#started out as rendering practice then injury practice then lighting practice

[scarymonsters-andsupercreeps]

Double vision

[itheunknown]

odi et amo - (01) all i had

negelected! meta! reader x platonic! batfam

masterlist / prev / next

(TW) : emotional neglect, self-destructive behaviour, self-harm, suicide, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, underage smoking, underage drinking, alcohol abuse, depression, bpd, depictions of mental illness, violence, trauma, ...

the wind was howling.

your bag felt heavy on your shoulders as you brisked through the night, flickering street lights as your only source of light. your phone died a while back, but it's fine since you knew every nook and cranny of the route from your workplace back to your aunt's apartment. 

you've had a pretty shitty day so far: customers yelling in your face about things out of your control, your bicycle getting stolen (again) rendering you having to travel back on foot, and on top of that, you have exams coming up this week.

all you could let out was a tired sigh while trying to revise the material under your breath.

just as you're about to turn the knob of the apartment door, looking forward to finally getting some sleep before having to drag yourself to school that starts in a few hours, the door swings open violently and you stumble back, startled. the sight of your aunt gripping the door while holding a broken bottle greets you as she stands there with an unsettling and wild look in her eyes, her tone final.

“get in the car, now.”

sitting in gotham’s police department with the background noise feels distant, everything is incoherent, too much noise, too much light, just too much.

you feel hollow.

can’t wrap your head around the series of events that had just occurred, alternating between gnawing your lips and picking your fingers, the chatter zoned in and out as you just sat there, not knowing what was to come.

you don’t know how long you've sat there while the police were making phone calls and running through their data records of you after taking multiple different samples 2 days ago in order to decide where they should toss you to next. you’ve been placed under watch just so they could make sure there were no complications from the injuries you sustained, practically living in the station. it wasn’t that bad, the GCPD was well-insulated, safe, and you’re given food to eat for free (not that you can taste anything). it’s much better than being left to fend for yourself in the streets.

you know you should be planning on what to do next, but your brain feels like tv static, nothing making sense. you had worked so hard despite the circumstances you were in, tried to make the best out of the shitty cards dealt. you weren’t happy, but you were in control, you had a plan. work hard, save up, get a degree and move the fuck out of this godforsaken city. start over.

staring at the ground, a pair of shoes enters your vision.

“your labs came back, we got your DNA results.”

this was not what you had in mind.

you’ve never been in a car this luxurious before. the man who introduced himself as alfred, the wayne’s family butler, your father's butler, was seated in the front driving to your supposed new home. you stare outside, gaze unfocused, arms cradling your backpack close to your chest - your entire life in it: your school supplies and a few other personal items, while the rest remains at your aunt’s apartment - that is currently taped off by police and under investigation. eyes trained on the passing view outside, you feel bad for alfred who’s tried to strike up conversation to get to know you, but you couldn't find it in yourself to elaborate on your short responses. you hope he doesn’t take it too personally.

before you knew it, the car rolled to a stop outside the wayne manor. grabbing your bag, you trail behind the butler, the feeling of dread suddenly consumes your entire being.

“i do apologize for the absence of master bruce, young miss. i’m certain if he weren’t caught up with this current case, you would've received a personal welcome from your father himself", he gave you an apologetic smile.

you nodded in response, not really processing his words despite the tiny feeling of disappointment felt as you step foot into the grand yet empty manor. your presence a stark contrast to the fancy room you've entered.

however, you do look forward to seeing your new family: your father and siblings that alfred mentioned in brief, insisting for you to get to know them yourself while singing them high praises.

maybe this was the start over you needed. maybe you'll finally know what it's like to be loved.

you should've known then.

expectations only lead to disappointment.

you're done.

you're tired, so very tired.

nothing feels worth it anymore.

you don't have it in you to continue.

feet dangling off the crumbling abandoned building, you feel oddly at peace. everything is quiet. everything feels right, no responsibilities, no burdens, no more. you've decided.

for once in your life, you feel assured, this is the most optimal solution.

for once in your life, you're looking forward to something.

death must be so peaceful, lay buried within the earth, surrounded by silence. no yesterday, no today, no tomorrow. forget time, forgive life.

you'd be no more.

the wind is howling.

you stand up, staring down the steep drop. standing tall, unafraid, certain.

everything was quiet.

you're ready.

you shuffle closer to the edge, one foot hovering off as you will your other foot to do the same, fighting against your body's survival instinct. you're finally doing something for yourself.

"that's a big drop."

you stumble forward in surprise, nearly falling off until a hand grabs the back of your shirt, pulling you back further from the edge. you're stunned speechless, turning to see the source of the whistling voice.

"that's pretty ballsy of you, kid, i gotta admit."

this is embarrassing.

still unable to form any response, you let out a strangled noise in return as he let go of your shirt.

why the hell is one of gotham’s vigilante here.

an uncomfortable silence ensues, you don't know what to say, occasionally glancing up at the masked vigilante while you shifted your weight from one foot to another, feeling awkward.

just as you're about to try and weasel your way out of the situation, he beats you to it.

"nice spot! how'd you even get in?"

he asks casually while stretching and looking around. you don't know what to say.

"it's a still a weekday tomorrow , don't you have school? your parents must be worried you're out here."

your aunt is still waiting for you to return with your half of the pay for the rent. you have an assignment due tomorrow that's worth 10% of your final grade. there's nothing to look forward to.

"...i guess?"

now, you're uncertain, not knowing whether he genuinely didn't understand the implications of your actions or trying to lighten the severity of the situation.

he's uncertain.

he doesn't know how to approach this. he's never had to deal with this before.

you can tell by the strained smile and tensed posture that he also doesn't know what to do. somehow, you appreciate it. the situation is somewhat amusing now that you think about it. one of gotham's most dedicated vigilante standing in an abandoned building trying his best to stop a nobody from ending their insignificant life.

you almost let out a chuckle.

the vigilante bends down to pick up your discarded bag that was tossed to the side, handing it to you. you mumble your thanks, grabbing it and swinging it over your shoulders.

hesitantly, he places his hand on your much smaller frame. his voice warm and soft.

"go home. i'm sure someone is waiting for you."

you've waited for a year.

surrounded by the four walls of your assigned bedroom in the more cold, desolated part in the manor. you didn’t really mind, this arrangement was a blessing in disguise as it turned out, or maybe this arrangement was what turned you into the person you’ve become.

you don’t think you’re a great person, but you weren’t bad either, so you don’t understand why no one in the wayne manor would give you their time of day. sure, you were never reduced to begging for life necessities and having to bust your ass off at some sketchy restaurant working under legal age, while also balancing school work - this was objectively a far better environment for a person to live in compared to when you lived with your aunt. 

but was it wrong to want to be noticed by your own family? against your better judgement, you dared to hope.

you hoped to feel the warmth and care of what being tied by blood could grant. you hoped for an embrace, you hoped for company, you hoped for compassion, you hoped for connection. you hope and hope and hope, all you did was hope, until your memory was mostly filled with what you hoped, until you finally understood you were with them yet you were alone.

you had no place in their life.

just like the day you first arrived, bruce wayne, your father, was always busy. a persona to upkeep in the public eye, an enterprise to maintain, and his children to look after, to be a worthy role model.

but not you, never you.

despite alfred’s effort in trying to arrange for you two to get to know each other in the first week, there was never time. you were trying to wrap your head around the drastic changes that happened, from the procedures of transferring  schools, collecting what little belongings you had from the police station after the investigation, and quitting your job. meanwhile, bruce was still busy chasing leads to his case, determined that he was close to solving whatever it was. it took another week for you to stand in front of bruce’s door, wanting to formally introduce yourself and express your gratitude for taking you in, even if he was legally obligated to. when you finally saw him, you dared to hope. standing in front of you was your father, someone who shared your features. you see him, you see yourself. 

you could never forget the look in his eyes.

it was clear he had no idea who your mother was, but it was fine, you didn’t know her either. your desire to get to know him was not returned. was this what having a father is meant to be like? he couldn’t care less about you. all he did was run you through the ground rules of the house, who to go to if you were to request something, to inform him if you needed anything.

you needed him to look at you.

tim drake was the next person you encountered, your slightly older brother. you hoped that with the proximity in age, it would be easier to connect to him. however, it always seemed like he was preoccupied with something more important, he could not even be bothered to pretend to show interest when you had introduced yourself. you felt small, both in the figurative and literal sense. he was undoubtedly intelligent and talented. you’ve seen the way bruce look at him, actually hold a conversation with him. he was deserving, nothing you could measure to. bruce actually looked at him.

why does nobody look at you?

then you ran into jason todd. to your knowledge, he does not primarily reside within the manor anymore, which would explain why you haven’t really seen him around at all. it doesn’t explain why your first encounter with him was assuming a burglar had snuck in through the window at 3 in the morning. you had nearly dropped your cup of coffee, hearing a brief commentary on how there was another caffeine addict in the house before leaving the kitchen with you still holding your breath in shock. you can’t form a solid opinion on him since you barely see him.

in stark contrast, you had met richard grayson, or dick. the ever sweetest and most amazing older brother that any younger sibling would dream to have. you do too, seeing how much of a brother he was to the other members of the house, but not to you.

never to you.

you’d like to blame him for blindly hoping for things to be different, with his empty promises when he accidentally runs into you while on his search for someone else, and small talk when he’s waiting for something. you catch your father’s appreciative glances towards him sometimes, when dick helps out with managing your siblings.

especially damian al ghul, your half-brother. you were excited to have a younger blood sibling, not that the others were any less important to you, but merely for the delusion that blood could bring you together.

blood meant nothing.

damian was introduced after you were brought in, and his last name was promptly changed into wayne. your encounter was different from the others, him being the only one that sought you out first. again, you had hoped. trying to hide your excitement, you had mistakenly thought he was different from the others, your flesh and blood. 

it’s all the same.

damian had berated your existence, bringing up how you were so unworthy of being a wayne you had yet to receive your father’s last name. you stood there listening to everything he had to say. your flesh and blood.

you admired his strong personality and ability to assert what he wanted. you were complete opposites. it’s no surprise that that’s why he was worthy of the last name.he ended up being the one who had interacted with you the most, even if it was mostly him bullying you. secretly, you held him dear, seeing resemblance between damian and your aunt. he was your flesh and blood.

cassandra cain was yet another sibling you falsely assumed having something in common would bring you two closer. but at this point, you no longer had it in you to put effort in forming a connection with anyone else, worn down by the countless times you’ve been casted aside. 

you remain in the shadows, watching them carry on their daily lives, watched the life you had desperately wanted to be part of but found it impossible. you don’t belong with them, you don’t belong anywhere.

their silence made you feel forgettable.

do you even exist if no one remembers you?

the wind is howling.

and so are the voices.

i don't think im a good story teller since i mostly wrote analytical essays ^^' hopefully it makes sense like who let them (me) cook?? likes and reblogs are appreciated!!

(TAGLIST) lmk if you'd like to be added to the taglist :heh:

@confused-they @hoeinthehouse @heartjwonie @strwberryglass

[geeangrey2004]

Shattered Sekai AU: NIGHTCORD @ 25:00

NightCord at 25:00: A group of girls brought together originally by their collective despair. The four of them were collectively inspired by the event RAD Weekend in one way or another. They have decided to band together and surpass a legend without knowing the others’ motivations. 

Characters

Ena Shinonome: The group’s founder and leader. After her brother sustained an injury that rendered him completely mute permanently, she took on his dreams to fill the void left by her own crushed aspirations. She would perform outside Kamiyama High School to practice, getting more bitter as time progressed, and no one stopped to listen to her. She was about to give up, hating herself for not keeping the fire of her brother’s dream going, when she was confronted by Mizuki. Mizuki tells Ena she likes her singing and brings her to Weekend Garage. The two agree to team up, forming the group Enamia. She suggests teaming up with K of the group NIGHTCORD  after she hears their songs. 

Mizuki Akiyama: A girl who faces horrible bullying at school and has no close allies. She wishes to live as herself despite what others say. She’s found by one of her classmates after a case of prolonged harassment and brought to Weekend Garage. While there, Mizuki witnesses a performance by a street group that plays AMVs behind their routines and is instantly hooked. She became the street musician Amia, who created AMVs for her performances. She encounters Ena singing outside the gates of Kamiyama High School and is enthralled. She brings Ena to the Weekend Garage and offers to become her teammate, hoping to surpass Rad Weekend and prove that AMV singers can be the future. 

Mafuyu Asahina: A girl who is systematically emotionally abused by her mother to the point she’s forgotten who she is. One night while walking home, she hears music coming from a building and sees the mysterious DJ K playing at an event. K’s song makes her feel something other than the cold numbness she's been trapped in since middle school, and she becomes obsessed. She goes to all of K’s events and follows every song she puts on YouTube, to the point that her grades start slipping because she is doing more research on K than studying. She saw that K was looking for a partner to write and sing lyrics for her songs, and Mafuyu applied. The two of them teamed up and did events together late at night when Mafuyu was able to sneak out of the house. 

Kanade Yoisaki:  Grew up adjacent to Vivid Street. Her mother used to go to Weekend Garage all the time to read before she died, and then her father would bring her to the cafe when he needed a quiet place to work. After her father was hospitalized from overwork, she began wandering the streets like a ghost. Her grandmother wasn’t able to support her financially, necessitating her getting a job. She got a part-time job at Weekend Garage and only really left the house to work. She was determined to write a song that would spread the most hope, but she couldn’t compose if her internet got turned off. One night, while wandering the streets, she comes across RAD Weekend. She goes to watch, and is so inspired she begins working to surpass the event and spread the most hope humanly possible. She becomes a DJ to compensate for her bad health and writes songs that are a combination of Lo-fi and street. She teams up with Mafuyu, forming the group NIGHTCORD. 

Meadow Sekai Mochizuki Honami

Sekai

Meadow Sekai: a quiet field filled to the brim with flowers (Daffodils, carnations, and daisies), soft grass, and ivy. The flowers spread as far as the eye can see and are the only thing other than a light cloud covering.  It’s the only sekai with seasons, indicated by what flowers are in bloom. It also has a day-night cycle. It’s based on the park where Mafuyu and Kanade meet up for practice. 

Summer: Carnations

Spring: Daffodils

Fall: daisies

[cappuccinoandglitter]

Fic Master List:

I expect I will lock all of these eventually. If you are in the middle of reading any of them and don't have an account, I have 8 invites, feel free to hit my ask or inbox. The more I think about my work (even my silly little fanfics) being used to feed the A.I. beast, the more I get squicked. I don't want to gatekeep any people, just the beast.

My main pairing is Buck/Tommy, assume it's so in all the following unless specifically stated.

9-1-1/Highlander:

Practically Everything: Buck learns Tommy is one of those immortals. Diverges from canon after the coffee date in 7.05.

Lightning Strikes Twice: the sequel. Takes place 12 years in the future. Guest stars characters from The Old Guard (movie) and TK and Carlos from 9-1-1: Lone Star.

9-1-1/Dispatcher Tommy Kinard AU:

Let's Try Being In Love: AU starting with the pilot episode, where Tommy is a dispatcher after a work injury and he takes the home invasion call and Buck meets him instead of Abby.

Step Into The Light: AU season 2 following Buck and dispatcher Tommy's relationship. Includes an alternate version of the Doug arc.

This Delicate Thing We've Made: part 3. Takes place during the second half of season 2. Tommy feels inadequate and it's putting a strain on his relationship with Buck. He goes to therapy.

9-1-1/Deep Space 9:

Far Beyond the Stars: Kinaar Tahmane is a former Bajoran refugee who's joined Starfleet. After a shuttle accident renders a pregnant passenger unconscious and in critical condition, Doctor Bashir transfers the fetus to the next available uterus: Tommy's. Did I mention he's trans in this? Then he meets the father, Lieutenant Evan Buckley.

Prophet Margin: Tommy and Buck get roped into political intrigue at the hands of Vedek Winn, as they try to navigate Tommy's surrogacy of Buck's kid.

Besieged: A xenophobic Bajoran sect stages a coup of the Bajoran government and the crew (including our boys) has to defend the station from a siege.

Night Terrors: With his ex-girlfriend back on Deep Space 9, Buck struggles with his concepts of family, and Tommy struggles with his place in Buck's life. Mysterious power outages plague the station.

Tommy, Pondering His Orb: Tommy, feeling a certain way about his estrangement from religion, visits a Bajoran monastery and once again gets caught in Vedek Winn's web.

Fathers and Sons: It's the Bajoran Gratitude Festival on DS9. There is much to be grateful for, and much to be annoyed by.

The Maquis, Part 3: Tommy and Buck undertake a dangerous mission on behalf of Captain Bobby Nash. Takes place a few months after DS9 episode 2.21 "The Maquis, part 2" but I summarize what you need to know in the first chapter.

9-1-1:

Not Like That: The crack mpreg fic that started a new era of madness. Not trans, not carrier-verse, but a secret third thing.

His Valiant Heart: AU where they work at the Renaissance Faire. Prompted by @peppermintquartz

9-1-1 shorts:

Flags: Buck's first Pride Fest after coming out.

It's Not What You Think (SWAT crossover): Post-breakup, Buck finds a distraction. Eddie makes the wrong assumption.

Crab Boats: Supermarket woes.

9-1-1/SWAT:

Hero Worship: Connor follows Buck's footsteps and joins the LAFD. While firefighters are being targetted by a sniper, he meets a certain SWAT Sergeant named Rocker. Then he sees him at a bar with Buck and everything changes.

SWAT:

Whatever This Is: Aftermath of season 8's 'Deep Cover' episode, where Miguel considers his feelings for Stefan, with some help from Rocker.

Miguel: text messages between Miguel and Stefan while Stefan is in rehab.

[kitkatscabinet]

Whumptober 02 - Blood loss

John Mactavish x f! reader

The metallic stench of blood filled the air, soaking into your nasal passages and staining your tongue. It’s cold, the dampness of the cement wall you’d propped yourself against soaking into the back of your vest and shirt. Your wheezing breaths the only sound present in the dark hallway you’d stumbled into. The radio attached to you crackles but you already know it won’t work. The spray of bullets you hadn’t managed to avoid having rendered the damn thing inoperable.

Another rattling cough shakes your frame, your torso lighting up in pain as your injuries were forcefully jostled. Throwing your head back against the wall you glared at the ceiling, trying to prevent the tears from overflowing. Tears of pain accumulate as you forcefully press down against the bloody hole in your right collarbone. Gritted teeth prevented you from crying out but it was a close thing. It was becoming harder and harder to retain consciousness but you were stubborn. Someone would come for you, you just had to hold on until then.

At some point, you must have closed your eyes because the next thing you knew there was a frantic voice pulling you awake. Blinking, you're greeted with the furrowed brows and concerned blue eyes of your Scottish teammate.

"Soap?" your confusion is blatantly apparent, eyes squinting as you blink sweat and black spots away.

“Aye lass, there’s my good girl. Keep those beautiful eyes open for me, okay?” As much as he's trying to hide his concern, you aren't so far gone that you don't notice the waver in his voice or his mechanical movements. Any wisecrack you had in reply to his flirtation dies on your tongue as he presses down on your wound. You're unable to stop the pained cry his actions draw from your lips, tears sliding down your cheeks in earnest.

“I know it hurts, I’m sorry, it’ll be over soon.” You know he's trying to reassure you, but you honestly think his words are more to comfort himself.

"It'll be over 'cause I'm dead." You wheezed humorlessly, frantically blinking the sweat from your eyes. Soap seems to find your remark as funny as a funeral as he practically snarls at you.

"You're not dying on me. That's an order, you hear?" Despite the blood that has started to coat the inside of your throat, your mouth runs dry at his sudden ferocity. Too stunned to do anything but let yourself be manhandled into standing, Soap practically holding up your entire weight.

“Order me? We’re the same rank dickhead” you snorted, instantly regretting the motion as pain lit up your nerves like fireworks. Your knees buckled briefly, but Soap was a solid wall of muscle that kept you upright.

It's a slow and rough process, with Soap having to practically drag you from the building towards the extraction point.

Maybe it's the delirium brought on by blood loss, or it's the looming reality of your imminent demise but just before you make it to the medics your mouth slips.

“You know, it's usually a lot more fun in my dreams when we're this close.” His eyes burn holes into the side of your face, jaw slackened in your peripheral vision as his grip slackened slightly and you tipped forward for a few seconds. Laughter burns in your chest, as you lose the last of your strength to look into his pretty eyes one last time, the three words you'd been aching to say for months tumbling forth as your breath slowed.

Eyes shuttering closed and body lurching, you don't notice Soap lunge to catch you. Holding you close against his chest as he swore at you to wake up.

That he'd say it back if you listened.

His hands clutched your face, marring your skin with your own blood as his tears painted your brow. "Please lass, wake up so I can say it back" he begged, burying his face into the skin of your still warm neck.

[radaedan]

Fuck it you know what? A mirror piece to that Kukulkan & CL-4's drabble. This isn't good tbh. I was experiencing (and tbh still is) a writer block for another fic so I thought, 'how about I start another one lol'. Just consider this as a practice fic/experiment that escaped the lab. Featuring my beautiful, lovely, gorgeous, incredible, ethereal, darling Xiuhcoatl and... eugh🤢 (affectionally) Och-Kan.

And btw, Xiuhcoatl is pretty eldritch in here! Or I tried to make him one. I never read a written eldritch work before so sorry if this is inadequate😓

TW: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND INJURIES. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

Terror usurped inside his mind.

His body froze, couldn't move. Stiffness hung his joints upon its open maw.

He was breathing as if the air was chokeful of shards of glass, threatening to rupture his lungs.

His skin prickled by the thorns of shivers. Fingers curled tightly upon the mattress he tried to sleep in.

Yet despite it all, his eyes wouldn't unlock themselves from the source of the terror.

Illuminated by the faint glow of the phlogiston torch, soft shadow and lilting figure the light had painted, back turned and seated upon the edge of his bed, was...

Who? His mind screamed, the question tried to crawl to his tongue, but died upon the tightness of his throat, Who? Who!? WHO!?

who are you who are you who are you get away from me get away from me get away get away-

If he were any saner and less stricken, he would be disgusted of himself, of how fear encroached his sanity that it didn't flash upon his mind to call upon his guards to remove this intruder or finish them himself.

But he wasn't in his right mind at this moment. All the feeling of horror he had experienced in his lifetime, suppressed and recompacted into actions that actually make a difference, now had returned upon him like waves, drowning upon the cold, dark water of damnation. Devastating torrent that forsook his wits and ransacked it into smithereens. Rendered him useless and freezing upon his spot. A helpless child shivering upon the mercy of death's hand.

And all the while, the figure hadn't yet to turn their back, still gazing upon the darkness of his bedroom. Particles of dust still float undisturbed, they sat unmoving, static, unreal.

A figment of the other world infiltrating reality, unto the air and unto the faint light, nailing him with their presence. A mere shadow that invoked the deepest fright of a night that promised a million misery and hatred, crawling its deathly claws upon his body, his lungs, his heart. Stealing his breaths and squeezed his organs with sheer blood rush made from dread. Acid burning his stomach and torn his gut. He'd choke upon his own sweat, and felt, with the agonizing surety that his growing red-rimmed eyes, going strained by dust and dryness, would water and scream his fear for the figure to feast. Just like a bleeding prey awaiting the jaw of a hungry beast, gleaming with saliva and a smile of starvation.

But that wasn't the end. Wasn't even the beginning.

Because then, that unearthly figure, all shadow and smoke intertwining with light, finally did turn their back, and laid their gaze upon him.

And the aching pain that he had been suffering grew their grip in thousands of fold.

Now it was infernal, the heat inside that was consuming him. His bones and joint broke and remade, only to be shattered again and again until they were as fine as dust. His muscles stringed apart, all the fibers stretched and snapped in tautness. Rot invaded his gum and he vomited out his teeth along the putrefied organs of his. Blood boiling and scorching his insides, bleeding the red liquid outside like flooded waterfall. His skin- scales and all- shed from his flesh and melt all over the mattress, forming a puddle of volcanic crimson and emerald green spikes, already spearing the remaining meat that still clung to his body.

Yet it was his brain that agonized the most. Smashed and ripped apart, the slush inside reverberated hideous laughters and whispers that echoed upon the walls of his fractured skull, shrilling, failure failure failure failure failure failure failure aberration heir abhorrent sun-

die-

All ceased to be.

Death crushed him in their grip.

Or that was he had thought, until he realized that it was not the harrowing emptiness of the afterlife that embraced him, but the emptiness from the pain itself.

Gone was the horrendous affliction, the ear-splitting jeers and the excruciating terror. Instead, all those horrors were replaced with a deep sense of...

...Serenity?

Peace, freedom that made oneself float from sheer weightlessness. The atmosphere of a sunny day with white clouds arraying the sky and green grass and calming breeze hailing the saccharine warmth of a summer day.

Paradise of sunlit field and gentle wind, blowing across the room and seeping into his mind, body, and bones, mending.

And then he felt a tender touch. A stroke, honeyed caress through his hair, to his temple and his brows, and finally his cheeks.

...It was... warm, soothing, too sweet. A sweetness that made one's eyes water with sleepiness.

...how...

His eyes battled with said sleepiness, drifting from the land of dreams and the waking reality back and forth, like a flower carried across a wind current. He was lucid enough to feel the gentle hands that brought soft caresses now tilted his head toward him trying to inspect. Though, perhaps their touches could pierce the veil of lucidity.

And from his languid gaze, he saw...

Saw-

His heart jolted laborously, fighting against that encroaching drowsiness. A fragment of that horrid terror crashed the shore of his consciousness once again.

Because, from his sight, he saw- he saw-

A fracture, a dismemberment? Colors dancing discordantly to form a image, changing rapidly in a flash of a lightning, and as clear as a reflection of a bonfire's glow. Fatamorgana with the light of a rising sun-

The burst of sunset's orange, shaded by sprouting canopy, the smell of faded scrolls and decaying papers reverberating with electrical buzzing... father?

But it changed, twilight purple descending through the approaching night's sky along with the sun, drowning in the latter's moribund light... with an inundating scent of the withering purpurbloom haunting the sensation... wilting with water and iron... no, that dragon-

The figure cupped his cheeks in its entirety.

Into the hollowness upon his head, was the scenery of a limitless azure ether, the blue swaying...

Like the Sacred Flame...

...Lan-

A sound, lilting and melancholic, the melody of volcanic ashes sinking from the blasted sky and to the fertile ground down below...

It was a voice, echoing inside his healed brain, '...you look nothing like him... except those eyes, crystalline ambers as always... but everything else... you're your father incarnate.'

...what?

Then a chuckle, a howl of gale racing inside a labyrinthine valley, '...no, you're just like me.'

He felt the drops of rain upon his skin. But instead of cooling, they burned like lava. Along with those scathing drops, the figure clenched his grip on his cheeks, fingers of a clawed reptile and calloused human one ever exchanging and intertwining, encircling the skin around his eyes, ushering the drowsiness.

And the final sound- the last blow to end a dying ember.

'sleep, little one.'

The claw-like nails jabbed his eyes.

Darkness erupted.

In his dream, his eye sockets bled gold-colored blood.

[blueberry-obsessed]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers! Spread the self-love 💞

Thank youuuu for the ask, Leo!! I just answered it here.

I still want to talk about my fics, though. So, I'm copying your idea of sharing a snippet from my drafts here (I hope you don't mind)

Sometimes, when Charles bleeds, it seems he's bleeding gold in place of blood. On such days, it feels otherworldly, the pain. A sliver of precious metal cascading out of his wound, rich and heavy, while the nurse stares at him as if he has done something magnificent. That, accompanied with the praise he gets from his higher-ups for a job well done, is almost enough to convince him that he has indeed accomplished something great. Almost. Today is such a day. There is a circular hole in his shoulder, a bullet stuck midway, never quite making it clean through. The nurse—he can't remember her name through the pain, maybe she never gave him one—had to snip his shirt open because the spasms of discomfort from the fracture that lies further down on his forearm have rendered his arm practically immobile. It's a shame, really. That shirt was flattering on him. He wants to snap at her through the tangy blood in his mouth—she keeps staring at the gaping wounds with a sad look in her eyes, reluctant to cover them up. The price of magnificence, Charles thinks as she pulls disinfectant out from a nearby drawer. She begins to clean the trails of crimson away. Her brown eyes shine with a glint of gold, a reflection of the colour. And Charles would scream at her. He would scream if it weren't for the pain that has made a home for itself right under his skin—a second pulse—or the slice on his lip that has only just begun to scab over in red-brown flakes. This is not precious metal, he would scream, it's tainted with gunpowder and life-essence, rose gold in place of authentic aurum. The nurse accidentally grazes particularly tender flesh with the harsh fibres of gauze and Charles tenses with a hiss. His lip splits back open. There's copper in his mouth—no gold. The clinical white light above him begins to flicker and dwindle. He wonders why they haven't kept up with the building's upkeep. Charles is going to bring it up later. He frequents the medical wing too often to not care about it. "I'm impressed," she starts, and Charles is all too familiar with what's coming next—a compliment, an hour or two of rest, and then a request for a meeting. It is a tried and tested routine. It's also mundane. She trails her fingers further down his arm till where his elbow ends, inspecting the injury. "How many was it? Ten? Ten armed guards and just two injuries to prove for it?" Her lips quirk up for a second. The expression is gone before he can question it. She's too busy applying a hint of pressure on his forearm. Charles has to look away as he squirms. He thinks he saw the jagged side of milky white bone, overactive imagination filling in the gory, gruesome gaps—although only figuratively, the hole in his shoulder still feels rather empty. She is amused, and that's more than enough to make his remaining blood boil. Faintly, he can hear it crash against the inside of his ears, a rumbling tidal wave. There is more rummaging, of another drawer full of supplies or of her overalls, that he does not know. "You're getting better at handling them." There it is, the compliment. He just needs her to break routine and speed up. He's still bleeding, it might be gold, but he is still bleeding, rests on the tip of his tongue. Charles settles on, "I guess I am." His bottom lip burns and hot metal pools on his tongue again.

[mayxthexforce-moved]

Found A Light || Quinlan & Cal

Starter for @pracses

The Jedi were gone.

Quinlan would be lying if he said that he hadn't seen this coming. Perhaps, not in his lifetime, and definitely not to such a degree, but somewhere between the torture he'd faced by Dooku's hand and his own master turning his back on him, he had been invaded by the gut wrenching feeling that the time of the Jedi would come to an end. The thought hadn't left him, even as he was brought back to the light by the efforts of his stubborn old friend, Obi-Wan Kenobi. He'd simply chosen to ignore it, chose to live in denial and live in the moment without thinking of the future, and actively fleeing the past– ironic, considering psychometry was the one skill he was known for the most.

Now, there was no fleeing the facts: the Jedi were no more. Hundreds of lives lost to the very soldiers who the Jedi had trusted more than they did anyone else– at times, more than they trusted each other.

But he didn't lose hope. He couldn't. He owed it to the dead to honor them, since he couldn't avenge them without risking once again spiraling down a path he would rather avoid. A rabbit hole he'd sworn to never fall into again. One he'd been oh so tempted to embrace back on Kashyyyk, with his skin burnt and his ribs broken, just a little over a week ago.

Villie had found him, rescued him, and now they were off to Bracca because of this gut feeling that pushed Quinlan forward. Just before he'd been shot down and left for dead by Master Luminara's troops, he'd sensed another. As the lights that were the lives of so many Jedi he'd shared a temple with practically his whole life had been snuffed out one by one, he'd focused on the one stationed in the Bracca system: Jaro Tapal. For a moment, they'd been in tune with each other, clinging onto each other with something akin to desperation, before Quinlan was rendered unconscious by his injuries and now, he believed that connection with Master Tapal to be this gut feeling that kept telling him there was a Jedi still alive on Bracca.

It'd taken them some time to get there due to the distance and the freshly stationed imperial ships that sought to find any leftover Jedi. But finally, they made it to the dumpster of a planet.

Quinlan wasn't sure where to start looking, but he had Villie stay on the Skorp-Ion, keep the engines on in case they had to get out fast.

He wouldn't leave until he found the one he was looking for. And he trusted the force to lead him there, reaching out to try and contact this other Jedi.

[theferricfox]

[[A/N: Hi, hello! I'm alive (figuratively speaking) and I wrote a thing for the first time in a long long while. Writer's block has been eating me alive for a spell, but then I woke up on morning and said, well, if it isn't Whumptober, my dear friend.

So have a Whumptober Trigun piece. Yes, Trigun! I've fallen back in love with it lately and I have no regrets. I grew up with the '98 series on late night Toonami, and it coming back to my life has been a big boost of juicy nostalgia (and psychological damage iykyk).

Content Warnings! Smoking, Drinking, Canon-typical violence, vomiting.]]

IN THE LIGHT OF THE MOONS

He wakes up to the taste of blood on his tongue and pain surging through his chest. He’s been shot; he knows he has, and he jumps up in bed to inspect his bare chest, even as he reaches into the small pouch on the bedside table, fumbling for the small glass vials within. 

But he’s not bleeding, and there’s no metal lodged in his body. His skin is as smooth and flawless as it’s ever been, save for the odd small scar he got as a child. The ones from before don’t go away, even as the blue liquid wipes away any chance of a new one.

He sighs, frustrated and unsettled. From next to him on the bed – why doesn’t this hotel room at least have a couch? – comes a soft snore, frills of blonde hair peeking out from under the sheet. He knows he won’t sleep again for a while, so he reaches onto the table again, this time for his smokes. He’s surprised to find his hand is shaking somewhat as he lights up, and inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs until they start to burn. The plume that he exhales curls and drifts towards the ceiling, vanishing to join the rest of the stuffy air of the room.

When did he even pick up smoking? He can’t remember anymore. He remembers stealing from the adults a few times when he just hit his double-digits, but he knows he didn’t truly start smoking until after. And the last six years since he left the orphanage are largely a blur. They’re filled with a constant need to move and to keep moving, pulled from one job to another. They’re filled with gunfire and blood and little glass ampules. 

When he first started, he drank them like the honey-sweet drinks of his childhood, even for injuries that were far from fatal. Even if the fight was over and he could have just as easily rested in a hospital for a few days, he would choose instead to crack the neck of the little ampule and gulp down the mouthful of liquid. He was told not to – this was a path that led to something like an addiction; a reliance on the serum would cause his body to stop healing as well on its own. He was warned of the potential for an overdose; the serum throwing his body’s chemistry into overdrive until it practically burst at the seams. But for the first few months after they cut him loose, he ignored the warning. 

There’s something innately satisfying about the feeling of the glass cracking under the enamel of his teeth, but that feeling is amplified when the liquid slides down his throat and the power surges through him. The feeling of invincibility that comes from watching the bullets that were once lodged into his skin, his bones, his organs, harmlessly falling to the ground as though they were nothing more than paper… that’s intoxicating. 

He was an orphan once. Unwanted and worthless. And now, he’s survived a total of fifty-eight otherwise fatal gunshot wounds. Compared to the dirty child he was, growing up in the sand and dust, wondering if he’ll ever be good enough to get adopted, he’s a god. The kid he was should look up to him with awe and reverence. Should.

Now, he’s haunted by scars that only he can see. The bullet that pierced and collapsed his left lung. The place where his flesh was rendered to shredded meat by heavy machine gun fire. The 9mm slug that barely grazed his heart and sent his vision spiraling and blood into his mouth. He knows all those marks are there, hidden under his skin. He sees them every time he undresses, little phantoms skittering along his skin like insects; blink and you’d miss them. When Judgement comes, they’ll all light up on his broken body, like the feeble lights of the orphanage beating back the dark for the kids afraid of the noises of the night.

He traces one of these phantom scars, once a long gash from an eight-inch blade straight into his gut. He’d scrambled to keep his intestines inside of him, fear and adrenaline racing through him as shit and blood spilled onto the floor. He’d flopped onto his back, eyes wild and hazy, and cracked open the vial so haphazardly that he drank glass alongside the liquid. It burned down his throat, a macabre cascade of flesh rending and healing, but by the time his gut had healed, it didn’t matter. He could shit glass and it wouldn’t matter; not anymore. 

He’d beaten that asshole’s skull in, slamming the arm of the Punisher into his face over and over again as he bellowed some animalistic sound from deep in his chest. It was too messy, in the end. He’d spent days cleaning blood and brain and skull out of the crevices of the Punisher, every new piece he found lodged in the weapon filling him with a sense of disgust. 

Now, as he sits on the bed, his cigarette halfway burned through, he wonders what the man sleeping next to him would think if he knew of all these phantom scars, or the stories of how he got them. For all he knows, Spikey can see them, too. The man has an uncanny way of seeing through people, of knowing them with just a few glances and firm handshake. Still, all the scars on Vash’s body suggest that he can’t read people for shit. They speak of betrayal, countless deceptions for which he has paid the price. And still, he continues to trust. Or maybe, he always knows he’ll be betrayed and continues to trust them anyway, deciding that the alternative is worse.

Wolfwood can’t decide if that makes him incredible or stupid. What kind of heart is crushed and smashed and burned and stabbed and shot that many times and still finds a way to wake up with a smile? He knows most of those smiles are fake, and they’re painful to look at, so painful that he’s debated punching Spikey in his stupid face every time one of those false smiles creeps onto his lips. 

But still, some of those smiles are real… especially when he’s around kids, and those are the times Wolfwood really can’t figure him out. It’s almost unsettling, really, seeing that genuine smile and hearing the tinny laughter from a man so used to faking it that it’s practically his middle name. There’s no doubt that Vash has a thing with kids; they love playing with him, trust him intrinsically, and they seem to know exactly how rough and tumble they can be with him, with not a care for his reputation. Wolfwood can’t help but feel a strange clenching in his chest, watching the so-called Humanoid Typhoon around children. He knows what Vash is or, he thinks he does, and there’s something simultaneously monstrous and beautiful seeing everything that makes him inhuman melt away as soon as some kid tugs on his coat or pelts him with a ball. 

Wolfwood pulls deeply from his cigarette, flooding his lungs with nicotine and smoke and exhales again, his gaze aimed at the ceiling. He exhales, idly poking the cloud of smoke with a finger as it drifts upward, and he scoffs. Who is he to call Vash monstrous? He is a monster in his own right. If he were to visit the orphanage now, he’d have no right to hug the children there, or to play with them. He couldn’t call his old friends by name and rekindle the friendships that made life bearable back then, not with his hands so soaked with blood he’s practically marinating in it. Hell, if Miss Melanie even recognized him, she’d probably beat him to death with a broomstick before he stepped foot in the building.

She would see right through him, he knows it. She would see the blood coating his skin and the scars marking the last six years of his life and she… well, she would never forgive him. Not that he expects forgiveness; he knows exactly what he deserves, has come to terms with it. But to picture Melanie, the only person he’s known as a mother, terrified and appalled by what she would see in him… the thought is almost enough to make him put a bullet in his brain.

Wolfwood crushes the cigarette into the ashtray with a soft grunt and gets out of bed. He’s aware that Vash’s soft snores ceased minutes ago, meaning he’s probably awake and trying to hide it, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to see those sad blue-green eyes tracing over him with concern. He doesn’t want to answer questions or ‘talk about it.’ All he wants is for the silence of the night to smother his thoughts. 

He walks to the bathroom, silent as he can through the creaking of old wooden floorboards, and shuts the door behind him, the latch softly clicking into place. The darkness of the bathroom, with just a small window opposite the shower, facing away from the light of the moons, is stifling and freeing all at once. In here, it’s so dark that he can’t see his phantom scars. If you can’t see them, they aren’t real and they can’t get you, just like he used to tell the kids who thought they heard monsters in the dark. Big brother Nico, always there for the little ones, until he wasn’t. Now, he’s the monster in the dark, reaching into the night to pluck the souls of the living from their bodies.

The thought makes him retch, and he barely manages to maneuver over to the toilet before he vomits, the taste in his mouth acrid and vile. He heaves, over and over again, his eyes watering, snot dribbling miserably out of his nose, until there’s nothing left but empty gasping and an aching stomach. He grabs toilet paper and wipes at his face, spits into the toilet, and flushes the mess away. He sits against the cold glass of the shower door, panting into his hand, trying to stay quiet.

It doesn’t work. There’s a small, tentative knock on the door.

“Wolfwood?”

Of course Spikey heard him. Damn him.

“What is it?” He tries to smooth over the acidity in his voice, play it cool, like he didn’t just puke his guts out. 

“I um… I gotta go.” There’s that tiny laughter. The one that says, This is the best lie I could come up with.

“Yeah, yeah, hang on.” Wolfwood hauls himself up from the floor and turns on the sink. He washes his mouth out, washes his hands. He wonders distantly if he should have changed that order of actions.

He walks out, casual as he can, the door revealing Vash with his hair down, shirt off to reveal all those horrific scars. Vash laughs, his hand immediately at the back of his head, all shy and quiet cunning.

“Sorry to rush you, I just really gotta go.”

Wolfwood grunts and pushes past him, walking over to the table in the room. There’s still some of the cheap whiskey they brought up earlier in a bottle on the table, thanks be to whatever god might still exist in this godforsaken world. He pours himself a shot and takes it down fast, grimacing from the taste before pouring another, nursing this one a little more. He knows what’s left in this bottle isn’t enough to get him drunk, not with his metabolism. He doesn’t care. He just needs the burn to distract him.

Vash makes a show of taking the loudest piss on the whole planet, running the water for ages afterwards to wash his hands. When he comes out, he’s all nervous giggles and wiggling, unthreatening movements.

“Man, I was sure I was going to wet myself for a moment there!” Vash starts.

“Can it, Spikey.” Wolfwood gulps the rest of the shot and pours another. After a moment’s consideration, he pours one for Vash, too, moving the glass to the other side of the table. An invitation. “I know you’ve been awake for a while now.”

“Yeah?” Vash sits obligingly, taking down the shot with as much hope of it doing anything as Wolfwood has and holds out the glass for another. He sips the second one when it’s poured.

“You’re too damn obvious. That’s your problem.” Wolfwood sips again. 

Silence stretches into the room, neither man moving. The stage has been set for a macabre sort of quick-draw, but it’s one neither of them want to win. 

“Can’t go back to sleep?” Vash asks as casually as he can, as if he hasn’t already guessed what woke Wolfwood up in the first place.

“Nope. You?”

There’s another moment of silence, one that Wolfwood didn’t expect. Finally, he sees Vash raise his left arm in the dim light of the moons that pokes through the curtains.

“My arm hurts. It happens sometimes. Makes it hard to sleep.” Vash rubs the forearm of the prosthesis as though rubbing out a muscle cramp.

“But your arm isn’t there, Spikey. It’s fake. It’s not supposed to hurt.” It’s a question, one that Wolfwood think might have a very uncomfortable answer.

“Yeah.”

Silence seeps into the room again, broken only by the sound of glass on glass and glass on wood as the bottle is drained. They don’t talk about what wakes them up at night.

It’s just not what they do.

[drabbles-mc]

Last Resort

John Wick & GN!Reader

For Day 13 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: support / "I think I need to sit down"

Warnings: 18+, angst, hurt/comfort, blood/injuries

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: My first ever John Wick fic! I have no idea where this idea came from but I couldn't not put it down on paper once it hit me. Hope you enjoy!

John Wick Taglist: @narcolini @ashlingnarcos @garbinge (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

You’d moved around from city to city for years, swapping out one small apartment for the next, without leaving much of a trail behind you to follow. Over the years you’d gotten a knack for finding places that were perfectly unassuming, if anything they would deter people from looking too hard to see who lived there. But you always turned the inside into your own little sanctuary, no matter what the outside of it looked like. No one had ever crossed the threshold to find that out for themselves, though.

After years of being away, you found yourself back in New York once more. You didn’t have a hard and fast rule about going back to the same city more than once, but you’d never felt the urge. However, after you cashed in on your last contract, there was something about the city that seemed to be pulling you back, and so here you were.

Your one-bedroom apartment was far off the beaten path. You kept it dark, but over the last few weeks that you’d been there, you made good headway on making it your home. Never knowing how long you were going to be staying in one spot had never made you sacrifice on making somewhere feel like it was really your own. All the horror that laid outside your door, you’d be damned if you were going to deprive yourself of creature comforts in the one place that was your only safe place to land at the end of the day.

Stretched out on the couch, a blanket draped over you and a book in your lap, you turned another page in the newest novel that you’d picked up along the way. The lamp by the end of your couch cast just enough light for you to be able to read, but not so much that it would draw attention and bleed through the curtains that covered your windows. The glass of red wine on the table was nearly empty, and you were debating back and forth in your head if you were going to get yourself a refill when you hit the end of the chapter that you were on.

Just as you were reaching for the glass to take a sip, you heard noise coming from the hallway. Your apartment was silent most of the time. If your life wasn’t what it so clearly was, you would’ve been the type to have the television or the radio playing at all times. But anything that hindered you being able to perceive possible threats had to go, and so you’ve adjusted to the silence. The only noise you ever heard was what floated up from the streets below. Over time, the quiet chaos that made its way to your ears became soothing in its own way.

The noise that was happening outside your door wasn’t that. It also didn’t sound like your neighbors coming or going from their apartment. You waited, trying to see if the noise was going to subside. The heavy footsteps only got louder, only got closer. Shifting gears, you stopped reaching for your glass of wine and instead moved your hand slightly to the left and reached for the gun that was on the table next to it. Your hand hovered, not yet picking it up in case the footsteps just kept on moving.

Then the knocks came, clearly landing on the old, heavy wood panels of the door to your apartment. Your hand wrapped around the gun now, other hand discarding your book and pulling the blanket off you. Standing up, you slowly started to make your way towards the door, the socks on your feet and your light steps rendering you practically silent.

The cadence of the knocks was familiar. Slow, methodical. You kept count of them in your head, and when they stopped at five, your heart sped up in your chest in a way that it hadn’t in a long time. It wasn’t often that you got a visit from a dead man, after all.

You briefly glanced through the peephole in your door—there was no such thing as being too safe. Plus, it’d been so long and you’d moved so many times, and again the man was apparently dead a few times over, so there was every reason to be skeptical about him finding you. Pressing your eye to the glass, you saw him, and you couldn’t tell if you were surprised or not.

Reaching and undoing all of the locks that went down the side of your door, you took a breath before pulling it open. All the while your gun was still clutched tightly in your hand. People changed too much too often for you to count on familiar history saving you. And, even if you weren’t the type to be cynical about history mattering, you knew that the worst parts of him were also born from that history. There was no such thing as a safe person in your line of work, not even if they were your friend.

He had one hand against the doorframe, that arm acting as the only thing giving him enough support to stay upright. His other hand was pressed hard into his side trying to staunch the bleeding of a wound that you couldn’t see, but the red stain that was growing across his white shirt was impossible to miss.

He looked at you through the mess of hair that was covering most of either side of his face. He was breathing heavily, shoulders taking the brunt of the effort each breath he took. He was covered in dirt, cuts, bruises, and blood. Exactly how you remembered him, for the most part. A little older now, but weren’t you all?

“Long time, no see,” you said, your tone casual in direct opposition to how tense your body was.

You watched as he didn’t say anything in response to that, the two of you simply just standing in your doorway staring at each other. That was another upside to living in the places that you did—someone standing in your doorway on the brink of bleeding out in the hallway wasn’t going to make anyone call the cops or anyone who could actually do anything. Everyone minded their own business, and you returned the favor.

If he’d shown up in good shape, you would’ve been more concerned. Showing up with one foot in the grave meant that he needed you, and that meant that you would be safe, at least from him, for a little while longer. That was something you could work with.

“Wanna come in?” you asked, even though the answer was grossly apparent.

“Yea,” he finally said, that same tired rasp to his voice that there had always been, “please.”

Opening the door a little wider, you motioned for him to come inside. You glanced up and down the hallway to make sure that no one had followed him before shutting the door. Your back was still to him as you redid all of the locks on your door. You could feel him watching you, the way you moved, the way you still kept a tight grip on the gun in your hand. Maybe you had a problem turning away old friends, if you could even call each other that, but you weren’t so stupid to think that that history meant you were safe, or that him being battered made him any less of a threat.

Taking a deep breath, you let your head drop back, looking up at your ceiling for a moment before getting yourself right and turning back around to face him. He was partially hunched over, looking much smaller than he really was because of it.

“Officially burned through all of your other friends, then, John?” you asked as you walked over to him.

He gave a short nod. “Something like that.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Glad I’m at least still a last resort.”

The silence that followed was weighed down with a lot of questions that both of you knew better than to ask. You knew that he wasn’t going to give you any answers, not ones that would really explain much of anything, anyway. You wondered if he even had questions about you. If he knew where you were now, you had to assume that he’d known where you were before, too. Kept tabs all those years. That was quite the feat, if you were being honest and giving credit where it was due.

Much less work had gone into keeping tabs on him. Everyone knew who John Wick was, knew where he was. That was just step one in being able to cover your ass and keep yourself safe. Keep your enemies closer and all that. You hadn’t spared it too much thought once he got out. That was the whole point of getting out. He was just supposed to be John once he completed his impossible task. It lasted longer than you’d thought it would, him being out. But it would’ve been a lie to say that you were surprised when you started hearing chatter about him working again. It was even less of a surprise when the entire underground world started falling apart at the seams once he was.

“Should I even ask what happened?” you said as you stepped past him, walking deeper into your apartment.

“It’s a long story.”

You were waiting for him to actually ask for what he wanted, even though it was obvious. He was so used to the entire world either coming after him, or simply offering up to him whatever he needed. But that had never been how the two of you operated, not even when you were young. If he wanted your help, he could ask for it, especially after all of this time.

When he peeled his gaze up off the floor and actually looked at you, he saw the expression on your face. While age and hardship had changed the both of you, he still knew exactly what that look meant. One glance at the look in your eyes and suddenly he was just young, lost Jardani all over again, a boy in need of a helping hand. And, just like back then, you had more self-assurance than you should have for someone who also didn’t know what they were doing or what they were really in for.

“I need a place to stay,” he finally grit out past the pain that was shooting through his side.

A small smile quirked the ends of your lips. “Always something, huh?”

He gave one nod. “Always something.”

“You can stay, Johnny,” there was a bit of a humorous lilt to your voice as you used the name that hadn’t fallen from your lips in more years than you could even try to count.

He’d disliked the nickname back then, still disliked it now. You were the only one who ever called him that that didn’t immediately come to regret it. Even so, he made his disdain for it known. But for the moment, whatever annoyance he felt because of the nickname was outweighed by the relief of having a place to stay, at least for the night, where no one would be trying to kill him.

“If they find me because of you, though, John,” you warned him with a shake of your head, “I will kill you and keep the contract money for myself and I won’t feel any guilt about it.”

He knew you meant that. No matter how much either of you looked out for the other, if push came to shove it was always going to be about survival, first. He knew that. He respected it. He was the same exact way. That mutual understanding was what had kept the two of you alive for so long when you were younger—always making sure that you were on the same side of a fight or so far away from each other that you weren’t going to have to worry about what you might have to do to the other.

You figured that you had kept him standing in limbo, in agony, long enough. If he was willing to be patient enough to get through all of that, the least you could do was try and stitch him up enough so that he could live to die another day.

“What do you need?” you asked, not quite sure where you were supposed to begin with him.

“I think I need,” he took a small step towards your coffee table, “to sit down.”

You nodded, clearing the end of the small table so that he could take a seat on it. The short breath of relief he let out at being able to sit sounded exceptionally loud in your apartment, although in reality the sound hardly carried beyond the tiny space that passed for your living room. He still had one hand pressed hard against his side, but now the other was gripping his knee, his arm locked straight to keep him sitting somewhat upright.

“Let’s see what we’re working with,” you said.

You almost set your gun down but thought better of it at the last second, tucking it into the back of your waistband instead. You stepped past him, grabbing your glass of wine and finishing off what was left of it in one swig. It was the least you deserved for the mess that you’d just let into your apartment. Apparently now it was a sanctuary for two.

Letting the glass clatter back onto the top of the coffee table, you reached to start helping him take his jacket off. You felt how stiff he was, the hesitation of it. Sighing, you stepped back and looked at him. “You came to me for help, John. If you just wanted to bleed out, you could’ve done that out on the street and saved me the trouble.”

The comment got him to relent. Peeling his hand from his knee, he slipped his arm out of the sleeve. Switching hands that were applying pressure, he let you pull the jacket off of his other arm as well. You tossed the jacket off to the side, hearing how it landed a little heavier than most jackets. Extra weight was the price of not getting pierced by bullets.

“All these years,” you said, a slight scold to your tone, “and you never learned to wear something under the shirt?”

He didn’t have a good argument for that. Or, if he did, he kept it to himself as you continued to help him peel the next layer off. You could see the pain it caused him, trying to peel the white dress shirt off of him. You cringed as well, knowing that it must’ve felt like hell. All those cuts and wounds that were maybe started to clot over being ripped open again as you slipped the shirt back off his shoulders.

For as much as the removal of it hurt, you also knew that there had to be a small wave of relief washing over John, too. Something unique about wounds being able to breathe after being suffocated by fabric and your own unstopped blood-flow.

Sitting in just his slacks and shoes, John was all blood and bruises. Nothing but tattoos, scars, and brands. He was a sight that would’ve been heart wrenching to most, pitiful even in his own way. But you didn’t have that sympathy for him. You didn’t have the fear of him either. His scars and burns and ink didn’t rouse any aversion in you because underneath the layers you were currently cloaked in, you looked almost the exact same way. Two sides of the coin, you and John Wick. Always were. Always would be.

“I’ll get my things,” you told him as you gathered up his jacket and shirt and disappeared off towards your bathroom.

You left his clothes to soak in the bathroom sink while you grabbed your kit, which was more extensive than most, and headed back out to him. All these years and the two of you still ended up like this—one person bloody and one person bandaging. At least you still had each other to fall back on when all else failed. You weren’t sure if that was a silver lining or not.

No stranger to triage, you set about taking care of his worst injuries first. Laid out on your coffee table like your apartment was an operating room, you stitched and cleaned and bandaged like someone who should’ve been paid to do things like that. If John had been anyone else, you would’ve expected payment in some form or another, the gold coins or at the very least a favor owed. More likely, if John had been anyone else you wouldn’t have answered the door, would’ve just shot him through it. But how were you supposed to do that to him?

By the time you were done, you were surprised that he was even still awake. If the exhaustion didn’t get him, you were certain that the blood loss was going to. But of course it didn’t. For all of the mythic stories that surrounded John, not even you could deny that the man just didn’t ever seem to fucking die and stay dead. You admired that about him, but you were never going to tell him that.

Standing up, you stripped your gloves off and loomed over him, inspecting your work while also trying to gauge where he was at. “Think you can stand up?”

Sitting up, he slowly pushed himself up to his feet. He was about to take a step when you saw the quiver in his leg. Before he could go down, you stepped in and hooked your arm around him, bracing him across his back and landing his arm over and across your shoulders. Both of you let out grunts of effort as you tried to make it so that both of you didn’t end up toppled to the floor.

“Stitching you up wasn’t enough?” you said as the two of you slowly started to make your way towards the bathroom. “Gonna make me carry you to the shower too?”

Even if he hadn’t been in the state he was in, he wouldn’t have given you the victory of a laugh. He never had. It was one of the few things that kept you humble. Instead, he continued to lean onto you for support as you half-guided, half-dragged him to your bathroom.

You deposited him onto the closed lid of your toilet as gracefully as you could, which was never graceful enough. He was kind enough to not make you feel any more guilty about it. At least the stitches held. You could feel him watching you as you pulled back the curtain enough to turn the water on, one hand held underneath the stream while you waited for it to warm up. Your eyes were trained on the floor as you waited, but you could hear the sounds of him pushing out of his shoes.

When the water finally got hot enough, you pulled your hand out and wiped it off on your pants. Looking over at John, you raised your eyebrows, a wordless preface to your question. “Need help with this?”

It was a genuine ask, one with no ulterior motives behind it now like it might have a few lifetimes ago. Back when you were both a lot younger and a different kind of reckless, there would’ve been layers to the question. But as it was now, you were just worried that he was going to pass out and crack his head on the edge of your tub.

“I got it,” he answered, sounding weary as ever.

Shaking your head, you said, “Of course you do.” You set a clean towel on the sink counter for him before stepping back towards the bathroom door. “Yell if you need me. Or I’ll at least hear you fall.”

You were pulling the door closed behind you when you heard him say your name. Looking back over your shoulder, you saw him slowly bring himself to his feet. “Thank you,” he said with a nod. “I know what this could cost you.”

If you’d been feeling angry, or cruel, you would’ve said something along the lines of, “And yet you still showed up anyway.” But you didn’t have it in you. There had never been any space in you for anger towards him.

Instead, you said, “The rest of the world wants you dead, Johnny. Not me.”

He nodded, knowing better than anyone how true that was, and the weight of you saying that you were an honest safety net for him. “Thank you.”

Nodding, you told him, “Clean yourself up,” and pulled the door shut.

[poindexters-labratory]

[earlgreydream]

jotun.

| loki x reader | smut | angst | fluff |

anon requested. dom!Loki where he goes into a Jotun heat and fucks the reader senseless 

cw: slightly dubcon?, aggression, crying, choking, d/s, kind of temp play?, jotun!loki, mentions of burns, bruises, blood etc, basically just super rough sex, Sa STRONG CONTENT WARNING

a/n: I don’t usually write stuff like this, so it’s new to me 

“Get out!” Loki’s vicious scream echoed off of the walls. 

“No, I’m not going to just leave you!” You ran across the golden floor of his chambers and dropped to your knees. You dragged the god into your arms, and you could feel the warfare tearing him apart from the inside. 

He was so cold.

Loki’s body wracked as he tried to breathe, as if just staying alive was exhausting. The tips of his fingers turned blue, and he tried to fight it off, keeping himself in his æsir form. His head tilted back, black waves falling back to reveal scarlet eyes. 

You swallowed hard, fear shooting up your spine. His skin slowly turned deep blue, ancient jotun patterns swirling across the skin like scars.

“Please, I’m begging you to go. I don’t want to hurt you,” Loki’s voice was impossibly deeper, dangerous. 

“I’m not going to abandon you. I trust you, Loki.” 

“It’s not me, it’s a monster!” Loki wept, gripping the shimmering Asgardian fabrics that draped over your body with icy fingers. 

You held him tightly, refusing to leave the terrified god. His stamina wore thin, and his icy jotun core seeped through, replacing every godly aspect of him with the blue skin of a monster. His touch was so cold it practically burned you, and very real fear burned like acid in your throat. 

Maybe you should’ve listened to him, and run when he’d told you. Now, it was too late. 

His clothing was gone in a simmer of fizzing blue magic, baring his entire monstrous form to you. You scrambled backward, looking up at Loki as he towered over you. His red eyes were feral, and he descended on you like you were prey. 

“Loki, my love...” you tried to speak, but you silenced as his hand wrapped tightly around your throat. He asserted his strength over you, pinning you down against the unyielding golden floor. His grip was tight, rendering you completely immobile. 

He gripped the fabric of your gown, tearing it into shred as he ripped it from your body. Your eyes widened, and you tried to wrap your hands around his wrist, but your touch recoiled, your palms red from the cold. 

Loki grabbed your thigh, shoving your legs open and exposing your sex to him. You screamed as he thrust himself all the way inside of you, making no attempt to ease into you or make sure you were ready. 

Usually, he slid into you with ease, but he was bigger in this form, and just different. It felt like someone completely different was shoving himself inside of you, and you supposed it was. You screamed as he pierced you open, forcing your body to accept him in your warm sex. Moisture blurred your vision, frightened by what was happening, and powerless to stop it, or ease up. 

He was absolutely feral, his mind only focused on taking his own pleasure from you. He felt like ice inside of you, and the unfamiliar cold sensation made you writhe off of the floor, arching your back as he slammed into you with inhuman force. It was a terrible, strange feeling, and you were overwhelmed by the intensity of how hard he was pounding into you. His other hand gripped your thigh, bruises blooming under his unforgiving touch. 

“Loki, please, you’re hurting me,” you breathed, trying to struggle away from his brutalizing touch. A threatening growl thundered from his chest, and you halted, wincing as his hand moved from your throat to roughly grope your chest. 

The cold of his hand on your throat left red frost burns, mixing with the deep purple caused by the tight grip he’d held you down with. 

You attempted to force yourself to relax, letting him fuck the life out of you, tearing up your sex. A choked cry of relief escaped your lips when he pulled out after his first orgasm.

Loki had never been so violent or rough with you, and you reminded yourself that it wasn’t him, that the god you loved wasn’t in control of his own body. He’d begged you to leave, knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself, and you promised him you could take it.

You panted, trying to catch your breath, curling up on the floor and shivering. Your body burned from the inside and out, pain prickling up your spine from his aggression.

You were only awarded a few minutes of reprieve, yelping as he flipped you over, your chest smacking against the floor. You braced yourself with your forearms, and he dragged your hips up, gripping you so tightly you feared your bones would shatter. He continued fucking you from behind, slamming into you so roughly that your body cracked against the floor. He shoved your head down when you tried to push yourself up. 

Sharp pain blossomed deep inside of you, waves of agony washing through you with each thrust. You started to cry, sobs tearing through your chest. You screamed as he held you down, his hips pistoning against yours. His cold fingers gripped your hair, dragging you to your knees. He held you against his chest, and the cold overwhelmed your body in a cruel ache. He slipped in and out of your slick heat, and you were nearly certain you were bleeding.

Loki continued to ravage you until you couldn’t move, your bruised and aching body lying limp against the floor. You felt weak and raw, suffocated by the sobs that wracked your chest. You laid there, gazing up at him and whispering that you loved him.

“Please come back to me, Loki. I need you,” you whispered before the exhaustion pulled you into unconsciousness. 

You started to gain awareness, unsure of what time it was. Your eyes were heavy, and as you began to move, an intense ache flooded your body. Loki heard your choked whimper, and you registered the sound of him crying. 

“Loki?” your voice was weak, and you blinked slowly, adjusting to the light. 

He knelt beside you on the bed, his face streaked with tears and his shoulders trembling. Loki’s brow was knit together, and you recognized the horror in his gaze.

“What have I done to you? My love, I’m so sorry,” he breathed, reaching toward you but not letting himself touch your skin. 

He was himself again, fair, delicate, and gorgeous, with emotional blue eyes that glittered with an entire realm of stars reflecting in them. 

You reached out at took his hand, relaxing as you felt his warmth. He kissed the knuckles on your fingers, his soft lips gentle against your skin. Apologies fell from his lips like prayers, and he agonized over hurting you. 

“I never wanted to hurt you. I’ll understand if you hate me, but please know I would never do this to you on purpose,” he begged.

“I know, Loki. It’s alright-”

“It’s not alright! I’m a monster! I’m cruel, and horrible, just like everyone said I was. I deserve to die for doing this to you!” Loki wept, guilt overwhelming him. 

He’d woken up on the floor next to you, horrified by the sight of your unconscious body. You were covered in deep purple and black bruises, and red burns from where he’d gripped you with his icy hands. Your clothes were torn to shreds, and blood and come stained your inner thighs. You had bite marks, thankfully none too deep, and you looked like you had been brutalized. 

His heart shattered, hatred bursting through his chest. He hated himself, he hated the monstrous side of him that did this to you. Flashes of the night before filled his mind, making him sick. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over again, torn apart by the knowledge that he was the cause of your state. 

Gentle green magic shimmered around the two of you, cleaning you up as much as possible. He lifted you onto the bed before sulking back, feeling too guilty to even touch you. 

He’d watched you sleep, delirious as he studied your breathing, making sure your chest was moving and the air was moving in and out of your lungs. 

“I promise you that I’m okay. I love you so much, Loki,” you reached out to him, closing your fingers around his wrist and pulling him toward you.

“I love you,” he whispered into your hair, kissing your face. 

You didn’t flinch away from his touch, no longer afraid of your lover. You wanted him to hold you, pushing the pain away as you crawled into his lap. The movement made the ache between your legs sharp, and the pressure on your bruised body was painful. You didn’t care, wanting to be close to Loki. 

He cradled you against his body, mindful of your injuries. His lips pressed to your forehead, whispering professions of love against your skin. You let the rhythm of his heartbeat soothe you, your cheek resting against his warm chest. 

“Let me make it up to you,” Loki begged.

“You don’t need to, but I’ll let you spoil me if it’ll make you feel better.” 

He kissed your lips, and you held his face in your hands. 

“I love you, unconditionally. I know you didn’t have control. I wanted to help you through it, I chose you, Loki. And I will always choose you,” you promised. 

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I want you anyways,” you kissed him sweetly. 

“Let me care for you.”

You agreed, letting him set you in a bath, jolting when the hot water soaked your damaged skin. 

“I’ve called for a healer.”

You sat in the water, letting him clean you properly beyond what his magic covered. His fingers grazed between your legs, and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him. 

“No, I’m still sore,” you shook your head, and he immediately took his hand away.

“Okay, not now, then.”

He washed the previous night from your skin, leaving you smelling sweet and clean. His touch was tender, nothing like the icy grip from before. You leaned into his touch, craving it and desperate for it. Trays of all of your favorite sweets appeared, as well as steaming cups of tea that you happily accepted, knowing they came from Loki’s desperation to indulge you. 

“Thank you,” you kissed his cheek, leaning into him in the bathtub. 

You struggled to stand as you tried to climb out, thankful when the healer walked in. Loki helped you to sit down, a fresh wave of guilt pouring over him as he saw the effort it took you just to take a few steps. He looked to the healer hopefully, taking her hand and kneeling before her.

“Please, help my love,” he begged sincerely.

“Of course,” she nodded, touching his shoulder.

“May I see, prinsesse?” the girl asked as you sat near the fire to stay warm. 

You let the towel drop from your body, and the healer assessed your injuries. She hesitated, glancing to Loki before laying her hands over your body, performing her ancient magic. She was clearly troubled by the marks that covered you, and it took over an hour before the bruises began to fade and the sharp ache reduced to a dull throbbing. 

“Your subjects love you, prinsesse,” she grasped your hand, her eyes snapping to Loki. Loki sulked with guilt, kneeling beside you and brushing damp hair from your eyes. 

“I’m alright. Thank you,” you squeezed her hand before she fled your chambers, disappearing into the castle to tend to wounded soldiers and Valkyrie. 

“They fear me.”

“No, my love.” 

You slipped into a loose white gown, sheened with gold and iridescence. You joined Loki on the terrace, watching dancers below, and a festival fully underway in the streets. Your legs were folded under you, and you laid back against your prince, gold jewelry clinking on your wrists and fingers as you traced shapes on the back of his hand that lightly rested on your thigh. 

He created illusions with his magic, entertaining you and making flowers bloom in the air, tiny daisies drifting down and weaving themselves in your hair and tickling your cheeks. 

“What are they celebrating?” you asked, watching the Asgardians in the city.

“They’re celebrating the end of spring. Summer is coming, and they’re honoring the change in season.” 

“It’ll last for weeks. When you’re up to it, we’ll go join them,” Loki promised, kissing you gently and offering you a sweet piece of fruit. 

“I want to go now.” 

“Are you sure? I know you’re still a bit sore.” 

“Please, Loki.”

He gave in, certainly not wanting deny you of happiness. In an instant, you were down in the streets, excitement erupting around you at the presence of their beloved prince and princess. 

“Prinsesse!” a girl squealed, running to you and grabbing your skirts. You giggled and gave her one of the flowers from your hair, smiling at her delight. Loki stood beside you protectively, making sure you were comfortable as young Asgardian girls took your hands and pulled you to the fountain in the square. 

You sat on the edge of the marble, and they climbed around you, going to braid your hair in elaborate styles. Loki’s fingers moved, providing them with flowers and and magical pins to use. 

“Tell us a story of your rule, prins,” a girl asked, her eyes shining up at Loki. 

He indulged them, his magic forming figures and acting out the story he told, and you watched him in adoration. The children adored him, basking in his attention, just as you did. 

“You are no monster, Loki. They delight in your presence. Don’t ever think you’re not loved,” you whispered in his ear, a smile creeping onto his face.

[kradogsrats]

I could not get the “Soren and Viren!Harrow work out together” idea out of my head, so here, have a BIG OL’ CUP of dad feelings, drenched in ALL MY TEARS.

--

The doctors had recommended Harrow exercise regularly. It will help restore your sense of ownership over your body, one had said. You’re used to doing things that he never did. The muscle memory isn’t there.

Neither, Harrow reflected for probably the hundredth time in just that hour, was the muscle. He had by no means ever thought of Viren as being frail or weak, but certainly no one would ever have called the man physical.

But the exercise was helping. Both to build the muscles, and with his other symptoms--he didn’t spend his first moments awake every morning convulsively dry-heaving, anymore. Looking at his hands no longer gave him vertigo. He could even think of them as his hands, his shoulders, his--well, he still had some work to do to get to face.

It wasn’t Viren’s face. He wasn’t sure anymore whose it was.

A drop of sweat landed on the ground in front of him. He lowered himself toward it, arms burning, then raised himself back up.

“Come on, King Harrow!” Soren, doing two, possibly three push-ups for every one of Harrow’s, was barely out of breath. “I want to see that nose touch the ground! You’ve got five more in you, I know it!”

The first few times Soren had joined him in the hazy pre-dawn light of the practice yard, they had both stayed silent. Harrow’s critical mistake had been that the first time Soren tentatively corrected his form, he’d been grateful. Apparently that had given Soren license to devise a multi-day full-body workout routine that Harrow knew was impeccable in its balance and intensity for building muscle and endurance.

Knowing that did not stop him from hating every second of it, however.

Harrow struggled through five more push-ups, with Soren’s encouragement or in spite of it. You’re the one who wants to be able to swing a sword again, he reminded himself grimly.

“Next up, it’s your favorite,” Soren said with a sing-song voice, springing lightly to his feet. Harrow also stood, but with significantly more effort and not a little reluctance. He would rather have stayed lying face-down on the ground.

Soren beamed at him. “Squats! Let’s go!”

Harrow sighed heavily, but assumed the starting position--feet spread, hands raised to his head.

Legs had been a frustration from the start. The old injury dealt by Thunder had never seemed to impede Viren much, and Harrow had always assumed he carried the elegant staff everywhere for show--then he had found himself barely able walk without assistance. Even now, his gait felt unnatural, and the muscles still cramped at odd times, locking the knee and rendering the entire limb useless.

Building up to the point of being able to do squats had been long and hard-earned, with the reward of... more squats. But the strengthened muscles helped with both preventing pain and keeping his balance reliable, so it was worth it. Probably.

Soren was already moving, working up and down on only one leg with the other held straight in front of him. Harrow sighed again.

His first few squats were fine. Then his leg abruptly seized and dropped out from under him.

He landed hard, knocking the wind out of himself. Before, he could have rolled, or at least been able to properly break the fall. Now, he had to just lie there and wheeze for a moment.

“Dad!” Soren cried. He was at Harrow’s side immediately. “Are you okay?”

He sat up slowly, with Soren’s concerned support. The leg was still locked, muscles painfully knotted and unresponsive. Wonderful.

“Here, hang on,” Soren said. “This will help.” He lowered Harrow back until he was resting on his elbows. Then, starting with the calf, he began to slowly work it with his hands, alternating brisk squeezes and pressing deep circles with his thumbs.

Harrow hissed at the sensation of muscles being coaxed to un-knot, letting his head fall back to face the slowly lightening sky.

“Soren,” he said, “You know I’m not--”

“Yeah,” Soren interrupted quietly. “Sorry. It just... slipped out.”

“It’s all right. I miss him, too.”

He wanted to say more. I’m sorry. He should be here, instead. It was supposed to be me. I failed. Empty words that sought comfort, but brought none. All that he could do was add this to the weight of his sins and carry on.

Soren silently worked his way up the leg, going more slowly as the muscles got larger. He paid extra attention around the site of the original wound, circling it thoroughly with touches that began gentle and built until Harrow grunted with pain through his gritted teeth.

“Did you do this for him?” Harrow asked, closing his eyes against a particularly vicious assault from Soren’s thumbs.

“No.” Soren snorted a mirthless laugh. “That’s why I learned it, I guess--but he never let me.”

His hands stilled. “I loved my dad,” he said, finally. “How could I not, right? But I didn’t--I didn’t really like him very much.”

Harrow raised his head to look at him. “He was a difficult man to like,” he acknowledged.

“And,” Soren swallowed and looked away. “I know he didn’t like me.”

Harrow didn’t know what to say to that. Could he deny it--tell Soren that of course Viren had loved him completely, fiercely, the way he deserved, but couldn’t show it? Was it his place to deny it?

Would it even be the truth?

Soren returned to massaging his calf, working back down to finish at the ankle. “What I’m saying is that--that Callum and Ezran are very lucky to have you,” he said. “And I’m happy that they still do.”

He stood, extending his hand down to Harrow. Harrow looked up at him, silhouetted against the morning sky--the sun would creep over the castle walls, soon--and took it, letting Soren help him upright. Once on his feet again, he didn’t release Soren’s hand, instead pulling him into a tight hug.

“Your dad didn’t know what he was missing,” he said quietly. “I wish he’d had the chance to find out.”

Soren, who had stiffened when Harrow embraced him, slowly relaxed. Then he buried his face in Harrow’s shoulder and hugged back.

They stayed that way for a long moment, Harrow releasing the hug only when Soren did. He kept one hand on Soren’s shoulder for balance as he shook out his leg and pretended not to see him swipe a hand across his eyes. “Thank you,” he said when the moment had passed, indicating his leg as he flexed his knee. “It feels good as new.”

Soren cracked a smile. “Oh, does that mean I don’t have to go easy on you tomorrow, then?”

Harrow groaned. “Never mind, I take it back. You’re awful.”

The sun spilled down into the practice yard, warm and dazzling. “I know,” Soren laughed. “The worst.”

[lixiehugs]

Ringing

summary : riley is performing d.d.d at the mma awards 2019 and there is a technology malfunction.

word count : 2k

warnings : mentions of blood, injuries, pain

set on : november 30th, 2019

a/n : sorry i've been kinda non-existent recently. wasn't sure what to post and i've had an ungodly amount of homework recently. i still have a lot to do this week but i hope to post again by saturday maybe don't @ me on that. anyways, enjoy <33! also, this post is inspired by this post by @/junicai.

Riley lied down on the stage at the 2019 Melon Music Awards, in position for The Boyz’s opening performance. They were starting the show, so it had to be good.

She adjusted her suit jacket one last time before hearing the metronome sound in her ears. They were starting.

As the music pounded through the speakers, Riley’s body moved automatically. She didn’t have to think about where to move for each formation. She danced her best with her stern expression, not wanting to change the vibe of the performance with a smile.

As the music changed to a more aggressive sound, the intimidating look in Riley’s eyes only intensified. She hit each beat with precision, completely synchronized with the other eleven boys on the stage.

As the twelve members stood in a horizontal line, a mask was placed in front of each of their faces. Riley grabbed her blue, sparkly mask and used it to accentuate the choreography, moving the prop just like how they had practiced.

She moved in front of Juyeon as they all threw their masks out of the way. Riley winked at the camera as she took the center position and danced her heart out. Then, as the lights went dark, signaling the end of the dance intro, Riley moved further back into the formation so they could perform D.D.D.

As soon as the song started, Riley couldn’t help but perform with a grin on her face. The song made her so happy, and it was evident through her dancing.

Riley stepped back into the center after Sunwoo had done his rap. She started hers. With fantastic charisma and facial expressions, Riley rapped her lines with expertise, like an idol that had been doing this for many years.

As Riley finished her verse, she started to hear what seemed to be static in her in-ears. She was confused and a little nervous, but she didn’t show it in her face as she moved for Jacob to go into the center. When Kevin took his spot, she moved even more to the back of the formation. The static only seemed to get louder. Riley shook her head a little bit, trying to knock the sound out of her head.

As Sangyeon sang his high note before the chorus started up again, the most ear-piercing, loudest noise that Riley had ever heard screeched through her right ear.

The earth-shattering noise rendered Riley’s mind blank. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head for a split second before a sharp pain stabbed through her ear again. Her hands scrambled to her right ear, yanking the technology out. Riley stumbled and almost fell over before she remembered that she was currently performing at the MMAs.

Riley’s pulse rapidly increased, but maybe that was just because she was dancing and she was getting tired. She couldn’t hear anything out of her right ear, but maybe that was just the adrenaline. Her left in-ear was barely functioning. It was still playing the backing track with the metronome, but it was so quiet that Riley could barely hear it over the vocals of her group mates.

The girl resulted in counting in her head as she would do in dance practices. She pushed back her feelings and hid her pain with a smile, looking up at the audience like she was the happiest person alive. Unbeknownst to her, a metallic, crimson liquid had been dripping down her face onto her white suit. A very striking contrast in color that could be seen by almost anyone watching their performance.

Riley got on the floor again, continuing to dance. She prayed that the song would end soon, that something horrible would happen, and the rest of their stage would be canceled, anything to get her off of this stage right that second. She felt something wet on the side of her face, assuming it was sweat; she had gone to wipe it. She was startled to see her fingers colored a dark red. Only then did she recognize the clogged feeling in her ear amongst the immense pain. It was almost like the feeling you get when you get out of the pool, and there’s water in your ears, so you have to shake your head a few times to get it out. Only this time, she couldn’t get it out, and there was only more blood coming, and she was in excruciating pain, and she was performing on stage in front of thousands of people.

Riley stood up, taking center stage in front of the line of boys behind her. She was thankful that she wasn’t a vocalist and that she didn’t have to sing now. She pursued with her counts as she danced without an error to be seen, moving to each move on each beat exactly. The only shocking thing besides her dancing skills was the blood dripping onto her white suit more with each passing second.

Her injury had earned The Boyz’s attention now as they saw the girl dance in front of them. She gained some concerned looks, which she paid no mind to; she needed to get this done and over with.

As the final dance break started again, Riley felt another round of debilitating pain shoot from her ear down through the rest of the right side of her body. It’s okay, there’s only thirty seconds left. You can finish this, she thought to herself.

The chorus played again, and Riley plastered on another fake smile. She danced through her pain like a true professional would, acting like she was having the time of her life on the stage. The choreography ended with Riley in her center position. The camera focused on her face, the right side doused with blood.

As the stage lights went dark, Riley rushed off stage. She nearly fell down the stairs into the backstage area. Her vision was blurry, feeling like she was drunk at a rave. She continued to hobble all the way to The Boyz’s green room. She threw the door open and collapsed onto the floor, both of her hands flying to her right ear as she whimpered in agony. She used one of her hands to pull at the other in-ear, still tightly stuck in her left ear. She pulled it out, leaving her in-ears and microphone dangling by their cords.

A pair of arms slipped under her armpits, pulling her up to the black couch that she had fallen in front of. Riley didn’t know who had grabbed her; she couldn’t make out any faces or people as she saw many blobs of white enter the room.

“-ley, Riley!” a faint voice called, gaining her attention. Her eyes shifted in and out of focus a few times before settling on the face in front of her. “What happened?”

“I don’t- It’s my-, ringing,” Riley rushed out in between gasps. Two pairs of hands began gently pulling at the white suit jacket that Riley was still wearing, despite her having been extremely hot in it earlier. As the white blazer was pulled off, Riley’s mic pack was detached from the waistband of her pants, finally allowing her microphone and in-ears to be taken away. Another blurry face appeared in front of her.

“Riley, you need to breathe, okay? Come on, you can do it,” another voice said. It was familiar. Hyunjae, she thought. The two faces in front of her seemed to clear up in her line of vision, the other face turning out to be Sangyeon. Riley tried her hardest to listen to what Hyunjae had said, but it was tough to calm her breathing when her ear felt like it was being repeatedly stabbed. “Good, good, okay, can you tell us what happened?”

“I can’t hear,” Riley breathed out.

“What do you mean you can’t hear?” Sangyeon asked.

“My ear, it’s ringing,” Riley tried to explain, still leaving Hyunjae and Sangyeon confused.

“Hyung! Did you find out what happened?” Juyeon called, entering the main dressing room again.

“No, I think she’s in too much shock now. She keeps saying that her ear is ringing,” Hyunjae explained to him. Juyeon looked at Riley, her back facing him. A tissue had been placed on Riley’s shoulder to catch any of the dripping blood, but it didn’t seem to be doing too well of a job as it was now soaked through.

The dressing room door opened, and in walked a few medics along with Kevin, Haknyeon, and Chanhee. One of the medics went over to Riley, bending over slightly before getting something out of his bag. It was some medical instrument that was lightly stuck into Riley’s ear. Riley jerked her head away from the tool as even more significant pain erupted in her ear.

“I’m sorry, I just need to look for something. It will only take a second,” the medic said before sticking the tool back into Riley’s ear. Riley bit down on her lip to suppress the extra pain. The doctor wiped off their instrument with a handkerchief before facing the other members, who looked at him expectantly. “I believe that Riley has ruptured her eardrum. It’s hard to tell how severe it is because of the amount of blood in her ear, though. She needs to go to the ER to get it checked out. Unfortunately, no doctor’s offices are open now.” Sangyeon nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. Then, Changmin, Younghoon, and Jacob came into the main dressing room, as well, Riley’s bloody in-ears in hand.

“We found the problem!” Changmin called, gaining everyone’s attention.

“What is it?” Juyeon asked.

“The transmitter broke,” Changmin started.

“Which caused the mic pack to malfunction,” Younghoon continued.

“Which then caused Riley to have 160 decibels of sound go through her right ear,” Jacob finished.

“What does that mean?” Sunwoo asked.

“It means that Riley just heard what a shotgun sounds like going off right next to your ear,” Younghoon clarified. Some of the members’ eyes went wide.

“That’ll definitely do it,” the medic stated. “She’ll be having some hearing loss for a little while, but it should come back normally either in a couple of hours or in a day or two,” the medic said before exiting the dressing room.

“Some parts of the tech are fried inside, as well,” Changmin said.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Chanhee piped up. The other members looked at him. “The medic said that Riley needs to go to the ER, so why aren’t we going?”

“He’s right. Let’s go!” Sangyeon clapped his hands together, making everyone start moving. Riley was helped up from the couch by Hyunjae and Juyeon, both of them keeping their arms around Riley so she could walk. Her balance was horribly off, and no one, not even Riley herself, trusted her ability to walk on her own.

The members of The Boyz shoved themselves into two cars and drove to the ER quickly. Riley was rushed to a doctor immediately, the amount of blood coming from her ear worrying the medical staff. She was diagnosed with a perforated eardrum, a small tear in the tissue that had separated the ear canal from the eardrum. She had almost burst her eardrum, but it was not quite that severe. She was given an eardrum patch to help the small hole close, some painkillers, and was sent home within two hours.

“Manager hyung, I’m sorry,” Riley said as she buckled her seatbelt in the van.

“For what?”

“I got blood all over my outfit, and it was expensive.” Riley looked down at the stage outfit that she was still wearing, just as the other boys in the car. They hadn’t had time to change before going to the ER.

“It’s okay, Riley. I don’t care about the outfit. I just want you to be in good health,” the man said, offering Riley a smile.

[raggaraddy]

Play Pretend

Summary: When the chance comes to escape you're are going to play it smart to make sure you get away.

Trigger Warnings: Murder, gun usage, abuse, violence, kidnapping, imprisonment.

Jungkook

Yandere!Jungkook

Mafia!Jungkook

It's been about a week since Jungkook locked you in. Only now were the bruises on your ribs going down. And no matter how quickly he shifted back to normal and calmed down the damage was done, he’d shown you a truly terrifying side of himself and you knew he couldn’t be trusted anymore. The worst of it was that he never even feigned an apology. He didn’t think he was in the wrong to react like he did. He just went from one day to the next like nothing was different.

You felt so stupid. You had thought there was something not right with him the first time you met him. But instead of trusting your gut, you got swept up in his good looks and charm. And that lack of discernment is the reason why you've been trapped in his house for a week now. You tried to tell him that people would be looking for your eventually. But with full certainty, he assured you that wouldn’t be the case. You weren’t sure why or how, but you knew that he 100% believed it. And that made your situation even more despondent.

This evening, for the first time in 8 days, Jungkook finally left the house.  You had thought it might be a chance for you to look for an escape, but to your disappointment, he left one of his ‘employees’ with you.  You still can't pinpoint what he does exactly, but all of the people you have seen with Junkook have a similar dangerous vibe. This one is no exception. Tall, strong, large and mean-looking. It completely dashed your hopes of getting away.  That was until you heard the clear and threatening order Jungkook gave him.  For the second time, you were seeing this sweet kind young man have men double his age, who were larger and tougher looking than him, look weak and fearful. The exact wording slipped your mind, but the gist of it was if anything happens to you while he is gone, Jungkook will violently kill your guard.

After a few hours of stirring, half hesitant to try and half trying to perfect the idea, you finally decide you need to at least attempt a prison break.

Calling the guard, you drop to the bedroom floor, curling yourself tight, clutching your ribs. You knew your bruises were still purple and black there, so it would be the most convincing place to say you had pain.  After a few screams, the man dashes in his face draining at seeing you writhing on the floor in agony.

“What happened?” He barks.

“I fell. It hurts.” You wheeze, knowing it's best to keep your details simple to maintain the act.

He bends to help you up and you wail a faked cry of pain, applying your years of watching dramas into practice. You’re not sure how believable your act is, but the man is so swept up in the panic of the moment, it doesn’t really matter.  As he gets you onto the bed, you pull up your shirt slightly exposing your marks and bruises and it's the tipping point.  He goes from worried to frantic.

"Sh-" he whispers the exclamation under his breath. He looks to ponder his options, and you hope your theory is right and that he is too afraid to call Jungkook first. "Alright, you need to go to the hospital." He declares. You have to lean more into the pained acting to stop a smile from coming onto your face, thankful that your plan is so far working.

The guard picks you up bridal style and carries you downstairs with an urgent patter to his steps. Getting you into the back seat of the car, he rushes into the front and begins driving. Despite his craze, you're surprised to see him driving so steadily and rationally. Abiding the road rules and sticking to the speed limits.

You think your best, or only option would be to get some privacy with Doctor at the hospital and tell him everything. Beg him to call the police. The one risk for going to the hospital is the possibility of the guard not leaving you to talk to the Doctor.

"Fuck." The man hisses under his breath as his phone begins to ring.

The call connects to the cars Bluetooth as he answers, blasting Jungkooks voice in surround sound.

"I'm at home, but you're not. Where are you?" He questions with an ominous tone. The drivers head flicks back to you, his uncertainty flashing through his eyes as he decides what or how much of the truth to tell.

"She hurt herself. Her chest. So I am taking her to the hospital." He reveals everything with a shake in his voice.

Jungkook bursts into a sharp laugh, the sudden piercing of it through the speakers making both of you jump. "She's fine. Bring her back now."

You spring upright, eyes wide. The car rolls to a stop at the traffic light, the man's gaze meeting yours in the rear-view mirror. Jungkook knows! He knows you're faking it. He's going to hurt you again when you get back. You can't let him take you back.

The second the car stops, you don't pause to think, yanking on the door handle and throwing yourself out of the car. Because it is nearly midnight, the suburban area is desolate, but there are a few houses that still have lights on. You know your best option is one of those.

Breaking into a sprint you run across the main road over the island and towards the first house you can see any sign of life in. In a mad frenzy, you begin to pound on the door, calling and screaming for help, begging for them to open. Behind you, you can feel the guard quickly catching up and your pleading gets more desperate.

Giving you pure relief, the front door opens on a middle-aged man looking nearly as petrified as you. You don't wait to explain or discuss anything instead barge past him, hurling yourself through the open door. You spin on your heels, slamming the entrance closed. It doesn't shut though. The full body of the guard powers through the door colliding into you and the homeowner, knocking you both onto the ground in a painful blow.

With a heavy breath and a wild look in his eyes, he stalks over top of you, sealing you all in. The guard pulls a gun and his phone from his pocket, the call to Jungkook seeing to still be active. "Alright, I have h-" he speaks into the receiver, pointing the weapon at the man, rendering him frozen.

"Where are you?!" Jungkook yells, making the guard pull the phone from his ear. Even from a few meters away you can hear his hostile voice loudly and clearly.

For 10 minutes you are sat in the living room numb with fear. You could hear how furious Jungkook was. You can see how mad and nervous your guard is, and you can feel how confused and terrorised the older man is. Without movement, the three of you are stuck in a tense stare off, none able to speak.

On the 11th minute, there is a knock on the front door. The guard peers through the side window and his breath catches in his throat.

You start to physically shake as Jungkook comes in with two more men at his back, looking like an uneven, unsettling mix of calm and intense. Walking in with his hands in his pockets, he takes the size of all three people in the room.

"You left the car in the middle of the road?" He asks the guard, his gaze staying fixed on you.

"Yes. I had to chase her down." He tries to explain shortly.

"Ah," Junkook muses with a click of his tongue. "Get rid of it." He orders one of the other men who came in with him.

The guy nods, rushing to follow the instruction. As the door slams shut, Jungkook walks towards you squatting to your level. "Your ribs hurt Kitten?" he asks with a faked sweetness. He leans down digging his forefinger and thumb into your ribcage. It brings back the true pain of your injuries, making you squeal and writhe while trying to get away from him. His hand wraps around your side, keeping you in place and pushing you to the floor, crushing and gripping your wounds, bringing shortness to your breath and tears to your eyes.

After tormenting you for a few miserable minutes, Jungkook scoffs out a short laugh, standing back up nearly stepping on top of you. "Pick him up" He orders your guard, gesturing toward the homeowner on the floor behind you. He does so, having to hold a lot of the man's weight to get him to his feet. "Anyone else in the house?"

"No, I don't think so." The guard replies with uncertainty.

"Well you're not exactly reliable, are you?" Jungkook sneers.

You jump as two incredibly loud bangs echo out. One after the other, both the guard and the older man drop to the floor. Looking up at Jungkook horrified, he is standing over you holding a gun having just shot the two men. Your stomach is churning at the realization of what he just did. There is only a weak grunt and then silence from the older man, his body slumping still and lifeless. But from the other, there are continued struggled and gasped moans. Jungkook coolly walks to him, another shot firing and the pained sounds stop. Only silence and the pulsing ringing in your ears from the sudden blasts remain.

You're motionless. Panting broken breaths. Too in shock to move. Too scared to do anything. You can't believe this is happening. You're sure you're about to die.

"Go check the house." Jungkook kneels down beside you again, throwing the order to the second man that came with him.

With just the two of you left in the room, he comes closer, speaking lowly and gruffly in your ear. "See what you did Y/n." He motions to the side of you, to the murderous and violent display. You can't bring yourself to look. You know the sounds of those two men will haunt you for the rest of your life. You don't want to add the gruesome image of it as well. "Do want to play? You want to pretend to be in pain?" His hand roughly brushes the hair from off your face. He switches the gun from one hand to the other, his now free left hand digging tightly into your jaw, turning you to him. "Well, we're going home Kitten. And you won't need to pretend when I'm done with you."

[givemea-dam-break]

Just a Scratch

a/n: time to write for one of our favourite underrated pjo characters - Connor Stoll - cuz we do love the Hermes kids who don't commit mass genocide <3

Warnings: blood, injury, (probably cringey) fluff Words: 887 Gender-neutral reader

Blood soaks your orange shirt as you stumble backwards, trying your best to keep pressure on the wound in your stomach. The blood oozes from between your fingers, fighting back at your futile attempt to stop it from bleeding you dry. Your head spins and your legs become weak, threatening to drop you down to the ground. "Y/n?" you hear a voice call. "Y/n, where are you?" You open your mouth to call back, but a wave of nausea passes over you and renders you practically useless. "Y/n?" Footsteps come closer. "Oh, my gods. Someone, get help! We need to get them to the Plaza Hotel." Your legs buckle and you try to brace yourself for the impact of the ground, but it never comes. An arm loops behind you and holds you as you're slowly lowered to the ground. A hand presses on top of yours, applying a significant amount of pressure to the wound. "What happened?" You look up, vision blurred, and see a familiar face - the only face you want to see. "Connor," you say. "How are you?" Connor frowns. "How am I? You're the one who got stabbed." You manage to shrug. "Ah, it's just a little scratch." "The blood all over you tells me otherwise." Connor sits so you can rest against his lap, keeping the pressure on your stomach firm. "Can you tell me what happened?" He's trying to keep you awake, you realise. "Drew was in trouble," you say. "Some dracaena was trying to stab her and I went to attack but I missed and -" you wince when Connor presses down too hard - "and he stabbed me." You look up at Connor, watching the way his eyebrows furrowed and his lip twitched. Over the years you'd known him, you'd noticed how his lip twitched when he was worried; it was something you found cute. "I'm fine," you say in an attempt to reassure him. Another wave of nausea tells you otherwise. "Someone will be here to get you soon," Connor says, his free hand brushing your hair out of your face. "Then Will can get you all fixed up." "If he's not too busy." Your words are beginning to slur together and your eyelids start to droop. "Hey," Connor says. "Stay awake, you. You manage to stay awake until three in the morning, so I'm sure you can do this." You manage a laugh. "I got no sleep last night, actually. Just let me - let me have a nap..." Connor's eyes widen a fraction. "No, no. We're going to play a game, all right? Whoever falls asleep first loses and has to do the other's chores for a week." "Well," you say. "Get some rubber gloves, Stoll, 'cause you'll be cleaning the bathrooms for a week." But, even as you say it, you can feel your eyelids becoming even heavier. Connor's voice becomes but a hum in the back of your head and, as the pain becomes more unbearable, the world goes black and you hear nothing. -- For a minute, you think you're dead. You can't hear anything, you can't feel anything. Then, voices fill your ears and you're suddenly aware of a slight throbbing in your stomach and a hand wrapped around yours. It takes a little longer for you to see anything, for your eyes to open, but when they do, you're blinded by the light. "Gods," you say. "That's bright." Your hand is squeezed and, when you can finally see again, you're met with brown eyes and a mop of chocolate-coloured hair. You pout. "Did I fall asleep first?" "You did." Connor smiles. "That means you've got to do my chores for a week." You groan. "And here I was getting all happy about getting out of bathroom duty." Connor chuckles. "How's the pain?" he asks. "Will managed to give you some nectar while you were out." "It's not completely unbearable," you say. "I'm sure I'll be fine and dandy in a matter of minutes, then I can get back out there and go kill some monsters." "Oh, no you won't," Connor says. "You're under strict orders to stay in bed." "Seriously?" You sigh. "Where's the fun in that?" Connor rolls his eyes. "You'll be fine here. I'm sure that Will can annoy you when I'm not around. 'Don't mess with those bandages! Look, I know the anti-septic I'm practically burning

your skin with hurts but it does the job.'" You laugh. "As much as I would love that, I would much rather have you." That makes Connor smile. His thumb rubs the side of your hand soothingly and you almost want to reach up and start playing with his hair but, for one, you don't want to move and make your wound worse, and, two, now wasn't really the appropriate time, with a battle raging on, and all. "You'll come back and see me again, yeah?" you ask. "You'll stay alive?" "Of course I will," Connor says. "My dad's the god of trickery. I'm sneaky and fast. I'm not dying that easily." "Okay," you mumble. "Good." Connor brushes your hair away from your face, again. "Get some sleep, dummy. I'll be back when you wake up." "You're the dummy here, dummy." "I'm not the one who got stabbed." "It's just a scratch."