#scar's panicked and frenzied

[angeart]

hhau rescue rambles - part I

>> hhau masterpost here << [cw besides the usual mess and violence: animal death mention]

It’s been months since the latest hermit got saved, and over a year since Hermitcraft imploded. There’s only two people to go: Scar and Grian. And they can’t seem to locate them at all. But they can’t stop looking. They can’t, they won’t. 

The rescue party is comprised of X (voidwalker), Doc (creeper), Ren (wolf), Impulse (partially demon), Cub (vex), Gem (deer), and Pearl (moth). Thanks to X knowing how to navigate and survive the void, they are able to get a void vessel (a sort of ship) to base in as they go around scanning different worlds and scouring for information. 

Until they come across a world that reads as permadeath, and somewhere in the world files, X flags Grian’s and Scar’s name. Not as players; there’s no list available here. What comes up is the wanted poster. It doesn’t have a date stamp. It could be months old, and they know Scar's track record with dying.

Still, they have to try.

They search for a place that seems to have good resources and Cub, Gem, and Pearl get dropped down. They’re equipped with bracelets that they can activate to send X a signal to teleport them back, and two extra for Grian and Scar, if they do find them, but they have to gather any other kind of equipment, including armour and weapons, on their own.

They quickly realise comms don’t work on this world, and as the player list is also non-existent or corrupted, they are going in blind.

Well… almost.

They use Cub’s vex bond with Scar to pick a direction to head in.

--

Grian and Scar, in the meanwhile, are not having a Good Time. 

Some awful things have happened prior to this, namely the ending of the Summer house arc. To quickly sum it up, Grian and Scar went up north, for as long as they could. Away, away, away from everyone. Until it felt like maybe they’re far away enough, and they tentatively set up a house. Which turned into a nest. Which turned into a semblance of permanence.

A lot of things went on here. Days turned into peaceful weeks and, tentatively, they started thinking that maybe they can start planning some kind of future here. They planted crops. Scar re-learned to glide with his torn wings. Grian unfurled his wings and re-learned the feeling of flying through the sky. And they found a bird friend! (A real, living bird in this world!)

The reality caught up to them eventually. 

Nobody’s really seen Scar or Grian for a while, but the avians in this world have dull wing patters, for survival reasons, and so Grian is really special. And the hunters don’t want to give that up. The reward on the wanted poster gets upped, and now the fever pitch to get this avian rises. The hunters go further. In bigger groups. Greedy and determined.

They find the nest house, empty at the time, and they burn it down. 

Scar and Grian come back to find it in flames, and to find themselves unsafe and hunted once again. All of a sudden, they have nothing again. The fire licks high, turning everything to ash, to a distant cheering and hollering of a party of hunters. There’s no sign of their bird friend.

(Grian finds him later. Dead, with wings cut off. The only creature that resembled him; the bird he befriended, the proof that a winged creature could exist here and survive. Ripped to pieces. Echoing the only fate that is bound to await Grian as well.) (It was a sun conure parrot, bright and beautiful.) 

The hunters are on their tail once they realise that Scar and Grian are here; that it wasn’t just some temporary base that’s now abandoned. With no remorse and still too much cheer, bloodthirsty and unstoppable, they go after them. 

Scar’s blood is absolutely boiling and he expects Grian to ground him. To talk him down. But Grian’s mind buzzes, looking at that bird, and— He’s as down to fight as Scar is. Because anger is easier than grief right now.

He’s so tired of grief. 

So instead, Grian goes angry and feral. (The other option is to fall apart, and he can’t.) 

They tear this particular hunting group apart, and it’s meant to make them feel better, but it doesn’t. It feels like a necessity; like just one more step towards survival. They loot what they can, and they continue moving, realising that stopping anywhere to do more than just survive is a moot point. They’re not going to outrun this. They'll never be allowed to stop. They’ll be hunted forever.

(Grian will be hunted forever—)

The word gets out, and more and more hunters arrive, wanting the trophy of violet wings and the wanted reward for themselves. It’s a sport to them. A way to get rich. Like a gold fever, they continue tracking Grian and Scar, relentlessly hounding them down.

There are times when things go worse in these encounters. Grian gets his wings grabbed and attacked, and it sends him spiraling back to never allowing anyone—including himself—to touch his feathers. (He was doing better and now it’s all gone.)

They internalise many horrible thoughts, during their run. It’s been a year-worth of culmination of awful events, a year worth of pain and fear and loss. 

For Scar, as a vex, he’s been expected to be a monster from the start. And all he wanted here was some peace. To be with Grian. He wasn’t allowed it, but now he finally got a glimpse at it—at what could’ve been; at who he wanted to be from the beginning (who he’s always been)—and it’s violently taken from him. So yeah, fuck it. If they want a monster, he’ll be a monster. 

(This leads him to thinking that he shouldn’t be trusted with soft things anymore, Grian’s feathers included, especially as Grian gets ground-bound again and starts pulling his wings tightly against his back and flinching at the mere implication of touch.) (It hurts to witness, after what Scar’s seen: Grian, freely gliding through the sky, violet feathers catching sunlight.) (He was allowed to preen them, tentatively, slowly, gradually, a couple of times.) (Not anymore. Not anymore.)

 Grian keeps thinking about the bird, and how they’re the same. He’s seen the brutal display, the way the wings were taken. He can’t quite stop thinking about it. 

But it’s more than that. He’s also thinking about [redacted]. About anything winged being doomed. About what happened with the vexes. It all spins and spins and spins until he can’t see himself as anything but harbinger of death.

The hunters wouldn’t care to go this far for one vex. They only go because of his goddamn feathers.

Naturally, this topples into him thinking that Scar will be safer and better off without him. They’ve been running on sleepless nights and exhaustion, trying to get away to no avail. They’re tired, and things are looking dire, and— Grian wants it to stop. He needs Scar to be taken out of this equation, separated from this fate. He needs him to be safe. (He can’t bring death to Scar.)

Grian can lead the hunters the other way. They only really care about him. ([redacted] already proved that point, after all.) 

So one night, Grian sneaks away.

He presses a soft kiss to Scar before he goes. (It’s a farewell kiss.) Scar is asleep, only kind of waking up to it—just that groggy, sleepy “mm?” Grian kisses his forehead again, oh so gently, and murmurs the quietest “Love you. Stay safe for me.” To Scar, it just feels like a dream, and he dozes off again, none the wiser.

The next morning, Scar wakes up to Grian gone.

For a while, he doesn’t even remember that hazy interaction from the night, but then he does remember, all of a sudden. An absolute vertigo slams into him, panic flooding his veins as he stares down the empty, quiet forest.

And this is when the Hermit Rescue Party finds him.

They only find Scar.

They only find Scar, and they instantly try to take him off world.

-- part II here

[prythianpages]

In My Eyes | Azriel

Azriel x Rhysand's Sister | Summary: Azriel has lost you once and when unseen circumstances bring you back to life, he will not lose you again. Even if it means going against his family.

warnings: mentions of death (descriptive and a bit gruesome)/loss, angst 💔

a/n: I wanted to take a little break from all the fluff I've been writing so here's a little angst. I listened to Jacob's prayer from the Minari soundtrack a lot along with Thom Yorke's Hearing Damage while writing this. Hence the title bc I couldn't think of anything else lol and also because I feel like Az would be so down for his mate, she really could do no wrong in his eyes.

A haunting stillness permeates the air, broken only by the occasional whisper of Azriel’s shadows. He doesn’t know why he’s here. He wants to turn and leave but his legs betray his mind, prompting him to go forward. Cracked cobblestone paths lead him to the castle’s doors and as Azriel pushes the door open, it releases a loud groaning noise.

Inside Hybern’s castle, broken furniture lies scattered and the once opulent halls now echo with the sound of dripping water. His shadows stir uneasily. A sudden gust of wind brushes past him, carrying a pleading whisper along with it.

“Help me.”

Goosebumps rise on Azriel's skin as his shadows freeze in place. There was something familiar about that haunting plea that sent shivers down his spine.

“Azriel.”

"y/n," he breathes, the mere utterance causing his shadows to stir into a desperate frenzy. His steps quicken, evolving into a full-blown run, his heart pounding in sync with the frantic pace of his movements.

"y/n!" he calls out again, this time louder. His eyes, stinging with tears, frantically scanning the endless expanse of the haunted halls for any trace of you.

"Azriel, help me!"

Azriel runs and runs, but the hall stretches infinitely before him.

“Help! I’m al–”

And then, with a jolt, Azriel wakes. 

Cold sweat clings to him like a second skin as the tendrils of the dream slowly release their grip on his consciousness. Your voice–it felt so real. But he knows it’s a dream because when he turns his head, the spot beside him is empty. 

As it has been for centuries. 

Azriel allows his heavy eyelids to flutter shut once more as he catches his breath. This was just another nightmare, he tells himself. It does nothing to soothe him. The more he thinks about it, the more unease grips him. Even his shadows are shaky, trembling as they brush against him. 

For centuries, his dreams have been plagued by nightmares. It had always been the same one. The one that made him relive the moment he found out you were dead. Azriel had been the one to find the box that carried your mother’s severed head down Windhaven’s river and when he had spotted another box, all he found was a severed finger. A severed finger wearing a ring he was all too familiar with because he had been the one to place it on your finger.

Azriel remembers the way his heart had dropped to his stomach. He remembers the way he had desperately tugged on the bond only to find nothing but an eerie quietness on your end. He knew at that moment you were gone and you weren’t coming back.

The scream that tore through his throat was as violent as the gaping black hole crushing through his chest. It curdled the blood of anyone within earshot and had the surrounding birds jolting from their perches, their feathers rustling in a panicked flutter. Not even his shadows, who had carried him through his darkest times, could console him.

Azriel had no body to mourn. No hand to hold on to. No face to caress for the last time. He could only hope that your death had been quick and painless.

But this nightmare was new. Different. You were alive in this one. Or sounded like it.

Azriel opens his eyes and he brings himself to sit up in bed. His hands, weary and scarred, rub at his face in exhaustion, brushing away the lingering tears that sting at his eyes. He then looks down at his hands, aching to feel your warmth once more. Even if only in a dream.

The glimmering ring on Azriel's left hand sparkles under the tender caress of moonlight, drawing his attention. His trembling fingers delicately trace the contours of the band. He can’t help but turn and twist it, yearning for a complete view of the engraved letters. It spells out your name and the ache of grief intensifies with every twist. He hasn’t taken the ring off since the day he married you, even after death did you part.

It compliments the smaller, daintier ring wrapped around his neck that hangs on a thin silver chain. Your ring. His name is engraved on it just as yours is on his. The only difference is that yours cradles a captivating cobalt blue gem.  A precious fragment, crafted from his own siphon and meticulously refined by himself. He wanted you to carry a part of him wherever you went.

Now, he is left to carry it. The only piece he has left of you. A poignant reminder that though death may have claimed you, the essence of your union lingers on. He can’t imagine loving anyone else. He doesn’t want to love anyone else. For him, it was you and only you. He could only thank the Mother for allowing him the time he had with you but also curse her for taking you from him.

His hand closes around your ring, grappling with the disorienting emotions coursing through him. Despite the centuries that have separated you, an instinctual yearning tugs at Azriel's core. He reaches out for the intangible thread that once connected you. He knows he’ll only receive the familiar void. It had been this way for ages. He’d wake from his nightmare, reach out with false hope and receive nothing in return.

Yet, this time, just like the nightmare he woke from, is different.

The shadows that hover over Azriel's shoulders, murmuring their soothing lullabies, suddenly cease in their dance. His eyes widen, capturing a glimmer of something long forgotten. Hope. It stirs within him, a dormant ember flickering to life after centuries of darkness.

For a fleeting moment, a heartbeat in the vastness of time, there's a response. A fragile shimmer through the bond. So delicate that it's almost imperceptible. And it’s coming from your side. 

Azriel tugs again, cautiously and slowly. Anxiously and holding his breath. Even his shadows don’t dare to stir. But as he awaits another sign, silence envelops him. There’s no response.

He tugs again, desperately seeking confirmation. And then again and again. His tugs grow harsher, more desperate, each pull an urgent plea for any sign, any trace of you. Yet, the bond remains eerily silent, as if mocking the fragile tendrils of hope that dared to rekindle within him. 

Maybe it was all a figment of his imagination. 

But he swore he heard your voice, swore that tug, as faint as it was, was there. The crushing weight of loss descends once more, and it's as if he's losing you all over again. The echoes of hope vanish, leaving only a hollowing ache. His shadows begin to stir again, anxious to fill that hollowness in fear of the malevolent darkness that threatens to creep back inside and consume him all over again.

“No, no, no,” Azriel cries, his voice breaking into a mere whisper. With tear-streaked eyes, he looks up towards the moon, its ethereal glow filtering through the window on the ceiling.

“Please,” he says, beseeching the celestial body to heed his prayer. 

Yet, the void persists and an overwhelming surge of fear takes hold, tightening its icy grip around him. Because though he thinks of you all the time, he’s beginning to forget the small details. Such as the exact shade of your eye, the radiant sparkle in your eyes as you’d smile at him, the comforting warmth radiating from your laugh, the precise hue of blush that would grace your cheeks every time he told you he loved you.

He doesn’t want to forget. As painful as the memories are now, he wants to anchor himself into every single one of them. To hold onto the exquisite weight of every detail.

"Please," Azriel pleads once more. His body quivers with each sob, hunched over in bed, fingers tightly gripping his chest as if trying to anchor his unraveling soul. The shadows, usually under his control, writhe in a frenzied storm, mirroring the emotions swirling inside him. Some tendrils slither out from beneath the door, seeking out help.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach someone. Rhysand swiftly materializes in the room. "Azriel!" he calls out, a voice cutting through the tumult of emotions that cling to the air like heavy mist. “What’s wrong?”

"I heard her, Rhys," Azriel confesses through tearful sobs, his pain echoing in the shadows. "I felt her."

“What if she’s alive? I–I need to find her.”

Rhysand's heart plummets, a solemn gravity darkening his features. “She’s dead, Az,” he murmurs softly, tone laced with empathy. While Azriel lost his mate, Rhysand had lost his sister. He, too, mourns for you.

Azriel shakes his head in denial. “She needs me.”

Rhysand takes a deep breath, blinking back his own tears. He then turns toward the doorway, meeting Feyre’s wide eyes. She had rushed to the room along with him. "Please, get Cas," he tells her.

**

As Azriel secures his siphons, he stares down at his left wrist, where a lunar emblem is etched onto his tan skin. It had disappeared when you had died but now, it is vivid against his skin once more. He doesn’t know exactly when it had reappeared. He was binding his hands before a training session, many months ago, when he noticed it. The reappearance of your mating tattoo carries with it the weight of the vows you had spoken to him.

“As long as I’m alive, I will love you with every breath.”

But you weren’t alive. You were still dead. After that night almost a year ago, Azriel had looked for you. Every night and day. For months.  He was driving himself into pure madness, even his shadows had grown restless. There had been no more signs, no more traces of you but he still pushed on and he would’ve continued if Rhysand hadn’t forced him to stop.

“Are you ready?”

Azriel nods at Rhysand, securing the last of his weapon to his leathers. He then spares a glance toward Cassian, who is doing the same. It had been a long week of planning for this very moment.

Koschei initiated contact through a cryptic note delivered to Rhysand. The message proposed a meeting at the lake. A “peace” conference, he had called it. One that exclusively also required the presence of Cassian and Azriel. The terms were strange, but with dwindling options and time slipping away, Rhysand reluctantly consented.

"I'll be back before you know it," Rhysand reassures Feyre, bending down to plant a tender kiss on her temple. His gaze lingers on their infant son cradled in Feyre's arms, his smile warm as he places a gentle kiss on Nyx's head. "Save me a slice of Elain's cake for later.”

"Alright," Feyre exhales, her eyes still etched with worry. Her attention shifts towards the inked markings on her left arm and a fleeting shadow brushes softly against the tattoo. Lifted by the subtle touch, her gaze meets Azriel's and then Cassian's. In that silent exchange, they convey an unspoken commitment to protect their family at any cost. Feyre can only manage a small smile before the three males winnow away.

**

As soon as they arrive at the lake, Azriel feels a stirring in his chest. His attention is immediately drawn to a lone white swan. The swan gracefully glides across the murky water. A looming darkness rises from the lake, blocking his view of the swan and causing his shadows to jerk back. 

"Welcome," Koschei's voice whispers through the wind.

Rhysand moves forward, standing in front of Cassian and Azriel, despite the anxiety coursing through him. “Let’s cut to the chase. What do you want?”

The looming darkness swells, and a malevolent chuckle reverberates from its core. Azriel’s shadows tuck themselves behind his wings and his entire body stiffens. He can sense Cassian do the same beside him.  "You know precisely what I desire."

"And you know why we won't grant it," Rhysand retorts. There’s an icy rage swirling in his violet eyes that overcomes his sense of fear. He can only imagine what a world ruled by Koschei would be like and he refuses to allow the death god the power to harm his family.

"I anticipated your reluctance, Rhysand. That's why I've prepared a gift. Aid in my liberation from this lake, and it's yours."

Rhysand scoffs, unwavering. "No gift will entice me to free you."

"Are you certain about that?"

The wind intensifies, rustling leaves and brushing against the Illyrians, raising goosebumps in its wake. Birds, concealed in the trees, erupt in panicked flight. Rhysand, undeterred, digs his hands into his pockets, his eyes narrowing in question at the death god.

Koschei's laughter echoes again. "Perhaps I should show you first. It’s only fair, wouldn't you agree?"

The wind abruptly ceases, plunging the world into an eerie hush. The shadow that looms over the lake drifts to the side, allowing the swan from earlier to glide forward. Suddenly, a dark mist envelops the bird, its form blurring and shifting until the swan's elegant feathers dissolve into a cascade of shimmering silver. From the mist, a cloaked figure emerges, her midnight-blue robes trailing behind her like the ripples of the lake. 

With each graceful step, the water seems to part beneath her feet, revealing the silhouette of a woman long thought lost to the depths. You.

“y/n!”

Azriel instinctively moves forward, hand reaching out towards you. Cassian, however, restrains him, a powerful grip on his brother’s arm preventing any impulsive advance.

Rhysand's eyes widen as you approach, a slow and haunting revelation unfolding in the dim light. It is you, standing right in front of them. In your blood and flesh. But your eyes–your eyes, once bright with life, now mirror the opaque shroud of mist hovering around you.

“This can’t be,” Rhysand breathes, his voice barely a whisper, disbelief coloring his tone. “How?

“King Hybern resurrected your sister from the magic of the Cauldron the same way he did with Jurian. You see, Tamlin was desperate to get Feyre back at that time. He let his guard down, allowing Ianthe to not only disclose the location of the Archeron sisters but also the location of your dear sister’s remains. Tamlin buried her body somewhere in his lands but his father had kept her wings. As a trophy. Did you know her death was slow and cruel?”

A shudder courses through Rhysand. Cassian’s fist clench at his sides and he spares a glance toward Azriel, whose body is shaking. None of them knew the details of your murder. An apprehensive feeling churned in their stomachs and Rhysand felt the bile rise in his throat.

“The sons of Spring did not show her the same mercy they did your mother. They drugged her with faebane, rendering her powerless so that she could not fight back. They sloughed her finger off to gift to you. Then, they took her wings. Let her bleed to death."

Suddenly, Azriel’s chest tightens. He can’t breathe. A pained expression crosses his face and his knees go weak. Images of you being tortured to death flood his mind and all he can think about is how he failed you. Cassian’s grip on him tightens even more, keeping him steady. 

“King Hybern was so sure he’d win the war that he kept your sister hidden. He knew the Shadowsinger was her mate so he drugged her with faebane the same way the sons of Spring did. He didn’t want any of you finding out she was alive.”

“Hybern didn’t want to ruin the surprise. After his victory, he had planned to take you all back to the castle to torment you with her live state. Only to have you die at her hands. Of course, as you can see, that didn’t work out. Briallyn knew of her resurrection and brought her to me.”

Azriel can’t take his eyes off of you. His shadows dart toward you, slithering up your legs and caressing every inch of you. They linger on your wings. You don’t move. You don’t even blink.

But you’re alive. 

All this time you had been alive. That nightmare he had, it was real. You were calling out to him, asking for help. Tears sting at his eyes. That tug he had felt from your shared bond. It was also real. And the tattoo that had reappeared on his skin was not a cruel trick from the Cauldron. But a sign.

“I’ve become very familiar with your sister. She’s very powerful but I’m sure you knew that.”

Rhysand’s gaze flickers to where you stand, heart aching. It’s you but not you. Unlike Azriel, he can’t help but think what if this is all a trick? An illusion to get him to side with Koschei? Cassian meets his worried gaze. They both glance toward Azriel and then exchange a look.

“Let her go.” Cassian finally speaks, hazel eyes glaring at the darkness before them. “And take me instead.”

“Lord of Bloodshed,” Koschei addresses Cassian in an amused manner. “What a most gracious offer. Unfortunately, for you, I have no desire to replace y/n. You, however, are welcome to join me of your own free will.”

“While I am confined to this lake, y/n is going to do everything I physically cannot. She’ll be my proxy, my spymaster. Isn’t that right?”

"Yes, master.”

The words slip from your lips like ice, each syllable devoid of the warmth and affection that once filled them. Azriel's heart lurches in his chest, a cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach as he hears the lifeless tone of your voice. 

"No," Azriel growls, the sound reverberating through the air with a primal intensity. His voice, usually steady and composed, now carries an edge of desperation and fury. “You have no right to her. She’s mine.”

Rhysand keeps his hands in his pockets, hiding the fact that they’re slightly trembling. He eyes you once more, pure agony seeping into his very core. He mentally takes a deep breath and looks back toward the looming shadow over the lake, mustering all his strength to feign indifference. 

“I don’t understand how this is a gift.”

“Here’s the deal, Rhysand. You help free me from this lake and I free y/n from my control. It’s as simple as that. Since I’m feeling generous, I’ll give you a week to think about it.”

All seven of Azriel’s siphons ignite in a cobalt blaze of raw power. He will not let Koschei control you. You’ve already suffered enough. Cassian struggles to maintain his hold, his grip faltering against the force of Azriel's will. 

“Azriel, no!”

The sound that erupts from Azriel was more animal than human—a deep, throaty growl that spoke of primal fury. He breaks free from Cassian, stumbling forward. He regains his footing with ease, rushing toward the lake. Toward the looming figure. Toward you. He’s so close, the water lapping at his boots when your clouded eyes finally meet his.

Burning pain courses through Azriel’s veins, bringing him to his knees and suddenly, he feels like he’s on fire. Your power takes hold over him, penetrating to the core of his being, carving through the marrow of each bone. He knows the fire is not real. It’s only an illusion but it feels as if every single cell in his body is being tormented with the worst agony imaginable. He can barely hear himself scream over the roaring pain in his ears.

Two strong hands clamp onto Azriel’s shoulders and he writhes against it, fighting it. “No,” his voice is a mere hoarse whisper as Rhysand uses his own power to pull him out of your illusion.

As Rhysand’s tendrils of darkness engulf Azriel, the last thing he sees are your eyes. They’re still clouded over, devoid of their usual luster. Yet, against the backdrop of emptiness, tears escape from them.

**

Azriel wakes to a dull ache in his head. He feels the gentle caress of his shadows against his face, tenderly attempting to alleviate the headache that grips him. With a slow blink, he reluctantly greets the soft illumination of his room at the riverhouse. Memories of what happened earlier flood back with startling clarity and his wings quiver involuntarily. A physical manifestation of the anguish that had ravaged his spirit. He doesn’t care that it was you who inflicted that pain upon him.

It pales in comparison to the pain you must be feeling inside. A mere glimpse of the raw emotions raging within you was enough to pierce Azriel's heart. Like a tempestuous storm, the waves of pain surged through your bond. But then, abruptly, he was shut out.

The image of your tear stained cheeks as you brought him to his knees plagues him with uneasiness. It’s this restless unease that stirs him, prompting him to rise from the bed. He looks toward his door, his shadows curling against his ears. Heavy with determination, he makes his way towards Rhysand’s office.

When Azriel's shadows forcefully swing the doors open, the entire inner circle stands before him. Their expressions betray the weight of their recent discussions. The room falls into a silence, thickened with tension. They had been discussing you. Without him. His hands clench into tight fists, his simmering anger threatening to spill over.

“Azriel,” Feyre greets him with a tense smile. “How are you feeling?”

Azriel’s eyes lock onto Rhysand. Anguish and resentment churn within him and Rhysand's posture stiffens in response

“We have to approach this situation with caution,” Rhysand says, surprised by the steadiness in his own voice despite the weight of their predicament.

“Caution?” Azriel nearly growls, prompting Cassian to inch toward him. “She is my wife! My mate! And you expect me to just sit here and wait for your approval to save her?”

Rhysand frowns, his violet eyes flaring. “You think I don’t hurt too?” He exclaims, his voice breaking as he utters his next words. “She is my sister!”

A hand rests on Azriel’s shoulder. Cassian’s. “I want to save her too. Trust me, I do. But we can’t just jump into–”

Azriel shakes Cassian’s hand off, his shadows hissing toward the taller male. “What if it were Nesta?”

Cassian frowns and he spares a glance toward his mate, who is watching the scene unfold with a somber look on her face. Azriel releases a frustrated huff before redirecting his gaze towards Rhysand, a pointed finger aimed accusingly at his friend and High Lord. 

"If it were Feyre," he insists, his voice tinged with both desperation and conviction, "you would see no reason."

Rhysand's silence speaks volumes.

"I failed her once," Azriel continues, firm and resolute. "I will not fail her again."

But Rhysand's response is unwavering. "I can't let you go. You have to understand.”

Azriel's jaw tightens. "You can't stop me," he counters in defiance, wings flaring out behind him.

"As your High Lord, I–”

"I'm done," Azriel cuts off sharply before Rhysand can go any further. He’s well aware of the weight of his words but he doesn’t allow them to bring him down. You are his mate, the tether to his soul, and he will put you above all else. Even his family. 

 "I resign as Spymaster of the Night Court.”

Feyre's eyes glisten with tears as she approaches Azriel, brushing off Rhysand's attempt to hold her back. "Azriel, please," she implores, her voice trembling with emotion. She knows what Azriel must be feeling. She knows because she lived it herself when Rhysand died after the war. But she also knows–or at least, hopes–that there’s another way to bring you back home. She’s already making plans in her mind to reach out to Helion.

"Don't go. We'll find a way to bring her back, I swear it. Just give us time."

Azriel shakes his head, the thought of waiting to rescue you souring in his mouth. He can't bear the thought of you in pain, needing him, while he stands idle. The urgency to act gnaws at his soul, a primal instinct driving him to protect you at any cost.

“You’ll abandon your family then?” Amren asks. Despite her efforts to maintain her usual façade of indifference, a faint glimmer in her eyes betrays the struggle.

“I will not abandon my mate.” Azriel says, taking a step back. “She’s my family too.”

"Don't do this," Rhysand pleads as he takes a tentative step forward, his hand outstretched toward his brother.

Azriel takes another step back, his hazel eyes darting across the room, absorbing the silent pleas etched on the faces of the inner circle. He loves them but he loves you more. 

When his gaze locks with Rhysand's again, Rhysand's heart sinks. He realizes that Azriel's mind is already set. His brows knit together in a pained expression. He doesn’t want it to end like this.

"I will not hold this against you," Rhysand manages, his voice strained.

How can he hold this against Azriel? When he would do the same for Feyre. When you, his sister, have been brought back to life only to be imprisoned by Koschei. A gasp fills the room as he drops to his knees. 

"But please... just...please..."

The words catch in his throat, choked by the overwhelming grief and helplessness that engulf him. His shoulders slump in defeat as tears blur his vision. Feyre instinctively wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. A brief sanctuary in the midst of his shattering world.

He knows he cannot make Azriel promise anything and Azriel knows this too. Despite the grim circumstances, there is a flicker of solace in Rhysand knowing that whatever terrors may come, you won't face them alone.

“I’m sorry,” is all Azriel says before winnowing away.

**

Azriel’s shadows tuck themselves back behind his wings when he arrives at the familiar lake. His gaze immediately seeks out the water's edge, where wisps of mist still linger. There's no sign of the white swan he had seen earlier.

"I knew you would come around, Shadowsinger," Koschei's voice taunts from the shadows.

"Where is she?" Azriel demands.

Koschei's laughter carries on the wind, but he concedes. You emerge from the surrounding trees, your eyes widening in shock as you lock gazes with Azriel. This time, your eyes are clear, unclouded, and Azriel's heart twists with recognition as he memorizes the exact shade of your eyes all over again.

"You can't be here," you protest, and Azriel's shadows peek out from behind his wings, reacting to the sound of your voice. It's you. It’s really you.

Your eyebrows furrow, mirroring the same pained expression Rhysand had worn just moments ago. You recognize the gleam in his eyes. "No," you plead, your voice barely a whisper, tears welling up in your eyes. "You can't do this. You have to go back. Go back right now!"

Tearing his gaze off of you, Azriel looks toward the ominous silhouette of Koschei. He can feel the air thicken with anticipation, awaiting his next words. He continues to ignore your protests, even as you frantically rush toward his side. 

 “As long as you have control over her, you have control over me.” Azriel says and then drops to  his knees in submission. 

"My, my, my. What a lovely surprise," Koschei remarks, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Get up!" You cry out, your hands clutching at Azriel's arms in a desperate attempt to pull him away from the lake. Away from Koschei's grasp. "Azriel, get up!"

Azriel’s knees remain rooted to the spot but his body leans into your embrace. His eyes flutter shut as he allows himself a fleeting moment to revel in the warmth of your presence—the warmth he had yearned for over centuries. The warmth he thought he would never feel again.

His eyes open and though Koschei is a mere shadow a couple of feet away, he can feel his gaze burning into his soul.

“I’ll serve you too,” Azriel finally says, sealing his fate alongside yours in the grasp of the death god.

**

"What have you done?" Your voice trembles with disbelief, your eyes still wide with shock as you stare up at Azriel, your hands reaching out to grasp his face. After Azriel swore his loyalty to Koschei, the death god had granted you both permission to be alone. He sent you to his sister’s old cottage, where you’d be staying for now.

Azriel's heart swells at the touch of your warm, soft hands against his skin. He wipes away the tears that cascade down your cheeks, his own emotions overwhelming him. "You're alive," he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as he rests his hands on your face.

His fingers trace the familiar contours of your features. Every line, every curve is evidence to the reality of your presence. A presence he had long thought lost to him for eternity. The Cauldron had gifted him once more. Here you are, tangible and real. Alive. He can barely believe his eyes.

As Azriel's fingers delicately brush against your face, his shadows dance eagerly in his wake, reaching out to join in the tender caress. They yearn for the sensation of your skin, their touch as gentle as a whisper, expressing their overwhelming joy in silent echoes. "I love you. I love you. I love you," they chant in a chorus of happiness and the bond in your chest sings back in a language only you three understand.

Despite the tears streaming down his face, there’s such a deep and profound warmth in Azriel’s eyes. As he looks at you, it’s like sunlight breaking through dark stormy clouds. You want to bask in its golden glow but as a thought crosses your mind, you abruptly shrink back from him and your lip quivers.

“I hurt you. I-I didn’t want to but I couldn’t stop it. I hurt you. I made you scr–”

Azriel smiles at you, bringing you back into his protective embrace. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” you breathe, eyes searching for any trace of pain or repulse. You find none and though unleashing your power on your mate was against your will, your guilt threatens to consume you. “I’m so sorry, Azriel. I’m so sorry you’re here.”

"Don't be," he murmurs softly, cradling your head against his chest. His fingers thread through your hair, a gentle reassurance of his unwavering presence. He had lost you once. He’s not going to lose you again. 

With a heartfelt sigh, he pulls you even closer. “I’m right where I want to be.”

Slowly but surely, the cascade of tears dwindled, leaving a trace of dampness on your cheeks and Azriel’s leathers. In your mate’s arms, you finally have the courage to voice your deepest fear.

"I'm scared, Az. What if I hurt you again? Hurt someone else? What if I do something worse?”

The vulnerability in your voice tugs at his heartstrings, igniting a fierce determination to shield you from any harm. He’d do anything for you.

“You can do no wrong in my eyes.” Azriel responds, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He then inhales deeply, flooding his senses with your scent. “You don’t know how much I missed you.”

Azriel then pulls away, just enough to look at you again. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you but I’m here now. I won’t fail you this time.”

Your gaze softens. You send a wave of pure love through the bond and Azriel feels his heart flutter at the sensation he’s been deprived of for so long.

“You never failed me, Az.”

Azriel's face breaks into a radiant smile and you smile back at him. It lights up the darkness that had weighed heavily on his heart for centuries. "I love you," his voice is barely above a breath, reveling in the blush that takes over your cheeks in response.

He reaches for the chain around his neck, fingers trembling slightly as he clasps your left hand. His gaze lingers on the lunar tattoo on your arm that matches his for a moment before sliding your wedding ring back onto your finger.

Holding your gaze, he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it. "My mate," he murmurs against your skin. He then kisses the ring on your finger, the cobalt gem glowing in response. “My wife.”

"I love you," you say back, your arms winding around his neck as your fingers caress the soft strands of his hair. He yields to you, allowing himself to be drawn closer.  You kiss the corner of his mouth. "My mate."

Then, finally, you press your lips against his. "My husband," you declare softly, sealing your bond with a kiss that echoes the depths of your devotion and commitment to each other. 

And for the first time in centuries, Azriel sleeps soundly with you in his arms. Free from the torment of nightmares that had haunted him for so long.

Only to wake up and realize it’s because he’s now living in one.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed! When writing this, I didn't intend for there to be more parts so for now, it's a one-shot. I left the ending open-ended to allow you to interpret it how you want and also, leave room for a sequel in case I ever do want to go back to this. That being said, while I don't have ideas for a sequel in mind as of right now, I did come up with a backstory for Az & reader in this little au so I might write a prequel on how their relationship came to be.

I also have another Az x Rhys's sister series. It is written in third person and it's more of an Az x OC series. You can find it here, if interested. But I do intend to make this au different than that one.

tagging: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444

[elegantlyeva]

I loved your last Scott fic and was wondering if you could do something with just him and fluffiness for his girl? (Or as fluffy as he can get)

Burned Breakfast

a/n: Thank you for the request babe! i assumed you met established relationship fluff but if you meant for the pining stages lmk!!

Word Count: 0.6K

The sunlight from the early morning peeks through the blinds, the curtains wide open. One of you forgot to close the blinds, and considering you were the one woken up by the sun’s intrusion, you blame Scott.

Scott, the peaceful man soundly asleep next to you, small snores leaving his lips, despite how many times he’s rejected the idea that he snores.

Early mornings, ones right after a night in with you, were the only times he looked truly at peace. No complaints from any of his co-workers, no gum in his mouth to fidget with and no one but you to irritate him, though he enjoys you.

He had been extra nice yesterday, making dinner for the pair of you after he got home from a particularly good day with Storm Par. So, considering you were up, you thought to return the favor, slipping on your slippers and peeling Scott’s arm that lay heavily on your waist.

He moved a bit, his brows furrowing in agitation, even in sleep, when he doesn’t get his way. Eventually, he relaxes again, and you make your way out of his bedroom.

It wasn’t even half an hour before Scott started to stir, his hand reaching out to grab you, but met with your side of his bed, cold.

Scott sits up abruptly, opening his eyes in a frenzy. You never got up before him. Did you leave in the middle of the night? Had he done something wrong?

The man was contemplating his entire life when he heard a pan fall from the kitchen.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and got up to follow the noise quickly. He was met with his panicked-looking girlfriend running a hand under the sink.

Scott scowls at the sight, scurrying over to you to inspect the damage.

“What the fuck were you trying to do?” he asked incredulously, kissing your cheek in lieu of a good morning.

“Cooking you breakfast,” you frown, moving your hand to motion around the mess you made in the kitchen. “Pancakes and bacon!”

Scott shook his head, laughing slightly. “Oh really?” he asks, moving to wrap his arms around your waist from behind, pushing your burned hand back under the running water when you move it away. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You narrow your eyes playfully, “You can’t be mean. I’m injured,” you say rather dramatically.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you did that to yourself.” But he moves to the fridge to collect the burn cream he kept there after a nasty incident he had a couple of months back.

He turns off the water for you and snatches your hand towards him so he can apply the cream. “Why were you trying to make me breakfast anyway? Not that I don’t appreciate it.” He raises a brow, and you smile sheepishly.

“I wanted to do something for you.”

“That’s sweet ‘n all, babe, but I promise I’m happy with waking up to you in my bed,” he says, blowing on your burned hand when you wince. “The cream won’t stop the pain, but it’s refreshing, and if you keep applying it, the burn won’t scar.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly, cheeks tinged pink at his words.

“Alright, no offense, but I'm not sure how much I trust this pancake batch,” he starts, staring judgmentally at the (burned) batch you made. You start to protest, but he cuts you off. “It’s fucking early. How about we go back to sleep for another hour, and when we wake up, I'll take you out to the diner?”

The argument dies on your tongue, and you nod, grabbing his hand. “Well, come on, then. I’ve been dying to get back to bed the second the opened curtains that someone forgot to close last night woke me up.”

The corners of his mouth twitch up as he pushes you back into the room, gently. “Thought you wanted to be nice?”

[shadowdaddies]

✋🏻I have an idea!

okay, so reader and Az are new parents and they have one of those wrap around your body bay carrier thingys. Reader has mastered it and whatever, but Azriel has to have reader do it for him every time. So eventually she does it and he forgets the baby is there, just chilling, strapped to his back and goes looking everywhere for it. Reader comes home and is like “Babe, what are you doing?” Az is frantic, scared out of his mind “I can’t find the baby!” Reader rolls her eyes, turns Azriel around and grabs the baby out of the carrier and Azriel gets all flustered and embarrassed.

girl I love this! I might have to make some dad Az headcanons because this made me confident of 2 things:

Azriel would be the most overprotective dad and would spoil his kids, not with gifts necessarily but just affirming them and how loved they are constantly😭

2. Azriel's shadows definitely love to play pranks on him

Safe Haven

Azriel x Reader Fluff 🥰

Tucking in the edge of the wrap, you nestled your daughter into the pouch on Azriel’s back and headed back into her nursery to finish packing her bag for your day out. By this point, putting on Haven’s baby wrap was second nature to you, but with Azriel’s wings, he struggled to put it on himself, especially when he wore the wrap with Haven on his back. 

You had a short hike planned for the day, so your daughter needed to be carried on Azriel’s back. You traditionally would put the wrap on Azriel before going to get Haven, but she was there with you when Az handed you the wrap, so you slipped her in before you left the room. As you loaded diapers and a change of clothes into the bag, Azriel burst through the nursery door, looking more panicked than you had ever seen him. 

Stumbling back a bit, you searched Azriel’s face. “Honey, what’s wrong?” He was panting, eyes scanning the room in a frenzy. “Where is she? I can’t find Haven anywhere. Sweetheart, my shadows don’t see her!” As Azriel spoke, his shadows danced around his shoulders, oscillating as though they were vibrating with laughter.

You rolled your eyes - both at your overprotective mate and his shadows. “You little pranksters,” you mumbled to the wisps of darkness as you walked around Azriel, pulling Haven from where she was wrapped in his back. “She was right with you, Az - safe and sound. I thought you knew I had already put her in the wrap.” 

Azriel’s eyes lined with silver as he took his daughter in his hands. “Sweet girl, I’m so glad you’re okay.” You let out a soft laugh as you slung the diaper bag over your shoulder. “She wasn’t in any danger, Azriel. Here, turn around and I’ll put her back in the wrap.”

Azriel gave you an incredulous look. “She is not going back in the wrap. I’ll carry her the entire day - she’s not leaving my sight.” He looked down at your daughter as she slept, a scarred thumb stroking her soft, chubby cheek. The look of adoration in your mate’s eyes almost brought you to tears as you leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Let’s go enjoy our day, love,” you whispered, leading your family out the door.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: swearing, brief mentions of terror, domestic!Simon, intimacy in the shower, hand job, vaginal fingering, brief oral sex (female receiving), non-penetrative sex, the mask comes off

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: Part Fourteen of Ink & Needle

Simon doesn't see you again for two weeks. Amelia intervenes. Simon removes his mask in front of you.

Chapter Thirteen // Chapter Fifteen

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Repetition.

Fingers counting bottles. Counting colors. Counting labels.

White paper. Blank spaces. Pencil. Graphite tip.

Breaking. Breaking. Over. Over. Over, again.

Blue ink. Red ink. Black.

Simon counts the little rows, falling deeper into distraction. It’s a way to quiet his mind, to turn off the fucking noise that’s buzzing there in the back like an annoyingly curious bee. But all this inventory counting isn’t working. Nothing is keeping his thoughts at bay.

A week has passed. An entire fucking week and your absence is a festering wound. Simon isn’t taking it personally. Really. He isn’t. But fuck he misses you. Part of him blames himself, insisting that your distance has to do with something he did. It’s not entirely far from the truth. While Simon hasn’t exactly lied to you, he has omitted crucial information.

British Intelligence may very well be coming to call, but Simon doesn’t know that information explicitly. The situation is precarious. Delicate. The information Simon shifted through with Price, Kyle, and Johnny unnerved him.

Kit Walsh is not your local nationalist prick who spouts shit off in chatrooms or on social media for influencers to stitch. Kit Walsh moved beyond that. Beyond walking in to corner stores or a school or a church for innocent people to understand his lead-drenched wrath. Beyond a week or two of media frenzy. Beyond mugshots and a jury sentence.

This man moves between. One minute he’s supplying arms to opposing sides in another country to destabilize a region, and then turns around to whisper in some politician’s ear to convince them to “intercede” on the behalf of “global peace.”

He pushes weapons, pushes people, pushes drugs.

But he’s not a businessman. That’s just a front for his true intentions. Kit Walsh thinks on global levels and how he intends to make the world into his image. He takes his time. He observes and then moves.

It makes the man more dangerous because he also understands that acts at the local level are just as or even more powerful than the global ones. Nothing is more terrifying than when your own neighbor turns their words of hate into hateful actions.

Kit Walsh knows this.

Which is why Simon didn’t give a fuck when he received all those injuries. He thought he took the fucker out for good. That Walsh was a burnt-up corpse. Simon rarely considers any of his scars to be marks of pride. Yet the ones he received when he shoved his knife into Walsh’s chest were ones he didn’t mind having.

But none of that matters now.

Walsh is alive. And he might have fucking blown the back of Lord Archibald Williams’ head off. For what? Simon doesn’t fucking know. Price didn’t know either which means that British Intelligence likely doesn’t.

And you don’t need to know any of that. Why burden you? Why put any of these worries and issues on your plate when they might not land there at all? Why exhaust you further?

When you brought up Archie, Simon panicked, knowing you were already tired—already stressed. It’s not right that this happened to your friend, but Simon truly believes there isn’t anything to particularly worry about at the moment. That is reason enough not to dump this on you.

Simon’s fingers hover above the lid of an ink bottle. He pauses there, thinking, forgetting the number he just uttered.

Lost count. Starts over.

Blue ink. Red ink. Black.

“Fuck!” shouts Simon, his tatted knuckles turning white as the pencil clenched in his fist snaps in half.

Simon stares at the broken pencil. At the fractured graphite.

Sighing heavily, Simon drops the clipboard and steps away from the storage cabinets. He’s fucking distracted, and it’s not only because of the shit he read in Price’s file. Simon hasn’t seen you—hasn’t touched you in almost a week. Somehow, the separation is difficult, more frustrating than Simon previously thought.

He went three years without knowing your touch. But a week is now too much?

Simon clenches his fists. Releases them. Inhales deeply through his nostrils and exhales slowly through his mouth. He repeats until there isn’t any tension in his limbs and his mind quiets. Using the silence, Simon takes notes of the aches and pains. The leg that always gives him trouble isn’t hurting much today, but that might be a different story tomorrow. Everything else is dull and fine, better than it has been.

Checking his scheduling book, Simon pulls up the name of the next client, retrieving the sketches and preparing the stencil. This is work he knows. This is work that’s natural to him. Safe and secure. When the client arrives, Simon shifts into work mode, slipping into his professional mask, dipping into his creativity.

For these few hours, Simon doesn’t think about you at all and he certainly doesn’t think about Walsh. He’s only thinking about the tattoo and the client and the goddamn inventory sheet that looks ready to slip right off the desk.

But when Simon’s client leaves, and he is left in an empty shop with a snoozing Bravo, thoughts of you come roaring back to the forefront of his mind. There really is no reason to worry. It’s not like Simon is only receiving radio silence from you. You just haven’t been with him. That’s all.

The two of you have talked. Well—not extensively. It’s only been flashes of conversation, brief texts and even shorter phone calls. It is the tiredness and exhaustion that Simon hears in your voice every time he speaks with you that worries him. He knows why you’re staying away, and it’s not because of him. At least, that is what you tell him.

Yet Simon cannot help but linger in those spaces, questioning whether or not he somehow messed up. That he didn’t do enough. Worse, it’s not fair to you to think this way. You have been clear about why you’re not around, but it still chews at him. Simon stills wants to see you, to hold you close even if it’s for a fleeting moment.

He knows there is a baby. He knows you have responsibilities to your friend. He knows and yet Simon is fucking selfish because he wants—no. Needs to breathe you in even if it is just the sweet scent of your skin.

But evening comes as Simon closes up shop for the night, and there is not a text or call from you.

There are none the next day or the day after that.

By Sunday morning, Simon is boiling from the inside out, gripping his phone like a goddamn lunatic.

He hasn’t heard from you, and the few calls and texts he’s sent have gone unanswered. If he were his old self, he’d have already gone to your place demanding to see you. But things have changed for him in some respects. Simon is trying hard not to fall into old habits and behaviors when it comes to you.

Simon has failed on several occasions, but he’s trying to be better. He’s trying to be better for you.

The decision he makes is like pulled teeth. Necessary sometimes but fucking painful without the proper numbing. Simon does not go to your place. Every step he takes in the opposite direction of Amelia’s home are dull razors against the skin. He forces himself to leash Bravo, to go to Dancing Faun, to sit down on his usual fucking stool and pretend that everything is fine.

Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.

Simon is going to leave it—leave you—and give you some needed space. There is a newborn in Amelia’s house, and the last thing Simon needs to do is to barge in and step all over that dynamic just because he hasn’t seen you in a few days.

“Look who it is,” chuckles Ben, the owner of Dancing Faun. He sets down a newly polished pint glass. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Simon grins behind the balaclava, the familiar face a much-needed welcome. “You’re forgettable. But your wife?” Simon whistles and settles on his usual stool.

Ben guffaws and wags a finger in Simon’s direction. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’d leave me in an instant if you asked.”

“Better ask her then,” replies Simon, pretending to get up.

“Oi. Sit down,” mumbles Ben, shaking his polishing rag in Simon’s direction. “Cheeky bastard.”

Ben leaves and returns with Simon’s usual full English and tea. The two of them chat, Ben forgetting not to talk politics on Sunday while Simon listens and shakes his head, knowing the big guy does it on purpose to mess with him. After breakfast, Simon starts with a pint of dark amber ale, moving on to a second as the first customers begin to trickle in.

For a few hours, Simon forgets about the outside world. He watches a rugby match. Drinks a third beer. Considers whether he should switch over to whiskey. It’s just like all his other Sundays since retirement.

Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.

Simon lifts the pint glass to his mouth, downing the last of his third drink. He sets it down on the bar top, unsuspecting of the coming intrusion.

Reality is such a fickle thing. Sometimes it is a clawing, creeping blob that lurks in the corner of a dark room. Sometimes, it is an abrupt shaking, as if hands are on you, imploring you to look.

“Amelia!”

Simon’s stomach flips at the sound of Ben’s voice calling out to the older woman. Glancing away from the television, Simon turns, seeking you. Hope expands in his chest like an inflating balloon. Sparks pop off in his head with the belief that you will enter in behind Amelia. That you will walk through the door and Simon can finally see you again.

But you’re not here.

You’re not with her.

It’s just Amelia.

Her cheeks are rosy from the November cold, and her coat swallows her up.

“I have photos of the grandbaby,” she says, voice cheery as she removes her leather gloves and stuffs them in her coat pockets.

Ben’s smile widens. “Congratulations.”

Several patrons around the pub hold up their drinks in salute, echoing Ben’s initial statement. Without taking off her coat, Amelia travels from person to person, her wire rimmed glasses hanging on the tip of her nose as she scrolls through photos on her phone. She lingers with each person, telling the same story, showing the same pictures.

Simon patiently waits because that’s all he can do. Inside, he’s boiling in an agonizing twisting of alertness that pulls every muscle in his body taut with tension.

Is she doing this on purpose to mess with him? Did he really fuck up and this is her version of punishment?

When Amelia finally approaches Simon, some of that tension evaporates. Her smile is genuine. Soothing. She’s not upset with him. If anything, Amelia is relieved to see him.

“Morning, Simon,” she sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly.

“Morning,” he replies, not recognizing the gruffness in his voice. Simon swallows, tapping the side of his empty glass with a single finger.

Amelia holds up her phone. “Interested in seeing pictures of my grandbaby?”

Fucking hell, he can’t say no to her.

Simon only nods because he cannot trust his voice. Is he fracturing? What the bloody hell is wrong with him? Is it this distance? Does Simon truly miss you so much that it’s causing him to slip?

Amelia settles herself on the stool next to Simon. Bravo’s head doesn’t even lift in greeting. The German Shepard is out, completely relaxed and dozing on the floor. With phone clutched in one hand, Amelia begins to scroll through multiple pictures. Most of them are just of the baby asleep or cradled in someone’s arms.

“Her name is Lillian,” says Amelia, smiling fondly. “Named after Archie’s younger sister. Poor thing didn’t even get to see the age of three.”

The mention of Archie’s name twists Simon’s stomach. The file, its contents, and the conversation he had with Price, Johnny, and Kyle comes creeping back, wanting to sink its claws in.

“This,” and Amelia brings her phone a bit closer. “Is the day we brought her back.” Amelia hums softly. “So rosy cheeked.”

Simon grunts in agreement. It’s not the kindest response but it’s not because he doesn’t agree. Lillian is cute. She is rosy cheeked. Simon is good with kids and he likes them. But he just wants to know what is happening with you.

Amelia slides her finger across the phone’s screen only to reveal a glimpse of a possible answer to all of his questions.

This picture is one of you. In your arms, you are holding Lillian. This wasn’t taken at the hospital. This is at Amelia’s home on the sofa. Simon recognizes the fucking fabric. You’re smiling down at the girl as if she’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen.

At first, Simon’s mind is steady. Resolute.

But then, it drifts. Keeps floating. Floating further away until Simon is imagining that you are not holding Amelia’s grandchild at all. You are holding your child. The one you might have with him.

The thought—this image of you—is sudden and fierce. Simon cannot shake it. His mind fixates on this future as if it’s a completely plausible thing. It sticks to him like honey. Like tar. No fingers can dig in and scrape it away. No cleaning solution could scrub it off. There is no box or hole or wasteland that Simon can hurdle this idea into in the hope that he might forget it.

It has bloomed. Flowered. Roots sinking between the soft folds of his brain.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“She needs a break,” says Amelia, her tone drifting to a far-off place, pulling Simon from his wayward dreaming.

She is looking down at her phone. She is looking at the photo of you. Amelia glances up at Simon, her features softening into gentle sadness. “That’s really why I came. Hoped you’d be here.” She shrugs.

“Here I am,” replies Simon.

Amelia nods. “Here you are,” she echoes.

Locking her phone, Amelia exchanges it for the gloves in her pockets. Simon glances over at Ben and lightly moves his empty glass in the man’s direction. He comes over and retrieves the glass.

“She’s working herself to the bone. Doing everything for Evie and I when it’s not necessary.” Amelia taps her gloves against her open palm. “And she’s too stubborn to hand the reigns over to me. The woman needs a break. Away from all of us.”

Simon understands. You’re too selfless to step aside. You need to be forced or prompted. Amelia knows this too which is why she came searching for him. Hearing that you’re overworking yourself displeases him, but he’s also bloody fucking happy that he can have you to himself for a bit.

“For how long?” asks Simon, smothering the hopefulness that wants to burst forth.

Amelia frowns in thought. “A few days. Maybe a week. If she accepts that.”

Oh, you’ll accept. Simon will see to it.

“Another drink?” Ben meanders over from the other side of the bar.

Simon shakes his head. “Paying out, Ben.”

Amelia smirks and slips on her gloves as Simon hands off what’s owed. The tension and confusion from earlier are now raw energy, pumping through his loins like electricity. The entire walk to Amelia’s is easy, all the aches and pains in his body suddenly silent as if they too are excited to see you.

When Simon enters Amelia’s home, he finds you sitting on the floor in the living room. You’re surrounded by piles of laundry. Closest to Simon are small stacks of papers. They’re scattered off to the side in some sort of organized chaos that he can’t figure out. Your laptop is open in front of you resting on an ottoman. You’re reading emails while folding laundry.

Bravo stands to the right of Simon but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for Simon’s command but even he can feel the dog’s excitement to greet you.

You haven’t noticed Simon yet but he certainly notices you. While he’d love to stop and just bask in your beauty, there are so many other things catching his attention that give life to what Amelia was telling him.

Tiredness covers you like a weighted blanket. You’re slouched forward, each movement accompanied by a sigh and a delay that Simon doesn’t like. His gaze focuses and it is then that he sees the slight tremble in your hands as you smooth the top of a folded towel.

Behind Simon, Amelia shuts the front door. The sound of it closing jostles you. Your head snaps in his direction.

“Simon.”

It is a relief. A surprise.

The exhaustion in your voice is cold and palpable like butter right out of the fridge. You’re ready to fall over. Simon doesn’t need to guess because when you attempt to stand, you wobble a bit, reaching out to steady yourself on the sofa.

Amelia is right. You are overworking yourself.

It takes Simon three strides to get to you. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he lightly presses, indicating that you should sit back down. Without protest, you follow his silent command, and Simon sinks to your level.

“What is all this?” he asks, keeping his tone calm.

Beneath the mask, Simon is furious. Not with you but with himself. He should have listened to his instinct. He should have given in to those old impulses. If he had, he could be helping you right now and perhaps you wouldn’t be so goddamn tired.

The sigh you release if heavy like a boulder. It presses on Simon’s chest. His hand on your shoulder shifts, cradling the side of your throat, his thumb brushing against your jawline. You don’t say anything. You’re too defeated—too exhausted.

Bravo cannot reach you with Simon in the way. The German Shepard opts for the ottoman, resting his head on it, ears drooping slightly.

“Simon is going to take you for a bit.” Amelia’s voice drifts over Simon’s shoulder and your eyes widen as you glance at the woman.

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” snaps Amelia. “You’re doing far too much. Let us help.”

That’s a fucking understatement.

Simon presents his other hand and you take it. His hand on your neck slips away to reach behind you to help you guide you to your feet.

 “Go pack a bag,” murmurs Simon, his palm splaying wide across your lower back. “You’re staying with me.”

Your lips part as if to form a protest but Simon isn’t having that. He arches a single eyebrow, daring you to question what he’s told you to do.

Your mouth snaps shut.

Simon leans in. “Good girl,” he whispers.

This time when your lips part, it is with surprise. You blink, a bit stunned, and then a flood of warmth rushes up your neck and cheeks, your gaze dropping to the floor, face turning away in embarrassment.

Your reaction is something. It is something other than tiredness. Other than exhaustion and weakness. This is a piece of you he’s seen before and wants to see again. You shouldn’t be shoving it away to take care of others.

Against his chest is your flattened palm. Your fingers curl inward as your embarrassed demeanor turns into observance. You’re staring at the laundry, upper body twisting back and forth as you look for something.

“What is it?” prompts Simon, following your movements as if he can read your mind and know what it is you’re searching for.

Reaching down, you toss a few unfolded pieces of laundry aside to reveal your phone. Retrieving it, you glance down at the screen.

“Shit,” you mutter. It doesn’t light up. Your phone is dead. No wonder you haven’t been answering him.

“We’ll worry about that later.” Simon nods toward the stairs. “Go.”

Back at his flat, Simon takes your packed bag and drops it off in the bedroom. You stand in the space between the living room and kitchen, lingering with your hands clasped in front of you.

“Sit. I’ll make us something.” Simon gestures toward the couch and you slowly unfurl, nearly falling into the sofa once you get there.

Simon rummages around in his pantry and fridge, knowing that it’s best to find a snack for you to munch on while he cooks dinner. When is the last time you ate a real meal or fucking slept? Would you even admit the truth to him?

He eventually brings you tea and a variety of crisps. Your “thank you” is slightly slurred like you’re close to falling into the lands of Morpheus. Bravo curls up next to you, one paw touching your thigh while the rest of his body reclines away.

Simon stays in the kitchen. When he emerges to bring you food, he finds you asleep, grasping one of the bags of crisps against your chest. The opened end is facing Bravo and the poor dog is having an existential crisis on whether or not he should stick his face in or leave the bag be.

He should let you sleep, but Simon also knows you need to fucking eat something.

Gently, Simon places your plates on the coffee table. He removes the bag of crisps from your arms before rousing you. The meal is devoured. Tea is had. Simon throws on a movie, and you snuggle up to him, sinking into his warmth.

 This is how it should be. With you in his arms.

Twenty minutes in and you’re asleep again. Simon doesn’t care at all. You are here. You are close. You are safe. Like this, Simon can protect you. He can take care of you. Simon finishes the movie by himself, deciding that only after he’ll carry you to bed.

As he shifts to lift you, you awaken slightly, arms sliding around his neck to snuggle closer. Simon turns his face into you, breathes you in, allowing your scent to fill his lungs. You’re drifting off again as he adjusts his grip and stands. His bad leg wants to give out but Simon bites back the quick flare of pain.

Fuck that. Simon is stronger than that.

In the bedroom, Simon bends at the knees, thighs straining as he tosses back the covers on one side of the bed. Sliding you underneath, he tucks you in. You turn over to face the opposite direction, arms curling around his pillow like it’s him. He watches as you bring it closer, nostrils flaring as if you’re inhaling him too.

Simon changes into more comfortable clothing before sliding in next to you.

For him, his sleep is absent of dreams.

There are no shadows or fire. No memory. Just blankness. Nothing.

He wakes early, well before the time he actually needs to open up the shop for customers. Simon doesn’t want to. He’d like to stay in bed all day with you, but he also knows that trying to rearrange today’s schedule just for a bit of personal gratification is a fucking rude thing to do.

Simon stretches, all the joints in his body popping as Bravo’s head appears above the end of the bed. The dog tilts his head and Simon gestures toward the door. Bravo takes off, heading outside to go guard the place from squirrels.

Shifting to the edge of the bed, Simon rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. More popping but the stiffness quickly recedes.  Glancing behind him, Simon finds you still asleep. Things have changed though. The bedding is twisted around your body and you’ve removed some clothes in the night.

He cannot help himself. Simon’s gaze glides over all the exposed skin. The itch to reach out and run just his fingertips across the curve of your hip is unbearable. Simon has to clench his hands into fists just to stop himself from touching you.

Pushing off from the bed, Simon enters the bathroom, seeking a hot shower. All his clothes including his mask go on the floor. He is aching between his legs, all the blood in his body rushing happily to his quickly swelling cock.

“Fuck,” he mutters, stepping under the water.

Wrapping his hand around the base, Simon begins to stroke. The small bit of underwear he kept as a token is still tucked away in his dresser, but he doesn’t need it. Not anymore. He now has the memory of you, and the fact that you are currently in his bed. It’s enough to drive that pulsing desire higher.

Simon rests his forearm against the shower wall. He leans forward, his forehead coming into contact with that arm. He’s so fucking busy stroking his cock, that he doesn’t hear the opening of the bathroom door.

He doesn’t hear it close.

Nor does he hear the shower door.

It isn’t until your hand slides over his that Simon realizes what’s happening.

Your other hand rests against his back, splaying wide, moving up and down in gentle passes.

“Let me,” you murmur and Simon releases himself, only for you take his place, stroking him perfectly in utter pleasure.

A shiver rattles up his spine. You’re not looking at his face. You stand off to his right, face lightly pressed against the right side of his upper back near his shoulder. Lips move against skin, leaving kisses behind. You give Simon these small gifts with each stroke of your hand along his shaft.

Do you know that your mouth and hand on his back are caressing his scars? Do you know? Because Simon does, and it make him feel unworthy. Those are no longer earned marks but ones of failure.

But it’s not like you know that.

Over the scars is ink. Black ink. Perhaps you feel their lines and ridges under the tattoos. Perhaps you don’t. Yet Simon knows, and he doesn’t hate the touch. Other people he’s fucked have touched them, commented on them, tried to even sexualize them.

You’re not touching the scars. You are but you aren’t. You’re touching him. Touching Simon.

With a gentle twist of your wrist, you glide down his cock and circle the head with your thumb. Simon groans, leaning into your hold. He imagines you sinking to your knees and taking him into your mouth. He imagines you spreading your legs wide in open invitation. Of him sliding into you, watching himself disappear into your welcoming body.

Your pace increases slightly, just enough to drag Simon toward his end.

He bursts, his release marking the wall, but Simon is already grabbing your wrist, twisting around to face you.

You’re fast. Already, you have one hand thrown over your eyes, a playful smile plastered on your face.

Simon doesn’t care. Not really. The mask is just habit.

Gently, Simon guides your hand away from your face and yet you still keep your eyes closed.

“Don’t want to look at me?” he asks teasingly.

You giggle. “Feels a bit wrong.”

Simon smirks and then grabs your shoulders, turning you around to face the shower wall. He leans down, pressing his lips to your ear. “Your turn.”

Your hands go out to steady yourself as Simon slides his hand between your legs. He moans softly at the contact. You’re already wet for him, and it’s not because of the water. You’re fucking aroused. Needy. All Simon can think about is fucking you with his fingers before he fucks you with his tongue.

Simon wants to give you more but that has to wait. When he takes you like that, he needs to have all of you. Without interruptions. Without distractions. That’s how he wanted it to be three years ago at Riot Room. He wanted to take you home and fuck you on and over every surface in his flat. He wanted to make you scream his name until your voice went hoarse.

He circles your clit with his thumb a few times before testing with a finger. It slides right in and Simon feels the gentle flutter of your pussy adjusting to him. With his other hand, Simon slides it up your body to grab the front of your throat, holding you still. He presses his lips to the top of your head, not caring that the water is close to running into his eyes.

Simon begins to thrust and swirl, inserting a second finger quickly, wanting to feel how you’ll stretch for him. You whimper when his thumb makes another pass over your clit. It is sweet and Simon grins against your scalp, drinking in your little sounds.

But you are also reaching for him, left hand dropping from the wall to move behind you, palming his cock back to hardness even as Simon’s fingers fuck your pussy. You rock back, indicating what you want.

Simon nearly loses it right then.

He nearly snaps.

All he has to do is arch your hips a bit, maybe bend slightly at the knee. He’d fucking slide right in. He could fuck you right here against the shower wall, watch you whimper and beg, pinned between two hard surfaces.

You arch your back. Rub against him. His cock slides against the spot where your cunt and his fingers meet.

A vision of you clawing at the shower wall as he fucks you senseless clouds his mind. It infiltrates. Digs its feet in.

Simon nearly gives in right then as you orgasm, squeezing around his fingers. He nearly breaks the promise to himself.

But he somehow controls himself. Instead of giving in, Simon removes his hand from between your legs and twists his fingers in your hair, tugging to arch your back and bend you enough so he can reach that gorgeous fucking mouth.

His lips come down on yours and you moan against him. Simon’s hand at your throat eases, slips away, trailing over breast and waist and hip before stabilizing on your lower stomach. With this support, Simon slides his cock between your legs.

He does not penetrate, just rocks back and forth. With your thighs pressed together, and the slickness of your orgasm freshly coating your sex, he can pretend he’s inside you. Simon knows it isn’t enough but it’ll have to do for now.

The hand on your stomach sinks lower, shifting to your pelvis. His fingers find your clit. You’re already so sensitive from the previous orgasm that the second takes moments to come to life. Simon savors it, allows it to feed his own movements until he cannot contain his own. Pressing on your pelvis, Simon keeps you in place as finishes, his cock soaking in your juices.

The water is growing cold and Simon is fucking smug.

Slowly, he eases his cock from between your thighs, perfectly content with what just transpired. But his cum is fucking everywhere. It’s literally dripping from your sex.

“Fuck,” murmurs Simon, gently wiping some of that away with water.

That’s something the two of you need to fucking discuss. The first time the two of you had sex, there was a condom. This time, Simon doesn’t want there to be any barriers, but that cannot fucking happen without birth control. You might not be on it, and if that’s the case, the two of you will have to figure something else out.

You press into him. “Simon,” you groan, lips parting in wanton need.

A growl leaves his throat as he gives you what he wants. He nips and sucks on your bottom lip before drawing away, leaving you to face the shower wall. Simon shuts off the water and lightly tugs on your hand.

“Come on.”

He tugs on your hand again but you don’t move. Frowning, Simon grabs your shoulders and forces you to turn.

He blinks and then bursts out laughing. “What are you doing?” Your eyes are closed and your mouth is a thin line. “You can look at me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Simon chuckles, releasing your shoulders. He places one hand flat against the shower wall. Leaning in, Simon drops his voice to low purr. “Think I’m monstrous?”

With his words come the pebbling of your skin. He watches in real time as it fans out across your body. He grins in triumph.

“The very worst,” you reply softly.

Pushing off from the wall, Simon stands tall, shoulders squared, chest forward. “Look at me,” he says, and this time it’s a command.

You suck in a breath before one eye opens. It’s more of a squint but then you open the other, blinking a few times.

For some stupid fucking reason, Simon is a bit nervous. He’s never been nervous like this. Not when it comes to his face.

At first, your eyes widen, and Simon’s chest clenches tight as if a ribbon is twisted around his ribcage. Then, your brow softens, and your mouth forms the most gorgeous smile he’s ever seen. Your hands instantly reach toward his face in eagerness only to pause just before making contact.

The retreat is shallow. You’re asking permission.

“It’s okay,” murmurs Simon, because it is.

You close this distance and Simon turns his face into your soft hands. Your thumbs stroke over his cheeks. Your fingers trace his brow and nose. Every touch is exploratory and gentle, but fucking bliss.

“Hiding all this from me?” you tease. “You’ve been holding out on me, Simon.”

He chuckles, happiness vibrating in his chest. Clasping your hands with his own, Simon brings them down to his chest. In one motion, the two of you are coming together, lips meeting. This is all softness. All tenderness.

Simon draws back, licks his lips. “Will you go away with me?”

“On a trip?”

He nods, stealing one more kiss before continuing. “Next weekend? I can move a few things around.”

“I’m not sure,” you say slowly.

“If you say no I’m telling Amelia.”

You laugh, almost snort, and shake your head. “Fine. Where to?”

“It’s a surprise,” whispers Simon.

You pull back slightly, an amused expression on your face. Simon grins and steps out of the shower, bringing you with him. With towel in hand, Simon soaks up the droplets on his skin. He never takes his eyes off you as you dry yourself. The moment you’re done, Simon snags the towel from you and tosses it to the side.

“Come here,” he growls, needing you all over again.

You playfully bat at his hands but it’s all for show. You easily give in to him, allowing Simon to drag you onto the bed. He sighs as he pushes your legs wide, settling between them to drape one over each of his shoulders.

Dragging you to his mouth, Simon forgoes all teasing and closes the distance. Your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his head as his tongue penetrates your pussy.

It is morning.

He’s simply enjoying his breakfast.

And Simon won’t leave the table until he’s finished his meal.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @lialacleaf @theshrikeandcanary @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @kayden666 @36namey @creamwhxre @pearljamislife @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @cinnabeanz @rogerrhqpsody @c0pernicus @josephquinnschesthair @corvusmorte @saoirse06 @therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @knight4xmas @jupiternighties @darling006 @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @carma-fanficaddict @beebeechaos @enarien @xxkay15xx @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @mudisgranapat @heeheehoohoohahahihi @miaraei @contractedcriteria

[itsalwaysteatimeinwonderland]

In Disarray and Dazed (Spike x Y/N)

Requested: YES! <3 Thank you! Thank you for the request. I had so much fun writing it. Requested by @wtv-my-current-hyperfixation

TW: Mention of violence and getting hurt.

Word Count: 1k

Masterlist

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A Summer breeze refreshed their skin. The crickets chimed in a frenzy. Another night of hunting, another night of scars and beatings. Your body can't keep up. The cemetery was finally quiet and in peace. You make sure the Scobies are okay before you head out of the cemetery to your house. You eye Spike on your way out, forcing yourself to not limp. You swore that he looked back at you, reading your intent. You didn't want to draw attention to yourself, especially not from Spike. You'd be mortified if he took care of you. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if he was that caring and vulnerable. Your brain would explode with serotonin and dopamine. You make sure to announce you're leaving before making a quick getaway. 

You barely make it to your house. After a long shower you survey the damage to your body. Carefully, you dab, clean and patch up all your bruises and cut. You're sore and tired. As you walk over to your room you keep replaying the events that occurred tonight. You worried about everyone's safety but when it came to Spike you worried the most. He could hold up his own, but still... You reminded yourself that he was a vampire with more years of experience than you. You were thankful for his presence and his decision to intervene when you almost got pummeled. Very chivalrous of him. It made you blush.

Feet tired and dragging, you make it to your bed. It’s not long before you fall asleep and disappear into the dreamscape.

Outside cigarette smoke litters the air. Spike stands by a tree close to your window. He is worried for your safety and wellbeing. He made sure that you made it home safe. Obviously, he was careful to not be seen. He longed to take care of you, to make you feel safe. However, this was as far as he dared go. A monster like him didn’t deserve to be happy.

Inside, you tossed and turned in fear. In your dream you were in the woods, running, You didn’t know why, only that you were in danger. You had the vague feeling that you weren’t alone. Spike, he was with you. You searched for him, seeking refuge. If you reached him, everything would be alright. You reach a clearing with no one present. Your heartbeat in your ears. You wait as if destined to be there. In the distance you can hear grunting and fighting but you can’t move. Your feet glued to the floor. Eventually you see Spike being tossed in the air, he lands hard into the clearing. You fear for his life. A demon appears, mangled and mean. Spike scrambles to get away from him, fear in his eyes. You have never seen Spike so afraid. The demon is holding a long wooden stake like a stick. You scream for Spike to watch out but no sound escapes your lips. You are mute and stuck. Your breath is labored and panicked. Spike is unable to get away and before he can get up he is staked and turned into dust. Your eyes widen, tears stream down your face. You’re at a loss and afraid of what will happen to you. You try to force yourself to move as the demon approaches you, a long sword now in his hand. As he swings you wake up, drenched in sweat. Your heartbeat fast and your breath caught in your throat.

You panic. What about Spike? Is he gone? Did this really happen tonight? Your mind is foggy and in disarray. You couldn’t remember if this happened. You jolt out of bed and get dressed. You run out of your house and straight to Spike’s crypt. You needed to make sure he was okay. You needed to be sure that he still lived.

You bust into Spike’s crypt, eyes wild and searching. There he is, sitting in his armchair watching TV. You rush to him and place your hands on either side of his face, making sure it wasn’t a dream. Tears roll down your face as you repeat ‘you’re safe.”

Spike looks at you bewildered and confused. He slowly places his hands on top of yours.

“What’s happenin’, love?’ Spike gets up, still holding your hands to his face.

You rapidly explain your dream between sobs and tears. Spike’s eyes soften, his heart melts. He wishes every moment with you could be like this.

“Mighty worried for an old vampire.” Spike deflects.

You breathe hard, not knowing your next move. Without thinking your mouth moves.

“Spike, I love you too much to lose you.”

You swear that you heard him gasp. He is stunned and stuck. His brain is a mess, and no words will come out. He chooses to do the next logical thing, he kisses you. He pours his desire and feelings in one kiss, hoping that you hear what he is trying to say.

You melt into the kiss and let go of your inhibitions. Your arms wrap around him, and you let yourself be guided by him. You eventually come out for air, making sure to make eye contact as you break the kiss.

Spike is left in awe of his own actions but doesn’t back down. He wraps his arms around you tightly and bring you closer to his body. You take a chance to memorize the feeling of his body.

“Love, I’ve been dying to hear you say those words.”

You smile, appreciative that your feelings are reciprocated.

“Let me stay the night.” You state more than ask.

Spike leans down for another kiss, slower and more passionate. He memorizes your taste, your feel. He wishes that all his years alive were this moving and strong. He forgets himself as he kisses you. He forgets that you need air. You gently pull away, dazed and happy.

“You can stay any night, pet.”

Spike gladly leads you to his bed where you both lie in bliss. No more fear. No more disarray. Only comfort and safety.  He may be a monster, but in your eyes he was a man. Not just any man, your man.

[desertduality]

Potential for Scar angst this episode was insane so I wrote this in one sitting. Alternate scene for when Grian finds Scar hiding out in his egg house :)

Here it is on Ao3

———

No one talks about it, but the tasks they’re given tend to mess with their head. There’s— There’s a pull, there, to comply. Scar still remembers the way his tongue had tangled on that first day, the way his throat had closed when he’d even thought about calling someone by their real name. He still remembers the sharp, punishing pain behind his eyes when he’d slipped up and said Mumbo’s.

There’s a sort of urgency, once the task has embedded itself into their minds. Scar feels it, that frenzied energy that sends him knocking down torches until he can finally hit the succeed button without doubt. The secrets pull at them, tug at them. Scar is trying not to compare it to an Evoker’s command, but it’s hard when the feeling is so similar. When trying to fight it now hurts the same as it did back then.

He’s been running for a long time when he finally collapses in Grian’s egg house, panting and sweating. The stupid helmet is still on his head, and every time he raises his hands to take it off there’s that same pain shooting through his head. Joel had told him to take it off, everyone had told him to take it off, so no matter how much he wants to he can’t. He can’t do anything that they want him to do.

None of them will want to ally, after this. He’s burned a lot of bridges, and while he’s not against a little arson now and again, he usually likes to have a choice. He values having a choice very much, ever since he and Cub had broken free all those years ago. He wishes Cub was here, now. It’s a cruel thing to hope for.

There’s a loose feather on the ground beside him, and he picks it up with trembling hands, twirling it between his fingers. It probably fell out when Grian was cleaning his wings. Preening, he’d called it, back in the desert. Scar hadn’t heard of it before. His own wings were the wispy gray of the vex, and even at that a pretty poor specimen. No preening required, and with a bit of magic to keep them hidden, it didn’t matter anyway.

The feather is still in his hand when Grian appears in the doorway, and Scar can only hold his breath.

———————————

Grian… did not do well underground. A creature of the sky scuttling around in caves was bound to come with its issues, and so by the time he gets out, he’s near starvation and has just over seven hearts left to his name. His wings feel grimy with dirt and dust, his legs weak and unable to sprint. His only consolation is that he’d had the good fortune to resurface relatively close to his base, and it’s with an unholy mixture of desperation and relief that he drags himself up the stairs to the egg.

He’s already stuffed about a dozen sweet berries into his mouth before he finally registers that Scar is there. He’s sitting in the corner behind the bed, quiet as anything, and alarm bells start sounding in Grian’s head. Scar usually has a presence that can’t be ignored. He seems almost diminished, now. It makes unease twist in his stomach.

“What are you doing in my house?” Grian asks, baffled.

He rounds the bed, and unease twists into full blown worry when he sees the way Scar is shaking, pupils small and breathing shallow, like he’s been running. He looks— hunted. Scared. Grian suddenly doubts he’s here to steal anything or cause trouble. He’s here hiding.

“Scar?” Grian says tentatively, crouching to eye level. “How are you doing, buddy?”

Scar looks even more panicked, if possible, his mouth opening and closing several times as if unsure what he should say — or what he’s allowed to say. Finally, Scar winces, a frustrated furrow between his eyebrows.

“…Neutral,” Scar says, a tired smile tugging at his mouth, not quite looking at him. “I mean— Good. No. Bad.”

Grian raises an eyebrow. “Getting some mixed signals here, Scar.”

Scar sighs, and fidgets with something in his lap. “I’m— All of my allies are mad at me. The whole server is after me,” he says.

“Why?” Grian asks, because usually it takes a little bit longer for Scar to do something bad enough to warrant that type of server-wide behavior. Scar tilts his head forward as he sighs, and Grian realizes something else. “Why do you have a helmet on?”

Scar huffs a laugh that sounds more like a sob, and makes like he’s going to stand up, arms and legs moving in jerky, frantic movements. The feather he’d apparently been holding drifts to the floor, and Grian reaches out to grab Scar’s wrist without thinking.

“Everyone’s so concerned about the helmet,” Scar says, voice strangled and high. “It was an accident.”

“Why don’t you take it off?” Grian asks, genuinely confused, and Scar makes a noise like he’s been hit, dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed, head in his shaking hands.

It’s his task, Grian thinks, dropping Scar’s wrist, brow furrowed. Something to do with his task.

“Never mind,” Grian says, and sits next to him, wings stretching behind them. “It’s fine, Scar, just— Why don’t you just sit down a minute.”

Scar jerks to his feet, stumbling with the force of the movement until he catches himself on the wall, panting. Grian makes a noise in surprise, eyes wide in confusion as he looks at the tense line of Scar’s shoulders.

“I think I feel like standing,” Scar says, hoarse with forced humor.

“…Okay,” Grian says slowly, mind spinning. “You can stand, that’s fine, too.”

Scar sits back down, breathing like he’s run a marathon, annoyance flickering in his eyes like torchlight. Grian just stares.

“Nice bed,” Scar says, like nothing strange has happened. “Very soft.”

“Thanks,” Grian says flatly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Scar just shakes his head and closes his eyes, still breathing much too fast, hands fisted in the blanket they’re sitting on.

“Alright,” Grian says, letting himself relax a little bit, and he lays a hand on Scar’s arm. “Just breathe, Scar. It’s fine.”

A beat passes.

Scar stops breathing.

Grian looks over, questioning, and is met with eyes more panicked than Grian has ever seen before. Scar’s face is pale and his eyes are wide and terrified, a hand now raised up to his throat and starting to claw at the skin there. He is utterly silent, mouth opening and closing as he struggles, and Grian feels his own chest tighten, his own breathing quicken. He reaches for Scar with both hands, grabbing at him desperately as he tries to figure out what’s going on.

“Scar, breathe!” Grian shouts, but Scar only shakes his head violently and grabs right back at him, like he’s searching for support.

His task, what’s his task? Grian dives wildly into his memory for any clues, trying to make sense of the strange behavior from the past few minutes.

All at once, it hits him.

He’d asked Scar to sit, and he had stood. He had told Scar to stand, and he had sat. He had asked Scar to breathe, and he had stopped. It’s almost too obvious, looking back.

“Scar!” Grian shouts, panic forcing his voice louder. He ducks his head to meet Scar’s wet eyes with his own. “Scar, don’t breathe.”

Scar gasps and coughs, collapsing forward into Grian’s shoulder as he takes in greedy lungfuls of air, chest heaving and stuttering. A low whine of pain builds in Scar’s throat, and Grian just sits there and holds him, one hand on the back of his neck and one on his back. It’s hard to tell which one of them is shaking, but he suspects it’s probably both.

“I’m sorry,” Grian says, quieter now. “I’m sorry, Scar. I didn’t know.”

“…That’s kind of the point,” Scar says roughly, and coughs again. “Secret.”

Grian just sighs, and for a few minutes they sit there and breathe in the waning light.

“They keep telling me to take the helmet off,” Scar says, sounding distant and drained.

Grian feels a stab of sympathy and unwarranted anger. The others didn’t know, either. “Don’t,” Grian says. “Don’t take it off.”

A moment passes, and Scar reaches up with trembling hands to remove the helmet from his head. It makes a dull clanking sound when he drops it to the floor. Grian runs a comforting hand through his sweaty hair, and a bit of weight seems to leave Scar’s shoulders.

Fighting the pull of the tasks is difficult. If Scar had been able to focus enough, maybe he could have fought the impulse to stop breathing. Actively suffocating tended to make concentrating hard, though. He hadn’t had a chance. Not really.

“I’m going to fail this one,” Scar says, resigned.

“Maybe,” Grian allows, and thinks hard about how to word the next thing he wants to say.

“I don’t have any friends,” Grian says eventually, slowly. “I’m in the market.”

There. Nothing that could be construed as a command.

“Oh?” Scar says, muffled into Grian’s shoulder. “Me too.”

Grian hums, wings enclosing around them just a bit more. “How about that,” he says softly.

“How about that,” Scar repeats, tired but lighter.

Outside, the same stars as always hang over them, and they fall asleep without another word.

[radioiaci]

@videokilled ⧐ liked for an upsetting starter.

It comes out as aggression; when the sting of freshly made scars is prominent and the feeling of the clasp around his neck is so tight that it strangles him even when it's not really there at all. Claws scrape against his own flesh to free himself from the invisible confines to no avail, leaving only bloodied, matted fur clinging to his skinny neck and forcing deep, unsettled waves of frequencies to emanate from him so loud that it shatters nearby light fixtures and sends the poor Sinner whom he's cornered into a panicked frenzy.

He spares no kindness tonight; does not bother using his tendrils and maintaining his distance, no. This kill is intimate, claws digging into the throat of the Sinner - contracted to him, no less, and having disobeyed him in his worst moment - until airway is constricted and blood spills from pierced flesh and onto the concrete beneath where he stands.

It's disgusting, but he can only think in jumbled pieces. The Sinner will regenerate eventually. He does not care. Does not care if anyone happens to witness the act either. It's his only way of maintaining control, his blackened gaze distant even as he hovers over the crumpled body - shoulders lifting and falling with his heavy, labored breathing.

Alastor does not move from where he is, poised over the mess.

All he can hear is the oppressive sound of his own static in his ears.

[bellaxgiornata]

Falling For the Devil [Part fifty-six: "The Nightmare"]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Summary: You wake screaming from a terrible nightmare in the middle of the night.

Or

You weren't expecting to see Daredevil.

[Series of one-shots about Reader meeting, falling for, and dating Matt Murdock.]

Warnings: 18+ for this series; contains humor, fluff, romance, angst, smut (like...a lot of it later in the series), language, some violence

Word Count: 3.4k

a/n: This installment is a part of the Big Angst arc. Forewarning, there is no comfort in the next handful of installments, not until you reach "The Aftermath" (Part 58) will there be comfort. The beginning nightmare is quite dark and features some violence as well. You can find the entire list of installments for this series here. And if you're enjoying it let me know!

“Take me, not her,” Daredevil begged. His usual gravelly and dangerous voice was currently strained and full of panic. “It’s me you want. Leave her out of this. Let her go.”

The cold barrel of the gun pressed further into your temple and you flinched. Your heart was hammering frantically in your chest where you sat tied to the chair. You were positive the sound was only further sending Matt into a panicked, despairing frenzy.

“Who says we can’t have both? She clearly knows too much now,” Scar Face rumbled out behind you. 

"Please," Matt pleaded weakly.

“You've got nothing to bargain with, asshole. You aren't going to do anything while we have your bitch tied up," Not Scar Face pointed out. "So why don’t you shut up and take off that ridiculous helmet and show your face?”

“Matt, no,” you whimpered.

“I said to stop talking!” Scar Face snapped.

The barrel of the gun briefly left its place at your temple just long enough for the back of it to come cracking down hard against your skull. White shot across your eyes and you cried out in pain. A few feet before you, Matt dropped to his hands and knees with an agonized shout. A second later you heard something loud clattering along the cement floor of the warehouse. When your vision no longer blurred you saw he’d taken off the mask.

Scar Face let out a loud laugh behind you as you took in Matt’s unfocused eyes. They were on your chest, fear and pain written on his face. The sight alone almost killed you.

“The asshole is blind !” Not Scar Face laughed out from nearby. 

"Backman will get a kick out of that,” Scar Face added, amused, “when we bring him your head.”

“I’d say let’s have him watch us kill his girl but–” Not Scar Face paused to laugh, “–he wouldn’t be able to see anything!”

Both men laughed loudly just behind you, but your eyes were on Matt. He was still on his hands and knees a few feet before you, a look of sheer desperation on his face. Your heart felt like it was being crushed in your chest at the sight before you. They were going to kill you both and Matt would spend his last moments blaming himself.

“Enough of this shit,” Scar Face said, laughter subsiding. “Let’s be done with it already.”

The gun removed itself from your temple, aiming directly at Matt. Tears were falling down your cheeks, your body trembling from where you sat tied to the chair. 

“I’m so sorry,” Matt whispered, his unfixed gaze still only on you. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I lo–”

The gun went off beside you, so loud your ears were ringing. It took your brain a second to realize Matt had been shot. And as his body fell forward onto the floor, his sentence forever hanging unfinished in the air, a scream tore its way out of your chest. You were pulling at the restraints holding you to the chair, tears streaming down your face rapidly. Your eyes were fixed to Matt’s limp body, your hands fighting to reach out and hold him.

"Shut her up, would you?" Scar Face said.

A loud noise burst forth from the gun shortly after it appeared in your line of sight and your body jolted.

Sitting bolt upright on your bed, your breathing coming in fast and hard, you found you were actually screaming. When you realized there were hands on your shoulders you began to thrash violently against the hold that was on you, tears streaming down your face for real.

"It's me, it's me!" a familiar panicked voice was calling out over your shouts. 

You paused as the voice registered in your mind, your body no longer fighting as the scream died in your throat. Still breathing hard, you turned to the side of your bed and through the dark you saw the telltale shape of horns. Your hand darted out to the lamp on your nightstand. Your fingers fumbled as your hand shook, but the moment you pulled the switch, light washed over Daredevil’s familiar form crouched beside your bed.

One of Matt's hands came up, pulling the helmet off of his head instantly and revealing his worried face. Your eyes raked over every inch of him, trying to force out that image of him with a bullet in his head. Your lips trembled, tears falling down your cheeks still at the sight of him alive before you. 

Without thinking, you flung yourself forward at Matt where he was crouched beside you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your face burying itself in his armor just beside his throat. Faintly you registered the way he carefully wrapped an arm around your shoulders, his other gloved hand very gently smoothing your hair down. You sobbed into his armor, arms tightening around him even further. 

"Hey, you're okay," he whispered. "You were dreaming. You're okay."

"I was back there," you murmured into the strange material of his suit. "In that warehouse. They shot both of us," you said, voice breaking.

His hand continued to soothe its way down your hair over and over, his other arm holding you to him more firmly. "You're okay," he repeated. "I've got you, you're okay. You’re safe."

Eyes closing, you relaxed into his comforting embrace and his soothing voice. He was alive. It had been a bad dream, nothing more. 

But the longer you held him and he held you, the more embarrassed you were quickly becoming. He wasn't your Matt anymore and you shouldn't be holding him like this. As much as you wanted his comfort, as much as you wanted to pull him onto your bed and have him wrap himself around you, that wasn't going to happen. 

Your arms abruptly released Matt, pushing yourself away from him so fast that Matt's hands were briefly left hovering in the air where he had moments before been holding you. You sniffled loudly, blinking back the tears. Matt's hands slowly lowered to the bed as he sunk down to sit on the floor beside your mattress.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled. "I–I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he replied, an unreadable expression on his face. "Are you…alright?"

You ran a hand down your face, trying to force that nightmare from your mind. It hadn't been real, you reminded yourself. That wasn't what happened and those men were in no position to hurt you again. But still, you felt terrified.

"I'm fine," you told him. 

Matt's mouth twitched downwards at the corner. "No you're not," he replied.

A deep sigh fell from him as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on your bed as he buried his face in his gloved hands. You bit your lip nervously, watching him quietly before you. 

"This is all my fault," he said, his voice a bit muffled by his gloves still covering his face. 

"No it's not," you immediately whispered. 

Matt's face slowly rose out of his hands, brows creased together onto his forehead as his gaze landed along your chest. He winced as his head canted to the side. 

"How is it not my fault? They were after me ," he stated.

"But I was the one looking into Wayland. And I wasn't taking it seriously enough," you admitted, shoulders slumping. "I didn't think I had poked around enough to draw that much attention to myself. And I had no idea they'd have made the connection between you and I." You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your right hand dropping to the bed and absently fiddling with the fabric of your comforter. "It was my fault," you admitted, unable to look at him. "I was being reckless, focused on following the story. I didn't listen to you and I should have."

"But I should have stopped you," Matt ground out. "I shouldn't have let you continue looking into it."

"And done what, Matt?" you asked, your eyes darting up from the bed to his pained face. "Tie me to my bed? Get me fired? There wasn't anything more you could have done," you told him firmly. "You warned me repeatedly. You told me to stop–practically begged me to. I didn't listen. This was on me, I put both of us in danger."

"Because of what I do," he countered. 

"And what I do," you pointed out, gesturing to yourself. "Investigative journalist, remember? You were right, you're not the only one chasing bad guys."

His focus dropped down to your bed, one of his gloved hands beginning to comb repeatedly through his dark hair, mussing it further. You could see the muscles twitching in his cheeks like usual when he was frustrated. 

"I'm sorry," you whispered. 

“Stop,” he immediately said, shaking his head. “You did nothing wrong. You did everything I asked you to, everything you could have in that situation.” He sighed heavily, his focus still not on you. “I should have been there for you afterwards,” he whispered, something like shame creeping into his tone. “What I did after…” his voice trailed off, his eyes pinching with emotion.

You shifted on the mattress, scooting closer towards where he sat on the floor. Tentatively your right hand slid along the bed and very lightly the tips of your fingers brushed his gloved hand. Matt’s head rose from the floor, his sightless gaze entirely focused on the part of you touching him.

“What we did,” you corrected him softly, “was consensual. You didn’t hurt me, Matt. And it was clearly what you needed in the moment.”

“It was wrong,” he shot back.

“You didn’t hurt me, Matt,” you repeated firmly. 

“Okay,” Matt began, nodding quickly. “Okay, let’s put aside the bruises and the–the bite marks. All of it,” he said, grimacing as he did. “You had been terrified. Kidnapped. You’d had a gun to your head just hours before, and then I yell at you and–and treat you like that? So rough and angry myself?”

“It was what you needed,” you repeated. “And I was willing to give you the comfort you needed. I’ll admit, rough sex was not exactly the first thing on my mind after that, I’d have much preferred something like this,” you told him, your hand not resting beside his gesturing between the pair of you. “Even though right now it still feels like you’re miles away from me despite you sitting right here. But I wanted to give you what you needed to realize I was safe and I just–just needed you.” Tears were stinging in your eyes at the admission, Matt’s focus finally shifting up towards you. “After all of that,” you told him, your voice cracking, “I just needed you, Matt. That was all I needed.”

You could see the emotion screwing up his features, his eyes pinching tight as his lips began to tremble. A few tears slipped down your cheeks as you tried to hold back a sob.

“But you just left me, Matty,” you whispered, noticing the glisten of tears forming in his own eyes. His hand beside yours balled the sheets in a tight fist as you continued. “It wasn’t the sex that hurt me, Matt. It was the abandoning me when I needed you most afterwards that did.”

Matt rose to his feet and quickly sat down on the bed beside you, his arms wrapping around your waist and drawing you into him. Taken by surprise, it took you a moment to wrap your own arms around his waist, your forehead resting against his chest as tears continued to make their way down your cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry for everything.” 

His face was buried in your hair, his gloved hands gripping you tight to his chest. You could feel the wet drops of Matt’s tears falling onto the top of your head as you clung to him. Something that felt like hope sparked inside of your chest for the first time in over a month. This was what you’d been needing from Matt. This was the comfort and the beginning of an apology you had been craving. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered into your hair. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do any of that to you. I never want to hurt you.” A choked sob left him, his arms tightening around you further. “I’ve been so ashamed,” he continued, his voice shaking. “About what I did to you afterwards, letting any part of that side of me around you. About leaving you like that. I didn’t–didn’t know how to face you afterwards. I just wanted to keep you safe from me.”

“Matt,” you whispered back, cheek pressed against the armor along his chest, “I love all of you,” you admitted. “ All of you. Even the side that does this.” Your right hand gently patted his back, emphasizing exactly what you meant; his gloved hands held you somehow even more firmly in response. “And I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” you added. “I’m sorry I didn’t take the danger of what I was doing more seriously.”

He was shaking his head along the top of yours. “You couldn’t have known,” he replied. “You couldn’t have known just how dangerous it was. You didn’t hear the things I did from Backman’s men all those nights I was out and I–I didn’t tell you everything to try to keep you safe from it all.”

For a long while you both held each other close, crying together in silence as your hands clutched tight to each other. You’d relaxed in his arms, your eyes closed as you breathed in the scent of him. Your heart felt full for the first time in awhile.

Gradually you pulled back from his chest, Matt reluctantly easing his hold on you and drawing his face out from where he’d been crying into your hair. You swallowed hard, face turning up to look at him in your dimly lit bedroom. Your heart sped up in your chest as you took in the sight of him before you, his face closer to yours than it had been in weeks. 

You’d missed him. You’d missed the way his eyes would look upon you with so much warmth and affection. Missed the way it felt to have his arms around you, to feel the heat of his body on yours. You just missed the way he loved you fully.

The only thing you wanted in this exact moment was to fix things between the two of you. To try to repair the damage of these past six weeks. And now that you’d begun to talk it out, both of you having begun to apologize, why couldn’t you both try to make things work? Of course things wouldn’t just pick up where they’d left off, and of course you both needed a bigger, more in depth conversation still–but why couldn’t things between you both be salvaged? Why couldn’t you be together and try to work through everything?

Your heart skipped in your chest at the thought of him taking off that suit and finally , after weeks of crying yourself to sleep alone, falling asleep wrapped in his embrace. Of resting your head along his bare chest and listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Of him tenderly kissing you goodnight. Of waking up tomorrow morning and him being there beside you with a warm smile. 

Hesitantly your right arm unwrapped itself from around Matt’s waist. Your hand tentatively made its way up towards his cheek until you were gently cupping it in the palm of your hand. Before you, Matt’s brows furrowed together in silence. Feeling like you couldn’t breathe, you carefully leaned into Matt, your chin rising to draw your lips towards his.

But the moment your lips briefly brushed his, his head sharply turned to the side, your lips landing awkwardly along the stubble of his cheek. That hope that had been growing in your chest over the past few minutes instantly fizzled out at his blatant rejection. The burn of tears were once again at your eyes, both of your hands quickly falling into your lap as you pulled away. 

Matt was shaking his head, drawing his own arms from you before rising to his feet beside your bed. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

“We can’t,” he told you firmly. “That’s–that’s not what this was. I’m–I’m sorry if I made you think that.”

You bit your lip, nodding solemnly in response. It felt like there was a gaping hole in your chest now larger than before he’d shown up tonight. 

“That’s not why I was here,” he told you, voice pained. “I still owe you more of an apology than what that was, but that’s not why I was here.”

Fighting back sobs that were quickly threatening to wrack your body, you drew your knees up to your chest. “Then why are you here?” you asked, hurt clear in your voice.

Matt hesitated a moment, shifting back and forth on his feet before he answered. “Because I…I listen to make sure you’re safe in your apartment when I head home at night,” he confessed. “Just to your heart, nothing more. But it was erratic and I was terrified something had happened. So I–I came up to your fire escape to check. Then I heard you screaming and thrashing in your sleep. Your window wasn’t locked so I came in.” His hands nervously fidgeted in front of himself, his head shaking. “But I can’t do that. I’m not good for you. You’re not safe with me.”

Unable to hold back the tears any further, your face dropped down to your knees and you cried, shoulders shaking with the movement. You’d thought whatever had torn you two apart might have been something that could be fixed after that conversation, that Matt could see reason and you could work towards getting back to where you’d both been eventually, but apparently he still wanted to think that he was a threat to you. What more could you do about that?

Matt tried to place a comforting hand on your shoulder but you flinched away on the bed, burying your face further into your knees as your arms squeezed your legs tighter.

“Don’t,” you croaked out. “I don’t want your comfort, Matt. Not now, not like this. It hurts too much.”

“What–what can I do?” he breathed out, sounding himself like he was close to tears.

“Just go away,” you begged, curling further in on yourself. “Go away, Matt. Apparently there’s nothing for you here. Just go. I can't keep doing this.”

He whispered your name, his voice breaking as he did. The sound only caused the tears to fall harder from your eyes. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

You heard his footsteps leaving your bedroom, making their way to your living room. There was the familiar sound of your window sliding up before you heard him gently closing it after himself. 

Turning, you flung yourself back onto your bed, grabbing the pillow he always had slept on when he had stayed over. You clung to it pathetically, burying your face in the fabric. It only just barely smelled like him and that had you crying harder. 

You didn't understand why he was doing this. Why he seemed to care so much but yet could continue hurting both of you so badly. How he could possibly think that he was a threat to you. The thought of Matt ever being a danger to you was absurd–especially knowing he was still checking on you, making sure you were safe after the breakup. Checking on you even when you had a nightmare. 

You just didn't understand what was going through his mind and why he continued to push you away. But the whiplash of his hot and cold feelings were killing you. You couldn't take it anymore.

As you clung to your pillow, sobbing softly, your heart tightened in your chest at the conclusion you'd come to. Either you had Matt completely or you didn't have him at all. You couldn’t torture yourself any further; you either needed him or needed to move on from him. You figured you'd reach out to him tomorrow, maybe sit down to talk, because you couldn't have him popping in through your fire escape anymore if he wasn't going to really be in your life. 

But that didn’t lessen the pain in your chest knowing which option Matt was likely to choose.

[kurasthetic]

03:59 - Kuras I

has; gn reader, reader has long-ish hair

VALEDICTION;; every farewell is fond, for he fears one may be the last (wc: 692)

"Well, I'll be off."

Kuras stilled, his pen halting over the parchment and a blob of ink slowly spreading, saturating. He slid his gaze over to you, watching as you stood and languidly stretched your back. A few soft pops crackled in the otherwise silent room, and Kuras found his eyes drawn to the movement of the muscles in your arm and the scar from its separation still stark against your skin, the curve of your back, the slight tremor of your hands as you stretched as far as you could go. Before you could catch him looking, he quickly slid his gaze away from you and cleared his throat.

"It's late," he noted. He had already heard the muffled laughter of drunkards ambling down alleyways to their homes about an hour prior, and now the streets were silent and cold. Only a few taverns would still be open at this hour, which meant the only people who would be out would be trouble. "I could-"

But, of course, a frenzied knocking on the door to his clinic caught his attention. Both he and you stared at the door, shocked by a visit at such an early hour. The voice on the other side was panicked, words tumbling out in a mixture of worry and contrition. "Doctor, doctor, please! I know it's late but my son, he-"

"I'll be just a moment," Kuras interrupted, and the knocking fell silent. Despite his cool tone, Kuras pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a soft sigh as he did so. Then, to you, he said, "Well, I could arrange for someone to accompany you."

"There's no need," You assured, taking your cloak from the chair it was draped over and swinging it on your shoulders. The golden threads lining the edge caught the candlelight, and Kuras wondered why, exactly, he had gotten you such an expensive cloak before he even knew you. "I can walk myself back to the Wet Wick just fine. I've gotten a lot smarter recently, you know."

That he did know. Someone as attracted to danger as yourself had to learn the ways of self defense quickly if you wanted to survive in this city. But as the time passed and you got stronger,  you also became more important to him. It was a slow change, imperceptible as it happened but unbearable once he realized. The urge to assure your safety burned in his blood. 

But arranging the escort would take time, and he had someone to take care of on the other side of the door. If he couldn't keep up a cool facade around others, then he had no hopes of fooling himself. So, instead, he stood to meet you and grabbed the edges or your cloak, far from your hands. 

Startled like a deer, you pulled your bandaged hands closer to your chest, careful not to even risk touching him. Carefully, Kuras  trailed his hands up to the clasp around your neck, carefully fastening the cloak and pulling the edges closer so it covered your body. Then, without warning, he reached behind your head and gently pulled up your hood.

With one hand, he moved the back of your hair out of the way, pulling the hood smoothly over your head. While he adjusted the edges, he carefully brushed a strand of hair away from your face, fingertips just barely grazing over your skin. He tried not to focus on how intensely your wide eyes watched him, how your mouth parted slightly in shock, or how you leaned into him, chasing after the ghost of his touch. 

With his fingers still lightly gripping the edge of your hood, Kuras finally locked eyes with you. The flickering candlelight made his eyes look like warm honey, sweet and inviting. He smiled at you; you swallowed.

"Be well," Kuras said simply and stepped back for you to leave. More than a little flustered, you nodded and made a soft hum of acknowledgement before ducking out the back door of his clinic. 

The night was cold, but your cloak was delightfully warm. You pulled it tighter around you and hurried home.

[angeart]

hhau rescue rambles - part II

>> part I here // hhau masterpost here <<

The hermits are here to take Scar home but Grian is gone and Scar can’t leave without him, even if the others would promise to look for him. (They won’t find him, they won’t, they won’t. Scar knows how vast these forests are. He knows how many hiding spots there are tucked away if one knows where to look.) (They don’t know where to look.)

They’re not listening to him. He’s half-feral and panicked and desperate, barely making any sense. He keeps saying he needs to find Grian, but he looks half-crazed, clothes stained by a huge amount of blood and—

If it looks, a little bit, like he’s just in frenzied denial of some grief? That maybe something happened and Grian isn’t here anymore? The world is permadeath, after all. The rescue party isn’t sure what to think.

Of course they promise to look for Grian. Of course they’ll try. But first, let’s get you somewhere safe, Scar.

Scar panics and backs away and says he isn’t going anywhere until they find Grian. He’s so so afraid they’ll take him away and he’ll never find him. (He keeps imagining that wretched scream he heard that very first day he found Grian, a year ago. How close of a call that was.) (He thinks of finding him after the mimic incident, barely surviving. Wounded and bloodied and ready to collapse.) (He thinks of Grian sobbing as he begs Scar to never leave him again.)

He can’t leave him behind. He can’t.

He won’t.

He’s done everything he can up to this point and if this is his last fight? Then damn it, he’s going to go out swinging. He is going to find Grian. Even if he has to fight his saviours. (They’re enemies if they’re trying to separate him and Grian—) 

He growls and lashes out and his vex magic comes through. The hermits are stunned and a little bit afraid and a whole lot confused. They’ve never seen him like this, hair white and claws ready to tear. (Cub, especially, is terrified of this development. Knowing that if Scar pushes himself too far in his vex form, he could die.) 

They try to placate him, calm him down, reassure him. They try to get the damn teleportation bracelet on him. They keep telling him they can take him home, it’s okay, Scar, it’s okay.

It’s not okay.

He isn’t leaving without Grian, and he isn’t trusting anyone else with this.

So he runs.

He runs from his friends—from people he loves with all his heart; people he thought he’ll never see again. Runs from the promise of home and safety and this hell being finally over. 

He runs, because he can’t take the salvation if he can’t share it with Grian.

Everything’s a bit of a blur as he rushes through the forest, looking for something to tell him where Grian is. He’s fully in his vex form, senses sharp and heart panicked, calling out, desperate for Grian to reply. 

There’s no answer.

Scar sees it, then: a handful of ripped-out feathers and blood.

His heart jumps into his throat, but he laser-focuses and starts following the trail. The world feels askew around him, his steps urgent, his breaths hovering near growls that want to threaten the whole forest if anything dares to hurt Grian more. (He hopes Grian’s still out there.) (He has to be. He has to be—) (Why is he not replying to Scar’s calls, then?)

Scar’s aware that if he can follow the trail of blood, so can others. He needs to be better than them. Faster. (He needs to be a better hunter than them.) He knows that if he’s following the trail now, maybe someone already followed it. (He tries not to let that thought in. That he might be too late.) 

He’s trailed by the hermit rescue party. They scramble in his wake, trying not to lose him. They lag behind, losing sight of him, but Cub staggers to follow his vex bond with Scar, like a tether, trying to hold down the swell of warning anxiety at the fact that Scar is in his vex form. Scar looks feral, he lashed out and ran from them, clothes stained by blood and hair white—

Them following just makes Scar feel hunted. His instincts go haywire and put him more on edge. 

He keeps going.

He keeps calling out, too. Uncaring that he’s attracting every hunter in the vicinity. He can take them. He will happily attract them to himself if that means they won’t go after Grian instead. (The fact that he’s searching for Grian gets a bit tangled up in him. The fact that if he succeeds, he’ll just be bringing the hunters to Grian fails to quite register. He’s not thinking very straight.)

Hermits hear those wails, echoing through the forest. He sounds like a wandering spirit. 

Inhuman. 

Lost.

 --

Grian is hurt. Hand pressed against the spot on his side that bleeds, he sits curled up, pressing himself into some bushes for a moment of reprieve—just a moment, just a little bit, please, please.

He hears Scar’s calls from far away. He hears them, and his heart tears itself to pieces.

He is terrified and hurting, and it feels dangerously close to a despair-filled memory.

 He tries to shield himself from it. There’s a reason he ran. There’s a reason why Scar should stay away from him. He can’t— He shouldn’t— He—

Scar draws closer. Grian can hear his sobbing and heaving. His pleading, so heartrendingly desperate. “Grian please. Grian answer me.”

Grian finds himself cautiously standing up, every muscle taut. His heart is rabbity fast, fear clogging his throat. 

He doesn’t mean to answer. He really, really doesn’t mean to. (He needs to keep Scar away.) Yet a distressed chirp slips through anyway, like a terrified call, begging for Scar.

The sound of it pitches something in Scar. His sobbing changes to panic and dwindling hopefulness. “Grian…?”

There’s a tinier chirp then. Scared. Still involuntary.

Grian is so so afraid and he should know better, but a part of him is desperate for Scar.

The moment he sees Scar, though, the futility rips through him. No. He isn’t meant to— Scar shouldn’t be near him. Because Grian’s been gone so shortly and yet the hunters have already found him. He’s already gotten hurt. He is a beacon.

He can’t stay near Scar. It’ll get Scar hurt. 

It’ll get Scar killed.

(Everything good that stays near Grian dies—)

He needs to get away from him.

He backs away. Tells Scar, in a wobbly voice, not to approach.

Scar doesn’t care. He needs to get to Grian. He needs to get to him, they can go home, this can all be over. 

Running on some faulty reasoning, Grian tries to get away. It’s useless, he is in no state to outrun Scar—he can’t bring himself to fly and he’s bleeding, dizzy on panic—but he feels like he needs to try, anyway. 

His feet feel heavy beneath him, the world unsteady. Scar is behind him and Grian’s heart begs him to stop, turn around, and burrow into his arms. (He can’t he can’t he can’t—)

It takes only a couple of steps for Grian to trip over some roots, the world as cruel to him as ever, sending him plummeting harshly down in a rough tumble of leaves and limbs and feathers. A pained, fearful yelp gets punched out of him on impact.

Scar’s next to him in an instant, kneeling down and gathering him in his arms. Crying as he buries Grian in a hug, terrified he might try to run again. Frantically telling him, “Grian, it’s over, it’s over, we can go home— Please—”

Grian’s sobbing against him, held in place, unable to understand what Scar is saying. He just wants Scar to get away from him and stay safe. (Grian can’t be safe. He’s been doomed from the start. He’s been doomed this whole time.) (He’ll end up like that bird. Dead, with wings ripped off—)

The words “it’s over” mean nothing to him. All he manages to choke out is, “There is no— There’s no home anymore.” They’ve had their safety ripped away from them over and over again. They’ve been showed that they can’t have a home anymore; this world will not allow it. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere is safe, as long as Grian’s wings are bright violet and attached to his spine. 

Scar insists, a series of reassurances, words tripping over each other as he tries to keep his hold on his voice. He says they’ll be okay. He says they don’t have to run anymore. Please, Grian, we can go home.

But it’s not a concept that exists anymore for Grian; it refuses to register in his mind, words sliding right off him, incoherent.

What he knows is this: he failed to protect Scar, and they don’t have a home to go back to, and Grian is sure the hunters are about to show up, any second. He’s so tired and terrified, and he needs Scar to be shielded from this fate. He needs him to be safe.

Scar isn’t letting go of him. His grip is firm as he continues to plead with Grian. He doesn’t want to be rough, he’s never been forceful with Grian, but he can’t let go now. Even as Grian paws at him and tries to push him away. 

Grian’s crying so hard; his efforts to get free are all frantic and urgent, yet half-hearted. (He wants to give in and bury himself in the protectiveness of Scar’s arms.) (He wants all of Scar’s promises to be true.)

And yet something tips askew.

Because Scar’s never been forceful with Grian.

He was always so gentle. He’d never grab him like this, with so much force. So much insistence.

Grian is hit with a dizzying, nauseating thought. Is this a trap? Is this a mimic?

Grian starts chirping. More of those distressed, scared noises as he can't get free of Scar's grip.

It’s the first time ever that Scar won’t heed Grian’s requests to be let go. Not even if Grian says it hurts. He won’t let go he won’t he won’t. He’ll drag him home if he has to.

Grian’s scared and confused, all his thoughts are jumbled, running on rampant trauma responses and unadulterated panic. He can’t deal with any of this. He keeps trying to wrangle free and push Scar away (is it even Scar???), begging him to let go, but it’s so horribly weak. It’s almost nothing. He just chokes on sobs and hyperventilates. (He feels caught.) (He feels like Scar will get killed because of him.) (He doesn’t know what’s happening.)

It’s awful. It’s wrong. It’s— It’s not what it’s meant to be. 

This should be easy. This should be the best day ever! They can go home! 

Instead, it’s like a panicked final showdown and Scar feels like it’s him against everyone. The hermits weren’t listening to him (Grian needs him, he needs him, he needs him), and now Grian isn’t listening to him either. (He can’t comprehend what Scar’s saying at all, and isn’t that so heartbreaking?) (Scar is desperate to get through to him. To calm him down enough so that this could be anything more than Scar forcefully holding him as Grian chokes on panic.) (The kind of panic he should never feel in Scar’s arms—)

Voice breaking, Scar pleads, over and over again. Please, Grian. Please. It’s okay. It’s okay, we can go home, we’ll be alright. It’s me. It’s me, I got you, we’re gonna be safe.

It’s the kiss he presses to Grian’s hair that tips the scales a little, just enough for Grian’s chirps to mute, his sobbing drifting off into softer cries. He goes limp under the affection, still terrified, still trembling and choking on air, but now he’s pressing himself against Scar instead of trying to get free. 

“G, do you understand what I’m saying?” Scar begs in a wavering voice, unbecoming of his feral appearance. He holds onto the magic prickling along his skin, alert for any sort of danger, anything that so much as tries to approach and hurt Grian. His hands are still clawed. His hair is still white. His veins are still stuffed with unending desperation. 

Nothing is over yet. 

It should be. It should be, but it isn’t.

Not yet, not yet.

 The hunters find them before the hermits do.

-- part III here

[radskull-69]

ANDYS LOREEE (because he’s my fav)

I’m thinking of changing the whole ‘town got flooded’ idea, and ditched it for more fire then water.

In Andy’s small country town/ant nest he was the only bull ant in the whole town, and usually bull Andy’s were immediately sent to war but the town was so peaceful so there was no need to prepare warriors for war.

was the biggest in the town even as a toddler, but even after being bullied his future wife would stand up for him. Growing up together, he’d help around the hive with the heavy lifting while she help her mum with the larvae.

it was only when they were finally married, had two beautiful daughters did everything fall apart.

Andy left the ant nest to get his wife some red berries, a rarity that the nest couldn’t get since they grew outside. So when he came back with his arms full of berries walking over the little hill he as met with the blazing view of fire.

Screams were so loud that it made his body rattle, standing there uselessly before amongst the screams and yells of the fire ants attacking his home he heard his family’s screams the most.

Dropping the berries he ran on heavy legs to his house, busting in through the door in a panicked frenzy. He snatched a blanket from his bed on the way to the kids bedroom where he could hear his little family hiding in, trapped from the collapsed room.

he wrapped the blanket around them and carried them out with ease, even as he felt his lungs be drowned in toxic smoke. He ran out the house and to the exit of the nest where the survivors of other ants were rushing towards like a stampede.

he unbundled them from the torn fabric, eyes pooling with tears of pure relief when he was able to save them from the fire. But it was short lived when the loud bang sounded out, sounding like nothing he’s ever heard of before.

he watched the world tilt as he fell like a oak tree, falling heavily to the ground as he sputtered. A explosion of mind numbing pain in his left arm, or at-least where it once was.

he heard his family cry out faintly, but the ringing in his ears was too much. He could barely make out the colours of a fire ant approach, some.. gun in there hand. How’d they get it? He didn’t know, no bug, especially ants could ever get their claws on them. And not on one that’d blow his damn arm off

his yellow eyes widened when he could only weakly reach out with his remaining arm to his family, a futile attempt to protect them like he’s always been best at. But it was useless when he watched that vile fire ant use a gun he couldn’t even begin to imagine they got from, shoot right at his family.

and he watched as his children got obliterated in a burst of fire, air feeling too hard to breathe, more so then the smoke.

a wail left his sharp teeth as he leaned on his remaining arm, turning to all he had left, his wife.

but before he could even cry out her name she was shot through the chest, the beam didn’t stop there though. Gone right through her chest and into his eye, a burning bright light of flame the last thing he saw before the second most painful thing happened to him that day. Second to losing everything he loved

and they left him there, assuming he was just another corpse amongst many. And the fire ants left to destroy the next hive.

Andy recovered, physically at least. He kept the blanket he used to save his family all those years ago, the only thing that survived thr attack aside from himself. Even if it was tattered and faded, much like himself.

he knew the fire ants got their fire arms from humans, filthy humans. The fact another ant species would go against their own kind to side with humans all for greed is what mad something ugly spew from Andy’s heart.

he now roams foreign lands and cities, working as a bounty Hunter to keep himself afloat and to have a easy outlet for his rage. Wearing a hat to hide the nasty burn scar over his eye, and the blanket that once gave him comfort as a cape to hide what was left of his missing arm

he wasn’t the same man, vowing to kill any stupid bug, ant or human that got in his way. Of what? He didn’t know. Vengeance was the only thing keeping him going.

until… he met his new friends, or something like that. They don’t stop the grieving he’s been dealing with for years all alone, but they help him heal.

like the pop rocks his kids would give him when he was sick, or when his wife would kiss his cheek whenever he’d come back from a tussle with the bull, Or when his mother would untangle his antennae from the bushes he’d trip into.

so he’d protect this weird as hell group of mismatch bugs even if they make very morally grey decisions.

[senka-mesecine]

Requesting pretty please with sprinkles and cherries on top a post-firefight kiss scene between reader and Barnes, to get the blood boiling and the tensions high, loving your posts so far 🫶

Battlepumped.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

-

Whenever they'd haul the wounded in, it would be like a wave.

The uneasy silence at camp suddenly torn to shreds by the whirling roar of helicopter blades and the shouts, oh, so many shouts; that's when you'd know there's been men hurt, cut, shot at, those in need of urgent care. Patching up. It was a habit. A well-learned ritual by now --- one you'd brace yourself for instinctually, like a swimmer taking a deep dive underwater. Sergeants leading the way, dragging their own men and you'd wait for them to flood the makeshift quarters like a tide, unceremoniously, limping, stumbling over each other, grunting and begging for relief. Except what you don't expect today of all days to be different is Sergeant Barnes somehow making it to the infirmary first; like he practically flew here, carried on a wind along with the smell of exhaust smoke, burning vapors and death. How could one man be so fast? To this day, you could never quite get used to it. How silent he was. He stands at the entrance to the bunker and the rest of his men haven't even properly left the chopper yet, nearly startling you. You do jump, hoping to god he hasn't noticed even though you were certain he did. His gaze could see through skin, you got the impression. What you observed in all your time as a combat nurse was to allow most things to be like water under the bridge; do your job, do it well and ignore almost everything else you could. His eyes, though? They're bloodshot and eerily still. Assessing you. The barrel of his M-16 still smoking at the tip, like it's been shot just seconds ago. Face nearly tar black with dried up mud, sweat and blood that didn't look like it was his own. You weren't sure if that comforted you or not. Was hard to decide. It's like the natural elements themselves made a mosaic of camouflage out of his scarred visage, covering his own pigmentation in dirt and muck. Barnes was almost effortlessly frightening on an ordinary day, but today ---

He says nothing. Nothing at all.

So you do decide you must, used to his habit.

The man was simply the way he was and that was that on that.

-"Sergeant! Anyone wounded out there? Do they nee ---"-

You can't even properly finish your panicked sentence, about to inquire how many beds and bunks need to freed up for the wounded, talking solely for the formality of it, approaching him with the intent to ask firsthand, pulled forward in a gust of energy and the space separating you instantly grows smaller causing you to think within an instant that the man was in shock about to snap your neck in a frenzy of adrenaline; you've witnessed soldiers doing stuff like that in post-combat stupor. Instead, you're kissed. Just like that. Without words, rhyme or reason. Hard, heavy and lacking any pomp or ceremony. You moan and whine into his mouth and takes some odd five seconds to even realize it's happening, your hands struggling and wiggling around like worms with nowhere to slither off to once his arms interlock around your waits, holding you to him. Sergeant Barnes, the man who's barely said a word to you since you arrived on base camp was giving you an open mouth kiss. Libido tended to skyrocket for servicemen out in the bush; you've took note that too. Read about it in theory. Been warned about it. But it's only when he separates from the contact he initiated that you have time to process it all, coming up for breath, watching him simply walk around you like nothing at all happened, strolling deeper into the infirmary, eyes still on you, briefly, as the soldiers roll in, carrying their own on their backs, in their arms, on stretchers, leaving you to gasp, standing on the threshold. Nobody saw a thing. Your shoulders stiffen, panic settling in. He had a minute of extra time and he took it. Barnes barks an order at someone and you're mute, wondering what the hell just happened and ended as abruptly as it did and if you've imagined it all, reeling from the stress; rolling up your sleeves and getting down to work, quickly wiping your face of the residue of his own with a nearby rag, hiding all evidence.

Your head and the room around it spinning, drowning you in intrusive thoughts.

Your ears fill with water; you take the dive --- his seal burned into your mouth.

Over too soon, you unwittingly think, taking a needle to someone's open gash.

[legacieswcrp]

LORE DROP: RED-TUSK AND THE PATRON OF TACTICS

StormClan left Tallrock to settle in a new camp among the meadows and moors to the south generations ago, but this was not a decision the Clan made lightly. Much blood had been spilled in taking and protecting the territory, generations come and gone never knowing another place as home, but when a wild boar descended on the Clan, sick and hungry and more violent than any creature StormClan had ever seen, whispers of curses and punishment for past crimes quickly spread among those precious few who survived the massacre.

It was Antlerstar who led his devastated Clan in putting the beast out of its misery with cunning rather than might, venerated today as the soul of StormClan strategy.

As the years following the war with the Fallen dragged on and StormClan learned more about their outcast neighbors, guilt festered deep in the hearts of many cats. As descendants of the cats who loved and lost in those halcyon days between peaceful factions lived, grew, and built families of their own, the Fallen's absence became a more personal tragedy. Where once, speaking of StormClan's former allies would have been a risk, a radical act, as time went on sympathy for the exiled kindred became commonplace. Most had some measure of connection to the Fallen, be it through family ties or growing respect for Tallrock's original stewards, and StormClan's remorse for the extreme cruelty enacted under Rimestar took center stage before long in discussions of that conflict. Glory, wartime leader of the Fallen during the war, became a mythical figure of sorts in his own right in StormClan, a beacon of justice against oppression who, when the chips were down, put the safety of his kin over the honor of victory.

It was in the throes of this political shift in StormClan that a boar found its way into the Tallrock territories. The records were hazy, but StormClan had encountered these animals before - this one, though, was different. A massive, senior brute which had fought and survived for a long time and which bore the scars to prove it. Something was wrong with the creature, though; it was starving, disoriented, unpredictable. Before long, it had wandered up to Tallrock...and then it found StormClan's camp.

The encounter was nothing short of a massacre. Warrior after warrior rose up to challenge the one-eyed animal, and one by one they fell under hoof and tusk. None had seen a boar in their lifetime, nor their parents in theirs, and StormClan was utterly unprepared to fight back against one, cornered within the hollow they called home as it picked them off in a panicked frenzy. The cats who survived, their deputy Antlershade among them, managed to flee to the moorland below, where they sheltered as well as they could under heather and gorse.

The boar was a threat that could not be ignored. Antlershade, inventive and eccentric, proposed a counter-strategy; claws and teeth would not kill a boar, but they had all heard the stories about how the Fallen had once hunted them. They needed to skewer it somehow, pierce its heart with some manner of pike.

StormClan rallied up and, doubtful of his idea but with nothing else to try, moved to the woodlands to the west, where they labored together to prepare the trap. With their weapon in place - a fallen pine tree, stripped of as many branches as they could get - Antlerstar led the last of StormClan's warriors out to seek the boar and lure it into a chase. The plan worked so well that it had made it all look easy; the boar impaled itself on the concealed tree, tore forward after the cats who had so artfully enraged it until, blocked by the tree's remaining branches, the boar's struggles finally ceased.

As the dust settled and StormClan returned to their ruined camp, an idea quickly took hold: this boar, Red-tusk, as some had started to call it, was missing its left eye. It had struck when StormClan's remorse for the Fallen's expulsion was at its deepest, it had found them in their homes and forced them off the mountain. Cats started to say it had been no ordinary boar, and few were inclined to dispute it. A curse, born from StormClan's own guilt, a self-inflicted punishment. As morale plummeted and faith in the Clan and what had made it began to fracture, Antlerstar devised another plan: they would leave Tallrock for good, leaving Red-tusk's curse behind and rebuilding the Clan from the ground up. Wipe the slate clean.

His idea was not unanimously celebrated, however. It took time for them to organize, but a small band of StormClan cats, mostly elders, objected. One of the heroes of the battle, Mothpelt, was among them; they had given too much for the Tallrock territory to turn their backs on it now, they could not put their faith in mere rumors of a curse when StarClan had not spoken. Mothpelt and his allies would not try to stop Antlerstar and his from leaving, but these loyalists would remain in StormClan's old camp to rebuild. The Clan split, and with time, contact between the two separate halves dithered away. The loyalists seemed to disappear entirely from the mountainside, only further solidifying beliefs that the mountain was cursed.

Antlerstar accomplished many things in his lifetime; slaying Red-tusk had only been the beginning. Under his calm and intelligent leadership, StormClan found a new home in the southern meadows and more than enough peace in which to settle into it. Squabbles within the Clan were fewer than they had been in generations, with many of the problems of making a new home solved quickly and efficiently. Antlerstar's Clan took the entire change in graceful strides, and the legacy he left behind was one of sharp wits and clever thinking, of organizing warriors against problems in ways that minimized harm on all sides. He'd made good on his promise, leading StormClan into a new era where, hopefully, tragedies like those of the Tallrock war would never repeat.

Deer aren't very common in the Tallrock territories, but StormClan has taken up a tradition of decorating the Clan's central shrine with dropped antlers. Many newly-named leaders have taken up self-imposed vigils before it on their first night home, praying that Antlerstar will guide them to make the right choices for the good of their Clan, while deputies are sometimes known to wear antler chips and issue prayers to him when faced with strategic and organizational challenges in their daily lives. Even warriors are known to invoke his name when taking creative risks or trying new things. He is the patron of StormClan tactics, pioneer of team hunting...and also the patron of comedy, remembered extremely well for his thorn-sharp jokes and his skill at lifting morale.

[smilingmxsk]

FIRST | <- | ->

"Wha…?" Confusion momentarily overtakes the growing paranoia as she examines this creature that was seriously out of place in a city like this. Did it come from the woods and get lost out here? How did it get this far without becoming roadkill or someone's new fur rug? And why the hell was it scarred up to hell and back. Tentatively, she moves to take a step forward… only to be stopped by what feels like the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard grinding against inside her skull. It was Shade. The demon, in reaction to the sight of this animal, was wailing, screeching. She was whipping herself up into a frenzy of panic. Margaret grimaces and yelps, forced to step away from it. Her head was pounding, blighted by a fresh, hot migraine brought on by the panicked demon. She couldn't even ask what was wrong. The grating wails drowned every inquiry she attempted to bring up. 

Margaret took a step back… but the Fox took a step forward. She feels the cold trickles of dread well up in her stomach… and takes another step back. The vulpine takes another step forward. This was bad. Real bad. The Fixer didn't know what this creature was capable of, but clearly, Shade was setting off multiple red flags to stay the fuck away from it. So she was going to take a chance right fucking now… by booking it.

Boots hit the pavement, kicking it into high gear one foot after the other. The Fixer could hear the taps of claws hitting concrete just behind her in a gallop. It was fucking chasing her. Margaret didn't know what it wanted, but she wasn't stopping to figure it out. Uphead, she could see the telltale sign of her apartment. It is a bittersweet sight… because she knows she cannot flee into it. She needed to throw it off first to get rid of it. So she runs past her home, finds the nearest alleyway, and makes a sharp turn for it.

Her surroundings transform from one alleyway to a different street a few blocks down. Transported to a new environment, she finally has a moment to stop and catch her breath, bending down to plant her hands on her knees. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, having pushed herself so much just to get the hell out of there. Slowly, the Fixer collected herself, yet… the overhanging dread hadn't left her. In fact, Shade was still urging her to keep moving.

“Why?” She thought. “We just teleported away from it. How the hell is it gonna-”

Suddenly, a sound. A small ‘yip’ cuts Margaret's inner dialogue off, the cold sensation of dread yet again creeping to the pit of her stomach. There was no time to think. She needed to MOVE. Legs boost her forward, a sharp ‘wind’ missing her backside by just a hair. She’s bolting down the street, making a sharp turn for an alleyway again. The Fox follows. This time, it’s wailing. It’s a sound she’s only heard foxes make towards one another in YouTube videos, but this sounded like a call for something. The Fixer turns down another alleyway, taking a metal barrel and flinging it backward. It does little to deter the small vulpine.

Margaret finds herself at the park at the other end of the teleported path, finally stopping to face the foreboding creature. She spins around, only to just barely catch the bladed edge of a claw against the cheek of her mask. She stumbles back, eyes wide with fear, bewilderment…disbelief. The Fox was no longer alone. With it were three large, dane-sized weasels with sickle-like claws."Itachi," per Shade’s hissing. The creatures snarl, licking their fangs hungrily, anxiously, sizing the young woman up. The Fox stood behind the weasels, watching intently with those large, expressionless eyes. A Ringleader directing the madness.

Shade writhes within the confines of her vessel, agitated, fearful, angry. She was cornered. The Weasel creatures moved to surround them, to cut off possible escape routes. They needed to get out. They needed to get out they needed to get out they needed to get out they needed to get out they needed to get out they needed to get out they needed to get out

[xxxevilfilms]

The Osaka Bowl | Chapter 1

Info: A dirty fic collection featuring Asuka getting acquainted with some of the Tekken studs and a few gals. Viewer discretion is advised, a lot of these get a little icky.

Summary: Asuka runs into Bryan during preliminaries and is promptly ravished.

Warnings: Kidnapping, Noncon, Mild Blood

Ravishment | Asuka Kazama x Bryan Fury

Ao3 Link

Splattered blood, spilled guts, and the screams of conquered souls was enough for Bryan. He was a cyborg, an augmented corpse that lived to fight. Food, money, and power were things now lost on him, replaced by an eternal engine that fueled his thirst for agony and bloodshed. He was at his happiest when he was beating the literal piss out of his enemies, but as he stood over this pale-skinned, hot-headed Japanese teenager turned over on her side, grasping at a bleeding gash in her side, Bryan was overcome with a need he hasn't felt since becoming a living cadaver. 

The Japanese teenager says things he can't understand, but the desperation in her voice was apparent. Suffering is universal no matter where you went, and Bryan knew this girl was in pain. He thought she looked pretty before, but the sight of her blood-stained blouse made his loins ache. He can already see the referees circling the ring with gurneys and stretchers, ready to pull the girl away from him to end this fight. Bryan didn't want her to go so soon, not until his needs were met, so he scooped up the Japanese girl in his scarred arms and carried her out of the ring, much to the teenager's horror. The referees and some guards attempted to stop him, but he was too strong and they were quickly dealt with as he flew out of the arena in a blood-fueled frenzy.

Bryan doesn't know how long he ran for, just knows that he's far away enough from the stadium that no one could hope to find him. Chuckling fondly to himself, the cyborg takes the girl off of his shoulder and lays her on some wet grass, dewey from a passing rain cloud. The teenager regards him apprehensively, guarding her slashed belly with a trembling hand as she spoke more words he didn't know the meaning to.

“Why did you bring me here...?” She says. “Please, Mister, I need to get to a hospital...”

Bryan ignores her pleas and makes his intentions known by climbing over her and thrusting a buried erection against her stomach. The teenager audibly gasped and then immediately panicked.

“W-What...!? What are you doing--!?”

Bryan doesn't let her speak, just kisses her split lips and sucks on her blood. The teenager squirms beneath him, beating his chest and flailing her legs in an attempt to get him off. Bryan doesn't react, doesn't even bat an eye at her resistance and proceeds to hike up her skirt, exposing blue panties lined with white polka dots. All the girl could do was scream against his lips.

“N-No...! No!!” Her pleas are swallowed by his mouth. “Nghh--!”

Bryan laughs against her lips as he slips his tongue down her throat, cock now pounding her covered pussy raw. The teenager grunts and blushes like a virgin, a thought that gets Bryan more worked up. He's fucked plenty of whores in his life, but not a virgin; a virgin fuck would do nicely for his cock.

Bryan bites her tongue in warning once the girl gets too rowdy for his liking as he tangles his hand through her chocolate brown hair to tug on it. She winces and appears to be compliant, but still fearful of what's to come. He can't guarantee that he'll make this quick, but he certainly won't make her suffer; cunt like this was hard to come by given his occupation.

With the tenderness of a wild dog, the cyborg licks and sucks along the teenager's chin and cheeks, tonguing a path down her neck so he could rip open her cotton blazer. She whines and then sputters when Bryan gropes her breasts, refusing to look down at him when he fondles her big tits. Bryan allows it for now as he's too busy scaling the girl's body, regarding her like a ravenous animal as he descends downwards. She tries to kick him then, most certainly yelling at him to get away. Bryan thinks it's cute and sinks his head under her skirt anyway, mouth taking hold of her plush cunt through her panties.

“A-Ahh..!”

Bryan's cock throbs at the whine she lets out, damn near shivers once he starts sucking along her pussy. He can taste her cunt and smell her sweat as he drags her tongue along the mound left by her clit, drooling like a hound when he feels that sweet little flesh bud twitch against his lips. Fuck, he cursed to himself; just tasting this bitch's cunt was getting him horny.

Bryan, a slave to his passions, quickly rips the thin cotton that separates him from the young girl's sex. The teenager's shrieks turn into garbled moans once Bryan helps himself to her virgin pussy, fat, spit-slicked tongue dragging over her inner lips and hooded clit with tactical precision. He laps at her clit and sucks on it like candy as three calloused fingers slide into the teen's untouched cunt effortlessly. It makes the girl bow off the ground and thrust down against Bryan's hand out of instinct before gasping, as if surprised by her body's reaction. Little slut; was only a matter of time till she started enjoying herself.

As she writhes and bucks into the cyborg's drooling mouth, Bryan sits up and brings her lower half with him. The ache in his loins now too great to ignore, he fidgets with the belt to his jeans as he slowly fucks the girl's trembling little slit with his tongue, thrusting in and out, deep and slow. The girl yelps, breathless and wanton, tears in her eyes as she's forced to take her captor's tongue. Bryan loves the noises he pulls out of her and damn near makes her cry when he licks her g-spot.

“S-Stop...! Stop!” She sobbed. “I can't...! I don't wanna...!”

Bryan feels her clench, clit shuddering. His mouth and chin drips with slick he isn't able to lick up in time, a feeling that finally brings the cyborg over the edge. Wrestling his prick out from his fly, Bryan drops the girl's hips to the ground to mount her, hanging cock looming menacingly over the teenager's lower belly. Immediately she fights him, screaming bloody murder and sniffling like a baby when Bryan cups a hand over her mouth and angles himself along her slit. In spite of her pleas, he pushes forwards, splitting her pretty pink lips apart, slowly impaling the Japanese teen with his immense length. Already he can feel her maidenhead against the crown end of his shaft sinking in on itself, giving into his heft as it failed to withstand him. The girl could only lay there and cry, screams vibrating against his palm once Bryan finally pops her little cherry open. Blood quickly collects around his shaft and mixes with his spit and her essence, dripping down the cleft of her ass to collect in the grass below them. It's ample lubricant for him and Bryan wastes little time hammering his throbbing length deep into her cunt.

Her breasts bounce and her eyes flutter open once Bryan fucks her proper. Too shocked to scream and too devastated to move, the teenager could only stare at their union in disbelief, unable to look away at how the cyborg ravished her. Bryan can't blame her though; he can't help but stare either, can't help but admire how his hulking prick pounded mercilessly into her bleeding little sex, ruining her for good. She'll never want anyone else or even hope to have anyone else after he's done with her. 

Bryan, much to the teenager's horror, kisses her again, forcing his tongue past her lips to lap feverishly at her mouth. She groans and whines, too tired to fight anymore, too weak to push him out. Bryan couldn't be more pleased with himself and fucks her harder, big body caging her smaller one as he bathes his prick in blood and cunt juice. So fucking worked up, Bryan can already feel his nut sneaking up on him, but his enhanced stamina allows him to fight it for a time. He doesn't want this tryst to end so soon after all.

Bryan has the girl in many different ways, often forcing her to participate despite the haze in her eyes. He fucks her on her back, on her side, on her hands and knees, and even once in his lap, where he found he preferred to have her the most. He makes her ride his cock like a spent whore, lips sealed over a bouncing breast as his fingers tease the puckered asshole between her cheeks. She's a mess of tears, drool and whimpers, eyes set in her skull and pussy wet with slick and sweat. He can't even count the amount of times she's come on his prick, just knows she's squirting enough to soak his crotch with her juices.

“T-Too much...! It's too--!!”

Bryan wrenches his fingers between his and the girl's stomachs to flick her clit left and right, grinding his callouses into her bud. The teenager curls into him quickly and wails in his face, but is silenced by teeth that catch her lower lip. He growls and grunts deep in his throat like a snarling animal as he goes faster; he's so close it almost hurts.

Bryan takes too handfuls of the girl's backside, hips pumping like mad, taking her into another searing kiss once his cock spews. He humps his length into her womb as his seed spills, too out his mind to care about knocking her up. The teenager hiccups in her captor's arms before falling over like a limp ragdoll, exhausted from her defilement. Bryan let her stay there while he recovered from his delayed release before hoisting her off his lap to let her hang over her shoulder again.

Bryan, now free of his lusts for the time being, surveyed his surroundings, eyes settling on the girl's rear end once he noticed how dark it was now. The best, most logical thing he supposed he could do now was drop the girl off at a hospital and run off somewhere, but logic was lost on Bryan. The sex he had was too fucking good for him to stop here; if the bitch was this compliant for him, no reason why he shouldn't bring her along.

As he slowly rose to his feet, Bryan cinched his jeans and held the teenager to his chest as he crossed the forest. He'll learn her name later, teach her some English while he's at it; he's gonna wanna hear his name on her lips eventually.