#that or one would be bleeding out on the floor

[soobnny]

shall we dance? — bang chan. strangers to lovers. fluff. chan gives you his shoes when your feet hurt. conversation inspired by a scene in little women. (0.9k words)

Bright lights pollute your vision, and it’s getting hard to hear anything over the music echoing around the room. 

Nobody told you how hard it’d be to look for quiet, even just a thin line, amidst one of the nights teenage girls will be writing about in their diaries when they get home. Quaint gestures of friendliness are starting to feel a little forced. Friends of a friend mingle around, clad in the prettiest dresses they spent months looking for. 

You’re not quite sure if you’re enjoying the night or if your thoughts are just a little clouded because no one has asked you to dance. All you know is that your brand new heels are burning holes on the soles of your feet and you don’t think you can handle another look of pity from your friend. 

Maybe it’d be best to mask yourself amongst the massive curtains decorating the corners of whomever’s house this is. You’re sure you saw a room there when you’d first walked into the house. So, with your gaze straight ahead at what’s meant to be the dance floor, you start backing up–step by step, careful not to startle anyone’s periphery. The sight of you sneaking away might be the laughing stock of the town. 

“Hi.”

The sudden voice startles you. You don’t expect anyone else to be in there, especially when the night is reaching its high. 

“Hi. Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here.” You smile sheepishly. Though, you suppose being caught by one is better than the burning gaze of a hundred. 

He has a cute moon smile, eyes morphed like crescents, and he isn’t unattractive either. He’s opposite the spectrum–almost breathtaking–clad in a white dress shirt with a few unbuttoned at the top. You’re sure it costs more than everything you’re wearing tonight. His hair is wavy, but effortless in a way you know that he’d spent maybe a minute to get it to look that way. How is someone like him hiding away from the crowd? If he were to step out, you’re sure that hundreds of girls would line up even just to look at him. 

“It’s alright. Don’t mind me.” He’s still smiling, though a little more effortless now. “Stay, if you’d like. It’s a little overwhelming out there, no?” 

“I won’t disturb you?” 

He shakes his head cutely, hair bouncing a little as he does. 

“You’re Miss (Last Name), right?” 

You’re surprised he knows your name, maybe a little tempted to ask how. But with the way he’s dressed, and how he’s comfortably lounged in the room, it would be safe to assume he’s the son of whoever owns this house. He must be acquainted with at least a few of the guests his father invited. 

You return his smile. He’s looking directly at you, patiently waiting for your confirmation.

“Ah, yes. But I’m not Miss (Last Name), I’m only (name). Last names bring heavy expectations, and tonight, I just want to be (name).” 

His smile grows.

“Well then, I’m only Chan.”

The air feels easy, a few giggles escaping both your lips after you’d both introduced yourselves. The unpleasant awkwardness of just meeting someone is almost non-existent. 

“Don’t you want to go out there and dance?” You fiddle with your fingers, shifting your feet a little before returning your gaze back on the boy. 

“Would you like to dance with me?” 

Heat crawls up on your cheeks. You don’t know why you feel embarrassed. Maybe it’s because minutes ago you’d been sulking over not being asked to dance. And while you’d love to, your brand new heels are killing you—you think scars are forming from the way the skin of your feet that’s in contact with your shoes feel like they’re burning. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry.” You shoot him an apologetic look.

“Why not?”

“My feet are burning. I don’t even think I can walk.” You laugh, sitting down and taking off a heel to show him your ankles. Just as you’d suspected, it’s painted bright red. Just a bit more friction and you’re sure it’s going to start bleeding. “But I really, really would’ve wanted to dance with you.”

Chan crouches down to inspect your ankles, a respectful hand on your foot to assess if there was any scarring. Then, he starts taking off his own shoes. You don’t even get to ask him what he’s doing, not when he’s pushing his massive shoes in front of your feet.

“Wear mine. Then it won’t have to hurt.”

“But then you won’t be wearing—”

He gently slips his shoes on yours after taking your heels off for you, even despite your protests that he’d be wearing nothing but his socks. 

Chan offers a hand out to you, and it’s only then you realize a few silver rings decorating his slender fingers–the ones that are a few inches from your own hand.

When you take his hand, you first discern how big it is compared to yours. He’s very tall, shoulders far broader than yours. It’s driving you a little crazy. Then, your eyes trail down to his massive shoes that’s now on your feet. 

Your attention on his shoes is short-lived when you feel a palm grazing over your waist before settling itself in a gentle grip. The music is muffled, but it’s loud enough that you can still dance a little to the beat. 

“Now, shall we dance?” 

[scuttlingcrab]

Toss A Coin To Your Devil

I was super-duper inspired after I saw this conversation between @cambion-companion and @sky-kiss about wishing we could have Raphael help us during combat. Also, I'm obsessed with this post from @firlionemoontav, focusing on the Raphael that could've been, soul coins as currency and all.

Summary: Tav is on the brink of death after foolishly deciding to fight Auntie Ethel without much preparation. She summons Raphael as a last resort to help her finish the fight.

Notes: Some mild violence, bleeding, talk of death, etc.

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

(Image via drusotherstuff)

Tav’s world spun out of control, her eyes stinging from the blood that trailed down her forehead. She was on her knees, fighting to keep conscious as she clutched her chest. Her torso was covered in deep lacerations, from one claw attack after another. Tav was getting slower, clumsier, allowing Auntie Ethel to tear at her flesh the longer she sat there. 

She knew they weren't prepared to enter the Hag’s lair, but they had gotten cocky, jumping into the fight without a solid plan. They managed to beat Auntie Ethel before, so how hard could it be this time?

If Tav made it out of this mess alive, the first thing she planned to do was punch Astarion right in that pretty little face of his for even suggesting this. Served her right to listen to him in the first place.

Tav had burned through her spells and resources, barely having enough energy left to cast a fireball. She tightly held her body hoping it would stop the bleeding or keep herself from falling apart. Tav could no longer make out the bodies of her fallen companions around her. Shadowheart, Astarion, and Karlach, now just lumps of lifeless flesh thrown about the room like ragdolls. She would be joining them if she didn’t think of something soon.

It was no secret that Tav wasn’t a typical hero, in the general sense of the word. She was the weakest of the group, never meant to be in the thick of combat as she couldn’t handle the pressure, nor did she like it. 

She had stupidly thrown herself into the middle of danger when Shadowheart fell, hoping to heal her before it was too late. By then they were surrounded by three different illusions of Auntie Ethel, all of whom vanished into thin air. It was impossible to do anything at that point, the clones bouncing back after every successful attack like it was nothing. They managed to find the source of the Hag’s invulnerability eventually, destroying all those weird blue mushrooms scattered about, but even that wasn’t enough. 

Before long, Tav was alone. Just like at the start of this entire nightmare, when she struggled to escape the burning Nautiloid wreckage. It felt like aeons had passed since that fateful day. It would’ve been easier if she just died in that crash. Would’ve saved them all the trouble.

Auntie Ethel’s high-pitched laughter came from all directions, bringing Tav back to the present. The Hag moved in circles around Tav, taunting her. She never knew where the snickering came from, or when Auntie Ethel would strike next. She shivered, thinking she felt the Hag’s breath on her neck. Or was that from all the blood loss?

Tav weakly poked her rapier out in front of her, hoping to maybe hit one of the illusions. But she just continued to swipe at the air, at nothing. It was no use. She really was going to die here. 

“Oh petal, why the long face? I’ve been looking forward to eating you for a very long time. You and your friends will make a fine stew…” The Hag's voice echoed, the words rattling around Tav’s skull. 

Tav unexpectedly felt a burning sensation in her pocket, the weight of a warm object growing heavier, hotter against her skin the longer it went untouched. As the heat intensified, a hole appeared in her trousers. A thick black coin fell through it and onto the wooden floor with a loud clunk.

Tav stared at the coin, gaping as she tried to figure out where the Hells it came from. She reached for it, moving her hand with great difficulty, her limbs like weights. She managed to turn the coin over in her fingers, staring at the intricate R inscribed into the back of it. 

Of course. A soul coin, a bloody soul coin! Raphael! 

Tav’s vision abruptly flickered and she found herself lying face down, her nose pressed up against the mouldy floorboards. She coughed, pain exploding from her chest. No. Up. Get Up. Close. You’re so close. She staggered to her side, leaning on an elbow for support. 

Tav grew more lethargic, her head beginning to droop from the exhaustion. The floor swayed beneath her but she shook her head, attempting to remove the sluggishness that crept through her senses. Tav’s body shook violently as she kept herself upright, channelling whatever strength remained as she brought the coin to the top of her thumb.

“Raphael…” She said through a pained whisper, flicking the coin out in front of her. 

As she uttered the Devil’s name, the soul coin burst into flames, turning into a tiny comet as it flew through the air.

In a flash of sparks and embers, Raphael appeared, catching the soul coin seamlessly in his hand. He held the coin between his fingers, extinguishing the flames as he twirled it rapidly on the tip of one of his digits. He placed the currency in his pocket and crossed his arms, eyeing Tav with delight. The Devil’s mischievous eyes twinkled in the darkness of the Hag’s lair. 

Raphael’s brown hair rested effortlessly above his shoulders. His face was incredibly handsome, as always, despite the cruelty that lurked behind that charming smile. The same smile Tav often thought about when she couldn't sleep. He was dressed differently, somehow in even finer clothing, wearing a colourful doublet Tav had never seen before. Her stomach fluttered as he stood above her, looming ominously. She was on the brink of death and yet she still got excited being in the presence of that bloody Devil. 

“Seems like my poor little mouse is in distress. What an interesting turn of events! Makes the party you pulled me from dull in comparison.” There was a long pause as Raphael observed the surroundings, frowning at the realisation of where he was. “Don’t tell me… you summoned me here hoping for a decent conversation in your final hour? Was the Hag not sufficient entertainment? Or no… wait! Perhaps you want me to administer your last rites?”

Raphael chuckled to himself, pleased as punch with yet another one of his stupid quips.

“Don’t make me regret this Raphael. The Hag. Tell me… where is she hiding?”

Raphael’s expression grew more serious as he stared at Tav, raising an eyebrow. He looked up, eyes scanning the room and shrugged.

“Godsdamnit, Raphael. Please!” Tav begged, crying out in pain. 

Without warning Tav collapsed, slamming her head against the wooden planks. Dark spots flooded her vision, her chest tightening as she found it harder to breathe, to concentrate. Her thoughts became nothing, only mush, her head emptying. Everything faded, faster… and faster… Raphael’s voice cut through the void, but she could not make out a single word he said.

She sensed her head being lifted, cradled in soft, delicate hands. An intense warmth radiated from her skull, flooding through her entire body, even causing the tips of her toes to tingle with the odd sensation. 

She opened her eyes, blinking the darkness away as colour quickly returned to her vision. 

Tav was sitting up, breathing in the rich scents of cherries, musk and sulphur she grew to love, to cherish since their first meeting. She knew then she was in Raphael’s arms, melting against his chest. The intense warmth from his body, like a raging furnace, soothed her; calming any uneasy nerves, or regrets, that still lingered in her mind. Her eyes grew heavy, she wanted to fall asleep. She was safe. She would always be safe with him… it was all she wanted… 

“Ever the peculiar creature.” Raphael said, leading Tav to her feet despite her protests. “I will not fight these battles for you. If you are to succeed in your endeavours, then you need to tread lightly in the days ahead. It would be quite disappointing to find your soul in my House of Hope prematurely.”

Raphael steadied Tav, supporting her with a stern grip on her shoulder. A grip that seemed to get tighter and tighter the more he spoke. Whatever Hellish magic Raphael used on Tav surely did the trick. She had some strength back and her chest no longer hurt, granted it wasn’t a lot, but it was hopefully enough to finish the job.

“And you are running dangerously low on soul coins. Do not be a fool. Once you’re through, our little agreement is over. Unless…” Raphael turned to face her, that smarmy smile returning to his lips. Oh, those cursed lips… ”you’d like to add a further clause to your contract, which I’m more th–”

Tav fell towards Raphael, going straight for his mouth in hopes of landing a nice juicy kiss. She nearly touched his lips too before Raphael pushed her head away. She stumbled, taking a moment to catch her balance from the whiplash. 

“Now is not the time for these blatant acts of affection!” Raphael’s voice lowered, threatening a growl. Tav snuck a look at Raphael, noticing his cheeks were more flushed than normal.

“Was worth a shot…” She found herself saying out loud. She’ll blame it on the head wound later.

Raphael cleared his throat, any previous signs of embarrassment disappearing from his face. He lifted his arm, pointing towards the wine casks in the centre of the room.

“Come out, come out… wherever you are…” Raphael sang.

Snap! 

“You bastard!” Auntie Ethel howled as Raphael released a rain of Hellfire upon her, instantly revealing her location. The wine casks exploded in unison behind the Hag, causing her to awkwardly tumble out of the way. 

“Dreadfully sorry, Ethel, old friend, it’s nothing personal but you are competition. A necessary consequence, I’m afraid….”  

The Hag’s body was still on fire as she charged towards Tav and Raphael, baring her jagged yellow teeth. Raphael snapped his fingers, teleporting them away to safety at the opposite side of the room. 

Raphael proceeded to give Tav a pat on the back, making her invisible. 

“Well go on…” Raphael nodded, tilting his head in the direction of the Hag. “Try and have some fun.” His tone sounded sincere initially, but there was just a hint of sarcasm in his inflection that made Tav clench her jaw in frustration. 

Tav couldn't help herself and stuck her tongue out at the Devil. He grinned, a small flame flickering dangerously in his eyes. She immediately felt incredibly small, and very stupid.

“Apologies but I must leave you, I have guests who are expecting my return at any moment." Raphael winked, giving Tav a ridiculous bow meant for a noblewoman. "Ta-ta, litte mouse. Until next time...” And with that, the Devil vanished like he had appeared, in a dramatic display of sparks and embers.

Tav wanted to scream, to tear her hair out, but she stopped herself, there was still a Hag to kill. At that moment, she truly regretted making the deal with Raphael. She’d give him an earful once this was done and dusted, that was for sure. Someone had to put that Devil in his place. Tav was so far down the hole she dug herself it would be pointless to stop now. It would all come back to bite her in the end, always did, knowing her luck. Or lack thereof. 

She tiptoed closer to Auntie Ethel, approaching her from behind. The Hag was panting, frantically searching the room for her. Tav moved slowly, mindful of any loose floorboards that might give her away. She held her arms out in front of her, fingers wide and palms facing forwards. Tav was within inches of the Hag now, so close she could spot all the horrid details of her rotted green flesh and the different fungi growing from her neck. 

The tips of Tav’s fingers glowed, mimicking the warm golden rays of the sun. She said her final blessings and took a deep breath. 

Gods, this better work. Or else she’d never hear the end of it from Raphael.

[robiinurheart33]

Haha wouldn’t it be so weird if when soap was taken and brainwashed he was constantly being compared to this soldier named “ghost” haha

Anyways explicit descriptions of psychological torture and violent intrusive thoughts under the cut

He would be beaten and berated constantly. why wasn’t he stronger than ghost, why wasn’t he faster, more skilled, better, stealthier, healthier.

Ghost could’ve done better in worse conditions.

Ghost has done better in worse conditions.

Why was soap not better even after all this?

It drove him up the wall, the way he would wonder who he was, seething and bleeding by the lip. After all that he’s gone though, all that he’s endured, everything.

Why wasn’t be better? Why can he never, ever be better?

They drove his sanity to the ground, spat and kicked at it until there was nothing but a shell of who he once was, and rebuilt it to fit their ideals. Soap couldn’t remember who he was before this, before the experiments. He couldn’t think, do, say anything without being ordered to do so by someone else.

Some days, soap would pull on the thin stripe down his scalp, eager to find some semblance of control over himself, even if it were pain. He would always get punished.

“It was the only thing he can and will recognise him by.”

“Ghost likes that on you.”

It made him hate the Mohawk even more.

He hates Ghost. He was sick of it. He was done waiting. He was done being compared to. He was done with being second to him. He wanted to pull him apart limb from limb, feel the hot blood spill over his teeth and he rips his throat apart, hear the sickening crunch of his neck being twisted, feel the smooth muscle of his skin ripple and tremble in fear of the one that he was supposedly supposed to be stronger than. Soap will never, ever get anything else in his life but the pure, white-hot rage of revenge. He maybe thinks this had lingered on since he was younger, before everything. It felt like an old friend, more so than his other emotions.

His first mission.

He will be better. He will be better. He will be the best. He will be good. This might be his only shot. This is. He will be the best. He will succeed. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail.

He runs into ghost.

At first, he didn’t know who he was. Soap was in a room with a few others, guns up and masks drawn, ready to shoot anyone who tries to come into the room. They had been infiltrated, and soap wasn’t told more than that. He didn’t really need to know more. Shoot the hostiles, keep people safe. Suddenly, bullets start to rain from outside the door, and soon enough, more and more bodies start hitting the floor. Soap does not panic. He hides behind a bookshelf, waiting.

A big ass motherfucker in a skull mask walks into the room and it looks like the shadows are warping to his presence. Soap does not panic. He reaches for the knife strapped to his thigh, flicking it up and holding it ready. He waits patiently until he stalks near the bookshelf, tightening his grip on the knife. They make eye contact, and through the skull mask stained with blood, he can see jet black eyes staring at him in shock. Death incarnate. Soap does not panic.

“Joh-”

Soap quickly slips out of his hiding spot, wrapping a forearm over his neck and attempting to jab the knife right into his socket. He feels a hand grip tightly onto his forearm, and he goes weightless. All the air escapes his lungs as his back slams against the floor, his head spinning. He screams at himself to get up, fight, be better, before he hears the familiar crackle of a radio.

“Ghost, how copy?”

Ghost.

This is Ghost.

Ghost just fucking flipped him.

Soap does not panic. He does not panic but he feels a chill go down his spine as he sees red, scrambling back up onto his feet. The adrenaline starts to kick in now, and he lunges at him, ripping the radio off his vest and slamming it on the floor. He’s not completely sure why he did that, but in all fairness soap feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind, if his captors haven’t done so already. He punches Ghost, wincing slightly as his knuckle hit the cheekbone corner of his stupid skull mask. Soap starts to reach for his gun before Ghost punches back, hitting the mask clean off his face, pushing his back to the floor, one hand on his wrists. Soap starts to get really agitated now. After everything that he’s gone through, he’s still not good enough to beat ghost. He still hasn’t improved. He hasn’t gone anywhere. He makes eye contact with Ghost and is slightly taken aback when he is reflected with an equally crazed stare.

“Johnny.”

What the fuck?

Soap doesn’t say anything. Ghost’s eyes are brown, not black. Why hasn’t be killed him yet? Why isn’t Soap struggling? Ghost has blonde eyelashes.

“Where have you been?” To soap’s absolute horror, those brown eyes start to become glossy. He flinches back as if he’s been hit, and grits his teeth. No shit, he’s been here the whole time, where else is he supposed to be?

Soap surges forward and headbutts him in hopes of him letting go. He doesn’t, and it makes soap all the more dizzier, more frustrated. Why isn’t he fucking dead already? He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get his mind right.

“Johnny. Johnny.” Can he just shut the fuck up? It’s getting increasingly hard to concentrate for some reason. Shit. He feels overly exposed without the mask, feeling his body temperature rising steadily.

“Stop calling me that!” he growls out, twisting out of his grip and punching his across the face. The twisted skull mask looks almost comical out of place, but he can still see those eyes. Ghost’s hand comes to cup his cheek, and soap flinches back. His eyes look like Soap just mauled his puppy right in front of him. It makes him freeze in place, head awkwardly hovering between the floor and Ghost.

Images of blood spilling and needles, dirt and coffins fill his head, the sound of a neck snapping, gagging, screams and whimpers. Hands on him, eyes on him, never letting go. Stay. Soap snaps back into place, grabbing the mask and twisting it up, covering Ghost’s eyes. He quickly gets his other hand free and pushes ghost off him, sprinting out of the room.

“Wait-!” Is all he hears before flying down the corridor, back to safety, back to where it’s familiar, where he always is, where he always will be.

Loyalty has always been Soap’s best trait.

[angstywaifu]

Is That Blood? - Garrick Tavis

Request - “Is that blood?” “No?” “That’s not a question you’re supposed to answer with another question" I just see all sides of him here with this one lol Requests Open. Masterlist

The walk down the stairs was slow and rough. Every step sending a jolt up my side. I hiss in pain as I step down to a step ever so slightly lower than the other. Damn these stairs up the side of this mountain. I should have called out for help, but the rest of my patrol had rushed off, eager to get to bed after a long day. None of them aware I had been injured in the group of Venin we had encountered. Luckily the knife that had been imbedded in my side had not gone in far. But enough I needed medical attention. And this late at night I knew there would be no healers awake. Guess a home DIY job would have to do till morning.

I finally stumble into the courtyard, my footsteps echoing louder than normal as I make my way over to another set of stairs. At least this time I would have a wall to brace against on my way up. I was honestly surprised I hadn’t fallen to my death as I’d hobbled down the others. With one hand braced on the wall, I start my ascent up to the fifth floor where my room was located in the barracks. After a few steps, I realise up was a lot harder than going down. Every time I raise my left leg, I can’t help the groan that escapes my lips. Only four more floors of this. Great.

My foot catches on one of the stairs, sending me sprawling forward as I brace myself on my hands and knees as I land on the landing. Least I hadn’t landed on more stairs. Bracing myself on the wall, I manage to pull myself upright before leaning against it and shutting my eyes. Breath in. Breath out. I can do this. Only three more floors to go. I push off the wall and open my eyes to continue my journey, but a figure in the archway leading towards the family quarters has me jumping back, a yelp escaping my lips. The figure steps forward into the moonlight illuminating the stairway through an open window. I should have known who it was without it. No one was as tall or big as he was, even his curly hair recognisable in the dark. Garrick. His eyes furrow as they look over me, before focusing where my hand clutches my side.

”Is that blood?” He asks me gruffly as he steps forward again.

I look down to see my fingers are stained red from where blood has seeped through. Shit.

”No?” I say, it coming out as more of a question than an answer.

Garrick cock’s his eyebrow at me. “That’s not a question you’re supposed to answer with another question.”

”Maybe I’m starting a new trend?” I say with a sheepish grin.

I can instantly tell Garrick is not impressed with my answer with the deadpan look he gives me, his tell-tale jaw tick indicating his annoyance. But I can see him fighting a smile as the corners of his mouth ever so slightly curl at the edges.

”And how’s that going for you?” He asks before bending down and scooping me up into his arms before walking us up the stairs.

I brace for the pain to worsen with my wound pressed up against Garrick, but it doesn’t. If anything, the pain lessens. I look up at him confused, but Garrick’s stare is set firmly ahead as he walks us up the stairs.

”It’s going great, can’t you tell.” I huff as I settle into his arms, laying my head on his shoulder.

”Oh I can tell. Cause bleeding all over the stairs is the epitome of great.” His tone a mix of joking and serious.

”I was not bleeding all over the stairs. I had it contained.” I mutter.

I feel Garrick’s chest rise with silent laughter, containing his usual booming laugh as we walk into a corridor that does NOT lead to my room. My room was another two floors up. Where the hell was he taking me? He walks us past the assigned rooms and through an archway to another area of Riorson House. More private rooms. He pushes open a door and instantly I’m hit with Garrick’s scent. This was his room. Just like most Rider’s rooms it was pretty bare, only the necessities, but there were little bits of Garrick here and there. I barely get to take in the room before he’s kicking the main door closed and walking me towards an archway. He quickly places me on the counter in the adjoining bathroom, before walking back into his room. He returns quickly with a first aid kit, already pulling out bandages, cleaning supplies and some needle and thread.

”Take you’re jacket off.” He mumbles as he starts to set up his supplies.

I shrug off the jacket as best as I can, the pain now returning now I wasn’t in Garrick’s arms. He quickly grabs my flight jacket, placing it on an empty hook on the wall. I can’t help but wince as he gently lifts my shirt to observe the wound. I look down to see the skin around the would red and irritated, a slight purple colour to the edges. The knife had been coated in something. Garrick must have the same thought as he rushes from the room, quickly returning with a vial he holds out to me. A silent command to drink it, which I do quickly.

”Of course you would manage this after every healer here has gone to bed, and Brennan is away.” He mutters as he starts to clean the wound with a cloth and water.

”Not exactly like I planned for this to happen while out on patrol.” I tell him, wincing as cleans the edges of the cut.

He just shakes his head at me before grabbing the needle and thread from the counter. I turn away, opting to not look at Garrick stitch me back together. Sure I could do it to myself, but there was something about watching someone else do it that always made me uneasy. I brace for the all too familiar sting of the needle piercing the skin as Garrick places a hand just next to the wound. But it doesn’t come. All I can feel is a slight tug. Strange. I turn my head to look, and sure enough Garrick is stitching up the wound. But no pain. Not a single bit. And I know Garrick didn’t have anything to numb it. The vial he had given me was to treat the poison we knew the Venin used. It had no numbing or healing qualities to it. Was this his signet? I try to think of any instance of Garrick using a signet, and come up blank. In all the years I’ve known him, not once have I seen him do anything that could be explained by a signet. Till now. As if reading my mind, he removes his hand to help tie off the last stitch, and immediately I’m hit with the familiar dull throb of pain I associate with being stitched together. Garrick is silent as he starts to pack away the first aid kit, holding the bandage out to me to take. I grab it and quickly wrap it around myself, holding the padding in place in case any blood decided to seep through before I got to the healers in the morning. I place my hands on the counter to push myself off, planning on heading back to my room to sleep. But before I can Garrick scoops me up in his arms again, silently carrying me back to his room and placing me on his bed.

”If you just wanted me in your bed Garrick, all you had to do is ask.” I tease as he sits on the edge next to me.

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head, replying, "You're insufferable, you know that? Now get some rest. I'll get you to a healer in the morning." He stands up, but not before giving my hand a comforting squeeze.

Exhaustion pulls at me, but I manage a grin. "Only for you, Garrick." I murmur as I let sleep claim me. Garrick laughs softly at that, a sound that brings a strange sense of comfort. He watches over me for a moment longer before finally turning out the light and leaving me to rest.

[iliketangerines]

So I’ve been thinking- Kung Lao gets treated so unfairly and had every chance to become a villain. It makes me so sad I know he has so much burden- I just want to hug him close to my chest and let him cry his heart out while telling him it’s ok to cry and be vulnerable- ((Raidens probably told him not to show weakness and been really hard on him)) I would sacrifice everything for Kung Lao-

So the request is- maybe Kung Lao and reader are fighting on one of the boats ((mk11 aftermath)) and reader sees shao khan heading towards Kung Lao and they see red. They then jump shao khan and beat the every living shit out of him- killing him and by the end they’re out of breath- fist covered in blood and by the end of the whole battle they tell Kung Lao that they couldn’t have anyone take him away.

i can't lose you

a/n: mmmmmm kung lao....

pairing: kung lao x gn!reader

warnings: canon-typical violence

it’s bloody as you rip through the Netherrealm spawn

they’re easy enough to dispose of, mindless soldiers who only knew how to slash and claw, none of the tact that warriors usually possessed

you slice through another one of the soldiers, making your way to the railing and scanning the area for any specific spots you can target

and then you see it, Shao Kahn with his clawed hands around Kung Lao’s neck, laughing boisterously with Sindel by his side and throwing Kung Lao against the railing, making the wood crack with the force

you can see Kung Lao cough, blood spurting from his mouth, and he wipes it away, getting back onto his feet and taking a fighting stance

but his shoulder is bleeding, one of his arms is injured, and you’re sure that he can’t see out of his left eye with the way blood flows into it

you can see them cornering him, and you can’t, you can’t lose him

balancing yourself on the railing, you jump as far as you can, landing on a Netherrealm spawn and killing it as it cushions your fall

you stumble up as fast as you can, throwing one of your daggers and letting it bury itself in Shao Kahn’s exposed calf, and the tyrant roars, looking back at you

his eyes are trained on you, and he raises his axe toward your bleeding figure before charging and leaving Sindel alone with Kung Lao

he’s relentless, swinging and tearing holes into the wooden flooring as you dash and dodge, only getting a few swipes in

but he’s slow and bulky with his swings, and you use it to your advantage to have him kill off the Netherrealm spawn that you stand in front of or bring forward to throw into the axe

he’s getting frustrated and runs toward you, nearly flattening you as you dodge in just the nick of time, and he rams into the large wooden mast of the ship

but he’s back on his feet, running towards you, and you run in the opposite direction, weaving in between the fighting opponents

you can hear him barrelling through them, his heavy footstep never faltering as he chases you through the battle

running toward the edge of the ship, you hold onto the railing and look over the endless bloody sea and turn to Shao Kahn roaring at you and gaining speed

and just as his axe swings in your direction, you fall off to the side, scrambling to get away from his attack, and he barrels through the railing and into the sea

he would die like that, you know he will as you hear his screams drown in the commotion of battle

and then you look back to Sindel, Kung Lao steadily chopping off her hair with his bladed hat, and you run toward her, attempting to distract her

her hair fights back, and you momentarily snort at the thought of fighting hair, before you’re whipped away into a soldier

you apologize quickly, grabbing onto them and rolling you and them out of the way of a Netherrealm soldier’s claws ripping through the wooden floors, and you push them back up to their feet to let them continue their fight

and you scramble to your feet again when you realize her hair is coming down on you to whip you back into the ground

it’s a game of dodge as her hair whips in all kinds of directions, and you try to dance around her and get herself to tangle herself in her hair

but she’s smarter than Shao Kahn and simply throws you to the side when you manage to get caught by one of her traps

and so you rush her, Kung Lao drawing her hair away, and you tackle her to the ground, fumbling for your weapons with one hand, but they’re all gone

the last one must’ve been the one you flung into Shao Kahn’s leg

she strangles you with her hands, crushing your windpipe, and you struggle to breathe as you similarly try to choke her

you can feel your breathe fading away, and you can hear her laughter in your ears

and then there’s a spray of blood against your face, and you can breathe again, your lungs taking in deep gulps of air as you stare at a beheaded Sindel

and then there’s Kung Lao kneeling down next to you, hands running over your figure and checking that you’re okay and if everything was alright

you throw your arms around his neck, bringing him in for a tight hug, and he hugs you back, burying his head into your shoulder

he murmurs that he thought he was going to lose you, and you laugh and say you thought the same

a gunshot flies by your head, shooting right through the head of a nearing Netherrealm beast and you look up and find Cassie Cage nearby and rolling her eyes

she tells you both to save the kissing for after the war and holds her hand out for you to grab and help yourself up

you do so, and then help Kung Lao up, keeping a hold of his hand as you brought it up and kiss the back of his fingers

you promise him a date after all of this was after, and he smiles at you, flicking the rimming of his hat and saying that you better not back out

and then the both of you were back to fighting, side by side

[nalyra-dreaming]

“Took him to that banquet, where the men there... well, took liberties.” Except they didn’t. That’s the gag. They tried. They offered their rings and their jewels and Marius entertains them all while giving Amadeo knowing looks. Armand describes these looks as “secretive” and “teasing” because he knew that none of the men were going to make it out of there alive. Marius is literally toying with them. “I couldn't help but smile. Kill them, I thought, slaughter them. I felt fetching and even beautiful.” (TVA)

He KNEW Marius would never make him do anything he didn’t wanna do. “Martino, kiss my child if he'll allow it, and mark you, be gentle when you do." (TVA)

One would think so called book experts would be the first to point out the misinformation being spread about the banquet scene, but they’re not. In fact, you’re actively contributing to it with nothing to back it up. So I have to ask, just why are you making it sound like something happened when it clearly didn’t? It’s okay to admit that not every change being made for the show aligns with what’s actually in the book.

*sighs*

(you're the nonny who got pissed at me for saying that Marius did not kill Santino decades after Amadeo's abduction, aren't you. When it's clearly a play on centuries...)

Let us let the text give the whole scene, okay? Or, more of the scene, than the one sentence you picked (since it's a rather long one).

The red-haired man leaned forward, deep into the flirt, and put the goblet right against my lip. "Little David, you'll grow up to be the King, remember? Oh, I would worship you now, tender-cheeked little man that you are, and beg for one psalm from your harp, just one, were it given with your own will." My Master whispered low, "Can you grant a man's dying request?" "I think he is dead!" said the gray-haired man with obnoxious loud- ness. "Look, Martino, I think I did kill him; his head's bleeding like a damned tomato. Look!" "Oh, shut up about him!" said Martino, the redhead, without taking his eyes off mine. "Do grant a dying man's request, little David," he went on. "We are all dying, and I for you, and that you die with me, just a little, Sir, in my arms? Let us make a little game of it. It will amuse you, Marius De Romanus. You'll see I ride him and stroke him with one artful rhythm, and you'll behold a sculpture of flesh that becomes a fountain, as what I pump into him comes forth from him in my hand." He cupped his hand as if he had my organ already in it. He kept his eyes on me. Then in a low whisper, he said, "I'm too soft to make my sculpture. Let me drink it from you. Have mercy on the parched." I snatched the goblet out of his wavering hand and drank down the wine. My body tightened. I thought the wine would come back up and spew. I made it go down. I looked at my Master. "This is ugly, I hate it."

"Oh, nonsense," he said, barely moving his lips. "There's beauty all around!" "Damned if he isn't dead," said the gray-haired man. He kicked the body of Francisco on the floor. "Martino, I'm out of here." "Stay, Sir," said Marius. "I would kiss you good night." He clapped his hand over the gray-haired man's wrist and lunged at his throat, but what did it look like to the red-haired one, who gave it only a bleary glance before he continued his worship? He filled my goblet again. A moan came from the gray-haired man, or was it from Marius? I was petrified. When he turned from his victim, I would see even more blood teeming in him, and I would have given all the world to see him white again, my marble god, my graven Father in our private bed. The red-haired man rose before me as he leant over the table and put his wet lips on mine. "I die for you, boy!" he said. "No, you die for nothing," said Marius. "Master, not him, please!" I cried. I fell back, nearly losing my balance on the bench. My Master's arm had come between us, and his hand covered the red-haired man's shoulder. "What's the secret, Sir?" I cried frantically, "the secret of Santa Sofia, the one we must believe?"

The red-haired man was utterly befuddled. He knew he was drunk. He knew things around him didn't make sense. But he thought it was because he was drunk. He looked at Marius's arm across his chest, and he even turned and looked at the fingers clutching his shoulder. Then he looked at Marius and so did I. Marius was human, utterly human. There was no trace of the impermeable and indestructible god left. His eyes and his face simmered in the blood. He was flushed as a man from running, and his lips were bloody, and when he licked them now, his tongue was ruby red. He smiled at Martino, the last of them, the only one left alive. Martino pulled his gaze away from Marius and looked at me. At once he softened and lost his alarm. He spoke with reverence. "In the midst of the siege, as the Turks stormed the church, some of the priests left the altar of Santa Sofia," he said. "They took with them the chalice and the Blessed Sacrament, our Lord's Body and Blood. They are hidden this very day in the secret chambers of Santa Sofia, and on the very moment that we take back the city, on the very moment when we take back the great church of Santa Sofia, when we drive the Turks out of our capital, those priests, those very priests will return. They'll come out of their hiding place and go up the steps of the altar, and they will resume the Mass at the very point where they were forced to stop." "Ah," I said, sighing and marveling at it. "Master," I said softly. "That's a good enough secret to save a man's life, isn't it?" "No," said Marius. "I know the story, and he made our Bianca a whore."

The red-haired man strained to follow our words, to fathom the depth of our exchange. "A whore? Bianca? A murderer ten times over, Sir, but not a whore. Nothing so simple as a whore." He studied Marius as though he thought this heated passionately florid man was beautiful, indeed. And well he was. "Ah, but you taught her the art of murder," said Marius almost tenderly, his fingers massaging the man's shoulder, while with his left arm he reached around Martino's back, until his left hand might lock on the man's shoulder with his right. He bent his forehead to touch Martino's temple. "Hmmm," Martino shook himself all over. "I've drunk too much. I never taught her any such thing." "Ah, but you did, you taught her, and to kill for such paltry sums." "Master, what is it to us?" "My son forgets himself," said Marius, still looking at Martino. "He forgets that I am bound to kill you on behalf of our sweet lady, whom you so finagled into your dark, sticky plots." "She rendered me a service," said Martino. "Let me have the boy!" "Beg pardon?" "You mean to kill me, so do it. But let me have the boy. A kiss, Sir, that's all I ask. A kiss, that is the world. I'm too drunk for anything else!" "Please, Master, I can't endure this," I said. "Then, how will you endure eternity, my child? Don't you know that's what I mean to give you? What power under God is there that can break me?" He threw a fierce angry glance at me, but it seemed more artifice than true emotion. "I've learnt my lessons," I said. "I only hate to see him die." "Ah, yes, then you have learnt. Martino, kiss my child if he'll allow it, and mark you, be gentle when you do." It was I who leant across the table now and planted my kiss on the man's cheek. He turned and caught my mouth with his, hungry, sour with wine, but enticingly, electrically hot. The tears sprang to my eyes. I opened my mouth to him and let his tongue come into me. And with my eyes shut, I felt it quiver, and his lips become tight, as if they had been turned to hard metal clamped to me and unable to close. My Master had him, had his throat, and the kiss was frozen, and I, weeping, put out my hand blindly to find the very place in his neck where my Master's evil teeth had driven in. I felt my Master's silky lips, I felt the hard teeth beneath them, I felt the tender neck. I opened my eyes and pulled myself away. My doomed Martino sighed and moaned and closed his lips, and sat back in my Master's grip with his eyes half-mast.

So, let's see.

I've highlighted a few instances. And yes, I DO see these as Martino here take liberties. Now, I'm not sure how it is with your reading comprehension, but it's very clear to me that an offered kiss on a cheek and one taken open mouthed are two different things.

And it's not even the first kiss either, as highlighted above.

Oh, and above that, the "bantering "how he would ride him until he makes Armand come".

And it makes Armand want to throw up.

That is what I mean with "liberties".

Now, you obviously can call this as you want.

I CALL IT TAKING LIBERTIES.

And Marius let it happen, actually more or less coaxed him into it as well!! Oh, yes, he always planned to kill Martino - for Bianca. Well. But do grant that dying man his last wish Amadeo, hmmm, how about it. /sarcasm off. What do you want me to say to that.

So, actually I DO think that it is in the book. At the very least hinted at. The "ankles of the boys" and all that, too. Want me to dig that out, too?

So, nonny:

Take your passive aggressive asks elsewhere in the future, please.

Because despite your claim I CAN back it up.

[mudandmire]

Contact

Azris Week - Day Three: Contact

~~~ So how about...fluff. @azrisweek day three is here! And we continue on the excitement with this prompt which I waffled on not gonna lie. But ultimately this is what I ended up with; a lil treat from the canon lore (universe/place??), which I don't often do so this is wack. Thank you to everyone posting this week and also those reading and liking - you all make my day and literally my heart feels light when I see you little guys in my phone <3. Alright, enough, enjoy!! :D ~~~

“Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.” — The Iliad.

Far Too Honest

Eris learns quickly in his and Azriels growing partnership; the Shadowsinger has no patience for his vast, vapid verbiage.

That is to say: Azriel cuts through his bullshit with the skill and delicate precision he wields with his daggers.

Eris sit's at his desk with it's guttering candlelight. Silver streams through the patterned canopy and slips across the deep mahogany floors. The shadows stretch long, their edges wavering at the corner of Eris’s eyes. It could, of course, be strain from how long he’s been staring at this written proposition from the representative of Agriculture in his fathers council. The words are small, skittering in the dim candlelight, but that doesn’t explain the disquiet sense of knowing that crests along the nape of his neck and down the slope of his spine.

He straightens in his chair, the proposition all but forgotten as his breathing goes shallow: waiting, listening carefully for the softest whisper of sound behind him. The shadows in the corner of his room, the places he’d never think darkness could fit to accommodate, deepen like ink spilled in a pool, and then—

“It’s late, Shadowsinger.” Eris croons, slumping back in his seat, the very picture of nonchalance.

Azriel melts out of the very fabric of the wall Eris had been staring at—darkness tangible and material pours over his shoulders, shrouding the shine of his cobalt syphons. It seeps down the contours of his armored body before falling to the rug and dissipating. There’s wisps of shadow that still cling to him when he steps away from the wall, but Eris had only ever found him after he’d mysteriously appeared; never has he seen the process. A strange, tangled birth from the creeping darkness of his room.

“You’re not asleep.” Azriel says, his voice low. It’s not a question, Eris thinks most likely he already knew he wouldn’t be asleep.

“Would you prefer it if I was? Would certainly make this torturous confrontation less so.” He waves a careless hand to the tossed and creased emerald sheets and quilt of his bed.

Azriel tilts his head, enough that Eris can catch it in the weak light of his chamber. Quiet falls, yet Azriel doesn’t hasten to break it, instead studying Eris with those bright, hazel eyes. Listening into an invisible, untouchable voice—probably telling him about the dark, half-moon bruises under his eyes, the sluggish bleeding of his picked at cuticles.

“I think you would prefer if I wasn’t here at all.” His arms cross over his chest, a single dark brow arched even as his mouth creases in a frown.

“Now what would make you think I don’t absolutely adore your company, Shadowsinger? You’re a complete delight at all hours.”

Azriel takes a couple steps closer, his features carved into harsh lines. “Would you like me to come back in the morning?”

Eris falters, just for a heartbeat, before a scoff slips from his lips and his hands fold together under the safety of his desk. Free to rub and pick to his hearts content. “I didn’t think my comfort mattered to you so much, I'm touched.”

“It doesn’t,” he turns briefly toward the bed and the mess Eris had left behind with all his tossing and turning. “But I don’t want to deal with you when your tired and talking around the conversation even more than when you’re well rested.”

“‘Well-rested,’” he hums, “not sure I’m familiar.”

Azriel sighs deeply, walking closer to the desk with a pensive look in his eyes. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Relax, Shadowsinger.” Eris huffs, his knee bouncing under the desk, an itch in his calves and thighs he can’t seem to get rid of no matter how he twists his legs. It’s what dragged him out of bed in the first place—like the constant jump of his mind from problem to problem to problem accidently side-tracked down his body and stored in the bones of his legs. “I am at my best at all times of day.”

“Not night, then.” He replies shortly.

“Oh, so the bat can be clever? Not just boringly blunt.” Eris sneers.

Azriel narrows his eyes down at him. “I’m still waiting for an answer, Lordling.”

"You’re no fun.”

Azriel remains unmoved, his lips pressed together so tight the color leaches from them entirely.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to repeat the question.” He gives Azriel a bland smile, mocking as he looks up at the lit features of his face. He’s closer than he realized, shifting nearer while Eris remained distracted by his own mind games—the pick of his nails at the raw skin around his fingers, the agitated bounce of his knee.

It’s a complete surprise when Azriel—in a movement so swift Eris blinks and misses it—reaches over and tugs his chair out from the desk. The legs screech against the floor, and Eris feels his hackles raise, mouth fallen open in shock as he’s physically tugged up and out of his seat by his wrists.

“Are you mad—” he hisses, anger and no small amount of caution flaring in his golden eyes as they flicker around the room, landing on his double doors with a stiffness drawing up his spine.

Azriel ignores his squirming, locking his fingers around his wrists where he can feel the rabbiting of his pulse against the thin skin. “I want you to look me in the eyes and answer the question, Eris.”

He goes still, a light flaring in his gaze at the sound of his name. His tongue, pink and wet flicks out to his lips. “You’ll get me caught, arrogant bastard.”

“I’ll let you get back to your habits if you answer my question.” With a quirk of his lips, his eyes fall briefly to Eris’s fingers where his hands are still locked in Azriel's grip. It’s not punishing, and if Eris pulled hard enough he could dislodge himself free—yet he keeps his hands there, swallows against his dry throat, and avoids Azriel’s piercing gaze.

Heat steals across the bridge of his nose, burns against the tips of his ears. “I told you; you have to repeat the question, Shadowsinger.”

“Hm.” Azriel hums softly, head tilting again. The fingers around his wrist pulse, just once, so softly Eris would take it for his own heartbeat. Understanding floods him. Eris knows what he’s listening to. His heart lurches, pressing hard against his ribcage and Eris wonders if he would see the imprint of it on the fabric of his tunic if he looked down. “I know, for a fact, you don’t.”

Eris opens his mouth, a defense mechanism at this point, melting from the inside out from a combination of Azriel’s grip and his bright, hazel eyes that have starred in too many dreams to be considered a blip.

Azriel’s fingers press down, and Eris’s mouth snaps shut as his head lowers, drawing closer to him. Enough that a single breath separates their mouths—and Eris shouldn’t be focusing on it, but it’s all he can see, his head a white water rush of his racing pulse—

“Eris.” Azriel says, his low voice sharp. “If this partnership is going to work—a partnership you made a deal for—I will not tolerate this kind of complex, verbal avoidance. It’s bullshit. Tell me what you think, you’ve never hesitated before.”

“I…” He swallows hard, a tendon feathering in his jaw. Simple, useless words like bile fill his mouth and he works against it. “I don’t—”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?” Azriel asks again. He doesn’t need to, and it breaks the seal against Eris’s lips.

“No,” he almost shouts, surprising himself and flinching back at the echo of his own voice—louder than it’s been in a while. “I don’t want to—I’m fine to conduct business, now.” He’s embarrassingly breathless, molten in the Shadowsinger’s hold.

At the though, he squirms against it slightly, Azriel tightening his grip in warning. “You don’t want to what?”

“Why do you act like you care?” Eris's mouth twists, bearing a dismissive scowl. There's a wild gleam in his eyes as his nostrils flare and for the first time the scent of cedar and the faintest hint of something smokey, like fyre whiskey, greets him.

Azriel breathes in deep, head rearing back slightly as if realizing how close they had grown in the undiluted heat of their conversation. “I don’t work with beings who say one thing, but mean another. Bad for business.” He grumbles, gaze cast to this side.

Blinking, Eris grits his teeth against the wave of despair that rises with a vengeful force in his chest. “Of course, wouldn’t want my serpents tongue meddling with your saintly High Lord’s schemes.”

“I said that wrong—”

“I’m really, quite sure you didn’t.”

“Eris,” The air shudders out of his lungs, a full body thing, and suddenly Eris watches as his features grow closer when he rests the bridge of his forehead against his. “For some, unexplainable reason, I want you to tell me things. True things.”

His mouth shuts with a click, swallowing the knot in his throat as he closes his eyes. Eris near melts into the line of his frame, feeling their noses brush against each other. There’s a part of him, try as he might to drown and subdue it, that longs for this. The breadth of Azriel's shoulders and the sweet sincereity of his mouth. He's already taken up by so many, and so much, but if Azriel asked—if he let him—Eris would carve a small spot in his chest that he could settle on like a bird on it's perch.

The longing of it, how soft he melts in the continuing heat of Azriel's presence, makes his mouth unguarded, his tongue dangerous. His heart is most especially vulnerable to the small, infinitesimal spark of hope lighting in his chest.

He wets his lips. “I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight; I couldn’t sleep.” The secret is dragged from the depths of him with the same finesse as lobbing a stone into a still lake. It falls in-between the space of his and Azriel’s bodies—but Azriel doesn’t miss it.

“Nightmare?”

“It—ever since Koschei.” Is all he manages to say until his throat clicks and he chokes off.

There’s the slightest increase in pressure when Azriel presses his forehead closer.

“I have them, too. Koschei.”

“Oh.” Eris breathes, relaxing more into Azriel’s hold.

“Somehow, always of you.” He confesses.

Eris can feel the words, they’re so close. The room has completely melted away—every sound and scent. The dripping wax of the candles, the worn leather of his chair. Even the faint smell of damp, churned earth, falls away. Eris is entirely held on an axis point by the vehemence in Azriel’s shadowed eyes.

The chest against his heaves, sudden and sharp. “We should…” Azriel trails off, his voice soft, gaze settling on his eyes, ears, nose, and then falling so lightly it’s barely a moment to his lips.

Eris only has a second to mark the heavy thump of Azriels pulse through his fingers before he’s rearing back. “This isn’t—” his eyes are wild, “we can’t.”

It takes a moment for feeling to rush back into Eris’s body—for sound and sight to come crawling back like admonished hounds. His hands are still aloft, held by invisible clutches because Azriel had removed his touch like it burned him straight to bone.

He clears his throat, casting his gaze down to the brown and maroon patterned carpet and wondering if his legs were shaking or if that was his vision.

“Uh—” his tongue stumbles and it sets his cheeks aflame. “Yes, right, of course that was…silly of me, forget it.” The plea is quiet, supposed to be left more to himself than to Azriel but it seems the sight of him, the very feeling of his nearness, makes his filter faulty.

“No, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have…” Azriel gestures uselessly to Eris’s own hands, then sighs deeply and cards his fingers through the raven strands of his hair.

Quiet falls among them. A silence much like the ones that haunt the Forest House; every empty, echoing hallway, the spaces between the books in the library, the very haloed edge of light the torches cast. All of it is pulsing, threatened and vulnerable.

Eris has never felt so stripped. Down to bone, raw as his bruised eyes and picked cuticles. He tugs at the embroidered hem of his waistcoat, restricting him as if it grew belts and strapped itself around and around and around—

“I don't regret it. I’m not saying I shouldn’t have asked for the truth, I wanted that. I shouldn’t have held you hostage, though. I’m sorry.” Azriel’s got his own hands clasped behind his back as if in penance.

He’s looking at Eris through the sooty spread of his lashes and Eris needs him out. He needs him far, far away so he can upturn his floorboards with his broken fingernails and bury himself away to rot.

The rabbiting thump of his pulse and the tremor running through his hands suggests that he still hasn’t recovered from his proximity.

He tries anyway. “It’s fine.” He whispers, shifting on his feet that have grown spines and thorns and dig into the muscle of his calves with vengeance. He hides the dull prick of pain in the clench of his jaw.

“You can tell me if it’s not—if I crossed a line.” His voice is so soft, quilted and woven as if to draw Eris into it’s bed of comfort and strangle him there.

He should tell him he crossed a line, crossed every line. Should twist his forked tongue and bare his teeth and shove him out the arched window. It would be the wise choice, the most sensible option to keep Eris from let himself wade into even deeper waters.

Yet, Eris can still feel the heat of Azriel's hands around his wrists like a band—the soothing warmth of another body, another soul, pressed to his. The most delicate, tender spot where his heart pounds loud and obnoxious: every lie a jolt, every truth a river. It is his secret, everything that gives him away, Azriel has held with a gentility Eris didn’t know was possible.

Mother strike him down, but he wants it again. The vulnerability. The most pleasant prick of needles in his skin, a fire built log by log in his belly—he wants the touch. Even if it burns.

Eris is the one to step closer. “Everything you did, I wanted you to do.” His heart is racing, sweat collecting on his palms. He has one horrible, stomach churning thought of ‘that was far too honest’ before a gentle touch, hesitant and questioning, brushes against the jut of bone on his wrist.

His head snaps up, Azriel is already looking at him. “Good,” he says, “I wanted to—I want to.” The words are near breathless, a pinch forming in between his dark brows.

His pointer finger and thumb circle his wrist, head tilted in a silent question.

All Eris feels is the rain-soaked rush of relief that floods him. The itch, insufferable and unreachable in his legs disappears. His chest loosens, and for the first time that night exhaustion sweeps over him in a blanketed haze of slow blinking and slumped shoulders.

“Maybe we can continue this delightful—” he cuts himself off with a yawn, startling him almost as much as Azriel.

“Tomorrow—right, yes, I completely forgot how late it was.” The words fall one on top of the other he’s talking so fast, still low, as if afraid to break the careful quiet around them.

Eris stops his spiraling, though it’s hard to tell from the outside, Azriel had gone completely rigid. A sudden swarm of lengthening shadows and stretches of darkness folding over his shoulders and arms. He holds Azriel’s wrist, thumbing over the ridges and caps of his scars.

“I meant, maybe you could stay?” It’s not as scary voicing it as he thought it would be, not after everything tonight. Or, perhaps the Mother has granted him a rare gift and is letting his fatigue untie his reserves.

Azriel’s hazel eyes widen, absorbing the dark of his Illyrian leathers, the sepia tinge to his room. Sooty lashes flutter, and Eris watches with rapt attention.

“You’d be okay with that?” He glances over his shoulder at the spread of Eris’s tousled bed; the emerald quilt and strewn, goose feather pillows.

Eris swallows thickly. Not in fear, not this time, but in pure, undiluted want. “I’ve never slept with anyone,” he whispers, “not like this.”

Azriel doesn’t say anything else, his gaze scans the room and its dim light. He turns with Eris’s wrist still in his hand, and walks toward the bed. It’s not weird—it should be weird, but all Eris can think of as he unbuttons his waistcoat and the restrictive, lavish layers of his ensemble is how comfortable he feels in the dark with him.

“You need trousers.” Eris says, already digging through his armoire for a folded pair of worn trousers he thinks might fit Azriel.

Azriel glances over at Eris with a quirked brow, he’s got one hand on the buttons on the front of his abdomen, undoing them with a practiced ease that comes from a lifetime of repetition. He shrugs the top off behind his back, where it slips in the space between his wings and falls to the floor. Eris watches with slightly parted lips as those great, membranous wings shudder like a hound shaking off its coat. They move in mesmerizing, miniscule ways; how Eris’s fingers would fidget and twitch, his knee bounce—he finds Azriel’s wings mimic those same involuntary patterns of being.

He shakes his head, handing Azriel the pair of trousers. “These should fit.”

“Thanks,” Azriel says, working them up his legs and then grunting when the hem of the legs come up to his calves. “Should?” He asks with a wry smirk.

“Shut up, those are old.” Eris fluffs out the quilt, resettling the pillows against the headboard and straightening the sheets.

Azriel is quiet as he helps fold the quilt over so he can slip into bed. “I’m sure.” He mocks gently, and gets a heavy goose down pillow to the face for it.

His face falls in affront, and no small amount of shock as he freezes half-way onto the mattress. “What—” his voice pitches up, and Eris claps a hand over his mouth where he’s sitting up against the headboard.

“Just get in, Azriel.” A huff comes from behind his palm, breath warming his skin, and he can feel how his lips pull down in a frown.

There’s only the quiet shuffle of fabric and skin. The growing, shifting darkness that cools when Eris blows out the candle when Azriel settles enough. Eris remains on his back, a stiffness solidifying against his spine the longer he lays in the dark with another body, another heartbeat and set of lungs right next to him.

The mattress bounces as Azriel moves again, a sigh falling from his mouth.

“Give me your hand.” He says.

Eris startles, eyes wide in the dark where he can feel his pulse in his sockets. “Why?”

“Give me your hand, Eris.”

Begrudgingly, Eris turns to his side, awkwardly holding his arm out into the dusk. The room only lit by the the silver strands of moonlight through the canopy outside his window.

Azriel’s touch is gentle, searching, he finds the tops of his fingers and starts a path down—it leaves Eris entirely breathless. Working against the burn in his chest and the clinging scent of cedar to breathe in deep.

Eris already knows what Azriel wants, but his heart still lurches up to his throat when his scarred hand circles his wrist.

“Tell me a truth, Eris.” It’s the second time he’s said his name in as many minutes. Eris needs him to say his name always, forever.

He inhales, filling his lungs till there’s a pinch and the releases it, letting his muscles and all the tension built in his bones melt into the mattress. The down pillow moulds to his head, and it feels like he’s sinking somewhere darkness won’t even reach.

He can’t tell if his eyes are closed or if the moon disappeared, but he says anyway to the shroud of shadows—to Azriel.

“Don’t be gone when I wake up.”

Sleep calls to him, a lullaby he hasn’t heard in full for so long. He barely feels Azriel’s fingers tighten around his wrist. He is, however, sent off to rest with the deep, ocean tide pull of his voice from the other side of the bed.

“I’ll be here.”

All there is in this endless sea of pillows and the soft cotton of his quilt is the heat of Azriel's knee that brushes against his, the clasp of his scarred fingers around his wrist. The rest, if there’s more, is null.

~~///~~///~~///~~

hey. hey look listen h ey maybe I just wanted my boys to be soft and say to hell with logic. is that so bad? no. I possess a physical inability to write anything lighthearted without the emotional weight - it haunts me. ALSO I have beef with Illyrian clothing and leathers bc what do you MEAN the buttons are down the back on the sides??? I'm sorry??? Behind big ass wings???? Why not have a wrap sort of style and then buttons or ties in the front panels, like on the sides of the abdomen. I digress, I hope you liked it I've got...things brewing for day four and it's. hm. we'll see ;]

[derww]

Zam&Mapicc (castle arc) + Subz cameo

TW: Abuse, violence, deaths

***

There is a problem: his castle is not safe.

Each of its walls is finished and reinforced. The stone bricks are pushed closely into each other, treated, and smeared with clay. The gate is strong and made of a metal alloy. With the right resistance, the castle could withstand an hours-long siege by enemies, but he still never closes the gate.

It makes no sense for him to fence himself in. His worst enemy is already inside the walls.

He goes up the stairs, breaks one of the walls, and passes to the neighboring tower, which has no alternative paths to it. His secret tower, where he used to hide, think, and place signs. His hand, tugging at the door handle, is shaking a little.

Mapicc is not here – of course he is not, he saw him leave; he would not have returned so soon. Since the last time Zam was here, there is even more blood on the floor now – already old, darkened, and dried, with almost fresh blood smeared on top of it. It's not his blood. It's not Mapicc's blood either. 

The red blanket is pulled down and crumpled – my God, he really sleeps here, a panicked realization comes to mind. The armorstand is slightly shifted. One of the chairs is lying on the floor. Shelf...

He chokes on the words. There are books on the shelf. Adventures. Thrillers. Actions. Psychology...

Oh, my God, he brought books here, Zam thinks with horror. He throws darts. He sits on the bed, leisurely flipping through the pages. And he sleeps here. He doesn't just have a reason to come back here, he lives here. He returns here as if to his home.

This means that you can kill him in his sleep, the mind helpfully suggests to him. Don't make any sounds. Get in through the window. Cut his throat. He will respawn here. And then you can just end it all.

He doesn't always know when Mapicc is coming or leaving. He walks absolutely silently, climbs through windows, and descends from roofs, and – he swears it is real – he must have at least half a dozen tunnels in the walls and underground, which meant that there was not a single condition under which he could be absolutely sure that he was alone.

Mapicc likes to scare him. Silently turn up behind his back, put a knife in his throat, knock him down. At some point, he stopped killing him, but Zam still clings to his life – he had died many times in his life, but he did not like the painfully slow bleeding, hysterically feeling how death is coming closer and closer step by step. And then – to wash the floor of his own blood, fighting the constant nausea of memories.

He steadies his breathing. He closes the door behind him. Returns the wall to its place.

He misses Team Awesome. In retrospect, it seemed to him that there was no moment where they were actually at peace with each other, but in the end, things still somehow worked. 

It was fun to defend the prison, even though they lost a lot of hearts, he was sad that they hid from him that they were a Medusa and destroyed his buildings without his permission – they could just ask, he would allow, of course he would – and throughout the dupe war, he did not leave discomfort for a moment... 

Despite all the ups and downs, he was just glad to be on the team. Both Ro and Mapicc appreciated and cared for him in their own way, and it hurt all the more to betray them. But he had to. His efforts might be useless, but he had to try, otherwise, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

"You need proper armor," Mapicc had told him a week ago, handing him the netherite. His armor is absolutely normal, no thanks. He would never have taken duped items ever again. He couldn't afford it. Even if it meant he couldn't win.

Mapicc quickly got bored of killing him. One, two, three, and his resistance already was simply not enough to interest him even a little.  

He is a knight. He had to keep fighting. He continued to wear armor, even though it seemed no thicker than a piece of paper, and continued to take out a sword and brew potions and buy exp bottles and attack, but Mapicc saw through him – saw that he had given up. 

He didn't like it. He tried to threaten him to get a decent fight, but it didn't help. There was nothing he could do about it. It only seemed to annoy me more. The last time he stabbed him, it seems, was out of boredom, and then he just idly watched.

He didn't realize how disastrous this experience was for Zam, and he was glad of it.

The only tunnel he managed to find ran underground from the south to the north wall. The entrance was painfully elementary – scaffolding covered with snow. He could have walked by hundreds of times and not noticed, but one day he was looking at the places where Mapicc was most often, and was horrified to find that his hand was going under ground.

The tunnel was roughly hewn, but it fulfilled its task. It would take only ten minutes to dig it out. This is the reason why he was sure that Mapicc had many more of them. Otherwise, how, after all, does he move around the castle unnoticed?

No corner is safe. He may know that Mapicc is in the other half of the castle, and the next moment he is behind him, or on the ceiling, or around the corner.

This is the reason he stopped writing the signs. Even when he's sure, he knows where Mapicc is. He may be wrong. He was wrong many times. Twice, he managed to break the signs before Mapicc saw them. The third time, he was not so successful, and Mapicc was making strange references to his disturbing thoughts in red ink for another week. After that, he didn't take any more chances. Even a book would be an unsafe option, so he was left alone with his thoughts.

The thoughts were not pleasant. His best friend and worst enemy lived next door to him. The Sanctuary and the castle built on it were among a very few things that were really important to him on the server, but being here did not leave him the opportunity to hide. He didn't lock the doors, close the gates, or trap the portal simply because it was pointless. He hardly slept. He quickly got used to not sleeping.

It was all his anxiety – but was there anything strange about it? No one in this world could sleep while mobs were around, and the real monster lurked next to him in the same walls. Usually he couldn't bring himself to sleep – he wasn't ready to even think about it for the first week and eventually passed out from exhaustion in the middle of the hallway. Over time, he resigned himself, and he began to be able to snatch an hour or two of sleep at moments when the constant feeling of someone else's gaze subsided.

Twice he woke up and saw Mapicc standing in the corner of his room and just staring at him. He never did anything, just glared at him from the shadows, and when he saw that Zam was awake, he threw a sarcastic comment, turned around, and left. This, however, was unnerving enough to make trying not to die completely from exhaustion even more difficult.

This time he was right: Mapicc was not here and is returning home (?) only in another half hour. He runs into Zam in the hall and tells him in detail how he killed a person. Zam does not comment, and he eventually goes upstairs.

When Mapicc falls asleep (at least, he believes so), Zam, of course, does not go to kill him – stupid, stupid, this is an idiotic idea, it will never work and will only put him at even greater risk – despite the fact that the picture of this freezes very vividly in his head. Instead, he quietly sneaks out of his own base – he knows that he cannot escape, he knows that he will come back anyway, but he wants to see spawn and maybe restore at least a small part of it.

Spawn... It looks much better, he notices in surprise, examining what comes across his eye. Someone removed a huge part of the flying debris and put grass where there was a huge crater. The work is still underway, but progress was obvious.

Something that was the work of my team, he thinks distantly, and then turns around and sees a figure.

Even in the darkness of dusk, he recognizes Subz. The latter, distracted from placing the dirt, lazily raises his hand up.

– Hi.

[phoebe-delia]

Alright! Fic 3 of the Phoebe Tries to Write Again Challenge! This one goes out to the lovely @chinike, who prompted "soulmates." Hopefully, this makes up for yesterday's angst lol. Big big thank you to my darlingest bestest hedgehog @basicallyahedgehog for looking this over and basically being the official sponsor of this challenge lol.

cw: references to canon violence

At six years old, Draco had read about fated love and wondered if it, like magic, was real.

"Soulmates are a myth," his father had said, looking at Draco over his glasses. "You ought to spend your time on more productive matters instead of burying your head in those nonsense books your mother buys you."

At sixteen, Draco learned how to brew love potions. He'd leaned over his cauldron to sniff the rising steam: fresh grass, broom polish, and treacle tart. He glanced over at Potter, who was whispering with his friends. A moment later Potter met his eyes, as if sensing Draco was staring, and scowled.

Draco knew his father had been right.

"Do you believe in soulmates?" Harry asks him one morning over breakfast.

He's 26 years old. The engagement ring on his finger is new, from the previous day. He'd woken up to see Harry on one knee next to the bed, ring box open, asking simply, "Will you?"

Draco looks into Harry's bright, loving eyes and thinks, as he often does, of the improbability of them. He thinks of hexes, shouting matches, threats, and pranks. Of stomping on Harry's face. Of bleeding out on the bathroom floor. Of all-consuming, daily terror.

He remembers lying to his family, and Harry's outstretched hand pulling him out of the fire.

He remembers forgiveness. Redemption. Conversations that left him raw and weeping. Apologies.

He remembers the smell of fresh grass, broom polish, and treacle tart, and he knows, without a doubt, that the smell would remain unchanged, ten years later.

"I can't be sure," Draco finally says. "But I do believe in us."

Send me a prompt! See the guidelines here.

[reborrowing]

Pocket Guides to Zombie Survival, Ch 2

First/prev | ao3 holyyy shit this took too long im sorry! especially since a chunk of it is recycled from the first attempt. but I think I'm happy with it cw fear, injury, dehumanization typical of gt first meets wordcount: 3.5k

The man outside didn’t even have a pulse.

Coop had been right on his wrist. She’d leaned against his cold flesh for better leverage as she unfastened the corpse’s watch. He didn’t bleed when her needle stuck into his skin, nearly as deep as her forearm was long. Even on a human, that should’ve hit some kinda blood vessel, right? He smelled like dead meat. He was undeniably dead, right up until he’d got up and almost crushed her.

She was still shaking as Rei dragged her up into the RV’s engine compartment. It was scary enough to try and imagine what could’ve killed a giant so gruesomely and scarier still to find out that humans could keep going even after death.

Rei poked around for the way into the RV cabin, hoping it would have good supplies and a decent place to rest. Coop would rather take refuge in the labyrinthian machinery. The adrenaline of the moment was wearing thin and she knew she was going to be less than useless once she could feel all her injuries. This place felt safe enough to catch their breath, at least. The not-dead man wasn’t trying to follow them and he hadn’t thought to open the engine hatch to try and snatch them out. 

Instead, he banged against the RV walls over and over again, with terrifying force. It was strong enough to leave the metal shell shaking. If he had hit her with that kind of power, she wouldn't have a broken foot, she’d be lucky to be left with a boot full of bloody paste. They had a hiding place, he wasn’t getting in, and she saw no reason to ruin it by poking around inside.

But Rei was the one who could still walk so she was the one calling the shots. She was in her element, she insisted, with humans as her area of expertise, but Coop thought that was a load of shit. Rei knew about humans’ things and how they acted on a normal summer evening. This was well beyond what either of them knew.

Rei cut through a thick, zig-zagged wall of cotton with a glass shard and into a bin full of human junk so common it almost seemed familiar. Papers on top of papers, rough brown napkins, clicker pens, a metal beamlight, and a plastic first aid case that Rei pointed out way more smugly than was necessary.

“I don’t need bandaids, I need you to help me put my shoulder back together,” Coop griped.

She slumped into a wad of napkins stacked up by the far wall. They weren’t as soft as she’d been hoping, but more comfortable than bare plastic. She stretched out her leg to give her busted-up foot a rest, at least, and watched Rei puzzle out the plastic locks on either side of the case.

“Isn't this the third time you got it popped like that? Can’t you do it yourself by now?” Rei asked over her shoulder.

“It hurts!”

“Shh, I was kidding, sorry. Just too freaked out to—” she swallowed the rest of her sentence and waved her hand vaguely towards her face. “Express. Not funny anyways. There’s probably Tylenol or something in here, just give me a minute to get this stupid thing open, and—”

The RV shook with an especially hard hit from the not-dead man and in the quiet that followed, heavy footsteps shuffled across the interior of the RV. They were getting closer. Coop went stiff, but Rei kept prying at the plastic clasp. She didn't hear—probably couldn't, with her lousy ear—and her back was turned so Coop couldn't give her a visual signal to please shut up.

There was a click overhead followed by a blinding light as the wall gave out behind Coop and sent her tumbling down towards the carpeted floor. She fumbled for her fish hook to latch herself onto a mountainous chair in front of her before she could get grabbed. The grapple successfully bit into the fabric, but with only one arm to hold on with, and a lot of pain to work through, Coop was easily knocked loose from her line. She landed stunned on her back right in front of the giant’s boot and whimpered. Rei was too far away to save her this time.

Coop flailed in an attempt to get away, to get anywhere, before the new giant could reach her. She didn’t even make it half inch before a shadow dropped over her. She looked up in horror as the giant jabbed at her with a thin metal club and knocked her back to the ground. The thin metal of her armor went concave and Coop gasped for breath, expecting it to be her last, but the giant stopped as soon as they had her pinned. Coop squirmed helplessly against the rubber that threatened to cave in her chest.

The human’s eyes were as brown and mean as a hawk’s and made Coop’s heart raced just the same. But a hawk was almost a guarantee that something was about to die. Humans were unpredictable. Already it was the opposite of the giant outside—precise, with a light touch, but more than enough to hold her down. And they could kill her just as easily as the other one.

It shook her with the kind of thrill she’d usually celebrate, but it was hard to be excited about danger when so few of her limbs were working. She couldn’t fight or flee, just lay there at the giant’s mercy as the pain swelled and tried to take over more and more of her thoughts.

They adjusted their grip on the club and knelt down for a better look at Coop, catching her in a shadow like a falling tree. Even for a human, they—she, probably—was big: nice and fat and full-figured, like she’d never even heard of hunger. She leaned against the nearby chair as she lowered herself down onto her knees, and both the seat and her own bones groaned under the strain. 

For a brief second, Coop recognized something in those eyes that looked more like fear than anger, but fear of what? Of Coop? The dead man outside? He couldn’t even figure out how to open a door. Was he really so dangerous to even his own kind?

“Are you alive?” the giant whispered.

Before Coop could put together an answer or even work up the breath to be heard, Rei jumped in with a hiss of her own. Coop just barely saw her sister’s silhouette leap out from the glovebox before she got lost in a fresh black wave of pain. Her vision swam as the giant jerked backwards, briefly driving the end of her club harder against Coop’s chest, squeezing the breath out of her. 

“No, no, no, get off, no,” the giant bleated.

But again, she was afraid, not angry.

They were equally dangerous emotions, except that fear could be soothed with something other than blood, assuming humans had emotions that worked like her own. And why shouldn’t they? They were supposed to be people, after all, just horribly big ones.

“S-stop,” Coop wheezed, struggling to sit up.

It wasn’t loud enough, or maybe the giant didn’t care, or maybe she was just distracted by the idiot gremlin chomping on her finger. Unbelievable. Coop watched, aghast, as the giant caught the back of Rei’s cloak and pulled her into the air. She didn’t have a chance to protest again as she flinched away from the giant’s boots shuffling around her, each more than large enough to crush her flat. She pushed back when something tugged on her good arm, even though it was pointless to try and fight the giant, only to get an annoyed hiss in response.

Oh.

Coop went limp to let her sister drag her to cover once again. That pain was really catching up to her now though. Darkness swam at the edge of her vision as each step jostled her busted limbs. Coop grimaced when she realized the best cover they could reach was beneath the seat right beside them. The clearance was low enough to the ground to seem safe, with a nice metal barrier to hide behind, but Coop knew that it only meant they were cornered.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” Rei announced hoarsely.

“You’re gonna puke?”

Coop dimly registered that the arms holding her were shaking before Rei dropped her. Her breath escaped in a hiss as she hit the floor. Coop warily eyed the gap they’d come in through. It might be too narrow for the giant to get her fat arm under. Maybe. Rei slumped to the floor next to Coop to take a breath. Like they had the time for that. (Like they had a choice.)

“No, that…that! Getting you away from it. I don’t know how you do that, jumping at predators. Like it’s nothing? I feel so bad. I think my guts are all gonna explode,” she whispered.

If Rei was hoping for sympathy, all she was gonna get was anger. Coop glared.

“I don’t! I don’t just attack wildly! You shouldn’t have done anything! How was that supposed to help?” Coop hissed.

“I panicked!”

“So you bit her? Are you a fucking shrew? You’ve got your whole bag of tricks and you use your teeth? Ghosts, Rei, you’re supposed to be smart! You’re supposed to be good at this!”

Coop lurched forward and swiped a glass shard from the elastic holster on Rei’s leg. She waved it vaguely, gesturing at Rei and her oversized borrowing sack for a few brief seconds until she was too woozy to stay upright. Rei caught her before she could crash all the way back to the floor, then sat down beside her. 

“I’m good at not dealing with them,” she said.

Coop pushed her sister away and pocketed the dagger. One of them could still leave, and then that one could warn everyone else back home that the dead man was still alive and he had company.

“Then don’t deal with it. Go. Get out of here,” Coop said.

“I’m not gonna leave you with it! I’m not that—”

“It’s my job to die being stupid anyways, so long as it means someone else makes it,”  Coop said.

“I’m not gonna let you die.”

Well, Coop didn’t actually intend to die. She never had. But she wasn’t gonna pretend it wasn’t likely, either. She’d been on borrowed time for a long stretch of her life. Maybe even since she was born—she was the second twin. If only one of them was going to exist…

There was a series of uneven thuds as the giant got down on her knees to come after them. They should’ve stayed in the engine, where there were plenty of nooks to hide in and only a single giant that knew they were there, violent as he might be. He was stupid and at least sometimes dead. They could’ve taken a minute to at least put her arm back in place, so she didn’t have to worry about passing out every time she moved. They missed their chance to stick together.

“We don’t know that she’s gonna kill me. But she shouldn’t get to take you too,” Coop said.

The floor creaked as shadow overtook the low entrance to their hiding place, abruptly ending the argument. The human pressed her face against the floor so she could peer in at her cornered prey. Weakly, Coop shoved her sister away, but Rei stood her ground and cowered with her in the corner.

The giant’s hand slid forward, snaking into the cramped space. Coop stared in horror as it approached. She’d hardly ever felt so helpless. The shadow was big enough to snatch up the both of them at once, and it was still just the giant’s hand. The rest of her loomed out of sight beyond the cover of the chair. 

Rei hissed and the giant froze. Her eye narrowed, then refocused on the relatively tiny scratch Rei had managed to inflict on her hand earlier. She pulled back a fraction of an inch and Coop could see her biting down on her lower lip.

Scared.

“Go away!” Rei yelled.

The giant swore at them. Coop closed her eyes. She couldn’t do anything but wait for the human to lash out and grab her—or just crush her. But no blow came. The floor creaked and the giant retreated. 

“That…that’s what you do, right?" Rei said, in between gasps that could be either laughter or crying. "You just…scare stuff off and hope they don’t call your bluff?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Coop said.

“That shouldn’t’ve worked, no,” Rei agreed. “Ghosts, oh, let’s get out of here before she comes back.”

Coop nodded and leaned back up against her sister. But she couldn’t bring herself to join in her sister’s relief. This whole thing was wrong. The man outside, and now this scared woman that none of the scouts had even noticed. It wouldn't be that easy to get away.

Sure enough, the giant came back not a minute later, certainly not long enough for Rei to find a good escape to run towards. The shadows deepened and the hand returned and this time the giant wasn’t deterred by simple shouting or hissing or desperate crying. The fingers battered against the two smallfolk.

Rei's hands slipped away just before the hand found its mark. She was gone before Coop could change her mind about wanting to be left alone with this thing. The leather-clad fist closed against Coop and her broken limbs so hard and so fast that she blacked out before she could see what the giant might do to her.

—

Miserable as she was, Kayla was still fairly certain she wasn’t ready to die. Surely, someone who wanted to die wouldn’t have sacrificed Tasha in order to save their own life. So she kept going, even with Nick’s corpse pounding on the walls.

He knew she was in here. It might be the only thing he knew, based on how he acted. There wasn’t enough of him left to think to target the door or the windows. His assault was uncoordinated and random and entirely determined to get to her. Most of the windows had been reinforced or boarded up entirely anyway. Kayla hoped that he’d give up and collapse back to the ground before he made his way in, so she could continue to waste away inside rather than out.

She grabbed a duffel bag that had been prepared in advance, full of the most essential supplies and darted for the cab. In a better world, one where she had an ounce of luck left, that bag would have the keys so she could just drive away. But no. This had been Nick’s camper and his corpse still had the keys.

So instead of making an escape and taking the fortress with her, she ducked down and tried to wait him out. If (or when) Nick got in, she’d run. It was a terrible plan. It didn’t even deserve to be called a plan. She had nowhere to go and no way to get there and she was pretty sure that if the zombie could get in the RV it would be able to get back out and right to chasing her and her fucked-up knee. But it was the best course of action she could think of, unless she wanted to just give up and die.

And now there was…something else to deal with. Two of them. She didn’t know what to make of the little creatures that had already found their way inside.

They looked like people, or something that had been people at one point. They were about the size of mice, with tails and creepy reddish eyes to match, and dressed in patchwork trash. The first one had moved in uneven lurches like the dead but had watched Kayla like it still had thoughts in its head. 

The one had bit her.

She flung it away as quickly as she could. It landed at her feet and snarled before grabbing the other one to disappear beneath the passenger seat. Kayla rebalanced herself and took several seconds to try—and fail—to figure out just what was going on. Were they connected to the zombies? Or were they something else altogether and in need of help as just badly as she was?

She heard them whispering once she got close, so softly that it was no more understandable than leaves rustling in the breeze. No more understandable than a zombie’s mindless babbling.

Their eyes glowed from beneath the passenger seat when she knelt down to look. She reached out towards them and one of them hissed. Kayla recoiled. She was bleeding from the bite, she realized. The little freak had broken the skin. She swallowed, feeling suddenly starved of air. It would be unwise to grab at them with bare hands again.

How stupid was she, anyway? She should have already been wearing her gloves, for when she needed to run. There was no place for bare skin in a zombie apocalypse. If she died, she wanted it to be definite enough to be permanent, even if that meant it would be more painful.

She reached under the chair. Kayla wasn’t quick enough to catch both of the strange intruders, but one went limp as her hand closed around it. The other disappeared around the other side of the seat and she didn’t manage to see where it ran off to. She backed out of the cab before it could try attacking her again.

She flinched each time Nick hit the wall. If he managed to break even a small hole somewhere in the structure, he’d catch her smell and really work himself up into a full frenzy to get at her. But first, the little bite. She might as well use clean water to flush it while she had the chance. She just had to move quickly, so she could get back to cowering by the doors.

Still, Kayla got distracted looking at the creature in her hand. Up close, she was almost certain the little thing was a person. Probably female, though certainly not a human one. Even ignoring size, she had big, hairy ears and a long tail that hung limply off Kayla’s palm. The poor thing was half-curled up and unconscious, but gasped when poked at, so Kayla knew she wasn’t dead yet. She was hurt badly though, with her arm at a nauseating angle and one foot lying in a similar position. It was well beyond what Kayla knew how to treat, especially at such a delicate, tiny scale. Hopefully, that was the only reason she had been moving so erratically—pain, not death.

For now, Kayla grabbed a rag and set both it and the strange girl in an emptied protein bar box, then set about treating her own injury. She really hoped that the girl was only hurt, not infected, and that she could wake up and talk with her, maybe even tell her what was going on. But if not, Kayla could at least see if the creature stayed dead so she could gauge how worried she should be about the second one running free. Or maybe they weren’t as intelligent as they looked and the other would just chew on some wires and electrocute itself like some common rodent. That could solve a problem. Or start a fire, but that probably would still be better than undying. Not the solution Kayla wanted, but a solution nonetheless.

It might not matter anyway. The bite on her hand, however small, burned. She flushed it, cleaned it, but she had no way to tell if it was infected. She had no idea what she was looking at, save for a mysterious bite from a mysterious maybe-person. She couldn’t help but think that they would have missed something this small when they were looking for a bite on Markus. She bandaged it and took the girl back to the front of the RV. There was no sign of the biter, and Kayla was best to be ready to evacuate from the known danger than occupy herself too much with an unknown one. Her chest twisted with fear and uncertainty.

In the movies, people always got to know what was going on with the undead. There was a helpful vet or scientist or at least some regular broadcast that could break things down for the rest of the survivors. Kayla only knew what she had been forced to witness, and that wasn’t much at all, certainly not this.

The world as she knew it had ended, but it hadn’t stopped changing. If only it would change into something nicer for once.

—

tagging: @whumpsday @da3dm

it's been so long, I'm really sorry if someone asked to be added to the taglist and I forgot, please let me know if you want to be (re)added!

[kaylopolis]

Alastor's Shadow (18+) Chapter Three

Alastor x F!Reader, Alias: Thestral

Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months sooner than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. Afterall, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plans brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down, but also challenge your grab for power… 

Tags: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut 

Warnings: Minors DNI! 18+! May contain disturbing, gruesome, and graphic sexual scenes. Graphic violence. Blood. Obsession. Mentions of abuse. Mentions of substance abuse. Trigger warnings will be given at the beginning of each chapter. 

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

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Author note: Okay Hoteliers, this was my first attempt at some spice. I'm open to constructive criticism! I am a published author but spice is something I am new to and not confident in. Any suggestions are welcome :)

<3 Stay smutty.

Chapter Three - Care for a Drink?

Content warning: mentions of blood, mentions of abuse

You were late. 

“Not me! I have to go home and study!" Sir Pentious’ voice echoed through the foyer as you stepped in, nearly missing the first few drops of acid rain. 

You were at the Clocktower when the clouds rolled in and threatened to melt your skin off. Unclipping your Mary Jane’s, you took off down the street, doing your best to avoid the trash piling outside the Doomsday District. Out of breath and, with mere seconds to spare, you finally rolled up to the Hotel only to find that Charlie had started without you. 

Well, you did say one and it was now twenty minutes past. 

“Come on kid, it'll make you cool like me …the crackhead." Angel did not sound amused. 

You rounded the corner to find Angel and Sir Pentious reading from scripts and dressed in… Costumes? 

"The only cool thing here is to say no to drugs! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to not have sexual intercourse before marriage!" Sir Pentious chimed. 

You snorted into your hand at the sight of Sir Pentious in his sailor-like child costume, complete with large lollipop in hand. 

“Hey, Hair clip,” Angel frowned, clearly irritated with his current situation. 

You couldn’t blame him. If these were the exercises Charlie had in mind, you don’t know how long you would last either. 

Then he eyed your feet and your dress. “What the fuck happened to you?” 

“Huh! You made it!” Charlie jumped to her feet and slammed into you with a hug so powerful it knocked you backwards. 

“Ouch!” You rolled back on your heels, pushing your blisters into the hardwood flooring. 

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry! What’s wrong! I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt you. Did I hurt you?” Her eyes begin to fill with tears, her pupils growing big. 

Before you had a chance to deny vehemently, Vaggie cut in. “I think it’s her feet, babe.” 

She took a step back, giving everyone a view of your blistered toes. Your feet were normal - human shaped, that is - and although you had the same ashen complexion as Charlie, your limbs blackened at the ends, beginning at your elbows and knees. The dark fur hid the grime now encasing your toes, but not the blisters rubbed raw and bleeding red.

“Yeah, that doesn’t look so good, toots,” Angel frowned. 

It had to be the heels. Rosie was right, you did need new shoes. 

“It’s not that bad,” you waved them off, heading for the stools at the bar. 

“Your wincing,” Charlie motioned to you. “She’s wincing.” 

“Oh no! You are in pain,” Sir Pentious cried. 

“Guys, seriously. I don’t… Ah!” Angel scooped you up into his arms, carrying you to the stairs. 

You tried to protest but he interrupted you. “I got a first aid kit in my room. It’s not a big deal.” His voice was stern, his jaw set. You took this not as a rescue for yourself but a rescue for him. He needed an excuse to get away. 

“Wait! Wait!” Nifty sprinted around, taking a photo of the two of you before heading back for the couch. 

“What the fuck was that?” You asked Angel.

“Charlie put Nifty in charge of the Hotel’s Sinstagram,” the spider demon rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at it. It’s a clusterfuck of a whole lot of nothin’. Mostly bugs and shit she’s found around the joint.”

“Great,” you mumbled, letting the spider demon whisk you away. 

____________________________________________

“I seriously don’t know how you walk in shoes like that every day!” You motioned to his ridiculously high heeled boots. 

“Practice, toots. You don’t get as good as me by lyin’ on your back… Wait.” 

You laughed as you pulled your other sock on, careful not to ruin the bandages Angel oh-so delicately wrapped around your feet. For a Porn Star he sure knew his first aide. You knew it was because of Val, of course, but he didn’t know that you knew… 

Never in your years of working have you ever thought about the victim. At least not with sympathy. You enjoyed the chaos, you enjoyed the killing, you enjoyed the fear. Now, something in your chest was twisting itself at the thought of Val placing his hands on Angel. 

Angel was such a soft and adorable person, you couldn't fathom Val hurting…

Stop! 

You flinched, covering up the action with a cough. You got to your feet, testing their durability. “You, uh, wanna head back down?” 

His smile faded. “Nah, I’m gonna lay low for a bit.” Turning to the pig, he collected him in his arms, side glancing the pink phone laying on the bed. “I’m sure Charlie is just dyin’ to dress you up next.” 

You paused. “Okay.” That thing in your chest twisted again, rooting you in place before the door.

You sighed. 

Fuck. 

“I have to change before I head to the bar, but I have some lemon sweets in my room that I know Fat Nuggets would love if you wanna join me.” You ran your hand down the pig’s snout, earning a squeal from the little ball of squish. 

You could tell he was debating it by the look on his face, but wasn’t convinced. 

“And chocolate,” you sang.

That caught his attention. 

“Alright,” you helped him off the bed. “But only a piece, Fat Nuggets is watching his figure.” 

You laughed as you headed for the room next to his humble abode, pulling the door wide and gesturing to the couch for him to take a seat. 

“Wow, nice place ya’ got here,” he let the pig loose to sniff about the room. 

It was. Your room was almost double the size of Angel’s and included a small sitting area. Wonder why he got the short end of the stick? 

Then you wondered who else might have seen your room… perhaps without you knowing? You set a mental reminder to place some runes later - keep Alastor and his shadow out. Not that you had anything alarming in here. All the important stuff was kept in your personal Void. 

You grabbed the leftovers from the club you got stuck with and moved them to the coffee table. Grabbing a lemon square, you let Fat Nuggets crawl onto your lap as you sat cross-legged on the ground. The small creature squirmed in your lap till you finally handed him the sweet. 

Angel helped himself to your pile of chocolates - you hated chocolate, but didn’t want them to go to waste. Thankfully, he left his phone in his room. 

“You know,” you started, unsure of where you were going with this. “I’m new here, but sometimes new people observe things others might not notice - a third party perspective if you will.” 

“A-ha,” he eyes you suspiciously. 

“Sometimes they notice things others may be trying to hide…” You were hoping he would get the point and pick up where you were leading him.

“What are you tryin’ to say, Hair clip?” He ignores the chocolates completely, turning to you with irritation sprawled across his face. 

“Ugh,” you huff. “I’m sorry I’m not good at this stuff - feelings and trying to comfort others.” You clear your throat, resisting the urge to rub the back of your neck. “It seems like something is wrong and I was wondering if you wanted to talk about it?” You avoided eye contact, this was uncomfortable enough. 

“I’m fine,” he shot you down, tossing a chocolate into the air and catching it in his mouth. 

“I know what it’s like to come from a place of… neglect.” You continue anyway. “To be trapped in a situation you cannot control. To be a victim with no power, forced to do things you didn’t wanna do…” Your voice cracked. When had you started tearing up? “And when you try to speak up, to refuse to do something that would harm others…”

“Hey, hey,” Angel was on his knees before you, cupping your cheeks, soothing you with shushes. He smiled when you finally looked up at him. 

“You’re gonna ruin all your beautiful makeup, Hair clip.” 

You giggled into his hands, your heart warming just a bit. 

God, what was it about this Hotel that made you so emotional? 

“Look,” Angel huffed. “My boss has just been gettin’ on my nerves lately. He doesn’t like that I moved out. He’s pissed actually. Been blowing up my phone for days, but it’s nothing that I can’t handle.” He rubbed your cheek with his thumb. “I’m managing, I just need some time to work through some things ‘tis all. Alright, toots?” 

You knew it wasn’t alright. You’ve heard some pretty infamous stories of the moth demon - yet another reason you have steered clear of the Vees - but Angel was at a point that if you kept prodding, he’d most likely just flip you off and disappear for the rest of the day. Pushing him would be a step back and you needed to take a step forward. 

“Okay,” you pouted, wiping your face with your sleeves. God this dress needed to be thrown away.

“Now let’s get changed because I need a drink!” He pulls you to your feet before heading for your clothes. Pulling open your closet door he was shocked to find it empty. Your drawers were no better. 

“Seriously?” He waved to the black abyss. 

“I’ve been low on cash lately… but I just got paid and new clothes are on the way.” 

He held up a pair of black slacks. “Please tell me they’re from this century?” 

You ripped the pants from his hands. “I happen to like my clothes, okay.”

“Okay, grandma,” he shrugs. “One of these days, you gotta let me take you shopping. Your closet is an insult to closets.” 

“Ha, ha very funny.” You grab a blouse and head for the bathroom. 

“Do you even own a pair of sweatpants?” He asks through the door. 

“I have silk pajama bottoms?” 

He pauses. “Okay, actually impressed by that, but I think I’ve made my point.” 

“Whatever,” you emerge from the bathroom, shoving the gray blouse into your pants, giving you that hourglass figure. 

Actually, now that you had Angel’s attention maybe he could help with some of your wardrobe problems. Starting with your feet. 

“Do you know where I can get a new set of heels?”

————————————————————————

“Hey, whiskers! Pour me something strong, daddy needs a drink!” Angel took the stool next to you. 

Husk huffed, rolling his eyes, the bar cat grabbed a random bottle and just started pouring. “Feeling better?” He asked you.

You nodded, twirling in circles on the barstool. You dangled your toes as you spun, smiling at the fact that your feet didn’t touch the ground. 

That was probably the one thing you got from Dad you didn’t mind - your height. You and your brothers were short as fuck, but mightier than you looked: fierce beings in tiny packages. Yet, despite the roughhousing between siblings, you were always obedient - Dad wouldn’t have it any other way. 

As for Mom? Well, you didn’t have one. You and your siblings never did. You didn’t know the story but then again you never asked. It didn’t seem like something you asked your father. He wasn’t the type to… share certain things with you. He wasn’t closed off, he just didn’t treat you like kids. Dad treated you like soldiers. He commanded and you obeyed. 

And at one point in time you were okay with it. Dad said jump, you said how high? Now… After everything that happened on Earth, you promised yourself you’d never let anyone tell you what to do again. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon behind that bar of yours would you? It’s my favorite.” You beamed. 

“Wine?” Angel scoffs. “Come on toots, I thought you were a lot harder than that.” The spider demon downed half his drink before Husk had even finished pouring it. 

“Watch it!” Husk snaps. 

“I’m not a hard liquor kinda gal,” you shrugged, watching Husk wipe up the spilled alcohol. “I like to sip and enjoy.”

“Fuck that,” Angel scoffed, examining the new stain on his shirt. “Damn, this is my favorite top.” He grumbled, getting to his feet. “I’ll be back. I gotta spray it before it sets.” The spider demon made his way back upstairs. 

Husk waited till Angel was gone before he made your drink next. A glass of red wine in a metal red wine glass - how on the nose. Maybe your lipstick smear won't look as gross.

“I thought I’d give you a heads up, the Princess and her girlfriend went out shopping this morning and got ya’ a little something. Syrups and flavoring for the coffee machine. She’s gonna surprise you at breakfast. Just thought I’d let ya know. You don’t seem the kind who enjoys surprises,” he finishes pouring your glass. 

You sniffed before you tasted, letting the smell of currants and oak swim in your nostrils. It was smokier than you expected, but the tannins made your taste buds sing. 

God, you missed the wine from before Hell, before your entire world flipped on end… 

“Thanks, Husk.” 

He leans back against the counter behind the bar, a look of hesitancy on his face that said he wasn’t done talking yet. You sensed giving you a heads up about breakfast tomorrow wasn’t the reason why he asked to speak with you. 

“What?” You asked, after his silent gaze became uncomfortable. 

“Look. No one gives a shit what you did before you got down here. You’re down here, same as the rest of us, but you gotta watch what you say in… mixed company.” 

“What does that mean?” You scrunched your nose in confusion. 

“This mornin’, at breakfast.” 

He was referring to your small nugget of honesty at the table - your slip of suggested murderer status topside. He was referring to Alastor. 

Rosie told you the stories - things only she knew about the Radio Demon. He was a serial killer turned cannibal during his days amongst the living - wasn’t caught either. He died in some sort of hunting accident - explains the deer form. After his death, he rose to power faster than anyone had ever seen, took down some big important Overlords too, projecting their screams over his radio broadcasts. 

God, what a sight that would have been.

He showed up out the blue a few weeks ago after disappearing for seven years. Uprooted Husk and Nifty and planted them at the Hotel - he owned their souls, they had to obey. 

He had business with the Princess, but no one knew what - mere rumors, but nothing good. Whatever it was, you needed to find out. 

If his plans got in the way of yours, you were going to need to do something. You didn’t know what it was you were going to do, but eliminating him wasn’t going to be simple. 

“So?” You took a longer sip, needing the alcohol for yet another emotional conversation. 

“You’re not stupid kid.” He crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring the glass of whiskey before him. That’s how you knew he was serious. 

“Look,” you took the stem of the metal cup between your first two fingers and twirled it about. The glass danced on the edge of its base, twirling like a ballerina on a stage. Husk watched the movement, eyeing the liquid as it spun. “This place is about redemption, correct? So, shouldn’t I be a little honest about my sins, that way I can atone for what I’ve done?” 

His eyes were glued to the glass as he responded, “There’s a difference between honesty and painting a target on your back.” 

“You mean painting a target on my back in front of him,” you corrected. 

He finally met your eyeline, “He’s dangerous, kid…”

You hold up a hand, interrupting him, “You can save your lecture, Husk. I already got it from Rosie this morning.”

His eyes grow a few sizes. “Rosie? The Overlord?” 

“No, Rosie the tailor. It seems the Radio Demon and I have similar tastes in fashion.” Another sip - no, a gulp. The glass was practically empty already. You continued your twirl. 

So much for slowly enjoying it…

Husk drained his glass, “I’m not gonna bullshit you, kid.” He pours himself another. “He asked me to keep an eye on you.”

You freeze, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end. “What?” You bite. 

“I suspect it’s not because he’s concerned for your well-being, either.” The cat demon adds. 

So, Alastor the Overlord had his suspicions - going not only to Rosie but Husk as well. It appears poking and prodding during his battle with Sir Pentious was enough to raise his alarms. You were going to have to be very careful from here on out. Alastor was a ticking time bomb without a timer and you were going to have to do something to prevent him from exploding. 

Perhaps you should do something to throw him off. Make yourself appear weaker than he expects. Get into a fight which you lose on purpose to a demon far weaker than yourself. Would that be enough or would he know Husk had warned you? Would he expect you to do something to completely negate his suspicions only to make him look at you even more closely? 

Fuck - you didn’t know what to do. 

“So, he didn’t say why,” you finished the glass, gritting your teeth in frustration. 

Husk laughs. “He doesn’t explain anything to me and he ain’t about to start.” 

Great, so Rosie was going to be your only insight into the red demon. 

Unless… 

Unless, you befriended him yourself. Now that would really throw him for a loop.

“Hey, where did you learn to do that with the glass…?” Husk begins to ask but is interrupted. 

“Get your aggressively average body OFF OF ME!” Sir Pentious’ scream echoes throughout the foyer. 

You and Husk fly to the library to find Angel wrestling the snake demon to the ground. Charlie and Vaggie followed soon after. 

“What’s going on?” Charlie asks, concern flitting between the two demons. 

“This little bitch is a traitor!” Angel moves aside a pile of books to reveal a video camera.

Vox.

Sir Pentious flies into a panic, summoning the media demon on his watch, demanding evacuation.

Pathetic honestly. You’re not sure you would have responded any better to the snake demon than Vox had. Not that you wanted to agree on anything with the leader of the Vees, you detested the sore excuse for an Overlord and wanted nothing to do with him.

Yes, you fixed his bowtie earlier today, but he looked so… pathetic standing in that alleyway. It actually kind of irritated you now that you think of it. A demon of that caliber throwing tantrums in a random back alley? Come on man, get yourself together.  

Vaggie pulls out her spear, prepared to skewer the snake, before Charlie interrupts. “It starts with sorry…”

Ah, fucking kill me. Little Ms. Bleeding Heart everyone. 

As you watched the events unfold, you felt static zip down your spine. Almost as if you were being watched. 

You spun and searched the shadows but there was no one there. Wait, no one you could see. Rosie told you of Alastor’s shadow, how it could hide him in darkness, how it could detach from his form and do his bidding elsewhere. You were going to have to take that into account when sneaking out at night - double check every shadow and second guess every dark corner. 

“Good first day! Let’s get some rest.” Charlie guided him back to his room. 

You waited until the hallways were empty before taking a step towards the abandoned watch. 

“Would you like to do the honors or shall I?” You ask the darkness. 

There’s a pop of static before the Overlord melts from the floor, scooping up the electronic device. He crushes it beneath his fingers in a burst of electricity. You watch as Vox’s image blurs before dying. 

Alastor drops the plastic and metal to the floor before addressing you. “You knew I was there,” he purrs, his radio a silent static, his back to you. 

“Saw the shadows move,” you answer coolly. Technically a lie, but you weren’t about to tell him that you could feel his presence before he entered a room, that you could feel his shadow follow you. 

Alastor spun, his eyes narrowing on your form, kicking the butterflies in your stomach into a flurry. God, his eyes. They glowed red, like crystals in a fire. A fire that ignited something foreign within you.

The double doors behind you slammed shut causing you to jump.

And then they locked. 

You were alone, alone, and trapped with the Radio Demon and one of Hell’s finest Overlords. 

He takes a step towards you, his microphone slipping into the Void as his eyes, half-lidded, slowly slide over your form. The gesture, so simple, had you frozen in place where you stood. His pupils constricted, his smile curling, you watched as Alastor transformed into the predator he was born to be. Like a prey before its kill, he honed in on you, identifying you as prey.

You pull your hands behind your back, threading your fingers so he doesn’t see them shake so he can’t see just how much power his gaze alone had over you.

He takes another step, still ten feet away yet so, so close. 

You take an imperceptibly small step back.

Why are you so nervous right now? It’s just the Radio Demon. This man is not a threat. He’s just a Human Sinner. 

He takes another. 

Shit. 

His smile deepens, sensing the hesitation, the worry, the anxiety building in your chest. 

Was it getting harder to breathe in here? 

You force your lips into a thin line, force your body to stand ramrod straight. You will not back down. Overlord or not, you will not let him win this game of intimidation. You were a fucking god down here in Hell. The Radio Demon didn’t know it, couldn’t know it, your entire plan rode on him never knowing it, so why was every instinct in your body screaming at you to not back down? To not play the powerless victim you were supposed to be?

Alastor thought you a mouse and he a cat, but he was oh-so wrong. You were a fucking lion. You were an…

In one breath the Radio Demon closes the distance, stopping a foot away from you, your toes barely brushing his shoes. The demon was close enough that you could smell the rye on his breath; the liquor washed over you and made your toes curl. Of course, he drank something so sophisticated. Not vodka; not rum; but a dark liquor that burned on the way down. Like the fire in your veins.

He wasn’t drunk, perhaps just a nightcap? He didn’t seem like the type who ever got drunk. Getting drunk would leave one vulnerable and would leave one weak. Alastor would never allow that. He cared too much for his appearance. 

You go very very still as he reaches a hand out to you, his eyes suddenly captivated with your cheek. The tip of his claw tickles your skin, drawing a gasp from your lips, sucking the breath from your lungs and kicking your heart into a beat so loud you couldn’t hear anything else but its pounding in your ears. 

Crimson fire ignites behind Alastor’s eyes, his smile curling at the tips as his hand dances to a stray strand of hair. Shivers explode down your spine as he tucks it behind your ear, pausing to appreciate your neck. His eyes hone in on your jugular, almost as if he could see the blood rushing through your veins, almost as if he could taste it.  

The demon licks his lips drawing your eyes to his perfectly shaped mouth, to the sharp teeth behind it. What would it feel like to have those razor-sharp canines sink into your flesh? To allow Alastor a taste of the blood pumping through your veins?

A moment of clarity suddenly hit you at the sudden realization of just how much control you had lost. To allow Alastor to taste you? What were you doing? 

Swat his hand away. Bite his head off. Stab him in the gut. Eviscerate him where he stands. Kill...

The demon pulls you away from your thoughts as his finger moves south to your collarbone, eliciting a blush across your cheeks and igniting a warmth in your belly that traveled down, pooling between your legs. 

There it was again, that scent wafting through the room. The same scent you smelled off of Vox in the alley. You had never smelled something so sweet from a demon before - like warm vanilla heating on a stove. Yet now, it was coming from you.  

Something at the periphery of your power shifts. Like a second presence has joined yours, you try to think but your mind grows numb as Alastor’s dances across your collarbone. Delicately, so as not to draw blood, he follows it to the dip at the base of your neck. You swallow dryly and watch as Alastor’s eyes follow your throat’s bob. 

The demon pauses, a question swimming behind his eyes before he slowly - oh-so painfully slowly - wraps his hand around your throat. 

God-be-damned, you have never had another creature’s hand at your throat, and God-be-damned if you didn’t enjoy it. 

The demon squeezed, not enough to cut off your air supply, but just enough to send your mind spinning. A small moan escapes your lips. Alastor’s eyes shot to yours, a look of surprise filled them before they darkened. His smile shifted into that of a lopsided grin, a smirk of satisfaction. 

And then you feel it. 

You shove Alastor away from you, your mind sobering at the realization of what the Radio Demon was trying to do. 

You both pause for a moment, trying to catch your breath, before the demon takes a bow. “Goodnight, Ms. Thestral.” The shadows swallow him whole. 

You wait until you can't feel his presence anymore before you bang your head against the wall and scream. “Fuck!” 

It was all a big FUCKING distraction! He was prodding you to read your soul - to read your power. Just like you had tried to do that day he battled Sir Pentious. And you had caught him. He didn’t get far, but your reaction confirmed everything for him. 

He knew you had power. 

He knew you were a threat. 

And he knew you wouldn’t back down easily. 

You were fucked.

[ollies-moving-castle]

Uhhhh

what if

and hear me out

when Bernard finally gets in all that vigilante goodness

he’s staying at the manor waiting for the batfam and assassins or the like burst in and start attacking him and Alfred

and of course while Alfred is a badass that we all love we must accept the truth

he

is

old

he can’t fight em off like he used to so what if Bernie

sweet Bernie who none of them have seen fight before (except Kate and Tim)

just BEATS THE FUCK out of all the assassins and kidnappers like grabs one of Alfred’s guns and just gets every shot

and on that day Alfred shared his recipes with him

I’m kidding well I’m not but I have another point

so after all that happens the batfam comes home and Tim after having it explained to him immediately goes and comforts Bernie

because Bernie had to shoot people

and the last time he saw someone be shot

it was Darla

his best friend

His best friend who died in his arms at the too young age of 16

I am sure that all he’d be able to see would be Darla’s corpse bleeding out on the floor of the manor

shaking and staring at the bodies looking down at the gun in his hands and then back at the bodies thinking only one thing “oh god I killed them, I’m just like them. I killed them”

so anyway Bernie has a bad time and Timmy needs to comfort his sweet Bernard

[allmyocsarebritish]

Kiss, Maime, Kill Chapter 7: The Radio Demon

Pairing: Alastor X killer! F Reader

Warnings!!: continuation of angst lol but it's almost over

Wordcount: 0.95k

2 things: number one, this was supposed to be the final chapter but it got long so I split it, number two, sorry for the delay it's still exam season </3

1935

Pentagram City, Pride Ring

Searching across an entire ring of hell for a singular sinner was easier said than done. It was like painstakingly filtering through a spindly hay bale for a singular needle, tearing apart the masses in desparate hope of finding what you needed.

You had spent the past week since falling at fate's mercy, but at every moment of utter despair memories of Alastor spurred you on. It was at these times of loneliness that you reminisced of his absence whilst broadcasting, the solitude filled by his soothing voice filtering through the radio.

Sighing, you sat up from the mangy sofa in the basement you had managed to swindle for a month or two whilst you searched for Al (and in the process a more permanent residency). Tired and wholeheartedly worn out, you flopped into the wooden chair beside a chipped, stained desk, pressing play on the radio and resting your head in your hands. Hot, burning tears began to stream down your cheeks at the news reporter's cheery voice. It had no hint of the transatlantic accent you adored so much, nor did it carry any of Alastor's way of speaking. Shaking, you began to feel your anger, heartbreak and frustration bubbling like a pan that had spent too long at the stove.

Bubbling over.

A harsh growl of rage escaped your throat as you picked up the clunky, mahogany radio and heaved it at the wall before pounding it with your fists, leaving your knuckles sore and bleeding. The news reporter's voice drowned out until you were left in a silence broken only by sobs.

Sliding to the floor with your back against the wall, you covered your face with your bleeding hands, immobilised by grief. Scattered radio rubble littered the floor around you. The heavy, boxy shape remained mostly intact due to its stature, leaving only the dials scattered across the dusty wooden floor. Sniffling, you wiped your nose, not even bothering to disguise the tears or mascara staining your face as they continued to fall freely. Now you needed to get a new fucking radio. Not to mention the giant, gaping hole in the bloody (channeling Simon Armitage with this double meaning of bloody HA) wall thanks to your frustrated aggression.

"Fuck it, it's tomorrow's problem." You grumbled, stumbling over to the couch and flopping back down with an "uff", arm stretched over your weary eyes. You didn't remember exactly when sleep overtook, but it was neither peaceful nor refreshing.

Lifting your arm, you glanced at your watch. 11am. You'd overslept, not that it mattered anyway. Alastor, ever the early riser, would have gently scolded you for wasting such a promising morning, but he wasn't fucking here. Through bleary eyes you were greeted with the sight of the broken radio, another hefty weight added to the emotional load you were carrying. Burying your dread, you decided to try and focus on the problem at hand. It was a simple enough venture, travel to any decent shop in the city, pick up the cheapest radio to replace the one you broke (as it wasn't actually yours to begin with but instead belonged to those lending you the basement - you would have been glad to be rid of the thing), then wallow in self pity for the rest of eternity. Easy.

So easy in fact that you flopped back down, staring into space for another solid half hour. Then 3/4s of an hour. Then a full hour. Then you got up.

You didn't bother to change, this was hell: nobody gave two shits what you were wearing, nor was it anyone's business. The paved streets were rife with crime and danger, any ordinary person would be terrified. But it didn't bother you, nothing much did anymore. Empty eyes scanned over a few shop windows, nothing of interest present. You could hardly afford to replace the cathedral radio, you had to kill to pay rent, but a few coins jostled in your pocket as you walked. At least this wasn't the greed ring (not that you felt much at home in pride, considering you were so very lacking).

Window-shopping proved to be futile, and was getting you absolutely nowhere. You would have to actually go in to the shops, which you would prefer to avoid doing truthfully. But it wasn't exactly your choice as you really didn't want to be booted out and back onto the streets. Summoning strength with a deep inhale, you pushed open the door of a gadget's store, the little bell chiming as you entered.

You made your way over to the counter, mentally preparing for your first social interaction in days. Fiddling with the coins in your pocket your fingers traced over the imprint of Mammon's face as you began to mentally rehearse "do you sell radios??"

Just as you strung together a frail string of confidence, an earsplitting, piercing scream sounded from seemingly some kind of radio, given the static. How convenient. Or it would have been, at least if the anguished howling wasn't so incredibly loud and disturbing. Prolific serial killer you may be, but that didn't mean you delighted in an unknown sinner's pain. You were starting to live up to your surname. Speaking of Altruists, you missed your partner in crime. But, just as you were about to leave the shop, a certain Mid-Atlantic voice just so happened to filter over the anguished torment.

"Greetings, dear sinners!"

You froze like (get ready for it) a deer in the headlights. (DUDUDUDUDUUU)

The sound of his voice sent chills wracking your body and adrenaline pumping through your veins.

Alastor.

You were going to find him after all.

[ltash]

Rescued

If loving you means my destruction, then let it be Simon.

"Sometimes the hardest battles are the ones we fight within ourselves."

I don't know for how long I was out. When I woke up again, I was still lying on the same spot on the floor. As I came to, the excruciating pain started again. It was like someone was twisting my insides. The bleeding had grown heavier, soaking almost all of my jeans. I couldn't even get up to use the bathroom to check myself, to understand what was happening with me.

A bottle of water and a sandwich lay next to me.

Desperation welled up inside me as I reached for the water bottle, my hands trembling. I managed to unscrew the cap and took a sip, hoping it would give me some strength. The sandwich remained untouched; my stomach churned at the thought of eating.

Tears streamed down my face as I lay back down, clutching my abdomen. The pain was unbearable, and the fear of losing my baby gnawed at me.

Simon’s face flashed in my mind. I needed to hold on, to survive for both of us, but the darkness threatened to pull me under once more.

Muffled cries of the cartel members and bloodied walls welcomed him as he stepped forward. Shards of glass crunched under his boots as his eyes scanned the dimly lit hallways for any sign of the room where Nora could be. The mansion, now a darkened labyrinth of chaos, echoed with the sounds of distant gunfire and the faint hum of the night vision gear.

Ghost's mind was laser-focused, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring, ready to strike. His heart pounded with a mixture of fear and rage, pushing him forward. He couldn't afford to waste a single second; Nora's life depended on it.

"Gaz, report," Ghost whispered into his comms.

"Perimeter secure," Gaz replied. "No visual on additional hostiles. You're clear to proceed."

"Copy that," Ghost responded, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. He moved swiftly, his senses heightened. Every shadow seemed to hide a threat, every corner a potential ambush.

As he turned a corner, a faint sound caught his attention—a soft, desperate whimper. His heart lurched. "I've got something," he murmured, signaling the Shadows to cover him.

He followed the sound, each step bringing him closer to the source of the faint cries. Pushing open a partially ajar door, he entered a small, dimly lit room. The sight before him made his blood run cold.

Nora lay on the floor, her clothes torn and bloodied, her body battered and bruised. Blood stained her jeans, and her eyes were half-closed, her breaths shallow and labored. She was barely conscious, her strength waning.

"Nora!" Ghost's voice cracked with urgency as he rushed to her side. He dropped to his knees, his hands gently cupping her face.

Nora's eyes fluttered open, and she let out a terrified gasp, recoiling as much as her weakened body would allow. The sight of Ghost in his night vision goggles, his face obscured and menacing in the dark, filled her with fear.

"Shh, it's me, Nora. It's Simon," Ghost said softly, his voice trembling. He quickly lifted the goggles, revealing his eyes to her.

Recognition dawned in her eyes, and she relaxed slightly, though the pain and fear still lingered. "Simon..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Yeah, it's me. I've got you," he reassured her, his heart aching at the sight of her so broken and vulnerable.

Seeing the extent of her injuries, Ghost knew they had to move quickly. He glanced around the room and spotted a bed sheet. Gently, he wrapped it around her, covering her torn and bloodied clothes.

"We're getting you out of here," he murmured, lifting her as carefully as he could. Her body was light in his arms, but the burden of her suffering weighed heavily on him.

Ghost pressed his comms. "I've got her. We're heading out."

"Copy that. Extraction point is secure," Gaz's voice crackled back.

With Nora cradled against his chest, Ghost navigated back through the mansion, the shadows providing cover as they made their escape. He kept whispering soothing words to her, trying to keep her conscious and calm. Each step was a reminder of the urgency, but also a promise to never let her go through this again.

As they neared the exit, the night air felt like a welcome embrace. The helicopter's rotors were already spinning, ready to whisk them away to safety. Ghost tightened his hold on Nora, determined to protect her at all costs.

Nora managed a weak smile, her hand gripping his shirt. "Thank you, Simon," she whispered. "I knew you'd come."

"Always," Ghost replied, his voice filled with unwavering determination. "I will always come for you."

"You're safe now, Nora. I won't let anything happen to you," he vowed.

•••••••••

I opened my eyes to the muffled cries and the sounds of gunfire. The room was pitch black, but even in the darkness, I knew he had come to save me.

My heart pounded with a mixture of relief and fear as I lay there in excruciating pain. I strained to see through the darkness, my senses heightened by the chaos around me.

Through the cacophony of noise, I could hear his footsteps drawing closer, each step a promise of salvation. With every fiber of my being, I prayed for his safety, knowing that he would risk everything to rescue me.

As the sounds of battle grew louder, I closed my eyes, clutching onto hope with all my strength.

•••••••••••••

Ghost sat in the helicopter, cradling me in his arms. The thrum of the rotors vibrated through the metal floor, but all he could focus on was keeping me safe.

I opened my eyes briefly, feeling weak and in pain. I looked up at Ghost, my vision blurred but recognizing his presence. "Simon..." I whispered weakly.

"I'm here. I've got you," he replied softly, tightening his hold on me. "You're safe now. We're getting you out of here."

The helicopter lifted off, the night sky stretching out beneath us as we ascended. Gaz glanced over from his position, concern etched on his face. "How is she?"

"She's hurt bad, but she's a fighter," Ghost replied, his voice steady but strained. He looked down at me, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. "Just hang in there a little longer, okay?"

I managed a faint nod, my eyes closing again as I leaned into his chest. Every breath I took seemed to echo in the enclosed space, a reminder of the ordeal I had endured.

Ghost's mind raced with thoughts of vengeance and fury, but for now, all that mattered was getting me to safety. He held me close, his heart aching with a mix of relief and fear.

"Don't worry, love," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the noise of the helicopter. "I won't let anything happen to you ever again."

My eyes opened slowly, the thud of the helicopter landing registering in my ears. Ghost carried me out, his steady arms offering a sense of safety amidst the chaos.

As we stepped onto solid ground, my eyes glanced around at the lights surrounding us. It was probably a base, a haven from the darkness and danger we had just escaped.

But then, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and my vision blurred. My blood pressure plummeted dangerously low, and I felt myself teetering on the edge of consciousness. Clutching onto Ghost's shirt for support, I managed to utter just one word, my voice barely a whisper.

"Si..."

"Nora!" Ghost's voice shook with urgency as he held me in his arms. "Nora!" he called again, but I didn't respond.

With a sense of panic gripping his heart, Ghost wasted no time. He rushed me to the hospital, his strides quick and determined as he carried me through the doors. Every second felt like an eternity as he prayed for me to hold on, for me to be okay.

In the hospital, doctors and nurses sprang into action, their faces a blur as he laid me gently on a stretcher. He stood by my side, his eyes never leaving my face as medical professionals worked tirelessly to stabilize me.

"Fucking do something!" Ghost's voice rang out with desperation, the echoes reverberating through the hospital corridors. He stood there, feeling helpless and powerless as medical staff rushed to take me into the operating room.

As they wheeled me away, Ghost's eyes burned with a fierce intensity, his fists clenched at his sides in frustration. He watched, his heart in his throat, as they disappeared behind the swinging doors of the operating theater.

With every fiber of his being, Ghost prayed for my survival. His mind raced with thoughts of all the moments we had shared, the memories that now felt so precious and fragile.

In that moment, all he could do was wait. Wait and hope that the doctors could save me, that I would emerge from this darkness and come back to him.

[hannahssimblr]

In the evening we bike to the shop to buy firelighters. Jen says she likes the idea of a bonfire while we eat our barbeque food, even though the only time one has even been lit at the beach house is when my dad did it, all the while ranting on about how he learned everything he knew about fire in the boy scouts, and how if I had an iota of discipline or self control I might have benefitted from them before the local pack expelled me for being a shithead.

He was right. I reluctantly accept it as Jen and I approach the materials for making fire. Nobody has ever told me about the difference between briquettes and coal, what firelighters actually look like and exactly where peat plays into all of this. I know nothing about how to do manly things, and only ever figured out how to pitch a tent after subtly watching Shane do it the first time he and I went camping in the woods. 

In contrast, my father has shot an actual gun. He and his brothers hunted deer, game and wild pigs in the hills around their family farmhouse in Redding California. As they loaded up their rifles and zipped up their jackets they would say things to me about how I’d be coming with them someday, as though was some sort of honour, something to strive for, but by the time I was big enough to kill pheasants I was already five thousand miles away drawing comics on printer paper. My soft hands were meant for art.

“You grab the firelighters,” I tell Jen, and take a swerve towards the magazine stand so that I can peruse something in my comfort zone. There’s a small selection of artsy magazines, and I flip one open. 

“Um, do you think we should buy gasoline or something?” She stands chewing on her lip. 

“Probably not, right? That seems dangerous.”

“Should we ask someone?” 

“What? No.” Embarrassing.

I pretend to be engrossed in an article so that I don’t have to help, but while I'm there, an ad catches my eye, “Hey,” I call out to Jen, “would you want to go to an exhibition this weekend?”

“What kind?”

“Art.”

“Yeah, what kind?”

I turn the page to her so that she can see it, “contemporary,” and her eyes narrow at the images of weird sculptures made of bits of scrap metal, canvases with random splatters of paint dripping off the bottom, colour bleeding onto the floor.

“Hm. See, that’s the kind of weird art I don’t get.”

“It’s not about the art specifically, it’s about us doing something fun together.”

“And that’s in Dublin?”

“Yes.”

She smirks in a self satisfied way, “You’re bored,” she stops a passing customer to ask him if he knows what firelighters are, and if so, what does the box look like.

He shows her, and while she’s picking up the last two packets I come to stand with her, not helping, because now I'm more interested in selling this new idea to her. “It’ll be fun! How nice would it be to have a change of scenery? Get back to the city where stuff is actually happening, maybe go to that ice cream place you like.”

I’m certain this will sway her, but she pulls a face, “There’s loads of ice cream here, and the only reason you think nothing is happening on the beach is because you’re deliberately not doing anything.”

“Is it so bad that I want to have a day out with you?”

“No, I suppose not, but...” She wrinkles her nose “Fine. I don't want to be cynical. Do you think I’m cynical?”

“Yeah a bit.” I pay for the firelighters. As we exit the shop into the lingering light of the evening I admit to her, “I’m trying to cheer myself up, I just think I should make the most of the time I have left.”

She laughs, “It sounds like you’re terminally ill. You’re moving. So what? I’ll still talk to you all the time.”

“Yeah but I really want to savour these last few weeks. Will you come to the gallery?” I grip her arm and pretend to die, letting my knees buckle under me to really sell it, “...before it’s too late?”

“God, yes, fucking hell,” she groans, “I’ll come. I’ll do whatever you want for the rest of the summer, right?”

I throw an arm around her, “Thanks Jen.”

“Yeah, manipulator.”

“Takes one to know one,” I say cheerily, and we unlock our bikes and head towards home.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[run-little-hero]

T/CW // Unhealthy relationship, violence, grief, death, NSFW

The first time Hero engaged Villain in a fight was lifetimes ago, before tragedy had seeped its way into every part of their being. There’s a price attached to this job, Hero knows that now.

They’re facing Villain and the setting is all wrong. Hero feels like laughing. It’s absurd to think they ever did this in the name of justice. It’s all meaningless now; the fighting, the title, the prestige—meaningless to both of them, Hero can see that.

Minutes pass before Villain breaks their silence. “Sometimes I think I hear them say my name while I’m standing in another room.” They stare at the floorboards. Hero isn’t surprised they found them here. “I’m going crazy, right?”

Hero’s eyes drift to the couch. They remember falling asleep, Civilian’s head resting on their chest. The memory of burnt coffee wafts through the apartment.

“Would you be so lonely if you were going crazy?” Hero remarks.

“Maybe I wouldn’t.” Villain walks over to the coffee table, picking up an abandoned glass. “Hopefully it’ll get worse with time.”

According to the agents handling the case, Civilian’s relatives have been hard to locate, so no one has been by to clear out the apartment in the five days since they were killed. It’s not right their home should remain untouched. Something in Hero thought it might collapse in on itself now that it’s human isn’t in the world. This reflection of Civilian, destroyed.

And in the middle of this static snow globe is Villain. Hero’s enemy. The only person on Earth who understands what they’re going through. Hero hates them for it. For being a reminder.

“Villain,” Hero begins. “I want you to get out.”

Villain looks up. “I’m not done yet.”

“Done with what?”

Their expression morphs to anger. With a violent swing, they throw the glass onto the floor. Hero follows a few of the shattered pieces as they slide across the ground.

“I’m not done,” they repeat. Villain makes no effort to finish their statement. Hero understands anyways. Especially now, words seem so unnecessary. But how dare they destroy a piece of Civilian—what little they have left of them.

Hero tackles them, knocking the couch back in the process. Villain struggles, trying to push Hero off. Hero goes for their face, landing a punch across their jaw, then another. Blood drips from the corner of their mouth.

Villain manages to free themself with a knee to Hero’s stomach. They double over and Villain springs to their feet, running to grab a paperweight off a shelf. Hero gets back up, dodging Villain’s swing with the blunt object. They take the opportunity to push them through the glass coffee table. Shards dig into their bleeding hands as they struggle to rise. They’re stopped by the press of Hero’s boot on their chest, pinning them in place.

A sick smile spreads across Villain’s face. “They wouldn’t want us to fight, you know.”

Hero lifts their boot and stomps on Villain’s chest again, making them wheeze. “Shut up!” Hero yells. “It’s all your fault. You’re the reason they’re dead.”

“No,” they whimper. “If it’s my fault, then we split the blame.” Shut up. Hero can’t stand the implication.

“If you didn’t get in my way they wouldn’t have died! I could have stopped Supervillain!”

“I know that!” Villain cries. “You think I knew this would happen? You think I wanted this?” They sound as pathetic as Hero.

Hero blames Villain, but that blame is also inseparable from themself. If they’d protected Civilian better, if they’d just stayed away from them in the first place, they’d be alive. They’d never have been caught in the crossfire of Villain and Hero’s affections.

Hero takes their boot off Villain’s chest and bends down, grabbing them by the collar. Despite their efforts, Hero can’t convince themself that Villain’s feelings for Civilian are disingenuous. “I hate you,” they spit. “I hate that you’re here and Civilian’s gone. I hate that you’ve left me alive to deal with all this grief.”

They drop their hold on Villain and step away. “I hate how I wish it was me instead of Civilian, and not you.” Tears sting Hero’s eyes at the admission. Shame is a twisted thing. Love can hide behind it, disguise itself as such.

Villain scrambles, struggling to stand. They find their footing, brushing off shards of glass. They sway as they step forward, collapsing into Hero as soon as they’re within reach. Hero catches them.

They whisper, “I hate how we wasted so much time.” They’re crying. “Civilian wanted better for us, but we didn’t.”

Regret is the worst agony in grief. Hero knows they will never surface from it. Neither will Villain. They’re trapped in it, just as they’ve always been trapped in each other’s orbit.

Villain reaches for Hero’s face, cupping it with an injured hand. They drag a red finger across their lips. Hero holds Villain as they cry and bleed. Hero holds them as they kiss. It’s slow and sad. It’s full of a longing that will never be fulfilled. It contains emotions bursting to the surface and a truth finally acknowledged.

They part for a moment and Villain weakly pushes Hero onto the floor by the fallen couch. They wince as a few stray pieces of glass puncture their skin, but it’s forgotten as soon as Villain climbs on top of them and begins pressing kisses down their neck.

“Hero,” they whine.

This is the disruption Hero craved. Kissing their enemy in the wreckage of their mutual dead lover’s home. It’s deranged and it’s perfect for them.

“Hero,” Villain mutters in their ear. Hero fingers the buttons of Villain’s shirt. “Civilian.”

They freeze upon hearing the name. Villain just called them by Civilian’s name. It brings tears to their eyes. Desire courses through them.

“Say it again,” they demand.

Villain obeys. “Civilian.” Their name pounds in Hero’s ears as they listen to Villain chant it. “Civilian, Civilian, Civilian.” It’s the motivation Hero needs to rip Villain out of their clothes.

It’s poisonous. Polar extremes of grief and pleasure flood Hero’s mind until all three of them—Hero, Villain, and Civilian—warp together.

Hero can’t help but echo it back. “Civilian,” they say.

It makes Villain gasp. Their lips clash together. They choke on each other’s blood and tears and pretend it’s Civilian there with them.

Hero’s hands explore their skin. It’s the first time they’ve done this, but it’s something so inevitable it feels like it’s already happened. Villain feels so familiar. Hero focuses on the cacophony of ‘Civilian’s coming from both of them until they reach their climax.

Villain is breathless afterwords. “Hero,” they plead. Eyes closed, Hero feels Villain’s tears drip onto their face. “You’re all I have.” A kiss. “I need you.”

How terrible it is to find bravery in grief. It’s easy for Hero to say, “I need you, too. I love you. I have for a long time.”

They kiss, and Hero is filled with regret, because they will never be able to embrace like this without feeling Civilian’s absence. “I love you,” Villain mumbles.

They lie there well into the night. Villain falls asleep on Hero’s chest. Hero wonders if anyone would find them if they stayed like this, rotting away in Civilian’s apartment. They think it’d be a fitting tomb.

—

snippet #8