#i just started hyperventilating; my throat was tight; i was hot; my vision was getting hazy

[provokedgoalie]

had my first panic attack & it was over a book I was reading 💀

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ sixteen

➻ pairing: ot8 x fem!reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 10.7k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, knives, mild torture scene  ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

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mists of celeste act two ➻ part six

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Darkness swirls across your vision even as your eyelids flutter open. The air around you feels chilly and almost brittle, a sharp tension that you almost inhale as you breathe. You lift your head, noticing a dull ache in your muscles, and try to move your hands. You can’t, however. In fact, you can’t even move your arms. What feels like needles blossoms across your arms and wrists. You twist and writhe in attempts to figure out what the hell is going on, but panic is beginning to settle in and you still can see nothing thanks to whatever is over your eyes. Your legs are in a similar predicament; stuck in place with pain blossoming around your ankles when you try to yank them forward.

Something catches you by the hair and tugs back, and you nearly cry out from the sheer surprise but you can’t. You finally notice the bindings around your mouth as well, shoved between your teeth and pressing against your tongue every time you move it. You can see now, however, a blessing for sure. That is until you realize where you are and what is going on.

Your vision adjusts slowly, the minimal light in the room filtering in slowly, and you can make out a few silhouettes surroundings you. One stands directly in front of you, and you can’t make out who the hell it is until the person takes a step forward. Light from above casts crude shadows across her features, making her seem ten times harsher than the first time you saw her. Taskmaster Cara. You thrash against your bonds in attempts to get lose but it’s pointless. The Berserker toys with a small knife, the blade long and curved, and the only thing you feel in that moment is panic. She leans down when your glare hardens on her. A cruel smile plays at her lips, and she tilts her head to the side.

“Did you have a nice sleep?”

You couldn’t respond even if you wanted to but you settle for gritting your teeth around the gag between your lips. Your stare doesn’t waver or falter, but Cara is unamused by your show of defiance. She draws ever closer, the tip of her knife coming up to drag over your cheek. It’s not enough pressure to cut the skin but if you even breathe the wrong way she could cut into you with ease. You tilt your head back nonetheless, and Cara digs the blade a little deeper.

The skin stings as she drags the blade over it, and it burns like a papercut. Hot blood trickles down your cheek.

“Did you really think you were clever enough to escape me? Now you have nowhere to run. A mouse trapped for the cat to eat. Lucky for me, the bounty for you being delivered dead is still quite hefty. I’ll take your lifeless body to the military and rules the black seas. But–” Cara pauses and leans away from you with the same smirk blossoming on her lips “–not before I have a little fun.”

The woman pulls back without saying another word, standing up straight once more. She continues to twirl the knife in her hands and passes it from hand to hand as she drags her gaze over you. You twist a little in the chair you’re bound to. The blood from your cheek catches on your jawline and ceases its hot path down your face.

A laugh leaves her lips, and she turns away from you, obviously satisfied with her work already.

“Wake him up.” She jerks her head. You aren’t sure what she means by that, but upon looking past her tall form, you can see another limp form in a chair opposite you. They have bindings across their ankles, chest, and arms just like you do with a gag to match. A black hood masks their face, but something tells you that you don’t want to know who sits behind the material. A figure moves behind the person though, and the black hood is ripped out with no shortage of ferocity. Your blood runs cold. You don’t move but your body instinctually begins to trembles against the ropes around you.

It takes a moment for reality to settle in, but when it does, you begin thrashing against the bindings around you in a desperate attempt to get out. Before you know it, your eyes are stinging and burning with unshed tears because this has to be a nightmare, this can’t be real, and this sure as hell cannot be happening. There’s no way you’re here right now, and there’s no way that San is tied to the chair across from you.

He is still unconscious, although based on the look on Cara’s face that won’t last for long, and your suspicions are correct. The person behind San grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks him back.

“Wake the fuck up!” The man shouts into San’s ear, and San jerks back into a state of full consciousness. He groans as he wakes, the sound a bit muffled by the gag between his lips, and his head slumps forward again when the man behind him lets go of his hair.

“San, San, San. Aren’t you going to wake up to see this?” Cara clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, turning back to you with a sinister look in her eyes. You tug at the ropes over your wrists. They’re tied too tight for you to wiggle out of, and you gnaw on the inside of your cheek when Cara approaches you with knife in hand again. She lifts the blade to your other cheek, toying with your skin without slicing it open. “Look here, Sannie. I have a surprise for you.”

San’s chin bobs a little then he pulls his head up. Eyes find yours in an instant. A second passes then San is jerking and writhing in his binds, yelling around the gag in his mouth. The sounds remain muffled and broken though, all ineffective and useless in the long run because Cara just keeps dragging the tip of the knife over your skin.

“Keep him still, Cyrus. He needs to see every second of this.”

The man behind San moves froward again and grabs his hair, forcing him to sit relatively still. It doesn’t stop San from thrashing and yelling through the gag. Cara throws her head back and lets a loud laugh loose. The sound echoes through the building, bouncing off the walls and ceiling until it rings in your ears.

“Come on, Sannie. It’s just like old times. Why aren’t you happy? Isn’t this fun?��

Cara pushes a lilt into her tone, motioning over to where you’re seated with the knife. Her laugh continues to ring as she draws closer to you and circles around the back of your chair.

“Don’t you remember how things used to be? How we used to play? The captain used to string people up like this for you all the time. Let you play God without consequence.”

Cara presses forward and her chin comes to rest on your shoulder. You prepare to slam your head against hers but the icy chill of the blade brushes over the skin of your throat. You freeze under the touch, eyes meeting San’s across the room. He looks ready to murder, and his body goes completely still just like yours.

“You deserve to see the consequences of your actions, Sannie. Coming here wasn’t just suicide. It was murder.” Cara shifts the knife just a little, but in your mind, it feels like much more. “Because now you aren’t going to be the only one to die. You will be the last to die, however, because I want you to watch every second of my torture on your little friend here.” The Berserker pauses to look at your face, bringing the knife up to drag over the cut already on your cheek. “I still remember your cruel methods, Sannie. Would you like to see them replicated on her now?”

San jerks upon hearing the words, straining against the ropes around him and struggling to no avail. Cara releases a dramatic gasp.

“Does she not know? Sannie, aren’t you proud of your past? Proud of all the pain you caused? Those cruel little methods you always used? Why can’t you tell her about your past?” Cara pushes the knife back down to your throat but this time she digs it a little bit deeper against your skin. You grit your teeth around the gag and squeeze your eyes shut as tight as possible. Your breathing has quickened too much in a short amount of time, and you’re fully aware that if it gets any worse then you’ll start to hyperventilate and that’s the last thing you need at the moment. It’s difficult to convince your body to shut up and listen to your mind’s desperate pleas to slow your breathing though; much more difficult than you anticipated.

You’ve been through shit like this before, Y/N. Just breathe. Been through worse actually. You’ll be fine now. Absolutely fine. Just focus on what’s important.

Your eyelids snap open and you look directly at San. Something is different this time. This time you aren’t alone. You’ve only ever been alone in the past, but now you aren’t. You didn’t have to look after someone else – nor did you want that responsibility – but seeing San struggling against the ropes and screaming around the gag… you need to get San out of here. You need to get him away, you have to, you have to keep him from ending up like you or worse.

Teeth sink into the tip of your tongue, and you inhale a deep breath. The pressure of the blade against your neck increases as you shift under Cara’s touch. Her other hand moves to your hair, locking in the strands and tugging your head back until you are eye level with San. You know that she’s trying to force you to look at San, but you don’t do what she wants. Instead, your gaze drifts around the building in search of any possible opens or escape routes. The Berserker behind you begins to speak to San again, giving you time to look around as best you can without irritating her.

“Cyrus, pull the gag off. I want to hear him beg.” The man does as asked, tugging the cloth until it falls loosely, and San spurs the movements on by spitting it out of his mouth as soon as he can.

“You fucking cunt, I’ll murder you if it’s the last thing I do. You won’t walk out of here alive, I will make sure of it because if you so much as hurt a single hair on her head, then I will draw out your miserable life until you’re the one begging for mercy.”

“Oh, ho, ho! Sannie, those are such big words. Almost like old times except with a lot more fury in them. That’s your weakness.” Cara tugs your hair more until it hurts, and you whimper behind the gag. “Big talk for someone tied to a chair without weapons and surrounded by a whole crew of bandits and pirates. You’ve gotten reckless beyond belief. And for what? For one criminal who is worth more money than you have ever seen in your life? You’ve gone soft.”

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth again. Her hand slides the knife further down and catches on your collarbone. With one quick motion, she slices the skin open, leaving a shallow cut. You hiss around the cloth between your teeth and bite down hard to keep from crying out. You shift your gaze to look over at San to gauge his expression. He thrashes in his chair, slamming his feet against the ground so hard that it causes his chair to tip backward. He knocks into the thug behind him, but the angle causes him to fall on his side. There isn’t any time for him to move before another pirate comes up on the side and presses a hefty boot on the side of San’s face. It keeps him stuck against the dirty floor, facing where you’re sitting. Cara’s demeaning laugh rings in your ears over and over.

She pulls the knife away from your chest, and as she moves it, you catch the sight of crimson on the blade. Cara’s eyes trail over the liquid with a cruel smirk. She grabs hold of your chin, stepping around you and leaning over so that you are eye level.

“You know… there’s an old Tibehken legend my mother used to tell me every night. With each life you take, the darker your blood becomes. The way to know if someone is truly evil is to cut them open and see if their blood runs black.” Her gaze shifts over to where San is lying on the floor. “Her blood is red, Sannie, which makes her an innocent. Even better for me because now I get to make you watch me take an innocent’s life. Because of you did. How dramatic.”

San writhes against the boot on top of him, shaking his head as best he can.

“Don’t. Don’t hurt her. God, please don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything. Yo-You can take me. T-Take me, torture me, use me as a weapon, kill me. Anything. Anything you want, Cara. Please. Please don’t hurt her. She doesn’t deserve this, she’s innocent. This has nothing to do with her. This is between you and me, please. Just let her go and don’t hurt her.” San’s voice is desperate and pleading, the small stutters in his tone only serving to cause your heart to plummet further. You try to shake your response, calling out behind the gag in attempts to tell him no. Cara hesitates. She twirls the knife again.

“That’s a hefty promise,” she mutters. The smirk never leaves her lips. “I can take that deal with ease though. No questions asked.”

You cry out again around the gag as though it will change her mind. She turns to you and yanks the cloth of your gag down to your neck. She stops there though, not moving to touch the ropes binding your body to the chair.

“All you want is for me not to hurt her?” Cara quirks a brow, then motions for someone to come to her side.

You don’t see it coming. A fist connects with the side of your head, and your vision blurs. You cry out at the sudden impact, the shock of it startling you more than the pain itself.

“Stop! You said we had a deal!” San shouts, thrashing against the ground.

“I’m doing exactly what you wanted, Sannie!” Cara laughs, lifting her hands above her head to accentuate her words. She passes the knife over to your new attacker. “I’m not hurting her. Not myself, at least. And that’s what you asked for.”

“You knew what I fucking meant!” San growls. “Yo–”

Whatever he was going to say next is cut off by a cry of pain falling from your lips. The knife drags over the other side of your collarbone, and you twist away from the blade to no avail.

“I’m going to fucking kill you. I’ll murder you, you wo–”

“You should behave,” Cara sighs, picking at one of her nails with little interest. “Otherwise, your cute little friend here is going to end up in strips because of all the cuts. This isn’t a negotiation. There are no terms I’ll accept. There is nothing you can do. This is torture, Sannie. You are going to sit there and watch every second of it. No begging will make it stop. Because thanks to you, I had to sit and watch man after man suffer at your hands. At the captain’s hands. Your hands doing what the captain asked. People who were my crewmates. The moment they faltered – even breathed the wrong way around the captain – who was it who was tasked to exact punishment after punishment?”

Silence greets her. The knife digs into your skin.

“Who was it who killed each and every single one of them, Sannie?”

A small cry of pain leaves you, growing louder and louder as your attacker pushes harder.

“I asked you a fucking question.”

The knife leaves your body, only to return seconds later with another shallow slice over your collarbone.

“Me! It was me!” San yells, voice breaking as he says the words.

“There we go. It was you. It was always you. But the one who had to haul away the bodies was me. I had to haul away the bodies of my comrades who did nothing wrong. Funny how they always called me the Taskmaster and yet you were the sadistic torturer. How fucking ironic, right? Well, now you get to taste it.”

Another shallow cut burning like fire across your skin.

“You get to know what that feels like and how badly it hurts,” Cara continues, admiring the work on your skin with a thin-lipped smile. “You get to watch it happen, Sannie, and not be able to do anything about it. Just like I did. And once she’s dead – once the sweet little Ghost is dead – you will get to haul her body off and live with the pain of reality. You get to turn her body into the military while I collect the prize money. Do you think that’s fair, Sannie?”

“N-No, fuc–fuck no! It’s not!” San refuses in a heartbeat. Cara reels on him, fists balling up at her sides

“Of fucking course it isn’t! Because it wasn’t fair when you did it to me. Why should it be fair to you?” Cara shifts and faces you once more. You take the opportunity to spat on her feet, making certain to hit her shoes when she steps closer to you. The action doesn’t please the woman in the slightest; she snatches her knife back from the man at your side. You merely taunt her by baring your neck to her, a flat expression and confidence in your eyes. No words tumble from your lips.

It isn’t a knife that hits you next. Rather, it is the back of Cara’s hand that smacks against your cut cheek with enough force to cause the chair to wobble under you.

“You are nothing but a cocky little shit who has no place in the universe,” she sneers.

“I learned that a long time ago, you bitch,” you hiss back. “You aren’t sharing any big news.”

As you speak the words, something clatters and a loud thud resounds from above you. Everyone halts and glances up at the ceiling. Cara and her men all look concerned beyond belief, but you can’t help but to laugh at their expressions. Frankly, you imagine that Hongjoong has finally caught up to you, although he’s quite a bit delayed at this rate.

“Out!” Cara orders, pointing towards the doors of the building with her knife. “All of you, get out there! Scope out the surroundings and figure out what the fuck is going on out there! Take care of it quickly, and if need be, leave no survivors. I don’t want to be fucking interrupted.”

All the men surrounding you and San file out of the building at her command, no hesitation in their steps. Their departure doesn’t provide any relief for the worry and anxiety bubbling in your gut. Cara wraps around the side of your chair then brings up a tall boot. She kicks you in the ribs, causing you to topple over and hit the floor in a similar position to San. Her hands grip the back of the chair. She drags you across the cold, dirty floor with little effort. She only stops when you’re about two feet from where San is positioned. As much as he tries to move, he can’t pull himself forward at all, leaving him stuck where he is while Cara puts you right where she wants you.

You feel utterly helpless. Unable to move and fight back, you can’t even find the heart to rile her up with your words. She places you directly across from San so that he can clearly see everything she does, then kneels down by your side to look over at the man. San doesn’t look back at her though; his eyes are on you and you alone, and you take it as an opportunity to mouth a few words to him through the panic.

It’s going to be okay.

You don’t know if it’s the truth, you don’t know how this will end, you know nothing at all except for the panic running through you. You can settle for the small white lie, however, only because it reassures you a little bit to mouth the words to San. He doesn’t respond and instead glances away to look up at Cara again as she walks around your form, but not before swallowing roughly. It’s enough acknowledgment for you to know that he saw what you said.

Cara swings the point of her boot into San’s gut. He groans from the contact, trying to curl into himself but he can’t thanks to the damn ropes around him. Her foot swings into his stomach again. All you can see is the way San’s chest heaves as he attempts to recover from the attacks.

“My men should’ve put you through more hell before bringing you here.” Cara releases a deep heave of breath then returns to your fallen body, toying with the knife as she smiles down at you. “Where to begin with this pretty little bird? Now that we’re all alone, we can have so much fun.” San’s eyes narrow on her, the emotion in them more nervous than angry or murderous now.

The knife breaks through your thigh. It cuts the fabric apart like it’s paper, as well as the skin underneath. She maintains the shallow pinpricks rather than deep cuts, and you suppose you ought to be grateful for that, but you know you won’t be grateful if she continues to do it. A hiss passes through your lips, and you look away from San so that he doesn’t have to see the pained expression on your face. Cara despises that movement though. She bends down to grip your chin.

“Fucking look at him or it’s his leg getting cut next,” she spits, stray saliva hitting your cheek. You let your cheek fall to the floor so that you can look at San again, too afraid that she will hurt San worse than you if you don’t listen.

“S-Stop,” San exhales, tone shaky and desperate even with one word. He continues with a bit of difficulty, licking the edges of his lips before talking again. “Yo-You don’t have to do this. We can – we can come to an agreement. Work something out, I know we can do something that wi–”

The knife slices through your leg again with harder force. You bite down hard on your lip to muffle the scream that nearly spills out.

“Please! P-Please, Cara, please, I–”

“There is nothing to discuss. I have made my decision and this is it.”

San squirms and tries to move across the floor again.

“You can torture me. Pl-Please. You can torture me as much as you want if you just let her go.”

“Are you fucking deaf, Sannie?” Cara laughs, the sound a disbelieving one. “This is your torture. I am torturing you by making you watch this. Every.” Another slice, lower than the last. “Single.” One more that intersects with the last. “Cut.” A third cut, this one vertical against your thigh. You bite down so hard on your lip that it draws blood. In that moment you dare to look over at San but regret it instantly.

His whole body trembles under the ropes, lip nearly quivering as tears spill from his eyes and fall over the bridge of his nose and to the floor.

“Please stop. J-Just stop, please – please stop this. I-I…” San trails off, unable to look up any longer. His chin falls to his chest. “I n-never did this to any of them. None of the crew. I - I didn’t want to be cruel. I just… I was only following orders, that’s all. I was only doing what I was told to do. I swear. I swear I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I really didn’t. I have nightmares about it every night, I-I never wanted to do it. You have to b-believe me.”

“You’ve lost the opportunity to explain whatever happened. What’s done is done. There is no apologizing or backtracking. There is no forgiveness. Don’t you understand that, Sannie?” Cara jams the knife into your thigh all of the sudden, ignoring her previous pattern of shallow cuts and burying a good quarter of the blade into your leg.

“O-Oh god,” you choke out, a large wave of nausea sweeping over you as you see the knife go into your leg.

“Y/N! Y/N, look at me. Please just look at me,” San pleads, and you pull yourself up to look him in the eye. The nausea is making you a bit dizzy, and San’s face swirls into three different ones until the wave passes over you. “It’s gonna be okay, Y/N. I promise. It’s okay. We’re gonna be okay.”

Cara huffs upon hearing San’s words. She jerks the knife and yanks it out of your leg harshly, leaving you to scream against your shoulder. The pain burns and throbs, coursing through your whole system until you can feel sweat beading on your brow.

“St-Stop! Cara, Cara, please!” San pleads again as you cry out. The Berserker doesn’t listen to a word he’s saying, the desperate pleas fall on deaf ears, and she leans over San.

“You’re having too much fun with this, Sannie. Too vocal. I should fix that.” Cara huffs a laugh, glancing over the knife before deciding to plunge it into San’s side. The knife buries all the way to the hilt in the patch up flesh just above his right hip. If you thought your screams of pain were bad, San’s is beyond comprehension. The sound of his screaming triggers something in you, flips a switch, and you lose the last bits of control you had over your emotions.

You don’t think twice before letting your abilities slip through, and you tug at the ropes behind your back while Cara is still bent over San. The effort of trying to use them causes your head to spin even more, but you muster up enough energy to push one wrist through the ropes. That’s all you need too, because you use that free hand to pull the other loose then tear at the ropes around your ankles. Cara is still preoccupied with San but she will notice your movements at any second.

Your heart pounds against the cage of your chest as you rush to pull yourself loose. Cara slowly pulls the blade out of San’s stomach, a sickening squelch resounding as blood pours forth, and she starts to stand up straight again. You twist the leftover rope around the palms of your hands and pounce on Cara’s back as best you can. You misjudge how much pain your leg is in though, and the searing fire that blossoms across your leg causes your jump to miss slightly. You don’t manage to get the rope over her head, so you settle for tossing it around her body and tangling her in the mess. It gives you just enough time to drag yourself over to San’s body, sliding behind him and pulling at the ropes around him.

San writhes in pain, unable to help you get the ropes off of his body, and Cara is nearly unraveled herself from your makeshift trap. Just as you tug his ankles free, Cara comes down on the two of you. She swings the knife down at San rather than at you. You don’t think, operating on instinct only, and your hand flies up to stop her attack from the side.

The side of the knife hits your hand. You ignore the blossoming pain that burns your palm; instead, you grip the weapon tighter and push back against her. Cara’s eyes go wide at the action and the deadly expression across your features. She stumbles backward in attempts to get away from you, but her feet catch on one of the loose ropes and she falls back to the floor. You squeeze the handle of the knife with your other hand and walk in her direction ever so slowly. The slow movements startle her further, causing the Berserker to scramble back as you draw closer.

“What the fuck are you?” She snarls. Your lips quirk upwards at her words. Your left foot drags along the ground as you pull yourself towards her. There is only adrenaline running through your veins, the pain is almost nonexistent, but you know that won’t last for long so you move as quickly as you can.

“I’m merely a ghost,” you huff out. “Here one minute and gone the next. Which is what is going to happen to you soon enough.”

You back her into a corner, her back hits a wall, and she has nowhere to go. You lunge forward and drive the knife she used on you and San into her shin. A cry of pain falls from her lips. The sound spurs you on, causing you to tilt your head to the side in question.

“What? Is this not a fun game for you? You were enjoying it so much not too long ago. Do you not enjoy it not?” You taunt as you twist the blade in her.

“Y-You’re a fucking – fucking psychopath.”

The smile returns to your lips. You pull the knife out of her leg with haste then move forward so that you can squat down in front of her.

“I’ve heard that before too,” you mutter as you twirl the knife in your grasp. The smile coating your lips dissipates. “But only by the people who deserve their fates.”

You cease your toying with the weapon and lift it high above your head, ready to send it cascading down into Cara’s chest. Just as your arm starts to come down, someone catches you by the wrist. You jerk to look over your shoulder. It’s San who stands behind you. San who has caught your hand with one of his own covered in blood. His other hand lingers over the wound in his side that is still bleeding quite profusely. There is a stagger to his breaths, chest shaky as he inhales and exhales, and a hunch to his back that shows how hard it is to hold himself up. Again, the sight of him in that state flips a switch in you.

It’s like someone has yanked a dark veil away from your eyes. Reality seeps back in and fills the cracks in your mind. In that moment, San is all you see and all you know. You drop the knife with a small gasp, unsure of what just came over you and caused you to lose control in such a way.

“D-Don’t kill he-her,” San says, lowering your arm to his side.

“Wh–”

You don’t need to finish the question because San releases you and stoops to pick up the knife you just dropped. He grips it tight, bloodied fingers sliding over the hilt without purchase.

“Turn around.”

“I-I… wh-why?” You stammer. Your feet carry you backward though, even though you mind questions it. Cara makes her presence known again and releases a weak laugh. She doesn’t move from her spot on the floor though, eyes tracking San with such scrutiny that you would crumble under that gaze.

“I should’ve known this would be my fate,” she murmurs. Her chin lifts a little. “Don’t be a coward when you do it, Sannie. If you’re going to kill me, then you should at least do it right and give me a proper sendoff.”

“Y/N, turn around.”

“I-I don’t need to though.”

San reels on you with sudden strength to his movements. You flinch at the sight of the emotion in his eyes and the quiver of his lower lip. You know it’s not from the exhaustion of the wound. That much is easy to see. He doesn’t want you to see him do it. After what Cara revealed and the shame that burned San’s words, you understand why. So, you respect his wishes, nod a few times, and pull back to turn around and face the opposite wall.

A few seconds of terse silence pass. You don’t even dare to breathe, just focusing on the adrenaline that is seeping out of your body and leaving pain in its wake. Then – a small gasp, a quick inhalation of air, and… nothing.

You don’t turn around yet though. Something about the air feels odd and sacred, and if you turn around now, you would be disturbing that peace.

“May your journey to the next life treat you well, Taskmaster of The Eurydice,” San says in a quiet tone, only audible because of the silence in the building. A breath of hesitation then – “And may you rot in hell for all you’ve done.”

The words are spoken with a finality, like the ending line of a chapter in a book. San immediately begins to shuffle around. It leaves you to wonder what the hell he’s doing behind you, and as much as you want to turn around, you want to wait until he tells you it’s okay to do so. After a few minutes, San approaches you at last. He taps your arm, fingers brushing your elbow, and you twist to look at his face.

“It’s over…” He remains hunched from his wound and keeps a hand over it in efforts to halt the blood flow. You reach down to touch the hand there, but San pulls away from you in an instant. “Don’t. I-I – I don’t want you to touch me. Now that… now that you know what I did. Who I was. What kind of person I used to be. W-Who my captain made me to be. The th-things he made me do. I – the extent of my captain’s hold on me and how damn easy it was for me to do those horrible things. I don’t want you… I don’t want to taint you with that.”

“San…”

“I remember every single damn face from that crew,” he continues as though you didn’t speak at all. “I remember them all. I know them by heart. The ones I tortured and killed merely because my captain didn’t like the way something was done. The pure hatred I operated with: the reasoning that since they were awful and abused me, then it was okay to hurt them. I remember their faces. Their names. What they begged for in their last moments. Mercy… it was always mercy. I-I can’t get away from it no matter how hard I try. It’s in my dreams every fucking night.”

San stops to look back to where Cara’s body is. His jaw stutters as he look over there. Then he sinks to his knees and a pained sob tears through his chest. You slide down to join him, trying to ignore the sharp pain in your leg as you move and just focus on San and San alone. Despite his insistence that you don’t touch him, you reach out and place a bloodied hand over his thigh. He doesn’t stop you.

“It didn’t help,” he whispers, eyes stuck the hand that isn’t pressed to his stab wound. He flexes his fingers and curls them into a fist. “It was supposed to help but it didn’t. I-I… it didn’t do anything. Why does it hurt so fucking much? I-I should’ve – I’m the one who should’ve–”

You refuse to let him finish that sentence, a surge of panic rushing through your body as you hear the implications in his words. Your hand darts up to grip his shoulder tight.

“It gets worse before it gets better,” you respond. If it’s supposed to be encouraging, you think you’ve failed in every way because how the hell is that reassuring in the slightest. San apparently feels the same way because a scream rips through his lips, startling you with the volume and suddenness of the sound.

“I don’t want it to get better! I want it gone!”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur as you pull his body against yours. “I’m so sorry, San. I-I wish I knew. I wish I knew how to help but I don’t and I’m sorry for that.” Your left hand maintains its position on your thigh, squeezing tight around the injury there. You pull back a little to motion down at San’s wound. “I need to take care of that, San. I need to put pressure on it to keep it from bleeding out more. You – you don’t have the strength to maintain it, okay? Just let me, okay? Let me take care of it.”

San doesn’t seem to hear you, however, and even as you try to look him in the eye, his gaze is unfocused.

“You did well, Y/N,” he says. The words cause a spike of panic. “Remember that.”

It sounds too much like he’s saying goodbye. You can’t stand it, you can’t breathe, you can’t function. Everything bleeds into one blinding shade of white. You press San again.

“Let me take care of your wound, San. Please?”

His response is nothing again, and his body goes limp against yours. You can’t stop the strangled sob that leaves your lips. Your hands tremble as you lower San to the ground, placing him flat against it. You grab for his wrist and neck in a desperate attempt to find a pulse. Another sob leaves you as you find it, a rapid pace that is anything but normal. His skin is clammy and cold to the touch. You don’t know much about medicine or anything in that area, but they did teach you how to recognize the symptoms of shock during your military training. San has to be going into shock, but you have no clue how to stop it and halt the process.

Your head swims, spots filling the edge of your vision as you rush to get to the other side of San’s body where his wound resides. You can’t put proper pressure on both your leg and San’s wound; it’s either one or the other, and with a small cry of pain you choose to press against San’s abdomen instead of your thigh. There’s no telling how long you can hold this position, or how long it is until you pass out yourself, but your sheer willpower is the only thing keeping you going right now.

Noise resounds from outside the building. You pad around for your gun only to realize that you don’t have it. An exhausted sigh falls from your lips.

Is this really how I’m going to go out? A failure even on the brink of death?

Bright sunlight suddenly enters the warehouse, and you lift a hand from San’s stomach to block your eyes from the brightness. Three shadowy figures walk inside with arms out, no doubt holding guns. You swallow the lump in your throat – or at least try to – and prepare yourself for the worst.

“H-Holy fuck.”

The words don’t come from you or San, but the voice is familiar. It almost sounds like Seonghwa, and your assumptions are confirmed when the figure on the left rushes forward and comes into view. It is in fact Seonghwa, and you nearly cry from relief as he comes to kneel beside you. Hongjoong comes into view as well, but he moves straight past you to get to San. Seonghwa reaches out to you, holstering his gun, and pulls himself a bit closer to you. You make an attempt to speak but your jaw just stutters and nothing comes out. All you can do is stare at Seonghwa dumbly with your jaw hanging wide open.

“Shh, shh,” Seonghwa shushes as you make a strangled noise. “You did a good job, Y/N. You did well.”

You shake your head, the movements frantic and without cease until Seonghwa presses a hand against the wound on your thigh. He looks you dead in the eye.

“You did well, Y/N. You did what was asked of you and more.”

You can’t muster up the energy to respond with words so you just nod. Glancing past his shoulder, you catch sight of the third figure coming into view. It’s Mingi but he lingers several feet away without coming closer or saying anything. Hongjoong remains bent over San, his hands moving frantically over his bloodied wound.

“M–Mingi, come closer. I need your help.” The stutter in his tone doesn’t escape anyone’s notice. If you had more energy, you might care to think about it more, but as it is, you can’t tear your mind away from San’s state and your exhaustion.

You try to pull yourself up, but Seonghwa keeps you to the ground with the hand on your thigh.

“I’ll follow with Y/N. Just take care of San right now.”

Hongjoong nods as Mingi comes forward.

“We’ll get San to a clinic as fast as possible. You know the one.”

“San is a fighter. He’ll be okay,” Seonghwa reassures. Hongjoong musters up a grin but it holds little emotion in it.

“I know that, Lieutenant.” Mingi reaches Hongjoong’s side, towering over the captain as he stands next to him, then he moves to pick San up. There is a sense of defeat that fills your body as you watch the tall Berserker lifts San’s all too limp body with ease. The lingering pain of knowing that you could do nothing but watch as Cara hurt him, nothing as she attacked you, and even afterward you could do nothing but apologize for not knowing what to do. It leaves the bitter taste of failure in your mouth. You watch Mingi situate San in his arms, pressing a large hand over the wound that still pours blood, and Hongjoong leads them out of the warehouse. Seonghwa follows their movements with his eyes, only pulling back to look at you once they’re completely out of sight.

“When d-did you get he-here?” Your words slur together a little bit, and Seongwha cracks a small smile.

“Don’t exert yourself any more than you already have, okay?” He shifts you, and you let him lay you down on your back only for him to scoop you up with little effort. The arm under your knees slides up so he can press his palm over your wound. “Mingi and I arrived not too long ago. Hongjoong called us up to a rooftop. He said that both you and San disappeared around the same time. He didn’t see or hear it happen, but he assumed you’d been caught. Suppose he figured correctly.” Seonghwa grunts as he gets to his feet, hoisting you further up against him. He doesn’t move at the same breakneck pace that Hongjoong and Mingi had on their way out of the warehouse. “There’s a clinic that should be able to help you both relatively quickly. It’s not too far away if you can just hold out a little while longer.”

“I-I’m not sure…” You murmur as you bring an arm up around Seonghwa’s back. “I have a knack for getting hurt and passing out, I think.”

“I already don’t you to shush, did I not? Don’t try talking or you’ll make it worse.” Seonghwa glances over your face. “You get hurt because you’re reckless. You just the gun too quickly, lack patience, think with your heart and not your head. You pass out because you didn’t take the time to regain your strength after your arm was shot and you had the surgery. Your body can’t keep up the way it used to because of that.”

You want to retort but can’t find the energy to so you just grumble and roll your eyes instead. Seonghwa continues to speak but this time he returns to answering your first question.

“We dispatched of a group on top of the roof. One started falling so Mingi tried to grab him, but it caused a bunch of noise. More came out to see what was going on. It took us a while to finish them all off.” Seonghwa’s expression shifts, lips turning into a frown. “We could hear you… in the warehouse. Both you and San screaming.” His hold on you tightens a bit before he continues with more hesitance. “When it went quiet, I thought that meant th–”

“San is alive,” you interrupt, a desperate attempt to keep him from finishing that train of thought. “Don’t worry.”

Seonghwa bites his lower lip as he looks down at you, voice quiet when he decides to speak again.

“I was worried about you too.”

You opt not to respond. Even if you knew what to say, you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

“Will you be okay if I run?” Seonghwa asks, hastening his pace a little before you answer.

“Y-Yea, go for it.”

Seonghwa breaks into a sprint as you give him permission. Despite his haste, it still isn’t quick enough to catch up to Hongjoong and Mingi, and you don’t even see their forms ahead of you in the streets. They must be moving much faster than Seonghwa to be that far ahead already. Given San’s state though, you don’t blame them.

San is all you can think about yourself. While there is the panic and worry over whether he’s okay and alive, there is more to it than that as well. You really know nothing about medical things; you can tell when a wound looks bad and that’s about the extent of your knowledge. You know two things about San’s wound: the knife went to the hilt in him, and there was an ungodly amount of blood. Cara didn’t just cut him up a little like she did with you. She went in full force with the intent to kill, and you’re worried that she may get what she wants postmortem.

You wish you had the energy to huff out a laugh, but you can barely manage to keep your head up at this point. You can never catch a break; there’s always something that you have to worry about. Always running, fleeing, fighting – you can’t even stop to breathe for two seconds before something else is happening. Part of you wonders how long it’s going to last, how long you have to keep running for. You could just go back home and live out the rest of your days there in the hopes that no one will find you, but there are too many memories tied to that place. Yet you want to rest. You’re so fucking tired of all this, and you just want to try having a calm life for once. You need to rest.

Seonghwa pulls you out of your thoughts by releasing a huff of air. You glance around as the regular hustle and bustle of the streets hits your ears. It’s a vaguely familiar sight, just enough for you to know that you’re back in the area you started in. Seonghwa slows his pace some and peels off to a side alleyway rather than pushing through the crowds. He wraps around the buildings with steady steps until you reach an unmarked door with a hanging sign above it. He doesn’t give you the chance to read the words on the sign, pushing into the building with his back.

An old man is the first to greet you, seated behind a rickety wooden desk with his chin to his chest. He glances up when you come in though.

“The primary doctor is busy with a patient who was just brought in,” he says when Seonghwa approaches the desk. “Our secondary doctor is treating someone with an illness right now, but you can wait around five minutes for her to be free.”

“Okay, thank you.” Seonghwa nods a few times then pulls back to carry you to a row of chairs on the opposite wall. He sets you down and eases you onto one of the chairs, hands cradling your elbows as you move. Rather than going to sit beside you though, he kneels in front of you and examines your thigh. He peels back the cut up fabric, soaked with crimson blood, and exposes your wounds to the air. The blood has stopped oozing so profusely, beginning to clot a little. You can barely see past the mess of crimson, but there are a total of five cuts on your leg. Seonghwa glances up, eyes landing on the cuts along your collarbone as well. He thumbs over the skin with a gentle touch and makes sure not to irritate them further. Then his eyes go to your cheek where the first cut is. His expression is unreadable as he pulls himself up and sits down beside you.

“What’s on your mind?” You ask, barely managing to smile. Seonghwa laughs a little, and the corners of his lips curl upwards.

“Oh, nothing much. Just thinking about the weather, of course.”

Your smile stretches a bit more at his joking comment.

“San is going to be okay, Y/N.”

“Y-Yea…” Your voice doesn’t sound confident though, and you don’t know if it’s because of how exhausted and drained you are or if it’s because of something else. Seonghwa doesn’t press you any further than that; your lack of engagement must be enough to deter him from talking more. He just places a hand on your right thigh and lets it rest against the bloodied fabric. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, eyes looking anywhere except at each other. You still can’t wrap your mind fully around reality. Everything that just happened just seems so unreal that you don’t want it to be real. The blood on your hands doesn’t go away, however, and neither does the dull ache in your chest.

A curtain to the right shifts all of a sudden, and Hongjoong and Mingi step out from behind it. Seonghwa’s hand on your thigh squeezes a little tighter as he looks over his captain’s dismal expression. Hongjoong ignores him, however, and comes to step in front of you. You brace yourself for the worst, gnawing on the inside of your lip while staring up at him in anticipation.

“You were reckless, careless, arrogant, foolish, and idiotic, among other things like disobedient, stupid, and childish.”

All you can do is nod in confirmation. He isn’t wrong in the slightest, neither was Seonghwa earlier when he called you out for similar things. Hongjoong sticks a hand out in front of you, exposing his forearm and palm to the ceiling. You don’t know what he’s expecting or what to do for many seconds. You blink between his arm and his face without speaking until a sigh falls from his lips.

“Just take it before I change my damn mind,” he grumbles. Realization dawns on you, and you reach out to clasp your bloody fingers around his forearm. He pulls you to your feet with that same grip. Your eyes meet. “Thank you for protecting and saving San, and for doing what I couldn’t do.”

You open your mouth to respond, but words don’t come out. Nor do you have the chance to come up with any sort of reply because a woman peeks out from behind another current beside the one Hongjoong and Mingi walked out of.

“I’m ready for the next patient!”

Seonghwa stands up with you, and you take that as your invitation to go over to the woman. His hand finds your lower back, ready to lift you into his arms again.

“I can walk fine on my own,” you mutter. Part of you doesn’t want to seem weak in front of Hongjoong now, especially since he just told you he somewhat respects you for what you did for San. Seonghwa isn’t affected by your comment though; he just laughs and lifts you regardless.

“You aren’t doing yourself any favors with that ego,” he says once you’re out of Hongjoong’s earshot. You press your lips into a frown but don’t say anything. Seonghwa takes you back to the doctor’s room. She motions towards a chair in the center of the room, and Seonghwa sets you down in it for her. You expect him to head out immediately and return to Hongjoong’s side, but instead, he lingers beside the chair, placing a hand on the back of it near your shoulder.

“Oh wow, quite a few cuts.” The doctor hums to herself and moves closer to you. She checks your cheek first then moves down to your collarbone. “These aren’t deep, but they’ll need just a little cleaning and dressing. Put some patches over them to keep them covered for the time being, but they should heal easy. Awkward places for certain, but easy to fix.”

She pulls back and moves for a counter, snagging a bottle of clear liquid and some white patches. You know it’s alcohol the second she uncorks the bottle and the scent hits you, but the sting of it against your skin draws a hiss from your lips. She continues to clean the cuts, then pulls out a roll of tape to dress the cuts further. Seonghwa’s hand slips down to your shoulder, squeezing it tight when you release another hiss of pain.

The doctor dips down to your thigh after securing the last gauze patch to your cheek. She peels back the cut fabric like Seonghwa did earlier, then another hum passes through her lips.

“I can’t really access the cuts too well with your pants on. Do you happen do have a spare set of pants around?” She asks the question with a smile playing at her lips, no doubt realizing the ridiculousness of it.

“N-No,” you answer with a similar smile of your own.

“We can get some,” Seonghwa interjects, pulling his hand back from your shoulder. “I mean, we were going to regardless because hers are a mess, but I can go now to get them. I’ll just estimate your size, if that’s okay.”

“Perfect, that would be great! I’m going to need a bit of help pulling these off first before you go, if you’d please–”

“I’m sure we can handle it,” you interrupt, smile growing shaky at the thought. Seonghwa nods in agreement immediately.

“I’ll be back shortly then.” He moves back to the curtain and disappears behind it, leaving you with the doctor.

“Let’s get you up first,” she says as she grabs hold of your elbows and pulls you to your feet. “Oh, your hand is cut too! I didn’t even notice it with all the blood. Here, let’s get you over to the sink and wash that off first.” She guides you over to the counter she was working at earlier, running hot water over your hands. You know that not all of it is your blood, that San’s blood is on your hands as well, and that not all of it is front the thin slice over your palm. The doctor pulls your hand out from under the water and towels it dry. You just watch her movements with little interest, squeezing your fingers around the white gauze she wraps around your palm. Once she pulls back, she motions down at your pants.

It’s difficult to do on your own, a painful process that has you ready to fall over by the end of it, but you manage to tug the pants off and expose the cuts along your thigh completely. You don’t wait for her to tell you to sit back down either and just do it on your own. The cuts look far worse than they did when you had your pants on, one much deeper than the other papercut-like ones around it. When the doctor presses her alcohol-covered pad over your leg, it hurts ten times worse than it did before. You fight through the pain by biting down on the tip of your tongue. Once the blood is all wiped away, the cuts don’t look nearly as bad as before, except for the one deeper one.

“A few minor cuts and one deeper one. You won’t need stitches or anything like that, but I will go ahead and do a skin adhesive liquid stitch just to be safe on that deeper cut. Then I’ll wrap you up in some gauze and put a little medicine there to fend off infection. Surgical tape  after to secure it in place, okay?”

“Sounds good,” you murmur as she begins to collect the supplies.

“Keep it clean and treat it often if you can! That’s the key to recovery.”

You watch her work with disinterested eyes. At this point, it doesn’t hurt much after that alcohol horror. The exhaustion is catching up to you with haste, and you mostly feel numb all over at this point. Everything is catching up on you actually, and you really want to find any bed available and sleep for days. Blinking down at your trembling fingers, you recall how you were able to use your abilities earlier but only after hearing San scream. You weren’t able to use them with Cara yesterday though when you were fighting for your own damn life, and you can’t reconcile why that’s the case. The only thing you are certain of is the fact that most of your exhaustion is stemming from the use of your powers because that’s always the thing that takes the most energy out of you.

The doctor before you seals the deep cut with the liquid stitches she spoke about then wraps up your thigh with more white gauze and secures it with several strips of surgical tape.

“As good as new, huh?” She jokes as she smiles up at you. You crack a smile yourself and nod in agreement. Seonghwa comes in just as she’s finishing up with the taping, a new pair of pants in hand. When the doctor leans away, you stand up to take them from him, and he meets you halfway.

“Thank you,” you mumble, not meeting his eyes as you take the clothes from him.

You’re determined to at least clothe yourself without help, but that proves to be too much for you as well and you stumble when you try to pull the pants up. Both the doctor and Seonghwa reach out to catch you, but Seonghwa reaches you first. He grabs hold of your arm and steadies you while you continue to pull the pants on with a grumbled “I’m fine” under your breath.

“Thank you for all your help.” You turn to the doctor who just smiles in response.

“Look after those cuts! You should heal up nicely without too much scarring if you keep an eye on them.”

Seonghwa’s hand returns to your lower back, but he doesn’t move to pick you up this time. He lets you walk out of the room on your own, staying close to your side just in case you stumble again. Hongjoong and Mingi are still in the lobby when you exit, perched in the chairs that you and Seonghwa were on earlier, and both men wear deadpan expressions as you pass by them. Seonghwa doesn’t stop to talk to Hongjoong; instead, he guides you out of the clinic and back into the streets of the city. You don’t question it, and there’s no need to because Seonghwa turns to explain it to you after the door snaps shut behind you.

“We’ll stay in the hotel for another night per Hongjoong’s orders. Just the two of us this time though. Hongjoong and Mingi will wait in the clinic for news on San.” Your expression must crumble because Seonghwa pats your back with the hand there. “I know you want to wait with them but you need rest. I want to wait too but taking care of you is my priority right now, whether you like it or not. You went through hell, Y/N.”

“Okay…” You mumbles, eyes darting away from Seonghwa’s concerned ones.

“He’ll be okay. I promise you that. San is a fighter, and he won’t let anything keep him down. Especially not something like this.” You can only nod in agreement with Seonghwa’s words without knowing for certain whether they’re true or not. Perhaps it’s a desperate need for some sense of comfort, but as Seonghwa guides you back to the hotel, you grab for his hand, awkwardly brushing over his thigh before his hand slips from your back to envelop yours with warmth. He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes tightly without stopping to ask why. The reason is clear enough.

His hand remains in yours all the way to the hotel, only pulling back to open the door for you to step through. Similar to the first time you were in here, you linger near the door as Seonghwa approaches the counter and talks with the man behind it. Your throat feels tight. Seonghwa is right in saying that you need the rest but so much worry nags at your gut that you don’t know if you’ll be able to get any whatsoever. Your thoughts are just full of San. San, San, San.

Seonghwa returns to your side, silently taking your hand in his again and pulling you towards the stairs. It’s that nagging sensation of failure and incapability that overwhelms you as he helps you climb the stairs. If you had done things right, San wouldn’t have gotten hurt. He wouldn’t have gotten caught. You wouldn’t have gotten caught either. You would’ve gotten to San before they did and talked him out of it. Kept him from doing something he would regret. Even with your warning, he still carried through with it, but you could have prevented it. You should have. Should have done better and worked harder to prevent it from happening.

You don’t feel the tears hit your cheeks. It’s Seonghwa who notices them first as you reach the top of the stairs, his hands flying up to cup your cheeks and brush the crystalline drops away with his thumbs. Still, he doesn’t speak, but that silence offers no reassurance in the slightest. He pulls you through the door of the first room on the left – the same one you stayed in the night before with San – and that makes it even harder to go inside. Your expression remains flat and blank as you cry, no sobs fall from your lips, it’s only the tears that fall against your will. Seonghwa continues to brush them away without complaint and he moves you to sit on the edge of the bed while he squats in front of you, hands never leaving your face. He’s speaking to you, offering reassurance and comfort, but every word goes in one ear and out the other. All you can think about it what San said to you right before passing out on top of you.

“You did well, Y/N. Remember that.”

Those words ring in your ears. The person you’ve been trying to save, the one who took the fall for you, the person this has all been for – the fighting, the running, the killing, the damn papers – he said the exact same thing before walking to his death before the King of Eros.

✧✧✧ a/n: jfc cal 10.7k?!??! i know i know i pulled a fast one on you guys and hit the pedal so hard we’re gassing it okay?! also this chapter is a bit intense for sure and full of stuff and information and hints and easter eggs and all that but omg i hope you guys like it, i think it’s been the one i enjoyed writing the most so far mostly because i am sO excited to write the next part after this that im losing my mind skldfjlkdsfj anyway let me know what you think and all those juicy theories !!!

taglist: @faeriewoobin​ @sugarrimajins​ @atinyinwonderland​ @2504-life @lil7bluedragon @sparklychangbin​ @jeong-uwu​ @jeonartemis​ @anothershorthuman​ @xxbluestrifexx​ @yayhei​ @haotheheckk​ @noonawriter​

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[midnightmoonkiss]

How To Train A Demon

An adorable visual of Demon!Deku by @birds-have-teeth !!💙

Demon!Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader

Summary: Who knew you’d be teaching a man from the underworld your way of life, and who knew you’d slowly start to fall in love with the very being you were taught to fear?

WARNINGS! None!

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 12k

A/N: Day 12 of the Izumonth collab! 

I had to split it into two parts due to limited time with editing, so the second part will be posted shortly after the collab ends!

I also want to thank @1a-imagines for helping me edit and find a good stopping point with this fic! I would not have finished it in time if it werent for her and her amazing talents! 

Just To Clarify:

Takes place in early-ish Japan during the summer!

I did not do my history homework..

Reader does not have a job, and lives alone on the side of a mountain.

They say dark and stormy nights always bring chaos and misfortune.

That the scariest of tales are bred from the harsh splatter of rain on parched ground, the crackle of lightning in the sky illuminating the monsters that lurk deep in the shadows.

They always warn to fear those nights, to keep a lantern on and a knife under your pillow, for you never know what nefarious being is waiting to strike during your most vulnerable state.

And for the most part, it was true. Believable. 

Of course, how could you not believe in such stories?

They were what you grew up with, what you were lectured with, a lesson repeatedly bashed into your skull from the minute you could understand them.

Everyone feared those nights.

Everyone feared the darkness.

It was always something so easy to be afraid of without even really being given a viable reason as to why other than tales passed on for generations.

You fear what you do not understand.

Especially those who lived alone, people like you.

People who needed fear to keep them alive more than the next person.

A small house on the mountainside, surrounded by thick forests and shrines to gods of ancient times. Lands protected and blessed by predecessors, symbols carved into trees and painted on rocks to banish the evil. 

But alone you lived, alone your fears manifested into a ball of terror-filled paranoia, regardless of anyone’s true sense of reason.

Could you always rely on a symbol to keep you safe?

This particular night would unknowingly bring those fears to life.

But then again, it’s impossible to expect the unexpected, regardless of what others may say or encourage.

Thunder clapped loudly in the sky as rain assaulted your wooden rooftop, something usually so peaceful amplified by the altitude and sounding like a million dancers stomping on the old wood, dragging you into a restless sleep as stray drops drip from your ceiling, echoing in a metal pan at the far side of your room from a leak you had yet to repair.

Body curled into a ball, you gasped involuntarily when a bright flash illuminated your room, followed immediately by the raging roar of the sky as it split in two once again.

It was safe to say you would suffer through another sleepless night, fingers digging into the meaty flesh of your poor pillow as you fought to maintain a steady breath as the violent storm raged on outside, howling winds only adding to the dreadful abundance of creepy noises.

Nights like these you wished you weren’t alone.

Perhaps you would have been less afraid if your deceased family didn’t decide to live on the mountain instead of in the valley.

Though you desired to move down there where lanterns illuminated the sky at night, you couldnt abandoned what little you had left of your kin.

Instead, you sucked it up, like you always managed to do.

You were an adult, after all, one that theoretically should have been married already, but alas.

You craved freedom more than you craved to be tied down by a ring of false promises. That, and the fact that typically parents were the ones who set up marriages.

As another bang of thunder rang out in the night, you squeezed your tired eyes closed, imagining someone was there with you, wrapped securely in their embrace, even if just for a moment. Someone there to calm your breath down, to protect you from the loneliness that stabbed at your weeping heart.

Whimpering, your legs rubbed together as a cold chill filtered into the room, creeping up your spine as goosebumps ran down your skin, the garment you wore doing next to nothing at keeping you warm.

Perhaps you should have kept the fireplace going..  An old, rusty oil lantern with a small flame could only do so much. Then again, it was more of a light source than a heat source, so you couldn’t really complain.

With a huff, you dragged the thick covers over your head, sealing in what little warmth you had.

It was like a warm cocoon, almost. A little bundle of protection. You could barely even see the flashes anymore, but that just meant the thunder would swoop down on you like a hawk, startling you every time.

But what else is one to do other than to wait out the storm?

The sun would rise eventually, just as it always has and just as it always will.

Since the beginning of time, the sun blessed the lands with a golden glow, shrouding its children in warmth and love. The moon was like it’s bitter sister, cold and cruel, taking away the light that led her people through her darkness.

Some nights she was merciful, and others- gone from the sky completely.

This night just happened to be one of those nights.

So not only was it violent, rainy, and cold, this night was also one without any true lights.

Stars were a blessing in disguise, their brightness concerningly dim.

At least you had your lantern and that dirty old katana your father left behind.

You were safe.

At least you thought you were, but a sudden cry bellowing through the night tore the thick atmosphere apart, sending chills down your spine and making the grip on your blanket as tight as ever.

What.. was that?

It sounded almost like..

Like a wounded animal..

Just then, a flash of light blinded your vision, a sickening roar accompanying it. The ground shook as you whimpered, eyes wide with fear.

A bolt must have struck close to home..

It’s okay.

Everything is okay.

Breath heavy and body shaking, you comforted yourself with logic- an old friend you abandoned.

An animal just got hurt, was all. Perhaps a tree fell on it, or maybe it got attacked by another animal!?

It might even have been that howling wind that acted up sometimes! 

Everything was okay.

It’s okay.

Nothing to fear.

It’s just a storm.

Just a storm.

Just a storm.

You’re safe.

You’re inside.

The light guides you, the charms protect you, the shrines embrace you.

You’re okay.

It’s just a storm.

It’s just a

SCRSSSSHHHHH!! 

CRASH!

“AHHH!”

A blood-curdling scream tore from your throat as something suddenly crashed through your window, the loud sound of wood tearing apart and clanging to the floor was followed by a heavy thud and the splash of rain on your padded floor at the gaping hole given to it.

Screaming in terror, your frantic hand grabbed the blade at your side, shaking body scrambling backwards to the other side of the wall, pulling it from its sheath.

You were trapped, you had no exit!

The only exit you had was where whatever the fuck that is just crashed!

Oh gods!

You’re going to die!

This was it!

A fucking storm!

A fucking goddamn storm!

God, you were a fool!

Hyperventilation crept up on you like a venomous snake, its cold body constricting tightly around your chest and throat, cutting off your oxygen supply and freezing your numb fingers.

You were scared shitless, that was for sure, and all you could do was helplessly stare with wavering eyes at a large, haunting silhouette in the corner of the room. The small light, now seemingly miles away, providing next to no coverage of this massive figure, only gifting the room more horrific shadows.

You wanted this to be a dream, that what the elders warned wasn’t true.

This was just a nightmare.

A scary nightmare your mind conjured up like it always did.

Rain splattered against your sickly pale face, the droplets mixing with the burning hot tears that poured down your cheeks as you fought to keep a steady hand and to slide up the wall to stand.

Old, dull blade pointing forward, you couldn’t help by cry out as the dark figure moves ever so slightly.

A crash of light drowns out your sobs, swallowing the room in a dull white glow for a mere moment, enough of a moment to give you a glimpse of this creature.

You wish you hadn’t seen it, that you indulged in your ignorance for a moment, that you didn’t see the way large, black wings sprouted from the back of a human.

Horns glistened with water atop its head, long tail thrashing wildly as its body moved to get up.

Your breathing stopped the minute it opened its eyes, a vicious, glowing green staring off at the destruction it caused.

Heart roaring in your ears, you did nothing but stare.

It was as if your blood had ran as cold, for all you could think to do was to silently pray to the gods that everything would be okay.

That your life would not end.

That you would still have a chance to become what you were supposed to be, and not die a lonely child by the hands of a beast.

Suddenly, its eyes snapped to your own, wide pupils turning into menacing slits as it gazed at you with malice, an animalistic growl rumbling in its chest, sharp teeth that could easy rip your throat out on full display.

Blade slipping from your numb hands, black dots spotted your vision as you promptly fainted from fear, accepting death in its imminent wake as your knees crash against the floor.

‘So this truly was the end’.. You thought to yourself as you body drifted lifelessly in a void of black, fingers outstretched as if reaching for something that would never be there.

Death was always something to think about, the burning question always attacking your mind as to how exactly you would die. You figured you’d be mawed to death by a wild boar of sorts, tusks tearing through the ligaments in your legs, praying you’d die from bleeding out before its teeth dug into your skin, eating you alive.

Or perhaps you’d die as most women do these days, walking alone before you’re kidnapped by an enemy.

Death by what could only be described as a demon never truly crossed your mind despite you being warned by it.

It seemed impossible.

Why would a demon want you of all people?

Though, you were.. an easy prey.

‘I’m sorry..’ you whispered to yourself, hoping your words of sincerity would cross the plains of existence and comfort those you would ultimately leave behind, which wasn’t many, and those you were soon to visit. You let your eyes slip shut to close off the suffocating abyss, embracing death.

“Ugh!” you groaned uncomfortably as a bright light assaulted your closed eyes, dragging you from your sleep.

No.. was this sleep?

You couldn’t be too optimistic..

Turning over, your back promptly blocked out the headache-inducing light, bare arm coming up to rub the drowsiness from your eyes as you blinked in your surroundings.

Well.

There wasn’t really anything to look at since you were facing a wall.

More specifically, your bedroom wall. A simple, faded, dark wood design.

Humming, your fingers tap against the tatami floor, chewing on your lip as you struggled to comprehend the beating of your own heart.

Were you alive?

It was hard to tell, you didn’t exactly have an accurate depiction of the afterlife.

Oh boy. 

If you were dead, your family would kill you again no doubt for dying so early.

Of course, you can never please your ancestors, especially if you don’t leave something behind to continue your family’s lineage.

Maybe it was a good thing that you were dead, actually.

It didn’t take but a moment to notice the unusually loud sounds of nature attacking your ears and the wet, earthy scent flooding your nose.

The rain had ceased, and the morning birds were singing their usual cheerful tune.

The delicate jingle of your wind chime could be heard as it swayed ever so gently in the wind, having previously been frantically dinging all night long.

At least you were welcomed with open arms to your afterlife, after promptly being murdered by some weird fucking overgrown bat demon.

Who knows, maybe it wasn’t a demon.

Demons didn’t look like that? No, they were much creepier, but it wasn’t like you had anything real to compare it to.

Grumbling to yourself, you ran a hand through your messy hair, finding the oily, tangled mess utterly disgusting.

You really should take a bath soon.

Does the afterlife have baths?

You would throw a fit if not, you need your weekly soak, even if the water wasn’t that warm.

You’d be damned if you didn’t get a minute to relax and destress.

But then again, is there even stress here?

You’d have to find out later, for now, you should stop staring at your dirty old wall like some sort of lunatic, give this whole afterlife a go.

Slapping your bare thighs, eyes sparkling with determination you go to turn around before promptly screaming your heart out as fright squeezed the life out of you once more.

Large, snake-like green eyes bore into your own, only a hair length away.

Throat dry, you flung yourself back against the wall as you fought to scramble away, only for this creature to follow your every movement as you pushed yourself into a corner.

All you could see was green.

Green.

The type of green that reminded you of toxic flames erupting from an innocents body as it succumbs to possession.

You swore you were dead, but perhaps you have yet to meet your untimely end.

“Please!”

You cried, tears pouring down your raw cheeks as your arms wrapped protectively around your head, “Please don’t hurt me!” sobbing, you squeezed your eyes shut, waiting.

Waiting was always a horrifying game, you never knew when the waiting would stop and when you could breathe again.

But death never greeted you.

It was odd in a way.

It was as if you were expecting so much, that to not be given it was even more confusing.

Lips wobbling, you slowly peaked your eye open, breathless as you noticed this human-like creature suddenly at the other end of the room, clawed fingers tapping together at it shifted nervously from bare foot to foot.

…

What the-?

“I-i’m so sorry! I, I must’ve scared you so much… I’m really sorry!”

You stared in shock as this… man fell to his knees, thumping his forehead onto the floor in an apologetic bow, wings bent and folded at his sides.

You were speechless.

Truly, what the hell?

Was this even real?

You couldn’t tell anymore.

This all seemed so questionable.

It was certainly what crashed through your home- of fuck!

Gasping, you finally got a good luck at the true destruction.

Oh, your window was completely ruined! Broken wood stuck out everywhere, even looking at it made you feel like you were going to get a splinter!

How are you supposed to fix that when you haven’t a coin to your name?

Fuck.

Wait.

Oh, right!

There was!

This creature!

What the hell.

Breathing heavily, you fought to calm yourself down as you got a good look at this thing.

Its hair was messy, mud, twigs, and leaves entangling itself in its thick, dark green curls. It was hard to ignore the two large black horns atop its head, locks wrapping almost possessively around them.

Pointy ears caught your attention, a strange earpiece dangling from one with an upside-down, obsidian Christian cross.

Of course, what mostly caught your attention were the two large black wings sprouting from its scarred back, a thin black tail idly swaying back and forth.

His cream-colored skin was wet with water, dotted with freckles, and littered with scars varying in sizes.

All and all, you were dumbfounded.

Eyes bouncing around the room, you looked for your sword, desperate for some sort of protection, something you could say you tried to fight it off with if worse came to inevitable worse.

Oh!

There!

It was only a few feet away from you, and do as you must, you slowly crept forward, crawling on your hands and knees, sneaking around in hopes it wouldn’t lift its head and pounce on you.

Unfortunately, you pressed on a particularly creaky floorboard, and its head snapped up, fear causing you to jump for the sword before shakily aiming it at the demon once more.

“S-stay back!” you warned with a wavering voice, though you knew for a fact you looked like a crying child who could do no real harm.

Eyes stared into each other once more, this time from a safer distance. You were just about to speak again when it spoke up, its voice a calmer and not as frantic, “You’re holding that wrong.”

“Excuse me?” you answered without a beat, astonishment lacing your words as curiosity rose onto your face, how on earth did this thing know that?

“You’re holding the katana wrong,” it pointed at your hands on its handle, sharp black fingernail catching your ultimate attention, “You shouldn’t hold it just at the bottom, you need to space your hands out more. You would not be a threat to anyone if you hold it like that.”

Was… was it seriously lecturing you right now? 

Eye twitching with annoyance, you slid your hands into the position described, “Just like that! Perfect!” it smiled brightly at you, green eyes slipping closed as it praised you like a teacher to a student who did good.

“Shut up!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet, flames of anger igniting within your body as you took a step forward.

With an inhuman screech, its wings folded protectively around its body, “Ack! I’m sorry! I just wanted to help you!”

What is going on?!

This, this wasn’t! This wasn’t supposed to be happening right now, right?? It was just about to kill you!

Could you even call it an "it", it looks like a man!

Is it a man? How do demons work!

Why is this happening right now!

You couldn’t wrap your head around it, and it was beyond infuriating!

“Who and what are you!” you snarled out, surprise blossoming in your eyes at the sheer ferocity you just displayed, but annoyance sure is a force to be reckoned with.

Wings cracking open ever so slightly, and you can just barely see an innocent green eye peaking out. 

“M-My name is Midoriya.. Midoriya Izuku.. I’m.. I am a.. I know it sounds weird, but I’m a demon..”

So you were right.

This is a demon, just not one you were used to.

Yokai was what they’re called here, red, devilish creatures that sought destruction.

This certainly wasn’t a yokai, surely, despite his cheeks being a subtle red.

“I mean you no harm..” he meekly whispered, unfolding his large wings just to put his hands in the air, defenseless.

You weren’t convinced.

But then again, what were you supposed to do?

It wasnt as if you were taught how to handle a situation where an animal crashes into your house in the middle of a thunderstorm just to be there the next morning watching you sleep like some sort of creepy stalker.

When life gives you lemons, though, right?

Well, you hated lemons.

Or, at least these lemons.

No, that doesn’t apply here surely. This is a man, not a lemon.

Regardless, you were stuck on what action you should take.

Caution was definitely one. Though it hadn't harmed you in any way and was looking pretty beat up itself, you couldn’t run the risk of being too trusting too early only to end up with your throat ripped out.

There, of course, is still the question as to how it was able to enter holy lands such as these, lands protected from such devilish creatures.

They were supposed to combust into flames upon entering, right?

Closing your eyes for a moment, you took a deep breath, letting a scowl settle onto your face as you glared at this ‘Midoriya,’ “Why are you h-”

“Wait, wait wait!” he suddenly shouted out, arms waving frantically in front of his burning red face, “B-before uh! You do whatever you’re going to do, c-can you..” words were whispered under his breath as his arms wrapped childishly around his head, averting his gaze to the side, “Can you fix.. your garments…? Please?” 

Stunned, you gaped at him, confused as to what he meant. Fix your garments? They were perfectly fine!

Only, they werent.

To your utter horror, your loose robe had begun to slip, completely exposing your left shoulder and the top of your breast.

It probably would have been more embarrassing if you didn’t still have a bit of adrenaline coursing through your veins, so naturally, you nonchalantly fixed up your robe.

Izuku sighed in relief, arms unraveling from his head.

“Now, what was your ques-”

“Why are you here.” You repeated, wanting definite answers as to what the fuck a demon was doing in these parts, and why it crashed into your beautiful house.

Hell, a bird just flew in! It’s going to be unimaginably cold in here tonight!

“Thats a uh,” he chuckled nervously, eyes drifting to look out into the forest covered in morning dew as he lightly scratched at his cheek with that sharp nail. He shifted so that he was sitting with his legs crossed over one another, tail flopping onto his lap to no doubt keep his decency.

He was clearly naked. How had you not noticed this before?

Where you too caught up in your head to realize this entire time he was bare?

And yet he had the gall to tell you to fix yourself up? It was hard to tell if he was being a gentleman or a fool.

Regardless, you ‘d never seen a naked man before. Perhaps muscular arms at most as village men helped their wives and older folk about.

But completely in the nude? Bare chest, legs out? Never.

You’d have to swallow down that bubble of nervousness, ignoring the heat on your cheeks, too eager to hear his answer rather than get wrapped up in ‘oh god he’s hot’ thoughts.

“A long story..”

“Everyone always says its a long story. Stop avoiding the question, and answer it before I cut your head off!” You bravely declared, only for his viridescent eyes flashing with mischief to flicker over to you with a momentary smirk on his lips.

It was almost as if his face turned into the personification of ‘is that so?’ and honestly, you do not blame him for reacting in such a way. You didn’t even know how to hold this old katana until a few minutes ago when told you how.

He was obviously trying to hide that display of cockiness as he coughed into his tattooed fist, “Well, if you’ve got the time-”

“I do.”

“H-how much?”

Eye twitching with aggravation, you promptly sat down on your knees, the sun-warmed tatami mat beneath you offering some comfort to your chilled bones.

“As long as you need.”

It didn’t take long for him to spit out his story, having no real choice in the matter.

Apparently, he was an exiled demon.

Who knew demons of all things could be banished from the underworld?

According to him, demons were the incarnation of evil, bred from human hatred and misery, taught to become a monster who wreaks havoc on the innocent and guilty, but he was different.

Since birth, or his ‘manifestation’ as he strangely called it, he was much kinder than those around him. Pure and sweet, hiding it behind a mask of cruelty in fear of the banishment now bestowed upon him.

So here he is in all his glory, a permanent seal of banishment printed in black ink onto his left pectoral in the form of broken kanji and crescent moons.

It was quite a lovely mark, really, but to him, it meant lonely freedom.

But, who knew demons can’t fly for shit in the rain? Certainly not him. Salty water splattered in his eyes, blinding him after a loud crack of lightning tore a scream from his throat - which explained the cries of an animal in pain. 

And so he crashed through your home, a scared animal.

It was hard to tell if you were lucky or not, considering the charms didnt work at all.

At least you had a reason now, the mark he was branded with took away his demonic possession.

He was more of a human now than a demon, powers stripped away, not that he used them.

The only problem was, he looked like a demon.

Horns? Check. Reptillian eyes? Check. Lare, bat-like wings? Check. A tail that looks like it could easily stab someone? Check. 

Not to mention the strange tattoos under his eyes and on his left arm, something he was supposedly born with and which was unique to himself only.

To you, the intricate tattoo looked like a bunny ensnared in thorny vines on his arm, but he was quick to take offense before laughing boyishly.

You were absolutely stuck on what you should do with him.

Tossing him to the snakes and boars would surely be too cruel, but keeping a demon in your house?

How maddening! You were lucky no one came around these parts to snoop in on whats inside.

Though, despite it being absolutely ludicrous, you allowed it. That is, because of his promise that he’d fix your window. Heavens know you certainly cant do it yourself.

He was insistent that you should sleep in the dusty guest bedroom, a smaller room with a mere futon and window, lacking the furniture you had, as he stood guard at the opening at night.

Demons apparently didnt sleep much?

Lucky you.

And so now, by events you never could have seen coming, you have a giant cat looming over your shoulder.

It was hard not to let your guard down so fast around him when he was so.. innocent. So open and kind, always willing to help around the house, and always quick to jump away if he began to do something wrong.

His curiosity was truly adorable, though.

Most days he’d stare in wonder at something new with an awestruck expression, eyes sparkling as he’d take a brush and ink, scribbling down notes about it in a foreign language on a piece of parchment, even attempting to draw it. He would always ask you about it later, showing you what he had written down, and if you could answer, you would. He’d always thank you profusely before writing down what you’d said.

You couldn’t understand what he wrote, it’d always be a mystery, but it certainly was an intricate language.

The only problem was he was so used to being naked all the time that it was an embarrassing struggle to get him to not only get into clothes but to also wear them. The most he was willing to wear was a sash from as robe wrapped around his waist. He disliked the constricting feeling of fabric clinging to his body, slipping out of it whenever you got him dressed.

It really did give you the chance to actually know what a man looked like, that, as well as study him. He was littered with scars ranging from small, faded, fresh, large, it truly was a painful sight the days you decided to dwell on them.

He had told you a few stories already about how he had gotten certain ones, and most stories were ones filled with pride and determination, winning fights or protecting others.

Each scar held an interesting story, except the one on his neck, which was gained from forgetting he had sharp nails in a fit of frustration. 

As you found out later that first day of knowing him, his wings and horns had the ability to shrink, not only giving him more mobility inside the house, but also taking away that spike of anxiety whenever you’d see them near a fragile object. Besides, their tiny selves were oh so cute, not that you’d ever openly say that.

And so, two weeks had passed, and there was still that dreadful broken window. Izuku had been kind enough to clean up the mess he made, insisting to do so after your intense interrogation, so it truly was an out of place marker of destruction now.

Its stay was to be expected, considering you didn’t have a replacement. No, you’d need to buy one.

Oh, buying. A poor man’s nightmare.

But as it turns out, demons are quite good at finding valuable things in the wilderness.

Or at least, that’s what he explained to you when he showed up one morning covered in dirt and mud, twigs all in his hair, boring an appearance similar to his first arrival, showing off a handful of silver and copper coins, as well as two golden ones.

In short, you were too busy drooling at the sight to care about how exactly he got it.

Travelers were often dropping coins anyway, so it surely doesn’t matter. Besides, his accomplished smile was far too sweet to tarnish with questions.

“You’re dirty, again.” you bluntly pointed out after thanking him for his find, pouring the coins into a small, worn pouch containing only two copper. Tying it up, you were quick to place it back on the shelf, hiding it behind a book of heroic tales.

“O-oh.. I didn’t notice..” he laughed awkwardly in that boyish manner he seemed to always have, large hands immediately going to brush off the caked mud on his legs and arms.

“Absolutely not, mister! I just cleaned!” Scolding him, you grabbed his wrist before he had the chance, glaring up into his surprised, foresty green snake-like eyes.

“If you’re going to shake your dirty little self off, go do it outside!”

At times, you acted more like a mother than you did anything else with him. But to be fair, he did come to this practical new world without any true knowledge of its customs, what you can and cannot do. Surely not making the house someone let you graciously stay in dirty was a universal thing.

He openly stared at you, innocent eyes glistening and wobbly lips reminding you of a kicked puppy.

Ouch.

“S-sorry,” he promptly apologized, attention snapping to your smaller hand still gripping his wrist, pink dusting over his chubby, freckled cheeks.

Sighing, you patted his large arm, picking up on the way it made his wings flutter, “It’s alright. Just go pat yourself off outside. I’ll set up a bath for you. I don’t need dirt everywhere in here again.”

Nodding eagerly, a bright smile overtook his face, showing off his unusually sharp canines.

Perhaps you would’ve been afraid had he shown them off in a vicious way again, but he was far too excited at the prospect of submerging his body in heated water to seem at all threatening.

You watched for a split second as he ran off, head instantly whipping to the side when he suddenly threw off the measly piece of fabric wrapped around his thin waist, tail curling around his muscular leg that you definitely haven’t been staring at throughout all this time.

You would have yelled after him for stripping if you weren’t so flustered.

You’d doubt you’d ever get used to it, seeing him nearly naked all the time. Artists were right to draw demons naked it seems, they truly didnt have any shame.

A blessing and a curse.

Grumbling, you began the long process of filling the metal tub with buckets of water from the well out back, igniting a small flame beneath it so the water would be warm upon his arrival.

Speaking of which, he was taking an unusual amount of time.

Surely you didn’t have to be worried, but it had been at least half an hour at this point, right? It doesn’t take that long to brush yourself down, does it?

Unease built in your gut, and you began pacing around the house, chewing anxiously at your fingernails as the old boards creaked beneath your feet.

He was very capable of handling himself, he was a fairly strong and intimidating soul, but what if he ran into someone? Your house wasn’t too far from the village, it was very plausible that he could’ve run into a hunter!

What if he was dead!

Oh gods, was he dead?!

And you had just put so much effort into running a bath for him!

Should you look for him?

What if he doesnt come home?

Maybe he’s lost?

Or stuck in a trap!

There were so many different possibilities, that your feet began to move on their own, the long sleeves of your kimono flapping behind you as you rushed towards the door where he had jumped out of, only to slam into a much larger and sturdier frame the minute you were about to exit.

“Hyah!” you cried out from surprise, being knocked backward.

Two hands quickly caught your flailing arms before you had the chance to land flat on your ass.

Looking up in a panic, you were relieved to see the familiar, warm green gaze of Izuku.

“Careful!” he was now the one to scold, playfully pouting his reddened lips. Breathless from worry and slamming into him, you jumped to your feet, taking a moment to catch your breath.

“D-don’t tell me to b-be careful!” whining, embarrassed at the fact that you had been pressed so close to him, you adjusted your oversized kimono that had slipped ever-so-slightly at the rough collision.

“Mmm~ Be careful?” he teased, leaning down just to purr beside your flushed face his cold, dangling earring tickling the skin at your neck.

Smacking his shoulder, you let out an annoyed huff, only to screech a second after, blood burning your cheeks as you turned away so quickly you could hear the sleeves slap against his body, “Put some clothes on, damnit!!”

“I thought I had to be naked for a bath?” It was annoying how you could tell he was pulling your strings, no doubt his head was tilting as he batted his lashes at your smaller frame, like he always did when given the chance to be a tease.

Growling to yourself, you pointed off to the direction where the bath was prepared, desperate to escape from this trap you had set yourself in, “Then go bathe, you dirty, dirty boy!” At this point, you were on the verge of flat out shoving him into the bathroom, wanting to escape from his nude self.

You’d clearly have to start forcing him to wear clothes more, putting your foot down if he was to stay in this house.

You did not need a heart attack every morning at seeing a naked man waiting eagerly for you to awake, only for a wide smile to blossom on his face, tail thumping loudly on the ground and wings flapping like a bird when he noticed you blink your eyes open.

Of course, a pillow was always thrown at him, the plea for him to wear some clothes always on your tongue, but alas, you were lucky if he wore his piece of fabric, that flimsy sash you had half as mind at throwing away just so he would be forced to wear something else.

“O-okay..” his shy self seeped back in, his fingers visibly poking together, an anxious habit you presumed. Feet thumping against the floor, he traveled down the hall and to the bath, a loud gasp echoing down the corridor when he noisily jumped in, water sloshing. “So warm!”

“Please clean up your mess-!”

It was almost like dealing with a child, except this child was hundreds of years older than you and a grown-ass man, if that was a positive or negative- you’d never know.

It wasn’t until the next day you got him to fully wear a kimono, an old one your father had left behind. It fitted him, truly, black with green vines snaking down the sides and wrapping around the cuffs. It was a nightmare to get him in it, though.

Not that he wasn’t obedient, no, he truly did try his best to please you, but perhaps it just wasn’t something he could easily comprehend just yet, not to mention you had to somehow squeeze his wings into the outfit.

His tail was easy to hide due to the kimono reaching the floor, but thank god for hats because truly it was impossible to hide his horns any other way.

But the poor man was clearly unhappy, lips pouty and eyes droopy as he shifted from one foot to the other.

“They.. feel weird..” he tried to explain, pulling at the neckline, only for you to swat his hand away. “You’ll get used to it.” you reassured.

Grabbing the coin pouch you had placed on the shelf, you made him carry a sack over his shoulder, something to not only hide his lumpy wing covered back but to also carry the supplies you’d be purchasing soon.

It would be impossible to hide his facial markings, so you didn’t attempt. The thought of smearing mud on his cheeks did cross your mind, but alas, that would look suspicious. If only tattoos weren’t so taboo, and if only he didn’t have such suspicious ones.

Everyone in the village knew you, knew your story, and they knew you were alone. You had no doubts they’d ask who this mysterious stranger was, or at least openly gawk at him. You could avoid certain nosey fuckers, but at times it was unavoidable 

Grabbing his sleeve, you led him out the front door, quick to slide it shut before walking down the dirt trail.

Perhaps you could say he was a distant relative? You didn’t have any distant relatives, so that would, unfortunately, be a bust.  You placed your finger on your chin, thinking as you allowed your body to walk down the familiar path on autopilot, head in the clouds as you thought.

Curse these nosy ass people, already knowing everything about you!

Perhaps he was a traveler you found lost in the storm? Or he found you?

No.. that wouldn't explain the markings..

You needed to come up with something!

Grrr!

Oh! Oh! Wait!

“Midoriya..” you began, tilting your head curiously towards him. 

His lips pressed into a thin line, already recognizing that mischievous glint in your mesmerizing (e/c) eyes. 

Was that even a way he should describe them? Perhaps not, but he would be a fool to disagree with the statement formed in his head.

Gulping, he stuttered out nervously, focus shifting from you to the path in front of his wooden sandal-clad feet, shoes he wasnt too happy with, “Y-yes..?”

“Do you know what ninja’s are?”

You’re a genius.

“I, uhm, I’ve heard about them..why?”

“Mmm.. what have you heard?”

“Just that they’re skilled with a blade and sneaking around..” He looked at you dumbly, eyebrow arched as you only smiled back at him, adding to his own confusion.

“You’re gonna be a ninja, then.” You boldly declared out, catching his arm as he suddenly stumbled over a rock as he sputtered.

“W-wha?! B-but I- I’m n-not a ninja!” 

“I know that, but listen! The people at the village don’t! I have no doubts they’re going to poke and prod at you, wondering who you are.. A ninja that stumbled upon my house in the middle of a storm would explain your sudden appearance and your facial tattoos, and Hell, even your eyes!”

Filled with a sense of victory, you grinned ear to ear, amazed at how you had come up with such a solution on the spot.

You truly were creative.

A gift, maybe.

Oh, man! All the village women are going to be so jealous! Always quick to say you’d end up alone, but boy were they wrong! Here you have it, a ninja demon following you around! Suck on that, widows!

Wanting to gauge his reaction, seeing as he went oddly silent, you looked over at him, only to stop in your tracks and have your arms go limp by your sides.

“W-wha…” face scrunching up, you stared at him, bewildered. He was pointing at his cheek, smirking at you, showing off the fact that not only had his eyes gained a human-like pupil, which now looked odd on him, but the fact that the markings now looked like smudged paint.

It was dumbfounding.

“What the hell happened to your face..” trailing off, you couldnt help but scratch at your head, running possibilities through your mind but coming up with no true solution.

“Demons have the ability to switch from eyes that can see well in the dark to eyes that cannot! I forgot about it until you pointed them out, to be honest! So thank you for that!”

He was smiling boyishly again, only to flush deeply as you grabbed his face, soft, small hands on his cheeks, pulling him down to your height as you examined his features.

“(Y-Y/N).?!” he squeaked, breath catching in his throat as you peered deeply into his surprised green orbs, face so close he could feel your nose brushing against his, and all he could do was stand still.

His hot breath was ragged as it fanned across your face, and though he knew you were examining the sudden change in appearance, he couldn’t help the way his heart hammered in his chest. You were so, so close!! He swore if he just.. leaned forward ever so slightly, he could.. Catch your lips in a sweet kiss. He glanced down, focus going hazy as he zeroed in the way your lips shined in the sunlight trickling just barely through the gaps of leaves above him, forcing his own lips to twitch in anticipation.

Would it be so bad if he, hypothetically speaking, kissed you right now?

Oh, what a thought!

He couldnt tell. Hell, he couldnt even think.

Your scent was so intoxicating at this moment, flooding his senses, and it left his devilish desires to want more, fingers inching towards your waist.

He was knocked out of his strangely lustful thoughts when you repeatedly papped his cheek to catch his attention.

Body going stiff, his hands flung back to his own sides before jerking his head up to look at you once more. Had you been talking to him? Did you say something? He didnt know, his attention hyperfocused on… something else at the time.

Your aggravated tone cut through his body like a freshly sharpened steel blade, noticing the way your face scrunched up once more at finding he hadnt heard you the first time. 

“I said, what did you do to your eye markings?”

“H-huh?!” he stuttered out, only to internally slap himself as he took a moment to process the question, “I- I just.. smeared some mushed up black berries on m-my cheek..”

It was embarrassing to admit such a thing, especially considering his right hand is still sticky with its pigmented juice, droplets dripping from his fingers. He had half a mind to lick them up, sucking on the digits just to gauge your reaction as you watched him so intensely. No! Bad, bad Izuku! Stop that! 

“I-I thought it could be.. like some sort of ink.. b-but I didn’t have any ink on me so- so I grabbed some berries..”

“Is that why you smell so sweet? I was tempted to lick your cheek for a minute there.” Confessing that, you ended the conversation by spinning around and walking on. Delays were never good, especially since you didn’t have all day, and you definitely wanted to sleep in your own room tonight. The guest one was.. a bit too stuffy for your liking.

He followed you, huffily licking at the juice covering his hand and ignoring the stickiness coating his lips and cheeks.

Next time, he would be sure to use a sort of paint or something. At least then it could be marked off as some sort of fashion trend and not actual tattoos. After all, what innocent man had tattoos?

Of course, for his kind, they were common and apart of your identity, but here? It was a symbol of bad luck it seemed. Impurity. Not that he wasnt impure.

“Walk faster!” You called back to him, alerting the green-haired man lost in his thoughts that he had been walking too slow.

“C-coming!”

It wasnt too long before you had finally reached the entrance to the village, taking a moment to look over the old wooden arch covered in vines before walking past. Your sandals, as well as his own, clopped against the cobblestone road.

Though it was early morning, and the sun was barely even awake, townsfolk were already bustling through the place. Kids were running around barefoot, doing chores or having fun, farmers were wheeling in their goods in squeaky carts, calling out for business, and shops were being opened.

Distantly, you could hear the crackle of a fire and smell the pungent scent of meat being cooked sweets being baked in the air, only making you drool at the thought of consuming something so tasty after eating home-grown vegetables for so long.

The village was dead silent at night but in the morning? It was warm and welcoming, filled with friendly, smiling faces and gossiping mothers as they hung clothes out to dry.

You swore you could even hear the light picking at an instrument and the barking of dogs far off on the other side of town.

Birds chirped happily in the sky, singing their age-old songs as they searched for someone to love.

It truly was a breath of fresh air, the friendly atmosphere far different than the much quieter one in the mountain.

You missed it.

You were convinced for a while the reason you stayed away so long was to quite literally teach a demon manners, but you were quick to regret your mistake upon reentering this world. The energy of the place stabbed at your heart, and your fingers itched with the desire to stay here for as long as possible. Perhaps even buy some bread while youre here. Heaven knows you need more ingredients, and with the jingle of the pouch you carried ringing in your ear with every step, you were reminded you could actually afford it for once.

Sure, cooking and chopping vegetables was alright, a fun pass time that brought you comfort and worth, but damn did you miss being lazy for a change.

Besides, you now had the manpower to carry quite a lot, right?

Speaking of, that same demon was currently hiding behind you, hands clutching at your kimono sleeve as his shy face barely peeked out from behind your head.

“Are.. you alright?” you asked hesitantly, worried that perhaps he was scared or something set off some sort of weird sixth scent.

“I-i’m okay..! T-there's just so many people around.. I’m.. a bit..” he trailed off, looking down at his feet once more.

“Shy.” you concluded, nodding your head in understanding.

This was the first time he would be around other humans besides yourself, so it made sense why he was a bit timid.

In all honesty, it just made him even cuter and less threatening, not that he ever truly was as you came to realize the more you got to know this fluffy boy.

That's not to say it didn't also fill you with a motherly need to protect him, or perhaps it was pride. Either way, your cheeks couldn't help but flush with him being so close, a reaction you still were trying to get used to, despite being up close and personal not ten minutes ago. Then again, that was on your terms, wasn’t it? This? This was certainly out of the blue. So it made sense.

Walking along, you waved to the occasional person, a plethora of “good morning!”’s and “I’m alright, how are you?” fleeing from your person with each minimal interaction. It was a blessing no one has yet to question who the mysterious stranger with dripping berry juice on his face was, but it certainly made a lot of people stop in their tracks and look your way.

How flustering… you thought to yourself as you pushed on, eventually grabbing Izuku’s wrist and pulling him along with you.

“The shop is just down here.” you told him, to which he nodded his head, far too shy to speak. Hell, you were sure he was close to chewing his own clothes from nerves at this point with that look of hesitation, fear, and child-like curiosity in his eyes.

It wasn't hard to miss the way his head whipped around, taking in the new environments with near open arms, visually studying each and every object he saw, but never asking a question about it, almost as if he was afraid speaking with glee and wonder would cause too much of a ruckus, attracting even more attention.

You had no doubts he would drown you in them once you got back home, or maybe even in a few minutes if something utterly mind-blowing caught his attention, but for now, you had to focus on gathering things.

You had eventually made it to the repair shop, full intentions on buying the wood needed to replace the frame, as well as a new window covering. It was old and damn near rotting off the wall anyway, it truly was needed.

Though it certainly was unusual to have such a thing in a bedroom where someone could easily break-in. But it was the mountains, so there wasn’t much to fear. After all, who in their right minds would wander a forest in the middle of the night just to break into a poor woman’s home?

Leaving Izuku to stay outside to collect himself as he shook like a leaf in the wind, you stepped inside the open shop, immediately greeted with the smell of freshly chopped wood and burning embers, a fire burning in the back no doubt. This was a supply shop for home repair, after all.

“Ah! Little Miss (L/N)! I haven't seen you in a while, my dear. Where have you been?” An elderly grandfather emerged from the back, hand pressed to the wall to lean against it. For his age, he was surprisingly in stable conditions, no doubt from the strenuous work he’d done all his life.

It was hard to forget that the elders here always had an eye open, so naturally, he would be the first to question your sudden disappearance when given a true chance. So far you’d only seen people your age and children out and about doing deeds for the older folk and earning their dinner.

Just as you were about to answer, you were cut off, “Oh? Who’s this?”

Not bothering to glance back, already knowing full well it was the curious Izuku who finally manage to swallow his anxieties and peak in, “He’s-” 

“A ninja!” he exclaimed, jumping to your side excitedly as you huffed in irritation at being cut off two times in a row.

It certainly was odd that he spoke out so enthusiastically, considering he had been nothing but reluctant to speak the entire time you were in the village, but what was even more shocking was how he continued the plan of referring to him as a ninja.

A stupid plan you now came to realize, sounding out of place. You should’ve gone with a better idea and not have acted so cockily when you came up with it on the spot.

Oh, the familiar feeling of regret.

It was strange though, especially since you were sure he was against the idea in the first place, so why had he gone along with it?

Truly, you couldn't exactly care less. This was his mess now.

“A.. ninja.?” Furukawa, the old man, questioned, giving the both of you a perplexed look. “We haven't seen one around these parts since I was a but boy. What is a ninja doing here of all places? A meek little village like this?”

Oh. That’s right.

You had forgotten they didn't thrive out here in the country, but in the city and for generals leading wars.

What was a ninja doing out here indeed.  Boy were you not bright when it came to thinking on the spot.

Leaning back and crossing your arms, you decided to let the excited demon explain for you, since you certainly hadn't a clue what to say.

“I’m here for no particular reason, sir! I had gotten lost in the mountains during that thunderstorm a few weeks back, and I just so happened to stumble upon the (L/N)’s home. I was lucky she was willing to take me in, for I had injured myself and needed time to heal. I truly owe her my life, for I doubt I would have been able to find a safe place to rest and recover that night if not for her generosity. I vowed to return the favor, and you know ninjas, never one to break a promise, and so I am here to help gather things to repair something I had broken. Though I’m sure we have bad rep around these parts nowadays, I assure you I have no intention of harming anyone. I vowed to protect the innocent, and that is what I will do! I’ll fight the evil of these lands with my own two-!”

You snapped him out of his rambling by gripping at his arm, surprised at how he had managed to come up with what  to say so quickly. Hell, his eyes were even hardened with determination. He was very convincing. 

It definitely made you suspicious of what his true intentions were, if he actually wanted to be a ninja of all things or if he was playing a part and not realizing the potential consequences.

Oh well?

What was even more surprising was how the old man wept, dramatically wiping his aged, teary eyes. “Oh, you good man! We need more men like you around here! My son is a lazy lump of bricks who won’t even help out around here”

“I am here now! Allow me to assist whenever!” Izuku stated righteously, fist raised high and mighty.

At this point, you were just a background character in some sort of weird show as these two practically danced around each other with declarations and tears.

Shaking your head, you quickly cut them off, needing to get things done today and not mess around any longer, “I was wondering if you had the material for a new window?”

“Oh! A window!”

“Yes.. I need a replacement for the one he had broken.”

“You youngsters are always breaking windows these days..” he complained, wiping at his brow before hobbling to the back again.”One moment please.”

Nodding, despite him not even seeing, you waited patiently in near awkward silence, teetering back and forth on your wooden heels.

“Did I uh..” the green-haired man's apprehensive whisper barely caught your ear, “did I go overboard, you think?”

That question was enough to bring giggles bubbling out over your throat, only for him to frantically wave his arms about in front of you, “I-i’m serious!”

Your giggles soon turned into laughs, only making his cheeks redden from embarrassment before he wrapped his arms around his head.

“Just,” you wheezed, “Just a bit, Midoriya.”

You weren’t used to being near people so passionate and enthusiastic about things, especially things made up. It was peculiar and yet it still brought a grin to your face.

Groaning, he looked off to the side, waiting patiently for the old man to return and to end his suffering as you continuously poked at his rosy cheek.

“I think you’d make a great ninja.” you whispered in his ear, breath tickling his skin and making baby hairs stand on end as you leaned over his crouched form, his hands resting on his knees as if to calm himself, unknowingly leaving him wide open for teases he deserved after what had happened the day before.

Gulping down the lump of nervousness in his throat, ridding himself of thoughts he shouldnt be having again, his head whipped back to look at you, eyes glimmering with excitement, “Ah, really?!” 

You were unsure of how he would become one, but, “Yes.” you smiled gently, knowing full well already that he could do anything he set his mind to, a stubborn yet determined man he was.

“No kanoodlin in my shop!” Furukawa had suddenly appeared, damn near hitting the two of you upside the head with a stick.

You were quick to pay him for the materials, nearly tripping over yourself with giggles as Izuku looks nothing short of terrified with how the elderly man glared at him, no doubt piercing through his meek soul. Once you finished loading and securing the supplies in the shoulder bag, you grabbed two of his fingers before pulling him out of the shop with a friendly wave towards the grouchy old man who begrudgingly waved back.

A horse trotted in front of the both of you as you walked out, a loud wagon filled with hay creaking behind it as you continued on down the road in the opposite direction.

“That was.. nerve wracking..” Izuku sighed, one hand clutching the strap to the bag tightly whilst the other goes back to holding your sleeve, no longer cowering behind you as he openly gawks at the abundance of people strolling through the area, as well as eyeing up all the animals wandering about and making all sorts of noises.

“It was a pretty typical interaction to me,” you confessed, shrugging nonchalantly as he groans heavily.

“Are we heading back now?” he questioned, itching to beg you to let him stay if just for a bit longer. He was excited about being out like this, reading many stories revolving around normalities such as these. He had never experienced such a thing before, and it was thrilling, to say the least.

He felt as if he was on cloud nine, observing so many new things and being up close to other things he thought he would never get to see or touch, or, well, smell.

It was as if he himself was in one of the many books he’d read, skipping happily through each page as his wings twitched beneath the fabric with excitement, luckily covered up by the large sack of supplies.

He didn’t want to leave, but he would if you didn't like the idea of staying.

He could always come back with you another time, after all.

But damn did the prospect of going home at this moment dampen his cheery mood. Hell, he could even feel his wings pressed against him droop from inside the kimono at the prospect of doing so.

He was really hoping you wouldn't say yes.

He’d cross his fingers if he could.

“No.”

“Ah, well alright.. we can come back another time right?" It was as if he didn't hear you, too used to being put down and denied that happiness swelling inside his chest.

He continued to walk forward, head bowed down as he stared sadly at the rocks only to be yanked back as your hand slapped onto his wrist for the third time that day. He could get used to that if he was being honest.

He looked back at you, staring blankly as he tried to figure out why you had stopped and why you were giving him such a baffled look.

Had he done something wrong?

Said something wrong?

Or maybe his mere presence had annoyed you.

He hadn't the slightest clue, and he could only helplessly stare at you as he awaited a reason as to why you stopped, heartbeat hammering in his chest and fear squeezing his lungs, rendering him unable to speak.

You raised your eyebrow in question, and that's when it hit him like a rock.

You had said no, not yes!

Oh geez!

That sounds so backwards honestly!

“A-ah! I’m sorry! Oh, I thought y-you said yes!” he screeched, fumbling over his words and inwardly fighting himself at being so stupid.

He was about to go on and ramble out an apology, his nerves strangling him alive, but you had easily cut him off, “It’s alright, don’t worry about it, okay? We’re going to stay out and about for a bit longer. I wanted to show you some things, and get some ingredients if you don’t mind?"

Not that you would really give him the option to mind, besides- you knew that far off look in his eyes too well, it was the same look of wonder in your own eyes when you were a child.

It truly was endearing, you couldn't help but want to indulge in it for a bit, even if you were going to be doing other things anyway.

To hell with putting the window up this evening, perhaps the next. For now, you just wanted a break from having to train a demon by- well. Informing one instead.

“Really!” he exclaims, face immediately lighting up, dimples appearing on his cheeks as he smiled. He's suddenly jumping for joy, shoes making a loud clacking noise that catches the attention of village-folk once again, much to your introverted horror. “Y-you have places you want to show me!? O-oh gosh! Can we go see them now? Oh, there are so many things I want to see here! So many things I’ve read about!”

“Midoriya..” you called out to him hopelessly, wanting to calm him down.

“I want to see a bakery!! To- to smell the freshly baked bread and pastries! I can smell them right now,” he sniffed at the air, eyes slipping closed for a second, tongue poking out as he drooled, “they- they smell so good! I’ve always wondered how they mix ingredients together and fire them to make something so delicious.. How do they know what ingredients to use? How did they find those ingredients? I want to know! Do they memorize how to do it, you think??! And, and a blacksmiths shop! Swords are forged from fire, it sounds so magical, but there must be logic of some kind behind it! Logic I don’t quite understand yet but want to! I want to see it in action, know how they’re made in the first place. It’s from melting rocks right? Or, or metal?! How do they shape the swords? Which material and technique is best to use for the best result? Is that loud banging the making of swords right now? Or something else?”

“Midoriya…”

“Is there a library around here? No, no I guess there wouldn't be one here.. books? I want to know all about the culture of these lands, in more detail! I, I want to see how people's minds work, how they write their feelings or facts down on pages. You can learn a lot from a person based on how they tell a story, you know! Oh!  And I also-!”

He excitedly jabbered on, drawing laughter and gleeful smiles from the people as they passed, only fueling to the heat on your cheeks as they whispered about the cute, excited man rambling on about different aspects of regular life. It was almost too much to understand or even comprehend, let alone answer all in one go. His words were flying over your head from how fast he was speaking.

And so, you simply stood there, off to the side of the road, wringing your hands together as you let him express his pure delight with an abundance of words.

He was a curious person like you’d thought to yourself before, that was for sure.

It got to the point where you were sure nearly five or so minutes had passed, and you didn't want to see how long this could go on for.

Because you knew it could go on for a long while, having been with him for a few weeks now. 

It was a loveable habit of his, one that he always was quick to shut himself up for and apologize profusely, which always pulled at your heartstrings. He had clearly been put down in his past for being so wild, curious, and excited, and that was nothing short of saddening.

You didn't want him to feel like he couldn't talk, or ask questions, hell, even be enthusiastic like he always was. It brought a hint of sugar and spice to your plain life.

So, perhaps another time, but in front of a multitude of onlookers, ready to prod into your lives from how hard they were staring? Absolutely not, unfortunately.

Grabbing his sleeve, you yanked at his, successfully pulling him from his thoughts as his focus snapped over to where your hand was, “Huh?” he asked obliviously, turning to look at you with a tilted head but still cheery smile, green bangs brushing over his eyebrows, making you want nothing more than to sweep them away from his face.

Physical contact, as you learned, was always a better way to get him to focus rather than to snap him from his thoughts with words of your own. Words always made him flinch back and shut himself off, but soft touches somehow never did, keeping the same energy he started with even as he looked at you with wonder. It would often make you wonder why he flinched, or reacted in such a heartbreaking way whenever you’d cut him off with your own words, perhaps an untold story from his past waiting to be unraveled or kept under lock and key. Some things were best not to remember, after all.

Though he told you he was happy to be gone from the place he never truly considered home, you still held some minor doubts.

It was always the kind ones who smiled the brightest like a star in the sky that had the most to hide.

“Do you want to go and experience some of those things that you mentioned? I’m pretty hungry myself, so we could try a bakery right now if you would like? The one here is owned by a nice family, recipes passed down for generations. They got a pretty good grasp of things”

His brows quickly flew up, momentary shock flashing in his eyes before being covered by embarrassment, he had just now realized he rambled on. A momentary delay it seemed.

“S-sure.. eheh..” he chuckled nervously, hand squeezing the bags strap tightly once again as he used his other hand to wrap around his torso. He certainly was bashful for someone who was ‘bred from darkness’, if that red on his cheeks and how he avoided eye contact were anything to go by.

“Let’s go, then.” placing your hand on the much larger one glued to his side, you slowly peeled it away before gingerly holding it, ignoring the stuttered gibberish that trickled from his mouth at the action as you led him to the place that made saliva drip from his mouth.

At the end of the day, you were walking home on sore feet, arms clutching at a flimsy woven basket someone graciously gave you for free containing foods you needed to stock up on.

Izuku, on the other hand, was practically skipping, words flowing from his lips like a waterfall as he reviewed what he learned today, occasionally looking over at your tired form to make sure you were alright. He had offered multiple times to carry the basket, even going as far as trying to grab it, but you refused, wanting to do so yourself since he was now carrying a basket and a bag of his own.

Stubborn, ironically, was the way he described you with a pouty lip, and you had to agree.

It truly was a shame you weren't able to put the new window today, considering you wanted to sleep in your own room, but there was always tomorrow. For now? You were exhausted.

So much so you weren't even sure you could cook dinner.

Demons sure did have a lot of unrelenting energy. You were being dragged around all day, only leading a few times to the places you wished to show him- you didn't even get to show him everything due to his mind moving faster than either one of you could keep up.

Once making it back to the house, you managed to convince the energetic guy to at least continue wearing his hakama after he threw off his hat and the top of his kimono, successfully freeing his wings.

Things on the floor, he gets on his hands and knees, stretching his arms and back out like a cat, his wings flapping out like a birds as he flexed the poor things.

It was horrible how he had to stuff them in his clothing all day, and it truly did make you feel bad, knowing he must have held a form of discomfort all day, hiding it seamlessly.

Perhaps you could buy more clothes for him next time, or even fabric to weave together a kimono made solely for him. 

That would take a long while, but it would be cute, right?

You didn't want him to be uncomfortable in his own home.

You stopped in your tracks as this thought crossed your mind, a perplexed expression making its way onto your tired face, when had you started referring to this house as his home as well?

Had you grown so accustomed to him already that when thinking of this place, or where he lives, this old house comes to mind?

Or did your loneliness fight your conscious to bring forth such a thought out of comfort?

For the first time in years, you weren't alone. You haven't thought much about it until this moment and in a tired state of mind no less.

It was confusing, especially considering you didn't even know when you had started picking up the habit.

Looking back at him, your mouth fell from its straight-lined self to that of awe, your eyes reflecting the same thing.

The golden rays of a honey sunset dripped in through the open door, illuminating the man covered in scars, freckles and tattoos from behind, kissing at his soft, smooth skin and wrapping him in a cocoon of ease and light as he sat there, bathing in the warmth it provided.

His eyes were closed, wings relaxed and hands resting on his thighs as he took the moment in, inhaling deeply as a breeze filtered in, making his curls sway ever so slightly in a mesmerizing way.

Despite what he was or what he used to be, only one word came to your mind as you gazed at hi, ‘angelic.’

You couldn't find it in yourself to be afraid, for all you saw at this moment was a smiling man happily enjoying himself after a long day of bouncing off the walls.

You couldn't stop staring, even if it was rude, his presence enrapturing in the sweetest of ways.

You felt your own body warming at the sight, an innocent blush dancing on your cheeks, only to deepen as his eyes fluttered open, scanning the room, just to fall on you.

His pupils were back to their familiar, snake-like state, but yet they held so much compassion and kindness as if they were just as human as yours were, despite being entirely different.

Neither of you said anything, just staring into each other’s eyes in a way that should've felt weird or awkward.

But nothing about this felt awkward, in fact, it felt natural.

Like you were meant to be entranced by those addicting pools of green, glimmering with the yellows bouncing off the walls just to show your own silhouette in them. It was like staring into a never-ending forest with vines that wanted nothing more than to wrap you in a secure hug, branches of trees filled with fresh leaves swaying in the calming wind behind you as the scent of salt from the creek not too far away made you relax in their embrace.

You weren't aware how long the both of you stared at each other, but one thing was for sure, neither of you minded it, his own smile and reassurance in his gaze is enough to wash away any concerns.

The sudden loud calling of a bird snapped you out of your trance, attention flickering to the door just to see two birds chatting with each other.

“(Y/N)?” he had called out, voice laced with concern but dripping with sugary sweetness and desperation that was all too much to handle after such an intense moment, despite it just being eye contact.

But then again, the eyes were the doorway to the soul, weren't they? And it felt like much more than just that.

Regardless, you turned, ignoring his calls as you rushed to your room, hurriedly closing the door just to slide down it.

Hand clutching at the fabric above your beating heart, you just now noticed how your breath was caught in your throat, and how your heart was hammering wildly.

You breathed heavily, running fingers through your wild hair as you fought to make sense of what just happened.

The truth was, you didn't know.

[incorrect-julie-and-the-phantoms]

Willie helping Alex with a panic attack

Hi!!! This fic also used some quote prompts from @jatfaaw.

TW there is an explicit anxiety attack described here so please if that upsets you do not read! 

You can read the fic below the cut to you can click here to read on AO3.

my shoulders are small, but you can cry on them too

Pairing: Alex/Willie, Willex

Tags: Fluff, anxiety attacks, first kiss, getting together

Summary:

After the events of the finale, Alex has an anxiety attack.

Alex scratched at where the mark used to be. It hadn’t seemed real at the time, even as each sharp pang sapped his very existence. It had all seem so surreal. What it meant. How it was slowly sucking the energy out of him, all because of something he couldn’t control.

Now that it was gone, it all was hitting him at once. All he had been able to do was watch as his two best friends went through the same agony, looking like they were dying all over again. It brought back painful memories of feeling like he was burning from the inside out as his two best friends lay next to him in the ambulance, dead. The consequences of Alex being excited to show off his ghost friend, Willie, to his band.

Speaking of Willie, Alex felt a pain in his chest at the realization that whatever feelings he had for the boy didn’t matter now. Even if by some miracle Willie liked him back, there was no way they could do anything about it., what with Willie being held hostage by the same person who had done this to his friends. Willie was probably in the same danger that they had been in, and being friends with him probably would put him in more danger.

The thoughts swam around in his head, coming faster as he felt his heart beating faster. My best friends were dying. I was dying. All my fault. Willie. All my fault. My best friends were dying –

He felt tears welling up at the corner of his eyes and spilling over as he choked for air. Alex teleported, not wanting his bandmates to see him like this, to some alleyway. His breathing was coming faster now as he scratched at the mark in an increasing franticness. He backed up against the wall sinking to the ground as he tried to get it under control.

It was ridiculous, seeing as how he was a ghost, but he started to feel lightheaded from hyperventilating. His fingers and toes tingled and his vision went spotty. Alex was aware in some abstract manner that his face was wet with tears but he couldn’t care less in that moment.

Alex wasn’t sure how long he was out there, alone in the cold he couldn’t feel, until a set of hands gripped his own. He wasn’t even sure how long that the hands had been there until he gradually became aware of their existence through the haze of his panic. His vision was out of focus but he heard a voice speaking to him, just barely catching the end of the sentence.

“–lex. Hey look at me, focus on me.” The familiar voice sounded as if it was underwater. Alex struggled to follow his instructions but his vision was blurred from oxygen loss and tears. “ Come on Alex,” the voice continued, “I’m gonna count, I need you to breathe with me, okay? In, two, three, four… hold six, seven, eight. Out, two, three, four… hold six, seven, eight.”

Alex fought to catch his breath and breathe with the soothing voice. He felt one of the hands release his own and move to the back of his neck, rubbing soothing circles with each word. After a period of choking, Alex managed to start to breathe in time with the person’s command, struggling to not slip back into his hyperventilating state.

“Great job, I’m proud of you,” the voice reassured him as Alex slowly calmed himself down. “Easy does it.”

The unfortunate side effect of being able to breathe, was now his body was able to catch up with just how upset he had been before the anxiety attack. Alex moved his hands to cover his face as the first sob wracked through his body.

The boy in front of him cursed and Alex felt, rather than saw, him move to pull him into a tight hug. An arm wrapped around his shoulder as another moved to cup the back of his head, easing Alex into a position where he was crying on this stranger’s shoulder.

As Alex buried his sobs into the poor guy’s shirt he caught the familiar smell of asphalt and something else, something he had smelled when he gave Willie that goodbye hug before the Orpheum concert. Now Alex knew why the voice sounded familiar.

He looked up into a set of concerned brown eyes which incited another rise of anxiety in his chest. What was Willie doing here? Didn’t he know how dangerous this was? He had already put so much on the line just helping them with the Orpheum. Didn’t Willie know how dangerous it would be to speak to him? Didn’t–

“We’re gonna play a game, okay Alex?” Willie spoke, cutting through his thoughts. He pulled back to cup Alex’s cheek.

“Yeah?” Alex asked, wincing at how raspy his voice sounded.

“Name five things you can see for me.”

“What?” He wasn’t sure how that was relevant to the situation. “Why.”

“Humor me.”

Letting out a grumble of annoyance, Alex scanned the alley around him. “The penis graffiti, the garbage bin, the other penis graffiti, your skateboard, your helmet.” You, Alex’s mind unhelpfully added.

“Alright, now four things you can feel?”

“The ground, my clothes, the breeze, the bottle poking my back.” Your hand on my face.

“Three things you can hear?”

“Some kids shouting, my heart beating, whatever annoying bug is chirping in the garbage bin.” Your voice.

“Two you smell?”

“Rotten food and the hot dog cart down the street.” Asphalt.

“One thing you can taste.”

“My mouth?” Alex answered uncertainly. ‘Would be nice if I could taste your tongue too,’ his brain chimed in unhelpfully. Alex felt his face burn red at his thoughts. Even in the middle of an anxiety attack, Willie was all he could focus on.

Except, Alex frowned as he brought his hand to his chest, his heart wasn’t going quite as crazy as before and he didn’t feel like bursting into tears again. He looked up at Willie’s face in confusion.

“Feel better?” Willie asked softly. He lowered his hand from Alex’s face, leaning away from him. Alex tried to ignore the answering flare of disappointment.

“Yeah, surprisingly.” He ducked his eyes away from Willie’s concerned gaze, embarrassed at being seen like that. “How did you find me?”

Willie looked down at his hands and fiddled them sheepishly. “Honestly?” He asked, avoiding Alex’s gaze.

“Honesty is preferable yeah.” With a small sigh, Willie flicked his gaze up, causing Alex’s breath to catch in his throat at the grief darkening his normally warm brown eyes.

“I saw you disappear at the Orpheum and assumed you passed over,” Willie answered nervously, “so I went to Julie to make sure she was okay, then I saw you.” Willie looked down and fiddled with his hands.

“That still doesn’t explain why you followed me.”

Willie dropped his hands, looking up at Alex through his lashes. “I thought I would never see you again,” he spoke softly. “But there you were, and I couldn’t...” Willie trailed off.

“Couldn’t what?” Alex pressed.

“I couldn’t…” Willie hesitated again. “I was too scared that if I let you out of my sight that you would disappear, and that I would wake up from this wonderful dream where you were still in the same world as me.”

Alex’s breath caught in his chest at those words and a swarm of butterflies were fluttering in his chest. Did Willie mean what he thought he meant? Was this?...

“Willie,” Alex said quietly, “Willie you can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not,” Willie insisted. “Alex, I thought I lost you and those couple hours were the worst hours of my life, and I died .” Alex tried to duck his head, overwhelmed, but Willie reached his hand up to cup his face, “you make my world stop Alex Mercer.”

‘But Caleb…” Alex trailed off, chest tightening as joy and despair warred inside him. He needed to warn Willie, tell him about what could happen if they were seen together, Willie should especially know how dangerous it was.

“To hell with Caleb!” Willie cursed suddenly, causing Alex to jump a little. “If you want me gone, then tell me. But to have even a small chance to be with you,” Willie reached down to grip Alex’s hands, a hopeful smile spreading across his face. “I would go up against that psycho alone.”

Alex stared at him silently. He wracked his brain for a response other than ‘please make out with me now thank you’ or ‘hnngh?’ As the silence stretched on from his inability to speak, Willie’s grip loosened and the hopeful smile dimmed from his face. Still at a loss for what to say, Alex blurted out his next words.

“Oh my god, you really did hit your head hard didn’t you?” Whatever was left of the smile on Willie’s face disappeared into a hurt expression. “A simple ‘no’ would have been fine,” he pouted. He moved to stand up. “I’m sorry for springing that on you, I guess I’ll just...” Willie pointed his thumb towards the entrance to the alley.

Alex stared as the guy he was halfway in love with moved to leave. No no no no no, this was definitely not what he wanted. He leaped to his feet and lunged for Willie’s wrist, turning him around to face him. As the other boy stared back at him in bewilderment Alex realized how shaky his legs were. Whether it was from the anxiety attack or what he was about to do next, he wasn’t sure.

“Idiot,” Alex breathed out before leaning in to press his lips against Willie.

As far as first kisses went, it wasn’t bad. Willie was too shocked to respond, but Alex really liked him so at the first touch the butterflies went mental in his chest and his brain definitely was giving off some happy hormones.

Alex leaned away, breathless with nerves, as he stared at Willie’s face. The boy’s expression was almost comical, eyes wide with shock and mouth falling open in surprise. Alex stared at him, waiting for him to respond.

The mouth slowly turned upward into a smile, and Willie reached up to run his hand through Alex’s hair. “Yeah,” he said in a tone that was almost reverent, “but I guess if I’m your idiot it’s okay though.” And at that, he leaned forward to capture Alex’s mouth in a kiss again.

As far as Alex was concerned, this was the best second kiss in history.

[celosiaa]

the truth is like blood underneath your fingernails (chapter 2 - end)

Summary: Love, Hunger, pain, anxiety.

Jon feels it all at once in the wake of statement withdrawal, and can hardly bear it.

(Chapter 1 here)

CW: panic attacks, use of exercise as a form of self injury, self-hatred, language

(Jon’s thoughts are formatted in italics.  The Eye speaks in glitched text.)

tag list: @urbanpineapplefarmer @transcendentalbf

7am.

The morning sun begins to creep into their room, spilling over their blankets and onto the floorboards in a stark white glow. Though the birds begin to wake up at the sight, the frost on the window tells Jon that they will soon fly south for the winter, if the majority haven’t already. He hadn’t managed to sleep at all last night—he had cradled Martin into the early hours of the morning, long after his tears had subsided into snores. Eventually, though, the sensation simply grew too much for his overwrought nerves. Now, as he sits against the headboard in the cold daylight, even the blanket is beginning to grate on him.

God, this is miserable.

Looking over at Martin, Jon can tell he’s still going to be dead asleep for quite some time, perhaps even hungover when he does awaken. The now-familiar twinge of guilt grips him as his eyes pass over the puffiness of his face, the lids of his eyes still reddened with the tears of the night before. Shaking his head in rising fury at himself, he wants nothing more than to have what they did in their first few weeks of living at the cottage—just to hold him, effortlessly, lovingly as the day passes by in a quiet warmth.

But now Jon is starting to think that this trembling through his body will never stop. Everything in him is screaming at him to get up, to move move move just to get the cursed buzz of the static down to something manageable. It’s too much—it’s all too much, and the gnawing hunger begins to eat away at him, threatening to reach out for Martin’s sadness, for his pain—

I’ve got to move.

I’ve got to run run run run

When his breathing begins to pick up speed, Jon knows he can’t risk staying here any longer. He glances apologetically at Martin before rising as carefully as possible from the bed, taking extra care not to jostle him or to step on the creaking floorboards as he makes his exit. Descending to the main floor, his movements pick up urgency as he pulls on his running clothes, knee brace, and trainers—hands trembling almost too violently to tie the laces. He nearly bolts from the room as he finishes at last, anxiety pulsing and swelling into some nightmarish thing, before he thinks to write a note to Martin, in case he wakes up and finds him gone.

He cannot risk Martin thinking that he’s left him.

Can’t imagine anything worse than that.

Scribbling quickly onto an old receipt, he slides it across the table and makes a break for the door.

---

Exhilarating and excruciating: that’s how Jon would describe this general sensation. At this point, he finds himself beginning to revel in the pain that shoots down his leg with every step, knowing he’s deserving of it, knowing it will distract him for as long as he can just keep going.

And that, well…that he can do.

He runs until his feet grow numb, until his chest no longer feels like a gaping wound, until his mind is utterly clear and for once—for once—the Eye closes. Unable to hold back the elation this brings him, he allows an awful screeching laughter to burst from his throat, smile wide and clenched tight as he keeps running—far further than he’s ever run from their cottage, unwilling to face the terrible truth that no amount of distance he runs could ever be far enough to satisfy him. For now, for these few moments—Jon revels in a freedom he hasn’t felt since this entire nightmare began.

But of course, all things good and free must come to an end—this time, it comes in the form of a rainstorm. The first drop that hits Jon’s arm sends a spark of lightning through him, his cursed skin so sensitive to any disturbance now that the steadily falling droplets feel like being pelted with small stones. Spilling over him in a deluge, the magnitude of abuse he’s just put his body through drags his feet to a stop—limbs trembling so violently that he barely remains upright as he does so.

Damn it all damn it all

Jon knows in this moment, gasping desperately in the downpour, that if does not keep moving, he will be unable to start again—and god knows if anyone would ever find him out here.

S̚t̂oͣp̾ͥ ̩̿m͉̹o̫̍̿v̘̫ͤi͙̳̍n̻ͬ̎ġ̞̩ͦ ̯̯̞͍a̫͙͗͛ṅ͍̽ͭḋ̥͉͛ ̱͔ͧ̎y͚͉͛ͦō̟̋̚ȕ̩̗̭'̝̔͗ͩlͦͤ͋̾l̳͖͈̒ ̘͆̔̔s͋̉͑͌ț̹̌͆o͙ͦͩ͌p͈̫̯ ̠̺̐b̟̌͋r̳̋ͨė̪a͓͗tͦ̚h͔̄i̗nͭg͌,, some cruel and terrifying voice from within him says with glee.

Everything in him screams at him to collapse as he picks up one shaking foot, instead jogging himself back into a run in the direction of home, the light shower quickly becoming a storm.

---

Jon will never know exactly how, but he makes it back to the cottage, forced to take the last half-mile or so at a miserable limping pace. Breaths heaving with an audible wheeze, his vision comes in and out of focus as he trudges up this final hill, drenched to the bone and aching aching aching. Through the grey rain-curtains, he can just barely see the outline of Martin sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for him to come home. At the sight, Jon can’t help but let out a cry of relief, thoughts flooded with nothing but Martin Martin Martin.

He must have heard Jon’s shout, for as soon as he walks a bit closer, Martin jumps to his feet—blanket falling free of his shoulders as his eyes widen in horror.

“Christ, Jon,” he yells, running out into the rain towards him.

Jon wants to cry out, tell him to turn back, he’ll get soaked—

Then everything begins to swirl sickeningly around him, and he can no longer tell which way is up.

“Oh, Christ,” he hears from somewhere far, far away—and he is suddenly encased in strong, warm arms.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, can you walk?” Martin says, barely audible above Jon’s own panicked breathing.

He tries to support himself for a brief moment, limbs shaking, before a violent pulse of static blacks out his vision and buckles his knees. With dim awareness, he feels himself being swept up into Martin’s arms near effortlessly, feels the rain hitting his face and neck and it hurts, God it hurts—

When he opens his eyes again, he’s being laid gently on the sofa, Martin muttering to him all the while.

“Alright, it’s alright, I’ve got you,” he repeats, voice thick and trembling as his eyes begin to scan Jon’s body for the source of the injury.

S̗̋e͓̹͋e̖͗̋̒ ̞͙̱̇ͫẅ͔̘̰͔̌̍h̳̙̙̯̋ͧ̿ȁ̟͔͖͕̱̌͌ť̹͓͍̝͕̗͂͗ ̦̫͈̽ͫ̄͊̍̚y͉̥̼̼̦͓̙ͤͬǒ͕͓̥̄ͣͥ̿ͅū͓̫͙̠ͭ̓ͯ'̬̮̤ͫ̓̒ͩ̅v̦͓͔͂͐͆̚e͕̝̤̬͓̮ ̥͙̍̐̉d̩͇̳͎o̻̗̽n͆e?

Static once more bursts through Jon’s mind, the Eye overwhelming his senses—head spinning, ears ringing, breaths picking back up into short and shallow gasps—

“Jon? Hey, are you with me? Are you hurt?”

Martin’s voice reaches him as though through many thick sheets of glass, nearly drowned out by the explosion currently taking place in Jon’s mind. As best as he can, he grabs hold of it, feels the weight of Martin’s hand on his arm, willing it to pull him from the depths—

The sounds of the cottage around him come back in a rush, the pounding rain echoing through his mind. Bending over him with eyes as wide as saucers is Martin, rain-soaked fringe hanging down over his panicked face.

God, look what I’ve done.

This is all you’re meant for

To hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt

“Jon? Are you with me, love?” he says shakily, brushing his damp hair away from his face with gentle hands.

Why do you love me why do you love me

It’s too much; it’s all too much. His wrenching breaths choke off quickly into sobs, an arm reaching up to drape over his eyes.

“Oh god, what’s happened, Jon? Where does it hurt?”

“I’m sorry, Martin—I’m s-so sorry—I ca—” he breaks off to gasp desperately for air, the oxygen in the room suddenly not enough to sustain him.

For a moment, Martin freezes—hands hovering above him in shock before he jumps into action.

“Okay, okay—J-Jon, you’re hyperventilating. It’s alright, just…just try to breathe with me, sweetheart, I’m right here with you. Let’s sit up, okay? Come on—” he soothes with a forced calm, gently pulling Jon up by the shoulders to sit with his feet on the floor.

“Head down by your knees, that’s it,” he continues, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, grounding him with a sturdy grip on his upper arms.

Jon reaches out to clutch at his shirt like it’s his only lifeline.

“That’s right, I’m right here,” Martin encourages, not letting up on his grip. “Just listen to my voice, and follow me back, okay?”

I don’t deserve him I don’t deserve him I don’t deserve him

Even with this panicked train of thought, the gentle music of Martin’s voice gives him something on which to focus—something warm, and loving, and home. His breaths begin to gradually slow; his pounding heart no longer audible in his ears—though he is left trembling and cold and so hungry.

“What’s happened, Jon? Is it your leg?”

I wish that more than anything.

Everything is still too much too much too much, and Jon buries his face in his hands, sniffling in the wake of his tears and shaking his head. Martin remains silent for a few moments, and Jon can feel his gaze boring into him—can feel him carefully considering what to do next.

Is he…afraid of me?

God.

“Hold on, I’ll get you a towel,” he murmurs at last, standing and walking quickly toward the bathroom.

As soon as he leaves the room, tears sting at Jon’s eyes again, and he’s too exhausted to do anything but let them roll freely down his cheeks. It’s been weeks since he’s felt himself able to cry, too distanced from his own emotions—but they feel neither relieving nor cathartic, the hot trails of them merely seeming to pull all his pain from within to the outside. Martin returns after a few moments, a glass of water and a bath towel in hand.

“Oh, darling,” he sighs tremulously, and Jon can hear at once that Martin is coming close to tears himself—the incredible strength of his own empathy drawing Jon’s pain onto himself.

He refuses to give in, however, seeming to steel himself for Jon’s sake as he begins to gently rub the towel over his sopping hair, his chest, his back—taking extra care over his unbelievably swollen leg before tossing it to the side. Job done as well as he can for now, he returns to sitting on the coffee table in front of Jon, their legs bumping together slightly.

“You’ve got to tell me what’s happened, Jon. You’re scaring me.”

Jon Knows it’s true, knows he has to tell him—but the words feel so heavy in his throat. After a few more moments of sitting in silence, Jon continuing to tremble in front of him, Martin pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over Jon’s shoulders. He then grips the edges of it lightly, leaning in to try to catch Jon’s gaze.

“Please, Jon. I’m begging you. Please tell me,” he murmurs desperately.

I’ve got to tell him.

He’s frightened, and I’ve got to tell him.

“You’ll hate me for it,” Jon warns in a whisper, head still drooping toward the floor.

At this, Martin sputters briefly, seemingly hurt by the very suggestion.

“Sweetheart, I—I very much doubt that,” he soothes gently, running his hands up and down Jon’s upper arms to warm him up.

You’re too good you’re too good you’re too good

Words spill from him in a rush, biting through the shame.

“I just…I-I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I…I can’t do anything because I’m so…” he chokes, breaking off with a sniff.

“…I’m so hungry, and I hate it,” he confesses at last, voice whittled down to a mere whisper.

“Hungry…?” Martin questions, head tilting in confusion for a moment before understanding dawns on him. “Oh, hungry. Right.”

Hearing the words in Martin mouth renews Jon’s shame at once, and the sobs bubble up in his chest once again.

“Hey hey hey, listen, Jon,” Martin says softly, keeping a gentle hold on his biceps. “When’s the last time you read one?”

At once, the shame becomes a hot knife, anger flaring like a beacon as he raises his voice.

“I don’t want it Martin, I can’t—”

“Jon—”

“I can’t bring anymore nightmares into the world. I just can’t. I-I won’t,” he shouts, bracing his hands against the couch cushions as he tries to stand—

And immediately goes down again, vision spinning and greying out, leaving him winded and silent.

The weight of what he’s just done comes crashing down on him, and he lifts one hand to cover his eyes—as if that could do anything to cover the magnitude of it.

God, what is wrong with me?

“Alright, just…just try to stay calm, okay? Here—” Martin says, ever patient, holding out the glass of water toward him.

When Jon takes it and brings it up to his lips, his hands shake so badly that Martin is forced to keep a hold on it as well.

“Christ, Jon,” he mutters under his breath, brow furrowing deeper with worry.

They sit in silence for a few moments after that, Martin placing a grounding hand on Jon’s good knee, just watching his heaving breaths which show no sign of easing. Jon can nearly hear the thoughts turning over in Martin’s mind, as he frantically considers what to do under an exterior of forced calm.

“Let me read you one,” he says at last, voice leaving little room for argument.

“No, I-I can’t—”

“You have to. You have to, Jon—just look at yourself.”

Jon drops his head again, staring at his knees as he can feel the tremors wracking his entire body.

“You’re ill, and this is the only way to treat it for now. I know you hate it, and I know how guilty it makes you feel but…if this is what it takes to keep you alive, then I will do it if you won’t. Because I love you, and I refuse to see you hurt.”

Tears begin to flow anew halfway through his words, the shaking growing even more violent with the awful realization that Martin is right. Jon does not reply, cannot make himself voice it—but does not try to stop him when he stands from the coffee table, collecting a statement from the folder sitting in the drawer of the end table. When he returns, he sits on the end of the sofa, reaching his arms out toward Jon’s shoulders.

“Here, lie down, love—just lie here, and I’ll read.”

Jon cannot find it in himself to refuse, slowly tilting his body to rest his head on Martin’s thigh. Pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, Martin cards a hand through Jon’s hair as he begins to read—sobs wracking his rail-thin frame even as he does. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries desperately not to hear it, tries not to See—but the Eye is relentless now, drinking in this stranger’s account of terror with elation. When Martin’s voice comes to a halt at last, he sets the statement down on the arm of the sofa, looking down toward Jon.

“I’m sorry, darling, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, bending over to plant a kiss on Jon’s forehead, resuming stroking his hair afterwards.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon can feel his insides beginning to knit back together. The godawful static is barely audible now, where it had roared in his ears just moments ago, and his stomach no longer feels like a hollowed-out cavern. Even so, he is disgusted with himself—for needing this, for feeling better afterwards—and most of all, for the nervousness he can still detect in Martin’s gentle ministrations.

He’s still frightened.

And I caused it.

Because that’s who I am, now.

…I’ve got to make this right.

He opens his eyes—warm hazel meeting aberrant green.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” he starts, voice hoarse and thick. “For all of this. I…I know I’ve hurt you, and it’s not right.”

Martin’s hands come to a stop, one coming to rest on his chest, the other cupping his face.

“This is why you’ve been running, isn’t it? And why we had the row yesterday—you were hungry?”

“It’s still my fault,” Jon corrects him quickly. “I won’t…I won’t try to deny that.”

Martin sighs, looking away for a moment to swallow down the bitter memory.

“Alright, but…I’m sure it didn’t help.”

“…no, it didn’t,” Jon is forced to admit in a whisper.

A few minutes pass by in silence, Martin resuming his gentle brushing through Jon’s hair as Jon holds his other hand close to his chest, willing the warmth to seep back into his bones. In—out, in—out—his breathing at last breaks even, his heart feeling lighter than it has in weeks. At last, Jon moves to sit up, bracing heavily on his arms and tipping his head on Martin’s shoulder with a groan.

“Still dizzy?” Martin asks quietly.

Jon hums his assent, allowing his eyes to flutter closed against it.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten? Actual food, I mean,” Martin continues, turning to face him with a start.

“Hmm. Not sure,” Jon mutters, burrowing into his shoulder.

Martin sighs, looking upwards briefly to shake his head before pulling Jon closer, wrapping his arms firmly around him.

“We’ll have to work on that,” he whispers, pressing a kiss into his hair before resting his chin on top.

In response, Jon turns his head slightly toward whatever bit of Martin is nearest him and presses a kiss upon it—drawing a soft huff of laughter from him, before he pulls Jon even closer and continues.

“I’m sorry this is so hard on you, darling. I know I can’t…I can’t truly understand. But from an outside perspective, you reading these statements to stay alive is just doing the best you can in an impossible situation, you know? And if everything goes right, if…if we can figure out how to end this, maybe the nightmares will be gone. Maybe you won’t have to do this anymore.”

Everything in him wants to rail against this optimism, this hopefulness—out of sheer terror that it couldn’t possibly be true. Nevertheless, without the static pulsing through him, he is able to bite his tongue—choosing instead to picture the future he knows is in Martin’s mind: one where they’re together, where they’re safe, where they can spend all their energy and time learning to love each other well.

A ghost of a smile passes over his face, and he turns to kiss Martin’s shoulder.

“I really hope you’re right,” he whispers.

“…you don’t think I am, though,” Martin replies, sorrow evident in his tone.

Oh, Martin.

It never ceases to amaze Jon how well Martin can read him—somehow able to infer his thoughts with no powers at all, without even looking at him.

“I’m…I’m trying to learn to hope,” Jon admits with all the honesty he can stomach, lifting his head to gaze into the warm depth of Martin’s eyes.

He’s sure there is no sight more gorgeous than the one right in front of him.

“You…you are my hope, Martin,” he murmurs, cupping his face with his hands. “You, and nothing else.”

The blush and sunny smile he draws onto Martin’s cheeks sparks a joy in his heart he has not felt for weeks.

“Cheesy,” Martin giggles, and Jon is done for.

He pulls him into a gentle kiss, slow and languid, cherishing Martin’s soft noise of pleasure when he strokes a hand through his faded curls. Though his battered body shakes with the effort of it, Jon pushes forward—wanting nothing more than to shower him with all the love he has to give. Seeming to sense his exhaustion, however, Martin breaks it off, tilting Jon’s forehead to rest against his own.

“I love you, you know. I don’t think I could ever stop loving you. Please…please tell me next time it’s getting bad, okay? So I can understand, and I can help you before you hurt yourself like this,” he chokes off, closing his eyes against rising tears. “It breaks my heart.”

“I know. I know, Martin, and I’m so sorry,” Jon replies, brushing their lips together briefly before returning to press their foreheads back together. “I’m sorry for everything—for not explaining, the yelling, the hurt, just—just all of it. I-I love you, and you deserve better than that—you deserve my best, and I haven’t given it to you, and I am so, so sorry.”

His voice trembles and breaks and fades into a whisper by the end, tears threatening to spill over once again—and they do when Martin plants a lingering kiss on his forehead, then pulls him to rest against his chest.

I love him I love him I love him

“You’re forgiven, Jon. You’re already forgiven.”

The weight that lifts from his chest at these words allows Jon to breathe for what feels like the first time in months. Curling up against the warmth of his body, both still shivering in the damp, they listen to the thunder outside—both fearing that the worst is yet to come, but strengthened in the knowledge that they will be together when it does.

[citruscisco2]

You. Are. A. Man!

Five Hargreevs x Trans!Male Reader

Plot: The reader is a transgender male who is struggling with body dysphoria and tries to deal with being reminded that he was once a female. Five is there to support him and remind him that the reader is indeed a man.

Author’s Note: To be honest, it felt weird writing this. I’m a female and I don’t feel like I should be writing this. I feel like someone with these actual experiences should write this. This is also why I’m turning to my friend Axel, who is transgender and having him help me write this. I would love to write more stuff like this in the future, so please send in more requests! Also, if you’re struggling with body dysphoria, please feel free to talk to me about what’s going on. I love you guys and I wanna help ya’ll! I love you guys and remember that you’re all special in your own way! Also go check out my Wattpad!

Warnings: BODY DYSPHORIA! Basically, if you’re sensitive to any content regarding transphobia I guess.

Requested: Yes by @rainbow-depresso-expresso​

Key: E/C = Eye color; B/T = Body type; S/C = Skin color

                                                         ⁂

     My chest ached at the feeling of my binder crushing the two lumps of fat that remained hanging on my body. Then again, it’s my fault for making it so tight, but I’ve been wearing it all day. I just wanted to look completely flat; is that too much to ask for? To be born with the correct body and to have people accept you for who you are? I just want to look how I was meant to be born; I wanted to be born a man. Is that too hard? Is it too hard to be accepted for who I want to be, who I was meant to be? I’m not harming anyone, yet only a handful of people in my life support me rather than everyone. These people are the only reason why I stay sane. They’re the only reason I haven’t given up my dream of having top surgery. Though, the topic of transitioning from female to male didn’t settle well with my parents.

   Here I am, standing in front of my body mirror with tears brimming my (E/C) eyes which were glaring at my (B/T) (S/C) body. I hate it. I hate my body. I hate every damn thing about it! I couldn’t even look at myself without feeling the dysphoria creeping up my back like it’s a damn spider. I can’t even look down without seeing the two lumps of fat on my chest and what lies between my legs, I can’t even tell my parents about what I’m feeling because I know what their views on transgender people, and they’re not positive.

     It hurts to know that you can’t become who you want to be; who you are meant to be. It fucking hurts to hear people call you something that you’re not and to be constantly reminded that you’re different, and when people think of different, they think, “Oh, that’s weird.” Weird eventually leads to people thinking the people or things that are weird as inferior to them. It’s beneath them. Do you know how much it hurts to hear your loved ones bash the people in your community just because they’re different and think that they’re weird? They say those things then turn right to you and tell you that they love you for who you are. No, they don’t, but then again, they don’t know I’m the very thing they despise.

     It’s scary to know they if they found out your secret, you’ll change right before their eyes into a hideous, mutated monster. They’ll kick you out, act like they don’t know you, humiliate you and force you to wear the clothes they want you to wear, and they’ll do whatever they can do to convince you it’s a phase and you aren’t who you think you are. I’m terrified of the day they remind me constantly of the things that make me what they want me to be.

     I’m so fucking insecure about how my shirt hugs my body, and how I can’t wear underwear without wanting to bawl my eyes out because they’re not boxers. Sure, I have other insecurities that everyone else has, such as how some people don’t like the size of their nose, the color of their eyes, or even the amount of fat they have on their bodies. I can’t change myself though without anyone really noticing what I’m trying to achieve. I had to convince my parents I was just going through a phase just so I could get my hair cut short enough to where it chopped off some of the dysphoria I carried around.

     You wanna know what hurts the most, though? Fearing that the love of your life is going to leave you for who you are. You fear that soon he’ll realize the mistake he’s made and walk right out the door. He’ll lose feelings and start to distance himself, whether he realizes it or not. He said he loved you, but he can’t just be with you. Maybe somewhere he still loves you, right? He loved you, did he though? If he really loved you, he would’ve stayed and worked shit out, but instead, he became disgusted with who he associated himself with.

     It first starts with him not wanting to kiss you in public. You think that he just hasn’t been comfortable with PDA lately and wants to limit it, so you brush it off. You don’t even point it out to him when you’re alone and continue to tolerate it. Soon enough it escalates into not wanting to hold your hand in public. It hurts, but you don’t bother him. It’s not until he stops doing these things even when you’re alone that it starts to bother you. It hurts, but you’re too scared to bring it up and accidentally start a fight. This isn’t the first time something like this happened to you, so you didn’t push him. You’ve learned from your mistakes, haven’t you? Your world comes crashing down and the nightmares you’ve been having for the past week finally come true. He doesn’t bother saying that he’s sorry, or that he wishes you two could just stay friends. No, he just walks right out the door without even looking back at you to see if you’re okay because he knows you’re not. He knows he broke your already cracked heart into dust, and he couldn’t give two shits.

     Why would he though? Why would he want a monster like you? An abomination, that’s what you are. He couldn’t stand the thought of associating himself with you. He couldn’t handle the stares the two of you received in public. At first, you both just assumed it was because you were both men, but now he realizes it’s more than that. It’s because you’re trying to change yourself into someone you’re not. He was ashamed to be seen with you; to love you. He had to leave, he needed to. It was for the sake of his reputation he had said. He couldn’t stand to be with you because of the fact of who you are; of what you are. It’s all because you’re transgender.

     As these thoughts ran through my head, my eyes grew increasingly more blurry due to salty tears blocking my vision. I felt both my bottom lip and knees tremble as my breathing grew more ragged, and it suddenly felt as if all air was cut off from my lung. My eyes screwed shut and my lips tightened shut, forcing myself to conceal my sobs. My legs gave out from underneath me, causing me to collapse to the carpeted ground of my bedroom floor and lower my head. I couldn’t look in that damned mirror anymore. A heart-wrenching wail forced itself from my body, and the sobs just came pouring out. My hands found themselves buried in my short (H/C) hair, tugging so hard at the strands that I thought I was going to rip them from my own scalp. Sob after sob, I continued to cry for what seemed like forever. Both my head and heart pounded in agony. My hands trembled and my chest heaved up and down at an increasingly fast pace as I tried to gasp for a single breath between my cries.

     Fear shot up my spine as my chest ached for a different reason. I couldn’t breathe. I tugged harder at my hair and clawed at the back of my neck, hoping more pain would force my body to fight for its life and help me regain my breath. It felt like a lump of some wort was lodged in my throat, causing my body to heave forward as if I were gagging. Not to mention my nose was clogged up with snot. My vision grew foggy and my face grew hot. Would this be how I die? A pathetic mess?

     I felt two arms quickly wrap around my waist and pull me into their chest. I could feel the rough texture of their jacket, but their shirt under the jacket felt smooth and soft. I could faintly hear their voice, shushing me and telling me something. They sounded calm, not panicked at all. Their touch was gentle as they brought my head to their chest, gently stroking my back with one hand and using the other to pull me close. It was still loose enough to where it didn’t feel as if I was suffocating.

     I saw the familiar umbrella tattoo on the person’s wrist and the logo I had seen so many times on the person’s jacket. Only one Umbrella Academy member still wore their jacket, mostly because they were stuck in a teenager’s body and those were the only clothes that fit him. Not to mention he was too stubborn to go out and by clothes for boys his age. Physically his age, that is. I never pushed Five too many times to buy the clothes I’d die to see him wear because I just wanted him comfortable and happy. Plus, who am I to hell him what he can and cannot wear?

     I was able to faintly smell the cologne he wore daily, calming me down just a tad. My throat finally ceased and allowed me to gasp for a small bit of air, but it didn’t stop me from hyperventilating. Five gently rocked me back and forth as best as he could, continuing to softly shush me and rub small circles on my back. I could finally make out what he was saying.

     “It’s gonna be okay,” he mumbled, humming a soft tune that always seemed to calm me down. “I’m gonna need you to do something for me, dear, can you do that?” I whimpered pathetically and managed to nod in affirmation. He nods and continues. “I want you to breathe with me, okay?” I nod once more, desperate to come down from my panic. He starts his breathing off at a moderately fast pace, almost matching with my own. I was able to match my breathing with his own as I gripped his dark blazer. His breathing gradually slowed down, and as did mine. This wasn’t the first time Five’s had to help me, so I knew what to expect.  Once my breathing was stable enough, he spoke again. “Do you need anything?” he softly asked, reaching over and grabbing a soft blanket that laid upon my bed.

     “You,” I managed to choke out. My eyes burned from the salty tears, and my head ached from crying. He nods and drapes the blanket around my body and tilts my head up so he can see my face. His eyes are glazed over with empathy and care. He gently strokes my cheek with his thumb and gently presses his lips against my forehead.

     “I’m not going anywhere my dear,” he assures me, tightening his embrace just a tad bit. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” I shake my head no at his question. “Do you want to talk about something good that happened today?” I’m silent at his question. Taking a deep breath, fluttering my eyes shut and trying to focus on speaking properly.

     “I-I was able to put to...together an outfit that-that made me feel really masculine today,” I start off, pausing as I felt my voice grow shaky as I spoke. I breathed slowly through my nose and continued. “It-It was a pair of khakis that stopped at my knees, and-and the polo Klaus had given me for my birthday.”

     “The light green one with the lemons on it?” I nod in affirmation. My heart swoons at the fact he remembers something as little as that.

     “Yeah, I-I was also able to finish the load of homework that the school gave us,” I added. He smiles softly and kisses the top of my head.

     “See, I told you you could get it done! I’m so proud of you,” he praises softly, keeping his voice low. He continues to ask me questions about my day, focusing on the positive aspects of it.

     With a clear and calm mindset, I know none of that would happen with Five. Sure, it’s happened in the past, but Five’s different - very different considering he can teleport and he’s mentally an old man. I know I can always rely on him when it comes to shit like this. He knows I can be a bit much during times like these, and he knows that I’ll end up looking pretty fucking gross. He doesn’t care though. He’s seen a lot of shit in his life, so a red face covered in tears and snot isn’t gonna bother him. He loves me, and he’s told me this an abundance amount of times.

     After helping me clean up, we both lay down on my bed with my back against his chest. He wraps one arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him. His chin rest on the top of my head, humming the same soft melody he sang earlier. I felt my eyes droop as a wave of exhaustion came crashing over me. My eyes would fall shut and snap back open as I would realize I was slowly falling asleep, but falling asleep meant I wouldn’t be able to hear his voice anymore.

     “Get some sleep, my dear, I’ll be here when you wake,” he mumbled softly. That was the last thing I heard before falling asleep peacefully in his arms with a small smile on my face and a heart full of love.

[abused-sides]

Be Brave [Whumptober]

Note: I’m doing whumptober as a series. Check out the tag #whumptober 2020 v on my blog to read in order. Also on ao3.

Prompt: No. 6: Please… [No More] 

Synopsis: Virgil and Janus are punished for trying to escape. 

Trigger warnings: Cults, gaslighting/manipulation, restraints, kidnapped, non-con, humiliation, treating people like property, blood, knives, violence/beatings, a person in a cage, guns, body horror/gore, reference to murder/hate crimes/child death/minor character death, vomiting, let me know if I missed anything 

Word count: 1455

A/N: I had to do a lot of really sad research for this lol. 

October 9th. 12:55 am. 

Virgil hyperventilated beside him. 

Bates' velvet voice boomed over the auditorium. He didn’t need a microphone. You’d think there’d be cheers, applause when he took breaths, but no— Everyone sat on the edge of their seats, deadly silent. 

“...after we showed our good will in bringing Janus mercifully back to us, after saving him from the trash can that lives outside our family, and even going as far to rescue his friend and cut into more of our resources to feed and house him, they conspire against us and try to abandon us.” 

Bates’ voice cut into his chest. He dragged in slow, quiet breaths. Everything in him screamed to reach out to Virgil, take his hand and promise him they’d survive this, but the ropes dug into his wrists and the tape wouldn’t budge from his mouth. 

“We simply cannot take this abuse any longer. We’re doing a majority vote here. We can either release these poor victims back into the cesspool and the murder and the rape and the garbage, or we can give them a little taste of it, here, in safety, and let them decide whether to stay or not. Everyone in favour of release?”

It was no surprise when everyone’s hands stayed down. Bates asked the second option, and among the hands raised were whoops, applause, and shouting. Janus shivered. 

“As much as I’d love the honour to help them both, I simply can’t divide my attention. It wouldn’t be fair to them, anyway. I ask my closest partner, Styx, to help me with the lesson. Remus, you come up, too, get ready to step in.” 

Styx climbed the steps to the stage with a grin. He unfolded a long, black leash and clipped it to Virgil’s collar. “Don’t worry, pet. We know you’re just confused. We’re going to save you.” 

To the side of the stage, Bates pulled a newspaper off a table. He held it open towards the audience. “Three days ago four men broke into a single parents’ apartment, tied her and her child down, and forced the two to watch as they stabbed them to death. Why don’t we start there?” 

The crowd cheered. Sweat dripped down Janus’ back, pooled on his top lip. Tears streamed down Virgil’s red face. 

Bates and Styx turned them around to face each other. The crowd's energy was a white noise, cicadas buzzing in Janus’ ears. Virgil stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. Bates and Styx unsheathed their knives, and tears pricked Janus’ eyes. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

Bates rested a hand on his shoulder and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Be brave. At least you’ll survive this. Remus?”

Remus rushed over and knelt between them, gesturing over Janus. “You want to go under the belly button, Bates. Any higher and he’ll bleed out too quickly for me to help. Stay away from the chest and anything above, including the shoulders— That goes for both of you. Lower arms and legs are okay as long as you let me in one time.” He turned to Virgil and rested a hand over his abdomen. “Styx, stay away from his abdomen. His ovaries, uterus, all of that stuff will bleed out far too quickly and he will die.”

Virgil’s hyperventilating reached a head as he choked on his sobs and the gag in his mouth. 

“I know you two have a lesson to teach,” he said lowly, “but please know when to stop.” 

Bates waved him away, and it was like a death sentence. Janus sucked in a choking gasp as blunt paint erupted in his abdomen, stealing all his breath. Did he fucking punch me? It wasn’t until Bates yanked the knife out only to drive it back in that he knew what happened. He cried out, warm liquid running down his stomach and thighs. 

Virgil was so quiet Janus worried he was dead. Through his blurred vision, Virgil bit his lip hard enough to split the skin, eyes squeezed shut. Bates stabbed him several more times, in the forearm and calves, before sheathing the bloody knife and stepping aside. He gestured to Janus, and Remus rushed in with his backpack. 

Styx held Virgil up by his leash and drove the knife into his shin. Virgil sobbed as Remus laid Janus on his back. He undid his binds and stretched his arms and legs out, cutting away the bottom half of his shirt and away his jeans. Janus’ vision swam as Remus worked on stopping the bleeding. He was vaguely aware of his legs being elevated, something pushing against his back to prop him upright, Remus talking, but he was hot all over and he wanted to throw up. 

He couldn’t tell how long it had been before Remus hurried back into the wing and Bates lowered Janus’ legs. Virgil cried out as Styx dropped his. 

“Are you starting to get it?” Bates laughed. “This is the kind of thing you were running back to. Is this really where you want to be? Janus?” 

He pulled Janus gag out, and he gasped for breath. “No,” he managed. “No, I’m sorry, please-”

“We’re not done yet.” He shoved the gag back in and picked up a piece of printer paper. He held it to the audience. “This is a picture of 11-year-old Sadie Winters. She was walking home from school when an unknown person choked her to death and left her there. Shall we move on to poor Sadie?” 

Bates pulled the string out of his hoodie and wrapped the two ends around his fists. Styx clamped Virgil’s leash around his throat and held tight. 

“Don’t be so impatient, Styx,” Bates sighed before the hoodie string tied around Janus’ neck. 

“Okay, you have to be quick!” Remus cried hastily. “I’m serious, don’t push it, you can kill them in minutes!” 

Ringing filled Janus’ ears as his vision blurred. Black spots grew, and it was like his head was ready to explode. His pain washed away as his eyes rolled back. 

He gasped as Bates smacked him in the face, eyes flying open. “You ready to go again?”

“Bates-”

His voice broke, his throat screaming. Bates hauled him back upright and pulled the string back around his throat. A few seconds later, the black swallowed his vision once more. His entire body tingled. He was still half-passed out as his stomach lurched and vomit forced its way up his throat. 

“Get back, get back! Hey, sit up.” Remus’ voice was soft in his ear as he helped Janus to sit upright. His stomach contracted and pulled, sending agony through Janus’ body, as he retched onto the stage, his vision dark, spotty, and blurred. “Bates, I obviously can’t tell you what to do, but if you don’t move on, they will die.” 

“Well, that certainly isn’t the point of this exercise,” Bates huffed. “We’ll move on. We only have a few more to get through then everyone can break for dinner.” 

“Shh, shh, you’re going to be okay,” Remus hushed as he took out Janus’ gag. “You have to breathe, please breath, Jan-Jan.”

“I can’t do any more,” he whimpered. “Please stop him.” 

Remus cupped his face. “I can’t. You know I can’t. But I’m going to make sure you two are okay, alright? Just hold on a little longer.” 

Janus buried his face in Remus’ shoulder and gripped onto him. “Please.” 

“I’m so sorry it’s come to this, Janus,” Bates said with a frown. “Are we starting to realize why you’re better off here?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, I’ll never try to leave again, please, please stop, please no more!” 

Bates hummed, watching him curiously. His gaze slid to Virgil, who grimaced as Styx stroked his cheek. “And Virgil? How are you feeling?”

“The only people doing this to us is you,” he snarled, “you sick fuck, let us go!” 

Dread washed over Janus like he’d been set on fire. Bates sighed. “I guess we continue. Poor, confused thing.” He came over and ran his fingers through Janus’ hair. 

“Please let me go,” Janus whimpered. “I won’t leave you again.”

He smiled. “No. You two are a team. I can’t risk him corrupting you again.” 

Bates strolled to the front of the stage and announced their next lesson. Remus kissed Janus’ forehead, and, as much as Janus begged him not to, left back to the wing. 

His eyes locked with Virgil’s. Virgil sobbed, his face scarlet, his hair matted with sweat. That fire he had, the anger and ferocity that fueled him, was dying out. It used to be a wall of bubbling magma behind his eyes. Now it was nothing more than a birthday candle.

Kofi and commissions, 1 coffee = 300 words of your prompt

[bibislut]

Bitter-Sweet Days (Chapter 1)

Find it on Ao3 here

Chapter 1

15th May 2001

A short rap on the door signalled Draco Malfoy's entrance. The short, portly man spun round in his chair with a tight smile, gesturing to the seat before him. 

"Sit down, Mr Malfoy."

Draco took his seat quietly. "You’ve studied the blood samples?" 

The healer stared pointedly at the desk before him, pushing his glasses up his nose and clearing his throat.  "There is no delicate way to put this Mr Malfoy," He looked up to meet Draco's eyes. "We have detected a kind of rare disease in your blood. There is no current cure for such a disease, nor has modern research found a cause. It just, simply, is." 

Draco's vision began to swirl at an alarming pace, and his breath was knocked from him. When he found it again, it came in short, rapid bursts. His therapist said this was hyperventilating, and that he should try and take longer, slower breaths. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. He did his best to do so, and swallowed thickly.

"So what happens now?" His voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Now, you spend your remaining time however you wish." The healer smiled sadly at him. "We estimate two months, Mr Malfoy." 

"Two….Two months…" Draco repeated quietly, mostly to himself. So this was it, this was to be his final time in this world. It was almost funny how he had spent so many years fearing he would die the next day, and now he had just started to manage to enjoy life, it was all to end.

---------

"What can I get for you?" The barmaid smiled at Draco, and he faintly wondered if she's just very good at customer service, or actually doesn’t recognise him.

"Another bottle of the '96 Elf Merlot; you can charge it to my vault." Draco slid across a piece of parchment with his vault details on it. After finishing his first bottle of the ridiculously overpriced drink, he had decided that he deserved another. His pale cheeks held a slight pink tint, and his ears were tipped with red, though he supposed it would take another glass for the slurring to become noticeable, and another glass after that before his hiccups would start.

He could feel a slight thrum in his veins and had to fight the urge to hum a song to himself. Just lovely, he thought. Perhaps he should spend the next two months drunk.

The sound of raucous laughter drew Draco's attention to the furthest corner of the bar, where a group of young people sat squished into a booth, cheering and toasting. Squinting his eyes, Draco could make out the all-too-familiar mop of curls belonging to Harry Potter. And yes, next to him sat Weasley and Granger, and on his other side sat the younger Weasley and Luna. Dragging his eyes back to Potter, Draco felt his stomach flip in a way that certainly wasn't the alcohol. Potter had filled out since school, and his dark hair had grown out, slipping over his eyes every time he laughed too hard. He now sported a trimmed beard, and as much as Draco wanted to think he looked like a vagabond, he had to admit that he actually looked rather handsome, and far too sexy for his liking. His brown skin held a pleasant flush, and as Draco watched, he spilled a drop of his beer on his tatty blue t-shirt, earning him a playful punch from the younger Weasley. They exchanged smiles and Draco felt his heart tighten. 

He didn't even have a good reason, he knew full well that the two had broken up not long after the war, and now Luna was dating Weasley. Their monthly catch-ups were one of his favourite things, and a very useful source of information on the Golden Trio. Draco was very fond of Luna, and when she had spoken for him at his trial to reveal how he had snuck her food and checked on her whilst she was being held captive at the Manor, their friendship had only bloomed further. She had often asked him along to evenings with them all, but he had assured her that he wanted nothing of the inevitable distrust and awkward interactions that would ensue. 

As he watched, Potter turned and met his eye, a small look of shock crossing his face. Luna turned too, and waved eagerly at him. He nodded back with a small smile and turned away, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself. He took a large gulp of his wine, memories of the past few years flooding his mind.

Harry Potter with dark hollows under his eyes, standing to speak for Draco at his trial. The awkward thank you, Potter, afterwards, as the two boys took it in turns to briefly glance at each other before looking away.

Harry Potter asleep on the sofa in the common room of the eighth year dorms when Draco came down to try and walk off another nightmare. The way the dying embers cast shadows across his cheekbones. 

Thank you, Potter. For coming back for me that day. 

Draco had tucked the note under Potter's hand before laying a blanket over him and heading back up to his room. Potter had smiled at him that morning at breakfast, and Draco had nodded back, hurrying out of the Great Hall with butterflies in his stomach.

Harry Potter with a scowl on his face when they got a new assignment. Harry Potter with a distinctive glow on his face when he flew in the eighth year Quidditch games. Harry Potter in tatty pyjamas rubbing his eyes as he came out of the bathroom. Harry Potter shooting Draco a thumbs up when he got his NEWT results in the Great Hall, and Draco just rolling his eyes in return, struggling to hide his smile.

Harry Potter asking what Draco was doing at the ministry a few months later. "I'm training to be a curse-breaker, Potter. Let me guess, you're already Head Auror?" he had drawled in return. To his surprise, he had laughed, actually laughed.

"Give it another month, Malfoy." 

Harry Potter nodding to Draco whenever they passed each other in the hallways of the Ministry. These days, those small acknowledgements rarely happened. Draco supposed they were both just too busy.

Draco poured himself another glass of wine and almost spilled it when an all too familiar voice sounded behind him. "Its been a while, Malfoy."

He turned round with a perfectly schooled air of haughtiness. "You almost sound like you've missed me, Potter." 

"I wouldn't go quite as far as that." Potter had the audacity to wink at him.

"Merlin's tits, Potter. You're making me miss that pretty little scowl of yours." Their interaction may have lacked the same vehemence and distrust that it often did back at Hogwarts, but the two men were certainly still as passionate about each other (though Draco supposed the exact kind of passion had changed too).

"What would you prefer? Want me to push you up against a wall with my fists in your robes like we're back at Hogwarts?" Draco choked on his drink, an all too enticing image dancing in his mind. 

"Careful, Potter. Someone might overhear and think you're flirting with me." Draco's pulse was echoing in his ears and it suddenly felt too hot. What in Merlin's name was going on? Maybe he was passed out drunk at home and simply dreaming. 

"So what if I am, Malfoy?" He was suddenly a lot closer, too close. He looked into the bright green of his eyes and wondered if he could actually get lost in them. Draco hissed and stood up abruptly, using his few inches to look down at Potter, pushing him away. 

"Fuck off, Potter. I'm not in the mood for whatever your half-wit brain considers a joke." Draco's brain could barely keep up with the words that were spilling from his mouth. He rushed out the pub and into the cooler spring air. He needed space, he needed to be the fuck away from whatever had just happened. Draco could barely summon the self-control to not apparate drunk, and instead clumsily jogged to the next pub, and into their floo, giving his address. 

His breathing came fast and the room spun around him. He kicked off his shoes as he fell onto his bed. He closed his eyes, counting his breaths until sleep fell over him.

-----

Draco woke with a hangover that was nowhere near as bad as he expected. With a groan he lifted himself out of bed, stretching with a yawn as memories of the night before came back to him. Potter's green eyes, Potter's freckles, Potter's flirting. 

"What if I am, Malfoy?" 

What the actual fuck? Firstly, this was Potter. He hated him, or at least only politely tolerated him, right? And even if he didn't despise him, since when was Potter gay?! Or bisexual, or just interested in men. Or interested in him?!

All these thoughts swirled in his head, and Draco had to steady himself against the wall. Maybe he was more hungover than he realized.

A shower - that's what he needed. And maybe a coffee too. Yes, he just needed to wake up a bit.

----

"Latte with an extra shot, please." Draco smiled politely at the barista as he offered her a muggle note with a 50 on it. She looked at him quizically and took it. 

"Give me your wallet, Malfoy." 

"I beg your pardon?" Draco spun around to meet Potter's eyes. He just smirked and took it from his hands, looking through it.

"Next time, when you're ordering just the one drink, try paying with one of these." Draco looked down to where Potter was waving a note with a 5 on it. Draco sniffed and grabbed the money and wallet back from him.

"Yes alright Potter, no need to be condescending."

"As if you've never been a condescending prick before," he chuckled and clasped Draco on the shoulder. "Come on, pick up your drink. Let's have a walk."

Draco hadn't realised he'd been staring until then, and he hurriedly picked up his drink and followed Potter out of the coffee shop.

He cleared his throat awkwardly as he tried to settle his nerves. "Sorry about last night, Potter." His voice came out much more timid than he intended and he frowned slightly.

Potter whipped his head round to look at him, coughing to try and hide his shock. "It's alright, I didn't mean to come on too strong." This was definitely one of the weirdest conversations Draco had ever had.

"I'm surprised to hear you admit that you were coming on at all," Draco taunted.

"Oh yes, the saviour of the wizarding world likes cock, isn't that a shocker." Potter’s voice was surprisingly tight. 

"I mean slightly, Potter, yes." Draco paused, taking a deep breath. "I'm more surprised that you like death eater cock, though." 

"Death eater? Don't give me that bollocks Malfoy," Potter huffed. "You know full well that I don't blame you for the war."

At that, Draco looked at Potter with an expression somewhat like a gaping fish. "You don't?"

"Merlin's beard, Malfoy. I thought I was supposed to be the dim one! I spoke at your trial, remember?" 

"I just… thought that was a courtesy. For my mother." Draco's voice was incredibly small. Harry came to a stop.

"Pity party is over Malfoy, I don't blame you, alright? You were a kid, you were stupid, you were scared. We all were."

Draco turned away, trying his best to blink away his tears. He turned back to punch Potter in the shoulder. "So much for Saint Potter, did you just call me stupid?"

"And dim." He laughed and ducked out of the way of another smack. Malfoy couldn't help but laugh too. They continued walking.

"So, Harry Potter is gay…" 

"Well if you want to get technical, I'm queer." They were both quiet for a moment.

"So were you really hitting on me?" Draco asked.

"Well...yeah." Potter ran a hand through his curls nervously, only helping to add to the chaos on top of his head.

"Oh dear, Potter. That won't do.I won’t have any kind of half-arsedness," Draco said playfully.

"So that's a yes?" Draco couldn't help but smirk at the way Potter perked up.

"You haven't even asked me a question yet."

"Oh, um, would you like to go on a date, Malfoy?" 

Draco smiled devilishly. "Hmmm… I suppose so." The teasing didn't work however, as Potter beamed from ear to ear.

"Great! I'll owl you the details later!" He waved eagerly and set off at a jog. 

"You don't even have my address!" Draco called, but he was already out of earshot. He couldn't help the smile that creeped over his face. He was going on a date. With Harry Potter. Merlin’s tits.

Harry Potter could be his boyfriend. How long had he wanted this? Nine years? He could go on dates with Harry Potter. He would know how he took his tea, how his day at work was. He felt giddy.

A sudden darkness washed over him, an intense weight in his stomach. What was he thinking? He was going to die. There would be no future for him. No anniversaries, no Christmases. No moving in together, no family. No arguments and make-ups. No growing old.

Tears fell down his cheeks. He had no future. He should owl Potter and tell him that he couldn't see him. Didn't want to see him. All it would do is cause more suffering in the long term. 

But there was the voice in the back of his mind. You only have two months. You should spend it how you want, the rest be damned. He couldn't do that though, could he? That was selfish of him. Who cares about selfish? These are your last days. 

[sparklebitch]

Here’s a prompt: Lance is hanged or strangled, and saved by Keith (just in time)

A/N: Can y'all believe that I found something I haven't used to torture my boi with yet? Ps feed my fanfiction writing habit by commenting pls and thnx.

Trigger warnings: strangulation, non-con kissing/touching

~   ~   ~

Lance could taste blood in his mouth as he sneered at the man in front of him. He was speaking under his breath in an alien language. He sounded displeased, though Lance wasn't sure why. He wasn't the one that was tied up with a noose around his neck.

"Eh?" the alien grunted and angrily muttered something at Lance. He was roughly tying a knot in the rope around Lance's neck. "There" he said with a wicked smile. The man tugged on the rope, jerking Lance's head forward. "Tight enough?" he laughed. Lance felt rage course through him. He fought down a scream, and then spit in the man's face.

"Fuck you" he spat. The man gripped the rope in his hands and pulled on it. Hard. Lance's airway was cut off for a moment, long enough to send a bolt of panic through him. The man laughed again and then kicked Lance's leg, causing him to double over far enough that the rope began to choke him again. He gasped and straightened up, trying to ignore the throbbing in his shin.

It was nothing compared to the pain he was soon to feel.

"Such a mouth on you" the man said with a wicked grin. He retreated to the table that was sitting near the edge of the room, just out of Lance's reach. Lance eyed the tools on the table in fear. Which one was he going to use on Lance to torture him? Lance's whole body shook as he clenched his fists, trying to prepare himself for what was to come.

To his surprise, however, the alien's hands passed over the sharp knives and shining curved blades. He passed the restraints and wicked looking devices. Finally his hand landed on what looked like... duct tape?

He carried the duct tape-looking material back to Lance and slowly unwound it with his fingers. It didn't look sticky, but the man was having trouble getting it off his hands as he tore off a piece. "As much as I would love to hear your pretty little screams I'm afraid you're making too much noise. The neighbors don't want to hear you" he said, humor evident in his voice. "Because it's just you and me" he whispered, leaning in close. Lance could feel the man's hot breath on his skin. He let out a whine and flinched away from him. "You're already loud and it hasn't even begun. Once the rig starts lifting you I can just imagine the noises you make... Mmm" Lance squirmed uncomfortably and tried to back away from his hands, but the further he moved the more his airway was cut off. He jerked his head to the side, but the man slapped him. Hard. Lance cried out in pain. "Hold still"

"Please. Please don't do this" Lance pleaded. "I promise I'll be quiet. I'll- I'll do whatever you want. Just- just please don't" hot tears poured down his face. He had been trying so hard to mask his terror. He had wholeheartedly believed that his team was going to break in and rescue him, it was only a matter of time. But as the seconds ticked away into minutes, and the noose seemed to grow heavy around his neck, Lance began to fear the worst.

No one was coming to save him.

"Hush up, you'll still be able to breath" the man grunted as he forced the tape-like piece completely covering his mouth. "I can't have you passing out the minute your feet leave the ground darling. No, this only keeps you from being too loud" As soon as the material came into contact Lance felt a scream rip through his throat. It was like thousands of tiny needles pricking his skin, digging into his flesh. The scream ran all the way to his mouth and then--

Nothing came out.

He couldn't scream. He couldn't cry out.

The man let out a pleased noise as Lance's eyes fluttered close in resignation. His large rough hand reached up and stroked the side of Lance's face. Lance flinched away. "The posters don't do you justice, Blue paladin" he said breathlessly. "You're far more exquisite than I ever could have imagined" He hooked a finger and lifted Lance's chin. "Open your eyes" he instructed. Lance slowly forced his eyes open, not wanting to be hurt any further. He was so tired. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he had been taken.

This alien, this creep, had stowed away in the Castle of Lions after Voltron had freed another planet from the Galra's clutches. He hid until nightfall, and then crept into Lance's room and struck him on the head, knocking him unconscious, and dragging him outside to his ship. Lance woke up hours later tied up and laying on the bed. The alien, who had yet to reveal his name, told Lance how in love with him he was, and when Lance resisted and refused to play into his sick fantasies, he became angry and said that Lance would pay.

Now here they were, standing in the hull of the ship, Lance with a rope around his neck, tied to a sort of crane above him and the man pushing his hands under Lance's shirt. If the man couldn't have him, no one could.

More tears tracked down Lance's face as lips sucked on his neck. It was going to leave a bruise. But not as big as the one the rope was going to leave. Lance twisted desperately, trying to do anything he could to make it stop. He felt fingers glide up his hips and around to his back, over his shoulders and around his neck.

"Fuck" the man breathed, detaching his mouth from Lance's throat with a sickening 'pop!' "It's a shame" he said shaking his head. "You have no idea how good I would have treated you. But you had to go and ruin all the fun" He removed his hands from Lance's body and then crossed them over his own. His eyes roamed over Lance's quivering body with a look of sick satisfaction. "We could've had everything together" he said breathlessly. "Pity" It was like he was trying to memorize every detail of Lance. Every mark, every scratch, every freckle. Lance felt exposed standing there in the middle of that room. He couldn't do or say anything to save himself.

He was going to die.

"Ah, I suppose it's time then" Fear ripped through Lance's core so intense that he nearly doubled over. This was it. His fight or flight instincts were raging. This wasn't how he wanted to go down. He wanted to fight. A fair chance at his life.

This was anything but fair.

With one last, lingering touch to Lance's jaw, the alien crossed the room to the table and picked up a small black box that had several buttons and switches on it. His finger hovered over a button in the middle. Lance shook his head pathetically, trying to blink the tears out of his eyes as he looked at the man. He whimpering and trying to scream.

He didn't want to die.

Not like this.

The man cracked an evil smile and slowly poked the button.

The air went out of Lance's lungs as he felt a small tug on the rope as it slowly began to lift upward. The man's gaze was filled with pure glee. Lance began to hyperventilate, even though the rope was nowhere near cutting off his airway yet. He was terrified.

Lance felt the rope lift off the back of his neck as it rose higher into the air. The man clasped his hands together as Lance struggled to get free, to somehow save himself from this. After a moment, however, his smile slipped from his face and he shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small device. He examined it carefully with no expression, and then cursed.

"Sorry, Darling, I have other... pressing matters to attend to at the moment. But don't worry. I'll be back before the light leaves your beautiful eyes" he winked and disappeared out of the room, leaving Lance alone.

The minute the door closed behind him Lance frantically began to pull at the restrains that were binding his hands together behind his back. He was standing on his tiptoes now, but his feet were barely brushing against the ground. He was only getting gasps of air and he was already feeling faint. Tears were now pouring down Lance's face, and snot was dripping out of his nose as he twisted and pulled at the metal cuffs on his wrists. They dug into his skin, and he could feel blood gushing over them as he continued to try and free himself, but he didn't even feel the pain.

Dark spots clouded his vision as he was completely suspended in the air, the rope tight around his neck. He kicked his legs desperately, but that only served to choke him further. Finally after a few more moments of struggling, he went completely still. He could get more air if he moved less. So Lance did something that he never thought he would do.

He gave up.

He made his body go as limp as it could as he stared vacantly at the door. A part of him hoped that the man would walk through. So that maybe he would take pity on Lance and let him down or-

Or so that Lance wouldn't die there alone.

Lance's vision was almost completely gone down. He could barely move his limbs, not that he was trying to. He could faintly feel his heartbeat slowing. His eyelids felt heavy. So heavy. His throat no longer ached. Nothing did, actually. He didn't feel any pain.

He felt nothing.

He could feel himself letting go.

At least this was almost over.

At least the man wouldn't touch him anymore.

Lance finally let his eyes slide closed, and his felt his consciousness fade away.

~   ~

"Come on, come on, come on!" A voice frantically screamed, though it was muffled. "Dammit! Get out of the way!" Everything was fuzzy. Everything burned. It was like his chest was caving in. "Come on. Be okay. You're- You're going to be okay. Yeah? Can you do that for me? Lance? Lance?" There was movement and oh god, everything hurt so much. "It's- everything's going to be okay- For the love of god will you hurry up!?"

"I'm working as fast as I can!" Another voice called out.

And then everything went dark again.

~   ~

The next thing Lance remembered was waking up in a bed. In his bed. There was something draped over his arm. No. Not something. Someone. Lance craned his neck to see who it was and oh.

Oh.

That was a mistake.

He cried out in pain, waking the sleeping figure next to him. His hand went to his throat. He could feel a slight indent that ran all the way around it. He shivered and then slowly dropped his arm back onto the bed.

"Lance?" It was Keith. "Are you okay?" he asked in concern. Lance swallowed thickly and opened his mouth. He sucked in a ragged breath and then nodded his head slowly, deciding that talking maybe wasn't the best idea. "Christ, you scared the shit out of us" Keith said, seeing that Lance wasn't going to speak. "I don't think anyone slept the past two days while we were looking for you."

Two days. He was with that man for two days.

"Pidge and Hunk stared at the surveillance cams nonstop for over a day until we saw the guy that took you. Me and Shiro canvassed the people that were at the party that night, and we finally found someone who knew that man. The girl who knew him... she said he was- he was obsessed with you. Like 'crazy-stalker obsessed'" Keith continued. "We all split up and searched for his ship. He didn't go very far after he took you" Lance gingerly reached up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He didn't want to cry. He was done crying.

"Th- thanks" Lance wheezed. His throat felt like it was on fire, even though he had clearly been in the healing pod already. He wondered when it would feel better.

Would he ever feel better?

Lance honestly wasn't sure.

"Shh... it's okay, Lance. You don't have to speak" Keith placed his hand on top of Lance's and squeezed it. Lance glanced at him for a moment and saw that he had a black eye.

"...Happened?" Lance mumbled. Keith's eyebrows rose in surprise and then he smiled at the ground sheepishly.

"Um. You should see the other guy" he said. Lance closed his eyes and slowly lifted the corners of his mouth. "You- You don't have to worry about him. He's not going to bother you or anyone else ever again" Keith practically growled. Lance turned his hand over and gripped Keith's hand in his own.

Keith stared down at the battered boy with a sad frown. He had a wicked bruise that wrapped completely around his neck from the noose that was holding him up in the air. Keith had barely gotten there in time to cut Lance down and save him. He had another bruse slightly below that one that looked almost like a bite mark? Keith didn't even want to think about where that came from. He couldn't get angry now. Lance needed him.

Aside from the many bruises that littered Lance's body, and the sore throat that would definitely persist for at least a week, Lance was okay. Physically, at least. Mentally, Keith had no idea how he was doing. He had no idea what the man had done to Lance, or what he would have done to him if Keith hadn't stopped him.

"S- Stop" Lance whispered hoarsely, snapping Keith out of his thoughts. Keith looked down at him and saw that his eyes were still closed.

"Stop what?"

"Stop th- inking about it" he replied. Keith tightened his hold on Lance's hand.

"I can't. I can't even begin to imagine what you went through...god! If only I had been awake when he took you! I could've stopped this! I could've stopped him!" Lance tugged on Keith's hand and shook his head.

"No use... thinking abou- about that" His head slowly lolled to the side, his face screwing up into a grimace as he moved. "Talk tomorrow. Just... wanna sleep" Keith nodded and started to move away.

"Of course. You must be exhausted. I'll let you get some rest" Lance let out a strangled noise before Keith was able to stand up. His eyes snapped open and he stared at Keith, tears clouding his vision.

"Don't- Don't leave. Please" he pleaded. Lance knew that the minute Keith left he was going to fall asleep and dream about being back there, with him.  But if Keith was there with him when he woke up, he would know. He would know that he was safe.

"I won't. I promise" Keith said softly. Lance scooted over, making room for him on the bed. Keith slid underneath the covers and they both made themselves comfortable. "Just wake me up if you need anything" Lance laughed quietly.

"You won't be asleep" he pointed out. Keith smiled.

"Yeah, you're right" Lance curled up with his back against the wall and closed his eyes. And for the first time in what felt like weeks...

He breathed out a sigh of relief.

~   ~   ~

| Other fics | Ko-fi |

[whimperwoods]

29-Day Whump Challenge - Day 27

Day 27: Muzzled or Gagged || Loss of Hope

You know what?

In other news, yesterday’s prompt went up tonight and came out to like *cough* 3K words? So I’m gonna MAKE this one be short through sheer force of will. Probably.

Continuation of the vampire story from Day 8 and Day 13.

Prompts by @yuckwhump

Tag list: @inky-whump

tw: fantasy racism (for the apparently-a-series), tw: restraints, tw: car trunk, tw: language, tw: slavery, tw: trafficking, tw: burns, tw: dehumanization

****

Jules was in the trunk for a long time after the car stopped. At first he trembled, waiting to be forced back out into the sun, but gradually, he relaxed, reasonably certain that the man who drove him here was leaving him in the trunk on purpose.

The trunk was hot, stuffy, and cramped, and every bead of sweat that touched his open burns stung enough to white out his vision, but at least it was dark. At least it was dark. He kept reminding himself that it was dark, and tried not to panic and hyperventilate through his gag.

If he was still in the dark, if he was still safe and not burning, there had to be a chance that the men would let him go once they were sure he wouldn’t tell anyone about them. He was a good liar. He could convince them he wouldn’t tell.

When the trunk creaked open, his eyes hadn’t even started to adjust to the fluorescent light in the garage when a heavy blow to his head knocked him unconscious.

He woke up tied to a chair, still gagged, still bloody where the sun had burned him, and with both an old throb in his head and a new, sharper pain in the side of his temple.

It took him a little while to start making sense of the voices in the next room.

“God, am I gonna have to go through this whole thing again? Jared, will you please tell your fucking dumbass friend we can’t just let him go? Fuck’s sake, you call me needing help and then everything’s still a big goddamn fight.”

“But what if someone starts looking for him?” a female voice asked, “I thought those black market dudes were only supposed to take leeches nobody would miss!”

There was a thud and a yelp, and a second male voice hissed, “Look, if he says he’s got a contact, he’s got a contact. Just ‘cause he’s my cousin doesn’t mean he’s gotta help. Quit arguing!”

There was another thump. “Step on my fuckin’ foot,” the girl said grumpily, “I’ll fucking kick you. And anyway, you argued too, apparently. Don’t see why I don’t get to.”

Heavy footsteps came toward the door to Jules’s room, and he felt his body grow even colder than usual in fear.

The man behind the door was huge, both tall and muscular, and he opened his switchblade in a single, casual motion as he walked toward the chair.

Jules tried to scoot backward, but he was bound too tightly to move.

The man placed the blade in the center of his chest, right over his heart.

“Alright, Leechy. I know where your heart is, and you’re gonna have a knife in it in about three seconds if you don’t cooperate, and about a half second if you try to bite me. Got it?”

Jules nodded frantically.

The man pulled the knife away, but then took out a bottle of what smelled like sandalwood oil and dipped the blade into it and Jules shuddered. He only vaguely remembered the days before the treaty, but he knew the vampire hunters had gotten down what did and didn’t count as a stake to a science. He nodded even more desperately, his eyes filling with tears.

The man scoffed. “Fuck’s sake. Hold still.”

Jules froze, going as still as if he were dead.

The knife came close and for a brief moment, he was certain he was about to have his throat slit. Then the man sliced through his gag instead, ripping it out of his mouth in one fast motion that made it snag on his fangs and tear.

The man growled. “Spit. Anything in your mouth when the muzzle goes on stays there.”

Jules felt faint. A muzzle? Like an animal? Such things were rumors, not reality.

But then the man was holding up a leather and metal contraption that could not more clearly have been designed specifically to bind a vampire’s mouth closed.

He spat frantically, getting the last of the cloth from the gag out of his mouth just as the man waved his knife in front of Jules’s face.

“Remember,” he said, “Half a second. Open your mouth.”

Every fiber of Jules’s being screamed at him not to do it. But the man’s eyes were hard and cold and Jules breathed in through his nose and opened his mouth anyway.

The man’s hands were rough, thrusting a heavy metal bit into his mouth and shoving his jaw closed hard enough to make him bite painfully into the metal, his teeth responding with a spike of pain.

Then there were straps around his head, and the man was pulling them tight enough to dig into his face, the edges of the leather tearing through the freshly burnt skin of his cheeks and jaw.

Jules shuddered. He felt trapped and he was sure, for a moment, that he was going to choke. His eyes watered and he felt small and frightened.

The man cuffed him roughly across the ear. “Cry all you want, leech. I know buyers who’ll jump at the chance to take you either way.”

Jules’s mind filled with static and his tears came heavier, running down his face.

“That’s right, bitch,” the man growled, “You’re mine now. And I’m nothing like my dumbass cousin and his little girlfriend. You better get used to it.”

The man turned on his heel and walked out, and Jules let his head sag down toward his chest, wincing as the motion made the muzzle dig harder into him and his delicate burned skin tore open under it.

How had this happened? How had he gotten here? One minute he’d been at the bank thinking about getting home as fast as he could and now - now -

He’d thought he might be able to talk his way free, but every breath reminded him how tight the muzzle was, how completely it silenced him. He’d never been strong for one of his kind, even before he’d been dragged into the sun without enough blood to heal the burns.

You’d better get used to it. Jules shuddered in his bindings, fighting back the kinds of ragged sobs that would have made the muzzle carve deeper into his face and forcing his mind not to think about anything but holding still and keeping away any motion that might make his face bleed more.

You’re mine.

He’d never have believed such a thing was possible, 24 hours ago.

Every part of him believed it now, and his throat was thick and achey, and his eyes wouldn’t stop leaking tears. He couldn’t move his arms or legs. He couldn’t get out of the chair. He couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t bite, couldn’t even breathe without the muzzle exacerbating his burns, and he was utterly, utterly alone.

[pocketfulofrogers]

Icarus Was Human Too Part 2

Pairing: Kelly Severide x Reader

Summary: Nicknames are a given in firehouses. Three months into your new post as a paramedic on 61, you don’t have one and Otis thinks this is a flat-out travesty. You? You have an incredible save rate you prefer to keep quiet, but does it really matter in the end?

Warnings: Character death? You’ll have to read to find out his fate!

Notes: Ask and ye shall receive. Thanks for all the love on part one, it’s making easing back into writing so much easier. There might be a part 3?

Part 1

First responders tend to carry their guilt wrapped in phrases like “what if”. Drown themselves in it like cheap whiskey and let the burn soften the sharp edges of the unknown.

You were no different.

You relive that day constantly, nitpick every decision you made, every move of your hands. Had you truly been his best option? You don’t treat loved ones for a reason, what if you had stepped aside? 

You curse yourself for having secretly simmered under their praises. Chicago’s Angel. Had you let it get to your head?

Did you take your wings of wax and fly them too high?

You talk yourself into a circle every day, replay it so many times your recall becomes fuzzy. You beg Casey to go over it with you again, and again, and again. The last time you asked Sylvie, her eyes had welled up. You don’t ask her anymore.

Miracle girl, where has your magic gone?

When Dr. Rhodes had cracked Kelly’s chest open right in front of you, you could’ve sworn you broke the tiled floors with your knees by the sickening crack you heard. It had echoed in your head and split your heart right in two. Joe picked you up, April asked if you wanted to be sedated. You ignored them, twisted your way out of their grasp to place a hand on the glass.

“Come back to me, please. Come back, baby, please.” Your voice was wrecked- throat raw and chest tight.

There’s a faint beep, then another. 

It wasn’t a normal rhythm by any means, but his heart was beating again. For you, that was enough. Dr. Rhodes looked to you, eyes weighted with something you couldn’t distinguish and ice flooded your veins. He came out, removed his mask and took your hand.

“We’ve bought you time.” He said softly.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “What do you mean?

“Time to say goodbye.”

Your hand was stinging before you had even realized you’d slapped him. He held his face, eyes wide, but waved off security when they approached.

“No.” You said simply.

He lets you call him Connor after that.

He ends up placing Kelly in a medically induced coma and you cash in all of your furlough.

The Chief recommends that someone be with you. You tell him you don’t need a babysitter, you’re definitely fine. He points out the bags under your eyes, the sunken hollowness of your cheeks.

You still insist you’re okay.

Someone from 51 is with you at all times.

**

Fluorescent lights, garish walls, and antiseptic air weighing your lungs, the days blur together and you refuse to leave his side. The hospital staff stops trying to argue with you after about the third time you sneak back in. They tell you, “go home”, you tell them, “my home is in there”. 

April and Maggie special deliver you a cot, but you mostly prefer the chair by his bedside. Head on his thigh, arm draped protectively across him. 

Nightmares still haunt you every night, each one different than the last but somehow, they still ended the same: your hands covered in blood, your fingers sticking together.

Herrmann wakes you from today’s dream and hands you a glass of water.

“What was is this time?” He asks above you

You try to distract yourself by smoothing out Kelly’s blankets and untangling his IV line. “Pregnant woman, car accident.” You whisper.

He nods in response and places a comforting hand on your shoulder. There’s a gasp from Kelly before he begins convulsing, limbs flailing, head jerking. His heart-rate skyrockets and then there’s nothing. You watch the flat-line in horror, frozen where you stand. You think Connor pushes you back into Herrmann, but you can’t feel anything.

The scene unfolds before you like a movie as your mind distances you from it as best it can, tries to desensitize you just so you’ll survive the horrid ending. Compressions and needles, imaging, yelling. It feels so far away.

Connor looks back at you, and you know that look. You’ve seen it in the mirror every day.

Failure.

You swear you die right there.

**

The perfume of the pearlescent lilies makes your nose itch and you grasp onto the feeling, it’s the first thing you’ve felt in weeks. There’s a hand on your shoulder, but you can’t hear what its owner says. You don’t particularly care if you’re being honest.

You feel nauseous at the sea of black surrounding you, it’s bordering on being far too real. You already felt like you were falling into a void, drowning in all the nothingness that seemed to have invaded your life. You’re not quite sure when you’ll be able to laugh again, when colors will no longer be this dull.

You can’t bring yourself to look at his body.

A woman you don’t know tells you you’ll regret it and you want to laugh. Doesn’t she know you already have so many? What’s one more?

You’re told the ceremony is beautiful, you honestly can’t remember most of it. Benny has his arm wrapped around yours and you’re quite certain it’s the only reason you’re still standing. Sylvie tells you she misses her partner; you smile and repeat the sentiment. Boden tells you not to rush coming back. You haven’t decided if you ever will.

You must black out for a bit, because the next thing you see is the bright sun through squinted eyes. How dare it shine so bright when this world should be mourning the loss of its brightest light, of its golden hearted man.

There’s blood on your fingers, you must have pricked yourself on the rose you laid out. You wipe it on your dress.

There’s more speeches, analogies, and awful poetry. They hand you the folded flag and you place it in your lap. It sits there for a moment and suddenly it’s the heaviest thing you’ve ever felt. It crushes your legs and burns hot on your fingers- scorches the exposed skin of your thighs. You could swear your skin is bubbling.

Your breathing picks up.

When they start to lower the casket, that’s when you break.

You’re not supposed to be here; this is not supposed to be happening.

There are eyes on you and you’re hyperventilating. Your body feels scorching hot, flames licking your skin. Thick black smoke, your chest is tight, and you swear your throat is closing. Casey wraps an iron clad grip around your waist when you try to throw yourself into the hole.

Miracle girl, where has your love gone?

You beg with tearful sobs, claw uselessly at clothed arms. Your throat is raw and vision blurry. Something thick and slick coats your hands. When you catch sight of the red pouring from you, it’s your scream that awakens you.

You shoot up, a mess of wild hair and sweat dabbled skin. There’s salt on your lips, tear stains on your pillow, and your hand aches from gripping the sheets in your fist so tightly. You look over and the empty side of the bed stares daggers at you. You collapse into his pillow and let your sobs wreck your body.

Miracle girl, this world has broken you.

There’s a sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and your door is flung open. The bed dips beside you and hands start to glide over your body. Frantic. There’s whispers you can barely make out, soothing words to stop your cries, but you bury yourself further.

Kelly brushes your hair back and messages his fingers into your back.

He tries to hush you. “What is it? What happened? Y/N, baby, talk to me.” You simply bury your head in his lap and he holds you close. 

He’s fairly certain he knows exactly what dream you had, it happens less than it used to, but you still have it sometimes. He thinks it might have something to do with the knowledge that you both have to return to work soon. He chooses to cover his basses anyways, assuring you that that he is fine, you are fine, everyone is fine.

When your tears have slowed, he moves you to the side, lays down, and pulls you too him.

“Talk to me.” You croak out.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

He complies. He starts with the weather report he heard that morning, recounts the Blackhawks game from the night before almost play by play, and drones on about a boat he’s fixing. You listen, try not to make a sound. You don’t want to miss a single word, not a single chuckle.

You trail your fingers along his bare chest. Run your fingertips between the divots of his abdomen, revel in his laugh when it tickles. You move your way up to the thick pink scar in the center of his chest and trace its edges. You quietly remark it’s healing pretty well.

He laughs. “Because you were directly involved. I find bandage changes pretty annoying.”

You look up at him and raise a brow. “Lowering your chances for infection and your healing time is annoying?”

“What can I say, I live dangerously.” He says with a smirk.

You laugh, a loud sound that bursts from your lips like stardust and he swears he could listen to it for the rest of his life. He’ll tell you one day that he plans to.

He smiles, bright and wide. “There’s my girl.”

You lay your head back on his chest, burrow your cheek right over his heart to listen to it beat. The sure sound that solidifies his existence and tells you with absolute certainty that he is here. He is alive. 

You tuck your hand beneath his side and hug him tight, he places a kiss on the top of your head.

“Can we stay here a little longer?” You ask, eyelids heavy.

“As long as you need.”

Miracle girl with the magic fingers, one day you will recover.

[notapaladin]

they say before you start a war (you'd better know what you're fighting for)

Me? Able to halt my bullshit? OF COURSE NOT.

Canon divergence midway through Harbinger of the Storm; Acatl is executed for treason, and Teomitl refuses to let that stand. If he has to go into Mictlan and bargain with Lord Death, he will.

As always, can also be read on AO3!

-

His knees hurt, and the stone under them was cold. It was an absurd detail to focus on when he was bound hand and foot with the executioner looping a garrote around two meaty fists next to him, but that was what stuck in Acatl’s mind. He was going to die, and his knees hurt. And, to add insult to injury, he was going to go to his death with his hair badly in need of a wash and something stuck in his back teeth. He prodded it with his tongue. It didn’t help at all.

He took one deep breath. Another. Any one could be his last. He was careful to keep them deep and even; he would not die sobbing and hyperventilating, begging for mercy. Though it be jade, it is crushed; though it be precious gold, it crumbles. For we do not live forever on this earth, but only for a little while.

A hand in his hair yanked his head up, and the cord came to rest loosely around his neck. He took another breath. Mihmatini. Teomitl. I’m sorry.

“And so the traitor falls.”

Oh, Duality preserve him. He was going to spend his last moments on earth listening to Tizoc gloat. Of all the indignities heaped upon him, this was one he knew he didn’t deserve. Somehow, he found words enough to snarl, “Hurry up.” It came out as a slurred rasp.

Tizoc smirked at him. He shut his eyes, but he could still hear the smug glee in his voice. It made him want to be sick. Throwing up on Tizoc’s sandals would even be satisfying; too bad the bastard was out of the likely splash zone. “And which of us is on his knees, priest? Which of us has betrayed the Mexica Empire with his words and deeds? It surely isn’t me; you know I’ve always worked for the good of Tenochtitlan, despite your efforts to obstruct my path. I do hope you’ll find an ample reward for your pains in the hereafter.”

There was more after that, but Acatl wasn’t paying attention. The cord was starting to draw tight. One more breath. Another. The darkness behind his eyelids was starting to flash. Another breath—no—he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t breathe. He bucked and jolted instinctively, eyes fluttering open in time to catch blurred images of Quenami and the She-Snake watching him; if he’d had his hands free, he knew he would be clawing his fingers to ribbons against the tough cord.

I can’t—

He needed air. He needed air and there wasn’t any, he was choking, he was going to die—

It wouldn’t be Tlalocan that awaited him, he knew, despite the manner of his death. A High Priest could go no other place than the realm of their patron. After this, he rather thought it would be a relief. At least in Mictlan, he could rest. Lord Death was always fair. Lord Death would let him fade the way his body was stubbornly refusing to.

No. It’s over. It’s over. I’m—only hurting myself—

His eyes snapped open as a twist of the cord sliced into his throat, feeling the sting and the trickle of upwelling blood. The sun blazed down, bathing the courtyard in light. For a moment, he could focus—there was Tizoc smirking, and there was Quenami with a twist to his mouth—but then the darkness flooded his vision again, and though he kept his eyes open he saw nothing.

This was it, then. He thought he should probably be afraid; maybe it was the lack of air that was making it so difficult for him to struggle. His limbs felt like stones, the hammering of his heart echoing like a drum through his ribcage.  

The cord bit deep, but it no longer hurt.

He couldn’t feel his own heartbeat anymore. Soon, he couldn’t feel the cord either.

As he faded, he thought he heard the ahuizotls’ song.

& &

Acatl’s knives burned at Teomitl’s hips, sending bile up into his throat and frozen emptiness down into his stomach. The pain spurred him onwards. If he was late...

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he was late. Part of him cursed Nezahual; if he hadn’t run out of power merely getting them out and finding them a boat, they’d have Quetzalcoatl’s magic to speed them on their way. Instead there was only him and the ahuizotls, who were still fast on land but not fast enough. Gods, please. Please, I’ll build so many temples, I’ll cover you in gold, the blood of eagles, the hearts of jaguars—just let me save him. Down the corridor, through one room and another, turning when the sparks of Acatl’s knives sang close, close, and then he was bursting through the entrance curtain and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t move.

There was his brother, smug grin slipping into surprise as he registered the interruption. There was Quenami, backing away with his empty hands raised as though that would save him. There was the swirl of a black cloak around the far corner—the She-Snake, fleeing like a coward. There were even guards, looking panicked as they drew their weapons. And in the center of the courtyard was the executioner loosening his garrote to let Acatl fall bonelessly to the ground, eyes blank and unseeing. Dead. Dead. He didn’t need the rattling chill of the knives to tell him that.

No. No. Nonononono—

Teomitl’s mind was a whirlwind of horror and pain, but he’d been in enough campaigns now that his body knew exactly what to do. He couldn’t feel his hands, but that didn’t matter.

He drew his sword and opened himself to Chalchiuhtlicue’s power.

It felt like being at the bottom of the lake; it always did, but this time the water numbed him. He saw the world through lake water, through the eddying rush of a streambed. His heart pulsed like ripples on the shore. When he breathed, he tasted algae; inside his head, the ahuizotls’ song rose in a chorus, threatening to drown out his thoughts until he wrestled them back into submission. Kill. Kill them.

They leapt to obey. He was only vaguely aware of the executioners and guards screaming as his beasts descended on them in a flood of snapping teeth and grasping claws, even when one took a swing at him. He parried it without looking; all his attention was on Tizoc. Tizoc, who had just slain Acatl. Tizoc, who was unarmed. Tizoc, who was trying to speak, as though anything he said could possibly bring Acatl back, could undo what he’d done.

“So you have betrayed me!” It sounded like it was coming from underwater.

It was just possible that, if he’d been contrite, he might have earned a few more seconds of life. Unlikely, but possible. But this? This—vindication, as though he was saying he’d been right, and he’d die being right? Teomitl sucked in a breath, feeling it scorch his lungs. “No.”

And then he swung his sword in an upward arc, feeling it cleave flesh and bone; something snapped off in Tizoc’s sternum on the way to the heart, but that was alright. He’d fix it later. Hot blood sprayed his face as Tizoc screamed and screamed and screamed, and some knot in his chest eased. Now I’ve betrayed you. It would take him a good, long time to die.

He turned away, lifting his head. The executioner and both guards were down, ahuizotls feasting messily and adding the stench of entrails to the heavy odor of blood. They’d left a space around...around Acatl, and ice threatened to flood his veins. I’ve failed. Acatl, I’ve failed you. He wanted to crumple in on himself, wanted to curl around Acatl’s corpse and weep like a child. If he’d been minutes earlier, Acatl would still be alive. Avenging him, killing Tizoc—he knew, deep in his soul, that Acatl would have urged him not to. He would have warned him about the boundaries of the Fifth World, the star demons threatening them all. Now he never would again. Grief rose like knives in his throat.

But he couldn’t give in to it, not yet; there was one foe in the courtyard he hadn’t yet accounted for. He could just make out Quenami huddling frozen and wide-eyed half behind a pillar, hands free of blood. Good. It would be easier to kill him if he didn’t have to deal with spells.

He strode over. He raised his sword.

Quenami’s voice wavered—rank fear, not the ripples of Jade Skirt’s magic in his ears. “My lord—Teomitl-tzin, please!”

Please, he says. Rage threatened to choke him. Would you have listened if Acatl had begged for his life? If he had asked to be spared, before you slew him? “Why? Why should I let you live?” Acatl is dead. He is dead, and it’s because of you. I will carve out your heart for his funeral pyre.

Quenami swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. Blood trickled down his neck from where the edge of the sword bit into his flesh. There was fear in his face, yes, but also a stone-hard resolve. “I can bring him back.”

He took an unconscious step backwards, feeling the edges of his grief crumble under the first light touch of hope. If he’s telling the truth. If—I could have Acatl back—

“...Speak.”

&

Quenami spoke. There was a ritual, apparently; a secret passed down through Huitzilpochtli’s clergy from one High Priest to the next. Often it involved making a body of maize and amaranth dough, but given the condition of Acatl’s remains (all in one piece, evidently a rarity for this sort of thing), they would be able to dispense with that step. All they would need to do—a trifle, really—was go down into Mictlan and convince Lord Death to relinquish Acatl’s soul. The hardest part would be opening the way, for which Quenami would evidently require the other High Priests or—at least, he said, as though Mihmatini couldn’t obliterate him—the Guardian of the Duality. Who had been sent away for her own safety but who had not, thank the gods, left for Popocatepetl yet. And who would have to be informed of her brother’s death.

Teomitl let other people handle the cleanup and the preparations. Nezahual appeared at some point, directing his warriors. He did not offer condolences, but they nodded at each other and somehow, obscurely, that helped. He didn’t think he could handle soft words at the moment; anger, turning a tight whirlpool in his chest, was keeping him on his feet and moving forward. If he stopped to think about it, he would fall apart.

Mihmatini waited for him in the Duality House. He was struck by how normal she looked, surrounded by slaves and underlings. The sun shone down upon her, clear and bright—it was a beautiful day, when there should be storms to match the one in his heart—and she wore a sleeveless blouse embroidered with flowers. Looking at her, he might almost think the world was alright again.

And then she spoke, voice soft and raw. “I heard. Follow me.”

He followed.

The chamber she led him to was bare and impersonal, with a colorful pattern on the wall he was far too unfocused to make out. The only thing that mattered was the expression on Mihmatini’s face—grief-tight, with eyes like flint. He couldn’t find words at first; when he did, he was surprised at how steady he sounded. “Quenami says he can be brought back. There’s a ritual.”

She stared at the floor. He saw her fists clench. “And you trust him?”

“No.” Not even as far as I can throw him. He took a breath and continued, “But it’s all we have. I...I was too late to save him, Mihmatini, I saw him fall.” He’d closed Acatl’s eyes himself, hands shaking.

Mihmatini closed her eyes. “How...?”

He saw it again in his mind’s eye, that horrible ring around Acatl’s throat. The words floated up from far away. “...The flower garland.”

She took a slow, deep breath. He felt the magic of the Duality pulse within her, the thread connecting them flaring up like a line of fire. “Acatl wouldn’t want anyone to go through that. But if this fails—if it’s some sort of trap—I’m twisting the rope around Quenami’s neck myself.”

Some things never changed. He found he could breathe a little easier. “You’ll have to. I killed the executioner.”

“And your brother.”

There was no judgement in that voice, but he felt something twist in his chest anyway. “Acatl died of Tizoc’s—of his paranoia and incompetence! He killed him, as surely as if he’d done it with his own two hands. I’d do it over and over and be glad about it!” I wish I’d taken my time about it. See how many parts I could remove before he died.

Mihmatini was watching him, eyes shrewd. “You love my brother, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

For a shameful heartbeat, he thought of lying. Like a brother, he could say. Or Of course, he’s my honored teacher. But he knew there was no use—Mihmatini’s words and tone had made it all too clear that she’d looked at him and seen straight to the core of his heart. He couldn’t deny it. Not when she was looking at him like that, assessing him without an ounce of judgement and waiting for him to speak truthfully. He could give her nothing else. “...I do.” Duality preserve me, I do.

“Good.” She didn’t smile, but her face relaxed as she studied him. “He deserves that. He deserves...so much.” For a terrifying second her voice sounded watery, but then she squared her chin and added, “But you’ll do.”

It took a moment for him to register it as a dry attempt at humor, and the chuckle that came out had more in common with a sob. Oh, Mihmatini. What would we do without you?

She took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes. “Take me to Quenami. Whatever this ritual needs, I’ll do it.”

&

The ritual needed a great many things. Acatl’s corpse needed to be washed and laid out—straight, not curled for a burial—and a suitable space prepared. Mictlantecuhtli’s temple handled that, watched over by a gray-faced and nearly silent Ichtaca. Teomitl had never been in the temple’s innermost sanctum before, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about his surroundings when a single wrong move might put Acatl beyond his reach forever. Slaves brought the beasts they would need to sacrifice; Quenami moved gingerly among them, tallying cages of owls and hummingbirds and a huge, ill-tempered heron. Mihmatini carried armfuls of flowers for the Duality, the orange of marigolds and the red blossoms of plumeria the only color in the room.

Teomitl stood by, forcing himself not to fidget as the fog of centuries of Mictlan’s magic sizzled against his skin. Across the room stood Neutemoc, who hadn’t spoken a word since arriving with Mihmatini nearly an hour ago. At least there was one other person who would much rather be fighting a dozen star demons at once than standing here waiting. There was very little he could do; it was up to Quenami to sacrifice the hummingbirds and trace the glyph for Four Jaguar while Acamapichtli did the same with the heron and the glyphs for Four Water and Four Rain. Ichtaca, knife in hand, took care of the owls and Four Wind. Four glyphs for the worlds that had come before, and living blood to bind them all into the spell. It wouldn’t have been enough—the ritual demanded all three High Priests—but then Mihmatini stepped forward, slashed her earlobes, and added her blood and the flowers to their work.

Quenami had the job of cutting a circle into the floor to enclose the space. He paused, gaze sweeping the room—how dare he, they couldn’t afford to waste time—and lighting on Teomitl’s face, heedless of his furious glare. “Only one of you can go into Mictlan. This is not my realm, and I cannot widen the path. It can’t be Ichtaca; he needs to hold the way for us here.”

Teomitl didn’t need to think about it. “I’ll go.”

Another voice echoed his; confused, he looked up to see Neutemoc take a step forward, face set with grim determination. He met Teomitl’s eyes as he continued, “He’s my little brother.”

“He’s my—“ Friend seemed inadequate, teacher too base. Beloved was something he couldn’t allow himself to think lest he break. It was easier, safer, to reach for other justifications, and they came easily to him in the memory of Mazatl’s curious hands and Ollin’s gummy smile. “What of your children, if this fails? Will you leave them orphans? Stay here, and let me bring Acatl-tzin back.”

Neutemoc studied him for a long moment, searching for something in his face. He seemed to find it, stepping back with a satisfied nod. “You’d better.”

As Quenami knelt to close the circle, Teomitl moved to take his prescribed position kneeling by Acatl’s head. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t bear to see that face waxy and still, not now.

A dog’s throat was slit, and the hymns began. He let the words wash over him, and the world around him started to fall away. Mindful of instructions, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the temperature drop. The air took on the stale smell of a thousand years of dust and the reek of decay, acidic emptiness scouring the back of his throat. He had a moment to be glad he hadn’t eaten anything, and then his head was swimming too much for him to think. The only thing anchoring him to life was his heartbeat, steady and strong.

Beat. He was weightless, floating.

Beat.

A cold, wet nose nudged his palm, and he opened his eyes to a field of gray dust and a sky precisely one shade lighter. The dog that had been sacrificed was sitting in front of him, tail sending up little clouds every time it thumped. There was wet blood in its yellow fur, colors leaching to gray in light that seemed to come from nowhere.

It trotted off. He followed.

He very quickly lost track of how long he’d been walking. This area of Mictlan was devoid of any major hazards and landmarks; even if it hadn’t been, he was in no shape to take notice. He’d thought carrying Acatl’s knives was bad, but it was nothing to actually walking through Mictlan. The air sapped all joy and hope from his soul, leaving only the grim certainty that he had to keep going. Even anger, his constant companion, was too much effort; the heat of it was simply no match for the gnawing emptiness in his chest and the tremor in his limbs. Cold seeped through his veins and slowed his heart.

At least he could still feel it beating. He could take some comfort in that. Acatl, wait for me. I’m coming for you.

The dog seemed to know where it was going. Though obsidian shards bit through his sandals and bloodied his feet, they left no marks on its paws. He kept walking, one foot in front of the other; blood was a small price to pay for Acatl’s soul. He would offer his heart if he thought it would help. There was nothing else he could do for the one he loved.

But oh, he was so cold. He was cold, and shivering sounded like too much work. Maybe he should rest for a while—yes, that sounded like a wonderful idea. There was a rock up ahead that had twisted itself into something vaguely like a tree, perfect to lean on.

He staggered towards it, slipping in his own blood, and fell facedown in the dust. It hurt. He couldn’t bring himself to care; the relief of letting the earth support his body was too great. Acatl could wait a little longer, surely. Surely…

Teeth fastened in his wrist, pain jangling up his arm. His eyes snapped open on instinct, free hand going for the sword he wasn’t wearing before he realized it was the dog, tugging pointedly at his forearm with a growl that seemed to say If you aren’t going to walk to Lord Death’s throne, then I will drag you there. It let him pull his arm free and stand up, but kept up its low, discontented rumble.

He felt like growling himself. Fool that I am, how could I have forgotten? I can rest later.

They walked on. His wrist throbbed in time with the beat of his heart, tethering him to the world and to his mission. He would not fail. The road stretched on before him, and all he had to do was keep walking. One step. Another. Another.

And then the ground shifted, warped, folded, and he stood before a dais made of bones where the world was filled with rot and ashes.

Somehow, he’d expected a temple; instead, Mictlantecuhtli’s and Mictecacihuatl’s thrones looked as though they’d grown out of the ground. Bundles of femurs formed the low arms, and the seats were made of a collection of pelvises bound with curved jawbones. Lord and Lady Death lounged side by side, watching him with an expression of amused indulgence on their sunken, skeletal faces. Like I’m a dog that might be taught to perform clever tricks, he thought without much heat. He knew he should probably bow. He couldn’t make his knees bend.

Mictecacihuatl tilted Her head, studying him. “Well, well. What brings you to Our throne, little mortal?”

He’d never been good at speeches. “Acatl-tzin. Your High Priest. Where is he?”

“Ah.” She met Her husband’s eyes, and they shared a long look. She settled back on her throne, a fan of scapulas sprouting up behind Her, and said, “We have taken him into Our home, as is Our right and privilege. He has assumed his proper place at the foot of Our throne.” She gestured expansively, and he followed the movement to something he hadn’t noticed before.

There, just in front of and between the two thrones, was a tiny, fluttering moth under a thin dome of dust and air. He felt his heart stutter in his chest. “Acatl.” A wild thought seized him—grab him and run—but he knew he wouldn’t get far in Mictlantecuhtli’s domain. He’d be lucky even to feel the brush of wings against his skin.

He spun back to meet the gods’ gazes. “My Lady, My Lord, please reconsider. The Fifth World needs him back. We can’t—“ The star demons. The boundaries. “We’ll fall without him.”

“Worlds have fallen before.” Mictlantecuhtli drummed His fingers on the arm of His throne, bone clattering on bone. “We have endured. We will always endure. Why should We give up such a loyal and well-beloved High Priest only to run the risk of him being killed again?”

Because I won’t let it happen again. Ever. He blinked dry eyes, feeling them prickle with dust. His eyes darted to where Lord and Lady Death sat on Their thrones, desiccated fingers almost touching. Slowly, the words came to him. “Of all the gods, You know love best. My Lord...if My Lady were taken from You…”

“All existence would know My wrath until She was returned.” Mictlantecuhtli’s voice had all the finality of the grave, and Teomitl watched as His hand moved to cover His wife’s. “And you say this is why you are here, begging for Our priest’s life to be restored? For love?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I never got to tell him.” It came out in a breath, barely audible over the breeze.

The gods shared another long look. Teomitl didn’t dare move. He willed his heart to beat quieter, lest it disturb them. The gulf in his chest howled.

Finally, Mictlantecuhtli spoke. “We will release him into your care.” Teomitl thought His skull face was attempting a smile. It was a terrible thing to see on a face that was mostly bone and dried skin. “But there will be a price for you.”

“I’ll pay it.” Here, at last, there was no room for doubt or hesitation. Whatever You want of me. Anything. My heart? My body? My life? It will be Yours. Just let me walk with Acatl out of here, let me set him back in his body and tell him how I love him.

“Brave boy.” The ash rose, nearly blinding him; when it cleared, the little moth was fluttering gently in front of his face. “You may take Our High Priest’s soul, and settle it back in his living flesh, and it will be like he never died. But upon your death, though you may die in glorious battle, you will take his place here.”

He cupped his hands around Acatl’s soul, feeling its tiny feet alight on his fingers. His heart felt full to bursting. He is here. He’s here. We did it. “As you wish, My Lord—my Lady.”

Mictecacihuatl snorted, waving Her hand. “You have what you came for. Be off with you, feather of the Hummingbird.”

The quincunx shimmered into being under his feet, and then he was falling through ash again and back into the temple sanctum.

Beat.

Between one heartbeat and the next, he was present in his own skin again. It felt too warm and too tight, breath rasping through his lungs, but he was kneeling by Acatl’s head and holding his soul in his hands.

“Did it—?“

“Teomitl!”

He ignored the outcry around him. All that mattered was opening his hands, letting the moth fly out to brush against Acatl’s lips and disappear in a brief, soundless burst of air. For an excruciating moment nothing happened, and despair threatened to drag him under. Is there more? Have we failed after all?

And then life flooded Acatl’s skin, and he took a slow, shallow breath.

Teomitl wanted to cheer. He wanted to sob. He wanted to curl up around Acatl and go to sleep for a month. He did none of those things. Acatl’s face was practically in his lap, filling him with so much tenderness he thought he might die of it; before he could even think to remember his audience, he reached down and set two fingers at the pulse in his throat, revelling in the strong and steady beat.

Thank the gods. Thank you, Lord and Lady Death, for this gift of Acatl’s life.

Things started to move quickly after that. Acatl was borne on a stretcher to recuperate in the palace, where the She-Snake—whom Teomitl had decided, grudgingly, to let live for now—had arranged for a team of Patecatl’s priests to meet him. Teomitl wondered if they’d be any use, or if they’d just stand around making concerned noises; being brought back from the dead was surely not common enough to warrant a page in their codices. He supposed that if nothing else, they could do something about what promised to be some truly spectacular bruising on his throat. He’d wanted to go with him—surely he couldn’t be expected to leave Acatl alone, no matter that Mihmatini refused to leave his side—but when he tried to stand up he almost fell over, and Neutemoc had to help him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he muttered, face burning.

Neutemoc squeezed his shoulder, a brotherly gesture he’d never gotten from his own brothers. His eyes were suspiciously wet. “You brought my brother back. I should be thanking you.”

If he thought too hard about that, he might start crying. There hadn’t been nearly enough time for him to erase the memory of Acatl slumping to the ground from his mind. “I won’t accept it. Anyone would have done the same.”

Neutemoc gave him a dry look so reminiscent of Acatl that he felt his throat close up. Before he could do or say anything else emotional, he shrugged off his hand and left. Star demons or no, he needed to be out in the sunlight. He needed to remind himself that he was alive, that they’d won.

The sun fell across his shoulders like a warm blanket, and he soaked it in with his eyes closed for a long, blissful moment. Here, there were no star demons. Here, there was no yawning chasm of power in the Mexica Empire. Here, he didn’t need to worry about consequences. He could be free.

Then he opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky. The clear blue sky, with not a single errant star piercing through the fabric of the heavens. His mind went blank. We don’t have a Revered Speaker. Nobody should be channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power in the Fifth World right now. This shouldn’t be happening.

He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes, and took a second look. The sky remained clear. He squinted, trying to see if the tiny pale speck was a star or—no, it was just a cloud. The sky was still clear, and now his temples throbbed.

Footsteps behind him announced Quenami’s presence before the man spoke. “Well. Congratulations, my lord.”

He resisted the urge to whirl around and strangle the man with his bare hands. There’d be no point to it now that Acatl was alive. “Mn?” He didn’t mean to make it a question, but even for him Quenami was being obsequious.

Quenami chose his words with the air of a man picking his way through a field of obsidian knives. “Acatl has been restored to life thanks to you, and it...appears...that Huitzilpochtli has taken a liking to your bravery in walking into His enemy’s domain. Allow me to be the first to greet my new Revered Speaker-in-waiting.”

Oh. He stared down at his hands, seeing for the first time the faint tracery of powerful magic glimmering over his skin. He swallowed roughly. The Southern Hummingbird’s blessing. Is this what Mictecacihuatl meant? As he turned the idea over in his mind, his fists clenched. If the gods were choosing him for the office, then he would be worthy of it.

He would start by being honest. With himself, with Acatl, and with those less deserving.

“If you ever again address Acatl-tzin with less than full respect, Quenami, I will cut out your tongue.”

& &

The first thing that greeted Acatl as he swam up from the depths of unconsciousness was pain. His throat felt like it had been squeezed shut; for a moment he couldn’t think why that should be, and then the memories began to filter in. The flower garland. The courtyard. The ahuizotls singing to him.

Teomitl.

He stirred, registering as he did so that someone had placed him on not one but several thick reed mats and covered him with a light cotton blanket like an invalid. He supposed he was; the last thing he remembered was the garrote cutting off his breath. Swallowing brought a dry click and the realization that he was desperately thirsty. “Mngh...”

“My lady? He’s waking.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Mihmatini. She sounded close by; the small hand laid on his forehead was reassuringly cool. “Acatl, can you speak?”

“Grmngh.” He swallowed again, cracking one eye open. Mihmatini’s face swam into focus above him, pinched with worry. Her hair was in disarray, and the dark circles under her eyes looked bruised in the dim light. There was fresh blood beading at her earlobes. I must be in terrible shape. “Water...?”

Water was brought, mixed with fresh-tasting medicinal herbs. He tried to sit up and failed; it felt like his muscles had been replaced by solid stone. Mihmatini’s hand at his back molded him into a more or less upright position so that he could drain the cup offered by a slave he recognized as Oyahuasca, ignoring both women’s concerned glances until he was hydrated enough to speak without feeling like he was gargling knives. “What...what happened? Where’s Teomitl?” The ahuizotls were singing. I know I heard them. Where they are, Teomitl wouldn’t be far behind.

Mihmatini shot a sharp look at Oyahuasca. “Fetch the Revered Speaker while I fill my brother in on what he’s missed.”

He heard the words, but they seemed to be slow in assembling themselves into a coherent sentence. It wasn’t until Oyahuasca rose and left at a pace that wasn’t quite a run that he managed to say anything. “Mihmatini.”

She took a deep breath, staring down at her hands. “Do you remember the courtyard? The—the flower garland?”

He nodded dully. It wasn’t likely he’d ever forget. His knees throbbed, a sense-memory of cold stone and naked fear. “There were ahuizotls.” And then there’d been nothing else. He’d blacked out, probably.

“Well.” She took another breath, hands clenching into fists. “The ahuizotls were too late. You...Teomitl arrived in time to see you die.”

No. His chest felt suddenly too tight, his thumping heart the only thing he could focus on. As if in a dream, he looked down at his hands; if he engaged his priestly senses, he could see the veins and tendons wrapping around bare bones. Another twinge brought his attention to the familiar cold, dry emptiness of Mictlan sitting in his gut. “I...” He didn’t feel any different, but the faint grief-stricken waver in Mihmatini’s voice left no doubt that she was telling the truth. I died. I died, and yet I am here. He sucked in a slow breath, the smells of the sickroom and a distant kitchen filling his nostrils. Someone was roasting chilies, and it made his stomach growl lightly. Alive.

Mihmatini went on. “He killed Tizoc on the spot. He would have killed Quenami, too, if that dog’s son hadn’t led the ritual to bring your soul back from Mictlan. After...after that, apparently the Southern Hummingbird made it known in no uncertain terms who He was choosing to wield His powers in the Fifth World, so the rest of the council elected to instate Teomitl as Revered Speaker.” She swallowed. “You’ve...you’ve been unconscious for a week. You missed his coronation.”

It was too much. Mind spinning, he grabbed one thing out of the swarm of questions thronging his mind to focus on. “How...was I brought back? How am I alive?” How was Lord Death convinced to release me?

A faint smile crossed Mihmatini’s face. “You should ask Teomitl about that when he arrives. He’s been very worried about you, no matter how many of us tell him that you’re recovering well. If it wasn’t for his coronation, I really don’t think he’d ever leave your side.”

He felt heat suffuse his face. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

She snorted and gently shoved at his shoulder, shaking her head. “I’m sure I’m not! He loves you more than he does me.”

He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. He sat in silence for a moment, willing the words to make sense. Mihmatini had to have said something else—meant something else. When she didn’t follow up with any sort of clarification and he realized she was looking at him for a reaction, he found his voice cracking in shock. “He—what?!”

“You heard me.” And now she was unmistakably smiling. For the first time in his life, Acatl wanted a cup with something significantly stronger than water.

Someone was running down the hallway outside. It was all the warning he got before the entrance curtain was yanked aside so roughly that it nearly came off its hanging rod; the cacophony of bells that announced the intrusion nearly drowned out the cry of “Acatl-tzin!” that accompanied it. Teomitl stood in the doorway for a moment, relief plain on his face. Acatl couldn’t look away.

Mihmatini rose gracefully. The smile she turned on Teomitl had an edge to it. “I’ll leave you to talk.”

She left. For a long little while, all Acatl could do was stare at Teomitl. Absurdly, he thought He looks the same. The same lean, solidly muscled build, the same nose and eyes, the same little scar on one elbow where a training sword had caught him as a child. True, his cloak and sandals were rich turquoise and his earrings were jade and gold, but his face hadn’t changed. It was still open and guileless, every emotion writ clear. He loves you, Mihmatini had said. Acatl thought he could believe it.

Slowly, carefully, Teomitl sank down next to his mat. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Acatl’s face; for a moment Acatl thought he was going to reach for him, but he seemed to think better of it. “I...how are you feeling?”

How am I feeling, he asks. He could almost laugh; under his skin, dry dust rustled like paper with the knowledge that he shouldn’t be here. The words were out before he could stop them, more acidic than he’d intended. “...I’ve just been dead, Teomitl. How do you think?”

Teomitl averted his gaze; as he turned, Acatl saw blood at his ears. “It’s a valid concern!” He swallowed once, visibly, and added in a softer voice, “We weren’t sure when you’d wake.”

There was a tremor to the words Acatl really didn’t like, and Mihmatini’s words crossed his mind again. Part of him didn’t want to know. He was alive, wasn’t he? Let the details rest. But if Teomitl had done something...ill-advised to bring him back, then it was his responsibility to help fix it. He took a deep breath. “I’m just glad to be able to wake at all. Mihmatini told me that Quenami provided the magic, but how...?”

Teomitl still wasn’t looking at him, but his voice was firm; his shoulders rolled as though he was preparing for a fight. “...Someone had to go into Mictlan. I volunteered.”

What. The words crystallized in his mind, horror slicing like swords. It’s one thing for me to go—I am Lord Death’s servant! But Teomitl, sworn to the Southern Hummingbird and Jade Skirt, walking through enemy territory—for me—

“Lord Death was...willing to release your soul to me.”

He forced himself to breathe. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. For Teomitl to walk back to the Fifth World with my soul... With dread gripping his heart in eagle claws, he forced out, “What did He want in exchange?”

Silence. Teomitl closed his eyes on a long exhale.

“What did He want, Teomitl?!”

“Mine!” Teomitl’s eyes snapped open, filled with an anguished emotion Acatl couldn’t even begin to unravel. His fists clenched, white-knuckled, as he caught Acatl’s gaze and held it; he was stunned to see tears in his eyes. For all that, his voice held steady with barely a waver. “I offered Him my soul, and He accepted. When I die...I’ll go to Mictlan. And it will be worth it, Acatl-tzin, do you understand?” He raised his voice right over the feeble noise that escaped Acatl’s lips. “It will! Because I lied to Tizoc, you’re mine, and I couldn’t let you die!”

Horror—he did that for me, gave up all hope of the Sun’s Heaven for me—almost threatened to swamp him, but hard on its heels came a fierce joy. Because I’m his. Because...Mihmatini was right. By the Duality, she was right. The knot in his chest started to loosen, and he found he could breathe. “...You killed him for me.”

“I did.” It came out ragged, raw. Teomitl had to take a breath before continuing, “I saw you and—Tizoc tore my heart from my chest when he killed you, Acatl-tzin. I returned the favor.”

“...Teomitl.” It seemed to be the only word in his reeling mind. He realized he was leaning closer, that it would be so easy for him to close the distance between them, and only just stopped himself in time.

Teomitl swallowed convulsively, dropping his gaze. Even in the dim light afforded to them, it was easy to see him turn a dull, dark red. “I—“ His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Acatl’s and squeezing tight. “Acatl-tzin. Acatl.”

He’d never heard his name like that before—soft and desperate, unspoken emotion ringing through it like bells. It made his heart skip a beat, and for a moment he could barely breathe. “Are you not...?” The Revered Speaker, he wanted to say, as far above me as the sun in the sky. But the words lodged in his throat and stuck there; helpless, he gestured to Teomitl’s turquoise adornments with his free hand. The other one was still held firmly in Teomitl’s grasp; it was easy for him to tangle their fingers together. Whether you are or not, I’m yours.

It must have been the right thing to do, because Teomitl was looking at him again. “Yes. But...” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Acatl’s focus followed it. “To you, I want to be Teomitl.”

Oh. Oh. Love pulsed through him like another heart, and Mictlan’s chill had never felt farther away. “And...” The words were out before he could call them back; maybe it was a stupid question, but he had to know. He had to be sure, before he did something he might regret. “Is that all you want from me?”

Teomitl’s thumb smoothed over his fingers, very nearly distracting him from his words. “No.”

Now he knew he wasn’t breathing. Teomitl’s hand on his was his greatest anchor to the earth. “Ngh?”

Teomitl smiled, brief and radiant, as his gaze drifted pointedly to Acatl’s mouth. “When you are well enough, I’m going to kiss you.”

It was a simple statement of fact—the sky is blue, Grandmother Earth is hungry, I am going to kiss you. Acatl took a moment to breathe, feeling the foundations of his world lift and resettle themselves to account for this new version of reality. His limbs still felt too heavy and his throat was a dull-edged sword of pain, but none of that mattered. Teomitl had brought him back to life, saved the Fifth World, loved him.

He tilted his head and leaned in, the clearest invitation he could give. “...I’m well enough now.”

Teomitl closed the distance.

When he’d thought about what kissing Teomitl would be like—and he had thought about it, in flashes late at night that left him flushed and flustered the next day—he’d imagined something rough and passionate, maybe a little clumsy in his eagerness. He’d imagined more teeth. He hadn’t expected soft, gentle lips pressed to his, coaxing his mouth open. He loves me. It was the easiest thing in the world to relax into it, letting Teomitl’s arm around him take his weight as he kissed back. From there it was only natural to pull him close in return.

Teomitl made a small, soft noise into his mouth when Acatl rested a hand at his waist. It almost sounded surprised, and he couldn’t help but smile. Did you not think I wanted to touch you? Oh, but it was too difficult to kiss someone when you were smiling, and he had to pull away. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

“Acatl.” Teomitl was smiling too; they bumped noses, and Acatl had to suppress a little bubble of laughter. “You don’t know how happy I am right now.”

“I think I can guess.” He ran his fingers lightly over Teomitl’s side—too lightly, evidently, because it startled a squeaky, adorable giggle out of him. Oh gods, he’s ticklish. Now there was no use suppressing his delight, nor the grin that threatened to split his face.

Teomitl’s eyes narrowed warily, but without any real heat. “Do not. I swear to the Duality, I’ll take back everything I just said.”

He decided to be merciful, smoothing his hand over the skin instead and watching the delicate little shiver that resulted. “You won’t.” He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Teomitl loves me. I love him in return. That will never change, not in this world.

“Mm.” Teomitl kissed him again, just as sweetly as the first time. “You’re right. Mictlan might have my soul, Acatl, but my heart is yours.”

He’d almost forgotten. He’d almost forgotten. He drew Teomitl in for another kiss, this one deeper; as hands found his hair, his own dug into Teomitl’s skin. After a second’s worth of surprise, Teomitl returned the fervor with a growl. There were the teeth he’d been wondering about, and he welcomed them. If he’d had the energy—if the Revered Speaker could be assured of any privacy at all—he would have allowed himself to crave more. Since they couldn’t, he settled for catching Teomitl’s lower lip lightly between his teeth as he pulled away, just far enough to breathe, “Then I hope we die on the same day, in the same hour. I won’t let you walk through Mictlan alone.”

Teomitl’s smile was a soft, wonderful thing. “We’ll be the happiest shades in the underworld.”

[red-and-blue-sewer-circus-arc]

Pennywise: Date Night pt. 3

Warning: attempted sexual assault, forced groping, body horror, graphic violence and death, blood, urine, vomit, mental breakdown, angst

Your legs were still shaking as Penny guided you outside into the cold night air. The last of the alcohol in your system and the high from your orgasm kept you warm and content as she turned and headed towards your car, but that all changed when three men stepped out of the dark alley to block your path.

“Well, what do we have here?”

The first one to speak wore a black shirt and had bad teeth.

“Looks like the lezbos who blew me off earlier.”

You recognized the creep as the one Penny had sent away in her rush to get inside you. She hummed and tapped her finger against her chin as she studied him.

“Your willpower is stronger than I gave you credit for Steven. You shouldn't have been able to remember my face.”

The creep, Steven, scowled and took a step closer.

"I don't know what you're going on about, or how you learned my name, but I'm not going to let a cunt like you disrespect me."

The men made you nervous and you quickly sobered up as you glanced around for help only to realize that everyone was still inside the club. Even the doorman was too far away to signal and if you screamed, the pulsing music from the open door would drown you out. You stepped closer to Penny and squeezed her hand.

"Penny, I think we should go now."

The third man was the biggest of the trio and had his hair pulled back in a douchy ponytail. He let out a snort.

“Yep. Definitely lesbians.”

“Only because they haven’t had a good dick to show them what a real man can do.”

Steven reached down to grab his crotch while the other two started laughing. Penny’s high pitched laughter joined in. Apparently, she thought that was hilarious. If you hadn't been so scared you might have thought it was funny too. Pennywise was a shape shifter and had fucked you with all different types of genitalia. The thought of being with a human man again seemed almost… boring. Steven’s smile faded. He didn't seem to enjoy being laughed at

He grabbed Penny by the arm.

“You think something's funny bitch? How about I take you down this alley and wipe that smile off your fucking face?!”

That was it.

“Let go of her ASSHOLE!”

You shoved him with all of your strength but he didn’t even budge. Penny’s eyebrows lifted in amusement as she looked back and forth between the two of you. Steven's face was almost purple with rage and he yanked Penny's arm, pulling her towards the dark alley.

“Grab the other one. We're going to show these cunts some manners.”

Ponytail guy wrapped his arms around you from behind and lifted you in the air. You beat at his arms and tried to kick him, you even threw your head back to try and break his nose, but it didn't seem to phase him at all as he followed Steven. Black shirt looked around to make sure nobody had noticed before slipping back into the shadows as well.

They took both of you down to the dead end of the alley before ponytail set you down and black shirt held you between the two of them. Steven still had a tight grip on Penny’s arm and you didn’t understand why she wasn’t fighting back. In fact, she seemed to be amused by the whole thing.

“Penny! I think they are serious!”

Penny nodded.

“Oh yes honey. They are. Such naughty desires in their filthy little heads.”

"Shut up!"

Steven grabbed the front of Penny’s shirt and popped the first three buttons off before he shoved his hand inside and started to grope her breasts. You couldn't believe it. Tears blurred your vision and your body started to shake.

“Aren’t you going to fight back?”

The men holding your arms looked at you and laughed in your face.

“There's no "fighting back' princess."

"Yeah, there's three of us and only two of you.”

Penny lowered her head and narrowed her eyes while she stared you down.

“You said you didn’t want me to eat on our date, did you not, honey?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you bitches? Just shut the hell up!”

Steven's eyebrows were drawn together while he groped Penny's chest. You knew what he was looking for, what he would never find. Penny didn't think it was necessary to have nipples even though she seemed to enjoy yours just fine. How long before he figured out something was wrong? How long before they turned even more violent?

“JUST DO SOMETHING PENNY!”

You screamed and the smile fell from Penny's face. Her lip turned up in a snarl while she mumbled something about humans being 'difficult' and she grabbed Steven’s arm. His mouth dropped open, but before he could speak, there was a loud tearing sound. You watched as his face changed from anger to shock to pain in a matter of seconds.

Steven's scream was loud and shrill and bounced around the tight space of the alley. He pulled back, ripping open the rest of the buttons on Penny’s top, and held the jagged stump where his arm used to be. Blood gushed from the wound as he backed up against the wall, still screaming. The white of his bones were visible through the chewed red meat of his forearm and Penny swallowed.

"Disgusting."

The three of you turned to look at Penny. A dark line ran down the center of her body from the base of her throat, between her breasts, and down to where her belly button should have been. The flesh around her mouth ripped open, exposing sharp teeth that ran all the way up to her cheekbones. She snarled as she advanced on Steven while the other two men watched in shocked silence. Penny’s arm shimmered, and a long, jointed spider leg extended out. It punched through Steven ’s face and buried itself into the brick wall behind him. His body twitched and jerked while Penny turned her red rimmed, yellow eyes towards the other two men. When she cackled, the sound was distorted and didn't seem to come from her ruined mouth at all. The opening of the alley blurred, like the air above the pavement on a hot summer day, and you knew the men beside you were trapped.

Penny hunched her shoulders and the slit in her torso began to quiver. Black shirt and ponytail forgot all about you and tried to get as far away from Penny as possible. They pressed themselves against the back wall and you dropped down to your knees. She pushed her shoulders back and the sides of the slit furled open like a giant carnivorous flower. Rows of sharp teeth lined both edges of the gaping maw. Long strings of thick saliva spread across the opening before dripping down to the grimy alley floor. Barbed tendrils shot out of her open chest cavity and wrapped around the two men. Black shirt screamed as the tiny hooks cut deep into his flesh while ponytail silently released his bladder. You watched the wet stain spread across his jeans then looked up to see his eyes were wide open in shock.

“Close your eyes honey.”

Penny's voice spoke directly into your brain and you glanced up just in time to see her eyes roll to the back of her head. She opened her mouth and it kept opening, wider and wider, until her face started to split apart. You closed your eyes and covered your face with your hands as you started to cry. What the hell was going on? Behind your eyelids, you saw a bright orange glow.

Black shirt's screams fell silent so you opened your eyes to peek between your fingers. Two pairs of feet floated past your head, one on either side. The dark tendrils were pulling the men closer to the gaping mouth. You tried to get a look at Penny’s face, but the higher your eyes traveled up her body, the brighter the light became. It made you feel sick, like your skin was going to crawl off your body. And then there was the screaming. Not a scream like a man fearing for his life, no. This was a cold scream that bounced around in your head and made you feel like your sanity could snap at any moment. Your vision swam and you covered your eyes again. What you had almost seen... it was something awful, something so terrible your brain couldn't begin to process it. Not yet.

Penny was eating them. You could tell by the sounds coming from her direction. Inhuman snarles accompanied by the crunch of bone, the splash of viscera on concrete. You squeezed your eyes shut despite the tears pouring from them and moved your hands to cover your ears in an effort to drown out the sounds. It didn't help at all. You could still hear the screaming. What felt like hours, but in reality was only a few minutes, passed by and it wasn't until you felt Penny kneel down in front of you that you realized the screaming was coming from you. When you opened your eyes, the world started to spin and you had to quickly turn your head away to vomit. Penny’s top was still ripped open, her chest was covered in blood and gore. Her shirt started to mend and she stood above you, watching as you dry heaved against the pavement.

“You saw the deadlights.”

It wasn't a question. You couldn’t speak and when you tried to stand, vertigo knocked you back down. Without saying another word, Penny lifted you in her arms and carried you out of the alley. You tried not to look at the bits that were left as you passed. At the end of the alley, your car pulled up and the passengers side door swung open. Once you were safely buckled in, Penny took position behind the wheel. She watched as you drifted in and out of consciousness, her eyes were never on the road and her hands stayed in her lap.

When you regained your senses, you found yourself back home and in your own bed. The familiar form of Pennywise was crouched down on all fours, staring at you from the end of the bed. You briefly wondered what he was doing before the screaming in your brain started again and it all came back to you in a rush. The ice cream parlor, the club, the men... the... lights. The deadlights. That was what she.. no.. IT called them. It was not just an alien like you had assumed. It was instead part of something else. A physical mannifestaion of something so vast and evil and… you felt your mind begin to break. Hyperventilating, you looked at Pennywise crouching on your bed like some kind of beast. He snarled and bloody drool dripped off his pointed teeth.

Break the mind eat the flesh.

Laughter started to bubble out of your mouth and your fingers knotted in your hair. Was this what it felt like to loose your mind? You wrapped your arms around yourself and hid your face between your knees.

Bring it back. Calm down. Breathe. Repeating this to yourself over and over, you struggled to hold on to your sanity before you ended up in Juniper Hill with the other crazies. You laughed at the thought of explaining that one.

'It was the man eating clown doctor. It fucked me, but you see, it wasn't really a clown.'

No. You had seen the truth about Pennywise and there would be no such ending for you. That sobering thought knocked you back to your senses and you realized that it wasn’t watching you out of concern. It was watching to see if you could save your mind. If not, if you had truly lost it, then the bet would be off. It would kill you. And eat you. Just like Jerry and just like those men.

Your head snapped up, but Pennywise was gone. The room was empty and you were all alone.

Alone.

How foolish had you been to think you mattered to it? To think that you and the monster had developed something.. some sort of bond? What was a few months to a being older than the universe? You were brief entertainment and nothing more. It didn't care if you survived the year or not.

Laying down on your side, you curled into a ball and cried yourself to sleep.

[avenging-criminal-bones]

Focus On My Touch

Word Count: 1742

Summary: Sam comes home to you having a big breakdown. Luckily he’s one of the people who knows how to help you out of your panic attacks.

Warnings: Panic attack, anxiety, angst, fluff

* * * * *

“Rough day?” Sam asked with a sympathetic smile as he entered the house that the two of you shared. Just like the living room, he noticed the place was a mess. The sink was piled high with dishes, the island slathered in flour and mixing bowls; a sprinkling of red and green sugar coated the tile floor. The oven door was open, a waft of smoke floating fatally close to the fire alarm that had already gone off today.

“It was fine,” you lied and wiped your eyes, turning to greet him with a forced smile.

“Looks like it,” he said under his breath, eyes darting about the room. He eventually found your eyes again and smiled gently.

You knew he meant nothing by it, but his comment ripped through you like a knife to your heart. Your chin quivered with the promise of tears, and you clenched your jaw to steady it. Your fists tightened at your sides and you closed your eyes, fighting the wave of aggravation that pushed and pulled at your insides.

After a moment, you felt him at your side, and Jared lay a firm hand on your shoulder. “What happened?”

You shrugged his hand away and walked to the door to retrieve your spatula, ignoring his question. As you bent to pick it up, you cleared your throat and tried to veer the conversation away from you. “How was your day?” You forced a smile as you turned back to him, but your eyes gave away the lie.

Sam nodded, understanding your reluctance to talk, and gave you a little shrug. “It was alright. Dean got a bit roughed up on the hunt, but that’s about it.”

Panic turned in your stomach. “What? Is he OK?”

Sam crossed his arms and leaned back against the messy counter. “Yeah, he’s fine; just rolled funny when he went down to duck the blade and hurt his knee.

“Huh, well, I’m glad he’s OK,” you said softly and turned to busy your hands with the mess on the island. Your phone buzzed loudly from your pocket and your shoulders tensed at the sound. “Jesus Christ, five damn minutes, that’s all I ask,” you mumbled and pulled it out to silence the alert.

“Busy day at work?”

“Ya think?” you snapped as your eyes scrolled through a message from your boss, needing some pointless bit of information immediately, even though you’d been off the clock for three hours.

“Y/N…”

You set the phone down and looked up to see bright hazel eyes staring at you in concern. Sam dipped his chin and waited for you to reply, clearly not going to let you off the hook.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” you sighed. “Did you eat? I was making pancakes…” Your phone buzzed again and your eye twitched.

Jared smiled and looked over his shoulder at the ruined cake on the griddle. “Breakfast for dinner. My favorite.”

It was not his favorite, you knew, and guilt settled like a rock in your gut. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I was going to make the ribs we picked up the other day, but they didn’t smell right. I put them in anyway, but the pie gunk on the bottom of the oven started burning because I never had a chance to clean it up, because I suck…”

 Words tumbled from your mouth in a rolling rant that had no beginning or end. “…and then whole kitchen started filling with smoke, and the alarm went off. Which woke Johnny up from his nap, and he started screaming and I couldn’t get to him because I was trying to shut off the alarm, but I couldn’t reach the damn thing, and he got so upset he threw up all over himself. And the playpen, and the floor, and me when I picked him up.” Your voice cracks little by little before you start talking again.

“So then he needed a bath and my phone hasn’t stopped ringing for like, ever, and everyone just needs something from me and I just don’t know how to help anyone. Katelyn has called me four times about her boyfriend and they’re in some kind of fight, but what do you want me to do? And my mother… Goddamn it, it’s like nonstop with her! ‘What’s happening for Christmas?’ ‘What time are we eating?’ ‘When is your flight?’… It’s three weeks away-”

Sam, who had been silently observing you from across the room, now rushed to your side and set his hands on your upper arms. He breaks off your rant, not wanting it to escalate any further that it already had. You tried to push him away, but he held tight, and you screwed your eyes shut against his comfort.

“I just can’t freaking do this anymore!” You panted; your breath picking up speed with each passing second. Your heart was racing, fireworks crackling in your head. “I can’t! I can’t do anything! Everyone needs something, but I have nothing. There’s nothing left! I’m done. I can’t!” Your shoulders began to shake, burdened by the weight of life; your responsibilities, both real and imagined, pushing down on you like anvils. “I can't…” you said again and again in gasping breaths as your head began to feel fuzzy.

“Hey! Hey, hey…” Sam’s fingers pressed into your arms, but you could barely feel them. His voice was steady and soothing in its depth, but your heavy breaths blocked his words. “Relax, Baby. It’s okay.” He pulled you forward, trying to force you into a hug, but you pulled back, fighting him as you hyperventilated; your chest tightening, throat closing in.

“I…can’t…I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he told you quickly and finally managed to pull you against his chest. He was hot and sweaty and all the things you loved, but you couldn’t focus on anything. Your eyes twitched back and forth as your mouth gaped for air, but Jared held you tight.

“You need to breathe, Y/N. Come on…”

You shook your head and looked up at him, suddenly unable to remember how. You couldn’t move, yet your muscles were twitching; couldn’t think, yet your mind raced. Tears fell from your open eyes and dripped like salted rain into your mouth.

Sam bent down, pressed his forehead to yours and closed his left hand around the back of your neck.

“Take a breath, Y/N. Deep breath.”

You shook your head again as white lit the edges of your vision.

“Do it,” he said firmly. “Deep breath.”

Somehow, your chest rose as the air flowed in, and Sam’s fingers tightened at the nape of your neck. “Now let it out,” he whispered, and you did, oblivious to the absurdity of your husband needing to instruct you on how to breathe. It helped, though, and once the air was gone, you pulled in more through your nose, and let it seep out from between your lips. “That’s good, Baby,” Sam said with a faint smile. “That’s good. Keep breathing.”

As soon as you started to relax, another tidal wave of panic slammed into you. Your body tensed and you struggled to pull away.

“Sam, please!” There was no real question, nothing you were asking for other than help, but he knew what you needed.

“You feel my hand?” he asked as he pressed a little harder on your neck. “Do you feel me?”

You nodded, biting your lip to stop from shouting.

“Say it, tell me you feel me.”

“I…” Your voice cracked, your throat so tight it was hard to speak. “Yes.” It was a tiny whisper, but it was there.

Sam closed his eyes in a moment of relief and pressed on. “My fingers, do you feel them?” Lightly, he pressed down against your skin, each finger in turn. “Focus on my fingers.” One by one they pulsed on your neck and you set your mind upon their movements, trying to map their journey. “Do you feel them?”

“Yes,” you sighed as your throat relaxed.

“My hand, do you feel it? Can you feel my palm? The base of my fingers and the heel of my hand? Can you feel it?”

You swallowed and took a slow breath. “Yes.” With the word, you felt your shoulders drop and you kept your mind on the comforting pressure of his hand.

Sam felt you relax and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before leaning back down. “That’s good, Y/N.” He kept his hand in place, his fingers dancing in alternating firmness. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” From the top of your head, straight down to your toes, every muscle released its tension and you breathed deep and steady.

“Listen to me,” he said gently. “You are an amazing person. You give and give and never ask for anything. But you don’t have to give until you are empty.”

You opened your eyes at last and lifted your chin to look into his.

“I love you. I don’t care what the house looks like, or if the oven goes up in flames. I don’t care of there’s baby puke and cereal all over the living room.” He paused and your lips turned upwards at his little joke. “I love you,” he went on, his voice filled with sincerity and love. “Let me help you. You’re not alone in this. This is our life. Our fight. Do you hear me?”

You stared up at your gorgeous husband, wondering how on earth you had ever talked him into falling in love with someone like you. He was brimming with light and love, pure and true, and somehow, by some miracle, it was all focused on you. You were a wreck from the day you’d met, but he saw passed it all. Even when his own light was dimming, he could bring you back from the edge with the touch of his hand.

Sam tilted his head and smiled sweetly, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Hey, I asked you a question.”

You laughed and nodded, still locked into those incredible eyes. “Yes, I hear you.”

His kiss was gentle but full, and you crashed in his arms, exhausted but somehow renewed.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips.

“Love you more,” he teased and gave you a final squeeze. “Now, can we order a pizza, please? I’m starving.”

You chuckled and rolled your eyes, tossing him your phone. “Yes.”

[mintychocolatechip]

Chpt #4 In Your Eyes I See Embers

Chapter 4: Lucid Reality

Sorry for taking so long, but alas i have another chapter for you guys. Please review/comment, let me know what you think/what i can improve on n' such.

Enjoy uwu

The world is strangely cold around Ben as he rouses from his medically induced slumber. His mind is in shambles, and attempting to conjure any coherent thought would only succeed in worsening the pain. Still, Ben opens his eyes, hazily looking around trying to determine where he is. His gaze lands on a sequence of obnoxiously bright red lights. He tries to make sense of what it is but the aching in his head is too distracting.

Ben shuts his eyes, taking a moment to ease the pain coursing through his skull. Re opening them, the red lights are replaced with fuzzy yet readable numbers.

"6:30." Ben mumbles to himself. Slowly becoming aware of his surroundings.

'Thats right, a hospital room.' His thoughts becoming clearer as he peers through the red tinted darkness. The flowers at his bedside, monitor beeping above him, the stitches woven tightly at the back of his head all come to surface with each passing minute. Ben makes an attempt to move yet his body seems to still be quite heavy from his previous sleep. A faint shifting noise amidst the room draws his attention to the right. There Ben finds Mike along with Richie, and Eddie sleeping somewhat peacefully in the visitor chairs. The sight of it seeming a little strange, nevertheless a small sigh of relief escaped his lips. He felt much better knowing they were there.

He considered saying something, but the lingering exhaustion pulling at his mind had other plans. His eyes slowly fall shut, yet as he drifts the faintest sound falls upon his ears. Only it isn't audible, it exclusively rings in his head. It begins to take the form of a voice. Light coupled with firey optimism with a hint of mischeviousness. As it becomes more pronounced, Ben can feel the emotion hanging off of each word, sparking from an endless flame.

Embers

This mysterious voice draws him in effortlessly, and as sleep overtakes him Ben has the strangest dream. Freckled smiles, and wild auburn hair.

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

Endless rays of sunlight peered through wispy clouds. Gentle winds flow in seamless waves. Taking a slow deep breath, Beverly plops down among the soft blades of grass. Lucid dreams were nothing new to her; letting her thoughts, and disires take a somewhat physical form seemed... natural. The blue and pink sunset hue putting her mind at ease. A sigh escapes her lips as she basks in it all. Why couldn't all her dreams be as wonderful as this.

Amidst the gentle breeze, the strangest vision floods her mind. Images of a boy, short and chubby, his eyes a soft deep amber. She's so caught up in the essence of this child that she doesn't feel the faint buzzing in her head return, only asking the boy,

"What is... your name?" The question echos in her mind as the words leave her lips. The boy only smiles before sitting down next to her. He whispers his answer into her ear yet try as she might, she couldn't quite hear what he said.

"Wait huh, what did you say?" She asks again curiosity getting the better of her, however, the boy shakes his head wordlessly pointing in the distance.

Beverly doesn't see anything at first glance, yet as she peers into the endless meadow a blurry, human like figure comes into view. She turns to her right intending to ask the boy who this mysterious figure is, but he's gone. Turning back, Beverly decides to take note of the figures now apparent features. He's kinda tall, 6ft she's guessing. Chubby, but not overly so. The back of his hands are scarred, such a peculiar spot further spurs Bev's curiosity. Lastly, his hair rests in softly spiked waves, an underlining beard completing the soft yet rugged look. However Upon further inspection, Beverly's eyes widen in shock. There clear as day laid a scar, its shape and position mirroring hers. And as she she brings a hand up to graze it, the faint buzzing in her head intensifies to a consistant hum.

Beverly's mind prompts the question, 'who are you?' yet as soon as the thought occurs a name she's sure she doesn't recognize alligns itself with the man before her.

"Ben..." Subconsiously a smile makes it way onto her face. He seemingly returns it, a gentle lopsided grin gracing his features. Part of her wonders what caused her to dream up such an idea, but she quickly shrugged it off. Whatever it was it wasn't of any importance now. There are no words between the two, but Beverly wouldn't be able to imagine what his voice sounded like anyway. She turns her attention away from the man she believes to have conjured up, instead opting to further bask in the peacefullness of her presumed setting. She lays back shifting her gaze skyward, entranced by the almost formless clouds.

She raises a hand up to her head, lightly grazing the jagged scar. Once more, a vision comes to her. The images are blurry however she can clearly feel cold harsh wind whipping past her face, the flimsy wooden sled handle in-between her fingers. Suddenly she's twelve years old again, sliding down an impossibly steep hill. The humming in her head transforming into incessant pounding. She's Going faster, and faster until-

"BEV!" Beverly pratically rockets up, her eyes shooting open. Kay is there, a worried expression plastered on her face.

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

"Ben, man you ok?"

"Wha-" Ben finds himself suddenly back in his hospital room. Sweat glistening his forehead, his hand gripping the bed sheets tightly. Ben turns to see Mike, Richie, and Eddie all giving him a worried look.

"You suddenly got up hyperventilating." Eddie said giving context to their concerned expressions.

"You scared us half to death." Mike follows up. Ben simply breathes for a moment, collecting himself before speaking again.

"Sorry you guys, I...I guess I had a panic attack." He concludes earning a confused look from Richie.

"In your sleep?" He questions, to which Ben just shrugs he was still a bit out of it, too much so to come up with any logical answer. He lifts a hand to push the dampness of his bangs out of his face, but as soon as his hand touches his head he suddenly remembers his strange dream. The previous humming placed at his scar now gone, leaving him feeling strangely empty. However he isn't left much time to dwell on it as a doctor enters the room. It's a man, short and stocky with square-ish blue spectacles.

"Oh, you're awake, how are you feeling?" The man questions, prompting Ben to breath so he could check his heart rate. Ben complies, taking a deep breath before replying.

"I feel fine, a little dizzy though." Ben's words come out somewhat hoarse, and it's then when realizes that he's parched.

"Could use a little water." He continues, the doctor replying with a short, consise 'Of Course'. The doctor places the stethoscope at Ben's back, the cold steel causing him to shiver.

"Well, dizzyness is to be expected, given where the blood loss was coming from." In reaction to the doctors words Ben slowly brings a hand to the back of his head, cautiously grazing the sealed wound. His hair had already started growing back however, he could distinctly feel the tightness of each individually woven stitch.

"Try not to bother it too much, we can provide some form of ointment if the stitches start to itch." The doctor advises, Ben responding with a short 'hmm'. The doctor begins jotting down notes on his clipboard, no doubt taking note of Ben's current disposition. He glances over at the three guests before wrapping up his evaluation.

"You'll be cleared for leaving in say.. two days. In the mean time, you might want one of these gentlemen here to bring some of your belongings, such as spare clothes." He states as he puts away his equipment, Ben replying with a nod. The doctor assures a nurse will come by with water taking his leave in the process. Once he's gone Ben leans back, and sighs. Being stuck here for two days wasn't exactly a part of his weekend plan.

"Don't worry Ben I'll stop by your job, and tell 'em you can't come in." Mike says getting up to stetch.

"Thanks man, try not to let my boss get to you though, he can be a bit uptight." Ben says coughing slightly as the dryness in his throat got to him. Mike mumbles out a simple, 'No Problem' before taking his leave.

"I've got you on clothes Haystack, I'll stop by your place after grabbing breakfast." Richie proclaims, slowly lifting Eddies head off his shoulder before standing. Both Ben's, and Eddie's face light up at the idea of breakfast.

"Hot cakes please." Eddie says in a semi drowsy voice. Ben agrees, passing Richie his house keys, and a folded ten dollar bill.

"Same for me, anythings better than god awful hospital food." Ben says, earning a laugh from his two friends. With a small wave Richie left the room leaving Eddie with Ben to keep him company. Eddie proceeded to fall back asleep which was fair, he was never really a morning person. It was ok though, it allowed Ben time to think, and as he sat there peering through the large room window his mind brought him back to the dream he had. The peaceful meadow settled under a blue, and pink sunset. Gentle breezes slowly pushing formless clouds. It all seemed so surreal. Then there was her, the enigma that seemed to be the epicenter of his thoughts. The only question quietly whispering in his mind is why. Why again, why now...

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

"So, two days huh.." Kay started, breaking the silence between the two. Beverly nods, taking a moment to fix her hair so it doesn't obstruct her vision.

"It's no big deal, I'll probably be out sooner." Bev replies. She's lying of course, the pounding headache, and soreness in the back of her head are proof of that, but Kay doesn't need to know.

"Sure." Kay replies sarcaatically, and the two share a small laugh. However, it doesn't last long. An awkward silence follows, and Beverly is sure of whats coming next.

"You don't think this has anything to do with the incident do you?" Kay questions causing the bed ridden Bev to shift nervously.

"I....honestly can't say.." She doesn't sound sure at all of her answer, but deep down.. she knows it is. She's just too afraid to admit it. Kay senses the apprehension in Bev's words prompting her to back off a bit.

"It doesn't matter, I'm just glad your ok." Beverly smiles in response, and once more silence falls between the two only this time it's slightly more comfortable. Bev takes this time to recount her apparent visions. The small voiceless boy, and his older counterpart were nothing short of complete mysteries. His name then softly rings in her mind

"Ben.." It feels so familiar, as if she's known it her entire life.

"Who?" Kay's questioning snaps Beverly from her thoughts. She quickly composes herself, offering a quick if not slightly rushed 'Oh nothing'. Still, her mind wandered. Maybe in some twisted way this was all related to that incident.

Whatever it was, Beverly had a feeling she'd find out soon.

Once again I am very sorry for taking so long to post this. However In my absence I've completed about half of the next chapter so don't lose hope in me yet uwu.

Until next time...

Kylo Out

[shy-violet-soul]

The Edge of Okay

Characters: reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Rating: Teens+ Summary:  A weary warrior fights an unseen battle, trying to hold herself together and hide her pain from the brothers.  

***TRIGGER WARNINGS***: anxiety/panic attack, self-harm, graphic descriptions of injuries

A/N:  For all of us who struggle with an invisible mental illness.  For all of us who don’t want to hurt ourselves, but just want it to stop.  For all of us who have trouble seeing our own amazing courage.  For all of us who claw our way back from the scary edge.  This one is for us.

If you need help, please reach out!  You are precious.  Here’s a link of contacts.

A very big thank you to @thesassywallflower for being my beta once again.  I so admire your writing talent, my friend, so your feedback, suggestions, and praise always mean so much to me.  THANK YOU!

(image credit: Olga Zavgorodnya via www.fineartamerica.com)

“I’m okay.”

Of all the lies I’ve ever told, that one is the biggest.

My body is a relief map.  Rough and raised on the space where my left thumb meets my hand - machete callous.  Painted blue on my right rib cage - bruise from an upright player piano a vengeful spirit slammed into me.  Thready and crooked - new part in my hair beside my ear from a too-close-call with a wraith.  A fretwork of pink raised ridges, whitish blobs, and silvered indents - an atlas to past mileage.  

You’re okay, I tell myself, not even feeling the frenetic bounce of my knee anymore.  Fingers cold, I trace the newest mark on my skin, up and down, up and down.  Sam’s gotten pretty good at stitches - they don’t look as much like Frankenstein work anymore.  The still-tight scars lay pink and healing where they webbed up from the inner knob of my right collarbone to my ear.  My fingertips can still feel the tiny spots where the stitches laced me back together.  Stupid, lucky lacerations.  They’re easy.  I mean, getting filleted like a mackerel by a demon was a bitch.  But hey - stitches work.  Fluids and food restore.  A whiskey or three cures a lot.

Up and down, up and down, I trace the lines that tell me I’m okay.  That my skin is knitting back together, and my blood is staying inside where it belongs.  Physically, I’m well on the mend.  It’s just my brain that’s a mess.

It started when I was in high school.  I thought everyone got chest pains studying for calculus exams, or nausea over a required oral presentation on European folklore.  Eventually, after being found wedged between two sections of lockers hyperventilating about an essay I’d forgotten, my parents insisted on getting me help.  Enter Dr. Bass and an answer: General Anxiety Disorder.  I’d hated the idea of medication, but I’d hated the constant panic attacks more.  It took a while.  A long while.  But I finally figured out how to co-exist with the anxiety.  It took even longer to stop feeling ashamed of my invisible illness.  I succeeded, mostly.  The rest of the time, I trained my face to lie.  The official I’m okay robot, complete with appropriate facial expressions.

Then, you know - parents dying and monsters and real angels and crap.  Dean and Sam patched me up, showed me the ropes, and I never looked back.  Who has time for panic attacks when you’re busy torching wendigos?

You’re okay, as fatigue burns the back of my eyes, puffed and scratchy.  I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time in days.  Sam remarked on the beautiful bags under my eyes the other morning.  

“Sleep is for the weak,” I’d winked at Dean, slapping a smile on.  I can’t let them know.

You’re okay, the refrain as I count the skipped heart beats and feel the chest pain tighten.  Black eyes and a cackling smile flash in my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to shake the image away.  I can beat this.  

You’re okay, while I swallow sticky around the need to hyperventilate at the memory of my blood running warm down my neck, then cold and clammy.  I can’t do this.

Up and down, up and down, my fingers rub the crooked lines a little too hard.  A raw pinch, a reminder from the tender skin that it’s still healing.  The sensation washes up into my head, and for a moment, I don’t feel the awful suck.  For a moment, my knee stills and the fatigue ebbs.  For a moment, I get a breather from the silent suffocation.  Temptation brings a tremble to my hands, wet to my eyes, and I yank my hand away, tucking both fists under my legs.  Exhaustion sags my edges hard, and I can’t hold up my head anymore.  My kneecaps dig into my cheekbones, my lungs shudder as I remind myself that’s not the answer.  You’re okay.  Frantically, I try to grasp at past coping techniques, and flail away the lies.  

I’m not weak.  I’m not a failure. I’m not broken.

But the ‘nots’ feel heavy in my head, and everything’s too hot and too cold.  I want to run five miles and lay down and never move again.  My clothes are too loose and too tight. I want pizza but I feel like throwing up.  It’s all too loud in here, and too quiet, and I would give a lot - almost anything - to make it all stop.

A sob croaks its way past the dryness, wheezing around a weak gag into the blaring silence of the library.  My fingers reach up, up to the table’s edge and press forward till I feel them.  The feel of the plastic containers both relieves and terrifies me.  I’m clinging to a new and scary edge I’ve never seen.

“Hey.”  The deep rasp squeezes my throat shut as I sense Dean’s warmth beside me.  I can sense him crouch down, one hand resting on my arm.  “Hey, are you okay?”

The weight within me presses, hard, and I feel something crack.  Oxygen is hard, all of a sudden, and the panic spikes, black dots in my vision.  One hand fumbles towards him, skittering one of the plastics a bit.  But I’m too tired to hold him, and oh, God, I need to hold on to someone.  As if from under deep water, I drag my head up to look at him, but my face is too tired to lie.  I’m too tired to lie.

“No.”  I try to swallow, cotton all the way down till my stomach hurts.  “No, I’m not okay.”

***************************************************************************************

She thinks she’s hiding it well.  Maybe from someone else, but not me.  You don’t have to be a Sherlock to see she’s not sleeping.  Her face is washed out, and we could go shopping with those bags under her eyes.  Always alert, she’s gone from awake and aware to outright jumpy.  I’ve teased her for her diet in the past, which she affectionately dubbed ‘the Winchester hybrid’ - a steady mix of my junk and Sam’s rabbit food.  You couldn’t keep a mouse alive on what she’s tried to fool us with.  

I get it.  She damn near died.  I took a great deal of pleasure in ganking that demon.  Blood was freakin’ everywhere.  Thanked whatever deity for Sammy’s dinner plate hands holding her neck together till we could get her sewn up.  Damn.  I’ve seen blood before.  I’ve seen my little brother slashed to shreds, held his broken bones in my hands.  You never get over that.  Doesn’t matter how many times.  It keeps me up at night sometimes.  That cold, quivery awfulness that hits your gut and won’t let go.  Makes you feel like you’re licking a battery or some shit. Sam thinks I got my awesome headphones to drown him out.  Sometimes, but mostly I just need to get out of my head.  Try to block out that crap with some classic electric guitar.  And beer.  You just...figure out how to live around it.

Seeing her blood all over - I don’t know why, but it was so much worse.  Felt like I swallowed the damn battery, I was so juiced up.  My gut felt cold for days.  But she got better.  Stitches work.  Fluids and food restore.  And a whiskey or six helped me catch a little shut eye without the memory of holding her neck together while Sammy sewed.

Cuts?  Those are easy, though.  Gimme a dislocated shoulder or a gash, I can fix that five ways from Sunday.  It’s the dying I see happening in her eyes that kills me.  I can’t fix it.  Not with dental floss and boosted painkillers or ice packs.  What the hell can a chewed up hunter do to help her?  I just wish she’d quit tryin’ to hide it.  Jody throws around the word ‘PTSD’ like it’s something new, but it’s not.  This fear?  The panic?  All hunters live with it.  If they don’t, they’re either liars or sadists.  She’s gotta know she’s not alone.  Time for me to sack up and tell her.

She looks so damn small.  Pajama pants with Bambi and Thumper printed all over and a Captain America hoodie are swallowing her.  The blanket from her bed is flopped around her, and she’s stuffed herself so small into one of the leather chairs, it makes my back hurt to look at her.  Hair’s a mess, lips all chapped, and salt stains on her face.  But her eyes...goddamn, my chest hurts just looking at her pain.

“No.  No, I’m not okay,” she croaks, her fingers knocking against something on the table before they’re shaking on my arm.  Everything in me wants to hold her tight, but I don’t.  Not yet.  I ease down on my knees beside her.  Squeeze her arm a bit while I prop my other hand on the chair beside her shoulder.  Close so she knows I’m here but not caging her in.  Hoping she’ll come to me when she’s ready.

It works.  She breathes like she’s been underwater, then her hands are tight fists in my sleeves. My throat squeezes shut when she looks up at me, like she’s begging me to understand.  Oh, honey...I raise my hand and brush some hair from her eyes.  Keep my movements slow and light, my gaze soft and open on hers.  

“I’m here,” I whisper, watching her eyes fall shut and tears dribble from the corners.  She leans toward me, resting her forehead against mine.  One hand on her head, the other still on her arm, I hold her.  We just breathe like that for a minute.  When she leans back and slides her eyes towards the table, I follow her gaze and my heart stops.

A line of prescription bottles are rowed up near the edge of the table, one tipped over where she must have hit earlier.  A couple with one of her aliases on them.  The other a high-powered painkiller that I know she stopped taking a week ago.  I have to swallow twice as I rub my thumb against her arm.  Do not sound judging.  Keep your cool.

Fresh tears are rolling down her face when I look back at her face.  I reach to hold her hands, a little shocked at how cold she is.

“What did you want those to do for you?” Kept my voice soft, so afraid I’d spook her.  

“I - I -” A sob cuts her off and she reaches for me.  My whole body loosens with relief as I pull her down on my lap, into my arms, and away from this edge it feels like she’s dangling from.  Her face dives for my shoulder and she just cries. 

****************************************************************************************

“I don’t want to die, I don’t!” My tongue feels stuck and heavy as I try to rush the words out.  My nerves feel like they’re on fire.  I can feel each heart beat in my temples as my blood pounds panic through my veins like a firehose.  I’m so terrified of seeing disgust in Dean’s face, but I’m more terrified of this edge I’ve ended up at.  I can’t stop the words from pouring out.  The nightmares of black eyes and horrid breath in my face.  Blunt nails scratching my skin when he squeezed my throat.  The scathing, sliding bite of his knife down my neck, and the certainty I was going to die.  It all comes gushing free like something cut loose inside of me.

As the black spots swirl around me sickeningly - comfort.  Slow, like a signal light from way off, I feel it first - hard arms holding me.  Big shoulders shielding me.  Warmth bleeding into me.  Soothing whispers start to piece-meal into my ears.  

“It’s alright.  I’m here.  I’ve got you, don’t worry.  I’ve got you.”

The words, the truth there actually hurts me for a second, and I squeeze his shirt tighter in my hands below his collarbones.  I scrunch myself smaller under his chin, and my lungs stutter as they try to suck in more air.

Minutes pass.  Maybe days, I don’t know.  Panic attacks will do that to you.  The lies are quiet for a moment, letting that bubble of truth float its way to my brain.  

“I don’t want to hurt myself.”  He needs to know that.  I need Dean to know that.

“What do you want?” His words rumble, soft but soothing, against my cheek.  I couldn’t stop the dribble of tears that leaked fresh from my eyes, and the weight of that water felt too heavy, so I closed my lids beneath it.

“I...I just...I’m tired, Dean.  I just want to sleep.”

“Do you want to go to my room and lay down?”

The thought of being in a small room makes my skin crawl.  “No,” the whisper forces its way out of my throat.  “I like it here.”

Dean didn’t say anything.  With the storm of panic passed, I feel wrung out, cold, and weak.  I barely track Dean moving an arm for a reach or two.  Then, he’s easing me back onto my butt.  It steadies me to focus on his face as he’s grabbing around me.  His eyelashes, the freckles on his cheekbones pull me in until I feel my blanket against my shoulders.  Numbly, I watch Dean’s hands as he cocoons the blanket around me.  His fingers feel warm and rough on my face as he cups my cheeks.  The sensations ground me, and I’m able to breathe a little deeper for a second.  When I open my eyes, Dean’s looking down at me.  He offers me a smile that’s crinkled eyes and soft reassurance.

“There.  Now you’re a burrito of tired.”

************************************************************************************

The chuckle she gives is sorry and sad, but I’ll take it.  My hands look too big and rough against her face, but her eyes close and her shoulders try to let go when I stroke one cheekbone with my thumb.  Screw it.  I ease her against my chest and stand up, holding her tight.  The main lights of the library click off - Sam got my text.  I clock him hovering in the kitchen doorway, giving me a ‘two minutes’ sign.  His puppy dog eyes look worried as I plop us down in one of the leather armchairs.  It takes me a second to get her situated where we’re both comfortable.  As soon as I stop moving, I notice how she’s shaking.  But her skin isn’t as cold as it was, and I feel her ribs expand with the first deep breath since I found her.  Feels like I can breathe a little deeper now, too.  

Pretty sure Sam conjured up a kitchen spell or something, because there’s no way it’s been two minutes when he comes trotting back in.  I roll my eyes when I see that instead of the one piece of toast I asked for, he’s got a pile as deep as his stupid hair.  But, I smell her private stash of cinnamon-sugar in with the toasted goodness - good job, little brother.  The plate slides onto the table next to us, and a bottle of water plops down with it.  I feel her eyelashes tickle against my neck when she opens her eyes.

“Hi, Sam.” God, she sounds tired.  

“Hey.” Sam squats down on his heels, reaching to tug the blanket up a little higher around her shoulders, then strokes her head carefully.  

You good? he asks with a lift of his eyebrows.  Yeah, I tell him with a bob of my chin.  The breath she pulls in is slow, now, and it’s got more O2 behind it when it sighs out warm against me.  I rub my right hand against her back, up and down, up and down. My left hand slides up into her hair and I start to drag my fingertips against her scalp.  Her shaking slows down to almost nothing as she sags against me. Her fatigue is contagious, and I feel my eyes growing heavy as I let my gaze drift.  Those damn pill bottles are ready to remind me, though.  That edge that almost pulled her under.

This battle may be on hold, but the war ain’t over.

*****************************************************************************************

For the first time in days, I feel warm.  My elbows and knees still feel trembly, but I feel loose instead of wound tighter than a spring.  Dean’s slow breathing moves underneath me, letting me rest against the swell and fall of his chest.  Leather and laundry soap reach me, a comforting cloud above the tickle of cinnamon-sugar.  The chair beside us creaks, and I hear Sam’s boots against the floor as he gets comfortable.  Dean’s hand rubbing my back, up and down, up and down.  My stress-singed senses settle amid all this, grounded and grateful.

The memory of that scary edge, though…

“I didn’t want to hurt myself.”  I wanted them to know.

“What did you want?” the calm question.  

“Sleep.  I just...I’ve been fighting and fighting and I’m so tired.  I just didn’t feel like I could fight anymore.”  I’d be ashamed if I wasn’t so exhausted.  These two warriors had literally been to hell and back, and I was whining about being tired.  Dean’s arms tighten around me, and the sandpaper-y rub of his chin feels good.

“But you are fighting.  Look at you.  You didn’t do anything.  That’s fighting.”

I want to believe him.  But my gut is too quivery for hope yet.  

“It doesn’t feel like fighting.  Feels like failure.”  Bone-deep tired pulls heavy on every muscle, and I close my eyes as I snuggle in closer to the anchor Dean offers.

“Sure as hell ain’t failure, sweetheart.  Looks a lot like a tough as nails hunter kickin’ it in the ass and swingin’ for all she’s worth.”  The words sigh a deep breath from me.  I don’t know what to say anymore.  “I know you’re tired.  But you just gotta keep fighting.”

That same stupid flicker of anxiety that’s my own evil pilot light wavers in my gut, and I swallow around the desire to cry all over again.

“And what if I can’t?  Keep fighting?”  Dean sits quiet for a minute.  I knew it.  I am hopeless…

Then, he presses a kiss to my forehead, stirring warm against my hairline.  “Then, you come get us.  We’ll fight for you.  We’ll make sure you’re okay.”

My mind lies still - no nightmares to tear through me at the moment.  The arms around me like a buoy, letting me catch my breath as I back away.  I know that scary edge is still there.  But now...I feel like I see it from a different view, one where I can see the corners.  The other edge where I can learn how to coexist with this invisible monster again without my face telling lies.

It feels like the edge of okay.