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m4nd0l0r · 2 years

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Hungered Sin.

Description: Desire is a humanly feeling, it bubbles and foams— and it’s either one acts upon it, or let it simmer pathetically down the drain.

Ship: Five Hargreeves x GN! Reader

Word Count: 1.2k (this was supposed to be short uhhh)

Author’s Note: (short note 4 tonight :”)) guess who wrote this at 2am….. i did— this is just pure horny (smut (not piv LMFAO) specifically) (about temptation and what not) born from their parent named academic stress (cough i struggled writing this a little so if its clunky..i’m sorry 😭)… if this has any typos- welp…i’ll going to fix any of those… in the morning (or someday we’ll never know)!— anyway- i hope you giys like this one! (i loved writing this even tho i fought tooth and nail w my docs w this-) (likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated!! they motivate sm fr)

(Five’s body is aged up, and his consciousness ranges from 25 to 50 in my works for him from now on— However you decided which age you want for your experience/comfort!!)

Five Taglist: @ells-graveyard @noahspector @aelinismyqueen@fivelegance @ne0boss @twauna00 @placidpluto@eichenhouseproperty @heartsforsuyin @ghostlywavelengths@ghostlycherryblossomwonderland @seconds-not-decades@coolcatlover4 @emotionally-unstabel @peachy-wolfhard @its-lokilocked @raven-fandomtrash @theilliterateskankula@magicstrange @venusrambles @whereintheworldisspencerreid@honeycombdumbass @kazuive @oscarisaacsleftballsack@zenithinthebin @peachteeaaa @rchaoz @wickedmystery@wordsandnerds @umbrellatte @666abby6666@iameddiemunsonshair @starlightinhumanform @vennythearsonist@trashmouthsahra @crinklypink @halfumbrella@wifeofcamillamacaulay (if you want to be removed/added, pls tell me via pm!!)

“Can I hug you?”

You asked him in a soft breath, dressed in a dark pinkish mauve turtleneck. It was somewhat tight, wrapping its cloth unto your body as if it were some sort of clay. It wasn’t your usual color, always somewhat preferring something else— and yet Five still stares, focusing, and as entranced as he can be.

His eyes always find their way trailing to wherever he pleases. A ‘curious’ look coats his pupils as he unabashedly stares. And you plainly see it, every damn time— he doesn’t even try to hide it.

He always, always- made himself obvious, as if he was letting you watch himself unfold right in front of you.

And as you look him in the eye, daring to lick your bottom lip right in front of him. You don’t ask him why he stares, because you’re doing this on purpose. The glint in your pupils was too mischievous, even from you.

Five has a good eye, that’s something you were- if not, need to be- sure of.

He notices everything— he just does. It would be stupid to assume he wasn’t keen- observant even.

Every time his fingers fasten his blazer- his wrists, swivelling as he adjusts his cuffs— or even when he holds something- even just a bottle, it always intrigues you— makes you cast your eyes right to his fingertips, a devilish gleam coats you.

Honestly, he questions whenever you gawk unto his hands- supposedly, there was nothing much to marvel at. Blunt clean fingernails to keep jobs easier— filled with callouses from working with digging off scraps, adjusting weapons to fit his precision- his knuckles whitening from the amount of times skin has been scraped off and bloodied.

And yet, you were so enthralled with such a simple thing- to the point that it drives him mad- Insane even, it surprises him on how you could be so interested in something so plain.

But he would be a liar if he said he wasn’t amused.

A tingly, warm feeling courses through Five’s veins as if he were some sort of addict, injecting himself with what the world can offer, and in this case, it was need.

“Of course, angel.” His voice low, it rolls smoothly as if it were silk.

A realization settled on his part- it was also want. The impulse to feel, to fully caress, he wants to embrace you even closer, to further bind you to his skin— your blood simultaneously pumps through your heart as his syncs with yours.

The burning itch, as if flames would eat him alive if he dares not to think of it— to not think of pressing his lips up to the back of your neck, or on the crook by your pulse.

The sheer pure want that settles into his lungs, the urge to breathe you in— He stops himself, letting himself feel you suddenly leave open kisses onto his face, a wind’s touch to clouds; light yet so rousing.

“That wasn’t part of your deal.” Five teases, you only sigh unto his cheek, chuckling.

“C’mon- can’t I kiss you out of all people?” Your voice drawls, a raised brow is drawn from your face. It only serves to make him laugh.

“You don’t even need to ask.” He clarifies, shaking his own head. Your mouth shapes itself like clay, and he only sees your toothy smile— it was genuine; an artisan’s craft, and he merely admires it.

Your lips press down almost roughly but still so soft as you hold his face by your palms. Your breath tickling his skin as if you were the sun to the sea. And one kiss after another, he was sure you would leave kiss marks, and as much as he hated messes, damn it- he likes it.

He felt perverted, for liking it this much— your simple kisses bubbled something in his chest, and it was drowning him.

It was as if something set off in him; a fire fed with fuel, as he felt your fingertips slide further by his ears, right at the crook of his nape. You lightly caress his head as you leave another kiss right beside his mouth- and he only leans in further.

His hands slip- wrapping his fingers unto yours as he guides them down from his own face to his upper arms. Your face quivers in confusion, but it fades, his palms hike down to your sides, to your waist— He pulls you close to him, pushing his lips to yours.

You merely open your mouth, his tongue muffling a sound that escapes your throat— You grip onto his shoulders almost tightly, and his only reaction was a smile that you felt form on your own lips. He lets his hands slither underneath your sweater, caressing so softly to your supple skin.

And he was sure— that he fell into this trap, letting himself become strung unto the threads of temptation. That this hunger for you has grown as each day passes, and his need to feast merely grows precariously; an invasive weed to a perfect field.

He presses himself closer to you, throwing you off- and his hands only further skid through the creases of your back— the pads of his fingertips cold compared to the warmth of your skin. He can’t help it— the pure festered desire just can’t quell itself, and all he finds himself wanting is more.

Adjusting his head, he tilts himself, your teeth bump into each other but he doesn’t mind— he wants this, he needs to be closer- and god— Your hips pressed to his, roughly shifting yourself to match his movements. His pelvis teasingly slides down, hiking back up and burying himself unto your own, your body tenses.

He slips out a shaky groan— He could have sworn he felt his own eyes flutter out of shock. His fingers almost painfully dig down to your skin, and you hum in response. “Fuck.“ His eyes roll, a guttural grunt slipping again from his throat. Before you could even come back to the depths of his lips— His hands- still underneath your sweater- trail to your bare sides, making you shudder.

He almost stopped- a small impulse sprouts itself to go back up and to press his lips against yours— But he doesn’t— feeling you push yourself to his palms, urging- silently pleading him to continue— and his laugh vibrates, a searing sensation against you.

“You really want this?” He whispers to your ear, warm to your flushed skin. You merely form a small serpentine grin, not even hesitating to murmur a silken yes so low he almost didn’t even hear it- yet, it dares to shudder a ripple unto his own spine.

He drags his lips again unto you— and you only huff breathily, echoing a hum of pleasure as Five trails up. His hands grasp unto you, and he forces himself to watch, to see the glint of deconcentration that shone in your eyes because of him. How your mouth shaped into an “O” just as you felt him touch— The way you tried to hide your now aflamed face, only receiving another chuckle as his fingers slipped even lower, briefly touching your waist.

Damn it- This— you were a pure act of desecration; the destroying of his own control. It was irreverent- sinful, to even think that he needs, desires you this much.

It was as if he were a man desperate to get even a drop from an oasis’s springs in a desert full of sand and grime threatening to choke him with each breath he takes; he was simply feeling something quell in his throat, it was as if it were thirst— or even worse, it was hunger.

He knows— Fascination wraps unto him; an anchor into the depths of desire.

And all his sight lets him conjure is you, the one who plagues his dreams with temptation— merely watching him sink down with it.

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yoonavii · 10 months

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𝐒𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐄

Chapter one

Paring: Miguel x F! Reader

Warnings: violence

A/n: want to read the chapters early? Read from my wattpad. It’s yayoona26

Story description: Distraught from the love betrayal your boyfriend bestowed upon you back on earth -929, you decided to destroy and tamper with his long life work of gear and experiments at Alchemax to get back a him. As you execute your revenge attempt, you came across green-like injections you used to take known as Rapture, and immediately relapsed. But unknowingly as you took multiple, you mistakenly injected one of your ex's rejected prototypes-an injection that can merge human DNA with animal DNA! Groaning and Stumbling as the prototype starts to kick in hard, you lean against a row of switches and buttons, soon setting them off and activating what looked like wormhole! Determined to leave everything behind now that you have no one and no where to live due to the break up, you took the risk and jumped in, not caring what you may get yourself into...

And oh how much you wish you never jumped in and met...

Him.

Tonight was the night you finally understood why people feared silence. Silence can kill you faster than words itself. Especially if you’re at Alchemax. Although the company was well known for its accomplishments in society as well as for the government, it had many faults from within. Liars, cheaters, addicts, the list goes on. In the past you could say that you never knew a colleague in the Research and development department that would fit those titles…but recently, your now ex boyfriend happens to fit all three. Your heart still aches from the recent betrayal, the sharp sting of deception lingering in your thoughts. As you recall the once inseparable bond you shared with him, images of stolen glances and secret smiles come flooding back, now tainted by the painful realization of his infidelity. The wounds of his betrayal are raw, fueling your determination for revenge. The cheater wasted years of your time. Instead of dealing with him, you could’ve been putting more time and effort in your own personal projects and discoveries.

The building’s AC vents hummed and whined loudly as you walked down the hall with swiftness, soon making a sharp turn down the next hall. ‘You waste my time? Fine.’ You mumbled as you then made it to his lab, walking in. ‘Though, it’s only fair if I return the favor.... .hopefully I make you just as pissed off as I am. if not worse.’

As you step into the dimly lit laboratory, the air is heavy with the scent of chemicals and a faint hum of machinery fills the room. Glass beakers and vials line the shelves, containing vibrant liquids of various hues, their contents shimmering under the soft glow of overhead lights. Countless scientific instruments are scattered across the countertops, bearing witness to countless experiments he conducted within these walls. Just seeing such things angered you to the core—even more so that most of his equipment was organized and for the most part clean. Although he was scientifically intelligent, he had issues with cleaning on his own, hence, that's where you come in. You'd help him clean and organize his things just to help him out a bit since he works extreme long hours. But…you haven’t done so for a month. and he never cleans it on his own….

Oh….it was her.

Overwhelming emotions surge through your veins, fueling a tempest within you. Anguish and anger intertwine as you find yourself standing in the heart of his lab, surrounded by the remnants of your shattered relationship. With each deliberate motion, you unleash your wrath upon his work. Glass shatters, equipment topples, and papers are torn apart, mirroring the shattered fragments of your heart. Amidst the chaos of the lab, your eyes lock onto a familiar jar of pills on a shelf labeled "Rapture." Its appearance triggers a wave of conflicting emotions. Memories of euphoria and bliss clash with the bitter aftermath of addiction. The pill represents both escape and danger, promising a respite from the pain of life while ensnaring you in its alluring grip.

Taking a deep sigh, you untwist the jar and put your hand in, pulling a few out to take. But whilst of this, your eyes catch a glimpse of a vial tucked away in a forgotten corner. Intrigued by this, you went over towards it and opened its lid to see what was inside. It was an enigmatic pill of iridescent black that seemed to pulsate with an otherworldly energy. Unknowingly to you, this mysterious pill holds a sinister secret, ready to unleash its transformative power upon an unsuspecting host. “Eh…It shouldn’t be that bad. Maybe it’s a stronger dosage of rapture?” You questioned yourself as you then gave it a try. As you chewed it down and took a hard swallow, an irreversible alteration began to take hold, merging the strands of your human DNA with that of a spider, bestowing upon you both wonders and perils.

As the pill dissolves, the side effects follow suit.The effects of the unknown drug ripple through your body like an electric surge, an amalgamation of humanity and arachnid intricately become as one. You experience a heightened awareness of your surroundings, perceiving minute details with newfound precision. Your senses are both heightened and distorted, as the world becomes a symphony of sensations. The tingling of delicate spinnerets beneath your skin hints at the profound changes coursing through your veins. “What the…hell..is going on with…me” you groaned as you then stumbled forward bumping into something hard. You look up to see what it was and immediately back away.

It was the mistress.

you find yourself face to face with the mistress—the source of your pain and humiliation. There's something unsettling about her ease within the lab, as if she belongs there despite being a recent addition. Suspicion hangs in the air like a toxic cloud, intensifying your growing anger. “Well, well, well, look who we have here.” She said “I must say, I'm quite surprised to see you in the lab. I thought my new boyfriend made it quite clear that you’re banned from entering his lab.” Her words cut through the haze, taunting and antagonizing you with a cold, calculated precision. The weight of her accusations—assuming you knew of your banishment and claiming your relationship title—fills you with a mix of confusion, rage, and a nagging sense of truth. Driven by a potent blend of anger and the determination to reclaim your power, you push back against her taunts. You have to. “Banned or not, I won't let you and your deceit go under wraps!” You growled “You crossed the line!” The woman smirks at your response “oh how noble of you. But do you honestly think you stand a chance against me? You’re just a jilted ex-lover with a grudge.”

Fueled by adrenaline and anger, you grab the woman’s hair, yanking her backward. She shrieks in pain and fury “how dare you!” She hissed, as she swung her arms, attempting to free herself from your grip. “You’ll regret putting your hands on me!” A fierce struggle ensues as you continue holding onto the hair, refusing to let go. You both grapple with each other, bodies twisting and turning in a desperate dance of dominance. The lab echoes with grunts and the sound of scuffling feet.

With a surge of strength, the mistress retaliates, pushing against your chest and causing you to stumble backward. The force propels you greatly, your back slamming against the cold, hard wall. Pain shoots through your body. you try to summon the strength to retaliate, but your body refuses to cooperate. Helplessness washes over you, yet defiance glimmers in your eyes. The mistress, reveling in her moment of triumph, looks down at you with a wicked smile curling upon her lips as she messes with something resembling a watch. Her eyes gleam with a mix of amusement and sadistic pleasure, relishing in your suffering. “Do you know what’s interesting?” She spoke again “Parallel earths. Each with its own lives and possibilities. It’s a shame you won’t live long enough to explore each one.”

Although your face contorted with pain, you managed a defiant smile. With a flicker of determination, you gather what little strength you had left and summon a mixture of saliva and blood in your mouth. With a forceful expulsion, you spit at the mistress’s face, the vile mixture finding its mark. “You may have your way now…” you said, voice strained yet filled with defiance “but not forever. I'm guessing you’re sending me to one? Do it. Anywhere else is better than this place. And I’ll live you idiot…and when I do, I’ll find a man that will stand by me and be my true ride or die.” The spit dribbles down the mistress’s face, a mixture of disgust and fury contorting her features. She wipes it away with a sneer, momentarily thrown off balance by the unexpected act of defiance. “You think love can save you? You’re delusional. I’m sending you to a place where love will be a distant memory, where nobody will find you or care about you.” You laugh loudly, despite the pain. “No you’re delusional becky.” You snapped back “Love has a way of finding its path even in the darkest corners. I will find a man, no, husband who will love me ten times better than the one that loves you!” laughter echoes through the lab, a testament to your resilience and unwavering spirit. Though battered and broken, you refused to succumb to the mistress’s cruel intentions.

Suddenly in the midst of it all, a vivid orange hex portal materializes before you. Its pulsating energy casts an eerie glow, beckoning with the promise of an unknown destination. As the portal crackles with otherworldly energy, the mistress kicks you forcefully, propelling your body into the swirling vortex. Time seems to slow down as you hurtle through, a primal scream escaping your lips. Your body tumbles and spins uncontrollably, carried by the unseen forces within the portal. The surroundings blur, colors blending together in a disorienting whirlwind. Fear grips your heart tremendously, and your mind races with thoughts of uncertainty and the unknown.

————-

As fate would have it, your death fall was abruptly halted as you crashed into a vast, towering heap of refuse. The impact reverberates through your body, leaving you momentarily disoriented and gasping for air. Slowly, you pull yourself out from the jumble of discarded items, wincing at the discomfort and the stench that fills the air. “Ah…what is this?… Am I dead?..” you thought. The stench of decay and filth fills the air, assaulting your senses by the second. Disgusted, you immediately get up, brushing off any debris on yourself whilst scanning your surroundings. Before you stretch a bustling, futuristic cityscape, its towering skyscrapers reach toward the sky. Neon lights cast an otherworldly glow upon the sleek and streamlined architecture, creating a mesmerizing tapestry of colors and reflections. The city hums with energy, its streets filled with a constant flow of people, hover cars zipping through the air, and holographic displays illuminating the busy sidewalks.

“This…this is amazing—”

Soon enough your senses are abruptly assaulted by a chilling scene unfolding before your eyes. A hooded figure, consumed by darkness, viciously takes the life of a helpless woman just steps away from you. Shock freezes you in place as a spray of crimson blood splatters across your face, an indelible mark of the horrific act. As the murderer turns his gaze upon you, his eyes filled with menace and realization, panic courses through your veins. Without a moment’s hesitation, he flees into the labyrinthine streets, leaving you alone with your shock and horror. Trembling and disoriented, you collapse to the ground, drawn to the lifeless body of the woman.

Desperate for help, you cry out into the chaotic city, your voice a plea drowned in the cacophony of futuristic existence. The bustling crowd rushes past, oblivious to your distress, as if you were a ghost in their midst. Tears stream down your face as the weight of solitude bears down upon you, compounding the tragedy unfolding before your eyes.As your gaze falls upon the lifeless face of the woman, recognition sets in like a lightning bolt. It’s you, a mirror image from another Earth, a chilling realization that confirms the existence of alternate dimensions you once theorized. Thoughts race through your mind, piecing together fragments of understanding amidst the chaos. This city, this earth, holds secrets, mysteries, and dangers beyond your wildest imagination. You lift your gaze to the sky, searching for any trace of the hex portal that had whisked you away from the lab, but it vanished without a trace. Frustration mingles with the lingering shock of the gruesome scene before you. As you lean closer to the doppelgänger’s disfigured face, a mixture of sorrow and fear grips your heart. The brutality of her demise is etched upon her features, a haunting reminder of the evil that exists within this parallel world. Questions swirl in your mind, seeking answers to the inexplicable. Why was she killed? Was it a case of mistaken identity or something more sinister? A theory begins to take shape, drawing connections between the murder and your cheating ex-boyfriend from your own world. Could he too have a doppelgänger in this new reality, and is he the one responsible for the violence that unfolded?

Amidst the chaos and confusion, a daring plan forms in your mind. This unexpected convergence of fate offers you a chance at a fresh start, an opportunity to assume the identity of your deceased doppelgänger. With a mixture of apprehension and resolve, you carefully collect her personal belongings, aware of the risk and the weight of this decision. Counting to three, you summon the strength to drag the lifeless body, your doppelgänger, away from the alley. Your eyes scan the surroundings until they land upon a dump truck in the distance, its occupants oblivious to your presence. Acting swiftly, you drag her to the back of the truck and toss her inside as one of the truck doors opens. Taking cover within the safety of the alleyway, you watch as the truck’s machinery comes to life. The walls of the dump truck begin to oscillate, exerting immense force upon the contents within. The scene unfolds before your eyes, simultaneously gruesome and cathartic. The crushing power of the moving wall grinds the trash and the lifeless body together, erasing the evidence of your doppelgänger’s tragic demise.

“Rest in peace y/n…” you whispered

As the truck drives away, carrying the remnants of a life extinguished, you’re left with a mix of relief and trepidation. With trembling hands, you clutch the doppelgänger’s phone, your curiosity piqued by the secrets it holds. You gaze at the locked screen, a selfie of your oppelgänger and a handsome man, their smiles filled with genuine happiness. A pang of longing stirs within you as you realize that her doppelgänger had shared a deep connection with this mysterious man. “So, she had someone special in her life too. That’s good” you whispered, a wistful smile forming.

As you bypass the phone’s security with facial recognition, your heart quickens with anticipation. The screen lights up, revealing a series of recent text messages. Your eyes widen as she scans the name at the top of the screen—Miguel. Intrigued, you tap on the name, delving into a private world of intimate and flirtatious conversations. “Oh my…these messages are…something” you claimed, voice tinged with excitement. Your cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and intrigue as you read the playful exchanges, the hidden desires, and the promises of passion. Each message carries a hint of intimacy that ignites a flicker of longing within your own heart. It’s a tantalizing glimpse into the doppelgänger’s romantic escapades, and you can’t help but feel a surge of curiosity and a twinge of envy.

“Miguel…” you whisper to yourself, now going through her doppelgänger’s personal notes in her phone “I wonder what kind of person you are.”

©𝐘𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀— Any sign/evidence of plagiarism made from outside this name will be dealt with by whatever means necessary. Legal action may occur if non fanfiction works are plagiarized.

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jtreaper · 1 year

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NIRAGI ANGST ONESHOT

Genre : Angst

I can see them.

"Bunny" He calls her. His black coloured t-shirt catching her eyes out of all the people from the crowd. And what burnes her eyes was the person with him. He smiled the one that should be reserved for her. But when she smiled as well, something inside her heart cracked. It hollowed. It shapeshifters into something she would expect. Walls she build that even gama rays won't pester.

Her eyes turned dim. And she wished he saw what he did. What she did.

A smile. twitched from the corners of her mouth. But it wasn't at all amused. She turned her heel and walked away.

"Hey babe." He opened the door and entered the room. His adoring eyes casted onto her figure. The figure that was turned to him. His grin so immature and flamboyant as he swayed towards her. His arms circling around her hips.

She did not pay mind to his advances.

"There's another game that we will get to play together, isn't it existing?" He said as he tucked his chin over her shoulders, tightening the hug. "You and me what'dya say?"

"Sure, I'll play." It was a simple answer.

And Niragi caught on. But he guessed she probably wasn't having that good of a day. He smiled, trying to lighten up the mood, even if it wasn't all part of his image.

"Alright then, how about we go to my room?"

It was a small silence.

"No... no. I don't think I'm in the mood."

His eyebrows raised. "Babe? What's wrong."

She held a small chuckle. It was kind of forced. She was still there with her chuckle, but the fourth of it gone.

"I just am not in the mood, Niragi. I think I just want to sleep."

When she dropped the cooking utensils from her hands and walked away from the room, he stopped himself from grabbing her arm.

Before she left the door he spoke the last. "Okay then, have sweet dreams, baby."

And she shut the door without saying anything back.

It had been that way. Maybe she was childish. The tone of his voice when he said that sent thoughts running about on her head, so vulnerable and slightly--not broken-- but slightly. Maybe she was too harsh on him. Her heart still beat, even for just a millimetre for him.

Liar.

You love him more than you can handle.

And that's too much for you.

You can't handle love.

The watery droplet started to from from the corner of her eyes, but not this time. No please, just not this time. Not today. Not now. Not in this state.

She did sleep. But the next day.

Oh, the next day.

She saw him with her again. Why? What is this?

It burnes her eyes again. The feeling of jealousy creeping up through her feet and to her head like ivy vines that pierced through her skin and into her veins, injecting poison. her fingers twitched. Her thoughts clouded.

And then the corner of her smile twitched. Her eyes half lidded. A weak gaze changed her shocked state.

"Maybe... maybe they're better..." She closed her eyes and turned her heel. "I can't compete with that..."

Before she could leave again, a hand suddenly grabs her by the arm, stopping her tracks.

"What are you mumbling, babe?"

She turned her neck. Seeing Niragi with a cautious look. She glanced back behind him and saw the woman he was with talking to another. His eyes says everything. He probably heard about a word or two about what she said.

She smiled. Because in those eyes are the memories they shared and the reason why she loved him from the start.

And to be honest, he was the one who loved her up to the brim. But it was the time of love that even if it's up to the brim, you can still pour that red wine. He was the one who would take his life for her.

So why would she think otherwise?

Because she knows feelings can change. And she knows that she's weak. She can't hold out for so long.

Even for his sake?

This is for his sake.

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.

What do you want me to do.

"Are you okay?"

She snapped from her stupor, and stared once again with those onyx eyes.

She gave him a closed eyes smile.

"I'm fine! Didn't know you were here, what up?"

Niragi knew for sure there's something off.

"Y/n. Tell me. There's something bothering you..."

Finally, you showed him a bit of what you felt through what he sees. Your eyes half lidded, some bags under your eyes. "I'm just so tired, Niragi. Probably from the games."

She tried walking away. But she only got far, where there's no people, for him to catch up and grab her arm again.

"Maybe I can help? Please babe, I don't like you being like this, I want to fix it."

She sighed, stopping in her tracks. "Sorry, Niragi. Maybe later."

And she walked away.

How many times?

Tomorrow.

Last week.

A fortnite.

And now he was begging at her doorsteps. Knees on the floor. Kocking at her door.

"Y/n please... Tell me where I did wrong... Tell me so I can hold you again... I want things to go back to the way it was..." He sobbed through the door.

It had been, what, an hour?

His knees started to go purple. His eyes red and face puffed. But he was persistent. She have shaped him to be a more ideal Niragi. The one who can control himself, the one who did not ask for anyone's validation anymore. Rid of the blood, madness and insecurity. The one who she shaped into a better person.

It was the whole reason why he hasn't yet barged in the door like a madman.

But oh, he was so close to doing so.

He owed his life and his whole future to her. But if it all would end, might as well show her the one monster he'll be willing to unleash. Just to keep her his.

But why is this happening?

The question repeated itself on his mind.

But as time passes.

The door's lock clicked.

His whole body got rinsed with hope, as he raised his chin to her like a puppy. He had that desperate look that made her feel something in her stomach.

He clinged to her leg. "Please-- Please-- tell me what's wrong-- I'll do anything! Just to get back together--! I missed you, Y/n-!"

"Come inside, Niragi."

He sniffed as he stood up. She walked inside and sat on the bed. Niragi staring down at her, unstable and wouldn't sit. He wanted answer, and he wanted it now. Even if he had to pry it from her closed hands. Even if he had to kill everyone here to please his darling.

"So..?"

She was silent for a second, her gaze can't land on him for whatever reason. Niragi's eyes searched for any explanation on hers.

She dug her face on her hands with a groan.

"It's me, Niragi." She sighed, misery creeping from the back of her throat. "I'm too weak."

"You're not weak."

He let out a laugh, unhinged. unstable.

Desperate.

"You're the best person, even stronger than me--"

"That's not what I meant."

He gaze at you with that desperate look again. Like a glass with a punctured hole, and he's so ready to block the escapade of the water inside.

"I don't think I can do this anymore."

"What?"

"Find someone else, Niragi," She said. "I don't deserve you."

Something inside him cracked.

"Wait--! Wait, wait-- wait--" He scrambled, kneeled Infront of you and took your hands on his shaking ones. Gripping it gently but firm. "Why--? What was the reason? I-I don't understand--! Y/n! Please, please, please, tell me..."

Her lips quivered. The pain shot through her whole body as his actions touched something inside her. That made all the material crack and break the whole glass. The waterworks have made its way down her cheek, her hands held no strength left.

"I got jealous..."

Niragi was too emotionally distraught to give a proper reaction. But he listened and listened well to every word you say, even with a quivering hold.

"I know you didn't mean it. But it hurts so much Niragi-Niragi I couldn't take it, I'm such a shitty lover--"

"It was me--! There's nothing to apologize- I'm the one who looked like I glanced at someone's direction! It wasn't like that at all but I'm sorry, I'm sorry--! I won't ever do it again! I will look to no one but you, love-- Never on my life--"

You shook your head, knowing that even for just a single crack, for her, it's an earthquake.

She's weak like that.

Then after all the waterfall of emotions she have given. It turned blank. An exhale was evident from her body, she smiled tiredly.

"No, no I just can't. Can't you see my weakness? Can't you see my flaws?"

"No they aren't, no they're not!"

Niragi sobbed as he clasped her cheeks.

"They're not... how can I make you see that?"

she shook her head. "There's no need to explain Niragi. I won't listen to any more. Irritating, isn't it--?" As she whispered those words Niragi continued to sob and bang his fist on the bed on the corner of her legs, and she remain dazed. "I'm not throwing shade... it's just the way it is, can we not ewpsec the way it is, that you deserve so much more? Fate is practically begging. Let's not try and ruin it all."

"I DONT CARE ABOUT FATE! I DONT CARE FOR ANYTHING AT ALL! I ONLY WANT YOU, WHY CANT YOU GIVE YOU TO ME?" He screamed, even if anyone could hear it, he wouldn't care. He is gripping at the end of the rope. He would be his worst for her.

At this point his hair was sticking to his face, his sobbing slowed down but never ceased, his eye puffed and red, he hiccuped and cling onto her like a baby who got lost. And she could hear her heart shatter. As if she had a heart.

From time and time again, she wonders if there is even a beating muscle on the inside of her chest. If there was a single tear of sympathy she could offer. To him or even to herself.

To her, she had cried herself days ago. Because she was just pathetic.

"I don't know how to solve this Niragi, I wish I could."

"I would never-- I would never--" He hiccuped, wiping his face sloppily and laying his cheek on your lap. "I would never do it ever again-- out me on a leash, tie me on a chair, lock me in a dungeon guarded by ferocious dogs-- losing you would be the last straw to my survival--"

His voice was so quiet at the last breath, his eyes was losing its soul.

"--Dont... Don't make borderland by grave."

Her lips quiver. Maybe she was the monster. Not that Niragi was dictated monster in her mind, but maybe she messed up. Maybe it was all her that did the hurting. And if it happened again... she tilted her head down. It will happen again...

I just can't imagine.

"Niragi, it hurts so much... why does it have to be this way..."

"Y-You're asking me...?" He asked it in a joking way, a smile reaching his cheeks through the hiccups, and then moved back to a melancholic frown.

She took his chin, and make him meet eye to eye.

"Cuddle with me?"

#Niragi oneshots #Niragi #alice in borderland #angst

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quinncupine · 3 years

Text

An Explosive Surprise

Word Count: 5,792

Relationship: Izuku Midoriya X Female Reader

Warnings: Explosions, disasters, blood, violent action, language (manga spoilers with quirks?)

Notes: I really just wanted to write a bit of angsty action today and some good ole worried Izuku. I do love making that man freak out😆

Summary: on the eve of Izuku's birthday you wanted to set up a special surprise at his office for the morning except your faced with a new (and deadly) surprise of your own.

Quinns Masterlist

It was nearing midnight and the decorations were almost complete. Izuku's birthday was tomorrow and you wanted to surprise him by decorating his office before he arrived in the morning. The only problem was getting him to leave. That man was a workaholic if you ever saw one. When he finally did leave, with a bit of convincing from his assistant Margie, you snuck in. The only staff on this floor was one of his sidekicks, Dewpoint, working the night shift. The other sidekicks on the night shift were out on patrol, it was the perfect opportunity to decorate the place.

You and Margie spent almost two hours decorating, but it was well worth it as his office turned into a bright shiny spectacle of celebration. When you checked your phone, it was nearly one. "Suppose we call it a night Marg, thanks for the help."

"My pleasure dear, he's going to be so surprised tomorrow," the older woman giggled as you shut the office door behind you and headed for the elevators.

Dewpoint was sitting at her desk, the radio beside her spouting out codes from the others on patrol as she lazily swirled the last bit of coffee in her cup. When the two of you walked by, she grinned at you. "All set for tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'm so excited, I can't wait!" you shrugged your jacket on. "I don't know if I'll even be able to sleep tonight."

"Technically it's already tomorrow," Dewpoint swallowed the last bit of her coffee and stood. "But get some sleep, don't want to drift off during the party now."

"I will," you laughed, waving her off. "Goodnight.”

And with that, the two of you stepped into the elevator. Searching through your purse for your keys, you realized you forgot to leave the small gift for him on his desk. "Crap," hitting the button to open the doors again, you hopped out. "Go on home Margie, I've gotta drop this off real quick. See you tomorrow!"

The old woman waved you off as the doors shut and you quickly trotted towards his office. You could hear Dewpoint in the break room getting more coffee as you slipped into Izuku's private office. Turning the lights on, you admired all your handy work. Everything was done up in his signature colors and you even brought in little Deku balloons to give him a good laugh. It was perfect, you knew he would love it.

Placing the gift on the center of the desk, you bit your lip, wondering if it was too cheesy. Inside was a photo of the two of you. It wasn't much, just a simple candid from a few years ago, a few months after you had started dating. That was your favorite picture of the two of you. Of course, you had other gifts to give him for the party, but this one was one you wanted him to open alone with just you.

A buzz in your pocket startled you out of your memories and you fumbled for it, cringing when you saw Izuku's name pop up. You'd told him that you were out with friends tonight and to not wait up. It was a vague, flimsy lie and his perceptive nature usually saw right through them, so talking was not a good idea. You felt a bit bad about letting him go to voicemail, but being the horrible liar that you were, it was for the best.

A bright flash of light caught your eye outside the window. Glancing up at the giant wall of glass that gave you a spectacular view of downtown, you noticed something bright making a beeline towards the building. It took only a second to realize what it was.

Eyes wide, you nearly tripped over your own feet as you twisted around, running for the door. Fingers racing to call Izuku, but before you could even pull up his name, the entire office exploded behind you. It was sheer luck that the small missile hit his giant wooden desk first, taking the brunt of the impact, but that didn't mean you were spared. The force of the blast knocked you and most of the wall into the main area of the open-plan office.

Despite your panic, you had managed to activate your quirk when the explosion hit. Said quirk allowed you to change the density of air within a two-foot radius. That was the only thing that saved you as you were tossed across the room in a flurry of heat and drywall, slamming into a shelving unit. Paper and other random office supplies scattered around you in your own personal hurricane. The dense air surrounding your body took most of the impact, bending the metal frame underneath you. Unfortunately, the hit still hurt, jolting your body so hard you blacked out for a few seconds. When you came to, smoke had filled the large space and you gagged, trying your best not to choke on the thick smog.

After a few tense moments, you risked a glance up. Half of Izuku's office was gone and all your decorations with it. Wait, no, that wasn't the main concern here. A fire had broken out where the missile had struck, rapidly spreading out. The heavy winds sweeping through the gaping hole in the side of the building only served to feed the bright hungry flames. There was no sign of Dewpoint anywhere and you prayed she didn't get caught up in the blast. There was no answer when you called her name. Whether that was good or bad news, you couldn't decide yet.

A second explosion rocked the building and office furniture erupted in a giant wave of fire. You still had enough sense to duck back down, shielding your head. An armchair slammed into the desk beside you so hard that one of the metal legs impaled the wood. This wasn't a one-and-done explosion. This was an attack. You needed to get out of here. You needed Izuku.

The phone! Searching around you, there was no sign of the small device. Dammit, you must've dropped it when you were flung halfway across the office. Maybe one of the desk phones still worked. A cursory glance around to find a spot that hadn't been affected didn't help, the suffocating fog gave you almost zero visibility. Okay, the new priority is getting out.

Staying low, you crawled through the maze of overturned desks and broken computers, ignoring the bits of broken debris digging into your skin. Breathing was difficult. Even with your shirt pulled over your mouth, the thin material could only do so much. Crawling proved fruitful when you stumbled across a phone lying on the ground, but when you picked it up, all you got was an annoying dead tone. The lines must've been cut either from the explosion or by someone else. Either way, it was bad.

Tossing the useless device aside, you continued on towards the stairs. Unfortunately, the Deku Agency was on one of the top levels of the nearly forty-floor tower. That was a lot of stairs between you and the ground. Too focused on where you were stepping with your hands and knees, you almost ran straight into the door. It was a good thing you stopped in time because there was a bent metal piece of what looked like what used to be some sort of gym equipment wedged into the door. Sharp edges poking out in all directions like some sort of modern art display. That blast must've been strong if it managed to knock items from the gym, the room on the opposite side of this floor, all the way over here.

Just how much of the building was destroyed? Was the villain still out there? Were the stairs even a viable option anymore? Did Izuku know something had happened yet? Were you going to get out of here alive? Were you going to- wait, stop. Calm down. Freaking out won't help. With as deep a breath as you could manage, you closed your eyes for a few seconds to regroup and figure out what to do. There was another set of emergency stairs on the other side of the floor, next to the break room. If you could just make it there, that might give you a way out. It was better than sitting here waiting to get caught in the flames.

As quickly as you could, you rose to your feet, a bit dizzy from getting tossed around like a ragdoll. Small steps were better than no steps. Slowly, you made your way back through the office, trying your best to skirt around the most damaged parts. You made it twenty feet in when another blast rocked the building and a loud snap vibrated underneath you. Then the floor gave out.

A scream tore from your throat as you dropped halfway through the floor before your hands caught hold of an exposed pipe. The sudden stop jarred your arms and sent your body swinging into the jagged tear. One of the now exposed metal beams supporting the floor had ripped off in the collapse and your thigh was unfortunate enough to catch the sharp end as your body dangled helplessly. Agony raced up your leg, injecting pure lava in your veins. The pain was too much to bear and your hands slipped.

It was about a ten-foot fall to the next floor and you landed with a loud echoed thud. Air punched out of your lungs as whatever debris you landed on tore through your back. You weren't quick enough to activate your quirk this time. Everything hurt, but your adrenaline-filled mind put all that on the backburner as you gasped in the slightly fresher air, taking in your surroundings. The smoke hadn't reached down here yet which meant the blast was at least contained to the upper floors as far as you could tell. The floor was unoccupied so it was practically empty aside from the few spare pieces of furniture scattered around. The dim emergency lights weakly flash in the darkness, casting everything in a hazy yellow. If the explosions hadn't hit this floor hard then you could probably escape through one of the stairs here.

Attempting to roll on your side proved to be a bad idea. Something was definitely broken, most likely a rib or two, and nothing else if you were lucky. Although, you'd be hard-pressed to call this situation lucky. Moving was going to be hard, but you didn't really have a choice so you rolled again and an even worse stab of burning hot pain shot through your chest, leaving you gasping on your back. Maybe if you laid still for just a few seconds, gather yourself up, you'd be able to do it. Shallow short breaths were all you were capable of at the moment, but at least you were still breathing so that was something. Lying still also proved to be a bad idea when you heard a deafening crack above you.

The area you'd just fallen through wasn't stable enough and another large section collapsed. The section just above where you landed. All sounds of panic caught in your throat as you held out your hands. Then it hit.

‎Izuku frowned as you went to voicemail. You'd told him you were going out with friends tonight, but when he got home and you still weren't back yet, he was a little concerned. It was nearly one and he hadn't heard a peep from you since this afternoon. It was unlike you to be out so late… and he would never say it, but he was a little upset that you weren't with him before his birthday. Every year, you would always reserve time for just the two of you during special events so it came as quite a surprise when you didn't want to spend the evening with him this year.‎

He paced around his home gym, having used it as a distraction ever since he got home, staring at the phone, willing it to ring. When it didn't, he set it down on the bench with a sigh. There was a small ball of ice growing in his gut. Something wasn't right. Grabbing the water bottle in frustration, he took a small swig, pacing a nervous path up and down the mat. Should he try calling again? He didn't want to seem overbearing, but it was past one and no sign of you. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least.

After a few minutes in deep thought, the phone rang. He dropped the bottle and dashed across the room to grab the buzzing device. Disappointment bubbled to the surface when he saw Margie's name instead of yours. It was a little odd for her to be calling at this hour.

"Hey, Marg-"

"Get to the office now!" she cut him off, out of breath.

That simple sentence was enough to send him sprinting down the hall to the closet that held his spare uniform. "What's going on?" Instantly in hero mode.

"It's under attack!" she yelled. "They were targeting the agency! The whole top of the building is on fire!" Sirens in the background nearly drowned out her voice. "Y/N was still in there!"

A spike impaled his heart as he absorbed that news. He stopped in front of the closet, ripped the mask off his suit, and continued on towards the balcony. There was no time to change, he didn't want to waste time to change, he needed to get there now. So, in nothing but sweats and a thin tank top, he ran down the hall.

"What the hell was she doing there?" There were so many questions running through his head and no time to ask them all. Fear pounded his heart into little pieces, but he kept his composure. You didn't need a worried Izuku, you needed the hero Deku.

"She was decorating the office as a surprise for tomorrow," Margie cried. "She ran back in to do something and when I got down to the lobby, the first explosion hit. She and Dewpoint were- oh my god!" A huge crash on the other end sent horrifying anxiety rippling through him.

"Margie!" he yelled as he threw the balcony doors open and jumped into the air without hesitation. "Margie, are you okay? Talk to me, what's going on?"

A few heart-pounding seconds before she came back on. "Debris is falling! They're moving us back, but Y/N-"

"Get to safety Margie, I'm on my way!" Hanging up the phone, he pulled all his concentration on going as fast as he could.

It was another six minutes before he landed in a chaotic scene. Firetrucks and ambulances were already rushing about, trying to get a handle on things. Several heroes were rushing people out to safety. A loud explosion a few blocks down rattled the ground. Glancing that way, he caught sight of a few heroes battling a villain before a familiar voice called out his name.

"Deku!" It was his sidekick, Dewpoint, helping a startled-looking man towards triage. "We've evacuated all the critical floors. I was just going to help with the fires, but the villain-"

"Y/N, Where's Y/N!" Izuku desperately looked around, scanning the makeshift triage area, but saw no sign on you. "Margie said you were with her when the blast hit."

‎"I-no, they both left…" the sidekick trailed off, glancing back at the building. "No, I saw them leave. It was just me on that floor… or I thought it-"‎

Izuku didn't let her finish, leaping high into the air with such force that it nearly knocked the woman over. He barreled towards the destroyed space that used to be his office, floating for just a second to take in the damage. The entire wall had been blown out, most things in his office either obliterated in the explosion or coated in flames. There was no sign of you. Gritting his teeth, he slipped his mask on and rushed through the burning hold, landing in one of the few parts of his office the fire had yet to reach.

"Y/N!" he yelled above the roar of the fire, voice a bit muffled from the mask, "Y/N!"

They really did a number on the place. Hardly anything remained. The floors and walls had mostly blown out, but he did catch a few charred remains of what looked like banners. If you were in here before, you definitely weren't now. The implications that held weighed almost too heavily on his heart, but he refused to think about what they meant. For now, he had to assume you were still alive somewhere in this mess.

He floated into the main space that held the bulk of his agency for fear of the floor giving out on him. This part of the building seemed in slightly better shape, but it still looked like a warzone. Fire had spread out along the walls, slowly licking away at the furniture, growing bigger and deadlier by the minute. A sharp pang at the base of his skull had him instinctively jumping to the side to avoid the ceiling collapsing above him. The place was coming down fast. He had to find you quickly.

Frantic eyes swept the destroyed office desperate to see some sort of indication of where you were. Panic threatening to spill out the longer he looked. The further in he went, the heavier the smoke became. It was hard to see anything at all and it took everything in him to remain calm. He needed to think this through critically. Margie had said you came back to his office. The area that got directly hit. A shuddered breath and he shook his head. If you made it out before the missile struck, then you would've run through the office towards the stairs. He followed your path, coming to a large piece of machinery that used to be part of his training center wedged into the door, blocking any chance of escape. The floor in this area had collapsed too, making the terrain nearly impossible to navigate on foot. Where would you have gone next? The second set of emergency stairs on the other end of the office!

"Y/N!" he coughed out, the filters on his mask were having difficulty keeping up with this much toxic smoke surrounding him. "Y/N! Answer me, please!"'

He twisted around, facing the direction where the second set of stairs were when something caught his attention. It was a voice, faint and just barely heard over the fire. He waited, body stiff, breath held, ears strained. A few more impatient seconds, hovering in place before he heard it again. A faded "here" called out. It came from below. Another portion of the ceiling to his right crumbled, sending out a thick wave of dust into the already smoke-heavy air.

Blinking the soot out of his eyes, he carefully dropped through the hole, landing next to a large concrete slab of what used to be the floor to his agency, eyes scanning his surroundings until a piece of fabric caught his attention. He crouched low to peer underneath the chunk of solid concrete, heart leaping into his throat.

"Y/N," he breathed, forcing himself to sound calm.

Arms shaking, you turned your head slightly, squinted eyes landing on him. Instant relief flooded your face. Tears spilled out of the corners of your eyes and a pained whine came from deep in your chest. Izuku took in the sight. There was a thin space between your hands and the large chunk of debris where the air distorted slightly. Your quirk, he realized. That small cushion of air was the only thing keeping the heavy chunk of debris from crushing you. It had saved you, yet inadvertently trapped you as well.

"Heavy," it was barely a groan, finding it hard to say anything with such a weight on your chest.

The slab shook, dropping closer to you. Your quirk was already past its limits, you wouldn't be able to hold out for much longer. Izuku wasted no time, using Blackwhip to secure the edges and carefully lifted the burden off you with the ease of super strength.

As soon as the weight was gone, the bubble of condensed air dispersed, arms falling to your sides as you took in staggering gulps of air. Whatever damage you took in your chest made it hard to do just that so you ended up choking on each breath which only caused more stabbing pain in a vicious cycle.

Depositing the chunk a safe distance away, he knelt next to you, hand on your head, taking in your rough state. Your thigh was a bloody mess. A thick jagged rip stretched across the skin and frighteningly dark blood pooled beneath your lower half. A few burn marks marred your shoulders and neck, but besides that, you were still awake and aware.

"I'm here," Izuku said, softly as he prodded parts of your limbs and torso, checking for injuries. When he poked just below the sternum, you gasped and tried to crawl away from his touch. He held you firmly in place as to not aggravate any more injuries. "I'm sorry," he glanced around as another section collapsed, bringing the fire with it. Smoke was filling up this level too fast for his liking. "I know it hurts, but I have to make sure I can move you safely."

The smoke had you coughing harshly and you weakly clutched at your chest. Izuku pulled off his mouth guard, securing it around your face. It helped even if your throat was coated in soot by now. "Izuku…" it hurt to speak and Izuku was quick to shush you.

"Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you." The man tried for a smile, one which you frailly tried to mirror, despite being hidden by the mask.

Nodding, you tried to focus your eyes on his face. The emergency lights colored everything a hazy yellow, casting his hair in a slight golden halo. Maybe it was the definite concussion, but you couldn't help but think that despite the obvious concern he was wearing, he looked a bit angelic at the moment and you wanted to laugh. Instead, some sort of garbled noise escaped your lips that could barely pass as a laugh.

After a quick examination of your neck, he finally deemed it safe enough to pick you up. "Don't worry, I've got you," it was soft yet firm and you believed every word he said. How could you not? Slowly, he shifted his hands underneath you, lifting your limp form in his arms, tucking you as tightly as he dared to his chest, trying not to strain your damaged body any more than he had to.

With a heavy groan, you buried your face into his chest, one arm dangling beneath you while the other fisted his shirt with all your remaining strength. Holding that thing up had exhausted you. Sheer terror the only thing keeping you awake. Now that the major danger had passed, you were hanging on the edge of consciousness.

The floor above him groaned and cracked. It wouldn't hold up much longer. That sharp jolt in his head told him to run and he did. Hugging you tightly against him, jaw set hard, he sprinted for the window. Right before he slammed into it, he twisted around so his back hit first and hunched over to protect you from the shattering glass. Izuku tumbled out in a free fall for a split second before he righted himself and came to a slow halt, floating in mid-air. A wave of dust and debris flew out the window behind him as the rest of the floor caved in.

Finally letting out that breath he'd been holding, he glanced down at you. Eyes closed and breathing labored, you looked pale and in pain. All this just so you could surprise him for his birthday. Well, it was definitely a surprise, just one neither of you was expecting.

Helicopters hovered around the building and he knew cameras were most likely on him, they always were. But he ignored them, focused completely on you. As he descended, a spotlight fell on him, the harsh light only illuminating your injured state all the more. A few medics rushed out to meet him halfway once he landed. Handing you off to them was difficult, but they would be able to help you better than he could at this point. Once they assured him (more than a few times) that you would be alright under their care, he reluctantly pulled himself away. There was still a villain to catch.

Eyes dark, he rocketed into the air once again, this time, aimed at the explosions raining down on the buildings a few blocks east. The closer he got, the more destruction he saw. Overturned cars, wrecked storefronts, people being herded away by a few heroes. It was a disaster, to say the least.

A stray missile speed into the air and course-corrected to him. A heat seeker. Izuku lashed out with Blackwhip, slashing right through the small but highly destructive weapon. The explosion wasn't all that big, but the blast still sent him flying back. Now that he'd given his position away, three more missiles popped over the buildings, coming in straight for him.

He couldn't risk all three colliding and creating a bigger impact so close to the buildings so he flew higher, the missiles chasing after him. Once he was high above the city, he whipped around, catching all three missiles in his tether and smashed them into each other. This time he was prepared for the backlash and shielded himself.

Being this high up gave him a great vantage point. He could see the center of the chaos, heroes closed in on all sides of a single villain although that didn't deter the man in the least. He rapid-fired missiles of varying degrees, some coming dangerously close to striking the heroes. He must've been powerful if all the gathered pros were having difficulty catching him. Izuku needed to end this quickly.

Dropping Float, he dove back to Earth in a free-fall. From this height, directly striking the villain would most likely kill him and as much as he hated the man for all the unnecessary violence he'd caused, he would never go that far. So coming in hot, he smashed into the ground beside him, the resulting shockwave sent him flying into a nearby building. Izuku wasted no time in jumping from his spot with lightning speed, slamming the dazed villain back into the wall of the building, holding him easily in place with one arm, the other restraining a rocket launcher that was attached- wait, that was the villain's arm. So that must've been his quirk.

"DEKU!" The villain, in a cheap getup with fabric covering his eyes, roared as he squirmed under the iron-clad grip. "Let me go or I swear I'll blow us all to hell! I'm not done with you yet! You're the reason gack-"

Izuku shoved his arm into the villain's throat, blocking off the rest of his rant. "Shut up," he growled, leaning in close, a fiery storm brewing in his eyes. "I don't want to hear it. You hurt innocent people today. I don't care if you come after me, but come after the ones I care about and there will be severe consequences." His voice was ice and cold enough to even freeze the criminal in place. "I will not tolerate putting innocent people in danger. Do not test that tolerance again."

A few other heroes joined him and with one last deadly glare, he let go of the man who seemed to lose all fighting spirit in the wake of Izuku's threat. He was quickly cuffed and lead away, leaving Izuku stiff, body still itching for a fight.

When a hand landed on his shoulder, he nearly flinched out of his skin. It was Dewpoint who was staring at the ground. She looked guilty beyond belief. "Deku sir, I just came to tell you that the fires have been successfully put out." Then she finally looked up at him. "And to let you know that Y/N was taken to the hospital a few minutes ago. The medics said she'll be fine!" Then backed up a bit, bowing in apology. "I'm so sorry, I made a terrible mistake. I should've double-checked the floor, there is no excuse!"

He didn't have the energy for this conversation right now. Not when you were still at the forefront of his mind. Running a hand through his sooty hair, he sighed. "This could've gone entirely different Dewpoint. This job requires our full attention but mistakes still happen." Placing a hand on her shoulder, he looked her in her watery eyes. "Finish helping with evacuations of the area and keep me updated. We'll talk more about this later when things have calmed down." When he's calmed down.

Dewpoint nodded, steeling her face and charging off into one of the buildings. She was a recent graduate, still learning, but her mistakes nearly cost you your life tonight. He'd have to bring her in for some one-on-one lessons on proper civilian evacuation scenarios. The woman had potential, it's why he hired her in the first place because he saw a lot of himself in her.

Shaking his head, he sprung into the air, towards the hospital. He knew the way well, he'd been there enough himself. The hospital wasn't far from the agency and when he landed at the front doors of the emergency ward, the place was abuzz. Other worried families here to see loved ones injured in the attack were filling up the lobby and he squeezed through to the front desk. The one good thing about not being in costume is that he wasn't so easily recognizable without it. besides, the last thing people would look for is a frantic hero in the crowd, they had more important things to worry about.

"Excuse me, I'm looking-"

"Sir," the nurse said, busily moving forms around, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait. We are still admitting patients. If you're looking for someone from the incident tonight, you'll have to wait until we call out names. Fill this out in the meantime." She didn't bother looking up at him as she handed him the paperwork.

"Midoriya," a quiet voice said behind him and he whirled around.

"Dr. Okura," he hurried over to the woman in scrubs. Izuku knew a lot of the staff around here. He spends a lot more time here after battles than he cares to admit. "I'm glad to see you."

"As am I," she tapped his shoulder, ushering him past the lobby and down the hall. "I heard what happened. I'm glad you managed to come out relatively unscathed."

"Yeah, I’m not here for me," he said a little impatiently, "Y/N was caught up in the attack. They said she was taken here."

Nodding, the doc lead him over to the nurses' station where she typed in your name on the computer. "Oh good, she was actually admitted a little while ago. Come on, I'll take you to her room."

"Thank you," Izuku closed his eyes with a relieved sigh.

The two of them quickly walked down the hall until they came to a closed door. Dr. Okura knocked and opened the door, Izuku right behind her. Inside, you were lying on the bed, looking a bit dazed, but otherwise fine as a nurse spoke to you.

"Y/N," he brushed past the doctor and knelt next to your bedside.

The nurse blinked as she realized the man kneeling next to the bed was one of the top pro hero's Deku. She looked to the doc who waved her over and discussed your chart before the nurse was dismissed.

"Looks like she'll be alright with enough rest and care," Dr. Okura smiled at the two of you. "I'll let the two of you have some time, but Midoriya, she does have a concussion, so keep an eye on her and don't let her fall asleep. If you need anything that button rings the nurse." With a grateful nod from Izuku, she shut the door.

"You came." Your voice was nothing more than a gravelly whisper. One arm draped over your eyes, shielding them from the dim lights while the other snaked its way out from the covers to find his hand. "Knew you would." A small smile replaced the grimace on your face for a brief second. "You always do."

"And I always will," he managed a small, wobbly smile back. The events tonight scared him more than he realized and just hoped you didn't feel the tremors in his hands.

‎"What a sap," you laughed. Peering out from under your arm, you locked eyes with him. "Thanks… and sorry."‎

"What are you sorry about?"

"I don't know, for putting you in that situation in the first place. It was dumb, I wasn't even supposed to be there. I just wanted to do something nice for your birthday this year. It was gonna be great. I even made a cake." Frowning, you covered your eyes back up. "And it got blown to smithereens."

"Hey," Izuku gently peeled your arm off your face enough so he could look you in the eyes. "It wasn't dumb and it wasn't your fault. I'm a hero, it's kinda my thing to save people who need it." He examined your face: pupils blown, a few cuts scattered over the skin, and some light burns that traveled down your neck. The best thing I can have for my birthday is you; safe and right here with me."

"Yeah, but a cake would've been nice too," you mumbled, covering your aching eyes back up.

He just shook his head with a breathy laugh. "Focus on healing and then we can make a new one together."

Lifting your arm up just enough to smirk at him, you said, "you're good at a lot of things, but baking is not your forte. You should probably stick to the whole hero thing."

That got another laugh. "Fair enough. How about you make the cake and we can eat it together."

Satisfied, you dropped your arm back over your face with a tired, slightly pained sigh. "Sounds good. You deserve the best."

He brought your hand up to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the back of it. "I already have the best."

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#izuku x reader #izuku midoriya #deku #pro hero deku #angst #action #violence #villain attacks #destruction #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #izuku midoriya x reader #deku x reader

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buckysgoldenheart · 3 years

Text

Angel in the Dark

Demon!August Walker x Reader

Summary: After a one-night stand, or what you thought would be one, a demon drags you to his world and forces you to grow wings like he has so you would have to stay with him, unable to permanently return to Earth.

Notes: (So this is like a one-shot that is little snippets/summary of something I might turn into a multi-chaptered fic. I’m not sure if I’m going to do that yet or if anyone would even like this idea, but if it seems a bit choppy, this is why.) I know its been an age and a half since i posted anything, but college, ya know? Also to those who have made requests, I have started all of them and they are to be posted next. I just started this fic a long time ago. I havent written anything for a while so it might actually kinda suck.

Warnings: Implied smut, kinda. Unhealthy attachment on August’s end. If I make this chaptered then there would be actual smut. I think cursing. Eventual Stockholm syndrome if continued.

Words: 1713

Angel in the Dark

You didn’t believe in fate, not really. You didn’t believe your life was predestined or anyone else’s to play with. It was yours alone, to make choices, good or bad. Only you decided when you did things and where you did them. And no one would have ever been able to convince you otherwise, until you met him.

Seeing him in that club, kissing him before you knew his name, now you couldn’t help but feel was in some way a trick, manipulated in his favor. That maybe bumping into him, quite literally, was his orchestration. Maybe whether you spoke to him or not, he had his sights set on you, and a one-night stand was never going to just get to be a one-night stand.

It was all too simple. Meeting you and not taking advantage, kissing you but following your lead, sleeping with you like you meant something to him. It didn’t add up. You could sense the kind of man he was; dominating and possessive. Too dominating and possessive to be as gentle with you as he had been. And all of it fell into a perfect line for what you now realized he wanted from you: not just sex, but more; nothing less than your life. But admitting all of that to yourself was entertaining the possibility that you were stalked like prey and any training at staying away from bad men had been a useless waste of time.

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

It was the third day, third of eight. August promised the pain would subside as the days passed, but so far he was proving to be a liar, not to your surprise. Every few hours, the wings ripped your skin wider to accommodate their size as they grew from the inside of your body pushing out. At three days, they were now the span of a couple feet, shining an opalescent white in the glare of the sun.

As you laid on your stomach, frozen in place against the mattress, wings bloodied and draped across your back with your eyes closed tight, you tried to understand the depth of the pain; how it was able to hurt the way it did. The feeling couldn’t compare to anything Earth may dare to offer. So different, so unnatural in its entirety, and indescribably excruciating. It was merciless, not letting you escape, not letting you find the will to walk without your bones threatening to crack. You could barely speak for fear fire would thrust itself up from your lungs and incinerate your throat. It was all-consuming, swallowing your body whole instead of localizing where the skin of your back had shredded open.

“Just a few more days,” August said, and you flinched at his voice. Every time he spoke it was a shock he was still there beside you, with his massive, black wings hanging over the back of the chair he sat in. Those monstrosities weren’t attached to his muscled back when you met him; nowhere in sight when he was in your bed.

August dabbed at your broken and bleeding skin with a cool cloth, eliciting little whimpers passed your chapped lips. “I know it hurts, Angel.”

“Don’t—" You forced out despite the heat in your throat, acid on your tongue, waves of nausea you knew would follow. “…C-Call me that.”

He sighed and continued to wipe the blood from your naked body. “I wish you wouldn’t say that. When the time is up, you’ll feel so much better about this, about me, and you’ll see how beautiful they are. You’re already so gorgeous, the wings will only add to your beauty.”

“I di-didn’t want--

“Don’t talk, Angel,” he said. “I know how you’re feeling about this right now, but humans are not allowed to live in this world. I had to do this so you can stay.”

You screamed as the wings tore your skin open a few more centimeters, and August quickly scooted his chair closer to brush the hair from your face.

He softly shushed you the way one might soothe a kitten, before leaning down and placing a kiss to your sweaty forehead. “It’s ok. I’m not going to leave your side.”

You would have slapped at him, pushed him away with all your might if you had the strength, but your lungs were tightening, body burning as if it had been licked by the sun. You were dying, slowly morphing into a horrid creature from fantasies, leaving behind any trace of humanity. In your veins you could feel something coursing and altering your DNA. You knew you still looked like you, for the most part, but you weren’t you, not anymore. All because you met a man who got attached and wouldn’t let you go. All because he couldn’t remain in your world and decided with certainty that if he couldn’t be in yours, he would drag you to his. A place some believed in and some didn’t, a place no one could prove the existence of, now your iron cage.

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

It was five more nights of torture before you felt like you could really breathe again, and even then, the oxygen was just as foreign as the pain you had trudged through, and you found little comfort in it fully filling your lungs.

“You’re awake.”

His smooth voice drew your eyes away from the scenery out the bedroom window; the first glimpse of true, heavenly beauty you’d seen since he brought you here. But you weren’t convinced it wasn’t an illusion crafted by his devilish fingers for your comfort. Much like his own beauty, a trick tempting you to call off your desire to leave this world and go home. You tried your best to ignore how perfect he looked; the curls of his hair, the scruff of his jaw, the black wings you first saw the night you met him when they had suddenly appeared only after you’d slept together.

“And you’re standing already. I hoped to come help you, but you’re clearly much stronger than I was after I had to grow my own wings.”

Your eyes flashed in anger before your tore them away from his, back to the rolling hills overlapping one another outside your window. The breeze rustling your hair, the chirp of the birds, the glisten of the sun off the small lake dotted in the landscape, distracted you from August’s approach. You stilled at his breath hitting the back of your neck, but when he slipped his rough fingers through the layers of your shimmering feathers you couldn’t contain the shiver that shot through your body. His own black ones ruffled when his skin touched his creation.

“So beautiful,” he whispered.

“I’m glad you’re proud of your work.”

August let out a puff of air, a weak laugh. “My work? Angel, this was all you. I knew they would be beautiful if they were going to be a part of you, but you really outdid yourself.”

Twisting your body fast, you met him chest to chest, your eyes burning with a heat to match the devil. “I outdid myself? You forced this on me. You injected me with that—that poison without my permission.”

“And you survived. Not many can say the same. You’ve come out stronger.” Fingers trailed through your feathers again and you ignored the heat it sent to your core.

“I’ve come out of this wanting to kill you more than I did before,” You said, shifting the wing back and away from his reach.

Without a moment to pass, August gently grasped your chin between his thumb and index finger as his gaze landed on your lips. “That will fade with time,” he whispered, then inched his face closer. You shoved him away just before his lips could meet yours, and August stumbled back with a chuckle. “Certainly stronger.”

“I’m not going to let you kiss me,” you snapped.

“Not today, it would seem.”

“Not ever again!” Somehow the words felt wrong, each one more sour than the last. Wrong, as if your lips called to his and a portion of your mind was so disappointed at the fight you were going to force it through by trying to keep yourself away from him. But it was a small portion, and the rest of you was much stronger.

“We will see, Angel,” He crossed his arms. “You and I have eternity. One day you will wake up and realize I am all you have, I am all you want, and this memory will be lost. All you will know is me and my touch and our world.”

As he spoke, his eyes held a gentle sincerity that you wished wasn’t there. You wished the blue of them wasn’t so calm and casual and certain of the way he was feeling. Shaking your head, you matched his stance. “You’re a monster,” you said. “You really are, and here I thought I’d seen the worst of monsters, but clearly not.”

August slowly stepped back into your space again, catching you off guard with a flush to your cheeks as he loomed over you. But you kept his stare, even with your back against the wall, wings spread against the stone. “You may breathe your sweet words all you’d like, Angel, but it changes nothing,” He said, running a knuckle down your cheek. “If I am a monster, I am your monster, and I’m not going anywhere.” Smiling, his eyes glanced at your lips again. “Luckily for me…neither are you.”

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internalsealpanic · 4 years

Text

Radio Silence

Summary: You take Tim with you to a family reunion hoping to monopolize his time. You may have forgotten to tell him a few things. For example, the haunted radio.

masterlist

a/n: I’m sorry for the wait. I forgot that I am no longer used to describing atmosphere. This isn’t my best work but I hope you like it. This was based on my family’s tradition of sitting in the dark on Halloween listening to scary stories on the radio. This is mainly Tim Drake x Filipino!Reader because I realley wanted to try my hand at a bilingual character. You will see misspelling of words in the dialogue. That’s intentional on my part. There will be translations.

“Yes, Nay, he’s the one in the picture,”

“No! It’s the guy with-” You blow out an exasperated breath. You hear Tim snicker behind you and you dedicate half your brain cells to coming up with the best way to kick his ass. “Yung mukhang Koreano. Yeah. Yeah. Dat one.”

“Yes, he looks more like a white boy. Mistiso.” You explain curtly.

“Yes, he’s smart. I hab standards,” Tim raises a disbelieving brow at you. You stick your tongue out at him but nearly bite it off when your grandmother speaks again.

“What do you mean doubtful?!” Tim looks absolutely delighted. A cheshire smile curling on his lips as he leans back into your couch. You glare at him then at your phone then at the ceiling then past that to glare at whatever god was up there.

“THAT WAS ONE TIME! Justine was an-” You mutter trying to remember the word. “- an anomaly and you know it!”

“…..”

“Ok der were 2 anomalies!”

“3”

“Ok maybe Tim is the anomaly, but seriously, Nay, he’s fine,” You snarl, the jaggedness of your Gotham accent rearing its head. You wince but do not apologize. This will bite you in the ass later but you didn’t say it. You don’t like the taste of the word.

“No. I mean if you don’t want us to embarrass you at the church social then- Yes, I have been going to church,” You can see Tim rolling his eyes and mouthing liar with a twitch of his lip in the corner of your vision. “No, he’s not the showy type. Nay, I gotta go. The food’s burning,”

“Yes, Nay, I lab you bery mach,” You sigh into the phone letting your grandmother’s lather your tongue cutting into the briskness of your consonants. It held the same euphoria as taking off your shoes after a particularly long day.

“Unless you’re Dick, you can’t burn cereal,” Tim cut in carting you away from your reverie.

“Watch me, Drake,” You huff throwing a pillow at Tim almost making him drop his cereal bowl.

“So, can Gotham survive without Red Robin for a weekend?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked me this before telling your grandma that you’re taking me?”

“I’m just double-checking,”

“How considerate,”

“To be fair, your schedule is already volatile as is," You huff snuggling up to him on the couch. It was too cold in Tim’s apartment. You think a rich kid like him could afford to turn up the heat. Though, you aren’t exactly going to complain about an excuse to cuddle him.

Tim doesn’t make a move to push you away. Instead, he wraps his arm around you pulling you closer. This was the type of easy affection you two had become accustomed to. This was also the thing that will make your Schrade even more convincing. "True, but I asked Cass and the others to cover for me. Plus, your grandma sounds like she likes me,”

“Considering you don’t have a criminal record and aren’t currently being investigated, you immediately rocketed to the top of her list,” You answer absentmindedly stirring your cereal and taking a bite.

Tim whips his head to you and gives you a concerned look which you return with a smile full of cereal. He blanches at you, shaking his head and grabbing the remote to unpause the Star Trek episode you two were watching. You both prop your feet up and chew your cereal slowly, not feeling any reason to hurry.

How long has it been since you started? You’re pretty sure it was 1 AM when you started.

As if reading your mind, Tim looks at his phone, winces then turns back to the screen without another word. You quirk your brow at him but decide that there is some truth to the saying ignorance is bliss.

You were gonna hate yourselves come noon.

It’s noon, the sun has the audacity to show itself, and you hate yourself.

You definitely, unequivocally hate yourself.

You groan in the passenger seat, head pressed against the cool window. The faint warmth of the sun glancing off your skin makes the tinges of nausea circling the periphery of your senses come to life. Your stomach does a cartwheel and you think- you’re sure you’re going to throw up but you aren’t gonna do that.

No way in hell are you gonna do that. Not when you’ve finally conned your way into monopolizing Tim’s attention for the weekend.

Ok, yeah, sure it was the result of some miscommunication between you and your cousin who then passed on the miscommunication to the whole goddamn family but that’s just what you call a happy accident.

You blow out a breath, greedily taking in all the coolness of the glass pressed against your skin calling your mind back to your body. You weren’t really good with handling the not sleeping thing.

“You ok?” Tim asked his eyes flickering between you and the alarmingly empty road. There was worry in his eyes whether it was the fact that you looked like shit or the fact that the road you were on looked like the opening to a terrible 80s slasher flick. It was Halloween after all. It would be pretty perfect. Dread licks at your stomach at the thought.

You let the silence lapse. In the corner of your eye, you see Tim’s hand tighten on the steering wheel. You stare at the expanse of farmland stretching to the horizon debating whether to humor his question or to let him stew.

“I’m fine,” You picked the third option.

“You don’t look fine,” Tim deadpans, turning to you.

“Stop looking then-” Tim scowls at you his pouty lips pulling into an angle. You sneer. “-You don’t look too good yourself, Kirk,”

Tim makes an offended noise. You look at Tim, really look at him, for the first time in hours. Tim, as per usual, looked obnoxiously handsome even though he was running on at most 30 minutes of sleep and had eye bags running down his face. Somewhere lost in his contemplative expression was the blindingly obvious hint of self doubt. You’ve seen it tons of times.

You peel yourself away from the cool glass to look Tim in the eyes. Dread swims in the pools of teal looking straight back at you. Tim’s mouth edges between a pout and a frown. You soften, shifting in your seat angling until your body is facing his.

“Whatever it is you’re overthinking it,”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking!”

“Ay,” You chuckle and shake your head. “Tim, it’s you. You overthink everything. I don’t need to be a mind reader to see that,”

Tim huffs. Maybe he was overthinking things.

“ ‘sides, I don’t see why you would be nervous 'bout meeting my family,”

Has it occurred to you I want to date you for real at some point? Tim thought a little frustrated.

You laugh when he frowns but instead of teasing him any further. You flick the radio on. Your hackles rise as it crackles to life. A smile flickers on your face when ‘All-star’ comes on. You cry out, a noise of shrill joy filling the air.

“Oh my god” Tim breathes, running his long fingers through his dark hair. “You absolute dork,”

“Kettle. Pot.” You grin.

Tim snorts as you loudly sing along with the radio. Unfortunately for him, your enthusiasm for the song was infectious. Somehow you both managed to miss every beat of the song.

You somehow felt like you were definitely forgetting something.

6 cans of monster and 5 things of 5-hour-energy drink later, you arrived. Tim’s nice-looking car pulls into the dusty gravel driveway of a rather large and old colonial looking house. Seeing the robust form of the large house looming in the distance injected your veins with a stifling source of dread.

You love your family to bits but sometimes their presence weighed so much. You can feel their words already pecking at you, drawing pit and pieces of your self into frayed fibers. All you can think about were the comments hushed behind palms and the dissecting gaze of dark eyes. Your mouth feels dry and you can already feel your feet pivoting back towards the car.

Tim reaches for your hand, lacing his slender fingers between yours. He smiles at you squeezing your hand. You can feel him rattling from his own anxiety but his effort steadies you. You grin at him and squeeze back.

Your teeth click the entire walk up to the large oak doors. Tim squeezes your hand again, his teal eyes sweeping over you with a concerned glint. You furrow your brow and somehow he understands and raises his hand to knock on the door.

The door bursts open. Music and laughter wash over you as hands hurry you into the front hall.

“Nay! Dito na sya! May dalang gwapo!” (Mom, y/n’s here and they brought someone handsome.)

About 20 heads turn to look at you. Tim feels some embarrassment from the attention but that doesn’t last too long as in the space of about 5 seconds, those 20 heads were swarming you both, pulling you into hugs, shaking your hands, and ruffling your hair in varying degrees of force and order.

“Beh, you’ve grown so big” Your aunt coos squishing your face.

“Nena, look at this guy,”

“Tita, he doesn’t have any tattoos,” Your little cousin marveled looking bug-eyed as she lifted Tim’s shirt. You swat her away but take a quick second to subtly admire Tim’s sculpted abs. Your aunt scolds him and your uncle drags you to the main room where more guests were sitting chattering or screaming at a foreign horror movie.

All the apprehension bundled into your stiff shoulders dissolves like seafoam against the overwhelming warmth of the festivities. The raucous laughter drags the roughness of Gotham away from your tongue. In place of your slow, careful syllables are quick clattering consonants and concise vowels. Your vowels were still elongated and angled to a sharp point unlike the nearly musical words of your cousins but as you said before ‘Gotham has its way of burying itself in your bones’. Tim just never thought about how saliently it showed itself in words. He wonders how his accent (folded, neat, and sterilized) sounds to you. He wonders how dull he sounds to you.

You have teased him about it. You’ve teased him endlessly about the way upper-class Manhattan just rolls off his tongue, how Alfred’s British affectations worm their way into his syllables. What you don’t tell him is how the smooth velvet of his words lull you into a hypnotic state that steals every bit of oxygen from your lungs. What you can’t make yourself tell him is that you would gladly spend your whole life listening to him read a fucking phone book.

The festivities were lively and informal. Jokes flying every which way. All alternating between your native tongue. You laugh into your drink, hiding the hesitant curve blunting your infectious smile. Tim nudges you to ask what’s wrong but you simply nudge him back and shake your head as if he had said something funny. Your relatives didn’t seem to notice your demeanor or if they did they left it alone.

Tim decides to leave it alone for now. Instead, he leaned into the flow of conversation. His years of speaking at galas working their magic on your aunts. They bombarded him with questions. Most of which sounded like screening questions at the embassy. You snarled at them more than once to knock it off but Tim shook it off. He knows they’re just worried about you the same way he worried for you. Well, not the same way but it was their way of showing they cared. He lets himself be immersed in the conversation. It’s more like he tuned into the sweet sound of your laughter but made sure to dedicate enough restraint to not look like a love-sick puppy.

“Tanga!” (MORON!)

“Baliw!” (Crazy!)

“E gago ka pala, di ba halata yun?” (No shit sherlock, isn’t it obvious?)

Tim is at best confused as he watches the volley of words between you and your cousin. Your voices rising above the blaring karaoke. Anthony (?) clamps a hand on his shoulder and laughs as he watches you and Martin (?) hurl insults at each other. In the corner of your eye, you watch his reactions checking if he understood a word. He isn’t fluent but he understood bits and pieces. He’s heard you mutter angrily about customers enough times to distinguish an insult.

“Dun worry about 'em. They won’t fight. They’re stupid but they’re not that stupid. ‘Sides, they’re too afraid of Nay for that,”

Tim gives Anthony a doubtful look. Anthony chuckles at him, clapping him on the back urging him to keep watching. He does if only to make sure you’ll be alright. When he does, he tunes into your words. Tim marvels at how musical you sound as you trade another round of rapid-fire jabs with Martin, how at ease you seem. Tim makes a mental note to get you to teach him. Though, he wasn’t entirely sure how he would justify it. Admittedly, part of it was just wanting to spend more time with you.

He can probably swing it.

A surge of protectiveness crowds his veins when Martin grabs at you but his hand is swatted by a cane. The air crackles with a sharp snap. The room plunges into silence. A small woman with silver hair stands tall and imperious at the other end of the cane. You and your cousins stiffen.

“Hi Nay,” You trail off with a distinct lack of grace. You swallow the lump forming your throat, robbed of any coherent thought by the stinging look in her eyes. You felt bare under her gaze. Layers and layers of skin peeling beneath the weight of her attention. Fury flickers like firelight across her dark eyes. Your skin suddenly felt like lint and you were sure you would catch fire.

A pause.

A bated breath held for what felt like an eternity.

“Iha(Iho), It’s been so long,” She says, softening. Her wrinkled face stretches into a kind smile that made you think of freshly cooked vegetables. Her cane folding to her side as she loops her arm over your shoulders. “It’s nays to see you,”

A choked sound comes out of you and you feel something shake loose. “Missed you too, Nay,” You breathed. Tim feels awkward, fidgeting in his place.

The soft smile on your grandmother fades a little. Her sharp eyes appraising Tim. The look wasn’t particularly venomous, but it left Tim feeling like he’d been cut open and analyzed. He wasn’t entirely sure of why you were all so scared of her before but now he fully understood.

She relinquishes her grip on you and urges you to go back to Tim. You frown a little, giving her a suspicious look which she returns innocently. You let out a little breath before walking back to Tim’s side. She gives him another long once over before silently strolling away. His stomach churned but eased at your touch. You still look uneasy but you don’t fuss over it. Not when Martin decides that he wasn’t quite done with bickering.

The festivities went on as normal. Maybe with a little less cussing going around. But Tim barely noticed when your laugh, free of any hesitance, echoed sonorously in his ear as he held you close.

Roz presses a drink into his hand. “Congrats, you’ve survived round one of Nay’s hazing,”

“Round one?” Tim hiccups into his drink. He coughed. The beer was strong. A strangely potent amount of alcohol that made his throat burn.

“Yeah, Roz, that was more like round 2.” You mutter sullenly, distinctly taking no sips of the drink Roz had also handed you. The paranoid Bat-part of his brain screams that he’s been poisoned. He’s struggling not to let it win over but your conversation wasn’t helping.

“Nay will eat him alive,”

“I mean. She’ll do it nicely,”

“Pfffft, right! Ok, Tony, name one time she’s been nice.”

“How about-”

“The thing with Y/n earlier doesn’t count,”

“Why not?”

“There was a hidden agenda,”

“Oh shit! The bitch is right- Ow! You are!”

You look at Tim apologetically and squeeze his hand. Somehow this does not calm his nerves, but he tries his best to ease into his touch.

On the trip here, you warned him that it was going to be exhausting. He assumed, incorrectly, that you were exaggerating. After all, he’s survived snobby rich people and his family. Your family seemed nice. He can survive a nice family dinner.

But what you neglected to tell him was that it would be sheer chaos. He definitely wasn’t prepared for the sensory overload. The house was almost unbearably loud compared to the manor. Every corner was filled with people chattering, playing games, eating, and doing anything to entertain themselves. Sure, Tim was used to chaos but he was more accustomed to short bursts. He wasn’t quite as prepared for the seemingly endless stream of conversations and liquor.

You had definitely not prepared his poor unassuming introverted ass well enough. Not even halfway through the night, Tim was ready to crash. The 20 minutes of sleep he got beforehand had not helped.

You, the angel that you are, guide him away from the party. You drag yourselves down the wide yawning corridor to the grand staircase.

Lit only by the thin veil of moonlight, the house showed its age. Walking up the stairs and walking through its hallways was like falling through time. The halls were lined with paintings, all landscapes and still-lifes. He’s thankful for that small mercy. His head swimming in liquor, he is reminded of the portraits at Wayne Manor and how their eyes burned at you as you passed.

The lack of portraits doesn’t make the house any less creepy mind you. Religious fixtures line the halls, crucifixes affixed to every arch-like mistletoes. There were doll-like statues of hollow-eyed saints at every corner table. It might have been the dancing moonlight but Tim swore he saw one of them move. Tim suddenly wishes he hadn’t ingested so much liquor.

Before long, you make your way to a bedroom. How the hell you knew which one to put him in was anyone’s guess. You lead him into the room. Touch gentle and careful as you coaxed him in. Soft jazzy music echoing hauntingly. The dancing moonlight and the solid shadows of the room highlighting your gorgeous features, drawing his attention to your plush lips. You lean over him to make sure he was indeed still part of the living. Liquid courage surging in his face, he presses his lips to yours. It’s cautious. He gently runs his hand through your hair, pulling you towards him with a push. The press of his lips is restrained, more of a question than a demand. Slightly chapped lips press against your sweet and searching.

Tim remembers the warm press of your lips, the way the pads of fingers trail against the soft fabric of his shirt, your warm breath fanning against his cool skin, then nothing.

Knock

KNOCK

Tim grouses into his pillow. Tim was having an absolutely wonderful dream. He could still feel your warm lips against his. Tim squeezes his eyes trying to go back to sleep.

Knock

KNOCK

‘1 AM’ the antique analog clock at the nightstand reads.

“I’m up!” He lies burying himself further into the thick sheets.

His brothers really needed to stop breaking into his apartment at 1-

KNOCK

Tim nearly falls out of bed when he remembers where he is. He jams a shirt over his head and some sweatpants before stumbling to the door.

“Hey Tim, you coming?” Anthony asks through the crack of the door.

Tim opens the door a little wider. “Where?”

“Outside,” Roz shrugs vaguely.

“Whe-”

You step out of your room, extremely hesitant. Your knuckles were turning white from apprehension. You look at Tim, surprise plain in your eyes. You flinch heat rising to your cheeks. Tim remembers the texture of your soft lips. He wishes that wasn’t a dream. You glare at your cousins who give you a confused look.

“Roz, he-”

“Awwww, ‘insan, you’re actually coming?” Martin mocks clapping you on the shoulder drawing, what Tim considers, an adorable squeak from you. His heart almost leaps from his chest when your warm body presses further into Tim’s side. You can’t hear it but Tim’s breath stutters in his chest. He loops his arm around you protectively. Martin gives both of you a sly conspiratorial look.

You scowl at Martin. Glaring with as much intensity and intimidation your burning cheeks would allow. Roz swats him over the head making him almost topple down the steps before Anthony even gets a chance to rebuke him. Instead, Anthony turns to you, brows furrowed. “You sure you want to come? Nay said-”

“La a!” Martin protested. Roz rolls her eyes and swats him again. “Dipshit’s right. Nay didn’t say jack,”

“Then why did you swat me?”

“E, I felt like it e,”

“Bish, whose side are you on?!” He snarls but before he can lunge at Roz, Anthony is already dragging him by the scruff of his neck.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh! Not so loud. The kids will hear us,”

“I for one will not help you wrangle tita’s crotch gremlins,”

“We’re going to be late and Nay is going to unleash hell upon us,”

Anxiously, you tug at Tim urging him to follow your cousins as they filed out through the back door.

“Where are we going?” Tim hisses.

All four of you share a look.

“We’ll explain,” You promise.

The journey was eerie. Punctuated by the fact that none of you explain jack. The walk was entirely silent, devoid of bickering or any sort of conversation. He can see the silence driving both Roz and Anthony mad. You honestly look like you’re going to keel over. The odd thing was that even the birds were silent. Not a single sound penetrated the thick canopy of juniper trees.

You wonder the woods guided only by the thin ribbons of silver light peaking through the thick clouds of leaves. Tim can feel your pulse as it thundered in your chest. No matter what was going on he would keep you safe.

You arrive in front of a rusted gate half a foot shorter than Tim. It was small, easily climbable with plenty of spiraling pieces to stick your foot into for purchase if needed. Your eyes cut to Roz who fished out a key he’d seen perched on one of the coat racks. Hesitantly, you held your hand out for the key. Roz, on the other hand, all but slammed it into your hand, grinning in a mix of absolute glee and relief. Your teeth click as you worked the lock. He wants to suggest just going over it but you seem quite adamant and he wasn’t about to push your nerves.

Finally, the lock gives in.

You all file in one at a time in a sort of practiced motion. Beyond the gates was a path with its stones polished from a shine from use. The scarce light coming from the canopy of trees rippling against them. It lit the rest of the way still keeping the surroundings in deep shadow.

The path ended in front of a small dilapidated stone structure that seemed too small to house anything.

“Age before beauty,” Martin jeers, bending down dramatically urging Roz to go in. She, in turn, shoves him in with a swift kick. The dark interior of the structure swallows him whole. Her dark eyes cut to you. You swallow but ultimately you shrug off Tim’s hold and relinquish your death grip on Tim’s arm. You let out a shaky breath as you step over the threshold. Just like Martin before you, the shadows leave no trace of you.

Tim reaches for the last bit of your swaying blanket. Roz taking the chance shoves Tim over the threshold, his vision goes pitch black.

“See you there, lover boy~”

The darkness is all-encompassing making his eyes completely useless as much as he tries to adjust them. Instead, he strains all of his other senses. He feels the press of moss-covered walls closing in on him. The staircase only seemed wide enough to let one person pass at a time. The stairs wind in shallow predictable patterns. The scent of moss and burning firewood grew heavy as he made his descent. Distantly, he could hear the soft padding of your shoes against the stone but he also heard the crackle of jazzy music. It was the kind he only heard from the old black and white movies Bruce and Alfred watched. It was oddly familiar but he couldn’t place it. The smooth baritone of the singer rattles in his head. A shiver of mild discomfort travels up his spine.

After what feels like an eternity, Tim emerges. His eyes slamming shut from the sudden brightness of his surroundings. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the light. His eyes take in his surroundings.

He was in a clearing. It was man-made, constructed using the same stones that lined the path you’d taken. The stone walls were covered in moss and ivy, but the stone that did peak out reflected the moonlight freely raining drown from the clear autumn sky. In the center of the space, sit 9 people including yourself. All cast in the warm glow of the crackling bonfire. It is a living thing, raging and casting shadows sharpening and obscuring features.

“I’m so glad you could join us, Timothy,” Your grandmother calls out as she fiddles with the nobs of the old radio perched in her lap. It crackles uncooperatively despite her efforts. He can’t pry his eyes away from it even as he takes his seat next to your shivering form.

Without much thought, Tim pulls you close. You tremble, teeth still clicking eyes wild and fixed on the radio. The radio is a curious thing. It’s an old model. It’s sleek but dotted with various nobs and switches. If he had to guess, it was something out of the 1960s. In the periphery of his senses, he hears Roz and Anthony step out of the staircase and take their places in the circle with Roz sitting right next to your grandmother.

Your grandmother stops fiddling with the radio then turns to Roz who is now comfortably seated. Your teeth chatter and your shoulder hitch as they silently converse. Roz inhales then exhales. Her dark eyes sweep over all of you making sure she had your attention. Based on the silence and the still forms, she did. She sits a little straighter, her shoulders rolling back.

She throws herself into a tale. It was a story she’d heard long ago about a man, a house, and a secret. Her calm voice carries over the soft roaring of the bonfire. It wasn’t the scariest tale Tim had heard but Roz told it well. Well enough to draw squeaks from several people including yourself.

Tim relaxes catching on to the turn of events. He lets you press into his side as you make your feeble attempt to get away from the story. Tim chuckles at the amount of theatrics you’ve all put into building up to this little gathering. However, all his smug skepticism vanishes when Roz finishes her story.

The static from the radio vanishes. Its various nobs move without assistance and its switches click into place. The same baritone voice carries from the radio. Tim doesn’t hear what it says as his mind reels. He turns to you and opens his mouth to ask but Anthony begins his tale before Tim can even formulate his question. Beside him, you fidget with his sleeve shaking hands clenching and unclenching on the fabric.

Tim remembers how much you hate ghost stories. You’d once gotten sick with a fever just from watching horror movies. At this point, you were on the verge of tears. Your breathing slowed abnormally as Martin finished his story. The radio predictably did not whirr to life after his story. Through your chattering teeth, you give your cousin a vicious smile which he volleys by sticking his tongue out petulantly.

It’s your turn.

You squeeze Tim’s hand twice before worming out of his grasp. You flutter your long lashes, lightcatching in them looking golden as the fire flickered urging you to delve into your story. You roll your shoulders and let your blanket and apprehension slide away in one smooth action.

You tell your story.

Your countenance still and grave as you tell a story of crossroads and terrible choices.

The radio huffs, seemingly amused by your effort.

“Well, y/n,” The radio coos. Your name drips like molasses from its speakers. It’s unsettling how crisp it sounds. Its voice absent of static as it addresses you. “You sure do know about bad choices. I believe so does that young thing- Pardon me. Young things swimming in the harbor. They’re just a tinsy bit cut up about it.” The radio teases almost sounding gleeful. You nod gravely, stomach reaching the floor.

Harbor?

You settle back down into your seat. Tim nudges you, cocking his head to the side to question you. Your fist clenches and unclenches in your lap before you look him in the eyes again.

“Case,” You mouth silently.

It clicks.

The harbor.

The bodies.

That’s what the radio meant.

Someone clears their throat urging Tim to tell a story. He stumbles through a half-remembered urban legend he heard from Steph awhile ago. His mind far too preoccupied with the new information to really devote to any theatrics.

His turn passes.

And the stories continue as he mulls over the information.

It’s your grandmother’s turn. Your hand grips Tim’s arms white-knuckled. You attempt to swallow down the fear but it catches in your throat constricting your airway. The flames dance casting her face in sinister shadows that bring out all the sharp angles in her features. Her smile curls cruel. Her bony fingers trace the seems and delicate patterns embossed on the old radio. Static erupts loud then dies down just as quickly. Her smokey voice fills the air. Heavy and commanding. The story spills from her lips smooth and velvety slick with gore and unspoken horrors. None of you dare to speak. Some don’t even breathe. Your hands scrabble for purchase on Tim’s shirt as you bury your face in his chest. You feel him wrap himself around you shielding you the best he can. Ear pressed to his chest, you can hear Tim’s pulse hammering. The terror soaking through to his bones. He remains steady. Unflinching even as the story reaches its climax.

The flames flash, fade, then flicker.

The radio crackles.

The smooth baritone of its voice distorting into something undeniably inhuman.

Shadows dance.

Their hands reaching out as the flames did. A hard yank from one of them nearly topples you out of Tim’s arms. He shifts you both away from their grasp. He glares fiercely at them making sure you’re safe.

Sorrowful moans fill the air but your grandmother is undeterred.

With a shrill cry from the radio, everything dies down.

The shadows retreat.

The fire simmers down now small and tame.

Everyone lets out a breath. Both of you could feel everyone unfurl. Tense muscles, locked jaws, tight chests all loosen with the end of the story.

For a long moment, the entire circle is still. Then your grandmother stands up. The rest follow her in a mostly quiet procession up the steps.

“Roddy was harsh this year,” Martin whines.

“Nope, you’re just terrible at it. I mean hell even y/n got an answer. It was creepy as all shit but they got an answer,”

“Uh- Is it a good time to ask what just happened?”

Your cousins turn to you.

“You really didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“How do you propose I bring up the demonic radio?”

“Pffft,”

“Pirst, it isn’t demonic. Do you really think Nay would have kept it if it was?”

“She lets Martin hang around,”

“…….”

“Dis is a good point,”

“HEY”

Tim clears his throat.

“Raaayt, Ok so… once a year we tell the spooky radio stories so we can get answers or our future told,”

“Was the whole creepy walk necessary?”

“Nope,” You answer in chorus.

“It’s just our way of psyching up for it,”

“It’s your guy’s way. Tita at least let’s me hum songs,”

“Well excuse me for not wanting to listen to you sing,”

“Is there anything else you guys want to tell me?”

“Aside from y/n really not wanting to tell-”

You snarl at your cousins, red-faced and bearing your teeth. Martin and Roz cackle as they run. Anthony has the decency to at least look slightly apologetic as he runs.

“Y/n… What aren’t you telling me?”

“Tim, I- I’m- Damn it- I-” You put your hands on your face. You try to calm your breaths. “Look Tim, I-”You take another breath. “I’m sorry. I kissed you but you were drunk-”

“Wait that wasn’t a dream?” There’s a flicker in Tim’s chest.

You look at him mortified. You want the ground to swallow you whole. “Yeah, I- Tim, I know it’s- I’m sorry.”

He remains silent.

Your stomach feels like it’s going to burn up.

“I-”

“I want a redo,”

“A what?”

“A redo,”

a/n: I will rework the ending at some point but thank you for reading!

taglist: @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes, @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders (I wanna drag you into Terry hell), @l-horizon11

#Tim Drake #tim drake imagines #tim drake x reader #my writing #batboys #batboys x reader #spooktober #fake dating au

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st-just · 3 years

Text

Some writing from a game

Because I’m like..60% happy with it and I feel like it should have a potential audience of, like, at least a dozen people.

(Also, if you look very closely you might be able to see the influence of the last couple things I read)

The palace of the Melquart was as poorly defended as she had been promised – the nephilim garrison were either dead or damned, depending on the rumour you believed, and either way far away in the old capital. The local troops were mostly gone as well, sent to suppress a rebellion among the hill tribes – by the time they realized the reports and requests for aid were forgeries, it would be far too late. Even the guards which remains wouldn’t prove much use, their evening meal having been liberally spiced with sedatives to leave them slow-witted and sluggish. Everything was, in short, exactly how Itireae ir’Naeh had been promised it would been, carefully arranged to ensure the once-princesses homecoming would be as smooth and frictionless as possible. Not that she looked much like a princess anymore, of course – months of exile in the badlands had taken their toll, even before the injections of quicksilver and adamant had left her with monochrome eyes and sickly blue veins pressing against her skin. Still, she would gladly make every sacrifice and compromise over again, if it brought her here. After all, what good was a child who wouldn’t do what was necessary to avenge their father? With her new sight, the iron frame of the palace’s upper windows shone in the pre-dawn light, and it was a simple matter of will pull herself towards them – by now the pulsing, burning pain from her veins was almost a comfort, as she gracefully flew through the night to alight on the windowsill. It hung open in the warm fall air, and it was barely any effort to pull herself inside. She moved fast. Even if she couldn’t see the golden treasures piled high in the Melquart’s bedroom, she knew her way their by heart. She passed five guards on her way, and four four didn’t break her stride – a handful of iron needles pulled from one of the pounces hanging off her belt and pushed with more force then an a longbow towards each made sure they never got up. The last was someone important – a royal bodyguard or captain, sleeping on a bed in the antechamber to the Malequart’s apartments. He she recognized – he had just as happy to have a place of honour at her fathers side, before the giants called down fire from the sky and massacred his entire host. And so she paused and drew her glass daggers, and took the time to make sure he recognized her before she let him die. The Melquart was a Lumor, god-blooded, close to three yards tall, with flowing, braided crimson hair and a matching beard which grew fiery in truth when he was enraged – as he was now, charging through the door of his apartments in nothing but a robe, sacred and deadly bronze axe held in both hands, to find his bodyguard bleeding out before him. Which nicely distracted him as Itireae sent the first barrage of iron needles and blades flying towards him from her perch on the ceiling. His roar as the blades dug into his back and spilled his sacred blood was so loud it was almost painful to hear. But then, she wasn’t the intended audience – and his divine grandfather seemed to understand perfectly. The room filled with a wrathful and ruddy light, and Itireae had to leap to the floor to avoid the blast of divine fire the lumor threw from his hands, letting out a gasp of pain at her awkward landing on the stone floor. The holy runes etched on the Melquart’s axe glowed with an angry red light as he approached her, nothing but pure, deadly rage in his words. “I don’t know what you are, but if you start begging now I’ll just cut you down. Keep fighting, and you’re going to suffer. Burning slow so all the other humans know the penalty for striking the blood of the Sun.” Whatever reaction he expected, Itireae’s unsteady laughter wasn’t it. Her hands trembled as she spoke, grabbing a thankfully unbroken vial off her belt. “Me? I’m no-one, not after tonight. Just one more debt you monsters never bothered to settle.” She poured the vial down her throat, and tried to ignore her body screaming in protest as she started burning its contents before they were metabolized. A thin trail of black, acrid smoke leaked from her mouth, as her veins began to glow an unearthly blue. And the Melquart, axe raised for a killing blow, staggered and gasped in pain. Her fingers were bloody, gripping the seams between stones on the floor to keep from being slammed into his chest – but it worked. His fire went out as the light faded from his eyes, the blades buried in his back pulled through his heart and lungs until they pierced the skin of his chest as well. She made sure, of course – used her glass daggers to cut his throat and put out his eyes, and open every major vein and artery. And then, satisfied, she set to work cleaning up after herself. It was close to noon when she finally limped to their meeting place, lightly scorched from divine flame and throat too raw to speak from rushed alchemy. Still, her patron was waiting for her, wearing the face of the well-fed caravan driver she had travelled here with – though that disguise was beginning to crack, every hair already a pristine white and eyes faintly glowing, color starting to fade from their outfit. Turning to her with a slight smile and a nod, they said “Given the fire at the palace, I trust you have settled your personal affairs?” At her nod she gestured to the horses “Then we should be going. You have a higher purpose now, and the journey will give you time to consider a suitable new name.” They made good time on the trip south, as behind them the last vestige of Phanosine rule in the far east collapsed into succession struggle and anarchy. ----------------------------------------------- Tymon Sol managed to survive in the forest on his own for nearly two weeks. As soon as the strange, massive ships had been sighted and the chief and captains ordered their men to assemble, he’d heard the whispers of ruin and disaster on the wind. By the time the strange, green-coated soldiers had arrived and demanded unconditional surrender, her had already donned his mother’s mask and cloak, and taken everything he could carry. By the time the first cannon fired, he was so far away he could barely hear them. He had found an ancient tree, and made a camp beneath its canopy, hiding it from man and beast, rain and wind, anything the flew or crawled or bit or stung. Since then he had almost never taken off the cloak or mask – hiding him from anything but the spirits, and letting him see their guidance to the food and water he needed. All of which was to say, he had finally begun to feel safe. And so he was not at all prepared when something was waiting for him. It was dressed like an officer of the soldiers who had invaded his village, though its uniform was decorated with gold brocade and some sort of extra decoration. And otherwise totally devoid of color – snow white hair, pale skin, and clothing that remained pristinely and perfectly white even as it stood in the mud and leaned against his tree. Its eyes glowed faintly with a cold light, and when he looked at it he saw all the spirits who had protected his camp had shied away from touching it. It, meanwhile, looked down at a pocketwatch in its hand with apparent fascination. Either unable to perceive Tymon beneath his cloak or unconcerned with his presence as he stared and froze in panic. After a long, terrifying minute the watch let out a chime and it spoke in a soft, pleasant voice. “You are quite difficult to find, ghost-child. Before your spirits gaze I swear not to harm you, but I hope you will not force me through this effort again.” Trying to remain calm, he circled around it, trying to see if there were any other soldiers. Eventually, satisfied to find no footprints or hidden men, he responded, speaking from the mouth of a bird perched above her. “What do you want, then? You’re one of them, aren’t you? The soldiers who destroyed my home?” It sounded genuinely sorrowful as it replied. “That should not have happened. My peer was here as a mercenary, a role which does not agree with them. They were needlessly harsh, in the interests of haste, and the marines followed their example as well as their commands.” “Then, what, you’re here to say you’re sorry? Offer to build me a new house? I swear I won’t accept an-” “Please listen before you speak rashly child. I am not here to offer empty words or simple blood money. Might you here my offer, before you reject it? If you do, then I will accept your answer, should you desire, leave you be.” “...alright, fine. Talk.” “Your family is fascinating. Five generations of power and worth carefully gathered, every action judged, the petty gods of nature whispering in your ear, whatever life you wished to have forgotten under the duty you inherit. It’s a great burden, for someone so young. And it will not grow any easier – the island’s new princes are brutes, liars and cheats. You could resist them, and see your family suffer, or serve them, and forsake every fragment of purpose within you.” “My family? Who do you mean? Have you done anything to them?” It smiled, slightly. “Yes. One hundred thirty-eight potential heirs, although beyond the first dozen they are wholly unprepared and would despoil your inheritance quite quickly. And absolutely nothing, beyond identifying them. I would like to help them, offer them new lives with warm homes, food and medicine, and the assurance that they will never have to worry about being hunted down. But for that, you will have to come with me first. You will do good on a grander scale, and in return none of them will ever want for safety or comfort. Would you not at least consider the deal?” It paused then, waiting for a response. Tymon didn’t have one. After a silent eternity, it closed the pocket watch and gave a slight shrug. “I will return at this time tomorrow. I hope you will be here.” It walked out of the tree’s canopy and stood in the sunlight, took a deep breath and looked directly at the sun. And then it was gone. Tymon spent the next day and night performing every augury who could think of – it had never been a talent of his, truthfully. But the answers were all resoundingly clear. When the soldier in white returned the next day, he was waiting for it. -------------------------------------------------------- Three months latter, and the people who had once been Itireae and Tymon were ready. The ritual was not exactly difficult – it did not take a great deal of power, and could theoretically be performed anywhere. But it was exceedingly intricate and precise. Hira stood before the two kneeling inductees, both dressed in the dull grey robe and bright red fez of a Janissary without official rank. The room they stood in had, minutes before, been almost claustrophobic. But as the seven layers of exactingly drawn circles on the floor began to glow and turn in time with some grand cosmic clockwork, the walls and ceiling faded away. They were outside, and the night sky was bright and full of stars – though the constellations were foreign to them, and the light cold and alien. “Do you forsake inheritance and legacy, kith and kin, family and tribe? Do you forswear all covenants you have made, and revile all those who would demand your loyalty by love or affection?” The two answered at once “I do.” “Do you pledge yourselves to the service of Principle, to the creation of a rational and compassionate world, and the interests of the Esheri Republic, selflessly and without expectation of or right to comfort, safety or power?” “I do.” “Do you accept your role as the agents of history, and that you will be called to use and expend yourselves as necessity requires, without regard for you own selfish wants or particular affections, and will die and be forgotten with no memorial but the world you will help create?” Again they replied “I do”. As they did, the alien starlight seemed to solidly around them, pouring down their throats as they spoke, marking them indelibly. Hira smiled widely, opening her arms in welcome as she spoke “Then rise, Avra and Erem, and join us in engineering paradise.”

#writing #total war #this is theoretically a writing blog

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afictionaladventure16 · 4 years

Text

Remember Me (Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff x Daughter!Reader)

Chapter 8

Remember Me Masterlist

Previously on Remember Me...

Warnings: violence

Word Count: 1,559

A/N: Big thanks to @mybesttobobcratchit for editing this for me! I was gonna wait to post this buuuuut since I’ve been getting a lot of readers asking when I will post, I first planned on posting this weekend but I forgot I made plans to go to Vegas sooo here we are! Muahaha! The action will start in the next two chapters, I swear!

“I assume that we’ve made some progress since we last spoke,” Zemo spat as he walked into the room. You quickly straighten your posture as you sat in your seat. Roger remained emotionless next to you. “Well?”

“N-no sir,” you spoke up. Zemo glared at you before glancing over at Roger.

“Any reason as to why that is?” His question was mainly directed to Roger, but you didn’t understand why. You were the one that was supposed to do most of the labor for this assignment, shouldn’t the questions be towards you?

“We’ve had some setbacks,” Roger began to say. “But I can assure you, Jessica is trying her hardest to get as close as she can to the targets.”

“Setbacks?” This time the question was directed towards you. Zemo took a step closer. “I thought you were well trained to not any of these so-called setbacks.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir-” In an instant, you felt a stinging pain on your left cheek. The impact of Zemo’s fist on your face caused you to fall onto the ground, gasping for air. Zemo didn’t stop his assault as he began to kick you on the abdomen. His actions were violent, almost as if he were letting out his anger over his own failures on you.

Roger flinched at the sight. His body slightly jerked forward to aid you, but he knew that if he showed any sort of emotion it would be all over for him. Zemo wasn’t one to have that within his soldiers, especially in Roger. But Zemo noticed it, letting out a soft chuckle at Roger's actions.

“Have you gone soft, Roger?” Zemo quietly asked the man in front of him. He watched as Roger looked over at the asset, now unconscious on the floor. But she was no asset. She was human. You are human. “Need I remind you, who you work for?” Zemo hissed.

“No, sir,” Roger responded.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Zemo made his way out of the room. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes. I better not be disappointed when I come back.” Zemo slammed the door behind him.

Roger slowly walked over to where you sat, gently tapping your face to wake you.

“Jess.” You stirred. “Wake up, hon.” Roger gently placed his arms around you to help you up, but you groaned from the pain. “I know… I know… but you have to get up.”

“W-what’s going on?” You asked, wincing from the pain that went through your body with every move you made.

“I’m sorry,” Roger whispered.

“Sorry for what?” Roger stayed silent as he led you out of the room and across the hall. You quickly took notice of the chair that sits in the middle, a chair that you knew very well. “Roger, what are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again as he placed you on the chair.

“Roger! No!” You began to fight against him as he strapped your arms to the chair. “Please! Don’t do this!” Roger managed to strap both your arms to the chair. “I thought you had changed! I thought you were different!” Roger looked away. He couldn’t face you. Shame coursed through him as he made sure your restraints would hold and he stepped away.

“I am,” he murmured.

“Liar!”

“You have to trust me, Jess.”

“That’s not even my name! How could I trust you?” Tears began to well up in your eyes. “How could I trust you when I don’t even know who I am?” Before Roger could respond, the door opened behind him and Zemo entered.

“You never fail to disappoint, Roger,” Zemo chuckled. “Roger. It fits you so well, I have forgotten your real name.” Zemo looked over at you. “My dear, Jessica. Sorry for the damage earlier… I do hope you find it in your heart to forgive me.” Zemo cleared his throat before walking over to a table nearby that had different syringes filled with unknown serums. “We’re going to have some fun today.”

“W-what?” Zemo walked closer to you with one syringe in hand. “What are you going to do with that?” You asked. Zemo just smirked.

“You’ll see soon enough.” He turned around to two men in white lab coats. “Be ready, gentlemen. We still don’t know the full side effects.” Zemo looked over at Roger who was trying his hardest to contain his composure. “Do you need some air, Mr. Jones?” Zemo said in a mocking tone. Roger furrowed his eyebrows as he glanced at Zemo before stealing a glance at you.

“I forgot that I have some paperwork that needs to be done,” he said flatly. Zemo chuckled.

“By all means, don’t let my charades stop you from your paperwork.” You watched as Roger slowly walked out of the room. You gave him pleading eyes as he looked at you one last time before shutting the door.

“Now, where were we?” Zemo asked. One of the doctors grabbed an I.V. needle and gestured to Zemo. “Ah, yes! We were about to have some fun!”

The doctor that held the I.V. needle gently looked for a vein. You squirmed in your seat. “It’ll only make it worse,” Zemo informed. “Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.” You felt the pinch of the needle piercing your skin.

“The I.V. is in, sir. Ready to administer.” Zemo smiled sickeningly.

“Perfect!” He didn’t hesitate to attach the syringe and push the plunger, sending whatever serum he had created this time rushing into your veins.

As soon as the serum had been injected inside your body, you could feel the effects. You let out a piercing scream, your body felt as if it was on fire. Zemo took a step back, watching as you screamed in agony from the effects of the serum.

“Give me the next serum,” he instructed. He held out his hand, waiting for one of the other doctors to place a syringe in his hand.

“Shouldn’t we wait?”

“I said give me the damn serum!” Zemo hissed.

Roger walked into the small file room and slammed the door, sending papers flying in every direction. For Hydra, he thought they would’ve had a better way to store files. He walked over to the small ancient computer and sat down on the dusty chair. He started typing absent-mindedly, desperate to find something to busy himself with.

Paperwork was something Roger never had to do, of course. On occasion, he had to go through files, but only in order to find information on certain targets he was sent after. Just then, an idea came to Rogers’s mind.

An idea that had you in it. Roger began typing out your name.

“Jessica Jones,” he mumbled to himself as he typed, but nothing came out. He groaned in frustration. “Alright, how about Widows Bite?” Roger smiled to himself as your file came onto the screen. If you couldn’t remember your past, then Roger thought that he could help you remember.

“Y/N.” That was your name. Not Widow’s Bite or Jessica Jones. “Barnes… Wait a minute.” Roger scrolled down the file and began to read.

”‘Y/N Barnes, daughter of James Barnes and Natasha Romanoff. Rescued by Hydra at the age of five. Rescued?” Roger questioned. “They call this rescuing?” Roger began to scan the file until his eyes found the heading Wiping Treatments. Roger’s eyes flitted to the door, ensuring he was still alone, and then he began to read.

“September 24th, 2006: Today was the asset’s first successful wipe. Results as anticipated based on lineage. Will continue to monitor.” Roger had no clue who wrote the file but it was in their perspective. “As with the other assets, a code word has been implanted in her subconscious which will, in case of extreme emergencies, restore all wiped memories. Codeword given only to those with the highest clearance.” Roger felt as if he had hit the jackpot, scrolling and digging through the file. “Where is it!?” He exclaimed as he scanned through pages and pages of notes. And as if Odin himself was listening, Roger stumbled upon the code.

That was all he needed. Reading the code word several more times, Roger exited out of the screen and ran out of the room, back to where he had left you in.

Roger barged into the room, and his expression quickly fell at the sight that was before him.

“What have you done to her!?” Roger exclaimed as he saw you on the floor groaning in pain, holding your stomach.

“Can’t you see?” Zemo chuckled. “I’ve improved her. Now there won’t be any more of your setbacks.” Zemo walked over to Roger. “I will need her here for the next two weeks.”

“What?” Roger looked at Zemo in disbelief. “That itself will cause a big setback.” Zemo shook his head.

“After she’s done with her training she will become the best asset Hydra has ever seen. She will rip through our enemies like the point of a sword.” Raged filled Roger’s heart and he knew right there that he wouldn’t let Zemo use you any longer. The doctor sauntered past Roger and looked back over his shoulder to glance at Roger who was staring at you in disbelief.

“You all should thank me,” he said pridefully before leaving the room.

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madlittlecriminal · 3 years

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Immaturity › Bruce Wayne × Reader

Request: yes! from @shewearsprada - I’m gonna be naughty and request aNoThEr Bruce Wayne x Reader because Bale as Bruce doesn’t get enough love. Premise: Bruce has developed feelings for the reader; but has pushed her away because he’s afraid of what will happen to her if someone finds out he’s batman. She goes on a date w/ Dr. Crane; trying to get over Bruce. But Crane decided to test his drug out on her; and things go awry. Bruce “watching over” as usual sees this and saves her but panicks and takes her back to the batcave; where she ends up waking up and discovering Bruce’s identity. He’s afraid she’ll leave and judge him; but she already knew Bruce was Batman and they kiss *because I need a Hollywood ending rn🥺*

Warnings: angst then fluff, mention of rebound, Jonathan Crane, mention of needles, hallucinations, lies, mention of vaccine, mention of blood & saliva, mention of passing out

-i don’t usually take long requests like this one, but i accept for the simple fact that i can still make it my own. also, your girl got experience from being a rebound MULTIPLE times, so i apologize if it hits too close to home for any of you peeps-

Sitting in his living room get odd, but you didn’t mind it. After all, he showed you happiness when the man you were close to pushed you away. You didn’t know why he did it, but honestly, it didn’t matter as you were happy with Jonathan. Sure you were using him as a rebound at first, but then you actually started liking the guy. No, you weren’t in love with him, you just liked him. “Darling, I have a question.” The nickname didn’t make you blush, it just made you smile. “Ask me anything!”

“Would you mind if I try something?” You tilt your head to the side, curiosity filling your senses. “Depends what it is, Jonathan.” He chuckled. “It’s a cure to any allergies you might have whether you know them or not.” You were surprised. “Is that so?” He nods. You knew he was intelligent, but you didn’t know he was a good liar. “Fine, you can use me as a lab rat.” He smiles. “Oh my dear, you aren’t a lab rat. You’re too beautiful to even compare yourself to a rat.”

He wasn’t gonna lie, he found you pretty attractive. Were you attractive enough to call you beautiful? To him, no, but you were cute. So, without a second thought, you allowed him to inject you with his supposed all-allergy vaccine. The needle entered your arm and he slowly pressed down on the back. You didn’t feel anything at first, until his smile morphed into something sinister; pointed teeth, blood instead of saliva dripped down the side of his lips.

Fear raced through your veins and the chuckle that escaped his lips was deep and malicious. Suddenly the lights went off, but due to your rapid beating heart and the fear in your body, you passed out. You didn’t get it, but it was the best you could possibly do at the moment. Scarecrow smirked when he saw the white from your eyes slowly fade from passing out. “You are cute, don’t get me wrong. You just needed a small...scare, if that’s how you’d put it.”

———

“You didn’t deserve this. I wish I came sooner.” He ran his fingers down the side of your face ever so delicately and sighed. Suddenly, you woke up and you saw nothing but darkness and...bats?! You then went into panic mode and your body was visibly shaking. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m here.” Your eyes met Bruce’s hazel ones and you felt your breathing begin to relax. “Bold of you to bring me here after you were avoiding me.” He raised an eyebrow and your shrug.

“We’ve known each other for a while. It didn’t long for me to figure out that you were Batman. He gulped and you rest a hand on your forehead. “Why did you bring me here and not my place, Bruce?” He sighs. “What if he was going to go after you there?” You scoff. “He doesn’t know where I live. He’s never visited my place before.” He nods, but you knew he didn’t believe you. That sort of angered you that he didn’t believe you, so your next words were said without thinking.

“I’m not like you. I don’t sleep around with 98% of Gotham’s consenting adults just because.” You both froze at your words, knowing it was true, but not meant to say now. “That’s what you think?” You look down, not saying a word. He knew you felt awful, but you didn’t lie. After all, why else would Gotham mark him a playboy? “(Y/N), I know my reputation is awful and I know you didn’t mean to say that, but you wanna know something?” You look up at Bruce, waiting for a response.

His eyes searched your face, but you raised an eyebrow. “Never will I do anything to hurt you emotionally, mentally, or physically. I won’t use you and I definitely won’t be here lying to you by saying I avoided you because of work.” He sighs and your heart started speeding up. “I avoided for one reason and one reason alone.” Before you knew it, his lips met yours. You were shocked, but you couldn’t help but react; not by instinct, but because you felt the same. His lips were slightly chapped, but felt nice against yours.

You rest a hand on his cheek and smiled softly when you felt his hair in between your fingers. He broke the kiss, slightly breathless, but chuckled when he heard you whimper slightly. “Just one. You hurt me in any way that’s not playful, I’m out.” He nods. “Yes ma’am.” You giggled and pulled him into a hug. “I care about you, just so you know.” He hums and nuzzles your neck. “I care about you too darling.”

~~~~

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loveafterthefact · 4 years

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Love After the Fact Chapter 52: I Promise with my Hands, my Smile, my Lips Against His

Lance takes a moment to put things in perspective for Krolia.

First Previous Next

The serum burns like acid as it enters his veins. The feeling doesn’t dilute as it mixes with his blood, the awful burn causing his hearts to beat faster and harder, spreading fire through his system until his entire body feels like it’s aflame.

It’s been almost half a varga. And this won’t be the only time he endures this. Still, it means he’ll be able to enjoy more of his stay, teach Lance about his home.

Worth it.

Head in Lance’s lap, Keith’s curled around his spouse’s form, unable to bite back an occasional chirp. Lance murmurs softly, stroking his hair, rubbing his ear. “It’s alright, beloved. It’ll be over soon. Does it always hurt this much?”

“Difficult to say, but it’s not uncommon for them to scream.”

“Wonderful. Thank you.” the Altean glares, bottom stuck out.

Thace merely shrugs. “Pain is not so alien for my people as it is for yours.”

“Pain is not alien to my people.” Those blue and pink eyes narrow. “Much of my generation is made of orphans.”

The prince turns away from the young medic’s panicked apology, focusing on the kit curled around him, face pressed against his belly. To his surprise, Krolia sits next to him, cautiously takes over rubbing Keith’s exposed ear. The kit takes his hand, holds it against his chest.

“Breathe, beloved. Breathe.” Which Keith does, though with effort, forcing his previously shallow breaths to expand and deepen. “Good. That’s so good, beloved.”

“Don’t you baby-talk me. Save it for our kits.”

“Even now, you’re so sassy. Don’t ever stop.” Lance brushes his thumb over Keith’s knuckles. “Hey, what do you think Adam’s doing right now?”

“Making out with Shiro in some shady corner like a couple of pubescents,” Keith gasps, grateful for the distraction. “They’re so gross.”

“It’s really good for Adam, though, even if it doesn’t work out. It’s a brand new experience for him.”

“It’s new for -Fuck, that hurts!- It’s new for Shiro, too. He’s been alone for so long.”

“Did he lose somebody?”

“Not a mate. He’s been in the army in some capacity since he was a kit. He- He never really had time for someone. No one ever caught his eye.” Keith heaves a sigh as the pain fades away, leaving him comparatively cool, his muscles lax, his eyes drooping.

“You alright, beloved?” Lance strokes his hair, tugs gently on the end of his braid. Keith nods, nosing against his stomach. “Tired?” Another nod. Lance lifts their joined hands briefly to his lips. “Rest here for a bit. It’ll make it easier for Adam to find us, anyway… Go ahead and sleep, beloved.”

Keith, it seems, doesn’t need any more encouragement, slipping back into the same sound sleep he’s been in and out of for a while now as his apparently hypermetabolized body struggles to find enough energy to carry out its tasks. Thace is in the other room with his kit, so Lance takes this as an opportunity.

“You must think very little of me. I would have preferred Lanval not told you of my misbehaviour.”

“You are not what I wanted for my son. He is intersex, a blessing to our people. It should have been his gods-given right to choose his mate. His right, before anyone else’s… I thought you would force yourself upon him, engender him to you.”

“Where I come from, such an act is a crime. Unless your father is a king, it would seem.” Lance sighs. “I gave up my trick for him. I had always played up my antics, spending too much money, traipsing about with various other people on my arm. When I became king, I was going to make a grand show of putting my wild days behind me, stepping up to be the leader my people needed.”

“Power is a matter of perception.” Krolia nods. “I know this philosophy well. My mate was fond of throwing it around when he grew particularly bitter with the world... I imagine you understand.”

“ Now more than ever, yes. I am no longer certain how to make my ascension significant in the eyes of my people now that I’ve given myself up, but I couldn’t do that to him. Someone so brave, and good- I didn’t want to destroy that.”

“If you’re trying to get me to like you-”

“I don’t care whether you like me or not. Your opinion on the matter carries no weight here or on Altea. However…” Lance’s eyes stare into Krolia’s, uncharacteristically hard. “I want you to consider what turning us against each other will mean for your son. I must bed him for the sake of this marriage and alliance. I must impregnate him at least twice to assure the continuation of my culture and my family’s legacy. We must raise our children and rule our kingdom together. This alliance depends on that.

“Our lives are irretrievably intertwined. If nothing else, consider how much easier and happier his life might be if he and I are an actual couple. Keep your silence, let us be as we choose, and I promise you your son will want for nothing.”

Krolia stares at her son’s head in Lance’s lap, listens to the chiming of the ornaments in the Altean’s ears as he leans over his sleeping spouse, brushing his thumb over his cheek. Those words still hold little against the care this prince lavishes so freely over her son. In the words of Akira, actions speak louder than words, and Lance’s actions sing.

The mother sighs. “I concede your point. Make him happy.”

“All the days of my life. I swear it.”

“The word of an Altean prince isn’t worth the breath in his lungs, but I suppose it’ll have to do.”

Keith stirs. “What’s this about Lance’s words?”

“Nothing, kitten. He just doesn’t shut up.”

“Hm.” The kit adjusts his grip on Lance’s hand, smiling. “He really doesn’t- Oh.” Keith’s violet eyes go wide.

“What is it, beloved?”

“Lance. A whole phoeb. At least a phoeb without Seran and Renli!”

Lance’s laugh is like windchimes, high and clear and bright. “Ah, that does sound lovely. Say, Adam should be here soon and Allura will find us as befits her. What would you like to do today?”

“The truth?” Keith asks. Lance just smiles, strokes his hair with his free hand. “I want to go home and see BleepBloop.”

“BleepBloop?” The prince cocks his head. “What’s a BleepBloop?”

“My childhood pet. When- When I left, Shiro told me not to bring anything because it would all get taken away. I only brought my blade because I thought I could hide it.”

“I would have put the fear of the Ancients into them if they took your pet. After you terrorized them, of course.”

“I know that now, but…” Keith studies their joined hands. “I didn’t then.”

Lance opens his mouth, ready to say some sweet nothing, when Adam slips into the room. “Your Majesties. The Imperial family welcomes us with open arms and good grace. We may go where we choose and do as we like, so long as we respect the people and their customs… What did I miss?”

“Some liquid fire being injected into my body. Think I’d rather be eaten by a kronil.” Keith sits up, stretching his arms up over his head. “I for one would like to go back to my den and change into some more comfortable clothes. Then-”

“See your pet and eat something? Yes that sounds very good.” Lance coaxes his spouse to his feet.

Another, older Galra enters, smiles when he sees Keith. “Hey, little one. Have you gone and got smaller?”

“Fuck off, Ulaz.” The young Galra laughs all the same, ears perked and happy. A friend.

“Seen Thace?”

“In the other room, nursing Raj. They’re super cute by the way. Good job.”

“Pfft. Thace did all the work. I’m just lucky my mate’s a pretty one. Otherwise they’d probably all end up looking like me.”

“Yeah, they’d be born looking all old and wrinkly and gross.” Keith sticks his tongue out at the older Galra.

“All kits are born two of those things, little one. You’ll see.”

Keith scoffs, but Lance laughs. “Actually, he’s right. Brand new babies all look like little grubs with faces. Ours will be no different.”

The unimpressed look on Keith’s face has Lance, Ulaz, and even the ever-quiet Krolia laughing.

“Alright. I’d better go see if Thace needs anything. You all take care. Keith, bring that Altean of yours and join us for dinner one night. I’m telling the kits you’re coming, so don’t go making a liar out of me. They outnumber us more than two to one now, and I am super doomed if Thace sides with them.”

“We’ll come; I promise. Tell Thace thanks from me.” Keith smiles, slips his hand into Lance’s, only to skip ahead, lighter than Lance has ever seen.

Lance nods his thanks as Krolia lifts a box from the nearby table. It’s full of serum doses. He watches his spouse’s antics, bouncing with every step, smiling through the halls and out into that sunlight he’s clearly missed so very much. He already knows that leaving will be hard for both of them.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

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illshowyourhurricanes · 4 years

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In The Line Of Fire (Part 3)

Taking a break from requested drabbles for today to bring y’all the finale of this three-part series, brought to you from this prompt by sarahseleckywritingschool on Instagram. In part one, we saw Billy at Arthur’s place, and in part 2 we got a glimpse of seeing things through Ryan’s eyes (and get a glimpse into his mind). This is my first real foray into writing for Logan, and it is a doozy. He’s a beautifully written, complex character and I hope I did him and his story some justice. Parts one and two can be found in my masterlist. Please let me know what you think, I’m anxious about this one!

Trigger warning: mentions of / drug use and angst. All the angst.

Rating: R

Word count: 1649

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Hugest of the huge special thanks fot @the-blind-assassin-12 for encouraging and convincing me an infinite amount of times to actually write this.

The orange flame coming from the light blue lighter Logan held in his large hand reflected in his dark, glossy eyes. Leaning back in his chair, his feet crossed at the ankles and propped up onto his solid wood Scarborough desk, his gaze rose to land on the small baggie of white powder lying just to the right of his feet. Logan Delos was deep into his latest relapse, back off the straight and narrow illusion of a filthy rich, capable, responsible mother fucker and heir of a multi-million dollar empire. No, Logan had hopped onto another wagon, one that took him to places nothing or no one else could touch. He was in love with what it did to him, the instant rush of euphoria, being on top of the fucking world with his ego swelling with confidence and purpose—the rush followed by the numbing of the bullshit and the descent into the reprieve of the constant buzzing in his brain. A warmth spread through his veins and he knew that he was Logan Delos: untouchable, desirable, anything he could ever wish for right there at his fingertips for the taking.

He was Logan Delos, a man that others chased and craved like he chased and craved the drug there at his feet. A fuck, a needle, sleep, repeat; Logan lived a lavish, hedonistic lifestyle and he was in control; he decided when he’d do the drugs, how much he’d indulge in how often. He decided.

That point in his life had passed. Logan was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar, not even to himself. He was a failure, a junkie, the regrettable piece of shit his father had no qualms reminding him of. Here you are, Jim. Take a look at your son.

Logan’s lip curled in disgust at the mere thought of his father, and the only reason he let himself think of that wretched bastard as his father was strictly biological. He had never and would never be a “dad”; he didn’t have the capacity. “You’re a disappointment,” he muttered, words James Delos had directed toward Logan so many times, he should be desensitized by now. Should be. “You’re a piece of shit, Logan. This company will never be yours. You’re a junkie.”

A junkie. Logan flicked the light blue, plastic Bic lighter on, lifting his thumb seconds later and extinguishing the flame. He was mesmerized by the immediate lighting and extinguishing of the flame, allowing himself to get lost in the simplicity and complexity of creating fire with one finger. The spoon he used for cooking the powder down into a liquid was right there by the baggie Logan was considering. Fuck it, he thought, and he tossed the lighter onto his desk carelessly, feet hitting the floor and propelling his chair closer toward the table.

One large hand scooped up both the baggie and silver spoon— Logan relished in the fact that one of Jim’s overly expensive, custom made silver spoons was a constant in his heroin kit— a whisky tumbler half-filled with days’ old water, and a hypodermic needle. Leaning down closer to the desk’s mahogany surface, the baggie was unzipped, spoon perched between his thin and index finger on the ready. The tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, he tapped the plastic bag until he was satisfied with the amount of white powder that spilled out into his spoon. Baggie set aside, traded out for the needle, he drew up a small amount of water, slowly filling the spoon, the remaining water shot out into the garbage can kept under his desk.

He needed that lighter again, and he carefully reached for the spot it had landed when he’d tossed it, the far corner of his desk. He balanced the spoon precariously as he retrieved the lighter and an expression of arrogance and pride passed over his features, vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared. Logan was ritualistic in the way he used heroin, and preparing it was a big part of that. This was one of those times Logan preferred not to experience; his craving had turned into a need, an essential substance with a vice so strong, it brought with it an overwhelming anxiety. His hand trembled as he held the lighter beneath the spoon. His palms were damp with sweat; he was agitated and his arm itches like he’d been covered in fire ants. The Delos estate could have been on fire and Logan would remain sitting with the task at hand. Nothing else mattered.

Finally, the heroin was liquified. Eagerly, he dipped the tip of his needle into the shallow solution, slowly drawing the drug into the syringe. He dropped the spoon with a clatter, turned the needle point upward and tapped on the side of the syringe. Tiny air bubbles appeared atop the solution and Logan slowly, carefully, tediously applied pressure to the plunger until a drop of the solution dripped from the needle. Any air had been evacuated. It was time.

Logan was shaking, both from anticipation and need. Small beads of sweat were beginning to appear at his brow. With his sacred drug—his lifeline— he pushed his desk chair back, standing and taking long strides to reach the other side of his expansive bedroom.

He didn’t even pause as he flipped the light switch to illuminate his walk-in closet, full of expensive designer casual wear, but mostly with suits— Brioni and Gucci, Tom Ford and Burberry. Neat rows of impeccable shoes were lined up perfectly by shade and style. But Logan noticed none of this. He had tunnel vision, and he went straight for his tie rack. He needed a silk tie, easy to knot yet strong enough that it wouldn’t break while serving its purpose.

Snatching a tie he knew would do the trick, he allowed it to unroll itself as he left his closet. Holding the capped syringe between his teeth, he used both hands to hold each end of the necktie to his upper arm, at the halfway point of his elbow and bicep. Deftly, he knotted it around his arm securely, but with enough give to unknot easily when it was time. An authentic Stefano Ricci, Jim. 100% silk. Easily over $1500. Your junkie, ticking time bomb, fucking failure of a son doesn’t skimp on the details: designer ties as tourniquets to shoot up his pure, white heroin. Only the best for a Delos. Right, dear old dad?

He felt his lip curl in disgust as he sat back in his chair, syringe still held between two rows of perfectly straight, startlingly white teeth. Pumping his left fist several times over— open and squeeze, open and squeeze— he watched as his skin below the tourniquet began to discolor. With two long fingers of his right hand, he struck his forearm several times, barely noticing the very visible track marks at the crook of his elbow, the newer one that was halfway up the inside of his forearm. He was looking for a vein.

Bingo.

There it was, popped out and bulging, an inch below the crook of his elbow, a long patch of skin free of any track marks or puncture wounds. Not for long. His teeth gave way as he reached for the waiting syringe holding the one thing in his life that gave Logan back the love he felt for it. If— when— it killed him, he’d die feeling un-fucking-touchable. His only regret would be missing the opportunity of Jim Delos’ horrendous smile at the sight of his only son’s corpse.

It was miraculous the way Logan could manage to steady his shaking to inject. He bit at the orange cap over the needle, spitting it off to the side. Holding the syringe precariously like a cigarette between forefinger and middle finger, he dipped his head to hold a dangling part of his tie between his teeth, just as he had the needle.

With one sting of the needle puncturing his pale skin, Logan yanked his head back, the loose knot he’d tied in his RIcci necktie unraveling and falling away. It was a deep red, the color of ox blood, and a bitter laugh escaped from low in his throat. And then, Logan pushed the plunger.

By the time he finished and tossed the used needle and syringe to the side, Logan was only able to lick the residual drop of blood from his arm when the rush began. There was the familiar warmth coursing along with the circulation of his blood, from the core of his body down into the tips of his toes and fingers. Without a warning, Logan felt and indescribable euphoria that nothing could hold a candle to, not even an almost violent orgasm causing his entire body to quake.

Heroin was a paradox. With the euphoria came a sense of calm and a heaviness of his body. With the pleasure would come the pain. Everything eventually collided, but Logan relished in the crash. He needed it, and he accepted that. The only thing he could rely on was something that would never refuse him what he sought out. The only thing that wouldn’t pulverize his heart and his pride, wound him with a hole too deep to heal.

The heaviness and calm gave way to any sense of strength, Logan’s head falling back and rolling from side to side at the back of his leather desk chair until it fell slightly to the right. He was unable to keep his eyes from closing, long hair falling over his forehead as he nodded. An amalgamation of jumbled, broken thoughts floated through his mind, past the fog of disorientation that would inevitably fade into sleep: Wrong… this is the wrong door.. where’s the fucking.. it’s the wrong world. This is all an illusion.

#in the line of fire #part 3 #itlof3 #logan delos #tw: drug use #my writing

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andersunmenschlich · 4 years

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Episode 11: Dreamer

All right, I'm trying something new here: doing this one in bits and pieces during packing.

I'm absolutely positive it'll slow the packing down, but hopefully not too much, since I can listen while packing, then pause the episode and write out my comments, then play again and go back to packing. At least, that's the idea. We'll see how well it works.

Okay! Tonight we have the statement of one Antonio Blake, a liar.

Well, he lied to get into the Institute, anyway. I didn't know they had rules regarding the sort of statements they'll accept.

"Any supernatural or unexplainable experience or encounter occurring within the realms of apparent reality. No out-of-body experiences, visions, hallucinations or dreams."

That's interesting.

Makes sense, too. How would you verify any of those last four? I imagine it'd make research pretty difficult. Antonio Blake, however, is certain that the previous archivist, Gertrude Robinson, needs to hear this dream—because it was about her. He also says that in his dream he saw the Institute, the building, and the room he's giving the statement in. Hmm. I assume he's never been here before? Neat.

Apparently Antonio is a down-on-his-luck economist who had—oh. More than just the one dream. Okay. He had these dreams while sleeping on a friend's couch on account of he'd broken up with his boyfriend (Graham... probably not Folger...) and needed a new place to stay.

He'd also had a nervous breakdown. Something to do with the stress of the job.

Yeah, I could see that leading to bad dreams.

He says that the dream starts out with him standing on... on the tallest building in Canary Wharf? I guess? Overlooking the Barclays building where his stress-inducing job was.

Behind him I guess there's a tower with a light on it. He can feel it there, and see the light (he says it pulses), but he can't actually turn around and look. So he looks down at the city instead. I guess it's night, because he says the streetlights are on. He also says the lights are orange. This strikes me as absolutely splendid, because the streetlights around here are blindingly bright white LEDs, and I'd like them all to go kaput.

Warmer lights are always so much less painful. Reds and oranges for me, please!

In any case, there's also a web of dark tendrils just all over everything. Antonio compares them to blood vessels. Some of them are as wide as roads. Some of them are as thin as telephone wires. They're thick and dark, and throbbing in time with the beat of the light behind him.

...So would that make the lighthouse the heart?

Antonio Blake, like me, wants to get a better look at the tendrils.

Luckily for both of us, the dream allows it. Sort of. He moves forward, falls off the roof, plummets to the ground, and goes splat.

He doesn't wake up, which reminds me of the dream I had in which I fell out of a ski lift. My dad told me that if you die in a dream you die in real life, but clearly he was having a joke with me, because after I fell through all those pines (breaking more limbs than just mine) and landed on the jagged rocks so imperfectly hidden beneath the cold snow, I didn't wake up either: just lay there, broken, and slowly bled out. I remember thinking the sky was really beautiful, framed by pine needles and broken branches. I could even see the thread of the ski lift, carrying empty chairs and other people on up the mountain.

I couldn't call out, though. My ribs were broken and my shallow breathing bubbled with blood, and the strange mix between fiery pain and icy cold was just too much for proper processing. Antonio Blake talks about "the knowledge of pain without the white heat of nerves"—I wonder if that's what it was. After all, I've never fallen out of a ski lift in real life. How could I possibly imagine it properly?

My dream ended with my eventual death, though. Antonio Blake's carries on.

After a while, you see, he recovers and is able to keep going. I get the impression that he's sort of floating forwards. He says he's not walking, anyway.

Oh, there are people! Each one seems to be frozen in an instant of time, with black tendrils wrapped around them. One's got a thin vein wrapping around their arms and going into their heart. One's got a thick, heavy vein lying across their legs. The veins are alive, but the people don't seem to be—and they all look surprised, terrified, hurting, and confused.

Hmmm.

Yeah, I don't know what to make of that.

Antonio Blake eventually ends up at the scene of his horrible job, where the lights are *also* orange for some reason, and... oh, all the lights match the beating of the heart-light, too? Interesting.

There don't seem to be any people in the building. His office is 23 floors up, but he takes the stairs because the idea of taking the elevator freaks him out. It's okay, though—his legs don't get tired because even if his dream-self has legs, he's not using them. So he floats on up all those stairs to his office, which it seems he hasn't worked in for weeks (probably because of the nervous breakdown). It's just the way he left it.

Oh, and his manager is in the manager's office.

Apparently he got hung by one of the tendrils, or maybe he hanged himself on it, who knows. Anyway, when Antonio sees that, he wakes up. And he's not a sweaty mess! Actually he's very well-rested. It's like it wasn't a bad dream at all.

Now he's looking for jobs online, so I guess he dropped the one at the Barclays building. Probably a good move, given what it did to him....

He's also curious about his manager (John Uzel).

Turns out John Uzel hanged himself after he lost his kids to his ex-wife. Well, now.

So those tendrils are visible signs of death? The chappie with the veins wrapped around their arms and going into their heart died from, what, an injection with a syringe that had a bubble in it or something? And maybe a tree fell on the other one, or they got their legs run over by a car and died?

Looks like it's a Sabbath dream: every Saturday, like clockwork.

He starts on Canary Wharf, smashes down into the city, then floats around and looks at everybody. Apparently the human-statutes fade out after a while, but the tendrils stay nice and dark and healthy.

...He's totally going to die from jumping off a building, isn't he. Antonio Blake, you might not be able to see any tendrils on yourself, but I bet you're doomed.

Okay!

Antonio's starting to get a feel for what's going on.

Stroke victims get tendrils clutching their heads, smokers get them wrapped around their lungs, car crash victims get buried under big, heavy ones—that kind of thing. He could probably get some good data from visiting the hospital, but he avoids it.

...I wonder whether he can float through the tendrils, or if he won't be able to move when there're too many of them.

Oh, wow. Eight years of this?

I guess you really can get used to anything, because apparently Antonio's life goes on just fine. Not that he's an economist anymore! Nope, to avoid stress he's now working selling crystals and tarot cards in a magic shop. We have a couple stores like that in my town, though I've never been in them. Sure, I like tarot cards—they're cool-looking and I like tarot solitaire games better than the ones played with a regular deck, they're more complex—but it seems like things are always overpriced in those places.

He says he also took advantage of his new job to read every book ever written on esoteric dreaming, which seems like a very solid move to me, but apparently he wasn't able to find anything that came even close to his dreams. Unfortunate.

Oho, and then one day his dad turns up in a dream.

"Walking down Oxford Street"? Wait, so some people in these dreams move? Or do you mean he was frozen in the act of walking?

And then he's not dead in real life? Even though in the dream the tendrils went up his leg and into his chest? ...I thought all the people Antonio saw in his dreams were already dead. If they're not... well, I guess that explains Gertrude Robinson, because she obviously wasn't dead when this statement was given, and if he saw her in his dream—

Right. So he tries to warn his dad.

Obviously he doesn't tell him, "Hey, I have these spooky dreams where I see how people are going to die," because there's no way he'd be believed, but he does ask about his health and even book him a doctor's appointment.

It doesn't help. His dad dies of a heart attack right at the very end of 2014. All the preparation in the world couldn't save his life.

...Whee.

You know, I didn't really think about Gertrude Robinson all that much. I guess I just assumed she retired. Now it's looking like she bought the farm, isn't it. But why would Antonio Blake try to save a total stranger? Especially when apparently warnings don't work and the deaths are inevitable. They are inevitable, right?

Come to think of it, where are these dreams even coming from? Is he the first person on earth ever to have them? Surely not! But none of the books had anything even close....

Ah, I don't know.

Anyway, he says his dad's image turned up about ten days before the actual death. A ten-day warning isn't much, but I guess it might give you time to get your affairs in order. Maybe that's what Antonio's trying to give Gertrude: a little time to wrap things up. But, again, why?

Oh, he says he can see her in the next room. Apparently she's reading a book.

I approve. I like books.

...Of course, it's no good if you're so busy with other things that you can't do your own job properly! Even if the distraction is books, I still can't approve of that. It isn't tidy.

So. Antonio Blake says his latest dream was two nights ago. It started out the same, but he had a sense that something was deeply wrong. Things were darker and the tendrils were everywhere, and sometimes there are dark red lights traveling inside them, all going the same direction. He decides to follow them—and oh, I get a question answered! He can't float through the tendrils. He's got to float above them.

Sometimes he thinks the red lights show faces and shadows inside the tendrils, but the light moves so fast he can't be sure.

It's moving towards Vauxhall, which is apparently a rich part of the city because when he notices that there are fewer people here he wonders whether rich people die less, or have the ability to pick their own places to die, or maybe fight off death so long they're just buried in tendrils when it finally comes.

He crosses the Thames, and most of the tendrils are on the bridge, only a few in the water. That makes sense. I'd expect most of the deaths to be in the places where there're the most people.

Oh, and there's a building on the other side of the river. A small, old building, but with pillars. So... like a small bank or something? And all the red lights are going into it. Every door and window's completely crammed with black tendrils, but Antonio gets inside somehow.

Gah, my question's been unanswered!

Stupid inconsistent dream rules. Well, whatever—I wanted to see inside anyway. Especially after Antonio Blake read the bronze plaque outside the door. "The Magnus Institute, London. Founded 1818."

...Wait, hold up. That number rings a bell, and not just because it's pretty. 1818. 1818....

Episode four: grbookworm1818!

Gertrude Robinson. Reading a book. Magnus Institute founded in 1818. Wait, how long has she worked here? Surely not since the beginning! Then again, this *is* a supernatural horror podcast. Maybe she has. At the very least, she obviously identifies with her place of work quite strongly. So you'd think she'd do a better job, wouldn't you!? Geez louise, Gertrude Robinson! Confuse the bejeebers out of me, why don't you?

Anyway. Antonio follows the red lights to a room marked "Archive," which seems... oddly appropriate, somehow. It's like they're archiving all the red lights, or everything being brought by them, whatever that might be.

...Life?

Ugh, but the shelves are coated in this sticky, black tar-blood, which is just gross. Veins shouldn't leak! Why aren't they properly insulated?

...Whoa. Okay.

So all the veins are headed to this one desk at the front of the room—or, more precisely, into Gertrude Robinson, who's sitting at the desk. All the red lights are flashing into her. Only her face is showing: all the rest is covered by pulsing, black, red-light-transmitting tendrils.

Antonio does a terrible job of describing her expression.

He just says, "far more fearful than any I had seen in eight years of wandering this twilight city." That's not helpful! You do realize that the word "fearful" can mean "full of fear" *or* "frightening"? Which one do you mean?

...You know what, I'm just gonna assume he meant both.

In any case, he decides he's got to try to help her. He thinks probably he can't, but he says he couldn't live with himself if he didn't at least try.

This is baffling. Let me see. So the red lights... I got the impression they were being sent by the lighthouse or whatever's always behind Antonio that he can't look at. And they're definitely going into Gertrude Robinson (and not, so far as I can tell, coming back out). Which means... what? That the red lights are death and the lighthouse pumps them into whoever's got veins stuck to them? And Antonio just couldn't see them until now because things weren't dark enough? Or are the red lights a genuinely new thing?

And where are they coming from? Like, is the lighthouse producing them or just pumping them along? I feel like it ought to be an extraction process—the tendrils pull something out of the dead people and the lighthouse-heart pushes it down to Gertrude—but just because I like the idea of that doesn't mean that's the way it is.

Hmmm.

Maybe Gertrude Robinson's trying to live forever and the process she picked's going to end up being too much for her, so she'll overload and die and then Jonathan Sims'll get hired to replace her.

Anyway, according to Jonathan Sims, his boss (Elias Bouchard) was vague about what happened to the last head archivist.

He said she "died in the line of duty," apparently.

Yeah, I'm with Mr. Sims here: that sounds like having a heart attack during work hours or something like that. Unless it was her duty to try and live forever by taking in a whole bunch of red lights, which I somehow very much doubt! Pretty sure her job was archiving, not "being the focal point of some kind of supernatural event."

Honestly, who could you hire if you put that in the job description? Especially if you included the facial expression our statement-giver apparently saw on Gertrude's face in his dream. Bit off-putting.

Mr. Sims thinks that, of his three assistants, Tim's the one least likely to pull a prank like this on him.

So he had Tim look into it, and apparently "Antonio Blake" is a fake name, and while the Magnus Institute does ask statement-givers for their contact details those were all fake, too. Jonathan Sims concludes that the whole thing's probably a practical joke, but says he might have a word with someone named Rosie and have her get him copies of new statements right away instead of after the researchers are done with them.

Oh, so that's why he's always got research on hand: it's not that he's telling his assistants which ones he's going to do, it's that he doesn't get the statements until they've already finished verifying stuff.

...Head archivist, my eye.

He's not really doing anything, is he? His supposed "assistants" do all the research and checking up, and it looks like it's this Rosie who takes the statements in—all he does is transfer statements from writing to audio, which hardly seems necessary for archival!

I suppose he might be in charge of seeing that things get filed properly. But you don't need an archivist for that, you need a filing clerk.

I could do this job.

...I wonder how much he gets paid?

No, wait. Something’s off here. He assigned Tim to research this statement, read the statement, was unsettled by it, then decided to assign Tim to research this statement as the least likely to play this kind of prank on him? That doesn’t make sense! Is time travel actually a thing in this universe?

#The Magnus Archives #episode 11 #commentary #late to the party

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enjoylove42-blog · 5 years

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The Will of God will never take you where the Grace of God will not Protect you

God’s Will… What is it? Why is God’s will sometimes so damn hard to figure out? How do we as mere mortals even begin to determine what His will for our lives is just for today, much less for our whole life?

A few years ago I did some real bad shit. I was stuck in a chaotic life running rampant in My Own Self-Will. I woke up one day, went to breakfast with friends, laughed, enjoyed the beautiful warmth of the sunshine, and was enveloped in God’s beautiful world of love and joy. Later that afternoon, I shot up heroin for the first time. It was actually the first time I put a needle in my body. Unfortunately, it would not be the last. I was 35 years old. It was a good day up to that point. I thought I was living a purposeful life. I had joy in my heart and wanted to share my inner peace with others. I was happy. I had absolutely no valid reason to put the poison in my veins. Or did I?

Back up to those three words, “I was Happy.” My sick demented mind probably assumed that if I was happy and life was good , how could anything possibly go wrong? Boy, it was the beginning of a lifestyle full of the three D’s. DECEIT, DESTRUCTION, & DESPAIR. I’m not sure if it was the drug or the needle, but I immediately spiraled down the rabbit hole. I was hooked instantaneously. I couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t get high enough, stick myself enough times, or just attain the level of out of body freedom i was desperately searching for every minute of every day. The level of insanity and chaos that ensued from that day on until I went to jail can only be described as pathetic, disturbing, deplorable, disgraceful, and wretched.

Within one month of the first rush, I had lost every morsel of inner peace, joy and rays of fucking sunshine I previously described to you. I lost all sense of ME. The woman I had known for 35 slipped away. All of the core values instilled in me since birth vanished. I no longer had the capability to differentiate between right and wrong. The only thing I could comprehend was, “I have to maintain. I HAVE TO do whatever it takes to pull that red rose bud back and push the enervating drug into my dwindling dehydrated veins. Be damned laws, morals, or spirituality. I had to invite the toxic venom into my body as many times a day as I possibly could.

I loved the venom, but I also loved the point. The repeated pricking and sticking of my skin. My track marks were like a map of misery no one seemed to even notice. I was bruised black, blue, green, and purple. A mental and physical avow of what I had to endure to remember I was still human. The pain was good. When all my veins knotted and dried up and the only place left was my neck to inject the forbiddenfruit, I welcomed the misery with open arms. Just one more stop on the road to my madness.

During this time I did the most selfish act of my entire life. I ABANDONED MY CHILDREN. It wasn’t until five years later in rehab, that I stepped out of denial and realized just how shitty I was to my own flesh and blood. My Babies!!! They needed me to pull my wicked shit together and be their mother, but my sick fucking mind convinced myself, they were better off anywhere on this planet but with me. Until the day I die, the look of disbelief and fear on their faces, as well as, the huge crocodile tear that rolled down my youngest son’s beautiful cheek as I dumped them off, will forever be embedded in my mind and heart. In that moment, i honestly believed I was doing the best thing I could for them WAKE UP LINDA!!!!! What would have been best for those precious innocent children was for me to quit fucking up our lives, quit banging dope into my veins, get over myself, turn around scoop them up, and be their fucking Mom. I cannot ever begin to express with words the guilt and shame I carry within myself for this inconceivable action. Yes, it was an action. I drove away that day impregnated with two feelings: grief and relief. I was full of self loathing and self pity. However, I was also discharged from a duty I was no longer capable of performing. As long as my children were with me i was not able to fully bow down to my selfish obsessions and compulsions. I was required to feed them, clothe them, keep utilities on, and provide a seemingly stable environment for them. Finally, I was able to think only of My next attempt to mainline my newfound god. I could feed my desires and fuck whoever dared step onto the pavement leading me down the highway to hell. If you have ever been in full blown addiction, you understand that I was incapable of providing them with their needs for very long. I didn’t love myself anymore and no longer required anything other than my next dose of smack. I was as previously stated, deplorable.

At this juncture in my life, there were absolutely no holds barred. Please understand, I was beyond help. I was in the inner rings of hell and my life point blank fucking sucked. No amount of prayer, tears, or pleading could relieve me of ME. I stole from every single store I walked into. I slept with men for crumbs of dope, I lied to every single person who crossed my path. I was so diabolical in my methods that when someone encountered me, they were meeting a twisted sick chameleon who could and would convince you that what we did was your idea and that it was critical for everyone’s survival in the world. People gave me money, drugs, food, a place to sleep, etc.. and I always made them believe whatever they did for me was actually for them, and it was in their best interest to do it. I was a conniving incorrigible cunt. I hated myself. I hated you. I hated God, I hated the fact that I had to work so hard at being a constant mastermind of corruption. Inside my head, I honestly believed that I deserved to have whatever it was my addiction desired. I believed I was an entitled HBIC, but truthfully, the only thing i really deserved was contempt and mistrust. I had become what my father once said, during my childhood, he hated more than anything: A thief and a liar.

I will never forget the night before I went away. I was lying on some asshole’s couch, and in an instant complete and total desperation engulfed my entire being. Deep down in the core of my soul the real “Angie” cried out a long and sorrowful plea. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I commenced to pray. (Some individuals would argue this fervent prayer to be a foxhole prayer.) That being said, It was as if I had split into two people during that time and the evil diabolical “me” had taken over my body and suppressed the real “me” deep into the depths of my bowels. I had been trapped in the darkness and my spirit broke free with a mighty jolt. I wanted all of the irrational absurdity to end. I prayed for God to help me. To relieve me of the demons that controlled my spirit, for God to take me into His arms and hold me close, to save me from me. I prayed that he would get me out of the situation by any means necessary, but not jail. I didn’t want to go to jail. (At this point I had no idea I was a wanted woman.) I felt in that moment a spiritual awakening, because i felt, for the second time in a few short months, RELIEF. I had just admitted to myself that I was powerless over the drug and lifestyle I had designed and my entire life was undoubtedly and undeniably unmanageable. It was like the ceiling of that crusty one room hole I was sharing with three other people, opened up and God covered me in a hedge of protection for the night.

Do not ever doubt that the God of my understanding has a sense of humor. He does. He also knew the only way to remove me from that “modus vivendi” was to lock me up and sit my junkie ass down. I had charges pending in four mid-Tennessee counties. I had been on the news for theft at multiple large retail stores in Nashville and the surrounding areas.

Please understand, I deserved to go to jail. I had been doing ”the Most” with all disregard for consequences. It was as if in my mind I didn’t comprehend that “I” was breaking the law. I was doing what I had to do to maintain. I couldn’t work with track marks all over my body, I could not pass a drug screen, and first and foremost had to keep myself off sick every morning. How could I possibly maintain the requirements for an honest job during this time? I could rationalize every despicable behaviour until all the king’s horses and all the king’s men figure how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I was, as so straightforwardly stated in the rooms of AA, in a state of spiritual, moral, and physical bankruptcy. In order to help relieve me of my will and help me better do HIs, God saw it fit for me to do 15 long months in various county jails. I took this time and severed myself from a sick toxic relationship I had been in for years. I took every class the jails offered. I did two rehabilitation programs in two different county jails. I reconnected myself spiritually and slowly regained my morals. God began providing me with miracles. My father and I reconnected through letters during this time. I did not get visits like all the other inmates, but I got mail everyday. I began to walk for at least a couple of hours each day in the small pod we were housed in, and my body started to feel better. After a whole year of incarceration my track marks healed and my obsession for the venom of heroin left my mind. When I was finally released on November 7, 2016, i returned home physically, mentally, and spiritually healed. Not cured, for a true mentally disturbed sick addicted individual like me, there is no cure. Only a daily reprieve that is dependent on my spiritual and emotional well-being. At the end of this chapter of my life I learned that God answers prayers. He gives us exactly what we need when we can and will receive it. Ultimately my self will run riot led me into a cold dank jail cell where God’s will began to take over my life and send me down a path I would not believe I deserved, at that time. WIth that being said, I will end this period of my life with one last thought: “Be ok with not knowing for sure what might come next, but know that whatever it is...YOU will be ok.” -author unknown.

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thulkwarrior · 6 years

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47 + 51 + 62 for Thorbruce please!

oooooh boy here we go, my first attempt at angst on this blog, i hope i did okay! i would really appreciate feedback on this one!

requests from this prompt list

47 - “i hate you! i’m sorry it took me so damn long to realise that!”

51 - “calm down! you’re scaring me!”

62 - “pack your shit and go. get the fuck out of my sight!”

warning: i’ve had some feedback that the way i wrote this is a little intense so please do not read if you’re sensitive or feel you could be triggered by anything i put in the tags! stay safe

“bruce, honey? are you okay?”

thor poked his head around the door, slowly pushing it open, balancing a tray of tea and sandwiches. he got no reply in return, as usual.

thor’s nose wrinkled at the smell of the room, the smell of sweat and old coffee causing his head to swim, and his nostrils to tickle.

he slowly pushed the door open, and entered the dim, dark room.

thor placed the tray down, next to another one that held bruce’s breakfast, untouched. thor frowned and moved to open the curtains and the window to let some light and air in.

“you should eat, darling” thor said, attempting to hide the concern and annoyance in his voice.

he looked at bruce, after receiving no answer again, to see him hunched over his desk, scribbling down frantically.

“i thought we could eat lunch together today” thor tried again.

bruce’s hand stopped, and his shoulders slumped, sighing. he turned around to thor, a strained smile on his face. thor’s heart sunk at bruce’s appearance. his eyes were red and swollen, purple painted underneath. his skin was becoming an ashy white, practically translucent, and his curls were greasy and untamed atop his head.

“okay” bruce said, his voice weak and rough, before getting up to join thor on the love seat. bruce slouched down next to thor, leaving as much space between them as possible. thor’s heart clenched at the distance, but he forced a smile anyway, handing bruce a plate. he took note of how skinny bruce’s wrists had become.

they began to eat in silence. well, thor began to eat, bruce began pick at the crusts on the bread.

“honey, please-”

“i still feel sick” bruce interjected, placing his plate down.

thor furrowed his brows, “it’s been three days. you have to eat something”.

bruce avoided thor’s gaze, and fiddled with a loose string on his shirt. “i just don’t feel well, stop pushing it”

thor bit his tongue, “bruce, i’ve been very patient with you. but i cannot just watch you destroy yourself”

bruce huffed and got back up, sitting at his desk again, “i don’t need to be babied, you know?” bruce turned his back to thor again.

“well clearly you do. when was the last time you showered? drank some water? changed your clothes?” thor knew it would do no good to start an argument with bruce, but he could feel the frustration overwhelming him.

bruce scoffed, and began writing again. thor was not going to be ignored this time, he couldn’t just stand aside and watch bruce neglect himself. thor walked over to bruce’s chair and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“don’t touch me, thor” bruce said, cold, shrugging his shoulder.

“bruce…” thor’s voice was filled with hurt, his hand dropping limply to the side.

“bruce, baby, please” thor pleaded, he at least wanted bruce to have a conversation with him, if he didn’t want them to touch then so be it, but he just needed them to speak. it had been months of one-sided conversations, cold shoulders and silences.

“i just want to be left alone” bruce whispered.

thor’s shoulders fell, and his lip quivered slightly. well, it was worth a try. he would get through to bruce eventually, he just knew it.

“okay, i’ll come back again later. please eat something, i love you” thor waited a second before hearing a tiny, “i love you”, whispered from bruce’s hunched form. thor turned to leave, until something sat on bruce’s desk caught his eye.

thor felt his body fill with rage, confusion and concern as he spotted a small syringe with a needle attached to the end.

“what the hell is that” thor’s voice dropped, cold and dangerous.

bruce’s eyes darted to thor’s. before following his eye line to the small needle and tourniquet.

bruce’s eyes widened, “thor, let me explain”

thor grabbed bruce’s arm and pulled up the sleeve, revealing multiple small scars over the veins of the inside of his arm.

“hey! i said don’t touch me, asshole!” bruce pulled his arm.

thor let his arm go, but looked at bruce with fury.

“i agreed to let you dedicate your time to research, to experiments and tests. but since when did you start injecting shit into your body without telling me” thor growled, betrayal deep in his voice.

bruce’s previously dead eyes began to light up with desperation and hysteria, “no, thor listen. this could be it. this could be the thing to finally combine hulk’s strength and my intelligence” bruce brought a finger up to his forehead, “don’t you see? thor? i wouldn’t have to rely on hulk to save people. i could be the one to help people”

thor’s eyes flared, “no! i did not agree to this bruce!”

the deranged smile on bruce’s face dropped, and he stood up, looking up into thor’s eyes.

“i didn’t realise i needed your fucking permission” bruce stepped closer, his voice low.

thor’s stomach churned, he had been dealing with a closed off, unresponsive bruce for months. but this was different. thor could see some kind of crazed obsession in his eyes, well, that and pure rage.

“if i remember correctly” bruce started, looking thor directly in the eyes.

“you are not the one who had to watch her die. you are not the one who has watched your loved ones be killed because you were so fucking weak. i had to watch natasha die in front of me because without the hulk i am fucking worthless!” spit sprayed thor’s face as bruce screamed.

“so forgive me, your highness, if i don’t ask for your fucking blessing when i try to give my life some purpose”

thor’s breath was trapped in his chest, and he could hear his heart in his ears. he knew bruce blamed himself for natasha’s death, he didn’t know it had driven him back into that hole of self-hatred.

“bruce…”

“no!” bruce’s hands went to his hair, “no you do not get to sit there and tell me it’s ‘not my fault’, that i’m ‘just as important as the hulk’. because they’re lies! you’re a liar thor” bruce pushed against thor’s chest.

rather than the meek blow thor expected from bruce’s now skinny, malnourished form, he felt the air be knocked out of him as he stumbled backwards.

“i hate liars. it was liars like you that allowed my dad to get away with killing my mother, liars like me…”

bruce’s eyes began to glow green, and his veins ran with the same poisoned colour, but instead of transforming into hulk, he remained as banner, except he wasn’t. he was growling, pure rage in his eyes, directed right at thor. oh god, what had he done to himself?

thor took slow steps back, raising his hands, “bruce, calm down! you’re scaring me!”

“y'know what thor? i lied. i don’t love you. i hate you! i’m sorry it took me so damn long to realize that” bruce spat, but the voice didn’t belong to him. it was deep, demonic, it wasn’t hulk’s voice either. it made thor’s skin crawl and his breath catch in his throat.

“bruce, i beg you, calm down-” thor pleaded.

“get out!”

“i won’t leave you”

bruce picked up one of the tea cups and threw it at thor, it skimmed his head and smashed on the wall behind him, “pack your shit and go. get the fuck out of my sight!”.

thor ran out the room as fast as he could, and slammed the door behind him. he cringed when he heard more smashing and growling. the tears that had been building up overflowed onto his cheeks, and panic gripped his chest. he didn’t know what the fuck bruce had done to himself but thor knew he needed help. now.

through the door, thor heard bruce muttering to himself. he couldn’t hear what he was saying at first over his heart beating in his ears, but when he finally made it out, he knew he had fucking lost his bruce forever.

because on the other side of the door, bruce was repeating the same phrase: “just like your father”.

#ya'll this hurted #anon you are evil #i high key hopes someone asks for a sequel so i can give them a happy ending #also i killed nat im so sorry baby girl #anon #answered #thorbruce #gamma hammer #thunderscience #angst #tw: drugs #tw: past abuse #prompt #prompt list #character death #it's angry #so pls be careful

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mostfacinorous · 6 years

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Whumptober 17th

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Drugged The next day when they came, there were fewer of them-- and Loki realized with a jolt that they must be watching he and the Captain when they thought they were alone. Otherwise, they couldn’t be certain that the Captain wouldn’t be on his feet to greet them.

It made his heart sink, and made him even more determined to keep him safe, to give him time to heal. So he woke him, to let him know they were there, but agreed quickly to what they wanted-- they wanted just Loki today.

Which was good, he thought; if they were going to do anything violent or dramatic, they would have hauled the Captain along to watch. So this must be something smaller. Locking him in a sweat room in this form again, perhaps-- agonizing, yes, nauseating, but not likely to kill him. And not interesting to watch. So the Captain would sleep, and Loki would survive, and all would be well.

At least, those were his thoughts, until they led him into a sterile looking laboratory with a single chair in the middle, and locked him into place with a band across his chest made of that same impervious plastic as his coffin was.

“We understand that your blood is made of different stuff than ours-- Stark put out messages looking for doctors who specialize in pharmacology on abnormal systems. We take it that was for you?” Doom’s doctor spoke, but Doom stood nearby, watching and emanating an air of smugness through his mask. Loki licked his lips, thinking of the Captain, helpless and bed bound. He knew who would suffer if he didn’t answer.

“Yes.” he said finally. “Sleeping pills. I reacted badly to them. They make me sick. Fevers. Vomiting.” He spoke tersely, but he kept his eyes fixed on Doom’s, trying to judge whether he was pleased enough with the answer.

“Interesting.” Doom said, though whether he meant the effects or Loki’s willingness to speak, it wasn’t clear.

“Any other known reactions to Earth’s medicines?” The doctor asked, and Loki shook his head.

“I have had limited exposure.” He bit out, already able to guess where this was going. He was right; the doctor withdrew a case of small vials, and several needles.

“Then let’s see what we can learn today. We’ll need to space this out-- wouldn’t want to muddle the results too much,” he said, addressing Doom alone, as if Loki weren’t even there. Weren’t a person. Which, in this form… He hesitated, then added. “The pills-- They were given to me in my other shape. I don’t know if-- if it differs.”

Doom tilted his head, and Loki got the impression he was smiling. “Are you asking permission to change back? Do it, if you can. I wonder, though-- does your other body heal when you aren’t wearing it? Or will that result in both you and Captain America being useless lumps?”

Loki swallowed. He’d been trying to turn back ever since they accidentally found this shape while trying to freeze a his hand off with liquid nitrogen. And each time he’d tried, he’d been punished, and forced back into it. Being offered the chance now-- he thought he’d be glad. But he didn’t know the answer to Doom’s question-- would he be able to help the Captain, in his other form? “I can’t.” He said softly, unwilling to risk it.

Doom nodded to the doctor. “Experiment on him this way. We’ll save the other shape for another time.”

Loki shuddered, grimacing, and could do nothing but watch as the doctor prepared his first injection. As the needle slid into his veins, Loki waited, wondering if perhaps this body was safer from the poisons of the human world.

He began to relax, and then seized up instantly as a feeling like acid spread through him, and he curled towards the point of injection, where it spread outwards from, but the strap held him in place. And so all he could do was watch in horror as his skin began to blister and peel, turning a decidedly awful shade of yellow as the blue skin reacted to whatever that had been, and the agony began to spread. “Take note of the reaction times, and call me when you are ready to try the next one.” Doom instructed, apparently already bored by Loki’s suffering.

The doctor nodded and checked his watch, taking notes.

“Oh,” Doom said, turning back from leaving. “If you tell the doctor what you feel, in detail, I will send food for you and the Captain tonight.”

Loki groaned, well aware that if there was ever to be any hope of them escaping, they’d need their strength And no doubt, to heal, the Captain would need food. “Hu-hurts.” Loki managed, teeth chattering together as he fought to find and then string words together, even as things got worse. “Searing, feels like… like my skin is on fire, and it’s spreading, but not just fire, feels like… like poison, stinging, like it’s pulling away--” By the time Loki stopped writhing and had run out of things to say, there were three more syringes ready on the table, waiting for him, and the doctor had three pages worth of notes. ---

When the door to the cell opened, Steve opened his eyes, surprised at the effort that even that much took. He felt like he’d been better off the night before, despite the rest he’d gotten. And he had no idea where Loki was, how long he’d been gone, or what they’d been doing to him. All he knew was that he was alone, and that he kept gaining and losing consciousness. His whole body felt warm, uniformly, almost, and he was sweating under the thin blanket that Loki had pulled over him, but he also couldn’t summon the energy to lift his arms and move it off of himself.

His mind felt sharp though, which was a small favor, when Loki was all but slung into the cell, and he lay there, curled in on himself and trembling silently. “Loki?” Steve called, feeling too quiet and too entirely useless, like those nightmares where you’re running but you can’t move fast enough.

Loki turned to look at him, head lolling oddly, as if he didn’t have full control of the muscles in his neck. He looked drunk. But Steve knew better than to think it was that; Doom wasn’t going to hand Loki a keg for science. Probably.

“Loki, are you alright? What did-- are you hurt?”

“ ‘res the food?” Loki asked, his words tripping and slow and slurred, as well as nonsensical.

“There’s no food, Loki; we’re still in Doom’s dungeon. We’re still… it’s alright. Here, come here?”

Steve struggled, trying and failing to get himself into a sitting position and instead falling back into the single pillow to watch while Loki have crawled, half dragged himself closer.

As soon as he was close enough, Loki reached out, running his cool, rough hand down the side of Steve’s face. “I’ll-- gonna take care of you.” He announced, and it would be charming, maybe even funny, if he weren’t scaring Steve. He had said he shouldn’t touch him with his blue skin, but that’s what he was doing, and he seemed to be less than fully in control of his own mind, let alone his body.

“Can you do me a favor Loki, and help me lay on my side?” He asked, hoping that wasn’t too big of a request. If he could get his back up against the wall, he’d be able to see out into their cell better, and his back ached from being stuck in this position all day.

Steve watched as Loki pulled himself up until he was standing-- albeit swaying-- and looking down at Steve. Loki’s hand came out and he took hold of Steve’s shoulder, tugging and pulling at him to try and get him into a better position. It seemed to be working-- and then Loki lost his grip, or his balance, or something, and they both ended up on the bed, Loki halfway under Steve, and Steve was afraid he’d hurt him. But Loki didn’t seem hurt. In fact, he started laughing, and somehow that was almost worse. More concerning, to be sure.

“Loki?” Steve asked, trying to be gentle.

And then it changed, like Steve had cracked the mirthful mask Loki wore, and suddenly Loki wasn’t laughing anymore. He was sobbing, and he moved, managing to get Steve on his side after all, as Loki burrowed his face into Steve’s chest. Steve wasn’t wearing anything, so he had no shirt to absorb Loki’s tears, but he did get his arm to cooperate enough to wrap it around Loki’s shoulders, holding him as he shook.

He felt clammy, and Steve had no idea if that was his species or if it was a result of the day he’d had, but either way, he thought Loki must be uncomfortable, with his body temperature so unlike Steve’s. On the other hand, holding him was refreshing, a welcome coolness to escape from the healing feverishness of his wounds.

He had no idea how long he held Loki for, rubbing gentle circles along his back. When he finally stopped crying, he lay still, just breathing, and Steve thought that maybe he’d gone to sleep. Until he spoke.

“They said if I cooperated, they’d send food.” He mumbled, still sounding out of it, and Steve felt his stomach lurch at that. But he wasn’t mad; if anything, he was proud that Loki was holding out. It’d keep him alive longer, whatever they wanted, as long as they didn’t have it, they wouldn’t kill him. ‘I guess… it must not have been enough.” Loki added a moment later, and Steve felt his chest tighten, like a hand had squeezed his heart. A heart which thoroughly shattered at Loki’s next words. “I’m sorry. Next time… I’ll do better, next time.”

“No, Loki.” Steve whispered, and Loki shuddered. “No, it’s not your fault. I’m sure you did… you did the best you could, better than anyone has any right to ask you to, and… if they promised food, it’s them being liars and nothing you did or didn’t do-- they want you blaming yourself, they probably want me blaming you, too. But let’s not forget that they’re the ones doing this to us. This isn’t on you or I.”

Loki ws back to his shivering, and Steve hesitated, but finally lifted the blanket and slid closer to Loki, wrapping the blanket around them both.

“It’s gonna be alright. You’ll see.” He promised, even though he couldn’t be sure it was one he could keep. Still, it seemed Loki needed to hear it. He shuddered and shook and hiccuped himself off to sleep, and Steve took his turn watching Loki’s back, not entirely sure what they’d done to him, but glad to see that he was going to be able to sleep while the lingering effects faded.

#whumptober #Stoki #Frostshield #Loki #Steve Rogers #That writing thing I do

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