#his teeth I think would be intact but his tongue and eyes would have dried up and probably eaten through

[bi-panic-at-the-disco]

he would be so smelly

[lucysarah-c]

Your fingertips calmly run through his dark locks, so softly that it's almost a ghostly touch. His head rests on your shoulder. It isn't unusual for Levi to snore very softly when he's deep asleep, his mouth hanging slightly open as his breathing becomes labored, allowing the bottom of his white teeth to peek through his dried lips. Your left hand soothes him, while the right one holds your phone as you scroll through TikTok disinterestedly. What is unusual is for Levi to be sleeping at 13:00 on a Tuesday, buried under the thick winter duvet.

He had taken a day off from work due to the flu, and you knew that if Levi let you know the night before that he was taking the day off, it was because he truly felt terrible. So, you took the day off too to be there for him. The fever rose at night, lowered after he took medicine, but rose again in the midmorning, and he had fallen asleep, exhausted once more.

Your thumb moves up and down repeatedly, passing one short video after another until something catches your attention. An influencer explains new poses to use for sending nudes, and with Christmas around the corner, any information that could secure you a better gift is considered good. She explains in detail how to lower yourself on your knees, placing a blanket on the floor because it's cold, legs parted, weight shifted to the front of your legs as you arch your back. Your back should be facing a mirror that reaches the floor, softly turning to the side and taking a photo of the reflection.

"That one is nice," Levi's hoarse voice comes from your left as his half-lidded eyes admire the explanation. "But the one over the shoulder to the ass is better."

First, you slightly jump, surprised by his voice breaking the silence, then you click your tongue. "Too bad, it's meant to be a surprise, so now it's not happening." You fake a strict tone as Levi's arms grip your body, trying to find a more comfortable position, coughing a few times in the process.

"Well, if you send it, I promise to act surprised," he comments as his voice loses its initial sleepiness, and his hands run over your body, squeezing your waist playfully. "You know what would make me feel better?" he suggests, and you swear you can feel the smirk on his lips against your skin.

"The chicken soup that I made you," you reply while rising from the bed now that he seems to be finally awake. His hands refuse to withdraw as you part from his frame, groaning annoyed. "You can barely breathe, and you're thinking about that?"

"Well, one head is filled with shitty mucus, so the other is doing the thinking," Levi says as he moves to lie flat on the mattress, coughing a couple of times and reaching for the napkins to blow his nose.

Despite it all, his sense of humor seems intact, making you chuckle as you move to the door. Two steps outside the room, and you hear his congested voice, "You know, that picture would look very good with the set I gifted you. I'm dying; conceive me one last gift."

Rolling your eyes so big that you must have almost torn a muscle, 'Men… they get a cold and act as if they are writing their testament.'

If he was in a cocky mood, therefore you were too. Peeking over the door's frame to look back at him laying on the bed enveloping himself as a burrito with the duvet and said, "Who said the photo was for you?"

The anger appearing in his face slowly doesn't match his red nose and mouth hanging, making you chuckle as you descend the stairs to the kitchen.

"You're lucky I'm dying—cough, cough, or I would put you in your place, brat"

Tags!: @nmlkys @jimoonbeau @fictiondrunk @notgoodforlife @nube55 @justkon @i-literally-cant-with-this @darkstarlight82 @thoreeo @quillinhand @humanitys-strongest-bamf @levisbrat25 @angelofthorr @aomi04 Wanna join my tag list? Here!

[thegoldenavenger]

More svsss fic bits, smaller edition time.

Just a collection of wips and snippets

[FLOWER AU]

Luo Binghe has him pinned. Again. His robes have been discarded, the excess fabric getting in his way as he fought against the half demon. Luo Binghe had smugly shrugged out of his robes in turn, and Liu Qingge had to close his eyes against the flowered expanse of his skin.

The wilted petals of Shen Qingqiu's peony seemed so... Dry. Impersonal. When compared to the field of thorny roses that wrap around Luo Binghe's throat and chest. That is what Shen Qingqiu's desire and love look like when pressed to someone's skin. The Lotus flowers reaching up the long lines of Luo Binghe's body: the fond image Shen Qingqiu holds for his betrothed. There are smaller blooms Liu Qingge avoids looking directly at; he doesn't want to know what they mean.

His distraction and self pity earned Luo Binghe the advantage, not that he needs it. At least from this angle, Liu Qingge can't see the healthy blooms that rest along Luo Binghe's collarbone like careful hands.  He's left to stare at his own hand, the dried remains of forget-me-nots intertwined among his scars.

-------

[TOXIC LESBINGLIU thanks sinn-bees]

Luo Binghe cups Shen Yuan's face and kisses her. The angle is off, the sweep of Shen Yuan's hair blocking the way Luo Binghe presses her lips to Shen Yuan's, and her whole body leans towards Luo Binghe like a flower. Luo Binghe's other hand is unclasping Shen Yuan's bra, making deft, practiced work of the hooks.

Liu Qingge sits in Shen Yuan's weird computer chair and stares.

Luo Binghe isn't even looking at her anymore. Pushing her into the chair and giving her a smile that showed her teeth was the last attention either Luo Binghe or Shen Yuan showed her.

Does she stay here? Told to sit like a dog? Does she leave—can she leave?

Shen Yuan moans softly because Luo Binghe's hands have crept down her body. The angle is still wrong for Liu Qingge to see anything, Luo Binghe shifts her shoulder so that her tanned broad back covers everything but one of Shen Yuan's slim knees. As she watches, that knee falls to the side, pressed flat by Luo Binghe's hand.

It slowly creeps on her, as she curls in on herself, that she is going to stay exactly where Luo Binghe put her. Some greedy thing clamours inside of her, it opens deep in the pit of her stomach, heating her from the inside out. Each quietly muffled noise Shen Yuan makes the heat rise higher—is she muffling herself with her hands? Is she just naturally quiet? Luo Binghe slides down her body and Liu Qingge sits and stays.

--------

[SYNTH BINGHE AU]

"Liu Qingge, you could try to leave some of the chassis intact." Shen Qingqiu gently scolds as he nudges a fragment of Synth with his foot.

Liu Qingge clicks his tongue and he flicks oil and other viscous fluid off his blade. Shen Qingqiu shakes his head.

"As a favor to your favorite shixiong, shidi."

"Maybe my favorite shixiong would like to fight the synths however he wants and I can play inside with wires and microchips and air conditioning."

"Maybe your favorite shixiong will do just that! You don't have to follow me, shidi, Binghe and I are perfectly capable of bagging a few synths ourselves."

Liu Qingge looks pointedly at the slagged tent at the edge of the clearing. What had once been a nice campsite is now a half wrecked battleground of churned soil and sparking robotic parts. Luo Binghe sees his Shizun's face turn red and his fan snap out with a forbidding crack.

"Shizun, this one is whole enough, I think!" Luo Binghe says quickly, heading off another verbal spar. His shishu, despite not being inclined towards words, seems to delight in baiting Luo Binghe's incomparable Shizun into vicious tirades. It's like he likes being yelled at.

-------

[WINGFIC]

He throws himself off the cliff.

Again and again and again.

At the last moment his wings snap out to level him from his dive, heart swooping with the rush of it.

His favorite move is spearing down from the heavens, body slamming into his prey. When he was younger he would hurl himself at his opponents, lock his hands in their robes, and heave. It wouldn't matter if they grabbed him back, if they were both sent flying.

He's better trained with the sword now, but he is still often found making his entranced by flying straight through the threshold. It's more efficient, he says, hurtling himself through the air.

------

[Day 2 snippet OTL]

Luo Qingleng had sat him down when he'd recovered. His shifu had been silent, stern, as he circled where Liu Mingyu knelt in tense anxiety. It had seemed all too likely that Luo Qingleng had come to his senses and would leave him there without dismissal just as he had upon their first meeting.

Liu Mingyu had himself half way to another deviation with how tense he'd been under Luo Qingleng's inscrutable gaze. The panic clawing at his throat and his own blood pounding in his ears nearly deafened him.  What would Liu Mingyu do, if he'd failed again? If Luo Qingleng decided it was all a mistake. Could Luo Qingleng throw him off Qing Jing? Out of Cang Qiong entirely? This was Liu Mingyu's only chance to make anything of himself at all.  If he failed there he may as well lie down and dissipate into the ground to feed worms and other more worthy living things.

"If Mingyu cannot practice on his own without qi deviating," Luo Qingleng had finally said, "Liu Mingyu will be barred from independent study."

Cold had numbed Liu Mingyu from scalp to finger tips. Luo Qingleng was going to throw him off the mountain, if not in practice than in spirit all the same.

"Mingyu will have to endure this Master's supervision until this master is sure Liu Mingyu won't ruin his cultivation base on his own."

-------

[WHUMP FIC]

Liu Qingge may not have slept at all, as Luo Binghe wakes to his Shishu studying him.  He reflexively bristles under his Shishu’s assessing gaze. 

“Forgive this one for sleeping in, Shishu, the jerky must have taken longer to sleep off.” The bitter tone sticks to the back of his teeth.

Liu Qingge’s face closes off at the remark and he tilts his jaw up at an angle, eyes narrowing. “If you’re well enough to complain,” he starts, folding his arms, “then you’re well enough to move. Sit up.” Instead of watching Luo Binghe struggle he kicks at the deadened fire pit, smothering whatever may have still struggled to light back up. He shakes out his tin, stuffs it back into whatever pocket it came from and hesitates over the second one. 

“Here,” he says like it kills him to do so and shoves Luo Binghe’s cup at him, newly filled. It’s warm under Luo Binghe’s fingers, though not from fire. Liu Qingge must have heated it with qi, risking the energy flare over any smoke from a fire.

As Luo Binghe drinks the tea broth he watches Liu Qingge strap Xin Mo to his hip, securing it next to Cheng Luan and tying an extra leather strap around the sword belt. He shakes out his hand and drags it roughly through his long, swinging ponytail already disheveled from the night. The remains of the weird soup fill Luo Binghe’s stomach bringing a warmth to his core and with it, a prick of guilt. 

He wonders what Shizun ate for dinner, if he had eaten anything at all. Faced with a choice between nothing and the meals from Qing Jing’s kitchens, Shizun often chooses nothing. His eyes linger on Xin Mo at Liu Qingge’s side for a long second. He missed dinner and breaking fast with Shizun. His marinade might survive sitting out on the counter for another day, if Shizun doesn’t think to put it away, but the more delicate sides Luo Binghe had planned are surely beyond saving. 

The next swallow of soup goes down hard.  Liu Qingge hadn’t said as much but Luo Binghe had been ungrateful. Leading Liu Qingge to believe the dried rations had disagreed with him, and now throwing it back in his face this morning while gladly taking the meal Liu Qingge had prepared even though it was unnecessary and perhaps dangerous… 

He sets aside the empty tin carefully cushioning it with his finger. Liu Qingge’s attention comes to him regardless of his care.

[theladyismyshepard]

Myra

@frustratinglyinquisitive Here, have my first (self-indulgent) redhead one-shot :)

You slowly blink your eyes open before closing them again, too bleary to bother. You rely only on your sense of hearing alone, and all you can hear are the familiar drippings coming from somewhere adjacent to you. You hoped it was a leak from some pipe, but you didn’t believe it to be true. After awhile, you couldn’t bring yourself to hope for anything at all.

Not when you had met a blonde who smiled so wide that it could’ve passed for deranged. She was one of the first things you had opened your eyes to when you first awoke in your cage. Her eyes were golden and shining beneath the dancing flames of torchlight. They were also as feral as her smile was.

There was blood smeared across her chin as it dribbled from her lips, and you couldn’t help but realize it was fresh with how bright and liquefied it was as a drop hit her chest. You could practically smell the iron on her breath from where she stood outside your cage — or was it all around you? Just as reality set into your body and joints enough to feel the pounding headache and jolting pains wracking your frame, she spoke.

“Not yet,”

What?

She couldn’t contain a giggle, and you realize your chapped throat still managed to whisper your thought out. She slowly withdrew herself, her fingers uncurling from around the bars. When your eyes zeroed in on the sickle in her hands, your stomach dropped as your hope began to quickly dwindle as she disappeared into the shadows.

Your spirit wasn’t lifted when you heard the buzzing of insects after some time. How long have I been here? It was long enough for the torch to have burnt itself out and for the extra bit of chill to bite into your bones.

The buzzing grew louder and closer and suddenly stopped. It was dead silent except for the drip drip drip and just when it became deafening, slow and deliberate steps cut through. Your breath caught in your throat, and got stuck there as your eyes strained to see through the dark.

A spark had you slamming your eyes closed, too sensitive from the prolonged darkness, but light danced behind your eyelids, painting them red. You heard humming as you briefly squeezed your eyelids shut tighter before rapidly blinking them open, taking in the smirking face of a brunette as she stood over your body, inside the cage, and face just as plastered with blood.

You scrambled back as far as you could go before your back collided with brick. Her eyes were just as golden as the blonde’s but there was little to no emotion shining in them. Her smirk widened however, and you could’ve sworn you saw her nostrils flare.

“You smell so delicious, I don’t think I can wait until dinner.” she moaned out.

You could feel the fear morph your face at her comment, and she laughed brightly, thoroughly entertained. When it died down, her face shifted into into a blank look, her eyes cutting into you.

“What makes you special, I wonder...”

Her eyes narrowed, her gaze intense, but she took her leave without coming any closer, and it left you without knowing how to feel or what to think.

What makes you so special...

You didn’t exactly feel too special as you lied there on the cold ground behind thick bars. As the torchlight slowly snuffed itself out, fear weaved itself between the spaces of your rib cage, and nestled firmly around your heart, leaving you breathless. The tension that settled into your bones left you rigid and achey and unable to move. Your temple pounded, leaving you incapable of even lifting your head.

Drip, drip, drip...

The image of the women’s bloody faces flickered across your mind’s eye and it had you doing a mental check of your own body, surveying for damage of any kind such as missing limbs. It nearly split your head in two to try and recall what had led you to this place,so you just lay there, an incoherent slump.

You didn’t have a keen sense of time seeing as you couldn’t tell the difference between hours and minutes anymore. There were no windows to indicate whether it was day or night, and there was no way to track how long you had been stuck.

Drip, drip, drip...

It was all you could hear for the longest, the consistent dripping echoing off the walls. You began to tremble as the thought occurred that you would soon be spilling and dripping along the dirty floor as well. You swallowed thickly, mouth and throat so dry that it was an actual struggle that landed you into a coughing fit. It wracked your body so hard that it felt as though one of your ribs might burst through your skin; You were coughing so hard that you didn’t even really notice the room light up for a third time.

Tears streamed down your face as you finally were able to regain some composure. You opened your eyes, small droplets clinging to your eyelashes, and saw a glass hovering in front of your face. You were so thrown for a loop that you just sat there in a daze, staring at the glass of — Wait is that water?

Your gaze slowly trailed up the hand that was holding the cup, and your eyes met a third pair of golden eyes that took your breath away in a different fashion than that of the others. They seemed soft, as was the gentle upward curve of her smile. You couldn’t help but notice the lack of blood on any part of this woman’s body and attire.

“Hello,”

You released a breath you weren’t aware you were holding, and as you went to take another one, it felt easier and lighter than before.

“H-Hi,” you quickly stammered, unwilling to anger her.

“Drink this... please,” the redhead ordered gently, pressing the glass forward to give you the hint.

Your fingers grasped the glass, and her index finger grazed the side of yours before withdrawing and watching your movements. You maintained eye contact with her even as you brought it to your nose and sniffed cautiously. Instead of taking offense, she giggled knowingly.

Your chest felt light and your stomach felt warm at the sound, almost as if you were about to vomit out butterflies. Again, your eyes connected as you slowly took a sip. The water was lukewarm, but at least it was water and it felt refreshing and rejuvenating on your parched tongue. You greedily sipped until there was nothing more for you, not even a drop.

“Oh, my,” she sighed, her hand on her cheek. “I knew you would need to be watered sooner.”

If you didn’t know any better, it almost sounded like she was upset. She was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she began playing with her fingers. Her eyes radiated warmth and concern as she ducked her head to look closely at you.

Drip, drip, drip

“Where am I?” You demanded, though the tremor that shook your voice had you more or less begging.

“This is Castle Dimitrescu, it belongs to my mother as well as my sisters and I, and unfortunately this is the dungeon.” she said, shifting uncomfortably, a grimace intact the whole time.

Drip, dri-

The dripping stopped almost instantly, leaving you in absolute silence then. Maybe the leak stopped? Or maybe the blood had finally run dry. You shivered.

“My name is Myra,” offered the redhead, an apologetic smile reaching her eyes.

“Am I going to die here?” You couldn’t help but question, cutting straight to the chase.

For the first time since you met Myra, her features hardened. She slowly knelt before you, unaffected by the dirt pressing and smearing into her black robe. The intensity had her golden eyes glowing as she stared deep into you. Her hand reached towards you and despite flinching hard enough that it jolted your whole body, Myra still moved until her hand was cupping your cheek.

“I told my sisters you are not to be harmed, and you will not be.”

You were like a cornered animal, but the thumb brushing your cheek had you feeling something you hadn’t felt in God knows when: hope. The dread weighing down your spirit and stress weighing down your body had eased the slightest bit, allowing you to breathe properly.

“And your mother?” you pushed, remembering her words from moments ago.

Myra cocked her head to the side as she pondered the good point you had brought up. It also had the blonde’s words reverberating through your head.

Not yet...

“Mother would never upset me by killing my pet.”

It rolled off her tongue with such ease that you almost didn’t register what she had said, but when you did, you had to do a double take. Pet? Her words from earlier that you had let go of suddenly popped into your head.

“You needed to be watered sooner.”

You wanted to argue, lash out and scream that you weren’t an animal, you were a person but then again, you have a faint idea of how they treat humans, so it wasn’t too much of a reasonable argument. But the way she had your face cradled showed that she thought something more of you than others. Myra was your best bet at survival, plus it helped that despite the circumstances, she was a sight for sore eyes.

You could hear phantom drips in the background, but the thumb caressing your cheek caught you carefully by the chin and reinforced eye contact. Her calming aura had you relaxing and going slack beneath her touch, something that had her smiling so wide you were afraid her face would split. If you looked closely, you could see hope swirling in Myra’s eyes as well.

“Don’t worry, you are mine.”

It didn’t sound so threatening, and in fact you were nodding along.

“I’m yours,”

[ghost-at-the-masquerade]

The Little Things

Rating: PG, for talk of preparing an animal carcass

Count: 1856

Summary: Link has dinner with a stranger out on the road

A/N: Yes, I’m going to make Link use they/them pronouns, no I don’t take criticism on this, don’t @ me

----------------

The smell of blood still wafted toward the camp, from where they had let the deer drain. They started at the collarbone, slicing all the way down to the groin, then up the inside of each of the legs. Someone could always use more leather, so they wanted to keep the hide well intact.

Sitting across from Link on a tree downed long ago, Stemm - a traveling chef, by his own description - started to peel carrots and potatoes. The skins he let fall among the grass, the clean vegetables he dropped into a large stockpot to wait. It was much too soon, but he needed something to do.

When Link went to wipe the sweat from their forehead with the back of their arm, they left a little smear of blood that caught a lock of hair and matted it to their eyebrow. The sight of it had Stemm’s face twisting into the most polite agony he could manage.

The time came to split open its belly and he excused himself to stoke and adjust the fires - meat and organs did better in different temperatures at different times, he said.

Link twisted around to grab another, larger pot to drop the more palatable organs in, and the rest were given back to the earth, that Farore may put them to better use.

Their boots were soiled as they worked to separate the carcass into manageable cuts, the better part of an hour drifting by them as they were engrossed in the work. Every now and again their gaze flicked over to Stemm, tutting around the camp proper. Always seeming to produce more cookware and utensils and little bottles of spices from his pack. He had a rather fine set of glass bottles he kept water in, too - as well as some spirit that stank all to hell. Highly impractical for travel compared to a waterskin, but lovely nonetheless. A pair of the ones filled with water were sitting in a half-rotted bucket with a pilfered ice rod.

They piled the meat onto a spare sheet of leather they had so they could haul it all the few feet to the fire, hefting it over the log with a grunt.

Stemm spared them a smile for all of their work. “Thank you, yes, it’ll be fine there.”

He took the opportunity to go on while they paused to take a breath, “It makes me feel like such a fraud, not doing all my own prep, but butchering is just… such ugly work.”

Link couldn’t help but cock the bloody eyebrow at him. The lock of hair came loose with the movement.

“Don’t look at me like that - it’s not that I had some… pampered upbringing, my parents did their own hunting when I was young. We just moved to a bigger town before it was my time to learn. And if someone has already prepared the meat for you, well…”

They wondered, at times, if people in their previous life had spilled their guts to them like this. Their silence left a lot of room for it.

“I suppose I was so excited to travel and to do it all myself that I didn’t think about what ‘doing it all myself’ would entail.”

Link’s expression softened some. They could sympathize with being in over one’s head.

“… What are you waiting around for? I can handle this part, you wash up.” He shooed them with one hand, pulling the meat toward himself with the other.

They huffed through their nose at his tone, but they didn’t need to be told twice.

-

Twilight’s somber blanket settled over the grass, made the soft sands twinkle as Link stepped into the shallow waters. Going in almost up to their knees, they found a rock to settle on, dipping their arms into the cool river flow and scrubbing the deer’s blood free from their arms and boots. Blood dried on skin is rather like the first layer of paint on raw wood, thin and clinging seamlessly.

Pulling back, droplets on their skin became flecks of gold in the dying light. They reached into a pouch at their hip for a bar of soap and comb. The bar was only about the length of their palm and a third of the width, off-white in color - not unlike honey diluted in milk. They rubbed a conservative lather into their palm; it would be some time before they returned to Hateno for more, but they wanted the copper smell off their hands. They only just remembered the smear on their face before rinsing off.

The comb was simple, a chunk of birch wood carved and left unfinished, but with much thicker teeth than their last one. Hair tie held between their lips, they dipped the comb into the river, closed their eyes and began to run it through their hair. Their ears twitched with every rustle of the trees behind them.

Clean and calmed, they took a deep breath and rose to return to camp.

-

Stemm greeted them heartily, in much higher spirits now that he was in his element. He already had several pounds of meat salted and packed into leather satchels, while another had been cubed for their supper.

Link took their seat at an angle to him, not quite next to him. Stemm was proving to be quite the multi-tasker around the cook pot, moving seamlessly between preserving the meat and prodding the chunk of fat he had rendering out in the bottom of the pot. It had been strung up by a chain, held aloft by three metal rods - an incredibly handy contraption, Link would have to see about finding one.

At each step, Stemm explained how staggering each ingredient’s addition would change their texture and flavor. Link sipped their chilled water and decided to keep their disagreements about what the texture should be to themself; they could deal with mushy onions in their stew for one night.

With everything coming together, he whipped out a smaller wooden spoon, took a taste and pursed his lips, looking up to the sky. “I wish I had a little sweetness to take that edge off, but I’ve just run out…”

Link’s ear twitched with a thought, and they dipped their fingers into another one of their hip pouches. From it they drew a flower, not unlike the Silent Princess, but half the size and without its luminescent qualities. They held it up as a suggestion, “Maybe this?”

“That?” Stemm leaned close to scrutinize the flower, “No, I’m afraid those are quite bitter.”

They shook their head and insisted, “Cousin of the star flower. Breeding out the glow takes out the bitterness.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Usually, yes, but they’ve been moving back that way for a while. Have you been under a rock?”

Rather than argue the point further, they popped the flower in their mouth - only to immediately stick out their tongue and let the mushed petals fall off.

Stemm laughed victoriously. “I told you!”

With their eyes unfocused on the grass, something deep within them wavered, but only momentarily. It was too silly a thing to unsettle them. Even if it was one of the few things they thought they remembered.

“The one thing I was prepared for was finding tasty plants!” He glanced again toward the dying light while digging something out of his bag.

“Don’t know how much you can do by firelight, but here-” He held out a small, leather-bound notebook, “You can copy this.”

It was soft in their hands, telling of its relative youth. The cover crackled quietly as they opened it. The pages detailed a number of edible wild plants native to central Hyrule and Necluda, including flavor profiles and notable lookalikes.

Link set it on their knee so they could sign, “Thank you, but, I don’t have anything to copy to.”

For a moment he seemed surprised. Then he shrugged, a relaxed smile crossing his face. “Keep that one, then. I can make another.”

Their mouth worked and they struggled to make the sign feel sincere enough, “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it. It won’t do me much good when I head out to Akkala, anyway.”

With that reassurance they relaxed some, settling in to skim the notes while he finished.

The sun ducked away behind the far trees and its last light vanished, turning the camp into a bright bubble in a dark ocean.

Turned out Stemm was right about it needing a bit of sweet, but it was far from inedible. Link was more than glad to take a second helping. Simple, but warm and filling. He was definitely still wrong about onions, but the potato was good.

Stemm had no stories to tell and his sign wasn’t strong enough to keep up with Link’s, so the night air was left to the crickets, crackling of fire and the tittering of breeze through the grass and leaves. In time, they agreed to part in sleep.

Link settled down into the embrace of a nearby elm. Stemm stayed closer to the fire, with his sizable pack to prop him up. Firelight faded, gave way to the silver grace of the moon, orange glowing embers not unlike the shrines waiting for them in the distance.

——

Link woke at first light. Hummed deep in their throat and stretched, scratched their shoulder against the bark before even bothering to open their eyes. They could already feel the knot that had formed in their hair.

Sitting up, they saw Stemm still asleep, his mouth dangerously open to the sky. They shook their head, starting to fix their hair when they noticed a small line of leaves laid parallel on their thigh - korok mischief. A little smile tugged at the corner of their mouth. They carefully stacked the leaves and tucked them away in a pocket.

It was time to go - their deal was done and a number of important tasks awaited them. Link stood and took a final stretch. But still, they looked over to their companion. He had done them an extra kindness.

Stemm’s rig was still set up - perhaps they could make use of it. Link knelt with a bit of bounce, considering the remnants of the fire.

They reached into the depths of a pouch and grasped the handle of a short sword - though not short enough to keep them from having to bend over at a funny angle to get it out, falling onto their hip. Exposed to the open air, the blade flared to life with eerily silent fire. A bit of tinder, another log and the tip of the blade was all that was needed. A little extra kindness, then they would go.

Three eggs scrambled into fine curds, peppered with fresh herbs and salt flakes, gently folded over on itself with a wooden spoon. A hopefully respectable omelet they set nearby under a korok leaf.

Link put their hands on their hips and regarded a man they would likely not see again, one more time. The Dueling Peaks loomed. The sun crept higher. And strangers parted.

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 4

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Summary: Post Mi6 - August manages to escape with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. With every agent in the world on the hunt for him, life became a living hell, but that’s okay because hell is where he reigns.

Too bad for the woman who’ll stand in his way.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 |

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild)

Word count: 6K

Warnings: Explicit Smut, dark themes, male/female masturbation, bodily fluids, mentions of sexual encounters, dirty words, sexual threats. It’s August, he’s the baddest of bad boys!

A/N: Soooooo this chapter was fun to write, I hope you guys like it :)! Thanks @agniavateira for being my editor and my emotional support! 

Title: Memento Mori

Funny, he’s never seen someone drown in icy water before. With her injury and massive blood loss, the struggle doesn’t last longer than a minute. This is beyond her natural survival instincts, gradually her muscles give up, running stiff as the blood in her veins chills.

August stares with rapt. Not once did the Valkyrie scream for help, or even begged him to save her.

Truth be told, it kinda pisses him off as much as he finds it admirable.

‘Such a strong-willed girl. Would be a shame to rid the world of her so soon.’

“Whatever,” he mutters and carefully steps toward the crack in the ice. His hands hoist the body up before she sinks below the surface. With water in her lungs and her muscles rigid, she’s impossibly heavier.

A red path of blood tarnishes the ice as he drags her body toward the edge of the lake. There is no urgency in his behaviour, relaxed he kneels to stare at the lifeless woman and wonders if in her hubris this is how she believed this day will end.

Her skin is pale blue, lips dark purple. Drained out of wit and life, those delicate Scandinavian features look like something out of a fairytale and he muses whether a kiss will wake her up.

It won’t make any difference to the world if she’s dead or alive, it certainly won’t make any to August Walker.

His digits stroke her frozen cheek, sensing the skin is stretched over the hardened muscles. He tilts her head up and presses at the hollows of her cheeks to force her lips open. For some reason, he thinks of a different dead girl, though they are nothing alike.

Planting his mouth over hers, he breathes oxygen into her lungs. Her chest rises, filling with the air he breathes into her. He repeats the process four times and then begins compressing her heart, watching her corpse lie peacefully on the snow.

Never in his years of service had he needed to perform CPR on another person. It’s not as melodramatic as shown in the bullshit movies he’s seen; no one’s shouting “C’mon girl! Breathe!!!” and hits her chest in despair. The owls and bats that chant between the large trees and the wolves howling at the moon from a distance couldn’t care less if Ingvild, whatever her-last-name-is lives or dies.

On the contrary, they’ll be thrilled to eat her eyes out.

He pauses on his attempt to resuscitate her and watches as no change appears in her face. His hands rest in the air, hovering above her for less than a second, considering if to give her another chance. He leans to capture her mouth again when Ingvild suddenly twitches, gagging as water seeps through her mouth and nose like some decorative fountain.

August observes quietly. Her eyes are shut, her body is only reacting instinctively, coughing out the water in her lungs. He nudges her to the side, draining the water out until she stops coughing and lays unconscious on the ground.

He moves his ear closer, listening to her soft breaths. He wonders how long will she survive in such a condition, suffering from hypothermia and massive blood loss. Letting her drown might have been a favour, he might have just granted her a cruller death.

Blackness surrounds her, chaining her to the ground. An excruciating pain blossoms in her lungs, as if someone placed a massive weight that smothers her while her throat and her nose sear with pain. The rest of her body feels numb, someone might as well leave her limbless.

The image in front of her appears blurry as she attempts to open her eyes and hang on to the tendrils of reality, uncertain when and where she is and what happened at all. Was life just a dream?

Or was it a nightmare?

‘Liam?’

No voice is produced from her lips, she is not even sure they’re moving.

The face that greets her is certainly not Liam. It’s the man who granted her this agonizing death. He looks at her with silent curiosity, not saying a word as her glassy eyes become more and more vibrant.

Her hands suddenly reach to his throat, clutching him with all the energy left in her traumatized body. As battered as she is, he still has to use force to peel her claws off of him. She struggles, grunting and hissing, her nails leave bleeding scratches over his cheek.

“Remember you are only alive for as long as I permit it.” August speaks to her calmly, impressed by her stubborn will to kill him even when she’s hanging by the last thread of her pathetic life.

The struggle takes no longer than a few seconds as her eyes roll back and she falls to the ground, unconscious again.

August collects her in his arms and rises, carrying her through the woods. “Better this way, princess,” he whispers to the sleeping beauty in his arms. The temperature of the water has slowed the bleeding, causing the blood vessels to clot and reduce the pace of her heartbeat. It benefits in keeping her alive, but it’s also slowly killing her.

He returns to the bed and breakfast to be greeted by the receptionist who stares at him, baffled.

“Too much to drink,” he explains, offering her a charming smile as he continues marching toward his room with the unconscious girl in his arms.

~*~

“Fucking mess,” he mutters as he enters the room and shuts the door behind him with his leg. That stab wound may be bleeding slower now, he hasn’t ruptured any viable organs. However, the gash in her flesh is large and still needs to be dressed.

He drags her to the bath and puts her on her feet, letting her limp body lean onto his while he unzips her suit and boots, stripping her to her undergarments. A crescent-like slit gushes blood at the side of her abdomen.

August places her in the empty bathtub before grabbing the first aid kit he bought at the hunters’ shop. Being a wanted man now, he had to be prepared for everything.

It was nearly him tonight that needed that first aid kit.

The scent of alcohol fills the room as he pours it onto her open wound. He waits for a response from her, maybe a twitch from the excruciating pain, yet Ingvild is so far gone she doesn’t react whatsoever. His finger presses to the tendon in her neck, only to make sure he is not taking care of a dead girl.

A faint pulse is there; her heart still beats. Yet her body is as cold as ice, and he knows that if he won’t take care of her soon her systems will begin to shut down one organ after the other. He sews her wound shut quickly, making unfashionable stitches across the wound.

“Sorry love, no more bikini for you.” he mocks the sleeping girl. “Although porn sites must be filled with scar-porn, so you’re good.”

After stitching her up and dressing the wound, he carries her back to the bedroom and lays her on the bed. Her skin is shivering, frozen and pale as death itself. She has hypothermia and needs to have her body temperature stabilized before every one of her major organs will go into failure.

“Not how I pictured us getting into bed naked,” August jokes without humour while beginning to peel off his clothes until he is completely bare. He towers over her trembling form and watches how helpless she appears. His hands run down her spine, reaching to find the hooks of her bra. It takes no effort to unclasp the flimsy soaked fabric and discard it on the floor. Next, he coldly and methodically slips her underwear off.

He takes no pleasure in stripping an unconscious woman who can’t defend herself or struggle, yet he cannot resist observing what’s laid right in front of his eyes.

The sight is indeed pleasing.

‘Hate me later, princess. I am just a man.’

August climbs onto the bed and lies in front of her. He pulls her toward the warmth of his body until her forehead is pressed against his chest and every inch of her skin is covered by his own. With a clenched jaw, he holds her close.

In his arms she trembles, teeth chattering, while her heartbeat is feeble and can be hardly felt against his chest.

He thinks of nothing while holding the cold, half-dead girl against him.

Nothing at all.

Not the memory of another dead girl.

~*~

Ingvild scratches a scab on her knee, watching the other girls as they play without her. They stick their tongue at her and call her a freak. She doesn’t cry, only sniffles gently while her small fingers pry at the itchy skin.

“Ingvild,” Sister Marja walks toward her, making a sour face as she sees the girl. She never liked her either. “Someone is here to pick you up, finally.”

Little Ingvild jumps from the dirty log she is sitting on, brushing her skirt and arranging her braided pigtails before joining Sister Marja. ‘That uptight crone, all she needs is a good fuck.’

The sister hurries toward the orphanage while Ingvild runs after to keep up. Her heels echo on the floor through the arched hallway of the facility.

A man waits for them in the office of the Mother Superior, Yet another crone who looks like she never had a good fuck. But there is a smile on her face, making her loose skin become all creases and wrinkles like a dried rotten potato.

Ingvild looks at the man who stands with his hands behind his back. His hair is black with few threads of silver. She is uncertain if he is smiling or not; the expression on his face is of a person who’s trying to appear pleasant but in a very contained way.

“Ingvild, this is Liam.” Mother Superior speaks in her terrible heavy smoker voice. “He is your new adoptive father.”

~*~

Warm light strokes her face, forcing her eyes to blink open slowly. A basic function that suddenly feels oddly painful. Her eyelids are too heavy as if she never opened her eyes before in her life. The scenery around her is still too vague; she doesn’t recognize the room at all, wondering if she is in another dream.

A word in her own language blurts out of her mouth as she tries to sit up, accompanied by a small groan. Everything feels out of place as if her limbs have been misplaced and her internal organs exploded inside her body. Pain begins to course through her body, starting with the muscle of her right forearm which now feels extremely strained.

“Ah…” she grunts out, tugging at her arm which is in an odd position.. But for some reason, her arm won’t budge. It’s tied to the bedpost above her head by a tight rope.

‘This is hilarious. Like watching a dog wake up from anaesthesia.’

“Hva?” she asks in her mother’s tongue. “What?”

She gives the bind a few good moments of struggling before giving up. It’s when the heavy blanket that covers her slightly descends from her chest. She realizes she’s been completely stripped of her clothes.

Panicked, she hugs the cover to her chest with her free hand. Her eyes were looking around with slight anxiety while she continues to pull her right hand in an attempt to free herself.

The scent of coffee tickles at her nose, alerting her that she is not alone.

August appears in front of her with a red cup of coffee in his hand. He wears that familiar arrogant look with a hint of a smile, so vicious and cold it makes her feel she wasn’t only stripped off her clothes but of her skin and muscles as well.

Would have been better if I was stripped and bound to the devil’s bed.

He takes the wooden chair, dragging it on the floor which makes her cringe at the screeching sound. Fragments of the night before begin to fill the gaps in her memory. She tied him to this chair.

Placing it in front of her, he sits down, legs spread widely with confidence she can only describe to herself as irritating as fuck.

She hugs the cover tightly to her chest, her legs curling toward her torso to shelter herself which suddenly inflicts an excruciating pain in her lower abdomen making her moan involuntarily . Peeking beneath the thick blanket, she finds the large bandage on her torso, stained with a few drops of brownish-red blood.

“Good morning, love, we’ve had quite the night.”

More shards of memory begin to cut through her mind. Like remembering an event that happened so long ago, it almost feels like a dream. Her mind fights to make sense, to grasp at the fuller image. She recalls gasping through the woods at night with weak limbs and a hand full of blood. Then a shot that ripped through the night. Bats were flying everywhere and then her body was cold for some reason.

No, she was freezing.

Like a videotape that’s cut off and glitches in the middle, her memory stops there. Making her stare at the Scandinavian pattern on the blanket as if she will find any answers there.

“Who is Liam?” August asks, taking a long sip from his coffee. There is much amusement in seeing her cowering before him looking so helpless right now. Stripped, unarmed, and bound to his bed after he took her life and gave it back.

He licks his lips at her which only makes the alarmed look on her face become more distinguished.

“You’ve undressed me?” she asks, finding out her voice is aching and hoarse, as if something seared her throat. “And tied me to the bed?”

August’s teeth are exposed to her as his smile widens. She makes a note of two sharp fangs, it makes him look like a vampire. “Perceptive, aren’t we? Wasn’t for any personal interest, you were in hypothermia.”

He gives a small pause, his eyes travelling across her covered body, unable to deny how nice it was to wake up with a naked woman in his arms. “Not that I didn’t enjoy having your tits pressed to me for an entire night.”

Even as lost as she is, she can’t help but roll her eyes at him and groan with hatred.

‘If anyone in Icarus hears of this, I’m done for.’

Was the stinging pain in her chest failure or sepsis? Either way, it stung. This was far from how she imagined this mission going along. Ending up as a captive of psychotic target, tied to his bed as a future sex slave or heaven knows what.

‘How the fuck did I end up here? Like this? Why?’

August watches as she frowns with deep concentration, forcefully trying to evoke some memory of all the lost hours from last night. He wonders if she knows he killed her. He’d very much like to remind her of that, of how she was at his mercy and the only reason she’s alive right now is because he allowed it.

‘And still she tried to kill me right after I gave her back her life. What a woman.’

“Who is Liam? And please don’t make me ask again, given the poor situation you’re at right now, princess.”

More echoes begin to float in her mind. It’s the look of superiority on his face, the piercing gaze that threatens to cut right through her.

“You tried to kill me!”

“No. I have killed you,” he corrects her.

“You were dead for at least 5 or 7 minutes.”

She stares at him completely bemused, her eyes seeking answers on the lines of his chiselled face. There is no remorse, no care, no mercy in it. She doesn’t even bother to look for affection, whatever that looks like. He is as cold as Helheim.

“But you saved me. Why?”

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face straining as he remembers that idiotic idea he had last night, that mistake that’s now lying naked on his bed. For a man who plans ahead, he hasn’t thought this one through, not even for a second.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, I only need you for intel. One wrong move and I’d be glad to put you back to the bottom of that lake.”

“You know who sent me, CIA, Erica Sloane.” She shrugs, staring at him oddly.

He leans forward in his chair looking deeper into her eyes, trying to invoke fear in her. Yet she remains stoic, only her eyes glaring at him like two icicles.

“How did you know I was here? Who else knows?”

“I’m a good tracker,” she answers, doing her best attempt to shrug her shoulders with one hand latched above her head. “And you are not as smart as you think you are, August Walker.”

August offers her a dangerous stare, crossing his arms around the wooden backseat while his feet push from the ground to lean closer to her. He doesn’t like to be challenged, especially not by silly little girls.

“Why is that?”

A small smile spreads on her face. “From all the vehicles you could have taken, you stole my bike.”

A hiss of disbelief leaves his nose but the answer doesn’t please him. He leans back on his chair until it lands forcefully on the ground, making a loud thud through the moderate silence in the room. His hand reaches toward her, grabbing her jaw and cupping it crudely.

“No, how did you know I was in Norway?”

She clenches her jaw, trying to escape his touch but his grip becomes firmer, his fingertips painting red marks on her sickly pale skin. “Answer me.”

“I didn’t-”

“Bullshit.” he challenges her, now closer to her face than she would have ever wanted. His hot breath is a breeze on her skin. Her natural instinct to learn details kicks in, forcing her to pay attention to every freckle s on his nose, his bottom lip, and the lines and small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

‘So much anger’, she analyzes. He is not even furious yet it seems he keeps so much bottled up.

‘Does he ever get tired?’

“I didn’t know,” she finally answers, both sincerity and scorn in her voice. Then, a small provoking smirk appears on her lips. “It was destiny that brought you to me.”

He snorts, shaking his head at her with disbelief, recalling their little flirtatious run-in 2 days ago. His eyes observe her while a smug smirk spreads across his face. He allows his gaze to travel further down her neck and her chest, attempting to peer beneath the blanket to get a reminder of what was pressed to his body the night before.

“Telling you the truth, August Walker, would have killed you then in the ladies room,” she provokes, aware of the fact that he’s staring at her chest even though she keeps it covered.

“Oh?” he returns his gaze back to her, a single finger now takes a hold of her chin, tilting her head up violently. “How would you have done that? I’m intrigued.”

Ingvild licks her lips, drawing attention to her mouth. It’s seduction that she offers but with that same cold, now vicious smile.

“Slicing your throat, while you’re were washing your stupid hair below the tap. I’d then shove a tampon up your ass and send a photo to everyone in Icarus and to Sloane so they can have a good laugh.”

‘My phone, shit.’

The mobile device is traceable, if Liam hasn’t heard from her in a few days he could find her. But now August has it, with the rest of the stuff he confiscated from her. She looks around, trying to find where he placed her items.

August interrupts her inspection, his hand wrapping around her sore throat with a menacing gaze. “Don’t give me any ideas, princess. I’m not the one tied up and naked here.”

“I need to go to the girls’ room,”

She ignores his threat, remaining calm despite the hand that can easily snap her neck.

He looks at her dumbfounded, clenching his jaw once more. “What?”

“I need to go…”

“I heard you.” he frowns, letting go of her throat forcefully and then shoving the chair back, making it screech against the wooden floor while pacing the room, irritated.

‘Great, now I’m a fucking babysitter?’

He begins to regret ever saving her pathetic little life. What is there to gain anyway? A guy named Liam? Whoever that is to her. She mumbled that name in her dreams when her body was struggling to fight for survival.

August finds the bathrobe in the shower room and throws it on the bed next to her, before hovering above her chest to cut her bindings with the same knife he used to stab her last night.

She tries to remain as relaxed and brave as she can, wanting him to think she is not intimidated by him and what she believes to be his empty threats. But every time he makes sudden movements. the intimidation shows in her beautiful grey eyes. Her body flinches and squirms helplessly.

If only she knew how aroused it made him, she’d be terrified.

“Try anything and I’ll unstitch you and let you bleed to death.”

Her wrist burns, the narrow rope has chafed her skin so badly there are deep purple marks on her flesh. She rubs it gently, trying to soothe the pain before grabbing the white cotton robe and staring at August with hatred.

He stares back at her while playing with the knife between his large hands. He slides a finger carefully on the edge of the sharp blade, making a harsh statement. No, he is not going to turn around.

Rolling her eyes she hides beneath the cover, pulling the bathrobe beneath and wearing it quickly, the relief of having something other than a blanket covering her feels almost astonishing.

At last, she throws the heavy blanket away and kicks her legs out of bed while wearing his oversized bathrobe. August remains silent, his eyes fixed upon her while the knife is pressed between his teeth.

Trying anything like killing him or escaping is far from realistic as she finds her legs hardly able to hold her own weight. The hardwood floor beneath her feet feels soft and mushy, if someone would have told her she’s stepping onto marshmallows she might have believed them.

She only manages to make two feeble steps before black spots appear in her sight and she falls forward with a pained grunt. She never makes it to the ground. Odd, she hasn’t noticed how big and strong he is when wrestling him on the floor. It seems that August has doubled in size.

“Who was it that didn’t love you, August?” she provokes coldly, grunting as she tries to lift her torso from his elbow. “Was it your mother? Or your dad?”

Silence and indifference is his answer to her query, with only a muscle that twitches in his cheek. He observes quietly as her hands grasp his biceps desperately and pathetically, trying to stabilize herself. It must make her hate him even more right now, to need him as much as she does.

He recalls how much he hated himself when he needed someone.

“Both then…” she answers, slightly panting.

“Did anyone ever loved you at all? Ingvild?” he taunts her back while helping her get to the toilet. He notices how her eyes look around while they move through the room, looking for her things, no doubt. She is smart, he’ll give her that, she is cunning and calculated even in her weakest moment.

But he’ll always be a step ahead.

“More than they loved you, I am sure.”

He lets her into the small room and shuts the door, leaning against it and patiently waits with his arms crossed. The sudden silence and her short absence begin to cloud his thoughts. It’s almost as if he’s dreaming awake, seeing her again, her hair falling from her decaying scalp like leaves falling from a tree.

‘Not more than you.’

The crude vibration of his phone snaps him back into reality. A message from one of the apostles, stating nothing but a location and an hour. He smirks to himself, glad to be soon away from this freezing hell. Now the question left is, what he should do with the little problem he created for himself?

Snap her little neck? Strangle her to death? Make it intimate, she deserves as much. He can already see his body hovering on top of hers, his hands wrapped around her, tight like a lover’s embrace. The robe opens as she struggles, exposing much of her naked flesh.

The thought makes him hum with delight but once again he is interrupted. This time it’s by her face that stares at him, blank of emotion, with eyes like two empty crystals. She leans against the door frame, her face tilted up to meet his gaze. “I need to shower. I smell like you.”

He wonders at all why he should fulfil her request. She’s a prisoner, not a guest, and far from being someone, he’d care for. His eyes run up and down her body and finally at the cold unreadable expression on her face.

“Whatever.”

The bathroom is rather large, surrounded by cream-coloured marble tiles that adorn both the walls and the flooring. There is a large, fancy bathtub in the middle of the room, one that is made to look old and classy with golden taps. An additional shower is placed at the other side of the room, surrounded by a thin wall of glass.

The bath looks so tempting, her eyes fixate upon it, fantasizing about slipping into a warm bubble bath with one of those pink and purple bath bombs.

August notices her fascination and snorts, edging her toward the shower instead. “You should’ve taken my offer back then, princess. Be thankful that I am allowing you the luxury of showering at all.”

For all, he cares she can die of infection, who knows what bacteria these lake water she bled into had.

“I’d take the shower over-sharing anything with you,” she spits back, her hand grasping the golden handle of the glass door. August remains facing, leaning against the marble tile with ease while sucking on his bottom lip with anticipation.

“Aren’t you going to at least turn away?” she asks naively, crooking her eyebrow up, bewildered by the large man who’s standing there with sheer confidence on his face, not bothering to give her an inch of privacy.

“No,” he smirks cockily, licking that small freckle on his lips. “You tried to kill me, I don’t trust you. But don’t worry, won’t be anything I haven’t seen before, princess.” he shrugs and tilts his head. His eyes gesture at the robe as he awaits for her to slip it off her body.

Ingvild chews the inside of her cheek with the fury that courses through her veins. He seeks to humiliate her even more, to show her again how little power she has.

But men are fools, a woman has more power over a man, especially when she is naked. She doesn’t mind what he sees and if he likes it or not anyway. Also, nervousness is not in her spectrum of emotions.

The white cotton robe falls off her body, landing at her feet with a soft thud. There she is standing completely bare before the man who tried to murdered her and who for some sick, twisted, megalomaniac reason nurtured her back to life.

Unlike last night, he has the freedom to linger on what stands in his sight. Milky white skin, stretched taut over an apt figure. Athletic; formed by years of whatever combat training she has endured. There are no scars on her body save for the new one he gave her which is hidden behind gauze. The thought of letting her survive just so she can curse him every time she sees the hideous crescent scar is quite the temptation.

He further inspects her body, imagining cupping her small breasts in his large hands, they will not fill his palms completely, but it will suffice. He was always more into women’s behind and the rounded shape of her tight ass is indeed pleasing.

“As I said, nothing I haven’t seen before,” he speaks out, letting his gaze travel back to meet her face again.

She hisses through her nose, rolling her eyes as she walks inside the translucent room and turns the stream of the water to wash over her body.

The heat of the water immediately makes her groan loudly with pleasure; it echoes through the entire room. Her body is far more battered than she even realized, it feels as almost as if she is being redeemed, baptized, or whatever other religious allegories she could think of.

She leans against the wall for support with both her palms flat against the surface. Her back arches and she lets her head tilt back with her eyes tightly shut. The damp hair sticks to her spine, while she lets the droplets of water slide between her perky breasts and down her torso.

Sweet moans escape between her lips with every second, accompanying the water that soothe her aching muscles.

August can feel the fabric of his trousers tightening as blood stirs through the veins of his cock. She squirms beneath the stream, moving so sensually while making these “fuck me” noises all too clear. It’s meant to tease and provoke him. He is tempted to march in there and fuck the living hell out of her.

Fucking her to death, now that one I haven’t tried before.

“Enjoying the show?” she asks, turning to face him while the water trickles down her back. She can see the hardness in his groin, growing larger and larger with every second she stands there wet and naked.

“I am, actually,” he answers, not bothering to hide his desire.

She turns to face the shower tap, one hand plastered to the wall while the other leisurely runs down her chest. Smooth and slick, she allows it to circle her breast, making sure August can see how her finger brushes the hardening peachy nipple before descending along her flat torso.

His breath becomes rigid, his eyes furiously focusing on how she praises her own body. Her lids are half-hooded, hazy with lust and her mouth is reddening and slight swelling as she bites into her plush lips with delight. He dares, taking a step closer, allowing himself to have a better view of the show.

It is for him after all, is it not?

Tender and slow like honey, she lets her fingers creep between her thighs. In her mind, she fancies larger hands taking control over her body. A man’s hands, hands that are rough and callous, counter to how she is built, yet they caress her gently, working their way up between her inner thighs and spreading her open.

A feverish moan escapes her tightened lips as her fingers rub against her clit. She opens her eyes with her head thrown to the side. Giving August a lustful stare, cruel and full of snide she begins working herself with sensual strokes. She can feel her own wetness, thick and oily against her delicate fingers.

August’s nostrils flare, the bulge in his groin now enormous and aching for release.

Does she think she is torturing him? Does she even know men?

He inches closer toward the shower, close enough until so his hand can touch the glass which is now covered with tiny droplets of water and a thin layer of steam. His hand falls toward the zipper of his trousers, letting it sink before reaching out to pull his erect cock.

There is a smitten look upon her face, and an unpleasant chill runs through her spine as if she is intimidated by the sheer sight of him. Obviously, he is very much aware of how impossibly large he is. She gathers he is used to the look she is giving him, knowing exactly what’s going through her mind.

“Why are you stopping then, princess?” he asks with a cocky smile, his large hand wraps around the base of his hard cock, immediately beginning to stroke while eliciting deep, low groans.

Ingvild finds it surprisingly arousing, unable to help herself but stare at how his fingers engulf the fleshy shaft, feeling herself throb at the sight of the thick bulging veins and the ridges that run across his erection. When she started this little game it was in order to abuse him. But now, there is a certain desperation in her spiteful urge.

Looking at him as if driven to insanity, she lets her fingers massage her mound with increasing force, hard yet slow while her thumb traces the engorged nub. With every intent to let him see what he cannot take, she leans against the wall and parts her legs wide for him, letting him see her pink cunt and how her fingers play and tease while her other hand moves to squeeze her breast.

Her mind escapes into fantasies again, to urge the tingling sensation that burns between her thighs. Betrayed by lust, it’s him that she sees, holding her down as he did the night before, only that instead of trying to kill her he tears off her panties and splits her flesh open with his enormous cock.

The yelp that escapes her mouth is barely human, the image triggering something dark and unfamiliar and despite its wrongness now all she can think of is him.

August, on the other hand, is anything but inclined to indulge this. Pumping his cock urgently, he imagines pounding the little valkyrie against the wall, his grunts so low and loud he is certain the neighbours renting the room nearby can hear.

‘Have you ever fucked an undead girl? Imagine how sweet that wet little cunt must be after coming back to life… milking around you as if you are her saviour, your cock a gift sent from heaven…’

‘Or hell.’

Leaning his forehead against the glass, his breath leaves a veil of steam against the surface while he glances at Ingvild climbing toward her climax.

“Fuck!” She shudders, trying to fight the burning image of him in her mind, but these forbidden fantasies continue to assail her; all the different ways he could take her, exploit and humiliate her. How his body would feel atop of hers while he holds her down and hammer her into the floor.

Her battle wanes, heat spills between her legs as she falls into dark euphoria.

Seeing her arch against the tiles, naked and showered by ecstasy, his control finally snaps. August slams a hand against the glass, spourting white ribbons of cum all over the surface.

‘Oh to see her die and then burst with life…’

They stand in front of one another, both with heaving chests and frowning faces.

Finally, she turns the stream off and opens the glass door while August tucks himself back in. Apparent sweat covers his forehead while his chest is still heaving. She crouches to grab the robe, wearing it again while moving next to him with a teasing look on her face.

Although her legs feel feeble, the adrenaline made the blood kickstart her body again, her heart pumping with excitement as life returned to her system. She pushes past August scornfully, letting him follow her as she walks out of the bathroom.

He grabs her elbow, shooting her a warning glare. “Where do you think you are going?”

She tries to fight him but his grip is fierce and she is too weak.

“You are still a prisoner here,” he warns her and begins to lead her back to the bedroom and toward the bed while grabbing more rope on the way. He notices once again how she desperately seeks her personal belongings, gun, and phone.

“Don’t bother, angel, it’s all in the bottom of the lake.”   

______________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible or August Walker

[cno-inbminor]

wips that i’ve sat on for too long

it has been forever since i last posted anything, mainly because things have been extremely busy!! november is always such a shit month for school and i’ve procrastinated aka dug my own grave :) but here are a few snippets from wips, some that i may not ever finish but we’ll see ahahahaha

wip 1: sakusa wip 2: akaashi wip 3: semi (ipsum exitio) wip 4: mattsun 

request for sakusa based on lover by taylor swift

he likes the world in his control, knowing that there are many elements to which he can manipulate to his liking. sakusa isn’t egotistical enough to call the universe predictable -- after all, your unexpected landing in his life took him by surprise. and two years later, he feels he’s finally beginning to understand the meaning of ‘we’ and ‘us’. 

his world is no longer just his -- it’s both of yours now. and while it scared him the first year, there was a layer of trust underneath that soothed his worries. you had become synonymous with the things in his life that made him calm -- a warm bath, a fresh loofah, a lavender candle. it felt foreign to crave your presence next to him in his bed, or at any time throughout the day. he wanted to be by your side as much as possible, as if he had a sudden understanding of how time runs out. one day, he loses grasp of his tongue when you mention going to the grocery store, and blurts out, “can i go with you?”

there’s no doubt that shock has made itself known on your complexion. he can’t meet your eyes and stews in his embarrassment for having said something so seemingly out of character. but it only takes a few seconds for a small smile to grace your lips, the one that reminds him of just how lucky he is to be loved by you.

he’s already on his feet when you reply, “if you’d like to.”

request for pt. 2 of la la lost you ft. akaashi

more often than not, you haunt his dreams.

but perhaps he should rephrase. he welcomes your presence more than anything – more often than not, he enjoys waking up remembering that you’ve visited him in the dead of night. it allows him to forget that you’re no longer with him, or that he’s no longer trying to figure out when’s a good time to call and check up on you.

the pain disappears for a little bit, and then it settles neatly in the bottom of his heart, a tiny weight in his chest. no matter how much one of his coworkers drags him out and tries to set him up with someone, they’re never you. he’s always searching for your qualities in them and he feels terrible – they don’t deserve to be a rebound at all. and though you’re not on his lock screen (because he’s tired of the questions), you continue to occupy his home screen. all of your photos are stashed into a single folder, and he has to admit he opens it more than once a day.

it’s a slow healing process – he simply accepts that he’ll miss you for the rest of eternity, that he’ll never see your smile in front of the california sun again. you were never going to speak to him again besides perhaps birthdays and holidays, but they’d never be enough for him. the acceptance is solemn defeat, so you can only imagine the mixture of surprise, panic, and bewilderment when your custom ringtone blares throughout his office.

it isn’t a figment of his imagination to see your name on his screen, and before he loses his nerve and this rare opportunity to hear your voice again, he picks up, free hand slipping against some papers, and answers, “hello?”

“hey, keiji. how are you doing?”

ipsum exitio pt. 2 (pt. 1 here)

The hand by your waist suddenly grasped your chin between its thumb and index finger, preventing you from indulging in your previous thoughts. A quiet gasp escaped your lungs as you nearly shook. Your body thrummed with nerves and desperation, hoping that Eita would just give in to the selfish desires that were causing you to not think straight. “Eita, I—” you pleaded, unable to find the right words. The man responsible for everything you were feeling remained silent and appeared unfazed, though the tightening clasp of your chin said otherwise. “Please—”

“We’re going to leave this bed and do as we planned,” he interrupted, tone deep and commanding. You were now slave to his every whim, though you honestly couldn’t find any objections to that. “And if you’re good for me…” He trailed off, moving further down until his lips hovered right by your ear.

“I promise I’ll fill you up with my cock that you’re practically begging for. You can cum as much as you like, but I’ll have you begging for more.”  

His words in combination with the faint kiss against the shell of your ear tore a whimper from your throat, wetness pooling embarrassingly in your panties as you drank in his dark vow. Your heart thrashed against your chest so loudly that you almost missed his teasing laugh – you always knew that you were somewhat submissive, but to the degree that you were feeling now? The burning determination to be nothing but the best for the man that could probably have you on your knees in a heartbeat if he simply suggested it?

As he removed himself from you – though your body ached for his presence again – and you let him pull your quivering figure out of bed, your questions were answered by the warmth that flooded your body as a result of his praise: “Good girl.”

spy!au ft. matsukawa (tw: blood and violence mentions, implied character death)

“you think with all that time spent in the gym on your arms, they’d be useful right about now,” you whisper fondly. 

“shut up,” issei grits out between his teeth. his muscles are screaming from overuse, but god help him if this is the last thing he’ll do. 

the two of you are battered and much the worse for wear, sporting matching soot marks and body developing new bruises. dried, caked blood marks the side of issei’s face and though his gloves are still intact, yours had been discarded and misplaced, probably burnt to a crisp at this point. the friction of cloth against your scuffed palms causes you to wince. but there’s nothing you can do now, hanging over a cliff with nothing but issei’s grip to suspend you. 

it’s a battle that was won for the agency, but he feels nothing akin to victory in this moment. regret washes over him instead -- why didn’t he just let that guy go, why did he feel the need to sock him in the face with everything he had, when he could’ve preserved that strength to lift you up now? 

“makki’s coming, just hang in there, okay?” he bites out. a grimace forms because his shoulder is giving out, and your palm is starting to get sweaty. issei swivels his head over his shoulder and looks for any signs of agency help, but the sound of incoming motors are too far away. there’s not enough time--

“you need to let me go,” you advise, looking down beneath you. the river is a far ways away, you can barely make it out from here. and that only means one thing. 

“(y/n), shut the fuck up--”

“look at me, issei. look at me.”

he meets your eyes and immediately detests the look of defeat in them. they’re beginning to gloss over and absolutely contradict the upward curves of your lips. this is everything he was afraid of -- all that time, all that trust, building a connection with you amidst the chaos, and for what? for it all to end in some storm of ice and fire and you into a rushing stream? 

“it’s okay,” you comfort, but the tears down your face say it’s the complete opposite of okay. your hand is slipping and you can see how torn issei is, absolutely desperate to use every last second possible. help won’t come in time.

but you can’t leave him like this, not when you haven’t had the chance to say the three words you’ve always wanted to tell him. there had never been a good time to, not even in the nights with his body over yours atop the sheets and thrown into pleasure and escapism. perhaps it’s selfish on your end to part with those words. issei knowns you well enough at this point, and just by looking at your expression again, he knows it’s coming. this was the last way he wanted to hear them.

“don’t you fucking dare, (y/n). don’t you--”

there are promptly 2.8 seconds left as the contact is reduced to nothing but hanging by the fingertips. he hears nothing but your voice and his heartbeat. this is it.

“i love you.”

and his arm feels weightless. 

[theskyeandsea]

When You Get What You Want... || Cutler & Skylar

Timing: Late January 19th,  shortly after this chatzy

Location: Clarke’s Convenience Store

Tagging: @clarkesconvenience & @theskyeandsea

Description: Skylar’s rampage around town continues; Cutler offers a helping hand.

Warnings: Drug use, addiction, body horror, memory loss, medical blood

Disoriented and covered in flour and blood, Skylar stumbled down the road away from the shop, a giddy smile still on her face as her feet began to skip across the pavement. She bounded down the road before turning abruptly, eyes caught by the displays in the window. Staggering forward, she pressed her fingers against the glass and the same sticking sensation filled her. The atoms and molecules and all the tiny parts of what made her a person shifted until she was crashing into the center of the convenience store. With a dazed grin on her face, Skylar began to push displays over. Blood trickled down the side of her face from her ear, a clean jagged section of her earlobe ripped free and stuck in the glass of the convenience store. She barely noticed as the liquid splattered across the clean floors while she shoved at the shelves. Cutler had been mentally preparing himself for a break-in since he had come home. It was bound to happen eventually, as it had for his parents several times over the course of his childhood. When it did, he would handle it the same way his parents had: with calm, slow movements and total compliance. 

It didn’t go that way. 

For one thing, he had expected it to happen while the shop was open and the money would still be in the register. Instead, the crashing sound of displays being toppled downstairs had awoken him in the early hours of the morning. The cool and collected man of his practiced break-in fantasies was quickly replaced with a groggy version of himself in a wrinkled t-shirt and boxers, squinting in the dim light. 

Slowly, he took in the scene before him in pieces. Spidery crimson tracks spilling down pale skin and dripping onto waxed tile, collapsed shelving units spilling all manner of dried goods onto the floor, and a familiar, crazed look behind wide, dark pupils. He had dealt with this many times in the ER. Well, maybe not this, exactly, but he knew intoxication when he saw it. His hand hovered over the light switch to his right and he called out before clicking the buzzing fluorescents on above them, “You need some help.” A statement, not a question; carried with the arrogant weight of medical school behind it. “I can patch that up for you.” 

Stepping on bags of spices, Skylar took particular joy in watching as the dried herbs crumbled under her shoes. She ran her hand along the shelves, knocking more and more of the goods onto the ground, blood dripping across the crinkly bags. And then, she realized she wasn’t alone. Someone had entered from the back of the shop. Skylar spun around to look at him, tilting her head at him quizzically. “Help? I don’t need help, I have all the help I need.” She said with a giddy smile on her face, her teeth bright and gleaming in the lowlight. “Don’t want patches, nope, I don’t need another patchwork skin, nuh uh.” She said to herself, rubbing the sores on her arms as she spoke. She could feel something leaking from the raw abscesses that dotted her legs, but the pain was like a distant memory, far far away from her right now.

Bright white light washed over the store, revealing the full extent of the damage. Product littered the floor under the shifting soles of his unsteady guest. Cutler dropped his hand from the light switch and walked forward, sidestepping the lentil spillage by his feet. “Uh huh.” The wheels in his mind ground against each other, desperately trying to wake up in time to process the finer details of the situation that wouldn’t come together. Sharpened teeth inside a lazy grin and his front door still locked and unbroken; pieces of a puzzle that refused to click. “Can I take a look?” The wounds on her body were various levels of depth and severity, ranging from dark and old to bright and fresh. The whip-sharp crack of a brown paper bag crinkling under his foot caused him to freeze in place. He stared, cautious and gentle, afraid she would startle like a wild animal. His hand extended slowly, pale pink underside raised to her in timid surrender. “I’m not gonna hurt you. You know it makes it worse when you scratch them.” His voice continued in a muted string of comforting sound, filling the space between them. “Nothing intensive. Just get something on that ear, stop the bleeding. Do a once over for breaks and fractures, maybe disinfect those sores. If it’s food you want, I can get you some of that, too.” 

Skylar watched as the man continued to walk towards her, slow, so slow. She didn’t want to slow down, she didn’t want to pause to stop and think and let all the thoughts she’d left behind catch back up to her. She just wanted to ride this wild, cresting high as far as it would take her and this man? No, no, no, he seemed like he’d put a stop to it. When he asked to look at her, Skylar squinted at him. “Why?” She asked. He took another step and then froze for some reason that she wasn’t quite sure of. There was a muffled sound, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Running her finger tips around her ears, Skylar remembered why. “Oh, that makes sense.” She said, tapping the place where her hearing aids normally rested. Focusing back on the man, she laughed. “You can’t hurt me, even if you wanted to. Even if I wanted you to,” Skylar paused, staring down at the blood that covered her. Looking up at him abruptly, she asked, “Do you think I need help?” Cutler watched her fingers lower from her ears, slick with blood. There was no alarm in her face as they came away, only a laugh that felt discordant and wrong. Even if I wanted you to. When her eyes met his, he felt his heart clatter against his ribcage with deafening irregularity. Something distinctly inhuman looked back at him. Or maybe it was the lack of something. “I do.” He replied, hoping his honesty would cut through the frenetic, animalistic energy to the person behind it. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. Accepting help.” 

Another step toward her. She was almost within his reach now. He blinked slowly, a prayer running across the back of his eyelids: Please don’t fight me. “At the very least, let me get some gauze on that. You’re bleeding all over my floor.” His hand reached up and touched his own ear instinctively, brushing against his full intact earlobe. He ran his tongue across the flat backs of his own teeth, feeling the square edges. Hers were definitely unnatural. Modified, maybe. “I haven’t even asked your name. How rude of me.” A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, echoing the grin he might have worn in lighter circumstances. “I’m Cutler. And you are?” 

He thought she needed help. But so had everyone else and that wasn’t what she’d wanted. Erin and Morgan and Leah and even Shiloh and Rio. They all said they wanted to help, but how could she know that? Skylar mulled over his words, tapping her fingers against her chin, ignoring the way the pads of her fingers stuck to her skin. All of them knew her, they all knew her and they knew what she was and who she was and even if they didn’t know why she was-- Skylar didn’t know why she was even though she could remember every pretty little pill she’d swallowed-- they knew what she should be. And this man didn’t. So maybe that made his help real. “Okay.” She said blithely, not realizing how much tension hung between the two of them. “Oh, but there is. Because people will help you and help you and help you and then one day, they leave. Because they’re too tired of putting up with all your shit and think it’s better to quit while they’re ahead.” She said earnestly. 

At the mention of his floors, Skylar glanced down to the mess of crushed herbs and ruined inventory that were spattered with a thick trail of blood. “Oh. Whoops. I have a lot,” She said with a nod, before gesturing around at the mess. “Of blood. Lots of blood. This is… probably okay.” She said with a shrug. Squinting at him, Skylar repeated his name. “Cut-ler.” She let out a slight giggle, wondering where her knife had gone. Cutler. She could make that literal. “I’m Skylar.” She said, before looking expectantly at him. “So, are you going to help me not bleed all over your floors?”

Cutler listened intently. Someone had hurt this girl, and he didn't intend to be the next in the long line of grievances she had suffered. "If people desert you, that's their shame. Not yours." The contempt in his voice bled through and he swallowed it back down into his stomach. "I'm not going anywhere."

He followed her gaze down to the floor, and back up to her nonchalant shrug. "That's me. You ever go by Sky? I've gone by Cut to my friends." His mouth moved on it's own, giving his mind a chance to catch up with the unreality of the situation. 

"It is a lot of blood, huh. Whooole lotta blood. Still limited supply, though." A deep sigh shot downward as his hands drifted to the resting spot on his hips where his apron drawstrings usually hung. He focused his gaze back on Skylar, unwilling to think about the cleanup he was going to have to do later. Alone, of course. No insurance company is gonna cover an illegal surgery. "Let's get something on that. I've got supplies back here. Gauze and tape and uh, all sorts of stuff. You need a hand?" 

Shrugging, Skylar’s mind wandered to all the people she’d loved, who’d left this place, who’d left her behind because they had to go. Nic and Winston and Remmy, they’d left. They hadn’t abandoned her, not the way Ricky and her parents had, but they’d left this town and they’d left her too. “Sometimes people leave and that’s just what happens. And then you’re left trying to figure out who you were without them.” Skylar said with a nod. 

“S-K-Y-E, yup. Just friends, though.” She said as she followed behind him, her footprints leaving thick smears against the linoleum flooring of the shop. At his question, she shook her head vigorously. “I don’t want a hand, nope, nope. Got two right here, don’t need more.” She said. “One of my friends kept losing their hands, but now they’re gone.” Skylar said, mostly to herself. “Gone, gone, gone.”

Cutler led the way to the back of the store, propping the EMPLOYEES ONLY door open with a coffee can of ice salt. “Alright, no hands. No problem.” Beyond the crack of the door, a grey cement room stared back at them, devoid of all the usual upholstery; no shelving, or paint, or tiling. The floor sloped ever so slightly downward, puckering at a large metal drain. Under the naked bulbs above him, he knelt to root through a box, pulling out various medical supplies and glancing over every so often to assess the damage. 

“Skylar.” He called back, tendons in his neck jumping with the strain. “What hurts? Can you tell me if anything hurts inside?” As he ambled back toward her, his gaze shifted from sympathetic to critical, mind kicking into higher gear. Silicon gloves rolled down his wrists and his hand paused inches from her lesioned arm, waiting for permission. “Is there any point in me telling you to get rest after this?” 

Skylar hadn’t been in the back rooms of many stores before, but she had a feeling that they didn’t look much like this. Staring around as he began to pull things out of a box, Skylar’s attention dropped back to the floor as she watched droplet after droplet of greyish red splash against the tile. They began to form a small trickle, flowing down, down, down the drain. At Cutler’s words, Skylar looked up and looked at him. “Nothing hurts. Nope, nope, can’t feel anything.” She said and, to prove it, she reached up with her fingers and grasped the chunk of her ear and pulled on it. Blood ran down her fingers, but she didn’t flinch because there wasn’t any pain to feel. It was all just light and bright and nothing at the same time. Holding out her arms, she shrugged. “I can rest. Sometimes I lie down in the woods for hours and hours.” She replied.

Cutler's lips parted in protest, too late to stop her from tugging on her ear. They came back together in a constricted wince. Crimson slick coated her hand and he redirected his attention from her unusual lesions to the fresh tear beside her face. "Okay. Alright. Let's clean this up." His voice was robotically measured, practiced bedside matter. Whether he was trying to steady her or himself, he wasn't entirely sure. "No pain is good. This still might sting, though. Let me know if you want me to stop."

The act of cleaning a wound is intimate by necessity. In close quarters, he could see the rise and fall of her chest below him and the heat of her skin under the sanitizing pad. He afforded her a gentle smile. It didn't say everything he wanted to say; that he too, had lain for hours in the forest while intoxicated. That he has, on more than one occasion, injured himself while drunk and mercifully felt no pain. Instead, he opted for a subtler approach. "Mhm. That sounds nice. Peaceful. Stay still for me if you can, Skylar." The skin of her neck started to become visible as he fastened a series of bandages to the area and wiped away the gore with soft, consistent movements. "Do you know what you took?"

Skylar was barely aware of the gauze pressed against her face. She could smell the sharp of the alcohol as it was used to clean her wounds, but the moment it touched her flesh, it felt like nothing at all. There was no pain, there was no pressure, there wasn’t even hot or cold. Her entire existence was just the manic thrum of excitement and giddy happiness that she had no control over. “Nope, it doesn’t hurt. You can keep doing your stuff.” She said and let Cutler wash away the blood. Sitting still was hard, but she managed it, even as her fingers felt like they wanted to sink into the nearest wall. She couldn’t do that, no, he wanted her to stay still. And he was helping her.

“Oh, it’s really nice. Really, really nice. Sometimes I’d just stay out there for days and days, because it was better than having to feel. But this, this is even better than that. Because I’m just so happy. So, so happy. I’ve never felt this happy before.” Skylar said breathily. At his question, Skylar grinned, remembering the way the pills had looked in the palm of her hand, the way the smoke had burned in her lungs, the soft burn of the Bliss as it ran through her veins. “Some pills, something in a cigarette, a mushroom or three and lots and lots of Bliss.” She said, her expression dreamy as she thought about the box of “supplies” she had stashed away back in her room. 

Cutler concentrated on not letting his concern bleed through his expressions as he listened, resisting the downturn of his mouth and darkening of his brow. His hands moved from wound to wound, adept at giving them exactly the amount of attention they needed before moving on. When he had addressed everything in his view, he extended the white bundle of gauze toward her. “If there’s anywhere else. Underneath your-I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Of course he understood that sores don’t end at the boundaries of his patient’s clothing. It was more than likely that she had significant injuries that weren’t immediately visible. But she hadn’t come to him as a client, and he wasn’t about to start peeling clothing off a vulnerable woman, even to help her. “I need to make a quick call, anyhow. Do you mind?” His thumb was already swiping through a digital rolodex of old work contacts, distant friends, and exes. “I’ll be right over here, and you can call me if you need help. How does that sound?” 

Skylar didn’t notice the way that Cutler’s expression shifted, she was more focused on the way her fingers were wrapped in gauze. Already, she could see the tips of white beginning to darken as blood soaked through the cloth. What started out as pinpricks of color blossomed into thick circles and Skylar pressed her fingers against the side of the wall, watching as the blood spread through the gauze. As he handed her another roll of gauze, Skylar looked at it blankly for a moment before realizing what he was saying. That’s right, she had the gash-- a gaping slash, a gash-- on her side. Mm, she should take care of it.

With clumsy hands, Skylar slid her hands under her shirt and pressed the pad of gauze against her bleeding side. It was hard wrapping the bandages around, but she managed it after a bit of effort. At Cutler’s words, Skylar tilted her head. “What are you doing?” She asked, standing back up, the world shifting around her as she did. Her head felt light, lighter than air, as her vision went black round the edges, but she didn’t care. Taking a step forward, Skylar shook her head. “Who are you calling?” Doctors? Hunters? People who’d poke her, prod her, hurt her, kill her? No, no, no. 

Cutler’s eyes only flicked down to his hand for a moment, enough to dial but not enough time for his impromptu patient to injure herself further. He hoped. Next to his ear, the phone rang out. Once, twice. In his periphery, Skylar wrapped the gauze around her body. She looked strangely fragile in the unshaded bulbs; white fluorescents piercing sickly pale skin to sharp bone underneath. “I’m just making a call.” His chin tilted upward, speaking away from the still-ringing cell. Before he could come up with a lie that she would accept-not that he thought he had one ready-the soft click over the phone alerted him to the presence of someone on the other end. 

He shifted away slightly, hoping the broad slopes of his shoulders would shield the storage room from the soft words he was speaking into the phone. “Hi, it’s Cut. Sorry about the hour. Yeah, yeah, long time. Listen, I need a favour. Do you still work at the Crisis Response Unit? I’ve got a young woman here who’s in distress. No cops, she just needs-” He was interrupted by scuffling behind him, turning just in time to see Skylar getting to her feet. She swayed so slowly that the room seemed to tilt with her. “Skylar-” His protest died in his throat as she lurched forward with surprising intensity, causing him to take a mirroring step backward. She was substantially smaller than him, but something in her eyes caused his heart to leap to his throat. It took another step forward for him to recognize it. Hatred. “It’s just an old friend. She might be able to help you. Better than I can.” 

As the man turned his back on her, Skylar’s ears strained to pick up his hushed tones. She couldn’t pick up specifics, but her mind was already buzzing with possibilities of who was on the other line. Her eyes flicked around wildly, looking at the strange utensils that were laid out neatly on the table he’d taken her to. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered that this was… a store. A shop in the center of town. With packets of chips and gum but also scissors and scalpels and gauze and gloves. Lips curling into a feral grimace, Skylar reached out and grabbed one of the shiny silvery tools from the table and pointed it at Cutler.

“Put down the phone.” Skylar said clearly, glaring at him while blood pounded in her ears. She could stab at him, plunge the tip of the scalpel into his chest over and over and over. She could lunge at him and bury her teeth into the soft flesh of his throat. She could rip him to pieces, she could hurt him, hurt him the way that Hunters wanted to hurt her. A trap, was this all a trap? “I don’t want your friend’s help-- I don’t, I don’t even want your help.” She sneered, tempted to rip the cotton gauze from her hands just to prove it to him. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I could. I could want to hurt you.” She said with another laugh, shaking her head. “So just, just put down the phone.”

The voice on the other end of the line began to rise into a higher register, tinny treble crackling through the rectangular mic at the bottom of the screen. “I’m completely fine. No one’s gonna hurt anyone here. Let me call you back.” Cutler spoke the words loudly and clearly, hoping the slight shaking his hand didn’t translate to his voice. Light flashed off the thin reflective blade of the scalpel. It was a tiny little thing, almost dwarfed in her white knuckle grip, but it could do serious damage. He knew that better than anyone. 

“I’m putting it down.” The phone clattered to the cement floor, sending a nervous jolt through his body. Nice, Cutler. “I don’t think-” His tongue felt heavy against his sticky-dry lips, struggling to form the words he wanted to say. “I don’t think you’re a bad person. And I don’t think you really want to hurt me. If you did, you would have done it by now, right? You’ve had plenty of chances.”

Skylar watched as the man spoke, her eyes trained on him. The lights were bright and sharp around the two of them and it made the scalpel in her fingers glimmer like quicksilver. Liquid in her fingers, she could let it flash out, once, twice, a hundred times, she thought. She could let it slither from her grasp and embed itself into the man’s body, she could watch the blood flow, so slow, down down down the drain. It would be so easy, so quick. A sliver of silver, a knife, a life. The dull thudding of the phone against the floor brought her back to her senses and Skylar nodded. “Yup, it’s down.” She said before kicking out a foot, sending the phone skittering away.

“I could, I could. Everyone could. Everyone wants to hurt people, everything’s only ever wanted to hurt me. Why shouldn’t I hurt someone else? Why shouldn’t I be just like them?” Skylar asked, though the scalpel was already lowering in her hand. She didn’t want to. She didn’t really want to do that. Her arms felt weary, heavier than they’d felt in… well, she couldn’t remember. But the weight of the sharp blade in her fingers felt as though it was dragging her to the floor, pulling her down. “I never wanted to be like this.” She said gesturing to herself with the scalpel, hands waving wildly. “I thought I was normal. I thought everyone was normal. But it’s not and I’m not and I’m just some… thing. Some kind of monster.” Skylar said before letting out a watery laugh. Swiping at her face with her free hand, Skylar wondered when she’d started crying-- why was she even crying? There was nothing to be sad about, nothing to feel. “I-- I…” She stammered, shaking her head as she backed away towards the door she’d come from. Tossing the scalpel away, she looked at the man, mind caught between the urge to charge at him and to run far, far away from him. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.” She said, shaking as she turned around and ran.

Cutler watched a thousand emotions pass over Skylar’s face in an instant. One well-placed slash with the scalpel in her hand and it could be over for him. The karmic balancing of the scales; a fitting end for him, maybe. But she wasn’t going to. He could see it even before her arm started to lower. She was at breaking point, tears overflowing their hitch-breath confines and words spilling out of her, stream-of-consciousness. “I know.” He said softly. And he did. He knew that she wouldn’t let him help. That she was leaving, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. “I know.” 

For a moment, it appeared as if she had changed her mind and decided to tackle him anyway and he tensed, ready to parry or dodge whatever she threw at him, including herself. At the last second, she pivoted, running by him in close quarters. A quicker man might have blocked the door. A stronger man might have reached a hand out to stop her as she passed. Cutler was neither of these things. Instead, he just watched her go.

[revolution-john]

My Childhood Trauma PTSD as Triggered by the Following Movie Montage

by BENJAMIN DREVLOW

That scene in American History X. You know the one. Or maybe it was Higher Learning, I always get those confused. That curb stomp scene always reminding me of the time I tripped and face-planted in the barn while corralling bull calves, to get castrated, my two front teeth chomping down on all that jagged concrete and manure, it adds a different flavor to the recurring nightmare I have, though in my case, usually nothing to do with race relations. I wonder if everybody else who watched that movie also missed the whole point of it. Except the Curb Stomp. Everybody remembers where they were when their stoner friend with big ideas about ending racism across the world made them watch the movie with the Curb Stomp.

~

Mel Gibson getting drawn and quartered in Braveheart. You may take our lives, but you will never take… our… FREE-DOM!

~

Mel Gibson ripping his shoulder out of its socket in Lethal Weapon.

~

Mel Gibson torturing the shit out of Jesus, then blaming the women and Jews for everything, including his drunk-driving and plummeting career options.

~

Fuck pretty much any Mel Gibson movie. Except maybe that one with him and James Gardner and Jody Foster and all their comedy hijinks. It’s the gambler one but not The Gambler. But now that I think about it, isn’t Jody Foster a big Mel Gibson apologist? So I guess fuck that movie too.

~

Any movie where somebody gets shot or stabbed or thumbed in the eyeball or has one or both of their eyeballs squeezed or ripped out, which always reminds me of that time I got elbowed right below my eye but also on the eyeball and it literally pushed in my eyeball a millimeter and I still get double vision to this day whenever I line up a shot playing pool or line up a screw to hang a photo on the wall or sometimes re-hang the toilet paper dispenser next to the toilet. I’d been playing pickup basketball and my buddy who was like four inches taller than me elbowed me on a rebound and like I say I went down and lay there on my back and then all the blood started pooling in my eye socket and I couldn’t see anything and my friend couldn’t see my eyeball and he kept hissing through his teeth grossed out by it but then telling me it would okay and the whole time lying there thinking I’m thinking about my eyeball I’m thinking of the scene in Any Given Sunday where the guy’s eyeball is just lying there on the football field. I’m thinking of that closeup all the way to the hospital when they unwrap the mummy gauze from around my head and the ER doctor breathes a sigh of relief after peeling off all the dried blood to reveal that I needed fifteen stitches and I’d broken my orbital bone, but I still had my eye.

~

Any movie where somebody’s sitting there reading a book before bed, watching TV, gossiping with girlfriends, when the camera pulls back only to zoom back in on the dark night window behind them—cue the string section.

~

If I had to choose one, I’m thinking of that one zombie movie, something 28 Days something but not the one about Sandra Bullock finding love with Viggo in rehab. It’s not even about the zombies. It’s about the dark night window, not to be confused with the Dark Knight window, sorry that was a shitty pun for no good reason whatsoever, but also maybe not completely random with the guy from 28 Days also having played the scarecrow in Batman Begins where he sprays people with a drug and makes them see their worst fears, which never really did it for me, at least not like the secluded house with the zombies lurking around. I grew up in a big old farmhouse out in the barrens of northern Wisconsin. Lots of windows, no shades. In so many ways I grew up in the dark. It wasn’t the zombies I worried about. It was the methheads. Which, sure, I guess if you’re getting technical about it, same thing, fine, you win, I’m scared of zombies.

~

The Zapruder film, but as replayed by Kevin Costner in Oliver Stone’s fever dream of a conspiracy theory. The magic bullet, back and to the left, back and to the left, back and to the left. How it gets stuck in my head, JFK’s exploding head replaced with my brother’s exploding head, sometimes my own, except unlike my brother and JFK, my head’s still mostly intact. Back and to the left, back and to the left. Sometimes I think about that too with that one Seinfeld episode with Keith Hernandez and the magic loogie, but usually the loogie gets replaced with a bullet and Kramer’s head gets replaced with my brother, mine, back and to the left.

~

The sound of the gun shots in the final scene of that Tom Hanks movie where he plays himself again, a good guy, a family guy, a sly sense of humor, but this time a mob hitman with a strained relationship with his oldest son. The look on Tom Hanks’ face walking back to the house from the ocean—having survived it all, the hit that his old mob boss Paul Newman had put out on him for putting a hit on his old mob boss’s son as played by James Bond who also played Ted Hughes in that movie about Sylvia Plath killing herself. But this is past all that, it’s the happy ending. They’re on beach somewhere, white sand, somebody’s house that Tom Hanks and his kid are going to live in now. The silence before and after. Jude Law! It’s Jude Law’s face, his eye all fucked up, how did it happen, I don’t really remember the specifics but I remember the specifics. Bang, bang, bang. I think it might’ve had something to do with Jude Law being a photographer, like one of those where you pose with your kid or something or say you get promoted to head CEO or godfather of the family. Smile. Click, click, except in this case with a gun.

~

The gunshot at the end of American Beauty, pretty much the same thing, different movie. Chris Cooper confusing Kevin Spacey as gay but before Kevin Spacey actually came out as gay and a sexual predator. Not that the latter necessarily had anything to do with the former. Neither in the movie nor real life, well not really, but sorta. You get the point.

~

Jared Leto as Angel Face getting his face smashed in by Ed Norton as Brad Pitt as Tyler Durden’s split personality in Fight Club. Not so much Jared Leto, but the wet mushy sounds of it. That part on the audio commentary where Chuck Palahniuk and David Fincher defend the violence of the movie, Fincher pointing out that he was not glorifying violence, he was making it realistic. That’s what it sounds like to punch your opponent into the concrete, Fincher says and Palahniuk laughs and agrees. Don’t worry I’m not going to make any puns about the first rule of fight club.

~

That part of that one weird depressing Robin Williams’s movie where Robin Williams’s kids get killed in a car accident while backing out of the driveway on the way to school. The one where Robin Williams later on gets plowed over by a truck going the wrong way while Robin Williams is out trying to help another couple who’d been injured in a different car accident, but before all that his wife kills herself because she can’t take it and then Robin Williams goes to the suicide afterlife to save her. But then there’s fucking Cuba Gooding Jr. who—spoiler alert—turns out to be the ghost/angel of his dead son who then explains to Robin Williams that his wife/Cuba’s mother can’t be saved because she killed herself. It doesn’t matter that she had a pretty fucking good reason too, she’s still stuck face down floating around in that black swamp of bodies of everybody else’s killed themselves and nobody’s getting to heaven. That shit really messed me up—not the car accidents, but the afterlife for selfish losers like me who kill themselves. And/or my brother.

~

The bulging vein in Tom Cruise’s head from Magnolia. Respect the Cock and Tame the Pussy, Respect the Cock and Tame the Pussy. I think probably my therapist would have some thoughts about all this, and some questions. Questions and thoughts.

~

That one version of A Christmas Carol where the Ghost of Christmas Past undoes his robe to show off the alien children living under his robe.

~

I got the worst set of blue balls you could imagine while taking my best friend’s girlfriend to Baz Lurman’s remake of Romeo and Juliet. That Romeo and Juliet. I missed most of it, I kept having to go to the bathroom to masturbate in agony and to no avail. Leo and Claire Danes are hot and heavy on an acid trip, and every time my best friend’s girlfriend reaches for a handful of popcorn she makes sure to wipe the butter off on the inside of my upper thigh. This is what I get for being the good guy of falling on the grenade for my best friend, the grenade in this case being Shakespeare and my best friend’s hatred of literature.

~

Mark Wahlberg’s flaccid rotten dick in Boogie Nights.

~

The Secret of the Crying Game but not in a transphobic way. No, it’s the smallness of it what got me back when I watched it as a teenager. The tenderness. The growing tent in my pants at its sudden appearance on the screen. Maybe you don’t believe me but I was a naïve podunk kid from off the farm. I didn’t have cable. I didn’t have access to the internet. His/her (now their) secret opened up a lot of questions for me. I often dream of dressing up in drag and someone sucking my little bitty dick and if that makes me a little bit gay or maybe bi or what’s it called, body dysmorphic. I mean I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, it’s the new millennium, we’re all a bit sexually confused aren’t we?

~

This one porno my friends and I watched at somebody’s uncle’s cabin up in the U.P. for a three-on-three basketball tournament. The Snapping Pussy. The sound her vagina made, like somebody really dramatic at clicking their tongue and slurping a half-empty malt the same time. The scene of us boys all sitting there with our boners watching a porn and wanting to masturbate but not because we were all boys and we were afraid we’d be gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a little bit gay.

~

There was this made-for-TV movie, me six years old and home alone while my big brother, supposed who’d to’ve been baby-sitting me, the only time he ever babysat me that I can remember, maybe because his one time—that time—he didn’t actually babysit me. He went out to a party, while I watched the made-for-tv movie about some kid who’d watched his mother get murdered, and then goes mute, keeps drawing these pictures of Peter Pan and Captain Hook. The kid’s grandfather, one of those big hooks, like the one in I Know What You Did Last Summer, but this was long before that, though I’m not sure it was before the book. Did you know that there was a book I Know What You Did Last Summer? I mean this isn’t about the book or the movie, this is about that kid whose grandfather had molested his daughter for years and then as an adult gutted her with a fishhook and then how he’d then come back to finish the job with his mute grandkid, I don’t know how this movie ever got green-lighted (green-lit?) for TV, but then it’s weird to even think about those made-for-tv movies and if they actually existed or if I’m just making this whole thing up, but then my brother, we had a walk-in basement at the time, this being before I’d accidently burned that house down with two space heaters stolen from the barn, before my brother’d killed himself, he’d come back late, or probably it was only eight or nine, but I was young and alone out in the woods where we lived, and he’d come back through the basement, which was attached to the family room, where I’d been watching and then all of a sudden that kid on TV was being stocked by his granddad with a fish hook and the door to the basement was opening, and for god knows why I’d turned off all the lights to watch the scary movie by myself, and it turns out it was just my brother who’d go on to kill himself in like a year, maybe six months, and he was just playing a little prank on me, or maybe he’d just come through the basement for some reason, he was always hanging out down there and tinkering around with things, but in my mind, I can remember that exact look on his face, that smirk, even in the dark, the light from the television in a blacked-out room, a blacked out house, reflecting off those pop-bottle glasses of his, the shiny too-big-for-his-face silver frames. My mother always tells me I should try to remember the happy times I had with my brother, and honestly, I can’t, I can only remember that smirk, those glasses, the handle turning a moment before he appeared.

~

Any and all sequels where it turns out that the dead character didn’t actually die at all, or maybe it’s magic, or maybe there’s time travel.

~

Any happy ending ever.

~

Every ending in my worst nightmares involves everyone I’ve ever loved or hated, their faces turning to snake faces. Snakeheads, snake arms, snake butts. Snakes snakes snakes. They slip out of their clothes and come up from under my bed, slither under my covers. They bite me, they kiss me, poison me, they consume me whole and regurgitate my bones. That’s how they always end. Me dead and abandoned.

~

That scene in the first Indiana Jones with Indiana Jones and getting trapped in the cave with all the snakes. I hate snakes. All my worst nightmares turn to snakes. Fuck snakes. This all might have something to do with my undersized penis. If you want to go down that path. The Secret of My Crying Game.

~

Has Mel Gibson ever made a movie with snakes? I don’t know, you tell me, but fuck that movie if he did. Mel Gibson is snakey enough on his own.

~

BENJAMIN DREVLOW is the author of Bend With the Knees and Other Love Advice from My Father, which won the 2006 Many Voices Project, and the author of Ina-Baby: A Love Story in Reverse, which was  released by Cowboy Jamboree Books in 2019.  Buy his books here. He is currently at work on a novel, a novella, and a collection of story-poems. He serves as the Managing Editor of BULL Magazine (@BULL_magazine_) and is a lecturer at Georgia Southern University in Statesboro, Georgia.

[may8344]

The Journey of a Forgotten Solider (Levi x OC)

Relationships:

Alana Frey (OC)Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Original Female Character(s)Levi Ackerman/Alana FreyFurlan Church/Original Character(s)Furlan Church/Alana Frey

Characters:

Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)Furlan ChurchIsabel MagnoliaAlana Frey (OC) - CharacterErwin SmithHange ZoëPetra RalGunther SchultzEld JinnOluo BozadoKeith ShadisSpecial Operations Squad | Squad Levi

Additional Tags:

Graphic Description of CorpsesBlood and InjuryViolenceMurder

Summary:

Alana Frey, a girl born in the Underground City, longed to see the true sunlight every morning that she would wake up. Alongside her comrades: Furlan Church, Isabel Magnolia, and Levi, Alana’s life as a thug continued with no way around it; until the sudden day she and her companions were offered the deal of a lifetime.

“Once you complete this job, not only will you be generously compensated for your work,

but you will also earn the right to live above ground.”

Word Count: 2.1k

---

Chapter 12: Worthless Game

Levi began to move with blind rage. Attaching his hooks onto the murderous Titan’s stomach, he hurled himself forwards. Rotating himself, he sliced through the skin with a clean cut. A limp, bloodied hand fell out of the Titan’s belly.

Quickly, the ravenette firmly placed his feet on both sides of the cut and took a strong hold of the body part, yanking it out. Only half of Furlan remained intact; the other nowhere to be seen. Levi carried his fallen friend to the ground, gently resting him on the dirt. 

The four remaining Titans did not wait for him to grieve. Instead, they started stomping towards the black haired man in an attempt to eat him. The one who had killed Furlan was the first to try and reach out. 

But Levi didn’t hesitate. 

Embedding his wires into the bleeding Titan once more, he swerved around its flailing arm. With a large pump of gas, he spiraled straight towards its face, stabbing his two swords into its eyes. Unlocking his blades from the handles with the push of a switch, he jumped off and applied another pair, leaving the murderous one blinded. Within less than a minute, he took down the remaining four, slicing their napes with ease; the fourth one he killed by cutting up its arm and around its neck. 

Levi landed on the ground, not very affected by the stamina it took to deal with Titans. With a click of his tongue, he turned towards the last Titan, who couldn’t figure out how to remove the blades from its eyes. Walking towards it menacingly, the ravenette bellowed emotionlessly. “Hey. Do humans taste good?” 

With ease, he flew up to its neck and stood his ground on the Titan’s back. “Hm? Were they tasty?” His glare only grew as he shoved a blade directly in its neck. 

“Answer me.” 

[~]

Erwin and Mike made their way over to the steamed area on their horses that surrounded Levi. “It’s the steam from fallen Titans,” Erwin noted. 

“To have defeated so many at one time…” Mike thought out loud, shocked by the sight in front of him. “Was it him?”

Levi stood on top of the recently killed and steaming Titan, slowly making his way down. His blades were dulled down from the cutting, so he pushed the switch once more to release his weapons. As he walked, a small thump was felt on the front of his shoe. With wide eyes, he glanced down on what he bumped. 

It was Isabel’s severed head.

Dropping down to his knees, the ravenette’s shaky hand slowly turned it over, face up. The girl had dirt all over her face; even in her eyes. Dried blood painted her colorless skin and leaked from her neck. Unable to look at the sight, he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, carefully sliding the redhead’s eyes closed. Small tears leaked from the stoic man’s eyes at the idea of being alone again. Both Furlan and Isabel had been brutally murdered in front of him, and Alana was nowhere to be found. 

“Hey! Are there any survivors out there?” Erwin’s voice cut through the air from a couple of meters away. 

Levi’s eyes darted towards the noise and his face slowly scrunched up with anger. His target had decided to come to him after all of his friends were gone. Before he knew it, Erwin had already neared him on his brown horse.

“Levi!” He called, now only a small distance away. “Are you the only one left?”

He received nothing but silence and a glare, just like when they originally met in the Underground.

“The corpses of these Titans… You did this alone?”

Not wanting to hear anymore from the blond section commander, Levi jumped up and hurled his small body towards the taller male. Successfully hooking his elbow around his target’s throat, Levi shoved his arm forwards, slamming Erwin into the mud below. Being able to balance on the horse, Levi hadn’t fallen on his face. Instead, he landed on his feet and glared down at his dirtied opponent. 

Mike immediately grabbed his weapons and hopped off of his horse, ready to attack. 

However, he was cut off by the sound of Levi’s newly embedded blade slicing through the air. “Stay back,” he threatened. 

The man complied with his demand, but kept his sword raised in case of any sudden movements. A cold sweat dripped down the side of his face, mixing with the leftover rain droplets that fell from his hair. 

Levi continued his path towards the section commander. “Erwin.” Once he was only a meter or so away, he raised his sword next to blond’s throat. A rough, low shout left his mouth, “I’m going to kill you, you bastard! That’s why I’m here!”

As both of the men stared each other down, a moment of silence was met. Erwin slowly reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, looking down. “So they all died? I see…” Pulling out an envelope, with a red-wax stamp holding the contents inside, Erwin’s eyes met Levi’s once more. “This is what I supposedly have on Nicholas Lovof.”

Levi’s eyebrows snapped together, anger coursing through his veins. “So you knew? You knew we were after you, and yet--” 

“Unfortunately, you were too late.” Ignoring the arguing thug, Erwin continued by tossing the envelope aside. The small stamp opened and small, white papers flooded the ground. There was not a single word written on any of them. 

“Hey, what are you trying to say here?” Levi asked, his hands beginning to tremble.

“It was a bluff.” He answered straightforwardly.

“Huh?”

“I knew that Lovof was embezzling. The military funds left over from the suspension of the Survey Corps these last few years. I spread false information because I wanted definitive proof to back him into a corner.” Erwin explained. “This is Lovof we’re talking about, and he’s cautious. I thought he would make some kind of move first to confirm the existence of the documents. As I expected, he hired you three. 

“If he’d made a move then, there’d surely be some trace. Following those back, it didn’t take much time for the proof to fall into my hands. I was able to pick up on him because he made a move from his end.”

Levi clicked his tongue, losing his patience. “Knowing that much, why did you bring us into the Corps?”

“One reason was your exceptional military prowess. And another… was to use you as partners to throw off Lovof. But there’s no longer any need for that. The real documents are currently in the hands of Commander-in-Chief Zackly. It’s all over for Lovof.”

“It wasn’t… worth throwing away their lives!” Levi screamed at the section commander, anger spilling past his bared teeth. “They were nothing but pawns in your worthless game.” Slowly pulling his sword from the blond’s throat to the side, he prepared to slice down with all the strength he had left. “Well, you lose.” He swung down, hoping to decapitate his enemy.

However, that didn’t happen. Holding the blade in his strong--now bloody--grip, Erwin glared up at Levi, his own teeth clenched as well. “Worthless game? Who’s the one… who killed my subordinates or your friends? Was it me, or was it you?” Pulling the weapon away from his throat, the blond continued. “Do you think that if you had come to attack me together that the three of them would have made it out alive?”

“You’re right,” Levi quietly admitted. “It was my conceit. My damned pride is to blame…”

“No! It was the Titans!” Erwin yanked the ravenette’s sword away behind him as his face got closer and closer to Levi’s. “Where did the Titan’s come from? Why do they exist? Why do they eat people? We don’t know! We are completely ignorant.” To the silver-eyed man’s displeasure, the blond kept inching forward, voice booming. “As long as we stay ignorant, they’ll keep eating us. We’ll never turn the tables on them by staying inside the walls. 

“Look around you!” Pointing behind him, he aimed his finger towards the far, empty horizon. “In this wide open place, there are no walls, no matter how far you go. Here, there might be something to free us from our despair.” Continuing to spread his ideologies onto Levi, Erwin’s voice rose more and more. “But there are people who would keep us from leaving the walls. They stay where danger can’t reach them, obsessively thinking only of their own profits and losses.

“It’s understandable. The clouded eyes of mankind, blocked for a hundred years by the wall… they can’t see the other side. What about you, Levi? Have your eyes remained clouded?” Inevitably inches away from each other's faces, Erwin had a tint of pleading in his powerful voice. “Will you kill me and return back to the dark Underground? We won’t give up on going outside the walls. Fight with the Survey Corps, Levi! Humanity needs your skill!”

The sun was now beginning to shine brightly over the land, the clouds beginning to disperse. At this sight, Levi remembered the first breath of freedom he had shared with his friends the moment he had left the walls. The exhilaration of not being confined had flooded the four of them. The smiles of his friends. 

Levi’s blade fell from his handle, showing he wasn’t a threat, just like he had done in the Underground months prior. 

“From here on out, there’s no deal.”

[~]

“Hurry! We’re heading for the Supply Wagon Team to get dry sound grenades. We’ll reform the Corps using that point as a base.” Erwin said, riding his horse as if nothing had just taken place. 

“The Titans might become more active once the weather clears up better,” Mike added in.

“We’ll meet with the Vanguard leaders before the losses become any greater. And we’ll return alive!” Erwin declared. 

Levi turned a final glance towards where the steaming Titans laid, sprawled over the ground. But more importantly, he looked towards the last place where his friends were, now nothing more than corpses. 

Soon, just as Erwin had suggested, the trio met up with the Supply Team, who had significantly less members. “I’m relieved to see that some of you survived the storm,” he said with a small smile. “If you can, gather any stray squads and rally them here. This will be our meeting point.” The blond commanded as he hopped off of his mare and ran up to one of the wagons, digging through it to find any sound grenades left. Successfully finding a couple, he ran back to his trio and nodded. “Let’s move towards the Vanguard and rally in the rest of the squads.”

The section commander led the other two around the outside squads, trying to group the remaining soldiers back to the wagons. There were many casualties throughout the Corps, but they were successful in securing the safety of the soldiers that still were standing. “Levi,” the blond turned to the smaller male, “there should still be another squad on the right side of the Vanguard. See if you can locate them. If not, head back to the Supply Team.” 

Levi nodded and complied with his order. He led his brown horse towards the right side, where he left his fallen friends, and scanned over the horizon for the remaining squad. Across the distance, he couldn't spot a single living soldier.

Just as he was about to turn back, a distant clomping noise was made behind him. Leading his horse towards the noise, Levi attempted to find what he assumed was the stray horse, hoping there was at least one survivor. 

Nearing closer, the figure was more visible. There was the brown mare and two soldiers riding; one injured and unconscious. "Help!" The awake soldier yelped. "She's injured really badly!"

Levi pulled his horse up next to the survivors. The one who guided the horse was a boy with shaggy brown hair and bright amber colored eyes. Blood stains were present all over his uniform and he looked traumatized. With spare bandages, he had tied a wounded soldier to his back. She had long, black hair and a torn, bloody uniform. Her wounded head was wrapped with bandages along with her torso, arms, and legs. The gear that she wore was smashed against her body. On her left hand was a beaten, silver ring. 

And around her neck was a blue, tear-drop necklace.

"Alana?"

----

Thank you for reading <3

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 

[snowbellewells]

“When You Can’t Walk, I’ll Help You Stand”

By: @snowbellewells for Ouat Winter Whump

(This one shot takes place during 5B, but diverges in the episode where Emma finds Killian in Hades’ lair and gives them the time to piece Killian back together from his wounds and try to deal with what he’s been through.  This may veer more toward hurt/comfort, but I’ve never written a piece that sets out to specifically focus on the whump before, so it was a new challenge.  I hope you will - enjoy? That may not be the right word? - but at least find it worth reading.

I think this is probably still T-rated, but there are some descriptions of Hades’ tortures - a whipping, burning/branding, mental/emotional abuse and taunting - so do be aware of that.)

** Also: Thanks a million to @spartanguard who as my beta reader really shined this up and made it better, as well as being really encouraging and giving me further confidence about this one!! :)

“When You Can’t Walk, I’ll Help You Stand”

Emma couldn’t bring herself to dwell on what could happen to Milah as she waited with the boat, or where Gold had gotten off to and what sort of underhanded trickery he might even then be planning. She had taken a genuine liking to Killian’s first love as they’d trekked together into this deepest level of Hades’ nightmarish abode. Not only did they have the common purpose of rescuing the man they both loved, but there was a similar tough tenacity to the dark-haired woman, a hardened shell of armour formed from scars and a haunted look in her eyes that Emma understood all too well. Maybe it should have been awkward to be walking side-by-side with the woman Killian had given his heart to before her, or she could have felt threatened or possessive that Milah might endanger what she and Killian had when he saw her again, but that had not been the case at all. If anything, she had felt invigorated in her mission; if she could have anyone who would care as desperately about her goal as she did, she couldn’t have suggested anyone better. At the moment, that was really all she had room to worry over.

Instead, Emma vowed to get back to the other woman with their pirate as soon as possible, and she gathered Killian’s battered form toward herself gingerly, knowing as much as it pained her that any contact she made was only going to hurt him further. The sight of her love, the man she had given herself over to the Darkness trying to save, suspended in chains over the frighteningly roiling greenish pit of water, broken, bloodied and nearly insensate was a sight that wouldn’t fade away easily - in fact, she feared it might be permanently seared upon her mind’s eyes in horrific detail.

Her heart, still crammed up in her throat despite having reached him and managing to lower him to the strange metal dias where he slumped in her embrace, nearly choked her, blocking her airway with the not-yet-dissipated panic she’d felt for him being lowered into the seething river. Even as she tried to chuckle at his weakened, “You never listen to me, do you Swan?” she was still struggling to hold back her nausea at the state he was in, even as she tried to chuckle bravely for his sake and banter back, “And you love me for it.”

Her hands ached to brush along his cheek and trace over the beloved long-healed scar beneath his right eye. However, it wasn’t even visible to her through the dried blood caking large sections of his face and neck and the mottled array of yellowing, greenish and purple bruises that covered the rest. His dark leather beneath her trembling fingers was shredded in places across his back and shoulders and charred roughly in others. Where the material remained intact, she felt the stickiness of blood still wet over much of the surface and the roughly melted edges where the jacket seemed to have been burned - and she feared the same of his skin beneath.

“Come on, Killian,” she managed, her voice a mere breath at his ear, unable to muster more sound out of sheer stunned shock at the cruelty he had clearly endured. “Let’s get you out of here.” She didn’t want to hurt him further, but they had to get out of Hades’ lair and back to the others, the sooner the better. Trying to steel herself against the reaction she was sure he’d have, she slipped her hands under his arms, in hopes of lifting him to his feet and helping him stand.

As expected, a sharp hiss of breath escaped Killian’s parched lips before a bitten back groan made its way through his clenched teeth despite his determined efforts. Staggering slightly, she could feel his strained and abused muscles quivering as her pirate attempted to get his feet beneath him and aid her in supporting his weight. By pure reflex, Emma slipped an arm free and placed it on his lower back to brace him, but as soon as her palm made contact, a harsh cry of pain escaped him and he jerked away from the touch defensively, nearly buckling his knees and sending them both to the cold stone floor.

Killian’s eyes were squeezed shut, and his chest heaved for breath even as she grit her teeth and just barely managed to keep them upright. She couldn’t read his mind, but the way his body shuddered against her side told Emma he might well be revisiting some part of the trauma he had suffered over again. She kicked herself for having sent him into the episode and whispered apologies to him even as she tried to coax him into taking a first step toward freedom. Killian, however, was lost to the torrent of memories flooding his head…

His bound hands were jerked over his head, pulling him to stand straight, stretched almost onto his toes, by Hades’ magically conjured rope that held him inescapably tight and in position. Though youth and young adulthood in indentured servitude and most of a centuries-long life lived at sea as a pirate gave him a familiarity with what was surely coming, it didn’t stop the fear that rose in his chest, or the intense desire to struggle, to attempt escape, however impossible, from his bonds. The dry-mouthed fear and dread brought on by the probability of a lashing struck panicked dread into the most solid and stoutest of hearts, and he was no exception. Once he had felt that scourge slice across his skin - and his back bore the healed-over scars from how well, even ages since they had been given - he couldn’t help but tremble at the prospect, even if he gave no other sign of pleading or weakness.

He heard the whip whistle through the putrid, sulfuric air and the fiery lance of agony struck deep on impact, a stifled cry breaking past his lips despite how he tried to hold it back and deny his tormenter the satisfaction. Though it had been ages since the days he knew this punishment well - whether in retribution for a nicked crust of bread from the galley to silence his half-starved growing belly, or for oft-uttered self defense when mocked for being small, fatherless, unwanted and abandoned, which was taken as impertinence and punished accordingly - the bite of the braided leather, tearing into his flesh a bit more with each stroke had not lessened in impact, either physically or with the emotional pain of those long-buried memories.

After the fifth lash, he felt the skin break as the whip criss-crossed a previous cut one time too much for the skin to remain intact. The feel of blood running down his back and beginning to soak the waistband of his jeans was a minor discomfort compared to the pain flaring over his shoulders, down his spine and out across his sides, but the combination made bile rise in his throat and he could just barely choke back a sobbed plea for mercy. He could not even sag to partially relieve the pulling against the tautly stretched and ravaged skin and sinew of his back, nor could he flinch or try to shield the worst areas of his suffering.

Tears ran down his cheeks unbidden, and Killian could only grit his teeth and hope that the soot, sweat, open cuts, and dried blood hid the trails that would give away his break into emotion. When the lord of the Underworld cackled in twisted delight, Killian hated that he very well might know just how broken he was.

The fallen deity released the magical ties with a quick flourish, and Killian collapsed weakly to the stone floor beneath him, stubbornly only emitting a low grunt of pain at the contact with all his injured body. Somehow, regardless of the despair slowly sneaking into his spirit and mind as the relentless and unendingly shifting modes of torment continued without ceasing, he still managed to grit his teeth and glare back at Hades with the fire and resolve of a formidable pirate captain when the villain knelt next to his broken body and jerked his head up by the hair to hauntingly question, “Have you given up hope yet?”

With all the strength he could muster, Killian growled with true hatred in his eyes, “Never.”

And for a relieving moment, Hades left to find a new way to harrow him.

When he and Emma finally shuffled at last from the cavernous underground lair he had been trapped in since his death, Killian went to his knees, no longer able to put his feet forward and support his own weight, even with Emma’s urging and support. At least they were out of the dank, winding maze of darkness below, and Killian almost felt that in itself more a miracle than he would have expected, even if they weren’t free of this cursed realm yet.

Emma appeared puzzled when she managed to half-drag, half-steady him to a shore where an empty rowboat awaited them. It sent off concerned warning bells in Killian’s head to see her wild-eyed glance flit nervously from side to side and her mumble to herself, “Where are they?” His dazed mind fumbled through guilty confusion wondering who she had brought with her and dragged into danger on his undeserving behalf. At the same time, his tongue had been clumsy and thick with dehydration between all the sweat and tears he lost without a bit to drink. True, his no-longer-living system shouldn’t need rehydration, but it didn’t seem to convince his mind he wasn’t thirsty, especially after the fires and ravages of the last few days he had begun to fear would encompass his eternity.

Pushing past her confusion, Emma didn’t hesitate long on that bleak, rocky bank; somehow she had managed to force him up once again, if only long enough to help him drag his heaving carcass into the small vessel awaiting them and collapse in its stern as she took up an oar. “We’re almost out, Killian,” she whispered, grim determination in her voice as she began to paddle. “Rest. We’re going to get you out of here, I promise.”

Again, he wanted to protest, to insist he wasn’t worth it and that she should save herself and leave him to his fate, but his weakened body wouldn’t seem to allow him to think clearly enough to speak his mind with sense.

The next thing he knew, his eyes were blinking open again, as the boat bumped against another rocky outcropping, still not under open sky, but seeming less dark, less encroaching somehow. Emma was leaning over him a mere moment later, asking if he was with her, and seemed to want to touch him but was biting her bottom lip as her worried eyes scanned his form, as if not sure where to touch that wouldn’t add to his suffering.

Other voices began to filter into his awareness then; a gasp and pained exclamation of his name, the dismayed and teary “Oh, Killian!” clearly belonging to Snow White. He heard a low, angry curse that was no doubt his fellow reformed outlaw mate’s voice, and David’s was an added murmur, as if trying to direct the others.

“Can you get out of the boat?” Emma asked him gently.

He tried to focus his swimming vision on her face, and breathed a pitiful admission that he hated himself for uttering. “I’ll try, Love...but...I-I’m not sure I can walk any further…”

She blinked tears back at that, finally seeming to have decided to at least risk squeezing his hand for a moment within her own trembling touch. “That’s okay,” she managed hoarsely. “Just step out, and my dad and Robin are ready to help you.”

He somehow managed to heft himself up, wobbling more than he should, and stumbled out of the boat onto solid ground once more. Dave and Robin both reached out to steady him, and he felt Emma hovering at his back, but none of them were quite able to stop his fall as he crashed to his knees once more and was sucked into another reliving of his torture…

Hades’ minions, two burly demons not quite human or beast, but some grotesque amalgam he hesitated to ponder, forced him to his knees on Hades’ barked order. Much as he tried to resist, to fight back, he had already been kept for days without nourishment or rest, plagued by dreams of his not coming back to himself in time and letting Nimue strangle the life from his beautiful Swan, of leaving the mark to do its work and allowing her boy and the rest of her loved ones to suffer in this hell he now inhabited, and the certainty that if he could get back to those he had once thought might almost be his family too, they would turn from him one by one, having at last come to realize the darkness that had always haunted his soul. Killian didn’t know if his infernal jailer had sent these visions or if they would have beset him regardless after the way he had fallen to the Darkness and given it free reign, but they give him no quarter, and his spirit was wrung and weakened even before each new physical torment began.

The henchmen - he had the tiniest glimmer of solace at the momentary urge to call them Pain and Panic, remembering a distant better time when Henry had shown him the animated picture version of Hercules, Hades and the rest - had iron grips, and held him there on his knees, arms outstretched, unable to move or shield himself from whatever blow was coming next. His head lolled slightly forward, the slight drop in his guard and the thought of a happier memory made his reality all the more shattering, and it took him a moment to register the slight smoky scent in the air before Hades stepped into view with a burning, red hot brand in his grasp.  The exiled god watched recognition dawn in his prisoner’s eyes with sadistic glee. “You’ve been disappointingly stoic in the face of all my trials, Captain,” he mused leisurely, looking for all the world as if he were about to sit down for a pleasant tea rather than torture someone into madness and despair. “However,” he chuckled, leaning in to pat Killian’s roughly stubbled and bruised cheek, “I think this might just do the trick.”

He stood back up and without further warning shoved the brand into Killian’s side. The fiery agony caused Killian to buck fruitlessly against the arms holding him in place; a long, low keening sound ripped from his throat unbidden as the smell of his own flesh sizzling turned his stomach.

“Aha!” Hades crowed triumphantly, moving slightly behind Killian to next press the brand to the pirate’s opposite shoulder. The brand singed through the tattered remnants of his jacket, practically melting the material into his skin and making the pain linger even once the fiery instrument itself had been pulled back. “I had a feeling that would do the trick.”

Coming back to stand before his victim once more, Hades stopped to look at the man trying with all his might not to whimper or beg, still staring back at him with resistant hatred in those ice-chip blue eyes, the lord of the Underworld grinned insidiously as he jerked back the Captain’s already ripped-up sleeve to bare the dagger-pierced heart tattoo on his forearm. “Just one more, I believe.  A permanent reminder for Captain Hook,” he chortled in fiendish delight, “that you might as well give up your foolish hope. You failed them, just as you failed her.  You continually hurt, and eventually lost, anyone you ever dared to love.”

Killian flinched back into awareness of his present surroundings with a shattered cry. Pain still radiated from all the wounds that had throbbed in his nightmarish reverie, and it left him unsure of where he was or what was happening around him. There had been motion; he was certain that he had been moving, though not whether his own feet had been taking the steps. However, at the gasp which had escaped him and the whimpering which he realized gradually was coming from his own throat, everything had come to a halt.

Emma’s beautiful, golden hair and troubled face caught his sight as she moved to stand before him. Hesitantly placing her hands on either side of his face, her thumbs stroked his battered skin for several calming seconds. He couldn’t help the wince at even that most gentle contact, and yet he didn’t want her to stop. He tried to focus on her words and to nod in agreement when she murmured softly, “I know it hurts. I’m so sorry, Killian. But we’re almost there. Then we’ll let you rest, I swear.”

He realized that he was being mostly carried between David and Robin, his arms slung over their shoulders, and his head full of sweat and blood-matted hair lolled to the side and resting in the crook of the man he had hoped to call father-in-law’s neck. He was upright, but his feet were barely scuffling along, mostly dragging the ground as the other two men propelled him carefully forward. Snow and Emma were just ahead of them, coming to stand in front of a door that strangely resembled the entry to Snow and David’s loft back in Storybrooke above. The fact that Emma’s mother wore a bow and quiver of arrows over her sensibly sedate peacoat only served to confuse him further, and he wondered for a second if some sort of delirium had set in.

However, it seemed that the sights before him were real as Emma opened the door to reveal an almost perfect replica of the Charmings’ Storybrooke apartment. The only difference he could see at first glance was the fact that like all of the Underworld he had seen so far, it was tinted with a sort of dark red lens, as if seen through fire or blood. Emma didn’t slow or stop, but lead them across the eerie copy of the living room to a separate bedroom just off it, where Dave and Robin finally eased him down to the soft surface of a bed - thankfully before he could lose consciousness again.  Sight wavered unreliably in and out for several minutes, though Killian heard murmuring voices in low whispers at the doorway, before footsteps died away, the door closed, and then he heard the soft pad of light feet drawing back to his side again.

“Killian?...Can you hear me?” Her usually brash and confident voice sounded tear-choked and hesitant to his ears, paining him further to think that he had caused her distress even as he struggled to part dry and bitten-raw lips to make an audible reply. He might have been angry beyond all measure with her when he woke to realize she had turned him into the evil he hated in order to keep him alive, but all of that had faded away with the agony and apology in her eyes on the shore of that lake.  What she’d been made to do in penance, the shock of Excalibur thrusting home within his body, the wave of light transforming her back into his savior, and that final (they’d believed so at least) goodbye had washed the bitterness and the desire for vengeance from his veins. Since then, there had only been room for pain and the gnawing absence of his True Love...not room for much at all beyond the missing her.

She was beside him once more; Killian felt the bed dip gently with her weight as she set herself down on the very edge of it near his hip. A moment later, her tender hand was carefully smoothing his dark fringe of hair back from off his forehead where grime, sweat and blood had plastered it. He managed to blink his eyes open enough to look at her briefly, hoping his expression would somehow convey the words he couldn’t seem to produce to tell her he could hear her, he forgave her if she could forgive him in turn, he still loved her, he had feared he would never see her face or feel her touch again, and even that comfort was enough for him to have begun to heal.

Finally, Killian managed a small nod of his head, to which her lips tilted up in the barest hint of a sad smile. Humming low and soothingly in the back of her throat, Emma continued to run her fingers through his hair, despite how matted and dirty Killian was certain it must be. In truth, it wasn’t clear who was more calmed by the action - himself or his love. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before her fingertips brushed against a sensitive spot where Hades had jerked his head up by the roots of his hair and Killian could not help but flinch.

A distressed sound escaped Emma’s lips as she quickly withdrew her hand, already apologizing as she stood and hurried off - worriedly explaining how she had forgotten herself in her gladness to simply be near him again instead of beginning to treat his wounds.

The sound of water running gained his interest momentarily, and then he felt the bed dip beneath him once more as Emma returned to his side. A warm washcloth touched his face as she laid it over his forehead and eyes for several seconds before beginning to gingerly dab at the dried blood and grime smeared across his forehead and cheeks. She got up once, twice, and yet a third time, keeping the wash rag warm and damp so as to ease the dried matter from his bruised and broken skin without having to scrub any harder than absolutely necessary. And, even with the occasional twinges of pain at her ministrations, Killian felt his tightly clenched and abused muscles begin to relax at last beneath her care.

It wasn’t until she had finished washing his face and neck, unbuttoned and removed the ruined ribbons of his jacket and shirt to bathe his shoulders, chest, and stomach, tearing up at the damage that revealed, and urged him gently to sit up so she could cleanse his back as well, that he tried to tell her even a little of what had happened.

She tried to be strong, to remain calm and merely listen to him, to be there for him as he exorcised whatever demons and trauma he needed to release, but he couldn’t choke out much before the emotion welling up in his chest clogged his words and forced him into silence again. Emma couldn’t stop the first, or the second, silent tear which slipped down her cheek in response to what little he had been able to share (and the crushing guilt that she had helped to put him in his attacker’s clutches) and merely seeing the aftereffects written upon his skin. However, even if she couldn’t be as strong and solid for him to lean on as she had hoped, she could see he was clinging to control, to sanity, as desperately as one would to the last board in a shipwreck so as not to drown in the storm still swirling around him.

Even before she finished washing the blood from his skin, disinfecting and bandaging the cuts and stabs and burns, she merely pulled back and stared into his eyes, hands cradling his face until he drug in a ragged, rattling breath before she finally whispered, barely audible against his lips, “It’s okay, Killian. Let it go.”

For several long, tense seconds, Killian merely stared back at her - his faze so wrought, so broken, that Emma almost panicked, not sure that she could truly help him or that she was equipped or enough. Then, slowly, the blue of his eyes clouded, washed paler by the wave of tears that suddenly began to run down his face as it crumpled, the removed and controlled facade collapsing at last as his shoulders began to shake with sobs.

Not knowing what else to do, but glad that maybe he was finally allowing himself what she suspected her needed, Emma pulled him to her chest, hoping she didn’t hurt him too badly as she did, and held on as he buried his head against her and let himself cry.  Emma didn’t shush him or try to speak; she would soothe him when he was ready, but for the moment she sensed her pirate needed to fall apart, to release the pent-up pain and fear and anger. It made her wonder just how much he had kept buried, and for how long.

All the while as she held him, Emma found herself apologizing over his silent sobs, unable to stop, admitting that she knew how she had hurt him, how she had been wrong to disregard his wishes, and swearing that she would never let her needs so supersede his own again. She would do whatever he needed.

Eventually though, as the storm of emotion passed and his shaking stilled, she realized Killian was trying to answer her.  Moving his head only slightly, she finally heard his murmured, “Emma, Emma...no, my Love...enough.  We’ve both learned…and we’ve punished ourselves too much.  It’s over, it’s forgiven…”

She was the one to shake her head then, almost unable to believe he could truly let it go, her hand cradling the back of his head and stroking the strands of his dark hair. “Killian...what I did...I can’t make it right...I can’t undo what happened to you because I…”

His battered, beloved hand, scraped raw with knuckles swollen and bloodied, but still beautiful to her, came to cover her lips, stopping the flow of words, “Sh...sh…” he soothed. “Emma...all I need is for you to keep holding me.”

Releasing a heavy sigh, Emma nodded tightly and pulled her True Love into her careful embrace once more. It wasn’t all going to fade immediately; he wasn’t healed with a single touch, but she felt for the first time since their whole ordeal had begun, perhaps even since she had picked the dagger up from the street and willingly become the Dark One, that they would in time be alright.

To his simple, bare request, she could only promise with quiet certainty, “Always, Killian. You hear me?... Always.”

Tagging a few who may enjoy: @ouatwinterwhump @spartanguard @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @laschatzi @resident-of-storybrooke @jennjenn615 @teamhook

[notstars-doors]

If you are still in a Drabble/prompts mood, can you do this one? If you want? “Wait, are you flirting with me?” “I have been for the last three years, but thanks for noticing” for Birdflash? Ps.: I love your writing a lot!

Well this has been in my inbox for forever. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting this long, but I had a lot of fun with this prompt and wanted it to be good, so it came out very long. 

Hope it was worth the wait!

~~~~~

Wally sits down on his beach towel, stretching out under hisumbrella. Artemis might rag on him for it, acting like a 17thcentury lady or something, but he’s not taking any chances. Sure, he might likethe sun, but the sun does not likehim. Any extra time under it’s rays would leave him with some lobster-likequalities that he really doesn’t want to deal with. So, it’s either two layersof sunscreen and a large umbrella, or a red nose and a million more frecklesthan he already has.

He’ll take the umbrella and ridicule, any day.

“KF!”

Wally lifts his head to find the source of the voice,grinning when he sees Robin jogging over towards him. He’s got his sunglasseson, as per usual, and a towel hung around his neck.

“Rob!” Wally raises a hand in greeting, bumping their fiststogether when Robin gets close enough. “Glad you could make it!”

“You kidding?” He grins, flinging his towel flat onto thesand beside Wally’s and dropping down to sit next to him. “A day like this?Wouldn’t miss it.”

Robin’s probably been in the sun for all of fifteen minutesfrom the trek down from the mountain to the beach, but his skin is alreadyglowing a darker shade of brown. His black hair is shaggy and hanging in hiscovered eyes, looking a little windswept.

“You haven’t missed much.” Wally chuckles, shifting to laydown on his own towel. “Zatanna tried to start a splash-match with Conner. Thatdidn’t end well.”

“Of course not.”

“Artemis is hellbent on kicking some ass at volleyball, butI think we’re all a little tentativeabout that.”

Dick chuckles, running a hand through his messy hair. “Ithink I could take her.”

“You’re probably the only one who could- or would.” Wallysnorts. He reaches into his beach bag to pull out some potato chips, rippingopen the plastic and delving inside. After inhaling a few handfuls, he tiltsthe bag towards his friend.

Dick cocks an eyebrow. “You? Sharing?”

Wally rolls his eyes. “I’m in a giving mood. Besides, it’syou.”

Dick blinks, his lips pursing in thought for a moment beforereaching into the bag and taking his own handful of chips. “So, umbrella time?”

Wally shrugs. “Yeah, gettin’ a little toasty.”

“How long you been out here?”

“Long enough. I can already feel myself gettin’ crispy, Idon’t need weird patchy freckles and a red face.”

Dick frowns. “Weird and patchy?”

“Yeah,” Wally squints against the bright light as he looksup at his friend. “They clump together when I’m in the sun too long, they goblotchy and weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird, I like your freckles.”

Wally rolls his eyes. “You’re my best friend, you have tosay that.”

Dick’s frown gets deeper, and he shakes his head. “Nottrue.”

“That you’re my best friend?”

“That I have to say that.”

Wally snickers, raising an arm to tuck his hand under hishead. “Yeah, right.”

“I’d tell you if you were ugly.”

“Thanks.”

“No really, I’d be brutally honest. You’re lucky you’recute.”

Wally blinks at that, staring up at the inside of hisumbrella. Did he hear that right?

Before he can question it, something blots out the sun abovethem and Wally’s too thrown from the ‘cute’ comment to notice the redvolleyball soaring towards him. He doesn’t react fast enough, and it hits himsquare in the face.

“Heads up!”

He’s laying flat on his back, groaning behind both handsclasped over his face. Dick is wheezing next to him, clutching his stomach fromlaughing so hard. Wally glares at him over his knuckles, watching the other boyrolling in the sand, overtaken with giggles.

Oh, look at that. Blood.

“Ah - little too late there, Miss M!” Wally calls out, hisvoice distorted from pinching his nose to stop the blood flow. He moves to tilthis head back but feels something on the back of his neck, pushing him forward.

“Nope, don’t do that.” It’s Dick, who’s still laughing, butit’s more subdued now. He’s kneeling next to him, holding out a small towelwith one hand and the other still propping Wally’s head forward. “You tilt backand the blood will just drain down the back of your throat.”

“Gross.” Wally mutters. He takes the towel from his friendand holds it under his nose.

“Sorry Wally!” M’gann floats over, her expressionsympathetic as she lands next to them, kneeling in front of the other red head.“Artemis is a little… enthusiastic, about volleyball…”

“C’mon, Meg! Toss it back!”

A familiar husky voice calls out from across the beach.Wally peaks around Robin’s side to see Artemis standing at the edge of thevolleyball court, hands on her hips. He flips her the bird, a gesture sheresponds to by sticking her tongue out.

“Fuck you, Arty!”

“No thanks.”

“You just wait, I’m gonna-”

“What, Kid Klutz? You gonna bleed on me?”

“Kid Kl-? You hit mein the face with a volleyball!”

“You hit my volleyball with your face.”

“That’s it-!”

Wally lunges forward to get to his feet but finds a firmhand planted against his chest holding him in place.

“Whoa! Hit the brakes, KF.” Dick shakes his head, stillchuckling.

“She-!”

“Is gonna hand you your ass the second you step on thatcourt. Don’t do that to yourself, dude, you’re already bleeding.”

“It’s fine, it’s already healing.”

“And it’s gonna heal wrongif you don’t let me set it.” Dick rolls his eyes. “Why don’t we go inside,before you have a crooked nose and awounded ego.”

“Too late for that.”

They both glance up to see M’gann clasping both hands overher mouth, eyes wide in disbelief at her own words. Dick bursts out laughingagain, clutching Wally’s shoulder for support while the ginger gives her anincredulous look.

“Wow. Thanks Meg.”

“Sorry Wally!” She squeaks, snatching up the volleyball fromwhere it sits next to him in the sand and turning to fly back to the court.“Feel better!”

Wally scowls, then grimaces in discomfort as the motionshifts his already healing nose. Dick straightens up, still gasping for breaththrough his giggles, and claps him on the back gently.

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Fine…”

The trek back up to the Cave takes longer than Wally wouldlike, but he’s used to walking alongside his oh-so-human best friend, so hedoesn’t mind as much. By the time they get inside, he can already tell hisbones have mended themselves, but probably not in any way that’s flattering.

“Okay,” Wally mumbles as they enter the med bay, droppingthe towel from his face and turning to Dick. “What’s the damage?”

Dick clamps his lips together, and Wally can tell he’strying not to laugh all over again.

“It needs re-breaking, doesn’t it?”

“I mean…”

“You’re gonna do it, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have to.”

“Does it look stupid?”

“It’s not… the worst?”

“Do it.”

“Walls-“

“Just do it, Dick.” Wally gestures to his whole face. “Thisis the money maker.”

Dick scoffs, shoving him playfully towards the stretcherthat’s sitting against the wall. Wally complies and hops up onto the stiffcushion, gripping the metal frame tightly as he braces himself for what’scoming. Dick hands him a towel to place between his teeth, and Wally takes ashallow breath before doing so, closing his eyes as he feels Dick’s hands cometo rest on his face.

“NMMF-! AH FUCK!”

Dick grips his shoulders as Wally keels forward, who’s handsraise up to cover his aching nose.

“Stop squirming!”

“Son of a bitch!”

“You did not complain this much when you first got hit.”

“I had somewhere else to direct the- goddammit, that hurt.”

“Stop touching it, let me set it for you.”

Wally huffs, eventually complying and placing the towel backin his mouth as Dick aligns his nose. Using any kind of anaesthetic would bepointless, as it would be burnt out of his system too fast to have any effect,so Wally just bears the pain and grits his teeth against the towel. Dick placessome medical tape over the break, his touch as light as it can be while tryingto set the bone correctly.

Dick pulls back to check his work, then nods his approval.“There. Was that so hard?”

“Mmmf..”

“You can take that out of yourmouth now, idiot.”

Wally spits out the towel and throws it at his friend. “Yes,it was that bad.”

Dick swats the it away, somehow managing to get it into thebiohazard bin without even trying. “You asked me to!”

“Still hurt.”

“Oh, quit complaining. Let me clean you up, you’re stillcovered in blood.”

Dick douses a fresh towel in some water and grabs Wally’schin, tilting his head this way and that to wipe away the dried blood. He’sgentle, but firm, his brows furrowed in concentration. By the time he’sfinished, Wally can feel his nose throbbing less and less as the bone healsproperly. He reaches up to rip off the medical tape, wincing as the adhesivepulls at his skin, and wiggles his nose gently to test it.

“Alright, how’s it look now?” Wally grins, hands on his hipsand chin tilted up as if to say, ‘check me out!’

Dick glances up from the sink, eyes flickering over Wally’sface for a moment before the corner of his mouth twitches up into a smallsmile. “Good.”

“As per usual.” Wallyhops off the table, zipping over to his friend and latching onto him in a hugfrom behind. “Thanks for the patch job, Doc!”

Dick turns in Wally’s arms – surprising him – and smirks,leaning back against the edge of the sink. “Gotta keep that pretty face intact,right?”

Wally blinks. “Uh. Right.”

Dick’s glasses are sitting on top of his head, as he neededthem out of the way in order to fix Wally’s nose. They’re pushing his bangs outof his face, revealing clear blue eyes shining with mischief in a way that onlyWally ever gets to see. It’s… cute?

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Wally blinks again. “Uh- like what?”

“Like I’ve got something on my face.”

“I’m not?”

“Well you’re looking at me weird.”

“No, I’m not!”

Dick grins, crossing his arms. “Do you just like looking atmy face?”

“No-“

“So, you don’t like my face?”

“What?” Wally shakes his head, wondering how on earth theygot onto this topic. “No! I mean- sure? Wait, why would I-?”

“God, you’re such an idiot.” Dick rolls his eyes, his chestshaking with quiet laughter. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Wally frowns, only nownoticing that Dick is still in his arms. Which isn’t weird. Is it? “Wait hangon-”

“There it is…”

“-are you flirtingwith me right now?”

Dick plucks his shades off the top of his head, settlingthem back on the bridge of his nose and smiling at Wally in a way that makeshis chest flutter. “I mean, I have been for the last three years, but thanksfor finally noticing.”

“You- what?”

“I’ve been flirting with you since I was 15, you moron.”Dick flicks his nose, and Wally flinches in surprise rather than pain. “Mr.Flirts With Anything That Has A Pulse, you really can’t see it when someoneelse is into you.”

“You’re into me?”

Dick rolls his eyes again. “Jesus, you’ve got a thickskull.”

“Hey!” Wally flicks him back, green eyes narrowed inoffense.

Now Dick’s grinning again. “There you are. I was beginningto wonder if I shocked the sense right out of you.”

“You almost did.”

“Not a difficult task.”

Wally throws his hands in the air in exasperation, steppingaway from his friend. “Christ, is it Pick-On-Wally Day or something? You’rerelentless.”

“Sorry.” Dick’s smile turns sheepish as he rubs the back ofhis neck. “Kind of a… defense mechanism, I guess.”

Wally turns back to him, hands dropping to rest at hissides. Dick is still leaning against the sink, now crossing his arms over hisstill bare chest in a sort of hunched position, staring at the floor. All thecheeky bravado is gone, replaced by what looks like a strong case of nerves.Wally realizes that he really doesn’t like that look on Dick.

“Why would you need that?”

“What?”

“A defense mechanism.”

“Oh.” Dick shrugs, glancing up at Wally once before staringat the floor again. “Uh. I dunno. I guess… for whatever your reaction to thisis.”

“Well, surprise isdefinitely part of it.” Wally takes a step closer again. “Why did you never sayanything?”

Dick finally looks up at him again, but his expression ishilariously deadpan. “I did. Or I tried to. It’s like you’ve been deaf forthree years, I didn’t think I’d ever get it through your head.”

“You did now.”

Wally notices how close he’s gotten to Dick again, who seemsto notice it as well, since a strong blush flares up his cheeks all the way tothe tips of his ears. Wally decides he kind of likes that.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What- uh…” Dick clears his throat, standing up a little straighter.“What does that mean?”

“Not sure yet.”

His gaze flickers over Dick’s face, taking in all the littlethings he’s never really noticed before: his sharp jawline, full lips, straightnose. Those blue eyes, hiding behind pitch black sunglasses. Eyes he’s neverseemed able to look away from. Not that he’s ever wanted to.

Dick is pretty. Not in a feminine way, but that’s not a badthing. It’s just a fact. Dick is pretty, now. Handsome. Kinda hot, actually, nowthat Wally thinks about it.

Wally’s not really thinking a whole lot right now though.

“Mind if I try something?” He asks, voice soft and curious.

Dick swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a waythat Wally finds kind of inviting.

“Sure.”

Wally lifts a hand, hesitating for only a fraction of asecond that Dick would never be able to register, before gently taking Dick’s shadesoff and placing then on the counter beside them. Dick’s eyes never leave his,watching his every movement. Both of them are holding their breath at thispoint. Wally’s pushes a stray lock of black hair back into place before slippinghis hand around the nape of Dick’s neck, tilting his head up ever so slightly.

Dick meets him halfway as Wally leans in. He’s not surprisedthis time – Dick always seems to know what he’s thinking. Wally closes his eyesjust before their lips meet, that last second of anticipation feeling like an eternity– and just like that it’s like there’s fireworks going off inside his chest. He’skissing Dick, and Dick is kissing him back, and it’s like the last few puzzlepieces of his life just slotted into place.

His free hand comes up to rest on Dick’s hip, pulling him alittle closer in the process. Dick’s own hands are resting gently on hisshoulders, one thumb rubbing absentmindedly over his collarbone, and suddenly Wally’spressing Dick backwards against the sink like he just can’t get close enough. Dicksqueaks into his mouth in shock, fingers gripping at his shoulders for just a secondbefore his arms are winding around Wally’s neck. The kiss is clumsy and a littlewet, considering they’ve never done it before, but Wally doesn’t really care thatmuch. Not with Dick’s flushed skin against his own, soft lips parting for himwithout Wally having to ask.

The kiss breaks before either of them is ready for it to end,their foreheads pressed together and breath mingling as they gasp for air. Wally’seyes open to find those damn baby blues watching him, glazed over with want andjust a little bit of apprehension.

“So?”

“Hm?”

“You tried it.” Dick swallows, licking his lips beforespeaking again. “What did you think?”

Wally huffs out a soft chuckle, shifting his weight to leanhis hands on the edge of the sink, trapping Dick in place between Wally’s bodyand the appliance. Dick’s looking at him so hopefully that Wally feels hisknees go a little weak, and he wants to slap himself for being so damnoblivious. His eyes flick down to look at Dick’s mouth again, then back up to hisclever, calculating, expressive blue eyes, and the realization that his bestfriend could be so much more than just that settles comfortably in his chest.

“I think I could get used to that.”

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Synchronicity 16

Notes: After hitting brick wall, restructure! So, that one’s a bit of Frankenstein’s Monster. Introducing: Remnant, references to past happenings that were supposed to be referenced much, much later, and morally (VERY) questionable actions (if you get the reference). Jack’s still high on morphine.

Previous parts under this one link: gyromitra-esculenta(.)tumblr(.)com/post/173374189022/synchronicity-15

Jack grimaces when from behind the APC a figure shambles out, a man in a stained dress shirt with a suitcase held in his right hand. Something unsettling in how strangely his neck twists to the left.

"I wonder, Sunshine," the Beast teases, "fight or flight?"

***

(…) And all I see is war path ahead of me Each and every step I welcome readily And if my lack of fear bring the death of me Let the spirits of my ancestors envelop me (…)

His fingers still grip the rifle, the knuckles white on the dark surface of the gun, and he still stares into dark crimson eyes. The last words reverberate between them – him and the Beast – the talk of ashes and charred bones left in their collective wake somehow does not sound like merely a pretty metaphor anymore. Jack swallows back another question and slowly lifts himself off the floor.

The walker is gone in the minutes that had trickled by and he tries somehow to justify its lack of awareness of his own position – was he shielded by the structure or was a single signature not worth the hassle, or, maybe, the interference had messed with the mech’s systems?

There is also a different possibility, one that now is not as far-fetched as one would imagine otherwise, and he knows it’s the morphine talking as he glances back to the Beast.

"I’m dead, aren’t I?"

"Now, what makes you say such a thing, Sunshine?" The Beast tilts its maw to the side, playfully contrarian – yet under the light timbre something darker lurks with the intensity of razor-sharp fangs biting into the nape of his neck.

"This is limbo. Tartarus. The ceaseless punishment," Jack shakes his head, picks up the pace.

"Do tell me, Sunshine, how does one escape from such a predicament?" The Beast now keeps his stride slinking forward at his side, the words simultaneously mocking and paternalistic.

"One doesn’t."

"One doesn’t unless one has their own guide," the Beast chortles.

"I don’t remember ever being so goddamn fucking vague."

"You’re learning yet, Sunshine. You're learning yet."

"Goddamn fucking morphine," Jack murmurs. His vision is focused and swimming at the same time. His breath coils around his tongue with a taste of rusted iron. "If you're my guide, I'm fucking lost."

"Oh, Sunshine, did I ever aspire to such a title?" The barbwire lull of the laughter pierces his ears together with the roar of the fire, and the smell of burning plastic and artificial fabrics suddenly becomes dominant. The plane.

One wing is broken off and missing, the other is buried deep in a collapsed building. The fuselage is smashed into three neat pieces - the tail rests sideways on the street.

The inside of the craft is still on fire and the asphalt is soaked by fuel. No bodies. No blood. The luggage is strewn around. No body parts. Nothing. There's a ripped in half pink suitcase in front of him with a small plastic hand sticking out of the bundled clothes.

"Who's there? Please!" A woman. Jack turns towards the voice and a greenish silhouette swivels there with its hands outstretched as if fumbling in the darkness. A child cries. "Please, say something!"

"They're all dead," Jack whispers taking a step back.

"Yes, they are, and it was us who killed them, Sunshine, or did you so conveniently forget?" The Beast seethes with smug satisfaction. "Only ash and charred bones, no evidence and no witnesses," it hisses as it focuses the glare of its crimson eyes on him, like he is a mere insect under its scrutiny, "this is what remains in our wake. This is," it bares its fangs in a feral growl as it punctuates every word, "what we are, what we were, and what we are to become yet again."

"No," Jack backs further, a stumbling step after a stumbling step, away from the encroaching darkness that swallows him only to spit him out in a green-lit hell. "No."

His fingers move over the panel covered with a delicate synthetic mesh designed to evaporate on blast. A child cries. The explosive arms without a sound. The goggles give him fleeting vertigo with a split-second delay of the processed image.

"Please, say something!" The woman moves in his direction, slightly off to the side, and Jack evades her. The carpet muffles his steps. "I know someone's here!"

The child is still crying. A man screams in anger somewhere down the corridor.

"One. Two. Three. Boom," the Beast intones with a static of bad reception raising in the background - its voice morphs into that of a newscaster, "...that Mehdi Benjelloun has just claimed the responsibility for the bombing for..."

White noise. Everything drowns in white noise. The clock is ticking. The hands do not move, do not even strain, and the room is white.

"Mr. Morrison," the psychiatrist whose name he cannot recall smiles, the kind of impersonal smile one could expect from a professional detached from the situation. "Did the change in the prescription have any adversarial effects? Any notable differences you have experienced regarding your frame of mind?"

The Beast stings behind his teeth, scrapes the sides of his throat, looks through his eyes.

"No. Can’t think of any. Can’t…" Jack turns his gaze to the tree in the painting hanging above the vibrant ficus to his left, to the maelstrom of the painted sky behind it. The rapid strokes of the brush give it an illusion of a slow deliberate motion. "Felt worse for the first week but I don’t think I really thought about killing myself since then."

"That’s good to hear," the man types something on the keyboard.

"You redecorated."

"Excuse me?"

"This picture, it’s new. It’s different from the one before."

The doctor looks at him quizzically, maybe even slightly alarmed. The Beast whispers of danger, a hissing kind of murmur seeping into his thoughts.

"And what do you see in the picture, Mr. Morrison?"

"Morbid landscape with a tree," Jack swallows, eyes darting to the other side, searching for a route of escape from some undefined peril that now sits heavy on his shoulders. Its claws dig deep enough below his collarbone to draw blood that seeps through and stains the fabric.

"Visual hallucinations. This merits additional evaluation." The man extends his hand under the desk and the Beast roars in fury, it roars as everything is white noise again.

The white room. The chair is covered in dark rust, no - not rust - old dried blood, cracking and flaking off. The infernal ticking thunders louder and louder until he wants to scream just to drown it away.

"Getting lost in your own head again, Sunshine? We can't have that, not yet," the Beast whispers. "Inhale." Inhale. "Count." Count to five. Count against the ticking. Don't lose focus. "Exhale." He exhales, slowly pushes the air out of his lungs. "Remember..."

"Remember my training," Jack repeats opening his eyes - when had he closed them? The plane is yet again in front of him but in the meantime, he must have passed it. The cockpit looks almost intact - if not for the missing panes of glass and something still sparking inside.

He's hunched behind a concrete barrier - it seems the street had been closed off to the traffic before. Jack leans to the side to observe the plaza. There are several cars and a bus, one unmarked APC lying on its side. Recreational area primarily. He can see a bright red restaurant umbrella halfway thrown through a display window. A lot of bodies on the ground he can safely identify as Blackwatch personnel.  

Jack grimaces when from behind the APC a figure shambles out, a man in a stained dress shirt with a suitcase held in his right hand. Something unsettling in how strangely his neck twists to the left.

"I wonder, Sunshine," the Beast teases, "fight or flight?"

The man turns away and Jack mentally reconstructs the area mapping the best route. He licks his lips, runs his tongue over the chapped skin. Changes the grip on the Patten and moves hunched - eyes darting between the man and the ground - trying to find safe footing. Seconds he measures in breaths trickle by as he makes his way towards an overturned cart painted with happy pastels now greyed with settled ash.  

Jack stops to take another look at his surroundings. Crumbled building blocks the nearest street - he could climb over the rubble but the prospect is risky especially if he wants to avoid meeting the civilian or whatever else the man with the suitcase actually is.

Slowly, as the figure disappears behind the APC, Jack raises. Maybe he can circle him. A blink, and the man stands before him in a cloud of swirling black ash. No. Not a man anymore. Something that used to be human. The lower jaw is missing, the eyes are white, the broiled skin sloughs off the meat.

The creature shrieks with an unearthly tone; the wave of sound hits with a multitude of stabs and knocks the breath out of him. Jack falters and almost drops the rifle, scrambles to regain his composure.

Twisting tendrils of purplish light lash out but not towards him, no, to the side, and with growing dread he sees a body dragged upwards with the entrails flopping from under the vest, and limbs swinging in disjointed tugs like a ragdoll shaken erratically by attached strings. It raises the gun and turns towards him. Jack ducks behind the collapsed decorative gazebo. Bullets thunder against the cement.

A shriek again, his vision darkness for a second, and another body joins in the puppet dance. Shots spray wildly in a wide swipe rising clusters of dust where they hit.

Jack emerges quickly from the side and aims at the closest enemy. Two shots send the helmet flying, the third one shatters the brow, and the glowing tethers snap as the body hits the ground.

It’s not enough, the strings spring out from the creature anew and latch onto the fallen cadaver, sink and dig into the flesh, and bring it upright again.

"A resourceful abomination, isn’t she?" The Beast rumbles with glee, its presence growing, enveloping him, and mucous darkness shifting against his skin. The taste of mildew and rot steals into his mouth. "She tests our patience. We will kill her."

"We will kill her," Jack echoes as yet another puppet joins the fray.

"We will grind down her bones between our teeth," the Beast purrs. Claws rest over his hands, and then he runs between the bullets sailing with deadly grace through the air.

The Beast keeps his pace; the loud empty thumps explode in the sudden eerie silence as its paws hit against the pavement rising up clouds of ash. It bares its fangs, its maw low to the ground, and then it jumps through the motionless air swamped in the iridescent afterglow.

The Beast’s jaws close around the creature’s neck with a nauseating crunch. It turns and twists thrashing its head from side to side until meat, tendons, and bones separate. Mutilated head rips off and freezes midflight in the air.

With a snap, the movement resumes. Hunks of meat hit the ground with wet squelches, the violet tendrils dissipate, and the risen corpses fall over once again.

The Beast roars triumphantly, and Jack, with his hands buried to the elbows in the creature’s clawed apart chest smiles mirroring its expression: all teeth and savagery.

[ulqueleleh]

“Delirium”

Day 1 from FictoberMF18

Voltron: Legendary Defender | KeithxLance (Klance) | 1808 palabras | T | On AO3 | In spanish: Wttpd or tumblr

It wasn’t the first time he was lost in a desert, much less the first time he had been wandering in one. But all the first walks in the sand, all his first explorations by rock canyons, had been on Earth, in the wide dry desert near the home he grew up in, where he was raised by his father and he had learned about the survival from its quiet hostility. That one was a desert he knew even though it changed so much with the pass of stations, with its scarce of rains and powerful winds, that he remembered with so much ease that he could even say he knew it as good as the back of his hand.

However, the one where he was in that moment with no path was totally unknown. It was one that he had the terrible luck to fall in after he lost consciousness at the end of a battle. Fortunately, the small cabin of the jet in which he crashed was almost intact, saving his life from a catastrophic dead against the sand. But there wasn’t much he could use from its remains, only peeling off the light clothe in the seats to use it as protection from the three suns harassing the little planet, and a few containers where he could save the water that he filtered during the coldest nights he had ever lived in his whole living span.

The heat was affecting him, he knew because of the insistent pulse pressing against his head, as if it wanted to crush it like a paper ball and throw it away. He knew because of the sweat bathing his under armor in a vain try to refresh him. He knew because of the horrible thirst that rasped his throat and made his tongue in his mouth after every little swallow he took from the water he recollected the brief night before, each sip refreshing him and lasting less in his mouth until leaving the sickly taste of sand.

He was lost, thirsty, hungry and at the limit of his resistance. The only thing that made him go on was the hope that his friends, those that he first thought he didn’t belong to, keep searching for him even after a week or so he crashed down in the apparently inhabited planet. And even when one part of his mind stayed skeptical and negative, he tried to block it out to continue surviving.  

He endured the heat of the sun and the cold of the nights with the hope that soon enough he will be feeling Shiro’s arms hug him protectively. He beared the deafening silence and the whispers of the dry wind thinking he would soon hear Hunk’s nervous mumbling and Pidge’s precise comments. He ignored the strenuous pains in his limbs and whole body by believing he will soon be cured by Coran’s weird first aid or by Allura’s healing pods in the castle. He resisted the aggressive yellow and orange color from his surroundings, with too much blinding light against his eyes, with the wish he could be able to see those deep blue eyes that refreshed him more than any gulp of filtered water.

He huffed, bewildered by his own thoughts and apparent motivation, and took another sip from the already lukewarm water, making him grimace in disgust, his mind going back again to want, and need, to splash into the dark blue that drowned Lance’s eyes.

How was it possible that after having to endure him, to tolerate him, now he craves more his presence?

He wiped his face from the sweat in his brow, and looked to where his steps were taking him with no aim planned, the sparkling reflections of inexistent water between dunes making him swallow dryly.

He wasn’t new in the delirium that caused the thirst and the heat, his mind deceiving him with a supposedly water puddle a few meters away, delusion himself when after some steps ahead he could see that in the sand there wasn’t any water nor life. That’s why he didn’t even tried to accelerate his walk, conserving his energy for when he really needed it.  

But what was really new in the hallucinations that his imagination fabricated was the faraway silhouette that made a shadow in the horizon against the sun, the white and blue armor shining below the three suns, the short and curly brown hair crowning a tanned and blushed face, those blue eyes once again astonishing him to the point to almost stop walking just below the sunlight.

And with a sigh, the figure disappeared, the dry and hot wind hitting him in the face between the clothe around his head bringing him a mutter, and sometimes a laugh, too similar to his voice.

It was a delusion. He was delirious. But every time he opened his eyes again, the figure appeared beside him, sometimes staying for a few steps and walking by his side, some other times sitting in the sand as if the strength of the three suns was something to enjoy in situations that weren’t of life and death.  

He was usually smiling at him, making him wince in a dull attempt to not answer with one of his own. And sometimes he stared at him attentively, his lower lip trapped between his teeth as if he wanted to avoid saying something that he thought too deeply.

He breathed deeply, shaking his head to get away from the sound of his voice whispering his name, and squinted at the horizon, the air suddenly fluttering wildly and going up to hit him in the face painfully. He coughed when he felt it invade his throat, and he covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes closed tightly while trying to get back his breath and the softness of his throat that felt so much like a distant dream.

He let go a breath slowly, his vocal cords trembling with the air and almost forming an exhausted sigh in his voice, and he looked away once again, focusing his sight in the path he had to continue, ignoring on purpose the worried muttering that the illusion by his side voiced out at his weary state. But his ears blocked automatically when his eyes could identify something kind of leafy that seemed to cause a shadow in the red rocks, and when his sight could focus better, he saw something very similar to short trees, the image waving in the edges because of the extreme heat.

He gasped, and his motivation changed course with his steps speeding up in the sand. He blinked a few times while he got near, and the relief fulfilled increasingly his chest when he saw that the orange trees didn’t disappear like the water reflections and Lance’s silhouette when it looked so real.

He fell to his knees in the edge of the shadow, throwing himself in it and almost hitting his head against the gray log, and he sighed heavily, feeling the freshness from the natural shadow bring back his senses and energies that he didn’t know he had lost until that very moment.

He closed his eyes for a minute, convincing himself that resting for a bit would revitalize him to continue surviving, to stop reviving all those hallucinations that dizzied him more than the heat itself, and he lost consciousness faster than he would’ve liked, waking up lazily at a little push to his shoulder and vaguely hearing the familiar voices of his friends.

Tightening his eye lids and growling beneath his breath, he didn’t want to open his eyes and let himself be delusion once again by the loneliness that the planet made him suffer for so long. But another push, more desperate and aggressive, and the voice of that person that he wanted so much to see calling his name with an alarmed tone, made his eyes open up heavily, blackness at the edges of his sight and framing beautifully blue eyes that seemed to bring back his life anytime he saw them in the distance.

For a moment he thought that his mind fabricated that because he was about to die and his brain was trying to make him get back, inviting him to move towards him, his hand slowly reaching up to his face and seeing him stop talking for a second.

His blue eyes, just like the sky, just like the sea, just like that color that the stars had in the edges of their light, got immediately back to look at his face, his voice murmuring his name warily.

“Keith?” he asked leaning over him, his hands pressing down his shoulders to the fresh sand because of the shadow and his mouth crooking in a smile that looked more in pain than in happiness, “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

He sighed silently, his thumb tracing a line below one of his eyes, and almost tickling a pair of eyelashes in its wake.

“Lance...” he whispered, his voice too rough and his throat too sore. He tried again after wetting his lips, although there was not much difference because of the dryness of his mouth, “Lance.”

He heard him huff, his smile this time being more honest, and his hand holding his against his face.

“Yeah, Keith, I’m here” he said with a sigh, and he couldn’t help looking down to his lips when he felt it against his dried skin, ignoring the rest of his words, “We’re all here, actually. Hunk is calling Shiro. You’ll be fine soon.”

He blinked slowly, frowning and staring at his smile.

“I don’t have water right now, but I think Hunk has some in his lion,” he heard him vaguely, feeling enough strength in his arm to enclose his nape with his hand and pull him into his space, “I’ll call him and... what’re you...?”

“Lance...” he murmured a last time before pulling together their lips in a first kiss that he wished wasn’t with a hallucination, that he wished that both of them could feel, that he wished that wasn’t causing him the terrible pain in the lips nor the sharp one piercing his chest.

He supposed that after that he lost consciousness again, and he sincerely thought that he wouldn’t be able to open his eyes again.

But he opened them up, feeling Shiro’s arms wrapping him and carrying him in hurried steps to the castle, hearing the nervous mumbling from Hunk and the precise comments from Pidge, feeling Coran’s hands searching for wounds and Allura’s fingers checking his vitals in wrists and neck. And staring fixedly Lance’s deep blue eyes that revitalized his heart and refreshed his soul, finding a little gesture of nervousness when he saw him bite his lower lip in something really similar to hope.

[royal-writer]

part 2

to this eldritch horror of a piece

I gotta say, although totally impracticable, that’d be one hell of a way to discover a power laughs

The blow never came.

A cowardly scream of panic rose up from the men. Horrified, they began to step back quickly from Essätha. Practically trampling over each other, their steps uneven.

Further cries of uncertainty followed from the other’s.

Wisps of black magic danced around Essie’s form. Curling like fog around her; the smallest sparkles of soft twinkling light purple moving through the darkness. It washed around her like a blanket, bleeding out from her hidden eyes.

But it wasn’t the young woman they were staring at.

Twitching undead fingers moved. Suddenly, a hand moving to grasp at feet as a moan ripped through the corpse.

“It’s alive! H-He’s fucking alive!”

Another reanimated carcass began to shift and roll onto it’s feet. Moaning, the undead man only just shortly having passed look almost lively. Pale skin lacking pigment of life and eyes rolled back without color sure, but blood still oozed from their wounds sluggishly. Their skin still intact and not stretched over bones like a long-deceased creature, or a bag of bones. Still the faces these men had known and worked with for some time. Unkempt beards, untrimmed hair still soft and lush.

One of the zombies, now standing, lunged forth. It weakly grappled their former accomplish, clawing and groaning as it’s teeth gnashed whilst trying to find skin to pierce with it’s maw.

“Jerry?” one man whimpered.

“That thing is not fucking Jerry,” another spat out, swinging their club filled with nails at the creature as though it would frighten it off.

“What’re you idiots waiting for? RUN!”

Stumbling over each other, the remaining delinquents began fleeing in every direction. Those too stupefied, or remaining caught up in their scuffles, found themselves to be suddenly surrounded and overrun by the small hoard of the wandering soulless.

Moving clear of the zombies, the group could only just stare.

“Are they- going to hunt us next?” Rava inquired softly.

Abernathy’s eyes shifted across the grass.

“I don’t think so,” he stiffly remarked.

Hurrying across the distance, the remainder of the gang paused just short of Essätha and Amon. Eyes searching with unease at the figure they knew behind the veil of magic surrounding her.

She looked up slowly and a few of them flinched uncomfortably as the blackness surrounding her eyes.

“Abe, please-”

He looked from her tear-streaked face to the Illiad heir.

Jumping slightly, the half-orc swallowed the remaining space to drop quickly to his knees. He winced a little at the pain it shot through him to have not tried softening his landing.

“Don’t worry, Essätha, I’ve got him.”

She hesitated. A slow nod, and she finally leaned back from her protective cover over the man.

Abernathy laid his axe upon the grass nearby. Reaching out, he took a steady breath before wrapping a hand around the arrow in Amon’s back. It gave a disturbingly wet sound as he yanked it free, tossing it aside.

Essie choked back a sob.

Settling his hands over the nobleman’s shoulder and chest, the elven-orc gave a soft grunt. A faint golden light filtered out from his touch. It drained into Amon gradually until a hue of reddish tint began to return to his cheeks. His blood began to tapper off from it’s heavy flow; injuries beginning to stitch back together slowly right before their eyes.

A softened gasp escaped Essätha. She leaned forward, staring intensely upon his face as her magic began to evaporate around her. Searching for a sign, her fingers digging into his side and the fabric of his jerkin.

~~~~~ Pain. Fresh and excruciating, it cut into Amon as he drew a breath in through his teeth. Hissing, softly, he exhaled and a fresh wave came crashing through him.

Sound faded in and out of his ears. Muffled, unable to make sense of the words.

His eyes fluttered. Blinking; a clouded haze over his vision. He couldn’t make out the definition of anything around him.

There was a metallic taste of blood on his tongue. Hands pawing at him; eliciting a grunt this time.

Misty wisps seemed to cloud his eyesight, but it was fading fast. Faster than his vision was clearing. Puzzling, how strange.

Worried light brown eyes were moving over him expectedly. Eyebrowns drawn close, mouth taunt and then agape. Closed again, she swallowed loudly.

Oh, such sweet angelic beauty. He was too aware of pain to be dead, but he was still in heaven.

Essätha smiled so suddenly and brightly as she looked upon him. It lit up her eyes, washed over her features to wipe away all concern. Even through the pain, Amon was aware of the way it made his heart clench tightly in his chest.

She was beautiful. Almost too beautiful to be real.

“Oh thank the gods,” she whispered, her voice hardly a whisper.

She unclenched her hands from his clothes to hold his face. A quirk of a smile played out against his lips, reaching up to grab a gentle handful of her hair that tickled his face.

He frowned as it was brushed aside, noticing the reddish-brown dried blood on her cheek.

Before he could bother clearing his throat to so much as usher a word, Essie leaned in to press a surprising kiss to his mouth.

He grunted, astonished. Supremely light and pleasantly sweet.

“Essätha,” Adela half-choked, laughter in their voice.

She pulled back abruptly, her face.

“O-Oh, sorry,” she mumbled. The back of her hand came up, wiping at the blood on her lip.

“S‘lright,” Amon rasped.

Well, not the most timely of kisses he’d ever had. But it wasn’t bad.

“We should see about getting him to a professional,” Abernathy advised wisely. “A bit of healin’ magic is good and all, but it’d be best if he saw a medical expert.”

“Of course,” Essie agreed.

Their eyes were still locked onto each other’s. Leaned towards each other, seemingly lost. Having no sign of wanting to return.

Which suited Amon just fine. He found everything he needed right there, in those perfect warm chestnut eyes.

Well, perhaps a bit less of the stabbing pain in his chest would otherwise be helpful.

“Essäthaaaa,” Ilamin’s voice rang. “You need to let him up now.”

“Oh- r-right- sorry-” she stammered, her face a brilliant pink as she sat back quickly.

Now, why would he have her do that, Amon begrudgingly thought. It was like ripping the morphine drip line out of a dying man. He winced suddenly, slurring a curse as the throbbing pain let him know it was still there and he was, in fact, in unbearable pain.

“I got him,” Abernathy said brightly.

“Oh no you-”

Amon gave a cry, mixed partially with pain and partially with fury.

“I can walk!” he insisted angrily.

“You’re about as dainty as a wee kitten,” Abernathy chuckled. “I can carry you.”

Oh, the humility. His face was red with anger as he heard the other’s snigger.

Well, most all. He caught a glimpse of Essätha’s sympathetic, worried eyes and it mellowed him just a fraction. An inkling of a millimeter.

“Um, Essie, what are you going to do a-about those?”

Knitting his eyebrows together, Amon followed Rava’s gesturing sweeping arm gesture. His jaw dropped, finding himself grabbing tightly hold of the front of Abernathy’s shirt.

What ungodly world did he just wake up to?

“O-Oh,” Essie muttered to herself. “I… I did those, huh?”

“Well, you were glowing there for a moment...” Sul rattled off.

Amon’s eyes shot between Essätha, the undead servants, and those looking to her.

Seriously. Was no one going to explain this? How long had he been out?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The weight of the man barred into him hard. Slamming into his side; shouldering him sideways. Their blades running against each other in an ear-splitting screech that was dreadfully painful on the ears.

Amon lifted his heel, stomping it on the man’s. He cursed, bouncing back.

Jerking his elbow out, it rammed into the hooligan’s side. As they held themselves, trying to recover, Amon flung his sword across himself. Building momentum as his grip loosened only enough on the handle.

The blade got stuck part of the way through the man’s esophagus. Rivers of red drained from the wound and flooded down the criminal’s throat, coating the front of his shirt.

His face was begging. Pleading as he caught Amon’s eye.

He yanked his sword free.

While the man staggered and fell to his cold, consuming death, someone grabbed Amon’s elbow from behind. They pulled, trying to draw his arm back. Another hand grasping for his other upper arm.

Tugging himself bodily into a twist, he managed to pull free and spin around.

An older woman grimaced at him. Missing teeth, somewhat silvered hair. She reached for the dagger on her hip, but her hand never made it there.

With a wail of pain, her digits flexed. The wicked blade rammed through her palm, a glint like a sneer upon it’s cold steel coated red.

She met Amon’s stare. His, unfeeling and unfazed. A blizzard, a hurricane, a tornado. One natural disaster after another. Consuming everything in its path. It would seek destruction until it, itself, had taken and taken until there was nothing left to take. Ripping apart the world, shredding happiness, devouring the souls of all who passed it.

Her knees buckled beneath such a cold gaze.

“M-Mercy-” she pleaded, her lips flapping stupidly.

A single jerk of his blade and it pulled free of her hand. The woman screamed with agony. Bringing her wounded hand to her chest, she nursed it against her bosom while awaiting the fated decision of a god before her.

Amon spun on his heel, his cloak kicking up dust in the woman’s face. He carried himself, dignified, the few steps to where the motionless figure lay.

The rest did not dare approach him. Stepping back with a dose of healthy fear. A shudder raced through many of them as Amon’s eyes raked over them, challenging them to so much as shift a toe as he knelt down. His sword ever so slowly was placed in its sheathe and even still, they hesitated. Cruel fractures of light in his eyes, hard hands shifting in a way that made it too easy to visualize the knuckles pounding into one’s skull or strangling the life out of them.

One arm tucked against the back of her Essätha’s knees, and the other against her back. He hoisted her up against his chest slowly, rising to his feet.

A blast of magic went scattering a few feet from him. Erupting with an explosive crash of magic, many of the outlaws flinched from the noise.

Amon merely tilted his shoulder, making sure none of the debris it stirred dared touched whom lay tenderly in his arms.

His eyes moved across the way. Finally landing on Sulhadur, the dragonborn seemed to straighten as their eyes lingered on each other.

Amon’s jaw flexed as he made the slightest indication. A tilt of his head to the bundle in his arms.

Stepping in the dragon’s direction, Amon snarled at the closest man to him as they shifted uncomfortably. A dog fleeing from the larger, more ferocious wolf; the man yelped as he jumped back a few steps.

Splitting off from the others, Sul met him more than halfway. Panting heavily, his scales covered with blast marks and blood that was hard to read against his already red scales. Just adjacent to them, a triumphant caw from Cackle as they wrangled one spellcaster to head for the next; whom appeared exhausted with Ilamin reprimanding them harshly.

“Sulhadur-” Amon’s words came out shaky, much different than his posture and the stoic appearance of his face.

Grimacing, the red dragon looked over the woman in his arms. Sul’s hands moved out, back to himself, and towards again. Finally, placing them carefully against her shoulder.

Back rigid, the nobleman watched the light flow from Sul’s touch into Essätha. It was the first time he felt so helpless. So aware of his inability. He had no magic; no connection to gods to heal and cure and save.

An incoherent mumble sighed out of Essie suddenly. His hands tightened on her, bringing her closer to his chest.

“Thank you, Sul,” Amon whispered quietly. Though the words of gratitude were aimed to the dragon, his eyes were glued to Essätha’s face as she wormed in his grasp slowly.

“Of course,” Sul replied with some alarm. “I’m not going to let my team down.”

The words bounced off of his heavy thoughts. Too consumed in them. So rash; he should have been by her side. He should have been more prepared, more careful, more aware of where he was going. She was a delicate, precious thing. Refusing armor, stubbornly throwing herself headlong into situations without always putting her rational thought first.

He needed to keep more potions on hand, too. An internal wince, considering who he would need to regard to perfect it most likely. Cackle was not exactly his biggest fan, even now.

“M’head,” a weak, nearly inaudible voice rasped.

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Amon soothed quietly. “Rest your eyes, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

~~~~~~

Gods, what had hit her?

Her head was pounding. Even the worst headaches didn’t get this bad. There was nothing to compare it too. Her brain felt fuzzy; her head felt like it was splitting into pieces yet being held together with staples and glue. She wished it would just shatter already. Better than to feel her pulse radiating through her. Better than to feel this endless suffering.

Essätha opened her eyes into slits. Immediate regret washed through her. The light burned her pained eyes and she whined softly.

A sigh. Relieved, timid, a bit regretful. She felt hands all too familiar splayed against her shoulder. Warm, gentle, but a bit rough.

She didn’t bother opening her eyes as she muttered a single name: “Amon?”

“I’ve got you,” the voice reassured her once more. Deep, throaty, rough.

A tired, troubled mumble escaped Essie. She opened her eyes. The blur of the world in shaky vision was nauseating, but she caught sight of clouded gaze staring down at her.

There was a brief smile on his face. Halo’d by the sun’s rays, he looked enchanting. A solar god; warm and inviting… and a little bit sad.

“M’head hurts.”

“I’m sure it does, darling.”

Her hand reached out. It took a second to calculate placement with the world shifting in her field of squinted vision, but she managed it gently place it against the side of his face.

A smile etched against Amon’s pretty mouth. He sighed, eyes closing briefly.

Essätha smiled by compulsion. Her heart skipping a few beats.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice fading tiredly.

Amon looked quite perplexed as he opened his eyes.

“For what?”

“For protecting me.”

A soft noise of amusement flowed from his chest. He shifted his head just enough to press a kiss to the palm of her hand pressed to his cheek, sending butterflies soaring in her stomach.

“Always,” he acknowledged gently.

Eyelids fluttering, she winced as they slid shut completely. A partial sigh, partial hiss of pain drawing through her lips and then her throat as she clamped her mouth shut.

“Just rest your eyes,” Amon encouraged gently. The only sound she’d acknowledge; the only thing she wanted to hear against the distant shouting.

“You’re safe here, in my arms. I promise.”

Of course I am, she wanted to say, but her thoughts were drifting. Aching, tired. This was the safest place she’d ever been. It was the only place she wanted to be. Her mind sinking between consciousness and oblivion, in and out of the fabrication of time.

This was exactly the place she knew she could rest her head, and everything would be fine. Everything would always be just fine, right here, in his arms.

[chalabrun]

saint lost, chapter 4

Title: Saint Lost Word Count: 3050 Pairing: Ravus/Noctis & one-sided Ardyn/Ravus Rating: M Warnings: None Summary: A Corpse Bride AU. In an effort to save his sister from the snares of an arranged marriage, Ravus Nox Fleuret takes it upon himself to volunteer in her stead to be wed to Chancellor Ardyn Izunia. What seems to be a steady arrangement instead devolves into a political ploy for power and for Ravus’ life to be forfeit among the dead. Yet, it is here where an unexpected ally might be his only chance for absolution.

Dead men tell no tales. At least, they’re not supposed to.

Something was wrong. Sorely, unnaturally wrong.

Sighting a small, unassuming puddle of water did Ravus scramble towards it and stare at what reflected back, almost overcome with shock.

Staring back at him was a hollowed left socket where his mutated eye had been, skin beneath rotted away and revealing the upper and lower rows of molars, his complexion was utterly papery and a ghostly white, but tough as tarp stretched over canvas and starched. Ravus’ hair was a shock of luminous white, more than it’d been alive. Though his uniform had remained intact, it was irreparably dull with age and grave soil, torn where the stab wound had been inflicted. Otherwise, he was stiff with preservatives, throat dry and thankful he didn’t need to breathe.

Suddenly, the hurt that had come in the last moments of his life welled fresh and searing, Ravus gasping as he clutched his chest and choked out a sob. There was no way of shedding tears, they all dried, fumbling for his sword as he cried out in mournful rage and began hacking away at the barren saplings spanning around the glen he’d awoken in, blind and cutting as they toppled and he stabbed into trunks and toppling trees with preternatural, inhuman ease.

“CURSE HIM! CURSE THEM ALL!” he roared wrathfully, tearing through the forest and snarling as he split trees and undergrowth, but he balked at the forest’s edge when he suddenly stumbled into a populous thoroughfare and stopped short.

Undead in various stages of rot, some completely skeletal, stared at him and he suddenly became self-aware and embarrassed at what a madman he must’ve appeared to them. Lowering his brandished sword and sheathing it, face stinging with his shame, he recomposed himself and tucked some errant hair behind an ear. Though the hurt lingered nebulously, he schooled his features gravely. Likely appearing more mournful than he was aware of.

Their frozen caricature suddenly resumed and they returned to their business as if it’d never been interrupted at all, save for the several who lingered.

“Lord Ravus, is that you?”

Ravus straightened hopefully at the voice, searching those who’d remained behind. “Maria?” The woman in question was there, skin blued but appearing almost perfectly intact—unlike him, he grudgingly noticed. “What is this place? Why are you here?”

She held her hands up in a placating manner, understanding. “Come to the tavern, Lord Ravus. It’s cold tonight and I imagine you’d rather warm up, hm?” Ravus furrowed his brows, but had to admit he felt the chill now. It was bitter, and stabbing. He supposed a lack of blood circulation would be responsible for that.

She led him across the town plaza where a proud statue general sat astride a sculpted horse, glancing at the sky, brooding clouds hanging slow and heavy over the horizon. It suddenly became raucous when he stepped inside, the undead from before engaged in the wild throes of a party.

“Drink, sir?” a headless waiter proferred, Ravus staring at the column of their neck offensively and nodding unconsciously. Taking the drink, he wondered: could the dead even drink? Shrugging, he downed a draft from the pint, head swimming and pleased to discover that, yes, they could. It was a pint of beer. Normally he’d shun the brew, but the circumstances seemed mitigating.

Ravus followed Maria, height and shade making him stand out perturbingly from the others. She took him to a corner of the bar counter that was unoccupied, perching on the seat and allowing himself to slouch for once in his life. The buzz certainly attributed for the lack of decorum, but with how it washed down the acrid taste of soot and dust, he continued to nurse the beer thirstily.

Maria poised to seat herself, looking smaller than ever as she perched on the stool like a withered crow on a telephone wire. Letting her shawl slip off, she only ordered a water, nothing more. “This is the Land of the Dead, Lord Ravus. This where the dead go after death. In most cases, it would seem,” she began, taking tentative sips of her water. She glanced at him, Ravus’ raised brow urging her to continue. “The past two years...they’ve been difficult, my lord. After His Majesty interceded in saving your soul from limbo, the Lord of the Skies saw it as a transgression and took something dear to him in retribution. Our realm has fallen on hard times, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Maria, dear, is that you? I almost didn’t see you!” a shrill, disembodied voice called that caused Ravus to glance sidelong, bemused, mid-sip of his beer. From the ceiling, a personable black widow made her descent and white brows rose at her personified features. Lucky thing he was well on his way to becoming drunk. “Who might you be?” she said towards Ravus, Maria answering for him.

“Miss Widow,” she smiled tensely, “let’s sup for tea another time. I’m afraid...now simply isn’t the time. This is—him.”

Black Widow caught herself, gasping into one of her appendages. “I see. So terribly sorry for interrupting, dear,” the arachnid apologized before making her silky ascent again.

“Talking spiders. Is there anything else I’ll need to desensitize myself to?” Ravus scoffed in disbelief after he lowered his pint, surprised to find it almost empty. Grunting, he slid it out for a refill. And why not? Anything to numb the piles of nuisances he was finding, alongside the grief from an unjust death. The skeletal bartender refilled it, Ravus drinking down a generous mouthful before sighing.

Maria seemed to suddenly become gloomy, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Lord Ravus, you’re seeking answers, aren’t you? I’m afraid I do not know as much as I wish, but—perhaps you can speak with the Reaper King. His Majesty was the one who saw that you’d make it here intact.”

Ravus gulped down another mouthful of the beer, raking his fingers through his hair. “An enchanting idea, were I to know who this esteemed king is,” he groused icily, mind fogged and irritated. He was still surprised none had dribbled from the gap in his left cheek. “More so, why my miserable wretch of a soul was worthy of ‘saving.’”

Maria shifted uncomfortably in her seat, lowering her glass and placing a hand on Ravus’ forearm, a disarmingly familiar motion that saw Ravus soften. She’d been like a grandmother to himself and Lunafreya, after all. He couldn’t help but lower his barbs around her. “Maria, what happened to you?” he asked softly of her, a rare look of concern crossing his features genuinely.

Maria seemed to crumple in on herself, small shoulders shaking as she choked back a sob and covered her eyes with her hands, hiccuping some. “When I heard news of your—fate, my lord, I… It was too much. My heart, I felt it breaking, inside me— Astrals, why must it have been you?” Maria wailed quietly into her hand, unable to truly cry as the undead while Ravus felt himself freeze at the revelation.

Words froze on his tongue, paltry consolations as he could only move from his perch and inexorably take the grieving governess into his arms, heart constricting in his chest. “Maria… I am sorry. To have caused you so much strife,” Ravus murmured numbly, feeling his throat dry and misery sober him.

When he felt the woman gently push him away with trembling hands, likely thinking it selfish of her, she slipped him a watery smile. “Do not apologize to me, Lord Ravus. You’re here. We can be something like a family again, and perhaps we might make something of this new life.”

Ravus sat back upon his bar stool, unable to finish the rest of the half-empty pint. Though the festivities raged on, he was indifferent to it. He grew quiet, the lull from the spirits still causing his mind to swirl erratically. Small wonder he rarely had drunk much before. “This reaper king. Might there be any way of being granted an audience with him?”

“Oh, pick me! Pick me!”

Ravus started when he heard an unfamiliar voice within his skull, rearing back with his hand hovering over his cutlass.

Maria chuckled amicably, Ravus realizing she was staring directly at the empty eye socket. “My, Maggot. That’s no way to introduce yourself.”

Glaring at the empty socket, Ravus dug his fingers into the empty recess and extracted a dangling maggot, again with strangely human features like the she-spider from before. Dropping him callously to the bar counter, Ravus loomed imperiously over him. “Speak, worm. Lest I be tempted to pulverize you for invading my skull,” he grit with bared teeth, Maggot slithering over to Maria.

“Sheesh, tough crowd. Was he always this grumpy?” Maggot whispered to Maria, using his tail like a hand to secret such a remark. This only earned him another glare. “You remind me of someone I used to know. Same kinda fate, too. But she turned out alright. Guess not everyone gets gentle after going through a tough time.”

“Yes, because being murdered by the man I was to be betrothed to was merely a ‘tough time’,” Ravus seethed sarcastically, Maggot inching back in fear. The derelict pint was beginning to look attractive again.

“You’ll have to see Elder Gutknecht for that. He’s overseer of the Underworld, see, and nobody sees the King without his okay,” Maggot piped up, resuming the topic from before.

Ravus cast the maggot a withering stare, though sat back, resigned. “I wish to see him immediately. Without delay,” Ravus snapped at Maggot, Maria smiling fondly at the man so like her grandson despite his persnickety demeanor. With so much still unanswered, it seemed as though this was the only way in which he’d receive the clarity he sought.

Finding Elder Gutknecht was not nearly a difficult task as thought, Ravus requesting that he do so alone. He’d stood before emperors and kings, whole swaths of politicians. Whoever this sole man was couldn’t possibly be more intimidating than them. Entering was a simple affair, the domain unguarded. A foolish notion, but within the vaulted library where the elder resided, he stopped questioning this land’s mad logic.

Gutknecht leafed obliviously through his dense tome, not seeming to hear Ravus enter. Walking to where he stood in the center before the raised podium, starkly blanched against the darkened setting more than ever before, he cleared his throat. “Elder Gutknecht, I wish to request an audience with the king,” he spoke clearly, frankly, as a man of his former office should despite the inebriation still muddying his mind.

The elder undead huffed as he breathed in laboriously, despite no need to, adjusting his bifocals to lean in closer. “Eh? Might you tell me why you wish to see the king, dear boy?” he rasped almost inaudibly, Ravus almost concerned those thread-thick bones might snap by the next breeze.

Ravus sighed internally, salvaging through his mind for reasons. Trying to keep them roped together. “I was informed he personally...found my soul. I simply wish to learn the circumstances behind this, and nothing less.”

“Ah, so you must be the one causing quite the stir. You see, in many a circumstance, His Majesty would be too busy to easily seek an audience. However...” Gutknecht wearily lifted himself from his seat, bones creaking as he descended the stair. “You seem to be an exception. Your death caused quite a stir up above, and continues to do so. His Majesty still deals with the ramifications, even now.”

“Then you understand my plight. If anything, I should be the one who is expected.” The brittle-boned undead nodded blearily, as if he hadn’t really heard the Tenebraen.

Fishing through a disarray of books, Gutknecht produced what appeared to be a small scroll, glancing about warily as if they were being watched. “Guard this jealously. When you are prepared to visit him, open the scroll and merely read the last line of what’s written. Then, you shall find yourself within his palace.”

Ravus took the scroll, squinting at the worn parchment cinched by a dusty blue ribbon as if it were the oddest thing he’d ever seen. “So easily?” he said finally, the decorum wearing away. He watched as Gutknecht ascended the stair again to his podium, heaving himself to lean against it raggedly. Nothing was so easy.

Adjusting his bifocals on a nonexistent nose, the elder began scrawling absently on blank paper. “Perhaps—if you wish for there to be a challenge, hike somewhere obscure. Open it then. Whichever you prefer.” Ravus smirked at the old man’s bluntness, finding it more respectable than the doltish nonsense that seemed to infect these lands. Astrals forbid he ever succumb to their madness.

The sun left us behind that day.

For some reason, the words caused a pang in his chest he hadn’t expected. There was something familiar about it, and damnably so. But before he could dwell as to why, a violet miasma spilled and consumed him in a vale of fog, he squinting through it until a cold sweep of wind banished the plumes away. If he still breathed Ravus imagined he would cough, but instead he stared.

Before him did tiered dual stairs converge at a stone-carved, empty throne dominated by skeletal angels petrified mid-flight. They seemed to leap from the stony relief into stain-glass windows, marble floors so glassy in their sheen Ravus almost felt ashamed for his dilapidated state despite trepidation knotting in his breast. Torches flickered wide swaths of amber that flooded feet before them, providing some warmth to the otherwise vaulted tomb.

What truly jolted him was the figure that came from behind, Ravus wondering if he could pale further if it were possible.

It was Noctis who walked with all regality into the throne room, dressed in a black super-tunic with long sleeves and trousers, as well the boots he remembered when he died. Though, his face—still attractive—appeared stern and belonged to an unyielding, powerful man. The air past him was still warm, still present with a pulse that drove his instincts into yearning for a life he was cruelly bereft of. As if that first night with the traitor had just occurred, feeling places he thought dead stirring.

Unless it was the liquor’s fault.

When Noctis gazed upon him, it felt though he’d been pierced by arrows. It wasn’t the warmth he was accustomed to from their past, but a hollow want to embrace the other twitched inside of him, though his own body craved the heat of something living, of someone dear to him even if that might not be reciprocated.

“Noct— Your Majesty,” Ravus corrected himself, bowing crisply from the waist despite how harrowed this all felt. His mind was still fogged, fighting away inappropriate dalliances when none were to exist beyond conception here. But for how long would that remain?

That’s when he saw the sternness on Noctis’ visage seem to falter, something more sympathetic blooming. Grief, if he could name it. “Of all the people I’d think to see here, you weren’t among them,” Noctis said lowly, sounding low like a sussurus. It was too late for that. But Ravus’ heart stirred still, seeming to gravitate towards him.

“It’s been years since then. Since you died.”

Ravus’ lips pursed, nodding, brows furrowing as he felt the growing urge to look away in shame of himself. “Might I ask what happened, Noctis? Why is it I am hearing of you at war with the Draconian?”

“Not war,” Noctis interrupted first, shaking his head. It seemed difficult to speak of. “When I saved your soul from oblivion, where it was destined, I broke ancient laws. In retribution, the Lord of the Skies took the soul of my father in exchange. And we suffered for it.”

This sobered Ravus from nearing the king any closer. King. It struck such a strange chord for him, that the closest he’d ever had to a friend was this. “...My soul is not worth so much. I— My condolences for your loss.” The undead began to turn away, suddenly feeling very foolish. Noctis’ father, gone; and for what? Suddenly, the old hurts seemed so insignificant.

“I wasn’t thinking.” Noctis’ voice suddenly broke the silence, Ravus taking pause and craning to hear with a slowly disbelieving expression. “After I reaped your soul, hearing what would happen to it—I couldn’t allow it. So I seized it back, and let it go. ...I didn’t think it’d find its way here.”

Ravus bowed his head, lips pursing. He took small strides as he came before Noctis, unfurling his fist just slightly to caress along Noctis’ cheek, relishing in the warmth that had long been stolen from him. When Noctis didn’t shy away from him, Ravus’ touch lingered at the junction of his neck and shoulder, taking another step in and lowering his forehead until it touched Noctis’ receptive brow. They stood quietly like this for a long moment, Ravus losing himself in the scent of the king that was like in those dreams they’d shared together.

“Must we allow a bygone mistake drive such distance between us?” the former commander murmured earnestly, longingly, thumb rubbing small circles while their breaths practically coalesced together.

Ravus loomed closer, barely centimeters from his lips, theirs brushing together as they spoke and the closure was agonizing. “You love Ardyn,” Noctis suddenly spoke, hands on Ravus’ chest as he just barely motioned to push him away.

“How can I?” the taller demanded softly of him, Ravus taking one of those hands and holding it to the wound, his hand layered over Noctis’, the canvas jacket still torn where he’d been stabbed. Noctis didn’t recoil in horror, but his face fell, eyes sinking shut.

“I have to save my father, Ravus. I’m sorry.” With that, Noctis suddenly moved away, leaving Ravus bereft with only the memory of Noctis’ warm hands touching him and greedily committing it to memory.

Ravus’ sole good eye fell shut, bowing his head.

“I understand, Your Majesty.”