#the side that is staying all the damage wrought by the other

[cordeliawhohung]

Soft Spot - Part 3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part thirteen of "soft spot"

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you're so used to the teeth that they don't even hurt anymore

warnings: childhood trauma, mentions of past abuse, mentions of past torture, threats and unkind language

wc: 4.4k

Some part of you always knew you’d see him again, but you never imagined it would be like that.

In your pitiful daydreams, you always envisioned things would be darker; scarier, even. You’d find him again in some dim corner where he would trap you and would lurk and stare until he was ready to pounce. In the version of yourself in your daydreams, you were stronger. You knew exactly what to say, how to convey how you felt, but most importantly, he would pay. He would pay for every single transgression he wrought upon you and your mother. You would never have to see him again. But it was wrong. You weren’t supposed to run into him there. Not on a perfect day like that. 

It would have been a perfect day. 

The warmth of the sun on your skin, the laughter of everyone around you; you had every right to enjoy that day. To bask in the beauty of the trees with their singing, fluttering leaves, and to soak up the fragrance of tulips and freshly trimmed grass. But behind it all, there was always something lurking. A second layer you hadn’t yet exposed. The rotting carcass of a bird nestled by the trunk of a tree. Musty hot car exhaust from the street on the other side of the park. A man too angry for his own good and his daughter petrified on the bench. 

The smell of cigarettes. 

Your eyes had no choice but to stay glued onto the man in front of you. So many years had gone by, and though his age caught up to him, that unbridled rage that festered within him was painfully distinct. It was his eyes, it always was. You could see every thought and intention that came to fruition in his thoughts, and though he smiled, you knew none of it was good. It alerted some primal instinct in the back of your mind that screamed at you to run, to fight. All you could do was place your hands on your stomach and hope Simon would return soon. 

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” The words flew out of your mouth of their own volition, like some sort of ghost had taken control of your body and given you the strength to say them. 

Your father snorted as he took a step closer to you, and you had no choice but to watch him sink down into the seat next to you. His movements were slow, frail even. There was something wrong with him, as if he rotted from the inside out. Perhaps all his wrongdoings had finally caught up with him, and you took an odd sort of comfort in the thought he looked too sick to properly hurt anyone other than himself. 

“Haven’t seen each other in years and you have nothing to say? Bullshit.” He coughed. It sounded wet, and you could make out the sticky sounds of it clinging in the back of his throat. “Though, the last time we talked you didn’t have anything to say to me but a threat.” 

He was right. A threat. A promise. Maybe both. Whatever it was, you had meant every word of it at the time when you said you would kill him if he ever hit you again. That felt like forever ago. Some other lifetime. Really, you were surprised he even remembered it at all. No, of course he remembered it. He would always remember the worst parts of you; the parts of you he could twist and use against you. 

“I still mean it,” you said. 

It was an empty promise. You knew that, and he knew that too. 

“Sure thing, darling,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ll do a whole lot of damage in… this state.” 

No surprise bloomed in your chest at his comment, but disgust did. Having to see that vile man again was already bad enough, but seeing him while you were pregnant was a different form of degradation. It felt violating to be perceived in such a disgusting way, especially by the man who fathered you. Him seeing your mother pregnant hadn’t pulled on his heartstrings to save her from the terrible fate of his fury, and it certainly wouldn’t save you. 

“So, who’s the dad? Some rich American? Surprised to see you back here after you ran off to play school girl in the States,” he sneered. 

“You don’t have the right to ask that,” you snapped.

“Don’t I?” he challenged. “You’re my daughter.” 

“I’m nothing of yours.” 

A heavy sigh left your father’s lips as he adjusted his position on the bench. You hadn’t moved an inch since he approached you, and even your son seemed to know well enough to stay dormant inside of you. 

“You always have to be difficult,” your father huffed. 

“What the fuck do you want?” you bit. Intense eyes landed on the pathetic figure next to you, and you found your hands balling into fists in your lap. “We haven't spoken for years, and you think it’s okay to just stroll up to me in the damn park for a conversation?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said with a glare. “Remember, you were the one who cut contact with me, not the other way around, darling.” 

“Because you are a piece of shit, and you know it,” you retorted. “You’ve never been useful for a goddamn thing in your entire life. You beat my mother, beat me, and then left her to die when she got sick like she was a fucking toy you were tired of playing with. All that shit and you think you have any right to talk to me? To approach me and act like nothing happened?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, girl,” your father warned. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re knocked up, you don’t get to speak to me like that.” 

You weren’t sure what made your body move the way it did, but suddenly you were on your feet with your back facing him. Everything happened of its own accord. The way your feet moved along the pavement. How your heart thundered in your chest so violently you swore it would break your ribs. A sense of self preservation consumed your body and its senses as it did its best to get you away from the threat of your father. You were in no shape to fight, and you couldn’t afford to freeze, so you took flight. 

But you had never been very good at getting away. 

The brutal cycle of getting caught continued in the same way it always had; with a hand around your wrist. Your father’s grip was just as unforgiving as Bukin’s had been, and the same as Eric before him. Just like all the other times, you turned to face the aggressor with a bewildered glare on your face, incapable of holding back neither your fear nor your anger. 

“How long do you think you can keep running? Huh? Before your legs stop working? Before someone breaks them?” he asked, his tone all but demanding an answer from you. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Truly?” you questioned. 

“I’m your fuckin’ father,” he retorted.

Hot breath fanned across your face and you could almost taste the rancid tobacco leftover in his lungs. It was enough to make your stomach turn, and with the anxiety pooling in your stomach you nearly puked, but you held strong as you wiggled your wrist out of his grasp. 

“You are nothing to me. Not my father, not my family; nothing,” you spat. “I know you’ve got it in that thick skull of yours that you have some odd ownership over me because you fathered me, but that’s where our relationship ends. Do you understand me? I’ve lived my life fine without you. I’ll continue without you. I’ll have this kid that you’ll see no part of. I’ll get the life I always deserved while you die, alone and unloved, and nobody will fucking miss you at all.” 

A heavy silence weighed on your shoulders as you watched your father’s face morph in front of you. He was always an angry man, but his true nature was something your nightmares could never quite capture. They could never paint the twitch of his lips or the flexing of his jaw, or the way his fingers buzzed with anticipation. Your fuzzy childhood memories paled in comparison to the real, unbridled enjoyment your father experienced when instilling fear and pain in someone. 

Maybe that’s why you never learned. Not because violence wasn’t a good teacher, but because you could never remember just how bad it hurt. Not until you were there in the maw of the beast. 

Whatever you thought was there lurking in your father’s features vanished faster than it had formed. Your father’s eyes scanned every inch of your scowl and you watched them light up with something sinister and wicked the moment they landed on the corner of your lip. A grin replaced the anger on his face as he took in the sight of that unsightly scar that still plagued the corner of your lips even after all those years, and you almost flinched. As his quiet and sour chuckle sounded, you knew exactly what he thought. He hadn’t given you that scar, which meant you had never truly escaped trouble as much as you wanted to pretend you did. 

But you did. You climbed away from that life, fought tooth and nail just to live without violence, and you made it. Each night you were able to go to bed in the arms of a man who had never once caused you harm. In the mornings you would wake up to fresh air and a chaste kiss before you ever even slithered out from underneath the covers. The only bruises that tainted your skin were ones caused by unseen table corners, not the fists of an angry man. 

Yet you knew he would never believe you. Abusers always had to come out victorious, even if that meant dipping their mind into their own delusions. You would sooner turn to dust and bone before your words would ever reach him, and he seemed to hold himself with pride over that fact. 

He chuckled again, louder that time, and looked down at the ground for a short moment as he shook his head. His eyes landed on you again with humor before he shrugged. “Keep telling yourself that, darling.” 

A large hand settled on your stomach as you felt a looming presence gently pull you away from the monster of your childhood. You didn’t even have to look up at the figure to know it was Simon; you knew him by touch alone. Your body did not untense at all even with him there, and the distilled anger was palpable on your husband. Dark eyes glared at your father, who hardly bothered to look Simon up and down. 

All it would take would be one word. Something to anger your father, to get him to lose his judgment, to get him to lunge. A vile, dormant anger inside of you wanted to. Wanted to goad your father into attacking just to watch what Simon would do. You’d seen what he was capable of. Watched him break a beast’s arm and stomp on it just to feel the bone crunch under his boot. It was so easy for him to pull that trigger and end the life of a man simply for calling you darling. If only he knew half the things your father had said to you. 

How much would he have to bleed to make it feel better? How many bones would have to break? Would it ever be enough? Could more violence ever satiate the need for revenge that stowed itself away inside of you? Did that make you just like your father? Did you even care? No, it would never be enough. There was no penance he could offer you that wouldn’t just turn your stomach sour. 

He would get his turn. One day. If you were lucky, you would never even hear of it. 

“I never want to see or hear from you again. I mean it,” you said as your eyes locked on him. 

Your father’s eyes flickered up to Simon, where he finally seemed to understand the weight of the situation. He was old; a stupid drunk with nothing to fight with but a decayed body and rotten core — something Simon could shatter in an instant. Perhaps he finally realized he didn’t have as much power over his little girl like he thought he did, or maybe his self preservation instincts kicked in, but your father finally took a step back with a shrug. 

“Whatever you want,” he said. 

It wasn’t until you were halfway back to the car that you realized Simon tried to grab your attention. Your name fell from his lips hushed and even, yet no matter how hard he tried it was impossible for him to mask the worry it was drenched with. His pace was slow compared to usual, but then again it wasn’t like you could move as fast as you would have liked. You wanted to run — run to the edge of the world and never look back, yet you were so painfully present on earth. 

“Sweetheart, slow down,” Simon said, trying to calm you. 

“I’m fine.” 

Those were the first words you were able to choke out, and you hadn’t realized how tight your throat felt until you said them. Still, you continued to push ahead, chest heaving with anxiety as you got closer to Simon’s car. All you wanted to do was go home. It seemed that’s all you ever wanted to do. 

“Who was that?” Simon then asked, still trying to pull answers from you. 

“Your father-in-law.” 

There was no need for further explanation. Simon was well aware of the horrors you had to fight when you were a kid. A storm swirled in your mind so violently even he could feel the raging wind, and rather than try and fruitlessly fight it off, he chose to weather the storm with you instead. 

The ride home was a blur with your thoughts so full to the brim yet simultaneously empty. Numb. It had been a long while since you had felt that way, and it didn’t wane until Simon unlocked the door to the flat where you pitifully shuffled over to the couch. Boo beat Simon to your side, and he instantly attempted to climb up on top of your stomach as if it were a perch and not where your child rested inside of you. You wanted to smile at him, but all you could manage was a quivering bottom lip. 

“Sweetheart,” Simon tried again as you pushed your overly zealous cat off your lap. “Talk to me.” 

Instead of sinking into the cushion next to you, he crouched on the floor where his hands quickly found yours. Every nerve in your body felt fried, too hot for you to exist properly. It traversed up your body in painful waves until the pressure built up so much behind your eyes you swore they would burst from your skull. 

“I hate him,” you said, voice trembling. “I hate him so much. It’s been years and- and he shows up now? When everything is good? Wh- When I’m like this?” 

You paused for a moment as the rush of hormones nearly suffocated you. Eyes overflowed with tears as you sniffled back the snot that started to run in your nose. You wanted to take your hands out of Simon’s in order to rub at your eyes, but his thumb running along your knuckles was too comforting for you to deprive yourself of that feeling. 

“And I want him to pay. For everything. For all the years of bullshit he put mum and I through. But it feels so far out of reach because no matter what it’s not good enough. I just hate feeling like this, so fucking useless.” 

Simon’s hands moved up from your hands, across your arms, along your shoulders, and all the way up until he cupped your cheeks in his hands. Everything felt heavy, yet he held your head high as he shifted closer to you. 

“I know it’s hard. It’s never easy running into monsters like him,” he said. “But he’s never gonna see you again. Never layin’ a fuckin’ hand on you either.”

“It’s not that, it’s just… he makes me feel like a kid and I hate it,” you said in a near whisper. 

“I know,” Simon shushed as he moved up to sit on the couch next to you. His arms wrapped around your body as he drew you as close to his chest as your body could comfortably contort. His warmth was all consuming, settling your frayed nerves as his hand traced along your waist. “I know.” 

His chin rested on the top of your head while you did your best to calm your breathing into something more manageable. That simple action — breathing — had already grown to be so difficult those days with the extra weight on your diaphragm, but the crushing feeling of being reduced into nothing but a scared little girl again was unbearable. 

“Family is bullshit, anyway,” Simon suddenly chirped. “Don’t have to keep anyone around that you don’t want. Could just be me and you, if you want. You, me, and our boy.” 

Our boy. Those words had your tears falling harder than they did before. Having a child wouldn’t fix all your problems, and you were very much aware of that fact. Children weren’t supposed to be the glue that mended old wounds, like so many people wished they would be. Yet still, an odd sort of excitement flickered at the thought that you could one day erase it all. Erase all the parts of your life, and replace it with something truly worth living for. 

Like Simon. 

Like your son. 

The prospect of no longer being your father’s daughter was an exciting one. Maybe your unfortunate conversation with him had been the universe’s way of getting you to say goodbye, though you could have very well done without one. Either way, none of it mattered. It was done. You would have a child to fuss over before long, and you didn’t need thoughts of a sour old man ruining that joy. 

You didn’t even think of your father that night as you and Simon settled in for bed. There was too much love to enjoy in the warmth of his arms as he held you close to his chest that there was no room for anything else. Simon’s hands roamed your stomach, as they often did those days, where they settled at the top of your abdomen as if waiting for a good kick. For a moment, everything was still as Boo curled up against your legs with a quiet purr, and a smile curled your lips as you felt Simon’s lips press against the back of your neck. 

Except, no matter how good things got, you always seemed to end up back in that basement. Some days it was difficult to tell if you left a piece of yourself there, or if a piece of it had clung to you even after so many years. Either way, it didn’t change the fact you stood in that room with its pale lilac walls that were still just as empty and bare as the first day you woke up in that cursed place. 

However, several items were missing from their usual spot in that room. There was no door to the bathroom in which you spent so many hours hiding in, or the bed with the quilt you had spent half a day bleeding into. In fact, an entire wall had all but vanished, giving you the perfect view of the ocean with its salty waves. A comforting freshness lingered in the air rather than the rotten scent of iron, and for the first time in years, you didn’t feel scared. 

“He’s so handsome.” 

An old rocking chair creaked in the center of the room as your mother sat rocking a bundle of blankets in her arms. The back of her head faced you as her attention was soaked up by something else, something new, and your wavering feet shuffled closer to her. 

“Who?” you asked, attempting to peer over her shoulder. 

“My grandson,” she replied with a chuckle. 

Impatient eyes peered over your mothers shoulder as you tried to steal a glance at the baby boy, yet no matter what angle you tried to get, his face always seemed to be obscured by the blanket. He was so quiet, so much so that the waves crashing on the shore just beyond that missing wall drowned out each quiet whine and sigh. 

“He looks so much like you,” your mother cooed. “Good thing, too. I was worried he’d get Simon’s nose.” 

You laughed, and it was strange. You never thought you’d be laughing in that basement. 

“Simon’s got a fine nose,” you defended. 

“Oh, I’m sure he does. Underneath all the scar tissue, anyway,” your mother teased. 

Your laughter sounded in harmonious unison as she finally looked away from your son and up at you. Her eyes shined brighter than any other time you could remember in your dreams. She looked so real it was almost like you could reach out and hug her again like you used to when you were a kid. 

“Can I see him?” you asked. 

“Not yet. Just let me have this for a moment. You’ll see him soon enough,” she replied. 

She paused as her bottom lip began to tremble.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. 

“What for?” you asked. 

“Everything.” 

There was no need to ask for further explanation; it was written in her face. Despite everything that had happened to you throughout your life, there was the indomitable will to survive, even if that just meant more suffering. After so many years, your suffering finally bore fruit. You no longer had to go to sleep wondering if you’d wake up to shattered porcelain on the floor. Unlike her, you had escaped.

That’s all she had ever wanted for you — for someone to take care of you. 

Your mother’s attention wandered back to the missing wall in front of her, and your gaze followed. Fluffy clouds billowed along the horizon, and seagulls danced in the sky together while they sang to one another. That ocean was brighter than you had remembered it, like the sun had finally peeked through the clouds. 

“I think it’s time for you to go home,” she said. 

“Home?” you repeated. 

She nodded. “You don’t need to keep coming here anymore.” 

She was right. You were tired of that basement. Tired of the memories that haunted you from time to time. They would always be with you in some way, but you couldn’t wait to drown them with new memories. Better memories. 

There was no need for a goodbye, as you had said them years ago to that wretched place. Instead, your feet trudged forward until carpet turned into grass. Cold wind moved freely around your body as it beckoned you closer to the crashing waves on the sandy shore. When your feet got close enough to the water that it nearly kissed your toes, you turned around only to find the house, and its terrible basement, had vanished. 

That was the last time you ever looked back. 

Searing hot pain ripped through your body when you woke up. It rippled all throughout your abdomen in a wave so vicious it took your breath away. Boo, who had been by your feet when you had fallen asleep, pawed at your face as he purred and bashed his head against yours. The pain left you nearly incapacitated for a moment until the wave eventually waned, and it was only then that you were able to slowly push yourself up so that you sat with your legs over the side of the bed. 

Sticky sweat clung to your body with little remorse for your comfort, and you tried your best to calm your racing heart with a steady breath. In some poor attempt to assist you, Boo pawed at your aching stomach with an annoyed meow. You gently pushed him away, only for him to whine. Simon grunted, half awake yet still irked by the creature’s impressively loud demands for attention. 

Simon didn’t fully wake up until a second wave of pain hit you, and you were unable to hold back the squeaky wince that it forced out of you. The bed shook as Simon’s hulking frame tore the blankets off of his body and scooted so that he sat next to you. His hand rested firmly against your back, yet he almost retracted when he felt your muscles tense and nearly tear with the strength of your contractions. Had it not been for the little human in your womb blocking your way, you were certain you would’ve been doubled over in pain. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What do you need?” Simon urged. 

It was impossible to get any words out with the intensity of it all, and for a moment the only thing you could do was pant sharply as you tried to keep yourself from hyperventilating. You leaned your head to the side where it rested on Simon’s shoulder while your teeth nearly shattered as your jaw clenched. Eventually, the pain diminished once more, allowing your brain to clear just long enough to form a proper thought. 

“He’s coming,” you panted. Your hand reached up to wipe the sweat from your upper lip, and your entire body shuddered with a sigh. “Fuck, we gotta- gotta go.” 

“Okay, yeah,” Simon said. 

He slipped off of the bed to stand in front of you, hands quickly capturing yours in his. His voice was calm and even, and not even his grip trembled as he helped you to your feet. Simon was always strong. Never one to show when he was nervous. But even then, you swore you could feel his racing heart pulse in his fingertips. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

[any-mouse]

Ra’s Al-Ghul Is Why We Batclan Can’t have Nice Relationships Things.

Ok, so. I am not someone who knows a lot about the DC fandom, but fics and the DCxDP crowd (who are why I’m here) have given me information and research binges have given me more. And here’s a take I haven’t seen about Jason’s death, and why Batman not killing Joker made things dangerous for Robins. Or did it?

Batman could not win. If Ra’s decided the only thing that would get his chosen heir, or at least son-in-law, into killing would be to kill Robin, it’s time to send his assassins in. Batman keeping to the “no-killing” rule is the only thing keeping a bunch of kids and teens from facing down, not the gangs and henchmen of Gotham, but a literal death cult.

Which is one thing that makes me wonder if that’s hadn’t been Ra’s’ plan, only manipulating the Joker into doing it for him. Which casts Batman undoing Nightwing’s killing of Joker in a very different light.

But there are other things that go along with that. And why Ra’s is a bit, fixated, on poor Tim. With how wrathful and brutal Batman became after, everything, it was only a matter of time before someone died. And then all Ra’s has to do is, wait. Drop hints or little reminders of the League, maybe have Talia swing by a few times. Allow the previous rapport to rebuild itself. In the meantime, build up Jason’s rage, anger, betrayal, and then unleash him on Gotham. Watch as the two brutal titans clashed, until Batman kills Red Hood. It would utterly destroy Bruce to have been the one to kill Jason a second time.

But, ah, there is a chance to fix this. The Lazarus Pit. Bruce will do anything to undo this fatal mistake, wrought at his hands and driven by his wrath. And in his grief stricken desperation, as he looks back on his rampage with despair, at all of the people he maimed, crippled, and killed in his agony, in steps Ra’s. Don’t worry, Ra’s has been collecting them. Fixing them. He does not agree with Bruce’s decision to leave, he still does not support Batman’s policies. But he knew it was important to Bruce so he took steps to ensure that no irreparable damage was done. Slowly, carefully, drawing a grateful Batman back into the fold. Wearing away at morals already cracked by grief and rage, using soft words where harshness has failed. Reviving Jason once again, keeping the two of them orbiting each other like binary stars, unable to leave, but always wanting to stay.

And it’s all foiled by one rich brat who’s stealthier than he has any right to be. Tim knows that Batman is going off the rails of sanity at an ever quickening pace. If he’s close enough for good pictures, he’s close enough for first aid and responder calls. So there is A Lot of damage and wreckage left in Batman’s wake, but nothing that isn’t salvageable. Ra’s won’t have a cadre of former henchmen and goons brainwashed into serving as Gotham’s foot soldiers but that would have been secondary. But Tim does more than that. Tim throws himself between Gotham and Batman because no one else will. Tim is a highly intelligent and self-sufficient child. His self-worth is in the toilet, thank you very much Drake bio-donors.

So Tim out-stubborns Batman and glues himself to his side and pulls him back. He cuts off the roaring rampage of revenge. Batman starts healing and Ra’s just can’t have that, oh no. But this is an easy enough fix, and it’s even better than the first plan. After all, loosing the last Robin to a violent villain led them to this point. How much worse would it be, to have started to heal, only to have it happen again? To destabilize that way again? Oh, Batman will never be able to resist, there had always been the possibility that Red Hood would win. Not high, and not an unworkable outcome, but snuffing out yet another Robin would ensure Red Hood would die, and then Ra’s would have another knife to twist Jason to his will. Taking pointer from his killer, not just his name, tsk tsk.

And it’s not like he couldn’t revive Tim as well, play the two of them off against each other and Bruce. Using their enmity and bitterness to wound Bruce, using Bruce to keep the two of them from spiraling out of control in their rivalry, make them resent Bruce for picking sides, rubbing salt into Jason that Bruce cared enough to avenge Tim but not him. Taunting Tim for what Bruce dragged them all into over Jason. Throw Damian into it just when it seemed to be settling into an uneasy dynamic equilibrium. Setting the boys on Blüdhaven, drawing in Bruce. See which way Bruce jumped, to protect Dick from the boys or if Bruce will try and recruit Nightwing for the League.

Ra’s has so much to gain from Joker killing Jason. It wouldn’t be difficult to send in a few assassins disguised as henchmen to plant the idea. Sacrifice a pawn or two, to gain a queen and rook.

[climbthemountain2020]

Flame of Autumn - Chapter 20

Part 21/26 | Ao3

Eris

The time since the battle of Spring had flown by–it seemed the to-do lists were endless and the days were short. But things were finally starting to even out a bit, and now, on the day of their trip to Dawn for the High Lord’s summit, Eris felt a peace throughout the Forest House that was so wholly good and so entirely unfamiliar. He stood in the opened center foyer, eyes up at the blue sky through the weather-enchanted ceiling. He’d had this feeling over and over the past week–like he couldn’t believe that Beron was truly dead, that this was his life now, not living in the shadows of a monster.

There was so much work to be done, and it would be years of undoing the centuries of damage that Beron had wrought upon the court, but it would be worth it. He was a good and fair fae, and his intentions were to drag Autumn out of the dark and make it a place where fae of all stations would be proud to call home. As Tilly’s hand slipped warmly into his, he knew he’d accomplish it all with her by his side.

“Are you ready to go, love? Your brothers are waiting downstairs.” She laid her head against his shoulder, and her scent filled his nose, suddenly overpowering all other senses.

“Actually, dear, stay right here. There’s something we need to do first; I’ll be right back.” Eris shot down to his brothers, let them know to go ahead with their bags to Dawn, and that they’d be there shortly in time for the meeting. They nodded and winnowed off, Eris racing back up the stairs to Tilly. Her eyes shot to him as he crested the top of the stairs again. He took her hand and began walking, all the while Tilly giggled and followed along.

“Eris, where are we going?” He just smiled.

“I have something to show you.” He led her through familiar but changing halls, his hand never leaving hers. Her bright hair stood out like the shine of a late-fall sunset in a low, braided style, tendrils escaping around her face. He thought she was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen, especially in the low-cut, deep violet dress she had on. He was going to enjoy taking it off of her.

He turned sharply, opening the heavy wooden doors to the throne room and tugged her through, pulling the doors shut behind him as they walked forward in the dark. He pulled her gently in front of him, clasping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her back to his chest as she yelped halfheartedly in the dim light.

She whispered, “What are we doing in here, love?” He pressed his lips to her ear, and he whispered just as low.

“I wanted to tell you I am having a new throne made. I hate this one, and I hate even more the memories that go with it. I’m actually having two made, one for you and one for me” He nodded to the large monstrosity on the dais. “This throne was Beron’s, and he used it for nothing but evil.” It was huge and made of heavy iron, twisted to mimic dancing flames, but looking more menacing than regal in its nature. “This throne will be hauled off before we get back from Dawn, and I’ve requested it be tossed into the sea.”

“That far, hmm? So why are we here to look at Beron’s horrid heirloom one last time?” She said quietly, the words whooshing from her with her breath.

“We aren’t here to look at it, darling.” He practically heard the smile across her face as she understood the implication.

“Well, then. You’d better go sit up there one more time, High Lord.” Her voice was low, nearly a growl in the dim light as Eris released her from his arms and climbed the dais, turning to sit on the throne he’d watched his father destroy things for centuries. Tilly’s eyes were filled with fire, her lips twisted into a smirk as she coquettishly lowered herself into a curtsy, her eyes remaining on his the whole time. Eris leaned back into the throne, spreading his legs out and propping his fist beneath his chin, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. Curtseying deeply, Tilly’s smirk became a feral grin.

“How may I be of service, High Lord?” Her words were like honey, dripping over her tongue and floating sweetly to his ears. He barely held back the groan that threatened to leave his throat as he beckoned her closer. She approached the throne, her hips swaying with each step, her eyes alight with mischief. She stopped in front of him at the top of the dais, stood between his thighs, her fingers twitching as though she was using everything at her disposal to hold herself back from touching him. He looked into her eyes, and they were devouring him from head to toe. He could smell the shift in her scent, and it cracked the last tether holding him back from her.

He lunged forward, grabbing her plush thighs in his hands and yanking her forward. He’d expected her to yelp with surprise, but instead her mouth was already on his, her tongue dipping into his mouth to taste every bit of him–to claim him for her own. He sat back, pulling her with him until she settled, knees on each side of his thighs tucked neatly into the throne. She ground down on him, and the strangled sounds left both of their throats, echoing into their mouths.

Her hands went into his hair and his grabbed roughly along her hips and ass, pressing her further down onto him as they kissed feverishly, the last coil having sprung free and unleashing them on each other. He tore his mouth from hers to press hot, desperate kisses to her chest as she tipped her head back and moaned. He moved his hands back to her thighs, pressing his fingers into her skin as he pushed her dresses up to her waist, reaching into her underwear.

“Cauldron, Tilly. You’re soaked. All that for me?” He murmured into her ear as she whined low, nodding. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, High Lord.” The plan backfired as the words shot straight to his cock, now straining painfully with the need for release as she ground back down on him against his fingers. He rewarded her by dipping them back into her, closing his eyes and relishing the sound of her keening. There was no preamble as he pushed a finger inside her, thrusting twice and adding another.

“Take what you need, Tilly.” And she did. She rode his hand with abandon, crying out as he lifted a thumb to her clit, rubbing tight circles against her as she writhed. He knew she was close, and gods, he might follow right behind her like a youngling. She was a sight to behold, sitting like a true queen on the throne, and he’d gladly fall at her feet any day. He kissed her throat as he felt her pulse around his fingers, and grazed his teeth over her pulse while she screamed out. “Come for me, High Lady.” And with a scream, she did.

He tried to slow his motions to let her ride out the orgasm, but Tilly wasn’t done with him. Before he could even register the shift, she had her hands on his laces, pulling his cock free and lining herself up against him.

“Tilly, we don’t have to–” But he lost his ability to form a coherent thought as she slid down on him, the still-pulsing flutters within her dragging Eris to within an inch of his life. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck, and now she leaned in to tug his earlobe between her teeth. Eris was a goner. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises, the bucking of his hips up into her frantic and erratic with need.

“Take what you need, Eris,” she parrotted back at him, and he could hear the smile on her lips as she said it, rolling her hips to meet his every thrust. He was rapidly losing control of the situation, as he often did with his mate, but he couldn’t find it in himself for even a moment to care. “Mark me as yours, High Lord.” And the thought of it undid him entirely.

He gripped her tightly to him as he went over the edge, her resounding cry echoing through the hall and letting him know she’d joined him. As they came down, held tightly in each other’s arms on the throne that had symbolized so much hate and pain, they let themselves start anew. Their breaths mingled and their hearts slowed to beat as one while they envisioned the new future that was open wide to them.

Tilly

They were late getting to Dawn, rushing through the halls, but they couldn’t stop giggling like children. Tilly wondered if she’d ever in her life been this truly happy. The laughter seemed to bubble up within her, breaking free from her throat unabashed and unrepentant, as if to live on just to spite Beron’s memory, despite the horror he’d wrought upon them. She knew it would take time to recover, but choosing to live and press on and experience every second of joy with the son he’d robbed of the life he deserved seemed a pretty good place to start.

They’d stumbled through the doors of the atrium late, the last ones to arrive, and paused their laughter long enough to have the decency to look somewhat embarrassed. She had to stifle another giggle as she noticed the high bloom of color on Eris’ cheeks, the tousled curls that spilled over his forehead, as he straightened his coat and walked her over to the chairs for Autumn and the amusement of his siblings. Tilly snuck a look to Alanna, the new High Lady of Day, who also appeared to be wrangling a genuine smile. The light in her eyes was almost enough to make Tilly stumble–she’d never seen Alanna so alive, and it immediately brought tears to her eyes. Alanna caught her stare and nodded to her, a somber yet grateful look passing between them. She hadn’t seen Alanna since everything had happened; they had much to catch up on, but Tilly was only happy she’d gotten out safely. So many times in that dungeon she’d worried about Alanna’s safety and hoped she wasn’t suffering, too.

Eris, as always, pointed out the people to her in a low voice as they watched. Thesan and his partner gave a brief introduction for the meeting, followed by Rhysand discussing the recent battle in Spring and the resulting meeting being called. He discussed the transfer of power in Autumn with another look to Tilly and Eris, who nodded back at him in acknowledgment. It felt good to know that, perhaps for the first time, there was real potential for all the courts to be aligned as one truly allied force.

Helion, next to Alanna and gripping her hand with the emotion that only a mating bond could provide, spoke to Tamlin’s partner, Penny. “How did you kill him?” Frankly, Tilly could hear these details millions of times and never tire of them. When she woke from nightmares, she liked to soothe herself back to sleep with the mental imagery of him burning from the inside out, eyes melting, organs popping like sausages over an open flame.

“I burned him with his own fire. From the inside out.”

Absolutely glorious, and exactly what he deserved.

She remembered his hideous, cruel face above her as she woke up strapped to that table. She remembered the way he caged her in the hall. She remembered the scars on Eris. A violent shudder went through her, and Eris’ hand was immediately on hers.

“You okay?” He whispered, low so only she could hear. She gave the briefest of nods.

“I wish I’d seen it.” She whispered back, and he laughed under his breath, giving her hand a squeeze in his but not dropping it.

“Me too.” He continued to hold her hand while the other courts asked Penny questions about her mirroring. She seemed eager and enthusiastic about answering, likely knowing it meant drawing more people to their cause. Tilly had never heard of the ability to mirror like Penny could–she was fascinated, and it seemed everyone else felt similarly. The demonstration of powers with the inventions from Dawn nearly blew her away. She couldn’t imagine how advantageous it would be to have that sort of power in a battle.

When it was all over, Tilly was already aching to go. While her body had physically healed, the exhaustion of the pregnancy had hit her just in time to not give her a single moment of a break. Before they could call the meeting to a close, however, Thesan spoke again.

“Thank you for the demonstration and your willingness to answer questions, Penny. Unfortunately, I think we must all address the pressing issue in the room. I’m sure I am not the only one with reservations about Spring after the last war.”

Tilly knew well of the background with Spring and the last war. Everyone did. But it had also seemed fairly clear to her how Tamlin had atoned for his part in everything. If Feyre and Rhysand of all people could forgive him the way they’d seemed to when she was in Spring, then surely everyone else could too.

“That is hardly fair, Thesan, and you well know it.” Feyre had spoken up, and though Tilly wasn’t very familiar with many of these fae, she saw the relief in Tamlin and Penny across the room, as well as the shock from some of the other courts. “Tamlin not only allowed us to rescue my sister from a Hybern camp, saving all our lives, but he came and fought for us in the final battle. He gave his power without question so that Rhys could live. Or have you forgotten?”

Tilly decided she liked Feyre at that moment–her reputation on the battlefield obviously preceded her, but Tilly felt like, even as a person, she was thoroughly good. They’d gotten off on a rough start–hopefully that could be remedied, especially if she were to become High Lady.

“Everyone in this room has done things they aren’t proud of, but this is about more than that. So my court will be putting petty squabbles and old grudges aside in favor of winning the upcoming war. I hope yours will, too.” Feyre’s words seemed to wave through the room and have the desired impact. She sat back down, and Helion moved to speak.

“I’m with the Night Court on this. Tamlin has shown he is a good male who made mistakes. There is no reason to continue holding what happened with Hybern over his head. Especially if Feyre has moved on.” Tilly wondered how Eris felt about Helion now, moreso now that Alanna was living with Helion, and it had turned out he was her mate. She made a note to discuss it further when they returned home. She felt Eris startle a bit next to her as his mother spoke, too.

“With the death of Beron, we have a chance to truly rule in peace with each other–one force to unite all of Prythian with peace and understanding. Let’s not let anything get in the way of that.” Tilly’s eyes burned violently with unshed tears as the pride she felt for her mother-in-law and friend swam in her chest. She could feel Eris’ emotions, too, ratcheting hers up even higher. Pregnancy was making her emotional about everything.

She focused on calming herself and her tears down as Tamlin addressed the room, giving a sincere apology that seemed to finally reach the ears of all in attendance. Rhysand took the opportunity to implore all the courts to stand together once more to fight for peace in Prythian.

Agreement scattered through the room, and it was decided. They’d meet again in the morning to formulate a plan, but for the night, they could retire. Tilly and Eris and the court had already decided to stay and talk to Helion and Alanna, but she was so looking forward to laying down in a soft bed and lifting her legs up on a pillow. As soon as she saw Alanna coming close, something broke inside of her and she took off, all but throwing herself into her arms and embracing her tightly.

“I am so, so sorry, Tilly. I would take it all from you if I could. No one deserves this, least of all you–are you…Are you–” Her eyes widened and shot to Eris, then back to Tilly, then down to her stomach. “Are you pregnant?” she whispered forcefully. Tilly took Alanna’s hands in her own, smiling and nodding through the tears as Alanna tossed her arms around her again, holding her other arm out blindly for Eris to join, which he did immediately. “My lovely, lovely children. I am so proud of you. So immensely, incredibly happy for you both.”

The Night Court and Spring Court began to walk over, so Eris pulled back and Tilly straightened up, taking a moment to clear the tears that seemed ever-present in her eyes for one reason or another now as Alanna and Helion talked with them. Lucien had come over with Night, and she could tell Eris had his eyes on him. She knew he’d want to talk to him alone at some point–he’d been planning what to say with Tilly all week.

Alanna spoke with Penny, holding her hands and pulling her close, too. Alanna deserved all the happiness in the world, and it thawed something in Tilly to see her so at ease. Penny deserved a veritable treasure trove for giving all of them this precious gift of freedom.

“Alanna and I cannot tell you how much it means to us,” Helion was saying to Penny. “You will always have an open invitation to Day to visit me and the High Lady.” He beamed at Alanna. He then shot a look to Lucien. “Perhaps you can also convince our son to come visit sometimes, bring my grandchild with him, even.” Alanna’s eyes shot to Tilly and Eris with a secretive smile on her lips, a grandmother twice over, now.

“I already told you we will visit.” Lucien said in exasperation. “As soon as the accepted mating bond calms down.” Eris made a face, and Tilly couldn’t help but let another laugh bubble up as she made her way over to Penny. She owed her more gratitude than words could measure, but she hadn’t been up to talking much the previous week. She owed her a proper introduction and thank you now that she felt able.

“While everyone is thanking you for killing the worst male to walk the continent, I must as well. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself the other day. My name is Matilda–Tilly. I’m Eris’ mate and wife. We could not be at the battle because I was trapped in Beron’s dungeons. We are eternally in your debt for what you’ve done for us.”

Penny wasn’t quick enough to disguise the horror on her face as she registered that Tilly had been in the dungeons, and Tilly fought the urge to flinch. Maybe she shouldn’t have opened with that. But Penny’s face transformed into one of compassion immediately.

“I hope that we will be good friends and neighbors, Tilly. As I said, killing him was my absolute pleasure.” Tilly felt joy rush through her at Penny’s words.

“We were working on it–apparently not as subtly as we’d thought.” Eris planted a kiss on her cheek, pulling her close and letting his hands slide over her hip to her stomach, his new favorite place to be.

The courts mingled a bit longer, moving across the hall to dinner after a while. They said goodbye to Penny and Tamlin, who were going back to their rooms for the night, and Tilly looked for a place where she could sit. Her exhaustion was all-encompassing, and her leg was beginning to ache again. She found a nice looking couch in the hall where they were all informally eating dinner and mingling, and Eris went to grab her a drink and a plate of food before he had to make his rounds, as well.

That’s where she was still nestled when Gwyn, Emerie, and Nesta found her, shoving an absurd amount of little sausages stuffed into croissants into her mouth. She’d made Eris get her a second plate of them, much to her own embarrassment and his endless amusement.

“Tilly! It’s so good to see you again. How are you healing?” Gwyn plopped down onto the couch beside her, pulling her in for a hug, which momentarily shocked Tilly.

“Good to see you, too, Gwyn. I’m pretty much healed, just dealing with some aches in my leg. Turns out a shattered femur doesn’t exactly heal perfectly, even for us.” Emerie and Nesta grimaced, taking seats on the other side of the couch and the adjoining chair.

“I’m not sure you’ve had a chance to formally meet yet, but this is Nesta and that’s Emerie. They’re Valkyries like me. Tilly is Eris’ wife, as I’m sure you both know.” Gwyn seemed like a talker, which would normally not be the sort of person Tilly was drawn to, but you couldn’t help but enjoy Gwyn.

“It’s good to meet you, Tilly. Anyone patient enough to tolerate Eris is good in my book.” Tilly fought the intrinsic urge to snarl, and instead chose to laugh and plant a smile on her face.

“I could say the same of the Inner Court of Night,” she shot back with a smirk, and Nesta guffawed openly.

“Yes, they’re awful,” she retorted playfully. Tilly decided she liked her.

“So, Gwyn, are you going to be making a visit to Autumn any time soon?” Gwyn blushed a bit.

“I actually did decide I would like to, if the offer still stands. It would be nice to look into my lineage. Azriel wants to come, too, but I know his history with Eris is…less than spectacular.” Tilly couldn’t hold back her smile, though Gwyn grimaced.

“You let me handle it. Azriel will be welcome to come, too. On my honor.” Gwyn’s face lit up, and something compassionate and gracious passed over Nesta and Emerie’s faces, too. “You’re both welcome anytime, as well. We’d really like to make good on the effort to be a more hospitable court now that the pall of Beron is gone.” The females all nodded, and then excused themselves to go get more food, Tilly aiming to fill another plate with those delectable little sausage treats.

She caught Eris’ eyes across the room as he spoke with Rhysand, Feyre, and Kallias. They sparked a bit as she smiled at him, that newly brightened flame flaring out a bit as he made his apologies to them, raising an inviting brow at her then exiting the room.

Was she ever going to tire of this back and forth?

The pull between them was relentless, but Tilly wondered if the mating bond and the hormones weren’t making it more intense for both of them. Tilly quickly said her goodbyes to Gwyn, Emerie, and Nesta, grabbing the plate of sausage rolls, and hauled her skirts in her hand to hustle out of the room behind him, listening to Rhysand’s retreating laugh fade behind her.

Taglist (lomls): @cauldronblssd @queercontrarian @byyalady @thelovelymadone @clockwork-ashes @lovingkelj @lilah-asteria

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Injustice AU

Kara and Lena have been monitoring the looming situation with Superman carefully. They know the news is heavily skewed, into the realm of state propaganda, but they can see through the noise to the objective truth behind it-- Kara's cousin is on a dangerous path.

Even so, they never expected that his violence would reach them in Smallville.

The annual corn festival is a favorite event of their daughter's. They've gone every year since her birth, and every year Lori beams, excited by the people and balloons and street stalls. The parade is the highlight of her day, especially the corn princess who drives by in the back of a corvette.

It's supposed to be fun-- a break from the isolation of their small farm. A chance to connect with their neigbors in town, and indulge in funnel cake and caramel apples.

Not this year.

This year, Kara plans to meet up with Lena and Lori in town once she's done at the feed store. She's only just pulled up and parked on Maple when she hears an explosion from the direction of Main Street, and the cacophony of screams that follows.

Heart in her throat, Kara breaks into a run, casting her hearing wide in search of her wife and daughter.

"Mommy!"

There. In an instant Kara is at her daughter's side, who's clinging tearfully to Lena's hand, both of them smudged with dust from the rubble.

"It's okay," Kara murmurs, scooping Lori into her arms. In the space of a heartbeat she's scanned for injuries and found none, and cast her gaze to Lena, who is a different story.

One of the pillars in front of the bank has collapsed onto Lena's legs, trapping her beneath. Part of the roof has crumbled down as well, adding its weight to pin Lena to the sidewalk.

Kara watches her wife cough, and thanks Rao for the sign of life. Kneeling, she lets Lori stand on her own feet and brushes the tears from the girl's cheeks.

"Lori, honey, I need you to stay right here." She tunes out the sounds of a continued battle, moving away from the city as she speaks. Still, screams echo throughout the town, proof of the devastation already wrought. "I have to help your mom, okay? Stay right here."

Lori nods. "Okay, Mama."

With a nod, Kara turns to her wife, giving Lena's hand a squeeze. Dusty eyes blink up at her, focusing blearily for just a moment before nodding. She knows what comes next.

Kara hooks her fingers under the pillar and lifts, dipping into the power she's kept so tightly controlled since she landed on Earth twenty years ago. As soon as it lifts, Lena cries out in pain, muted into a moan as she tries to contain her agony. Even as she does, she struggles to pull herself clear, dragging herself back with her arms until Kara shifts the pillar to one hand and reaches out to help with the other.

As soon as Lena is clear of the last of it Kara lets the pillar slam back to the ground. Gathering wife and daughter in her arms she speeds them all to the grassy area behind the bank, where she then pauses to scan Lena to judge the damage.

What she finds is a broken femur. No-- not broken. Shattered.

"Kara..."

Kara looks up to meet Lena's gaze. Her wife's features are pale with shock, but her eyes carry heavy meaning they're both all too conscious of: Kara cannot afford to stay out of the fight any longer. Looking at Lena and Lori, Kara knows in her bones she's remained hidden too long already.

With a nod, Kara leans in to press a kiss to each of their foreheads.

"I'll be back."

Lena cradles Lori close.

"Come back to us."

Not be careful. Not stay safe. Kara knows that Kara will need to abandon all caution to have a hope of stopping her cousin. Lena knows this as well.

Just stay alive.

"I promise."

Kara stands, taking one step back, then another. With one last look to her family, Kara takes a deep breath to steel herself. Then she lifts her arms, and blasts into the air, speeding like a missile to where Superman has already turned on his friends.

She grits her jaw.

It's time to end this.

[acourtofladydeath]

TTBW Chapter 2

Cassian's healing journey beings, and Emerie tells her story.

New tags include discussions of cycle/period discrimination.

Start reading under the cut or on AO3!

Tensions were high outside Cassian and Nesta’s room at the House of Wind. Emerie, Azriel, and Rhysand had been sitting in the hall over a day as Madja and a team of her best healers worked on their friend’s mangled wings. Nesta refused to leave his side. Madja allowed her to stay in the room only as long as Nesta agreed to follow all instructions and stay out of the way, which she had. There was no time to fill anyone in on his status. While the camp lords had not intended to kill Cassian, the combination of the paralytic, faebane, and the shock to his system from trauma and blood loss had caused his body to shut down quickly. 

Rhysand had never seen Madja call for so many extra healers. Typically she brought along an apprentice or two to train. On particularly bad occasions, like after the King of Hybern had shredded Cassian’s wings and Azriel had been stabbed by Jurian, he and Morrigan had lent a hand. Madja called for six additional highly trained hands, and specifically refused the help of any apprentices or the Inner Circle. Such a thing was unheard of. 

As they waited, Emerie leaned against the wall, arms folded and one leg kicked back. Rhysand had slid down the wall several hours ago. Now his legs were bent up to his chest, elbows rested on his knees, and his head hung heavy in his hands. Azriel stood rigid by the window, unable to break his stare from Cassian’s door. Emerie watched him flex his hands and knew what ran through his mind. She knew what he must be reliving after what Cassian had endured because she was reliving it too. Their scars ran deep.

Loss, damage, physical, mental, and emotional pain that no amount of training could prepare anyone to live through. This was trauma in its purest form, and Cassian was not the only one injured. Emerie shut her eyes tight as she tried to push away the memories that had threatened to consume her from the moment Nesta had recognized the agony in Cassian’s wings through their bond the night before. The images and phantom pains that Emerie still fought back daily had only gotten stronger after what she’d witnessed in that tent.   

Hours later the door to Cassian’s room opened and Madja, exhausted and flecked in more blood than anyone was comfortable acknowledging, entered the hallway. Rhysand was instantly on his feet. Azriel remained still, but Emerie took a step off the wall, arms still crossed and wings held in tightly to stave off the pains. Rhysand quickly approached the healer, expectation written across the wrought lines of his face.

Madja stared down at the floor. This healer, a female whose skills went beyond all others, one of the only people in all of Prythian who could order the High Lord around, could not meet his eyes. Rhysand’s eyes bore down on her. Emerie tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, tried to remember that he was in pain, but she did not like the way he looked upon his master healer. 

With a deep breath, Madja raised her head and squared her shoulders to address Rhysand. Her face was schooled in a practiced calm as she began to speak with a steady voice. “We have stopped the blood loss, and managed to prevent amputation. His organs were shutting down and we almost lost him, but I am now sure that physically he will survive this.” 

“His wings,” Rhysand cut in, voice hoarse from lack of use and water. As he continued to speak his tone was harsh as he asked the question Emerie already knew the answer to. “Will he fly again?”

“No,” Madja said, voice firm and sure though it sounded like she did not want to be. “His wings were too damaged and there was noth-”

“You have to do something. He can’t not fly,” Rhysand said, voice rushed and angry as he took one step toward the healer. “He has to fly, Madja. You have to do something. His wings have been bad before, and you’ve always fixed him.” 

Emerie watched as some small part of the healer permanently broke, and she stepped forward to try and prevent the crack from growing further. “Thank you, Madja, for saving his life. We are so thankful. Is there anything that you need us to do?” 

Madja looked gratefully at Emerie for a brief moment before she responded. “No, thank you dear. Nesta has all the instructions and we will visit again soon. He needs rest before we work again.” 

Emerie smiled warmly at the female as she kindly nodded her response. Madja ushered the healers, all in various states of dishevelment, out of Nesta and Cassian’s room before they left the House of Wind together as one with Morrigan as their guide. Em watched them leave as she used her body to create a barrier between the healers and the High Lord. Azriel still had not moved from where he stood, eyes locked on the door that was once again shut. When they had gone and she was certain they were out of ear shot, Emerie turned angrily upon the males behind her. 

“Are you proud of yourself,” Emerie spat at the High Lord, who was still fuming mad about the now undeniable fact that his friend would no longer be able to fly. 

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Rhysand retorted as anger rolled off of him in dark waves. 

Emerie cocked an eyebrow at the High Lord, her hands on her hips. “Oh yeah? Nothing wrong? You do know that your words have an effect on people, correct? You had no right to guilt her like that.” 

“I did no such thing. I simply asked-”

“No,” Emerie said back. She wanted to shout, but she knew that Cassian and Nesta did not need to hear this right now. To try and preserve their peace, Emerie worked to keep her voice low, yet strong. “By bringing up the past times she was successful, you just confirmed to Madja that you believe this was likely her biggest failure to date. And it’s not. There’s no way to recover from the wounds he received. He’s lucky to be alive right now.” 

Continue reading on AO3.

[talesofsonicasura]

Herald of Ruin: Return

We're onto part 2 folks for Herald of Ruin. Delving into the Transformers side but also why the au got it's name. Buckle up cause things are gonna get buckwild.

Now in games like Pokemon Sun/Moon and Legends Arceus, a slightly more religious element is intertwined with the Legendaries alongside Lords. Lords are Pokemon said to be blessed by Arceus but also play a pivotal role in the latter game. These unique creatures pick people to serve a special role. Kahuna for Alola while Retainer for Hisui.

In a sense, these people are those Pokemon's Champions. Orion Pax doesn't know that he has been chosen for such a role but not under Primus. Remember how I mentioned the Treasures of Ruin?

Well, Blackbox wasn't the only one he had release. Orion set free ALL of them. Chi-Yu the Ruinous Beads, Chien-Pao the Ruinous Blade and Ting-Lu the Ruinous Vessel. He didn't catch them though as none wanted to join him.

A decision that garner both surprise yet also curiosity. This particular being knew what power they possessed and even captured the Ruinous Tablets. Yet he respect their wish to not follow his whim? No one has ever genuinely done such an act.

The remaining three Treasures decided to follow Orion and Roc from a distance. All to observe the archivist to truly understand his character. It leads to the trio to deem Orion Pax as their champion.

They weren't the only ones to have an eye on him. By sheer accident, Orion had garner the intrigue of the Djinn Pokemon Hoopa. The Mythical stumble upon the two travelers and began to watch them with sheer curiosity.

Hoopa planned to whisk away an asleep Orion to its pocket dimension like everything that garner its interest. Things don't go to plan when the remaining three Treasures decide to approach the mech at the same time. It leads to a clash between all four Pokemon.

Orion nor Roc barely had any time to react when Hoopa warped the archivist to a random location with it's rings. Where to? Jasper Nevada. Yup Earth back in his universe specifically between Con Job and Convoy. Of course he doesn't know that. The only companions the archivist are his Pokemon at the moment.

Orion sends out Vos to scout the wasteland and what he found will shake him to his core. An offline Vehicon drone, an actual Cybertronian. Orion manages to get them back online and the bot introduces himself as Steve.

Just like the archivist, his memories are a bit skewed since the processor took some damage. How? Well Steve thinks he's a NAIL(non aligned bot) who been a Decepticon war prisoner. It's technically not a lie when you consider how Buckethead treats his soldiers.

Thus Orion Pax learned what had happen while he been gone. A massive civil war that expand across the cosmos, his planet now dead but also any possible way to recover all those lost memories is impossible. Something both these factions have brought here.

Orion felt ill upon hearing all of it that he needed some time halfway through the explanation to process the info before Steve could continue. Impact would've been worse if it weren't for his memory problem. At the start, the two try to get their bearings. Basically assess the situation and where to go from there.

Both bots stay together as their chances would be better(Orion also missed seeing another one of his (near extinct) species.) It doesn't take long for the war to find them. Throughout this point onward, Orion's group is neutral.

Not aligned with either Autobots or Decepticons. Orion just wants to find answers and choose his own path. His goal later changes when it becomes apparent that he wasn't the only one who ended up here. The other three Treasures of Ruin and Hoopa were following close behind.

Now Orion must catch all four Pokemon before they wrought ruin on Earth. That means hacking into the Pokeball capture limit as he can't get away with it here like with Crimson. I will say Hoopa is gonna cause trouble for everyone while it's free.

Steve follows the archivist at first out of survival. He remembers every time he gone offline and it is a traumatizing experience to put it lightly. Although their partnership does evolve into genuine friendship to Endura Amica. Endura Amica can be considered brotherhood or closest friends in simple terms.

I ain't leaving Roc behind either. Although it's gonna take some time for him to reach Orion as not only does he need help from a Pokemon who can travel dimensions but also pinpoint the location. Think needle in a massive haystack.

Now our heroes will be major points of interest to three particular groups. The Autobots, Decepticons and MECH. Latter is gonna be a much bigger threat as Airachnid will have more involvement with said organization. Steadily twisting it into something of her preference.

Now you guys are probably wondering, if Orion Pax and Optimus Prime are the same person, then whose leading the Autobots? It's still Optimus. To wield the Matrix of Leadership, any detrimental impurities in a potential Prime must be purged. One individual has now become two with the other half casted away.

You can say the Orion Pax three parter and how alien the Matrix of Leadership is spurred on the idea. Our archivist not gonna have a good time meeting Optimus Prime. Someone might get punched in the face with this exchange. It definitely sucks because Team Prime is the ones who find Orion's group first.

They don't stay for long when it became clear the Autobots wanted their help in this war. Something the archivist quickly refuses as he wouldn't dare bring his companions into such madness. Orion's groups leave the Autobot base through the ground bridge when no one is looking.

The bots will try to find them but some under different reasons than to keep a watchful eye. Ratchet wants to understand what the Pits is going on. If the young mech really was Orion Pax then who exactly been leading them? Did the Matrix toss out his spark and let someone else take control?

Optimus Prime just wants answers. He had no complete memories of his previous life as Orion Pax. Only fragments that never felt like his own. To encounter this smaller doppelganger meant a lot more been involved in him becoming Prime. And the Matrix of Leadership seems burn around this Blackbox. Why did it feel so much like rage?

Jack(mostly him), Miko and Raf are on the curious side. They want to know more about this younger version of the Autobot Leader. What's the connection between them? And those strange creatures Orion carries around with him.

It takes much longer to leave when the archivist's group comes across the Decepticons. Megatron already held suspicion about his former friend and close brother. Orion Pax sent that mindset into overdrive.

This is the archivist he knew but one who didn't align with the late High Council. An Orion Pax whose optics were truly open and experienced actual freedom. Someone who was once a memory that now shone even brighter than before.

Megatron refuses to let Orion Pax go. If he doesn't want to participate in the war then the Decepticon leader will accept that. The archivist is meant to become a bird inside a gilded cage either way. By his side as the warlord brings the universe to it's knees.

Orion's companions will have temporary safety as Megatron could use them to keep the young mech in place if need be. You can bet a certain Mythical didn't like that idea with the other three Legendaries soon agreeing. Orion is also Starscream's biggest chance to get rid of Megatron.

An actual weakness that he can exploit after so long. Though the second in command will have to tread carefully around Orion's Pokemon. It's more than just them that'll interfere with the seeker's grand scheme.

Shockwave alongside the Predacons will make an earlier appearance. Especially considering the Pokemon now in their universe are not to be tricked with. There is guaranteed Cybertronian vs Pocket Monsters conflict.

Whether it's Orion's team who have gone toe to toe against Legendaries like the Treasures of Ruin. Or those very Pokemon and Hoopa known for power so incredible that they can be considered gods. Megatron is gonna have some real competition for sure.

For Rescue Bots, I have some ideas on how things can play out there. It does involve ground bridge hijacking and the group hiding out in Griffin Rock. Things are definitely untouched by the massive war there than back on the mainland.

Orion's group would fit in when you consider all the shit that happens at Griffin Rock. Plus Team Rescue Bots can understand their entire situation better. Perfect for a break, self reflection and a potential clash with one of the Ruinous Treasures.

No one is gonna get too comfy as serious shit will go down in Griffin Rock. Better hope it isn't a literal beady eyed flaming goldfish with flames hot enough to turn sand and rock into a lava swimming pool. Oh can't forget the possibility of accidentally running into Optimus or Bumblebee there.

The field has been now sent. Champions to the divine who were cut from the same cloth are finally in play. One blessed with ancient leadership through a god of life now forgotten. The other sought out by living ruinous forces and an all powerful djinn's greed.

Question is will Orion truly be a herald of ruin? Or can he master the trials before him to prevent untold destruction? The actions he take and the bonds he shares with others shall help determine such fate.

I hope I was able to properly convey the AU here. Compiling both parts together would have been way too long in my opinion. Plus I wanted to mess around with the NAIL/Neutral idea than just Orion Pax as there will be more of these unused elements in other writing.

That's it for now! Until next folks, I'll see you at the crossroads in Paldea. Transform and roll out! Here's the Pokemon mentioned in order.

[regnismemorias]

"Fuck you, fuck me, and fuck all of them." - Nathaniel leaving before Lia has the chance to tell him the ✨news ✨

Bloodshot, jade green eyes. Mascara-stained cheeks. Throat raw from desperate pleas turned screaming match when they fell upon deaf ears. She never shouts. Never yells. It's rare enough to ever see her so exasperated, but he pulls it out of her. Forces it out of her. Makes her out to be the monster she fears that she is. She catches a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror—a trembling, delicate hand presses against her stomach.

It's a misunderstanding that chases him out of the door & into the frigid night air, but the damage his words had wrought is done.

'Fuck you.' A dark, misty evening. Fog rolling in amongst a field of bright, white roses. Drawing closer to decrepit stone walls, a lane of flowers lay trampled, ripped violently from their roots & splattered in deep crimson. In the clearing, a crumpled, fur-laden body, broken & battered. Their first meeting. She didn't know what more than visions of near death & unrest brought her to him; what fate beheld her as she dragged his massive canine form away to safety. Even when he roared awake, the clawed hands of a beautiful man violently slamming her into a wall, eyes wild with confusion, fangs bared & dripping with venom, she remained. Comforting hands faintly cradle his face. 'It's okay. You're safe. I've got you now.'

'I've got you.'

'Fuck me.' Tinkling laughter filled the bedroom as bare limbs wrestled beneath soft, billowing sheets. His hands, deadly as they were, sought to tickle & caress her smooth, angelic skin. To offer her the softness she afforded him in kind time & time again. Even so, he was still a dangerous being. It took him no time to catch her—as if he even had to try. He held her impossibly close, then, her back against his chest, one arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand at her throat. Her hand snaked up his wrist to quietly guide his knuckles to her lips. She could feel him tremble slightly through her kiss. 'Fanny-?'

'Never leave me, Ophelia.' Their first confession.

'...I love you, too.'

'And fuck all of them.' This isn't their first fight. She's lost count of how many times his harsh, cutting words left her heart bleeding in her hands, wounded & scarred. Couldn't fathom the hours she'd spent waiting wide-eyed & afraid in the night for him to return after storming out of the door. The wasted tears, the unearned apologies, excusing his anger, his rage, his obsession for vengeance against an immortal force that tore apart his family only for him to turn around & do the same thing to her. To them. To their unborn baby.

'Nathaniel, I know you want to make him pay for what he's done, for what he's stolen from you. I understand-'

'NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!' His fist slammed into the wall. 'I have been hunting down this- this foul, loathsome, vile cocksucker for centuries to avenge my mother and father, and I will not throw away my closest lead at your mere, quivering insistence!'

'I don't want to lose you! Please, just listen-'

'I am more than willing to die. I have sacrificed everything!'

'AND WHAT ABOUT MY SACRIFICE?! WHAT ABOUT ALL OF THE TIMES I'VE ALMOST DIED BY YOUR SIDE?!' Her nostrils flared, flaming hue adorning her face & neck. 'You would have never gotten as far as you did without my help. You'd still be broken in that field, licking the salt from your wounds if I hadn't found you! If I had abandoned you! If I never loved-'

She drew a sharp, stinging breath in, lungs aching & heavy. Apprehensive digits reach out to take his stern face in hand, urging him desperately into her waiting embrace. 'Stay with me.' Leaning up on her toes, she pressed her forehead against his, eyelashes fluttering closed as her chest heaved. 'There will be another chance to find Felderod. We'll do it together, just as we have been. I won't leave you. So, please. Please, just... don't go.' She reached for his hands to press them against her abdomen. 'Nathaniel, I-'

'If you won't help me, then you're just in my way.'

Her eyes shot open to gaze into his hardened, sinister stare. In one quick movement, he yanked her hands from his face, grabbed his keys & turned for the door. He stopped, his hand tightening around the doorknob.

'If you won't help me... then you're useless.'

It had been hours since he left, his words ringing in her ears as she lay slumped against the front door. She didn't know when she fell to the floor, nor when the painful, violent sobbing had ceased to rock her frame. Her hand never left her stomach, as if she could have shielded the unborn life growing inside her from the agony they faced together. Protected it from the new reality she was forced to endure.

This isn't their first fight. It was their last.

[upalldown]

Caroline Polachek - Desire, I Want To Turn Into You

Second album from the former Chairlift singer featuring guest appearances from Dido and Grimes

7/13

Desire can be volatile, excruciating, wonderful, and cruel—but above all, it keeps us going. We want and want and want until we die, these small hopes urging us across the vast expanse of our lives. Caroline Polachek—pop auteur, emotional philosopher, hopeless romantic—makes a muse of this tangled, pervasive force on her virtuosic new album, Desire, I Want to Turn Into You. She knows too well that falling in love suffuses you with possibility, makes a boring world briefly beautiful. And so, as a nod to desire’s transformational power, her album’s cover displays her on all fours on the grimy subway, lunging forward with a ravenous look in her eyes. On one end of the car is the rat race; on the other end, sand—a mirage of paradise.

Polachek spent much of her career as one half of the indie-pop band Chairlift in the maddening, formative city of New York, and more recently has split her time between Los Angeles and London. In 2020, she decamped to the idylls of the Mediterranean—blaring ’70s and ’80s Italo-pop out of a beat-up station wagon with her boyfriend in Rome and staying at the base of Mount Etna in Sicily, marveling at the “faceless, tectonic, chaotic energy coming up from below.” Inspired by these excursions, the album takes us to breathtaking places, all palm trees and crystalline water, deep red sunsets and smoke-covered volcanoes. On the ecstatic “Welcome to My Island,” Polachek is Calypso greeting a shipwrecked Odysseus, waving us to her oasis. She channels a yearning as deep blue as the ocean and howls like a wolf to the moon.

While Polachek was constantly in transit on her 2019 album Pang—descending with a parachute, passing through a door to another door—Desire is grounded in a more real sense of place. Even on songs with few locational details, you can feel the climate: An elusive woman lives out an escapist fantasy on “Bunny Is a Rider,” not checking her email because she’s “AWOL on a Thursday.” Satellites can’t find her because she’s somewhere in the jungle: Hear the muggy, tropical bassline, the faint bird chirps, the static that resembles the rustle of fronds. “Crude Drawing of an Angel” is staged below the Earth’s surface amid dripping stalactites, with jagged breaths creeping up from behind. Polachek’s voice slices through the dank atmosphere like a blade: “Forsake me/Here on the ground/All or nothing,” she pleads, begging for mercy from a lover whom she knows will disappear.

Perhaps the “crude angel” is painter Paul Klee’s Angelus Novus, the “angel of history” who, in one famous account, looks with horror upon the cumulative wreckage of civilization, the damage wrought in the name of glory and beauty. Polachek is not just a swooning lover, but an aesthete and philosopher attuned to contemporary extremes, conceptualizing Desire during a period of grand instability. During the pandemic her father died of COVID-related complications, and she saw cruelty all around her as she contended with the cyclical nature of disease, the fragility of the supply chain, and the rancor of social media morality. “I started thinking about how to re-harmonize myself, and my music, with the reality that there is a destructive side to everything,” she said. On the flamenco-inspired “Sunset,” Polachek dramatizes the pressure of new love against the backdrop of a destitute society, a collapsed infrastructure of care: “So many stories we were told about a safety net/But when I look for it, it’s just a hand that’s holding mine.”

The love explored on Desire is not the result of a patient and sustainable partnership, but a violent, all-or-nothing immersion. Implicit in the wish in the album’s title, I Want to Turn Into You, is the prospect of losing one’s own selfhood. Across the album, Polachek indulges in the pleasure of obliteration and surrender: “You are melting everything about me,” she sings with her arms outstretched on “Smoke.” On “Blood and Butter,” her descriptions turn grotesque: She coos breathlessly about diving through her lover’s face and underneath his tattoos, longing to be sustained by nothing “but the sun that’s in our eyes.”

Sometimes Polachek seems so breathless with desire that she can only come up to its surface to gasp up a few intelligible lines at a time. Bristling at our culture’s obsession with literalism in art, she proffers, “I’m a deep believer in what lies behind.” So songs like “Pretty in Possible” dabble in Cocteau Twins-style abstraction, blotted narratives featuring mayflies and bloody noses. Sonically, the song is Frou Frou meets “Tom’s Diner” with its keychain-jangle beat, wordless a capella stretches, and corkscrewed melodies. Polachek and producer Danny L Harle started it as an exercise in pure flow, no explicit choruses or verses. Still, one sweet line wrestles itself from the stream: “I was born to get you home.”

The theme of mania is replicated in the songs’ twisted, irregular structures. “Blood and Butter” casts off its jacket and just to put it on again, staging a fickle transition between day and night and ending on an epic bagpipe climax lifted out of “The Sensual World.” “I Believe” is breakbeat pop fit for a Lizzie McGuire trip to Rome, punctured by glitchy, adrenal breaths that sound like a cyborg subjected to shock therapy. The album’s production veers from trip-hop to new wave, trance to flamenco, demonstrating an innate understanding of the pop archive in pursuit of a new personal style. Each creation seems marvelously its own: Who else would pay tribute to their mercurial father with petulant white-girl rapping and cheesy stadium-rock guitar, or use a 1970s young adult novel about an immortal family as fodder for a shimmering Enya ballad?

The cumulative effect is like staring up at a giant fresco, the detail so exquisite you can’t decide where to rest your eyes first. Flourishes appear in one place, then echo in a new location—wings flapping, whistles beckoning, blades slicing, bells chiming. She opens Desire with her father’s warning to “watch your head, girl” and concludes with the image of a decapitated angel. But what really binds the album is the dynamism of Polachek’s vocals, the culmination of years of bel canto operatic training and the hunger to get it right. There is so much conviction in her delivery that ceding space to anyone else, even guest spots from Grimes and Dido, feels like a disservice: Within the span of one song, Polachek’s voice will smear like paint, swoop like a crane, and bubble like lava.

All of the best attributes of Desire are reflected on its closer “Billions,” a humid tabla-pop song with medieval sound effects and an over-the-top drone squiggle. Polachek brings us into the throes of a shaky love affair, doling out details in succulent little morsels. “Salty flavor/Lies like a sailor/But he loves like a painter,” she sings, evoking the tangy taste of skin, the coarse vernacular of the seaman, the uncalloused touch of the artist. There’s something brilliant in how she drops down an octave between verses, going from the heady bliss of the evening to the sobriety of the morning after, and how she lends ordinary words their own strange mouthfeel—“zay-zay-zay-something to me” and “bill-lee-yaaans!” After running through scenes of seduction and anguish, the song appears to end on happy note: “I never felt so close to you,” Polachek confesses, echoed by the cherubic voices of the Trinity children’s choir. But being close to is still not the same as being subsumed by, having turned into. So we nudge and nudge and nudge, never quite reaching fulfillment, longing until the end.

https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/caroline-polachek-desire-i-want-to-turn-into-you/

[transistoric]

angry political rant under the cut

okay this week the latest govt official up for assassination should be fucking joe manchin. mf toxic-waste stuffed tumor standing in for a person really went and teased that he might let a bill to combat climate change go through then doomed it bc it’ll tax the wealthy including the dirty energy sector CEOs AND had the shit dripping gall to claim it was in the interests of families suffering from inflation? LOL MF. you’re talking about protecting the wealthiest tax-payers not the families who can’t afford inflation and literally the very corporations behind the inflation. LOL PLUS?? inflation’s gonna go up anyway for all the damage climate change is dealing on the vulnerable, under-resourced, poverty-stricken populations like it has been doing for decades. but no. the class that CAN more-than absorb the costs (and is responsible for the conditions resulting in climate change in the first place) needs to keep sitting pretty bc that’s where you’re getting your (and this isn’t an exaggeration) blood-soaked donations from. yeah you care about families joe manchin

[rebrandedbard]

Hi! Can I ask for 30. “It’s not what it looks like…” from the drabble list?

Oh, it’s you! Welcome back! Here for another order at McDrabble? Very well then, I am obliged to use the good serving platter for the sake of continuity:

30: “It’s not what it looks like…”

wc: 1991 (Wow! That’s a year!)

No Modesty Among Thieves

Geralt finds Jaskier tied up in their room after returning to the inn and all their things have been stolen. He has an unexpected family reunion when he goes to find the burglar.

-

Kidnappers would have been easier, Geralt thought, than dealing with burglars. Had Jaskier been kidnapped, someone would have left a note and ransom. They would be waiting somewhere easy to find. A burglar did not want to be found, which meant he’d have to track them down, which meant more work. He’d had a long day and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed. The moment he’d opened the door of their room, those lovely plans of rest and relaxation had flown out the window, and he was suddenly wide awake, his heart racing, for he found Jaskier tied to the bed frame, completely bare, blindfolded, with a gag in his mouth. He gaped a moment before the smell of fear hit him, then he hurried to the bed and tugged the blindfold from Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier sagged with relief at the sight of him. As soon as Geralt removed the gag, the words came flooding out. “It’s not what it looks like…” he sighed, knowing very well what Geralt’s first impression must have been. He shifted uncomfortably, glad of the pillow thrown over his lap. At least the burglar had been thoughtful enough to provide that before clearing out.

“What happened?” Geralt asked. As he worked the knots above Jaskier’s head, he cast eyes about the room. It was completely empty; all of their belongings had been taken.

“Burglar caught me in the bath, blindfolded me, tied me up, and gagged me. Took all of our stuff and booked it.” He rubbed his wrists and shook them out to get the feeling into his arms again. “I’m so glad you got home when you did; my arms just about lost all feeling. I’m already sore from the fight with the gargoyle last week. The second-hand blast knocked me halfway across the room, remember? Burned the doublet right off my back! Singed my shirt, too.”

“I remember,” Geralt replied. He inspected Jaskier’s arms with care. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Only my pride. I thought I could tell you from the sound of your footsteps, but evidently, I was wrong. The way the fiend came striding in here, confident as anything like they belonged—well! I thought it could only be you,” he grumbled. “Anyone else would have tried to sneak up behind me instead. They strode right in! And I know, I know; I ought to have kept the door locked, but I swear, Geralt, that I had locked it. It’s a faulty lock, that’s what I think. This inn is cheap and ready to fall to pieces when the wind next blows, and that’s the truth.”

Geralt tossed the blanket over Jaskier’s shoulders for modesty’s sake. “Stay here. I’ll take care of it.” He sniffed the air and announced, “There’s only one trail; pretty strong, too. Likely another patron somewhere down the hall.”

It was an easy game, stealing from other travellers. There were plenty of rooms to hide in. All one had to do was pretend to flee out the door, hood down, pass a few witnesses, then sneak back to their room calm as anything. It was a play Geralt had encountered before.

His brow creased as he scented the room again. It smelled … familiar. He crouched, following the scent from the bed over to the bath, to the corner where he’d left their bags. Meanwhile, Jaskier stumbled out of the bed, the blanket wrapped clumsily around him. He peeked beside the bed and circled the tub. With a huff, he dropped onto the bed once more and sat grumbling.

“Might have at least left the pants, if not my trousers. Not any money in selling those. Rotten thieving bastard.”

Geralt turned to look at him. “They took your clothes?” he said.

“Not that I blame them, really. People are trying to get in my pants all the time,” Jaskier quipped. He resumed his sulking after when he considered how much they’d cost him to buy in the first place.

The smell was stronger as soon as Geralt opened the door. He groaned, the pieces clicking into place neatly. “I’ll be right back,” he growled.

The door slammed shut behind him as Geralt stalked down the hall. He followed the scent to the every end and thrust the door open. And there the prick was, sitting on the floor, Jaskier’s stupid hat on his head, flipping through Jaskier’s notebook with one hand and helping himself to one of Geralt’s dried apple slices with the other. Lambert didn’t even bother to look up as he entered, merely smiling as he popped the slice into his mouth.

“Still hiding your snacks among your potion kit,” Lambert said. “A wonder your bard hasn’t found them yet. His smell is all over your things; one would think he’s always in and out, fetching things for you.”

“Pack it up. I’m kicking you out of here as soon as you’ve helped me carry this shit back.”

Lambert ignored him, rolling over on his back as he flipped to a page closer to the front of the notebook. “Is this one about you? ‘What amorous sight I scowling see, the sweet delights he flares in me, with eyes the gods have wrought of gold, for men to weep and thus behold?’”

Geralt snatched the book from his hands, ears burning hot. “You’ve no right to be prying into others’ things,” he snarled.

“Ah, so you haven’t read his poetry, I take it.”

Lambert hovered over Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt started shoving things into Jaskier’s bag. He grabbed the hat from Lambert’s head and gathered it with the rest, careful not the bend the feather. Of course he hadn’t gone snooping. Jaskier’s notebook was private and Geralt respected privacy, unlike some who felt entitled to anything not bolted and locked.

“How did you like my present?” Lambert asked, flopping onto the bed. He raised his arms above his head in a mockery of the position he’d left Jaskier in. “Oh, what an amorous sight!” he cried, smirking. “Did you weep? I know you to be a weeper; heard enough whores gossip about the white-haired witcher crying in their arms after a tumble. Or did you not unwrap my present? He smelled pretty good for a minute there—aroused by danger, is he?”

Geralt picked up a pillow and smacked him with it. “Don’t go sniffing my bard,” he said.

For once, Lambert made no retort. He only raised one cocky brow at him and smiled.

Geralt found Jaskier’s clothes folded messily on a chair. He put them away carefully in Jaskier’s bag piece by piece. He was about to put the chemise away when Lambert plucked it from him. He flapped it in the air, gave it a light sniff and said, “Kind of smells like you, you know. You two share a bed or something?”

The speed with which Geralt snatched it back was all the answer Lambert needed. In addition, Geralt took back his bag of apple slices. He shoved them in a bag and collected the rest of their things. Last of all, he slung Jaskier’s lute over his shoulder.

Before leaving, Geralt seized Lambert’s own bag and stole from it a package of dried cod. Lambert hated cod. And Geralt knew why he had it. “Stay out of my room and away from Jaskier,” he said, “Or I’ll find your cat and shave him.” He tossed the bag back at Lambert and slammed the door in his gaping face.

The very first thing Jaskier did upon Geralt’s return was check his lute for damage, forgoing his awkward wrap in his hurry to get to it. His cry of relief filled the air and he cradled the instrument close. Geralt waited until Jaskier had put it safely away in its case before tossing his trousers at his head. Jaskier laughed and hugged them close, but rather than dress, he resumed his bath, the water warmed by courtesy of Geralt for his troubles. Geralt sat on the other side of the room, reordering their things as he told Jaskier the truth behind his unpleasant encounter.

Dinner was ordered to their room a half hour later, an apology sent along with it in the form of two baked pears. They ate it together on the floor, Jaskier in a towel, and Geralt kept his eyes on his food, trying in vain to forget the bit of poetry Lambert had sung for him.

“I’ll have to repay him one of these days and run his clothes up a pole,” Jaskier said. “If he’s ever in Oxenfurt, be prepared to spot them flapping below the university’s flag.”

“You’d get nowhere near them,” Geralt replied, cutting himself a bite of pear.

“I don’t know. He seemed eager enough to get my clothes off earlier. Should be easy to tempt him to do it again, then scoop his up while he sleeps.”

Geralt quickly abandoned his pear, apatite gone. He offered Jaskier his plate and returned to his organizing.

After eating, Jaskier stood. He stretched and dropped his hands to his hips, then swayed back to where he’d left his trousers. As he dressed, he looked around, humming to himself.

“Geralt?” he called. “Do you know what became of my undershirt?”

“Lambert doesn’t have it,” Geralt answered.

“Fuck, did he lose it? I haven’t got one spare.”

After another minute of rummaging, Geralt cleared his throat. “You can wear one of mine,” he offered. He produced a large black shirt and held it out to Jaskier at arm’s length.

Jaskier beamed and made a grab for it. “You’re a dear! I shall not wander cold and bare on the road, thanks to your generosity.” He pulled it over his head and smoothed it down. “Hm, very worn and soft. It’s quite comfortable, actually. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Can’t have you walking around half naked,” Geralt grunted.

“Quite right. It may take some time to get to a decent tailor. Be warned: by then I may be disinclined to return it to you. You know how attached I get to my clothes.”

Geralt shrugged. “I can get another,” was the only reply he offered.

Jaskier smiled and bounced happily into bed. “In that case, say your goodbyes now. I’ve never owned anything black but for my hat—it’s quite an attractive color. I’m sure I look as raffish as you! Perhaps more so for the novelty of it. What do you think?”

Whatever it was that Geralt thought, Jaskier was not to know. Geralt gave no answer the next morning, even as Jaskier pranced in front of him, fishing for a compliment. Geralt kept his opinion buried in his throat, almost as secret as his bag of dried apples. And tucked beneath them, he kept another secret folded neatly at the very bottom of his bag. He’d forgotten it in his haste to leave Lambert’s room that night. But Jaskier looked well in his shirt. So the chemise remained where it was, tucked away. After all, if Jaskier intended to keep his, it was only a fair trade.

Jaskier danced another turn in front of him and bowed, the shirt billowing at the end of his arms. He stood upright once more and posed. “Come now, Geralt. You’ve got to admit it makes for a pleasant change.” He flicked the end of one feather from his hat and winked. “What say you? I think we go perfectly together.”

Geralt looked at him, bathed in the early morning light, the very picture of radiance. He nodded, giving Jaskier a small smile. “We do,” he whispered, so soft that no human could ever hear.

“Did you say something?”

“No,” Geralt replied, a startled blink. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looked at him a moment, then shrugged, striding the path ahead. They would get there, he thought privately to himself. They had all the time in the world.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

[mountrainiernps]

Stevens Canyon Road. The last road constructed and paved inside the park. Built to connect the eastside roads (State Routes 410 and 123) to the Paradise Road, Stevens Canyon Road made it possible for folks to drive between Sunrise and Paradise without leaving the park.

This scenic road took a while to complete. There were decades of debates and surveys looking at where the road should go. High up to Ohanapecosh Park and Indian Bar or stay lower down? National Park Service Director Horace Albright settled the debate after a visit to the park in 1931.

Another survey was undertaken for today’s route and construction began in the late summer of 1931. Contractors worked every summer as soon as they could get equipment and labor to the site. They buttoned up construction each fall as snow began to fall. Progress was made and by the end of 1941, most of the clearing and rough grading was complete. Much work on tunnels, bridges, culverts and paving remained, but World War II shut down a lot of construction in national parks. Materials and labor went to the war effort, leaving Stevens Canyon Road partially done until after the war. It took a few years after WWII for work to get started again. Bridges, viaducts, and tunnels were constructed, asphalt laid down, and on September 4, 1957, Stevens Canyon Road opened to the public. The in-park link between the east and west sides was now complete.

But it wasn’t the end of the story. Like all roads on Mount Rainier, Stevens Canyon Road gets buried every winter under feet and feet of snow. The section of the road along Stevens Ridge is known for its avalanche risk. In the winter of 1971-72, the park’s biggest recorded annual snowfall (1,122 inches at Paradise), the snow wrought heavy damage on the road with washouts and subsidence. Repairs were made and the road re-opened. Winter snows continue to close the Stevens Canyon Road each winter along with other park roads. The road crew’s bulldozers and snowplows dig it out every spring. Park staff and partners work very hard to keep this scenic road available for summer visitors.

When was the last time you drove Stevens Canyon Road? Do you have a favorite spot to pull over, park, and enjoy the view? ~ams

NPS/K. Loving Photo. View from pull-out on Stevens Canyon Road at the Bench. Looking up from the road to Mount Rainier. June, 2021. NPS/L. Lane Photo. View looking down Stevens Canyon at the road as it runs along the ridge with fall colors. November, 1981. NPS Photo. People and cars parked at pull-out on Backbone Ridge on Stevens Canyon Road. View up to Mount Rainier. NPS/I. Metzen Photo. Stevens Canyon Road where it goes through a tunnel in Stevens Canyon. July, 2018.

Stevens Canyon Road is buried under snow during the winter and closed. Please check the park’s road status page for current information at https://www.nps.gov/mora/planyourvisit/road-status.htm For more park history, visit https://www.nps.gov/mora/learn/historyculture/index.htm

[weasleygirl7]

I saw that imagines are open, may I ask a Lokixreader? Remember when Odin appears in a vision/mind of Thor in Thor Ragnarok, his ghost? Well that thing but with Loki after the 5 years of his death and days before the Avengers goes to search the infinity stones. YN is depressed, and in her dream/vison she thinks her husband is alive, that is real his presence but Loki says she should live her life and that he always loved her(my mind full of OST Thor 2-Deliverance mod romatinc).This is long,sorry

Hello Anon! Sorry this took so long, I have not been able to get a moment of peace until now!

Petals (Loki x reader)

Takes place in endgame and A LOT of angst... (TW: mentions of death)

The hinges groaned in protest as you pushed open the door with the palm of your hand, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. The room was just as it had been the last time you had seen it, it seemed Tony really was the sentimental type. Things were freshly dusted and the bed newly made, but walking into felt as if you had been transported back- back to a time when things weren’t so dark, when you weren’t so alone.

You kicked off your shoes and padded softly over to the dresser, as if any movement might cause the landscape in front of you to fade away to mere memory, as if the wrong step could send you spiraling back to the present.

A heavy feeling settled in your stomach as you took in the room around you, the photos on the dresser, the once undying flowers in the vase brittle and faded, the bed made for two… You picked up the flower vase and held it close, as if willing it to once again provide that sweet smell you loved so dearly. That scent had faded as had the once brilliant colors, faded as the magic that had kept them alive had faded from this world 5 years ago.

You squeezed your eyes shut to blink back the tears. 5 years, 5 years you had been alone on this earth. 5 years since Loki had been slaughtered, since the people of Asgard had been slaughtered, since half the universe had been slaughtered, since Thor fell into a trance you could not wake him from, since you had lost everything.

How unfair this world was. The next morning you would be embarking on a journey to attempt to reverse the damage wrought by the titan Thanos. You could see the hope filling the hearts of the others, the hope of a better tomorrow. No such hope found a home in your heart. Even if you succeeded, there would be no bringing back Loki. He had not vanished in the blip, he would not reappear. A bitter laugh sounded from your lips as you slammed the vase back on the dresser, not caring if you shattered the glass and crushed the flowers into oblivion.

Instead, you were met with petals soft and fragrant and bright and the vase incredulously unbroken. Freezing in place, you heard a chuckle you would always recognize.

“Well, darling, any harder and you would have broken that lovely vase.”

Frantically you spun yourself around, a smile overtaking your face as you took in the view. Loki, alive and grinning his typical grin sat perched on the end of your bed. The bed you had both once shared. The bed you had laid alone in until you could stand it no longer. Until you had fled as far as you could.

“Loki? How? You’r-“ Rushing forward, he cut you off with a gentle hand to your cheek as you fell to your knees before him. You placed your hand over his own and saw tears blur your vision.

“Shhh, love,” He softly brushed the tears from your cheek with his thumb, the warmth of his hand seemingly reawakening your body, sending shockwaves to your very toes. “I can’t stay long.”

“Stay? What do you mean— you’re here! You’re- You’re alive! I don’t-“ You shook your head frantically. “No, no… I can’t lose you again, no, please…” You moved your hands and reached up to cup his face, oh his beautiful face. His eyes were so clear and alive and brimming with love.

“It’s not something either of us can control,” His eyes searched your own until your gaze remained focused on him, until he could pull you from your own thoughts and mind. “None of it was something either of us could control,” he moved your hands down to his shoulders. “You can’t keep in your head… living in the past. That was always something I did, you know. Look at this pot calling the kettle black, hmm?” He laughed slightly and you nodded, your own small laugh leaving your lips. “There is it, I’ve missed that laugh. Why don’t you laugh anymore? Surely not because of me?”

“You’re gone!” Your voice had risen an octave or two in panic. He was gone, he was here but he was gone and he said himself he was leaving again soon. Your eyes scanned his face, trying desperately to etch it into a memory that would never fade, trying to hold onto every feelings of his body, the sound of his voice, his heartbeat… “You’re gone and I’m alone.” Your voice broke and you swallowed back tears.

“Nonsense,” he shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Alone, honestly! I always thought you were the smarter one, my love.” His hand once again found its place on your cheek, the other one squeezing your arm tightly. “You have your friends-your family, for Odin-sake you have my brother for all he’s worth, and,” he paused and released your arm, moving instead to place his hand gently on your chest above your heart. “You have me. Always. I shall not leave you, I thought that was made clear in our vows.”

You drew in a heavy breath and met his gaze once more. “It’s not the same-“

Once more he cut you off, and had it been 5 years ago you would have chided him endlessly for not letting you finish your thoughts, but now you would give everything for just 5 more minutes with him, interruptions or not.

“I need you to live for me,” His voice was barely above a whisper, and you clutched onto his shirt as if your life depended on it. “I cannot stay, but I cannot leave without your word that you will live for me.”

“If I refuse to give my word, will you remain by my side?” You titled forward until your forehead rested against his own, attempting to breath him in deeply.

“What a mischievous thought,” he huffed a laugh and closed his eyes as yours fluttered shut, “but you know I cannot.”

Opening your eyes once more and pulling back slightly, you let out a heavy sigh. “I had to try.”

“I would expect nothing less from the wife of the god of mischief.”

“I will try to live, for you and only you,” you grabbed his face and pulled him in for a searing kiss, a goodbye you had been unable to have and poured every emotion into it, all your love and grief and he matched you with his own.

Loki pulled back just enough to whisper gently against your lips, his final piece before he had to leave, “I love you. Always.”

Then he was gone.

A glance behind you showed the flowers that had returned to life remained alive once more, and maybe, you could too.

[kieranfm]

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 , 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟓      ;      𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦      ››      𝐊𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐍  +  𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍  .

kieran  could  count  the  amount  of  times  he’d  been  over  to  this  side  of  town  ,  in  his  life  ,  on  ONE  hand  .  most  were  because  of  his  grandparents  —  on  his  mam’s  side  —  taking  him  & liv  to  tea  with  their  friends ,  while  one  or  two  were  because  the  quieter  ,  smoother  ,  wider  streets  were  better  to  skate  down  at  night  .  at  least  until  the  garda’s  car  pulled  up  at  the  end  of  the  road  &  flashed  their  lights  ,  sending  four  boys  scattering  back  off  to  the  older  part  of  town ; back  to  where  they  BELONGED  .  though  there  was  always  ONE  thing  they  always  had  in  common  ,  kieran  had  always  hated  it  .  there  weren’t  many  places  where  kieran  walsh  could  go  without  receiving  at  least  a  few  double  takes  ,  disapproving  stares  ,  quiet  whispers  that  were  all  the  same  at  this  point  and  — his  least  favourite  — looks  of  PITY  .  he  was  USE  to  it  .  he  had  ,  after  all  ,  endured  nearly  eighteen  years  of  it  once  the  clock  struck  12  am  tonight  .  &  maybe  if  it  was  just  the  PEOPLE  that  lived  here  looking  down  their  noses  at  him  ,  wondering  why  samuel  walsh’s  son  was  on  THEIR  side  of  town  —  far  from  the  plaster  speckled  terraced  houses  &  narrow  streets  cobbled  —  he’d  be  able  to  brush  it  off  &  not  let  it  get  to  him  too  much  .  but  the  whole  damned  place  made  him  feel  small  .  every  inch  of  every  street  they  passed  as  he'd  driven  into  the  neighbourhood  was  a  stark  reminder  that  he  didn’t  belong  there .  that  everything  he  was  wasn’t  GOOD  enough  ,  &  never  would  be  .  if  he’d  wanted  to  be  made  to  feel  THAT  small  ,  he  would  have  stayed  the  hell  home  &  seen  the  new  year  in  with  his  father  .  but  he’d  promised .  .  . he’d  promised  the  ONE  person  that  he’d  never  be  able  to  break  a  promise  with  that  he’d  be  there  .  that  he’d  come  to  declan  mccarthy’s  new  years  eve  party .  it  was  a  JOKE  really  .  he  knew  damn  well  that  declan  didn’t  want  him  there  just  as  much  as  he  didn’t  want  to  be  there  .  the  guy  had  barely  acknowledged  his  existence  when  he’d  shown  up  LATE  to  mass  on  christmas  eve  & found  evan  &  him  standing  in  the  entrance  way  of  the  church  .  it  was  only  because  of  evan  that  he  ,  conan  ,  ruairi  &  adam  ,  had  been  allowed  to  step  through  the  wrought  iron  gate  that  led  up  to  the  mccarthy  house  .  it  was  only  because  of  evan  that  he  ,  conan  ,  ruairi  &  adam  ,  were  here  in  the  first  place  .  evan  connely &  her  bloody  crystallised  eyes  .  she  was  IMPOSSIBLE  to  say  no  to  when  those  endless  blue  seas  glistened  with  the  begging  of  a  jutted  bottom  lip  .  she  could  make  him  do  anything  .  all  she  had  to  do  was  ASK  .  &  if  it  hadn't  been  clear  before .  .  . the  fact  he  was  sat  on  the  ledge  of  a  window  seat  that  overlooked  declan  mccarthy’s  back  garden  with  hundreds  of  people  crammed  into  what  may  as  well  be  a  manor  &  fucking  RAP  music  damaging  his  hearing  —  along  with  a  few  of  his  brain  cells  —  was  proof  enough  .  evan  connely  could  get  him  to  do  anything  .  especially  when  it  felt  like  he'd  hardly  seen  her  .  

not  that  he  could  say  that  he’d  seen  that  much  of  her  tonight  .  they’d  caught  her  when  they'd  first  arrived  ,  but  declan  had  been  quick  to  drag  her  off  again  .  disappearing  off  into  the  crowd  with  an  arm  around  her  shoulder  that  had  made  kieran’s  stomach  twist  &  conan’s  brow  to  raise  as  they’d  caught  each  others  eye  after  he’d  FINALLY  pulled  his  gaze  away  from  the  gap  in  the  crowd  evan  had  vanished  into  a  while  ago  .  “  don't  fucking  start  .  ”  conan’s  hands  had  raised  in  defence  before  he’d  lifted  the  edge  of  his  beer  to  his  lips    ,  answering  before  he  took  a  swig  , “  i  didn’t  say  anyt’ing  ,  mate  .  ”  he  didn't  have  to  .  it  hadn’t  gotten  much  better  as  the  clock  ticked  closer  &  closer  to  midnight  &  kieran’s  patience  for  swallowing  back  the  discomfort  of  hands  upon  his  arm  as  girls  smiled  up  at  him  wore  thin  .  glimpses  of  evan  were  all  ANY  of  them  seemed  to  get  & kieran  was  beginning  to  think  it  was  all  they  were  going  to  get  .  at  least  until  a  careful  ,  quiet  nudge  of  elbows  helped  zero  in  on  an  approaching  figure  .  he  wasn't  use  to  it  yet .  .  . the  change  of  hair  .  once  he  would  have  been  able  to  pick  her  out  of  a  crowd  not  to  much  bigger  than  that  of  the  one  that  was  in  declan’s  living  room  .  but  with  her  curls  straightened  ,  she  could  have  really  been  ANY  small  brunette  from  the  back  .  it  had  been  how  he'd  be  stuck  talking  to  a  few  of  them  after  he’d  mistaken  them  for  her  .  but  as  she  moved  through  the  crowd  towards  the  spot  the  boys  had  designated  as  their  own  since  the  start  of  the  night  ,  it  was  hard  to  believe  he  could  have  mistaken  ANYONE  as  her  .  a  beer  bottle  missing  only  a  few  sips  ,  &  kept  mostly  to  keep  others  from  offering  him  a  drink  ,  balanced  in  his  grasp  as  he  lifted  his  chin  up  ever  so  slightly  in  a  small  wordless  greeting  , “  a  real  proper  hostess  tonight  i  see  .  if  i  didn't  know  any  better  i’d  t’ink  you  were  born  for  t'e  role  .  ”  a  teasing  tone  had  crept  its  way  into  his  voice  even  as  his  eyes  scanned  over  her  features  .  searching  for  the  tell-tale  signs  that  maybe  the  role  she  was  playing  was  getting  a  bit  too  much  .  “  but  since  i  DO  —  ”  he  trailed  off  as  he  offered  out  his  bottle  of  beer  to  her  via  the  neck  ,  “  if  you  need  us  ‘lot  t'  help  spring  ya  ,  just  say  t’e  word  .  ”  

[harbouredsoulss]

Exit Wound - 2nd & Final Part

Author’s note: 

SUPRISE!

I was so close to turning this into three parts. Instead I decided I would make this one longer! I really loved writing this!

I am so excited to share more stories with you! I have so much planned. 

I really really hope you enjoy this! Please don’t forget to like, comment, & reblog. I would really appreciate it 💞

If you’d like to be added to my Tag List for any EZ, Angel, Mayan or all of my fics, just let me know 🥰

You can read Part One here and my Masterlist here. 

EZ Reyes X [OC] Amalia 

Warnings: Injured EZ! Mentions of blood. Swearing! Fluff. SEX. 

Word Count: 2.1K

Summary: EZ brought a knife to a gun fight. Now Amalia is stuck having to use her nursing skills to save her boyfriends life. Will she save him?

_________________________________

She sat there for a time, kneeling beside the couch, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he took in unsteady breaths. Angel had begged her to go to bed and get some rest but she couldn’t bring herself to leave EZ’s side. 

Angel tried everything he could think of to convince her to go to sleep but knew nothing he would say could change her mind.

It was moments like this where Angel hoped he would find something like this one day. The unwavering love and commitment Amalia had for his brother was unshakeable and made him slightly jealous, though he would never say that out loud. 

Later on in the night Coco and Gilly had come back to drop off the pain relief and antibiotics. They didn’t stay too long, they could tell just by looking at her she wasn’t in the mood to entertain anyone, nor should she be. They left with goodbyes and good luck, though they kept the latter for Angel’s ears only. Amalia was grateful they had gotten back so quick with the supplies and she desperately wanted to wake EZ and give him the medicine as soon as possible but she knew he needed to rest, and decided it could wait until he wakes. 

The minutes ticked down as did the hours as she sat there, eyes trained on the rise and fall of her lover’s chest. For a time, she sat there caressing his face, allowing silent tears to stream down her own.  His forehead was covered with sweat, his temperature rising. She wiped at the beads of sweat with a wet rag, allowing the cold cloth to mildly ease his fever down. 

When dawn was nearing, Amalia found herself drifting in and out of consciousness, head resting on her arm that lay on the edge of the couch, her fingers intertwined with EZ’s. Her mind continued to torture her with fleeting visions of EZ dying on their sofa, blood pouring from his wounds, voice screaming in pain, echoing all around her. There were moments where she would wake with a start, eyes wide, squeezing his hand, running hers up and down his arm just to feel his warmth. To see he was still there with her. 

She continued these bouts of suffering as her body fought for her to sleep and it was only after the third nightmarish vision, she had of losing EZ that her mind rewarded her with a faint memory instead of a twisted dream. It was of a time when their relationship was new and fresh. Yearning, and anticipation reaching the cusp, they had finally given in to their desires. It was the beginning of everything, and that’s where her memory took her.  

Amalia’s body was wrapped in his arms, legs tangled together she couldn’t tell where she began and EZ ended. Her breathing was laboured, hands running up and down tracing the ridges of his chest. It was the night they had first slept together, though this moment was long after they enjoyed each other.

EZ had fallen asleep with his arm around her waist. Sleep didn’t come easy to Amalia that night. She was too buzzed with what they had done. She’d had sex before, and like EZ, she would have drifted off by now but that night everything felt different and it was as she continued laying there listening to his intake of breath, as his dreams consumed him, she soon realised why. 

“How do you feel,” she heard him murmur against her skin. 

“Amazing,” she whispered, a coy smile on her face, “but I thought you were asleep?”

Craning her neck, she turned to look up at EZ and found him just as she thought, fast asleep. It took everything in her to not burst out laughing. She felt ridiculous beyond belief. EZ was talking in his sleep. 

“I love you,” she froze, hand stilling on EZ’s cheek as she heard him speak those words they had never shared before.

“Te quiero, Amalia.” 

The memories were so intense, and powerful Amalia ended up crying herself awake. Though this time when she woke, she found EZ’s head turned towards her, eyes opened wide watching her. 

“You’re awake,” she said, voice cracking. 

“Barely.” he whispered back, wincing as he tried to move his body to face her more clearly. 

“Baby,” she whined, standing up and gently placing both her hands on his shoulders to keep him from moving, “you need to stay put.”

Her face hovered above his as she stood like that, trying to make her point as gently as possible. His eyes stared into hers not before taking in the look on her face, which happened to be wrought with anguish and exhaustion, cheeks tear stained with lips cracked and bleeding. He could only imagine what she had gone through within the past twenty-four hours. 

She didn’t say anything for a moment and neither did he. They just stared at one another. Observing the contours of one another’s faces, making sure to mark this moment in their memory. Though EZ had no problem with that, he never forgets. 

“How long have you been sitting there?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“All night,” she said as she pulled away to sit on the coffee table behind her, “I had to make sure you didn’t die. I wasn’t alone though.” She pointed to where Angel’s sleeping form laid on the recliner positioned to EZ’s right.  

“He refused to leave and kept nagging me to go to bed.”

“You should’ve listened to him.”

“And you wouldn’t have done the same thing? EZ we both know if the roles were reversed – if it were me on this couch right now, you wouldn’t have left my side either. Hell, you would’ve driven me to the hospital.” 

They were at a stalemate both knowing she was right. Both knowing nothing more could be said to contradict her statement. He was madly in love with this woman and wouldn’t live in a world where she didn’t. He would have also stayed.

“If I had lost you EZ, I-I I don’t think I could live with myself.”

She looked at him then and allowed all her despair and anger to seep its way out of her. To expose him to it. His body stilled and he tried to turn away not wanting to see what he put her through. But he looked and watched as she could finally breath in relief. It struck him suddenly – piercingly, as to how much he had put her through, and because of that he could have sworn he heart his heart begin to break. 

“I know,” he whispered, though he knew he would never truly know until he was in the same position. 

There wasn’t much that could be said for what happened. EZ knew he could apologise; profusely, however, it would do no good. What he brought to Amalia – what he put her through was something he knew would kill him had it been her bleeding, damaged body brought to his door step. If it were him who had to sew up her wounds. 

Throughout the day little to no words were shared between them. Though that didn’t mean anything sinister to their relationship. EZ knew once he was better, he could make it up to her and Amalia knew that nothing EZ did to hurt her was intentional. He didn’t ask to be shot. She knew what she was getting herself into when they started dating, hell, even before that. She knew who EZ was and she loved him anyway. 

__________________________

Four weeks later

“No fondling the help!” Amalia said, doing her best to swipe EZ’s wandering hands away which were trying to make their way up her skirt.  

He lay on their bed, wound still covered and healing. He was a lot stronger than that night. Since then, he had been out and about, though his nurse was strict and limited him when it came to wandering around. She was too afraid he would rip open his stitches.  

“It’s not my fault you’re so… sexy.”

Through his healing process Amalia found EZ’s sex drive, which had thus far been neglected, had grown, and at first, she was scared. Too afraid of hurting him, or injuring him further. Though as he began to heal, albeit, slowly, she allowed their nefarious activities to return – though they were limited. She could tell he wanted more than what she gave but she couldn’t quite get past that fear. 

The first time they had sex after the incident involved Amalia on top, hands on either shoulder, straddling EZ’s waist. His wound was still on her mind at all times, as was the fear. EZ couldn’t have cared less. He wanted inside and was willing to have his stitches tear if it meant getting what he wanted. 

She felt like a nervous teenager again who was about to lose her virginity, unsure of what to do with her hands. She was too afraid to put too much pressure on different parts of his body. Too afraid to hurt him. 

“You won’t kill me by touching me,” he said, hands gripping her waist as he ground the most sensitive part of her body onto his, “but not touching me, will.”

A small gasp left her mouth as he repeated the action again. It had been so long since they had touched each other like this, though she was still clothed. She wanted to give in and remove the fear from herself. She was close to doing so, especially when his fingers found her clit. He had moved her panties to the side and began rubbing the little nub slowly. 

EZ loved hearing the sounds that escaped as he teased her. He lay there looking up watching her as he continued to pleasure her, and allowed himself to ease a finger inside. 

“Fuck! EZ!”

He grinned, proud to hear his name on her lips and added another. He could feel the tension within her begin to build slowly as he picked up the pace, and knew she was close, but he was selfish. He wanted to be inside her when she came. 

Removing his fingers, he tried as best he could, withholding a wince, to push his cock inside her. By this point, Amalia had stilled already missing where his fingers had been, not expecting the intrusive entrance of his cock. 

“Ride me,” he rasped, “ride me hard.” 

She did as he begged, disregarding her previous fears.

She fucked him hard and fast, the sound of their skin slapping together echoing throughout the room. His pleasure was ecstasy and that made him numb to the pain. It made him lean forward gripping the back of her neck, pulling her head back so he could lavish her throat with his lips. With one hand on her waist, he allowed the other to find her breasts. He began to tease her nipples one at a time tweaking the little buds enjoying the sounds escaping her as he did so. Soon his mouth ventured down to her chest and gave it the same attention he did her throat. He left small purple bruises on her skin. Some that would have been easy to hide, others more difficult. 

The pressure was beginning to build inside them both, becoming more intense. It caused them to go harder and faster than they did before which Amalia did not think was physically possible. This meant that they had no rhythm. Not that they minded.  They just continued to thrust their bodies towards one another seeking the friction and pleasure they needed to get to the end. EZ’s fingers we back on her clit rubbing furiously, willing Amalia closer and closer to her orgasm. He wanted her to cum first, clenching herself on his cock as he had experienced in the past. He had missed this. Her. 

“Fuck EZ!” She was close, so close. 

“Come on baby,” he panted in her ear, urging her on. 

“I’ve got you,” he cooed, “just let go.”

And she did. 

She screamed his name, voice cracking as he continued to fuck her.

Her clit abandoned, he gripped her hips, fingers digging into her skin as he finally brought himself to climax. 

A loud moan escaped him, her name a whisper on his lips that he chose to repeat over and over again as his climax washed over him. His thrusts began to slow as they began to cool down. He brought his face closer to hers, forehead to forehead. Lips brushing each other’s.

“You’re bleeding.” She whispered. 

He looked down briefly and caught sight of his white bandage that now showed splotches of blood.

“It was worth it.” He grinned.

TAGLIST [OPEN]: @appropriate-writers-name​ 

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Awake

⚠️This piece is a LAOFT AU, inspired by Mother by @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors, check out the original fic on AO3 here! ⚠️

(also, I am not nearly the fae-expert that Violet is, so I've taken quite the creative liberty with Virgil's mother. Please don't come for me.)

Awake takes place a year or so after the events of Mother.

Word count: 3513

AO3 link

Summary: Virgil has a long overdue conversation with his mother.

TW: spiders, brief/mild (non-sexual) nudity (fae-stuff, you know), mild blood/pain, mentions of parental neglect, sensory overload

… gil…

Virgil…

Virgil’s eye shot open. He tensed, listening. Even before the casket, he’d never been a heavy sleeper, and he was sure he’d heard his name. The four of them were sleeping in his room in fairyland, Roman asleep against his chest, Patton curled against Virgil’s back with Logan cuddling him from behind. Suddenly needing to be touching them all, Virgil reached back and rested a light hand on Logan’s knee.

Logan stirred, but didn’t wake.

Roman, on the other hand, shifted and cracked an eye. “Babe?”

“Go back to slee—”

Virgil.

He shot up to a seat, dislodging Roman and waking the other two. Virgil searched the room. He couldn’t pinpoint the direction the voice was coming from.

“V?” Patton yawned, sitting up with Logan. “What’s wrong?”

Virgil! it called again, more insistent. The seeds of panic began rooting in his chest. Something was speaking to him—that, or he was going crazy. He couldn’t sense any being even remotely close enough to call out to him, and if he couldn’t sense them, they could sneak up on him. On his partners.

“You don’t hear that?” he whispered.

“I hear nothing, Virgil,” Logan said, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder.

Imperceptible movement in the corner. A frantic, miniscule scrabbling. Virgil grasped the one knife he kept on him while he slept, strapped against his stomach, and flung it into the shadows. It sunk into the wall with a solid thunk.

Careful, brother!

We did not want to wake you.

Did you hear?

She is here!

She is awake! his sisters clamored, the shifting from the dark corner taking a frantic edge. Squinting, he realized they were writhing in a giant, excited nest in the upper corner of the room. They must have snuck in while he slept. Thankfully, he hadn’t impaled any of them. Strange, though. The room was dark, even for him. He couldn’t quite make out the far edges of the bedroom.

“That can’t be good for the wall,” Roman chuckled.

Patton let out a loving sigh. “V, we talked about the knives…”

“Sleeping with blades is incredibly unsafe,” Logan said, “especially with the three of us so close together.”

Virgil cast a careful glance Patton’s way, praying he didn’t notice the wriggling mass of arachnids that he was sure would terrify him. Though, if it was dark enough to give him trouble seeing things, he doubted any of his partners would notice. Relaxing a few notches, Virgil ran a tired hand down his face.

“My sisters are excited about something,” he said. “I’m sorry for waking you all.”

Patton stiffened imperceptibly, casting a wary glance across the bedsheets. Logan cupped a comforting hand on the side of his neck.

“There is no need for an apology,” Logan said, still soft with sleep. Roman relaxed back into the bed, stretching in a way that made Virgil think twice about going to investigate the voice.

Get up, the voice said, more amused than snappish. Excited, even. Virgil startled, reaching instinctively for knives he didn’t have on him. Something tickled at the back of his mind. He knew that voice… but from where?

“Virgil?” Roman asked softly, brow furrowing.

“Stay here,” he muttered, extracting himself from the bed with inhuman grace.

The second his feet touched the floor, a buzzing power flooded his body. He flinched, gasping.

Hello, Virgil, that subsonic voice reverberated through his skull. Looking down, he saw a sea of familiar shadows carpeting the floor.

Mother. You’re speaking, he said lamely, too shocked for eloquence.

Indeed, she rumbled. The shadows were thicker and more corporeal than before, lapping at the feet of the bed like smoky waves. It would explain why his sisters were up on the wall instead of the floor. Yes, Mother had created them, but they didn’t quite have the constitutions to interact with her as directly as he did.

He’d noticed the steadily returning strength of the forest in general since his brother’s demise, but after the encounter they’d had in Roman’s living room, his mother hadn’t reached out… almost as if she’d wanted her return to be a surprise.

I haven’t harmed your loves again, have I? she asked, sensing his apprehension. She sounded more exasperated than apologetic.

No. They’re fine. Thank you for keeping your distance.

“Virgil?” Patton asked again, and Roman made like he was going to hop off the bed.

Virgil held out a hand, eyes going wide. “No, wait!” he hissed.

Roman froze. “Virgil, I’m serious. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed, and he peered off the edge of the bed. A second of confusion before he muttered, “Ah.”

“My mother is in the room,” Virgil said, rapidly trying to think his way through the situation. He wasn’t keen on leaving his partners alone in fairyland, even if it was in his own quarters. However, if his mother was talking already, that meant she could probably hold a physical form as well, and there was no way Patton or Roman could stand her presence without permanent damage to their psyche. Logan, he wasn’t too sure about. Maybe.

His mother wasn’t simply fae. She was the mother of fear itself. The only thing his partners had encountered even remotely close to his mother’s physical form was the eldritch horror Greta had become—and they’d all seen the havoc it had wrought on mortal minds. They weren’t built for it.

Roman swallowed, leaning away from the edge of the bed. He hid his fear well, Virgil would give him that. Not that he particularly blamed him.

Patton, on the other hand, visibly paled. “Really?” he squeaked, pressing back against Logan. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

“I imagine that is the point,” Logan said, wrapping Patton protectively in his arms. He cast a glance at Virgil. “Your mother manifests primarily as shadow, yes?”

Virgil nodded. “I need to speak with her elsewhere. My sisters will… keep an eye out.”

Logan gripped the charm at his neck and nodded. “We will be fine, Virgil.”

Virgil managed a weak smile, then turned his attention to the ceiling where his sisters were spreading out, covering nearly every square inch. He so rarely saw all of them in one place—several groups often doing small reconnaissance missions around fairyland for him. It was the only way he was able to keep up with the ever-shifting moods of the court. Virgil sometimes forgot just how many of them there were.

“Stay off the bed,” he warned, pointing a finger.

Of course, brother!

We would not scare your dear ones!

Patton!

We love Patton!

We will keep them safe! they chorused.

Virgil cocked a dubious eyebrow, then turned, throwing the balcony doors open and hopping up onto the ledge.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Patton gave a nod and a smile.

The shadows in the room swirled with a sound like someone ripping away a tablecloth and converged on Virgil. Something in his mind clicked. The darkness hung about him like a cape, filling him with power, and he couldn’t help the echoing, inhuman laughter bubbling up his throat.

He caught a glimpse of Roman’s paling face. Logan’s mouth pulled down into the beginnings of concern, but it didn’t register.

Virgil tipped back off the balcony and disappeared with a flutter of fabric, the night itself enveloping him in a cool embrace.

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

Come on, Virgil. Faster. Faster!

They dashed through the deepest parts of the forest, the boundaries between their minds blurring and shifting. Trees the size of buildings towered above them. The air was alive with magic—or maybe that was simply his mother, expressing herself fully for the first time in centuries. He could practically taste it on his tongue, jaw-tingling and electrifying. The forest hummed with it.

Laughter, free and wild, pounded through his chest and Virgil wasn’t sure which of them it was. His heart hammered in his ribcage, fast enough to kill any mortal human. Electricity so hot it was cold crackled across his skin.

Mother, he managed through the frenzy, breathless. Mother, where are we going? He’d never seen her this excited. It was almost too much, even for him.

Home! she cried triumphantly.

For a split second, Virgil thought she meant the witch hazel, but they weren’t anywhere near it. At least, he was pretty sure they weren’t. If he recognized where they were, the power coursing through him kept his mind too out-of-focus to do so. Magic tore through him—too much for so small a vessel. If it went on much longer, Virgil thought he’d tear apart at the seams.

At last, they slowed to a stop just outside of a grassy clearing. Virgil’s breath caught at the sight. In the middle of the clearing, dwarfing even the monstrous trees of the surrounding forest, stood a glossy black tree—easily ten times taller than Wickhills’ quaint, steepled chapel. It looked like blown glass, with silver and gold veins twisting through its trunk and branches. The leaves, distant though they were, looked razor sharp. Like teeth, almost. Virgil felt small in a way he rarely did. In his mother’s absence, he’d grown used to being the scariest thing around. She, it seemed, was about to upend that notion.

The darkness slipped from Virgil’s shoulders and stole the air from his lungs. He stumbled against a tree, ears ringing. The darkness coalesced into an enormous, roiling mass of black that coiled around the base of the tree.

Watch, Mother said, and he could practically hear her smile.

Virgil coughed, tasting blood on his lips. Bringing up a trembling hand, he found his nose bleeding.

You’ve gone soft, his brother’s voice echoed in his ears and Virgil spit, wiping his face. True, the relative peace he’d established in the court meant he didn’t use his full power on any kind of regular basis, but his mother was undeniably stronger. That, or she’d simply been holding back all this time.

Virgil sank to a seat, sweat slicking his face and arms, watching with weary amazement as the sea of shadow shifted and folded in on itself. He was ready for the display to trigger thoughts of Greta, of the beast she’d become… but Mother was different. Terrifying, yes, but different. More in control.

I’m glad you’re back.

Me too, little one.

A lump formed in Virgil’s throat. It had been so long since anyone had called him that.

Eventually, the darkness took shape. Her head was the size of Logan’s house, impossibly black with galaxies for eyes and hair that undulated as if underwater. A sinuous neck led first to shoulders, then arms, hands, and fingers that had no definite tips and bled shadow. Her dark chest was bare, her stomach curved and soft like folds of black velvet. The of bottom half her body looked like those insects Logan had shown him—millipedes. Dozens of legs lined a plated, serpentine body, but the legs arched up at sharp angles like a spider’s. Shadows licked up off of her entire body like dark ribbons of flame, distorting any solid edges.

“Hmmm,” she hummed, lifting a hand to feel the vibrations of her throat. Virgil felt it through his entire body. “Interesting. It's been a while since I’ve had a mouth.” She laughed, and the clearing rumbled.

You were born here? Virgil asked, sure if he spoke aloud she wouldn’t be able to hear him.

“In a sense. This is where I began. I do not have a mother in the same way that I am yours. Something before me must have left—or died—and I simply filled the emptiness,” she explained. “The world likes balance.” She moved to lie on her stomach, resting her head on her hands. If Virgil stood, his head would only just pass the crest of her upper lip.

Her massive eyes widened. “You are bleeding, little one.”

“Yes,” he croaked, now that she was close enough to hear.

Mother was silent for a moment, before asking, “Did I do that?”

“You didn’t know,” he said. Her eyes narrowed at the indirect answer.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, her cool breath washing over him like a pleasant breeze. “My excitement got the better of me. Come,” she said, rising up to a sort of seat with her insectoid body coiled beneath her. Virgil grunted and rose to his feet. He felt sore all over, like he’d fought an entire army single-handed. His nose still hadn’t stopped bleeding. Patton would have a fit when he saw the crimson stains littering the front of his sleep shirt.

Mother cupped her two hands together and deftly scooped him up off the ground. That same buzz of power filled him, but slower this time, seeping into him like the warmth of a bath. The pain melted away. She couldn’t heal like he and Logan could—again, she wasn’t fae, at least in the sense that Virgil was. The lack of a permanent physical body meant she had no need for healing powers. When they parted, he’d likely feel like he’d been run over, but for now, Mother did what she could.

She lifted him to her shoulder, hands perfectly steady beneath him. Virgil sat, feet resting just above her collarbone.

He laughed.

“What is it, little one?” Mother asked, gazing up at the stars.

“I wonder if this is what my sisters feel like around me.”

A chuckle rumbled through his mother, deep and sonorous. “Indeed.”

“What will you do, now that you are back to your full strength?”

“The same things I’ve always done, I suppose,” she said, a smile splitting across her face. “Watch over the forest. Over you and those loves of yours.” Then she paused, as if considering something. “Dorothy Marie Galloway Sanders.”

Virgil stiffened at the full name. She hadn’t called her Dot, so he was fairly certain it wasn’t her true name, but still. It sounded awfully close.

“She is mother to one of your darlings, yes?”

“Why do you ask?” Virgil said carefully.

“Have you ever wished for a mother like that?”

Virgil’s throat went dry. “That answer is quite complicated.”

“I thought so,” she said, her smile fading into resignation.

Virgil remembered the first time he saw Dot gather an upset Logan in her arms, rocking him gently. The sudden, gut-punching longing had taken Virgil by surprise. When May ruffled his hair or patted his shoulder, it took everything in him not to hold on, to ask for… for what? More love? He had love. Inordinate amounts of it. His wonderful partners loved him. Greta had loved him, and Trudi. His sisters loved him. He shouldn’t need any more. It would be… greedy.

“You told me you were lonely,” she said, “back when you were so very young. I didn’t understand that I could have filled that role much better than your brother did. I figured you two would be fine, especially after I’d made your sisters, so I left you to run things and by the time I realized how wrong I’d been, my power was waning and you were…”

“You did not put me in that casket,” he croaked.

“My negligence might as well have.”

Virgil’s vision blurred with tears that he tried to swallow back. “I don’t blame you, Mother.”

She glanced down at him. “You cannot lie, yet fear fills your words, little one.”

He let out a shaky exhale. “I simply fear losing you, as I fear losing everything as I once had,” he admitted, then, in a voice so quiet and small he felt like a child again, he said, “Please don’t leave me.”

Mother scooped him up in her hands once more, bringing him level with her eyes. She rested her thumb against his chest, the weight comforting and probably the closest he’d get to an actual hug.

“Never again, little one.”

His breath hitched, and the tears finally spilled over.

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

Mother delivered Virgil back to the fairy hill just before dawn. Alighting on the balcony’s edge without a sound, the shapeless mass of shadow retreated from around him.

Goodnight, little one.

Goodnight, mother, he replied, face still tacky from crying. The moment she departed, pain and heaviness slammed back into him. Fresh blood trickled from his nose and his vision swam. Thankfully, he stumbled forward, instead of pitching backward off the edge of the balcony.

Virgil stumbled like a drunk through the balcony doors. Logan, who sat perfectly still against the headboard reading a book, looked up and all the blood drained from his face. He shook Patton and Roman awake. They all shot to their feet, Patton getting a little tangled in the blankets on the way.

“Virgil?!”

“V, oh my goodness—”

“—what happened? I thought you said—”

Brother!

Brother is hurt!

What happened, brother?

We will avenge you! his sisters shrieked. Exhaustion, and pain, and the overall emotional rawness from his exchange with his mother riddled Virgil’s mind, turning everything into a muddled soup of noise. He staggered forward, catching himself on the rim of the sink-like basin of water against the wall—enchanted to stay clean and filled no matter what.

They just kept talking. So much was happening at once. A hand rested against his back, and he flinched so violently his grip cracked the rim of the basin. “Don’t—” he snapped before he could bite his tongue, and the hand retracted instantly. Even his sisters went silent. Virgil took a breath, running his hands through his sweat-matted hair. “Sorry,” he muttered, unsure if he’d be sick or not. “It’s that… overload thing.”

“What do you need, Virgil?” Logan asked, voice carefully calm despite the blood drying on Virgil’s face and hands.

“Quiet,” he sighed. “Just for a minute.”

They must have nodded. Virgil heard them retreating to the bed. After a few more steadying breaths, he began to wash his hands, the water turning pink for only a second before the enchantment purified it again. He cleaned his face and pulled the stained shirt up over his head, tossing it to the floor. He was too tired to care.

Stumbling to the bed, he caught himself on the bedpost, Roman instantly beneath his other arm, supporting his weight. Virgil collapsed onto the bed, groaning both in relief and pain. It was as if he’d pulled every muscle in his body. Eventually, his own magic would heal him, but that would take hours. He rolled to his back, cracking open one eye and shooting a weary but genuine smile at his three partners.

“Get in here,” he chuckled. They all collectively relaxed, Patton even letting out a relieved sigh. Logan rounded the bed to claim Virgil’s other side.

“Gently, gently,” he cautioned as they maneuvered closer to him. Patton curled up at his side, sandwiched between him and Roman. Virgil rested his arm across Patton’s shoulder and ran his fingers through Roman’s hair. Logan pressed firmly against Virgil’s opposite side, fidgeting gently with the ends of Virgil’s hair.

“What happened?” Patton asked, looking up at Virgil with those beautiful golden eyes so full of worry. “I thought you were with your mother.”

“I was,” Virgil said.

Roman went impossibly still. “Did she do this?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“She did not hurt me intentionally,” he said, resting his hand on Roman’s cheek, “simply got over-excited.”

Roman gripped his hand back tight, looking anything but comforted. Virgil forced himself not to wince.

“Roman, look at me,” he said, rising up on an elbow despite the protest of his ribs and shoulders. “My mother has never intentionally hurt me, has never made the same mistake twice, and always apologizes. She’s just… complicated and doesn’t understand the fragility of smaller beings very well.”

“I remember,” Logan muttered into Virgil’s shoulder.

“She sounds a bit like me,” Patton whispered, hand splayed across Virgil’s stomach, dipping up and down with his every breath. “You know, back before I could control my voice.”

Virgil pressed a kiss to Patton’s temple. “Yeah, it’s a bit like that.”

“All right,” Roman said, though he didn’t release Virgil’s hand completely.

He relaxed onto his back once more, closing his eyes. The pain was fading to the back of his mind—still there, but muted.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Roman said, turning Virgil’s hand over and tracing the lines of his palm.

Logan’s thumb brushed his face. “Have you been crying, dear?”

Virgil swallowed, opening his eyes again. “My mother and I had a long overdue conversation.”

“Good or bad?” Patton asked hesitantly.

Virgil considered for a moment. “Good, I think?”

“You think?” Roman asked.

He took a breath. “It… hurt, talking about things I’d never voiced before, but I’m glad I did. Things between us are better because of it.”

“In that case, I am very proud of you,” Logan mumbled into his shoulder, and Virgil relaxed. He was comfortable, and so very tired.

Virgil pulled all three of them closer, and, at last, drifted off into sleep.

[janekfan]

ooooh..... difficult anniversary and/or you’re not human anymore bingo prompts for jarchivist obliteration?

AAAA This took so long! I am SO SORRY!!! <3 <3 <3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31123295

Jon was used to hurting.

Used to hiding.

Which is why he didn’t notice. Didn’t understand what was happening to him and more importantly why.

A panic attack here. A bad day there. A cold, maybe? Until the scars on his skin from the worms and the corkscrew and the scratching woke one day as though they were fresh and new. His skin crawled, the slightest touch filled him with revulsion and, lord, he had to keep it together because Martin would almost certainly overreact and Jon hated, hated to be the source of his worry.

So he would ignore it as usual.

Whatever it was would pass. And he could avoid being the center of attention for this thing that was out of their control. He’d read the Lord of the Rings. He knew about the less romantic side of anniversaries. What was one more thing for him to overcome?

It didn’t stop them from hurting like the day they were drawn on his body and while the rents in his skin looked the same as they ever did, he nearly bloodied himself after a particularly wretched nightmare with his frenzied clawing.

And it passed. The burning, bleeding, boring sensations disappeared and Martin hadn’t suspected a thing. Okay, that was a lie. But he seemed mollified enough when Jon wrote it off as a tough week at university.

“I’m just tired, habibi.” He forced himself to reach for Martin’s hands, sighing in gusty relief when everything was normal and allowing himself to get wrapped up in warm arms.

The mark left behind by the Distortion ached deep and throbbing and somehow also elsewhere. It was a phantom pain traveling the myriad corridors of his veins, his arteries, his nerves and when he couldn’t rid himself of it in any conventional way, he waited. It would pass. It would. Just like the last one. This was just pain. He knew pain. Was fast friends with it by now and this was nothing like his worst days.

“Jon-darling?”

“Mm?” He was flipping through the pages in a book, not too fast, not too slow, not really reading anything, trying to pretend that everything was normal when his foot cramped up like he’d been bitten. He was practiced now in not looking; there wouldn’t be anything there anyway. His skin might as well have been a great big door and the only way through to the other side didn’t involve knocking.

“You look pale.” Ah. Well. Pain like this would do that to a man.

“Just a little sore today, love.” It wasn’t a lie. Jon set the book aside, not bothering to mark whatever random page he’d landed on, and threaded their fingers together.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you talk me into carrying the shopping.”

“What are you talking about? I always help carry the shopping.” Despite his chronic conditions, Jon pulled his own weight.

No, stop. Of course you do and you have nothing to prove, especially not to Martin of all people.

“You’ve been run down.”

“I have not!” Martin fixed him with a stern look and he cowed under his scrutiny. “Perhaps a bit, but you know how these things go.”

“I do. And I can’t help but feel like there’s something you aren’t telling me.” Here it was. Martin’s overture, his olive branch. His invitation to come clean and tell the truth and avoid his wrath when he found out later. But Jon never was a quick learner of these social lessons.

“I’m fine, hayati.” Jon soothed, tipping Martin into his newly throbbing shoulder. “I’m fine.”

The next three hit him like a lorry, nearly as hard as they had a year ago and nearly all at once.

His burn scar, just like the worm scars, felt blistered as badly as the day he’d taken Jude’s hand, and he shook violently at the onset of it, thankful he was squirreled away in his office at the University and not crying into Martin’s shirt even if that’s where he’d prefer to be but Martin hates burns.

Hates how they look, how twisted and ugly they become when they scar.

Burns made him upset. Burns made him sick.

He hates them. Hates them. And while Jon was reasonably sure Martin would never turn him away when he was hurting like this, the fluttering undercurrent chanting what if wouldn’t leave him be.

So Instead he sniffled away in the dark, wrist pressed between his knees in a vain attempt to stop the shaking while he tried to remember how to breathe.

It was dark when he slipped into bed beside Martin, dead asleep after a run of night shifts. For a frantic moment Jon wanted to shake him awake, beg for reasurances, for relief, but it would ruin this. Martin looked so peaceful, face relaxed in repose, cheek soft when Jon pressed his trembling lips there.

“Jon... ?” Washing out on a swirling tide his voice was fuzzy, thick with exhaustion, and the hand that brushed the small of his back lingered only for the time it took for him to drift back under. No. He’d wrought enough damage here. Better for Martin to rest without worry. He shouldn’t have to deal with Jon and his problems. Especially when they would be arriving like clockwork for the rest of his life. Jon pressed himself against Martin’s warmth, trying to soak it up, stop the shivering. How could he be so frozen when his whole right arm was engulfed in flame? Silent, he let the tears come, closing his eyes against a burgeoning dizziness he knew would only grow worse.

Be quiet. Just be quiet. Don’t disturb him, you mustn’t. You’ve nothing else to give except more burdens that aren’t his to carry.

The ceiling was spinning so fast above him; lights, cast shadows, cabinets whirling, reeling, spiraling so much he’d be sick with it any minute. The vibrations from Martin’s pounding footsteps resonated through the whole of him, pulsing, in time with his uneven battering pulse.

He barely remembered the actual fall, just the terrifying sensation of being weightless and the fear welling in his throat like coagulated ink. Forever. He’d be falling forever. Nothing to hold. To grab. To slow. To Know.

Endless.

His scream wrenched away from him in the rushing winds filling up his ears, stealing his voice, his breath. No one could hear him in this place. Martin would never know what happened. That Jon was eaten up by the sky. Surrounded infinitely on all sides by a sea of simultaneous nonexistence and brutal presence. Jon’s awareness whittled down only to the pull of gravity in all the wrong directions.

“Jon!” A bleary shape manifested above him, blocking out the worst of it. Hands, gentle, probing, searching subconsciously for breaks, contusions, his training winning out over the panic Jon could just make out in the set of his mouth. Fingers ran soft through his curls, seeking out any swellings and Jon winced when he found one. Must’ve struck his head on the way down. Those cool hands settled, cupping his face, and twin thumbs brushed over his cheeks. “You’re warm, love.” A murmur, almost to himself as Martin puzzled.

“B’bit of, of vertigo, s’all.” Uncoordinated, Jon’s arm struck out as he tried to reach for him and landed on his wrist. “Tryin’...nnh.” He gripped Martin like a lifeline, slamming his eyes shut against the need to be ill.

“You’ve clocked yourself.” Fair enough. “But I think you’re alright. Think you can move?” With no other option than to speak lest he set it all swirling again, Jon whimpered. “Okay.” With one more pass through his hair Martin stepped away and soon enough had Jon settled as best he could on the tile, tucked beneath a blanket with a cold pack pressed to the back of his neck. Relief came gradually and Martin’s unasked questions lingered on the edges of their companionable silence. “Better?”

“Mm.” Despite the hard surface applied to every pressure point, Jon was falling asleep cocooned in the safety of Martin’s soothing company.

He wouldn’t be able to keep this up

Martin teased him mercilessly about the loss of his voice and Jon let him have it if it kept him from noticing how sore his throat really was. He wanted to tell him that it was Daisy’s mark, to cry and come clean and beg Martin to stay.

But that wouldn’t be fair. Jon had to be a whole person in this relationship and stop relying on Martin to pick up the slack. He would figure this out. He’d prove his past didn’t control him.

After he could get out of bed.

And here was what he’d strived to avoid. Finally laid low.

“I worry, Jon. You know that.” That was the problem. Martin was already going to be late to work from all his fussing. With the scrap of voice he’d gained back he protested in a hoarse whisper, syllables squeaking past what felt like a shredded voice box and listened to Martin call in again. He had to be better than this but he was overwrought, dangling at the end of a very frayed rope. This marked a sharp decline and Jon was sure it hadn’t escaped Martin’s notice that they were coming up on the date he’d more or less died. He could barely rouse himself in the mornings for school, drifting through lessons and relying more on his TA than he’d like. More than once he’d splurged on a cab, not sure if he’d make it on the tube and Martin’s fretting and worry and distress only made Jon more secure in his conviction. If it was this bad already, how bad would it become if he knew the reason it was all happening? They were supposed to be free of this. Jon wasn’t supposed to keep doing this to Martin.

Melanie’s scar throbbed, chipping away at any scant reserve he had left and ruthless with its aim. It was worse than Daisy’s even though he could understand both motivations. Daisy was putting down a monster. Mel was striking out at someone trying to help, driving home with the scalpel that no good deed goes unpunished. Rationally, he knew he’d deserved it. Too bad it didn’t dull the sting of it all really.

“Darling? Sweetheart?” Jon forced his eyes open, gasping when it sent the dark room to pirouetting, his stomach to churning, staging a mutiny against the scant meal he’d forced on himself not too long ago. Anything he’d gained in their short reprieve had long melted away under the stress. “I’m here, what’s wrong, love?”

“Nnothing…” he regretted the word as soon as it passed his lips.

“You’ve a fever so high it woke me. That’s not nothing, Jon.” Mercifully, he gave him a moment to gather his thoughts, catalogue how much more of this he could take before it broke him. Burned hand shaking, Jon clenched his fist which didn’t help the pain rocketing through his arm and into his heart, but steadied him.

“Jus’a, a bit of a flare up.” Those sometimes came with fevers.

“Oh, love. Why didn’t you say?”

Because it was a lie. Because I didn’t want you to worry. Because I never want to see you upset over me. Because I’m not worth it. Because if it’s always going to be like this--

“Din’t want you to, to…” The cramping agony slurred his voice badly, stringing syllables together with an uncooperative tongue was too much effort. “Nngh.” Dazed and groggy, Jon shut his eyes tightly, trying to focus on Martin’s soothing touch stroking over his face. Like a coward, Jon let sleep rescue him from the truth.

It was the flesh that gave him away.

Woke him screaming; hot and twisting in agony with Jared’s phantom fingers dug into his rib cage. More fingers clamped onto his shoulders, shaking him, a distorted voice calling, shouting his name over and over and over.

“Jon!” Martin was little more than a blur, obscured by tears, and Jon’s panic was reflected straight back at him. “Where does it hurt?”

“Wha…?”

“Where, habibi? Left, right? Please, Jon.”

“Not...not. S’not--” He couldn’t get the words to come, to admit after so long what he’d kept poorly hidden.

“Not what?” Frustration bled sideways into his words and Martin gripped him harder as though he might tear the answers out of him.

“Real.” It burst from him in a raw, somehow soft explosion. It wasn’t. Not really. The wounds were long healed over.

“Looks plenty real from here, Jon.” He batted away questing fingers.

“No. No.” There was no way he’d be able to explain through this piercing agony, the literal holes invisible in his skin.

“It’s the fears, isn’t it? Your marks, your scars.” Martin already knew judging by the disquiet in his tone. This was merely confirmation.

“Yes.” He sobbed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was hurt in his voice, sadness and betrayal, alongside the ire.

“I thought, I thought--” Jon couldn’t breathe, panic and pain stealing the very air from his lungs. This was only going to get worse. After all they’d done, he’d done--how was he still a monster?

“Shh, shhh, thought what, love?” Martin held him carefully, mindful of all the ways Jon hurt, ticking off fears and scars on mental fingers, trying to figure out how long he’d been hiding it. How long he’d been suffering alone.

“Supposed to be, god, supposed to be safe, free of this.” He was trembling now, with chills or anxiety or both, gasping for every sip of oxygen and swallowing seawater for his trouble. “Can’t, what if--?” Choking himself off, Jon strangled. Martin stayed silent, rocking them both gently, back, forth, soft, slow, calm, calm, calm, and when Jon finally spoke again had to strain to hear him over the echo of a hammering heart beat. “Every year?”

Every year.

He couldn’t Breathe.

Everything was close. So close, too close, and he was crushed under the implications.

“Jon?” Now he was heaving for it, fast and deep, and while Martin could feel the strain it was to breathe he knew it wouldn’t be long before Jon lost consciousness altogether. “Hey, hey, listen, hayati, slow down, sloow down.” Jon’s entire body lifted when Martin inhaled, and again, and again, until he picked up the thread and made more than a half decent attempt. “Okay, there you are, you’re doing so well, sweetheart. So well.” Time passed in measured breaths, so much so that Martin had begun to think Jon had fallen asleep when:

“You’ll leave.”

Soft and shattered. All the fear that he’d piled onto the pain flowing out of him, a dam burst and broken.

“I won’t.” Jon’s movements were hard-won but he managed to shift himself enough to face him. His expression was firm.

“You, you can’t be stuck taking care of an i’invalid again, Martin. I won’t. I won’t have it.”

“Ah. You won’t have it.” Martin scoffed. “And what about me? When do I get a choice?” Jon, eyes wide and dark with exhaustion and pain, looked at him as though he’d grown a second head, perhaps a third.

Or like Martin was a predator and Jon was prey, cornered and hurting.

“You shouldn’t want this.” Me. “This, this burden. This trap!”

“You’re not some sort of trap!” Martin could see the moment Jon decided to change tactics, to try and convince him otherwise, win the game. Too bad for Jon that Martin knew him better than he knew himself.

“You want this don’t you?” He sneered, so convinced, and while once upon a time it would have made Martin wilt and retreat, now he was familiar with Jon’s lashing out. Sorry, Jon. “I won’t be another reason for you to martyr yourself.”

“And I won’t be scared off by your nasty attitude.” Softening, he reached for Jon’s trembling hands, running his thumbs methodically over the backs of them. “I won’t. Together. Right?”

“Martin.” His name broke open on a sob. “I don’t. I don’t want this for you.”

“Tough.” Smothered, Jon’s next words died in his throat, a fledgling bird crushed before it could take flight. “You don’t get to choose for me, even to protect me.”

“Every year--”

“We don’t know that. Not yet.” Martin eased him down. “You aren’t a burden. You aren’t trapping me here.” He kissed away the tears, the hopelessness, even as Jon shook his head nigh delirious.

“I am, I am.”

“No, love. What you are is worn out and hurting.” Martin teased out Jon’s tangled curls, stroking his fingers through them and watching him relax as much as he could at the moment. “What you’re going to do is let me take care of things. Of you, Jon.”

“Don’deserve you.” Fresh tears welled in half lidded brown eyes, slipped into the fly aways at his temples when they closed. “Never have.” Martin stood, pressing lips to his hot brow, intending to gather up anything he thought might help.

“We’ll talk when you’re feeling better.” Jon nodded and Martin turned to leave, stopping when he found himself caught by quaking fingers tangled in his sleeve.

“I, I love you.” Contrite, whispered and awaiting rejection. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, darling.” Martin leaned down, thumbing away new tears. “I know, I know and I love you too.” He stole one more shivering kiss. “Let’s get you taken care of.”