pulled your clit between his swollen lips, you instinctively pushed back against him.

He pulled away again and you knew you'd messed up. He lifted you off the bench easily and brought you back over to the mat on the floor. He threw you down on it and walked away. 

He returned quickly, carrying three long skipping ropes. He got down and knelt over you, one knee on either side of your hips, and grabbed hold of your hands, using one of the ropes to tie them tightly in front of you. Then he stood up and pulled on the rope until your hands were stretched out above your head. He tied it off to something, making it impossible for you to move your arms.

Next he tied the two other ropes to your ankles and stretched your legs wide, making sure your restraints were taut enough that you had absolutely no chance of movement.

He stood over you again, admiring his handiwork, and watching the need spasm across your face. You called out to him, desperate for him to relieve the pulsing ache in your pussy. 

"Dean, please. Please."

He gave in to your pleading and laid down to bury his face in your cunt once again. Your complete inability to move made the teasing, sucking and fucking of his mouth nearly unbearable. He put his big hand flat on your lower belly so you couldn't lift your hips even a little.

You were completely at his mercy as he tortured you with aching, all-consuming pleasure. 

You were screaming now, over and over, just harsh, guttural shouts of desperate need. It was the only outlet you had, the only way to express the overwhelming ecstasy Dean was pulling from your exhausted, trembling body.

He spread your lips wide with his thumbs and flicked the tip of his tongue back and forth against your clit, pulling back again and again when your climax was about to take over. Tears streamed down your cheeks and your arms and legs pulled uselessly against the bonds Dean had tied so tightly.

Finally Dean sat up and then moved up your body. He cupped your tits in both hands and squeezed hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh without mercy, making it feel as though they were being crushed by a vice. He let go to twist your nipples with his strong fingers, making you cry out in pain again. Or maybe it was pleasure. At this point it was almost impossible to tell the two apart.

Dean let go of your nipples and then began going back and forth between your tits, slapping each of them over and over, with sharp, strong, stinging blows. You knew the punishment he was dolling out would likely leave them raw and aching, with bright red marks as evidence of Dean's lust and need for violence.

Finally, he left them throbbing as he grabbed your throat. He didn't squeeze hard, but the threat was there. He hovered above you and then spit in your face. Warm and thick, the saliva slipped down your cheek and Dean shook your head back and forth.

"Open your mouth, bitch." You followed his order immediately, your cunt clenching around nothing at his name-calling. He spit into your open mouth twice and then slid his hand up from your throat to clamp your jaw shut.

"Swallow it." He ordered harshly and you did. He kept your jaw clamped tight in his fist, so that you could only scream quietly through clenched teeth when he was suddenly fucking up into you, rough and fast. He was so big, and so hard, and he went so deep inside you it felt like he'd tear out your guts. 

And yet you wanted more.

Letting go of your face to raise himself up like a push up above you, he forced his way forward , pushing out every ounce of power he had in his hips, to rut powerfully and unendingly into your cunt You came three more times as he continued to pound away at you. He fucked you for so long and jackhammered into you so rough, that your pussy ended up raw and painful as he continued to fuck you. You could feel the damage he was doing to your cervix, ramming into it over and over, leaving it bruised, and making your body ache and throb even on the inside.

And yet, despite all the pain and your complete and utter exhaustion when he gripped your chin in his hand and demanded you open your eyes and look at him, you did so. 

"Give me one more, slut. Squeeze me hard one more time and I'll spill so deep in you, you'll feel me leaking out of this pussy for days."

You felt your belly clench seconds before you gave him what he wanted, your walls spasming around him once again as you shook with your release. 

Dean yelled and cursed as he followed through on his promise, muscles straining above you as his hips stuttered and lost rhythm, and his thick, burning hot cum shot into your womb. He seemed to cum forever, more and more of his seed painting your walls as he shook above you. 

Finally he ended with a groan of repletion and landed on top of you. His heavy weight was a lot for your aching body to take, and every part of you throbbed.

He eventually rolled off of you and you thought he might have drifted out of consciousness for a few minutes. You may have done the same if the painful ache pulsing through you would have let you. 

As you lay beside him, still unable to move because of the ropes tying you in place, you thought about how Dean had used you, just as you'd told him to, marked you as you’d begged him to. Ordinarily Dean was the gentlest of lovers, almost reverent, and he always made your body hum and glow, plucking at you in that perfect way that only he knew. 

But tonight had been something else entirely. There had definitely been times when sex between you and Dean had been a bit more athletic and acrobatic than other times, but it had never been anything like this. You decided that although you certainly wouldn't be able to do this every night, it had been an incredible, pleasurable, hot and thrilling experience, that you wouldn't mind trying again sometime. 

Your body throbbed and you amended your thought. Yes, with a lot of recovery time in between.

Finally, Dean stirred beside you and then turned his head to look at you. It seemed to dawn on him slowly that you were still trussed up, but when it registered completely, he leapt up.

"Shit, Y/N I'm so sorry." He said, untying the ropes around your ankles and wrists. He helped you sit up and you couldn't help grimacing and letting out a sharp cry of pain as you put pressure on your overused pussy, and never-before-fucked asshole.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry." You heard the heartbreak and guilt in Dean's voice and you shook your head vehemently, wanting to immediately nip those feelings in the bud.

"Dean, no, I'm fine." You said, but your throat ached and sounded raw as you spoke, making more remorse cloud his expression.

You tried to tell him again, but he just shook his head at you and pressed his lips gently to your forehead.

"Shh, don't try to talk baby. Just put your arms around my neck."

You did and he lifted you easily from the ground. You tried desperately to curtail your groans and gasps of pain, but you weren't always successful as he walked with you slowly down the Bunker's hallways trying not to jostle you.

Eventually, he brought you through the tiled shower room, and into the back area where a wide, deep bathtub, set into the floor and shaped like a hot tub, was waiting. 

He carried you down into the pool-like bathtub and sat you on one of the benches built into the side of the tub. You shivered at the cold tile and Dean nodded.

"I know, baby. I'm gonna fix that right now." He moved over to the big taps, sliding the drain closed, and then turning the water on, letting the gushing, warm water pour into the tub.

He climbed out and gathered up some things as it filled, covering you slowly in heavenly warm, soothing water. 

When it was full, Dean returned to set the things he'd brought down beside you on the edge of the tub. You saw he'd brought over your coconut body wash, as well as your shampoo and conditioner. He also had an exfoliating mitt, and a handheld massager.

He climbed into the tub beside you and simply pulled you into his lap. He held you like that for quite a while, running gentle fingers up and down your skin - on your arms, your legs and your back. He used the water to let his hands glide over you smoothly.

Eventually he turned you so your back was to him, and he began washing your hair. The same fingers that had gripped it so tightly and pulled it so harshly earlier, were now gently massaging your scalp with careful, circular movements.

When he rinsed all the shampoo and conditioner out of your hair he put on the exfoliating mitt which didn't really fit his big hand, but it worked well enough for him to squeeze some body wash onto it and begin to ever so gently exfoliate your skin. When you were covered in sudsy body wash he picked up the massager and began to run it over your body, applying the perfect pressure to the little wheels as they rolled over you, kneading your aching muscles with a beautiful kind of relief.

Finally Dean put the massager down and used his hands to scoop water up over you to rinse everything away. He lifted you out of the bath and wrapped you in a towel, leaving everything where it was so he could carry you to your bedroom and set you on the side of the bed.

He grabbed your lotion off the dresser and after toweling you dry, squeezed some of it into his palm and began to apply it to your skin.

You shifted to lay back against the pillows and he moved with you. He'd spoken very little this whole time, just soothing, nonsensical words and the odd direction here and there, to lift your arms or tilt your head forward. 

You felt like you were moving through a sleepy, peaceful fog as he tended to you, and you sighed deeply and closed your eyes. You must have dozed off because when you woke up the light was low in the bedroom, and you wore one of Dean's band t-shirts. Your blanket was also pulled up and tucked around you.

You looked for Dean beside you but he wasn't there. Then you looked up and sighed in relief as you saw him sitting at the desk with an elbow resting on it and his head held in one hand.

As you watched, you saw him reach up and brush his fingers across his cheek. Your heart cracked when you realized he was sitting alone in the semi-darkness, crying.

"Dean." You called out to him and though your throat still sounded a little rough, it felt much better.

He looked up and quickly ran a hand over his face, obviously hoping you hadn't seen his tears. He came to sit beside you on the bed and brushed your hair back off your forehead, tucking it behind your ear.

"Hey sweetheart, what do you need?" He asked as he poured you a glass of water from the decanter he had sitting there. You took a sip and the cool water was delicious and reviving. You sat up a bit more, hiding your grimace, but Dean saw it anyway.

"Don't move too much, baby."

You shook your head at him, feeling the guilt pouring out of him. "Dean, I'm fine."

His jaw ticked and he picked up your hand to run his finger over the purple bruises that marred your skin from where you strained against the ropes. 

"No, you're not." He raised his head and then tilted your head back gently so he could see the bruises that undoubtedly adorned your throat from where he'd squeezed it so tightly.

Tears clogged his voice as he pulled his hand away from you and then shifted backwards, putting distance between you both. "Look at what I did to you, Y/N." He shook his head as you tried to interrupt him. "And I liked it. I…fucking hell." He cursed and turned his head away from you. 

But you reached up and turned his chin back towards you. "So did I, Dean. I liked it too." He stared at you and you nodded trying to make him listen to you. "All of it. Yeah it was painful at times, but it was also hot as fuck, and I loved it. Might be a while till I'm ready to do it again, but, I hope we will."

Dean's expression told you he desperately wanted to believe you. You leaned forward and kissed his lips, petal soft and then pulled back to run your hand over his cheek. He leaned into the caress and then opened his eyes and his gaze was afraid. 

"Still love me?" He asked, fearfully.

Your heart broke a little and you kissed him again, before staring deep into his eyes, making sure he could see the truth reflected in yours. "Dean Winchester, I will love you every single day for the rest of my life." 

He let out a deep sigh and seemed to accept your words as the truth. You smiled at him and spoke against his lips. "Maybe even a little longer."

1 - Jensen RPF + Any/All characters Jensen plays.

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[pearl-blue-musings]

snow angel

This is purely self indulgent and healing in a way

Pairing: Alhaitham x fem!reader x Kaveh

Warnings: 18+, mental health issues, depression, slight blood, angst, comfort, feelings of worthlessness, thoughts of unalive, attempted unalive, can be seen as platonic or romantic, based on a song

Word count: ~2.3K

Reblogs and feedback appreciated!

Alhaitham never had to worry too much about you. And that worried him.

Kaveh never had to worry too much about you. And that worried him.

The two of them invited you, along with some other scholars and explorers on their investigation into Dragonspire. Never having traveled to Mondstadt but hearing of the wintery beauty that is the mountain top, you were excited to leave the contrasting humidity and arid-ness of Sumeru. You made sure that the bickering roommates had the appropriate outerwear for dealing with the frosty chill and thin air. You had happily helped them pack as you were packing your own things and getting your affairs in order before your expedition.

Hssss

The voice at the back of your head sends a chill down your spine and threatens to overflow. Your heart feels heavy from hiding and masking your feelings to push on further. Two pairs of eyes have now stopped on your visage as you seem to be frozen. You lick your lips in hopes of keeping the lump in your throat down. Their voices are barely legible as your shallow breaths fill your ears.

“Are you alright?”

You meet concerned red eyes as a hand on your shoulder shakes you from your stupor. You give Kaveh a knowing smile after a second of silence. The smile doesn’t quite meet your eyes and that doesn’t go unnoticed by both men. You say your rehearsed lines of “oh sorry, I’m fine! I didn’t mean to worry you,” with the added, “let’s get a move on” to keep them close but not too close.

Keeping your heart guarded, the expedition to the base campground went without a hitch. Despite the two arguing every now and then, it was an enjoyable adventure. You never understood why scholars thought Alhaitham as stoic and rude, he had the magic to make you laugh and feel competent. While Kaveh, that man made your aspirations seem attainable and your feelings validated. Well, the ones he knew about. You were thankful for having your own tent so they wouldn’t hear your soft crying or how your racing thoughts kept you awake. You thought they would never question why you would make the whole team breakfast before heading further in.

The weather started to change, alerting you and the team of your closeness to the base camp. Since you were a quasi leader, you venture ahead to find the adventurers to guide you through the snowy trail. Alhaitham watches you carefully and with a tight lipped breath he pulls Kaveh back. The blond immediately scoffs and is about to retort until he sees the expression in his friend's eyes. “What’s with the serious look?”

The man in question crosses his arms with a far off look. “I assume you’ve heard her crying? She thinks she’s hiding it but I hear it. And your tent has been closer.” Kaveh turns his head to see you looking through the map excitedly with the adventurer, your eyes widening over the mountainous terrain ahead of you. He didn’t want to admit it, but it broke him to hear you cry. What is going on in your precious brain? Why are you suffering alone? He doesn’t believe the lies you’ve been shoveling the two of them. “I’m just home sick,” you’d say. Or “I miss the warmth of Sumeru.” Kaveh knew that last one wasn’t true, considering you were in awe of Liyue’s weather and land. He knows he can’t ask you outright, but he’s worried more than ever. And so is Alhaitham.

To your group's surprise, one of the knights decided to help you out and guide you to his lab. Albedo, you learn, frequents the mountain and has his own base that is well kept and has enough provisions. With your parka and boots on, you begin the first leg of your excursion. Albedo speaks with all of you of the ruins and layout of the mountains, eager about what scholars from Sumeru will learn and take back. You get along easily with the knight, who you learned is a painter! There were a few run-ins with hillichurls but your guides and friends took care of them easily. After a grueling half day, you made it to Albedo’s corner. You were able to safely put your stuff down and set up camp. With the limited space, sharing tents and sleeping space was needed.

After you all settled in, Albedo shared a more intricate map that he created, pointing out areas of interest for your team. Strikingly, he suggested the team get acclimated to the snow and weather by walking around and playing in it. A small smile came to your face as you saw Alhaitham grimace at the idea, but you found yourself running out into the snow. You slowly trudge to a cliff side and take in a deep breath. You can see Mondstadt and parts of Liyue and the view steals all the air in your lungs. Your foot teeters on the edge, a few stray pebbles falling down the side. That voice pricks at your brain again to take a step; it’s gotten to be louder the closer you’ve gotten to the snowy terrain. A stray tear leaves your eye and you feel it almost freeze against your chilly skin. Something startled you inside and you stumble away from the edge. You felt something. How is it cold but your extremities are burning? You felt. You felt.

An almost cynical smile comes to your face as you fall back in the snow. The sky above a confusing mix of grays and blues with the sunsetting faraway. The wind blows harshly against your nose and eyelashes as you blink away snowflakes that dance across your features. You push yourself up when Kaveh calls out for you to come back to Albedo’s. When he sees the ghost of your smile his own heart leaps in hope that he’ll see you smile some more. He’s happy that you’re sitting next to him eating the goulash provided. Your head rests against his shoulder and Kaveh is secretly lucky you can’t hear his racing heart. He’s also unknowingly lucky he misses the intense glare from Alhaitham. When you finish your food, a yawn escapes your lips. You stretch out and announce to everyone you’re heading to your, now, shared tent with bicker and bickering. They wave at you and you head in for the night.

Alhaitham was intrigued by the knights knowledge and can’t wait to pick his brain about what they would find tomorrow. Kaveh on the other hand was more interested in the beauty Albedo is able to find in the icy wilderness. There’s a stillness mixed with the bustle of energy the mountains contain. The architect is excited to implement these ideas into his creations and beams at Albedo’s ability to answer all of his questions. After a couple of hours, they all breakaway for the night, noting the drop in temperature and increase in wind speed.

Kaveh rubs at his arms to warm them up, his heart sinking that you might be cold in their tent. Their tent, that mere thought has him blushing hard. He shakes his head as he brings his lantern to your tent and opens it. The two men do their best to not disturb you, and bicker, but stop when they see you’re not there. Fear quickly settles in as they notice your footprints in the snow. Alhaitham remembers what Albedo warned them about nights on the mountains, and now he’s at a loss for words.

The pair of men scramble to close the tent and follow your footsteps. The wind makes it harder to breathe so they keep their words to a minimum. With eye communication, they press on fearfully to where your footprints lead. Alhaitham is seldom scared, and when he is he hides it well. However, Kaveh can see the worry in his eyes with his eyebrows pressed together. Kaveh is about to continue on when Alhaitham stops him. The blond lifts his eyebrows until he sees Alhaitham point to the ground. There’s extra footprints. Alhaitham rushes forward as best he could in the weather as for once his feelings lead his actions. Why didn’t he speak to you about your crying? Why didn’t he speak to you about the lack of food you’ve been consuming? Why didn’t he make a comment about the bags and lines under your eyes, eyes that always sparkle for him?

******

You just wanted to feel something. Or nothing. Both? The effect of the goulash is starting to wane the farther you walk. The boars you ran into earlier calmly left you alone as you pressed further. You spotted on Albedo’s map a way to the top of the mountain without climbing onto the extremities. Maybe if you would reach the top, you’d find your reason for living. And maybe you’d feel the things you’re meant to feel. Or the cold would numb you completely and you wouldn’t feel anything at all. Both are good options. The former is happier, the latter more tempting.

You somehow managed to reach the entrance of some ruin with stone slabs. The wind is too intense for you to handle, but you’re running on pure adrenaline. You push and push until finally the wind pushes back. You gasp as you’re lifted up and thrown back into the snow, hitting your head on the way down.

There it is again, that numb feeling where you’re cold but it burns. It’s feeling but not feeling. You try to touch your head and your fingertips are coated in red. It doesn’t alert you, your heart rate doesn’t change. You lay back down, tears falling and freezing against your cold skin. “I tried,” you whisper before shutting your eyes.

******

The two men are shivering in their boots as they find where your footprints end. Kaveh is thankful Alhaitham put markers while they tracked you down, as he has no idea where they are. They see what looks to be remains of a city entombed in snow. In the distance they see enlightened stone slabs and a slightly open door with a cave to the right. He’s also finally able to see you. The man almost cried as he pushes himself to run toward you. He huffs haphazardly as his emotions start to get the better of him. You’re just laying there in the snow, with a crown of red circling your head like a halo. Kaveh starts to call your name and places his hand on your cheek. His own tears start to fall freely as he takes you in.

Alhaitham comes up behind you and puts his, well your bag down. He knew your bag had the first aid and he takes it out. He carefully lifts your head and your groan. “Thank the archons,” he whispers before starting to wrap your head. Kaveh holds your hand, trying to warm it up, his voice a soft whimper. Once you were carefully assessed for any other injuries, Alhaitham carries you to the cave where there happens to be a camp with firewood. He gently lays you down and wraps you in a blanket. Kaveh starts the fire to keep them warm and hugs you tightly. The air in the cave is more dense and less windy, giving them the chance to speak.

“How long,” Kaveh starts, “do you think she was up here?”

Alhaitham clenches his hands into fists at the thought of you being here alone. “I’m no doctor so I can’t say for certain. But I know her groaning is a good sign. She’s alive, hurt but alive.”

Kaveh sniffles from the cold and his rushing emotions. “Why did she do this?”

“…we can ask her when she wakes up.”

*****

The world seems blurry as voices mesh together. You feel warm and stuck, with a massive headache. You can’t totally move, but you feel secure. Your eyes slowly flutter open and you hiss. Your throat feels drier than the desert of Sumeru. As you take in your surroundings, you're slightly confused. And then you remember. To either side of you are your tent mates and you realize why you felt stuck.

Kaveh is holding you tightly as Alhaitham rests in your lap. Your cheeks muster some heat at the closeness. Did they come find you? Why would they do that?

“Can you stop moving? You’re making sleeping hard.”

Your eyes go wide when you hear Alhaitham’s low morning voice. You see him peer at you through a sleepy haze. You swallow a lump in your throat as you feel the dam break as you cry. Kaveh’s arms tighten around you as he nuzzles your neck.

“Don’t,” he softly breathes, “scare me like that.”

You nod against him and brokenly say, “I’m sorry.”

Alhaitham hums. “We know.”

Your tongue feels caught in a web but the need to unload your heart overcomes you. “…I try so hard to exist. And it hurts.” Kaveh squeezes you tighter. “I just wanted to feel something, anything. And the cold burned, I’ve never felt anything like that. I needed a reason to feel, to keep trying. I do so much and it all feels so meaningless. I thought if I made the top I’d find meaning…but if I died along the way, that would be fine too.”

Your heart starts to lift and feel lighter. It’s not everything you wanted to say or felt, but it captured most of it. Alhaitham tangles his fingers with yours, heart fluttering at the rush of blood under your skin. He won’t say it now as you are recovering, but he wants to be the person you lean on. He never wants you to battle and suffer on your own, and he’s sure Kaveh shares the same sentiment. He’s able to peek at the edge of the cave and sees the early rays of the morning. He hesitates moving you back to Albedo's base and starts hatching a plan of why the three of them left early. He sits up and sees the two of you with tear tracks on your cheeks and his heart swells. “Don’t worry me so much you two.”

[dontpercievemeplease]

Jashers it’s happened.

Silly Writing with Silly Guys by Foxy is now on ao3!!!

No more having to deal with large google docs :)

Please show Foxy some love!!

Go read it’s so good!!!! They’re brothers your honor I swear-

[k-slla]

Always and forever

A/N: I'm almost finished with my first bingo card- honestly can't believe it! Only one more square after this :)

Square filled for @jacklesversebingo : "You told me you were okay! You promised!" Will be in bold

Warnings: loss of a child, grieving, attempted suicide, lots of angst, survivor's guilt, car accident (mentioned only)

A/N2: I can only imagine the pain of having to bury your child, but losing a loved one in car accident because of a drunk driver is unfortunately far too familiar to me. Don't drink and drive.

W/C: ~2k | My Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

All mistakes are mine. Reblogs/Likes/Comments always appreciated!

Never would have you imagined that loss of your child is something you'd ever have to go through. You wouldn't wish this upon anyone.

You and Jensen were standing now at the open door of the funeral home, with you cramped up to his hand, unable to move. Guilt, pain, shame, anger and all other negative emotions that come with grief, were crushing you from the inside. Jensen saw you struggling and pulled you against him, keeping you close. “We have to go inside. They're waiting for us.”

You didn't even bother to try and keep your tears at bay.

“I know, but..I c-can’t.. I can't move.” You looked up at your husband, who was sharing your pain, and tried his best to ease from the guilt and shame that had overcome you. He pressed his lips softly to your forehead, whispering. “I know..baby, I know, but I am here with you. Always and forever.” You felt a warm tear running down his cheek against yours.

“I just need a little more time. Little more before I say goodbye to her.” You hid your face into his neck. He hugged you tight as both of you stood still in the brisk autumn air.

You remember clearly the day you held her for the first time. As if you could ever forget that. You never believed those talks about how after giving birth you immediately forget everything after you see your baby. You never believed it to be true. How would it be possible to forget the physical pain so easily? But when you finally saw your tiny baby girl, you didn't think of the pain you went through, all that was occupying your mind was just how incredibly beautiful she was.

“Do you have a name for her yet?” Nurse next to you asked Jensen while you were still admiring the little bundle in your arms. “Aspen. Aspen Joelle Ackles.” he whispered and lightly dried his eyes from the tears. “Welcome to the world, baby Aspen.” The nurse smiled.

You laid in the bed, tired, but still smiling at Jensen when you saw him holding your daughter in his arms for skin-on-skin contact, beaming from happiness.

Both you and Jensen got used to your new roles as parents quickly. He still had to return to filming the show, but you weren't alone and he was home every weekend like clockwork. For five years your lives were perfect, until the accident that broke your little family.

He hugged you tight for the last time, and from the corner of your eye you saw all your friends and family waiting for you and Jensen to join the memorial service for your daughter. With your head held down, you walked into the room side by side with him. The silence in there was deafening, as everyone patiently waited for you to sit down.

A quick glance at the casket in the middle of the room made it almost impossible for you to keep your sobs under control. It was just heartbreakingly small.

Life is full of all kinds of twists and turns, you knew that, but it was just unfair how in the game of life and death, Aspen was the one to lose and the drunk driver responsible for your car accident was able to walk away unharmed. You just couldn't accept it. But it seemed that it was like this most of the time with these situations.

Innocent souls always seemed to be the ones who lost.

The memorial went by with your mind being completely fogged up. Both of your parents said a few words on your behalf, to make it a little bit easier for you, but you couldn't register anything they said. You were just focused on Jensen next to you, tightly holding onto your hands. One by one your closer family started saying their goodbyes to Aspen. You wanted to be left alone in there with Jensen for yours, because even now you were just barely holding on.

A week was all that was possible for Jensen to get off from work for the funeral. A week. Then he had to return to Vancouver for filming. Your parents were visiting almost daily, but you wished they’d rather leave you alone. Only person you needed for comfort was your husband and he had to work. You actually encouraged him to go work. He offered to stay with you, no matter the consequences, but you couldn't do that to him. You knew what it meant for him to be able to work on the show. And working has always eased his mind from anything, so you hoped it would make grieving a little easier for him too.

Each day you could feel the guilt starting to slowly eat you up more, and depression began to deepen its roots inside you. All day and night, your mind was always racing with the possibilities of different outcomes. What if?

What if you would've told Jensen to take a taxi home from the airport? What if you would've waited five more minutes at home before leaving to pick him up? What if you would've left five minutes earlier? Would any of this have changed anything? Would your daughter be still alive? All of this was playing in your head like a broken record, but you'd never know.

Day by day, everything started to get even more overwhelming. Eating. Getting out of bed. You were either sleeping all day or you weren't sleeping at all. All those small every day motions. It was all too much. But you still didn't look for help. You couldn't admit to anyone that you needed it, not even Jensen. On the outside, with each passing day, your smile was growing. On the inside, you felt nothing other than the guilt of you surviving the accident instead of your daughter. It got too painful for you to even exist, so you were looking for an easy way out.

Jensen didn't talk to you at all, when he visited you in the hospital, but you were still glad that he even came. Even if he just sat there beside your bed, you saw how he was barely keeping himself together each time he glanced at you. Slightly sniffling, but still silent. Past few months have not been kind to either of you. Worry, grief, pain- everything had left their mark, aging you more than they should have. While there wasn't a point to try to come up with excuses for yourself, you still felt like you had to say something. “I'm sorry, Jensen.” Your voice was barely above whisper. It wouldn't make anything better, but it was all you managed to say.

You saw that his green eyes were full of hurt and betrayal when he got up from the chair, not even acknowledging your apology. “I have to speak to your doctor.”

You were kept in hospital for a few days, under “observation”. In other words - to make sure you were mentally stable enough that you wouldn't try to take your life again. You knew that even if they'd let you home sooner, Jensen wouldn't leave your side. Even now he only left the hospital for an hour or so every day, the rest of the time he sat in the chair by your bed, even slept in it. But now he had come home for a longer time to be with you, as the filming for the season had ended.

When you were finally let home, the drive there was again in deafening silence. You noticed him fidgeting nervously with the steering wheel. As soon as you got home, you just planted yourself onto the sofa in the living room. Jensen joined you a moment later and both of you sat there for a while without speaking. Time seemed to move so slowly.

He finally moved a little bit closer to you, but didn't look at you when he started speaking. “Why?” His voice was completely broken, as was he himself too. “Why did you do this, Y/N?” You turned to take a closer look at him. The lines around his eyes were now more prominent than they used to. His beard was also longer than he usually kept. The overall look of him was just like there was only a shell left of the man he used to be.

“I-I just didn't want to be here without you anymore.” You finally managed to whisper. “It was too much for me.”

You couldn't turn your eyes away from him, and at last he met your gaze, his eyes seemed to be full of even more pain than before.

“Why did you let me leave then?" He asked quietly. "I told you I'd stay with you.”

“I knew you'd feel better when you'd be away from here, working. I didn't want to be the reason to keep you here.”

He scoffed. “So you opted for suicide instead of calling me home? Instead of talking to me? I'm your husband. You know I would've left anything behind for you in a heartbeat. Always, sweetheart.”

“You would've probably been fired.”

“I don't care about that! I care about you! I only left because you told me to! I asked you to come with me.” He tried to get his voice under control, not to be yelling at you, but it was without success. “You told me you were okay! You promised!” He paced around in the living room, trying to calm down.

Your voice didn't fail to match his tone. “How could I ever be okay? I lost my daughter. I will never be okay with that!”

“I lost her too. I lost my baby too.” He came to kneel in front of you.

Both you were broken, crying, letting out emotions you had kept in for so long, desperately seeking consolation from one another. “No one will ever ask us to be okay with losing her. We just have to be there for each other, but you almost left me completely alone..” he reached his hand out for your cheek. “I was so close to losing you too, do you even realize that? When I got the call, I..” he couldn't finish his sentence. You finally saw what you would've left behind if your attempt would've been successful. Your parents would've had to bury their daughter, just as you did. Jensen would've buried his daughter and wife in a span of short six months. The thought of that made you broke down again.

“I'm sorry, Jensen.” You felt the wall that kept your emotions at bay, crumble at your feet. “It's just- I feel guilty..for the accident.” You were now sobbing hard as Jensen sat next to you again. “I should’ve taken some other route or anything. I should've done something. I feel like it's all my fault.”

He pulled you up into his lap before closing his arms around you. “It was not your fault, Y/N..It was not, and you wouldn't have been able to stop it.” he sighed. You let him hold you tight and rested your head onto his shoulder. “It's hard for me to believe that.” You sniffled.

“I know I haven't been home a lot, but when was the last time you visited AJ's grave?” Jensen asked softly. You took a little time to think. You realized it had been way too long. “I can't remember.” You answered him. “I just couldn't go there alone.” You had to admit with a heavy heart.

“Let's go there together then, hm?” You only nodded against his chest.

“Honey, please look at me for a second.” He begged gently. “Please promise me that you'll never push your emotions down, because you think that would make me feel better. I never want you to feel like you have to keep your feelings in because of what would be better for me. Never. I will always be here for you. Always, because that's what I promised to you.”

You locked eyes with him and gave your promise to Jensen, as you made him promise the same to you. You were in this together, you will heal together. It wouldn't happen in a blink of an eye, but eventually you knew it would get easier. It just had to. You just had to be there for him, like he always stood beside you.

Always and forever.

Taglist (always open): @jackles010378 @cevansbaby-dove @deanwinchestersgirl87 @il0vebeingdelulu @alternativeprincess94 @suckitands33 @nescavaneck

[hollyethecurious]

CS AU: Pan Says... (7/?)

Summary: After waking up in a strange room with a naked stranger, Emma and Killian must endure the twisted game their kidnapper insists they play in order to gain provisions and avoid punishments.

A/N: I know, I know... all I do lately is apologize for not updating more frequently. I promise to try and do better, and as penance I have for you today a longer update than I had originally planned, so... forgive me?

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE! Heed the warnings listed below. This chapter is a bit of a doozy.

Lots of love to @ultraluckycatnd and @kmomof4 for their exceptional beta skills!

Rated E /Also available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me!  

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six 

Chapter Prompts: I received a couple of Asks asking for scenarios I've included in this update. Most of them were anonymous, lol.

Warnings: This chapter contains depictions of medical assault and rape by instrumentation. Also includes somnophilia, dubious consent, and a POV some readers might find triggering. Please feel free to message me for specifics before reading if you need to.

Part Seven

Nature’s call pulled Killian from a deep sleep. He stumbled his way to the water closet, trying his best to not wake Emma as he closed the door and relieved himself. He’d just finished a haphazard washing of his hands when he heard the soft click of the lock on the bathroom door, and then the dread-inducing screech of the metal door that separated them from the rest of the compound. Someone had entered their room, Killian realized in a panic, frantically trying to open the firmly locked door that separated him from his Swan.

“Emma!” he shouted, hoping to rouse her from sleep before their intruder did. “Emma!”

Startled exclamations muffled their way to his ears, as did the rustling of sheets and thuds from bootfalls. Again, Killian cried out Emma’s name, banging on the door and demanding to be let out.

“Killian!” he heard Emma shout, a bit more distant than he’d expect if she were still on the bed.

More rustling and shuffles of feet, followed by the agonizing sound of the metal door sealing shut once more had Killian’s pulse spiking in fear. When the soft click of the lock finally released, he burst out of the bathroom to find the room vacant.

Pillows and linens were strewn across the bed and onto the floor. Killian followed the trail of the bedsheet and hammered his fist against the door. “Let me out!” he demanded, pain shooting up his arm with each pounding. “Let me out!”

“Why would I do that?” Pan’s voice crackled from overhead.

Killian turned to face one of the many cameras “hidden” within the room. “Bring her back!“ he shouted. “Bring Emma back!”

“I don’t think so,” Pan drawled, a hardened edge underpinning his words. “I think some time away from each other to reflect upon what you’ve done will do you both some good. Besides…” he drew out the dramatic pause, and though Killian had no idea what the vile little imp looked like, he couldn’t help but imagine a sinister grin being applied to his next words. “We both know your little act of defiance last night cannot go without punishment.”

“Take me, then” Killian pleaded. “Bring Emma back and take me! I’ll bear the punishment. Just… don’t hurt Emma.”

“Oh, you’ll share in the punishment,” Pan promised. “I have something very special planned for the both of you. Don’t you worry about that.”

Feedback shrieked through the speakers, forcing Killian to cover his ears as Pan quite clearly and effectively shut down their communication. Tears welled in Killian’s eyes and his whole body shook from the overwhelming fear consuming him.

What was Pan planning to do? How long would he and Emma be separated from one another? What would they have to endure whilst they were reflecting?

Killian sank down on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry, Emma,” he whispered into the silence. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

Eventually, he traded his seated position at the end of the bed to being curled up in the fetal position upon it. He watched the path of the sun as its beams entered through the high window after sunrise and crossed the floor of the room during the early morning hours. He was numb and emotionally spent, having given over to the terror and tears that had wracked his body for what seemed like hours. Now, he just laid there, staring at the chips and cracks in the floor, without even the energy to chastise himself. What would the point be in that? It wasn’t as though there was anything he could do. No way out of the room, no way to communicate with anyone, no way to help Emma.

Killian clamped his eyes shut and fought back the rising bile his mutinous imagination threatened to bring up. Try as he might to keep the thoughts and visions at bay, he couldn’t help but consider the atrocities Pan might be subjecting her to. He turned his face into the mattress and balled the sheet in his hand, attempting once more to expel the torment of his mind.

The crackle of static from the tv screen grabbed his attention and Killian bolted off the bed. The monitor showed a sterile looking exam room, much like one would find at a physician’s office. Coming into frame from off screen, a Lost One appeared carrying an unconscious Emma in his arms. Killian tensed as he watched him lay her on the exam table, only relaxing when he disappeared out of frame again. The relief was short lived when another man entered, quickly followed by a small statured woman. Both were garbed in medical scrubs, including surgical masks, which obscured their identity.

Killian watched in confused horror as the woman - a nurse? - folded out a pair of stirrups from the end of the table and set Emma’s feet into them. She and the doctor (or at least, Killian hoped he was a doctor) positioned Emma to their liking, covering her lower half with a sheet before the doctor brought over a stool and sat between her spread open legs. Killian watched with shallow breaths and clenched fists as the nurse handed the doctor instruments so he could perform some sort of procedure. When it finally became clear to him, Killian was shocked to realize what he was witnessing.

They were removing her IUD.

Pushing himself away from the exam table, the doctor stood and removed his gloves. There was no audio, but Killian deduced he had given the nurse instructions before departing. It wasn’t until after the man had gone that Killian acknowledged the reason for the extra tension he’d been holding. As violating as the procedure had been, Killian had prepared himself to witness an altogether different kind of violation of his Swan.

Shaken, Killian sat back down and ran his hands through his hair, only vaguely aware Pan had come back on the speaker.

“What?”

“Pan says,” he repeated, “you are not permitted to tell her what you just saw.”

Stunned, Killian blinked several times, letting his mind catch up to the horrors Pan continued to lay before him, then thunderously, he stood and shouted, “You can’t expect me to keep something of this magnitude from her!”

“You will if you want to keep her alive,” Pan stated flatly, sobering Killian and sending a chill down his spine. “Keep this to yourself,” Pan warned again. “Or your punishment will be paid by her… with her life.”

~/~

Emma sat on a tiny cot with her knees pulled up to her chest. The hospital gown they’d given her the day before was stiff and scratchy against her skin, but at least she was no longer cramping.

Pan had told her that she would be the one punished, because she had been the instigator in her and Killian’s “dalliance”. The price for such an offense… she had to have her IUD removed, and she had to keep its removal a secret from Killian.

“You can’t expect me to keep something like that from him!” she’d protested, yelling up at the speakers embedded in the ceiling of her new, tiny cell.

“If you do not,” Pan had warned her coldly, “Then I will force Killian to pay the price… with a pound of his flesh.”

When the doctor had come in to talk with her before the procedure, she’d learned he was one of Pan’s poor unfortunate victims as well, forced to serve as the demented imp’s medical errand boy. He seemed professional enough, though perhaps a bit arrogant. His brash demeanor shifted though when Emma asked him what Pan had meant by “a pound of flesh.”

Swallowing hard, the platinum haired man exhaled deeply before confessing, “It could mean a variety of things. Having an organ removed so it can be sold on the black market, or even an… an amputation.”

“Amputation?!” Emma exclaimed in a shocked whisper. “You mean you…”

Solemnly the man nodded. “I’ve been forced to remove every organ imaginable and sever untold numbers of body parts from various victims of Pan’s.” Taking her hand in his, he squeezed it tightly and advised, “If you want your friend to remain whole, then do as Pan says.”

She’d woken up in this new room some time later, sore between her legs in a different sort of way than she had been after her night with Killian. A note with self-care instructions and a bottle of ibuprofen had been left on the table by her bedside, and it was then Emma had realized she’d mercifully been anesthetized for the procedure. The day had stretched into night and Emma had sat paralyzed with guilt and fear over what Killian might be going through. She’d had little to no sleep, and was therefore more on edge than normal when the door to her cell opened the next morning.

“Sorry,” the doctor apologized, noting how she’d balked at his appearance. “I just wanted to check and see how you were doing. Is it alright if I examine you? I have my nurse with me.”

Emma consented to his examination, not wishing to give Pan any further ammunition to use against her, or worse… against Killian.

“Everything seems to be in order,” he told her. “Anything bothering you physically? Any pain?”

Emma shook her head and mumbled she was fine, then sat back up with the assistance of the nurse once he’d finished. She was just straightening the hospital gown when she felt the prick of a needle pierce her shoulder.

“What did you…” The question fell away as numbness immediately began to overtake her. Within seconds, Emma could not move her arms or legs and she slumped over into the doctor’s arms, unable to keep herself upright.

“It’s okay,” the man soothed, laying her back down on the cot. “The effects are temporary. You’ll remain conscious, but you’ll be unable to move or speak until it wears off.”

More and more of her succumbed to the paralysis, her entire body becoming heavy and unresponsive. When her eyes would not open again after a blink, Emma panicked. Her heart raced at the sound of bootfalls entering the room and a silent scream echoed through her mind when she was hoisted off the cot and over a man’s shoulder.

~/~

Killian stood in the corner opposite the door, anxiously waiting for it to open. He wasn’t sure if having forewarning of Emma’s return was better or worse than simply being surprised. In the last few minutes since Pan had given him the news and his instructions, Killian had worked himself into another right state.

His stomach churned in a way that made him thankful for his lack of appetite since Emma had been carted away. Although, its lack of contents did not stop the threatening bile from creeping up his throat. His palms were slick with a sweat that was slowly breaking out over his entire body and his heart felt as though he might choke on it.

With the notice and instruction had also come the reminder to not let on what he’d seen the day before. As if he could forget. However, when the door finally opened and the Lost Ones entered (one with Emma over his shoulder and the other brandishing a cattle prod in Killian’s direction), Killian understood why Pan felt the need to remind him. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and reassure himself of her safety, to inquire how she was feeling, whether she was in pain or needed anything from him to ease the after effects of what she’d been through. Of course, he couldn’t do that. He had to pretend he didn’t know any more than she did about what happened to her during their separation. Her life depended on it.

“Swan?” Killian called out as the Lost One laid her on the bed. “Swan, are you alright?”

She didn’t move. Didn’t respond. For an awful, gut-wrenching second, Killian thought she might be…

A sigh of relief whooshed from his lungs when he saw her chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. She was alive. Thank God!

“I’m afraid she is currently… unable to respond,” Pan said over the speaker system as the Lost Ones backed out of the cell.

Once the door was secured, Pan gave Killian permission to leave the corner, and he wasted no time in rushing to Emma’s side.

“Swan?” he prodded, gently shaking her shoulders. “Emma, love. Wake up.”

“I told you,” Pan sighed in a bored yet exasperated tone. “She is unable to respond.”

“What did you do to her?” Killian demanded, his gaze sweeping over her form, working in tandem with his hands as he searched for injuries or any other clue that might explain her comatose condition. Was she still under the effects of the anesthetic she’d been given?

“Careful,” Pan warned in a feigned voice of concern. “She has a number of bruises and abrasions. You wouldn’t want to go and injure her further.”

Killian’s head snapped towards the camera perched over the TV monitor and again demanded, through grit teeth, “What did you do--”

“Oh, don’t look at me,” Pan said. “I had nothing to do with those bruises, or any of the other markings. You did that.”

Killian’s eyes slid back to Emma’s body, and he began to note the marks his mouth had made on her neck, as well as the faint impressions his fingertips had left behind.

“Pan says,” the voice commanded in an accusatory tone, “undress her and take a good look at what you’ve done to her.”

“No,” Killian stated, defiantly. Standing from the bed, where he’d been kneeling next to Swan’s prone body, he took measured steps towards the camera, wagging his finger in its direction. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. “I won’t have you twisting what happened. I know what Emma and I shared the other night and it wasn’t what you’re insinuating.”

“Oh? What was it then?”

“It was magic,” he declared vehemently, with his arms spread in boastful defiance, “And freedom. Full unabated freedom. The kind you experience with someone you trust unequivocally, with whom you can bare yourself in ways you never thought yourself capable. The kind that requires a level of understanding, devotion, and acceptance rarely found between two individuals.”

Each word of defense against Pan’s implied censures was also a much needed reminder to himself of the truth of what he and Emma shared. He would not let this vile monster take from them what they had sought to claim for themselves.

“That’s what Emma and I have and nothing you can say or do is going to change that fact.”

“Oh?” Pan drawled. “Perhaps not,” he stated as the cell door squealed opened and a Lost One sauntered into the room. “But I imagine he can.”

Positioning himself between the Lost One and Emma, still lying helpless on the bed, Killian braced his posture and demanded to know, “What do you mean? What’s he going to do?”

“That depends on you,” Pan replied. “If what you say is true, then surely Emma won’t object to you taking some liberties with her whilst she is currently… indisposed.”

“Liberties?” Killian questioned. Though a sick feeling forming in the pit of his stomach had already begun to deduce the madman’s meaning.

“It appeared to me that she took quite a few liberties with you the other night, so I’m simply letting you return the favor. Of course… should you refuse…”

The Lost One’s hands dropped to his waist and he began to loosen his belt, his salacious gaze and a hint of a smug smile peeking out from the mask he wore.

“No! Stop!” When Killian’s words failed to stall the Lost One’s actions, he turned back towards the camera and agreed with Pan’s wishes. “I’ll do as you say. I’ll take whatever liberties you demand, just…” Pointing a stern finger at the Lost One, Killian implored, “Get him out of here!”

The Lost One’s hands balled themselves into fists and he hesitated for a moment after the order from Pan was issued. His eyes fell to Emma, a sinister sort of longing swirling through their brown depths, before he flicked them back up and glared at Killian as he backed out of the cell.

He’d wanted her, Killian realized with a jolt of propriety rage and jealousy. It hadn’t simply been a command he was conditioned to obey that had made him willing to do the unthinkable to Emma. He wanted her, had been eager to have her, even.

Emma’s comments about her exchange with one of the Lost One’s returned to him and he couldn’t help but wonder if the Lost One he’d just encountered had been the same, or… No. She had said the Lost One who had carried him back after being drugged seemed to care for him. That Lost One, the one who had just departed, held nothing but animosity towards Killian. Did that mean…?

If Killian had a connection to the other Lost One, then was this Lost One connected to Emma somehow?

The startling question would have to be left unanswered for the moment. Killian needed to focus on the rules and procedures Pan was currently laying out for his new depraved game.

~/~

It had taken some doing, but Emma had managed to quiet the panic deafening her mind. Being unable to control one’s body, to even open your eyes or utter a sound was the most unnatural and surreal feeling she had ever experienced. The only thing she could seem to manipulate was her breathing, but it also continued to work involuntarily as well.

She’d held her breath in awe against the swell of emotion that had filled her during Killian’s declarations, but it had sped up on its own, almost to the point of hyperventilating when the Lost One had returned and Pan’s intentions had been made clear.

Never doubting that Killian would do whatever he had to in order to keep her safe had not kept her from again holding her breath until the sound of the door screeched closed this last time, ensuring she would not suffer at the hands of some stranger. Now, she attempted to regulate her breathing once more as Pan gave instructions to Killian regarding their new game.

“Of course, I realize that my voice might be a bit of a distraction… a deterrent even. So, you’ll know a new Pan Says has been issued when the lights flicker. You can then receive your next set of instructions from the monitor. Understood?”

“Aye,” Killian clipped out, sounding closer now than he had a moment again. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Excellent,” Pan crowed. “This will be my last vocal command until our game is at an end. Pan says… undress Emma.”

The bed dipped and she could feel Killian’s presence. She longed to reassure him, to look into his eyes and let him know she was alright, that she wouldn’t hold anything he had to do to her against him. All she could do was lie there, though; a limp piece of dead weight he had to roll and reposition without any assistance in order to appease Pan and his perverted commands.

Once the hospital gown had been removed, leaving her thoroughly exposed, Killian returned her to her back and from behind her eyelids she could detect the change in lighting as they dimmed and brightened, signaling a new Pan Says. If she could have scoffed, she would have. Of course he was giving written instructions. Pan knew she was conscious and could hear everything. He didn’t want her to have any forewarning of what was to be done to her, the bastard.

The mattress dipped next to Emma’s head and she felt the scratch of Killian’s beard against her cheek. Inhaling deeply, she let his scent fill her lungs, let its calming balm soothe her racing heart.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered low and soft into her ear. “I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me for what I must do.”

I already have, she told him, if only in her mind.

Her breath hitched at the feel of his rough tongue caressing the space below her ear. It only took a few swirls and licks for her to process what he was being forced to do, her skin still sore in the places where he had sucked his brand into her flesh during their lovemaking. Pan was making him trace every mark, every bruise, every abrasion Killian had left on her body with nothing more than his tongue.

Pin pricks of wonder rippled across her skin when he reached her breasts. His hot breath preceded the warmth of his mouth as it caressed the scrapes previously left behind from his teeth. She wanted nothing more than to arch her back and encourage him to take her nipples fully into his mouth, but her inability to move was proving torturous in ways she had not considered.

Her stomach, her hips, the insides of her thighs, all points of contact along the front of her he had to trace with his tongue before rolling her onto her stomach. He took extra care and attention to place her arms and head into as comfortable positions as he could before continuing his ministrations down her back. Long, lingering, dampened laves followed the welts and scratches left by his nails and soft flutters caressed the bruises on her hips and buttocks, causing a shiver to run up her spine and a dull ache to begin throbbing from between her legs, which were dangling awkwardly off the bed.

The lights dimmed and brightened again and before Emma had a chance to wonder what Pan’s new demand was, a light smack landed on her backside. The lights flickered again and a slightly harder slap cracked across her ass. When the lights signaled again, the sting of Killian’s palm, firmly making contact with her already reddened and raised flesh, brought tears to her eyes. As did the next strike, and the one after that, and the ones after that. Tears broke free from her lashes, pooling in the crease next to her nose before slipping across her face into the sheet beneath her cheek. Killian’s rough, calloused hand stroked her ass, attempting to soothe some of the pain he’d inflicted. Pain she absolutely did not mind. In fact, she kinda got off on it, and when his fingers dipped between her legs to find her wet and wanting, his groan told her it was a fact he was now aware of as well.

A series of strobing lights had Killian on his knees in front of foot of the bed, his face buried in her folds with his mouth latched to her clit, while his fingers toyed with and probed her holes. He was knuckle deep in her ass, fucking her with his fingers as his tongue assaulted her cunt and she could hear the cries of her body, begging for release, whimpering in her head, unable to convey its desire in any way, shape, or form, which had to be the most maddening experience of her life. When relief finally came, her orgasm slammed through her completely unobstructed with an intensity far greater than any she could ever remember having before. A moan vibrated through her pussy, prolonging her climax, and Emma wondered if, despite her inability to tell him so, Killian could tell she had come from his tongue.

Her breathing was labored, the sound of her blood roared in her ears, and she felt flushed and sated from the tips of her ears to the points of her toes. Unable to vocalize, a groan stuck in her throat when he removed his fingers from her depths and began to roll her over onto her back once more. She hadn’t even noticed the lights indicating a new task.

Attempting to regain her bearings, Emma could hear the rustling of fabric and suspected Killian was taking off his clothes. Her heart rate picked up at the prospect of him being inside her, filling her like he had the other night, and a fresh ache took hold of her core even as she worried about her new unprotected status. With a firm tug, he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed until her ass was practically hanging off the side. Lifting her hips, he wedged a pillow beneath her, raising her pelvis and tilting it up to meet his groin.

She startled when his cock slapped against her clit, not that he would be able to tell. Her skin raised in a ripple of goose flesh when he did it a second and then third time before lining himself up with her entrance and stretching her in that delicious way as he entered her. Grabbing her ankles, he draped them over his shoulders, then wrapped his arms around her legs, holding them tight to his chest as he began to rut his hips into hers. The rhythm he set was punishing, the force of each thrust making her breasts bounce wildly, borderline painfully, as he pistoned deeper and deeper into her. His pace was relentless, slowing down only once several minutes into the assault, when the lights flickered and he presumably glanced over his shoulder to read Pan’s newest command. He fucked her for an indeterminate amount of time after that. Forcefully, savagely, almost brutally.

The sound of their bodies slapping together echoed through the room, as did Killian’s ragged breathing and choked back utterances. Just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, he pulled out and let go of her legs, causing one of them to slip off his shoulders. He grunted and cried out as hot streams of his release coated her breasts and stomach. Staccatoed breaths and moans reverberated off the metal walls until he was thoroughly spent, then he brushed a gentle kiss to the inside of her leg before resting his head against it, the sweat of his brow making it a slick point of contact.

“Good boy, Killian,” Pan rasped from overhead, ruining any tenderness Killian had been trying to infuse into the moment.

“Fuck off,” he snapped back, lowering her leg back down while removing the pillow from beneath her.

“Ah, ah,” Pan tutted. “Pan says to leave her as is.”

“Let me at least pull her further up the bed, so she doesn’t slip off onto the floor,” Killian argued.

When Pan did not respond, Killian climbed onto the bed and positioned himself behind her. Grasping under her arms, he hoisted her up the mattress until she was now completely situated on the bed. It shook as he collapsed next to her, his breaths still coming in pants from the extreme exertion he’d put both their bodies through.

She could visualize his face in her mind. Beads of perspiration were probably littering his brow and gathering in the hollow of his throat. His eyes were likely closed, his long lashes resting against his rosy cheeks, which would be nearly as pinked as his lips, red and swollen from the way he’d practically made a meal out of her. She longed to sweep his bangs off his forehead, to run her fingers down his face and trace his lips, allowing him to kiss each tip and tease them with his tongue.

As they lay there a tingling began to work its way through the numbness. Small jerks and spasms rippled through her extremities, exacerbating the soreness in her tender places. A groan made its way past her lips and she was finally able to pry her eyes open. She could feel Killian roll towards her, concern and guilt swimming in his eyes as his face came into view overhead.

“Swan?”

“K-Killian,” she croaked, attempting to raise her hand so she could cup his face, but it wouldn’t cooperate.

“Don’t try and move,” he said, making his way off the bed and into the bathroom. “I have to… you’ll need to…”

Unable to finish his thought, it wasn’t until she was finally able to turn her head and saw him return with a wet washcloth that she realized what he was struggling to tell her.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, trying to work up the necessary saliva to wet and clear her throat. “I know. I was conscious the whole time.”

“You… What?”

When she tried to sit up, he climbed back onto the bed, stalling her actions and encouraging her to lie back while he cleaned her up.

“Yeah, they injected me with… something. I don’t know what,” she explained, enjoying the feel of the damp cloth as it ran over her breasts and across her stomach, wiping away the now dried-on mess. “I couldn’t move or speak, but I was aware of everything. Could hear and… feel everything.”

Killian’s face pinched in a pained expression, and she could practically feel the guilt rolling off him. “I’m so sorry, Swan. I--”

“Hey,” she soothed, taking his hand. “It’s okay. You have to know that no matter how deranged or depraved, I’d rather it be you doing those things to me than--”

“Aye, I do… it’s just...”

“What?”

The muscle along his jaw tightened, causing a small spasm to ripple beneath his skin. Unable to meet her gaze, he confessed with a heavy dose of shame and penitence, “I enjoyed it.” His voice was little more than an exhale. If he’d been any further away, she likely wouldn’t have heard him at all. After a long pause he finally worked up the courage to look at her as he continued, “I didn’t want to. I only wanted to get it over with, but I… I started to enjoy it and--”

“Killian,” Emma sweetly admonished. “Do you really think I’d fault you for that? Do you think I was suffering the whole time? Because believe me… I wasn’t.” He offered her a small smile, but still didn’t seem convinced. Squeezing his hand more tightly, she added, “I will never hold my bringing you pleasure against you, no matter the circumstances. Every time there’s been intimacy between us, I’ve enjoyed it, at least on some level. Every. Time. Don’t ever forget that. Don’t ever forget those beautiful words you said to Pan about us.”

His eyes widened, perhaps realizing for the first time that she had been conscious for that part as well.

“I meant every word,” he assured her. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilty for the things I’ve done to you. Even though you say you enjoyed it, I see the bruises I left, from both the other night and the ones forming from my actions from only moments ago, and I hate myself for causing you pain.”

Stronger now, she sat up and cupped his face. “I won’t pretend I’m not sore, but… being with you is hands down the best sex of my life, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat.”

His eyes flickered between hers, reading the truth in her gaze and causing a more genuine smile to bloom from his face.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he replied on a heavy, relieved breath. Then a smirk lifted the corner of his mouth and with a raised brow he cheeked, “Though, given what you’ve told me of your past sexual encounters, that isn’t really saying much.”

She laughed and slapped his shoulder before falling into his arms, surrendering into his embrace as they clung to each other for several minutes. It wasn’t until after they’d broken apart, with him helping her off the bed so they could both get dressed, that a sobering thought occurred to her.

“You know,” she said, uncomfortably clearing her throat as she pulled her pants up over her hips, “given what I know of your past… I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same. About the sex, I mean. Well, that and--”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, interrupting her before she could mention Milah, the love he had lost and practically ruined his life for. “I loved Milah and we had many wonderful experiences together, but,” he took her hands in his and gazed at her in a way she thought she might drown in those blue depths, “nothing as ever amazing as… this.”

Guiding her back to the bed, they sat on its edge and he further confided, “I think Milah and I always had a part of ourselves held back from the other. Regardless of how we felt, we knew it was wrong. We knew we weren’t free to truly love one another, and since having met you, I’ve come to realize something.”

“What?”

Flicking up his gaze, he said something she never would have expected. “How alike her husband and I truly were.”

Emma blanched. “What do you mean?”

Running his thumb over the backs of her knuckles, he paused for a long moment. Emma could tell this revelation was not easy for him. Perhaps he was still trying to find a way to verbalize it. Sensing he needed time, she waited patiently for him to continue.

“She belonged to him. That’s what he always said,” he relayed, haltingly, from the memories he was dredging up. “She belonged to him. Her husband.” Pulling himself back into the here and now, he focused on her once more and a sad smile ghosted across his lips. “Milah used to assure me that despite the fact she was married, she belonged to me, and I took that to heart. I started to feel like she did belong to me, and I was wrong for doing so. Not because she was married, but because… a woman should not belong to anyone. She was not an object to possess, anymore than you are.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his attention turned towards the door of their cell. “He thought you were his to possess. I see that now.”

“Who?”

“The Lost One who came in here when Pan threatened to have another fulfill his demented wishes.”

Her gasp pulled his attention back towards her, and she felt as though her heart might hammer its way out of her chest as he told her, “I think he has a connection to you, Swan. Like the other Lost One has towards me. I think you know him, because I am certain he knows you.”

“How?” she asked, breathlessly. “How do you know--”

“He wanted you,” Killian begrudgingly told her. “But more than that, it was like he felt he had a right to have you. I could see a longing in his eyes, as though he knew… knew what having you would be like.”

Emma opened her mouth to respond, her mind racing with the implications of Killian’s words, but before she could say anything he took her face in his hands and the look in his eyes stole her breath away.

“You may have given me your consent. You might even think I had a right to do what I did in obeying Pan’s rules in order to safeguard your body and your dignity, but you do not belong to me, Swan. You are not mine to do with as I wish.” Pressing his forehead to hers, he murmured, “But I hope you might feel as though you belong with me, as I feel I belong with you. That we belong together, not to each other.” Swallowing thickly, he pulled back and softly whispered, “I love you, Emma.” Then captured her lips before she could reply.

Part Eight

[aprilfeldspar]

[cilil]

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧

AN: These are coming up a bit slower, but I'm making progress :) @feast-of-horns @lvsifer here's the Manwë x Varda piece I promised!

𓄌 Characters/pairings: Manwë x Varda 𓄌 Synopsis: The queen hunts her king at the first Feast of Horns, and a decree is issued. 𓄌 Warnings: Some violence, blood, feral!Varda (she's a space monster after all), predator/prey, smut, dirty talk 𓄌 Oneshot (~1.7k words) | AO3

"Fly freely today and run fast, beloved. I wish to claim a hard-won prize, not be placated with an easy catch."

These had been Varda's words to Manwë before Oromë's feast, the first of its kind. The king and queen were in attendance as well, though out of curiosity and for their own enjoyment rather than duty. 

"Your wish is my command," he had said to her before joining the Hunted. 

It seemed as though he had truly taken her words to heart, Varda thought now, racing across the fields of Arda and through mighty forests in hot pursuit of her majestic prey. Manwë, that much was clear, would not be caught by anyone else, regardless of whether another Hunter had the courage to interfere with the queen or not. Too swift was he who was air and wind itself and gracefully flew around, evading any who were lucky enough to even see him come and go as he pleased. 

Yet Varda knew where he was at all times, even when he disappeared from her field of vision. Her hearing was sharp and keen, and she knew Manwë too well, easily recognizing the sounds he made among thousands of others. The way his wind rushed through hair and feathers and brushed over skin, his steady breath, the beating of his wings and heart alike. 

With the speed of starlight, she followed him. He knew she was there as well, had long since seen and sensed her. Knowing how fast his wife could catch up, Manwë was wise enough to change directions frequently, even flying into mountains and forests where he could vanish from her sight. 

Laughing to herself, Varda skipped between patches of light filtering through the leafage of Yavanna's trees to hide herself as well. It was a fun game, though challenging for the Lady of Light who already had trouble keeping her fána dim enough to be gazed upon safely. 

They were alone now, far away from the others. It suited her well enough; she much desired to catch and enjoy her elusive prey in peace. 

It was time to complete her hunt. 

On her back rested the mighty bow of winds, belonging to none other than Manwë himself, though Varda had taken it before the feast since he wasn't going to need it. He was currently flitting between leaves and branches, skillfully dodging any and all obstacles, and thought himself safe; and he would be, if not for his wife's infallible senses and deadly precision. 

Focusing all of her attention on him to become one and mirror his movements, Varda readied a single arrow of light, one of her famed star-shots. What would be a devastating, if not lethal projectile for lesser beings would not permanently injure her husband, she knew, yet something stronger than a normal arrow would be needed to throw the Elder King down from his throne of winds. 

Once she was certain where his path would lead, she rushed in, bringing herself close enough and in line to aim and shoot. As much as Varda loved him and would bring down the very firmament onto any and all who would hurt her beloved, her mien nevertheless lit up with a smile of satisfaction when a flash of light, an inhuman, bird-like shriek and a soft thud confirmed that her star-shot had found its mark. 

There he was, the King of Arda, lying on the forest ground in a heap of miraculously pristine robes and white feathers. Manwë managed to unfurl his crumpled wings and spread them out before rolling on his back in defeat, blue eyes still dazed from his fall, and revealing a glittering arrow stuck in his shoulder. 

Varda approached him slowly and with leisurely grace, savouring her moment of triumph. Tiny stars twinkled where she went and were soon joined by the bow as she dropped it next to her husband. 

"I have come to claim my catch," she announced. 

Manwë exhaled, and his mien relaxed as if the pain had already left him. And perhaps it had indeed, for it was said that the Elder King was gifted with the ability to heal, as would be the other rightful kings among Ilúvatar's Children in the future. 

"I yield, my lady, and shall be all yours henceforth," he said.

"Indeed, you are."

Unable to resist any longer, Varda was on him within a split second and tore his robes to shreds like a wild beast from the outer regions of Arda until her nails and teeth dug into soft, sweet-smelling skin instead. 

"Such delicious prey," she purred, "however shall I devour you?" 

"In body and spirit," Manwë replied, demure but fearless. 

He spread his legs for her, knowing what was expected of him, and Varda was pleased. Her beloved was always so good and obedient. She might yet consider letting him be inside her, but as always, he would have to earn such a boon from his queen first. 

Manwë appeared to have eagerly anticipated his capture, Varda noted with a content smile. The heady smell of his arousal had permeated the air even before she saw the wetness glistening on the insides of his thighs, leaking out of his fána as it impatiently yearned to be completed by its other half. 

She focused on her own and willed her flesh to form a phallus worthy of a king. It rose proudly between her legs, ready to penetrate her beloved's body like her arrow had, and Varda wasted no time doing just that. 

There was no cry of pain, only muted Valarin mumbling and melodious moans. Manwë had prepared himself well and knew to yield to his queen. Brows furrowed, eyelids fluttering, he was perfect in her eyes. 

Inevitably, Varda's gaze was drawn to the arrow again. A rivulet of blood, fresh and so wonderfully red, contrasting pale skin and white feathers, had trickled down Manwë's arm and torso, and her thrusts slowly but surely coaxed more out of him. 

Yes. Varda placed a hand on his chest. She wanted to hold him down and possess him, willing gravity to seize his fána and keep it in place. Mine.

Her fingers, splayed wide as if she wished to grasp his entire rib cage in one hand, dipped into the idly flowing red rivulet. Oh, how she had longed for this — to see her loyal, loving husband bleed for her. And of course Manwë hadn't disappointed her. He took what she gave him and loved it. 

For a brief moment, Varda envisioned her fist closing around the arrow's shaft to yank it out and watch more blood flow, but she admonished herself not to be cruel to one who didn't deserve it; she felt that, if faced with such delicious earthly delights, she might make good on her word and devour him after all. 

Inside her beloved the arrow would stay, as did she. 

Yet her primal instincts could not fully be constrained, especially not when pure desire coursed through her veins and lust dissolved her self-control. Varda placed her free hand on Manwë's throat and tightened her grip, futile though it was — the Lord of the Breath of Arda would never find himself lacking his own element. Even so, the sensation of soft flesh constrained in her grasp and the lovely view of lips parting to gasp for air was delightful. 

More arms broke out of her shoulders, summoned by impulse rather than conscious choice, and she scratched and clawed at every bit of flesh and skin she could reach, bringing their fánar closer and closer together. Thus the Elder King himself became her willing, helpless prey, and Varda's delight caused the veins beneath her skin to glow and her very fána to nearly break apart, held together by the gravity of her single-minded purpose. 

Finally, mercifully, she brought their lips together in a searing kiss and felt Manwë arching underneath her as he found his release. His passion made her grin, showing a row of sharp teeth, but no less loving; it touched her that out of all the things she was doing to him, a kiss was what pushed him over the edge. 

Her heart filled with love and fondness in tandem with her light filling him, a reward for his loyalty and bravery. One by one her many arms released him and retreated back into her flesh, and Varda gracefully rose to her knees and withdrew from her beloved. 

Manwë was a mess, his robes torn to shreds that barely clung to his form, his fána covered in patterns of red, the arrow still sticking out of him. The smaller scratches she had left were already healing, and his expression was serene, showing no signs of pain. 

"You will forgive me for carrying you home like this," Varda said, her voice quiet and even now that she was satisfied. 

"If you worry that I am ashamed, I assure you that I feel no such thing," Manwë responded with a content sigh. "There is no shame in being caught by my queen and bearing the marks of her desire." 

"You should be careful with being such a sweet little bird, or I might eat you after all," Varda teased gently and lifted him up with both arms. As usual, Manwë was pleasantly light and tucked his head under her chin in complete disregard of his current shoulder injury. 

And so the King and Queen of Arda returned to Almaren, sparking many whispers and countless rumours among the other Ainur, though they cared little about that and enjoyed the feast once Estë had seen to removing the arrow. 

Yet as great as their enjoyment had been, both Manwë and Varda bowed their heads in agreement when the Lady of Healing came before them and Oromë and Varda after the festivities to suggest limiting the use of force and weapons. 

"Mighty you are indeed, and I worry not that you shall heal swiftly from this hunt," Estë said, "but let us not forget that in time the Children shall walk upon Arda alongside us, and their bodies will be more susceptible to injury. I would prefer not to find out what a star-shot or any of our other weapons and powers could do to them."

She inclined her head towards Varda and Oromë. "Not that I doubt your aim, but I am certain you understand." 

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @blauerregen @bluezenzennie @edensrose @elanna-elrondiel @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-defense-attorney @saintstars @singleteapot @urwendii

[sleepy-gee]

snowjanus week- day 1: literature

❝ don't you let go! ❞

lotr au, based on rotk. mostly based on the movie since it's been a hot minute since I've read the book in which coriolanus and sejanus finally arrive to mount doom. the journey is finally over.. or is it?

trigger warnings: major charafter death, suicide, heavy trauma

a/n: if you've seen lotr and read the title.. you probably know what this is about fhensn

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold.”

― JRR Tolkein

"We've done it," Coriolanus wants to tell himself. So, so desperately. "The journey is over. We can go home."

No matter how much you say something, though, it doesn't make it true. They're only halfway done, after all. They still have to make it out of this blasted mountain and walk home. Another year or so of walking. No food or water to carry them on. The Ring will have been destroyed, sure, and the army's of Mordor will surely begin to fall, or weaken in the slightest, but that doesn't mean everything will suddenly become easy.

The only reason the Ring was destroyed was because of the horrible creature, Gollum. In a way, Coriolanus owes everything to the Hobbit. Without his guidance and obsession over the One Ring, he wouldn't have made it to Mordor so easily. It wouldn't have been destroyed.

"The Ring is mine, Sejanus." The words fell from his tongue so, so easily. What was the point of resisting anymore? It had stuck with him this long. The Ring was notorious for going from bearer to bearer, but it had yet to leave him. Maybe it was a sign– A sign that he was the next in line for the throne.

"No. No, you can't–" Sejanus sobbed. He took a heavy step forward, and then another, pleading. Coriolanus slipped the Ring onto his finger and vanished from sight. He made a beeline for the exit, only to find himself pulled back by Gollum.

The two would tumble, resulting in Coriolanus getting his index finger bitten off by Gollum in a desperate tussle for the Ring and them both tumbling over the edge of the cliff. Gollum fell into the lava below, taking the Ring with him, while Coriolanus was able to catch the ledge with his mangled hand.

He was able to tell the second the Ring was destroyed. He could feel it in his soul, he dare thought. He would've cried in relief if his life wasn't in danger. Coriolanus tried to haul himself up, reaching up with his uninjured hand. When he caught the ledge and tried to pull himself up, he slipped, only able to catch himself by luck.

I'm trapped. He thought as his hand began to slip. It's a good ending to my story, I suppose.

Coriolanus closed his eyes, bracing for the inevitable.. When a warm, familiar hand fell over his.

"Coryo! Open your eyes!"

Sejanus. Dear Sejanus. His eyes were wide with terror, blood dripping from a giant gash on the side of his head, coating his already muddied face in crimson.

"It's me, your Sejanus. Give me your hand!" Sejanus reached down, yelling over the rumbling of the mountain. It was going to erupt any second now, surely. The Ring was the one thing keeping Mordor together, and with the Ring destroyed, Mordor would follow blindly, like a soldier into battle. "Give me your hand!"

Coriolanus swallowed heavily, swinging his hand upward in a half-hearted attempt to grab his friends hand. The shaking was getting worse. His mangled hand's grip wasn't enough–

A dark thought crossed his mind.

He could let go now. He'd fulfilled his mission, destroyed the Ring and saved his home. His friends. Everything he ever stood for. The last great evil of Middle Earth had passed.

And a hero deserves to rest.

He glanced up at Sejanus with tired, tortured eyes. A gaze that once held so much life.. So much joy and love. A gaze that told a thousand stories in a second.

But now? It begged to be freed.

Sejanus lowered himself further, blindly pawing at his hand. "Come on!"

Didn't he get it? Didn't he understand? Heroes are lucky if they get to choose the ending to their tale. Coriolanus has that choice.

He was tired. Withered down to the bone. When he looked into his future, all he saw was darkness. Not the comforting darkness you get when you sleep, but the void of life.

"Don't you let go! Don't you let go!"

If only it could be that simple.

There's no other choice.

Coriolanus swung his good hand up again and managed to grasp Sejanus' hand.

Sejanus' face flooded with relief. Coriolanus gave his hand a firm squeeze.

Before letting go.

He could barely make out Sejanus' cry for him over the roar of the mountain.

When he hit the fire below, it hurt.. But only for a moment.

Then, came the darkness he had longed for.

[steviewashere]

Decorate My Silence While I Figure Out How to Breathe

(also on ao3)

CW: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide in a Minor Character, Self-Harm (Without Realizing That's What it is) This is rated mature on ao3 for a handful of reasons, including the content warning. Please take caution and care for yourself.

wc: 10,624 (I know, it's a doozy), Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Season 4, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington is a Mess, Self-Hatred, Worried Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing/Washing, Steve Harrington Has Shit Parents

(I apologize for how long this is, but I just don't feel comfortable separating it into different posts.)

Heed tags and all content warnings, please!

—

The night was silent. Except for the wind. It was whispering in Steve's ears. Muttering soft things, soothing him, blowing air back into his lungs.

He's sitting in his backyard. On his diving board. Jeans cuffed to mid-calf, feet dangling in the cold water, beer between his hands—it wasn't cold at all, pulled straight from the box and warmed with the setting sun. He watched it disappear over the horizon, dipping down between the trees, tucking itself into the soil. He wishes he could do that. Maybe if he could mingle with the worms and the centipedes and the forgotten pinecones, the night wouldn't seem so lonely.

It's July 1st, 1986. Steve's anticipating the onslaught of fireworks. Waiting for the hissing of fuses, billowing of smoke, and shout of color overhead. Over the last week, he's kept his ears on high alert.

In case, he tells himself.

Though it's silent, with the wind brushing against his back, he can hear a heavy accent spitting words between his eyes. Can feel blossoming bruises and fresh, dripping blood. Crunchy hair stuck to his tacky cheeks. Burns across his body from what kept him tied up to Robin.

Speaking of Robin, he wonders how she's doing. What she's doing. Her parents ushered her out of Hawkins to a lake trip. He hopes she can still call. Her voice is constant when he's so absent to the world. Maybe she's in the wind. Maybe she never really left. Maybe she's just as bad off as he is.

He shutters when the wind stops teasing his spine.

It's late. The sun is asleep. His feet are numb from the water. And the beer has been sipped once.

He's not really a beer drinker anymore, not since Barb's death. How did I get here, he wonders.

Steve is sitting alone in his backyard, staring down a beer tab, longing to go under the freshly cleaned water, and sink to the bottom. Lonely and tired and desperate for the phantom touches to go away, that's his life post-Upside Down.

He sips his beer. It fizzes against his lips and leaves a sticky trail under his nose. Drips down his Cupid's bow. Trails across his wobbling lower lip and chin. Then, it settles atop his thumbs, not tracing along the ridge of the can. Sharp under his fingertips, scraping across the sensitive skin, giving him a taste of muted pain.

Terribly he wonders, If I dug a little deeper across the rim, would I bleed? (Maybe he should put the beer away, drain it into the pool, and let it swirl across the surface.) Would I bleed? Would I seduce the monsters below me? Could I be nothing just for the next few days?

He takes a deep breath. Lets it fill out like a balloon and pop between him and the gravestone embracing his feet.

It's late and Steve is tired. Stuck in a dredge as sticky and lukewarm as the beer in his hand. The silver spoon he ate from as a kid digging into his sternum, melon-balling his cigarette stained lungs and beaten, but broken heart, ladling his blood like pasta sauce, and pouring it across the world for all of Hawkins to see. For the demogorgons to taste. For the people he calls his friends to stumble upon, gag over because it's the essence of Steve Harrington spattered across the poolside, and scrub at like taping over a wedding video.

He aches and sizzles. Burns and shrivels. Drinks and drowns.

Nothing bad is going to happen again. Nothing as dangerous as having to pull Eddie Munson from the Upside Down, protect Robin Buckley from Russians with sharp teeth and blunt force, save young Lucas Sinclair from Billy Hargrove, and defend oneself from being eaten alive—by bats and friends and own self-hatred.

Nothing terrible is going to happen again. So, why does Steve Harrington want to throw himself into danger so bad, why does he yearn for it, why can't he feel bad for himself? What does he do if the person he needs to protect the world from is him?

Let the fireworks come, Steve threatens. Let them rain upon me. I can't care anymore.

---- Steve wakes up in his bed the next morning. Unaware of how he even got to his room.

The sunlight is pouring through his window, spilling across the carpet, and staining his duvet. It's warm. Makes his skin itch and burn.

He's still tired, he finds. Aches erupt behind his eyes, under his thumbs, across his cheekbones. Fresh bruises. Belts digging into skin. Blood across his drooping eyelids. Everything hurts and tenses and rips into him.

The spoon digs deeper. Closer to his bare back. Travels to the bottom of his ribs. Scrapes against every bone in his abdomen, squelches every inch of his intestines. He wants to scream, but the energy to pull sound from his lungs hurts.

In the sun drenched room, warmed by rays and birdsong and gentle sway of trees, Steve wants to disappear into the world. Melt into his mattress, if possible. He wants to sit straight in his bed, hands cupping under his chin, mouth gaping with saliva, and project acrid yellowish beige puke across his fingers, escaping through the gaps to his lap. Wants to sit in the mess for a long while and realize, there's no point in cleaning himself up if he's going to do it again.

There's no point in a lot of things post-Vecna. The party is almost the same age he was when all this shit had started, they're about ready to run off and rebel against the damned world they swore to protect. Robin and Nancy and Jonathan are leaving to go to school. Eddie will surely go off and do his own thing, always too big for such a small town. His parents weren't present before and they've already communicated they won't come back.

So where does that leave Steve? The kid who had everything laid out for him. A future promised by his name. Friends who were on par with him; not that his new friends aren't, they just are bigger and better than what he could ever imagine for himself. He doesn't deserve them or this current life he has.

He's decided, he doesn't deserve anything. All his life he's been handed the better deck of cards. Been boasted over. Has been a bully though and through; major aggressions like the breaking of Jonathan's camera, minor aggressions like threatening to knock Dustin's teeth out, a joke that would have never landed. Got Barb killed by his own selfish needs and tired to persuade Nancy to move on; that was too fast and he knows that now. If only I hadn't been so stupid, he muses. Couldn't get into college. Or make his parents proud. Has nearly gotten other people killed too.

I should've died, he laments. Which, shouldn't that be true? The demogorgon in 1983, those demodogs and Billy in '84, Russians in '85, bats and Vecna in '86. He had every chance to get himself killed, to show that he's done his job, that he's taken the hits for the people that mean so much more than whatever pathway he's dug. He couldn't even do that right.

And now...now it's just a countdown to the next thing that could get him killed. Hoping for once, that nobody goes after him or is there to be his aid. To let him slither away, be beaten beyond pulp, and pulled apart like pork. Even then, would his killers be satisfied? But he knows he should die.

Maybe he can conspire that in his bed. Where he doesn't move from. Maybe a stray firework will come crashing through his bedroom window. He hopes that it will explode and drench him in stray fire. Hellfire, drown me in hellfire, he wants to beg to nobody in particular.

Steve rolls to face away from the window. He wraps the blanket tighter over his shoulders and buries his face into the pillow. It smells like night terrors. The skin on his face is slick with sweat. Torso ripped by scars. He doesn't want to move. Isn't hungry. Isn't thirsty. Doesn't want anybody to find him.

He doesn't have much energy, but he forces himself out of bed. Only to go down to his front door, hide the key on his porch, and lock it behind him. He pulls shut all the curtains. Climbs the stairs like a mountain and slams the bedroom door behind him.

In hindsight, maybe he should call someone to say that he's sick or something. That he wants to be left alone. He doesn't though. Maybe he should shower and eat and force himself to have a good day. But he doesn't. Won't.

Can't. That's going to be his favorite word. And who's going to shut him up? Nobody. They can't.

---- It's July 4th.

Steve hasn't left his room in two days. Well, only three times to use the bathroom. But otherwise, he's kept his promise. Successfully made himself a shadow, a silent specter.

When the phone rings, he covers his ears. Everything is so loud, he realizes. The fireworks and neighborhood kids screaming. Cars driving by. Even the smell of smoking barbecues, which really doesn't make sense, but it's so much.

His stomach growls, but his limbs are stiff. Unable to shift and get food. At the very least crackers or soup. Even then, he can't.

Steve's starting to smell ripe. Which is pretty unusual for a guy so high maintenance. The mere thought of standing under a shower stream or having to strip his clothes or having to even turn the bathroom light on is, daunting, to say the least. There's only ten feet between him and the upstairs bathroom and even then, he only goes for emergencies.

With the way he smells, he could envision himself rotting. Turning green from the outside. Turning red and mushy on the inside. If a mirror were placed in front of him, he could watch the way his eyes turn white and glassy. See the areas of his skin that are burned red from the pooling of his blood. He could watch the life literally leave his body. He could watch his body warp into spirit and then continue to haunt his childhood home. I've already rotted, he thinks. I'm already a ghost.

The phone rings and rings. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh around his ears. He pulls at the roots of his hair. Grips to his biceps and squeezes. Makes himself hurt over and over and over again. To escape his senses. To feel something else.

There's an emptiness where his lungs are. It's sucking down every bit of his insides. Enveloping him in a dry-heaved breath. Where he would usually cry and swallow down his guilt over how he's survived, there's nothing. He feels every last awful thing of himself, but not the tears. Can blink and be spitting in Jonathan's face. Take a deep breath and be recommending Tina's party to Nancy. Bite his lip and hear the way Dustin's name spill from his mouth to the Russian bastards. And he can rub across his skin, feel the way his scars aren't as deep as Eddie's. But he can't cry. Can't make himself feel better. And he doesn't know if that'll ever be a possibility for him again, if he's stuck this way. If he'll be forever broken. Ruined.

Because this is new to Steve Harrington. Not once has he ever felt so in the dark about himself. But now that the fights are over and everybody is safe and living as large as possible...Now he's left with what didn't happen, what should've happened, with the question on the tip of his tongue: Why am I still here? And he can feel himself crumble under the weight of his own breath. And though he's miserable, he aches to feel this way forever.

This is karma. This is what he deserves, right?

---- A rustle and drop break Steve out of pulling his hair.

There's something downstairs in his home. It could be a demogorgon or a demodog or a demobat or Vecna. Something dangerous could be lurking in house. But he can't pull himself up to find his nailed bat. Can't come to his dull senses and put his fists in front of his face.

He can't pretend to care.

Footsteps cause a stampede on his stairs. Heavy with each step. Loud on purpose. To alert Steve most likely, but he can't bring himself to be alarmed.

The thing hasn't even made it to his bedroom door. But all he can feel, for once over the last few days, is relieved. This is his moment of release. The moment that should've come during the first Upside Down encounter; Steve Harrington's untimely demise.

He holds his breath. Untangles his fingers and lets them drop across the pillow. He swallows all the saliva pooling in his mouth.

The door swings wide open and a breath is released into the air.

Nothing happens after that. The thing's presence is standing in his doorway, but it doesn't move or breathe or prowl. It assesses, but doesn't do anything else.

Steve doesn't drown in a pool of his blood or get ripped to shreds or strangled by a rope-like tail.

He cracks his eyes open. And there, watching his form, is Eddie Munson.

Eddie's hair is wiled, more untamed than his everyday. Like it was in the Upside Down. As if he fought to get over to Steve's house. His clothes are nothing usual. Sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, Reeboks still on his feet. There isn't a jacket or a vest or several chains. He's normal, regular citizen, must've rolled out of bed, Eddie.

When his eyes finally meet Steve's, he whispers, "Oh, thank God." He even does the Sign of the Cross with his eyes closed, finishing by kissing the edge of his t-shirt's collar, where a cross would lay. His eyes reopen to gaze at Steve once more. "Oh, thank God," he fervently presses into the air.

His eyes are too intense. Steve looks away without speaking. He buries himself further into his blanket and stabs his fingernails back into the meat of his biceps.

Eddie hastily makes his way to the side of the bed that Steve lays on. He slowly crouches down to land on his knees. Brings his hands up to lay on the space between Steve's heated body and the spare room on his mattress. His eyes roam. They map every exposed bit of skin, the drooping, greasy hair, rumpled clothes. He reaches outa hand to lay atop Steve's, to try and pull his fingers away.

Steve flinches backwards and growls, "Don't."

"Okay," Eddie placates. He pulls his hands back towards the edge of the mattress. Lets there be distance between them. Steve hates it, but he can't express that. There's no way he can express anything other than apprehension. "I just," he stammers. "I came to check on you. The backdoor was unlocked. You weren't answering your phone and both Robin and I were getting worried."

His voice is soft and sad and concerned. It makes Steve's skin itch.

"Well, you're here," Steve flatly states. "And I'm alive."

Eddie is taken aback by the tone of his voice. He winces like he was slapped. And maybe the lack of intensity, yet the severe intensity of Steve's voice, really has that power.

"Well apologies, asshole," he spits back. "But when somebody in the group doesn't fucking answer, we tend to get worried. We thought you weren't alive," he barks. He pushes his body up and looms at his full height. With one last look thrown in Steve's vague direction, he makes his way to the door.

Steve knew he couldn't say anything in return. Not yet, at least. Because how would he respond to that? "I wish I was dead. Sorry for worrying you, but I think you'd be terrified to know what I'm thinking about."

So instead of saying something as treacherous as any of those responses, his body betrays him differently.

Right before Eddie crosses the threshold to go back into the hallway and down the stairs, Steve lets out a wounded whimper. He lets several loose into the tense air. Maybe he will cry, he can't, but it could happen, but it can't, and it will, but he so badly wishes it wouldn't.

"Steve?" Eddie whispers over his left shoulder, eyes pierced to where the lump of his friend stiffens with every sound. He feels his heart breaking like a brick wall struck by a wrecking ball. His ribs are collapsing. His heart is sifting through stomach acid to try and float back to his chest.

Steve's body convulses with every breath. He stammers, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm s-sorry." Over and over until each word is unintelligible. "Don't go," he pleads between each staccato intake.

He feels warmth crowd over him. Like the sun. There's a hand hovering over his shivering shoulders. But it doesn't touch him. As if, to Eddie, it can't.

"Sweetheart..." he coos sadly. "What's wrong?" He watches Steve's face turn red. Sees the tremble of his eyelids as it tries to contain whatever pressure is building there. How his chin wobbles.

Steve doesn't really respond. He mutters "Wrong" on repeat and "Dunno," but each word is slurred. Eddie sits down and asks to touch him, when he gets a nod in return, his hand digs into the greasy hair. He lightly scratches his scalp. Untangles knots. Repositions certain strands of hair to where they'd normally sit.

Eddie notes how pale Steve is. The indents of fingernails on his biceps and areas of red, irritated skin where his hand teases hair. How wrinkled his pajama bottoms are, indicating how long they've been worn. His hair is an easy giveaway. He can hear his stomach growl. He realizes how resigned and numb Steve appears. The way there's no other emotion on his face outside of accepted misery.

He sweeps his hand to cover Steve's exposed right ear. His thumb is careful as it caresses his cheekbone.

"I don't know what's happening, but I've got you, Stevie." And as if that was all the permission Steve needed, he begins to sob. Wet and congested and rough. "I've got you," Eddie whispers. Soft like the wind.

Every screeching sound leaving Steve's barren chest ripples through the air like an ocean in a storm. Each gasp rocks Eddie's body and settles tense like a fresh scream. The noises are that of several sheep being slaughtered brutally by the hands of unkind men. Calloused is his breathing. Innocent are his cries.

The spoon has cleared all the way through Steve. In its wake is a gaping, frayed crater. Each seize of his lungs squirts blood halfway across his room. If he squints, there's droplets the size of beads bedazzling over Eddie's left side. The sprays seep into his clothes and harden the carpet and stain his closet door. In every part of the house, though he's been cooped up in his room, Steve can feel his soul being ripped apart and strewn over; every corner occupied with pre-1983 him and every seam in the hardwood now glued by the residual sweat from his last run through the Upside Down. The carpet contains his footprints. But his room is a slaughterhouse; in his bed is him, the version of Eddie pre-occupied by the last swirl of demobats, but by his dresser is Nancy fresh from the pool, and out his window is Barb grasping to a cement edge, being dragged by her feet, and taken for all she both was and wasn't. His house is a morgue and a graveyard and a funeral home; it's a last resting place and a crime scene. There's death everywhere.

And that's why it would be perfect, right? For Steve to rot there?

He has been. He still is. He can't stop.

When the room has fallen silent, so has every emotion Steve could possibly feel. His eyes burn like they always do after he cries. But, his chest is loose, yet tight. There's a new hollowness to him. And it's exhausting every stretch of his muscles.

Eddie is still caressing his face like he's something worthwhile. He's gentle. Even if he's usually boisterous in conversation, violent in his mannerisms, brash across his clothes.

Steve's breath quakes in his throat as he chokes, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Eddie whispers. "You needed that, it's alright."

He shakes his head at that. "No, I'm sorry for being so mean," he swears. "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to be that way, I didn't," he garbles and gargles and drowns.

The hand on his face shifts to his back. It taps across his spine and presses between his shoulder blades. "I know, honey. I know you didn't mean it. You're okay," Eddie coos once more.

"Somethin' is wrong," Steve tells him. "Bad."

Eddie's face glows with fear. His eyes widen as two black holes. Mouth wrinkled downwards. "What do you mean? Do I need to call Joyce?" he tries to not frantically question. Reaches out, too, to grab Steve's right hand, squeezing over his fingers, thumb massaging against his bones.

Steve turns to strangle his face in the pillow. Mutters, "No, no, no...with me. Not Vecna, just me."

And then there's silence. Nothing now. The wind is stagnant. Eddie's hands have stilled.

Steve isn't sure what to do with so much swirling inside of him. What he's willing to let spill across his mattress. If there's a way to go back in time to when Eddie was just about to leave, stomping out the front door, and for his underwhelming, sad, decomposing body to be left here; he wants to figure out that science.

"Steve," Eddie calls. "Can you tell me what's wrong? Maybe I can help you out." He continues to rub Steve's back. Squeezes the hand he's holding too.

He waits a while to hear a response. Steve is still pressed into the pillow. But he positions his face to look out over the side of his bed, not looking directly at Eddie, though it's nearly the same.

"My body hurts," he whispers. He inhales as deep as he possibly can, exhaling what feels like shards of crumbled glass. "And I'm heavy," Steve states. "Like...like somebody set a cement block on me. And I can't get up." His voice is small and worn and stretched thin.

Eddie acknowledges by humming and rubs against the veins in Steve's hand.

"But I also don't want to get up? Not in the lazy way, but in the..." he trails off. His breath catches in his throat, knocking around the tunnel of his windpipe. There's a ruthless, scalding burn settling in his chest. "In a way that would make a lot of people unhappy, but I can't stop thinking about it. And I know maybe I shouldn't think that way, but it won't go away. And I wonder..." He doesn't finish.

"What kind of thoughts, Stevie? What are you wondering?" Eddie calmly asks. Inside though, he knows the answer. Has heard it before from his own mother. Came across her in the after of those aforementioned thoughts, seen the way life had been cruel. How life chose, so full heartedly, to take goodness from the Earth.

"Why does it happen to good people?" He had asked Wayne at one point. His uncle's response, "I'm not sure, Bubba. I wish I could tell you." And Eddie had whined, "That's not fair." Wayne responded, "I know Ed. I know."

So, though Eddie could relay to you the words he knows are building in Steve's chest, he's freaking out. Trying to connect the dots as to when this all started. Asking himself if it's possible to go back in time and prevent these horrendous thoughts from building inside his friend. Praying too that they may never come, that he can be safe from torment. But none of that can happen, won't, wouldn't. He'll forever be stuck in a time where he's met Steve Harrington as a great person to the universe, where he beats himself internally for things outside of his control, where he walks across hot coal just to make himself feel alive.

"I wonder if—if maybe dying would make it stop," Steve admits, shamefully. "I think I've been wanting it for so long that it doesn't surprise me, but I've never felt like this." Eddie's fingers begin to tremble from how hard they grasp to Steve's slick skin. "I can't stop it and I think I deserve it, Eddie. I really do."

His body nearly seizes with the intensity of his breathing, willing himself to not cry. He's never been so ashamed to be the person he is. And the person he isn't. Every word cuts across the roof of his mouth and scrapes against his lips. He wants to be evaporated into the hole in his chest. Waits, practically, for the universe to collapse in on itself now that his confession is out in the open.

Instead though, gentle hands continue to traverse his frame. They squeeze passionately at any tense muscle. Not once do they pull away or become sharp in nature or shove him.

"You don't deserve death, Steve. Nobody does. Not for anything like this," Eddie whispers. "I can't say that I know, but I want to understand. And I want to help you not feel so bad."

"Why?" Steve breathes. "I'm not worth that."

"Because you deserve good things. You deserve kindness," Eddie replies, factually. "I'm not sure how to stop those thoughts. But maybe I can help you feel fresher? If you'll let me?" he offers. His eyes are full and earnest, hand still careful, breath warm across Steve's skin where he now bends to gaze into his eyes.

The offer rattles in Steve's skull. Eyes searching over each one of Eddie's features; his beautiful, brown eyes, bulbous tipped nose, his chewed lips, and small freckles; each one reads: "I'm telling the truth, I want to do this." He's never been offered help as large as this. And he hates the way he feels, yet finds he can't do anything about it. This would be good, his brain says. Then you can rest, it adds.

"What did you have in mind?" Steve asks. His eyes drift down to where his hand is being held. He brings his other fingers to tap across the back of Eddie's hand, toying with his sharp knuckles.

Eddie swipes his thumb across Steve's ear. He hums thoughtfully. "I was thinking of running you a bath. So that you can sit instead of stand? And while you soaked or whatever, I make you something you'd like to eat. Then, I'd change out your bedding, but I would put it in the dryer for a little bit so that it's warm when you get tucked back in. And the rest is up to you," he lists. "Is that some stuff that you'd like to do?"

He caresses the side of Steve's face. Patiently, he waits.

The energy used to keep talking is depleting rapidly. He isn't sure how much longer he'll be able to keep up with Eddie for the day. For the night, more like. It's already 8 PM, fireworks sounding distantly. But Steve remains heavy in his bed.

"Sounds nice," he eventually breathes. "But, can you stay with me in the bathroom? I don't want to be alone," his timid voice shakes. As if asking such would turn around to punch him across the jaw. He swears he can feel the pain bloom from his chin, an unsettling pop tossed around the room, echoing across his plaid walls.

"Of course, Stevie," Eddie murmurs. His face is soft. Dimples barely appearing around his mouth, but still he gives Steve a gentle smile. It pays to see Eddie at night; quiet and careful and less devious than when he's around everybody in the party. "I'll do whatever you need right now."

----

Eddie's sitting in Steve's bathroom, filling up the tub with warm water. He's got a plastic cup sitting on the ledge, a mountain of bubbles threatening to spill out onto the tiled floor, a washcloth, and two towels; one for Steve's body, one for his hair.

Steve still hasn't left his room. He's currently sitting up on the edge of his bed, staring down at his bare feet in the carpet. His torso is curled over his knees and his head pounds. There's hair falling into his eyes, but he can't bring his fingers up to swipe them away. He's only wearing sweatpants; but his heart is worn across his chest in a splattering of reds and pinks and muted blues. With every beat there's that creeping itch to collapse onto his back and crawl through the mud that is sleep. He yearns for the firm mattress to comfort his exhausted muscles, a pillow to smother himself in, his blanket to cover the errors of each Upside Down fiasco; drag scars, torso chunks, plate cuts, crooked nose.

He wants to close his eyes against the brightness curling into his bedroom from the hallway, so he does. Lets his head droop down to curve the top of his spine. Blood settles along his lower back, sloshing down the tops of his thighs, anchoring to his toes. There's almost a calm within being so weighted, to being too heavy for words and sounds and lights and movements. With each breath, the crevice from the spoon begins to stitch. Not entirely. It won't ever close up completely, but he can feel the sinew of muscle reattaching; blood seeping across his chest hair, tacky across his sternum, threatening to pour back into his belly button.

Eddie opens the door and tiptoes to the bed. He settles on his knees in front of Steve.

Though he can't bring himself to stand, he can feel Eddie's warmth. And he yearns for it.

"Ready to go to the bathroom?" Eddie questions. Not loud. Mellowed and pastel in the way it breaks through Steve's collapsing lungs. Steve shakes his head.

"Not yet," he whispers. "Can't."

Instead of being shamed, like he would be when he was home from basketball practice and too sore to move, he's left with softer words, "That's alright Stevie, take all the time you need. I can always refill the bath." Eddie stands and sits next to Steve on his right. His hand tucks hair away and tickles down his earlobe, settling warm across the back of his neck. Thumbs dig into the top of Steve's spine, lightly scratching over several moles and freckles; connecting them into various constellations. Eddie doesn't say anything for a while. Just hums random notes and heaves breathing exercises when Steve seems to seep inwards.

Steve raises his head ever so slowly, every vertebrate realigning. He tilts from side to side, reintroducing his muscles and nerves to the normal of sitting straight. "I'm ready. I think. Can I—" he begins. There's a voice in his head that screams: Don't ask for help, you don't need it. Don't ask for help, you don't deserve it. A battle twitches between his eyebrows. The muscles throw grenades and stab arteries and shred arms like raking soil. He tentatively asks, "Can I lean into you while I walk?"

Without answering, Eddie stands in front of Steve. He grasps onto his hands, heaving his body fully, steadying him when he wobbles on shaky knees. One of Steve's arms goes across Eddie's waist. "Put your head on my shoulder, I got you," he whispers.

They make their way and when they cross to the lip of the tub, Steve feels heavy with no emotion; only one cracks through him though.

Adoration.

That's the first thing outside of being bodied by emptiness and loneliness and weighted cowardice, that Steve can feel through every limb, in every vein, at the edges of his frayed nerves and still beating heart. For a mere moment, he is able to tally away one reason why he shouldn't disappear. And that makes his heaviness lighter, he sits like a bag of bricks, but his toes begin to tickle like feathers.

Eddie is silent and attentive in the way he undresses Steve. With his eyes as they roam over wilting hair and kissed-pink puckering scars and knotted muscles. And with his deft fingers as he plucks away the sweatpants' waistband, shimmies them over Steve's knobby knees, and bunches them over his long feet. He folds the dirtied laundry and sets them on the floor by the sink. Tucked away, yet noticeable for later; whether Steve cleans up or Eddie does by proxy when he changes the bedding for a warmer set—a duo of sheets covered in dainty lavender flowers and a duvet dusted with pink stitching.

He dips his elbow in the sudsy bath water, nods to himself over the temperature, and then carefully maneuvers Steve's legs to face inwards. His left hand holds steady to Steve's and his right massages over the other's shoulders. Simply just smearing his palm's softness over the spattering of back moles; previously connected by careful lines, shining bright like an array of white fireworks in the dimmed bulb of the bathroom.

Once Steve is submerged to just under his pecs, Eddie whispers featherlight, "Does everything feel okay?" His hand cards through stringy hair, timidly cautious when he meets a new knot he hadn't quite untangled.

Steve nods. Words feeling too big for his sullen mouth.

"That's good," Eddie states. "Do you want me to help you with washing up or would you rather I sit here and talk?"

He isn't sure how to respond quite yet and Eddie doesn't seem upset at his molasses responses. In fact, when Steve looks over him, his eyes boring and at ease, he finds that Eddie is just patient. Which normally, he's stubborn with his temper and anxious to get things moving and for his voice to be heard. But in this moment, he longs not to be heard, but to be understood. And that's enough for Steve to request, "Please do both."

Eddie's hand slips through the ends of his hair and easily reaches over for the washcloth folded neatly on the toilet lid. He dips it under the mound of bubbles and brings it back to wring out. His movements are languid, wary, but not in a fearful way. As if when his body settles over his heels, he's gauging Steve's reactions, as subtle as they are.

"Do you want bar soap or body wash?" He kindly asks. And Steve feels warm without sweat at the question. He's never had the choice before when he took baths as a kid; his mom always ran a bar of soap between her hands and then gently stroked it over his body.

"Bar," Steve croaks.

The washcloth is set on the edge of the tub. Eddie leans over to the bathroom's counter and grabs a handful of boxed soap bars. Each one has a different label.

"I found these in the cupboard. There's a peach scented one, vanilla musk, whatever that means, and the classic Irish Spring. Is there one you're more particular to?" He asks, holding each box up as he goes, and then placing them on the edge alongside the rag.

"You smell like Irish Spring," Steve observes.

The scent had brushed him once at a gathering in the Wheeler's basement. It had been a warm day in May and the A/C was running, but everyone and their mother was sweating. He had been invited to watch a campaign oneshot. "Something short enough to keep your attention," Dustin had said. The kid genius had been right, of course. Though, Steve paid attention differently on that day. He noticed this new awfulness he resides in start to creep across his skin, light like the hum of the air conditioner. He was fighting with himself during that little get together, but Eddie had came over during a snack break, long arms, slim figure. Plopped down on the worn sofa and slung an arm over Steve's shoulders. His t-shirt was damp with sweat, but all Steve really could smell was the citrus and bergamot disguised in green.

The feeling of Eddie's arm was comfortable. And so the scent stuck to the inside of Steve's nostrils. When he left that night, he stopped by Melvad's and bought a bar. With the intention of eventually using it, but he had to work through his body wash first.

He is given the option here. He can ask for it.

Eddie chuckles, "I guess I do. It's my favorite soap. Wanna use it tonight?"

Steve nods and whispers, "Please."

So, the washcloth is redipped in the warm water, rung out so it's not sopping wet, and the bar is ran through ever so carefully. Eddie starts with Steve's neck, rubbing small circles across his skin. The dead skin flakes away over the coarseness of the cloth. It's worked over the slope of his shoulders, into his chest hair, his biceps, and pecs.

But Eddie skips his hands and instead moves down to his legs. Each swipe like a paintbrush marking a sunset sky. The reverence in which Steve is being treated with is so foreign that he begins to tear up. His lips tick into a tiny smile, only an inch wide, but brighter than any firework beyond the windows.

"Still doing alright?" Eddie asks when he rings the washcloth out once more and hangs it to dry over the toilet.

"Doin' better," Steve whispers. Though, there's still a fault line fracture in his soul and a bullet would scar from that spoon.

He inches his fingers to settle over the surface of the water. They're pruned. Over the lip of the tub, he dances them until he's touching Eddie's pointed elbow.

Eddie gently takes his hand. Intertwines their fingers. He smiles without teeth.

"You're really good at this," Steve mutters through a sigh.

"Used to do this with my mom. I don't mind doing it," Eddie responds.

Steve hums. He licks his dry lips. Feels each one of Eddie's words settle over the bathwater and drown his limbs in sorrow. Ever so carefully, he shifts his hand back into his own lap, and watches with regret as Eddie's beautiful face sours. He sucks on a lemon in the time their hands separate. And Steve is so tired.

His throat stings. Scratchy with oncoming tears. His eyes water. Bubbling with something he didn't know he had to feel that night.

Remorse.

It seems that being gone to the world for days on end, for a while so it's been said, really brings down everybody. At one point, Steve was okay with being alone on weekends and holidays and birthdays. He was doing just fine inviting over Tommy and Carol for stale beer his dad forgot about or muck water weed. In his evenings, he was settled with laying in his giant, cold bed; tucked under a duvet that smells like a different detergent than his childhood. And it seems that's how life moves. Steve grows bulky and remorseful and regretful. He grows ashamed and bastardly and inside this need to be constantly admonished.

Never in his life did he imagine he'd feel so greatly, yet so few. Would be left with a rusted spoon in his grip and a body feeding from survivor's guilt. He wants to scoop the rest of himself from his ribcage and serve his rot to the world. Force Mother Nature to birth a son and kill a son and start his grass anew.

If younger Steve knew that he'd grow to not only disappoint, but also make his friends sad, he would have gone missing or ran away or been found dead by age ten. His mind flashes with Tommy yelling at him in that convenience store parking lot, a cold Coca-Cola forgotten in his tyrant rant. A sign reading: Nancy "the Slut" Wheeler. Jonathan's hardened face over being called queer. And Robin's original distaste for him. The way Dustin had to call him out over the teeth joke. Eddie's initial bias over his popular jock persona.

Now, he's looking at Eddie's crumpled face. Hearing back his concern and Steve's blatant disregard for the tremble in his voice.

I should just drown in this tub, his inner-monologue hisses.

A tear he couldn't feel drips down into the rapidly cooling bathwater.

Eddie's hand scrambled to cup Steve's face. He says, "Steve, it's alright. It's okay." But those words fall upon deaf ears.

Steve flinches back hard enough to slam his head into the ceramic tile backsplash. His voice trembles, "I'm sorry that I made you sad. Maybe you should go, I'll finish in here and then I'll go back to bed and you won't have to deal with me anymore. I'm so sorry, so so sorry. I didn't mean to." There's wetness coating his cheeks, an erupting pulse of pain in his head, an empty ache in his chest.

As he begins to sob again, albeit quieter than before, Eddie begins to speak. "No, Steve, no. You didn't do anything wrong, I promise." His voice is all passion and alighted flame and bursting firework. "You were caving again and I was getting worried, you're alright. You're alright," he whispers when Steve's body shivers and his crying slows. Hesitantly, cautiously, he shows both his hands and floats them closer. "Can I check the back of your head? Just to make sure you didn't crack or split anything." Steve nods with the smallness of an injured child fallen on hard pavement.

Eddie combs his fingers through hair, separating along Steve's part. His fingertips lightly trickle over and around and through. He doesn't miss a single spot. With care, he massages at the irritated red patches from where the hair had been pulled. "Nothing damaged, but let's be careful," he breathes against Steve's ear. He settles back on his heels and assesses.

Steve won't look at him. Can't look at him.

"Steve," Eddie whispers. He doesn't get anything in return. Steve's body sits like a Raggedy Andy doll that's been shoved onto a high shelf. And that's really who he is, isn't it? He's been placed somewhere he can't get down from and needs somebody to pull him away. He keeps pushing back, flailing, and then the other person gets hurt.

His eyes close. Throat bobs with the force of his swallowing. He takes a dangerous moment of peace in the silence. With it, his skin crawls. But he doesn't mind. When he does breach the quiet, he asks, "Can you hold my hand again?"

Eddie obliges. Both of his hands wrap around Steve's left.

His skin is hot. Not uncomfortably. Not in a sexy way either. The heat reminds Steve of soup and saltines when he was sick as a kid. Reminds him of late night bonfires with old friends out by Lover's Lake in the fall. Heated pool late at night. That beer from a few days prior. The sun.

He's decided that Eddie is both the wind and sun.

Bright. Yet calm. Brash. Yet timid. Burning. Yet soothing.

And that's really Eddie's essence, isn't it? Some bigger, more necessary, more constant thing. Washed between trees and light all around. Creeping his way through billowing curtains and gaping doors and finger gaps. Looking to nestle and maneuver and cushion. In his consistent, over-bearing, tumultuous everyday normal; Eddie is all around in smaller ways, hesitant moments, and manicured silences. He's worked his way to being somebody Steve can expect as being reversed in his mannerisms; going from big to small to mild. In each sense, Steve's been wondering where the sun and wind are. They're here in his bathroom, holding his hand so lightly it's as if they're merely brushing skin with feathers.

Eddie knows how to decorate Steve's silence.

So, gently and shamelessly, Steve requests, "Tell me about your mom?"

"Do you want me to wash your hair while I do?" Eddie asks. Steve just nods. He grabs the shampoo and squirts a small amount into his palm. "Well, she's a good woman first. One of the best people I've ever come to know." Once it's warmed in his hand and frothy, he gently rakes through Steve's hair, not going to the ends. "Very kind. Warm. Soft. It's a wonder that I ended up the way I did, guess we can thank my dad for that," he snorts.

Steve's eyes are drooped, body lax against the back of the tub. He whispers, "I think that you're all those things."

"Yeah?" Eddie breathes across the crown of his head. His hands scrub fervently, precisely, and painlessly meticulous. Steve hums. "I think you are too," he states.

He fills the plastic cup with warm water and leans Steve back. One arm wrapped around his neck and back of head. His thumb massages where skull meets spine. He doesn't pour the water all at once, rather trickling small waterfalls over and over. When the suds aren't as noticeable, he eventually does pour it all. And then, he begins on the conditioner. Warms it the same as the shampoo.

"My mom, she dealt with what you're going through. I think almost as long as I got to know her." He rubs the conditioner over the ends of Steve's hair, bunching it as he goes. "She had her ups and severe downs. Sometimes we'd go out for days on end; basking in the sunlight, feeding ducks at the pond, going out for ice cream. Those were great days." Steve watches a wistful smile ripple in like a small tidal wave. Intense in the nostalgia and the childhood and the ache. "Her down days...Toughest fucking days I've ever had to endure. Saying something, I suppose, considering all that was spring break."

"I'm sorry," Steve sympathizes. Though, he can taste empathy like a packet of salt on his tongue. Violent in flavor, buried in his teeth, roaming through his saliva. Each swallow burns.

"It's alright," Eddie whispers. He works water through hair again. "I was with her on those days. May have been tough, but at least I got to spend time with her." He assesses Steve's hair. Wonders very briefly if he should do one more shampoo rinse. He does, a smaller amount filling the well of his palm. "She did what you've been doing. Laying in bed, not really doing much, but that was all she could do. Several days she'd go without washing herself or eating something, sometimes just drinking water was too much on her mind."

He shutters through his next breath. It stutters warm and cold over Steve's skin. Audibly, he swallows. As if he was consuming whatever was left of his mother. The bad days. The good days. The end.

"She lived in those thoughts you've been having," Eddie adds. Barely makes a sound. If Steve weren't sitting so close, so heavy to the world, he would have missed it. "I could just tell some days when she was lost in one. Had to hide things around the house. Medicine and sharp things and cleaning products," he lists. Each word cutting against his throat, deeper and deeper. "Dad had told me about all of that. In case he wasn't home. He rarely was considering his criminal history, but at least he taught me something valuable."

His hands travel down Steve's neck and the slope of his shoulders. Works all the way down to hands, wrinkled like old skin. And Eddie thinks, I want to see him like this.

Eddie keeps his eyes on the shriveled tips of fingers. "One day I came home and she was just still. Silent." His throat clicks through the next swallow. "I didn't get much time with her. Only twelve years, but each day I spent with her was the best. Whether it be that we walked to the park and she pushed me on the swings or I washed her skin the way I've been washing yours. As long as I could help her feel at least cleaner, it was a good day."

He falls eerily silent. Steve uses any mustered strength to squeeze at his veins, his fingers, his palms.

"So, whatever we need to do today, I'm willing to offer. Because I love you so much, Steve. I can't even find all the right words. I'd say you're everything," he whispers. "Everything," he urges. "And I want you here, and I have the chance to help those thoughts simmer. So, let's get you dried off and reclothed and then I'll make you some food. How does that sound?"

"Like music," Steve shares. His eyes burn, his breath cuts, his brain is silent. For the first time in two months, his brain hears silence.

----

After several minutes, Eddie sits Steve down at the dining table. He sweeps wet hair away from his forehead and gazes into his eyes. Steve's face is dim and hard-set, wrinkled with loss.

"I'll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, get you some ice water too," Eddie whispers between them.

Steve hums. "Can I have mine without crusts, please?" he sweetly asks. His lips curl up and his eyes are consuming. Color starts to wash over him, painting hues like a sunset, a billion red and blue fireworks, the deep magentas and light pinks of cosmo flowers.

"Of course, sweetheart," Eddie breathes into his left ear. Before he evades Steve's space, he presses a light, simmering kiss to his temple. His lips brush skin as he says, "I'll turn on music too."

So he slithers away to the kitchen and turns on Mrs. Harrington's radio in the window. Usually, he'd tune it to a heavy rock station, but today he turns on pop. He mutters under his breath, hoping that Wham! plays. The ingredients aren't hard to find and neither are the utensils.

His hands keep busy while Steve sits at the table. Back hunched over tangled hands. Set down onto a hardwood table that used to house family dinners.

Visions of his father at one end, his mother by his side, him across form his mom. They eat Chinese takeout because it's a Friday night and nobody has to work or go to school over the weekend. Steve's dad eats sweet & sour chicken directly from the box. His mom eats rangoons with her dainty hands. And Steve slurps noisily at sauced noodles, successfully coating his lips in something sticky and his cheeks with a deep color. Mr. Harrington sticks the chopsticks under his upper lip, mustache tickling over the edge, and he barks like a walrus. Steve laughs so hard that tears spill down his cheeks, water spraying from his nose. Mrs. Harrington giggles too. In this, they're happy.

But now, Steve is—he's muddled. Eddie notices how cold the downstairs is. The scrapes in the hardwood from chairs digging and being shoved around. He recalls a time a while back where Steve had mentioned his parents purchasing a new home in Southern California. The postcard he got in the mail reading, "Greetings, From Sunny California." There was a return address, but specifics about not contacting them. Not visiting. That they'd handed him the home in Hawkins, his responsibility now, cursing his name for digging his feet in retail and Barbara Holland disappearing from their backyard. Disappointment being scrawled in bold, black, scratchy handwriting. And then, when Eddie chanced a look at Steve's face, he was resigned.

Like he is now.

He wonders if that postcard had been the start. If Barb's disappearance eventually settled in his lungs after Nancy's Vecna vision. Maybe it wasn't familiarity that Steve was looking for in the Upside Down, but rather, protection from himself. A time where things were simpler and happier and smaller. Where his life wasn't on the line.

Now, he's looking for that sign. For that moment of brevity where Satan climbs through the forest floor and creates a vortex to Hell. A whispering through the wind, vicious and hissing, telling him to "Climb in."

Maybe if Nancy wasn't the one that Vecna trapped, it would've been Steve.

Eddie realizes, he probably would've broken out of it. And he would've been upset to hear Steve swear, "I'm still alive!" like a slur.

Steve is a teenage boy still, even if he's freshly twenty years old. But, his maturity certainly hit him all at once. Whether that be the last time the Harringtons were all in the same room or when that nailed bat was being swirled around in the air, Eddie isn't sure. Somewhere though, Steve lost his sanity. Lost his patience. Lost himself.

He comes back to the table with two sandwiches wrapped in paper towels and a tall glass of ice water. Wham! is on the radio.

"Thank you," Steve murmurs when he takes his sandwich. He takes a bite and hums. "Like when my mom made them."

"That a good thing?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah, I like to think so," he mutters. "Also, you don't like this music, how come you're playing it?" His big eyes land on Eddie's.

Eddie grins. There's crumbs on Steve's lower lip. Water in the corners of his mouth. He reaches out without thinking and drags his thumb to wipe away the wetness. "You like it," he answers. "Anything you like, I like." His thumb rests on the divot under his lip. Gently holding his chin.

Steve's chewing slows and he swallows. His eyes fill with something. A sparkle where they were once vacant and drowning. "You're too nice to me," he whispers. His head swivels back to his food, leaving Eddie's hand to roughly drop onto the table.

And his eyes clear once again.

"You know, you don't have to stay here with me. I'm probably just going to be like this for a while," Steve hollowly states. That spoon is back again. Playing his ribs like a xylophone; hitting hard enough to crack and disturb. He wants to throw up the little bit of food he's managed to swallow.

He just wants to disappear.

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, but he eats his sandwich instead. Slowly, too. The room is heated with tense energy, crawling under his t-shirt, scraping against his spine, and ripping his hair.

His friend, best friend he considers, curls smaller. Hands picking at the crustless edges. Balling corners of paper towels, eyes half-lidded and just empty.

In another life, Eddie starts to think, we would be eating sandwiches and watching fireworks. His hands tremble on the surface of the table. In another life, he begins, we are sitting at this dining table creating a grocery list, arguing whether or not we should get orange juice with pulp. Steve's not eating anymore. Head firm in his hands, elbows on the table, so informal. In another life, he muses, he is so happy, overflowing with it, body warm with it, eyes shining with it.

In another life, Steve doesn't cry into his hands at the dining table. He doesn't fall in love with a boy. He certainly doesn't work measly retail. Or have scars across every inch of his back. He doesn't sit by his pool late at night, wondering if he could die by proxy.

In the next life, he can only hope he's treated with reverence like this, from birth in screams and blood to death in whispers and halted breaths.

The radio fizzles. Batteries dead. Fireworks quiet for the night.

Every inch of the Harrington house is silent. Surfaces coated in stale breath and curdled blood. Bathwater cold and getting colder. Beds stiff and empty and too wide.

The silence is so loud.

And so hungry.

Steve aches. He confesses, "I love what you're doing Eddie, but I'm tired. And I'm so empty. And I don't know what to do. I can't—" His chest stutters so hard that the muscles in his back spasm. "I can't do this everyday." His arms fold crossed onto the table, head hitting his forearms.

Eddie scoots his hand close and gently brushes his fingertips over Steve's left forearm. "What do you mean, Stevie?"

His fingers tremble where they rest.

"I can't be like this forever. I feel like I've been stuck since we got back from the Vecna shit." His hands reach up to rub harshly at his face. "What if I never get better? You don't want to take care of me everyday and I can't do it by myself. I mean, God—" His palms press harshly into his eyes. Hands turning white from the pressure. "I've been in bed since the first. What if I just stay in bed for weeks, Eddie? That's hardly living. I can't do that to you or anybody or myself."

Eddie's palms firmly grasp his arms. They pull Steve's hands away from his face. There's blooming redness across his eyebrows and waterlines. Snot threatening to drip across his lips.

The shuttering breaths that Steve explodes into the air are breaking Eddie's heart further. Crumbling into thousands of little pieces like bread crusts.

"Steve, I need you to listen to me okay?" Steve doesn't respond, but Eddie continues anyway. "I want to help. I'm sure our other friends would be willing to help too. It's daunting, but eventually you may have to talk to somebody. We won't be able to help with everything, but we can do our best." He swallows every awful emotion making itself known on his tongue. Flashes of his mother and her death. "If you need to rest because your brain is telling you to, then you rest. Even if it's for weeks or months. Fuck, Steve, you could lay in bed for years. You've been through so much awful shit and it's all over. Of course you're stuck right now. You aren't in overdrive. It's okay to be this for a while," he breathes.

His breath leaves him hot and wet. Choked in muscles and blood. Rippling through ribs and fingers and toes. "You don't have to be anything right now. If you have days like these, then that's okay. I would rather be here taking care of you, helping you, whatever you need. I'd rather clean your home or change out your bedding or run you a hot bath. I'd rather do all of these things than..." his voice wavers and thins. "Than go to your funeral. Because you deserve to be here Steve, no matter what your brain says. I know that it's being unkind and that you think this is it for you, but I promise it's not.

"It's not. And we'll figure out what we need to do when we get there. But for now? Let's finish our sandwiches and I'll change your bedding and then, you can just sleep. If that's what your body is asking for, then we oblige. No need to do anything else, do you understand?" He asks, smoothing his hands to hold Steve's. Eddie's eyes are wet, he knows that. His eyelashes are anticipating the need to clump. But for now, he gazes at Steve's form, watches it fight and breathe and shiver.

Steve nods and squeezes in return. He doesn't let go with his left hand, but with his right he continues to eat his sandwich. It's sweet and fulfilling and warm in a comfort sort of way.

Eddie eats too and they both end up with crumbs on their lips.

----

By the end of the night, nearing eleven, Eddie has warmed Steve's bedding and tucked him under the duvet.

Steve's hair is unstyled and wavy and spread like a halo around his head. There's a crumb still nestled on his mouth, but neither make a move to brush it away. Eddie lays across from Steve, gazing, memorizing, creating memories.

In eight hours, Eddie will wake up with strains against his spine. Each vertebrae will pop and settle and his blood will be warmed. Steve will still be asleep most likely. And what he looks like in that state, Eddie can't wait to see.

For now, he holds his breath and counts Steve's moles. Over and over three times. Making sure he doesn't forget. Because, what misery would it be if Steve was forgotten in these silent hours? Terrible, it would be. There's something new to ogle at. A freckle birthed from the sun. Those damned bread crumbs. Flecks of gold and green and honey brown in each eye. Stray blonde hairs nuzzled into his hairline—baby hairs.

His palm holds Steve's left cheek. Thumb dotting over two moles. Then, it sweeps under his eye, catching in an eyebag divot. "You can sleep, honey," he murmurs.

"Can't," Steve mutters back. "Don't wanna lose you."

"You won't, I promise," Eddie fervently swears. "I'll still be here in the morning."

Steve hums. His left palm cradles Eddie's wrist.

His head scoots closer to Eddie's. He basks in this. How pleasant they both smell, wrapped in the same scents and breath; peanut butter and strawberry jelly and bergamot. Though that crater still throbs in his chest and his mind swirls and teeters, there's something settling inside him. With each swipe of thumb, each careful cradle, each promise whispered like prayer, Steve feels one thing.

Contentment.

He knows that tomorrow he will get up feeling like an untreatable basket-case. With a new gruesome idea and unpleasant ending. In the sunlight, he will drown and try to save himself by scooting away from the window. The fireworks will be silent, but the imagines of Barb's wretched screams will wash through Steve like a shipwreck on shore. He'll pick apart his brain, wood buried under sand, and find the sunken eyes of her teenaged body; still vulnerable and venerable.

Steve will bury himself in blankets and wish it was dirt. He'll burn and shiver and sob and choke. Each hour spent in bed will feel like eternity. And he'll rot from the outside in, then the inside out, and in each corner, the tub, down the stairs, out the front door.

He'll have to call Robin. And he will berate himself as she rambles down the phone how worried she was, how miserable her night had been because she spent each second twisted with nausea and anxiety and panic. He is going to remind himself that she doesn't mean it in a "you're an asshole" way, but rather, "I thought something terrible happened and I'd come home to you gone."

I'm still apologizing, he thinks. I deserve everything bad, he will think.

There will be a memory of this week when he's eventually out of his rut. And it may be shameful, but he'll be fond.

"I'm glad you came over," Steve admits. "I'm sorry that I'm so...bleh."

"That's alright," Eddie whispers. "We'll do this together and maybe you'll get sick of me."

"Never," Steve promises through giggles. "I love you."

Eddie presses another one of his wet forehead kisses into Steve's skin. Sweet and long and reverent. "Love you too, now get some sleep. I'll bring you pancakes in the morning."

And so, though tomorrow will be hard, possibly the next day too, Steve snuggles closer to Eddie. Head on his shoulder, one arm wrapped around his waist, thumb rubbing into his side. And he sleeps.

Dreams of Irish Spring soap and warm duvets and kind, unwarranted comfort.

—

Apologies, again, for how long this was. I just really love this one that I wrote some months back, thought it was worth sharing here, too. Take care of each other <3

[evilwriter37]

Scattered Petals

Rated: mature

Warnings: miscarriage

Relationships: Hiccup/Astrid, Hiccup & Toothless, Astrid & Stormfly, Stormfly & Toothless, Hiccup & Valka

Word Count: 2,194

Summary: When Astrid miscarries her and Hiccup's child, she can't help but feel that it's her fault.

Written for @seasonaldelightsbingo, Language of Flowers

Square Filled: White Hollyhock

[kickingitwithkirk]

Regina Coeli, Regina Infernum-Punishment

Pairing: Boyking!Sam x Reader x KnightofHell!Dean

Word Count: 2025

Warnings: **not a dark fic but has elements.: dub/con-non/con p/v sex, restraints, verbal/fighting, hentai elements

Squares filled: @spnkinkbb RubySam @anyfandomdarkbingo Amputation

A/N: references from Regina Coeli, Regina Infernum

This story set years after stand-alone: Always with the Scissors

The hallway briefly reverberated to the sounds of Zeppelin when a set of heavy, ornate doors opened, admitting the Queen Consort of Hell. 

The sound system cuts off as she crosses the anterior area to the bedchamber, where she flung herself face down onto the oversized bed in frustration.

“Something vexes thee?” The whiskey-roughened voice of the Queen’s fraternal polyandry consort inquired, and she lifted her head, seeing black instead of green eyes.

“I didn’t tell you to stop!” He soundly smacks the naked female demon riding his cock bare thigh, leaving a vivid red handprint, and orders her to turn around.

The Queen Consort shifts to observe the demon, hands bound in a pair of binding cuffs behind her back, awkwardly maneuvering around on the mattress and into reverse cowgirl whimpers. 

“What did I say about no noise!” 

The Knight of Hell’s voice vibrates in staccato and abruptly sits up, grabs his current sex toys braided hair in one hand, yanks the demon into a painful arch while gripping his engorged member, glistening with their combined fluids, and notch his cockhead between her swollen pussylips forcibly slides her back down onto his shaft then shoves her head down to touch the mattress between his bowed legs again reclines in repose against the bed’s pillows.

The demon quietly straightens up and resumes bouncing. 

The Queen watched her consort close his black eyes, breath puffing out from between his slightly parted, succulent lips as his toned muscles flex periodically under the slight softness of his stomach in response to the hot, slick, velvety channel intermittently clenching around him.

The Queen Consort briefly flicked her eyes back to the demon who was striving to hold off orgasming until permitted, closed hers, listening to the rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh and occasional squelch, felt herself becoming aroused, rubbing her thighs together, desiring friction felt his hand sliding in between, his thick fingers stroking over her mound.

 “I can smell how wet you are,” that made her reopen her eyes, watching his shift to their sultry chartreuse. “I wanna taste your sweetness,” Dean runs his tongue slowly over his plump lips, wetting them to emphasize how much he wants her riding his face. 

The Queen Consort removes the Knights hand, slides off the bed, and exits without a backward glance.

“All right, meetings over..everybody out!” 

Several members of Boykings council jumped in their seats, spinning to see the Knights Of Hell standing in the doorway with black eyes and red flannel-clad arms crossed, conveying he was not joking. 

They nervously turn back to his elegantly dressed brother seated at the head of the table, reading the document in his hands.

 “We are in the middle of something. Whatever it is can wait.”

“No.”

The Boyking’s kaleidoscope eyes focused on his older sibling. 

Dean could be a pain in the ass on a good day, but today wasn’t a good day, and Sam was not in the mood to deal with him.

“What was that you said?”

“You heard me..”

“..come back later.”

“No.”

Except for the set of his shoulders conveying his annoyance, the Boyking sat expressionless, allowing his vantage point to notice the visible outline of his brother's substantial cock straining against the jeans material. He was now curious as to why.

“Fine, state your business.” 

“That’s the problem.”

“What problem?”

“Family Business.”

The Boyking blinked, not following his knight's train of thought. What did Family Business have to do with this?

 “Dean, I don’t have time to decipher your nonsense.”

The Knight walked to the table, placing his hands on the edge and leaning forward, “Fallen can into my room.”

“Dean.”

 “Where I was breaking in my latest toy..”

“..Dean.”

 “Turned down fun time, and we both know how much Fallen loves..”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, DEAN!!!” 

Sam’s eyes transformed into glistening onyx as his chair flew backward, shattering upon the stone wall in a fury created by his brothers' flagrant disregard of his mandate that what happened in private stayed private, mimics Dean's stance.

The council members didn’t so much as twitch an eyelash, knowing that drawing either Winchester's attention would result in their demise. They were finally ordered to leave and, as silently as possible, gathered their items and escaped the oncoming storm.

“Crowley,” the former King of Hell stops, “finish going over those details we discussed, and any discrepancies you find, notify me immediately.” 

“Of course, Sam,” the contract-savvy demon replied, smirking, “Squirrel,” and departs.

“Now that you have my undivided attention, we’ll finish this discussion privately.” Pushing off the table, Sam walked passed his brother, knowing he’d follow.

The word spread fast among the Citadels residents when there was trouble between the Winchesters, not a damned soul was to be found in its vast hallways. 

Dean threw himself on the oversized leather couch as Sam crossed to a tall cabinet pressing on an ornately carved panel, opened a hidden compartment, pulled out a crystal decanter, and, after pouring two fingers of a liquid into a matching tumbler, moved to stand before the lit fireplace still fuming. 

“You interrupted a congress that has been in progress since I acquired my Consort.”

Dean gets up, “I don’t think our Consort, the Queen Of Heaven, Hell, and Earth, would appreciate being referred to as acquired like one of those goddamn dusty tomes you still collect.” Snatching the glass from his brother swallows half its contents in one go.

 “And for the record, you got to give her a name, not me. So as I see it, since she favors both of us in sexual congress, I’m entitled to call her whatever I want.” 

“You named her after a fucking Jessica Drake porno!”

“You know Jessica Drake’s stuff?” 

“You damn well know I watch porn too!” Sam huffed, “figured you’d pick something more like what was her name? The one you nailed from those Casa Erotica videos.”

Dean bites on his full bottom lip remembering the Good Faith Church’s APU chastity counselor Suzy Lee and ex-porn star Carmelita.

“Even if Y/N permits it, it still doesn’t give you the right to call her that publicly.”

Dean smirked, “So what’s it to be, Sammy? Cutting out my tongue or,” running a finger across his throat, making a wet noise.

“One day, I might have to.”

That stopped the smartass retort forming on the Knights lips watched Sam's broad shoulders sag before softly inquiring, “Remember how I was before her?”

Dean threw back the rest of the drink, recollecting his brothers' suffering.

Their existence in the Underlands progressed from months to years to decades; they found the Knight couldn’t replenish his superior blood fast enough, forcing Sam too, once again, resort to feeding from inferior demons during the in-between times. 

Dean even briefly flirted with bringing Ruby back from the Empty for his brothers' exclusive use in whatever manner of choosing but scrapped the idea after observing Sam’s increased feeding leading to his excessive overindulgence in pussy and, much to his displeasure, others' cocks. 

It began a cycle of spiraling the Boyking into physical pain and melancholy and knowing Ruby, the demon, would manipulate him for gains like before.

 “Yeah, Sammy, I remember,” he replies in such a quiet tone his brother pauses before switching back to the initial reason his anger kindled.

 “I guess I can’t keep this a secret from you anymore. That meeting you interrupted was the latest counsel referendum about options to fortify our defenses.”

“Fortifi..what the fucks going on, Sam?”

“Cas received a message from Joshua warning Heaven's incursion is imminent.”

“We have an ironclad deal with those dicks to stay outta each other's realms!”

“When we were in that prison realm, Y/N indicated there was a chance that the Angels would interpret removing her as a sign.”

“A sign of what?”

 “God wants her restored upon all the thrones.” 

 “You brought her here knowing that and said nothing?!”  Dean twists his free hand into his short hair, a leftover trait from his human days, indicating he’s freaking the fuck out. 

“That wasn’t a referendum, Sam, it was a Greek Referendum…and you’re taking the rest of us down with you!!” He barked in a tone that once would have brought his kid brother to a heel then Dean's expression shifted to trepidation.

 “Did Joshua say how much time we have before those dicks attack?” The Boyking started to divulge when, “Holdup, did he say anything about Chuck coming back?”

“Chuck never left, and some time ago, someone resumed publishing his new writing...” 

“All this goddamn time, you knew and said nothing!” Dean's eyes flared black and threw the empty tumbler into the fireplace hearth, followed by a swing toward Sam's jaw, but it ended up quashed when a sensation flairs deep within, doubling the Knight over, and falls to his knees. 

“You never learn.” 

Dean peered up as Sam loomed over him with his imposing stature, and his eyes changed, not into the common onyx or the occasional yellow, denoting his actual status.

Instead, they transitioned into an ethereal luminosity. 

“You’ve gotten away with things not because you’re a Knight of Hell but my brother,” Sam sighed, “but today you undermined my authority in front of the entire counsel because you never could shut the fuck up!”

The Boykings' attention transferred as the Queen Consort entered the chambers and glanced at the kneeling Knight moves to stand beside Sam, tipped her head back eyes fixated on him. 

Sam cups his Consorts jaw, and leaned over, gently kissing her before responding to her inquiry, “Yes, it’s time.”  

Y/N walked backward, motioning for Sam to follow began removing her clothes, and smiled as he stripped off his jacket and began unbuttoning the shirt. 

“Dean, do you remember the last time we punished you for insubordination?" Sam glanced back and saw his brother's cock once again straining against the material of his jeans. "How we bound you, used you as nothing but a toy for our pleasure? Then Y/N inserted something that kept you orgasming.” 

Dean closed his eyes at the memories and felt the sensation that’d dropped him morph into that long-ago pleasure. Groaning, he groped for the zipper and, in frustration, ripped his jeans open, freeing his turgid cock starts stripping wire.

“Guess you’ve figured out she didn’t remove it,” Dean's eyes snapped open and saw Sam, lying naked on an oversized chaise chair with Y/N leaning back on his chest, legs splayed over his playing with her dripping pussy, stripped his cock faster, “Or what it's intended for.” 

Pausing his self-pleasure watched his brothers vast hands wrap around his consorts' hips and her face contorts into painful pleasure as he roughly fucks his substantial cock into her cunt repeatedly, using her as nothing more than a fleshlight rasped...

“If you’d have just done as asked Dean, freely consume her grace, wouldn’t have had to resort to this.”

The Knight's hand froze as his brother's words penetrated his pleasure-clouded mind, “What’d you do?”

“It’s the only way to get you to join us.” 

The Knight, hearing the Consorts ethereal voice after years of silence, watched her double-tap Sam’s hand, and he slowed his thrusting into a gentle rolling motion. 

“That drink was..wasn’t only alcohol,” she stumbled over her words as the Boykings' long fingers teased her clit, keeping her on edge, “infused with my grace to act..activate the Ovi in you...”

“THE WHAT IN ME?!”

”You inspired the idea, your erotic anime thing, which led her into hentai,” Sam says, “and Plan B.”

“Plan B?”

“That Ovi she implanted contains an undiluted dose of her grace,” Sam sighed, ”If you’d only supped from each other, it would’ve been...”

“Would’ve been what, Sammy?”

“When the casing finish’s deteriorating, your body will absorb her Grace which won’t be pleasant, be far worse than the Demon Curing Ritual.” His brothers' countenance pitched darker than the Empty, “But I’ll do anything to keep those feathery dicks outta here.” 

The Boyking snapped his fingers, and a clear, squishy orb encapsulated the Knight felt his consorts' confusion answers..

“You’re the one who inquired about vores.”

SPN TAGS: @donnaintx  @lyarr24  @flamencodiva  @b3autyfuldisast3r @lassie-bird @nancymcl  @spnbaby-67  @leigh70

Sam/Jared:  @idreamofplaid

Dean/Jensen:  @thoughts-and-funnies  @stoneyggirl2  @akshi8278  @beabutterfly987 @smoothdogsgirl @siospins2

[pigeonwhumps]

Mercy killing

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch

Phoenix is poisoned, and Kai has to make a difficult decision.

823 words

CWs: immortal whumpee, hero whump, temporary character death, poison, stabbing, blood, begging for death, mercy killing, guilt, emeto

Phoenix writhes in agony on the warehouse floor, screaming whenever they have the breath to. They grip Kai's hand as tightly as possible, until Kai feels like he's about to lose it.

Their fringe is damp and stuck to their forehead, sweat running down their face in rivulets, mingling with desperate tears. There's no visible injuries but Kai knows they've been poisoned.

It's a nasty one. Dissolves the victim's insides if they don't get the antidote in a couple of minutes. There's an empty vial on the ground, but it doesn't seem to be working on Phoenix. They seem to be taking far longer than previous victims to die, too – Kai can't tell if it's a good thing or not.

Phoenix screams again, arching upwards, toes curling into the concrete. Their arm flails out, catching the empty antidote vial and smashing it.

Eventually they drop back down hard, panting.

"Please kill me," they beg, voice a hoarse, cracking whisper. Kai tries very hard not to physically recoil, but he's not sure he succeeds.

"Just hold on. Aaron will be here soon. He'll make you feel better, just hold on, yeah?"

They writhe and gasp, holding onto Kai like their life depends on it.

"Please. It's too slow. I keep– ahhhhh! I keep healing and being dissolved again. It's, it's, it's going to, ahhhhhhhh it's going to keep going until the poison's gone from my system, I'll be awake, please let me heal deahhhhhhhhh!"

Phoenix's cracking voice dissolves into an ear-splitting scream. They buck off the ground, twisting and squirming, crying out with an agony that slices through Kai's entire body.

"Phoenix..."

When the latest bout pauses, Phoenix gropes blindly on the ground, coming up with a knife that they press into Kai's hand.

"Please."

And Kai can't. He can't watch any longer, even if he knows this is going to break him even more. He nods, eyes streaming.

"Okay. Okay. Come here then."

He lifts Phoenix up gently with one arm, pulling them to his chest in a tight hug. Their head lands on his shoulder. They hitch in pained breaths, crying quietly.

They both are. Tears stream down Kai's cheeks as he holds them.

"Shh. It'll be okay. Just hold on to me."

"When I wake I'll be better," croaks Phoenix through tears. Kai doesn't think they're talking to him, eyes hazy, he's not sure they're even present. But they're not screaming at the moment.

"Yeah. Okay. Okay, right."

He draws the knife, clutching Phoenix close, and drives it into their back. He angles it upwards, aiming for the heart, pushing as far as it'll go.

He can hear the squelch of the flesh, feel the slight resistance of the skin before it slides inside. Bright red blood runs out, slipping through the small neat hole in their suit (it shouldn't be neat, it shouldn't be small, it should be large and ragged and vile, just like what Kai is doing to Phoenix, and this isn't right at all), darkening the fabric, trailing down their back until it drips out onto the concrete, puddling beneath them both. He feels nauseous. He moves his free hand to cup Phoenix's head, stroking their hair lightly.

Phoenix gasps when the knife enters their body, arching back with a jerk and then slumping with their whole body onto Kai. He catches them, checking their pulse.

They're dead.

He killed them.

He snarls, pulling out the knife and hurling it across the room with a clatter. Then he sinks to the ground, Phoenix in his lap.

He's seen Phoenix dead before. He's seen them dying. But it's never been so directly his fault. He can't stop hearing the squelch, the small pained gasp, feeling the way it slid in, piercing their heart. Aaron could probably tell him everything it hit on the way in, everything he hurt.

Kai realises, suddenly, that it's sticky and wet below him. He's partly sitting in Phoenix's blood.

He turns to the side and throws up. It's only bile. God.

He murdered his friend. What kind of a friend is he, if that's something he's capable of? What kind of person murders their best friend?

He strokes their hair and cries.

_

When, after an eternity, Aaron arrives, Kai hasn't moved at all. He looks up bleakly when they run inside.

They skid to a halt, eyes flicking between Phoenix's body and the bloody knife and Kai's guilt-wracked face, in a way that makes Kai think he might've guessed what he's done. To an extent at least. And whatever ire comes his way, he deserves it.

Aaron doesn't say anything though. He just sits down beside Kai and shrugs off his jacket, draping it over Phoenix. His face is carefully blank, which for once Kai is grateful for – he doesn't want to know what Aaron's thinking, not if it's anything like what's in his own head.

And now they just have to wait.

[cyberneticfandoms]

"Now look what you've done, boy." Cazador tuts, dragging a claw through the gore, relishing in the way the spawn writhes and sobs harder beneath him. Tears make a trail through the blood and grime on Astarion's face as he pants, chest heaving, trying not to vomit. "What a pathetic sight you make...but still, such a pretty canvas."

---

Cazador indulges in a night of poetry.

[cutthroatcarnival]

Febuwhump Day 29: Not Allowed To Die

Tags/Warnings: This fic will deal with topics of/relating to suicide (specifically suicidal thoughts- nothing is acted upon).

Legend was no stranger to these thoughts and feelings, they were just simply a part of him; they were just simply a part of people who struggled to cope with everything thrown their way.

Read it on AO3!

Not Alone

The thoughts and feelings came and went, like the tide. Sometimes they would be strong, poisoning him and rendering him unavailable for days, other times they would be weak, a little nudge in the back of his mind with a whispered what if. With the falling of night, the whispers became more prominent- what was it Twilight had said? About feeling the lingering regrets of spirits? Legend supposed the only lingering regret of a spirit he felt was his own.

He sighed, leaning back on his hands as he watched the sun set, mesmerizing strokes of pinks, reds, yellows, purples, and oranges, as if someone had painted the sky. Despite the serene peace of the moment, Legend’s brain seemed keen on whispering nasty, horrible little what ifs- there was a reason he had scooted away from the cliff edge. He slid his hands out from under him, letting himself flop fully onto the grass with a soft ‘thump’.

What Legend had been expecting was to see a darkly painted sky, chasing out the colors of the sunset to swirl with the paints of night. What he wasn’t expecting was Time’s face hovering over him, eyebrow cocked in a display of concern. The noise that came out of the veteran hero was most definitely not a squeak. “Stop moving so quietly, old man, one day you’ll give someone a heart attack.” Legend chuckled, although it felt humorless, for Time’s aura radiated concern and something else he couldn't quite pinpoint.

The older hero moved to lay down next to Legend, who winced as he heard the other’s knees pop- sure, his own did the same, but it sounded painful when not from your own body. A comfortable silence fell between the two. Legend felt lost and confused; Time’s face gave away both nothing and everything, even his body language emanated a sense of calm. After what felt like hours of staring at the older hero, Legend cracked. “Why are you actually here?”

Time chuckled, fingers absentmindedly fingering an air ocarina. “You had that look on your face.” The veteran gave a huff of laughter. “I know what someone looks like when they’re about to leave.” Legend froze up at the comment, hearing Time heave himself into a sitting position, resting a hand on Legend’s shoulder.

“I think it’s also about time you come back to camp.” Shakily, he nodded, using Time’s grip to stand up. How did he know? Would they be mad at him? Was he upset with him? Legend had truthfully been sitting there, enjoying the sunset and peace, before the thought had occurred; what if I drop off this cliff? That had shocked Legend away from the edge, and had eventually led him to his current predicament.

Across from him sat Warriors. “What even is the point of this?” Legend scowled at the other hero, only to be met with a slightly lopsided smile. “I’ve had my concerns for a while, after all, you don’t go through what you’ve gone through and get out of it unscatched,” He felt his breath hitch, tears stinging at his eyes. “Would you tell me? About your adventures, or your thoughts?”

He didn’t know what happened, but something about the day made him spill his heart out to the captain, who listened with rapt attention. “I don’t… want to have these thoughts, I have an incredible dislike for them, actually. And…” Legend trailed off, unsure how to continue. He had basically laid his soul bare for Warriors, had told him about Koholint, his thoughts. The captain never once interjected, allowing him to talk, to get everything out. He leaned forward, propping his head in his hand, an almost sad-looking smile on his face. “If it’s any consolation, you are not alone with these thoughts. Obviously, you know I fought in a war,” Legend nodded, unsure of where the captain was going with this. “In war, things happen. And those things follow you to the end and past it… You just can’t cope with it. What I’m trying to say is you’re not alone. Suicidal thoughts are a pain, I would know.” He was sure he had whiplash from how fast he snapped his head up. This wasn’t just him?

Legend felt the tears overflow, covering his mouth with his hand as he hiccuped. After years of having the thoughts, the whispers, there was someone who understood. Warriors understood, he’s had similar thoughts and whispers. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder, through his tear-blurred view he saw the captain standing next to him. Sniffling, Legend held out a hand, “Neither of us are allowed to die to them.” With a watery laugh, Warriors shook his hand.

Time watched them with a somber yet gentle smile from the fire, the two unaware of his gaze. He would make sure they both upheld their ends. Neither of them would be allowed to die on his watch, not if he had any say in it.