#my back is so beyond fucked up and its constant agony and pain

[originemesis]

@tempteve / @kugel-bitch from xxx

As the phrase ' ripping a new one' hung in the air, it seemed Eve was poised to do just that.

" Don’t — ! "

Her sudden movement conveyed a readiness to confront all in the name of defending the sanctity of Eden. It was more than a place to her; it was her origin, her love, her loss — her entire being intertwined with its existence. Despite the pain it had caused, Eden remained the one constant in her tumultuous existence, a tether to a past she couldn't bear to relinquish. Yet, even as she clung to its memory, a whisper from within echoed:

You need to let go.

" Jesus fucking Christ ! " Her reaction was immediate, instinctual, as she rushed to steady him, startled by the sudden outburst of pain. Was she exacerbating his agony without realizing it ? Or had her own inner turmoil clouded her perception ? In her moment of coming to his aid she failed to realise the positioning of her hand. Gaze drifts to see fingers almost intertwined over his scar. Hastily she pulls back.

“ J-just stay there. Don’t try and get up. ”

His bitterness, his frustration — it was all too familiar, a reflection of the turmoil that churned within her own self. Even as his anger flared, she couldn't help but understand where it came from. They had both been cast aside by the very place that was supposed to be their home, left to fend for themselves in a world that had turned its back on them.

But his words stung nonetheless.

“ Yeah, that’s kinda my thing, I’m afraid. ”

It was an acknowledgment of the rift that had formed between them, but she was starting to believe it to be true. The rose was gone, were thorns all that was left behind ? she had clung onto a version of the garden in her mind for so long that she began to lose herself in the process. Much like the state of Eden now, she too, had begun to wilt. Only she failed to recognize the damage already caused.

Eve runs a hand through tangled locks, letting out a heavy sigh.

“ I don’t want to start a fight, believe it or not. ”

@kugel-bitch

While all of this is going down one bemused lieutenant has perched in the window through which she had departed from the apartment earlier that morning. Like watching two animals of different species just barely managing to coexist in a too small enclosure, it all looks...a little bit unnatural, the way that they engage with one another—so much more strained than she had imagined, for creatures who were, in very literal terms, cut from the same cloth...flesh...clay? Whatever. The chemistry which she assumed would be there simply is nowhere to be seen.

Adam's mounting upset eventually puts her on such an edge that she cannot idle by any longer, but Eve swooping in to provide her aid stops her short in slinking over to wrangle him back into the nest where she'd made it very clear he was supposed to stay put. A not very happy sounding noise reverberates in the space between her nose and her throat in direct response to the display. It's not that she is distrustful of Eve and her intentions but he is vulnerable right now and she cannot help but be a touch territorial in turn. "Well...isn't this touching. I wasn't made aware that there would be a family reunion taking place today—I would've picked something up for you on the way, Eve." Cocking a hip, she idly swirls the ice around in her matcha lemonade, wing unfurling in front of Adam to set itself up as a makeshift barrier between him and the first woman, out of concern for his comfort more than anything else. She knows all too well how he abhors to be exposed.

It was beyond a nuisance having her show up like this-...well, having her show up in the state she was in since it always seemed to end poorly for him in the past- seeing her pain and doing all that he could to smooth it down just so he'd be able to relax. Regardless of her current mood being directly tied to his actions in the first place, he'd been used to their own balancing act out of Eden that required one to lean in to the other during times when their shared structure of a symbiotic relationship threatened to collapse and take the other with them. She had always been a lot more...charged in the emotional sense as if most of what dripped out of a bleeding heart had been awarded to her along with his rib like some unseen contract that determined she'd give him every benefit of the doubt and find any excuse not to walk away from him so that the hollow frame of his own emotions that relied on a companion's stalwart nature wouldn't crumble so long as he stood by her as the support beam to her worries of the world crashing in all around them. While he did hate to see it when chicks messed their pretty faces up with tears, it was one of many deep and swallowed apple seeds that reminded him the physical pain in his side would act up following her tears like an old wound that grew sore with the promise of rain.

"I bet somebody thought this would be a cute way to keep souls together...and they can frankly fuck themselves over it." He was huffing, hardly noticing her scramble until the familiar sting of having her pressed in close to his flank to help steady him from his own hasty decisions caused Adam to cock his head to the side and linger in the strange sensation of a past lived out yet not fully shaken in the molt known as death. Her nearly brushing the leathery tear in his side didn't exactly help the spasms, but they were on steady decline as she stepped back and reminded him he was laid bare under her judgement. Figuring a wince was worth the sad stretch of an attempt at dressing himself with a few feathers fanned to hide from naval to knee, he shot her a weary look under the glow of his halo.

"Least you got some sense, y'know- for a chick. Considering I'd win. " He added with a teasing twitch of a smirk, his talons digging into the wall plaster that was well past patchy from he and Lute's booming band sessions that oft caused pieces of the ceiling to pop off. Speaking of...or rather, rumbling- the unmistakable reverberations of Lute's watchful hiss from the window caused the first man's shoulders to slump forward ever so slightly. Aw hell- how long had she been there for? Well, not that it mattered since he was stood up and in clear violation of her 'ground' rules.

With a sheepish shift, he issued his own set of deeper warbles in her direction as a pre-emptive apology he likely wouldn't make aloud and certainly not in front of Eve, though the hint of affection was clear in the nervous titter. "Hey, babe- uh...we've got company?" He's cut off for a moment when her wing cracks out to help shield the rest of his humanity's shame from view, the beat of the action helping knock his slow attempt at sliding back down undetected instantaneous, emitting a soft 'hup' as he's dropped back into the mess of her nesting venture.

"...the unexpected kind." He added once settled and nursing at the taro milk bubble tea with extra whipped cream on top that she'd brought him and added to the selection of nest snacks.

[bitchin-witchin]

Been listening to the shin gojira soundtrack and ofc I can't help to think of childe when hearing the lyrics for Who Will Know. The first soprano verse i think of his childhood self in the abyss. Then when the bass verse comes in on the second repeat of the first I think of his new self putting the old to rest by carrying on in the face of what almost to anyone else ever would be unbeatable adversity.

Lyrics:

If I die in this world, who will know something of me?

I am lost, no one knows, there's no trace of my yearning.

If I die in this world, who will know something of me?

(But I must carry on. Nothing worse can befall.)

I am lost, no one knows, there's no trace of my yearning.

(All my fears, all my tears, tell my heart there's a hole.)

I wear a void, not even hope.

A downward slope is all I see.

I wear a void.

(As long as breath comes from my mouth.)

Not even hope.

(I may yet stand the slightest chance.)

A downward slope.

(A shaft of light is all I need.)

Is all I see.

(To cease the darkness killing me.)

DUDE EVEN LIKE "I wear a void" HIS CAPE.... THATS HIS CAPE ISHFNFJF. "A shaft of light is all I need to cease rhe darkness killing me" FINDING AN EXIT BACK TO TEYVAT... CELESTIA DELIVERING HIM A VISION... LIKE THE DOTS ARE CONNECTING THEMSELVES.

It also makes me think of an idea where his abyssal powers have grown more and he's closer than ever to being something godlike (the use of like is mportant here) but at the cost of continous suffering. In Shin, gojira's crazy nuclear waste-mutated biology makes it possible for him to evolve in real time at insane speed to combat the humans trying to kill him, but it's not really a conscious choice, it's his body forcing him to live under constant new stressors. Perhaps childes ascent in power comes at a similar price? I'm not thinking exactly the same since Shin's story is very much like its own and not something to be directly transferred to childe character. But the feelings of despair and desperation, continuing to live through agony because what else can you do, what else could there be that is any more painful? That could very well be Ajax's story in the abyss.

Basically this is all just a big excuse to daydream childe growing into a super awesome disgusting foul legacy (which you could make a connection to shin again that this form is the visual representation of how the powers which manipulate teyvat have hurt the world and who's actions could lead to its destruction (the recipe of events which led to the creation of whatever childe becomes) but maybe that's a bit much considering this gets into even more ambiguous and self catering hc territory LOL)

But really I just want to imagine him being a tragic figure who can also cause so much damage and have cool powers that make him suffer MOAR. I'm not usually big on whump but I do love a character suffering while still being very powerful and destructive huehue.

I would love to write a fic that expresses this connection to/inspiration from Who Will Know but I'm not sure how I would approach it/what it would even be. Best idea rn is a fic that would require so much plotting and planning and p much being written all before posting which would take me YEARS considering it already takes me a year or more to write one to two chapters of something 😂😭 if this is inch resting to anyone pls feel free to reply/reblog I would love to discuss and entertain current/new thoughts with others <3 unless you're just gonna poo poo on this then I won't respond. bc who wants to talk to someone about why that someone thinks the idea you expressed liking in the self-identified self-indulgent post is lame and stinky. Not me. LOL. Even if it's a cringe idea to others. who care. We living our best cringe life out here posting like this. Fucked up evolved foul legacy hc has transcended beyond cringe <3

[testosteronefag]

absolutely hate how hard it is to get actual HELP for my pain levels. the clinic i was wanting to go to doesnt accept my insurance. just called the clinic that DOES accept my insurance, and despite the website saying theyre accepting new clients they are not accepting new clients. i literally have to spend so much time just finding places to call and then 9/10 they cant actually help me. like what the fuck

[captainarminarlert-me]

|Levi x Reader| Eternal Confinement of the Heart

The dreariness you felt upon entering Levi’s office turned your visage sour within seconds. A reprimand almost slipped from your lips, but the teeth that sunk themselves into your cheek drew enough blood to keep your mouth sealed.

He’d noticed. Your hesitance to approach him, that is. His eyes fell from your figure to his paperwork once more.

Casualties.

Letters to the deceased’s family.

Gear loss.

“Look at me, for fuck’s sake, would you?” The words cut through the thick tension like a knife. 

An impalpable growl came from his throat, hovering along the lines of aggravation and vexation. His stoic temperament was toying between apathy or irritable disposition. But he remained fixed on the piles of papers.

The words he read blurred together, creating an ocean of seemingly meaningless letters.

The effect you had on him was intoxicating. The kind that left him wanting more, but the one poisonous enough to kill him in due course.

“Levi...” The name was threateningly spoken. Fixed with the tone of a thousand hammers crashing down against his skull at once, and he clicked his tongue vehemently before the grey irises behind his raven colored lashes fixed upon your form.

“What?” No remorse laced words found themselves stuck in his throat this time, or apologies coated with the endearment he held only for you.

It felt as though your world was ending. But had it even begun in the first place?

What did you even have to say to him? Your words had fallen on deaf ears once before, and like Hell would anything change now.

“Please...” A plea. But he scoffed in derision at that and stuck his eyes back onto the pile of... what was it again that he was reading? “You’re killing yourself.”

That was enough to warrant a violent jerk of his head in your direction. It was clear to you now the bags that drooped from underneath his lids, or the slight twitch of his right eye, or even the way his left hand frantically itched the side of his face every couple of seconds.

He was beyond tired.

The casualties of the expedition beyond the wall had been the greatest since Wall Maria was reclaimed, and even then, Levi refused to admit he did wrong by his squad. 

It wasn’t on him, per se, but he’d either fall into guiltily accusing himself of all casualties... or none.

And for the past week, he’d been hauled up behind closed doors, mulling over the past incidents that led up to him feeling as weak and shaky as a crumpled leaf, and without you by his side, his condition had deteriorated from bad to worse.

Previously, he would have at least accepted an offer of tea from you, but the fasting he’s done had warranted an urgent dismissal of his actions towards you and an extreme change in his unhealthy habits.

“What?” He’d said it this time with a slight shakiness to his tone, as though the harsh facade he’d portrayed was slowly—tiredly—crashing down against your perpetual attempts to ease him of the grasp he had around his throat. Surely, at this rate, he’d suffocate to death.

“Just... Just stop, Levi.” You’d found enough energy to walk the distance between where you stood near the mahogany door and the table situated at the farthest end of the room. His exhausted figure, hunched over his desk like his life was dependent solely on him completing these papers, looked as though he’d taken a special run through Hell, and like he’d left all sense there, too.

A hand came crashing against his desk, sending a couple of papers scattered around the room, landing near your feet from the impact of your small palm.

Levi’s eyes shot up to you, and he finally had the strength to lift himself from his chair and face you at your level. “What don’t you get about leaving me alone?”

A helpless man was what you once thought he was. Powerless against the fleets of love, coiled in its hold as though he was a prisoner and not a willing captive.

It disgusted you what he’d become. But you remained silent against his cutting tone. The least you could do was grant him a floor to speak.

When his eyes left your face and landed on the ring you wore on your left hand, his expression softened—reminding him of the day he’d proposed. He wasn’t more untroubled back then—life to him was all the same—but he felt... safer. In your arms. He’d felt as though he could stand against the world with you at his side. 

But now... The withering leaves of the rose he’d handed to you, his heart, had become a constant reminder of the agony that was gradually replacing his hope of a somewhat normal life.

And it pained you.

“Listen,” he began, as though you’d given him the floor to defend his toxic actions, and not to simply apologize and move on. It was your turn to discontently click your tongue against the roof your mouth, but he continued anyway, “I won’t repeat myself again. What happens in my office is my privacy. I thought you’d understand that by now, but apparently, after being by my side for years, you barely comprehend simple commands.”

It was like he’d dug a knife through your heart, pierced your only source of life, finished off whatever remained of your love towards him, and triumphantly—you’d assumed—brushed you off like you were merely dust on his boots.

“I’m just worried about you,” you finally managed to say after what felt like hours. The ticking of the clock in the room was the only sound shared besides your rhythmic breathing and Levi’s clicking of his boots.

“That’s not why I married you. Dismissed.”

It was as though the last statement he’d professed was so minuscule to the way he’d so easily repudiated your words and rejected your advances that the shakiness of your palms was now conspicuous enough to draw his attention.

But he wouldn’t bring it up. He knew he’d been the result of countless nights of tear-filled sleep, and perhaps a couple of tormenting nightmares, that a trembling hand was nothing but a merely obscure result of a dissension between two selfish individuals. 

“Dismissed?” You let out an airy-breath, something mixed between a laugh and a sneer. “What am I? One of your fucking cadets?” 

In any other occasion, he would’ve found your words amusing, but as you stood before him now, he wanted nothing more than to find his solace by quietly pondering on his own... without your constant nagging in his ear.

What you did was for his own benefit, he knew, but the toxic habits that brought him back into this mess were enough to win over in his brain and allow the continuous cycle to torment him until he fell into a dark abyss of virulence. 

He carried some form of rancor within him against you, but he’d held it back. Up until now, he’d been taming those feelings inside him, but it was only a matter of time before he let them leave his grasp and fall upon you.

“Baby,” you called for him, finally realizing that the shakiness of your hand ceased the moment you touched his cheek. “Levi, my love...” At those words, his breathing slowed down, and he subtly leaned into the palm slowly caressing his left cheek. “For me, take a small break. Drink tea, change your clothes, just do anything but sit on that god forsaken chair of yours.”

Your voice was barely above an audible whisper, on the verge of hushedness. 

But his ears strained hard enough to make out those words, and it felt as though the gears in his brain finally started once more.

He called out your name, his steel orbs finding peace in staring at your own ones, and the guard he let down before you finally allowed him to realize he could be vulnerable.

The glassy stare he gave you from behind half lidded eyes sent shivers up your spine at the helplessness on his face, and in return, realization struck you that this man hadn’t given up on you.

He’d given up on the world.

The vulnerability he portrayed was indicative that the animosity of his words directed at you wasn’t because he lost hope in what you two had created for yourselves, but in what the world held in store for him.

“Thank you.”

The sudden gesture appeared seemingly out of thin air, but you understood his thought process and what led him to form those two words. 

It was his way of reminding you that all yearning he had for an end to this Hellhole was being held by a single thread. 

You.

And that through the ups and downs of the eternal confinement your heart had in relation to the man you harbored all the love for in the world, a flutter of desire for one another would always rise against all odds and against all likelihood.

[dirt-cup-draco]

Bucky x Reader- Yours

a...ging stops at 18 until you find your soulmate so the two of you can grow old together.  d...amage done to a person also translates into their soulmate’s body (cuts, bruises and all) 

Thank you @starofthedawn! love our bucky boi :’)

Time had become something that simply passed you by. The decades skipped and hopped, one to another and you remained stuck in the body of a young woman that had aged far beyond her looks. The soulmates that aged, the ones that found one another, they watched you with pitying eyes as they saw the heavy weight behind your eyes. It was clear the excitement of waiting on someone meant just for you had taken it’s toll and you weren’t sure if you’d ever find that special someone to grow old with. 

It wasn’t just the time that had chipped at the hope you’d held onto in the 1940s when every one of your peers waited for their soulmate and your parents were hoping you’d find yours before even a week passed. Everyone was eager and you had been too. You had wanted to know everything about whoever was out there. At first you hadn’t wanted to, thinking them a troublemaker, but you were certain they were just clumsy. It’s why you always ended up with a nasty shiner that you had to try and ice down or a split lip your mother helped you nurse. 

When the war started gathering up every capable young man across the country you were certain that you’d lose your soulmate, whether by distance or warfare. It was something you feared once- never finding your soulmate. So you had done the only sane, or not so sane thing, you’d offered yourself up to help the soldiers as their nurse. Every night you went to bed relieved that your soulmate had escaped another day seemingly unharmed, besides the deep set ache in your bones but you had soon forgotten if it was his or yours. 

The war had ended and things from there grew more bleak. Surely you’d know if he had been one of the casualties, wouldn’t you? But doubt crept into your mind. You remember laying on your cot one evening when you found a moment to rest, mind gone foggy from the days constant movement and too little time to yourself. You felt like bricks laid out against the stiff cotton and it was a struggle to even twitch your finger. 

Suddenly, the air was knocked from your lungs so forcefully youd choked out a cough just to remind yourself how to start breathing again. Your head began to ache terribly and your arm held a terrible weight to it. You tried to brush it off, you were just tired or maybe your other half was just feeling a bit lethargic that day- nothing serious. You had let your eyes fall shut but your rest was interupted with a vicious burning that made you scream aloud, eyes burning with tears as you clawed at the junction of your shoulder and arm. 

You shuddered, pulling your cardigan tighter around you as you remembered the night you’d felt unimaginable pain. You hadn’t really felt the same since. Disconnected, odd. Maybe it was a sign that he was gone, that you’d be stuck mourning and living out one existence after the other. You’d tried asking, the few willing to share, what it felt like to lose your soulmate whether it be before or after they’d met but no one could truly put the agony into words. 

Every so often you felt dull aches, a sore jaw from clenching too long, a sharp pain at the back of your skull... But it never lasted and as the world rocketed itself into a new age you believed that you were crazy and that these aches were just a phantom to remind you of a love you’d never get to experience. 

“Don’t look so glum,” Your boss Helen laughed, elbowing your side playfully and pulling you from your thoughts as you trudged through the back door. You tore your hat from your head, blowing a lose strand of hair from your eyes as you gave her a grim smile. 

“How could I look anything other than delighted when I know I’ll be in my lovely place of work for ten hours making grumpy people their caffeine fix for the day?” You teased back, a small grin working its way onto your face. Despite the decades spent wondering where half of your heart was, you had still found people and things to love. 

One of those people was Helen and one of those things was her lovely cafe. She’d employed you nearly three years ago and while you hadn’t aged a single day you were beginning to see the slight shift in her. A gray hair or two could be found in her amber locks, wrinkles at her mouth, eyes and forehead making her look...weathered in a way. Like a well loved book. She had stories full of excitement and happiness and more importantly, a soulmate. 

“You’re a brat but you’re my brat, now get out there and work your magic,” Helen commanded and you had to tear your eyes away from her. She was gorgeous, she was happy, she was loved, she was whole. 

The day went like clockwork, you clocked in at 6 and greeted the morning dump of sour sleepy people. The rush got you far enough along that by the time you were done cleaning your station your coworker James had punched in and you were set free to go on a fifteen minute break. It went too quickly and then you were half goofing off and half doing dishes until you took a lunch, your feet aching in your shoes but your mind gone pleasantly numb. 

Work kept you from the sink hole that had appeared in your chest. 

You hummed a tune, one always stuck at the back of your mind that played when you let yourself sink into the comfortable rhythm of cleaning the plates returned to you by customers who needed a nutritious or indulgent pick me up with their daily espresso or latte. The clouds had blanketed the sky and there was a familiar chill in the cafe that made the warm sink water lull you even further into your peace of mind. 

Now seven hours into your shift you were feeling eager to get home and kick up your feet but anxious to experience the dread that eventually seeped in. Your company had been enough for decades, or you had learned to let yourself be enough, but it didn’t end the longing of wanting someone there who knew you better than you knew yourself. 

“Y/N!” Came Jame’s clear as a bell voice, the echo of his tenor bumping against the glass wall you’d built in your mind to keep everything out. 

“Whatdya want?” You hollered to the front of the shop, drying off a mug as you took a few steps through the archway. James was at the back of the shop, cleaning up a spill and there was a customer hovering near the front counter. Their head was bent low and their shoulders hunched up to their shoulders. They wore a hoodie over their head and their hair cloaked their face, you couldn’t help but let your gaze linger but realized the man at the front must be why James had called for your help.

 “Oh!” You exclaimed, setting the cleaned mug on the edge of the counter as you approached the register. “S-sorry, what can I get for you?” You stumbled over your words and had to shake your head. It seemed you’d gotten a little too lost in your thoughts as you had trouble coming back to the present. 

“Anything with caramel,” Came a voice that warmed you from the inside out. Your eyes snapped out and you found you were trapped by icy eyes that held nothing but a gentle shyness in them. The stranger was strong, his appearance almost intimidating, but behind the curtain of thick hair was an almost boyish face. But yet it was his eyes that you kept going back to as you tried to remember where you even were.

They were the loveliest eyes you’d ever seen, but they were the saddest you’d ever encountered. You didn’t think you’d ever see such a lost look on anyone other than your own reflection in the mirror. Your heart stuttered uncomfortably in your chest and you fumbled to take the man’s order on the register. You gave up completely and spun around on your heel once you realized you’d been staring too long. 

In your sudden movement though you had caught the edge of the already forgotten mug and it toppled to the ground. 

“Fuck!” you cursed, immediately dropping to the ground to pick up the shards. You felt too warm, your head foggy and body floating yet heavy. Your chest was tight and you couldn’t put a name on the feeling. Maybe you were having a heart attack. You’d gone too long without a soulmate and time had finally caught up to your ageless body. 

You were once again trapped in your mind as you fumbled with the sharp pieces, inhaling sharply as you cut yourself. 

“Double fuck!” You whined, squeezing your finger tight, trying to stop the flow of blood as you dropped the pieces back to the floor. 

“Jesus, Y/N, you feelin’ alright?” James asked, coming to your side. You simply nodded and popped your finger into your mouth. 

“H-he wants caramel,” you said airily, nodding back to the stranger but when you looked back at him his eyes had gone wide, hood pulled back from the top of his head. You were nearly about to ask if he’d seen a ghost but then you saw the liquid ruby gathering at the tip of his own finger. The same one you had cut. 

Your breath had been stolen from your lungs and your legs went out from under you as you sank against the counter behind you. 

“Y/N?” Helen asked, the commotion grabbing her attention all the way from her office. “Sweetheart what’s wrong have you eaten? Can I get you-”

“I- um just thinks she’s a little in shock,” Came that lovely voice once more and you felt a bit more grounded. He was much closer now, having come around the counter, brushing his cut finger against his jeans. It was only now you noticed one of his hands caught the light and revealed a prosthetic. 

Your shoulder suddenly ached with memories and your eyes welled up. “Where have you been?” You croaked, hands shaking and knees still weak. 

He sank down to kneel in front of you, ignoring both Helen and James’ protests to be mindful of the shattered mug. His calloused hands were large and gentle as they gathered yours up. His own eyes grew misty as he took you in. 

“I know I’m late, it’s a long story so why don’t I just start with a hello?” He asked, helping you to your feet. 

You laughed a bubbly and nearly hysterical laugh that made you feel lightheaded all over again but he just held on tighter to you and you never wanted to be let go again. “Maybe you could start with your name too,” You teased and you felt nearly as breathless as you’d been the night you’d only known pain. 

You supposed that was going to be a part of his long story and your heart ached already at the thought of him experiencing any of what you’d only felt a fraction of. 

“I’m Bucky, and what can I call a beautiful gal like you?” Bucky grinned, his flesh hand releasing your arm so he could brush his fingertips against your cheek in wonderment. 

“Yours, I’m all yours,” You choked out, a watery grin painted onto your face.

Time had become something that simply passed you by, but now you were ready to begin the rest of your life. 

[deepdarkdelights]

The Darkness of The Night (Namjoon x Reader)

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: Yandere, Stalking, Obsession, Blood, Gore, Non-Consensual touching (Reader is asleep, nothing innately sexual occurs)

I do not condone the acts displayed in this story nor do I believe any members of BTS would actually engage in this type of behavior. This is simply written for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as a reflection of my own values, opinions, or morals. 

Preview: He was in a deep, bottomless love. His sweet angel, stained in his blood was a sight that he was blessed to see. He never wanted to live again if it meant he couldn’t have her and if he couldn’t have the delirium she gave him. They were connected now, he had never felt closer to anyone in his life, he couldn’t even think about ever being near someone else if she wasn’t his. What began so innocently evolved into something dark and twisted: the creation of a monster.

A/N: Hello! This will be the first post I am making to my brand new blog! Please be gentle with me, I have not written and uploaded something to any platform in around four years now I believe. Despite saying that, I am open to constructive criticism and would love to see what anyone thinks about this (if it gets seen lmao) and make changes to my writing where you see fit! Thank you for giving me a chance and reading my work, I hope to see you in the comments!

“She’s so beautiful.” He thought to himself. And she truly was. But, her beauty did not reside in her looks as much as it resided in her pain. He found her pain to be achingly beautiful. She was so desperately calling out for someone to love her, for someone to answer the sweet calls of her anguish and recognize it’s melody. To him, he was the only one that could respond. He was the only one that was worthy of her presence and her pain, even if just barely. Because, to him, she was an angel. An angel shackled by her agony and trapped on earth, waiting.

It all started innocently enough. It first began with his longing gaze and fleeting moments between them. Merely passing her in the hallways on campus was enough to give him a rush, flooding his body in ecstasy. She was a drug, something that starts in small doses but quickly becomes not nearly enough. Her very being demanded his attention, demanded that he see her and crave her.

Her.

What was once a simple word  now represented his incapability of even breathing without thinking about her.

The first time he saw her, she was alone and she was crying. Unbeknownst to him, at the time, this was simply one of many breakdowns that had occurred that week. His angel was so frail, so hurt, and so unbelievably scared. What he would give to stop those tears, to hold her close, and to never allow anyone to hurt her ever again. But he was him, and she was her. He was so…awkward. How could someone like her ever even give him the time of day? He had nothing to offer her, nothing to help her. But how long could he hold out, how long could he stop himself from taking things too far? The answer was not long.

Seeing her in the hallways proved to not be enough. This developed into him working in admissions just so he could find her class schedule, to know where she was at all times of the day. And that quickly evolved into him dropping his classes to be with her.

Academic Writing 112, she sat in the far right of the seventh row with a seat left unoccupied next to her. It didn’t stay that way for long, and at the time that was the boldest move he had made: sitting next to her. His body vibrated with anxiety as the chair scrapped against the flooring, his backpack thudding loudly beside him. Her head jerked slightly at the noise, her eyes flicking quickly to him and back to the front of the room as she raised her hand to settle over her mouth.

“She looked at me.” He thought, his heart pounding in response. God, her eyes were perfect. They were deep and frightened, but so perfect. Those fleeting moments were what he lived for, just being next to her felt like a privilege. What he would give just to have her look at him, and him only, forever with those gorgeous eyes.

No words were passed between them. He was too awkward, and she was in too much pain.

The next step he took were the pictures. Everywhere she went, he took pictures. He had all different kinds of pictures, some were of her studying, some of her crying, some of her undressing, and some of her sleeping. His phone’s gallery quickly became devoted to her, she was everywhere he went because he followed her wherever she went. To him, these pictures were meant to help, to alleviate the ache that was deeply rooted in his chest whenever he couldn’t see her. But if anything, the ache deepened and formed a wound that festered as his sick love grew.

His beautiful angel that didn’t notice him made him sicker and sicker as each day passed. And as he grew sicker, her pain became torture. Everywhere she went, she felt eyes following her. There was an inescapable force constantly following her, constantly letting her know her downfall was being spectated. This constant spiral downwards was being watched no matter where she attempted to escape to.

Time stretched on and soon the pictures just weren’t enough. He needed her, he needed more of her. It wasn’t long before he began breaking into her apartment. He sacrificed not seeing her, so he could have pieces of her. The fire-escape led directly to her room and the broken air conditioning resulted in an unlocked and open window. It wasn’t hard for him to prevent traces of his presence. He carefully removed his shoes before entering, so that no prints would alert his angel of his being there. His first action was always directed to her bed. He would press himself against her sheets and inhale lungfuls of her scent, rubbing his face against her pillows like a cat. Shivers would wrack his body as his fists clenched the sheets beneath him. She was intoxicating, she was his drug, his angel.

His next course of action was her hamper. He only permitted himself to take one item per month, it was less suspicious that way but also rather difficult. Last month, he had taken her sleep shirt. It was baggy and smelled like her. When he slept in his own bed he would hold it tightly to him, picturing it was her, that she was there with him like she should be. This month, he took what he had held out on for so long, her panties. His cheeks were stained red as he carefully removed the used pair from her hamper.

“Fuck.” He whispered, his hands trembling as he quickly pocketed the item. He couldn’t get too distracted now, he only had so much time.

Each visit was becoming riskier, he was sure she noticed the missing articles of clothing, even if he had limited himself. It was only a matter of time before she found him out, or before she contacted someone and put an end to his visits. And he couldn’t have that, this was his way of being close to her, of being with her.

He knew what he was doing was wrong, because God, it was beyond fucked up. But he needed her. He needed her more than air, more than anything else in his life. He would gladly drop to his knees and kiss the fucking ground she walked upon if she asked him with those beautiful, pained eyes of hers.

And from there, things only got worse. Soon enough, he was watching her sleep nearly every night. He would follow the same procedure as he did with his daytime visits, but this time veiled in the darkness of the night. If she was beautiful in the daytime, she was damn near ethereal in the dark. Her perfect lips parted as her chest rose and fell with relaxed breaths, her hair sprawled around her on her pillows in a halo, like an angel. His angel. The scooped neck of her shirt revealed her smooth collarbones and shining skin, the moonlight highlighting her face perfectly. She was so tempting, and so painfully unaware of her intruder. He inched closer to her bed, fingers delicately brushing her sheets as he itched to caress the skin of her face and the gentle slope of her neck. Would she wake up if he touched her? Would those plush lips part in a scream and those deep eyes widen in fear?

Did he want that?

A soft huff of air left her lips as she wriggled in her sleep, his body tensing in fear that she would wake. He kept still and quiet for a few moments, making sure that she was still submerged in a deep sleep. The silence rang in his ears as he watched her settle down, relaxing into the warmth of her covers. He quietly stepped closer, observing her sweet sleeping face once more. He gently rested a hand on the bed and lowered himself down next to her, the mattress dipping under his weight. She didn’t move, only her chest continued its steady rise and fall with each breath she took. He slowly reached a hand out and gently caressed her cheek, pulling her hair away from her face. His hand still rested as light as a feather on her face, his thumb gently swiping back and forth over the smooth stretch of skin. He hadn’t realized before, but now he noticed just how close his face rested beside hers.

“What would she do if I kissed her?” He wondered, his fingers still stroking her face yet just barely touching her as to not rouse her from her slumber.

“One kiss wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it?” He mused, leaning in even closer to her. And then he kissed her, so lightly it was like a breeze brushing over her. His fingers paused their ministrations as his eyes slipped closed, leaning into the inviting warmth of her soft lips. It was like heaven. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, threatening to crash straight through his rib-cage as his lips moved ever so softly against her still ones. What happened in mere seconds felt like the meeting of heaven and hell, his sweet, broken angel lying blissfully unaware beneath him. He swiftly pulled back, his breaths coming out in sharp and fast pants. His angel still slept, unaware of the intruder by her side.

She was addictive and undoubtedly his.

The next day, she never showed up to class. The seat to his right was empty, a stark reminder of her absence. She wasn’t in the library, or at the coffee shop where she spent her time after classes. So, she had to be at home. Could he risk visiting her while she was awake? Would he be able to sneak in without her noticing, or would he have to come up with a different approach, one that would be wildly different in comparison to all the actions he had taken up to this point?

That was how he found himself at her front door instead of her window. He took a deep breath and shook himself out, his trembling fist hesitating before it finally connected with the wood of the flimsy door. At first, he was met with silence. And then he could hear her. She was stumbling through her apartment, making her way to the door, making her way to him.

“Who - who’s there?” She croaked, her voice rough and dry like she had just been crying. Had his angel been crying again? Of course he fucking missed it.

“Hello?” She called again after the stretch of silence.

“(Y/N)? It’s Namjoon, from academic writing.” He replied, his voice far calmer than he actually felt. He was finally talking to her.

There was silence for a moment and then the clattering of metal before the door opened, it was wide enough for him to see her eyes and nose, but the rest of her was obscured from his sight. He felt a tug of disappointment in his gut at only being able to see so little of her.

“What do you want?” She asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took him in.

“You weren’t in class today so I grabbed what you missed. I figured I’d bring it to you so you wouldn't fall behind.” He replied, his heartbeat quickening, this was the most they had ever spoken to one another in all the time he had known her.

She blinked slowly as silence settled between them. After a few moments she slammed the door completely shut, undoing the door chain before opening it fully. She was breathtaking. Her hair was slightly mussed from sleep and her eyes were puffy with deep bruises settled beneath them. The shirt she wore was two sizes too big and wrinkled, hanging limply off one of her shoulders. Her lips looked cracked and dry, like she was dehydrated or maybe even sick. But she was stunning to him.

“Well?” She said, shaking her head slightly. “Where is it?”

“Oh! Oh, right…” He trailed off, jerking his bag off of his shoulder and removing the requested items, handing them off to her. Not once did she move from behind the door frame, staying in the darkness of her apartment. Not one light was on and not one curtain was open. It was practically night in the depths of her home. Her delicate hands, he noticed, were gripping the door tightly, the skin stretching painfully across her knuckles like she was anchoring herself down.

“(Y/N), are you okay?” He asked, his gaze giving her a once over again. There was a beat of silence before she responded.

“Go home, Namjoon.” And then the door was slammed shut once more.

He didn’t listen to her.

When the sun had set and the moon hung high in the dead of the night, he found himself at her apartment again. This time, he was where he was comfortable: settled outside her cracked open window and removing his shoes. He needed to make up for the time he had lost with her that day. Speaking to her was exhilarating, it gave him almost as much of a rush when he kissed her. But still, he needed more of her.

He slid inside her room again, finding his footing expertly before creeping towards her once more. She was still as gorgeous as she had been when he saw her earlier, her face no longer pinched in agitation but smooth and relaxed in the throes of sleep. He settled beside her, as he did often, and set to caressing her hair as she slumbered on. It was unfair how beautiful she was, how perfect she was every time he saw her. What he would give to be here with her, always soothing her as she slept. He could only hope that one day he could be next to her when she woke, that she would want him to be there with her, that she would want him. What would it take for her to be his completely? To surrender to him as he had to her?

That fantasy crumbled as fast as it had come to his mind. It had happened so quickly and so unexpectedly, a crash from the alley outside echoing through the open window into her room. She jerked awake, her breathing quick and confused as she propped herself up on her elbows. His heart stopped as her eyes met his in the dark. With a screech she threw herself from the bed, falling to her back on the ground.

“(Y/N)?!” He cried, rising from his place and running to her side as she struggled to stand.

“Stay the fuck away from me!” She yelled, shakily standing as she stepped backwards, watching him while trying to find the door, her hand cupped over her nose and mouth. Had she hurt herself?

“(Y/N), sweetheart, please calm down! You don’t understand!” He cried, as he launched himself forward, grasping her wrists in an attempt to stop her from leaving.

“Don’t! Don’t touch me!” She yelled, violently thrashing against his hold as he pulled her into his chest, pinning her against him. Her breathing was labored and fast as she continued to struggle.

“Baby, please, I’m not here to hurt you! I love you so much, I would never hurt you!” He persisted, muscles tensing with strain as he attempted to keep her close to him, to force her to listen. “Please, I need you to listen to me! It’s okay!”

“You fucking perv! Let go of me before I can’t stop it!” She groaned, her head dropping causing her forehead to brush against his chest, his heart beating louder and faster than before.

“I’m not - I’m not a perv, don’t say that.” He begged, his eyes welling up with tears as his grip tightened even more around her. “I’m here because I was protecting you, you’re so precious to me I just can’t stand the thought of you being alone, here, without me.”

Her head was slightly rocking back and forth, her breaths even and paced as her body shuddered under his touch. She remained silent as he continued, his words blurring into static in her ears as his heartbeat pounded in her head. The steady, rhythmic beats vibrated in her ears and skull.

Her mouth watered.

She was hungry, so fucking hungry.

“Baby? Are you listening?” He whispered to her, cupping her cheeks to lift her face from his chest to meet his gaze. In a matter of seconds she had him pinned, his body forced down onto the mattress as she straddled his waist. The confusion plastered on his face quickly contorted to pain as she yanked his head to the side, her jaw snapping down and locking on his neck, blood rushing forth, hot and thick running down her throat. She moaned in delight as he shivered in pain beneath her. He groaned deeply as his hands came up to rest on her hips, pulling her tighter against him, relishing in the pain she was giving him, her pain that she was giving him. She continued to feed from him, unbothered by the soft strokes of his hands over her hips, encouraging her to continue.

He was in shock, he was in pain, and he was also in a deep, bottomless love. His sweet angel, stained in his blood was a sight that he was blessed to see. He never wanted to live again if it meant he couldn’t have her and if he couldn’t have the delirium she gave him. They were connected now, he had never felt closer to anyone in his life, he couldn’t even think about ever being near someone else if she wasn’t his.

Her body squirmed above him, groaning deeply as she sunk her teeth into his flesh even harder, forcing the blood to pool into her waiting mouth. His hands continued to softly stroke the exposed skin of her hips, relishing in the closeness of their bodies. He must be so sick to be enjoying this, to accept this so easily. But if he was sick he hoped there was no cure.

Her jaw finally relaxed allowing her sharp incisors to slip free from his throat. Soft pants left her body as her head rested in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. She felt like she was drunk, a soft purr like noise rumbling in her chest as she laid limply on top of him, spiraling in her high.

He was tired, his body heavy like lead. Still, he raised his hands to settle on her back and softly rub circles into her skin. He knew he had lost far too much blood, his vision was already beginning to blur, black spots starting to obstruct his view of his angel. If only he could stay awake forever so that he never had to live for a moment without seeing her. Her body rose from his, her delicate hands grasping his shoulders to allow her to sit upright on his hips. The sight of her was euphoria inducing. Blood stained her sweet lips and rolled down the smooth column of her neck, coming to rest at her decolletage. Her hair was as wild as her doe-like eyes, shining with tears that began to slowly run a path down the slope of her cheeks.

“Namjoon?” She whispered. She seemed confused, like a fog lifted that had previously clouded her memory. One of her hands shakily raised to her face, dragging through the fresh blood that painted her skin. She slowly brought her hand into the moonlight, revealing the shining, scarlet blood.

“What happened? What - what did I do?!” She cried, her bloody hands curling around his shirt to shake him, attempting to keep him awake and responsive.

His eyes were now feeling as heavy as his body, it was difficult to keep them open but he so desperately wanted to see his sweet angel, glowing red in the soft light. His eyes fluttered as he tried to stay awake, fighting the fatigue that was washing over him, but he couldn’t fight his own body. Slowly, his eyes drifted shut, his lashes coming to rest delicately on the crests of his cheeks. He could still hear her and feel her, her cries were loud and her body shook with violent sobs as she tried to keep him with her.

And as he drifted, all he could think was: “She’s so beautiful.”

[cant-blink]

Half-Life, Ch. 5

Summary: The consequences of Gigan’s actions makes itself clear.

-

He can’t move.

He can’t see.

He can’t hear.

But he was aware.

He was aware of the terrible pain that plagued his body, so intense that he couldn’t even scream. He was aware of every second the half-life used him for, every second his flesh was gouged and violated. He was aware, that every time he attempted to move even the slightest bit, it brought painful seizures through his entire body, especially of his legs and tails. His feet would kick the air uselessly, his tails have already run dry of their poison gasses but still kept contracting nonetheless.

He was aware, that for the very first time, he was at the complete mercy of everything around him.

His fifth brain has been severely damaged, shredded by the half-life’s tail and made worse through the mating. The same brain that allowed him to control his massive body was now destroyed, and it left that body feeling alien to the dragon.

Never before has he sustained such a terrible injury. It’s not often he received any injury at all, as his hardened scales usually proved enough to protect him from damage. Even in those few fights that proved more serious, it never got this bad. The extent of his injuries were usually torn wing membranes, maybe even a broken neck. Wounds that were always relatively easy to mend. Until that half-life showed up and now...

He felt so weak, and it was hard to stay conscious, much less stay focused on what he needed to do. He still had stored energy left in his stomach; he just needed to tighten the right muscles to free it into his system. But in the process of doing this, he sent another agonizing spasm through his whole body. He couldn’t even cry out, enduring this as it at least released his emergency reserves.

Some of that energy escaped his body, forming a faint barrier around him, red flame-like wisps coming from it. Keeping him safe from the outside world. He honestly didn’t want that energy to be wasted on a barrier, but he had no say in how his reserves were used. His body spent it on a pre-determined list of priorities that his old creators deemed fit.

The first of those priorities was to stopping the flow of blood from escaping his wounds. Blood being drawn is not something he was used to, but here he was losing too much too quickly. His body was in a state of panic, urgent in trying to get itself back together. But his energy stores were limited in how much he can carry; he didn’t even know if he would have enough to fully stop his bleeding, much less repair his damaged brain.

But he had to repair it; he can’t move without it and he needed to get out of here. Fly beyond the cloud of space dust and its atmosphere, to unfiltered cosmic rays. If he can’t, he won’t be able to complete the healing process. And... and...

It struck him.

He could very well die from this.

Bleeding. Humiliated. Disgraced. Defiled. Pathetic. At the claws of a half-life. Surrounded by lesser lifeforms. He’s never imagined what his death would be like, as it seemed like an impossibility. But this? This was not how he wanted his Death to be. He will NOT give this half-life the satisfaction of knowing he did this to him!

Without thinking, he attempted to get up, but his muscles tightened painfully before his legs kicked once more. More horrific pain swamped his nerves from his injuries. Why was his body not paying his damaged brain any attention?! He deemed that more important than his blood!

In his panicked mind-set, he failed to realize that he needed that blood to transfer the healing energy throughout his body. He was already losing too much, and the more he bled, the slower the process. But the thought never occurs to him as he kept struggling against his own body.

It was the burden of agony and exhaustion that finally stopped his attempts to move, his body once more settling into twitches. That violent fit has just undone what healing has occurred, dislodging clots and causing blood to flow freely once more.

He can feel it, trickling down his scales.

He can’t...

He just can’t...

He laid there for another moment, twitching. Enduring. Trying to calm. It’s all he can do; just try to stay alive long enough to see this through to the end. Hopefully soon, he’ll be able to take matters into his own teeth...

Blood still escaped his wounds by the time his reserves ran dry. No, no, this can’t happen to him. He already is going through enough pain as is, was he really going to have to resort to... to...

He didn’t have any real choice in the matter and he didn’t even have time to brace himself mentally before an acute piercing pain came into his chest. It was as if the half-life had stabbed right through him, and he instinctively tried to struggle, only to provoke another seizure that only worsened his situation. He felt no sign of the half-life, no resistance of his blade in his flesh. 

No, what he was experiencing was his own body sacrificing his Gravity Beam sacs, deteriorating the organs and reducing them into the same energy he would become when cocooning into his asteroid. Except this time, it was piece by piece, with his pain receptors fully intact. There was no pleasant numbing to ease the process.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had to go through something like this. At least back then, he was certain he would’ve been able to watch the process and see the results to make himself feel better. Here, he couldn’t observe the progress being made, nor estimate how much longer he’d have to endure this torture. Was this even worth it?

Wave after wave of added torment pierced through his chest, and each one made his focus waver that much more. His heart was racing so fast, from fear and from working hard to transport this new source of energy with what little blood was left. But even that was starting to weaken. It was harder to think, before thought disappeared completely. The pain was becoming dull, including the constant throb of the active chip. Wait, no... The sensation of the chip, the thing that plagued his dreams and life, was gone now.

An irrational sense of happiness flowed through him; the pain was gone, the chip was gone. Have he succeeded in healing? Was this happiness his reward? Was it time to rest from the ordeal? He didn’t know. All he knew now was a sense of bliss as his crests gave him the biggest dose of euphoria that he’s ever felt. 

Before that too faded into nothingness.

-

"Scoli, I need another glass. Right fuckin' now."

"Hello to you too." The centipede grumbled before glancing up. His mandibles opened in clear disgust. "You couldn't have cleaned up better?"

"Not in the mood, Legs," Gigan hissed, taking the glass just as the other kaiju finished pouring his drink. He takes a swig, savoring the taste and letting it work its magic. "Y'know, I put so much work into that guy and this is how I'm rewarded?"

“A bad lay, huh?” Scolopendra muttered in feigned interest.

“You have no idea,” He took another gulp. “Y’know, I had my suspicions that it would be his first time and yeah it was, and wanna know why?”

“Not really.”

“He had NOTHING between those legs. His damn Masters didn’t even give him junk, how fucked up do they have to be to not think of that?!” He continued to vent between drinks. “As fucked as MY Masters were, at least they left the rest of me intact. Even the bastards who did THIS-” He gestured at his own body. “-left well enough alone. But damn, that dragon can’t do shit. No wonder all he does is kill things, he literally has nothing else better to do with his time. Can’t eat, can’t drink, can’t fuck.” He shook his head. "I'd almost feel bad for him if he wasn't such an asshole. But I'd probably be an asshole too if I couldn't enjoy anything. How he managed to live like that for so long, I have no idea."

"Maybe it doesn't occur to you that if he doesn't have those abilities, then he probably never cared. Can't miss what you never had."

"Well, I've been trying to change that. Show him that yeah, killing is fun, but there's more to life than THAT." 

Another gulp and a moment of silence, as Gigan finished his drink and pushed the empty glass towards Scolopendra for a refill.

“Credit though, it was fun at first. Those throats of his, damn.”

“I don’t need to know the details.”

Gigan continued anyway. “He shoots lightning out of his mouth, and I tell you, that kind of energy made him feel real nice.”

“Gigan!”

“But it would be nice to fuck him properly. Maybe I can find a race that has the knowledge to do some surgery on him. Get a proper hole on him so I don’t have to keep making one myself. Heh.” A smirk came to his face. “Imagine that, get him custom-made just for me. Maybe throw in a stomach too.” He chuckled a bit but that died when he saw the look the centipede gave him. It wasn’t one he was expecting, scolding and with great disapproval. He maintained eye contact as he took a sip of his refilled drink. “What?”

“... What the fuck, Gigan?” Scolopendra started.

“What?” he responded with a defensive hiss.

“I asked not to hear about it, but... But what the fuck do you mean ‘keep making one myself’? What did you do?” Well, at last, the damn bug had interest in what he was saying, even if it was with obvious disgust.

“I told you. I made a hole. Between those legs.” The stinger of his tail clicked with emphasis and the look the centipede gave him was growing even more judgmental. It was enough to make him laugh. “Oh, stop acting like you care. If he were any other bitch, I would’ve done much worse. And had a free meal after.”

Scolopendra shook his head. “Would’ve actually preferred if you ate him like the rest of your ‘bitches’. Always made me feel better pretending it’s a legit hunting method of yours.”

“Eh, this job is making you soft, you’ll get over it,” the cyborg continued dismissively. “Anyway, the whole thing would’ve been fun, but apparently, the dragon couldn’t handle it. Damn thing passed out on me.”

“Passed out? Or died from fuckin’ being impaled?”

“Noooo,” Gigan drawled, taking another gulp. “He was still bleeding when I left.”

“Oh, okay, so he’s dying. Good to know, considering he’s the reason I’ve been giving you drinks in the first place. But now that he’s bleeding out...” 

Gigan gave him an unamused look, which Scolopendra met with his own. The moment of silence was thick before the cyborg gave one last gulp to finish his drink before slamming it back on the bar with force. “Fiiiine. I’ll go check on him.”

“You do that,” the centipede grumbled, just wanting any excuse for the cyborg to leave his establishment. “We’re also closing soon, so don’t bother coming back.” He watched the blue kaiju raise a blade in acknowledgement as he left before the centipede pulled out the communicator from beneath the bar. He pressed in a few buttons before speaking in a soft whisper.

“Hey, boss. Gigan, y’know, that idiot cyborg we banned? Yeah, he just left... Mhm... No, I told him to leave but he brought GHIDORAH in here... Yeah, THAT Ghidorah, how many Ghidorahs do you know? Now that monster knows our location, what now?” He nodded a couple of times before- “The Strawberry cloud?” He lets out an audible sigh. “I’ll get things packed up here.”

..............

“Huh? ..... Nothing’s wrong, I was just hoping we’d move to the Pineapple cloud instead... Wait, we can?”

For the first time since Gigan showed up, the centipede smiled.

-

What the actual hell was this?

Gigan glared at the sphere in front of him, and beyond, Ghidorah lying on the ground. He almost walked right into it and would’ve if it wasn’t for the red firey tendrils that pulsed through it alerting him to its presence. He lifted a claw and gave the sphere an experimental tap.

A spark courses up his blade and into the flesh of his arm and he flinched away. It actually wasn’t bad, although probably enough to kill off small species, like their old Masters. But it does nothing to discourage him, as his visor locks on the motionless form of the dragon. The fact that the dragon thought this would be enough to protect him; maybe from those tiny aliens, but definitely not from him. It was enough to push his irritation out of his mind to be replaced with smug amusement.

He’ll show him how useless this was.

Lifting his claw high, he struck the sphere with strength, sparks erupting from the impact. His other claw followed, slashing into the same spot to weaken it. He continues, increasing the amount of force with each blow until he can make out a crack.

A smirk grew on his beak, and his visor began to glow before a blast of his laser shoots at the weakened spot. On impact, the beam scattered into smaller extensions of itself, increasing the area of damage. It proved enough and the shield shattered. The red wisps of energy flung outwards, dissipating into the pink haze around them.

With a chuckle, his eye settled back onto the dragon lying in a puddle of his own blood. At least it looked as though all that twitching from earlier has stopped. Coming closer, he took notice that Ghidorah looked... thinner somehow. Yeah, he was definitely thinner, he can even make out the shape of the bones in his tails. Something was wrong, very wrong.

“Ghidorah, you awake?” Probably not, given the lack of a reaction to his precious forcefield being destroyed. Those six eyes were still open, still glassy and unfocused. Even those crests have lost their glow. He gave one of those faces a light kick with his foot. Nothing.

The damn thing doesn’t even breathe, so he couldn’t use that as a means to check for life. Does Ghidorah have a heart? A pulse to check? If he bleeds, he probably has some equivalent to such, right? He pulled up the files in his memory bank of what his Masters knew about the wyvern, but beyond the origin of his existence and the mind-control chip, they had nothing else. No anatomy, nothing.

It took a moment before Gigan abandoned his efforts to dig deeper, and he decided to test for life the only way he knew how. He kneeled down beside the dragon and with a blade, he sliced a cut through a patch of scales that was still free of blood-stains.

He scanned the wound for a few seconds before realizing, the dragon wasn’t bleeding.

....

Shit.

[nelllraiser]

into the fold, two: surrender | adam & nell

PREVIOUSLY: into the fold: part one TIMING: the ma’al cult investigation. PARTIES: @walker-journal​ and @nelllraiser​. SUMMARY: nell and adam dive deeper into the cult. CONTENT: sibling death mention, torture (implied), gaslighting (demon telepathy)

The intrusion of the eldritch on Neveah Alcott’s palatial home had initially been a subtle thing. Corruption came in degrees, and just as Neveahs parties were initially just high society networking that occasionally dabbled into idle metaphysical conversation, so too were the tiny within changes Alcott’s manner easy to dismiss as tricks of mood lighting or fanciful imagination until it was far too late. 

Those ‘idle conversations’ became more pointed speculation and the reading of certain disturbing texts readings as shadows darkened with the discrete crevices of the Neo-Gregorian architecture. The nooks behind statues, pillars, and within arches grew deeper until those shadows became actual holes into nothingness rather than the mere absence of light. Those avant garde readings proved to be strangely magnetic, even to those with no previous intellectual interest. As dalliance turned to obsession, angles within the Alcott residence started to be ...not quite right...not lining up correctly even when one squinted. 

More people were invited to these readings as doors in manor started opening to rooms that weren’t on the building's floorplan, only to lead elsewhere when opened again later. After Helena’s first ‘demonstration’ of bloodshed and symbology could attract the attention of beings beyond the confines of four dimensional space, guests started to report seeing the horrific landscapes of alien worlds beyond the house's windows. As high society parties devolved into debauched experiments to ‘expand consciousness’ through dangerous excesses of sensation, the manors’ light bulbs started to shine with colors that didn’t exist in the electromagnetic spectrum. 

It had been around the time Helena performed the first ‘miracle’ by being briefly possessed by her otherworldly patron, that the walls began to bleed. 

Now Adam sat in a dark room where the floor breathed, fleshy surface moistly yielding beneath him. The walls and ceiling stretched inward as the faces of hellish things strained against the fabric of reality. Maws, mandibles, and not quite human vissages pressed in a menagerie of faces from every angle as creatures from beyond the veil struggled to rip their way into this world. 

“Nell…,” Adam managed to gasp past the broken spasming of his ribs, “you there?” 

It hadn’t taken all that long for Nell to begin dreading the trips to the mansion. It wasn’t so much the bleeding of the walls, or even the screams that seemed to shatter silence out of nowhere that turned her stomach. No— she liked to think she was fairly ironclad when it came to things such as those at this point in her life. Instead it was the slow and steady transformation of the people, Neveah Alcott’s loyal followers, that made her insides squirm. Many of them hadn’t the faintest idea of what they were being readied for, harvested for as they pledged undying dedication to the woman whose ‘miracles’ left them wide-eyed and breathless despite the brutality of it all. 

It had taken most of what Nell had to make sure she didn’t succumb to the trials and tests of the demon, and the witch had been sparing her magic and strength specifically for nights such as these when she wasn’t sure whether the shifting of the floor beneath her was due to the emerging hellscape or loss of blood. It would have been easier if she could use her usual protections against the less savory side of demons and their effects, but such a thing wasn’t thinkable when she was meant to be embracing the demon that lay in wait, getting closer to phasing through the thinning veil every day. No doubt any resistance would be perceived as opposition, and that wasn’t the behavior of a willing and wanting devotee. 

Nell’s eyes were closed when Adam’s voice found her, cutting through the fog of her mind like the beam of a lighthouse on land’s shore. In a moment they were opening to the twisted visages of the creatures waiting to emerge into this world, but she quickly searched for Adam’s face amongst them until she found it next to her, reaching a hand toward him instinctively as he looked for her. “I’m here,” she answered, the tail end of a cough finishing the words for her as she covered her mouth, pulling her sleeve away to find fresh blood amongst the dried bits of it. Her first thought was to check his injuries as she usually did during a quiet spell of their demonic endeavors. “Everything in one piece?” she asked, already trying to scoot closer so she might try and take a look. 

Adam stirred again at Nell’s voice. Bloodshot eyes opened. Adam’s gaze was unfocused at first, as if he were looking at some other world entirely. But his broken fingers found Nell’s outstretched hand and that physical presence seemed to anchor him. The red-rimmed brown of his eyes eventually found Nell’s face. 

“Uh more or less,” he rasped, a weak attempt at a smile stark against a livid canvas of bruises and lacerations down his face and neck. 

Adam had been conditioned to quietly endure suffering and even agony if it was necessary to preserve humanity’s destiny. But spiritual wounds that’d sapped his Hunter powers have become all the more serious  in the sadism and darkness of this place. Day after day the cult’s rites wore Adam down physically as the tendrils of their master’s psychic  influence drilled down into the bedrock of Adam’s selfhood. Little by little, Adam felt himself giving ground inside. 

Adam struggled to sit up, but broken ribs protested so much that he abandoned the attempt. He himself fall back against the fleshy softness of the not-quite-stone floor. 

Adam adjusted his head as the now literally blue-veined marble throbbed with cardiac warmth against his temple.

“How’re you holding up?”

Nell cradled Adam’s broken fingers gingerly, thankful for the grounding effect his touch had, but reminding herself not to squeeze his hand in reassurance for fear of making things worse. A pinpoint of frustration surfaced in her stomach, wishing for what wasn’t the first time that she could mend bones as well as she closed up flesh wounds. “I guess I can’t ask for more,” she managed to say while matching his half-hearted attempt at levity. “Actually that’s a lie. I can and will ask for more, but I know it’s not gonna do anything.” As she spoke she reached her free hand towards the gashes she could see making a jagged and broken path across his neck, beginning the work of magically willing them shut, scabs beginning to form where open wounds had been before. It wasn’t anything as useful as healing fingers or ribs, but it at least made her feel like she could provide some relief, no matter how small. 

“I’m not super sure if I’m just lucky enough to see two of you- or if there’s actually some doppelganger who’s decided to give up the long con and just lay right next to you.” Who said you couldn’t mix potential impending doom with a bit of flirtation? Despite everything, she was determined to keep things light for a moment longer, hoping it might somehow hide the truth of their shared misery. When she’d finished with the gashes on his neck, Nell tried to lower herself closer to the ground to begin work elsewhere, but it seemed her noodle-like ams had other plans when they gave out halfway through her descent. She landed roughly next to Adam, and a grunt of pain paired with a gasped curse of “Fuck,” worked its way through her lips. 

Sometimes Nell thought about what it might be like to give in. To fully immerse herself in the whisperings of the walls inside this mansion, and let herself be truly taken into the fold. It would stop then, wouldn’t it? The pain she watched Adam go through far too often. Her own injuries, and the constant ache in her body she couldn’t seem to shake since joining up. Fighting had always been second nature to her, as if she’d been born with a stubbornness that made it impossible for her to give up no matter how far ahead or behind she might be. There’d never been any exception to that rule, and yet here she was— doing her best to keep herself semi-vertical and thinking about how the easy way out was looking more and more appealing every day. If she were being honest it wasn’t just about making sure she and Adam were safe. There was a space for here whether she wanted to face that truth or not, a place where her talents would be embraced rather than shunned or cast out. This was a coven that wanted her, not one that had turned their backs to the witch. “You know...do you think he’d settle for just...one of us?” she asked quietly as she lay next to Adam, her voice barely above a whisper as if she were worried that Ma’al might be listening at this very moment. “Like if I just hung out here with the cult and really gave it my all- maybe you could go keep working on getting your strength back and stuff. It might not even be so terrible.”

“Shouldn’t use up your power like that Nell…” Adam rasped even as pain became more manageable and the clammy numbness of blood loss stopped crawling up his body. Adam may not understand magic, but he intuited that everything Nell spent on him was strength she didn’t have to save herself later. This forces in this place were looking for any chink in their armor and Adam swallowed down guilt that Nell was leaving herself vulnerable to keep him from sinking. 

Adam’s gaze was drawn to the walls and ceiling as alien forms protrude into this reality. Spined proboscises stabbed blindly. Mouths with multiple interior rings of saw-blade teeth punctured outward like bladed xylophones before folding back in on themselves. Tendrils slick with acid fumbled around for organic matter to dissolve and absorb. Flowery blooms opened to lash out with hungry stigma while even stranger orifices extended luminous filaments or branching nerve clusters in search of fresh lifeforce to drink. Some of the faces pressing in through the walls were even vaguely humanoid, just with eye-sockets and too many mouths in all the wrong places. The stone and wood of the mansions structure buckled, like a dam about to give way before the tide. There was a taut tension in the air, as if reality itself was straining under some vast weight. 

Adam looked into that wall of horrors for longer than was safe, and found his mind wandering dangerously as something weaved insidious thoughts in Adam’s own inner voice. 

Why did Adam fight his true nature? He’d had always been addicted to the wrong things, craved the fucking, fighting, and killing like a drug instead of being pure and purposeful. Sure, he’d shackled himself with a code, hoping pious bullshit some dead martyrs had come up centuries ago could make him something more than just an adrenaline junkie that got his rocks off from killing. Adam had been a good little soldier, dutifully risking his life to save people who never even know he existed. 

But look at you now, Adam had told Adam. Broken, repressed, and bleeding out while those normie motherfuckers just keep slaughtering each other in rich mens’ wars. Admit it, your mission is pointless. You were made into a weapon for a cause that is already lost.

Adam looked at the woman who’ve risked everything to follow him in here. 

Shouldn’t he just be free? Free to fuck, fight, and kill without guilt. Why not take his strength back, and use it how he liked? It was his life wasn’t it? What claim did others have on it? Why was he afraid of what he wanted? 

‘Didn’t Nell deserve to be loved by a real man, not someone’s else’s wind-up soldier?’ asked a quiet voice that knew all Adam’s deepest insecurities. 

Adam put a small and feeble pressure on Nell’s hand, bloodshot eyes alive with forbidden thoughts as they looked at her with the wrong kind of hope. “I dunno but…” 

“I’m an oathbreaker and you're an exile,” the fallen Hunter pointed out softly. “Maybe like, this place we could just…,” Adam didn’t finish the question, but raised torn eyebrows to Nell as if trusting she understood what he was asking. 

“I want to,” Nell insisted stubbornly, not pausing in her work of closing up every wound she managed to find on Adam. By the time she reached the end of her efforts the black spots in her vision had widened, and a part of her was thankful for the way they blocked out the terrors of the surrounding walls. It was easier not to get caught up in the unsettling yet mesmerizing shifts that the twisted images went through when you couldn’t see half of them. She tried to wait until the world had stopped swimming to begin on the cuts decorating her skin that were bleeding a little too much for comfort, not all that keen on passing out here and now. It was taking the majority of her strength to make sure she didn’t slip into something of a forced sleep, her body practically begging for rest and a chance to recuperate the magic she’d spent while she swayed where she sat, forcing herself to sit upright, and hoping that would be enough to ensure she stayed conscious. 

Despite Nell’s best efforts, her head swam with the visions on the walls, and for a moment she could have sworn she saw her own face among them. The bones of her cheeks looked sharper, harder than the reflection she saw in the mirror, but there was a confidence that couldn’t help but be alluring, a promise of power and the ability to ensure that no one would ever make a victim of her again. She could make them afraid if she really wanted to. Most normies were already there when it came to witches. Surely it wouldn’t take all that much to rake others into a similar boat? And if they were afraid, there’d be no one to lop off the heads of sisters in clearings in the forest like a knife through butter, or trap Nell beneath a Ring while brain biters stole bits of her she never thought possible to lose. What was stopping her? The judgment of others? The fragile and paper-thin concept of right and wrong? Was it wrong to want to protect herself? Wasn’t releasing the demons within the walls of the mansion the perfect way to achieve such a thing? No doubt a town that was razed would be one that wouldn’t lift a finger against her or the ones she cared about.

It was the press of Adam’s hand in her’s that made her realize she’d lost track of time somewhere in the middle of her wanderings, and her fingers pressed lightly against his own while she blinked herself back to this plane of existence. A mirthless chuckle fell from her, because she knew he was right. An oathbreaker and an exile. The world didn't want them, so why should they want the world in return? But as her vision cleared and her black eyes searched Adam’s, there was the smallest reminder somewhere in the back of her head. They’d come here for a reason, right? She hadn’t wanted Adam to fall. But was it really falling? Focusing on the man in front of her, her brows furrowed, a frown claiming her lips while she spoke. “We...that’s not why we came here...was it?” What if they’d both secretly hoped to be taken into the cult? Perhaps Ma’al had simply awakened a part of them that was already present. No- there was a promise she was meant to be keeping. A promise to the hunter that she wouldn’t let him go under, because that wasn’t something he’d wanted. “That’s not why we came here,” she said with more certainty this time around even as another voice within her tried to poke holes in the words. “You...want that? To stay here?”

Adam knew Nell was right, that wasn’t what they’d come here. Something was leading them astray.

But the walls breathed, bulging and distorting inward as multitudinous alien things strained against the skin of the world. The bleeding painting on the walls asked Adam if that was true. 

Hadn’t he already been astray? Was really it so bad to realize you were lost?

“Only if you’ll stay with me,” he murmured.  

Let me set you free. It was the slithering voice of Kevin, and the words the dream-being had uttered within the caves of the catacombs that echoed through Nell’s mind as Adam made his admission. Even then Nell had nearly given in to the promise of peace and the sheer relief of simply letting go and giving up. She’d barely managed to shake free of the tempting offer when it was a stranger making it, but now that it was the familiar and comforting features of Adam that was making the proposal she found the words all the more intoxicating— certain that warmth and safety would be found on the other side of them. “I want to stay with you,” she said while reaching out her free hand to place it along the side of Adam’s face, thumb resting upon his cheek as she weighed the gravity of her words. This was one of the only things she was certain of these days- that Adam was one of the more stable pieces of her life, and she was more than willing to follow where he went. So many people had left in the last few months, other magnets that had kept her carefully balanced between one another. Winston, Bea, Blanche, and now Jared. They’d gone the ways they’d needed to one by one, and though Nell didn’t resent them in the least it was undeniable that their departure had left her adrift. So if Adam wanted to find the peace they deserved here amongst the cult, and so did she...what was there to stop them? “I’ll stay with you, and we can just be here together.” Away from the world that was determined to throw whatever pain it could their way.

Hey Ma’al,

It's me, Adam. 

Guess it's about that time?

If I do this, let you in...there’s one condition 

Soft spring sun refracted through townhouse windows, golden rays playing across the kitchen. 

“So anyway,” Adam said, trying not to get dish-soap on his jersey as he put plates in the washer. “Dad said Winn and Mr. Woods might be coming over later to help fix the roof...”

Sunflowers swayed in the warm wind outside the window, the nostalgic golden haze of the afternoon casting golden petals stark against their black centers. Light glinted off the harbor bay and the commercial bustle of the Sink District as tourists poured in from ferries to peruse shops and Spring Festival stalls. 

Adam turned to look across the rooms with gentle brown eyes that’d never beheld violence beyond a locker room scuffle. He ran an unscarred hand through his hair and gave Nell a lopsided grin. “Hey...Nell? What’re you thinking about?”

Nell had been watching the gentle arc of the sunflowers as the breeze played with them, more than pleased that they’d grown so beautifully in the past year and already thinking about what she might plant next. “Hmm?” came her questioning hum, head turning towards Adam with a look of chagrin at being caught staring into space. The light of golden hour played over her unmarred skin, the only lasting signs of imperfection being the dirt under her nails from the garden, and the roughness of her finger pads. “Well I was definitely listening religiously,” came her knee-jerk reaction of a tease. But as she took in the perfectness of Adam’s grin and the sun lighting his hair her own smile claimed her lips, softening in the slightest. “Nothing. Nothing, really.” Her mind was at peace, finally serene with a lack of problems to solve and shadows of witch-killers to fear in the night. “Just thinking about how I’m...happy.” She took a few steps towards him, beginning to close the space that had found its way between them. “Happy here with you.”

[captain-tch]

Extinction Event

You are a captain in the Scouts when a strange phenomenon means that the sun never rises again.

Note: this is inspired by the events of the game, Final Fantasy XV. Its such a great game and I highly recommend it if you're looking for something new.

The morning the sun hid from the world, everything changed. No one knew what had caused it, or why the sun dipped far below the horizon to never be seen again. But one thing was for sure - the world just got a lot more dangerous.

During the Age of the Sun, living a forever night would be a dream come true. The titans used to be immobile during the night. No one could understand why. But it didn't matter for long. Because the fuckers evolved over time, starting to torment the walls in the deepest darkness.

At first, people hoped. They prayed and believed this was only a temporary phenomenon, eagerly waiting for the next time the sunlight would kiss their skin. It was all in vain. The sun never rose again.

Panic set out within the walls. Titans banged on the walls day and night, the moon feeding their desire for blood. Many soldiers died protecting the walls. Many died in vain. Your home, along with many others, was trampled beneath the feet of the monsters. The bones of your family laid there too. That was why you stood on top of the very wall that both protected and caged you from the outside.

The only wall left.

Wall Sina was once a bustle of life. Luxury that once oozed from every crevice now reeked of desperation. People laughed in those streets once. You couldn't remember the last time you heard it. Children wandered the streets, puffy eyes and light fingers.

You sighed, turning yourself away from the mess below, staring lifelessly at the titans on the other side instead. In the dark you could only make out their shapes. Their towering figures were enough to make your heart race.

"It's getting worse down there." Your team mate Anna noted, glancing down at the titans beating at the walls. You strained your ears to hear her over the constant explosion of cannons. "The deterrents aren't working."

Fear struck close to your heart. As quickly as you felt the feeling, you clenched your jaw, looking out over the wall solemnly. You could barely see beyond the wall, torches lit all along it, casting a dim light on the monsters below. Even without the light to guide you, you could imagine the barren land, lush with green. In the distance, you could picture the pines that provided you safety. A long time ago, the Scouts were out there, trying to reclaim land. Now they could barely cope protecting the land they had.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. Being a Captain was no easy job before the Darkness came, and now it was ten times harder. Sometimes you wished you could curl up into a ball and sleep for a million years. After being in the Scouts for over ten years you thought you had seen it all. Having joined the 104th cadet corps as a young teenager, you believed yourself to have long been desensitised to the horrors that came with the job. Then the darkness fell and you were back at step one.

Its in this moment that your thoughts turn to Jean. A warmth blossomed in your chest as you imagined his disarming smile, and his strong arms. How you wish he could wrap them around you now and hide you from the world.

"We're doing all we can do."

Anna shook her head, nodding. "I know. But its starting to feel like its never going to be enough."

You laughed humourlessly. "What do you suggest we do?"

"Fuck this all off and live while we can."

You pondered it for a moment. You could try and forget about the impending doom that threatened the security of the walls. You could spend time with Jean, finish that book you've been dying to read, maybe even drink yourself into oblivion. The thought of not having the future of humanity on your shoulders was luxury enough.

But all of the blood spilled...

And in a flash, that fantasy rippled away. Too many people were gone for you to brush away your duty.

All you could do was offer Anna a small smile, eyes distant. "Tempting."

"Yeah, me too." Sometimes it was strange how Anna could read your mind; she always seemed to be on the same wavelength as you.

The canons stopped for a brief moment, giving your ears a moments reprieve.

You almost wished it hadn't.

Because the moment silence fell, so did the wall.

*

You were fucked. To be honest, that felt like a complete understatement for the horror surrounding you, but its the closest you could get.

The titans had broken through the wall. Your entire team was dead - including Anna. Her blood was staining your clothes. She had dived off the wall to stop you from falling. By the time you had landed on the ground you only had a searing pain spreading through your shoulder and she was dead.

You barely had time to take in your surroundings, slicing titans wherever you could. Subconsciously though, you saw how the streets were drowning in bodies, body parts scattered. A child's shoe discarded on the pavement.

Flying through the air, you hurtled to your next destination, slicing open the neck of a titan with ease. You had no chance to think about your next move, already advancing on your next target. The agony in your shoulder was at the back of your mind, the urge to survive overpowering the tear jerking feeling.

You had stopped trying to save people today. All attempts had been in vain. Their screams would be scarred into your brain forever.

If you lived long enough to remember.

"Y/N!" A familiar voice cut through the slaughter.

You stopped in your tracks, perching on the side of a building. Frantically you searched everywhere for that voice. Your rock. Your best friend. Your love.

"Jean?"

"Y/N!"

His voice was nearer now. You scrambled to the top of the building, eyes desperately catching on to a familiar shape flying in your direction. Tears swelled in your eyes.

He was alive. He was okay.

For the first time in a very long time, you felt like you could breathe. It didn't matter that the air stank of death, clogging your lungs, or that a metallic taste lingered in your mouth. You could breathe. A smile touched your lips.

Unable to wait any longer, you started to run along the roof, desperate to be close to him. You wanted to clutch him close to your chest and breathe in his scent. You wanted him to draw patterns on your back, just the way he always did when you were upset.

You wanted to kiss him.

You leaped over the edge of the roof, tilting your hips as you directed your gear to follow you. You were launched over the gap, soaring over the next roof and landing without breaking a stride.

Jean was matching your pace, his gear sending him zooming closer to you.

Finally.

You landed on the same roof as him, hands instinctively gripping your knees, desperately sucking in breath. Jean was on you before you could stand straight, holding you tight and squeezing as if his life depended on it.

You clenched your eyes shut, wrapping your arms around him with a mirrored ferocity. Everything fell still. Time froze as you two held each other, anchoring the other in a world without gravity.

He pushed you away from him gently, eyes darting over your form. His gaze found the blood soaking your clothes, hands following to try and staunch the blood from an invisible would.

You swallowed thickly, curling your hands around his. "Its not mine."

"I'm sorry." He cupped your cheek, spreading blood. "This is it, isn't it? This is our extinction event."

You didn't want to admit it but you knew it was true. The air wasn't filled with as many screams as it was before. You knew it was because there weren't many people left.

Wordlessly you shook your head, lacing your fingers through his hair. "I wish we had more time."

You pulled your forehead to his, closing your eyes. This was your happy place. With him. Some of the happiest memories you had were with him. Sitting in the mess hall, flicking mashed potato at him. Resting your head on his chest as you read to him, his fingers lazily working through your hair. Escaping from the barracks in the middle of the night to go skinny dipping.

The thought of not being able to make any more happy memories hit you harder than any loss.

But like all great things, it doesn't last forever.

Beneath your feet, the building shook. Both of you were thrown off balance, stumbling to regain your grip. Without thinking your hands flung out, reaching for Jean. His fingers slipped between yours, holding you tight and pulling you upright.

"We have company."

Spinning around, you saw the thirteen metre titan staring intently at you. It was close enough that you could make out it's details in the dark, a demonic smile painted on its face, blood and skin wedged in its teeth. Red stained its chin.

You were its next target.

Unsheathing your blades, you ready yourself to pounce.

"Y/N!"

You cry out as you're knocked to the ground. Your head smacked harshly against the cobbles, stars appearing in your vision. You're so out of it you barely hear Jean screaming your name, or feel the abnormal titans grip.

The abnormal tightens its grip. Involuntarily, you screeched, your ribs crunching and sending waves of pain through your body. It keeps squeezing, squeezing and squeezing until - pop.

Blood spilled out of your mouth. Wetness stains your cheeks - whether its blood or tears you're not sure.

The sound of wires zipping greeted your ears. A battle cry ripped through the air. The titans grip loosened and now you're falling -

Falling -

Falling -

A pair of strong arms gently wrapped around you. You recognised Jean instantly by his ashy smell. Even with all of the pain you're in, you muster a smile.

"My knight in shining armour," you croaked, trying to lift an arm to stroke his cheek. The agony tore through you fast enough for you to drop it.

Jean stopped moving, landing in a derelict street. The sounds of fighting were distant. You were alone.

He tried to lay you on the floor; your hysteric cries stopped him. Instead he cradled you in his arms, moving to sit himself down. You grunted, clinging to him with a tight grip.

"I'm so sorry Y/N," Jean whispered, moving a strand of hair away from your face. His touch lingered for a moment, his eyes searching your pain stricken ones. "I'm so sorry you didn't get to see the sun again."

You give him a weak smile - a feeble attempt to mask your pain. Your vision was darkening, your anxiety rising. You had so much to say, so much to still do.

But you had no time.

"You are my sun."

[wersoverytired]

Watching the Supernatural finale hours after almost dying is, well. Different.

I cannot stress this enough: MAJOR triggers for frank discussion of a recent suicide attempt (no, not because SPN ended). Steer clear if this might hit too close to home. I'm no longer at risk, this happened a while ago and is over, and my care manager is aware.

Right, and spoilers for the series finale.

_____ _____ _____

I'm old enough to have been a fan of SPN since 2005. And considering the fact that childhood abuse had me suicidal at around age 12, probably earlier, it's safe to say that I have never watched the show without that constant battle going on in the background, unrelated.

When Dean said he was tired, that he was done, I got it. When Sam asked in that abandoned chapel what the upside was to him being alive, or when he confided in his brother in a hotel hallway that he had always felt unclean somehow, I could relate. There was more to the show than that, of course -- the love, the loyalty, the humor -- but the struggle was another point of connection.

As both the show and I grew long in the tooth, and my life circumstances were progressive getting worse (as they sometimes do when you carry untreated trauma), I used SPN and the fandom as a comfort. And increasingly, living to see how the Winchester story ends became one of those grappling hooks you latch on to when you look for reasons to keep going just a little longer.

Naturally, that didn't (and couldn't) arm me against the waves of acute, hope-obliterating, soul-sucking despair that can routinely crash on your head when you're dealing with poverty, chronic physical illness and disability -- and in a harsh country, too -- as well as being severely post traumatic and dissociative. Saving me was never the show's job, nor should it have been. I used it as much as I could, though.

The more I felt like I had to die, the more I tried. Dying hardly ever comes naturally, not even when you feel like there's no other way. Painfully isolated and increasingly bedridden, I watched convention panels and smiled so hard my face hurt. Other times I cried. And I made online friends, often through the fandom, who made life less empty. Who loved and laughed and cried with me from afar. It's hard to overstate the effect that can have when you're trapped in a body that's pretty much your cage, with a mind that's wounded and struggling.

I kept fighting. But I also kept finding myself, over and over again, faced with the reality that most people who are deeply traumatized, certainly those who are also severely dissociative, get to know early on: the world excels at letting many of us know that there's no place for us. Fighting hard to survive with about 10% of what I need to live, I sometimes find it hard not to listen to that toxic message that many survivors and disabled folks hear and feel coming at them over and over: you're too broken to justify the cost and effort of keeping you alive.

It's been an especially hard couple of years in that sense. And as the finale was months, then weeks, then days away, I kept telling myself to wait. Wait for that. Decide later. "Deciding later" is a survival technique I've been using for decades now whenever I get actively suicidal. It's not a bad one.

So that very last Thursday evening (or very late night, where I live) came around. And it so happens that I was at the very end of my rope. Again, for unrelated reasons to the show ending, obviously. And I couldn't go on.

The finale was hours away, and off I went on that same journey. Wait. Wait just long enough to see how it ends. It's been 15 years. You've survived so far, and that bit of closure, at least, is within reach. Just fucking wait to watch that last episode; see how they go before you do. Let that be the one last kind thing you do for yourself.

I kept telling myself that even as I numbly went through my final checklist.

I know it hurts so much. I know this damn body is tortured beyond what you can stand, I know we've been told it's about to get even worse. And hours more of this seem like an eternity. Watching anything seems impossible. I know the PTSD is intolerable, I know you can't sleep, you live in constant fear and rage and exhaustion; I know you're alone in this.

I know you live in a place that has made its peace with people like you dying of Covid, and finds it a small price to pay for refusing to wear masks. I know how that makes you feel, to be told that your life is worth that little because you're disabled. I know 9 months of what amounts to house arrest, while living alone, have made everything so much worse. I know you just want to go.

But wait to watch how it ends. And decide later. You can go later. You can.

And I almost made it. I mean, I'm obviously still here, so I eventually survived. But I tried not to. I couldn't wait.

Sometimes, when you get to the lowest low point, when you are in all-encompassing agony, when your circumstances leave no room for hope even though you desperately want to live -- and I do, I so want to live -- no show, no fandom, no unfinished story can keep you from taking that step over the edge. Many times it can, but there are places where nothing has any meaning. Thursday night became one of those. Watching the finale was a faded notion in the background of all that agony, and then it was nothing at all.

I only managed to write one goodbye letter. Hard to be as organized as you imagined you would be, hard not to leave unforgivable loose ends. I have no memory of what the letter said, and I can't look at it, not yet. It's tucked away now, just out of view.

And then I went about doing the only thing that I felt could be done.

I didn't get to go away. Both because I couldn't stand the torment of the only method I had handy, though I sure gave it my best efforts -- two more minutes would have sealed the deal -- and because I was fucking afraid to die. All the way through, until I gave up and stopped what I was doing.

Fear of dying when you're your own executioner is an odd thing. Your body wants out of this plan you've made for you both. It responds like you'd expect when someone's life in under threat. It makes you have to run to the bathroom over and over, it makes your heart hammer in your chest and your ears ring.

There was no crying. Not at that point. I don't think there was crying when I gave up and accepted that I was staying alive, either. But I can't remember.

I don't know what I did during the few hours after that. The physical consequences of what I did were gone within half an hour or so -- being so ill, I knew not to try something that would land me in the ER during COVID, should I not complete the plan. I'd also be on my own there, and most likely dissociated to such a degree that I wouldn't be able to move or speak. That's not something I ever wanted to experience again, and a fucking horrible starting point if I survived.

Anyway, I was okay physically soon enough, which is not how it usually goes. I just remember being fuzzy and distant and alone. There was no one to call, and I also thought about how it would feel to get a call like that. I considered a crisis hotline, but didn't have the energy to explain my messy, complicated circumstances. I probably just lay there.

A few hours later, I was present enough to watch the finale. Still don't know how. Dissociation has it occasional advantages, one of which is being disconnected from certain things when it's all too much. And so I watched the final episode in bed, with the aftermath of that suicide attempt still all around me.

I watched Dean die the way he did. I watched Sam die. I watched them both being given the pained, tearful reassurance that it was okay to go. Watched them being held, watched those two strong, kindhearted, emotional, loyal men crying as they breathed their last. Dean's death, especially, broke my heart. He so clearly did not want to die. Was afraid, more than ever before.

I did cry then. I sobbed. I could cry for them. Hell, I could cry for that dog, wandering with Sam through the empty halls of the bunker. I cried as that dog looked up, with all that trust and love, at the only human he had left. I cried for Sam, sitting drained and aching in the dark library. Saying "I know, me too" on the unmade bed in Dean's cold, empty room.

Before that, back in the barn, I watched Dean not want to go. Sam begging him not to go, then forcing himself to tell his older brother what he needed, what he begged to hear. That he wasn't abandoning the one person he had spent his life looking out for. That Sam would survive him going, now that he had to go.

I never saved the world, and there's nothing heroic about me. But so much of what went on around those characters' deaths echoed what I had felt hours earlier, what I still was feeling. It gave me a safe way to cry for that, too.

I will always be grateful to the show for that small mercy. And grateful to Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki, whom I've never met and never will, and have given such phenomenal performances here that they reached through all that distance, to unknowingly touch an ache that I could not cry for. They'll never know that. I imagine there are so many people like me who feel the same gratefulness, too, for their own similar moments of human connection.

The show is over now, and I try not to be sad about that, and I'm sure I will be. It would be sadder if I didn't feel a loss. Meanwhile, life doesn't stall just because you tried to stop your own. It's around two weeks later now, bright and loud outside my window in a world that's not safe for me to go out in, and I am lying in bed in a half-lit room trying to manage my pain. I didn't die. I'm still here.

I can't pretend I'm glad that I am, but I also know that I'm not ready to go yet. I'm just not. I have no good reason for that; sometimes you're just too afraid to die. And so I can't see myself trying to go away again any time soon. My health might take care of that for me anyway, but otherwise, looks like I'm stuck on this ride.

I'm very grateful that I've had SPN and its people for so long through this battle, to give me and the rest of the fandom so much more than meets the eye. And I'm grateful for that last, good cry, too.

Well, not the last cry, for sure. There's always rewatch #475783. 

[watchingtheroad]

Be Your Run-To

Damen struggles in the aftermath of his injury and the reality of losing his remaining family. Laurent helps him cope. 

Post-Canon | Hurt/Comfort | Mourning | First Time Bottoming | 

POV Switches:  Damen >> Laurent >> Nikandros >> Damen

+

Damen watched as Laurent dissected another letter from Arles over his makeshift desk at Ios, a table and chair he had dragged into what was now Damen’s office space. Laurent loved it for the massive library attached. He had already brought in an entire new shelf on which he would display the books he planned to read separately from the ones he did not. It was very charmingly involved. 

Damen loved it for the memories of his childhood—sitting on the King’s lap and reading as a boy, growing and studying alongside him as he worked at his desk—and hated it for the exact same reason. 

Reality was strange to think about, stranger for it to be so. That was his father’s desk. His father’s books. His father’s rooms. His father’s throne. His father’s crown. His father’s city. His father’s kingdom. 

His father was dead. His brother was dead, buried in the royal crypt with family rather than treated as the gullible traitor he proved himself to be. 

Damen had thought he could save them both, will them to life and reason. 

He had been wrong. 

Grief crashed over him in inconvenient waves in the weeks immediately after his own injury and Kastor’s bitter end. It was different without the constant drama of plotting against the Regent and running around the continent with Laurent. Forced to endlessly sit and heal, Damen had time to dwell in his misery—entirely too much, arguably, that drained him to exhaustion in moments meant for rest—all while continuing plans to stabilize his own government and attempting to solidify an official unity with Vere. 

It was quite a lot of work, investigation and tedious conversation: drafting documents, arguing more treason and laws, deciding which policies would be adopted kingdom-wide or remain independent to either Akielos or Vere. The matter of slavery was the most pressing to attend to, and one on which Damen and Laurent vehemently agreed. Total abolishment was the goal. It was a matter of implementation, and not every kyros in Akielos was as amenable to change as Nikandros. 

They spent the majority of their days in grueling meetings once Damen was lucid, which began at his bedside, then expanded to common rooms as Damen grew stronger. Laurent had done an invaluable job at handling things when he was not, but there was still substantial progress to be made. He had named Nikadros Kyros in Ios, summoned the few, trustworthy members of the Veretian Council, new appointments included. 

It added another layer of difficulty on both sides, given Vere’s chaotic political climate and Kastor’s treason. It was hard to know exactly all the places evil had touched their kingdom, and Laurent’s extended stay in Ios was a disadvantage in finding out and achieving true peace for Vere. None of the Veretians in Ios liked it there, and none of the Veretians in Vere liked that their future King was still away. Laurent’s focus should have been that, not shouldering Damen’s burdens beyond necessity.

As it was, Laurent refused to be parted from him until he was well again. Damen had been adamant for some time that he was well again, despite some moderate discomfort during his deep breathing exercises and soreness that lingered with certain movements. He seemed to be singularly convinced of that. Even Nikandros was on Laurent’s side, a rarity of astronomical proportion. 

Under different circumstances, Damen would’ve already progressed his training to more rigorous levels, used physical exertion and pain as a distraction for everything else, then pushed through until it became tolerable. The lack thereof was making him incredibly irritable, but Laurent insisted he take it torturously easy, fretting about him every step. 

From the look on Laurent’s face, it appeared whoever wrote the latest letter from Vere was returning the favor in making one irritable. 

“What’s the matter?” Damen asked. 

With reluctance, Laurent said, “I have to leave for Vere. The people have started congregating outside Arles, which I suspect is diplomatic phrasing for rioting. Resistance from the Regent’s leftover filth. Fucking brilliant.” 

Innocently enough, Damen noted, “Going back sooner would have eliminated that.” 

“Just what I wanted to hear, Damianos,” Laurent said, voice like the edge of a knife. “Thank you for your helpful counsel.” 

“Laurent, I didn’t mean—” Damen started, then stopped, closing his mouth with an internally audible clack of teeth. He took a deep breath, blew it out. “I only meant that Vere needs to see its King. They’ll settle as soon as you enter the city.” 

“Do you want me to go so badly?” Laurent asked. “If it will help, you can say it. Let us not pretend I haven’t been worrying you mad.” 

“You haven’t,” Damen fibbed. 

He had, at times, but only regarding certain things. Being fussed over had never been something Damen was particularly keen on.

Damen said, “You’re the best part of every day I live.” 

The former did not make the latter untrue. Their stolen moments were the only thing that kept Damen holding himself together. The source of his foul mood wasn’t Laurent; his concern came from a place of love, Damen knew well enough. It was the circumstances, a result of sadness and lethargy and days and days of complete uselessness that Damen was unaccustomed to and despised to his core. It wasn’t fair to lay his frustrations on Laurent simply because he had nowhere else to aim them, but it’s what he had done. 

“Am I?” Laurent asked, the prick self-deprecation clear and sharp. “You haven’t even pretended you want me to stay to spare my feelings.” 

Laurent was talking nonsense. Damen ached to erase the doubt in his voice. He went to him, yielding before crossing completely into Laurent’s space where he sat at his table. It was clear when Damen needed to tread more carefully, when Laurent’s defenses were momentarily raised. Damen fancied himself safely inside them, not out in the cold. Still, he waited, until a nearly-imperceptible nod and a softening of eyes gave him the permission he sought. 

He slid Laurent’s chair away from the table to better get at him, kneeling in front of him on the floor. Laurent looked at him as though he might break during the mere act of kneeling, but thankfully, held his tongue. 

“Laurent, I don’t want you to go,” Damen explained. “These cuffs on our wrists?” He held Laurent’s hand in one of his, and with the other, let his fingers trail across gold. “Everything they stand for, I want. You, I want. But I don’t want you to stay here to the detriment of Vere because you think I need to be watched like an invalid. I am fi—” 

“Don’t. Don’t say you’re fine,” Laurent stopped him. “You’ve said that since the moment you very nearly bled to death under my hand, through every complication. Are you so stubborn you cannot see you’re the least reliable regarding your own condition? Your physical state is not my only concern—” Laurent took his face in both hands, his touch gentle as he leaned forward to press his lips to Damen’s forehead, murmuring, “You’ve not been yourself, Damianos. I’m worried about your mind, your spirit.” 

Damen clutched Laurent’s wrists, letting out a ragged breath. The whole truth spoken aloud unsettled him to the bone, made everything he fought to bury swell up inside, threatening to burst through his skin. His voice was strained, on the verge of disproportionate emotion, “It’s not you, Laurent. I swear it. It’s me. I’m—”

Broken.

He thought he had been managing, that the moments of shared happiness between them would disguise the torment in his heart. 

Laurent cradled Damen’s head to his chest, and Damen’s arms found their way around him. 

“You’re grieving, Damen. Your opportunity was stolen from you after your father was killed. It’s perfectly normal to need that time now, after everything. When Auguste died, I—” Damen sensed Laurent hit a wall and bear through it in the next breath. “It took months for the agony to subside enough that I felt I could breathe again.” 

It only added to Damen’s guilt. 

“Your brother was good, Laurent—” And I took him from you, Damen thought. “Mine tried to kill me more times than I’m likely aware of to accurately count. And my father— You hated my father. He was a ruthless conqueror, and I worshipped him in blissful ignorance.” 

“My opinions about Theomedes are irrelevant. He was your father, your only living parent, your King,” Laurent listed, pressing a kiss to his hair, then another. “What you feel is acceptable, no matter how conflicting…There’s no proper strategy in mourning, my love, but you do not have to do it alone in silence. I am here.” 

Damen felt his cheeks wet with tears he hadn’t known were trickling free. He buried his face in Laurent’s chest, a choked sob escaping with his words. “It’s impossible to be here, Laurent. Everywhere I look, I see them. I feel like—”

An imposter. 

Laurent was the last person who needed to hear that from him. Damen had been groomed for kingship his entire life and felt fraudulent when faced with it now amidst his sadness, particularly having evolved so drastically from who he last was in Ios. Even so, he couldn’t fathom having it thrust upon him as a boy as Laurent did, his grief unimaginable and obstacles unnumbered, the unspeakable abuse he endured. 

“Tell me,” Laurent coaxed, his fingers moving in soothing strokes against his scalp. “Let me inside this head of yours.” 

A deep, steadying breath. 

“There are times I feel Ios doesn’t belong to me. It’s as though my father’s still here, alive in every hall and chamber. I’m so far from the Prince Akielos once knew,” Damen confessed. 

Laurent lifted Damen’s head to meet his eyes, delicately wiping beneath them with his thumbs. His smile was soft, compassionate. His eyes shone with love Damen felt unworthy of receiving. 

“Damianos, my King,” Laurent said, with a reverence in his voice that throbbed in Damen’s chest and ached through his ribs. “You are twice the leader and ten times the man your father and brother were. Not all change is unwelcome. If you stepped onto the balcony now, Ios would chant your name in the streets. Not your father’s. Not Kastor’s. They adore you. I adore you. Your effortless confidence, the power you hold in your body and words… I aspire to it. Your brother played at ruling. You were born to it. Akielos is yours. These ghosts won’t haunt you forever.” 

His words were fleeting warmth wrapped around Damen’s body. He longed to feel it deeper, for them to speak to something solid inside him and hold.

“You’re kinder than I deserve,” Damen said. Then, eager to shift the conversation away from himself, split open as he was, he returned, “It was born in you, too. You’re brilliant, Laurent. I’ve never known a mind like yours. Arles will receive you with open arms, whenever you choose to return. I’ve seen how your people look at you.” 

They had lined the streets of every town in Vere, ecstatic to catch a mere glimpse of Laurent as he rode through on their journey to Akielos. If there was residual unrest in the capital due to the Regent, Damen imagined the faction was small. 

“If it hasn’t been ripped apart brick by brick before I arrive,” Laurent mused, with an exaggerated sigh. He caressed Damen’s face from brow to jaw. “You look exhausted. Let’s have a hot bath, shall we? Wait for me in your chambers, and I’ll attend you? I have one thing left to do here.”

Damen nodded. That did sound nice. 

He shifted to stand, pausing to kiss Laurent on his way. His breath caught, lips trembling as the kiss deepened. His emotions were all out of sorts. Nothing meant more to him than making Laurent happy, merging their lives into one as Damen felt bound to him. He wished to feel better, and he wished to do it beside Laurent. 

“Thank you, Laurent… Hurry to me,” Damen said, and because it was all he could muster while keeping his composure, he hoped it conveyed everything he meant.

+

[THE REST IS HERE]

[aquilaofarkham]

title: the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun rating: T+  word count: 3,015 summary: Trevor and Sypha never thought that vampires—even half vampires—could ever get sick but when Alucard succumbs to a fever during a rainstorm, they discover that there’s still much to learn about their friend. 

For @kamek 💛 Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

“You’ve been coughing for an hour.”

It hasn’t actually been an hour; or has it? It feels that way. Time flows differently when it rains as a constant, all-consuming mist. Things seem to go on for much longer than they really should. The annoyed hunter and his equally annoyed companion could have been working on their wagon’s broken wheel for as long as he just suggested, or a mere ten horrid minutes could have passed instead. Who can say in such miserable circumstances.

“You exaggerate.”

Alucard’s voice comes out not as smooth, dulcet tones but as a hoarse, ugly rasp. Rather than the words themselves, he coughs them out half-formed and pained. Trevor wishes he were in a better mood so that he could jest and say he sounds like his late grandmother whenever she smoked strong tobacco in her curved pipe. Instead they work in frustrated silence, not one inch of their bodies dry. At least Trevor does what he can to cover himself; Alucard doesn’t seem to care that his good coat and gloves with their gold embellishments are both ruined beyond repair. Nor does he notice how his long strands of hair stick against his forehead then tumble down his face like soaked rags.

A hooded figure in blue sits at the front of the wagon keeping a watchful eye on the road, though there isn’t much to be seen. Not long ago, she used to wait in anticipation for whatever creatures might mistake their caravans as an easy dinner consisting of one distressed damsel and her two manservants. A few steps closer then flames would fly, the blade of a needle sharp sword would sing, and Trevor would forgo his whip in favour of fists just for the challenge of it all.

Today she waits for the rain to stop and for the boys to stop fiddling with that damn wheel before one of them breaks a finger. They’ll survive one night with their transport incapacitated.

Sypha curls in on herself, using her robes as both dry shelter and a warm blanket; a way of giving herself momentary comfort. This personal method feels more familiar to her than the two men working tirelessly (and fruitlessly) behind her do. Most times it’s a failed effort, which is why Sypha has always preferred the company of others so that she doesn’t have to shoulder a sense, or rather, the responsibility of loneliness.

Alucard likes to be alone sometimes; Trevor is overly familiar with it as well. He grew up with loneliness like it was a childhood friend. Sypha can’t stand to be alone. It’s not in her nature nor in her blood.

Rain always makes her mind wander, often to places she would rather it stay away from. To distract herself from those sorts of thoughts, she tries listening to whatever Trevor and Alucard are saying to each other. Perhaps some of their usual banter or one upmanship they’ve become masters of. What she hears does nothing to ease her concerns. Trevor’s is the only voice she can make out clearly. Alucard barely sounds human.

“Keep… keep holding up… the wagon, you…” Every other word is interlaced with a chorus of dry coughs into his elbow. Trevor doesn’t want to know what comes after that “you” and Alucard has no energy to tell him.

“Fuck the wagon and the wheel. You need to drink something.”

“Why don’t you… give me a drink… from you…” Alucard keeps an arm over his mouth while his other hand steadies himself against the canvas covering. By drink, Trevor assumes he meant his blood, but Alucard’s worsening state already ruined any levity of his poorly executed quip. He watches how his friend sways from all sides, his head lobbing around as though it were a boulder attached to his neck. If Alucard weren’t coughing or paler than ever, he might be mistaken for a drunk.

And if Trevor were the same man he was mere months ago, he might feel some sick pleasure in seeing the sulky half-vampire prince like this—but that was then. A time he doesn’t look back upon fondly.

“Let’s get you inside.” He lets go of the wagon before it leaves any more splinters in his skin and places them on something he’d much rather hold instead.

“Let me go… we need to… fix and go…”

“You need to shut up before you run your throat raw and bloodied.” For once, Alucard is rather complacent in Trevor’s arms (he has no energy to struggle against him otherwise). Are half blooded vampires usually this warm? No, Trevor tells himself. This sort of warmth burns and hurts. As he helps Alucard into the wagon, Sypha joins them.

“What’s wrong? Did he injure himself?” Once inside, they remove their hoods and clear an area for a makeshift bed. Hay and blankets may seem beneath the Tepes prince but for Trevor and Sypha, they are luxury items.

“No. Stubborn ass just got himself sick. Probably from all that cold and rain.”

“I never thought that could happen to him of all people.” Sypha’s comment is one of both curious surprise and genuine worry.

“Well, we learn something new everyday.”

“Are we near any villages?”

“Not for miles.” Trevor isn’t even sure if he wants to leave Alucard in the care of a normal Wallachian healer. Too many risks, too many possibilities that he might leave this world the same way his mother did. “Can’t you perform a healing spell or something?”

“My magic can only manipulate elements like fire and water, not the human body.” Without thinking (and perhaps knowing), Sypha picks at the scars on her right bicep, healed by her own flames. “If I were a scholar of that kind of magic, I would be invincible and there’s no fun in that.”

“Garlic…” A weak voice interrupts. Trevor and Sypha turn their attention downwards at Alucard, eyes shut, struggling against the resistance of his own worn throat. “Get… garlic… echin… cea…”

“What was that last thing?”

“Ech… what?”

“Flower… purple petals…”

Deciphering Alucard’s request comes easier to Sypha than to Trevor. “Echinacea! It’s a flower that can be used for medicine. If we mix it with the garlic in a broth, it might help him.” Before Yrevor can come up with a cynical response regarding the lack of garlic and echinacea with the rest of their dwindling supplies, Sypha has her hood raised and a basket in hand. “I’ll go look for some in the woods.”

“Will you be alright out there?” Trevor glances through the canvas slit leading outside; the skies went dark minutes ago and the rain has picked up.

“Of course! You look after Alucard, I will be back shortly.” A quick kiss on Trevor’s cheek and a light caress across Alucard’s burning forehead before they lose Sypha to the outside world. The optimism in her eyes, the same kind that matches her tone, used to be so infectious. But Trevor is too distracted by the heavy drops of rain battering down upon their meager shelter.

--

Alucard’s breathing doesn’t occur naturally; what little air there is in his lungs forces its way out through trembling colourless lips. More strained whimpers than breaths. Like Sypha, Trevor never believed it was possible for him to be in such a weakened state he can barely lift his head. His eyes are shut tightly but he cannot sleep. Every time Trevor lowers a cloth, wiping away as much sweat as he can from his forehead and cheeks, he can feel Alucard’s unbearable warmth. It seems no amount of cold rainwater collected in a bucket will help bring him respite.

“Come on.” Trevor says, wringing out the cloth before repeating the same process, the only thing he can do for now. “You survived Dracula twice. A little cough isn’t gonna be the end of you.”

Alucard always has something to say, always some witty repartee or equally sarcastic remark. Never before has the sulky, brattish, beautiful half-vampire left Trevor in absolute silence. If it’s not through spoken words then it’s through gestures; a smile coupled with a raised middle finger that’s not to be taken seriously. Never before until now.

“You’ll be fine you dramatic bastard.”

None of this seems right, not to Trevor at least. Vampires never feel sick; they never feel anything according to the family bestiary. Only the agony of fire and consecrated steel among others. That side of Alucard’s heritage should offer him some protection against nature’s uglier natural causes. We learn something new everyday. This unwelcome discovery concerning their companion weighs heavy on Trevor’s confidence and fragile optimism. It’s not long before they’re both killed outright despite his best efforts.

“Sorry. I know this isn’t your fault. None of this is.”

On the surface, Trevor apologizes for nothing. Yet still, he knows he must acknowledge what’s underneath. Everything from the mounting frustration over that broken wheel, the worry he feels regarding Sypha’s whereabouts, and the misplaced anger that someone as strong as Alucard could succumb to something so stupidly human. Saying it all while Alucard is more delirious than a nun who has just found rapture might be cheating, but at least he can say it.

“I’m not good at this sort of thing. For as long as I can remember, I had to take care of myself and... it was always rough love with me. No one cares that you’re hurt or if you feel like shit, get up and keep moving. Probably not the best approach. To be honest, I panicked a little when Sypha told me to look after you.” Another pause and Trevor wipes his forehead again, only with more tenderness.

“I’ll do my best to treat you better than how I treated myself.”

Alucard stirs, shifting his head away from the damp cloth. Trevor backs off with the fear that he heard every single ramble he should have kept locked away in his closely guarded heart. A few strenuous groans later and he finally speaks.

“Blanket… Lisa gave me… water…”

Trevor discerns three words: blanket, Lisa, and water. He can give Alucard two of those; the third one might be harder. Scrambling from one corner of the wagon to the next, Trevor covers him with a second blanket and guides his mouth towards the opening of a leather water canteen.

“Come on, one more sip. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Sypha will be back soon and you’ll be right as rain.” They’re not lies persay, but Trevor still cannot say them with certainty. Before he has the chance to give him more, Alucard interrupts.

“Miss her… so much. No time… I never said… goodbye I never… said… thank you. For every… thing.”

Alucard’s eyes close even tighter along with his lips, as though desperate to hold something back. Something he’ll never let anyone see. Trevor places a tentative hand on his matted hair, drenched in sweat. A gesture of empathy or he knows what it feels like to never say goodbye to those gone from your life as well.

“Sleep. Just sleep.” A tall order to ask of him.

--

Sypha once read a book she found in the annals of the Belmont archive; a series of poems collected into a singular narrative originally written in Italian. She managed through the introductory cantos before pulling herself away from the temptation of distraction. There wasn’t much to remember from what little she read save for the first few lines.

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself within a forest dark

For the straightforward past had been lost

As Sypha continues further into the woods, basket empty and soaked down to her bones, those lyrics prode at her thoughts like devilish taunts. She’s not lost, but she must admit that her trek through mud and prickly bushes has gone on for longer than she hoped for. Not even the poor little light emanating between her index and pinky finger is enough to withstand the downpour of rain along with the darkness of night.

Another outsticking root catches Sypha’s root, causing her to stumble forward. Though it doesn’t show on her face, her mind flies into a rage. How fucking hard can it be to find some fucking common plants in the middle of the fucking forest? If Trevor or Alucard ever heard her say that, they would be shocked into silence. Yes, she can explode a vampire’s internal organs into flames but god forbid she curse as much as her two boys do.

Sypha stops to catch her breath and refocus her thoughts. Anger is good, anger helps push her forward. It’s been with her since childhood, helping her survive, but this anger is directed at nothing. All it does is exhaust her more than the rain. It won’t make her dryer, it won’t clear a path through the dense foliage, and it certainly won’t make wild garlic and echinacea flowers magically appear in her hands. Sypha has to do that herself.

The light between her fingertips begins to fade but only because Sypha’s attention is somewhere else. She looks ahead and sees the same sort of light amongst the trees, dim yet noticeable against the monsoon. They float off the ground as graceful little flames of blue and form a path where there was none before. There they stay, patient, waiting for somehow to follow.

Sypha is very much aware of these tiny creatures. They have many names ranging from fairy lights to wil-o-wisps; frivolous, unassuming names that mask their true motives. How they lure lost travelers to their death for they too are the remaining souls of those who met their ends in nature’s grasp. A bedtime story meant to warn children about walking alone in the woods, but like most Wallachian stories, it holds true.

Sypha takes her first step along their path. She may regret this in the worst way but what else is there to do. The thought of Trevor and Alucard (Alucard especially) propels her, even if she is putting her fate in the hands of dead spirits.

A few more twigs and branches scrape at her wet cheeks. One foot begins to cramp up, causing a limp in her step, and yet she follows the lights nonetheless. At least she isn’t dead yet.

Sypha won’t die; not tonight. Upon reaching the end of the pathway, she finds herself surrounded by the very things she needs so desperately. For the first time, and what might be the only time, she’s grateful for Wallachia’s creatures.

--

Dreams, memories, and hallucinations all mean the same to Alucard. They meld together until he can no longer differentiate between reality and whatever his mind conjures up. He thinks he’ll stay in this one at the moment, for it’s a happy moment this time. Where everyone called him Adrian, not yet Alucard. Warm underneath a quilted blanket made by his mother and father, sheltered by the walls of his sanctuary.

A woman with the same golden hair as his leans over him and removes a stick-like device from his mouth. She examines it with a furrowed brow before placing something soft next to his head: a hand sewn wolf doll stuffed of downy feathers with glass eyes and a leather nose. “It’s a good day to stay in bed.” The woman tells him, rubbing his hot forehead with her soft hand. She smiles; always smiling in his memories of childhood.

After tucking him in and disappearing for only a moment, she returns holding a steaming bowl. Alucard does his best to sit up while the woman guides a spoonful of soup into his mouth then another. It tastes of garlic and fresh herbs; it tastes of a home that once was and might never be again.

“I think he’s coming to…”

The scene of Alucard’s bedroom fades as his heavy eyelids force themselves open. Sounds of steady rain tapping against stretched canvas fills his ears, mingled with two faint yet recognizable voices. His lips feel warm and there’s a strong aftertaste lingering on his tongue. Was it really just a wishful dream?

Another surge of watery garlic and herbs enters through his mouth, slowly and carefully, while a rough hand helps prop his head up. Without thinking too much about it, Alucard assumes the one feeding him hot broth is Sypha and the one holding him is Trevor. His train of muddled, foggy thought suddenly changes when he realizes that Sypha has returned. She was successful and they are all together. They are all safe.

“Don’t you worry, Al. We’ve got enough garlic and flowers to last us for days.” Trevor chuckles at the nickname he will no doubt force upon Alucard in the near future. “How in the hell did you find so much anyway?”

Sypha tells a little white lie. Neither of them need to concern themselves over the possibility of dead souls roaming the very forest that surrounds their wagon. “I must have gotten lucky.”

“Who mixed the soup?” Alucard asks, his voice much clearer.

“Trevor did.”

“... I can tell.”

Trevor’s grin is wiped clean off his face along with any sense of smugness. He and Sypha switch places with her assisting Alucard and him in charge of the stew. “I hope for your sake you meant that as a compliment.”

Alucard won’t say. But he does manage a smile of his own as he’s fed a few more hearty spoonfuls. He doesn’t grimace or spit it back out; a good enough sign.

“Now sleep for god’s sake.”

Alucard thanks both of them, though it comes out as a tired mumble before his eyes close and his still pale face relaxes. Trevor and Sypha stare at him before turning towards each other, nevertheless feeling a joined sense of relief. They watch over Alucard for a while longer, huddled together for warmth, weary yet calm expressions basked in shadows caused by the one lantern they managed to hang above them. Oddly soothed by the now gentler rain.

No one dares mention the broken wheel.

[whumping-every-day]

BDHB: Stress Position

Who else remembers that I had a bingo card? Yeah, me neither! This is Stress Position for Ash, set about three months after his initial capture. 

ALSO! The absolutely amazing @gimmethatsweetwhump has made art for this prompt! I am so grateful for the constant support, my deepest and most humble thanks!

Content Warnings: Blood, some gore(?), dehumanization, torture, humiliation, force feeding via tube, stress position, brief vomit mention. 

- 

They leave him strung up in the sun till his eyes have gone black and he’s nothing more than a quivering lump of flesh. They don’t even have to touch him; the sun burns, and he writhes and screams and gurgles, and it doesn’t stop, and somewhere along the line he forgets things like kindness and gentleness and his own goddamn name.

When it stops, at first he thinks it’s a mercy.

They drag him inside and they leave him, and he lies there and floats. Pain has an element of blank; when it hurts like this, there is no thought of anything else. He doesn’t remember what he’s done wrong, doesn’t remember how he’d got there.

At one point, one of the hunters comes in and yanks his head up by the hair; there’s a tube shoved into his mouth, then further, further – the vampire chokes and struggles as the thick tube is forced down his throat. His eyes are wide, unseeing, as something cold and viscous is poured into the attached funnel. It trickles into his stomach, thick and foreign, and he jerks helplessly against the hands holding him down.

His skin heals faster after that; soon enough it’s in one piece again, still black and blistered in places, but whole.

That’s when they come back for him.

He panics when the doors open, and he screams and thrashes and begs when they haul him up. But no amount of begging or bargaining makes an affect. They yank his head back, and a big, gloved hand grips his jaw. He hisses and whimpers, and the hand squeezes enough to make his jaw creak.

Then something cool touches the side of his cheek. The vampire thrashes uselessly, and someone else grips his hair. A multitude of hands force him down to his knees, hold him still. The object is cold and sharp against his cheek, a pinprick of pain beyond the greater whole. The hand grips tighter, and the vampire’s jaw opens to avoid letting it break.

Then the sharp thing is shoved inside.

Blood spurts in the creature’s mouth, and he gags on it, letting out a terrified scream. The pain is blinding; his eyes are watering as they keep pushing, and he keeps screaming. He feels the give of it when the metal bar pierces through his cheek.

In the end he’s sobbing, spitting up blood and still trying to beg. The hands on him change, positions changing, and then it’s the other side. His eyes go wide, and he redoubles his efforts to struggle – but he’s too hurt.

The metal is pushed clean through his other cheek, and he hears someone laugh as he cries.

“There, there, good. Now bring the bit-”

The metal is yanked out of his flesh, and a fresh wave of blood comes pouring out. The creature is left bent double with holes in his face, wheezing in agony.

Then he’s pulled up again by the hair.

The first sizzle of iron makes his vision white out. The vampire howls, and the hand gripping his chin holds him still effortlessly while they slowly, inexorably push the iron bit through his cheek. It burns as it goes, and then it burns his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and the vampire convulses with it.

He has no tears left to cry, but he sobs anyway.

The iron bit singes his cheek from the inside, and then it’s all the way through, sitting just over his molars.

The pain doesn’t stop when the movement does. Once it’s in place the bit immediately sears into his flesh, and it hisses and sizzles beneath the creature’s panicked wailing.

“Puu-puu-eazzze-“” He’s begging and gasping around the bit, and the men only laugh at him. “P-p-eeaze, taaake – take i’ ooud-”

“Aww, look at that,” one of them coos. “It thinks it can beg.”

Hopelessness and agony wash over the creature in equal measures. Trying to beg only burns his tongue, but the excruciating pain from his cheeks doesn’t stop.

It’s – it’s not stopping.

Every second is worse than the last, and when the hand gripping its – his – jaw releases, the vampire thrashes his head, falling into the dirt and screaming as he tries to dislodge it.

It doesn’t come loose. It’s stuck there, inside of him, burning him from the inside out.

His face is grabbed again, then, and one of the hunters bends down to tie something to the bloody metal sticking out from his cheeks.

Then the man stands, and he’s holding strings that lead to the vampire’s mouth. The hunter laughs, and then he pulls, and the vampire screams so loud and hard he nearly blacks out.

They lead him around the room by it, laughing and kicking at him as he crawls. There’s no escaping the agony, but then it pulls it tears, and there’s blood mixed with saliva dripping to the floor. At one point one of them steps on his back, pins him to the floor, and yanks the strings attached to the bit backwards. He sobs and gags as his head is pulled back, neck straining with the movement.

“Eh, someone grab the chain,” someone calls, and the leash attached to the collar is grabbed. The vampire wheezes in terror, eyes sliding blindly from one cruel, frightening face to the next. None of the men look unique anymore; they all act the same.

The bit is pulled up, and he cries and tries to follow the pressure. It brings him to his knees, then up, further – up to his feet.

“Bring it here.” He’s led by the head, like an animal, and the vampire stumbles along blindly, blood still dribbling down his cheeks. The building they’re in has rafters, and a stall, like it was formerly used for livestock. The ropes attached to the bit get thrown over a low-lying wooden beam, and then they are yanked taught.

The vampire screams raggedly at the pressure.

“Turn it, there you go – c’mon, you fucking animal, move.” He’s kicked in the knee, and the vampire sobs, collapses halfway – the ropes pull tight, and the iron pulls against bloody flesh, and the creature gurgles and seizes with it.

In the end, they leave him standing. The bit pulls his head up and back, so he can’t fall to his knees, and someone takes the chain connected to the collar and pulls it tight. The chain is bolted to the floor on the opposite side of the room, and then they yank his arms up behind him and clamp iron shackles around his wrists.

It hurts. The vampire had thought that nothing could ever hurt as much as the sun, and he’d been right. But this – this hurts in a different way. The bit sizzles in his cheeks, and he moans his anguish helplessly as blood trickles to the floor. If he pulls back to relieve his cheeks, the collar cinches up tight around his throat and he can’t breathe. If he pulls forward – the vampire is afraid to find out what would happen if he did that.

The hunters stay and watch, for a while. Some of them make a game of it; one laughs and plucks at the strings connected the bit, delighting in the agonized, panicky whimpers. Another grips the chain and pulls it tight, and he only watches with intent as the vampire chokes.

They all cycle through, after that. The doors to the building are propped open, and the hunters spend the rest of the day milling in and out, laughing at its suffering. 

Hours trickle by, and every second is torment. He begs through the bit, he sobs and cries and pleads for mercy. But there is nothing, no reprieve, and when he screams too loudly he gets a harsh backhand across the face. The motion sends agony spiking through his cheeks, and his vision greys out for a second.

Soon, his knees start to weaken, and through his misery, the vampire understands.

They leave him like that, strung up from the bit through his cheeks, choking and bleeding. The night drags on, until the silence starts to sound like voices and the blackness is in color.

He knows he has to stay awake. If he falls, if he collapses, the bit will tear through the rest of his cheek. But the first time his knees buckle, it’s still a shocking wave of agony.

When morning comes, it’s to the sight of the vampire broken and hollow-eyed, blood crusting at the edges of his mouth, around the ends of the bit.

His knees shake with the effort of holding himself up.

He begs with his eyes when the first hunters arise, hoping desperately that surely, surely one night was enough –

But they don’t let him down. Instead they ignore him, and the vampire starts sobbing afresh when it becomes clear that there will be no relief.

He manages to stay awake for a second day, hanging on by a thread. But he’s already weak, already hurting – and the bit is impossibly tight, and his cheeks are a mess of charred flesh and open, weeping burns, and he’s senseless with it. There is no getting away from the constant pressure, no matter how he twists and whines and pushes up on the balls of his feet.

When his knees give out the first time, it jolts him back into wakefulness. There’s a searing agony in his face, and the vampire’s eyes fly open, a strangled shout slipping past its lips. For a horrible moment, its weight rests on the bit, and the bit catches tight and pulls upwards and back, towards his ears.

He screams for a long time. The bit has bitten through new flesh, sending fresh waves of blood down his cheeks. He retches, gags, thrashes in place, and none of it changes.

It happens in stages, after that. When night falls, and the hunters return from their daily duties, they spend some time in a loose circle around it, laying brutal kicks and punches against his unprotected stomach. At one point the vampire heaves and vomits up blood, craning his neck back to relieve the pressure on the bit.

That night, the creature wishes for death. Its agonized moans have long since tapered off; now it only hangs there, and it whimpers only when the muscles in his legs and feet seize.

It’s pitch black when they close the door and leave him there. It’s hard to balance in the dark, with every inch of his body battered and broken. He blinks, tries to keep his eyes open – but every once in a while he’ll start to sway, or list to one side, and the bit yanks taught and he screws his eyes shut and cries.

Eventually, his legs give out. The collar cinches tight around his neck, and the bit drives into the roof of his mouth, and the vampire gurgles and howls in anguish as his feet scuff the ground. No one comes to help.

In the end, they leave him there for three more days. His face is maimed beyond recognition, and the creature’s eyes go dull and flat, unseeing as it lists against the bit and the chains.

Its front is drenched in blood and saliva and bile, and the smell is rancid.

When the hunters finally cut the ropes and allow it to collapse onto the dirty floor, there’s no one home behind the vampire’s eyes. He screams raggedly at the change in position, but there is no further reaction. Then they haul him back out into the morning light, to be put back on display in the village square.

That feels like a mercy too, at first, hanging somewhere with no iron biting into his mouth. But then the sun crests the rosy-pink horizon, and the vampire remembers.

He can only sob and quiver as the passing villagers slow to watch the show, and the run rises, and everything is the same.

--

@wildfaewhump @pepperonyscience @robinshouseofwhump @angelsuperwholock @pennsss  @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius @learningtowhump @shameless-whumper @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump @what-huh-imconfused @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic  @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whump-em  @umniyah-s  @adventuresofacreesty  @scarheart @kyra-plays @lionhxartx @blue-flare10 @whumpywhumper @doityourselfbombs  @pastry-case @maybeawhumpblog @httyd-chocolate  @maqcyloup @yyyee-haw @to-hurt-and-comfort @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @manip-loki @dungeons-and-dragons-and-whump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @ariirenn @poetofswords86 @whumpity--whump--whump @swagjudgehandsdragon @machimaquiaveli @theladyoffangorn @oracle-of-maybe @cuddlycryptid @the-potato-beeper @insanitycheshire @slam-whump @sweeterthanadonut @ffaerie-dustt @whump-in-the-night @elfo8792 @kinda-bad-poet @crackedskel @deluxewhump @this-zombie-will-eat-you  @a-moment-to-write​ @stoic-whumpee​ @paradigmparadoxical​ @burtlederp​

[dearlazerbunny]

Ignite (Redux); Ch. 3 of 5ish

Pairings: Kylo x Reader

Genre/Ratings: T for intensely injured reader

Words: 2700

Summary: After an accident aboard Starkiller Base, someone unexpected proves invaluable.

This is a rewrite of Ignite, which I published two-ish years ago. Same story, incredibly expanded upon. Enjoy!

Requested Tags: @jellyfishpoptart, @starfishfaerie, @swagaliciouspupper, @jessiejunebug, @irrelevantbutembarrassing, @drawlfoy, @sunflowershine-s, @ben-plus-rey, @ucy161

Burning. Scorching. Writhing. You’re a wraith consumed by flames, ashes decorating your body like the tattoos of ancient tribes on planets unknown. You rise, and something screams- you don’t know what, but it sounds melodic and desperate and something like fear

You heave yourself awake, hands clenched around your blankets like you might rip the fabric to shreds. Every deep breath tugs at the bandages wrapping your chest and torso; the discomfort of the wounds compounded by restriction and sweat and heat. Two weeks have passed since your release from medical; despite swallowing pills by the bottleful, bathing in thick creams that do nothing to quench the dry scorch rolling though your body, and daily trips to medbay, nothing seems to be getting better. If anything, they’re getting worse.

The pain is constant, even in your sleep. Your joints feel as though they’re made of stone. Comfort is a thing of the past. You haven’t worked up the courage to tend to your bandages yourself, so you had yourself to the nurses on the daily and have them do it for you. Their hands are much more careful than yours would be, and their faces mercifully impassive. They can look at you with a neutrality that you can’t muster even after an hour of staring in the mirror.

You wonder if you’ll ever get used to this new body. This new you. The alien you.

The crackling of the comm above your bunk startles you out of your half-lucid thoughts, sending sparks through your nerves. Do you answer? You know you’ve been marked in the system as on medical leave- no one’s let you so much as pick up a wrench or get within ten feet of a circuitry panel. It’s maddening, but secretly you don’t know if your wrecked hands would even be capable of the dexterity your job requires. “This is Y/L/N. Go ahead.” You try to keep the strain out of your voice.

“Y/N Y/L/N has been requested, effectively immediately.”

“Request to defer.” You’re exhausted, in pain, and due for yet another round of medication in- you glance at the clock- under an hour. Normally you’d never defer a request- if a senior mechanic is being called upon, something is seriously wrong- but currently it doesn’t look as though you’ll be able to put on a proper shirt, much less service whatever’s fallen apart. The doctor said you’re on one of their do-not-call lists, so this is probably just a mistake…?

“Negative. Y/N Y/L/N was requested specifically; medical override. Your presence is required as soon as possible.”

Motherfucking bantha shit- “Message received. Please stand by.”

Okay. How are you going to do this?

Putting on actual pants is a no; you can’t do up the buttons or zippers. Your hair stays in a messy ponytail only barely kept out of your eyes. A plain tank hugs your body and separates the bandages wrapping your back from the rest of the world, but does nothing to hide the bulkiness of the gauze- you grab a shirt you borrowed from your friend who’s at least three sizes bigger than you. It’s roomy enough to slide over your hips so you can avoid raising your shoulders, and though it hangs off you like a tunic, it ensures there’s nothing to rub against irritated skin.

One, two, three- you grit your teeth as your heels hit the floor, sending a jarring jolt all the way up your spine. Your nerves burn, your cheeks flush. Shoes, shoes… yeah, that’s a hopeless case. Eventually you just slide your feet into them and tuck the loose laces into the side.

You grab your tool belt, wincing slightly at its weight, and belt it at the loosest possible loop so it hangs precariously off your hips and avoids your owner back. You look a right mess, and no respectable First Order officer would ever go out looking how you do now- but if someone on their high horse is going to call you off of goddamn medical leave, then they’ll take what they’re gonna get.

You can practically feel the pity radiating off the troopers who were sent to fetch you. Their masks are expressionless, but you can see the one to the left tilt his head a bit as he takes in you and all your patheticness. “Lead the way,” you say gruffly, not in the mood for questions or anything even remotely resembling sympathy.

They start out at a pace that would make you hustle on the best of days; now, it’s basically impossible to keep up. Your bruised pride won’t let you speak up and tell them to slow the hell down, so they only notice you’re not right behind them once they’re three corridors away. They double back and find you with a grimace contorted across your face, trying desperately not to look as frustrated as you feel. You amble behind them as best you can- it isn’t agony, yet, but the pain is slowly ratcheting up in increments with every step you take, and you really just want whatever goose chase this is to be over with so you can go back to silently screaming into your pillow.

It’s early, so thought the base never sleeps there, are at least slightly fewer people walking by to stare at you. Gradually, you recognize the sector your escorts are shuffling you towards- command’s private quarters. Figures. Only command would have a high enough clearance to override medical leave, and also they’re big enough dicks to not care enough in the first place. You probably got dragged out of your bunk just to tell someone to turn their datapad off and on again, never mind the fact that that is not your department and someone in goddamn command should be able to figure that out for themselves- the thought practically makes you livid, and gives you enough strength to go up to the door you’re dropped in off at and bang your fist against the metal. “Engineering!”

Your voice echoes through the empty hallway and prompts absolutely no response from said door in front of you. Shit, that hurt. You put pressure onto the side of your fist with your other hand, tears nearly springing to your eyes. “Engineering!” I did not drag my ass out of bed in enough pain to make Captain Phasma take a day off for you to not be home! “Hello?”

Miraculously, the door finally retracts and grants you entrance to a room entirely shrouded in dark. There’s no one there to greet you. Cautiously, you take a few steps inside, letting your fingers trail against the wall beside you to give you some sense of direction. “Um. Hello? You requested Y/N Y/L/N from engineering?” Your eyes adjust with the help of starlight streaming through an unshaded port. It’s huge- large enough to be installed on one of the observation decks rather than personal quarters- and gives you an impressive view of the atmosphere beyond. You aren’t sure if it’s comforting or unsettling.

The room itself is almost bare- no décor or knickknacks or personal items, just a single bed centered on the far wall. Someone- or something- is curled up amongst its sheets, shifting almost imperceptibly here and there. “Hello? Sir? Or- ma’am? You requested me?”

“Yes.”

Sir, then. His voice is so low and hoarse you can barely understand him. Briefly, you wonder if you should ask if he’s okay, or if you should call medical- then you realize you’re the one who should be going to medical right about now, and he’s the one who couldn’t call anyone else to fix his problem, and then you get impatient again. “Do you have something that needs to be fixed, then?”

All at once, the man sits up, dark eyes glinting and hands frantically combing through unruly hair. “You.”

That’s… not what you were expecting. Even though you can’t hardly make out his features, you can feel the intensity of his gaze practically burning through you. In other circumstances, you’d try to be a little more polite to someone who so obviously outranks you, but in your current state all you manage is an unintelligent “…huh?”

“You. You need to be fixed- how can you stand it, it feels like I’m dying and it doesn’t stop-” his rant propels him forwards just a bit, enough to where you can begin to see his face: angular, sharp nose and jawline, cheekbones that practically reflect the light. His eyes are haunted and exhausted, pleading with you to give him answers when you don’t even know what the question is.

“I’m sorry? I- I don’t understand. Do you need medical?”

He puts a careful hand on his chest, near the intersection of his shoulder- right where one particular hotspot is causing you a tricky amount of pain. “I can hear you- screaming in your sleep. I can feel it.”

What the fuck?

“I’m in your head, and I can’t. Get. Out.” He grits his teeth and presses his fingers to his temple, like he’s trying to keep his skull from splitting apart. Your heartbeat quickens, unsure what sort of madman’s ravings you’ve just walked into. You start to back towards the exit. “You’re crying, even now. The bandages are suffocating you.”

And that stops you. Because they are suffocating you- they feel like a vice wrapped around your middle, constantly limiting your air as though you’re caught in a downpour. Something in this man’s voice- how desperate it is, how it sounds like he’s a frayed rope about to snap- makes you unequivocally believe that what you’re feeling right now; he feels it too.

But how the hell is that even possible? “I’m sorry, do I- know you?”

There’s a huff in the dark. “You don’t recognize me. Of course you don’t. How could you?” Another sharp flare of pain rolls through you, and as you wince the man groans in unison. He stands, restless, throwing aside already rumpled sheets. He’s been awake for a while. Silhouetted in the light, towering over you even in plain sleep clothes, you catch a glimpse of something in your mind’s eye- the man in front of you, but draped in a dark cloak and thundering down the halls.

You reflexively take a step back. “C-Commander Ren?” But even that sounds so foreign in your mouth, so when he turns to you you try again- “Kylo…?”

“Y/N.”

So many things are flitting through your mind it’s hard to pin down a single thought. This is Commander Kylo Ren, in nothing but a sleep shirt and pants. Kylo Ren negated your medical leave and called you to his quarters. Kylo Ren is very tall, has dark curly hair, brown eyes, and a razor jaw. Kylo Ren is inside your head. You feel more comfortable calling him Kylo than Commander Ren. “You’re in my head? How? Why-?”

“I don’t know!” He begins to pace, and in his movements you can easily see the imposing Commander who stalks the corridors every day. You can imagine his mask over his face and his hands fisted in leather gloves- he’s definitely one in the same. “Ever since the explosion-” his eyes go a bit wild- “I could sense the moment it happened; the moment before it happened… the spark caught fire.”

You grunt, still in disbelief. “I know. I was there.”

“I couldn’t stop it. I got there as soon as I could, but everything was in flames- you were already-”

“Stop it?” You shake your head. “It was an accident. I’m an engineer, shit happens. This is-” you grimace a bit, trying to subtly roll your shoulder- “a little more critical than most, admittedly. I don’t even know why you’d be on the flight deck, unless-”

“Stop it.” He’s close enough now that you can pick out the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his gait, the furrow in his brow. Any arguments you have die on your tongue. “You’re in pain. I can’t stand it.”

“I-” You have absolutely no idea what to do with this information. The intimidating Jedi Killer who terrifies everyone- except for you- day in and day out, the one whose name is infamous across the galaxy and whose turn of mood could send any stormtrooper running- knows your name? And cares? He knew you were hurt and he came running.

“I can help.”

You shake your head, trying to dispel your confusion. “You can what? How?”

“I can help,” he repeats, so insistent you can’t help but listen to him. “I can make you- I can let you sleep.”

“You-” oh. Oh. Your eyes widen just a bit. “With the…?” You drag a hand through the air, a poor imitation of what you’ve seen him do when he uses the Force. To you, it’s basically fairy tales, bedtime stories of heroes and villains from your childhood. You’ve never seen it up close. You’ve never even really considered that the man you sometimes try to chat with casually in the hallway probably has more power in one finger than you ever will. The man who’s standing in front of you right now. Who can feel that you’re hurting.

That earns you just a hint of a smile. It tugs on the corner of his lips. You’re surprised at how much it softens his face and rearranges him into something more human. “Yes. With that.”

“Will it hurt?”

“No! I would- I would never do anything to hurt you. It would be just like-”

“-falling asleep,” you finish. Your head tilts to the side, considering this strange new promise, but the movement sends a ripple of pain down your spine and you almost start to tear up. Stars, you’re tired. You’re so tired. And you want to not hurt, to not be in pain. You just want to stop. But… “why are you helping me?”

Now he ducks his head, avoiding both your gaze and your query. “You- helped me, as well. I won’t be indebted to anyone.”

There’s so many unsaid things hanging on the end of his sentence. You can’t tell if they’re malicious or not. You suppose if he wanted to hit you, he’s had plenty of opportunity before now. Things can’t get any worse. “Okay.”

He almost seems surprised. “Okay?”

You nod. “What’s going to happen?”

“It’ll be just like this.” He touches his pointer and middle finger against his temple. “Nothing more.”

You glance down at where the two of you stand in the center of the room. “Should I sit…?”

.

He holds out a hand and you take it. Leads you to the bed, where you sit on the edge. He must see the anxiety in your eyes, because to your surprise, he actually kneels in front of you so he can meet your gaze. “I promise- I swear. I won’t hurt you.”

“I believe you,” you whisper, and as the words leave your mouth you realize you do.

He doesn’t let go of your hand, and lets the other wander up to your cheek- slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook a wounded animal. His thumb brushes some hair behind your ear, and you find yourself holding your breath. You aren’t sure about this. About any of this. But if it means it could stop, even for just an hour-

The sensation is akin to floating underwater- everything is muted and heavy, the light refracting into something softer than moonlight. It’s blessedly cool, better than any balm concocted in medical. For the first time, your scars don’t feel as though they’re still aflame. You want to sob with relief. Briefly, you realize that you have no way to ensure you don’t land in a heap on the floor, but just before the water envelops you- there’s a voice. It’s calm and reassuring and strangely familiar- and you realize it must be Kylo. Don’t worry. I’ll catch you. 

[fullmetalscullyy]

his protector - chapter 4

summary: “you no longer hold the status as my first knight.” that felt like a knife in her heart, but riza had expected it. harsh, but she knew the consequences of her actions and would accept them wholeheartedly, because it was for the king’s own safety. “you’re no longer a part of my court. get the hell out.”

rated: t | words: 2464

read chapter 3 | read on ao3 and ffnet

“Al?” a voice called in the distance.

Beside her, Alphonse relaxed. “It’s just Edward.” Riza could hear the grin in his voice.

When they broke through the trees, Riza took in the sight of the young man before her. His long hair was tied back in a braid, his fringe being tugged across his eyes in the gentle breeze. He looked slightly nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot, no doubt anxious to see his brother was all right.

“Edward?” Riza asked, confused. What was he doing here?

“Hey, Ed!” Alphonse called happily, disregarding the fact that the enemy may still be nearby.

Edward’s mouth parted in shock, then he strode purposefully towards them both.

“What happened?” Edward demanded. The young man didn’t even know Riza, but he still looped his arm around her shoulders and helped she and Al walk further to safety. Riza was touched by his concern.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Riza interjected before Alphonse could reply. “Right, Al?” she added forcefully.

“He already knows, Riza.”

“Why?” she demanded. She didn’t need to drag another poor soul into her quest.

“Relax,” Al reassured her. “We need him, and Edward was more than happy to offer his assistance.”

“Al,” she warned. That wasn’t the point.

Riza gasped in pain, a sudden bout of it shooting up through her spine and down her legs. She lost her footing and stumbled forward, squeezing her eyes closed tightly.

“Easy,” Edward soothed. As they lowered her to the ground, she didn’t miss the worried look the two of them shared. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

Riza sighed. She lowered herself onto her stomach on the grass. She couldn’t even sit down. It put too much pressure on her lower back. She would fucking kill the man who struck her there.

“We need the manpower to teleport all of them back,” Alphonse explained. “I can’t do it by myself.”

“Teleport?”

“We can’t ride back with this many people. Plus, now, you’re in no condition to travel.”

Riza felt like pinching the bridge of her nose. He was right, but she hadn’t wanted to get anyone else involved. Hell, she hadn’t even wanted to get Al involved in the first place. Now they had his brother too. It was another added stress onto her because if anything bad happened, Edward had a wife and two children at home waiting for him. It was another piece to add her already mounting pile of worries.

“We do it now, then,” Riza replied. Alphonse opened his mouth to argue. “The sooner its done, the sooner they are out of our hair. Transport me to the courtyard and we’ll be announced to the King there.”

“You need a healer though,” Alphonse argued, undeterred. “Winry is really good with long lasting healing spells. We can take you there and deal with the prisoners ourselves.”

“The courtyard,” she replied, tone firm. “I need to present the prisoners, Al. They won’t let you in because they don’t know you. For all they know, you could be launching an attack.”

“You need a healer.”

“Courtyard,” she ground out. “I want this over with.”

“Riza,” Alphonse cried in frustration.

Edward cast his gaze between them both as they argued, looking uncomfortable at being caught in the middle.

“You can barely stand!” Al continued. “How are you going to do that?”

“I will manage,” she replied, trying to keep her tone even. She’d managed to press herself up onto her elbows to speak more comfortably with him.

“No, you won’t,” Alphonse argued. “Do something for yourself for once and let your body rest.”

“I need to finish this –”

“I won’t let you.” Alphonse challenged her. His fists clenched by his sides as his anger finally shined through. “You owe the King nothing after what he did to you. Winry can take care of you while we transport the prisoners.”

“This isn’t about that, Al, and you’re treading on dangerous ground here,” Riza warned.

“Why? Because I care? Because I don’t want to see you hurt anymore? He exiled you, Riza. Why do you so desperately want to go back to him?” His cry carried across the quiet grassland.

Riza narrowed her eyes at him. “You know nothing, Alphonse.”

“Al,” Edward warned, leaning forward to try and stop his brother.

“No, I don’t. So why don’t you enlighten me?”

Riza drew her shoulders back as her torso peeled up from the ground, coming to a rest in a much taller position on her elbows. She eyed her partner, noticing how his expression faltered as her cold eyes settled on his.

“I want this to be over, Alphonse. I want to be done with this whole charade. Then, I won’t be putting the lives of innocent teenagers in danger for my own personal quest. This has nothing to do with the King, and you know it. This has progressed so far beyond that now. The only reason I’m going back there is because the only person who can put them on trial legally is the King.”

Riza lifted her chin, the words pouring out of her mouth, unable to stop. The dam was broken, letting loose everything.

“Then, this job is over, and not left to someone else to pick up the pieces and get hurt. Then,” she added, fixing him with her stare as his posture finally relaxed and his anger and frustration disappeared. His arms hung limp by his sides. “I can disappear and stop hurting and disappointing all the people I care about, seeing as that’s all I’m good for.”

Alphonse had no reply for her. Edward looked even more uncomfortable now and kept his eyes on the ground.

Riza managed to lift herself off the ground, gripping on tightly to the tree next to her. Her nails dug into the bark, threatening to crack underneath the pressure. Alphonse didn’t verbally protest. However, he didn’t step forward, but pause, his arms outstretched as if wanting to help, but he was keeping himself back.

“The sooner this is over, the sooner I’m out of your hair,” Riza finished.

“Riza –”

To his credit, Alphonse sounded extremely guilty, but she’d had enough of that argument for now. She limped back to the compound, one hand pressed against her lower back in an attempt to stifle the pain, but more than ready to initiate the transport of their prisoners. Movement was agony, but Riza pushed through. She’d been through worse and she meant it when she said the sooner this was over, the sooner she’d be away from everyone she cared about, unable to hurt them or put them in danger anymore.

Now she’d calmed down, Riza hated she’d had that outburst with Edward there. She didn’t know him, and that wasn’t her style. However, Alphonse’s pressing had drawn it out of her. In a way, he was an expert at drawing out the truth from her. He should go into court. He’d be able to tell the liars straight away and would probably be able to push them to get them to admit to their fraud no problem. He was the dream advisor.

“Riza, wait –”

The sorrow in Alphonse’s voice almost broke her heart, but he’d started this. She was in too much pain to fight with him anymore.

“Get the prisoners ready for transport,” she ground out, her body limping as she walked.

Alphonse was silent, then walked ahead, obviously at a much faster pace than she was able to move. His head was bent, his posture defeated as he moved. Hesitantly, Edward followed close behind him, probably eager to get out of this mess and back to his family.

*          *          *

The teleportation was rough. Riza was left gasping as they landed in the courtyard of the castle. The people let out cries of surprise as they appeared suddenly, not expecting a large group of people to appear out of nowhere, the majority of them in chains.

“What – Knight Hawkeye?” the guard at the main door asked, baffled by their sudden appearance.

“Just Hawkeye now,” she corrected him. Despite the flair of pain in her back, Riza’s tone was strong. “We require an audience with the King.”

“Um, I, uh…”

He obviously didn’t know what to do.

“We come with prisoners for him.” The restrained men shifted behind her, grumbling angrily beneath the masks Alphonse had put on them with his magic.

“Um, right this way,” he gestured inside the castle. The guard led the way. It was agony to try and keep up, but Riza forced herself too. Her breaths were gasping at various moments, but she kept them quiet. Just get through this, was the constant mantra through her head.

“Your Highness,” the guard announced, entering the throne room.

With dismay, Riza noticed court was in session. The groaned internally. She didn’t need an audience for this.

“Knight Hawkeye has arrived with prisoners for you.” He obviously hadn’t gotten the memo she wasn’t welcome here as a knight anymore.

Finally, Riza brought her gaze to the King. He was frozen in his throne, eyes boring into hers. Riza met it steadily, but when gestured forward by the guard, she turned to nod at him, and walked forward to approach the dais. She could feel the King’s eyes on her, searing her skin. Whether it was in anger or not, Riza couldn’t tell. She was tired. She didn’t care anymore. Once this was done, it was done, and she’d disappear, unable to fail anyone else she cared about.

Once in place, she met the gaze of her old friend, feeling very out of place.

“Your Highness, I have brought you the men who orchestrated the plan for your attempted assassination.” A murmur rippled through the crowd of the court, surprised gasps accompanying the noise as well. “My partner and I tracked them to the outskirts of the neighbouring Kingdom and witnessed them discussing the plan to kill you and take the Kingdom as their own.”

“Step forward.” His tone was controlled and offered none of the warmth she’d experienced from him in the past.

Riza did so and couldn’t stop wincing at the pain in her back. The pressure alleviated as she shifted her weight, but as soon as her foot hit the floor, it returned with a vengeance. Roy’s eyes lingered on hers for longer than they should of before he spoke once more.

“What are your crimes?” the King asked the men. They were unable to speak, so Riza answered for him.

“Your Highness,” she addressed him, the title feeling heavy on her tongue. After everything that had happened, it was strange to address him in such a way. It felt… odd. Not like she didn’t deserve to do it anymore, but it was certainly different. She truly felt the weight of the title, as well as his gaze, upon her. It was formal, a tone she hadn’t used with him in years. Despite being in love with him, he was her best friend, and now she stood here before him on the opposite side of it all. She no longer belonged by his side; he’d made that much clear. It was a strange feeling, a sorrowful one, to be left on the outside of it all.

“He was part of an organisation plotting to kill you. My partner and I overhead and can confirm the plan. They’ve tried to kill me twice.”

The King’s eyes flashed and moved towards Riza’s, away from the criminals. They bored into hers, before dropping to her body, then back to the criminals. He was assessing if she was hurt.

“His group murdered an informant of mine’s family, simply because I survived the first attack.” Riza swallowed. Admitting that out loud would never be easy to stomach. Her survivor’s guilt returned with a force.

A murmur broke out through the throne room and Riza shifted, the noise unsettling her. It felt like every person in the room was judging her for that revelation.

How dare she survive?

She caused that family’s death. Despicable!

The words weren’t spoken, but Riza could feel eyes searing her skin. She kept her gaze forward, resting just above the King’s head.

“That’s all,” she forced out, feeling the weight of their judgement threatening to suffocate her. Riza stepped back, wishing she could disappear.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” the King replied. He motioned irritably for the crowd to silence, and the volume of the murmur dropped almost immediately. “These are very serious crimes, and I do not take the attempted murder of one of my subjects lightly.” His eyes moved to behind her, glaring at the men she’d brought in. “This will be investigated completely.” His eyes flicked back to Riza, piercing her own. Riza held his gaze steady, her back throbbing in pain. She wanted out of there. She needed out, or she’d crack. “Thank you, Hawkeye.”

He sounded so sincere that she let out a shaky breath. With a nod, she turned on her heel and left the throne room as guards descended on the prisoners.

It felt like her lower back was threatening to break in two. The pressure there was taking her breath away as soon as she was at the door, Riza dived to the left, pressing a hand against the wall to try and keep herself upright. Her head was bent as she gasped for breath. She wasn’t going to get out here. She wouldn’t be able to make it.

“Riza?”

Her eyes squeezed closed, tears threatening to spill over. Alphonse sounded so worried about her. He had been since their argument in the forest. Riza had been cold and unforgiving. It would be easier to leave him if they weren’t on friendly terms, right? It had broken her heart to do it, but his worry and concern was breaking her heart all over again. He was such a sweet boy and didn’t deserve or need to be lumped with someone as terrible as her.

“Are you okay?” It was Edward who asked her this time.

“Fine,” she choked out. She was anything but. It was all becoming too much. She needed out. No, what she needed more than anything, was something for her back.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Alphonse reassured her softly. “We’ve got you.” His hands gripped her upper arms firmly, effectively helping her stand. “Where do you want to go?”

Riza lifted her eyes to meet his. His face was full of concern that she didn’t deserve. Not after how she’d treated him recently.

Alphonse nodded at her request and a blinding white light enveloped them both. Riza felt her body relax as the wall disappeared from beside her, but Alphonse’s grip kept her upright.

[cruellae]

Sephiroth Week, Day 6

My Sephiroth Week entries are fragments of a love story told in 7 parts. This one can’t stand by itself, so make sure you’ve read parts 3-5 first. 

Part 3 - Fate

Part 4 - Haunted (free day)

Part 5 - Shapeshifter

Read all of them on AO3

Day 6: Darkness

Mother has made her lair in the very depths of the Northern Crater. The depths of the cavern are cold and filled with a darkness thick as ink, broken only by the eerie light of glowing moss or shards of naturally occurring mako. Cloud and Sephiroth have been descending for two days, fighting strange, twisted monsters at every turn. 

Sephiroth has no need to rest, but even with his extraordinary endurance, Cloud occasionally does. 

They make camp on a flat and relatively dry ledge. Sephiroth can feel that they are drawing close to her, a presence that makes him yearn and recoil in equal measure. He starts a small fire, burning sickly twigs and strange, tough strands of moss he collects from around the cavern. He wants Cloud to be warm.

“C’mere,” Cloud says, holding out his arms while he’s huddled by the fire. “Body heat.” 

Sephiroth hesitates in the shadows just out of reach. Mother’s proximity, her constant presence in his mind, makes him feel unclean and abhorrent, an abomination that should never be allowed near someone as beautiful and pure as Cloud. 

But Cloud’s expression is hopeful and open in a way it rarely is, so Sephiroth goes to him, sitting behind him on their bedrolls and pulling Cloud into his arms, curling around Cloud like a shell. Like he could protect him from what’s to come. 

“How do you feel?” Cloud asks. 

Frightened--but he would never admit such a thing. Still, he knows that his last encounter with Mother made him completely lose his mind. There is nothing he fears more than another such loss of control. 

“Uneasy,” he says. 

“Yeah. Me too.” 

Sephiroth presses a kiss to Cloud’s ear. He wants to say--I would never allow harm to come to you. But he would never make a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. If Mother clawed her way into his psyche again…

“What is it like?” Sephiroth asks, feeling the rise and fall of Cloud’s breath against his body. “To have so much light in your heart?” 

Cloud laughs, gently. “What’s it like to have so much darkness?” 

“Hmm.” Sephiroth holds Cloud a little tighter. “It means I can be ruthless, when I need to. But also that I...that I crave the light in you.” He bites, gently, at the side of Cloud’s neck. “It makes me want to devour you.”

“After this is over,” Cloud says, leaning into the embrace, “you can do whatever you want with me. I’m all yours.” 

It’s hard to deny the thrill that runs through Sephiroth at the explicit promise. But it’s tinged with bitterness. Cloud is lingering in Sephiroth’s arms not because he wants Sephiroth’s touch, but because it’s a bargain he made to save the Planet from the combined destructive force of Sephiroth and his Mother. It is the best a monster like Sephiroth could ever hope for--but it’s still not what he wants. 

“What will we do after this is over?” he asks. 

“We take down Shinra,” Cloud answers easily. “AVALANCHE needs us. Both of us.” 

“And after that?” 

“Well, we take the back pay Shinra owes you and we buy a little ranch outside of Kalm. And we raise chocobos.” 

Sephiroth doesn’t know how to answer that. Cloud has handed over his future so easily, sacrificed the rest of his life and his chance at finding someone he could actually love, to Sephiroth’s unfair demands. 

“It sounds nice,” Sephiroth murmurs. “Get some sleep, Cloud. I’ll keep watch.” 

#

Cloud should have known. He feels like such an idiot, but the pain lancing white hot through his chest distracts him. That this particular type of agony has become familiar is beyond fucked up. 

He opens his mouth to say--you promised--but only blood spills out. 

His weapon is on the other side of the cavern, and both Sephiroth and Jenova--the latter having taken on a strikingly bizarre and misshapen blue-feathered form--are standing in his way. The gleaming silver length of the Masamune crosses the distance, buried deep in Cloud’s chest by a sure thrust made without a hint of hesitation. 

Sephiroth’s sword withdraws only to pierce him again, and he falls to his knees. “Sephiroth…” 

But Sephiroth isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at Jenova. The hand that holds the Masamune is trembling. 

The blade swings again--a bright, blinding arc. Somehow, it’s not Cloud who is sundered in two. He watches Jenova fall to pieces and blacks out with her dying shriek still in his ears. 

#

When Cloud next wakes, his chest still hurts, but it’s the deep, aching itch of healing. He’s lying on the floor of a small cavern, a snowy landscape stretching outside the entrance. He blinks, hazily returning to the surface. His fingers rub over the warm blanket he’s wrapped in…

Not cloth...supple black leather. Sephiroth’s coat. He’s back on the surface above the Northern Crater, lying on Sephiroth’s long jacket. A fire crackles merrily nearby, and Cloud’s skin is still flushed with the lingering aftereffects of very strong healing magic. 

He pulls himself to a seated position. It’s easier than he thought it would be--his body feels surprisingly intact, despite what he’s been through. 

“Sephiroth?” he says, looking around. The cavern is small, barely more than an indent into the hillside. He gets to his feet and steps out into the snow. 

There is only one set of footprints leading to the little haven, bearing the tread of Sephiroth’s black boots. They are accompanied by red dots in the snow, likely from Cloud’s wounds. Sephiroth must have carried him here and healed him, wrapped him in his coat and started a campfire to keep him warm. 

Cloud looks around wildly, realizing just how alone he is. There are no footsteps leaving this place, just the empty cavern with its small fire and a field of pristine, unmarked snow. 

“He’s gone,” Cloud whispers, and the thought hits him like a punch to the gut. The glint of the Masamune, stabbed into the ground just before the cave, confirms it. Sephiroth would never leave his sword behind if he still lived.

Cloud puts his hand around the hilt of the sword, blinking back the hot prickling behind his eyes. His worst, most hated enemy, his lover and his only real friend, has returned to the lifestream. 

A black feather sits at the base of the sword, likely dropped from one of the large, monstrous birds that circles the snowy fields waiting for mice or voles to venture out of their burrows. Cloud picks it up and runs his thumb along the fine edges. 

In Nibelheim, the old religion says that when people die, they become angels, glorious creatures with beautiful feathered white wings and golden halos. 

Cloud laughs softly, holding the feather gently in his palm. “Of course you’d be an angel of darkness,” he says. 

He considers leaving the Masamune and Sephiroth’s coat up there on the Northern Ridge like a tombstone of sorts. But in the end, he can’t bring himself to part with the sword, as ridiculously impractical as it is for anyone but Sephiroth to wield. 

No one has to know that it’s hidden away in the back of his closet in Midgar. Just like no one has to know that he sometimes sleeps curled up beneath a long black leather coat that no longer smells like anyone at all, dreaming of his dark angel.