#i just remember pain. and fear. and hopelessness. horror. terror. all of it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bubonickitten · 4 years

Link

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: The process(es) of resigning from a terrible, no good, very bad assistant position.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 22: discussions of eye-gouging/eye horror (not graphic); brief mentions of spiders/arachnophobia; anxiety/panic symptoms; lots of dissociation/dpdr; Peter Lukas being a manipulative shit; Lonely-typical content (including fear of abandonment & some abysmal self-esteem on Martin’s part); allusions to police violence & Hunt-related themes (re: Daisy’s past actions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 22: Resignation

Georgie paces in a slow circle, alternating between biting her nails and picking at her bottom lip – entirely immersed in her own thoughts, judging from the faraway look in her eyes. Jon hasn’t seen her this overwrought since the last depressive episode he witnessed. Just watching her is enough to make his chest tighten with vicarious unrest.

Wary of contributing to a vicious feedback loop between the two of them with his own customary pacing and handwringing, he forces himself to keep his knees locked and hands at his sides. Still, he can’t help rubbing his fingertips together and rocking minutely on the balls of his feet.

“Why don’t we sit?” Jon finally interjects, wincing when it comes out more curtly than he intended – more like a command than a suggestion, but luckily without any accompanying static.

Be mindful, he silently chides himself: being on edge like this only makes him more susceptible to accidental compulsion.

“What if something goes wrong?” Georgie whispers. Jon doubts she even heard him beneath her nervous refrain. “What if –”

“Georgie?” Jon tries again. No response. He steps into her path and places a hand on her shoulder. “Georgie.”

“What?” Georgie raises her head, but she isn’t looking at him so much as she’s looking through him.

“I think you should sit down?”

“What?” Georgie says again, sounding utterly lost. Her eyes are darting around the room now, as if she doesn’t recognize her surroundings.

How the tables have turned, Jon thinks grimly.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand and guiding her to the nearest chair. She offers no resistance, trailing behind him like a flagging balloon. When he presses on her shoulder to coax her into a sitting position, she goes easily. Keeping hold of her hand, he drags another chair closer to her and takes a seat.

Okay. Now what?

Jon jiggles his leg as he wracks his brain for the right thing to say. She deserves more than handholding and awkward silence, but soothing words have never come naturally to him.

“Do you, ah… do you want to talk about it?” Jon cringes at his faltering delivery. “I’m sorry, I’m – I’m still not very good at this,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh – then immediately shuts his eyes, kicking himself. Why are his attempts to relate to others always so clumsy and – and weirdly self-centered? “I mean –”

“I’m scared,” Georgie blurts out.

“You… what?” Jon tilts his head. “But I thought – you don’t feel –”

“Fear?” Her clipped, brittle laugh dies in her throat. “No, I don’t. And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Jon strokes the back of her hand with one thumb, but remains silent. She always elaborates on her own time, given some space to order her thoughts.

“I don’t feel… terror,” she says slowly. “After I had my… encounter, I did a lot of research on how the brain works. Trying to understand what was happening to me, you know?”

Jon nods. He’s intimately familiar with that urge. As a child, he went through a spider phase, as his grandmother called it, obsessively seeking out any information he could on them, hoping even then that he could conquer his fear if only he could see the world through a detached, academic lens. There were plenty of academic odes to the spider to be found; no shortage of enamored arachnologists waxing poetic about the wonders of evolution and the vital role that arachnids play in their particular ecological niches.

Unfortunately, a phobia – especially one arising from acute trauma – tends to be resistant to reason and reality. His obsession only ever yielded heart palpitations and lucid nightmares. Despite that failure, he never stopped clinging to that idea that if only he could know everything there was to know about a thing, he could finally scrape together some semblance of control over his fear.

In many ways, that fixation is exactly what drew him to the Magnus Institute.

Unless the Spider really was pulling the strings all along, he thinks, and then: No, we are not going there.

“As far as I can tell,” Georgie continues, “my sympathetic nervous system still functions. I can still experience all the physiological aspects of sympathetic arousal – and fear is only one possible trigger for those sorts of responses. What’s missing is my capacity to interpret those responses through the lens of fear. To emotionally process or identify them as fear.

“I can still experience anxiety, to an extent – or something close to it. But mostly in the context of worrying about others, being scared for them. I mean, I can feel apprehensive about the possibility of experiencing pain or loss or failure myself, I have a stake in my continued existence, I can recognize danger, but sometimes it feels… I don’t know – mechanical, almost? There’s just always the feeling of something missing. Something important. And there are times when I feel that void more acutely.”

“Like now.”

“Yeah.” Georgie looks away, chewing her lip in silence.

“I’m listening,” Jon coaxes, sensing that there’s more she’s holding back.

“It’s just… hard to feel like a full person sometimes, you know?” Georgie says helplessly. “I worry sometimes that it – I don’t know, does a disservice, I guess, to the people I care about? Like no matter how much I love someone, it isn’t… complete? Or – genuine, in the right way? It’s – hard to find words that actually describe it. There are times when it feels like I’ve lost something vital that made me human, that made me me, and it’s… difficult to reconcile who I was – who I could have been – with who I am now.”

“That I understand,” Jon says softly.

“I know.” Jon wishes he was less familiar with the sad smile she gives him just then. “It’s just… I remember a time when I would have been terrified of all this. Not just worried, or upset about someone I care about being hurt, or devastated by the prospect of losing someone I love. Terrified. And knowing what I should be feeling – what I would have felt at some point – is… it’s unnerving. There’s a void there that shouldn’t be there. It’s like… having part of you gouged out and left hollow. An absence that’s so present it’s almost visceral.” She frowns. “Does that make any sense?”

“In my future I had a Flesh Avatar reach into my chest and wrench out two of my ribs, so… yes, actually.”

Georgie blinks several times, then laughs breathlessly. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.” Jon returns a cautious smile, but the levity evaporates after a few seconds. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that you don’t have to have access to the full spectrum of human emotion in order to count as human. And I don’t think any of this makes your concern for others any less heartfelt, or – or comforting. You might not be the same person you were before you were marked, but that doesn’t make you any lesser as a person.”

“You should try applying that metric to yourself sometime,” she replies, not unkindly.

“It’s –”

“Don’t say it’s different,” she cuts in. “Just… keep it in mind, okay?”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll try.” Georgie nods, but says nothing. Jon grips her hand a little tighter. “Listen, I – I know you’re worried for Melanie, but I think it’s going to be alright? I can’t predict the future –well, I have knowledge of one possible future, but that’s because I lived it. I don’t have any precognitive abilities, or anything like that. But… it turned out okay last time.”

Until I jump-started an apocalypse –

Jon reins in the thought before it can gain momentum. Georgie doesn’t need his brooding right now.

“Melanie is a fighter,” he says instead, offering a tentative smile. “And she has you.”

Georgie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you came out of the apocalypse sappier than you were when you went in.”

“Side effect of traversing a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a hopeless romantic, I think.” That gets another little chuckle out of Georgie. “I mean it, though. I think Melanie will be okay, especially with you looking out for her. Not to mention, the Admiral is a perpetual serotonin generator.”

“You really miss him, huh?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve pet a cat, Georgie?” Jon practically whines, playfully dramatic. It manages to keep the amused smile on Georgie’s face, he’s pleased to note.

“Maybe I should bring him by sometime.”

“Absolutely not. This place doesn’t deserve him.” Georgie snorts. Although Jon is reluctant to ruin the temporary shift in mood, this is as good a time as any to broach a subject he’s been dreading. “Also, I, ah… I don’t want you to feel obligated to continue visiting here.”

“What?” Georgie says, eyes narrowed.

“If you have to take a step back,” Jon says carefully, “I’ll understand.”

“I mean, I might not be able to come by as often as I have been, especially while Melanie is still recovering, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be around at all.” Georgie’s frown deepens. “I’m not about to cut you out of my life, Jon.”

“I know. And I don’t want you to. But – no, listen,” Jon insists, seeing Georgie about to protest. “What I’m trying to say is – I know Melanie wants to put as much distance between herself and the Institute as possible. If it turns out that you staying involved in all of this is too close to home, then… well, I don’t want her to feel like she’s still trapped in the Institute’s orbit, is all.”

Or mine, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to be a reason for Melanie to feel unsafe. In the past, he has been – and that’s not who he wants to be.

These days, Melanie has come to view him more as a fellow captive than a complicit enemy. Lingering resentment still sparks to life from time to time; she still struggles with her anger, and once or twice, she’s had to leave a room for fear of that rage boiling over. Overall, though, she no longer directs the majority of her ire towards him. When they do butt heads, it hasn’t gone much further than bickering – and even that feels comforting in its familiarity and mundanity. Almost companionable, in its own way.

Most significantly, ever since their talk, Melanie hasn’t once likened him to Jonah Magnus. Jon doesn’t know if that’s because it’s no longer an automatic association at the forefront of her mind, or because she’s consciously watching her words around him, actively taking care to avoid tripping that perpetual trigger. Either way, Jon is grateful.

But Jon also knows that he’s inseparable from the Institute. Despite his intentions, and regardless of whether or to what degree the others hold him personally responsible, the fact remains: he’s embroiled in something unspeakably evil, and that poses a danger to anyone who stands too close to him.

Georgie doesn’t immediately respond, instead taking the time to seriously consider his words. He’s always appreciated that about her, as uneasy as these moments of silent suspense can make him.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” she says eventually, “once she’s recovered enough to have that discussion. I don’t know how she’ll feel about staying in direct contact herself, especially at first, but… I doubt she expects me to cut you off. And I imagine she’ll still want to know how everyone is doing, even if she doesn’t want the details.” She glances up to meet his eyes. “Anyway, regardless of how often I visit in person, I’m still going to be checking in with you, so answer your damn phone, will you?”

“I do answer my phone,” he says defensively. “I just… forget to answer texts sometimes. And I don’t get service in the tunnels –”

“Well, come up for air and cell service from time to time.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can tolerate being down here for hours on end –”

Jon startles slightly as the trapdoor creaks open above their heads. Georgie stands as Melanie makes her way down the ladder, hurrying over to fold her into her arms. Basira follows behind, closing the trapdoor behind her as she goes.

“Mission successful, I take it?” Jon says quietly as Basira approaches him, giving Georgie and Melanie a moment to themselves.

“Uneventful,” Basira says with a shrug. “A few sidelong glances, but otherwise, none of the library staff even acknowledged us. Definitely didn’t seem keen on asking why we were rummaging in the repair supplies.”

“They probably didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah.” A small, rueful smile crosses her face. “Some of them used to talk to me, you know. Nothing personal – we weren’t close – but… when I returned a book, they’d ask what I thought of it, give me recommendations, that sort of thing. Now, though…”

These days she prefers to wait until everyone has gone home for the day before visiting the library, Jon Knows. He also Knows that the library staff are well aware that she’s the one pilfering research materials in the dead of night – and that they have no plans on confronting her about it. She never leaves a mess, after all, and always returns items to their proper places once she’s finished with them, which is more than can be said for many of the students who make use of the library’s resources.

“You know, I don’t think any of them have looked me in the eye for months.” There’s a distinct note of regret in Basira’s voice. “They just watch me out of the corners of their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I don’t know if that’s because they’re afraid of Lukas disappearing them for fraternizing, or because everyone is leery of the Archives these days, or because I’ve just become less approachable. Maybe all three. Suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

Jon knows the feeling well. Before he can answer, though, Melanie clears her throat. Jon looks over to see her facing his direction, one hand clasping Georgie’s tight enough to blanch her knuckles.

“This is it, then,” Basira says solemnly.

“Yeah.” Melanie closes her eyes and breathes a long, shaky exhale. “It’s time.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” Georgie asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “I don’t want you to see that.”

“But –”

“She won’t be alone,” Basira says. “I’ll be right outside the room.”

Melanie faces Georgie fully, taking her other hand as well. “The plan hasn’t changed. Basira will call 999. I’ll make it quick, and – once it’s done, Basira will come in and sit with me until the ambulance gets here.”

“I have a general idea of what the response time should be like,” Basira adds, looking at Georgie. “If we time it right, Melanie will have medical assistance within minutes. I can come get you when the paramedics get here, if you want to ride in the ambulance.”

Georgie nods and tightens her grip on Melanie’s hands. “Is that okay?”

“Only if you want,” Melanie says haltingly. “But – maybe try to avoid looking too close, if my eyes are uncovered? It’s just – it probably won’t be pretty.” A stressed laugh claws its way out of her throat. “Potential trauma fodder, you know? I don’t want to worry about you remembering me like that every time you see me, even after I’ve healed.”

“Okay,” Georgie replies softly.

“It shouldn’t take long. Just – wait here with Jon until then, okay?” Georgie nods again, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Speaking of which –” Melanie glances at Jon, as if just now remembering his presence. Startled by the sudden direct eye contact, he reflexively straightens his spine and stands at attention. “I guess this is goodbye, huh? For a while, anyway.”

“I, uh. I suppose it is.”

“Right. So, um… good luck, I guess?”

No disclaimers or ill will tacked on this time, Jon notes privately.

“You too.” He forces a smile, but he suspects that it comes off as awkward rather than reassuring.

“Try not to die.”

“Yes, ‘not dying’ is relatively close to the top of my to-do list.”

“If I come to find out that you’ve gotten yourself killed and broken the eldritch employment contract binding us all to this place after I’ve gone and gouged my eyes out, I’m going to be livid.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jon says wryly.

“Seriously, though.” Melanie’s smirk melts away, taken over by a somber, quiet sort of intensity. “Either beat Elias at his own game, or get the fuck away from this place the instant you find an out. Whichever comes first. Preferably without any of the self-sacrificial bullshit.”

Fractious as its delivery is, the demand is oddly touching, coming from Melanie.

“I, uh… I’ll do my best?”

“You’d better.” Melanie nods – a curt but cordial dismissal – and turns her attention back to Georgie. “Hey,” she says, her voice going measurably softer, releasing one of Georgie’s hands to reach up and cup her face. Her watery smile belies her mental state: resolve warring with trepidation. “Look at me?”

For a long minute, she studies Georgie’s face, clearly enraptured. Jon forcefully tears his gaze away from the intimacy of the moment.

“Okay.” Melanie takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. “I’m ready. I’ll see you soon, okay? Or – well, I won’t see you, but – you’ll see me, and I’ll…” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, whatever – you know what I mean.”

Georgie lets out a tearful chuckle, and Melanie relaxes marginally.

“I’m sure about this,” she says. “I promise. This is what I want – a life with you, away from all of this. And if this is the price I have to pay, then… I’m okay with that. Really, I am.” She stands on tiptoe to give Georgie a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie says, leaning down for a return kiss, smiling weakly against Melanie’s lips. “See you soon.”

When Martin first heard the bustle outside his door – coworkers venturing outside their solitary offices to trade whispered questions and eager gossip as word of paramedics in the archives made its way upstairs – his stomach gave a little lurch: a combination of horror and wonder. He hadn’t expected Melanie to change her mind – he knows how determined she can be once she’s settled on a course of action; how desperate she was to extricate herself from Elias’ – Jonah’s – schemes. Still, though, faced with the reality of it, he found himself in awe of her nerve.

That was yesterday. Martin didn’t get much work done, preoccupied as he was. He isn’t having an easier time of it today: his attention keeps slipping away to linger in remembrances of sterile hospital rooms and muted hallways, thoughts drowned out by the ghosts of sirens and beeping machinery.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.”

Martin jolts in his seat, heart leaping into his throat. It only takes an instant longer for his alarm to mutate into aggravation.

“Peter!” Martin spins around to glower at the man. “How many times do I have to–”

Peter flaps a dismissive hand. “To be honest, Martin, the drop in temperature tends to tip most people off. The only reason you continue to be surprised by my arrival is because you’ve become acclimated to the Forsaken.”

The revelation is slow to sink in, a stark chill blooming in Martin’s chest and snaking its roots outwards. Only now that it’s been brought to his attention can he feel the nip in the air.

“Here I was certain you were becoming estranged from our patron, but it seems I needn’t have worried.” Peter’s smile is laced with malice. “Or should I?”

Martin says nothing, eyes wide and stinging from the now-conspicuous cold. Peter sighs, folds his hands behind his back, and begins a meandering back-and-forth pace.

“Our success is dependent on your voluntary isolation, Martin.”

“Yeah.” The word turns to fog as it touches the air, and Martin finds himself transfixed by the sight. “You’ve said.”

“It seems you need a reminder.”

The condescension dripping from the words is enough to drag Martin back into the present moment. Heat rises in his cheeks, contrasting with the temperature in the room and making the chill that much more noticeable.

“You still haven’t told me your plan,” he snaps. “You keep expecting me to just – go along with whatever you’re scheming, no questions asked.”

“You ask many questions, Martin –”

“Yeah, and you never answer them! You’re so – so bloody cryptic about all of this.”

“Martin, Martin,” Peter says, placating in the most patronizing way possible. Martin bristles: he hates the way Peter says his name. “There’s no need to get so worked up –”

“If you want me to be a partner in – in whatever it is you’re planning, you can’t expect me to go on blind trust!”

“I’m still conducting my own research,” Peter says mildly. “I would rather not confuse you with extraneous details before I have all the kinks worked out.”

“I’m not an idiot –”

“Rest assured,” Peter interrupts, “if I was capable of stopping the Extinction alone, I would. Unfortunately, it will require someone touched by the Beholding.”

“Why?”

“Because it requires this place, and this place” – Peter’s lip curls in distaste – “is the Eye’s seat of power. The One Alone has no dominion here.” Martin crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You are the only one who can do this, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin repeats.

Judging from the muscle ticking in Peter’s jaw, his limited supply of patience for conversation is precipitously depleting.

“No, really,” Martin presses, “why me? I mean” – he spreads his arms out with a scornful chuckle – “look at me. I’m not exactly hero material, am I?”

“That really depends on you. I can’t force you to cooperate. It won’t even work unless you’re a willing participant.”

“And what makes you think that your plan is the only way? You – you keep going on about how it’s my choice. Well – what if I choose to work with the others? It can’t hurt to have more eyes on the problem –” Martin rolls his eyes at Peter’s unconcealed revulsion. “Yeah, I know. No one would ever accuse you of being a team player, obviously. But I can be the liaison; you don’t have to interact with anyone at all.” Would prefer you don’t interact with anyone at all, Martin thinks. “I mean, that’s already my role, isn’t it? Dealing with people so you don’t have to?”

“Martin,” Peter says, low and dangerous.

“I’ll do it off the clock, even. I’ll isolate myself in my office during the workday, or whatever” – Martin gives a flippant wave of his hand – “and continue researching the Extinction.” And practically running the whole damn place on an assistant’s salary, he grouses silently. “After hours I’ll pursue my own research with the others.”

“Part-time isolation will not suffice to equip you with the power you’ll need.” Peter presses his lips into a pale, rigid line. “Be reasonable. Are you really willing to risk an apocalypse, just because you can’t appreciate solitude?”

“If it starts to look like there’s no other option, I’ll reconsider.”

“And if the Extinction emerges while you’re wasting time searching for an alternative that doesn’t exist?”

“Based on the limited information you’ve given me, I don’t think the Extinction is going to just… emerge overnight. I’m still not even convinced it’s going to be worse than any other Fear. I mean, the Flesh is relatively new, isn’t it? And it didn’t… leave the fear economy in shambles, or whatever.”

“It isn’t about competition, Martin.” Peter releases a slow plume of fog through his nose before continuing, voice cool but simmering with pique just under the surface. “The Extinction is different from the other Powers. It is defined by widescale eradication. The other Powers may seek to change the world, but none of them strive for a world without us.”

“But what makes you so sure the Extinction would?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Ignoring him, Martin runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he replays Jon’s impassioned conjectures on the matter: It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one.

“What’s to say it wouldn’t be just fine with the world as it is, like the End?” Martin says, more confidently now. “People have been prophesying about the end of the world for – all of human history, probably. I doubt we’ll stop anytime soon. Maybe at its core the Extinction is just… the fear of an uncertain future. And a particular future doesn’t have to be realized in order to inspire fear, as long as the potential is always there. It’s about the suspense – the ‘what ifs’, the unknown, the – the lack of control in it all.” Martin laughs. “In a way, that’s… that’s what most fears boil down to, isn’t it?”

“The stakes are rather high to gamble on a thought experiment, don’t you think?” The temperature plunges a few more degrees as Peter speaks. “I think that the most important ‘what if’ you should concern yourself with is what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not?” Martin counters. “You act so authoritative, but aren’t you also just speculating? When I agreed to work with you, you told me you would provide me with evidence to support your theory. So far, I’m not convinced. You’re going to have to give me more to go on than just ‘trust me.’ I mean – if it’s between trusting you and – and trusting Jon, and the others? You can’t really be surprised if I choose them over you.”

“Oh, Martin,” Peter tuts, shaking his head with derisive, disingenuous pity. “Since when has the trust you’ve placed in others ever been reciprocated?”

“I trust him,” Martin says defiantly.

“But does he trust you?” Peter pauses for effect. “Of all the times you’ve allowed yourself to form attachments, has anyone even once genuinely returned those affections?”

Jon did.

Whatever expression Martin is wearing brings a sneer to Peter’s face. Martin clenches his teeth and ignores him.

Jon does, he corrects. Present tense. He said as much.

Martin still can’t fathom what Jon could possibly see in him, but Jon wouldn’t lie about something like that, right? He wouldn’t.

…would he?

No, he wouldn’t, Martin chides. You know he wouldn’t. Trust him.

“Sure,” Peter persists, “you may open yourself up to the potential for something more, but you know as well as I do that it won’t last. Is the inevitable loss really worth the risk?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says. He tries to ignore the slight quaver that insinuates itself into the declaration. “But if I never take the risk, I’ll never know, will I?”

“I think you already know the answer.” Peter’s pale eyes glitter with spite. “Remember what it felt like, languishing at the Archivist’s deathbed. Recall the state you were in when you first came to me.”

The words are incisive, sliding under Martin’s skin and lodging there like shrapnel. He can feel his confidence waver, the conviction he stood fast on only seconds ago splintering underneath him like thin ice.

“How many times do you think he can court death and survive? He all but died stopping the last apocalypse; he was willing to bury himself alive for a woman who tried to kill him. How do you think he’ll react if you tell him about any of this? You think he’ll listen to reason? Trust in your judgment?” Peter fixes Martin with a smug, hungry look. “Or will he throw himself in front of the first bullet he sees?”

He already knows about all of this, Martin reminds himself. Jon isn’t about to sacrifice himself on account of the Extinction. Moreover, he seems to be genuinely committed to working as a team rather than striking out on his own.

But he also sees himself as a cataclysm waiting to happen, says the nagging doubt skulking in the far corners of Martin’s mind. As much as Jon insists that he doesn’t want to die, he’s already lived through one apocalypse. Martin has no doubt that Jon would sacrifice himself to prevent another, if it came down to it.

Jon is a powder keg of fear and guilt, and there is no shortage of potential ignition sources waiting in the wings. It only takes one untimely spark to set an archive ablaze.

“I trust him,” Martin repeats to himself, but the statement is rendered feeble by the leaden, frozen knot unfurling in his chest.

“Can you really weather another round of grief?” Peter continues, triumphant. He knows he’s found a gap in Martin’s defenses; all he needs to do now is twist the knife. “You’ve already done your mourning, cut the infection off at the source. Let him back in, and you only open yourself up to more pain. Better a numbed scar than a wound that never heals, don’t you think?”

“No.” There’s something off about Martin’s voice – as if it doesn’t belong to him; as if it’s originating from outside of himself, faint and frail and faraway, smothered by the cold, empty fog clogging his lungs. “N-no, I…”

“Connection is a fleeting, fickle thing,” Peter persists. “It’s a lie people tell themselves. The truth is that we are all alone. In the end, all we have is ourselves. Think about it.”

Unthinkingly, Martin shrinks away as Peter steps closer.

“You asked for more evidence.” Peter slides a few statement folders onto the desk. “Take some time to yourself. Consider whether you’re willing to wager on the fate of the world.”

When Martin looks up, he is alone.

“It’s so loud,” Daisy mutters heatedly, stalking to and fro like a panther in a cage. She scratches furiously at her forearms as she goes, blunt fingernails leaving faint red stripes on pale skin.

“Daisy,” Jon says evenly, “I think maybe you should –”

“Itch I can’t scratch.” She pivots on her heel, retracing her short path in the opposite direction. “Feels like fire under my skin.”

“I don’t think clawing your skin off is going to help.”

Daisy barks a laugh. “With what claws?” She stops short and brandishes the backs of her trembling hands, fingers splayed to highlight nails gnawed to the quick, ragged cuticles stained rust-brown with dried blood. “Dull now.” Her eyes go unfocused, staring vaguely at her hands as if she doesn’t recognize them. “Too dull.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he means it.

It never gets easier to witness her like this, frenetic and fraying in the throes of the Hunt’s compulsion. These spells have a way of making her features look sharper, her mannerisms more animalistic. She’s all protruding bones and sallow skin, but that seeming frailty does nothing to tame the violence thrumming in her veins. If anything, that all-consuming hunger only makes her more fearsome.

Jon’s strict rations have given him an underfed, pinched look as well, but at least he has something. Not enough to put meat on his bones, so to speak, but enough to stave off starvation. Daisy, though…

When Jon takes a step forward, she rounds on him with teeth bared and a snarl in her throat. Jon flinches at the sudden movement.

“You’re afraid of me.” Daisy exhales an exhausted rattle of a laugh, as if vindicated. “Good. You should be.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jon says. “I have an overactive startle reflex. Always have, really.”

“You’re lying.” Daisy breathes heavily through her nose, fists clenched at her sides now. “Admit it.”

Jon knows what she’s trying to do. She wants him to lash out, to bite back, to make her bleed. He’s uncomfortably familiar with that craving. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he reiterates.

“Liar,” Daisy hisses, fixing him with a baleful glare.

He’s seen her like this many times before, hunger-ravaged and swamped by bloodlust. She’ll doggedly bash herself against the nearest witness to her shame like a ship crashed against a jetty, driven forward again and again by cresting waves of guilt and self-loathing until she’s free-floating wreckage. Every time, it gets more and more difficult to gather up all the debris and repair the damage. Jon fears that one of these days, the storm will pass and there won’t be enough pieces left to put her back together.

“I’m not a knife you can cut yourself on, Daisy,” he says patiently.

Daisy looks positively mutinous, mouth opening and closing several times before erupting: “Why wouldn’t you be afraid of me?”

“I used to be,” Jon admits, leaning back against the tunnel wall to take some of the weight off his bad leg. “Before the Buried. I was terrified of you. Dreaded every moment I had to be alone with you. Thought it was only a matter of time before you finished the job.”

“It was,” she rasps out – and with that, her shoulders slump and her fists relax to hang limply at her sides, fingers jumping and twitching with the last dregs of her agitation.

“I know. But then you changed. You were different, after the Buried. As afraid of yourself as I used to be of you. As afraid of yourself as I was of myself.” He looks her in the eye as he speaks. “I looked at you and saw my own fear reflected back at me. There are so many things to be afraid of. You were – you are trying very hard not to be one of them.”

“If I’m afraid of me, you should be, too.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Jon asks, shaping each word carefully to keep the compulsion at bay.

She pauses, considering the question.

“No,” she says eventually. “Afraid for you, sometimes.”

“As I am for you.” Jon’s tentative smile fades after a moment. “I’ll admit, I do have… reflexive reactions, sometimes. There were a few incidents where I walked into the breakroom and you were holding a knife, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in before my conscious brain could catch up with reality.”

Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the look on her face isn’t pleading so much as it is resigned. She isn’t asking for forgiveness. Jon doubts she ever will.

It’s just one more thing they have in common.

“I know,” he says quietly. “To be clear, I don’t feel unsafe with you, as you are now. It’s just… flashbacks. They can be – unpredictable. And if I’m already feeling on edge, or – or not quite present, it doesn’t take much to set me off. But,” he adds, giving her a serious look, “I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me. That only puts me more on edge.”

“Fine. But will you tell me if I do something to scare you?”

“Yes.” She made the same request last time. “But I’ve never had to. You could always feel when I was afraid. From a few rooms away, even.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says with a choked laugh. “Your blood is – very loud sometimes.”

“And now?”

These episodes tend to be capricious. Sometimes, what seems to be the calm after the storm proves to be only a lull before a second wind. If the way she’s wobbling on her feet and favoring one leg is any indication, Jon suspects that the worst of the flare-up has passed for now, taking her adrenaline surge with it. Still, he waits for her confirmation. Daisy takes a minute to mull over the question, head cocked slightly to the side as if listening.

“Quieter,” she says.

With that, Jon lowers himself to the ground and sits with his back against the wall, beckoning her over to take a seat. She hesitates for a moment longer before following his lead, slumping down next to him with a labored sigh.

“Sorry for growling at you,” she says sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Daisy tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You said I ended up going back to the Hunt last time.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“September. But – but that doesn’t mean it has to happen again,” he adds hurriedly when he sees her face fall in a mixture of anguish and resignation. “It was – sort of a perfect storm of extenuating circumstances. Like I said before, if you didn’t let the Hunt back in, you and Basira would likely have been killed. But I think you knew you wouldn’t be coming back from it. Before you changed, you made Basira promise to hunt you down and kill you.”

“And did she?”

“She lost track of you in the chaos. You gave chase after one of the Hunters. Once you killed her, the other Hunter started hunting you. For revenge.” Jon’s voice drops to a low murmur. “A few weeks later, the world ended.”

Which makes it sound far more passive than it actually was, but Jon isn’t in the mood for a scolding should he opt for an ‘I’ statement.

“And then what?”

“You were a full-fledged Hunter in a – a perpetual fear generator of a world,” Jon says grimly. “Do you really need to hear the details?”

“Tell me,” Daisy says. “Please.”

Jon understands the need, but recounting the apocalypse never gets any easier. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“When I opened the door and let all the Fears into this reality,” he begins, “the world was divvied up into thousands of different domains, each belonging to a different shade of terror. With few exceptions, most people were confined to one domain – usually whatever aligned with their deepest fears. Avatars and monsters were subject to the Ceaseless Watcher, but otherwise able to exercise control over the humans in the domains of their patrons. Most seemed to stake out territory and settle in one place – customizing their own little spheres of influence, creating playgrounds of their own making. But some got around. You were one of the ones that traveled.”

“What was –” Daisy grimaces. “Who was I hunting?”

“Well… in that place, no one got what they deserved, only what would hurt the most. And people are rarely afraid of just one thing. Most were magnets for multiple fears. The more nomadic Avatars and monsters would gravitate towards whatever individuals were most susceptible to their power, so to speak.” He bites his lip. There’s really no tactful way to phrase this next part. “In your case, you had a roster of specific targets that you were tracking. Former prey. Whether you were drawn to them because of their own fear of you, or because some part of you judged them to have ‘gotten away,’ so to speak… I’m not entirely certain. It may have been a bit of both.”

“I see,” Daisy murmurs. “Guess it makes sense that I would rank high among some people’s greatest fears.”

“Basira was tracking you when we ran into her. We were with her when we found you.”

“And was I… still me?”

“Yes and no,” Jon says hesitantly. “You were you, in a way, but only a small part of you. The Hunter. Everything else was buried too deep. Drowned. Even if I could have brought you back, it would have killed you. You – you didn’t even recognize me, or Martin. You recognized Basira – saw her as pack, wanted her to join you in the Hunt – but…”

“You were prey,” Daisy says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You never did manage to grow a self-preservation instinct, did you?” Daisy squints at him. “I went full monster on you, and you still want me to sit next to you now.”

“You had sharper teeth then,” Jon says drily. Daisy scoffs and nudges his shoulder with hers. She doesn’t draw back after making contact, and when Jon doesn’t pull away either, she leans into him.

“Basira kept her promise?” Daisy asks after a minute.

“Yes. She didn’t want to, but…” Jon swallows thickly, the memory of Basira’s heartbreak bringing to mind his own. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Daisy rubs at her chest with one hand, as if to soothe an ache. “It wasn’t fair for me to ask that of her, was it?”

“Maybe not,” Jon sighs. “It seems fair choices are hard to come by, for most of us.”

“I… I don’t want her to have to make that choice this time.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s never going to stop, is it?” Daisy glances at him, allowing her head to rest lightly on his shoulder. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say?

“Melanie got away,” Daisy says, a tinge of bargaining in her tone. “She managed to purge the Slaughter. And break away from the Eye.”

“Her situation was… different from ours. She wasn’t as far gone as we are. The Slaughter hadn’t fully claimed her, and the Eye never took her as an Avatar. But you’ve been living with the Hunt for most of your life; I signed myself over to the Beholding the moment I became the Archivist. We’ve become… attached to our patrons, dependent on them for survival. Symbiotic, in a twisted sort of way.”

“You really don’t think there’s a way back, then.”

“I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen it before, in my future, but – the world was different then. During the apocalypse, I was able to, uh… shift a person’s status from Watched to Watcher. I – I mean, technically everyone was Watched – the Eye had dominion over everything – but I could give someone control over one of the smaller domains. Create new Avatars, for lack of a better term.

“But turn a Watcher into solely the Watched, and they would typically unravel. I don’t know if that’s because the full focus of the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze just happens to be lethal – particularly for Avatars aligned with other Powers – or if an Avatar is simply unable to survive being cut off from their patron regardless of the means of separation. I do Know that I wouldn’t have been able to survive being cut off from the Eye unscathed. I was… too much a part of the Eye in that reality. Not sure about now. For either of us.”

“That’s a roundabout way of saying ‘no.’”

“I’m not saying no, I’m saying that I don’t know. Supposedly escaping the Buried was impossible, and here we are.”

“Apples and oranges,” Daisy says sullenly.

“Maybe. I think it’s all too complex for clear-cut categories. Even the hard-and-fast ‘rules’ are only as strong as our collective belief in them. Almost like our expectations shore them up. I’ve witnessed all of reality being rewritten – all physical laws and supposed universal constants reshaped to center the Eye.” He reaches one hand up to tug on the hair at the back of his neck. “After all I’ve Seen, it’s difficult to conceive of anything being categorically impossible. Between all the dream logic and reality bending, there’s plenty of space for firsts and exceptions to the rules.”

‘I don’t knows’ are where the hope lives, Martin said once. At the time, Jon teased him for being a hopeless romantic, but truthfully, Jon was just as hopelessly endeared by Martin’s belief in such things.

“Have you talked to Georgie yet today?” Daisy asks, apparently ready to change the subject.

“Oh, uh – yes. This morning.”

“And?”

“Melanie was out of surgery and stable, but she wasn’t awake yet. Georgie promised to call tonight with an update.” Assuming nothing major comes up before then, a worried voice in Jon’s head supplies. He shakes his head to jog the thought loose. “Speaking of Georgie… have you given any thought to her suggestion?”

“What,” Daisy says, drolly skeptical, “playing a video game?”

“I realize it’s… somewhat out of the box, but it might be worth a try. Like Georgie said, there are multiplayer games where you can, uh… hunt down other players.”

Daisy plucks absently at her collar, glowering at the opposite wall as if the bricks there committed a personal offense. “It’s not the same.”

“A simulation might not come close to a real hunt, no, but – you might still get something out of it? Maybe?” Daisy directs her scowl up at the ceiling. Jon only digs his heels in, undeterred. “There are even some that have a survival horror theme. An aesthetic that already puts players in the mindset to be frightened, you know?”

“People play those games for fun, Sims.” She finally looks at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s about thrills, not mortal fear.”

“Sometimes genuine fear can sneak through. Haven’t you ever been so creeped out by a horror story that it stayed with you after nightfall?”

“Not really?”

“O-oh. Well, some people have that experience.” Jon gives an awkward little cough. “Anyway, under the right circumstances, a game can get the adrenaline pumping as well as a chase can. A fight-or-flight response doesn’t necessarily require a real physical threat.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows, transparently cynical. “Do you really think the Hunt is going to be satisfied with jump scares and – and low-stakes adrenaline rushes filtered through a screen?”

“No,” Jon admits. “But it might take the edge off. Sort of like reading old statements does for me. Not enough to stop you starving, but maybe enough to distract from the hunger pangs. At least temporarily. If nothing else, you did say you need a new hobby, and it’s not like this place is overflowing with viable entertainment options.”

“I guess,” Daisy sighs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m paying rent. May as well squander my paycheck.”

“If that’s the case, you should see if that eBay listing for that vintage The Archers board game is still up,” Jon says drily. “Last I checked, it was £2 with no bidders.”

“Yeah, and £30 shipping.”

“Sounds like £32 well spent, if you ask me.”

Daisy snorts and bumps her shoulder against his. “You, Jonathan Sims, are an absolute menace.”

Adrift and thoroughly divorced from the concept of time, end of the workday passes Martin by without his notice. Once again, he wonders whether Peter deliberately assigned him an office with no external window, not only to put another wall between him and the rest of the world, but to make it easier for him to lose track of time.

For an interminable stretch of time he sits catatonic, mind peppered with sporadic sensory input: Dead-weight limbs, listless and foreign-feeling. The brush of fabric resting against bare skin, every point of weightless contact a violation. The distant ticking of clockwork, rote and irrevocable.

Stand up, comes the thought, detached and intrusive: an instruction he cannot parse; empty phonemes wafted into a vacant mind, abandoned there to echo and disperse until they lose all meaning. A fragment of a signal from brain to nerves to fingers presses numb fingertips to thumbs, a cautious test yielding no sensation but for the vague, spongey give of flesh.

Then the body ostensibly belonging to him is on its feet, the connection between floor and soles disturbingly incongruent with unreality. Walking now, every footfall jarring in its impact; every step stretched and blurred like a botched time-lapse photograph; every molasses-sluggish forward motion met with invisible resistance, like swimming against a sludgy current.

He does not remember how or when or under whose direction he arrives in the Archives, swaying at the threshold of the Head Archivist’s office. Empty and still. Silence so pervasive it’s almost tangible. Viscous and inexorable. Trapping him like a fly in honey. Drowning.

When next he becomes aware of his surroundings, he’s wavering at the bottom of a ladder. Walls curving up and over his head, a brickwork warren stretching on and out into the murk.

Standing in place. Hovering like an afterimage. Rootless and incorporeal. Searching for… staring at… calling to…

There: something real.

“Martin?” Jon’s breath fogs the air as he speaks, but the way he says the name… his voice seems to cradle the word, shielding it against the cold. He sits up straighter, keen gaze sweeping the area like a lighthouse beacon. “Martin, is that you?”

That’s me, Martin thinks, and then, wonderingly: He says your name like it’s something precious.

At that thought, Jon’s eyes land on him like a searchlight.

“There you are.” His soft smile immediately falters, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

He’s sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, and Daisy pressed up against his side in a mirrored position, sharing a pair of corded earphones. Daisy is already thumbing at the screen of her phone, presumably pausing whatever it is they’re listening to, as Jon removes his earbud.

Martin opens his mouth to speak, but the air in his lungs has turned to viscid fog and the confused tangle of half-formed thoughts in his mind refuse to coalesce into actual words. Jon exchanges a glance with Daisy, who is already moving to stand. Martin wants to object – she doesn’t have to leave on his account; he can see that they’re busy; he’s fine; he’s just overreacting – but before he can cobble together a protest, she’s halfway to her feet, gripping the wall for support.

“I’m alright now,” Martin can hear her say.

“You’re sure?” Jon asks in a low murmur.

“Yeah.” She winces as she straightens her spine. “Knowing Basira, she’s still pouring over the same statements as she was this morning. She could do with an interruption.”

“Can you manage the ladder?”

Daisy stretches her leg out, testing her mobility. “Think so.”

They give each other another long look, a shared nod, and without another word, Daisy staggers her way to the exit and mounts the ladder.

As it does every time he witnesses these displays of unspoken understanding between them, an ugly pang of jealousy burns in Martin’s chest – some combination of envy, inadequacy, longing, and loneliness. Possessiveness, almost – and an instant later, the shame sets in.

But then the trapdoor closes, Jon looks Martin in the eye again, and the sincere, tender warmth sheltering there is enough to leave Martin reeling. It’s hard to comprehend anyone – let alone Jonathan Sims – looking at him like that; difficult to reconcile requited affection with a lifetime of fruitless want. Martin can’t shake the feeling that it will always be this way – and that his inability to trust in unconditional love is precisely what makes him so unlovable in the first place.

Jon clears his throat and pats the floor beside him. He’s seated on a blanket, Martin just now notices, folded over several times to cushion the hard ground.

He’d better not be napping down here, Martin thinks to himself.

“Martin,” Jon says, in that impossibly soft tone he’s taken to using around Martin these days, “I’d like you to come sit, if you’re amenable.”

It’s such a Jon way of phrasing the invitation, and the familiarity it engenders has Martin accepting without a conscious thought. He settles himself beside Jon, close but not touching. Those few inches of distance manage to be simultaneously loathsome and assuring. Martin lets his hand rest in that vacant space, fingers clenching around a fistful of blanket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon’s hand twitch, as if fighting back the urge to reach out and touch. Instead, he starts to rub the fabric of his trouser leg between his thumb and forefinger.

“What do you need right now?” Jon asks.

“I…” Martin pauses, unsettled by the sound of his own voice, grating and almost unfamiliar to his ears.

“Take your time.”

It takes a minute for Martin to wrap his mouth around more than one syllable.

“Nothing,” he says, the weight of the word nearly pinning his tongue in place.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Several more minutes pass before Martin is able to construct a full sentence.

“I’m just being stupid.” The words seem to echo faintly in the tunnel, despite how quietly he says them.

“What do you need?” Jon asks again.

“Nothing,” Martin repeats dully. He doesn’t need anything.

Jon doesn’t immediately respond. Martin can feel himself go rigid, anticipating… what – aggravation, impatience, disengagement? But Jon only runs a thumb along his jawline, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “what do you want, then? What would – what would help you feel better right now?”

“I… I don’t know,” Martin says in a voice so feeble it’s nearly inaudible. He flexes his fingers uncertainly, chasing after any physical sensation at all, only to find them numb and deathlike. The helpless sigh that shudders out of him wants to be a whimper. “I just – didn’t – don’t – feel real. Feels like I’m not really here.”

“Hmm.” Jon looks at him – really looks at him, taking his time to study Martin’s face. “Well, I can confirm that you are here.”

“You… you can see me?” Martin asks meekly, pleadingly, dreading the answer.

“Yes.” Jon pauses. “And if you’re agonizing over being a bother, don’t, because you aren’t. I always like seeing you.”

He should trust Jon – he does trust Jon – but it’s still a constant struggle to drown out that Lonely part of him that insists that isolation is safer, more dependable, and far more habitable. Unthinkingly, Martin reaches over, hand trembling in the air above Jon’s, fingertips just barely ghosting across scarred skin.

“Would you like me to hold your hand…?” Jon ventures.

Martin’s fingers curve inward as he pulls back slightly. “I, um.”

“You can say no,” Jon reminds him.

“I… I want it, but I – I – I don’t know if I can handle it right now, and I –” Martin draws back entirely, flapping both hands in frustration, trying to relieve the pins-and-needles sensation prickling through his veins. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Martin grimaces at the outburst, but Jon doesn’t seem to be judging him. Instead, he’s looking off to the side, a crease between his eyebrows now, as if he’s working through a problem.

“No skin-to-skin contact,” he says to himself, and then he looks to Martin. “Pressure helps me sometimes, when I feel like I’m not real. You could… lean against me? If you want.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to,” Jon rushes to reassure him.

“It’s – not that I don’t want to. I guess I’m just…” Martin can feel himself flush with embarrassment. “It’s daft, but I’m worried that I’ll be – I don’t know, incorporeal, or something.”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that you’re not a ghost.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon’s deadpan humor to sink in. When it does, Martin nearly chokes on a surprised laugh.

“I still can’t believe you thought I was a ghost,” he says, cracking a smile. The tight, bitter-cold knot in his chest yields just a little, like ice disintegrating under a spring thaw.

“In my defense, I was quite distraught at the time.” Jon’s eyes wrinkle at the corners and Martin is struck by overwhelming fondness. He doesn’t pull away when Jon reaches out, open palm hovering just above his shoulder. “May I?”

Cautiously, Martin nods.

“Hmm.” Jon applies the lightest touch at first, watching Martin’s face carefully. He waits until Martin nods for him to continue before he presses down more firmly. Before long, Martin can feel the warmth of Jon’s hand through his jumper. That warmth carries over into Jon’s smile. “Feels solid to me.”

The confirmation comes as a relief, as foolish as that makes Martin feel. He braces himself and leans against Jon’s side, releasing his held breath when his body meets with tangible resistance. At first he worries that Jon, scrawny as he is, won’t be able to support the weight, but he doesn’t budge when Martin melts against him. After that, it’s a struggle for Martin to keep his eyes open.

Jon must notice, because he whispers, “You can rest. I’ll be here.”

Martin doesn’t even have the strength to nod, let alone the energy to argue. He allows the steady rise and fall of Jon’s chest to lull him into an almost meditative state, his mind still floating somewhere outside of himself, but now tethered to the ground.

Then the silence starts nipping at his heels.

“Too quiet,” he mumbles. “Talk to me?”

“What about?”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that highland cattle have a double coat?” Jon says after a minute of consideration. “It insulates them against the cold. The outer layer is long – the longest hair of any cattle breed, in fact – and oily, which helps ward off the rain. Underneath is softer, almost woolly hair.”

Once Jon gets started, those little scraps of trivia soon progress to a nearly encyclopedic lecture. It doesn’t take long for Martin to lose himself in the rich timbre of Jon’s voice as he goes on about various Scottish breeds of cattle. Although he doesn’t fall fully asleep, Martin manages to drift in and out of consciousness enough that he loses track of time once more. This time, though, it’s a comfortable daze: there’s someone to keep him from straying too far.

At some point, he unthinkingly seeks out Jon’s hand. Jon presses his thumb into the center of Martin’s palm, rubbing small circles there, coaxing Martin further into peaceful relaxation.

“Sorry for interrupting you and Daisy earlier,” Martin murmurs groggily into Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh, we were just listening to The Archers.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Martin asks, opening one eye to scrutinize Jon’s expression.

“Unfortunately not.”

“You like The Archers.”

“Good lord, no. Blame Daisy.”

“Daisy likes The Archers,” Martin says, even more dubiously, sitting up now to squint at Jon.

“There are stranger things.”

Martin snorts and nestles into Jon’s side again. “If you say so.”

“Feeling better now?” Martin reflexively snuggles closer. Jon laughs softly, a little puff of a breath that rustles Martin’s hair. “I’m not going to deny you cuddles if the answer is ‘yes,’ you know.”

“Cuddles,” Martin whispers, the word dissolving into a clipped giggle.

“What?” Jon tilts his head. There’s a puzzled scowl on his face, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should take offense. It’s impossibly endearing.

“Cuddles,” Martin repeats, in a poor approximation of Jon’s voice this time. “Not a word I ever expected to hear from you.”

“Quiet, you,” Jon huffs, but he can’t disguise the way his indignant pout cracks into a smile under the weight of his own amusement. He almost seems to preen, as if pulling a laugh from Martin is a victory on which to pride himself. He reaches up with his free hand, pausing just above the top of Martin’s head. “May I?”

At Martin’s affirmative, Jon begins to comb his fingers through Martin’s hair, fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp. For the briefest of moments, some primal fragment of him recoils from the contact, instinctively unnerved by the vulnerability inherent to such closeness. Martin spurns that voice, breathes through its fit of angst and panic, and leans into the touch.

Little by little, step by step, he’s acclimating. He just wishes that it wasn’t such a process each and every time he lets his guard down like this.

“Bad day?” Jon asks once Martin settles.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Martin groans. “But I should.”

“Only if you want to.”

“No, you should know, I just…” Martin heaves a wearied sigh. “Peter’s back.”

Jon gasps like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. The hand stroking Martin’s hair abruptly stills; the other, still clasped in Martin’s, constricts like a death-grip.

“Did he hurt you?” The question is steeped in an artificial, fragile sort of calm, but Jon can’t quite mask the intensity buzzing just under the surface: fear, protectiveness, and desperation all intermingled and reinforced by that ominous inkling of power that, despite his intentions, lurks behind every word.

“He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Just… trying to get me to recommit to the Lonely.” Martin scoffs. “And of course he was trying to do it in a way that would make me feel like it was my idea. Get me to convince myself that it was what I wanted, rather than something he was pressuring me into.”

“Of all the Powers, the Lonely is one of the most insidious, I think,” Jon says quietly. “It seeks out victims who already have one foot in the Lonely, reinforces those fears, promises kinship – a paradoxical form of it, anyway – and then it just… waits. Spend enough time disconnected from the rest of the world, and it doesn’t take long to start telling yourself the lie that it’s for the best. That it’s what you are; that it’s all you’re meant to be.”

“And I fell for it,” Martin mutters.

“Anyone would, subjected to the right conditions.” Jon waits until he catches Martin’s eye before he continues. “It isn’t your fault. This is what the Fears do. It’s what they are. They find an opening, they sink their hooks in, and they pull you under. They don’t let go until either you drown or you learn to breathe fear. The only way out is for someone to throw you a lifeline, and even then, the odds aren’t great. And the Lonely in particular – one of the first things it does is make it difficult to even conceive of a lifeline. It’s hard to catch hold of one if you never think to look for it.”

“I thought you hated convoluted metaphors.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately the Powers That Be tend to elude any sort of straightforward, concrete discussion,” Jon grouses. “Just one more reason to begrudge them, really. My point is, the Lonely is an insufferable liar and so is Peter.”

“What do you know, they’re perfect for each other.” The remark succeeds in putting a lopsided smirk on Jon’s face, much to Martin’s delight. “Anyway, Peter said his plan won’t work unless I’m voluntarily Lonely.”

“He’s right, although his plan has nothing to do with the Extinction. He needs you to choose the Lonely because those were the terms of his bet with Jonah. He poaches you out from under the Eye – gets you to pledge yourself to the Forsaken – and he wins, with the Institute as a prize. He fails to convert you, he loses, and he does what Jonah wants, which is for me to be marked by the Lonely.”

Jon says that last part so nonchalantly. As if it’s a foregone conclusion; as if he’s become so accustomed to dehumanization that it doesn’t even give him pause. Martin grits his teeth, biting back a surge of anger on Jon’s behalf.

“Yeah, well,” he says tightly, “Peter bet on the wrong horse.”

A sharp intake of breath leaves Jon sounding strangled when he says, eyes wide and lips parted, “Oh?”

“I mean, he can’t just sic the Lonely on me like he would any other victim, right? That wouldn’t count as a win. He needs me to choose it. And I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah?” The expression of unguarded, cautious hope dawning on Jon’s face makes him look years younger.

“Yeah,” Martin says, feeling increasingly emboldened. “The funny thing is, I don’t – I don’t think I ever chose loneliness. I never wanted it – that was just a lie I told myself, and the Lonely just – echoed it back to me. S-so Peter’s out of luck, because if there are other options, then the Lonely will always be involuntary. Because it’s not what I want.”

“You – you mean it?” Jon brightens, leaning forward.

Martin’s heart skips a beat and flutters hummingbird-quick against his ribs. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile – not like this, that is, beaming and uninhibited and altogether breathtaking. Immediately, Martin decides that he wants more. It seems wrong for something so exhilarating to be so rare.

He doesn’t know which of them moves first, and it doesn’t matter, because Jon is in his lap, and Jon is nuzzling into his shoulder, and Jon is here and solid and so, so alive in Martin’s arms, breathing warm and steady into his neck, smiling against his skin, hands scrabbling at his back to cling to his jumper. Martin’s fingers seek purchase of their own, and then something clicks.

“Jon,” he says, leaning back just far enough to confirm his suspicion, “is this mine?”

“Are you just now noticing?” Jon asks, devastatingly fond. “Martin, I’ve been wearing this jumper off and on for the last several weeks.”

“You have?” Martin all but squeaks, heat creeping up his neck and to the tips of his ears. “No. No, you –” Jon’s grin is widening, leaving Martin increasingly flustered. “I – I mean, yes, you have, obviously, I know that, but I – I – I –” Martin gulps, mortified, as Jon finally fails to contain his suppressed laughter. “Look, I didn’t recognize it until just now, alright?”

“Well,” Jon says, ducking his head to chuckle softly against Martin’s throat, “it’s mine now, and you can’t have it back.”

Which is fine with Martin, really, because he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t helplessly charmed by the newfound knowledge that not only is Jon an unrepentant clothes-thief, but apparently also an insatiable cuddler.

End Notes:

To address Martin’s concern: Jon does, in fact, nap in the tunnels sometimes. Listen, with Jurgen Leitner (derogatory) in absentia, there was an opening for the position of Beleaguered Tunnel-Haunting Hermit and Jon has all the necessary qualifications.

So anyways, who else thinks Peter’s bio on a dating app would probably just be that “every living creature on this earth dies alone” quote from Donnie Darko? I bet he thinks 'survival of the fittest' means 'every man for himself'. What an insufferable clown.

No Archive-speak in this chapter to cite.

I wanted to make a joke about a The Archers-themed Monopoly, so I asked duckduckgo if it was a thing. Sadly, it is not. There IS, however, a 1960s The Archers board game, and yes, there ARE eBay listings for it.

The first section of this chapter was written before eps 190-192 dropped. I think it still lines up well enough with what we saw of Melanie & Georgie’s characterization in these most recent episodes, with the qualifier that things have gone very differently in this AU compared with canon. (Also, I took some liberties wrt Georgie’s not-feeling-fear thing, obvi. Some of it matches with the most recent episodes, some of it not so much, but I decided to keep it anyways.)

Oh and I think I might have given myself cavities with the last section of this chapter. (I’m aro-spec; it’s hard to tell when I’m going over the top, but hopefully it’s fluffy without being overly cloying.)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

39 notes · View notes

radiantmists · 3 years

Text

im sorta half-watching the old guard again and got to the bit where nile first dreams of quinn and describes how she’s drowning over and over again, and it just made me think about how many of the stories about immortality that have most captured my interest have included some similar experience of claustrophobia, of being caught in a situation where the only thing to do is die except you can’t stay dead, and there’s no end to it.

the traditional version of this is being literally buried alive-- nathan in the misfits, a specific version of jon in this fic, many other examples that aren’t coming to mind at the moment-- but there are imaginings that address the idea more directly. what comes to mind at the moment is the wheel of time, where (while rand has an entirely separate traumatic claustrophobic experience) the true confrontation is in his breakdown on dragonmount, where he truly feels the weight of history as an eternal loop in which failure is inevitable.

and i’m thinking about the main symbol of the buried, the fear of being stuck, trapped, closed in with no escape, being a coffin-- seemingly a symbol of death-- but one of the most chilling quotes from jon’s statement within-- and, at least to me, one of the most memorable quotes in the series-- being “This is the buried, and we are alive.”

(interestingly, when i went to check that i was indeed remembering the line correctly, i found that the line preceding was “Where the weight of existence bears down,” almost an echo of how i described the weight of eternal cyclical history pushing on rand.)

it’s a line in the good place, right? “birth is a curse and existence is a prison.” it’s a bit funny in context, but it also stuck with many of us, because we have this odd conception that it’s true, that somehow life is a trap from which we are all granted the grace of an escape. think how many immortality narratives-- the old guard included-- heavily emphasize the idea of some fundamental wrongness in true infinity that good immortals will search for a way to end, while being driven by fear of death is a hallmark trait of villains.

but it seems to me a remarkably pessimistic way to look at things, that the only form of existence we know is seen as temporary not only in practice but in moral necessity. the portrayal of characters who desperately want to be immortal as evil reminds me of that of certain ‘terrorists’ in fiction who many viewers will argue would have had a point if their methods hadn’t been so clearly horrible.

would it really be such a terrible thing to live forever? there would be hardships, of course, but many of them would be solved by the people around you getting the same privilege so that your eternity isn’t mainly loss-- this is probably why many people imprinted on joe and nicky and the old guard in general, because getting to share eternity with a little family of fellow immortals actually sounds lovely, drama aside. and moreover, isn’t a life with some hardships alongside the joys preferable to nonexistence with neither?

and i think that’s the true relation between immortality and the horror of being trapped: the idea that the suffering is all there is, that we can be put in a situation where there is no joy, no choice but to suffer. but the fact of the matter is that with every reincarnation, the dragon gets to try again; that eventually, those buried-alive people will be dug up by friends and that quinn, drowning over and over at the bottom of the sea, will break free one day and make her way back for revenge.

there have been times in my life where waking up again the next morning seemed like an impossible horror, that nothing seemed worth the sheer weight of hopelessness that was life.

and there have been other times where i looked at something as simple as my sisters laughing or my friends dancing or a cat purring or the sky in a storm, and thought, not giving up back then was worth it for getting to see this.

and from the inside, it’s almost impossible to believe the latter when we’re in the throes of the former. it really, genuinely feels like the suffering is all there is, and i think for a lot of us the terror that those darkest moments are when we see the clearest haunts us.

and so we write about it and act it out on someone who cannot make the choice that terrifies us equally, someone immortal, and then we tell the rest, the story that we want to be true even when we’re not sure: that the dark moments are wrong, that there is something beyond the pain, there is a way, if not to paradise, then to a place where joy exists.

#i dont know what this is #just a weird semi-philosophical semi-fandom ramble #about a horror trope that i find viscerally terrifying #but yeah here #(this is also an insight on how i engage with media #namely that EVERYTHING is connected and thus becomes really difficult to talk about with other people #who even if they've seen/heard/read one or two of the things im thinking about #probably dont know them all)

1 note · View note

awhilde · 4 years

Text

down, down the rabbit hole

pairings: none, but the characters include mingyu. wonwoo, jihoon, jeonghan (from svt) and an oc

genre(s): thriller, gore (tiny bit). a made-in-abyss!au :D

warnings: because of the previously mentioned gore, readers discretion is advised. also swearing!

word count: 4.06k words

synopsis: in which mingyu and his friends allow their naivety and curiosity to drive them forward, dropping them down a 20,000 metre abyss where the abnormal becomes far too evident. stumbling through nature’s phenomenon, the group is forced to experience horrors that sombre their once exhilarating endeavours. will they be able to be decisive when their friend’s life is on the line, and who is this red-eyed creature that promises them sanctuary?

author’s note: hey guys! unfortunately, this isn’t the genshin au i promised however i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! i believe i published this a while ago on another account but i’m posting it again for content <3 also it was originally a y/n piece so please tell me if there’s a “you” or “your” that i’ve missed in my brief editing! the genshin au will come out soon :)

mingyu struggled to pinpoint an exact moment in his life which he could blame for his current circumstances.

it was as easy for him to say that sneaking into his good friends wonwoo and jihoon’s room past the stroke of midnight was the cause, as it were to say growing up at his local orphanage was at fault. hell, if the reasoning travelled down this path, it could also be justified that by simply existing he’d cause himself to arrive at his current position. perhaps this was his destiny, every event of his life leading up to this climax, worthless in the grand scheme of fate for every decision he had believed to have made was manipulated for the sole purpose of mingyu in the situation he was in as of present; torn with the constant conflict of emotion he was experiencing.

this was where his life had led him, 20,000 metres deep into a swirling, unforgiving vortex where the abnormal became evident with every blink of the eye, and where it intended to end, it seemed.

the sky overhead had vanished from sight two layers into the unnatural phenomenon, when the fog by their feet had thickened to a substance that clung moist against every vulnerable patch of skin and surface. mingyu never thought he would come to miss the cloudy skies of his mediocre hometown. where had his thirst for adrenaline gone now? but after a tormenting week treading deeper and deeper into the abyss’ claws, mingyu had yearned for familiarity.

when his stomach gave way on the third layer, mingyu missed most the plain bowl of congee the orphanage served to him every morning despite its lack of taste and colour.

when his eyes started to leak pus and blood, mingyu missed most the shimmering sun, burning on the edge of the horizon every evening despite its glare on his skin.

there was much the boy felt grateful for, oh how he only came to this realisation now, 20,000 metres far from home. his goal to reach the very depth of the abyss slipped from his hands like running water, gathered only by the company his friends provided him. mingyu never felt more grateful that he hadn’t entered alone.

if his naivety had gotten away from him yet again, mingyu shivered at the prospect of descending without the companionship of his three closest friends, wonwoo, jihoon and lyra. he never sourced his complaints outside of his head, for every disaster that he experienced, he knew his friends experienced the same suffering alongside him, comfort in the form of unspoken understanding. mingyu knew he would be able to overcome these mishaps as long as their companionship never left him.

however, god’s sense of humour must be twisted for the first night of the fifth layer, the last layer of mingyu’s sanity thinned.

“fuck!” jihoon swore. his hand shook in the tangles of his hair, the other hovering over wonwoo’s body as if uncertain. “fuck, fuck, fuck!”

mingyu heard jihoon’s cursing as if submerged underwater for his head went static from his own worry. he tipped his backpack upside down in desperation, seeking an item his sub-conscious knew didn’t exist. hadn’t they packed an antidote for this specific reason? but it had been long gone, shattered and spilt over the edge of a crumbling cliff after a desperate struggle of power between a gnarly beast and mingyu’s life. that mistake could possibly cost his friend’s life.

lyre caressed wonwoo’s hair as his head laid like deadweight on her lap, mouth dry against the dense air, chest heaving harsh pants. his eyes, heavily diluted, seemed to stare past her head at empty space and lyre may have lost all hope had it not been for the ghost of determination underlining the furrow of his brows. “wonwoo, i swear you’ll be okay, just hold on a little longer. mingyu’s getting the antidote now, he’s just a little slow. you know how clumsy he can get, just hang on, okay?”

but wonwoo had stopped giving replies ten minutes ago.

her hands, like her voice, trembled under the weight of a moist cloth, aiming to replace the steaming one on his head but fear diverted its path with every shake. doubt threatened to choke her of her words, leaving lyre curled up by the side of the abnormal rainforest, the world never viewed the same again. but she knew, if not marginally, that panic wouldn’t do the situation any more good.

jihoon seemed to have lost all sense of this concept however, as he continued to alternate between standing and pacing the grounds. “there has to be something i’ve forgotten, something that can help. think, jihoon, think!”

wonwoo hissed in pain then, and all three of his friends turned in fright. his arm had swelled to an abnormal size, pulsing liquid under his skin and shaded a dark purple.

“jihoon.” lyre called after the boy had settled, voice wavering. “wasn’t there something we learnt at school? something about the poison of []’s?”

“i know there was something, i know! but i can’t remember it!” jihoon let his words explode from his chest yet he heeds no apology. “damn it, what was it?” his eyes found mingyu across the field, still digging through the contents of their shared bags. “for fuck’s sake, leave the fucking bags, mingyu! they’re worthless right now.”

mingyu glanced up from his own world of regret and doubt, torment swimming in the pools of his eyes. the situation looked hopeless no matter what angle he portrayed it in. and, this had been his fault. his own carelessness, his naivety had prompted the death of his best friend. why hadn’t he listened to them all when they told him to step back from the pond? what had his mind been doing, telling him to continue his reckless behaviour just for the short lived praise he might have received? he had been pushed to the side when the lone [ ] had arrived at the scene, a creature so foreign and unknown that fear had short-circuited his actions.

he had stood frozen in the line of danger, horror encasing his body in suffocating crystals. it was wonwoo that had moved first, wonwoo who had considered all possible options which led him to sacrifice his own body for mingyu’s, wonwoo that had thrown himself at the creature, mingyu’s life and not his own being the only thing weighing on hid mind.

what had his last words been? the thought dawned on mingyu, like a nostalgic taste on the tip of his tongue. “don’t sulk, you look super dumb?” no, there was something else. something of potential importance, yet it mocked his grasp when he neared the truth. wonwoo’s whines of pain sounded as background noise at the point of his pondering, so familiar and yet gruelling at the pits of his stomach.

“something…” he mumbled, and lyre and jihoon looked up at the sound of his voice. “wonwoo said something before he couldn’t speak, what was it?”

“is this really the time?” jihoon snapped. “this isn’t the time.”

“jihoon, shut up. there was something he said before he became like this. i have a feeling he was trying to tell us how to deal with the situation.”

lyre turned her head from mingyu to the pale boy in her lap, a concentrated look evident in the crease between her eyebrows. mingyu caught the movement from the corner of his eye and clicked his finger at her. “lyre, you were the closest to him at the time. do you remember what it was?”

at the sudden spotlight, her mind blanked. there had been something previously, but the thought taunted and danced around the perimeter of her head as she tried, and failed, to chase it. “his arm, he mentioned something about his arm.” she finally blurted, his voice entering her head.

jihoon practically growled at the words. “well geez, that solves everything, doesn’t it? thanks for wasting our time, mingyu.” both mingyu and lyre took no offense to his harsh words; someone had to be the angry one in the current situation. lyre continued that train of thought, blocking out the noise of jihoon’s ranting, mingyu’s mumbling and wonwoo’s whimpers. she hoped that fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to give her this sliver of hope, thin and feeble in her hands, and that the solution to this dawning terror would be solved with the following revelation. “breaking something… he mentioned breaking something. what was it? a tree branch? true, the antidote of a beast should be found around the region so that its prey may survive from its poison. otherwise, the ecosystem would fail. but which tree? in this rainforest, what tree are we talking about. breaking apart… a bug? another small mammal? no, you wouldn’t break something with flesh, you would break something that’s hard. breaking… like snapping? breaking…”

jihoon continued to pace around you and wonwoo, head spinning in constant agony. there was fault coloured in the pale flush of his cheeks, why didn’t he know how to solve this issue? why didn’t he pull mingyu aside when the monster had first showed itself? and worse, why hadn’t he been the one to risk his life? why had he froze, selfish in the way that he valued his life over his dear friend’s, opting instead to leave someone else to do the harsh deed. why hadn’t he moved and pull wonwoo who laid by his feet out of harm’s way, instead standing still and letting the monster take a fierce chomp out of wonwoo’s arm? there was no doubt that if he had successfully performed the manoeuvre, wonwoo wouldn’t be in the position he was in now.

his feet crunched against a fallen stick as he paced and the noise triggered a thought in lyre’s head, her eyes widening in disbelief as it all clicked together.

“oh my god, his arm.” she murmured.

jihoon goes to quieten her, goes to tell her to stop obsessing over the idea of his arm when a tear slips from her eyes. the sheer terror from the thought evoked strong pulses of emotion to leak from lyre’s eyes like bleeding cyanide, but she pushed through regardless. how selfish would it be to only think of yourself whilst your friend suffered on the brink of death?

she looked jihoon in the eyes and repeated herself. “his arm. he wants us to snap his arm before the poison reaches his brain.”

lyre gave the boys no time to digest this new sliver of information, working instead to tear off a section of your shirt and wrapping it tightly where the poison had evidently stopped on his arm, black and purple, budging skin pressed against the material. in truth, lyre had no idea what she was doing, simply relying on memory and the many shows she’d watched to guide her movements as she tightened the knot.

the still silence broke when mingyu began to protest against the speculation, fearing the consequence of the action, but jihoon had moved to her side without further protest.

“guys, what are you doing? this isn’t right, we’ll just be killing him instead! guys, please stop, don’t think like that, there’ll be another way, please…” mingyu’s words failed to comprehend through his friends’ ears.

jihoon’s hands replaced lyra’s on the fabric and took over the job, eyes empty as he worked. only lyre saw the tremor in his hands as he tore more fabric and secured the separation of skin. his eyes meet the shivering girl’s over wonwoo’s body. “can you do this?”

her intake of breath is loud in the air shared between the two of you. clearly, jihoon had no idea what he was doing either, despite being the token medical friend. despite knowing that it was her idea, lyre shook her head softly.

“i’m going to use the axe that we kept to break his bones. can you help snap the rest?”

his words were gruesome, sickening to its core but wonwoo’s cries answered his question before she was able to, and she nodded seconds after. hesitance could cost wonwoo’s life.

mingyu stood over the two of them, passing the axe to jihoon with a grimace on his face. “god this is wrong, god this is so, so wrong.” but the transition is smooth as he lets the axe fall into his friend’s hands.

jihoon acknowledged the fact with an incoherent mumble before adjusting his grip on the tool. “mingyu, get me some water. we may not have disinfectants but if we don’t wash it, bacteria will kill him instead.”

the boy’s shadow left the trio. lyra placed a hand over wonwoo’s eyes, hoping that he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of what was to come. was he even conscious in the process? what if she had been wrong to think that his last words demanded the loss of a limb. this was by no means a perfectly successful strategy, but as it was all they had, so regardless of any .lingering whips of doubt, she held onto it like a lifeline.

“ready?” jihoon murmured.

the both of them nodded their heads slightly; there was no way they would be completely ready. but lyra’s hands found wonwoo’s biceps and they stayed there, stayed there until the axe swung up into the air, metal glinting in the reflection of the sun before falling from the force of gravity and the aid of jihoon’s strength. stayed there until the axe fell and met his flesh with a sickening thud.

a thud.

a blunt thud.

wonwoo’s shrill screams pierced through the previously tranquil atmosphere of the rainforest. his back lurched forward but mingyu had some sense to hold down his body before the axe had fallen. though mingyu had held down his body, wonwoo didn’t halt thrashing around. his arms pulsed under lyra’s hands and his legs kicked out for an escape.

“oh god.” jihoon exclaimed in horror, white sheet evident against his face. his hands shook and the axe fell to the floor.

underneath where the blade of the axe had fallen, crimson paint blossomed leaving a trail of broken skin and something else twisted. his flesh peaked from under the flabs of his skin, untainted until it was, blood and pus swimming from his arm.

wonwoo couldn’t stop screaming.

it was clear that jihoon had failed to touch the bone.

wonwoo’s eyes felt wet under lyra’s hands and she let out a weak sob.

jihoon froze.

mingyu struggled under wonwoo’s flailing figure.

“give it here!” mingyu was quick to shout, snatching the axe from the ground without a response, forcing jihoon to quickly melt his terror from his skin and throw himself onto wonwoo’s body.

wonwoo cries were deafening, coarse now from use and the strength in his limbs had weakened, allowing jihoon to hold down his body with more ease despite the weight difference.

mingyu swung without any indication of doing so, hard and fast against the same spot jihoon had attacked. this time, he pulled away with a weak crack. he whimpered at the noise but raised it again.

“oh my god.” lyra whimpered. “oh my god, why did we use a blunt axe?”

but mingyu doesn’t stop. he continued to swing the axe, up and down, letting the momentum aid his strength, letting wonwoo’s protests to stop fuel his stamina. there is a squelch among the splinters, a cry amongst the shouts but mingyu never falters. he doesn’t falter when lyra moved her own hands to help settle the body, avid to stop his movements. he doesn’t stop when wonwoo’s voice crack, soundless screams like the cries of tormenting ghosts whispering regret and fault into his ears. he doesn’t stop when the boy’s eyes roll back into his head, revealing murky white. and he doesn’t stop when wonwoo’s body finally falls slack on the floor, limp and drained of all energy from the continued torture he had undergone.

he only stopped when the arm separates completely from the body, a tattered arm lying lifelessly away from its previously conjoined biceps, adorned with the colour of fresh blood and oozing pus. the wound pulsated with flowing blood.

“water!” mingyu cried. he turned to a shell-shocked jihoon whose eyes had watched without blinking. “get the water, goddamnit!”

perhaps it was his tear-stricken face, or his eyes that reflected a haunted expression due to the fact he axed away at his friend, but jihoon finally moved. he’d leapt to grab their source of water and begun to pour it without thought at the injury.

lyra gasped, taking in the oxygen that your body severely lacked. “stop, you’re wasting it! put the bottle closer!”

truthfully, half of the spent water and rushed and spilt onto the jungle floor, worthless to their current situation. the boy instantly followed after your words, edging nearer to the smell of rotting flesh and decay. the boy felt faint at the scent, more so at the sight. god, there was so much blood.

mingyu rebooted and finally began to move again. “tear off your shirt.”

the girl hesitated at his words.

“tear off your shirt!” he repeated with more intended force.

she was quick to break out of her trance and began to tear long stripes of cotton from her attire, mingyu doing the same. in a clumsy, almost child-like way, the three of you attempt to bandage the leaking wound as best as you can, but the white cloth turns scarlet red as soon as its placed. a hopeless sob escaped your throat. had you just murdered your friend?

the almost lifeless body laid like a corpse on the ground, pale in his complexion and unconscious. he would have been mistaken for dead had it not been for the shallow breaths the three of them heard occasionally. when the sun had fallen, the bleeding had eased. simply for a lack of supple, lyra wondered in half-hearted ponder. she felt lightheaded in the sense that thought ran away from her. she wished for water, but they had used the majority in hopes of washing wonwoo’s wound.

it seemed hopeless all over again.

“oh my. perhaps it’s finally my time to step in.”

lost in her own world of panic, lyra missed the words of a newcomer though it appeared jihoon hadn’t.

“who are you?” jihoon asked, successfully gaining lyra’s and mingyu’s attention away from the body though it lingers on their minds. hostility crept into the boy’s voice as he continued. “what do you want?”

the source of the unfamiliar voice stemmed from a figure hidden within the shadows of the towering trees. none of the three could determine the identity of the creature causing suspicion to raise.

the creature walked from beneath the tree’s shade, a smug-like expression adorning their face. they appeared human-like, sharing similar features with the humans lyra was familiar with. they had normal curly, black hair that tickled the tips of his ears, eyes that curved like crescents and a mouth in which appeared to be in a constant mocking state. they would have come off as human save for the sharp teeth that glimmered in his grin and the red, hungry look in his eyes. “my name is jeonghan.” he explained.

“are you… human?” mingyu wondered.

the thing chuckled as if he found something the boy said humorous. “that’s funny, as if i could possibly downgrade.”

jihoon positioned his boy to protectively angle his body against the strange creature. “what do you want from us?”

jeonghan tilted his head. “why, what does it look like i’m doing?”

“it looks like you’re being a nuisance.” he answered. grabbing at the axe, he placed it between the four of you and the red eyed beast. wonwoo’s blood dripped from the edge of the blade to which jeonghan raised his eyebrows at. “stay back.” but jihoon’s voice betrayed his attitude and cracked under the pressure.

“put the axe down, jihoon.” jeonghan warned, taking a step forward. despite his firm voice, his lips wavered as if to conceal a smile.

“how do you know my name?” the boy replied instead of complying. despite jeonghan stepping closer, jihoon’s threats made no appearance. he had entered the abyss in hopes to solve the lifelong mystery of where it came from, not to fight a mystical creature. nothing in his life had trained him for this

“you two were screaming it so much it was hard to miss. it would be, rather, more shocking if i hadn’t heard it.” jeonghan said, gesturing to lyra and mingyu. “you two should really keep it down, by the way, or you’ll wake stronger beasts than the one you encountered before, you know, the one that bit your friend? and then even i wouldn’t be able to save you from them.” he hesitated and you flinched from his words. “well, maybe i could.”

mingyu took the silence that followed after as an opportunity to speak. “this sounds like you’re here to help us?”

jeonghan shrugged and mingyu noticed that he had been steadily closing the gap between him and the group but he let the thought slide. he were tired, oh so tired from the fear of losing his friend, the adrenaline from contributing to said friend’s loss of a limb and now this, a potential threat. perhaps death called, though it couldn’t be so bad if it promised a peaceful rest.

“i would simply be delighted to aid you in your…” he glanced around jihoon’s guarding figure to wonwoo’s body. “successful attempt to save your friend.” he finally spoke, words coming out rather slowly. “however, my buddy jihoon here, seems to be opposed against my gracious decision. perhaps you want wonwoo to die, jihoon buddy ol’ pal?”

jihoon looked to be physically in pain, teeth grinding upon each other. his mouth opened to say more but mingyu placed a firm hand on his arm. “we’ll accept.” mingyu said. “please save our friend.” the boy glanced at jihoon and shook his head desperately. “wonwoo doesn’t have time for us to argue.” he offered as explanation and when jihoon sighted wonwoo, he found himself agreeing.

“fine. please help us, jeonghan.” he muttered, hands still tightening on the handle of the axe though he lets his arm drop.

the creature clapped his hands in excitement. “excellent! i knew you would come around, jihoon.”

lyra cut into the conversation before jihoon could take the bait and bite back. “how are you going to save him? what are you going to do?”

the desperateness must have coloured her tone for jeonghan turned to face her. his eyes were haunting when they settled on hers for the first time, seemingly delving deep into her soul and prying deep into her memories. they left no surface unturned, a hurricane in his wake, the smile engraved into the crevices of her mind as he spoke once more. “come back with me and i’ll show you.”

lyra watched as jeonghan turned from her, colour returning into her sight as his figure began to disappear against the backdrop of the rainforest. she heard only her faint breaths and the whistle of perching birds, heads tilted in curiosity as they watched the event that occurred in the world beneath them. her eyes find mingyu’s which have been hardened beyond recognition and the two of you knew that the moment would forever be etched into the wrinkles of their brains. if they were to ever survive this, it would only mean elongated suffering.

there were tears in lyra’s eyes at the prospect of failing their initial endeveurs to explore the hidden depths of the unknown phenomenon. hadn’t they only wanted to explore what the abyss had offer? hadn’t they simply wanted the thrill of adventuring with your childhood friends, seeking out a journey that would be inked in history? and now the reality of the world had sunken into their bones like cement.

the four of them had barely descended past the fifth layer, edging on the boundaries and the concept of returning knocked on your mind like an unwanted friend.

jihoon stood, rustling the wind at the sudden disturbance. he swung wonwoo’s only arm over his shoulder and wordlessly trekked after jeonghan whose back was almost consumed by the forest’s shadows. there was only one option and jihoon knew this, knew this before the rest of his friends did.

mingyu followed after jihoon, zipping up his backpack and tossing it over his shoulder. he offered lyra a hand as he passed her on the floor, which she accepted. an unspoken nod is bounced back between the two, something like determination and acceptance in the gesture.

whatever was in their path of destiny had to be overcome no matter its challenge, for the four of them had descended so far to die only at its fifth layer.

13 notes · View notes

adrrianraines · 5 years

Text

can’t speak the language that you need • adrian x mc

sensory prompt #37: the tender ache when you press against bruises. song inspiration: if i—ross copperman

disclaimer: i wanted angst in that controlled love interest scene. where is it??? where??? so here it is! here’s how i imagined it would have been!! deadass just kidding im crying

YOU STARED BLANKLY up ahead as you zoomed like a phantom of the night in the streets of new york. the sinister look of rheya mouthing confidently that she’ll see you again kept playing inside your head like a badly orchestrated taunt from a cliched horror flick villain on repeat in a broken dvd player.

your hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as the unsuspecting city lights finally came to view. the illuminations and shadows the buildings emanated, the chatter and laughter of citizens going about their day, oblivious and ignorant to everything that’s happening felt nothing short of like a punch in the gut. it was too much that whenever your mind reels back towards the incident, you can feel your chest tighten, stomach churning and bile forming, the raw taste flooding your mouth.

you felt faint. you loathed how the trepidation just won’t go away. you wanted to cry out your frustration for the dire turn of the situation, wanting to desperately pin the blame on someone for the all the anger, fear, hopelessness and disappointment. whenever you blink, vivid images flashes, making you remember how rheya controlled your friends and commanded them against their will—the look of blood lust aimed right at you as bright as a neon paint being splattered on an empty canvas.

then after the rage, you felt nothing but exhaustion, hurt and apprehension as one face particularly struck you the most: adrian.

torment only consumed you further as you came to the most painful realization above everything else:

adrian almost killed you. without hesitation nor remorse.

you recall how terrifying it was to look at the face who showed you nothing but kindness slowly turn to a monster out for your demise. you recall how you stared into his eyes and not recognize the person who owns it. how he looked empty and hallow, like a puppet following its master’s strings. you recall the loss of hope that left a bitter pang when you tried calling out to him, trying to reason with the adrian that you knew, only for it to turn into a futile attempt of puny redemption.

the feeling of panic was lingering, wrapping your well-being like a blanket of breeze on a cold winter night. you blink and you remember the murderous look on his face, the way he bared his fangs at you, the way his hands wrapped around your neck, the sheer desire and craving to hurt you—of wanting your death.

you swallowed hard, millions of thoughts running rampant all at once as you trained your eyes on the road, shoulders tense and shaking. you quickly glanced towards your friends, all worn out and certainly out of it. realizing you drove far enough to be followed, you make a turn towards a dark and decrepit alley, parking the car on a curb. with the look of things, it was ideal to stop and collect yourselves first before proceeding blindly.

when the engine of the car died, you let out a sigh you realized you’ve been holding. you jumped in surprise when you felt someone’s hand on your thigh, the sensation goading a pleasantly unwelcome electric tingle on your skin. you turn to see adrian looking at you with regret and worry, mouth opening and closing at the same time, unable to find the right words to say. the visible flinch you showed because of his touch only made him remove his hand as quickly as it came, as if he just touched a burning flame.

realizing that you can’t look at him directly without remembering his murderous trance, you moved to get out of the vehicle for fresh air. maybe, just maybe, distancing yourself for a bit might be the most ideal thing to do that moment.

with a heavy heart, you marched towards the opposite side of the street as you unconsciously looked for anything to lean on, gaze frantic and unfocused. your breathing hitches and wild flashbacks of the day you died came back to haunt. it was the same amount of fear, a similar sensation, and yet entirely different at the same time.

you barely noticed your surroundings when your legs gave out, your sudden loss of momentum causing you to wobble. the world seemed to stop when you didn’t feel the hard concrete but instead a pair of strong arms wrapped around you, preventing your fall by catching you before you even hit the ground.

a familiar, calming scent wafted your senses which clouded your better judgment. the alluring lull of fierce security felt like loose threads tying itself again. you let out a shaky breath, feeling weak and drained to even struggle against his hold. adrian steadies you in front of him, arms holding you tight, the warmth of his presence both inviting and alarming.

you avoided his gaze as he tries to catch yours, the desperation on his features unparalleled. he remained quiet, as if he’s trying to assess things first before speaking. however, it didn’t take long until he finally got the answer that he was looking for. his eyes trailed your movement when you unconsciously touched your neck, precisely at the part where you felt his vice grip slowly snatching the life out of you.

you grunted at the tender ache that you felt, and he notices it—rather, he sees it vividly, the very product of his weakness. it was like watching a mirror slowly fall down and break to tiny pieces, each glass shattering to a thousand more. you did nothing but watch at how the weight of realization knocked the winds out of his sails with sheer terror washing over his countenance. the sadness and desperation on his face then turned to guilt and rage—not to you, but to himself, to what he did, to what he couldn’t do and to what he realized he was capable of doing. adrian couldn’t believe the depth of violence he caused.

his arms falls flat to his side, going limp and useless. he immediately took a step back, all signs of hope drifting further faster than a raging waterfall. yet under the faint glow of the streetlights, he still looked divine. if this was a normal situation, you would have laughed at yourself with how you’re still capable of such thoughts. however, you can’t even find your voice to speak, let alone bring yourself close to him. you wanted to badly touch him, to comfort him, to tell him it’s going to be okay. but you knew you’d be lying. you froze in place, unable to move, unable to do anything—your own fear becoming the burden you’re carrying.

“adrian... please...” you croaked out, wincing at how your voice was shaking. he shifted to his feet so he can step closer, his unsure movements an indication of his inner battles. his hands hang dead in the air, trying to reach you with words left unsaid. but he stopped midway when you instinctively took a step back. you didn’t know why, or how, but your body just moved. it’s as if it was protecting you from harm, as if it was on instinct, as if it recognized adrian as a threat.

“i did that... didn’t i?” his voice was quiet yet certain. he locked gazes with you before his eyes roamed to your cheeks, your lips, your jaw... and finally, towards your neck. and it was then that you witnessed how this was breaking him as much as it was breaking you as well. your chest clenched at how devastated he looked, how resignation reigned in his features. the color of life finally draining from his orbs—as if all of his nightmares finally came to life.

it shatters you to see how tired adrian looked and how exhausted he seemed, as if his age has finally caught up with him. he looked exposed. lost. vulnerable. helpless. like an empty shell of a man who touched many wars and took many lives. a warrior who was finally drowning from all the sins he committed in his entire lifetime.

“do i still deserve it? your heart...” he pauses and shakes his head. he let out a bitter laugh as his voice proceeds to quiver, then immediately breaks. “no... i... don’t... not anymore.”

and for the first time ever since you’ve met him, he looked defeated.

suffer with me laid ease!! @isabella-choices @dadrianraines @violinet

#playchoices #bloodbound #adrian raines #adrian x mc #writings #im salty and want some angst.... pb please....

131 notes · View notes

memelovescaps · 4 years

Text

Even if it sends me to Heaven

Summary:

The Doctor has been taken and made to see horrors he can't unsee. When he manages to escape, battered, in the haze of exhaustion and need of comfort, he goes to the only place he feels safe: with Clara. It's up to her to bring the Doctor back from the depths of his own terror.

Twelfth Doctor Whump, hurt/comfort and fluff.

ALSO ON AO3

The Doctor doesn’t know how he manages to get into the TARDIS. A second ago he was handcuffed and when he saw a window of opportunity he ran and ran... until he saw the big blue box parked exactly on the spot he’d left it. He doesn’t know how long he’s been running, his body is in override, driven only by sheer adrenaline, the exhaustion coursing through him buried deep in a corner of his mind.

All he knows is that as soon as his body is through the threshold his beloved sentient machine closes the door and he grabs onto the railings, his body failing him and his energy draining rapidly.

“Clara...” is all he manages to croak before the machine comes to life, the lights switch on and the engine starts roaring.

He notices the TARDIS humming urgently, trying to keep him awake, and he stumbles towards the console, grabbing onto the brake lever as he pulls it down. Not a second later he hears the wonderful sound of the machine dematerializing, he’s never been so glad to hear that sound in all his life.

He doesn’t know how long it takes to travel through hyperspace, he’s only partially aware that he’s moving until he notices the machine coming to a stand-still and parking itself with a thud.

Come out, my Thief... I brought you to her... the machine seems to be telling him. He gulps and walks, almost tripping over his own feet, towards the TARDIS door. He opens it and closes his eyes as he breathes in, the smell of her, of Clara, getting into his nostrils and succeeding in calming him, if only briefly.

It doesn’t take him long to realize she isn’t home, perhaps she’s working still, he has no idea what day or time it is. He can’t care less. His legs take him to the sofa and give out when his knees brush against the nice cushions. His body falls onto the sofa rather gracelessly, all long limbs sprawled around him, and he feels his eyes closing. Exhaustion. Bone-deep exhaustion, it had been a few centuries since he’d felt it so deep.

But Clara isn’t here. Clara. His eyes open again, wide in alarm and panic, not knowing where she is making him anxious and terribly scared. He had to see her, now. Whenever his eyes close he still can see her pale face, his open, lifeless eyes looking up to him without seeing anymore. His lips let out a sob and he tries to pull himself up, but his body refuses to. He’s so tired he can’t focus, his vision blurring on the edges, and he falls flat on the sofa again. He passes out without noticing.

It’s been a long day for Clara, and all she wants to do is change into her pyjamas, have a glass of wine or maybe two, and curl up in the sofa with a ridiculously romantic movie she knew were predictable from the first minute but she loved anyways.

Being a school teacher wasn’t an easy job, and dealing with certain students with the tact and kindness required but still with severity was a constant struggle. She certainly had had practice with that, she thinks as she mentally laughs, thinking of the Doctor. She briefly wonders where he is right now, and what sort of trouble he managed to get himself into without her.

When Clara turns the keys and gets into her apartment she’s still wondering how her newest student, Sophie, could be so manipulative towards her classmates. She’s taken out of her thoughts and her hands stop mid-air, still holding the keys after opening the front door when she sees the TARDIS.

Her trained eyes travel from the blue machine parked in her living room until they land on the slightly slouched figure on the sofa. Alarm bells go off in her mind when she sees his face pale as death and his curls wilder and a bit longer than she remembered. His clothes are torn and wrinkled, his hoodie ripped in a few places, and his grey T-shirt looking older than it sure was. She knows in an instant something’s wrong.

“Hi Doctor” she greets in a light-hearted voice, hoping to bring him calm now that she’s home.

“Clara...” his low exhausted gruff with a hint of fear takes her out of her pretence almost instantly. She looks at him and sees one of his arms tentatively reaching towards her, silently asking her to go by his side. She sighs and walks up to him, leaving his school bag on the dinner table, until she kneels next to him, and when she does he’s fast in grabbing her hands and pull her towards him, his face mere inches away from hers, inspecting. His attack eyebrows are even wilder than before, his white curls untamed and dishevelled. His eyes are wide with panic, his fingers grabbing her wrist with a bit too much strength; but she manages to press her thumbs against the back of his hands, in what she hopes is a soothing gesture. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t have to, she knows that gaze and the terror in those eyes.

“I’m fine” she hurries to say in a soothing voice “I’m okay, nobody hurt me. I’m safe. And so are you”

She never stops pressing her thumb against his hand, willing her fingers to bring him back to the present, until she can notice his frown relaxing and his eyes losing the edge of panic and terror in them. His small hands bring his right hand to her lips, kissing the back and the knuckles delicately, bringing him back to reality. She feels him breathing deeply and she smiles after a few kisses, leaving his hand on his lap.

“Wait here. I’m going to prepare tea and some biscuits, I don’t want to know when was the last time you ate. I’ll be back in a sec”

She knows that always, but especially when he’s in this state, this Doctor needs clear instructions. In the beginning, he claimed he didn’t follow orders, but it didn’t take long for Clara to realize that that was just lies. She’s seen him react to her clear, straightforward orders, and he’s even taken up the habit of calling her ‘boss’ when doing what she asks him to do. Even if he’s a 2000-year-old alien, this particular incarnation is very responsive to a certain kind of authority, she’s seen many times he just needs her to take control and guide him, and this is one of those times.

So, she waits until he’s ready and gives her a simple nod, to get up and walk to the kitchen, making sure to be noisy. Noises help the Doctor, they keep him calm, they give him data of what is happening, of what Clara is doing. Opening the tab and leaving it to flow, filling in the kettle, rummaging through his cupboards... the Doctor can hear the tap running, the water boiling, the packet of biscuits being ripped open... and it calms him. Knowing means safety.

She knows better than to push him for an answer, though. Right now, when he’s hurting, the Doctor will most probably fall silent and answer in monosyllables, if he answers at all.

Clara hates seeing him that way. It doesn’t happen often, mostly because the Doctor’s very good at hiding when he’s in pain, but she always recognizes the ghosts in his big sad eyes. And she feels something warm spreading from her stomach when she realizes that what the Doctor does when he feels hurt, what he considers his safety net, is her.

Perhaps not to talk, for some reason, this incarnation still has difficulties when it comes to putting his feelings into words, but that doesn’t bother Clara. In fact, she’s touched because even in his inability to put his feelings into words he recognizes in Clara an escape. She’s his coping mechanism.

As she thinks, half her brain focuses on serving two mugs of tea, the Doctor’s with insane amounts of sugar, and a few biscuits she knows will help cheer him up, if only momentarily. She then brings the tray to the living room and leaves it on top of the coffee table.

The Doctor reaches to grab her wrist as soon as her hands are free from the tray and pull her down, making her fall to the sofa in a half-laying position next to him. She’s about to complain and move away when she freezes as he throws himself at her. Suddenly she notices his rather larger body on top of her, his long arms going around her middle as he moves his own body down a few inches so he can hunch his shoulders and hide his face against her chest, right under her chin. She’s so taken aback she doesn’t know what to say, so she lets him try to find some solace by laying on top of her, his head on her chest, his impossibly long and wild curls tickling her chin as he clutches at her.

As soon as she can react, though, her arms go around his back and bring him closer to her, one of her hands playing with her hair while the other draws soothing circles on his back. His breathing is irregular, and she starts to gently shush close to his ear when she notices his body shaking slightly and his throat emitting pitiful sounds, much like muffled sobs. She tries not to think about how those sounds are breaking her heart, how much it hurts to see, to feel him so lost and so broken.

Instead, she focuses on whispering reassurances to him, her voice just a whisper close to his ear. She tries to control her breathing and hopes her heartbeat goes back to a regular pace, knowing the Doctor is listening to it. She focuses on how soft his hair is when her fingers run through the grey curls, or how remarkably solid his back really feels even if he seems like a tall stick insect when he’s standing upright.

Clara’s taken out of her reverie when she notices him rubbing his face against her jumper as if he’s trying to impregnate himself with her scent, as his arms pull her closer to him. She shushes again, craning her neck so she can kiss his temple and forehead hoping it would help in calming him. She looks down and feels a bit hopeless as she sees the mighty proud Time Lord, always so full of pent-up energy and knowledge, silently sobbing and curling himself up in a ball as though he wanted to become smaller and smaller until he disappeared.

The silence stretches, his whimpers becoming more like sighs until Clara realizes that he seems calmer. His breathing has become regular again but, much to Clara’s relief, he makes no indication that he’s uncomfortable or overwhelmed by being so close to her.

That’s one of the things Clara has noticed have changed since Christmas. Before their second chance at travelling together, the Doctor would be very adamant to keep displays of affection to a minimum. She never knew what it was exactly that made him as tense as a ramrod whenever she hugged him, rested her head on his shoulder, or even just held his hand.

After the affair with the dream crabs though, he seemed like a kid who’d been given the present he’d been asking for years, and he changed. The Doctor that emerged from the months apart and their reunion was kinder and warmer, and what previously scared him or made him tense, now seemed to make him happy and relieved.

He seems to revel in the new-found physicality of their relationship, and it still takes Clara by surprise when he unexpectedly holds her hand, moves to hug her or squeezes her arm. She can’t help but appreciate every single one of his gestures, though, and can’t do anything else but smile. And he smiles back, his eyes warmer, his smile softer, even his attack eyebrows don’t seem as stern as they were before. She’s grateful of the long way they’ve both come and most especially tonight, since right now, with the weight of the Doctor’s body on top of her, she’s relieved to be able to be affectionate to him without being afraid to overwhelm him.

Clara comes back to the present when finally, after a long while of hiding his face against her chest, the Doctor moves away a few inches and looks up at her.

“Hey,” she whispers, smiling softly.

Her smile falters momentarily when she realizes his eyes are sad, red-rimmed and wet, as well as his cheeks, the tears had left a mark where they rolled down. She doesn’t let her smile disappear, though, and with gentle movements she cups his cheeks with her small warm hands, wiping away the tears with her thumbs as she looks at the man who’s stolen her heart with a soft, loving expression. He doesn’t move, simply lets her have her way and clean his face as he closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

She realizes he hasn’t said anything except for her name when she arrived. It’s not unheard of, this incarnation more prone to falling silent than the previous one, but it still makes Clara anxious. When the Doctor is silent it means there’s something wrong and she doesn’t like it. She’d rather have him ramble away in his Scottish gruff she’s come to appreciate, than his silence.

However, she knows he won’t talk. At least not now. She’s been with the Doctor long enough to know that whenever he was in deep pain he tended to run away, putting the pain away in a corner of his mind until he could be functional again, and never talk about it again. It was a recurrent theme with him, and something extremely hard or painful had happened for him to come to look for her, something she wants to help with but doesn’t know how.

“I know something happened, Doctor” she whispers, looking at him in the eyes. His own widen in panic but she’s quick to shush and caress his cheek before he can even think of pulling away “I know, I know it hurts” she continues, her voice soft, full of understanding and so low it’s a mere whisper “it’s okay. Just know that whatever it was, it’s over. You’re with me and nothing can hurt you here. Or me. We’re safe”

The sad but hopeful expression in his eyes breaks her heart, and she doesn’t hesitate in leaning in and kissing the tip of his nose, smiling and nudging him to return to his previous position. He does, his arms surrounding her body as he takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out, his chest expanding against Clara’s stomach.

Suddenly, she thinks she hears something. It’s subtle at first, like a mumbling of words you only hear the noise of but can’t distinguish a single word, but after a while, it becomes more insistent. For a split second, she’s about to ask if he said something but decides against it. She keeps silent instead, her ears straining to hear the noise again when she realizes it’s not a noise. It’s a voice. His voice. But it doesn’t come from his throat, it’s not the usual gruff that erupts from his chest, but the voice inside his mind, the same voice that kept rambling on probably even when he was taking one of his cat naps.

And it’s whispering some words, over and over again. Clara focuses more, closing her eyes and opening her mind, wanting, yearning to know what he’s saying. And then she hears, as clear as day, his voice inside her head.

Clara... my Clara...

It takes her a while to realize why she’s hearing that until it dawns on her that Time Lords are telepathic beings. This Doctor hardly ever uses his telepathy so it’s easy for her to forget, but now she can hear his thoughts loud and clear in her mind.

Clara... scared, so scared... Clara, safe...

It shocks her that his thoughts are not complete sentences or even ideas, just a string of unconnected thoughts all jumbled with each other. She hears and can almost feel his fear reverberating through his words, though, and realizes that when his thoughts are clouded by his terror his arms cling to her a bit tighter. She’s shocked and touched by just how much the Doctor truly considers her safety, by how his only thought when he’s frightened is her.

Clara, my Clara... safe... not hurt... alive...

She considers his thoughts for a moment. He isn’t only scared for himself, he seems to be fearful for her safety. She notices his arms impossibly tight around her, his body craving to feel the closeness of her, to feel her against him. She frowns, her brain going at a thousand miles an hour to guess what had happened to the Doctor to bring him to this state.

“Yes, your Clara... I’m here, I’m safe... and so are you. I’m not going anywhere” she whispers, dropping a kiss on top of his head while trying to allay his fears. He moves his face away from her chest, one of his eyebrows raised impossibly high, and her throat emits a half-laugh “I can hear you, Doctor”

“You can... hear my thoughts?” he manages to ask, his voice raspy and croaked.

“I can” she answers, nodding slightly “I never could until now”

“I’m sorry,” he says almost immediately, trying to pull away from her, but her hands stop him “I don’t normally do this, this stupid, stupid body is so useless sometimes...”

“Hey, it’s okay” she interrupts soothingly. She grabs the lapels of his wrinkled coat and stops him from pulling further away “it’s okay, nothing’s wrong” then she pauses for a moment “why do you say useless?”

“Time Lords are telepathic, you know that. But some are better than others, and some incarnations are better than others. I used to be good at this; I used to be good at reading people’s faces and emotions and at keeping my thoughts from leaking when people touched me...”

“Is this... why you’re so averse to hugging?” Clara asked, suddenly the pieces falling into place in her mind.

“Partly, yes. Your brains are fragile, Clara. Having a connection with mine, having your mind attacked by the force of a Time Lord brain could kill you... I... I can’t...”

“Shhhh it’s okay... it’s okay, you didn’t hurt me” she soothes when she hears the Doctor’s voice breaking, his eyes averting her gaze. She can feel his hands on her hips, his fingers grabbing her clothes desperately, silently pleading for her to not leave “you can never hurt me, you daft old man...”

One of her hands travels to his face, caressing his chin with her index finger before she gently tilted his head up to make him look at her. He squeezes his eyes shut at first, refusing to do so, but Clara uses the same finger to trace his bushy eyebrows and eyelids, very gently and slowly, until he finally opens up his eyes. When he does, she isn’t surprised to see them glassy with tears, his face contorted in a pained expression of pure guilt and fear she hates seeing. And her eyes well up too when his leaked thoughts travel to her mind, pulling at her heart a bit more.

Clara… don’t leave me, please… please… I’m sorry, please…

The fear and need she hears leaking from his mind and the utter desperation in his words and his eyes do it for Clara. She closes her eyes and feels a couple of tears flow freely down her cheeks as she grabs the lapels of his torn suit jacket and pulls him in, just at the same time that he lunges forward at her, his arms encircling her immediately. Tears flood his eyes as he rests his face against her shoulder, hiding his face in her hair as he clings to her in desperation, his arms squeezing her upper body with so much strength he seems to want to disappear altogether. His previous muffled whimpers become audible and she does what she can to hold him tight and whisper reassurances close to his ear.

“Shhh, it’s okay Doctor… I’m not leaving you…” she whispered, again and again, hoping that some of the meaning behind those words get into his broken hearts.

She desperately wants to know what happened to bring the Doctor to this state. This isn’t like him. They’ve lived hundreds of adventures together, she’s seen him angry, frustrated, hurt and sad; but he’s never had an emotional breakdown in front of her. Not like this, not like he’s so terrified of losing her that he’s trying to be engulfed by her small body, much smaller than his. And it’s starting to truly scare Clara, not knowing what it had caused the Doctor to flee to her apartment and wait for her, and hide against her in pain and terror.

She feels something pull inside her chest, her mind remembering that old boy inside the barn, crying himself to sleep. She felt his terror that day as she feels it now, and she does what she wishes she had done back then: hold back her tears and hold him tighter, protectively passing one arm around his back while the other hand strokes his hair in calming motions that she hopes help in soothing him.

“Doctor I’m alright. I’m okay, you didn’t hurt me. Nobody did” she reassures him, her lips kissing the top of his head repeatedly “you don’t have to be scared. It’s all over now, whatever that was. It’s over”

“But it isn’t” she hears him say, his voice raspy, broken and terribly sad “it’s still in my mind, when I close my eyes... I...”

“Shhhh” she soothes him. She manages to grab one of his hands, gently disentangling the fingers from its death grip on her clothes and brings it to her chest, placing it just above her left breast, where she knows her heart is beating “it’s still over, Doctor. Listen to my heart, I’m okay. I’m alive...”

She’s about to tell him that it didn’t happen but the words die in her mouth before she can spill them, and she feels momentarily grateful for it. She feels a bit out of her depth, without knowing what had happened to the Doctor she can’t reassure him except to tell him that she’s alive and well, but what if she wasn’t? What if the Doctor had seen a future where she isn’t okay, where she’s dead? She feels terrified for a second before she puts those thoughts away, they don’t matter now. Compartmentalise, come on Clara she tells herself shaking her head slightly.

She can feel the Doctor’s large hand on her chest, his fingers grabbing the fabric of her jumper as the palm is pressed against it, and slowly the Doctor’s whimpers start to diminish. She allows herself a small breath of relief.

When his sobs are nothing more than quiet sniffles she squirms a bit under him, but his arms tighten their hold again. She awkwardly turns her head and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Doctor, I’m not going anywhere” she whispers, her voice incredibly soft and in a tone she usually reserves for when the Doctor is feeling low or hurt, even if he never admits it to her in words “I won’t disappear on you. I promise”

But he shakes his head.

“You can’t promise that”

“I can’t promise tomorrow. But tonight, I’m all yours” she keeps her voice low as she manages to disentangle a reluctant Doctor from her and shifts on the sofa to sit on her heels. The Doctor slowly moves away and sits on the sofa facing her with his legs crossed, she doesn’t fail to notice just how close he sits, so close that her knees brush against his shins.

Her face leans forward until it’s mere inches away from his as he watches, using the back of one of her hands to caress his cheek and dry the tears. She didn’t know how much she hated seeing his tears until now, and she can’t be quick enough to get rid of them. If there’s one thing in the whole wide universe she simply cannot bear is seeing him hurting.

She leans even closer until her lips find his other cheek, brushing against his pale skin as they kiss the tears away.

“Tea is cold” she whispers, their faces so close that her lips almost brush against his nose. He doesn’t answer, just shrugs, but when she locks eyes with him she’s momentarily breathless.

They’re still glassy and look impossibly old and sad, but they gaze at her with so much affection and, she can’t describe it any other way, devotion in them, that she feels her chest tighten and a shiver spreading throughout her body.

“What would I do without you, my Clara...” he whispers as he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers.

His voice is open and vulnerable, his walls completely crumpled at his feet, but he doesn’t seem to care anymore. She tries to rationalize it, she tells herself that must be the hurt, fear and exhaustion talking, she’s noticed how slow his movements are and wonders just how he copes to even be awake in his state, but all those thoughts are nothing compared to the impact his words have on her. She feels her eyes welling up again and she gulps at his confession, feeling her heart explode with how much love and care he’d put in those words. She smiles.

“You won’t have to worry about that for a long time, old man” she whispers, her trembling fingers caressing his cheek, putting a few of his unruly curls behind his ear and her smile softening when they move out of their own accord to go back to their previous position.

“I will... soon... it will happen in an instant, and then I don’t know what...” he stops talking and breathes a few times, trying to calm himself.

She frowns.

“What did you see, Doctor?” she asks.

He feels his entire body tensing and she knows this isn’t what she set out to do in the first place. But she takes in his state: not only is he terrified and had come looking for her, scared for her safety as well as his own, but he’s also looking pretty dishevelled. His clothes are torn at a few spots, all wrinkled and dusty, and his face looks like he hadn’t washed it in a couple of days. His eyes have dark shadows under them, and he looks even thinner than last time they saw each other. He’s clingy and needy, something that truly concerns Clara as he never, ever showed her his pain to this extent. This isn’t the Doctor she’s used to, he’s close to a tipping point, and it is her job to care for him, especially when he’s at his lowest.

“I know you don’t want to tell me” she continues, her voice just a mere whisper “but you’re not yourself. You’re hurt and scared. Let me help you”

“No, you can’t” he starts and tries to pull away, but Clara’s hand goes towards the nape of his neck, holding him in place.

“Shhh... don’t go. Don’t hide from me, Doctor. Don’t go to a place I can’t reach you” she pleads.

She looks at him as she tries to hide her tears, blinking repeatedly to dispel them, but seeing him like that is one of the hardest things she’s ever done. The Doctor is pulling away from her, or at least it seems he’s trying to, but she knows he isn’t really trying.

“Let me help” she insists “you’ve held the weight of the universe on your own for so long it seems that only you can do it, but you don’t have to do it alone…”

“I can’t... if... if I let you in, I’ll lose you and... the memory will be too hurtful, the pain too great...”

“And yet, whether you want me in or not... I’m already in” she whispers. He looks at her quizzically and she smiles warmly and softly before placing a kiss on his forehead, one of her hands still at the nape of his neck and her fingers playing with the curls there “you’re with me and I’m with you. I won’t stand here and let you torture yourself”

“Clara…” he’s tired, she can sense it. His accent gets thicker, his r’s rolling even more when he calls her name “you don’t know what I’ve seen, or the things I’ve done...”

“Maybe not everything, no. But I know you” she answers, insistently “and you’re here, with me. That tells me everything I need to know”

The Doctor doesn’t answer, his lips are pressed into a thin line, but his right hand hesitantly travels towards her. It rests on top of her chest and she hears him breathe deeply and close his eyes as he feels the drumming of her beating heart under his fingers.

Clara’s rather small hand cups his face, so small it can barely cover the cheek and uses her thumb to stroke the skin, dry and dusty but still beautiful to her eyes. The Doctor’s eyes flicker open again and focus on her, solely on her, and she feels her breath taken away as the man who’s seen burning stars and the birth of entire galaxies looks at her as if she’s the most beautiful thing in the entire universe.

She opens her arms as she realizes the exact moment the Doctor gives in, his body sagging against her as it falls forward, trusting she’ll catch him. And she does. Her arms receive his battered, lanky body as if they had been doing this all their lives. He breathes her in, her scent intoxicating his nostrils as his arms tighten around her.

“I was taken. And they made me see... I saw you. I lost you, Clara. You were... Gods, there was so much blood…”

His voice is raspy and his words slurring even deeper in his Scottish accent, it seems to Clara that every word said was agony.

“I felt your life leaving your body as I held you in my arms, and then all I could see was darkness tearing me apart... there was nothing for me, I couldn’t breathe...”

His voice breaks as he sniffles and catches his breath, finding it impossible to continue. She gently cradles his head and strokes his hair, letting him try to calm himself down and not making an effort to stop his choked sobs.

“And then I saw myself... drifting in and out of consciousness, and wanting to be dead when realizing that... that you won’t be here anymore...”

His breath hitches and a sob interrupts him, but she doesn’t need him to continue. She understands now. She grasps why the Doctor feared for her safety, and why he was so scared of being alone. But above all, her eyes are open to her own mortality.

They’d been open before, or at least she thought they were, with Danny Pink’s passing. She thought she’d realized just how fragile her human life was, and decided to make the most of her years and youth with the Doctor. She wanted to see all those wonders he’d promised week after week so that when she was old and frail she could have those memories to look back at.

Now, she realizes that the Doctor stands to lose much more than a friend and companion. She becomes aware with painful clarity that losing her will break the Doctor, in all the ways a Time Lord can be broken, and she fears he’ll be so far gone nobody will be able to bring him back.

“I’m so sick of losing...” his broken, gravel voice utters, muffled by her clothes. Clara tightens her hold on him, wishing nothing more than to open up his hearts and get rid of his immense pain with her own hands. She gulps.

“I’m sorry Doctor... I’m so, so sorry...” she whispers, sniffling against his hair. She hasn’t realized when she started crying, but she cares not “I’m sorry you’ve had to see that and it got you so scared...” she pauses, craning her neck and kissing his cheek “but I won’t feel sorry for being with you”

His breath hitches and she knows, even though she can’t see his face, that he wants an explanation.

“All of us lose at some point. All of us lose people who are precious to us, people we can’t bear to lose, without whom we think life has no meaning. And yet, we live. We go on, day after day, putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that the world is a little bit more grey because of their absence”

She feels the Doctor nodding. Both of them have had to deal with losses that have shaped and made them who they are now.

“But if there’s one thing I know is this: what we do, what we have, is worth more than every ounce of pain it can bring later” her voice is soft but clear, determined “I’m better because I’m with you, Doctor, and I’ll never regret a single day I spend travelling with you”

“But I will. Clara, this... it’s become too dangerous, I can’t keep you safe if...”

“You don’t have to keep me safe, I never asked you for that. I’m with you by my own choice, and I won’t leave” she knows this is something he doesn’t want to hear but needs to hear anyway “isn’t this life worth living and remembering, precisely because there will be pain later?”

She feels the Doctor is about to speak, but she cuts him before he can even open his mouth. It’s important to her that he understands.

“And one last thing: isn’t this why you keep us? Isn’t this why you befriend us, why you make us your companions, why even after losing so much you keep coming back?” she asks.

The Doctor removes his face from her shoulder at her words, and she feels his eyes focused on her, but she can’t say what she needs to say and look at him at the same time. She casts her eyes down and fixates upon a hole in his hoodie, one of many it has, as she gathers her thoughts.

Their relationship had been marked by silences and lies they told each other to protect themselves. The lies and the deception had been the constant in their friendship, but no more. Clara had had enough of feeling a rift between her and the Doctor, she had had enough of wanting to get close to him but struggling to find the way. She realizes now that the only way to do that with the Doctor is to strip down of anything that covered her, to get rid of all the lies and layers and layers of coolness detachment. She cleared her throat, this was the moment.

“I don’t think you travel with us just to show us stars and planets, or to live adventures in some far-off universes no human has heard of. It goes beyond that. It’s to do with pain and grief, and sadness and loneliness” she infuses her words with a gentle caress of his cheek with the back of her index finger, still not looking directly at him “what you do, Doctor, is never about travelling and stars and planets. It’s about compassion, friendship, and loyalty. It’s about love. Love for every sentient being in the universe, for every person that is brave enough to stand next to you when all you have in front of you are hard choices”

Her eyes stop avoiding his gaze and lock onto his. They’re glistening, his eyebrows raised in an expression of warmth surprise.

“Why do you come with me, Clara?” he asks, emphasising with his index finger towards her “why do you do it still, after everything that’s happened?”

And Clara takes a deep breath, looks at him in the eye with warmth, and smiles.

“Because I see wonders” she repeats the words she said long ago, now a seemingly distant memory “I see wonders beyond my imagination, I discover new things every single day...”

She pauses and smiles warmly, one of her hands travelling to his forehead, brushing a few strands of hair off his face.

“And because I see a beautiful universe hidden inside a blue time machine”

He raises his eyebrows, his eyes posing a question so innocent she’s tempted to giggle, but she just smiles, feeling her cheeks burning.

“The universe is vast, wonderful, scary and mysterious. But there's no bigger mystery that I’d love to spend my life exploring than this one” she places her hand on his chest, right between his two hearts, and she feels him shiver with the contact “and if one day I die next to you, in one of our adventures - ”

She feels his breath hitch but she presses on.

“I want you to remember my words. I want you to remember that there’s no other place in the universe, no one else I’d rather spend my life with than you. I’ll never regret that decision.”

Her eyes travel to his cheeks and she smiles when she sees him blushing slightly, her pale cheeks gaining a bit of colour and even the tip of his ears are of a slight pink. And she knows he finally understands. It’s not easy, they both know it won’t be, and when the time comes he’ll need reminding of the words exchanged right now at this moment. But for now, Clara is satisfied.

However, all breath is taken out of her lungs when she finally locks eyes with him. There is no fear or panic anymore, there is no sadness. Instead, she sees them warm and dangerous, glistening with a burning fire that threatens to consume everything. And for a mad second, she thinks that burning surrounded by that fire wouldn’t be such a bad death after all.

Neither of them knows who makes the first move. Suddenly, all her doubts, the lies she’d told herself, the walls they’d built... they all come crashing down at their feet as their lips find each other. It’s tentative at first, a mere brush of lips against lips, but the touch is electrifying and soon their mouths are demanding and giving at equal parts.

My Clara...

She hears inside her head as her arms surround the Doctor’s body and pull him towards her, deepening the kiss. The Doctor responds by passing his long arms around her back and pulling her against him, his legs moving out of the way so their bodies can be even closer. She won’t lie to herself, she’d imagined before what it would be like to be kissed by the Doctor, but she’s glad to prove that none of her fantasies came even closer to the sensations coursing through her body now. Her mind is fuzzy and she can’t think, only enjoy the wonderful feeling spreading to every single cell in her body.

She only comes back and feels she can think coherently again when she hears a muffled moan coming from the Doctor, stifled by her own lips. She doesn’t want to rush things and she knows this will take time, so her kiss begins to transform into something kinder, softer, less urgent. The Doctor responds, he seems confused at first but relents until she ends the kiss with a slow, warm kiss on his upper lip.

“Is this... okay?” he asks, his voice sounding tentative, concerned and just a tiny bit scared. She thinks it’s adorable.

“More than okay” she answers, smiling widely as she leans again and places a warm, loving peck on his lips.

After a quick dinner, Clara sees the Doctor begin to slip, and she knows he needs to sleep, she’s surprised at the Time Lord’s stamina to even be awake in his state. He’s physically and emotionally exhausted, and she offers him her bed to spend the night.

He gets flustered when she offers and tries to tell her that there’s no need to, he can sleep in the TARDIS, but she can read him so well he knows he was just trying to be polite. His eyes have lost that panic and terror edge they had when she came in through the door, but she knows the horrors that await in his dreams and she won’t let him be away from her tonight.

So, she uses her ‘carer’ card and tells him she would worry less if he’s sleeping next to her, just in case he wakes up, she’d rather be by his side. His eyes soften, his lips drawing a wonderful warm smile and he nods his head slowly, his hands pulling his suit jacket off and discarding it on top of one of Clara’s chairs.

She watches as he gets undressed, making sure to pretend averting her gaze to give him a modicum of privacy. But she doesn’t have to be telepathic to know that his methodic, shy and studied movements are a result of shame, he doesn’t like the body he’s in right now, and she’s seen many instances in which he referred to bow-tie him as a “dashing young time traveller”. She knows he’s convinced this incarnation is not something nice to see, and that Clara would much rather be with his previous, much younger-looking version of him. He confused her coworker Adrian Davies with her boyfriend only because of his nice hair and bowtie, it reminded him of his previous incarnation and the one he thought Clara was attracted to.

What he doesn’t know, what Clara is dying to tell him, is that no other Doctor has awakened in her the feelings he does, and that’s all because of him, and only him. She will tell him, of course, but not today. For now, all she does is change into her nightwear and climb into bed, waiting for the Doctor to strip to his wrinkled T-shirt and boxers. When he does she stretches her arms into a silent but clear invitation, smiling when she sees he’s still blushing slightly, his eyes darting to a hole in the blanket and bouncing slightly on his toes. When he looks at her, though, his eyes still hold that blazing fire and she gulps as he finally climbs into bed.

Once the mattress sinks under his weight he moves closer to her, at first tentatively but when Clara manages to pass an arm around him he presses himself to her until half his body is on top of her. She notices one of his long legs bending and coming to rest in between hers, his cold toes caressing her shins as one of his arms rests over her stomach, his hand grabbing her pyjamas between his fingers.

She sighs against him and brings him closer to her, letting him rest his face near her breastbone, his nose inhaling her wonderful scent as she pets his hair in slow, soothing motions. She closes her eyes and lets the silence fill the room until she can hear drumming close to her. She focuses on the sound and realizes that it’s the beating of his hearts, strong, pumping; a set of four beats that make her relax instantly, the cadence of it calming and soothing.

“Good night, my Doctor” she whispers as her lips kiss the top of his head, her eyes still closed.

Good night, my Clara she hears in her mind before his eyes close and she feels his body relax against her.

9 notes · View notes

animemangasoul · 4 years

Text

Nightmares Won't Get You Here

Summery: Eijirou calls Tamaki

In which Eijirou keeps having nightmares about their last mission and just wants to know if his senpai is ok.

An explosion, blood, flesh, pain and then, a blood curdling scream.

Eijirou’s eyes snapped open and he scrambles to sit up, fear and terror slithering through his veins.

What... what--- senpai! Was he.... what---

It takes him an agonizing minute to fully comprehend where he is. To grasp that there is nothing but the comfort of his own bedroom surrounding him. That nothing was happening. That Tamaki-senpai wasn’t..... that he wasn’t screaming or in pain or dying or--

Rubbing a shaking hand over his eyes, he tries to breathe through the lingering horrors of his all too vivid dream.

It wasn’t real.

Tamaki-senpai wasn’t dying.

He was safe, wherever he was. And Kirishima didn’t need to panic or worry or.... Tamaki-senpai was fine.

Groaning, he pulls his knees up to his chest and let’s his forehead drop on top of them. Why couldn’t he just get over it? It’s been a week since the mission. Everything had worked out. He was fine. Fatgum was fine. Tamaki-senpai was fine.

Sure it had been a close call. His senpai...it had been close. Just the memories of him being wheeled into the emergency room, covered in red, barely able to breathe, face too bludgeoned to be in anyway distinguishable..... He—swallowing thickly, Eijirou shook his head furiously. This wasn’t helping. Thinking about that incident wasn’t helping. It never helped. Focusing on something that was long done and over with wouldn’t make his nightmares go away.

He needed to get over it and move on.

Yeah, move on.

But he can’t.

He can’t for the life of him tear his eyes from his phone now. It lies there all innocent; white numbers illuminating the room with its only light. It’s faint, soft, familiar..... and it’s beckoning him to pick it up. To just--

Grimacing, he clenches his fists and forcefully looks away.

It was in the middle of the night. Three in the morning to be exact. Tamaki-senpai was probably sleeping by now. He had work and school and all kinds of stuff to do after all. Especially after being out of commission for a whole week. He didn’t need Eijirou calling him and disturbing his beauty sleep, and for what?

Because he was scared? Worried? Because he didn’t think he could go back to sleep unless..... He wasn’t a child. Tamaki-senpai was fine. He was a seasoned hero. Big three. He didn’t need Eijirou just...

“I should sleep,” he mutters out loud, trying to will himself to lay back down. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I just need to sl--”

The phone is in his hand before he’s even done trying to convince himself of the hopeless notion.

He really really was pathetic, wasn’t he?

Internally he finds himself wincing at the choice of words; imaging Katsuki slapping him over the head for thinking about himself so low, but it was true all things considered. He hadn't been the one who’d been seriously hurt. Tamaki-senpai had suffered. Truly suffered, and here Eijirou was, calling him up in the middle of the night because, what? He had a stupid nightmare?

Clutching the cold device between his trembling fingers, he grits his teeth and tries; really tries to put the phone aside. To go back to sleep and chalk this up to a stupid moment of weakness.

But he can’t.

So he calls the familiar number and waits. Heart in his throat and a light sheen of sweat cooling against his forehead.

It takes Tamaki-senpai less than five rings to pick up. “Hello?” He sounds wide awake and mildly curious.

Kirishima simultaneously wants to die of embarrassment and also feels the utter relief washing over him as the other’s voice reaches out to him. He was ok. He was fine. Tamaki-senpai wouldn’t have answered so casually if he was not ok and he was ok which meant that he was fine andifhewasfinehe--

“Eijirou?”

He startles. “Sorry sorry. Hi Senpai.”

“Eijirou?” It was a loaded question this time. Kirishima tries not to flinch. It’s a heavy question. A concerned one.

Tamaki-senpai shouldn’t be the one concerned about him. Not when it was Eijirou who’d been panicking just a moment ago, worrying, fearing--- And somehow ending up calling his friend in the middle of the night because he couldn’t get a grip on reality.

“It’s nothing,” he finds himself whispering; fingers tightening. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Not at all.” There is a laugh there. “I was awake. There is a project I have due tomorrow.”

Kirishima frowns. “Didn’t they give you an extension? After th--” his breath hitches. But Tamaki doesn’t seem to notice or he elects not to comment. Silently, Eijirou is grateful for that.

“Yes. But I rather get it all over with now.” A pause. “Can’t really sleep so--” Eijirou finds his lips thinning at the soft admission.

“Yeah,” he says. “I understand.”

A pregnant pause lingers between them for a while. Neither speaking as their soft exhales are all that echoes across the phone. Finally, it’s Tamaki who speaks up first. “Nightmare?”

Eijirou flinches violently, eyes snapping open from where they’d been slowly falling shut. “What-- No! I—That's not--”

“It’s ok.” Tamaki-senpai sounds very gentle. “It could have gone better. It should have gone better. I’m sorry for making the extraction harder on you.”

Blinking slowly, it takes Eijirou a second to comprehend what exactly his friend is trying to say, but the minute the words fully compute in his brain, he gapes.

“What! Senpai what are you talking about! It wasn’t your fault! You did.... I should have been better... I, It wasn’t your fault! You were dy--- and I should have done something and I couldn’t and I thought you were.... You could have and---”

“Breathe Eijirou. Breathe.”

He does. Taking lungful of air, in and out. It takes a while, getting his breathing under control. But Tamaki-senpai is there all the same. Talking to him, guiding him. It’s familiar, natural. Shakingly, Kirishima exhales a final time before he feels as if he’s no longer in that strenuous position anymore. The panic has subsided for now. “Sorry,” he mutters, feeling sheepish and mildly embarrassed.

Tamaki-senpai chuckles. “It’s alright.”

Tamaki never told him he had nothing to apologize for. It’s redundant with you and me, he’d said once. Eijirou was inclined to agree. An acknowledgement of his apology was much better than a dismissal.

“Are you ok now?”

Centering himself, Eijirou allows his eyes to fall shut. “Yeah, yeah. I think so.”

“Good.” His senpai sounds as calm as ever. Voice coming out in a soft hum that somehow always managed to quill the anxiety brewing within him.

Pulling the phone away from his ear Kirishima squints down at the numbers and winces. It was really late.

“Sorry for calling so late,” he mutters, playing with the hem of his pants. “I just..... I needed to know that you were ok and, sorry.”

Tamaki-senpai hums. “Do you want me to come over?”

Blinking in astonished surprise, Kirishima fumbles with an answer; knowing deep down what he really wanted to say. “What! No,” he rushes to reassure. “I’m fine senpai, don’t worry about me. You have that project due tomorrow, right? Didn’t mean to keep you this long anyways and,” swallowing thickly he rubs a tired hand over his eyes. “You should get back to that. Night senpai.”

There is a long pause before Tamaki answers. “Ok, goodnight kid.”

Clicking off, Eijirou puts the phone on the desk and scoots back to lie down. It’s quiet again. Silence shrouding every corner of the room. Kirishima sighs.

Now that he knew Tamaki-senpai was ok, he could..... he should go back to sleep. It was a school night after all.

Minutes trickle by but try as he might sleeps alludes him. Every time he seems to find himself relaxing, flashes of that dream brings him back out. Setting his teeth on edge and making his heartbeat increase.

It was awful.

“God,” he hisses, fingers coming up to comb through his hair in frustration. “He’s fine you idiot! He’s alive. You just talked to him.”

Suddenly a sharp tap against his window startles him out of his annoyance. Alert, he sits up, quirk activating without a second thought as he jumps out of bed and slowly makes his way across the room; careful to keep himself to the wall and out of sight of any attacks.

Maybe he should alert the staff or—but the minute he draws near, he knows exactly who's out there.

“Tamaki-senpai!” He whispers in disbelief, hurrying over to unleash the window and let in the flying man outside.

Wings folding behind him and clawed feet curling around the windowsill, Tamaki smiles down at him. “It’s sure cold out there,” he says as greeting, jumping in and deactivating his quirk. Backpack dangling from one hand. “Close the window will you.”

Still feeling dumbstruck, Eijirou hurries to do as told. But as soon as the task is done, he stumbles over to his friend. Eyes still looking at him in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Tamaki-senpai shrugs. “You didn’t sound all there over the phone, so I figured I should pay you a visit.” He sounds casual, but the hesitant smile gives him away. Tamaki-senpai was never very good at taking the initiative even when he was worried. Kirishima can’t help but smile back; even as he feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“I appreciate your concern senpai, but I’m fine.”

Tamaki senpai gives him that look. “It’s not about my concern. It’s about yours.”

Well, busted.

Ruffling his hair, Kirishima grins sheepishly. “You still didn’t have to come. With all the work and stuff. It was just a stupid dream.”

Pulling out his chair, Tamaki senpai makes himself comfortable. Pulling out his computer and notebooks. “You haven’t been sleeping lately. Fatgum told me,” he cuts in before Eijirou can object. “And you look like hell. So let me work here and you get some sleep, ok?”

Whatever else that needs to be said, remains unspoken. This was their norm. Injuries, near death experiences. Kirishima remembers vaguely how he’d always woken up in the hospital with Tamaki-senpai right there. Always there, always present. Like he wanted to make sure he was going to be ok.

Like he needed to know for himself.

Yeah, it was familiar.

“Ok,” he mutters, yawning loudly and shuffling over to his bed. “Just... if you get tired, there is a sleeping bag--”

“I know.”

“And if you need snack while you study I have--”

“I know.”

Climbing under the covers, Eijirou cocoons himself into a tight ball and sighs in relief. Suddenly feeling as if it wouldn’t be so hard to fall asleep anymore.

“And the bathroom is--”

“I know Eijirou,” a quiet laugh. “Get some sleep.”

Kirishima yawns again. “Ok.”

He falls asleep to the sounds of light tapping and the soft breathing of a very much alive Tamaki Amajiki.

#kirishima ejirou #Tamaki Amajiki #my hero academia fanfic #my hero academia #boku no hero academia fanfic #boku no hero academia #mha fanfic #bnha fic #bnha #mha #tamaki & ejirou fic #bnha one shot #fanfic #fic

18 notes · View notes

coffee-and-cookies-mochi · 5 years

Text

how do they see the yiling patriarch—fifteen years later

A sharp shrill of a flute rips through the darkened skies, along with repetitive caws from the murder of crows appearing from nowhere. Cold winds blow against their robes, chilling them to the bone. A hundred or so whispers blend with the air—like lost souls humming a deathly tune.

Lan SiZhui can only watch in stupefied terror, not knowing what to do. Beside him, Jin Ling and Lan JingYi move closer to him, tightening their grips on their respective swords.

Then—

SiZhui feels before he sees.

He feels a frost colder than Cloud Recesses’ winters wrapping around them, shrouded with terror and dread. He senses the resentful energies slowly creeping towards them, yet somehow keeping a distance.

And then SiZhui sees the very man the whole cultivation world had feared a long, long time ago.

Long hair sway loosely with every step, a small knot of it tied with a red ribbon. Dressed in black robes detailed with flames and red clouds; a gleaming ebony flute on his pale hand, a crimson tassel hanging on the instrument’s end.

The man looks up, and SiZhui notes how pallid his skin is against the moonlight—almost like that of a ghost’s. His eyes are closed, as if trying to calm himself.

“I heard,” the man murmurs, and everyone trembles at the raw fear his wintry voice invokes. “You were looking for me?”

The man’s eyes open, and his orbs—SiZhui holds back a shudder—are bright, twinkling rubies.

For a brief moment, Lan SiZhui does not see his Senior Wei, or the man who once planted him in the soil like a radish. He does not see the playful, teasing man whose laugh is nearly unbridled; whose smile reminds him of an approaching summer; whose warmth is parental and soothing.

SiZhui sees the very man the whole cultivation wanted to be gone for good—the YiLing Patriarch.

-x-

Jin Ling can only gape in mute terror, wishing this is all just a nightmare.

It is not, unfortunately—everything is just too tangible, too real to be even considered a dream.

As his eyes follow his uncle—YiLing Patriarch, one part of him hisses—he finds himself musing that believing everything would have been so easy if he’d seen his uncle like this first.

It would be so easy to believe, really, that this man before them was the one who murdered his parents. It would be so easy to believe that this man was the very same man who brought destruction to Lotus Pier, and nearly all of Yunmeng.

It would be so easy to believe that Wei WuXian was, indeed, a terrifying, crazed demon.

But deep down, Jin Ling holds on to the thought that Wei WuXian is not the fiend spat upon in the past; that just like everyone, he, too, was an innocent soul. He only wanted to survive the horrors crushed down on him so he could avenge, so he could save—so he could live.

That he became a demon because people thought of him as one, not because he is one; that he ended up destroying and eventually being destroyed, all because of a wicked scheme.

Moreover, Jin Ling knows that Wei WuXian has a better grasp of the cultivation he’d founded, having learned from his past. He knows he recognizes his limits now as a demonic cultivator—and how much he can do anyway.

That his uncle is, nevertheless, the very same Senior Wei who will do anything to bring HanGuang-Jun back.

-x-

How many years had it been the last time he’d seen this…person?

Jiang Cheng tries to count back.

The first time was nearly twenty years ago, when he took his revenge from the damned Wen dogs under Wen Chao. Back then, the flames around them morphed from bright, orange tongues to glowing green, the air turning cold despite the summer season. Accompanied with an eerie melody of trills and lows, fierce corpses rose clumsily from the ground and attacked the living Wens—a melody played by only a single flute.

Back then it seemed to be hopeless; he and Lan WangJi almost gave up after hearing from the scum, Wen Chao, that he threw Wei WuXian down the Burial Mounds, never to be heard of again. But the misery was short-lived, for the one who played the black flute and dressed in resentful auras was Wei WuXian himself.

However, Jiang Cheng couldn’t even deny how…ghastly his brother looked, with pale skin and burning red eyes. He couldn’t even see the traces of the boy he once knew, not even a hint of a teasing, genuine smile.

And the days after that…although Jiang Cheng knew that Wei WuXian was still alive and well, sometimes he caught himself thinking that he shared the same space with a demon who crawled up from Hell—and brought Hell with him.

After Wei WuXian’s soul was revived in Mo XuanYu’s body, Jiang Cheng noticed the playful fifteen-year-old boy coming back, as if he never carried his sins from the past. His brother’s shamelessness returned, as well as the teasing and grins. As if he never felt guilt from all the mistakes he’d committed, towards his parents and then his sister’s husband and eventually his own sister.

Admittedly, rage and hatred from that blinded Jiang Cheng so much, his eyes only gaining sight when he learned the truth. Yes, his pride was bruised from what he’d discovered first-hand, but eventually, he learned to let go and move forward.

Holding on to such grudge wouldn’t do him any good, anyway.

After the events in GuanYin Temple, Jiang Cheng thought that maybe that feared demon would never resurface anymore, especially after realizing how…happy he was with Lan WangJi. How the HanGuang-Jun, of all people, brought back the warm sun his brother once was.

(And, [although quite…disconcerting and embarrassing] how Wei WuXian was dreadfully in love with Lan WangJi, and vice-versa.)

Yet here he is, in the middle of the battlefield, staring in disbelief as Wei WuXian strolls towards their opponent, looking the very same, horrifying man from twenty years ago.

(Opponent who, according to his nephew, very nearly killed Lan WangJi right in front of Wei WuXian.)

Jiang Cheng suddenly remembers the rumors from before, on those thirteen years that his brother was dead. That the YiLing Patriarch had truly perished, never to live again; his soul never to be summoned forth anymore.

That it would be impossible to bring him back, to have him wreak havoc once more.

Jiang Cheng—as he watches Wei WuXian glare darkly at the cultivator in front of him with those gleaming red eyes, the resentful energies wrapping around his body like a robe as more spirits gather round—disagrees.

All it takes is chaos and blood, deception and pain. Blend them with death, preferably that of a person so close to Wei WuXian’s heart, then with injustice.

There is no need for the Tiger Seal—HanGuang-Jun’s blood, in this case, will be more than enough.

More than enough to re-summon the YiLing Patriarch from Hell.

Instead, Jiang Cheng throws a question he isn’t sure anyone can answer—

—how, exactly, will you stop a YiLing Patriarch from dragging a more haunting, harrowing kind of Hell back to the Earth on his second life?

#MDZS #mo dao zu shi #lan sizhui #jin ling #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #wangxian #probably #aka what if somebody angers wwx so much he goes yiling laozu Again #yiling patriarch #(is honestly a bad idea for the opponent man)

83 notes · View notes

lacrossepapi · 5 years

Text

It’s Too Much

Here’s 5.6k of empath!stiles, adopted!saac, abusive!sheriff, and sweet loving angst!

Warnings for Gerard Argent and Parent Abuse.

Ao3: Link

It was easier on Stiles when he was a kid surrounded by other kids. Children are loud, wild little creatures, but they are also generally happy, excited, or at the very least usually content. Stiles tried to avoid physical contact with everyone except his calm but happy friend Scott for those reasons. It was hard enough to contain his own racing thoughts and emotions, but when bounced around the other children, all bursting at the seams with energy and undiluted emotions, it became almost impossible to control his thoughts, words, or actions.

Some would think ADHD came with being an empath, but no. It was all just brain chemistry and Stiles’ horrible luck that gifted him with the ability to feel others emotions, but not the ability to sort and keep track of his own thoughts and emotions. Scott was a calm balm to that chaos in his mind, a happy anchor to ground himself when the excitement in the classroom grew so much Stiles could taste it despite not touching anyone.

But things change, kids grow up, and learn new emotions. Some unfortunately learn dark emotions before everyone else. Isaac discovered fear at an age that everyone else around him only experienced spooked or startled. Nine year olds weren’t supposed to know that type of terror. Stiles had audibly gasped the day he’d smacked into Isaac on the playground, the visceral horror lingering in Isaac was a tidal wave. The only thing that kept Stiles from releasing the scream that had bubbled up in his throat was Scott’s joy, humor, excitement that had enveloped him as the other boy crashed into the two of them. He’d yelled that Stiles was now It, but Stiles only had eyes for the blonde boy now looking at them with a guarded expression and paranoia, wearines, suspicion, hope warring in his emotions.

Scott and Stiles became Scott, Stiles, and Isaac after that. Isaac became a Stilinski a year later. Stiles soon had four buffers against the emotions of the world, Isaac giving him a soft type of content that he usually only felt on rainy days surrounded by his parents. The problem with relying on buffers was that one day they’d all eventually change so much that they no longer offered the haven they once had and Stiles would be left bereft in a chaotic world of other peoples’ emotions.

The first to change was his mom. He started to feel emotions from her that didn’t make sense, but the most common one was confusion. His mom would suddenly stop in the middle of doing something and a burst of it would engulf the room so strongly he’d scrunch his face up in a mirror image of hers. Stiles was scared to tell his dad something was wrong, until Isaac had ran up from behind him and hugged him tightly trepidation, worry, fear fill Stiles’ senses instead of the warm love that usually enveloped him when Isaac hugged him. He turned to ask the boy what was wrong, but a wave of confusion hit him as he locked eyes with his mother. She smiled and rubbed a hand down his arm, pleasant surprise this time filling him as she asked who the boy behind him was. She told Stiles he needed permission before bringing a new friend over, despite the fact that Isaac had been living with them for six months at that point. After that things had progressed too quickly. His mother was a less powerful empath than him, but at the height of her illness Stiles couldn’t be in the hospital wing she stayed in due to the emotions she couldn’t control, only project at full volume. Nurses quit or requested a different patient every few weeks, not understanding why they were so upset all the time, but knowing it had something to do with the screaming woman in 203.

It was on one of those days that his mother’s unending terror had been too much, that Stiles had stumbled into a room and immediately screamed a feral, angry thing as pain, hatred, loss, wrath slammed into him without warning. Isaac and Scott hadn’t been far behind him as he ran away from his mother’s screams and pain, but at the sound of his anguished scream they’d burst through the door and did the only thing they knew would calm their friend. They hugged him with every ounce of strength they shared in their small bodies, unaware that the love, fondness, sympathy surrounding him was what actually calmed him down. It also helped that the wall of emotion had receded at the sound of his scream, and even muted itself. Curiosity, hope, and wariness flowed between the dark emotions as Stiles took in the bleak room around him. A man was laying on the hospital bed in the corner of the room, his body eerily still for the emotions Stiles could still feel coming off him. He wanted to ask if the man was okay, but that was a stupid question. Better questions flooded his mind, but his friends were feeling more and more worry by the minute in that dark, barren room. He blanketed the room in calm and peace, the boys on either side of him relaxed instantly, and the emotions filling the room eased instead of the muted feeling they had been after his scream. He asked Scott and Isaac to get him an apple juice, the boys reluctant to leave Stiles in a room alone with a comatose stranger, but ultimately giving in to his puppy eyes.

Stiles approached the man in the bed, noting the burn scars traveling up his neck and face.

“Something horrible happened to you. I’m sorry for the pain you have felt. The screams that fill this wing are my mom’s. She doesn’t remember me anymore and it hurts, it hurts like you hurt. I’m not ready to lose my momma, but neither is daddy. I’ve got to look out for Scott and Isaac so I can’t let them see me cry. I’m gonna cry now. I’m sorry.” Stiles apologized.

He truly was deeply sorry in his very being that anyone had to go through something that made them feel the way this man did. He was sorry that the man didn’t ask for three grieving boys to stumble into his room and couldn’t even tell them to leave. He was sorry that the man had to hear his mother’s screams. He was sorry that the man had to feel his mother’s fear when she had an episode and couldn’t stop herself from projecting. But mostly he was sorry all he could do for the man was fill the room with peace and cry at his bedside. He let himself cry for just a moment before grabbing the man’s hand and covering him head to toe in calm, content, peace. He hoped it lingered on the man for as long as possible. Scott and Isaac returned with his apple juice and more hugs as they left the room with the comatose man.

In the wake of his mother’s death Stiles also lost his father. Not in the literal sense, but something was broken inside the man. He didn’t see the boys anymore. Didn’t greet them with smiles and hugs like he once had. Didn’t smile or hug at all. Isaac backed away, fear rising in him each day the newly appointed sheriff got closer and closer to the man he’d once saved Isaac from. His grip harshed on the back of Stiles’ neck, no longer the warm comfort it’d once been. Now a means to bodily move his son or reprimand him. It was in those moments that Stiles was struck still and silent by the overwhelming grief, pain, loss, hopelessness, devastation that was consuming his father. His father’s pain was not an excuse to treat his sons like the were ghosts in his home, one of whom looked too much like the woman he loved to stomach even looking at. He hurt Stiles sometimes on accident, but he didn’t even acknowledge Isaac’s presence in their home. The boys formed a bond in those months that would never break.

Stiles spent his days sneaking out of the house while Isaac and Scott played video games and Melissa slept. He would sneak down to the police station and project love, hope, forgiveness, peace in alternating patterns and at varying degrees. In the end he wasn’t sure if his projecting helped his father or if the breaking point had finally changed things. The breaking point had been Isaac flinching away from Stiles’ father when the man had tried to ruffle his curls like the past few months he hadn’t been leaving bruises on his other son’s neck. Isaac had flinched, a whimper escaping him and fear bursting out of him so strong Stiles had pushed his father away from his brother and snarled at him. Melissa had come running down the stairs, sleep mussed hair and bleary eyed, Scott peeking out from behind her legs. She’d shouted his father’s name just as the man had wrenched Stiles away from Isaac by the neck. She gathered the three boys behind her and released a torrent of angry, scornful words that had hit his father like a train. Stiles had focused on his father’s emotions, reading them as they came to him in a flurry: anger, indignation, shock, pain, grief, fear, self-loathing, regret, remorse, devastation, guilt.

“I know you’re in pain. I know you miss momma. I miss her too, but I don’t like you right now dad. And you scare Isaac, and that makes me mad. You’re not allowed to scare him anymore, okay?” Stiles stared at his father, the secret of how adeptly Stiles actually did know his father’s pain bare and raw between them.

“And you can’t be mean to Stiles anymore!” Isaac demanded, though it came out much weaker than he had probably intended.

“Yeah! No more hurting him!” Scott yelled, his twelve year old fists clenched by his sides.

Stiles’ father dropped to his knees and sobbed. The sound earth shattering in Stiles’ ears when accompanied by the tidal wave of sorrow, grief, guilt, regret.

“I’m going to keep the boys at my house until you get sober and get counseling.” Melissa said, her resolve strong in the face of his tears.

While they stayed with the McCalls Stiles still sneaked out to project positive feelings to his father.

The boys moved back in with their father after his three month stint in rehab with a grief counselor. Isaac was more wary than Stiles to return, but Stiles could feel the cleanse his father’s emotional state went through. They had bunk beds, but Isaac slept with Stiles most nights when they first returned. Stiles would wake up every time the other boy had a nightmare and he would project safe emotions to his brother until he settled. He would check in on his father’s emotions through the night too. Melissa called every night before bed for the first month to make sure the boys were truly settled back home and safe. Stiles was happy to be home and happy to see his father healing and healthy again, he would never be the safe haven he’d once been. Stiles still thought that one day, maybe even one day soon, they’d be a family again.

Three years later, Stiles had his family whole again, but lost his last two buffers, Scott and Isaac. Together. All at once Stiles was alone in the ocean of emotions around him. The problem with both of your adopted brothers being werewolves when you’re an empath is that they get more tactile when you can no longer handle the emotions whirling through their minds at any given time. Supernatural creatures were louder than humans. Stiles had grown stronger over the years, but there was nothing he could do to stop the events of their sophomore year. Well perhaps he could’ve stopped the events if he hadn’t been the one to drag his sweet loyal brothers out of their beds in the middle of the night to go find the source of the overwhelming emotions coming from the preserve. They’d been heading towards the area Stiles had felt the spike of sorrow so sharp it’d brought tears to his eyes when he’d picked up on more emotions.

Pain, hatred, loss, wrath, grief was approaching fast. Too fast to even warn his brothers to run before a massive angry alpha werewolf had tackled Scott, biting his side immediately. Stiles vomited as Scott’s pain and fear throbbed through him at the same time Isaac’s horror slammed into him from behind, all mixed with the creatures emotions. It was too much. He couldn’t shut out Isaac and Scott’s emotions like he could strangers’ emotions, they were as apart of him as his own. He couldn’t fight against the strength of the alpha’s emotions either.

Stiles tried to breathe, tried to shake off everyone else’s emotions so he could focus. But the alpha reared back and snatched Isaac off the ground, its teeth sinking into his ribs. Isaac screamed. Scott cried out, too weak to scream. The alpha howled. And Stiles gathered every ounce of terror filling his brothers and himself and ROARED.

The alpha dropped Isaac, his body bounced once on the ground before laying too still for Stiles’ heart, and passed out. Stiles took a moment to breathe and gather his strength again. He blanketed his brothers in safe, love, calm, peace before calling his father.

“Stiles? Why are you calling me? We’re both home?” His father listened to his panicked, exhausted breaths for a moment before finishing, “Unless we’re not. Okay. Where are you? Why aren’t Isaac and Scott there to calm you? I’m putting on pants and coming to you kiddo, but I need you to find a way to tell me what happened and where I’m going.”

“Alpha. Bit. Boys. Preserve. Hale House close?” Stiles was hyperventilating, the adrenaline morphing into panic as he realized the ramifications of the night.

Stiles heard his father stop shuffling and gasp and was glad he couldn’t feel his father’s emotions from this far unless he tuned into them on purpose.

“Okay. Okay kiddo. We’ll deal with it. I’m coming. I need you to put pressure on the wounds and tell me if you see any black goo seeping out of them. You don’t have to speak other than that so try to focus on your breathing and on stopping the bleeding.” His father was much better in a crisis than he ever would be.

Stiles forced his wooden legs to carry him to his brothers. Isaac had rolled relatively close to Scott, which made checking them both over much easier. He dropped to his knees between their limp bodies and, putting his father on speaker first, shined his phone’s flashlight onto Isaac’s unconscious body.

“Oh god dad. His body bounced. It fucking bounced off the ground like a ball. What if he’s bleeding internally? How do I fix that? How do I save him?” He shined the light onto Scott and almost vomited again.

He whimpered his oldest and closest friend’s name as he took in the sight of his torn side.

“It bit them so violently dad. There’s more wound area than I have hand area. I can’t do anything. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t protect them. I can’t save them. Daddy please hurry. I can’t do this alone and I can’t lose them. I can’t.” Stiles muted his end of the phone and let out a sob so violent his entire body shook.

He had long ago stopped letting anyone see him cry for fear that he’d project it and make someone else sad. He couldn’t stop the torrent of tears spilling out of him. He threw his head back and screamed through his grief and sorrow. He’d always felt better after being able to release the emotions inside him that way, even if it was a rather violent coping mechanism.

He could hear his father saying his name and asking him to turn off the mute, and mechanically did so, the last of his scream still echoing around them. Then he heard a sound, a whimper he hadn’t expected to hear. His head whipped to the limp bodies of his brothers but neither stirred, and it was then that Stiles remembered he had turned his back on an unconscious alpha werewolf. The same alpha that had just violently attacked his family unprovoked. He stood as he spun around to face the creature, but there was nothing in the spot it had collapsed in. The alpha got away.

High school was hell after that night. His brothers didn’t understand why he flinched when nothing was happening, why he would dodge their touch when he used to run headlong into it, why he no longer wanted to share a room with Isaac. Stiles could’ve told them about being an empath, but things were so complicated and he didn’t want them looking guilty every time they had a strong emotion. It wasn’t their fault supernatural creatures were loud, and it wasn’t their fault Kate Argent lured Laura Hale into the preserve that night and killed her. Peter Hale had been comatose until the moment the alpha spark slammed into him full force. He followed the scent of blood to the sight of his nieces’ murder and attacked the first foreign thing he came across. It was Peter’s grief Stiles had felt so sharply he’d bolted out of bed and raced to Scott’s house, Isaac in tow, so that they could go hiking through the woods to find the source.

Scott and Isaac were the least to blame for their new found werewolf status, and the only thing Stiles felt as they had to deal with Peter Hale’s rampage and Derek Hale trying to force them under his rule was guilt.

Peter had asked him if he wanted the bite that night in the garage, but Stiles had been too busy being relaxed by his muted emotions to be properly scared of his threats. Stiles could feel the fondness, intrigue, humor rolling off the man when they interacted, but every time he saw anger flash in those sapphire eyes he didn’t feel it as strongly as he suspected. Something about Peter seemed familiar and despite everything Stiles found himself fond of the man as well. Then he tried to attack Scott, Isaac, and Allison and Stiles had to stop him. No matter how much Stiles found the man curious and charismatic he had to pay for what he did to Scott and Isaac, and Stiles would not let him lay a single claw on an innocent again. He would overwhelm the man with whatever emotion it would take to stop him. As Jackson threw the molotov cocktail Stiles felt a blast of terror so strong he stumbled, but knew it had come from the man that had already burned once. Stiles granted him the only mercy he could in that moment. Numb. Sleep. Peace. Each emotion as strong as he could project them, and Peter’s eyes snapped to his just before the cocktail exploded and Peter’s eyes closed as he passed out. Peter would not live through this sleep, but he would not have to be aware of burning alive again.

After Peter’s death, Derek became alpha and bit Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd. Gerard Argent became principal and made sure he threatened the fledgeling pack at every opportunity. Jackson somehow became a kanima just from Derek’s nail stuck in his neck, which: ew. The whole time Scott and Isaac were caught up in running and fighting, Stiles was distancing himself so that he could learn to mute their emotions. He could mute human emotions unless they were touching him, but supernatural emotions were more projected and harder to mute.

Stiles found himself going on runs through the preserve more than was probably safe, but it was the only place in Beacon Hills that there was rarely people. And he’d sense a supernatural creature before it got close enough to attack, he’d grown in power since the night Peter had bitten his brothers. He had never thought he’d have to use his empathy as a weapon, but here he was with a blunt sword he had to sharpen as fast and as safely as possible. Out in the preserve he could practise putting animals to sleep or easing their fear of him enough to pet them without worrying about anyone seeing.

He’d went for a run after Scott and Isaac’s lacrosse game, which was probably a bad idea since Jackson may or may not have died that night. There’d been so much fear and worry in the stands that Stiles had to escape to the peace of the preserve. Which is how he found himself surrounded by fifteen grown men armed to the teeth.

“Woah! What do you need all those for? Mr.Jones killed the mountain lion a while back now, so there’s nothing out here nearly dangerous enough for you to need all that for!”

They only stepped closer, silent in their menacing, and Stiles could feel the violence in their emotions.

“Right? Cause if you guys think there is something dangerous out here I need to get the hell out of here!” Stiles was trying to keep his panic at bay.

They were here for him, but none of them had the right combination of emotions to make him feel like they were going to kill him here. They were going to take him. Probably to Gerard.

Why would Gerard want him? He was just a human as far as anyone knew. It didn’t matter at that moment, what did matter was soothing the itch for violence in these men.

Stiles started projecting little tendrils of friendly at each man as they closed in on him. He was knocked unconscious, not by a pistol whip to the top of his head, but a punch to his temple. The last thing he thought was ‘At least my empathy softened the blow somewhat.’

Stiles didn’t stay unconscious long, the amount of hands on him as they carried him into a house and down the stairs into a basement torture chamber was enough to jolt him awake the moment they lifted him. They threw him down in a way that sent his body skidding across the harsh concrete ground and landing under two sets of bare feet. Stiles groaned as he felt not only his pain, but also the two above him’s pain and fear.

He lifted his gaze away from the men assembled in front of him and to the teenagers hanging from the ceiling above him. Erica cried out when she saw him, Boyd thrashed against his restraints in an attempt to free himself. Stiles had to mute their emotions as best he could, though it was incredibly hard when those emotions were about him. Their fear was for him. He had felt the resignation on them when he’d been thrown at them. They were ready to die, but wanted to fight for Stiles to live. Stiles hadn’t even truly considered them friends until that revelation. He’d be damned if they were going to die on his watch.

Gerard finally made his appearance, spouting racist bullshit and throwing surprisingly strong punches. Stiles could take it, would take it. He had to if he was going to get the ‘wolves behind him out of here. There was too many people and he didn’t even know where they were, but Stiles would figure it out. As Gerard picked him up by the collar of his track jersey and punched him back down onto the ground Stiles sent tendrils of wariness into the men behind Gerard. As the geriatric bastard stomped on Stiles’ ribs, Stiles sent a wave of guilt into the men. He noticed one slip out the back while Gerard was distracted by Stiles hacking up blood.

Moments later Chris Argent came striding in and Stiles felt guilt, regret, worry as he looked at the brutalized teenagers. Good. Stiles couldn’t hear what son said to father, but Gerard spit on Stiles and followed his son upstairs. Stiles had leaned so heavily into Erica and Boyd’s emotions so as to avoid feeling even an ounce of Gerard’s that he gasped when he could pull his senses off of them. Stiles sent tired at the men watching them wearily and all but one left. Stiles simply projected sleep at the three other people in the basement and waited for them to sag. Once he knew everyone in his vicinity was sleeping he cast his awareness through the house, relieved to feel nothing. They’d trusted one man to watch a beat up human and two restrained werewolves, but they didn’t know who Stiles was.

Getting Erica and Boyd down and into the car was the most physically painful hour of his life. When they woke Stiles told them the hunter left to guard them told him to take the other two and get out before he changed his mind. It was a lie, but they didn’t need to know that. What they needed at that moment was somewhere safe and somewhere comforting. Stiles could do that for them. He blanketed the car in safe, calm, peace, contentment, love and soon he could hear Erica singing along to the radio quietly from the back seat. Sometimes he really wished he could project onto himself.

After that Stiles had more people’s touch to dodge. Erica and Boyd claimed Stiles with the brand of fierce loyalty he’d claimed them. With every dodge Stiles sent love back to make sure they didn’t feel rejected, his four puppies always smiled back at him like it was a game. Perhaps it was a game, one that Stiles wouldn’t handle losing very well.

A plan was hatched to dispose of Gerard Argent, Stiles knew what Scott was like when he was planning something. After a little bit of snooping Stiles decided he needed to step in and help Scott with Not Doing That.

“But I think it’s clever.” Scott defended, his brows furrowed.

“It is clever. I’m honestly shocked you thought of something this devious, I’m usually the devious one.” Stiles laughed, his hand casually coming up to rest on Scott’s arm despite the overwhelming flow of his emotions.

Sometimes he really missed touching and being touched. Scott was his first buffer against the outside world, maybe Stiles could just take an aspirin after they touched and it’d be okay. Even if he did want to smile like an idiot and scrunch up his face in confusion, offended and cry from heartbreak and fight something.

Werewolves were a tsunami of emotions and Stiles only had a raft made of touch starvation and devotion.

Scott had to repeat his question twice before Stiles could focus on it, “So why cant I do it?”

“Well buddy the thing is you don’t know a lot about werewolf culture yet, right?”

Scott nodded.

“And you know I’ve been researching the hell out of it at lightning speed? Well something I learned was that an alpha’s bite is precious and a gift. You and Isaac are different because Peter was drowning in lost pack bonds and need new ones immediately. But think about Erica and Boyd.”

“Derek scouted them.”

“Okay meat head. I would’ve said looked for them, but sure.”

“Shut up, man. I’m telling you I understand.”

“Fuck yeah! Okay so now that we’re on the same page of ‘Operation: Force Derek to Bite Gerard to Kill Him’ being not good, let’s brainstorm what to do next.” Stiles fist bumped Scott and they fell back onto his bed together.

Isaac joined them soon after offering his own insights. Stiles called Erica and Boyd when the three of them came to another impasse about what to do.

Soon Stiles’ bedroom was full of teenage werewolves, and he was starting to freak out. He opened the window for fresh air, but Derek launched himself onto his roof at the exact moment it opened.

“Sweet Baby Yoda, you scared the hell out of me!” Stiles gasped, clutching his chest while Erica snickered.

Derek frowned at him, “Why are you having a pack meeting without me?”

“We aren’t voting you off the island, alpha mine!” Erica chirped.

“Yet.” Boyd followed gravely.

“Well that’s reassuring.” Derek deadpanned back as he approached his four betas. He scent marked each of them before reaching out and placing his hand on Stiles’ head.

Grief, self-loathing, guilt, worry, fear, pain

It slammed threw him so hard Stiles could only stumble backwards as tears welled up in his eyes. Derek’s emotions were always muted unless they were strong, but this was the first time they’d touched when Stiles was too sensitive by everyone else to dilute what he took in.

He hit the ground and dropped his head, Derek following suit to check on him.

“Stiles? What just-”

“Stiles darling, come now. Up you get.” He didn’t know where Peter came from or how he was able to lift him by his shoulders without sending a single emotion to Stiles, but Stiles didn’t care.

He let Peter guide him out of the room. He hadn’t felt anything from Peter except content, humor, interest, curiosity since the man had returned to the world of the living, but now he truly felt nothing from the man. He tried to slump back into Peter’s chest, but the man stopped him.

“Not yet, pet. I haven’t perfected the full body charms yet.”

Stiles hummed an inquisitive sound as Peter sat him on the couch.

Peter sat beside him, close but not touching more than the hand on his leg.

“It took me longer than I would’ve liked, but yes I did indeed say charm. I’m going to make full body mute charms and you’re going to gift them to the pack and your father, so that they will actually wear them. You don’t have to tell them what you are, love, but if you keep up like this you’re going to burn yourself out. I am not quite ready to say goodbye to the little boy that screamed when I could not.” Peter caressed Stiles’ cheek as he spoke, his thumb wiping away dried tears.

“You know? How? They make mute charms? Will you show me how to make them?” Stiles’ mind was starting to whirl with the possibilities, “If there are mute charms, could I make singular emotion charms? So does that mean you only have a hand mute charm on? Is it the ring? That’s new right? I don’t want to tell them what I am. They’ll feel guilty for every emotion they have if they know it impacts me. Can the charm be any material or does it have to be silver? That is silver right? I wouldn’t burn myself out. I totally got this. But the charms are so cool!” Stiles took a big breath as his rapid fire inquires petered out.

He smiled sheepishly at Peter’s calm, but amused expression.

“Sorry they got excited and I was already excited, so a feedback loop kicked up. Add in the ADHD and it’s rough. You said I screamed when you couldn’t? When?”

Peter brought his hand around and placed it on the back of Stiles’ neck, a warm comforting weight, before answering, “We’ll unpack all your charm questions later, okay? As for how I know and when you were able to express my emotions when I couldn’t, the answers are the same but slightly different.”

Stiles nodded, leaning back into Peter’s palm.

“You stumbled into my hospital room and screamed the minute the door was shut, I didn’t understand why this eleven year old was in my room or why his scream sounded like he felt every single thing I was feeling. I wasn’t very aware at that point, but the visceral emotion in that scream sounded like my own. And then you filled my room with such nice feelings I thought for a long time it was a dream.”

Stiles’ eyes are wet again as the memory of that day finally floods back in.

“And then I felt Laura die and the spark pass to me. I was blind in my fury and grief. I found her body and howled with every ounce of grief within my tattered soul. I was searching the area to figure out who did it when you three stumbled into my path. I felt your sorrow for your brothers as if it were my own and I ran.”

Stiles remembers the whimper and squeezes the hand on his thigh with his own.

“And then, my sweet sweet boy, I died. I was burned alive for the second time, but you saved me the trauma of experiencing it. I don’t know how I knew it was you who granted me the numbness that took over my body, but when I looked at you trying not to show anyone the emotion I saw in your eyes, I knew. I knew you were the little boy. I knew that once again you were here to save me from pain.”

Stiles wiped his watery eyes viciously, mad at himself for tearing up in front of Peter.

“I vowed that if I could make it back I’d repay you. And these charms are how I plan to do that, pet.” Peter moved Stiles hand away from his eyes before slowly moving in and kissing each sensitive eyelid.

“Where do we go from here, Peter?” Stiles whispered, his throat too full of emotion, for once it was his own.

“Wherever we want, sweetheart.”

#steter #empath!stiles #empath stiles #peter hale #adopted isaac #isaac scott and stiles are the best of friends #kyla creates #kyla writes

131 notes · View notes

chaseatinydream · 4 years

Text

pirate king (51) || atz

You don’t know what to do anymore.

Everything is falling apart to pieces, the world around you, the people at your side, you yourself, crumbling into ruins. Yunho is suffering from poison, having been stabbed in the side by his dearly beloved brother himself, who is cooperating with Commander Kang, Vice-Commander of the Royal Navy’s Red Rose fleet.

He also happens to be Yeosang’s estranged father and the man with the antidote to Yunho’s poison. He wants your captain to give up his magical knot, the nautical maps, you, and Yeosang in exchange for pardons for the whole crew… and Yunho’s antidote.

Wooyoung is avoiding you like you’re down with the plague, refusing to look you in the eye and cutting short all your feeble attempts at conversation with curt, uninterested replies. He’s become like some sort of wraith, gone more times than he is present, and the immense loneliness that clenches deep in you doesn’t help at all with the pains that have started to emerge in your chest.

You’re terrified. Terrified about exactly what exactly is happening to you.

And then the Kraken…

The Kraken is dead.

Jongho had reported the incident to your captain the moment the four of you had returned to the vessel, him being more worried about the Royal Navy ship present in the waters as compared to the death of the Kraken, but you had barely reacted to his worried questions, unable to comprehend what you had just seen.

The ancient Kraken is… dead.

You sit against the mast in empty silence, watching the stars blankly as the ship sails beneath them on a sea reflecting the galaxies in the night sky, lost in the majestic wonder of the sight and in your thoughts. Tonight, the air is freezing, and instinctively your hand reaches out next to you, seeking for the usual warmth that is always present by your side.

Then your fingers falter, halting hesitantly in mid air when they find nothing but cold, empty space.

Despair wells up in you and your hand falls back to your side, limp. Your head falls forwards as you try to hold back the sudden, warm tears that threaten to slip from your eyes. It hurts, deep in your chest, as real and raw as the sporadic pains you’ve been experiencing since leaving the Grand Iguana, and perhaps if you’re honest with yourself, even more so.

When you close your eyes and wish hard enough, with all of your might, you can see Wooyoung’s content smile as he lounges on the deck next to you, eyes fixated on the stars overhead. Wish a little more and you can feel the comforting weight of his head resting on your shoulder, the warmth of your intertwined hands in the lining of his pocket. Even if it was all a lie, even if he had never really cared about you, even if you were nothing more than a game to him, you just want to stay in that single moment forever, trapped in your knitted cocoon of comforting lies.

But you don’t have time to be worrying about those things, you think as you aggressively wipe the tears from your eyes. Because there are so many more problems that you need to focus on, bigger ones that are looming over you in spite of your own troubles.

Yunho is still dying.

And San doesn’t have a cure.

“I don’t know how to create the antidote.”

You don’t know what you should do, to be honest. There are all manner of emotions rushing through you right now – fear – despair – hopelessness – anger; directed at yourself or someone else, you don’t know, but all that matters is that Yunho is dying.

And that neither you nor San can do anything to stop it.

Slumping against the mast once more, you let out another exhausted sigh. You’re tired, completely worn out, battered from the constant strain and worries on your mind. All you want to do is lie down and sleep, but you can’t bring yourself to go to bed in front of your master, who is still burning midnight oil night after night as he and Yeosang search fruitlessly for an antidote.

You can’t bear to see the haggard, gaunt expression on his face as he rifles through the same books yet again, knowing full well in his heart that they don’t have the answers he needs, that only powerful magic could hope to have any sort of effect on the poison. You can’t continue to hear your master sob quietly to himself every night from under your covers as his worry for Yunho and the sheer weight of his failure takes its toll on him, the candlelight flickering across his face only making the tear tracks on his cheeks all the more pronounced.

And in the morning, when he wears a bright, falsely cheerful grin, telling you that everything will be alright, guilt eats away at you like a starving man when you know that he is the one who needs your comfort instead.

You bury your head in your hands with a soundless scream. Your sanity feels like it’s ripping apart at the seams, unraveling and crumbling to ash. There are too many worries and burdens stifling you from within, choking you like poisonous ivies, the thorns digging into your lungs and suffocating you of the air that you so desperately need. You want to spill everything in your chest to someone else, to relieve the burden from your shoulders, but who would be able to lend you a listening ear at this time of the night?

You glance about the deck instinctively. All your crewmates are sleeping below decks, San and Yeosang are tirelessly researching into the night for a cure, Wooyoung still won’t speak to you, and your captain… he…

Actually, why don’t you speak to your captain?

Leaping to your feet, you nearly trip over empty air in your haste as you scramble to the captain’s cabin. To your immense relief, you can see the faint flicker of candlelight coming through the glass windows, signifying that your captain is not yet asleep. You raise a trembling hand, and after a moment of hesitation, rap on the heavy wooden door with your knuckles.

Knock, knock, knock.

You’re left hanging for a moment when there’s a brief moment of silence, but before your hand can fall to the side in disappointment, a soft, raspy voice comes from behind the closed door.

“Come in.”

Relief floods through you and you pull open the door, stepping into the dimly lit interior of your captain’s cabin. Knowing that he usually sleeps in the hammock in the corner, your eyes flit there at first glance, but you’re surprised to find it empty. Instead, you finally see him at the glass window overlooking the sea, lounging on a chair there as he stares unblinkingly at the scene outside. He’s in a state of casual undress, signature red jacket slung over his shoulder and the top two buttons of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to the elbows as his fingers dance absentmindedly on a sheaf of thick parchment paper on his lap.

Then the smell of alcohol hits you like a punch to the gut.

In his other hand is a bottle of liquor, and from the pungent scent it’s a strong, powerful one. For a moment, you’re actually worried; is your captain too unable to cope with the pain and fear of losing his friend? Taking a hesitant step forward, you call out to your captain softly.

“Captain? Are you alright?”

If Hongjoong is surprised that you’ve come to search for him in the wee hours of morning, he doesn’t show it, subtly sliding the bottle of alcohol behind a curtain before he begins to tidy the papers on his lap as if he hasn’t heard your question in the least. When he’s satisfied with the state they’re in, he finally turns to glance at you.

“Ahh, Chin Hae, what do you need from me?”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Because your captain, Kim Hongjoong, is not wearing his eyepatch.

You’ve never actually thought about what was under that slip of black cloth. As the eyepatch has just… always been there, in some way you’ve forgotten that beneath your captain’s eyepatch, there are the scars of your captain’s childhood. You remember that your captain had told you once how his father had abandoned him on an island and shot him in the head, causing him to lose his eye in what must have surely been a traumatic accident for any child.

But the alcohol must have addled with your captain’s mind a lot more than you’d thought, because he doesn’t seem to be aware of the fact that he’s not wearing his eyepatch, instead cocking his head curiously to the side as he awaits for your response.

Your own eyes trace his face, lingering on his right eye as much as you try to tear your gaze away in polite courtesy. The eyepatch is such a big part of his wardrobe, even more significant than his red jacket itself, that you feel like he’s bared a part of himself to you without intending to.

You’re not going to lie. The scar is ugly, shallow ridges of scar tissue joining his skin of to his cheek, slightly fainter in colour than the smooth, unblemished skin around it. It mars what you would have almost called a flawless face, an unsightly stain upon what was once a perfect, white canvas.

You can almost imagine the sight happening before your eyes. Your captain as a young, innocent child, still with both soft green eyes and not yet exposed to the horrors of the world, scrambling backwards desperately in the sand, terror sending his body into sheer mind numbing panic as the one person who was supposed to protect him raises a musket to his head.

And it’s the last thing he’ll ever see out of that eye.

Your captain’s other eye, the healthy, working one, is a hazy green, dulled by the alcohol and pain. It takes him more than a second to realise what you’re looking at, his mind fogged over with liquor, but when he does, you’re terrified, yanking your eyes back to the ground as you can.

But it’s already too late.

“Get out!” Hongjoong roars, every syllable trembling with rage, rising to his feet in one explosive action. The papers on his lap slide to the ground and scatter everywhere, but they’re the least of your troubles right now. At the moment, you’re a lot more concerned about how your captain is practically looming over you, handsome face twisted in fury, warm breath hitting your cheeks. Your eyes are drawn back to his eye once more, almost instinctively, and Hongjoong clamps one hand over the scar, so hard that his fingers turn white, turning away from you so you can’t see it any longer, shoulders wound tight with tension.

Your heart breaks.

“Captain-”

“I said, get out.” He seethes, making to move across the room to his table, where his eyepatch lies. But the alcohol must have affected him a lot more than you thought, because he only manages five steps before his knees give out beneath him and he crumples to ground in a limp heap with a cry of pain. A yelp of horror leaves your mouth and you rush to help him, but he merely waves you off, one hand still pressed tight over his eye.

The message is clear. He doesn’t want you seeing his eye.

“Get me my eyepatch.” Hongjoong manages through gritted teeth and you scramble to obey, feeling the rough cloth beneath your fingers as you pluck it from the tabletop. Your captain practically snatches it from your hands when you return with it, yanking it over his eye as fast as he can.

The two of you remain there for a moment, your captain trying to get his breathing under control as you merely stay still before him, afraid to move. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, and it’s only now that you notice his sallow cheeks, the old rum stains on his shirt. He’s been drowning all his fears and sorrows in liquor, and your heart only shatters more when you recall the brave front he’s been putting on in front of you and all the crew.

“I’m… I apologise.” Hongjoong finally rasps and your eyes dart to his face. His fingers still linger at his eyepatch, as if subconsciously trying to hide his scarred eye, his expression almost unreadable, forlorn, defeated. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. You should go.”

Part of you does want to leave, terrified of what might happen if you stay here any longer. But even more than that, you’re worried about your captain. He’s clearly completely drunk on both alcohol and his emotions, and you can’t just leave him on the floor like that. So, mustering your courage, you put an arm around him and yank him to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in your chest when you do so, pulling him to Yeosang’s bed.

All the fight has clearly evaporated from your captain, because he merely goes along with what you’re trying to do, a complete turn from earlier when he’d been shouting at you to leave, albeit on unsteady feet. When Hongjoong reaches the bed, he simply topples over onto the mattress with a soft groan, eye shut as you sit next to him on the edge of the bed, a hundred and one questions running through your mind with nowhere to begin.

“Why?” You manage to whisper, the question soft to even your own ears. Exhaustion and alcohol must have loosened your captain’s tongue, because he actually answers you, voice so forlorn it almost brings tears to your eyes.

“I…I couldn’t help it... I felt like such a useless captain.” Hongjoong breathes into the silent room, voice laced with pain and depression and guilt. “Yunho got stabbed because I was too slow. Yeosang and you are wanted because I failed to protect the two of you. Now, we have no cure to save Yunho, but I… I just can’t give either of you up to that bastard. I don’t want to make a choice, so I’m trying to forget, but it just isn’t working.”

Everyone on board of this ship, Yeosang himself included, have reassured you that your captain would never give any of you up, but to hear it for yourself, with your own two ears, means so much more to you. Some sort of relief settles in you, but it doesn’t last long.

Your captain lets out a self deprecating chuckle. “I’m such a selfish man, aren’t I?”

You don’t know what your captain is talking about. What does he mean that he’s selfish? Kim Hongjoong is one of the most kind hearted people you’ve met, willing to go to any extent for his friends and crew, you included. But when you open your mouth to refute, your captain speaks once more, voice slurring ever so slightly over his words.

“Hey, Chin Hae... I’m terrified.”

The pained whimper that breaks forth from him is the final blow to your heart as you feel it shatter into teeny tiny pieces. You have this urge to comfort him, to reassure him in any way that he’ll be alright, but then Hongjoong is sitting up on the bed once more, green eye clouded with desperation as he grabs you tight by the shoulders.

“You can’t die, Chin Hae.” Hongjoong’s voice is shaking with some sort of deep rooted fear as his gaze searches yours. “Please… no, that’s an order. I order you not to die, Chin Hae. I… no… I won’t be able to bear it if any of you die so please…” His voice breaks at the last word and a single tear rolls down your cheek at the sheer anguish in his words. “Please… please don’t die.”

He’s begging you.

“I’ll take all the danger, all the pain, everything. Please, don’t do anything dangerous.” He continues rambling weakly, head bowed before you in supplication as he pleads with you. He’s drunk. Too much so, you think blankly, your heart ripping itself to shreds at his words. “Getting tortured… even dying would be a better fate than losing any of you, so please…”

You’re frozen, unable to move an inch at the sheer wretchedness of his pleas. Your captain, your stupid, foolish and utterly selfless captain, doesn’t care for anything else except the safety of his crew. Your captain, who is always a pillar of support to all of you, perhaps doesn’t realise that he too, needs comfort as well.

Hongjoong is still mumbling ‘please’ brokenly under his breath, tears actually streaming down his cheeks as he begs you to stay alive and safe. You don’t know what to do, one hand coming up to grip the fabric above your chest, right where your heart is.

How? How are you ever going to tell Hongjoong about how your life might just be ending soon?

At this point, you don’t even know how to worry about yourself. Instead, you’re more concerned about what will happen to your captain if you do die, because how can you bring yourself to worry about you when your captain cares for your life more than his own?

The answer is simple, really.

You can’t.

This isn’t like that time from so long ago, when the biggest secrets you’d been keeping from the crew was the fact that you were a woman. Your captain is already tearing himself apart from the inside over all the problems he has to face now, what would happen to him if you told him you were dying and there was likely no way he could fix it?

He’d go insane.

So, as you hold back the tears that are desperately trying to escape your eyes, you pull him close in a hug and he clings to you, as if he’s drowning and you’re a lifeline. You press your nose into his shoulder and pat him, rubbing soothing circles into his back much like San used to do for you.

“I won’t die.” You lie through your teeth, and your heart clenches painfully, seemingly aware of your fibs. But Hongjoong nods desperately, trembling uncontrollably against you, your legs tangled in the blankets.

“You promise?” His voice is so weak, so afraid, that the tears spill over your lashes and onto your cheeks, soaking into his shoulder. You attempt a reassuring smile, but even to you, it’s forced and brittle, like flaking clay that has been left out in the sun too long.

Your reply is nothing but a sweet lie, one that you know you cannot possibly keep.

“I promise.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

108 notes · View notes

number-one-micoverse-fan · 4 years

Text

I, a Stranger and Afraid, In a Land I Never Made

-A. E. Houseman

Inspired by the Pierly Body Swap AU currently playing out on Em’s blog.

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

Aaron opened his eyes to a ceiling that wasn’t his.

It was a bed that wasn’t his, a room that wasn’t his, and pale, shaking hands that weren’t his.

He stumbled out of the bed, nearly falling over himself, stumbling over bare feet that weren’t his to collapse against a dresser that wasn’t his. His breathing was rapid and terrified and he was afraid of what he would see when he finally looked at the mirror on the dresser.

But he did it anyway.

Jake’s horrified face stared back at him.

Aaron stopped breathing.

He froze, fingers curled painfully tight against the edger of the dresser, something oily and cold slithering through his bones, coiling around his spine to settle in the pit of his stomach. His chest ached. Aaron raised a shaking hand to the side of his face and Jake in the mirror do the same thing. Trembling fingers carded through bed ruffled blond hair, scraped nails that weren’t jagged from chewing across the back of a goosepimpled neck, felt the rapid and erratic heartbeat pulsing beneath quivering fingertips. Watched the Jake in the mirror do the exact same thing.

“Oh my god…” Aaron wheezed and then pressed his hands—Jake’s hands?—over his mouth because that was Jake’s voice. Shivering like he’d been left outside in the cold, Aaron sank to the floor, scraping his back against the dresser as he turned away from the truth in the mirror. He drew his knees up to his chest, ducking his face into his legs, wrapping his arms over his head, making himself as small as he possibly could and trying to remember what breathing was supposed to feel like. The ache in his chest was growing into a dull pain, a palms scraped on asphalt sort of sting.

A knock on the door to the bedroom made him jump, frightened eyes swimming with tears widening as he stared at it. A small whimper escaped and he grabbed fistfuls of blond hair in a panic, pulling painfully at the roots, trying to wake himself up.

“Jake? You up yet? Breakfast is almost ready.”

Not a dream, couldn’t be a dream, dreams didn’t feel like this.

Aaron wanted to be sick.

He didn’t just look like Jake, he was in Jake’s body.

Somehow, impossibly, he was inside his older brother’s body.

But if he was here, then…where was Jake?

****

Jake opened his eyes to a ceiling that wasn’t his.

But it was one he knew.

He was out of the not-so-unfamiliar bed before he’d realized it, tangling in the sheets and crashing to the floor in a grunt that sent the air rushing out of his lungs, taking his unspoken scream of fear with it. He clawed across the ragged carpet, kicking to try and untangle himself, retching and heaving and desperate to breathe, desperate to escape.

His hair fell in front of his face and he shook his head to try and get it out—

Wait.

Black hair.

He froze, shivering on his belly on an old carpet that smelled of age and cigarette ash.

The hands in front of him were not his. The arms were too long, the skin too rough, the palms calloused and the knuckles bruised, the fingernails bitten into jagged, ugly points from nervous chewing. Jake raised the hands—his hands?—shakily to his face, palms scraping a rough and uneven stubble along his jaw, catching in greasy hair that was longer than he was used to. His gaze darted to the walls of the room and though much of it had changed, some of it was familiar; the faded poster of a sports car over the dresser, the second-hand bookshelf cluttered with games and unfolded socks, the dented and scraped silver metal baseball bat leaning against the wall by the door.

This was Aaron’s bedroom.

What the hell was he doing in Aaron’s room!?

Jake heaved himself up and threw the bedroom door open, tripping over legs that were too long and smashing into the doorframe with a hiss of pain.

“Keep it down!” A horribly familiar voice barked from down the hall and Jake felt such a bolt of fear that he scurried into the bathroom and bolted the door behind him without turning on the lights.

He stood shivering in the dark for a long moment, his back pressed against the door, chest heaving as he tried to get himself under control. Only when the room stopped spinning under his feet did he reach out and flick the light on. Even then, it took him several deep breaths to work up the courage to look in the mirror.

Aaron looked back at him, wearing an expression of hopeless terror that Jake had never seen on his brother before.

Jake pressed his hands against the cold surface of the mirror, eyes wide as he stared at his reflection—at Aaron’s face staring right back at him, at Aaron’s hands pressed against the reflective surface.

He was Aaron.

He was stuck in Aaron’s body and he was in the same house as his mother.

****

Aaron fumbled his way into a pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt from nowhere. Then he slid cautiously out the bedroom door and into a hall, trailing it into the rest of the house. His gaze darted around, taking in as much as he could, startled by how…cozy it was.

This is where Jake lives… Aaron stared at a photo on the wall, at Jake’s happy and smiling face, the others with him who happily had their arms around him, at the friendliness of it all. It didn’t look familiar. It didn’t look real.

Aaron didn’t think he’d even seen Jake smile like that in his entire life.

A clatter from another room made him jump. He followed the sound to the kitchen where a very large man was bustling around, finishing his breakfast preparations. The smells were delicious and Aaron’s mouth watered hungrily. He moved towards the dining table, eyeing a cup of coffee still steaming next to an empty plate. Pale fingers reached for it only for it to be swept out of his reach by the huge man. The man chuckled in a teasing manner,

“Nuh-uh, mister, this one’s mine. This one, is yours.”

And he pressed a hot mug with the words “OKAY” on it into Aaron’s hand. Aaron starred into the dark coffee warming his palms and then glanced up at the other man; he was attending to the last of the breakfast, humming to himself. Aaron eyed the coffee again and took a small sip as he eased into a chair. He made a face and quickly set the mug down, pushing it away in disgust—decaf.

“Milo up yet?” The man asked, his back to Aaron as he sorted food onto plates by the stove.

“Um…” Said Aaron. Who the fuck is Milo??

“Yeah, we’d probably hear him if he was awake.” The man laughed as he set a couple of plates down on the table and took his own seat, “Well, we can just have breakfast without him. I have the day off so I’m spoiling everyone today.”

Aaron looked down at the plate in front of him; eggs and toast, a few bits of sausage, a couple small pancakes, and some hashbrowns. All of it perfectly cooked and like something straight out of a commercial for a family diner. He stared at it in something akin to awe. He’d never had someone cook him a meal like this before. It was like a dream. A far off dream he’d forgotten he’d had.

“Jake? You okay?”

The man was giving him a look of genuine concern from across the table, a forkful of eggs and sausage resting against the edge of his plate. Aaron swallowed hard, his throat dry, his mouth tasting like dust. His chest was hurting again.

“Um,” His voice caught somewhere in his lungs and came out strangled. He cleared his throat, “Um, yeah? I…I dunno. Um. Sorry, everything just—just feels kind of—I don’t…I’m not…” He trailed off, panic steadily climbing up inside him again, “I just don’t feel good. Today. Sorry.”

“Aw, Jake, that’s okay, don’t force yourself.” The man’s voice was gentle and kind and warm and Aaron felt a lump swelling in his throat, “You go grab a blanket and sit on the couch for now. I’ll bring you some toast later and you see if you’re up for that, okay?”

“Y-yeah…yeah, okay…” Aaron slid out of his chair, dazed by the generosity and concern. He was so stunned by what was happening that he startled badly when a large, warm arm wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him against an even warmer chest. The man leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Aaron’s messy blond head.

“Get some rest, Jake. You deserve it. Love you.”

The words were soft, gentle, sweet as spring time and crisp as autumn.

They burned in Aaron’s ears and seared his mind as he stumbled into the sitting room, dragging a blanket off the back of the couch to wrap around his shoulders. He curled in on himself, staring into the middle distance, trying to process what had just happened, wondering if he should have said something, said that he wasn’t Jake and that something had happened and that this was all wrong.

Get some rest. You deserve it. Love you.

When was the last time someone had told him they loved him?

When had anyone ever told him they loved him…?

****

Jake pulled the hood over his head and pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the insistent noise from the other side of the door. He was curled in the corner of the room, shaking so hard his knees where knocking together, his legs drawn to his chest, trying to tuck all of Aaron’s long limbs into as small a shape as possible.

The room was a mess; the bed was half pulled away from the wall, the dresser had been pushed halfway along the wall, and the bookshelf was tipped on its side, spilling its contents on the floor in a trail that led to the door it now blocked. The door that was shaking in its frame as someone hammered upon it from the other side. It was like a scene out of a horror movie. And to Jake, it was like a nightmare come to life.

He’d taken one step into the rest of the house and made eye contact with Donna, with his mother, and that had been enough. She’d barely started lecturing him when the fight, flight, or freeze instincts had kicked in. And Jake had run. He’d bolted out of the room so fast, the cheap hardwood floor had squealed under his bare feet. Donna had chased after him, yelling at him to get his scrawny ass back here! and I’m not finished talking to you!

Now she was pounding on the bedroom door and Jake was cowering in a corner of his younger brother’s room.

“AARON PIERLY YOU OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR RIGHT NOW!” Donna shrieked from the other side, rattling the handle, “OPEN IT RIGHT NOW! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, GODDAMNIT! YOU GODDAMN UNGRATEFUL BRAT! YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR USELESS BROTHER! NO GOOD LEECH!”

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaking down his face, and pressed his palms so hard against his eats that it hurt. He was hyperventilating, chest heaving, head spinning, his entire body soaked in fear and sweat and adrenaline that had no where to go. A desperate whine escaped his clenched teeth, breaking off into a breathless heave for air. He wanted to scream but there was no sound that could encapsulate the pure horror he was experiencing.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN RUN AWAY!? WHERE WOULD YOU GO, HUH!? NO ONE WANTS YOU! NOT A SCUMMY THING LIKE YOU! GET OUT HERE RIGHT NOW OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET IT, AARON!”

The fear was so great and terrible that it made him wretch, spitting out a dribble of stinging stomach acid and coughing as it burned his nose and throat. The door kept shaking and banging. Jake’s head was throbbing, his arms aching, his legs shaking, his head spinning in a million different directions. His heart pounded, strong and healthy, in a chest that wasn’t his, in a room that wasn’t his, in a house that he’d gotten out of years ago.

His only solace was that at least he couldn’t have a heart attack.

****

Milo, as it turned out, was a little red head in a stupid shark hoodie.

He was annoying and small and covered in freckles. But when the big guy had told him to be quiet because “Jake’s not feeling well”, Milo had settled right down on the couch next to him with a juicebox and a bag of shark crackers and fallen quiet. The television was playing some kind of documentary that Aaron wasn’t paying attention to, staring at the screen without really taking it in.

There was a kid leaning against him.

A kid who was almost as tall as Jake was when they were kids. A kid who loved and trust Jake enough to just…snuggle up to him like it was no big deal. He hadn’t even asked, he’d just. Done it.

With a damn juicebox of all things.

Aaron was curled under his blanket, arms hugging his knees to his chest. He wasn’t…scared. He wasn’t angry. He just couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the unconditional love Jake’s housemates had for him. Who even were these people? Was the kid Jake’s? Was the big man Jake’s boyfriend? Did they have a third adult roommate?

How many friends did Jake have? (Aaron didn’t have any.)

Did Jake have a job? (Aaron didn’t.)

Where were they even living? (Hadn’t heard from Jake in years.)

Why did Jake get all of this, while Aaron got—

His chest ached and he bit his lip hard. Maybe it was best not to go down that road.

“Hey dad?”

Best not to dwell on things that could have been. Even though Aaron couldn’t help but wonder—

“Dad?”

--would his life have been this perfect—

“Dad.”

—if he had gotten away too?

“Dad!” A tug on his blanket made him gasp and jolt in his seat, jerking around to stare at the boy next to him. Milo was frowning but it was a look of concern, not anger or disappointment. Another expression that Aaron was not at all used to seeing, and one that certainly twisted something inside him into shaky knots.

“Uh, I—yeah, what? Sorry. What—what do you…need?”

“Are you gonna be okay?” Worry softened the edges of Milo’s words, concern and fear and love and distress spilling out of his eyes as they stared imploringly up at Aaron, “Is…is it a heart thing?”

A heart thing?

Jake had a heart thing?

Maybe it had something to do with the pressure under his ribcage. It had been a constant, gnawing twinge in his chest since he’d woken up in Jake’s body, an irritating pulse of pain that stabbed its way through his left side and lodged itself into the general area he thought a heart might be.

Milo was still looking up at him, waiting for an answer, concern and love dancing in the depths of his eyes. It made the inside of Aaron’s chest ache in a different way.

“I’m…y-yeah. Yeah, it’s…a heart thing.”

“Oh.” Milo ducked his head and tucked himself deeper against Aaron’s (Jake’s) side. Almost absently, Aaron put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. When he’d realized what he was doing, he wanted to yank his arm back, put some distance between himself and this stranger, stop infecting Jake’s perfect family life with his presence.

But Milo was warm and welcoming and soft and he relaxed against Aaron’s side with a gentle sigh like he belonged there.

So Aaron put his cheek against soft, red hair, closed his eyes, and let it be. Just for the moment. He let himself pretend, if only just for the moment.

#fan fiction #body swap au

26 notes · View notes

phagechildon · 5 years

Text

The Greater Good - Chapter 9

It’s been so long since I’ve updated due to personal issues, but I’m finally able to write Hijack again! And due to the long hiatus, this chapter is especially long sitting at around 19,422 words! I know the fandom’s dead but they’re so fun to write! I highly recommend reading on AO3 for a better experience since Tumblr refuses to copy anything that I italicized or bold -_- I didn’t have anyone else edit this for me due to the length and everyone being busy, so I’m sorry for the mistakes! READ ON AO3 - Rated M for Mature due to violence, death, dark and sexual themes

Tumblr: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Fandom: Hijack/Frostcup Story Summary: Jack, unable to handle the dark life he’s living, is now trying to redeem himself by using his skills and demigod powers to protect the innocent. Though he gets more than he bargained for when he meets Hiccup, who unknowingly holds the very fate of the world in his hands.

Last Chapter recap since it’s been a while: With Zootopia overran by Nightmares and half of them being sold into slavery, Hiccup volunteers himself to be captured in order to free the other prisoners. In the meantime, Jack confronts the Nightmares who are attacking the city, only to realize everything is going according to Pitch's plan - a plan to get Hiccup. Quickly resolving the issue, he flys towards the prisoner camp, hoping he isn't too late. However he's unaware that not only are the Nightmares there to capture Hiccup, but so is Callaghan's Army and the Outcasts. Everything's a chaotic mess and poor Hiccup just wants a break.

TW: Mentions of rape and sexual harassment is mentioned throughout this chapter. It gets sorta but not too bad at the part where I added *** . It stops when you see *** again. I added a very brief explanation of what happened at the end in case you want to skip it!

----

“Shit-” Jack cursed as he hovered over the burning prisoner camp, the smoke so severe he was forced to use one of his sleeves to cover his mouth. The fire was so intense he couldn’t even see past the smoke and flames. He prayed Hiccup wasn’t down there, but he didn’t dare take a chance. He had to at least take a quick glance around.

Toothless hopped off his shoulder and gave him an agreeing nod. “I’ll go left you go right. We’ll meet on the other side.” Immediately the dragon dove down, Jack following suit. Despite how exhausted he was, he formed a thin yet durable layer of ice around his skin. It only gave him at least three minutes before he’d have to take a brief break, but it was better than nothing.

“Hiccup!!” He called as he landed, his eyes widening as he saw the Mother’s Arms soldiers laying in pools of their own blood. Hiccup wouldn’t resort to such bloodshed, and those wounds weren’t caused by dragons either. The cuts were clearly made by swords. What happened here?

Running further in, his eyes caught sight of men adorning different uniforms. “Callaghan’s army?” He mumbled, even more confused than before. They practically disbanded that army. The fact the few survivors were even here meant they probably tracked them all the way from the Hamada Village. But if Pitch made good on his threat, then that meant the Mother’s Arms, Callaghan’s Army, and the Nightmares were all in the camp with Hiccup as their collective target. He knew Hiccup can handle himself, he trusted him, but against three different armies?

“Hiccup!!” He cried out again just as he passed a Nightmare body, his fearful theory being proven true.

This was his fault. He should’ve realized the string of odd coincidences and connected the dots sooner. This was definitely something only Pitch was capable of. If something happened to Hiccup, he’d never forgive himself.

A rattling cage pulled him out of his thoughts as he looked around for the origin. “Hiccup?!” He instinctively called as he ran faster in the direction of the noise. Of course it was in the area most of the smoke was coming from.

The closer he got the more his eyes burned until he felt himself kick something metal.

Looking down, he saw a medium sized bird cage with a barely conscious chameleon in it.

Strange, he didn’t know Mother Gothel liked pets.

Very gently he picked the cage up and opened it. The small reptile looked at him weakly yet thankfully as it crawled onto Jack’s hand.

“I’ll get you out of here little guy,” he reassured as he dropped the cage, hearing it clank against something soft. Glancing down he saw the body of a rather high ranking Nightmare on the ground judging by the clothes, and beside him drag marks. There was something odd about the drag marks though. He wasn’t sure if he was looking too into it, but he could swear the left side leg was more square than the other, meaning the person who was dragged away could be Hiccup. It was definitely worth checking out.

Jumping up he rose above the smoke, seeing Toothless doing the same. “Over here!” Jack called, the dragon turning and flying towards him. “He was taken, but there’s tracks leading in this direction-” he pointed north. “Let’s get a Terrible Terror.”

----

His body still felt heavy as he slowly became aware of the rattling ground that made his teeth clank together. For a moment, he thought he’d heard Jack’s contagious laughter and soothing hum. Unfortunately he must've been half asleep because all he heard now was the booming laughter of someone he didn’t know.

“To think we’d have a princess to collect a bounty for too - this is our lucky day!”

A princess? Who were they talking about?

“Since she’s got some weird powers, we’ll force them to give us more reward money for our troubles,” Savage said, memories of earlier coming back at once. In an instant he paled, desperately wanting to open his eyes to confirm the horror for himself. His body was heavy though, so, so heavy, not even his eyelids would open. Whatever the Nightmares did to him was still severely affecting him, to the point where he felt his consciousness starting to fade again. This wasn’t like the poison, this was something inherently different. Perhaps it was the spell that made him limb as a doll? Whatever it was, he absolutely hated it.

A small noise rumbled from the back of his throat, but it wasn't audible to others. It was swallowed by a gag in his mouth. Of course they’d gag him, they knew he could call for help.

“Hiccup?” Rapunzel’s voice came over softly. The dragon whisperer didn’t realize how worried he was for her until he heard her voice as he relaxed just a tiny bit. He tried to respond, but all that came out was another soft groan. Oh how he just wanted to scream in frustration.

“You’re hurt - I’ll heal you as soon as I can,” she gently reassured, her voice so soothing he tried to solely concentrate on her. It made being paralyzed slightly more bearable. “They keep talking about hearing lots of horses gaining up on us. If it’s another army, we can use the chaos to escape.”

Escape? He wondered if she was able to get out of her ropes. Considering she was a woman and these were Alvin’s men, they probably didn’t take her seriously.

“I’d take your gag off, but they keep making sure it’s still on, sorry,” she apologized, to which Hiccup merely shook his head, the statement confirming his theory. Maybe the situation wasn’t as hopeless as he thought. Even now he could hear the thundering thuds of more horses gaining on them, making him take a deep breath through his nose.

He couldn’t move, but he wouldn’t be useless.

It felt like an eternity as they waited for something to happen. “Incoming from behind! Get the prisoners out of here!” Savage commanded. “Make sure that gag stays on the boy!”

“Yes sir!” Someone answered as the wagon moved even faster than before. He groaned as he felt his body rattle even harder against the wood, causing even further discomfort.

He still couldn’t move, still couldn’t speak.

“I got this,” Rapunzel said, only making Hiccup feel worse. If something happened and she needed backup - shit. He had to do something.

He heard the ruckus, heard the man gasp in shock, and heard her wrecking havoc. The wagon swayed left and right. He heard her gasp in pain, then rebuttal. Part of him started praying Jack and Toothless would show up with a Terrible Terror to save them - to save Rapunzel.

He heard the sound of horse’s hooves catching up from behind them, heard arrows being notched, Rapunzel cry out in horrific pain -

“Stop!” He cried out behind the gag as he sat up, ignoring the fact he couldn’t even move a few moments ago. His eyes opened and saw red leaving the blond’s shoulder where an arrow was sticking out of it as she continued holding the horse’s reins, trying to prevent them from crashing.

There were four on horseback catching up to them, getting more arrows ready, but Hiccup was faster. He dropped to the ground and rubbed his face against the side of the wagon, the gag being pulled down.

It was all a blur. He let loose a dragon noise, he couldn’t even remember which one.

The enemy let their arrows soar, but they never pierced. Instead they uselessly fell to the ground as Hiccup turned, seeing the riders tossed from his seats as the horses made a mad dash in the opposite direction. He squinted his eyes, trying to see what kind of dragon he summoned only to realize why he couldn’t see anything.

He summoned Changelings, and they were both wild and unpredictable.

His eyes met with Rapuzenl’s weak ones as he desperately shot up, his hand wrapping around the arrow and pulling it out of her shoulder just as the wagon tipped over -

And his world went black once again.

----

The Terrible Terror was struggling, and Jack was trying his best to stay patient. The dragon was obviously trying its best as he caught a few words such as ‘this way’ and ‘shit, why.’ Of course Hiccup taught him some of the curse words, dragons apparently loved using them just like humans.

“There might be a lot of people with them, making his scent harder to make out,” he said as his eyes grew heavy again, threatening to close. Toothless said something, but all he could frustratingly make out was ‘It’s-- if they know--- tracking him,’ which was no help since he couldn’t even make out what he meant.

Toothless groaned himself, knowing the theory may help Jack come up with something useful. They were using a lock of Hiccup’s hair, one of the most powerful forms of tracking material you can use aside from a fingernail yet this Terrible Terror was having a hard time pinning his location, which meant whoever had Hiccup was purposefully covering his scent. Callaghan’s army didn’t seem smart enough to do such a thing and the Nightmares didn’t even know about dragons. The only ones knowledgeable enough would be enemies of Berk itself.

Guess it didn’t matter if Jack was aware of this. This half human would stop at nothing to secure Hiccup, and that was just fine with Toothless.

However, he might have to force the demigod to take a break. He was looking even paler than usual; there was hardly any color left in his face. The stupid human hadn’t rest despite dispelling so much energy during the Nightmare attack on the city.

The sound of clinking metal made Jack tiredly look down, spotting a man and women surrounded by six people from the Nightmares. As worried as he was for Hiccup, he couldn’t ignore people in need.

Cursing under his breath, he instructed the Terrible Terror to stop as he dropped out of the sky. The two humans saw him at the corner of their eyes and gasped as he slammed into the ground, ice shooting out and hitting two of the men. Slowly he got to his feet, his staff forming in his hands as the little chameleon from earlier peeked out of his shoulder, shivering as Jack’s body heat left him.

“Stall me all you want Pitch, but I’ll save him,” he hissed, using the wind to quickly zip between the enemies and tap their chests with his staff. All at once they all fell, their hearts and lungs frozen over.

Merciless, but he was in no mood to think about it. Pitch was trying to take the one person who made him feel human and wanted for the first time in a long time. Of course he was in a fowl mood.

“Wow, where were you like, six minutes ago?” The brown haired man with a goatee laughed as he put his sword away. Jack blearingly looked over at him, cursing under his breath as his vision started going in and out. The women behind him with short black hair kept her sword out in alert, something he could respect.

“You guys… alright?” He took a step forward, the world moving around him before fading to black.

----

The floor was moving - it was galloping. His chest and ribs ached, his stomach unsettled. If he had eaten recently he probably would’ve thrown it up. Trying to adjust his position, he found, once again, he was tied up. This time he felt ropes around his arms and foot, a single rope connecting them so he couldn’t fall off the horse without getting trampled.

Perfect, just perfect. Whoever had him now didn’t seem to care about his safety much.

“Slow down, she’s starting to slip again,” he heard a man say. On queue he felt the horse slowing down, the decrease in speed only seeming to make the pain in his chest worse. “Let’s stop and change her bandages, Corona won’t pay for a dead princess.”

Bandages? Did that mean Rapunzel was okay?

The horses came to a stop. He felt someone shift the saddle he was draped against before someone landed somewhat lightly on the ground, confirming one thing. These weren’t the Outcasts. Their speech wasn’t harsh and they didn’t wear heavy armor, meaning they were probably captured by Callaghan’s army. Better than the Nightmares at least.

“What about the Dragon Conqueror?” Hiccup flinched. He hated that nickname.

“Cut him down, but don’t let him out of your sight. He should be waking up soon and we can’t risk him calling for help.”

“Uh… who would he even call out for?” He heard another ask as he too got off his horse.

“Who do you think called for those Changelings back there, hm? Those brutes?”

“Oh… guess you’re right.” The man replied. “I’ll do it then.” He heard someone approach him and tighten the gag around his mouth, making him aware of the rough cloth that was also shoved into his mouth to help prevent any kind of sound from leaving him at all. They were being thorough, unfortunately for him. Luckily for him, they weren’t too bright, he just had to wait for the right moment.

The middle rope was severed, allowing his numb arms and leg to finally separate. Like a rag doll the man pulled him off the horse, not caring as Hiccup’s legs hit the ground hard. Swallowing his pained groan, he felt the man drag him at least six paces away before dropping him.

“H-he’s hurt,” Rapunzel’s sweet voice rang, easing the dragon whisperer’s heart a bit. “Please… be gentle.”

“I’d worry more about yourself,” he heard a man snicker darkly, making Hiccup's eyebrows burrow in anger. “After all, we still have time before we get to Corona, and these nights get awfully cold.”

Oh hell no. No one spoke to someone like that and got away with it. Hesitantly he opened his eyes slightly, realizing he wasn’t blindfolded. They were in a forest of sorts with no river nearby, but that was fine. Gazing around camp, he saw around six men, all of which were watching what seemed to be the leader trying to intimidate Rapunzel who was just giving him death glares. The poor guy had no clue she could probably take half of them at once with her hair alone, but their diverted attention only made this easier.

His body still felt oddly heavy, but nothing compared to earlier. Wiggling his fingers, he pressed them to the dirt hoping to find something sharp to use.

“It’s futile,” he heard a voice say, making him freeze immediately. “Whether you get out of those bonds or not, you’re just gonna get captured again.” This voice… didn’t belong to one of Callaghan’s men. The sheer tone alone made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, unnerving him. This cold empty despair - could it really be someone from the Nightmares?

“Looks like you are smart after all,” the voice chuckled, but he heard no footsteps and saw no one. “I’d save your strength, you’re going to need it where you’re going.”

The response only egged him on, wanting to prove the voice wrong. It must be part of the stupid shadow that attached itself to him, he realized as he searched with his fingers more until they brushed something smooth and cold like metal. The quality didn’t feel the greatest, but the fact he found metal was so astounding he decided not to question it as he maneuvered it between his fingers a bit, making it press against the ropes.

He looked over at the men, seeing them getting closer to Rapunzel who only looked more agitated than before - so did the men. She probably said something to upset them, he realized.

He had to hurry.

A cramp coursed through his hand, nearly making him drop the metal. Cursing under his breath he worked past it as Rapunzel’s and his eyes met. Somehow he knew she was saying it was time to go and got ready to sit up in an attempt to help. He had no clue what she had in mind and hoped she had some sort of plan.

“Once I start, I can’t stop. If you touch, it’s your own fault,” she seethed in warning. The men only laughed as they came forward, making her close her eyes. “Wither and decay-” her eyes snapped open, the entirety of her eyes turning completely black. All the light seemed to be sucked away in the area as the horses immediately ran away, making the men nervously go silent. “End this destiny-” her long beautiful golden hair started wilting to black, the ropes around her wrists and legs dissolving into nothing. The grass and vegetation around her even started to wilt before dying within the matter of seconds. “Break these earthly chains, and set the spirit free.”

“Wh-what?!” The men gasped as they took a step back seeing the dying grass getting closer to them. “T-the hell is this?!”

“Set the spirit free.”

The sight was horrifying, but only urged him to work even faster. By the time she started saying it again he felt the rope budge and quickly pulled his wrists free. Knowing that probably made a sound he quickly sat up and pulled the rope off his his good leg, allowing the rest to dangle for now as the men turned.

“Shit, get him!”

Seeing all six men turn their attention to him, Hiccup quickly pulled the gag off and coughed out the second half. Tossing it, he hit the closest man in the face before he got up on his good leg. None of them came at him with swords, meaning they wanted him alive.

Why didn’t that make him feel any better about their situation?

One made a grab for him, to which he quickly side stepped and pushed the off balanced man to the ground. The attack made Rapunzel gasp as she said the incantation even louder, a horrible crunching noise making them all look to the ground as vines started rising out of the ground, their lush green color turning ashen black.

The men all stopped their attack as their faces paled, seeing the looming dark shadow wash over where they were standing.

With sharp gasps of fear they ran, forgetting about Hiccup and their gear. Honestly the dragon whisperer was just as nervous as he looked up to Rapunzel, feeling as if the soles of his shoes were getting thinner.

“Rapunzel?” He hesitantly called out. She finished the verse only to instantly collapse. The pure black strands slowly became golden again as she groaned. Instantly he hopped over, kneeling over her, afraid to touch her. “Rapunzel, are you okay?”

She opened her eyes a bit, seemingly drained. “Yeah… sorry about that,” she whispered. Very carefully Hiccup helped her sit up, that dark aura gone. He glanced at her shoulder wound, seeing the bandages turn a bit pink. The fall probably opened it again.

He reached forward, but stopped, recalling the disgusting things those pigs were saying. “Your wound-” the blond looked down, seeing the pink and groaned.

“I… can heal it, just, give me a minute,” she breathed, to which he nodded, respecting her space. For now he needed to find something to make a temporary prosthetic out of. Luckily one of them left their bag. Rummaging through it, he found some rope, bandages, and a knife, all of which were pretty useful.

“Maybe this means our luck’s starting to turn around.”

It took a few minutes, but he managed to make a prosthetic out of a rather chunky piece of wood and the other materials he found. In the meantime Rapunzel healed her wound and even healed a few of Hiccup’s.

“So… your hair,” Hiccup started as the glow left the golden strands. “Is there a story behind it?” Rapunzel couldn’t help but smile a bit nervously as she avoided eye contact, meaning it probably wasn’t a happy memory. “You don’t have to - I get it,” the dragon whisperer quickly stammered. “I just think it’s cool, even the darker side of it.”

The blond looked up at him in shock, which made Hiccup look away uneasily. Was that something weird to say? He wasn’t good at talking to normal people it seemed. Then again she wasn’t exactly normal. “I-I just think having both restoration and destruction seems very balanced and probably hard to maintain yet you seem to do a pretty good job-” Rapunzel’s laugh was his queue to shut up, more than thankful she put him out of his awkward misery.

“You’re the first person to call that side of me cool,” she said, obviously amused. The shyness from earlier seemed to disappear as she stood, her shoulder completely healed.

Thank goodness.

“I think it is,” Hiccup said again, this time more confidently as he sat back down and undid the makeshift prosthetic, folding the cloth up a bit more in hopes of making it slightly more comfortable before they started walking. “Sure it destroys things, and can probably severely hurt someone, but that power can sometimes be more of a blessing than healing.” He glanced up as Rapunzel rose a confused eyebrow, thankfully not seeming offended, so he continued. “Just look what you did for us. Healing wouldn’t have driven those men away - trust me, I know how stubborn they are,” he said, sounding annoyed and exhausted, which only made Rapunzel giggle again. “And if you’re ever trapped you can use that to literally ‘escape your earthly chains,’ so long as you’re the only one there.”

The princess gently tucked some hair behind her ear as she shifted her gaze to the ground, seeming to agree. “Yeah… I have used it for some instances similar to that. I was even able to save one of my friend’s dad. But you,” she said, her curious eyes moving back to him, excitement seeming to gleam off her. “You called those Changelings, didn’t you? The soldiers from both camps made it law to keep you gagged!” This time Hiccup’s demeanor changed, knowing there was no hiding it from her.

Was it really okay for him to be out here and not on Berk where he could keep the dragon’s secrets safe? More and more people were learning about the connection humans could have with dragons. Part of him couldn’t be happier as it was always his dream to see the two living in harmony. Yet the rational part of him knew that was also incredibly dangerous. Even if he felt like a prisoner on Berk, maybe… maybe it was for the best.

“Hiccup?” Rapunzel asked, snapping him back into reality. She was in front of him now, looking really concerned. He could trust her, he knew that as an absolute certainty. Yet as he opened his mouth, something stopped him - a chilling realization.

Someone was speaking to him earlier, someone from the Nightmares.

“Shhh,” he quickly hushed, going on full alert. Sensing his uneasiness, she grabbed a handful of hair and cautiously looked around as well. “Someone was talking to me earlier, someone I couldn’t see.”

“What? Who?” She gasped, confused.

“Someone from the Nightmares,” he glowered, hearing approaching hooves from nearly every direction.

Shit - they wasted too much time gathering themselves.

As much as he hated to rely on dragons he didn’t know how to fully train, Changelings were their only chance to ‘disappear’ for a while. Letting out a changeling call, he grabbed Rapunzel’s wrist and ran in the only direction he couldn’t really hear a horse approaching. Of course that didn’t mean anything.

“I know it’s probably hard to trust someone you just met, but if we want to avoid being captured again , you have to do what I say.”

Cold - it was starting to get so, so cold.

Shit. Were they Nightmare soldiers? If so, he couldn’t let them snuff out her light. In fact, he refused to let that happen.

Reaching around his neck, he pulled the ticking thing necklace off and held it out to her. “Here, take this-” he said, watching her grab it with a confused look. “Keep it safely around your neck. All you have to do is imagine someone or a place you want to see, and it’ll guide you there. If we get separated, I want you to use that to get home.”

Her head shot up after processing the words, looking hurt yet determined. “What? Separated? I’m not going to leave you - we’re gonna get through this together!”

But she had no clue what they were up against.

Something pulled the cloth free that was wedged between his limb and the half assed clump of wood on the makeshift prosthetic, making him groan in immense discomfort.

The horses hooves grew even closer, the sound of men commanding them to go even faster now audible.

“I’ll be okay, I have someone coming for me, remember?” He said, taking a deep breath he pictured Jack with one of his signature stupid grins as he felt something start tugging on the rope that bound the lump of wood to his limp. “If I can’t get out of this mess myself, I know he’ll save me. I believe in him.”

The trees, he could hear the leaves shake and tremble as something swooped over them, nearing them from behind. “Protect her, I beg of you!” He cried in dragonese. With all his strength, he stopped running and swung Rapunzel forward. With a cry she catapulted forward, losing her footing before she just - vanished. The trees screamed in agony as something pulled upward, barely missing them.

For just a moment Hiccup let out a choked laugh, not believing that worked as he turned, feeling the rope pulled free.

He couldn’t move, and that was okay.

As much as he wanted to disappear with Rapunzel, he had a feeling that wouldn't be wise. What happened back at the Mother’s Arms Camp, whatever that Nightmare did to him, he felt it somehow bound a Nightmare to him. If he himself accepted help from a dragon, the Nightmares would know, and that was something he couldn't risk.

“Okay, if that’s how you wanna play,” he grumbled as he quickly reached down and picked up the rope, retying it. The horses slowly came to a stop all around him as he stood back up, grabbing a rather strong stick that was at his feet. His breath caught in his throat as the soldiers weren’t wearing Nightmare robes, no, these were uniforms he’s never seen before. The base color was black with everything outlined blue - even the helmets. Red stripes were coming up from the chest plate, boots, and even the shoulder blades.

One of them with long black hair made their horse take a step forward, his posture straightening into one of authority. “You’re a hard one to get a hold of, but nonetheless, you are now property of Claude Frollo of the Josas Kingdom.”

Hiccup couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as he let out a small laugh. “Property? Sorry, I’m no one’s property.”

The man’s glassy gray eyes narrowed, unamused. “You were stripped of your freedom when the Mother’s Arms healed then sold you. You are nothing but a tool and object in which our King will give you purpose.” Hiccup’s eyes widened, recalling something Mother Gothel said to him:

“Selling you to the Nightmares means you won’t have your free will for long, and selling you to Callaghan’s army means they’ll slaughter you considering the way they were talking. The other group of people are barbaric ruffians,” she tisked, her eyes narrowing. “I rarely like to work with their kind. However, I could sell you to the sex-crazed Warlord who’s taken a liking to your description, you’d at least stay alive with him.” The dragon whisperer couldn’t help but groan, feeling disgusted. These must be men who worked for that sex crazed warlord she mentioned. As horrifying as the revelation is, that meant that they really did not have a kingdom, and this man wasn’t really a King.

He could still get out of this.

“I have my own purpose in life, and it’s not to bemuse your master,” he growled as he swung the stick around, picking up momentum and getting in a fighting stance.

Eight armed soldiers against a cursed one legged viking with a stick for self defense - there’s been worse odds.

“Don’t struggle, our Lord prefers his toys undamaged.” The leader looked up to where Rapunzel disappeared, his eyes narrowing. “Where’d the girl go?”

So they were interested in her too - thank gods he got her out of here. “I donno, her hair starting glowing again and she just vanished.” He simply shrugged.

The man frowned more, seeming annoyed. “Don’t worry, our Lord has a way of making people talk. Now, fetch.”

The other men, still on their horses, moved forward, making him curse. One of them was getting a net, another was loading a dart in some kind of paper looking straw.

First thing first, he had to get rid of the horses. If there was one dragon call he knew that scared animals on land, it was the call of a dragon that burrowed deep into the ground. Hopefully there weren’t any nearby that could hear him. According to his observations so far, there were none.

Hopefully.

Taking a deep breath, he let it loose. In an instant the horses bucked in fright, the net falling from the man’s hands along with the dart in the others as the horses all ran. Some of the riders stayed on, four fell on their backs.

Goodie, the numbers were literally halved. Without wasting a beat, he leaped forward and kicked the helmet off the soldier nearest to him. Dazed, the soldier did nothing as he smacked him hard on the side of the face, knocking him out cold. A crunch from the stick made him bite his bottom lip nervously.

Three more to go - he could do this as long as the Nightmare left his prosthetic alone.

Picking up a few rocks, he threw one at a soldier near him, hitting the helmet hard. The man gasped as he quickly took it off, trying to silence the horrible ringing that started giving him horrible tinnitus. Swinging the staff around to gain momentum, he swiped it under the man’s legs, making the man fall right back on his back. A blur of motion to his right made him gasp as he swung up, deflecting the man’s staff from hitting him as he side kicked the other man in the head, hoping it knocked him out. He didn’t have time to check as he parried another strike that tried to trip him, slamming his own stick into the other man’s knees. With a yelp he fell to one knee, giving Hiccup an opportunity to hit him in the jugular.

With a choked gasp the man fell back, the wound bleeding a bit. He wasn’t dead, just unconscious thankfully as he picked up the staff the soldier was wielding and growled, finding it rather heavy. Realizing it would only slow him down, he dropped it and stared at the last man, the leader of the group, glowering at his laughing face.

“Who would’ve thought a defected tool like you had this much fight in them,” he smirked, obviously finding Hiccup’s offended face amusing.

“I’m resourceful, not defective,” Hiccup barked back, twirling the stick to gain some momentum. A crack made him wince slightly as he saw the first few inches cave, hanging onto the rest of the stick by a few strands. The man only seemed to chuckle at the image, obviously amused.

“Even your resourcefulness is defective, it would seem,” he said as he stood up straight, no longer in a fighting stance. It only angered Hiccup more. “Maybe he’ll make you a more useful tool after I give him the retrieval report.”

The dragon whisperer opened his mouth just as he felt something prick the back of his neck. Cursing under his breath he glanced behind him, seeing two men on foot with skid marks on their faces from falling from their horses a little further up. They were all glowering darkly at him. One of them still had the straw from where they shot the dart.

He still had some time.

Turning to the leader, he charged. The man merely chuckled as he took out a staff and blocked Hiccup’s swing, letting Hiccup press against him so their faces were a few inches apart. “Still fighting even though it’s hopeless?” He asked with a softening smirk. “You can feel it, can’t you? The way your head fogs over, the way your limbs start to get so heavy all you want to do is just, collapse-” he pushed heavily against Hiccup’s stick, the branch finally snapping in half. With a cry Hiccup stumbled back on his bottom, feeling the world spinning.

Shit - shit shit - not like this!

“If it’s any consolation, you’re the most challenging adversary we’ve had in a long time,” the leader said as he loomed over him. Hiccup bared his teeth as he closed his eyes and rolled forward between the man's legs. He nearly threw up, but the adrenaline kept him going.

With a surprised gasp the man turned just as Hiccup stumbled to his feet. With a loud roar of defiance, Hiccup swung one of the broken pieces of the staff against the man’s face. With a cry the man took a step back as Hiccup saw a little bit of red form on the man’s cheek as he regained his balance despite the way his eyes swam. There were three of them - no, there was only one of them, and he was rubbing the back of his hand against a rather deep scratch he made across his right left cheek.

Another prick - this time he felt it on the front of his neck as he groaned, feeling the liquid poor into him as he stumbled back like a drunkard. Shakingly he reached up and pulled the needle out, clenching it tightly in his hand with the pieces of his broken stick.

“Don’t worry defective tool, I forgive you for that,” the leader said, though he seemed less amused than before. “We’ll teach you the proper way.”

His eyes swam even more as his limbs started to shake. He didn’t want it to end here, he could handle this, he knew he could!

His good knee collapsed, forcing him to fall to one knee. Okay, maybe he couldn’t… for now at least. He wouldn't give up, he’d never give up.

‘I… believe in you, Jack,’ he mumbled as his world fell to black.

----

It’s cold, that’s the first thought that came to mind as he felt himself stir. Instantly he started to shiver, but it didn’t seem to matter. No cloth was brushing against his skin, making him blanch. He didn’t have any clothes on? And this smell - it was sickeningly sweet, it made it hard to think as his eyes slowly fluttered open. He was in a dimly lit room that oddly felt humid and smelled like weird oils. Then again, the sweet smell in the air made it hard to decipher what exactly he was smelling, let alone pinpoint where it was coming from.

Drugs, he realized after a frustrating moment. That sweet smell was probably some kind of drug that made it hard to think, let alone move.

Great. Just great.

Trying to move his arms, he groaned, feeling them numbly above him in chains. It was taking everything he had not to start coming to conclusions and panicking. If he succumbed to fear, it’d be over.

Taking a few deep shuddering breaths, he tried clearing his mind.

“They haven’t used you - yet,” he heard the same voice from earlier say, making him growl.

Oh right, with everything going on he forgot a Nightmare was attached to him. Wasn’t he lucky?

“Who are you?” He managed to slur out, hating how pathetic his voice sounded like this.

“Does that really matter?” The voice asked back. “The more important question is how are you going to get out of this mess?”

“You’re the reason I’m in it,” Hiccup barked back bitterly. “If you hadn’t touched my prosthetic-”

“You wouldn’t know the truth,” the voice finished for him, making the dragon whisperer roll his eyes.

“Oh yeah sure, what truth, hm? Enlighten me, oh messenger of dark despair,” he mocked.

The voice was silent for a moment before it hummed. “That’s a new one, I kind of like it. It fits quite well considering my message will bring you despair.”

“Oh, shocking,” Hiccup sarcastically remarked. “Try giving your message to someone who believes what you say.” Pulling on the chains, he groaned, not even sure why he tried. Metal, duh, it wouldn’t break that way. Damn the drugs messing with his usually logical brain.

“I had you captured so you could learn the truth the hard way,” the voice merely said. “Don’t worry, you aren’t in any danger. At any point in time, all you have to do is ask for help, and I’ll stop this - I’ll stop all of them.”

Hiccup’s eyebrows furrowed in suspicion, not understanding the other at all. Why would a Nightmare subject him to such a horrific situation, then claim to save him if he asked? It didn’t make any sense. “What truth are you talking about?” The dragon whisperer cautiously asked, knowing he was probably walking right into a trap.

The room grew even dimmer as the shadows started dancing along the walls. Hiccup had to squint his tainted eyesight as a figure started to hazily form. It was a tall man with gray skin and piercing yellow eyes with pitch black hair spiked upwards adorning a black robe that seemed to be made of shadows. For some reason the very sight of him made his heart beat faster in his chest as all his fears started intensifying.

What if he was already used? What if he was turned into a doll for someone else's enjoyment? What if he wasn’t strong enough and gave away all his dragon knowledge?

What if Jack gave up on him? - No, no he shut those thoughts down immediately before even more surfaced, making him glower at the shadow man infront of him. Whoever this was, they were powerful, maybe even more powerful than the Last Quarter Rank. But that would mean-

“You know what’s amusing?” The voice chimed in, cutting his thoughts off there. “Typically when someone is poisoned, I’m able to peer into their mind and form their Nightmares. But you - you’re different,” he said, the revelation slow yet horrifying. “No matter what I tried, you formed your own nightmares - nightmares I couldn’t even see. When you were conscious, I couldn’t even penetrate that thick skull of yours.”

Hiccup felt his breath catch in his throat.

He knew who this was.

“You even manage to break through my General’s influence and move when you were captured by the Mother’s Arms. Even though he was present to everyone else, you should’ve been frozen in place. Yet you weren’t.” His eyes narrowed. “Even after I had one of my men pour my influence into you, all it did was render you unconscious. Yet even in that state I couldn’t get so much as a glimpse of your dreams.” He came over to him, gently cupping his chin in his cold hand. “And why is that, hm? What makes you so special? I realized Jackson must’ve noticed this, after all, why else would he keep someone like you around?” His eyes softened into something darker, something that made him uneasy as the demon gently started moving his thumb against his freckled cheek. “Aside from being easy on the eyes, what stopped him from sending you away like he does to all the others?”

With a growl Hiccup yanked his head back, pulling free from the demigods grip. Pitch merely snorted as Hiccup felt rough cold fingertips against his bare sides, making his eyes widen in both fear and anger.

“Don’t touch me-”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already been inside you, remember what I said earlier?” He smirked, making Hiccup feel both disgusted and violated. He didn’t want to think of being filled with dark influence in that way. “Besides, as I said, I’m here to help you realize the truth, that there’s something different about you, and that’s the only reason Jackson’s keep you around.”

“Don’t call him that,” Hiccup snapped as he used all his strength to swing his body slightly backwards in an attempt to get away from his touch. The demigod merely smirked, seeming amused as he took a steps away, bringing his hands back to himself.

“Jackson senses something off about you too, and knowing his curious nature, he wants to figure out what it is-”

“If you’re trying to make me turn my back on Jack, you’re wasting your breath,” he snapped, not wanting to hear it. “Nothing you say will change my mind about him.”

Pitch curled his lip before letting out a short laugh. “Oh, trust me, I’ve seen how stupidly stubborn you can be,” he said as he started circling him. “No-” Hiccup felt his breath hitch as those lips were at his ear, that hot breath making him want to kick him in the family jewel. “I’m just showing you that Jack is scared of you.”

Those forest green eyes couldn’t help but widen in shock at the statement, unable to help it as he spoke his thought out loud: “Scared… of me?”

No, that wasn’t possible.

“Like I said,” Pitch said as he swung around to face him again. “Not even I, who is stronger than Jack, can read or control you, no matter how hard I try.” Holding a hand out, black sand swirled out and formed a horse. “Not even with this.”

Fear thundered in his chest as he tried to fight it. Of course it didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do as Pitch pressed it to his chest. His entire body went numbly cold, his eyesight fading in and out - but only for a moment.

“Say you hate Jackson, now ,” the demigod ordered, his voice full of power. Numbly Hiccup stared at the black horse that looked like a tattoo on his chest as he waited to feel his lips move.

But nothing happened.

“I can’t even read your thoughts right now, and I’m the leader and source of power for the Nightmares,” Pitch said bitterly as he waved his hand. The horse tattoo dissolved into black sand that fell uselessly to the ground, allowing Hiccup to let out a relieved yet confused breath.

That… didn’t make any sense. There was nothing special about him - he didn’t even have a god parent! He was just a typical human being!

Pitch came close again, his hand once again gripping him by the chin. “What makes you so special, Hiccup Haddock?”

He… didn't know. It made no sense - Pitch wasn’t making any sense! Jack never said he was scared of him, in fact, he always seemed scared for him. Unless… that’s why he tried so hard to make him go back to Berk in the first place…?

“You don’t know either, do you?” Pitch asked as he tilted his head up him. “They’re coming.” He glanced back at what seemed to be a door a little bit aways, but it was too dark to really see clearly. “They bathed you, took measurements, examinations, then lathered you in lotions and oils.” Hiccup’s eyes widened in horror, desperately trying not to imagine so many people touching and violating his body. “They’re probably either gonna dress you up for their so called Lord, or he’s coming to see you in your natural state to decide your fate. But don’t worry, what I said before still stands.” His thumb gently started rubbing his cheek again, feeling the freckled one trembling a bit in fear and uncertainty. “When you finally realize Jack won’t save you, just call for me, and I’ll stop them in their tracks.”

That again - that’s the part he didn’t understand. “What do you have to gain from this? I could just ask for help without giving up on Jack - you can’t see into my thoughts.”

“True,” Pitch chuckled, seeming amused. “But when I step in to help, no one lives except you.” Hiccup’s eyes widened in shock, realizing what he meant.

If he asked for help, Pitch would kill everyone, including the innocent people here. “I’d never ask for your help, no matter what!” Hiccup snapped, which only made Pitch tisk.

“Oh Hiccup, how naive you are about the world. These people are even worse than me. You see, their methods are… invasive in a different way, and the others you call innocent? They’re all looking out for themselves, and will do anything to save their own skin. And I mean, anything .” Slowly he stood up straight and let go of his chin. “You’ll see how the world really is, my dear Hiccup. I’m just a call away.”

The door slammed open, and in that instant Pitch was gone. Glancing up, he saw a few people dressed in expensive colorful silks carrying various accessories and delicate fabrics.

“He’s awake!” He heard a woman gasp. “Do it, quickly! They say he’s aggressive!”

“I’m not-” he coughed out as the sweet scent got more intense. The effects were nearly instant as the world got hazier. In the dim flickering candle light, he barely made out women who now had masks over their faces as they cautiously approached him, a few staying by an odd banal plant by the door.

Their hands were brushing his skin, making him want to snap at them to stop, but not so much as a groan left his lips.

“-many freckles, how strange-”

“No, how glorious!”

“Thin, some muscle but not intruding at all-”

“He’s rather feminine, like some of the female warriors.”

“And his hair, it’s brown yet sparkles red!”

“Too bad there’s a scar on his chin-”

“And that he’s... defective.”

Defective… were they talking about his leg? That didn’t make him defective, he was still capable without it!

Hands were on his hips, so many hands-

He tried to move, tried to tell them to back off, but his body wouldn’t respond. He lay limbless as they continued. Like this, he couldn't even start hyperventilating, the drug was keeping his body too calm. Even when he heard a loud thud and a battle cry a little bit aways, his body remained calm.

‘Relax… you can handle this,’ he shuddered to himself. ‘You just have to hold out until Jack gets here.’

It felt like an eternity, but those hands left him as they all went silent. Did they finally leave?

“What… a fine shell,” he heard an older voice muster. “The red matches his rare hair well, I can see why you had trouble picking between red and green, they both suit him well. Though the green would really make these exquisite freckles pop even under the veils-” Hiccup wanted to stiffen as he felt a cold hand brush against his belly button, though the drugs prevented him from doing so. “And the gold really brings out the color of his skin! Like this, he looks like a phoenix taking human form!”

A phoenix… really? That was something he definitely thought he’d never be compared to. Guess it was better than some other animals.

“These emerald jewels are really fine touches-” fingers forced one of his eyes open, his blurry vision making it hard to see the man’s features. “What a fine green! Yes, these jewels are perfect - he’s perfect!”

“Lord Follo, if I may interrupt,” the leader from the ambush said, making anger rise within Hiccup. Of course he was here. “Though I can see you’re quite excited to lay with this defect, may I remind you he took out the me and the scouts nearly single handedly? It’s too dangerous to let your desire rush things. If anything were to happen to you…”

“Your concern touches me, just as I desire to touch him-” those hands were holding his sides, those rough fingers running up and down them. They didn’t stop there though, they traveled further down to caress his ass The dragon whisperer willed with all his might to move - to speak - to do anything to retaliate.

But nothing - absolutely nothing worked.

‘Don’t freak out, there’s still a chance - there’s still time!’ Hiccup tried to reassure himself.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed since everything happened, but surely Jack was almost here. The demigod would never let something so horrific happen to him just as he wouldn’t let anything like this happen to him.

“-in your care until he’s properly trained,” the man said as Hiccup slowly tuned back into the world. “But I don’t want his body too damaged. Only do harm that can heal, no more defects on him, got it?”

“Yes sir, as you wish.”

“How naive of the Lord,” he heard Pitch say. No one else reacted, meaning he was the only one who could hear him. “That man just wants you for himself. I give it until tonight before he takes his turn with you.” He chuckled into his ear, making Hiccup squeeze his eyes tightly shut.

That won’t happen. Jack was going to save him, he was sure of it.

----

It felt like only moments after he fell that the world started coming back to the demigod.

“-don’t have time to babysit!” A female voice muffly yelled, obviously annoyed.

“I know but you’re forgetting two major factors!” The male’s voice from earlier hollered back, seeming just as annoyed. “One, this guy saved Pascal, he might have some information, and two, he’s a demigod, Cassandra, a demi- GOD . I know we’re more than capable of getting Blondie back on our own but having godly-like powers as back up would be nice!”

Oh, so that’s why they didn’t just leave him for dead, they wanted to use his powers. Sadly he didn’t have time to entertain them.

Very sluggishly he started to sit up, his entire body achy and sore. He hadn’t used that much power in so long, he couldn’t help the way his face paled. “How… long have I been out?” He instinctively asked no one in particular. The two strangers looked at each other, the female only seeming more annoyed and the male giving a nervous smile.

“Two days and a quarter?” The man guessed, though went silent as he saw the panic overwhelm Jack.

That was technically nearly three whole days. So much could’ve happened in three whole days, including Hiccup giving up on him if he wasn’t dead yet!

“Toothless-” he looked around frantically, seeing the dragon sitting between the two humans eating a seasoned fish. The dragon looked up at him with a face that read ‘finally’ before swallowing the rest whole.

“He’s fine,” the dragon reassured, trying to use simple words so the demigod would understand and stop panicking. A hyperventilating demigod was useless. “Need - --- dragon, ---- --- friends,” he motioned to the humans and the chameleon that was on the man’s shoulder.

The humans behind the dragon looked down at the reptile before back at the demigod, both shocked. “You understand this thing?” The man gasped. “That’s both amazing and horrifying! Then again, you are a demigod so I guess these kind of things are normal for you.”

Jack shook his head, not having time for idle chit chat as he stood. Toothless groaned, hating how impatient Jack was. If words weren’t getting through, he’d have to draw, which was the way Hiccup used to communicate with dragons until he perfected the language.

Grabbing a stick between his teeth, he started drawing in the sand, gathering everyone’s attention as he recalled what Pascal told them earlier.

The first drawing was of a camp. He looked up at everyone to be sure they were looking before drawing flames. Taking a step to the right, he made another drawing of Jack holding a cage with a blob in it, to which everyone deduced was the chameleon. The next drawing was of them flying over two stick figures who were waving for help.

“Hey, we never asked for help,” the female said, but Toothless ignored her and kept drawing. The next one was two stick figures helping one laying down, then of a weird circle creature that must’ve been the chameleon drawing like he was. He drew a stick figure with really long hair with the blob on her shoulder, then an arrow pointing to a figure with a square on his left foot who was obviously Hiccup. He then circled the last picture, pointing at it as he looked at Jack, hoping he’d get it.

Thankfully Jack was good at charades because Toothless was a horrible artist. “Is this girl a friend of yours?” He asked the other two, who both nodded.

“She was kidnapped by the Mother’s Arms almost a month ago and we’ve been tracking them ever since. She keeps leaving red herrings to throw us off,” the woman angrily mumbled as she tightly clenched her fists.

“We finally found their main camp, but a few of the escaped prisoners said another army took her and a man captive and headed in this direction.” The man said as he crossed his arms. “They’re pretty sloppy, they aren’t even trying to cover their tracks,” the short haired female pointed to the tire tracks of a wagon and horses hooves. If they weren’t taking any precautions, it meant they were in a rush. These two didn’t pose a big threat, which meant something else did.

“I went into the camp and saw at least three different types of soldiers in there, all of which are enemies. They were probably being attacked as they fled,” his eyes darkened, hoping beyond hope they didn’t accidentally hit the captives while trying to retrieve them.

Both of their faces paled, the male swallowing thickly. “What armies?”

The demigod diverted his gaze to the fire they set up for lunch, surprised they’d take such a risk and break during precious sunlight hours. Then again they probably had to since they were hauling him around. “Other than the Mother’s arms, I saw Callaghan’s army, and the Nightmares.” Both of them, even the chameleon stiffened in horror.

“The Nightmares…” the female mumbled, not wanting to think of what they’d do if they got a hold of Rapunzel. “We have to move, and fast.” Getting to her feet, she kicked dirt on the fire and picked up the bag close to her. “No more breaks until nightfall.”

The man groaned, looking miserable but didn’t question her as he picked up the other bag. “We walked all through the night! Without my beauty sleep, Rapunzel won’t even recognize me!”

Ignoring the comment, the lady looked to Jack, her dark eyes narrowing. “You don’t have to travel with us, but since they have both of our friends, we’ll benefit from working together.”

Jack pursed his lips, not sure if that was such a good idea. After all they were on foot, he could fly much faster and cover more ground. Yet it was using his powers that put him out of commission for nearly three whole days in the first place. Maybe it would be better if he conserved his energy just in case a powerful Nightmare did have Hiccup. He still wasn’t fully rested...

“Fine, but I’ll rally up some horses, it’ll take too long to go by foot,” he said as he let the wind levitate him. “What’s your names?”

“I’m Eugene Fitzherbert,” the man said, obviously happy the demigod was joining them. “And this is our ice cold demoness-”

“Cassandra. We’re from Corona,” she interrupted.

Corona, he heard the stories. Thankfully they were known as being a peaceful kingdom with trustworthy people, which made him feel even more confident in his choice to travel with them. “I’m Jack Frost, and before you freak out, no, the monster died years ago,” he reassured when he saw her tense. “If your friend’s with mine, she’s in serious danger. Keep following the tracks and I’ll bring you horses. We don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

Without another word he flew off, trying to suppress the panic that still made his heart race.

What if he needed to fly to him at full speed? He had no clue where he was, but it would be better than traveling by foot. Then again, he still felt tired… resting was the best choice so he could actually save him.

Right…?

“He’s fine,” he heard Toothless mumble beside him, making the demigod blink over at him. How would he know if he was fine? He wasn’t with him!

The dragon rolled his eyes, knowing what the stupid human was thinking. “Hiccup is stupid, but also smart and strong,” he said, trying to keep it simple enough that even Jack could understand.

The demigod bit his bottom lip. Of course he knew Hiccup was really smart and fairly strong. There was no doubt he was doing everything he could to prolong whatever they were trying to do to him. What really scared him was the capture’s motives and plans, and what they had in store for Hiccup.

----

It was so hard trying to process everything, from the broken skeletal figures who were forced to pleasure nobles to torturing innocent people for ‘fun,’ the dragon whisperer was relieved he still hadn’t eaten anything so he couldn't throw up as he was given a tour of ‘what’s to come.’

He was fairly certain he recognized a few of the people the man called ‘handlers’ by their clothes and insignia. One had the Hamada Brother logo on their bag who looked strikingly familiar to someone who was working on the Safe House with them. He couldn’t be too sure, but he definitely recognized some people from Zootopia. It was hard not to, and he’d rather forget what he was seeing them do.

There was a man he nearly skipped over in his head. It was the same man who was telling others at a pub about a thief who had kidnapped a little girl, then proceeded to say it wasn’t his first victim. Jack nearly froze him and his buddies as they left.

Now Hiccup wished he had.

The most sickening part of it all aside from how brainwashed these people were were the dead bodies. Some deaths looked purposeful while others looked like it was done ‘in the moment.’

Burn - he wanted all these filthy people to burn. Even when the victims were finally free, he wasn’t sure what they’d even do. That didn’t mean he’d give up on them - he’d never give up on them.

“Lord Follo reserved you for him and I, so luckily you won’t be put on that kind of duty,” he said, and sadly Hiccup didn’t need him to elaborate. “You’re fairly strong, I’ll have you start corpse duty.”

Finally the man set him down, Hiccup just realizing they gave him a prosthetic as he stood on wobbly drugged feet. Glancing down at it, he saw it was mostly covered by fabric, probably because everyone here thought it was some kind of horrifying defect.

Disgusting sexist prejudice assholes. Yet they saw nothing wrong with their whole operation they were running. Made perfect sense.

As much as he wanted to make a fuss, he didn’t dare do it with innocent people nearby. He merely did his job no matter how hard it was to really move his limbs, the medicine still heavily affecting him. Besides, they gave him corpse duty. There was no way he wasn’t going to honor the ones who perished here. Some were even younger than he was.

At some point his eyes met with a woman with long tangled blond hair with golden hooped earrings and a matching necklace. Despite doing what she was told, her face was filled with burning determination. All it took was meeting her eyes for a second to know she was an ally.

Pitch suddenly chuckled softly in his ear, greatly confusing him. Before he could even ask what was so funny, he felt arms grab him. Instinctively he moved and elbowed them in the chest, which only caused another person to grab his attacking arm. Something pricked his neck, making him hiss under his breath.

Not again.

“Oh defect, fighting back is a big no.” Hiccup gasped as what felt like fire started streaming through his veins. This wasn’t the same numbing drug from last time-! “No matter what someone does to you.” His handler whispered into his ear, chapped disgusting lips brushing the skin. The dragon whisperer turned to him with a glare as another man punched him hard in the side, knocking the breath out of him.

“Now now, Lord Follo said to be gentle on the defect’s body. He wants to keep it in pristine condition... for now.” The man huffed before storming away, making his handler chuckle. “The man just wanted a feel. After all, you have everyone looking at you, including the slaves.” The dragon whisperer couldn’t help it as he glanced up, seeing it was true. “I’m surprised they didn’t beg to have time with you.” Hiccup tried to shrug him off his burning and crumbling body, but all that did was make him go weak in the knees. The handler merely propped him up by the hips and held his chin in his hand in order to force him to look at all the onlookers. The blond girl was looking down, ignoring the commotion and continuing her work. “They all want you, even the slaves. Maybe Lord Follo will allow it after he’s grown tired of you.”

“I told you,” Pitch only said to him, making Hiccup struggle even more despite the pain. “Can you hear them? They slaves are trying to talk their owners into requesting you so they can get a break. Cruel, but smart on their part.” The pained dragon whisperer tried to ignore him as he focused on the pain, but his voice just wouldn’t go away. “You’ll end up just like them… mindless, numb - a perfect shell.”

Despite the agonizing burning attacking every nerve, Hiccup moved down and bit the man’s hand hard , making him cry out as he slammed his head against his. Sadly he didn’t even feel the pain as he merely elbowed him in the family jewel, his handler’s howls of pain echoing as he felt another dart hit him in the arm, pulling him into unconsciousness.

Anything to get out of being subjected to that kind of torture. He’d rather feel physical pain than be subjected to that hell anyday. If he kept acting up, maybe they’d prolong it long enough for Jack to find him.

----

They covered a surprisingly good amount of ground in the short time they had the horses, which made Jack hopeful. Toothless was even flying a bit ahead of them to warn them if he saw anything to give Jack some time to rest.

“So who’s this friend of yours? I think you mentioned her name’s Rapunzel?” Jack asked the other two, trying to fill the awkward silence between them. They were obviously weary of him, not that he could blame them. He was still weary of them too.

For a moment they didn’t answer as they shared uneasy looks, making Jack groan. “Fine, I’ll go first,” he intervened. “My friend’s name is Hiccup Haddock. He purposely got kidnapped to free the people the Mother’s Arms kidnapped from Zootopia.”

Eugene couldn’t help but burst into laughter, and if Jack didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn he saw a small smirk on Cassandra’s face. “I’m sorry, did you say his name is hiccup ?” He managed out between chuckles. The demigod merely smiled a bit as he nodded, watching as Eugene laughed some more. At least he was getting some reaction out of them. “I’ve heard some pretty unfortunate names but man does that one take the cake!”

“Fitzherbert,” Cassandra warned before tossing a glance over at Jack. “That’s a pretty ballsy move.” “I know,” Jack said with a proud fondness he couldn’t hide. “From what I saw at camp, most of the prisoners did escape, but Mother Gothel must’ve told the warlords about him, which is why he didn’t.”

Cassandra seemed to flinch at that as she avoided complete eye contact. If Jack didn’t know any better, he’d think she felt guilty with the way her back was slouched and the way her eyes were cast a certain way. Eugene looked over at her sadly, as if wishing he could comfort her in some way, though didn’t know how.

“What does her telling them have anything to do with what happened?” She managed to ask after a few moments.

“It’s complicated,” Jack started, not really sure how to explain it to them without going into detail. The less people that knew the better. “The Nightmares are after him because he’s my friend. They want to use him against me. As for Callaghan’s army, he sort of came up with a way to rid them from a village, but now they want his knowledge to repeat it for their own benefit.”

Was that too vague? The other two simply nodded, leaving him to believe it surprisingly wasn’t.

“I bet him and Varian would get along,” Eugene said with a smile, as if trying to lighten the mood.

Not really knowing how to respond, Jack let out a small awkward chuckle. “Probably. He gets along with just about anyone.”

“Princess of Corona,” Cassandra suddenly said, making Jack blink over to her. “She was the host for a powerful magical item called the sun drop since she was born. It… was supposed to be gone, but… so was she .”

“She?” The demigod asked, noting the dark tone in her voice.

Eugene looked between the two as Cassandra rode a little faster, trying to separate herself from the conversation now. “Gothel,” he quietly clarified, keeping his eyes on her to make sure she was okay. “Her mother.”

Mother?! The demigod couldn’t help the way he glanced over at her again. He hadn’t seen Gothel recently, so he couldn’t really make out the similarities.

“Long story short, the sun drop and moon stone were sent back to where they belong, but somehow Gothel came back even though we were sure the bitch was dead and poof, Rapunzel’s hair became enchanted with the sun drop again.”

There was a very complicated story behind that, he was sure of it. “What does the sun drop let her do?”

“Honestly? It’s all a bit confusing, but she mostly uses it to heal.”

Jack decided to stop there as he saw how uncomfortable the topic was making both of them. At least he had a better idea as to who was with Hiccup and what kind of danger she might find herself in. If the Nightmares found out about her power, they’d want to snuff out her light. And if Callaghan’s army found her? They’d enslave her to heal all of them. Thankfully they wouldn’t kill or sell her though.

And if she could heal, that meant there was a pretty good chance he was free from the knife wound and Nightmare poison.

“Hey Jackass!” He heard Toothless wail from ahead. Without warning he jumped off the horse and let the wind carry him, his eyes narrowing as he saw Toothless start to veer off the path.

Catching up to him, he felt his breath catch in his throat. Bodies of soldiers lay dead with their only wagon in pieces, but they weren't just any soldiers. No, they bore the insignia of a horned viking helmet with spikes jutting out of the top.

“The Outcasts,” Jack hissed as he landed, quickly looking through the wreckage. Toothless dropped down next to him and helped, letting out a whining noise a few seconds after.

“Hiccup,” the dragon mumbled quietly, making Jack look up from where he was searching, only for his heart to stop. In the dragon’s mouth was Hiccup’s prosthetic - there was no mistaking the unique design.

So many scenarios ran through his mind, so many horrific ones that always ended with Hiccup’s death. Desperately he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, recalling the night of their separation:

“I’m well aware of the risks of war, I can do this,” Hiccup said, giving Jack an encouraging smile. “If they take my prosthetic, I’ll find a way to make a temporary one. If they hurt me, I’ll make them think I’m weaker than I am. If they starve and dehydrate me, I'll exaggerate my condition to convince them to give me a larger portion – I’ll be fine Jack; there’s a benefit to having a fishbone like body.”

Right… Hiccup knew what he was doing. Even without a prosthetic, he was a force to be reckoned with, and even if he couldn’t cause chaos, he knew how to stall until Jack got there. He had to believe that in order to stay level headed right now.

Bringing the prosthetic close to his lips, he clenched it tightly. “Hang in there Hic, I’m close, I promise.”

Numbly he looked around the scene a bit more carefully, trying to capture the full story. Among the bodies he saw not only Outcasts, but Callaghan’s army too. It was safe to say The Outcasts smuggled him out of the burning camp only to have the other army swoop in to try to take their prize. It was impossible to tell who was victorious though.

Toothless gently dropped the prosthetic infront of him, looking up at him sadly. The dragon was worried too, he saw it in the way his body trembled slightly. “He’s fine, I know he is,” Jack reassured as he gently pet the dragon behind the ears. The reptile closed his eyes as he let out a few whines, only to stiffen.

The demigod instantly froze too, straining his ears to listen. “Dragons,” Toothless sniffled into a hiss. Jack strained his ears even more along with his eyes, not picking up on anything.

They were being watched though - he could feel those hypnotic eyes bearing into them.

“Ready to exit stage left?” Toothless didn’t know what that meant, but jumped on Jack’s shoulder anyway. Green acid shot at them from four different directions, the wind pulling them out just in time.

“Wow, okay, maybe we should’ve waited-!” He heard Euguene’s voice and cursed under his breath. Looking down he saw speedy taloned footprints being pressed in some loose dirt heading straight for Cassandra and Euguene who just rode up on the scene.

Shit, invisible dragons-! “Changelings - run!” Jack cried. They both commanded their horses to turn

The footprints quickened

They were out of time.

Taking a deep breath, the demigod commanded the wind to press on their backs, shooting them and their horses into the air. It took a lot out of him to do this, but it was the only way.

Their screams followed them up next to Jack as he willed them and himself forward, straining his eyes and ears in case one of the dragons realized where they were.

“Th-thanks for the save,” Cassandra said, finding Eugene’s bluing face amusing despite the near death experience. “Did you find anything?”

“Hiccup’s prosthetic,” he said, putting it in his pocket as he willed them forward, trying to get as far away as possible. “They were captured by people who knew him well, meaning I probably can’t track him,” he cursed under his breath. If Terrible Terrors couldn’t find him, maybe they’d have to rely on a Rumblehorn. Hiccup mentioned they were the best trackers when they first met. The only problem was he had no clue how to find one, let alone train one. Toothless was really helpful and capable of convincing a Terrible Terror to help, but a Rumblehorn? Probably not.

“How are you tracking him?” Cassandra asked, an idea forming. “Was it with that other dragon?”

“Yeah, but I bet they masked his scent knowing I’d be tracking him,” he grumbled, frustrated.

“What if we used Raps’s scent?” Cassandra proposed, gaining Jack’s interest. “If they’re like most enemies we come across, they probably don’t see her as a threat, meaning there’s a chance they didn’t cover her scent.”

The demigod hummed in thought, honestly not knowing if the Outcasts and Callaghan’s army were known to be sexist or not. They were both pretty dumb, he remembered that much. “Let’s try it. They both weren’t there, meaning there’s still a good chance they’re still together. Do you have something important with her scent?”

Both Eugene and Cassandra thought for a moment before Eugene’s face lit up. “Oh Cass, do you still have the flower hair clippy thing you got for her?”

Her eyes widened as she quickly reached into her pocket, a sad smile befalling her face as she stared at the beautiful pink flower clip she got for Rapunzel right before she was kidnapped. “She wore it for a whole day.”

“That should work,” the demigod said as he delicately took the clip in his hands. Now all they needed was another Terrible Terror and hope Hiccup was still with her.

----

When he woke again, he was back in the cell from before, his hands once again chained above his head as the drugs made it hard to think.

Great.

“Do you see how hopeless your situation is now?” Pitch’s voice whispered against his ear, making him groan.

Not this again. He wouldn’t let this go on.

“Actually, it gives me a sense of hope,” Hiccup mumbled, feeling the medicine wasn’t as strong as last time. The demigod couldn’t help the way he laughed, finding this amusing.

“Hopeful? That looked hopeful to you?”

“Yes,” he said as he pulled on the chains a bit, finding they were just as tight as last time. “Because I know I can do better this time.”

“Oh, so that’s what this is about,” Pitch mumbled, sounding bored. “Everyone thinks they can be a hero-” “I don’t want to be a hero,” Hiccup interrupted as he pulled even harder at the restraints. “I just do what I think is right.”

Pitch couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped his lips. “Is there really a difference?”

“Well, literally speaking, the word means protector or defender, given it’s a greek word-”

“A chatty bookworm too, no wonder he likes you so much,” Pitch interrupted, amused.

Hiccup rolled his eyes, wishing he’d just leave him alone already. “I don’t care what people label me as, hero, annoyance, useless - it doesn’t matter. What matters is I stay true to what I believe in, and I certainly don’t believe in you.” Darkness swirled in Pitch’s eyes as that teasing smirk finally fell. The room grew dimmer as the King of Shadows turned his back to him, making the dragon whisperer slightly uneasy.

“You really think you can help these miserable bags of flesh?” He asked with a mocking tone. “You, alone, against a whole army?”

Hiccup bit his bottom lip, knowing this was Pitch’s true presence. “All of them? No, but I can help some, and that’s all that matters.”

Pitch turned to face him again, his annoyed frown slowly lifting into a small challenging smile. “Fine,” he said, snapping his fingers. The hold around his wrists suddenly vanished. With a surprised gasp he fell to his hands and knees, somehow stopping himself from falling flat on his face. “I’ll give you a chance to save these lost souls, but don’t expect me to help you unless you beg for it.”

Hiccup slowly sat up, the medicine nearly making him throw up now that his body was physically moving. “I don’t need your help,” he said as he slowly gazed around the room. Despite being drugged the whole time, he made sure to be attentive. In every room he saw today, including his own, was a banal looking plant. Most castles loved to show off plants with beautiful flowers, so why were they using these boring looking ones?

Unless they had some benefit.

Crawling over to it, and with some difficulty, he finally managed to grab a few leaves. Throwing one in his mouth, he swallowed it and stuffed the others in his waistband, hoping they wouldn't fall out. If something happened and he couldn’t get to one of the other plants located around the castle, he wanted to be sure he had a few for backup.

“So you noticed the drug suppressor, I’m impressed.” Hiccup merely ignored him as he kept focused on his goal.

Now for the hard part - he had to find the girl with wild hair from the courtyard. With so many chains on her, she was probably still undergoing training like him, meaning there was a chance she was nearby.

“I bet you won’t even find a way out of this room,” Pitch mocked from the shadows, but Hiccup ignored him again. Like mentioned before, the dragon whisperer made sure he paid close attention to everything that happened, meaning he noticed something Pitch obviously didn’t.

Taking a deep breath, he struggled to his feet. Surprisingly the room didn’t spin like before and his feet remained fairly stable considering he couldn’t walk at all moments ago. Maybe the plant’s scent had some clearing properties too.

Stumbling the first few steps, he clumsily made it to the door and pressed his ear against it.

Silence - he didn't hear so much as clinking metal, let alone anyone talking. For once the odds seemed to be in his favor.

For some reason that didn’t comfort him at all.

“It’s useless-” Pitch stopped as the door slowly crept open when the freckled one pulled, making him growl. “What idiots,” he grumbled as he stepped back into the shadows.

Hiccup was more than relieved he finally shut up as he looked down the hall, seeing no one but dozens of cell doors. Frustration started slithering in his heart. There was no way he could check all these cells without someone hearing him, and he couldn't exactly call out either.

There had to be some way to find her before they realized he was missing.

Maybe he should start with the first cell and see what came from checking it. When they were forcing him into clothes, he could’ve sworn he vaguely heard a shouting female further away. With how thick these walls were, there was a good chance she was in the room next to his.

Yeah right, like he’d have that much luck. Whoever was in the room though might have some valuable information.

Taking very light steps, he very slowly started to push on the door. Just like his, it wasn’t locked, leading him to believe the soldiers were far too cocky.

That would definitely come in handy.

Peeking his head in, he couldn’t believe his luck. There chained to the wall just as he was, was the girl with long trusseled blonde hair with golden hoop earrings that matched the green beaded necklace along her neck and wrist. The closer he got, he realized her ankles were chained to the floor as well.

“Freckles?” She asked as her ferocious expression melted into confusion. “How’d you get out?”

Hiccup took note in the way her face was scrunched at the sides, giving him the impression that her pride was hurt. “It doesn’t matter,” he quickly whispered as he slid into the room and closed the door behind him. Pressing his ear against it, he listened again.

No one. Good.

“I’m Hiccup,” he said as he slowly made his way over, trying his hardest to prevent his prosthetic from clinking too loud against the floor. “And you?”

His answer made her narrow her eyes in suspicion as that rather frightening expression from earlier came back. “How do I know you aren’t a trap?” She asked, obviously not letting it go.

“Cause why would I want to be here especially wearing this?” He asked with a raised eyebrow. The girl couldn’t help but nod, seeming to believe that answer at least. “Still, how did you get out?!” She tugged on the chains on her wrists and ankles in annoyance. “Not even I can get out, and I can get out of almost anything.”

“Oh for the love of-” he rolled his eyes before taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself. They didn’t have a lot of time and she was wasting it on questions?

“Someone helped me,” he said, glaring at the darkest corner of the room. “Even though I could’ve gotten out myself.”

The girl couldn’t help but snort. “Someone helped you? That’s not suspicious at all!” She mocked.

“I’m cursed, does that work?!” Hiccup finally snapped, losing a little bit of patience. “This will probably have a really bad ending unless my friend gets here soon, but I refuse to sit back and let myself be treated like this.”

The smile slowly fell from her lips as her eyes never left his face. She must’ve found it convincing because she let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, I trust you… for now,” she said. “But if your cursed ass gets us killed I’ll murder you!” “Sounds fair,” Hiccup couldn’t help but smile, relieved she was smarter than to put up too much of a fight. “I’m gonna look at the chains a moment, okay?” He warned as he came forward, studying the metal. It was surprisingly made well, which is probably why they felt cocky enough to keep the doors unlocked. Only a key could get these open.

A key or a dragon, but he couldn’t use the latter with the demon in his shadow.

“I need a key,” he sighed, looking back at the door. “I’ll be right back-”

“No need,” she said, making him look back up at her in confusion. Her smile turned into a proud smirk. “I have two keys, mine and one of theirs, cause I’m just that good.” With a few violent shakes of her hair, Hiccup’s eyes caught sight of a black key that looked familiar somehow, though he’s never seen a black key before in his life.

Without even realizing it, he took it, holding the smooth metal in his hand.

Was this metal? It kind of felt like it, but it also faintly felt like something else, something like… “Gronckle iron?” His eyes widened as he pulled it even closer to his eyes. The recipe was lost to them after Fishlegs couldn't remember what he fed his dragon. The fact that there’s a key made of it meant someone out there had the recipe!

“Uhm, earth to Freckles,” Camicazi called out, her tone sounding almost disturbed. “You still around or?”

Shaking his head he nodded. “Sorry, I guess I geeked out,” he nervously laughed as he didn’t even bother grabbing the other key. He just brought the black one up to the shackles and found it fit, probably even better than the original key.

“Thank the GODS,” Camicazi groaned as Hiccup undid the last chain that was around her neck. The girl wasted no time rubbing at her wrists and neck, her expression darkening the longer she did. “Just wait until I put all of them in chains!”

“Wait-” Hiccup quickly said, noticing her anger was getting the best of her. “Don’t forget about the others. We have to free them before we do anything reckless.”

Camicazi stopped rubbing her wrists as she glared up at him, once again annoyed. “We have to knock some heads together if we want to save them anyway.”

“True, but I have a plan,” Hiccup quickly said, making her raise a skeptical eyebrow. “But there’s a hiccup - or rather two.”

“Anddd what’s what?” She asked, crossing her arms skeptically.

“I need the castle’s layout and patrol patterns,” he bit his bottom lip, hoping this wouldn’t come to a dead end.

Her devious smirk gave him hope.

Hiccup swallowed the dread that was crawling up his throat, knowing that at any moment his good luck was going to run out. Not only did Camicazi know the layout of the castle, as she nearly escaped four times, but she also learned the patrol patterns because she was trying to plan another escape attempt. On top of that, no one seemed to notice they were gone.

All hell was about to break loose, he could feel it.

“There,” Camicazi said with a triumphant smirk as they lowered the next barricade against what barely qualified as a castle gate, successfully locking the training soldiers outside. “That takes care of half of them for a while.” Already they - or rather Camicazi - took out the watch guards single handedly. Hiccup was still in complete awe as she practically floated up the walls like some kind of vengeful spirit before knocking them out.

‘I once battled a brute three times my size and stole his underwear without him even noticing!’ She boasted earlier, to which he believed her. She was definitely a thief not to be reckoned with.

“Okay, that just leaves the patrolling guards inside the castle, which we’ve estimated to be at least forty.”

Camicazi couldn’t help but let out a soft snort, finding his unusual calmness amusing. Then again, they did have a pretty solid plan. “Forty against two, I like the odds,” she smirked as they very quietly started making their way to the halls. After a while he was walking by himself as they neared the first set of guards.

Four of them, all drunk and laughing about some story he couldn’t even hear. Not that it mattered. His eyes glanced up at the ceiling where Camicazi was crawling along the beams, her predatory eyes scaring even him. Like this she looked like a lion waiting for the right moment to pounce on her prey.

As soon as they walked in front of an open door, she dropped down, a rope keeping her tied to the beam as she used the velocity to kick the four into the room. Drunk, they easily stumbled and fell, to which Hiccup quickly ran and closed the door, slipping the barricade on just in time.

“The hell - let us out!!” One of them cried as another banged on the door. Hiccup glanced up at Camicazi, seeing her already up the rope and making her way further down the hall.

They repeated this process until they couldn’t find anyone else in the halls, only having trouble with a group of five who weren’t drunk. Yet even they proved to be overpowered.

The duo peeked out from one of the hallway door frames into the center room, both out of breath as they observed the area. They closed off all exits and entrances except for two. One was their escape route while the other had too many people gathered around it. Barricading it would’ve given them away. “You know, you aren’t that bad,” Camicazi said, making Hiccup smile a bit as he glanced over at her panting form. “For a boy, that is.”

“Thanks, you’re not bad either, for a girl, that is,” he smirked right back, forcing her to stifle back a laugh. Hiccup’s smile slowly fell though as he glanced back at the room, seeing all the brainwashed innocent people being used as nothing but puppets. They were hardly fed, their ribs were sickeningly sticking out and their eyes held little to no light. Images from the town they found in the forest came back, making clench the staff he stole from a guard.

No, he refused to let history repeat itself. This time he’d save them.

“What I said earlier still goes,” Hiccup said, gaining the other’s attention. “I want you to focus on getting the others out of here. If I get overpowered, leave me behind-” “Freckles-”

“I mean it.” Hiccup punctuated as he looked her in the eyes, letting her see his burning determination. “I wasn’t lying earlier, I’m cursed. There’s someone from the Nightmares watching me from the shadows, someone who probably won’t let me leave.”

Some of the color drained from her face as she physically tensed. “Oh,” she said, silence filling the space after. Hiccup bit his bottom lip uncomfortably as he avoided eye contact. Of course she’d shut him out after hearing that. Who wouldn’t?

“I’m still not gonna leave you,” she said after a few moments, making Hiccup look back at her in confusion. Camicazi was smiling this time, a smile that was warm and not teasing, something so foreign to her face it was odd to see. “I’ll focus on everyone first, but if something happens, I’ll come back for you.”

“No, you can’t do that,” he said, unable to stop the smile of fondness that crept to his lips, feeling horribly touched. “I appreciate it-”

“No butts,” she said stubbornly, that playful smirk returning. “You freed me, I owe you one.” She turned to jump back to the ceiling, but stopped as Hiccup gently grabbed her wrist.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he soothed, catching her eyes again. “My friend’s a demigod, he’s coming to save me, so don’t worry, okay?”

Someone screamed bloody murder, pulling them both back into the moment. It wasn’t unusual for this area, but it would be the last time.

Giving each other an understanding nod, they went to their respective positions. There were only five guards in this area who were armed. The others were neglecting their duties and using their ‘toys.’ Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long.

Eating another leaf he had stored in his hip, he glanced up at Camicazi, seeing she was ready.

The master thief jumped down from the beam and kicked two of the guards hard in the chest, successfully knocking their helmets off. Hiccup ran over, his staff swinging as he slammed it into the back of their heads.

They didn’t move.

‘Three more,’ he breathed, feeling an uneasy chill in the air. This wasn’t Jack’s cold, this was Pitch’s. Of course he wouldn’t let him leave yet.

Screams and cries broke out at the scene from the captives. A few of them stayed silent, some thoughtful, some thoughtless.

“We’re leaving tonight!” Hiccup hollered as loud as he could, readying his staff as guards started running up to him. “If you want your freedom, get behind me!” For a moment, no one moved as the guard charged him. Hiccup easily side stepped as Camicazi swung down and kicked him hard in the face, knocking him flat on his back. Twirling the staff, Hiccup struck him in the sensitive area, forcing the man to let out a guttural howl before going silent, unconscious.

A few started coming forward, both males and females alike. They were hesitant, uneasy, but they were taking the first few steps towards freedom.

Hiccup glowered as he saw a man grab a woman who was looking hopeful in their way, wrapping his disgusting fingers around her throat. “You’re not going anywhere fucking bitch!”

“Cover them!” Hiccup hollered as he ran over, only to skid to a stop seeing another woman hit him with a food tray. The man’s hands fell from the other’s neck, allowing her to quickly scramble from his lap. The women with the tray slammed it hard against his skull one more time before they both ran over.

That’s when chaos broke out. The handlers tried forcing their merchandise to go with them and sneak out the back door, but the other victims wouldn’t allow it. Left and right light started swimming in those dead eyes as they fought back. Camicazi jumped down from the ceiling and fended the handlers who made a mad dash for the line of women who were waiting for freedom as Hiccup helped attack the handlers who tried to get away. The whole time something was nagging at the back of his mind, something he didn’t want to admit bugged him.

He hadn’t seen the Commander or whatever that man was who captured him - the one who was supposed to be handling him. Considering he was high ranking, he could be leading the training session outside the castle.

“Don’t move, or I’ll cut out his throat!” One of the handlers threatened. Hiccup pivoted around on his heels and growled, seeing the man backed into a corner with a knife at the slave’s throat. Within seconds the fear left the slave’s face as he slammed his hand hard on the other’s family jewel. With a howl of main the man dropped the knife. With a shrug the slave ran free. Clenching his staff Hiccup ran forward and swept the man’s feet out from under him before slamming it into his chest.

Thud - Hiccup and Camicazi looked up towards the large doors they closed earlier and cursed. They had less time than they had hoped for.

“Everyone follow me!” He heard Camicazi holler. The captives nodded and followed, glancing over at a few who stayed where they were in fear.

They couldn’t move, they were scared to hope.

“Come on,” Hiccup gently soothed over at twins who seemed frightened out of their mind. Images of finding the little girl and her brother came back, to which he quickly shook the thought away. “If you don’t want to lose each other you’ll follow her, got it?” He pushed a little more, seeing more fear fill their eyes. But they still didn’t move.

He refused to leave them here. “I’m sorry, but you have to go.” Reaching down he pulled them both up by the front of their shirts and gently pushed them in the direction of the line. “Follow them.” Hesitantly the two did as they were told just as something sharp pierced his neck - again.

Cursing under his breath he quickly ate one of the leaves as his eyes met those cold gray ones that were filled with both rage and admiration.

Speak of the devil.

“The defect’s behind this? I have to say, I’m surprised,” he said as he clenched his own staff. He obviously didn't want to hurt his merchandise too badly. “That girl was locked up tight this time, meaning you were the one that freed her.”

“Does it really matter?” Hiccup asked, feeling a nervous bead of sweet trail down the side of his face. The leaf didn’t seem to do anything against whatever was injected in his neck this time. It was starting to get cold. “You won’t get past me.” He said, his eyes narrowing with determination flaring from his eyes. By now the line of slaves was out of sight, thank the gods. Now he just had to fend this man off for as long as he could.

----

Jack made sure they were safely away from the Changelings before setting them all down. All the horses instantly collapsed, reveling in the feeling of dirt beneath their hooves.

Cassandra and Eugene both dismounted their horses, seeming to be thankful for land again too.

“What the hell happened? There were no dragons!” Eugene finally managed to complain.

“Changelings,” Jack and Cassandra said at the same time, making them both look at each other, amused. “They’re dragons that can camouflage against anything.”

Eugene tapped a finger against his chin as he tried to wrap his mind around what happened, his eyes glancing down at Pascal who looked back up at him. “Oh, so like a chameleon, I get it!”

Jack let himself sit down for a moment, feeling more drained then he would’ve liked. “They normally don’t inhabit open areas like that,” he mumbled to himself, wondering if Hiccup had something to do with that.

“You’re right,” Cassandra agreed, crossing her arms in deep thought. “I’ve only encountered them in areas with a lot of cover. Maybe the enemy has a base camp somewhere in the forest. That would explain why the dragons were chased into the open.”

Oh right - that could be a thing too. He really hoped Hiccup called for them though. At least that gave him hope that he was okay.

“A flying human?” He heard Toothless question, horribly confused. Glancing up, Jack couldn’t help but squint, not believing what he was seeing. The dragon was right, there was definitely someone in the sky, but something wasn’t right. It didn’t really look like they were flying, it was more like they were being carried.

Wait… something bright was trailing behind it, something golden?

Getting to his feet, he willed the wind to pull him up. The closer he got, the more he realized that yes, this was a female with really long blond hair but she wasn’t flying, she was being carried by a Changeling!

Could this be Rapunzel?! Since she was with Hiccup it made sense why a dragon had her, although it didn’t explain why the dragon whisperer was nowhere in sight.

Toothless fluttered up next to him as they stayed a safe distance away, not really sure what to do. “I don’t want to hurt it, but I don’t know how to ask it to let her go. Can you?”

Toothless groaned, knowing this would happen. Flying up further up, he grew nervous. Would this wild Changeling even listen to him?

“Hey,” Toothless cautiously called, hoping he gained its attention. He couldn't see it, it was invisible! “Did the dragon whisperer ask you to protect her?”

For a moment, he didn’t think he’d get a response and nearly jumped when he did. “Yes tiny one, he begged me to keep her safe. Why do you smell like him?”

“Toothless is his guardian. Is he okay?” He asked, fearful for the answer.

“I do not know. I took the girl and left. There were many men around him, though I’m sure he’s fine considering-”

“Toothless knows,” Toothless interrupted, glancing down at Jack, hoping he didn’t hear that. “What did they look like?”

“Black clothing with red stripes and a little bit of blue. They didn’t really say anything while I was there.”

“That’s enough, thank you,” he said with a tired sigh. There was never a dull moment with Hiccup. “Let the girl go, we’ll reunite them.”

The dragon’s camouflage slowly faded, revealing the dragon that hovered with her still clenched protectively in its talons. Without another word she was suddenly airborne. Jack wasted no time catching her, nearly sneezing as her hair smacking him in the face.

“S-sorry!” Rapunzel cried out as she desperately wrapped her arms around him, afraid he’d let go. The fear was short lived however as her excited curiosity got the better of her. “You’re flying!” She gasped in excitement.

“I’m aware,” Jack said as they started to slowly descend, finding it difficult when the hair kept smacking him in the face.

“Without a dragon!” She squealed, only to stop mid way. Fearing something was wrong, the demigod looked down at her, though his eyes caught sight of the necklace she was wearing.

That was Hiccup’s! “The ticking thing!” He gasped, looking at her almost desperately. “What happened to him?”

“He pushed me away!” She snapped bitterly yet worriedly. “They were coming from everywhere and he called for help, but the dragon only grabbed me! I have to help him!”

Jack’s eyes narrowed, wondering how that could've happened. A Changeling that size would’ve had no problem carrying both of them, so why didn’t Hiccup go with her?

“Did you see any of them?” He questioned as Toothless landed on his shoulder. Rapunzel looked down in guilt as she shook her head.

“No… sorry. The dragon picked me up so fast I got disoriented, b-but we can find him with this thing!” She quickly held up the necklace, to which Jack nodded. They never tried it out before, but if it was Hiro approved he trusted it with their lives.

“The Changeling ---- black ------, red ------, and blue ------- humans.” Toothless said, hoping beyond hope Jack would get some of it.

It was enough, and the news literally made his blood turn ice cold.

Too late - oh dear gods they were far too late-!

“Can I see the necklace?” He asked urgently as they landed. Rapunzel nodded as she slipped it off as he set her on the ground. Instantly He pictured Hiccup sitting with him at a campfire, laughing and calling him an idiot as the ticking thing’s arrow moved, pointing forward.

“I’m going with you,” Rapunzel said, motioning for her friends not to hug her yet. “He saved my life, now I need to save his.”

Jack’s gaze darkened as he nodded, grateful. “Good, because where he’s at, he’s going to need your healing.”

----

He felt himself start stirring again, and just like the first time, he could hardly move. Every inch of his body was sore, the lingering effects of the earlier drug taking a drastic effect on his body. Then again it was probably designed to do that.

It was odd though, he wasn’t chained to the ceiling, no he was looking up at it.

“Honestly I’m impressed. You managed to get most of the slaves out, but then you got yourself captured again,” he muffely heard Pitch say, making him groan. “The Lord wants you to suffer for what you’ve done. And this man? He believes the worst punishment is having your own body betray you.”

Hiccup’s eyebrows knitted together after a few moments, confused. “Wh-what?”

Footsteps could be heard rushing towards his room, which made Pitch smile. “Just remember, I can stop him at any moment. Oh, and once he’s finished with you, there’s a whole line waiting for you.”

Hiccup’s eyes widened as Pitch was replaced by his handler who was wearing a black silk robe.

Oh - oh no.

*** “You’re finally awake,” he smirked as he climbed on top of him, the floor - no the bed beneath him bowing down a bit. “Everyone wants you to themselves after what you did, but the Lord gave you to me to punish.” Cold hands crawled over his partially clothed chest, making Hiccup’s stomach flutter, much to his horror. The man sighed at the reaction before dipping down. Without warning lips pressed against the exposed part of his chest, making him gasp in fear.

No - oh gods no he refused to let this happen! And yet, he couldn’t move - he couldn't even lift his pinkie off the bed-!

“S-stop-” he somehow managed to cry out.

The man’s face was suddenly back, those gray eyes fogged over with that damned disgusting smirk on his face. “Since I found you, you belong to me first defect-” lips pressed hungrily against his as those hands went to his sides, running up and down them as if wanting to memorize him.

“Stop - no - Jack-!” He desperately tried crying against the man’s lips, which only allowed the man to push his tongue into his mouth as one of those hands went to his nipple-

“NO!” He screamed as he slammed his head into the other man’s. Somehow it only seemed to spur him on more as he straddled his waist and ground down, making Hiccup miserably whimper.

‘Ask for help Hiccup,’ the demon chuckled as he felt the tongue break through his lips again.

No - he hated this, but he Jack would come - Jack would save him, not Pitch!

Moving his head slightly forward, he bit down hard on the invading tongue. When the man cried out in pain and tried to pull back, Hiccup only bit down harder , determined to bite it off.

‘Jack - I need you please PLEASE where are you?!’

A blinding white pain erupted though his body stemming from his private area, his mind literally going blank as a harsh ringing erupted in his ears.

“You BITCH!” He heard the man painfully wail as the weight against him left. Hiccup’s eyesight slowly started to come back only to realize tears were trailing past his cheeks, making him whimper.

He still couldn’t move, it literally took everything he had to move his head and bite-!

But this is what he asked for, wasn’t it? When he stood up to Jack and told him he’d take whatever came his way because he could handle it, that included this, right? So he shouldn’t complain, he should be able to take-!

...this was his fault for being so naive... wasn’t it?

“You made me BLEED!” He felt a blade press into his side, pain flaring and forcing him to let out a pained cry. “Do it again, and we’ll see what I do next!” Fear flooded through his veins as the man plunged into his mouth again, biting hard on his tongue and drawing blood.

‘Just give the word, and I’ll kill him for you Hiccup,’ Pitch said softly into his ear, those cold yet soft fingers in his hair such a sharp contrast from the horrific pain that was engulfing his tongue and side. ‘Do it, before your body isn’t yours anymore.’

The man left his lips as Hiccup was forced to swallow the mixture of their blood as he was picked up by the hair and turned around. “I’m going to make you feel hell!” The man grabbed his hips, not even caring that the knife was still in his side as Hiccup’s fear hit its peak.

It was hot, the room was hot, the man’s movements seemed to slow as the man grabbed his head and pushed his head into the mattress-

Jack wasn’t there-

Toothless wasn’t there-

He was all alone and he couldn’t stop this! All this time he thought he was ready to face the world, but not this - definitely not this-!

*** “Help-” The door slammed open just as the plea left his lips, the whole room becoming ice cold.

Cold - it was cold - was this Jack - please let it be Jack-!!

It was, and the absolute look of pure murder written on his face was petrifying. The demigod didn’t even lift a finger as an icicle slammed into the man’s side, the same area Jack could see a knife lodged into his precious friend’s side. The man yelped in pain, yet Jack was there before he even realized what happened.

“How. Dare. You .” The whole room froze over in an instant as he grabbed the man by the throat and threw him to the icy ground.

Hiccup let out a relieved sob as he curled up on himself, not even realizing that unlike the rest of the room, he was being spared from the cold. It took all of Jack’s restraint not to let his powers run wild, but thankfully he had someone he wanted to take his anger out on.

“Wh-who the hell are you?!” The man gasped as he felt ice starting to crawl along his skin. Jack’s eyes turned all white as darkness started to seep from him, a darkness that made the man cower against a wall in pure terror.

This man tried to violate Hiccup’s sacred body. This man dared to stab and beat him - made him whimper and cry, and who knows what else he did to his precious one-!

“I’m your worst nightmare ,” his voice deeply rumbled, not sounding like himself at all. The man quivered and whimpered as he felt his veins slowly freezing, looking up at him in pure unfiltered terror.

“Wh-what - a-are you doing to me?!” Jack took a step forward, the ice only seeming to slow as it started to cover his organs. The demigod didn’t speak as he came even closer, making sure to completely freeze something inside the man that made his eyes roll up into the back of his head. “S-stop… I-I b-beg you…”

The room went even colder as anger shot through Jack. “Did you stop when Hiccup asked?!” He snapped, picking the man up by the hair. “Did you stop when ANY of the asked?!” An icicle formed at the man’s lips, all the sides and edges themselves spiky as Jack’s face grew so dark he wasn’t even recognizable. “I want you to take this, all of it, slowly.” The man’s eyes widened as he felt it enter his mouth, the spikes already tearing up his mouth.

A small surprised gasp left Jack’s lips as some darkness fled when he felt a weight press weakly against his chest, shaky twig like arms wrapping around him.

“D-don’t…” he heard Hiccup’s shaky voice beg, the grip around him tightening. “Please… this… isn’t you.”

The otherworldly glow left his eyes as he quickly turned around and pulled Hiccup into his arms, horribly shocked the auburn managed to get off the bed. He was heavily drugged, he knew that the moment he saw the scene. So how the hell did he manage to get up and make his way to him?

“Hiccup,” he softly whispered as he held him carefully in his arms, mindful of the knife still in his side. “I’m so, so sorry it took me so long to find you,” the demigod practically whimpered as he made sure not to make him feel overcrowded in his arms.

The dragon whisperer merely shook his head as Toothless flew in, uneasily landing next to them upon seeing the scene. Something really bad happened… and something wasn’t right.

“You came-” Hiccup gasped out as he weakly clenched the front of Jack’s shirt and buried his face where he could, unable to help the way his body trembled.“You came, I-I thought you wouldn’t-!!”

Jack couldn’t help but laugh at that as he glanced down at his precious friend. “You thought I wouldn’t? Come on Hic, you know I’ll always be here for you… even if I’m slightly late.” His eyes went to Toothless, seeing the dragon uneasy. “You’re hurt-”

Toothless let out a roar, but Jack was ready this time. He gripped Hiccup’s wrist tightly as he felt the end of the bloodied knife barely poke against his clothes. Furious anger coursed through him as he looked down at Hiccup with such sad eyes.

This is how Hiccup was able to move off the bed despite being drugged.

“He’s not yours,” Jack hissed as he felt Hiccup push even harder against the knife. Bile rose in the back of his throat as he twisted his friend’s wrist, the cry of pain going straight to his heart as the knife clamored to the floor. “Let. Him. Go.”

Pitch chuckled as he formed from the shadows by the bed, seeming more than pleased. “On the contrary Jack, he finally is.” He smirked. Freckled hands wrapped around his throat, making Jack gasp in shock more than pain. “Do you know how hard it was to finally gain some control over him?” He said, quite pleased as Toothless growled at the demigod of darkness. Of course he paid the dragon no mind. “You really know how to pick’em, don’t you?”

Jack hated to do it, but he let his ice run along Hiccup’s hands as a warning. His freckled face wavered, but his grip didn’t. “I refuse to hurt you Hic.”

“No matter what I did, I couldn’t control him. He had to invite me in by asking for help. Even now that he’s under my direct control, I still can’t tell what he’s thinking or look into his past. I can only feel his emotions-” Pitch stopped as his look hardened against Hiccup.

The grip around his neck slowly faltered until those freckled hands left, tears streaming down his cheeks. “-orry - I’m… so sorry-” Hiccup’s eyes opened, revealing pitch black sand desperately swirling in them.

“What?” Pitch hissed as he held a hand out, applying more force. The auburn let out a sharp cry as he tried pulling himself away from Jack slightly, but the demigod didn’t dare let go. He absolutely refused to let the shadow master touch him.

The said dark demigod growled even more, applying more and more force. “Why?! I had you - I finally had you!”

Toothless landed on Jack’s shoulder and reached a paw out to Hiccup, which only made him whimper more. As soon as he touched him, black sand shot out from him - from his eyes, ears, nose and back. Jack literally watched as the nightmare mark on the back of his neck literally dissolved into sand before his very eyes, the sand crawling back to PItch in defeat.

“What…?” Jack even found himself muttering, but only for a second. Composing himself he let out a burst of ice, creating a wall in the room to separate them from Pitch.

“This isn’t over Jackson,” Pitch said, though his voice wavered a bit. If he didn't know any better, it sounded like there was a pinch of fear in his voice. “I’ll make him a Nightmare, the most fearsome Nightmare yet, and it’ll be all your fault!”

Jack ignored him as he quickly gathered Hiccup in his arms and flew as fast as he could out of the room, though knew Pitch wouldn't follow. Not when he had no clue how to bend Hiccup to his will.

The wind made Hiccup shiver, the blood seeping from the wound not helping either. “You’re gonna be just fine,” he whispered into Hiccup’s hair, trying not to dwell on what just happened. They’d have plenty of time to reflect on that later.

Finally finding the exit, he saw the Coronians eyes widen in excitement before they saw the blood. Instantly Rapunzel came running forward, gathering strands of her hair as he landed, gently setting him on the ground.

“You’re gonna be okay Hiccup,” she gently soothed as she wrapped her hair around his chest. Light gently flowed from her into him as Jack looked over to see Cassandra, Eugene and a girl with wild blond hair giving food and water to some of the slaves. They looked so confused and broken… almost like the people of the village they stumbled upon.

Hiccup could’ve ended up just like them.

‘No - I’d never let that happen,’ he swore to himself as he looked up at Rapunzel, seeing her looking for more wounds. “His mouth-” there was blood seeping from the sides of his mouth, making more anger course through him.

“Hic, I’m gonna open your mouth so we can heal it, okay?” He whispered very gently. Both of them didn’t move until they saw him give a slight nod, though both grew angry when they saw what the source was. Part of the left side of his tongue was nearly bit in half. It took everything the demigod had not to storm back into that sickening place to torture the man more.

Rapunzel whispered soft warnings to Hiccup before healing his tongue, her eyes looking for more wounds. They didn’t see any… but who knows how he was doing mentally.

“Do you feel anymore pain?” The princess softly asked, to which Hiccup shook his head no. She couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. “Good. There’s nothing I can do about the drugs, I’m sorry. We’ll have to wait for them to wear off.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Jack gratefully said as he looked back down to Hiccup, watching with a heavy heart as those foggy forest green eyes held a glint of fear in them. His body was still shaking… that was to be expected though. Hopefully the drugs would wear off soon.

“Don’t worry Hic, I won’t leave your side,” he mumbled as he took off his cloak and draped it on his body. Hiccup shivered but closed his eyes, trying to regulate his panicked breathing. Jack bite his lip, knowing there wasn’t much he could do.

Or maybe there was. “Hic, I want you to focus on me, on my words, okay? Remember… I want to be a bard, so… just focus on me, my story, and my voice until you fall asleep.”

----

Authors Note: I hope you guys enjoyed this super long chapter! =D I didn't have an editor because I didn't want to bother anyone and it's really long so I apologize! Tumblr doesn’t like to copy and past any italicized of bold words I do and it’s really hard to find them all so on tumblr I left it alone, sowy =/ For those who didn't want to read the *** part, the only thing you missed was someone inappropriately touching and trying to rape Hic, but Jack came just in time! But Hic called out for help and Pitch used that moment of invitation to possess Hic - or rather, tried to possess him. I hope you guys liked it!

#phage writes #hijack #frostcup #the greater good

10 notes · View notes