#you can distantly hear me screaming and sobbing because I didn’t expect this on my 2023 December bingo card

[m0nochromat1c]

Limbus art is still on pause bc I’ve been dragged back to pokemon and rainworld , thanks @trashiiplant

Anyway ones an old drawing but these are two of my iterators that I made back when I first got into rain world and then subsequently forgot about, along with silly stupid images of Paradigm moth looking very concerned

[war-on-mars]

for the angst/fluff prompts: cait/vi + 58?

When Vi wakes up, it’s with a cough and a retch. Her hair is slicked to her skin with sweat and her head pounds as she moves to sit up. 

Distantly she can feel a pressure on her chest pushing her down, but she ignores it. Her body screams at her when she sits up, and she groans—nearly sobs—as she tries to push herself up using her arms, but she pushes through it, her body running on pure adrenaline.

“Vi, calm down!” A panicked voice sounds from beside her but she barely hears it. She doesn’t know how she got here and it doesn’t matter because she has to go find Caitlyn. 

Caitlyn, who might be the best thing to ever happen to her. Caitlyn, who gave her a home and a place to belong. Caitlyn, who has a heart of gold and who Vi trusts with her life.

Caitlyn, who followed her right into one of Jinx’s traps.

“Fuck,” Her mouth feels dry and she forces her eyes shut against the blinding lights of whatever room she’s in. Her wrist gives out under her and she clenches her jaw. 

“Vi, please,”

“Have to go find cupcake,” She chokes out, her throat burning.

“Violet, I’m right here.” Soft knuckles brush against her cheek and Vi finally picks up the distinct scent of her, all fresh berries from her shampoo and something so distinctly Caitlyn that Vi has never been able to name it. “I’m okay, we got out of there. We’re at the hospital, and my father has been caring for you. We’re safe.”

Her eyes flutter open and she looks down to find Caitlyn’s hand on her chest, holding her down gently. The relieved breath that Vi lets out hurts in a way she didn’t expect, but she forces herself to breathe more—to calm down. “Are my ribs bruised or something?” She says with a scratchy cough.

“Broken,” Caitlyn mumbles, and hands over a cup of water. Vi winces as she takes it and chugs the entire thing. Caitlyn’s eyes look bloodshot, and Vi can’t help but notice how much paler than usual she looks. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a bus,” Vi chuckles, ducking her head down to catch Caitlyn’s eyes. Something stirs in Vi’s stomach as she notices the deep cut above Caitlyn’s eyebrow. “What happened?”

“You scared the shit out of me, Violet.” Caitlyn laughs humorlessly, “That’s what happened.”

Vi clenches her fist around the sheets of the hospital bed. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m your partner, Vi. You lied to me and got yourself hurt after I warned you,”

Vi can hear the tears and frustration in her voice. She doesn’t even have to look. “Cait—”

“If I hadn’t come after you, you’d be dead.” 

The room goes eerily still. Caitlyn wraps her arms around herself and chokes out a sob, and Vi feels that stirring in her stomach again—guilt. She looks down at herself; at the bandages colored with dried blood, at the scrapes and nicks across her skin, and she shudders at the realization that Caitlyn is right. 

“I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if you…” Caitlyn whispers. “If I lost you.”

“I’m sorry, Cait. I should’ve listened to you.” Vi reaches out and lays a bruised hand over Caitlyn’s. “I made a mistake.”

“Please never do that again,” Caitlyn intertwines their fingers and squeezes Vi’s hand. She leans down and rests her forehead against Vi’s. “I need you.”

“I promise,” Vi smiles, albeit weakly. “I won’t lie to you again.”

Then Caitlyn kisses her, soft and quick. She squeezes Vi’s hand again as she pulls away. 

Vi blinks as heat rises to her cheeks, her jaw dropping. “You just—”

“I was really worried, Vi.” She cradles Vi’s jaw with her other hand, her own cheeks pink. 

Vi laughs, "Maybe I should worry you more often, then?”

Caitlyn scoffs, a smile pulling at her lips “You’re an ass,”

Vi leans up and kisses her again, savoring the feeling of Caitlyn’s lips on hers. She smiles into it and feels Caitlyn do the same. “For the record, I need you too, cupcake.”

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 28, Post #1 by @floreatcastellumposts

Title: The Argument Author/Artist: FloreatCastellum Pairing: Gen Prompt: “Siblings: The only enemy you can’t live without” -Anonymous Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Mild language

When he was a child, Ron had sometimes sat secretly on the stairs, feet in slippers too big for him, teddy tucked under his arm, listening to the goings on in the kitchen. Often his sister or a brother or two would be with him. This was especially the case when there was an argument, because they were a nosy bunch of kids, and they would grin gleefully at one another as they heard their mother roar over some issue, like when Bill came home with his first tattoo, or Charlie had done something dangerous like climb on the roof, or the many, many, many things that Fred and George had done. They would gather on the stairs and snigger and delight in their siblings being in trouble - that it wasn't them, and usually it was over something hilarious too. 

Today was quite different. The stairs were narrow, so Ginny was pressed right up against him, but she was gripping hold of his arm too. Behind them, Fred and George sat in grim, stony silence, their knees occasionally knocking the back of Ron's head, but, remarkably, none of them were squabbling.

'Is it so hard to just be happy for me?' Percy was bellowing, and that in itself was unusual, because it was never Percy in trouble. 

'It's not about that,' Dad was bellowing back, 'are you so naive? Are you really so foolish-?' This was unusual too, because it wasn't usually Dad bellowing. 

'Percy... Percy, we're just worried, we're just concerned...' Mum was sobbing. This was unusual, because she usually had a bit more fight in her, not this desperate pleading. 

'You're so cynical, the pair of you-'

'We're realistic! You've been promoted well above your grade before the dust has settled on the inquiry-'

'STOP BRINGING UP THE INQUIRY!' Percy sounded quite deranged; the ferocity of his voice made Ginny jump slightly, and grip Ron's arm harder. 'That - wasn't - my - fault! That was the point of it! That PROVED I wasn't to blame, I was acquitted-'

'Yes, and we were delighted,' said Dad, and to Ron's astonishment, his words sounded bitingly sarcastic, 'but even so, you have to see that mass scandal is not usually a precursor to promotion!'

'He SAW something in me!' 

'Yes, he did! He saw a potential spy! On our family - on Dumbledore-'

Percy let out a maniacal laugh, forced and sneering and sanctimonious, it made Ron wince as he heard it. 'And you say I'm arrogant?' 

'We've never said you were arrogant-' Mum tried to chip in desperately, but Percy continued talking over her. 

'You think you're important enough to warrant the Minister for Magic spying on you? You think he considers you in the same circle as Dumbledore? More to the point, you think Dumbledore truly respects the likes of you?'  

'Fudge has been going round making it more than clear that anyone who supports Dumbledore can clear out their desks-'

'Utter rot-'

'-He knows I'm friendly with him, he knows I have advised the school on muggleborn inte-'

'No one cares!' Percy screamed. 'No one cares about that stuff! You're ludicrous!'

'Ludicrous?' Dad echoed, with an uncharacteristic scoff to his voice. 

'Ludicrous! Not everything is a conspiracy, not everything has an anti-muggle agenda - I know what this is really about, you're embarrassed that your own son is rising above you, is succeeding where you haven't-'

'Percy!' Mum's gasp was so clear that Ron could easily imagine her hand leaping to her chest. 

'I've had to struggle against your lousy reputation ever since I started! Do you know how embarrassing it is? Do you know what it's like having people ask if I'm related to the muggle-mad Weasley on Level Two-' 

'That's enough,' said Dad coldly. 

'I lie to them, d'you know that? I tell them we're only distantly related.' 

'What the fuck?' Ron heard one of the twins whisper behind them. 'Is he serious?' 

'I never imagined I had raised you to be so small-minded-' Dad was spitting back.

'It's baffling that you raised me at all! You, who has no ambition, no sense, no idea of how ridiculous you come across with your obsession with muggles - is it any wonder you've always been passed over for promotion-'

'-Because of bigotry!'

'-Any wonder you've left your children to grow up in poverty? To be humiliated by the failures of their father?' 

'Stop it! Percy, stop it!' Mum was wailing, and whether it was Fred or George directly behind him Ron didn't know, but their knee was trembling against the back of his head. 

'It's not failure, it's a matter of principle and integrity!' Dad roared back. 'There are more important things than gold, that's what we've always-'

'You are deluded! You are so blinded by your persecution complex, by your victimhood, that you cannot be happy for your son!' Percy’s voice was hoarse and raw, whether from tears or overexertion, Ron wasn’t sure. 'You can't bear to see him succeed where you failed! To see him make something of himself!'

'Why would I be happy watching my son be manipulated and used? Make no mistake, Percy - this is no achievement, this is Fudge playing you as a puppet - if you're ashamed of your background, that's your prerogative, but there's no denying this family is known to be close to Dumbledore and Harry, and Fudge is waging a vendetta against-'

‘You’re an idiot to run around with Dumbledore!’ snapped Percy. ‘He’s heading for trouble - gone completely power mad the last few years - you know full well his glory days are over. You’ll end up going down with him-’

‘Fudge is fighting a campaign against Dumbledore when he should be-’

‘I know where my loyalties lie, and it is not with my old teacher! It is with my employer, the leader of my government, with people who look at the facts!’

‘The facts are that Harry-’

'Yes - Harry - here we go,' snapped Percy. 'You rank the word of a child above the expert testimonies and mountains of evidence brought up by the inquiry, above your own boss - no wonder he thinks you're cracked. You’re determined to see conspiracy everywhere-’ 

‘How can you say that? You saw the aftermath of what happened, you saw him-’

‘I saw the actual dead boy, I saw Diggory!’ snapped Percy. ‘Think what his family is going through, their child’s death being used as a political quaffle-’

‘That is Fudge’s doing! That is his choice! He has chosen to make a mockery of Diggory, to disregard Harry-'

‘To question the story of a teenager,’ corrected Percy. His tone was cold and quiet, the kind of sanctimonious "I'm being the grown up here, actually" patience that Ron found unbearably aggravating. ‘The only evidence is his word, it’s not unreasonable to question a witness. In fact, it’s a perfectly standard part of due process.’

Ron’s growing anger was now twisted with a kind of lurching dread. The snide little comments in the Daily Prophet, which they had all blustered and raged and gasped in revolted disdain at over breakfasts for the past week, suddenly felt sinister. As he thought about it, Percy had never joined in… had always been silent… 

‘Percy…’ said Mum, so faintly that, as one, Ron, Ginny, Fred and George all leaned forward to listen. ‘Percy, surely you… surely you believe him? Surely you can’t believe he deserves what they’re saying about him? He’s just a child - it’s like the whole world’s forgotten that he’s just a child.’ 

'Yes, he's just a child - so why should he be the centre of everything?' Percy demanded. 'Why should he shape our family? Impact our careers?' 

'Percy… if you had seen him in the hospital wing, if you had looked into his eyes…' 

'Mr Fudge was not convinced,' said Percy, as though that settled the matter.

‘Has he asked you about Harry?’ Dad asked abruptly. Beside Ron, Ginny was shaking. ‘Casually?’ 

‘I - no more than is to be expected when you have someone famous living under your roof-’

‘What did he ask? What did you say?’ 

They heard a brief, thick silence, and a sharp exhale of air. ‘He… he’s not relevant to this discussion. This is beyond - this isn’t the issue - the only evidence is his word, as I said-’ 

‘You don’t believe him.’ Dad’s voice was blank, stunned, quiet. ‘You… you know that boy, Percy.’  

‘You don’t believe in me,’ said Percy, and Ron could hear his tears now, the slight thickness to his voice, the sniffs between words. ‘You’d rather believe in some ludicrous conspiracy theory from a teenager who thinks he sees You-Know-Who around every corner than believe that your own son might have worked hard, might be talented, might deserve his career. You’d really think so little of me.’ 

‘That’s not it. That’s not it at all,’ Dad said quietly, and Mum was crying loudly. ‘We just-’

‘I don’t care!’ said Percy harshly. ‘I don’t care what you think! Not any more! Years I’ve put up with it, years! I’m going - I’m gone - I don’t want to see either of you again - you’ve made it clear that you don’t have my interests at heart, this was your choice-’

‘What do you mean?’ Mum shrieked, and they could hear the scraping of chairs being moved aside, thundering footsteps, Mum begging-

The door was thrust open, and Percy stood for a moment in the hallway, looking up at the four of them sitting on the stairs. His expression was unreadable. Tear tracks shone from beneath his horn-rimmed glasses, and his mouth was a thin, grim line. 

‘Move,’ he told them. 

‘You’re being a right bellend,’ said Fred at once. 

‘MOVE!’ 

They did not, and Mum had come running after Percy, hanging desperately onto his arm though he tried to shake her off. ‘Come on, Perce,’ she pleaded. ‘Come and sit down, let’s all cool off and talk about this-’

‘Get out of my way,’ Percy told his siblings once more, and now Ron stood. 

‘Harry’s part of our family,’ he blurted out furiously. 

 ‘He’s not, Ron,’ Percy growled. ‘He’s your friend, that doesn’t mean everything he says is right - move out my way.’ 

‘How can you say that!’ Ginny demanded. ‘What’s wrong with you? How can you say all these horrible things?’ 

Percy started climbing the stairs, pushing Ron aside and stepping over Ginny, furiously struggling past Fred and George who immediately made their bodies as big and awkward and gangling as they could imagine, shouting colourful insults at him as he pushed past and thundered up to his room. 

‘He just needs to calm down,’ Mum was squeaking. ‘Go - go to your rooms, let me and Dad talk to him-’ 

‘No chance!’ 

‘I haven’t said my piece yet!’ 

He returned just a few moments later, carrying a bulging bag with a jumper sleeve trailing out, a little line of abandoned socks and a pair of underwear left on the stairs. ‘I’m going to stay with friends,’ he said. 

‘You haven't got any,’ goaded George. 

‘Be quiet, George!’ Mum wailed. ‘Percy-’

‘Then I’m getting my own place, I’m not staying here anymore - I’m not letting you all drag me down with you. If you’re all going to be traitors to the Ministry I’m going to make sure everyone’s well aware that I don’t belong to this family any more-’

‘You do, Percy, you do - you’ll always be my son-’ Mum’s words were barely audible beneath her crying. Percy pushed past her, and stormed towards the door. 

‘Percy!’ Ron shouted, and to his surprise, Percy turned and looked at him. 

Ron could not find the words for his contempt, could not find an insult strong enough, could not decide what to do with the rage that was coursing through him. All he could hope was that Percy could feel it in his cold, hard stare. ‘How could you?’ 

Percy said nothing, simply looked back for a moment, and then turned his back and strode swiftly to the door. Mum was running after him, and though they heard the ear-splitting crack of disapparation, she stood in the doorway shouting his name. 

Dad had not followed, and with a creak, Ginny rose beside Ron and descended the last few stairs. She peered through the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Dad?’ 

Ron heard a splutter, and then dry, heaving sobs. Ginny vanished into the kitchen. Behind him, Fred and George were muttering mutinously, swearing and cursing. 

‘What’s he playing at?’ 

‘He’s an idiot. A big-headed, pompous, ridiculous idiot, we’ve always said it, we were right.’ 

‘Who does he think he is? Does he really think that promotion is normal? Does he honestly think he’s that extraordinary?’  

‘Moron…’ 

Ron’s jaw was aching from gritting his teeth so hard, his heart was trying to break through his ribcage and go after Percy to beat him. 

‘Do you really think he meant that stuff he said to Dad?’ George said. ‘It’s just…’  

‘I bet he does, the git,’ said Fred. ‘I bet he really does pretend he’s not part of the family. He’s ashamed of us. Slimy, brown-nosing prick…’ 

‘All that stuff about poverty? So uncalled for.’

‘That’s it, really, isn’t it? He’s a greedy arsehole.’ 

‘Well, he’s certainly written himself out of the will now, hasn’t he?’ 

‘He won’t care, nothing for him to inherit anyway, apparently.’ 

That prickling, heated anger was back - his very ears were hot with it, he wouldn’t be surprised if steam had been bursting out of them. The memory of Harry, pale and shaken in the hospital wing, his hands gripping Mum’s robes as she hugged him, was lingering in his mind. ‘Did you hear all that crap about Harry? Did you hear what he was saying about him? Harry!’

‘Yeah,’ muttered George. ‘Pillock.’ 

‘Why would he say that? What the bloody hell is going on with him? He’s gone bonkers. When did he turn into such a - a -’ He still could not quite find a word strong enough.  

‘Berk?’ suggested George. 

‘Something along those lines…’  

‘Easier than admitting he’s horrible, selfish, idiot snob, I suppose,’ said Fred. 

‘Money’s always been an issue, but blaming Dad like that is just…’ 

‘Nasty,’ said Ron, simply. 

‘You can make money without completely selling out and betraying your family,’ said Fred seriously. ‘You can do it and keep your integrity.’ 

‘He’s acting like we weren’t fed enough,’ said George spitefully. ‘Percy didn’t even get that many hand-me-downs, really - Mum and Dad were doing all right before they were hit with twins, and we all know Ginny was probably unexpected.’ 

‘Was she?’ said Ron distractedly.

‘Are you joking, you were only about eight months old, who picks then to decide to have another baby?’  

‘Mum.’ 

‘Fair.’ 

‘Anyway,’ said Fred, ‘Percy’s not exactly been hard done by, not really. He’s just always been ashamed we’re not as well-heeled as his smarmy new colleagues at the Ministry.’ 

‘It’s childish,’ said Ron, who was feeling another lurch of guilt as he thought back on the previous year. ‘It’s really petty…’ 

‘We’ve all wished the family was better off now and then,’ said George fairly. ‘Who wouldn’t? But that was a seriously low blow. God, poor Dad,' he added, his voice lowering further. 'I'm glad Ginny's gone in to comfort him, I don't even know where to begin.'

‘Do you think he’s really gone for good?’ asked Ron.

‘Hope so,’ said Fred viciously. ‘Hey - one less mouth to feed now, maybe the family’ll be better off.’ 

'You know what else,' Ron said sharply, his brain whirring, 'did you hear him dodging Dad's question about what he's said about Harry? Good thing he's buggered off before we go to the Order Headquarters, isn't it? Who knows what he would have blabbered about?' 

Fred was looking at him as though in a new light. 'You know what, Ronniekins, that is a really excellent and disturbing point. You're a bit of a bright spark at times, aren't you?' 

'Brighter than Percy,' Ron muttered.

[omniscientoranges]

Get the Words Out

Dean tells Cas about John Winchester’s A+ Parenting, a boy, a crappy motel room, and the one thing he wants.

Trigger Warning - Homophobia (both internalized and said out loud)

1.9k words

[ao3]

(this is somewhat inspired by all the john’s journal posting that is like, sending me)

It's after. After all of it. After the empty, after the tearful hugs, after relieved hellos, after words still left unsaid, after the goodnights and I'll see you in the mornings. Just, after. It's only Dean and Cas sitting at the bunker's kitchen table now, and Cas gets up to walk to his room without a word (because he thinks he's been playing it off pretty well but really he's scared out of his mind to be alone with Dean, scared for the other shoe to drop). Dean gets up too, and Cas' heart flips when he realizes Dean is following him down the hallway. 

"Hey, hey, Cas, wait. Hold on a second," Dean asks, reaching out to pull on Cas' arm to get him to turn, but his hand stops short and only hovers. Somehow, that stings more than anything, the almost contact. Cas puts on a brave face and turns to Dean regardless. 

"Yes, what do you want, Dean?" 

Dean looks conflicted, then sighs and opens the door to his room (when did they get so far down the hallway?) and moves to sit down on the edge of his bed. 

"Cas could you uh, could you come here?" Dean pats the space on the bed next to him and gives Cas a tight smile. Cas looks wary, but he still trusts Dean with anything, everything, so he closes the door behind him and sits. 

"I gotta tell you something, okay? And it might, it might not be exactly what you're expecting to hear but it's-" Dean cuts himself off and looks down at his shoes. "I gotta say it first, before I can say anything else, alright? I just, I gotta tell you this first." 

Cas nods easily and fixes his eyes on Dean's face, "Alright, I'm listening." 

Dean nods once, short, and starts, "One time, um, dad dumped us- me and Sam- in Connecticut for a few months. I think Sammy was maybe, I dunno, twelve? And we stayed at this hotel with a heater that kept breaking down and a bad lock on the door." 

Cas nods again and gets a painfully soft look in his eyes that Dean can't look at, not quite yet. Cas wants to ask what does a crappy hotel room in Connecticut have to do with anything, Dean? But he sees the fraught expression Dean's wearing and decides that, whatever it is, Dean's got a damn good reason to make the connection. So, like he said he would, Cas listens. 

"Right and uh," Dean swallows hard, keeps his eyes trained on the floor, swallows again, and says, "There was this guy I knew that came around the room sometimes. He- you know I, I don't even remember his name." Dean huffs out a laugh over the lump in his throat to try and break the tension, but it just ends up making the tears he's been holding back for so, so long inch closer to the edge of his eyes. 

"But he had- he had this really cool car. I think it was a 71' Challenger. Bright red, fast as anything. But I'm kinda gettin' ahead of myself,'' Dean looks up from the floor and straight at the wall, but he isn't looking at the wall, not really. He's remembering a car, and a boy, and distantly, the worst night of his life. Gettin' ahead of myself again, where was I? Right. 

"Before that, when we got to school there the first day, I walked into whatever class I was stuck in at 8am and sat in the back because, ya know, we never hung around long so I didn't plan on learning much anyways. Didn't plan on making any friends either but, well," Dean actually smiles a bit at this. This part of the memory is fonder, afterall. "So I'm leaned back in my chair with my feet propped up on the desk getting the stink eye from the teacher already and this guy next to me he just, he just says hi to me, and he introduces himself and for some reason, I dunno I just- I just start talking to him. And he was nice and funny as hell so I decided 'yeah, yeah maybe I can have a friend. Just this once.'" Dean shakes his head, and Cas knows that's the head shake that means you idiot, what were you thinking, don't you know you don't ever get nice things? 

"So he started coming around the room, right? And usually we'd just sit and watch old westerns or whatever crap was on public access and bitch about school or life or something, but um, one night-" Dean stops looking anywhere, and closes his eyes before he continues. "One night, Sam was at the library I think, doing nerd stuff and, and the guy was over and we just- we were just sitting at the end of the bed watching tv. And then he-" Dean screws his eyes shut tighter and hot tears spill out of the corners, "He just- he just leans over and kisses me. And it takes me a second and then I just, I push him off of me and I say 'what the hell do you think you're doing, you know I'm not that kinda guy I don't swing that way,' just all the- all the usual crap. And we just look at each other for a second before he pulls me in and kisses me again and I-" Dean balls his fists in the rough fabric of his jeans and doesn't even try to stop crying, doesn't think he could stop crying at this point. He takes a sharp, deep breath in because he knows the next few words are going to knock all the air out of his lungs. 

"Cas, I- I kissed him back. I kissed him back because I wanted to, because I wanted to kiss him and I didn't care that he wasn't a girl, it didn't matter, I don't think it ever mattered. And then he starts to take off my shirt and then, well, you can probably uh, see where that leads. But- but the thing is that, it didn't lead there because-" Dean chokes down a harsh sob because he has to say it he has to get the words out because it feels like if he doesn't they'll rip through his chest like knives or like claws or like bullets. As it were, the next words weren't sharp or jagged, they were hollow and whispered, "He wasn't supposed to come back that night. He was supposed to be gone another week on a hunt he- he wasn't supposed to come back." 

Cas feels his blood run cold in a way it never quite had before, but it feels all too familiar just the same. 

Dean, eyes half open through the tears, keeps talking, "And he walked in and he was so, Cas, he was so mad you- I'd never seen him so mad before. And he wasn't, um, he wasn't scream and throw things and throw you mad, he was ice cold, dead silent mad. And the guy knew what was happening so he got his clothes and he left right away and when the door closed dad he- he just looked at me. And I'd never seen him look at me like that like he-" Dean finally lets a broken sob dig it's way out of his throat as he feels the tears from his face drip onto his forearms, "He looked so disgusted with me, like he was disgusted that I was his son. And he stared me dead in eye and said- he said 'boy, I ain't- I ain't gonna-" Dean brings his tear christened forearm up to his eyes to wipe away fresh tears, and he's almost too distraught to speak now, but he has to finish the sentence. Needs to, because he's never told anyone this, never wants to again, so he has to say it all now. 

"He looks at me and he says 'boy, I ain't gonna raise no queer son. You understand me?' and I said,'' Dean's posture straightens a bit, an echo from that moment, "'yes, sir, I understand' and he nodded at me and walked out of the room." Cas wants to reach out to comfort him, to fix something for him for once, but he knows this is a hurt that can't really be fixed. 

Dean takes a long breath out, "And then we left the next day. Never came back and, I never saw that guy again. But dad, he looked at me different after that, treated me different. Worse. He sent me on my first solo case a few months later but I- I think he just wanted to get rid of me. Like he couldn't bear to look at me, look at what I was. There weren't any more guys after that. Even after dad died I still couldn't- couldn't bring myself to do that, even though I still wanted to I just. I couldn't." 

Cas feels a tear roll down the side of his face, and he realizes he was so focused on hearing every word Dean was saying he didn't notice he had started crying too. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and says, "Dean, you know tha-" 

"I'm not finished yet, Cas. Please, just- just let me finish, okay?" 

"Okay. Okay, Dean." 

"What I'm trying to say is, I wanted there to be other guys, but I never wanted another guy more I wanted- more than I wanted you, Cas." Dean finally looks up to meet Cas' eye. 

"I wanted, want you more than I've ever wanted anything else, and I guess, hell, I guess you do too." Dean laughs a bit in disbelief, and reaches, timidly, for Cas' hand where it sits between them. Cas thinks, since when has Dean Winchester ever been timid about anything? That is, he thinks that up until the moment Dean's fingers wrap around his palm and then all he can think is Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean. Cas looks from their loosely intertwined hands up to Dean's face, back to their hands, back up to Dean's face, back to their hands again, then, finally, landing and staying on Dean's face. Dean's still crying, but he's also smiling and not for the first time Cas finds him so, so beautiful. Cas smiles too, and if he were in Dean's head he'd know that Dean finds him beautiful too, always has actually. 

"Dean, can I talk now?" Cas asks, half serious and half teasing. 

Dean teases back, "Depends, what do you wanna say?" 

Cas brings his free hand up to rest on Dean's cheek, "I want to say, that despite what your father might have believed, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. And, Dean, even if there was, well," Cas' smile widens and he leans closer to Dean, "I'll still love you, always." 

Dean looks relieved at that, like he'd been carrying a weight on his shoulders his whole life and only now did someone finally tell him it's okay, Atlas, you can put it down now.

"I love you too, Cas," Dean breathes, and leans forward to close a gap he hasn't closed since he was a teenager. Cas meets Dean in the middle and closes that same gap for the first time in his long, long life. 

When they finally pull apart it's only slightly, still resting their foreheads together. Cas pulls back a little further and tilts his head a bit to the side. Slowly, he moves his hand up to push off Dean's jacket. 

This time, it does lead there, later.

[nebraska-is-a-myth]

Drown your sorrows - part 7

Grab your tissues dude, this one is not a happy one at all. I'm sorry in advanced

special shout out to my pal @hufflepuffkilljoy for helping me with some details for this chapter. I also feel like they’re going to kill me after reading this so wish me luck.

Masterlist

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Tommy is fortunate enough to stay conscious this time.

It's a lot warmer than the warehouse was and he's still just as afraid.

But he feels more prepared for the heat now.

Tubbo was so close to the first explosion, too close. Tommy watches the blast separate them and he can hear his friends desperate coughs from across the burning room. He can't get up, his wrist is hurt and his injured leg burns every time he tries to put pressure on it. He calls for Tubbo but he doesn't think his friend can hear him between his endless coughing and the roaring flames.

He's so thankful Tubbo isn't alone when Eret finally shows, the older man slips masks on both of them and they huddle together for a moment before Tommy hears something explode below them. He tries to cling to Eret as he reaches for Tubbo and they all plummet down into freezing water.

He and Eret sink into the water and the harshness of it makes Tommy gasp. 

Water seeps in through his mask and the tightness of it makes him panic

He attempts to take the mask off, as if that might make him less disorientated.

It's doesn't

He takes a big gulp of water into his mouth and suddenly he can't stop.

He's drowning.

His limbs flail about and he cant help but scream into the water as pain ruptures through him. He keeps taking in more and more water and his lungs spasm as they fill with murky liquid. Tommy doesn't know where he is, it's dark and cold and he doesn't know which way is up and if his body wasn't already submerged in water he thinks he might cry.

Tommy doesn't want to die

There are so many things he hasn't done yet, so many things he hasn't said.

He wanted to take Tubbo to his favorite place in the city and go adventuring through the abandoned buildings Dream used to let him demolish when he was angry or upset. He wanted to tell his best friend in the whole word that he loved him, that they were brothers until the end. He never really had the courage to say it before now, thought it would make him sound childish and weird. ( Really he was just afraid that Tubbo wouldn't feel the same, and he wasn't ready to let his best friend go just yet. )

He wanted to thank Wilbur for taking him into l’manburg, for trusting him and becoming the older brother figure he never thought he needed ( or wanted ). For teaching him how to properly aim a gun and negotiate something without shouting, for letting him become the heir to the empire they built. 

He thinks about all the movie nights with fundy and Eret, remembers popcorn fights and sleepovers, baking competitions and playing video games till early dawn. He remembers waking up from nightmares and talking to Eret about his scars, sharing the good and the bad with each and every one of them.

As the seconds roll past, Tommy can feel himself suffocating. His lungs fill with more and more water and his body starts to shut down, the pain is everywhere and nowhere and slowly he becomes blissfully aware that he is going to die here.

In the back of his mind he hopes that dream knows he’s forgiven. If he’s going to die he might as well forgive the man, he knows deep down that dream never wanted any of this and he hopes that his death will spark something in the man, and prevent the bloodshed of his friends.

The last thing on Tommys mind before the darkness swallows him is Technoblade, and he wonders if he’ll finally see him again when he goes to sleep.

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“How old were you when you first killed someone?”

“Jeezus Tubbo what the hell dude.”  

Tommy swats at his best friend who's laying next to him on the wooden floor. They're all laying on piles and blankets and duvets and tucked up in sleeping bags like campers. Popcorn crumbs litter the floor and Tubbo has kernels stuck in his hair after he used the bowl as protection from Tommy throwing pillows at him.

The group decided to have a sleepover to commemorate Wilbur's birthday, all of them laid in a circle around the couches in wilburs living room and Wilbur almost regrets letting them into his house.

Tommy and Tubbo are layed on the floor, heads close to each other facing opposite directions. Tommy is smiling as he flails his arms at the other boy and has his feet resting in Erets lap. Fundy is on Erets left, curled up in 3 blankets like a burrito, a clear sign of Wilburs handiwork after someone made a joke about fundy being wilburs child.

Wilbur himself is half paying attention to the movie they all put on as background noise as he tries not to look like he’s actually enjoying the night his boys had planned.

Nobody spoke at first, no one was really quite sure what to say. Eventually, Wilbur took a breath and spoke in a slight monotone. “fifteen.”

Even though they may have been concerned, nobody was quite as surprised as maybe they should have been. It was a rough line of work, it wasn't really a shock to anyone that their leader had started so young.

“Robbery gone wrong, cops came earlier than expected. Shot one to save myself, nothing more to it.”

Fundy pokes his head out of his blanket burrito a little more and rests his head on his knees. “Got in a fight back in the Netherlands when I was eighteen, ended badly for the other guy.”

Eret is a bit more hesitant to respond but with a reassuring nudge from Tommy, he gives the teen a small smile and takes a breath. “Got involved with a super serious gang back in England when I was sixteen.”

He doesn't say anything more but nobody really blames him. Eret never really talks about his time back in England much, but the team sees the way he gets nervous around cameras and always makes sure he can never be traced wherever he goes. Everyone is running from something, it's why most of them came to America after all.

Tommy doesn't realize it's his turn until he’s noticed everyone's looking at him.

He laughs and swats at Tubbo for a second time. “It's your question you go first.”

Tubbo looks at his friend strangely but shakes it off and reaches to grab a handful of crisps. “Ummm, technically I haven't.”

Tommy listens to his best friend shove a handful of crisps in his mouth and his throat goes dry, he only distantly hears Fundy ask Tubbo a question but his thoughts seem to drown everyone out. 

He knows he has two options here. He knows that lying is the safest one for him, that he could just follow along with what Tubbo said and just get it over with. But he feels compelled to let the truth just spill out of his mouth and let everything into the world. He can't help it when the words start falling from his lips, he so desperately wants to shove everything back into the box he’s kept everything in for years and go back to the fun loving, annoying Tommy everyone knows.

But instead he just had to open his stupid mouth like he always does.

“I uhh, I killed mum.”

Shit

Shit

Shit

“She uhh, bled out, when I was born.”

Shut up

Shut up

Shut up

“So yeah uhh, I guess I win.”

The room is silent, and he’s brought out of his head by Eret rubbing small comforting circles into the bottom of his leg.

“Tommy.”

He really wishes he hadn't spoke

“You know that couldn't have possibly been your doing.”

Wow the ceiling is really interesting

“Tommy.”

He can't speak. If he speaks he’s going to cry and he can't cry. 

Tommyinnit doesn't cry.

He feels Tubbo moving to wrap and arm around him and he really wants to just not be here.

He’s lying on the floor of his bosses friends house, crying in front of the people he cares about most about because he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut.

Tommy feels himself moving and slowly more and more arms are around him. He feels a blanket being draped over him and suddenly he finds himself sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is running their hand through his hair and he wonders if that's something his mother would have done for him.

Sometimes he wishes life was different, that maybe he might have had a better childhood if his mother had been in his life for longer than three seconds.

But as he feels his own tears soak into one of his friends' shirts, he thinks that maybe his life ain't so bad.

And later in the night when he's stood on Wilbur's kitchen counter with Erets glasses hanging off his face singing loudly to random Hamilton songs with his friends, he knows he wouldn't change it for the world.

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Tommy wakes up confused and coughing.

He can feel the water spluttering out of his mouth and he feels like he's throwing up his organs.

He’s vividly aware that something doesn't feel right

He feels wrong and disorientated and,,,

He’s underwater?

Tommy flails his limbs about and in a matter of seconds he surfaces into darkness

He coughs up all of the water that's been sloshing about in his lungs and his throat stings as fresh air floods into his body.

Through all the coughing and the sound of water in his ears, he hears a voice calling him.

“Tommy!”

He turns his head to find Eret also treading water on the other side of a mountain of rubble, he has a large gash on the side of his head that looks like it would have dried by now if not for the water continuously splashing against it. His glasses are nowhere to be seen and Erets looking at him like he knows something Tommy doesn't.

“Tommy thank god you're okay.”

Tommy swims over to where Eret is still floating and takes a moment to examine the rubble surrounding his friend. 

Most of it seems to be concrete and rocks piled up around him, but the two big metal pipes separating him and Eret are what concern him. And the fact that Eret hasn't made an attempt to move past them.

"Where's tubbo?"

"He swam over that direction, tried to find a way out I think."

"Why didn't you follow him."

"Tommy."

"Come on we can't just leave him to look on his own. He'd get lost in a bloody parking lot."

Tommy wraps his hands around one of the pipes and attempts to push it out of the way.

Eret doesn't move.

"Tommy I,"

"Waters rising, gotta move this thing before Tubbo ends up swimming into someone's toilet."

The younger boy changed angles and tried to pull the other pipe towards him.

"Tommy."

He feels Eret place his hand on top of his own but the younger boy swats it away and keeps trying to force the pipes out of the way.

“Come on man, just, just try.”

Eret grabs his hand again.

“Just help me okay!”

Water splashes up Tommys nose and he feels tears pricking at his eyes

“Just, Just do something! Please! please” 

Eret grabs a hold of both of tommys hands and holds him as close as the barrier of rubble will let him.

“Please. I can't lose you too.”

Erets voice is soft and calming. Tommy wants him to laugh and point at him and tell him how this is all just a big joke and they can all go home together and watch movies on Wilburs couch.

But he doesn't

“Hey it's okay, you're not gonna lose me alright. I will always, always be with you, no matter what.”

“Don't give me that bullshit. I don't want you in my heart or looking down on me, I want you to stay here, alive.”

“I want that too Tommy, more than anything. But life doesn't always go the way we want it to.”

Eret coughs and shivers in the water, he looks up and realizes that neither of them have a lot of time left before the water fills the room. They both know Tommy can't stay here any longer, and it's only a matter of time before the coldness of the water gives him hypothermia.

“You need to go.”

“No.”

“Tommy.”

“No I am not leaving you here!”

“You don't have a choice Tommy!”

“Yes I do! Now help me move these goddamn pipes”

“For fuck sake Tommy! I am stuck down here! Those pipes aren't going to move and I'm not leaving this fucking basement. You need to go, now!”

“I-”

“Tommy you are my brother and I will always love you but you need to get the fuck out of here right now.”

“Tommy, Eret!”

“Down here.”

Eret hears Wilbur jump down into the freezing water and he can faintly see him swimming towards him and Tommy.

“You guys okay?”

“Yes now get him out of here.”

“I said no!”

“What about you.”

“I'll be fine just go.”

Wilbur takes a moment, a moment of weakness, a moment of emotion and sadness and he looks at Eret, his friend. He feels the water clog his nostrils and nods, with his heart heavy and his mind full, he drags a tired and freezing Tommy away.

“Wilbur let me go!”

“We can't leave him!”

“we have to help him!”

“Wilbur!”

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Later on when everyone's safe and dry and the adrenaline and panic has left his system, Wilbur finds himself gazing up at his reflection in his bathroom mirror. Every time he looks at himself all he can see is the look in his friends eyes before he left him to drown, he remembers the hurt in his face and his willingness to die just to see Tommy safe. Every time he closes his eyes it's all he sees.

Wilbur stands up tall and strong in front of himself and plasters on the face of a warrior, a face that dream and George and sapnap will forever fear. He vows on this day that he will teach them what true fear feels like, no more kind words or friendly disputes.

He doesn't care about making allies or keeping peace.

His city is in danger

His mind is broken

His friends are traumatized

Eret is dead

And Wilbur wants vengeance.

If dream wants war, he’ll give him war.

[ruby-does-things]

so how about that finale huh it did hit me with a bolt of inspiration, so there’s that!

(spoiler-based fic under the cut)

That was a lot to take in, but there was one scene that kept sticking out in my mind, and I don’t know - I was inspired, so I threw something together. It’s canon compliant for now, but who knows what’s going to happen next?

(None of us, that’s for sure.)

This won’t be going up on AO3 til the episode is public (because tumblr’s tagging system is somehow a little more spoiler-friendly, so long as you’re liberal with tag blocking), with some probably-better author’s notes. I’ll be sure to reblog and add the link when it does.

just like old times

Characters: Nora Valkyrie, Lie Ren Relationship: Lie Ren/Nora Valkyrie (implied/referenced) Rating: T Warnings: ??? (see tags) Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, a little less of the comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death

She can't go back.

She tries, growing more and more desperate with each attempt, until she's reduced to simply banging her fists against the portal. Like it might start to give, if she only hits it hard enough.

She went ahead to get help, reinforcements, but no one will be coming to save them, and - and they don't know. They don't know that she can't come back, that she’s trying with everything she has.

She falls to her knees before too long, losing hope with each failure to pass through the barrier.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Until Winter comes through, and then her fist meets empty air, because the portal is gone.

The portal is gone.

The portal is gone, and the only one to come through it was Winter.

Jaune. Weiss. Penny.

True realization only hits her a few moments later, when she realizes that Winter is using the maiden powers. Maiden powers that she doesn’t have.

(Didn’t have.)

She wants to ask, she so desperately wants to ask - what happened back there, where are they - but she already knows, and if she doesn’t ask she can still pretend she doesn’t, so she stays where she is and she doesn’t move at all.

She doesn’t want to believe it. If she doesn’t ask, then she doesn’t have to - she can pretend they’re perfectly fine, that they’ll appear out of nowhere any minute now.

Jaune. Weiss. Penny. Ruby. Blake. Yang.

They’ll all be here any moment now, and everything will be okay.

Distantly, she hears the shout of another battle starting up. A part of her screams at her to stand and fight, the way she’s supposed to, but she can’t bring herself to move.

Denial only works for a while, she knows that much from experience, and she can’t keep the tears from falling any longer. The only sounds to escape her are quiet, shaking sobs, because it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The grief she’s feeling is familiar, and that’s the worst part. This isn’t the first friend she’s lost. This isn’t the first teammate she’s lost. But this time…

This time, she’s alone.

She’s alone until someone familiar settles next to her, at least, holding her close.

“Nora,” he whispers, breathless.

Ren is…

Ren is a lot of things.

Ren is her teammate.

Ren is her partner.

Ren is the only one who understands.

(Because Jaune is gone, and so is everyone else, and - and they’ve all lost friends, she knows, but Ren lost Pyrrha too.)

She sinks into him without really meaning to, the last of her resolve to stay standing fading away now that someone else is offering support.

He doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t ask any questions, but she can feel tears staining her skin where his head is resting against her shoulder.

She can’t take the grief, but she can’t take the silence, and she doesn’t know what possesses her to speak, but she does. “It’s- it’s you and me,” she chokes, the words coming out just as broken as she feels. “Just like… Just like old times.”

(She’s not sure how she expected it to sound, but once the words have left her mouth she knows she’s missed the mark.)

Ren sighs, and just that one sound is weighed down with so much emotion. They’re close enough now that she can feel the heat of his breath on her skin, but he doesn’t move, and neither does she.

She’s not ready.

She doesn’t think he’s ready, either.

(She wonders, faintly, if they ever will be.)

[poutyhannie]

Here is part two!! You can find part one on my blog. Its the only other Jisung fic and this one prolly won’t make sense w out it…its turning out to be a bit longer than i expected..

warnings: smut, angst, college students!jisung, blowjob,

word count: +2.2k

part 1, part 2,  part 3, part 4

From that lunch on for weeks, the four of you meet at the burger joint. You thought the first to be a one time thing, but they keep on inviting you and Jisung keeps waiting for you at the end of class. You’ve moved your guys’ study sessions into your empty dorm because Jisung claims that you both study better together there. Still, you can’t keep the nagging voice from assaulting with reminders to keep closed off as when you lay wide-eyed at the blank ceiling at night. You wish your aching heart were as blank as it was.

Finally, in the quiet, with only the moon’s glow to hear you, you let a choked sob escape your throat. It hurts. It fucking hurts so bad. Your chest physically aches for what you want, what you don’t have, and what you prohibit yourself from having. You told yourself in the beginning that you were hanging out with the boys because it was just for the summer, but your mind knew better than that. The longing for companionship overtook your sense and that stupid Beowulf question caused it. Tears escape your eyes and run into your ears and hair. The racking, weak, vulnerable sounds of your sobs echo in the empty room, taunting you. No matter how hard you’ve tried to shove everyone away, someone keeps knocking. Its a soft knock, one that you can barely hear and you shove it away, you want to shove him away.

Your eyes are puffy and distantly staring at the lecture hall floor; you don’t notice Jisung take a trepidatious seat next to you and this time, you’re not purposely ignoring him. He gently taps your shoulder with a ringed finger. Slowly, you turn your head, eyes still trained down, meeting his shirt. Its yellow this time. An annoying color that hurts the back of your eyes.

“Are you okay, Y/n?” He whispers, his voice low and laced with an emotion you want to throw up at. In anyone’s eyes you guys seem like friends and Jisung probably thinks the same way too, oblivious to your turmoil. You don’t want him to know. You can hold him, but hold him at a distance as you do with all friends, you tell yourself. You can just be friends; you don’t have to open up to him. You don’t have to have companionship, just be okay with friendship.

You smile up at him and shake your head, “I’m fine, Jisung, just kinda tired is all.”

The ache begins again when he giggles at you and pokes your cheek, “You look like a goat.” He deserves a shove and gets a hard one, laughing all the more. But when he pauses to look at you again, his eyes hold something warm other than teasing amusement. You don’t want to name it.

The familiar schedule of your day is comforting to you so when Jisung suggests eating after a grueling four hours of studying, your mind squeezes in slight panic.

“We could go to the cafeteria or we could walk around the city and find something,” he’s sprawled out on your bed, his feet mindlessly stroking his fluffy pink socks together as he stares up at the same ceiling you cry to at nights. His blonde tips form a halo around his face as he stares up at you, eyes shiny and wide.

You shrug, figuring if you were with Jisung, there would be little to worry about when picking food.

“I’ve used up all my meal swipes,” he admits bashfully.

Laughing you slap his shoulder, getting up to grab a light jacket, “Lets go walk around the city, then.”

The soft city lights shine in Jisung’s eyes and illuminate his skin and you tell yourself that its the moonlight that makes him look ethereal, not your weak mind. You guys opt for a cheap taco stand and sit on a dusty curb, cradling your styrofoam plates. Staring up at the moon, you smile softly when Jisung asks you if you’re praying.

“No,” you reply, still staring up, “I just really like her.”

Jisung’s eyes widen and his stomach wrenches after a moment, “O-oh,” he stutters, feeling stupid, “I didn’t know you s-swung that way.”

Frowning, you look back at Jisung, confused. “I’m talking about the moon, you dumbass.” The flood of relief in his eyes doesn’t get missed by you. His hair bounces when he nods, opening his mouth and motioning towards your tacos for you to feed him. Rolling your eyes, you shove a bite into his mouth and the former awkwardness fades away. He doesn’t look at you though you gaze at him but chooses to lean back onto his hands, his legs spread wide and eyes droopy. A smirk spreads across his face as his head rolls to the side to gaze at you, hair falling into his eyes. In the night light, they look dark and something pools behind them. Something that you’ve never seen in Jisung. You look down at your cooling tacos as your heart aches. Was it your heart, though? Was it just your heart that was aching right now? A deeper, painful ache forces its way down your body and into the pit of your stomach and you stuff your face with tacos, rubbing your thighs together to ignore it. From the corner of your eye, you can see Jisung raise his eyebrow, still staring at you as flush rises up your neck and burns your ears.

When you both return to your dorm, Jisung claiming that he left his books there, Jisung doesn’t seem to want to leave. He sits at the top of your bed, hugging a pillow. He looks up at you with hooded eyes and you collapse on the bed next to him, ignoring his piercing gaze.

After a moment of trying to find a topic to bring up, Jisung says, “You know, I saw the way you looked at me, Y/n.” His dark voice makes your legs shiver a little, but you mumble, feigning ignorance. A firm, warm hand grips your wrist, turning you over onto your back. Jisung stares down at you, his once bright smiles lost to a severe cockiness. He smirks when you gulp, straddling your hips and pressing down as you squeeze your eyes shut, imagining what he’d feel like mercilessly thrusting—

He grabs your chin, tilting it down as your eyes fly open. “Answer me, Y/n.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie through your teeth, even as a sickeningly burning coil tightens in your stomach at his complete change in attitude. Jisung scoffs, jumping off of you and you feel an unbearable ache for him to be on top of you again. He sits at the edge of your bed again, legs sprawled apart and you just can’t help when your eyes travel down. When you guiltily lift your eyes to his, you’re met with his smirking face.

“Why don’t you use your pretty mouth for things better than lying, baby?”

Your brain explodes at his words and you flush in embarrassment, looking away at the floor.

“Aww,” he coos, reaching out to grab your cheek, turning your burning face towards his, “is our little Y/n getting shy?” His breath ghosts over your face. Your eyes close slowly as you let him pull your lips towards his as you let him sink you. His kiss is hard and desperate, you don’t realize that you’re suffocating until he pushes you off him and begins unbuckling his belt hurriedly, his millions of chains getting in the way. Your head is whirling. You know you want this, your body screams that you want this but your mind feels the need to create a feeble excuse so that you can get involved with Jisung. Just in just a sexual way. You don’t have to get attached to him. You steel your worries and reach out to pull down his pants. Through your eyelashes, you look up at him, “It’s been a while,” you whisper, blushing.

His smile of adoration and endearment makes your heart churn and you look down at his almost clothed, fully erect cock. Jisung cups your burning cheek and says, “Of course, baby. I’ll treat you nice.” A deep groan escapes from his glossy lips when he palms himself through his boxers. They’re black with pink flamingos.

Gingerly, you reach out, copying his rhythmic motions with your own hand and he quickly lets go, leaning back onto his hands. No strings attached, you remind yourself as you pull his tug his boxers to his ankles. Don’t get involved, you say to yourself as his hands find your hair. This’ll just be one time, you think as you kiss his red, glistening tip.

Jisung groans, pulling your hair. His voice is incredibly deep and croaky, “Take it slow, baby. No rush.”

You obey, curling your tongue as you sink down onto his erection. Jisung lets out a shaky exhale and hisses when you begin fondling his balls. He tastes bitter and foreign but there’s nothing in you that says you don’t absolutely love it. Moving up and down, you hollow your cheeks like you’ve seen in films, moving to caress his inner thighs. His gasps spur you on, “Y’sure you aren’t getting practice? You’re so fuckin’ good.”

Hearing him curse shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does but you increase your speed, placing your hand on his base and stroking up and down to the rhythm of your mouth. You press your tongue against the underside of his dick, feeling around and when you meet his tip, Jisung shakes, pulling harder at your hair. You groan around him and he hisses, “You like that, huh? D’ya like me tugging your hair, baby?” You whine in response and Jisung hums, moving his thumb down to caress you cheek. The gesture is too affectionate for your taste and you furiously swipe your tongue over his sensitive part. Jisung lets out the prettiest gasp, hands returning to your hair, and you continue. His voice comes again, hushed and croaking, “F-fuck, baby. I’m g-gonna fuckin’ cum if you don’t pull away.” 

You pick up the pace, stroking what you can’t reach and sinking deeper until his tip hits the back of your throat. You gag around him but continue, despite the tears streaming down your face. “You’re s-so cute, deepthroating me like that. You want me to f-fucking fill up your dirty mouth, huh?” Though his filthy words imply a challenge, his voice is soft. You groan, looking up at him and feel ropes of his cum shot into your mouth. You wince swallowing it with your sore throat but the blissful look on Jisung’s glistening face makes it all worth it. He pulls you closer despite your protests and places an open mouth kiss, tasting himself on your hot tongue. When he smiles into the kiss, you pull back, face burning. He chuckles, poking your side, “Aw, you’re getting shy now? After you were choking on me? Cute.”

Your face flushes deeper but your heart burns and you roll your eyes at him.

His eyes are wide and alluring when he says, “What about you? Want me to eat you out?” Though your core aches, you shake your head, afraid to give yourself like that to him just yet. When he stands up, a pang shoots through your chest at the thought of spending another tear-filled night alone but this is what you wanted. Rather than leaving though, he just puts on his boxers and sinks down onto the bed next to you.

“Y-you wanna stay?” Your voice comes out with too much wonder, too much vulnerability and Jisung looks down at you, smiling.

“If you’ll let me. I usually like cuddles after.”

To hide your flush from him, you root through your drawers and produce a pair of your brother’s basketball shorts and hand them over. He slips them on with a ‘thanks’ and watches from under your covers as you change into your pajamas. You turn away, reluctant to let him see you. He scoffs not unkindly, “You’re seriously getting shy after you saw my dick?” You whine, pulling your shirt over and head over to the bed.

Your head rests over Jisung’s heart and his hand absentmindedly strokes through your hair. This is normal afterwards, you tell yourself to justify your leg that swings over to snuggle Jisung closer. He looks down at you but you refuse to meet his gaze. Sighing, he tilts your head up by your chin. “You did really well, Y/n. How was it for you though?”

You break from his grip, staring at the ceiling before answering, “I liked it.”

He exhales softly, your head dipping down with the motion and his voice is sleepy when he says, “M’glad…I can show you more next time.”

Your throat tightens at the implications of it but you can’t find it in yourself to deny him yet. Afterall, this’ll just be a sexual thing, something that you can explore with a friend.

[gay-otlc]

A Risk I Want To Take

Summary: Pyrokinetics were never destined for happiness, and when Marella grows painfully aware that she could lose control and hurt the people she loves, she has to decide whether loving Linh is a risk she's willing to take.

Content warnings: (Imagined) death, cursing

Words: 2349

(Read On AO3)

"-Linh!" Marella screams, her eyes flying open. Wildly, she flings her arm out, searching for her girlfriend. It's cold; her blanket must have been thrown off the bed. She can't breathe. Distantly, she notices her cheeks are wet. She barely registers any of this, too panicked to think of anything but finding Linh.

Or... will she never find Linh? Did that really happen? Is Linh really dead?

Did that happen long ago, and her dreams were simply memories? It's so hard to make the distinction. Her brain is foggy with exhaustion and messy with panic, she can't think straight. She thinks she and Linh went on a date together just last night, but maybe that happened a million years ago. Maybe it all happened a million years ago; her life before Linh, and when they met, when they fell in love, all their time together. Maybe it's been a million years since Linh turned from a girl filled with life and kindness and beauty into a pile of ashes, since Marella destroyed her.

Maybe none of that ever existed. Maybe the only thing that's really real is right now, Marella, sitting upright in her bed in a cold sweat, frantically looking around the room as she still sees Linh dying every time she closes her eyes.

Marella knows she would never do anything to hurt Linh- or at least, she thinks that. She thinks that. But can she have one hundred percent certainty, really? Because it's never a guarantee that Marella is safe. She's a ticking time bomb, really. In recent years, she's gotten much better at controlling her outbursts of fire, but they aren't impossible. Panic attacks nearly made her burn her house down multiple times; they would have if Linh hadn't extinguished the fire. If she got upset enough, she might have burst into flame once again, and destroyed everything around her.

The longer she thinks about it, the more she's convinced of it; when she went to sleep last night, her mind simply decided to recount the time she killed her girlfriend, rather than fabricating something fictional from her fears. That had to be it. Memories and nightmares are all blending together in Marella's mind, together forming a cold, gnawing fear, and the sound of Linh's tortured screams.

She holds out her hand, palm facing upward. Her eyes close for a second, then open again. Little flames spark from her fingertips. She watches the fire, its golden glow calming her down, strangely.

How could something so beautiful have killed Linh?

...

"I may be the Pyrokinetic, but you make my heart melt," Marella blurts. In her defense, Linh looks especially beautiful today. It's their first date, and Linh is wearing a light blue mermaid-style dress and has her silver-tipped hair braided, draped over her light brown bare shoulder. For what must be the millionth time since Linh agreed to this, Marella wonders how she could have ever gotten a date with someone so incredible.

As she realizes what came out of her mouth, she cringes, wishing for the ground to swallow her whole.

Luckily, Linh must have found it cute, because she smiles. "I may be the Hydrokinetic, but I'm drowning in your eyes," Linh responds, and Marella feels her face get hot.

"Um- uh- thank you," she stammers.

Linh's smile grows wider. She holds out her hand to Marella, who does her best not to grin like an idiot as she takes it. Their hands fit together perfectly, and Marella never wants to let go. And somehow, it gets better. Linh leans over, closer, and presses her lips softly against Marella's cheek.

Marella isn't convinced she's a person anymore. Maybe she's just an entity of excited butterflies.

If she could have frozen time at any moment, she would choose to live right then forever. Even if that isn't possible, she wants to be with Linh forever.

...

Somewhere, deep inside Marella, something points out that maybe Linh isn't really dead. Maybe it really was just a dream.

Marella finds it hard to believe that. Of course she's killed Linh, of course she'd gotten too close and ruined the best thing in her life, of course she had. That seemed incredibly in character for her. A Pyrokinetic, right? Fintan had told her once that Pyrokinetics were never destined for happiness. Linh had assured her that he was wrong, Marella would be the exception, her life didn't have to be ruled by his misery. Linh said they could find happiness together.

Foolishly, Marella had believed her.

Pyrokinetics were never destined for happiness, and she isn't an exception. Why had she thought she could be? Marella is nothing but dangerous, fire and smoke and destruction. No one should ever love her. Even if she doesn't have bad intentions, that doesn't matter; whether or not it's intentional, the result is the same. The world is in flames. Linh is dead.

Shouldn't she have known this would happen? There's a reason Pyrokinetics were banned, and it's because they're too dangerous to be allowed around anyone else. The Council was generally wrong, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and they were right about this. She should have listened to them and isolated herself, because maybe she would be miserable, but everyone else would be safe.

That's what they had said she should do.

Why hadn't she listened to them?

Every time she felt herself growing warmer, something angry and hot grow in her chest, her fingertips tingle with the desire for flame, she heard their voices in her head; You are not safe. Every time, she regretted not listening.

It wasn't hard at all to believe she had lost control eventually, not at all. The details are fuzzy, but it could have happened, and that means it probably did, and Marella has never felt so scared, not in all those times the Neveseen nearly killed her. Never.

"Linh?" she calls again, not expecting a response. She loves the way Linh's name sounds on her lips, full of soft warmth and light and love. It's nothing like that now; panicked and cold. "Linh, please answer me!"

Silence.

"Linh!" she screams.

It's soft, but Marella's sure she hears it: "What?"

"Linh!"

Footsteps sound outside her door, and it swings open. The lights flick on, and Linh is there. Her jet black hair is messy, face wrinkled in confusion. "Are you alright?"

A choked sob escapes Marella's lips.

...

"Don't fucking tell me I'm not allowed to see her!" yells Marella. "She's- She's my girlfriend, she's fucking everything to me. I love her! I fucking love her, and she's fucking dying, and I want to see her!"

Without waiting for a response, she wrestles the door open and runs in.

Everything freezes. The world falls apart; everything seems wrong somehow, like it's all been altered, and nothing will ever be right again. Marella can't move, maybe she's breathing, maybe she isn't- she can't tell. Linh might not have died yet, but it doesn't look like her odds are good. Her chest is rising and falling so slowly. Scarlet pools at her side and onto the bedsheets. She looks so fragile.

So corpselike.

Furiously, Marella swipes a sleeve across her eyes and takes a seat beside Linh. She takes Linh's hand- freezing cold and limp- in hers, squeezing it like she'll never let go. "Linh," she whispers, and then all of her efforts to hold herself together come undone. "It's not- it's not fucking fair," she sobs. "Not fucking fair. We just got together; you said you liked me, and we went on a date, and you kissed me on the cheek, and I knew I wanted things to stay that way forever. I knew I loved you. And then you go get fucking stabbed! It isn't fair!"

Linh doesn't respond.

"I love you!" she shouts. "Linh, I'm in love with you, because you're the most incredible person I have ever met in my life, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You're kind and caring and funny and sweet and brave and beautiful and a million other things, if I listed everything I loved about you, it would take an eternity. But we don't have the eternity we deserve; I don't know how much time we have, but I want it to be longer than the next few minutes. Please, Linh, you have to wake up, so I can tell you all the reasons I love you, and we can fall in love over and over again, every time we look at each other, and we can get married, and we can get old together, and we can watch the world change, and we can have forever. I love you, and I want that, but you have to wake up. So please, Linh, don't die. You're not allowed to die. I won't let you, because I fucking love you!"

Linh doesn't respond.

Of course she doesn't. This isn't some cheesy romance story, a badly written cliche. This is real life, and miracles don't happen in real life.

"I love you, Linh," she repeats. "I'll love you forever. Even when you're gone."

She presses a kiss to Linh's knuckles, and then backs her chair up a few inches so she can curl into herself and cry.

An hour passes, and Linh doesn't die. Then another, and she's still hanging on to life. She survives the next hour, and the next, and then next, until Marella's been by her side for a full day and Linh is still alive.

She wakes up after three days, and Marella holds Linh more tightly than she was aware was possible, and whispers I love you over and over again until it no longer sounds like words. Linh is back, and she'll never want anything again, because she could not be happier.

...

"You're alive," Marella breathes, feeling incomprehensible relief wash over her. She springs up to hug Linh tightly.

Linh squeezes back after a moment of pause. "Um... yes. I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because I killed you!"

Gently, Linh untangles herself from Marella's desperate embrace. "Darling, I love you so much, but you're not making any sense." She bends down to kiss Marella's forehead and takes her hand, leading her back to the bed, where the mattress bends slightly as she sits down. Marella sits beside her, but slides away, just in case she sets Linh on fire for real this time. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Marella is shaking. Has she been shaking this hard the whole time? And she thinks there are fresh tears on her cheeks. "I- I had a nightmare," she whispers, feeling stupid as she says it. Panic washes over her again as she remembers how it felt to watch Linh be consumed by Marella's own flames, to watch Linh die. "We had an argument, and I- I lost control of my Pyrokinesis, and you died. And- and I could have stopped it, but I was mad, and I did no-nothing when you screamed for help, and I didn't care that you were dying. I didn't care!"

"Oh, darling, that sounds horrible. I'm so sorry," says Linh, opening her arms for another hug. Fear flares up in Marella's chest, and she slides away again, shaking her head. Why is Linh apologizing to her? She should be the one apologizing- for being dangerous, for being such a mess, for not caring. "Marella, you don't have to be afraid of hugging me. You wouldn't do that for real. I'll be alright."

"You don't know that," Marella argues.

"No, I'm not absolutely, one hundred percent certain that you will not light me on fire. But I'm fairly sure, and I love you, so I'm willing to take that risk."

"Well, I'm not." It was the most terrifying experience of Marella's life when she thought she had killed Linh, and she never wants to risk feeling anything like that ever again.

"Marella, I know you're not a bad person," Linh says, and even though Marella knows it's a lie, it still sounds nice. "I know you're guilty about having not helped me in your nightmare, but you're so terrified right now- that's proof that you care about me. It was a nightmare, Marella, that doesn't define you."

"But- but it could happen in real life. It could happen. I could hurt you so easily. You'd be safer if you just stayed away from me."

Linh takes Marella's hands in hers, squeezing them tighter when Marella tries to pull back, and looks her in the eyes. "I'd be safer, maybe, but I wouldn't be happier, and I love you so much. You're a risk I want to take."

"I don't want you to-"

"I know it's scary," Linh says. "I know you're scared of hurting me, and I love you for trying to protect me. But I know what it's like to be dangerous, and to be terrified of hurting the people you love, and I know isolating yourself won't help. Nothing I say is going to make all the fear go away, but I want you to know; I love you, Marella Redek. I love all of the wonderful things about you, and I love all of your flaws, and I love your Pyrokinesis too, because it's a part of you, and I love all of you. Loving someone is always a risk you take, because when let yourself be vulnerable with someone, you risk them hurting you, and you choose to love them anyway, because sometimes happiness is more important than safety. Loving you is a small risk compared to the enormity of my love for you, and you're more important than the safety I'd get from always avoiding Pyrokinetics. You're a risk I want to take. Do you feel the same way?"

It's terrifying. Marella is terrified. Hurting Linh is, without a doubt, the most terrifying thing there is. And yet... loving Linh is the most wonderful. "Yeah," she says finally, quietly. "You're a risk I want to take."

[imaginesmai]

Tony Stark - Things we don’t mean

Requested by @snoopy3000​ a while ago, I hope you like it!! Mistakes was about make up after a fight. I tried to do it as good as I could, but I always I ended up doing something a bit different. Anyway, here it is!

Plot: a mission gone wrong, and Peter gets hurt. It hits Tony where it hurts the most, becuase he sees the kid as a son, and he blames it on you. Hard words are exchanged and apologies are muttered.

There was a clock, on the wall.

It was one of the few things that was old and broken in Tony’s penthouse, and it brought you a sense of comfort. It showed that not everything had to be neat and perfect in his life, and that he had space for common things like an old clock.

The clock didn’t work, but was stuck on the same minute.

It sounded, when the big, long needle hit the sides of the number. On a normal day, you wouldn’t notice it, because you didn’t visit the guest’s room too much; and even if you had noticed it the first time he gave you the tour through the house, you hadn’t thought about it more than a few times. The week where you made the plans of remodelling the penthouse some years ago, when your mom came to spend the weekend the first year you moved in with Tony, and a bunch of times where you had decided to clean for a bit.

The thing was it wasn’t a normal day. It had been anything but normal, from the moment the police department had called on the Avengers to cover up a huge guy, that seemed a brick stone and could dissolve into sand. There weren’t much ‘Avengers’ left, but Tony, Rhodey, Vision, Peter and you had gone.

You wondered if things could have gone different, if they had been there. The rogues, the other avengers. But they hadn’t been, and Peter, that sweet kid, had been thrown to the ground from a building, and which neck had been crushed by the monster’s rocky hand.

From what you had seen, there were thick, black bruises on his neck, and they were going to have to shave half of his head to evaluate the possible brain damage, because he wasn’t responding. You had wanted to see more, yet Tony had sent you outside the guest room with hard cold words.

They couldn’t take Peter to the hospital without risking his identity, so Cho was working the best she could with him in the guest room. Tony was there too, worrying over the child that he thought his son. And you were outside, because you knew he blamed you for inviting Peter over.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

Everyone in the quinjet turned around at Tony’s scream. It was followed by the sound of the mask of his suit hitting the other side of the place, rolling now destroyed a few inches back.

Until that moment, he had been sitting on the edge of a chair with Peter’s hand on his grip. You hadn’t thought he was in any condition to move, so you had let him be there while you evaluated the damages on the city. Then, Tony was up and looking at the fallen part of the suit.

Rhodey put a wary hand on your shoulder, knowing Tony could get pretty temperamental when someone or something he cared about got in the way. Dismissing him softly, you walked towards the man.

“Tony, that’s not –“

“Why did you thought it was a good idea to bring a kid, my kid, into the fight?” Tony turned to you, and you were met with the most hateful eyes you had ever seen on him. “No, I’ll answer that. You weren’t thinking”

“I was thinking” you answered calmly. You kept walking until you were in front of him. “I was thinking about all the people who were going to get hurt if we didn’t stop the threat. Peter is not a kid, he’s Spiderman. And he can handle himself in a fight”

“Yeah, I see how that has turned” Tony took a step forward, his nose almost hitting yours, and pointed a finger at your chest. “Next time, you listen to my rules. Only mine. No side decisions like that”

“I can’t believe you make everything about you, Tony”

You were angry, because Peter meant a lot to you too and, in a way, you felt the guilt of having him in the battlefield in your gut. You were tired and mentally exhausted, covered in wounds, bruises and Peter’s blood, since you had been the one to stop the bleeding of his head. And you wanted to get all of that off you as soon as possible, so an argument with Tony seemed the best option.

That was what you got when two headstrong people dated.

“Your rules, your kid, your mission, your plan. We’re a team, and we work like that” you sneered at him, and watched him grew angrier. “Peter is going to be fine, the guy is out and nobody else got hurt.”

“The team is broken!” Tony screamed, and you heard Rhodey sigh in the back. “It broke with the accords, and it won’t ever be back! So we’re not a team. We’re just –“

“We’re superheroes, people that have a higher chance of helping other than normal humans” you cut him off. “And we take responsibility for it. Peter knew what he was signed for when he became Spiderman”

“There won’t be any more Spiderman if you keep taking that kind of decisions” Tony crossed his arms, his voice lowering. 

“You’re the one who aren’t thinking. Get your head out of your butt and - “

“And what, let you take control?” he scoffed a laugh. “There is no way I’m letting someone who can’t remember her own name control everything”

There was a twitch in your left eye, and you knew Tony had hit low. Because of some pain meds you had to take from the wound of the last mission, you were much less sharper during two or three hours after the pill. It hadn’t been bad, but a bad twist in your knee had made you tear up a muscles on your thigh. The pain had been so bad, that Cho had given you a meds for two months.

It made you insecure, that you were so forgetful and distracted meanwhile, and you had confided in Tony with that. You hadn’t expected the sweet understanding man, that left you notes every now and then to help you remember, would use that argument in a fight.

“You’re on thin ice” you muttered. “Peter being hurt isn’t my fault, get that into your iron skull”

“Well, you were the one letting you come. So I don’t see any other responsible people around”

Tony finished the conversation by himself when he turned around and sat with his back facing you in front of Peter. You heard the kind reassuring words he whispered into his hair, and got stuck there until Rhodey pulled you away by your arm.

Without saying another word, you jogged out of the main part of the quinjet to the piloting part, where you could share your tears in peace.

Minutes, hours, maybe days later, you were still sitting on the hard cold ground in front of the broken clock. It tickled, and with each sound, you let another silent tear roll down your cheek. There was an instant when you thought there wasn’t much more to share, but you discovered that your backpack for tears was as big as your guilt. The tears kept falling, and the intrusive thoughts filled your head. You wanted to get up, to move and to walk away from the guest room. You didn’t think you could stand another round of disapproving-Tony; yet you couldn’t move.

Distantly, you heard the door clicking open. There were voices, hushed voices; or maybe it was you who heard everything underwater. You swore you heard Rhodey with his scolding voice, and Tony tearful one accepting everything he said. There was a curse, and then a hand was touching you.

“Y/N. I’m – It’s… It’s me. Come on, get up”

Tony helped you to stand, trying to put an arm around you; but you jerked away, stumbling down the wall away from him. It was because of the anger at him for his words, the worry for Peter in the room, and the hate for yourself because of the result of the mission.

He tried again, and you didn’t have the strength to fight him. His arms, on the contrary of what everyone thought, were pure muscle. He had been lifting big parts of machines and cars since he was four, and the first suit of armour weighted at least his whole weight. So you just hung there in his arms as he carried you through the corridors. Tony smelt like grease, an horrible smell you hated until you met him. There was too the ridiculous amount of Axe, which he sprayed you with after the shower, and the coffee that always seemed to accompany him.

You zoned out until you were in your room. The clock was gone, but the feelings that the old piece of furniture had created by being the only sound for hours weren’t. Suddenly, you were more aware of the clothes you were still wearing, and Tony couldn’t stop your shaking hands from trying to rip the clothes out of you.

“Wow, wow!” Tony tried to lock your arms with his. “Hey, none of that! You’re gonna hurt yourself! Y/N – Y/N!”

“The blood, Tony” you whine, feeling the tears coming back. “There is – Peter’s blood – I-“

You kept babbling a mess between words and apologies, and when you came back again, you could hear the water running. Tony was in front of you again, with your stained shirt on his hands and the jacket on the ground. He helped you out of your shoes and socks, took out your trousers and finally your underwear. All of it while talking softly to you, as you sobbed and cried to him that you were sorry.

The hot, almost burning, water made your muscles relax. You clung to Tony as he lowered you fully into the bathtub, that filled slowly, and almost dug your nails into his arms when he attempted to move.

Sighing, he used one hand to take as much clothes as he could, that were his shoes and socks, and his jacket. Then, he pushed you forward and got into the tub with you. The water fell out of the bath and hit the floor, so Tony closed the faucet and sank down.

“It’s okay” he mumbled into your hair. He had intended to have you between his legs, but you quickly dismissed his thought and turned around to wrap yourself around his torso. The clothes stung to his body in an uncomfortable way, but he accepted it as a punishment for his hard words. “I’m not leaving, ciccino. I love you”

You nuzzled your nose against his neck and hiccupped at the nickname, that he so fondly had given you since the first moment he met you. Tony did something behind you, but you were too tired to care about it. Instead, you fidgeted with the end of his t-shirt.

A few seconds later, the familiar coconut bath salts hit your nostrils, and you cuddled closer to him. It took you a while to finally calm down, and occasionally you scrubbed with your nails a part of your body where Peter’s blood had been. Tony was there every time, to stop you and caress it softly.

“Peter – is” you started, stopping to hiccup. “Is he… Peter is f-fine?”

“Yeah” Tony whispered, and kissed the line of you hair. “He’s fine. Kid knows how to take care of himself”

You listened to Tony rambling about Peter. Cho had taken care of the swelling of his brain and had stitched up the cuts on his neck. There wasn’t any permanent damage anywhere, so with a couple of weeks in bed rest and his healing power everything would be back to normal. Tony’s voice almost guided you to sleep. When it came to Peter, or to any matter he loved, he talked with such a passion and care that his voice became thick, deep and happy.

Eventually, the water became cold and your fingers became wrinkled. Tony was shivering and trying to hide it, so you decided to move and to stop him mid-sentence about the pros and cons of hiring a sitter for Peter.

He stopped talking and just watched as you moved away, the water moving and falling onto the ground with each one of your movement. There were a few inches between you, but you knew there were much more; and one of you had to jump.

You decided to start.

“I’m sorry” you whispered. Tony was quiet, and raised a brow. “For bringing Peter into the mission”

“Yeah, for the next time maybe listen to me” he gave you a half smile. “But it wasn’t your fault. Kid is reckless enough by himself. It isn’t on you, Y/N”

“It feels like it”

Tony grimaced and shifted. He moved closer until he was on his knees in front of you, the t-shirt clutching to his skin and revealing the scars of his collarbone. You decided to focus on the hem of the clothe, until Tony brought your chin back and forced you to look at him. You weren’t ready to listen again to his rambles about being right, and usually, the arguments between you two always ended up with Tony being right.

But that time there wasn’t any pride on his face. His chocolate eyes were kind and gentle, and were searching for you attention. So you gave it to him.

“I’m sorry for screaming so much” he smiled. “I don’t blame you, no one does. And I hope Peter doesn’t hear about it, because last time I felt guilty for him being hurt he spent three days here trying to convince me otherwise”

“Apology accepted” you tried to copy his smile. “And I’m sorry too, I don’t think you’re egocentric”

“Apology accepted” he copied you. Tony brought you closer until you were sitting against his thighs. Hugging your waist close to him, he leaned forward. “I said some things that weren’t true. You’re always thinking about everyone, and I know you’re doing your best. I’m proud of you, more of what I’m proud of myself, ciccino. I love you”

“Me too, Tony”

Tony smirked and finished closing the distance. His lips were cold, as everything in the bathroom since it had been nearly an hour, and when you reached your hand to cup the back of his head, you felt the small bump of a hard hit.

You didn’t mind it, neither did Tony when you moaned in pain and he let you stretch your leg behind him. It wasn’t the type of kiss you two had when you made up after a fight, where everything was solved with sex, sex and more sex. It was slow, loving and gentle. It was a way of pouring everything you were sorry for in the kiss.

Tony moved his lips against yours like reading a partiture, knowing exactly how to work to fit perfectly. His hands roamed through your body, erasing the guilt and the shadow of Peter’s blood.

Soon, you were lost in each other, and you could almost see again the clock in front of the guest room. It wasn’t stopped, it was working and it was sounding on a normal beat. As the clock needed the battery, you needed Tony to live.

There were moments where you two had your fights, where you said things neither of you mean, and when you suffer because of each other. But in the end, it was him what kept you going, through good and bad.

Too lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice that Tony was carrying you out of the tub. He leant you against the sink and positioned himself between your legs. His kisses travelled down your neck until his lips were only resting against your pulse point, hot breath giving you gossebumps.

“I’m really sorry for earlier” he whispered, and you knew that he was the one that needed comfort then. “I don’t think you’re not… thinking. I promise”

“It’s okay, Tony, I know” you assured him, and started to run your fingers through his hair. “There’s –“

“Mrs Y/L/N! Mr Rhodey told me you were blaming yourself!”

Peter’s voice came behind the door with a thin lay of panic, and you could hear Cho screaming in the back for him to go back. The handle moved and only then you realised that you were very, very naked and that Tony was too, between your legs and in a full view. Before you had time to warn the spiderling, that was too fast and strong for his own good, Peter broke up the handle and stumbled in.

“Peter, no – !“ Tony started.

“This wasn’t – OH MY GOD MR STARK WHAT ARE YOU DOING!”

Probably, Peter getting hurt wasn’t neither of your fault. But the screaming kid that couldn’t cover his eyes fast enough, was.

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[pagankingfinn]

Izuku Midoriya was in a bitter mood. Not only had Katsuki destroyed his personal effects, the nasty angry pomeranian had to throw them out the window into the polluted and neglected koi pond below their classroom window. The burning words he added on still stuck with the broccoli haired boy, haunting him as they endlessly echoed through his skull.

“If you want to be a hero so badly there might be a faster way to do it, take a swan dive off the roof of the building and pray for a quirk in your next life,” Katsuki had spat at him, laughing with his cronies about how they bullied him. Izuku had glared at him, but any courage he had was gone with an explosion from the school’s king bee.

By the time Izuku had gotten his book from the koi pond, it was burned, tinged an ugly color from the water, chewed on by the fish, and utterly destroyed. He couldn’t even read his notes, having bled into the paper and through the pages. With a tears in his eyes he clutched the ruined journal to his chest and began his trek home.

“You can’t just go around telling people to kill themselves. What if I really jumped, what would he do then?” Izuku bitterly mumbled to himself as he walked. He wasn’t paying attention as he did so, getting jumped by a slime like being as he walked through an underpass. The book fell to the ground as he struggled to remove the vile substance penetrating his nose and mouth, not only did it smell awful, it tasted even worse.

It was saying something to him, but he couldn’t process what it was. His brain too focused on survival to even bother listening to whatever the invasive criminal had to say. Suddenly there was a flash of light as he and the sludge went flying, he hit a concrete wall in his flight. His head banging against it as he lost consciousness.

He woke up an uncertain amount of time later when someone was desperately patting his face. Slowly he looked up, only to jump back in surprise when he saw who it was. It was his idol, All Might, standing over him in a tee-shirt and olive green cargo pants. Quickly he scrambled for his notebook, only to see it was already signed by the hero.

“Wait, Mr. All Might, I have a question to ask you. Can I still be a hero, even without a quirk?” He blurted out when he turned to see the hero about to jump away. What he said next utterly crushed Izuku.

“Some villains just can’t be beat without powers, so no, I honestly don’t think you can become a hero.” And with that the blonde man jumped away, only for the bottles in his cargo pants to fall out and burst open. Izuku let out a screech of alarm as the sludge started forming together and woke up.

Izuku turned tail and ran as fast as he could. He could hear his attacker behind him, jeering as he chased Izuku, telling him to stop running and that he just wanted to talk. Izuku didn’t listen, holding his hands over his nose and mouth as he ran. His lungs began wheezing and his legs screamed at him, but he couldn’t allow himself to stop running for even a moment.

The hot breath of the person behind him was ever present. Izuku wasn’t paying much attention to where he was going, desperately weaving through streets and alleys. Nobody even stopped to help him, just watching in silence as they moved out of the way. He had no idea why this guy was so fixated on him, perhaps because he was an easy target. Quirkless, unathletic, and small.

He didn’t notice when he sprinted past his classmates, barely acknowledging when he heard explosions. It was only when he tossed a look over his shoulder that he saw what was going on. Katsuki and his cronies were now following Izuku when they discovered that their quirks had no impact on the perpetrator.

They got to the end of an alley near the main street, when Izuku heard his tormentor trip. He turned around to help him back up, only to stumble back when the sludge enveloped his friend. Explosions from Katsuki’s palms sent flaming bits of sludge everywhere, fires starting wherever they landed.

Only now did people actually stop, yelling for someone to call the pros as Izuku sat there frozen on the ground, his brain struggling to process what was going on. Why couldn’t he move? Why wasn’t anyone helping?

Then Izuku noticed the only solid part of the villain, his eyeball. Grabbing his backpack he stood up and ran at the person. Only to flinch back before throwing his backpack directly at the villain. It struck him in the eyeball, causing him to momentarily lose his form as Izuku grabbed Katsuki by the arm and pushed him to the end of the alley.

He followed, only to be tripped and land face first on the concrete. He saw the shadow above him and could only scream before he was being dragged away. His throat and nose were filled once again, the being holding him up in the air as he struggled. Tears began to stream down his face as he got weaker. The pros had arrived but weren’t doing anything, only watching while the bystanders congratulated Katsuki for his bravery.

This was it, Izuku was going to die here. He had already been light headed from running, and now his brain only screamed even more for oxygen. It was getting harder to move, he was only distantly aware of the cameras filming this for the news. He knew that his mother would probably see this, he became more desperate when he realized that. Flailing in the air as he kicked wildly once again, thrashing until he felt his foot connect with something solid and he was suddenly dropped.

He scrambled to safety without thinking before coughing up what was left of the sewage in his throat. His sinuses burned as he shuddered in disgust. He didn’t seem to notice when the very same person who had saved him came flying in and made it rain the disgusting green goop with a punch.

Afterwards Izuku grabbed his stuff, and sat there bitterly while he was laughed at. The pros were lecturing him, while his bully was praised for his bravery in sacrificing a quirkless boy to ensure his flashy quirk would still be around. Eventually Izuku stood up while being lectured, he was so tired of everything, so sick of being thought of as anything but human because he didn’t have a quirk.

He walked away silently, not listening as the pro hero called after him. Not that they would chase him anyways, that would just be a waste of their precious time. And yet they had the time to stand around as a kid was nearly murdered in front of them. He was almost home when he was stopped by Katsuki, who grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him to the ground.

“Who do you think you are? A weakling like you, saving me! Get back in your place Deku, you’re nothing but a waste of air anyways! You’re lucky my home is in the other direction, or I’d kill you right here and now,” Katsuki growled out as he stepped on Izuku’s wrist until it snapped, he stormed off afterwards and left him there with a broken wrist.

Despite being in agony, he could only think about how he should get back to giving up on his dreams. He stumbled home, holding his wrist the entire way. It was dark out by the time he finally got home, slipping through the front door. His mother was upon him immediately, sobbing as she pulled him into a tight embrace.

Izuku felt tears spilling out of his eyes as he hugged her back. He was sobbing, snot running down his face while his eyes became red and puffy. He barely managed to say that his wrist was broken before his mother was grabbing her things and rushing him off to the hospital. They had an older car, but it still ran. Inko, Izuku’s mother, didn’t use it all too often.

Despite the horrendous condition of traffic, they made it to the hospital fairly quickly. Izuku was signed in to the E.R., where he was finally able to explain what happened when the doctor asked how he broke his wrist.

“A classmate of mine and I got caught up in the sludge incident today, and he was angry that a quirkless kid managed to get him out while the pro heroes just stood and watched. He approached me later on my way home, and threw me to the ground before stepping on my wrist until he heard it snap,” Izuku explained quietly. He didn’t include the part where he had threatened to kill him tomorrow. His mother sat in silence, clutching her skirt in her fists. He was only able to speak because he had been given some painkillers.

“I see, we’ll have to do an x-ray to determine the damage,” The doctor explained. Izuku nodded before he was led out of the room. The rest of the hospital visit was as to be expected. He was given a cast for his hand, and after they left his mother called him out of school for the rest of the week.

The car ride home was in silence, finally Izuku spoke only after they had gotten to their apartment.

“Mom, I need to talk to you,” he spoke once the door behind them was closed. His mother gave him a worried look as she responded.

“Sure, why don’t we go sit down?” She suggested, getting a nod in response from her son. The two of them sat down on the light blue living room couch, Izuku took a moment to gather his thoughts. His adams apple bulging when he swallowed.

“Today… There’s more to it than Katsuki breaking my wrist. Today he… He told me to take a swan dive off the roof, and hope I get a quirk… in my next life. He utterly destroyed my Hero Analysis journal, and even though he says he stopped bullying me whenever you talk to Mitsuki, he doesn’t stop,” he spoke as he fidgeted with his pant leg. He could practically hear his mother’s look of horror, pausing for a second before he continued.

“And… The sludge “villain”, he didn’t attack me just once. I was walking through an underpass when he attacked me. All Might saved me, but I’m lucky I didn’t get a concussion when he blasted me into the wall with his punch. He went through my things… he signed my notebook… and I asked him if I could become a hero,” Izuku explained, swallowing once again so that he wouldn’t choke on his own spit. He spoke in a dismal tone the entire time, voice cracking as he forced back tears.

“He told me that I couldn’t become a hero because I didn’t have any power… He jumped away, the same guy who attacked me both times was stored in a pair of soda bottles, and the bottles fell out of his pocket. They… they burst open when they hit the ground, so I ran. He chased me the entire time, not a single person bothered to stop and help me. It wasn’t until Katsuki got involved that they stopped to get help, but the pros didn’t do anything after he was safe,” he spoke, sobbing at this point as his voice trembled. His mother hugged him tightly as he trembled, the fear he felt finally hitting him full force.

He pulled away a couple moments later, determined to keep going even if he could barely think about the entire event without freezing up.

“And… you saw the news, how Katsuki was congratulated for… for sacrificing... me to save his own quirk,” he whispered in distress. Inko quietly hushed him as she pulled him closer, crying as well. Neither of them knew how much time had passed before Izuku spoke up again.

“Would you be upset if I got a second chance at life?” He asked, moving away to pick at his cast. His mother looked mortified at the suggestion that she’d even blame him for wanting to start over. She knew about what her son went through, even if he didn’t tell her, because a mother always knows.

“Izuku, why would I be upset? You’ve struggled all your life, and if starting over means that you’re happy then I won’t stop you. Just tell me if you want to start over and I’ll see what I can do,” Inko responded, Izuku gave her a crooked smile before hugging her once again and thanking her profusely.

That night after they ate, Izuku hopped into his computer and began scouring the internet for a way to entirely forget his past. It wasn't until the early hours of the next day when the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon that he found what he was looking for.

Hastily he scribbled down the address before he finally let exhaustion take over and he crawled into bed. He slept well past noon, waking up around the time he would be leaving school.

[ahatintimepieces]

The Water in the Basement

Wonder why the water in Queen Vanessa’s manor isn’t frozen? I did too! What a coincidence! Just a short writing blurb about the Prince’s final moments in the basement and what remained. As usual, you can read on AO3 too!

              The grey wall across the room soon turned to black as his eyelids caved. A voice in the back of his head whispered alarm, for if he succumbed to sleep that would be the end. He heard but it did not register. No. His eyes had not closed. No. No. He was awake. He was—his head tipped and dropped. In a moment his heart felt like it stopped, and fear caused him to jerk awake. He blinked his puffy eyes open and fatigue choked his chest.

              The Prince whimpered in the silence. His breath no longer looked white in the cold basement because he was as cold as the perpetual winter the Queen had brought. The chains holding him against the stone were covered in frost and dried blood. His wrists were blistered and cut from the sharp edge of the shackles. It hurt less if he remained still, but the less he moved the bluer his skin seemed to look.

              Something wet slipped down his cheeks. He had the urge to touch his fingers to his face, but he swallowed it as more wet drops cascaded all the way down to the tips of his toes. Soft sounds of water droplets tumbling into puddles resounded in the basement. The Prince’s chest heaved as his hushed sobs burned in his throat. Unrelenting tears felt hot against his skin and he wondered how his breath could be frozen but not the water pooling at his feet.

              He was tired of crying. Tired of aching. But he was kind of impressed he still had it in him to weep and to hurt. It made him feel human in ways the bruises spreading from his wrists and down to his shoulder did not. The bruises felt numb. That was always disappointing. Part of the fun of a bruise was poking it to see how much it hurt.

              Numb and cold, it clung to his chest, to his lungs, to his stomach. There was once a time in this place in which he was thirsty and hungry. There was once a time where droplets did not sully the silence, but rather his screams, his cries, and his wails echoed desperately. But now he could not call for help. He wasn’t even sure he could whisper. Now, the thought of swallowing something tangible made him sick to his stomach.

              The purple spread. His eyelids were heavy. But he still cried. The endless winter outside chilled the stone walls, but warm salt water sloshed at his feet. A victory, he thought. Vanessa could chain him, freeze him, and bruise him, but his tears would always be warm.

              His head lolled forward. He blinked, looking down at the tufts of his hair in the corner of his eye. Was his hair bruising too? Odd. The stream of tears continued, and he found that the tips of his purple shoes were suspended in water.

              “       ” he opened his mouth to try to call out, once more. Though help sat clearly on his tongue, there was no voice to give it lift. The Prince accepted that even if he could speak, his words would have been futile anyway. There was no one to hear to him.

              He was still crying. Perhaps it was better if he slept now. The tears were the last thing working, the last thing tethering him to humanity. Maybe it would be best to let go when he still had that.

              He closed his puffy lids and let out a frozen breath. The gentle sound of droplets soothed him like a lullaby. His tears fell and he saw a golden light. Distantly, he expected, hoped and yearned for, warmth. All he felt was numb.

***

              “Eep!” Hat Kid squeaked as she dropped into the basement from the cellar door. Water splashed at her entry and soaked into her clothes. Before she could mentally prepare to feel the sting of ice, she found the murky water to be warm.

              Maybe the manor had heating? Wouldn’t that be nice after braving the frozen forest outside!

              Well, she had better get whatever was in the attic so she could finish the contract and get her soul back. The water sloshed and splashed as she waded forward. Once she passed a wall with chains, a voice came from behind. She jumped, but quickly relaxed when she saw it was just one of the Snatcher’s minions.

              “Boss wanted me to remind you that your contract says you can’t use your hats or umbrella inside.” The minion’s high-pitched voice was not unkind.

              “It does not!” Hat Kid frowned, quickly reaching for her stack of contracts to double check.

              “Boss’ orders.” The small, hooded being shrugged. “If you don’t comply, he’ll consider the terms of the contract violated.”

              “Fine,” Hat Kid sighed, giving up on her search. “But why didn’t he tell me himself? He usually loves popping out of nowhere to give me an earful.”

              “Oh.” The minion shook his head vigorously, the golden light in his hood bouncing with the movement. “Boss never comes in here. And none of us would want him to.”

              “Why?” Hat Kid pressed. Considering he was a big scary ghost, what could be bad enough to keep him from the manor?

              “Well…” The minion turned to leave, but not before the light from his hood hovered over the chains on the wall for a split second too long. “It’s not really my place to say. But, remember, no hats!” Before Hat Kid could ask more questions, the minion scuttled out.

              Sighing, Hat Kid resigned herself to focusing on the task at hand. She waded through the water, found a key, and soon located the locked door.

              As soon as she pushed open the wooden door that led up a level, cold air slammed into her, sending shivers down her spine. Giving a rueful glance back at the basement warmed by water, she hiked onwards into the cold.

[endless-whump]

A Gamble

CW: Attempted suicide, medical whump, panic attack, attempted suicide to escape torture, razor blade mention, threatened caretaker turned unwilling whumper, implied past noncon, dead dove do not eat, this one is heavy

Masterlist

--

“They’re sending people after you, Simon. People like you.  This is getting serious.”

Oliver stopped in his tracks, overhearing the hushed, urgent whispers.  His tired smile faded from his face, fingers grabbing at the sleeves of his oversized hoodie as he paused to listen, willing his breaths to become quieter.

“You know the type of training they get, this isn’t something you can easily hide from.  What if they get a hold of an address? They’re box boys, they could access a safehouse.  What if..Simon, what if they get a hold of you?”

“Mia, I’d never-”

“That's not the point, Simon.  We both know what you’re trained for.  Do you really think you could resist a direct order from him? Even if it was about Oliver?  Be honest with me, Simon.”

“I-”

There was silence for a moment, and Oliver took a hesitant step backwards, shoulders hunched as he remained hidden in the corner of the hallway.

“I don’t know, Mia. I honestly don’t know.”

No..

“Oliver trusts you, Simon.  We both know you wouldn’t be able to deny an order from Cedric, and Oliver wouldn’t be able to deny an order from you.  It's a huge liability and you know it.”

Oliver stumbled backwards down the hall, not quite sure where he was trying to go.  He just needed to go, to get out.

He couldn’t go back, no no no he couldn’t go back.  They were going to use Simon against him.  Simon was supposed to be safe, he always protected him.  He always did.

He knew Simon always protected him, but he also never forgot what he was.

He knew Simon was trained to bring him back.

He was barely aware of what he was doing as he shut the bathroom door, hands trembling as he fumbled to lock it.

If Simon told him..ordered him to come back..he was right.  He wouldn’t be able to say no.

The cabinet was opened, Oliver’s hands almost moving on their own, pulling things out and looking desperately for what he wanted, what he felt he needed

He kept looking, vision blurred with tears and heart racing with panic as he found what he was looking for.

A razor.

He stumbled backwards, back hitting the wall.  He almost dropped the razor, clutching it shakily as he slid to the floor, staring at the door.

He didn’t want to go back, he liked it here. It was safe here. Here meant mornings baking muffins and laying out on the couch and being held. Here meant a warm bed that didn’t carry any expectations, it meant people who were nice to him.

He couldn’t go back, not to him.  Not to Mr Cedric.

He couldn’t bear the thought of going back to endless nights and silk rope and the burning feeling of being hurt and used over and over and over again until he couldn’t breathe and couldn’t think and couldn’t seem to even bring himself to want to exist anymore.

He didn’t want to exist, not if Cedric was what existing meant.

--

“Oliver?”

Simon sighed, looking around for the younger boy. Maybe they could go for a walk or something, or start making lunch. He needed to cool off, to reassure himself Oliver was ok and that they were all still here. He needed to ground himself.

He searched their room to no avail, their bed neatly made with no Oliver in sight.  The other rescues just shrugged when asked if they’d seen him, and Simon continued his search in annoyance.

He knocked on the bathroom door, the last place in the small house he hadn’t checked. He was met with silence, and when he tried the handle he found it unlocked. Might as well check, he supposed. It wouldn’t be the first time he found Oliver hiding in an odd place.

“Ollie?”

He pushed the bathroom door open, scanning the small bathroom. His heart stopped at the sight he was met with.  There was a pool of blood on the floor, and it registered half a second too slow whoseblood it was.

His knees hit the floor hard, training taking over and fronting for him, desperation buzzing in the back of his mind.  His jacket was off in a second, the fabric wrapped around Oliver’s arms and pressed down hard, probably harder than it needed to be.

He was trained for this, he was trained to keep Oliver from doing this.  The thought disgusted him, because he knew it wasn’t for Oliver’s own good.

It wasn’t for Oliver’s benefit.  It was an insurance of the safety of merchandise.  An insurance the romantic had no chance of escape, even a desperate one.

Even a fatal one.

That didn’t matter right now, he reminded himself.  Oliver was what mattered, and he was unconscious on the floor covered in his own blood.

“Mia!”He called out, when it finally dawned on him to do so.

He reached up a hand to cup Oliver’s cheek, his skin too pale. He was too pale and too cold and oh my god is he breathing?

He couldn’t lose Oliver, nonono he couldn’t lose him. He was too young, too young and hurt and he was supposed to be happy, he was supposed to get a chance to be happy.

His fingers quickly pressed to Oliver’s neck, eyes trailing down to his chest.  A wave of relief flooded over him as he felt the faint but steady pulse under his fingers.

“Oh my god..Simon is he..?”

“M,Mia..Mia please, he’s alive, please help me-”

She was by his side in an instant, observing the blood soaked shirt and the discarded razorblade on the tile floor.  She paled as the realization set in, moving to help apply pressure to the bleeding wound.

“Simon, I need you to carry him, get him to the couch.”

He nodded shakily, hooking his arms underneath Oliver’s knees and around his torso to pick him up.  They quickly moved out of the bathroom, hurrying to the main room where Mia shooed a group of rescues, playing cards in a circle on the floor, out of the room.

He set Oliver down on the couch, brushing the boys hair out of his face.  Mia was back at his side, a medical kit in hand as she pushed Simon out of the way.

“Has the bleeding stopped?” She asked, opening the kit, her hands shaking as she hastily got out supplies.

“I..I don’t know, I-” He felt like he couldn’t speak, staring, stunned, at Oliver as Mia worked.  He felt numb, like autopilot had taken over as Mia wrapped his arm in gauze, checking him over and getting medication out of the kit.

“Did he take anything?  Were there bottles or pills on the floor?”  She demanded, and Simon couldn’t do anything but shake his head mutely, settling heavily on the floor next to the couch.

“It looks like a lot of blood..I need to call Sandy,” she muttered. “It doesn’t look like he...hit anything, though. I think he’s gonna be fine as long as we get somebody in here to look at him.”

It was probably in a blind panic, Simon thought to himself. Barely knew what he was doing, only responding in a way he felt he could escape.

This is my fault, he thought distantly

“Simon,” Mia said gently, and Simon blinked, looking up at her.

“He’s gonna be ok, I promise.”

She handled his bandaged arms carefully, settling them over his torso as she tucked a blanket around him. He looked so small, bundled up on the couch.

“Can you keep an eye on him? I’m gonna make a few phone calls, try and get someone with a bit more medical training in here.”

He nodded, reaching a hand under the blanket to hold Oliver’s hand. He’d stay there as long as Oliver needed him here.

And so he did

—

Simon startled awake when he heard a loud thump, a body falling to the floor.  It was dark, crickets chirping audibly outside that could be heard clearly in the otherwise quiet house. He blinked tiredly and turned to look where Oliver shouldhave been, only seeing the discarded blanket where he previously laid, unconscious.

“Oliver?!”

He stood, looking around frantically. He was about to call for Mia when he heard a whimper of fear, and Simon’s head snapped to where it came from.  He saw Oliver on the kitchen floor, curled in on himself.

“Oliver-”

“No,nono please S,Simon please..I..I can’t..can’t go back-”

He was trying to drag himself across the floor, red visibly staining the bandages wrapped around his arm.  Simon took a step towards him carefully, and that's when he saw the knife Oliver was trying to get to.

He lunged forward, falling to his knees and grabbing Oliver’s wrists to keep him from grabbing the blade.  The boy wailed, struggling weakly and trying to get away.

“N,NO!” He screamed, kicking uselessly.  “N,No, hhn, no stop, Simon stop, nhh-”

He was in pain, Simon could tell, but he wasn’t relenting. He pulled Oliver to his chest, holding his wrists and crossing his arms to hold him securely as he thrashed, quickly losing his energy.  He sobbed, his begging turned incoherent.

Mia burst into the room, looking around frantically and spotting the pair, but Simon just shook his head.

“I’ve got him,” He murmured

Keeping one arm holding Oliver’s, he pressed his palm against the boy's forehead, forcing his head to rest against Simon’s shoulder so he wouldn’t thrash around as much, staying still and letting him tire himself out.

She darted out of the kitchen, probably to get her med kit, while Simon waited for Oliver to calm down.  He could hear murmuring from the other rooms, probably the other rescues wondering what was going on so late at night.

“S..Simon please..I can’t..Simon..please,”  Oliver gave up fighting, sobbing weakly as he was held in place against the other.

“Shh, you’re ok,” Simon hummed soothingly, trying to comfort him. “You’re not going back, I promise. You’re ok, you’re safe.”

“No,” He begged, but it was quiet, his voice hoarse. “I can’t- you’ll take me back, p,please don’t t,t,take me back, p,please Simon..”

Tears were streaming down Simon’s face, his heart twisting in guilt. He didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know how to promise Oliver he’d never take him back..when part of him didn’t believe himself.

“He..h,he hurts me, I can’t- it h,hurts, Simon, i,it hu,hurts,”

“I know,” Simon whispered, hugging him tight. “I know it hurts. Need you to let me take care of you, Ollie. Can you do that? Please? Need you to trust me.”

It almost felt like a betrayal, asking Oliver to trust him when they both knew he couldn’t, not really. It felt like he was lying as he reassured the boy, and he slowly relaxed, breaths still shallow and desperate.

He glanced at the window as he heard a car pull into the driveway, Mia probably was able to get a hold of their volunteer emt. That, or a neighbor made a noise complaint.

He ran his hands through Oliver’s hair, glancing down at the red soaked bandages, his wounds most likely reopened. Whether that was accidental or on purpose...

That didn’t matter right now

There was a conversation happening at the doorway, hushed and worried voices drifting to where Simon could hear them in the kitchen. Emt it was, then.

A woman who looked in her mid 30s appeared in the doorway, dressed in casual clothes but carrying a large duffle bag with a medical symbol on it. She dropped to the ground beside the pair, grabbing something from her bag.

“I’m Sandy,” she said softly, meeting Simon’s eyes. “Am I ok to touch him?”

Simon nodded, eyeing her as she gently grabbed Oliver’s arm, pulling it out to expose the inside of his elbow.

Oliver tensed, cringing back against Simon in panic at the unfamiliar touch.

“N,no, please don’t-��

“I need you to hold him steady,” the woman said gently. “From what Mia told me, I’m not gonna be able to treat him properly unless we sedate him.”

Simon swallowed heavily, tightening his hold on Oliver to hold him still even as his struggles started to renew.  

“What are you giving him?” He asked warily, watching her bring out a needle and line it up carefully with Oliver’s arm.

“Ketamine,” She hummed, inserting the needle. Oliver whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as she administered the drug. “It’ll calm him down and act as a pain reliever, it'll probably knock him out in his state.” She retracted the needle, putting it aside and reaching up to press her fingers against Oliver’s pulse.

Simon relaxed a fraction as Oliver went limp, head falling forward and tension leaving his body. His breathing became deeper and more even, his hand falling from where he had tried grabbing at Simon’s arm.

“He’s out,” she murmured.  She helped him lower the boy to the ground, setting out an array of gauze and a suture kit on the ground. Simon cringed as she unwrapped his arms, the angry red cuts still bleeding a little.

He could see the smaller lines where Oliver tried to scratch and tear the bandages off, maybe hoping to just bleed out before somebody noticed.

It was reckless. A desperate, panicked attempt that lacked thought-through execution or knowledge. A gamble.

A gamble Simon intended to not let Oliver ever, ever take again, if he could help it.

---

taglist

@insanitywishes @18-toe-beans s @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @spiffythespook@simplygrimly @cinnamonflavoredhugs @finder-of-rings

[rosegoldannie]

Tell Me no Lies Chapter 19

TW: Kidnapping. Nothing too bad, but this chapter was really intense. This was a lot, so there should be another chapter after this.

Masterlist

“But...That’s impossible!” Aelin stammered, scrambling as far away from Arobynn as the small cars and her seatbelt would allow.

He gave her a sickening grin. “It’s quite possible, my dear girl.”

“She’s not your anything.” Rowan snapped, pulling her closer to him. 

Arobynn sneered at him, looking Rowan up and down before turning to her. “And who is he?” He purred condescendingly. “Your replacement for Sam? How utterly pathetic.”

She let out a slight whimper, leaning into Rowan’s chest. Her roommate spoke in a deep, low voice. “Don’t say his name, asshole. You don’t deserve to have even known him if he was even half as good as she says he was.”

“Shut up.” Their captor snapped, bringing his hand to rest on the butt of his gun. “You’ll be dead soon, and I’ll make it painless if you don’t speak.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, you piece of absolute shi-”

“I will burn your eyes to cinders while she watches, and you beg and scream and plead for mercy. I can make you wish you had never been born with only my bare hands.”

“STOP IT!” Aelin shouted, dragging her hands through her hair, and shoving that horrible sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm her down. “What do you want from us?!” She snapped. She wouldn't let that panic, that wretched terror control her again.

Arobynn began driving again, but kept one hand on his gun as a threat, and glanced at them in the mirror every few moments. “I’m here to deliver justice.” They wove meticulously through several lanes of traffic, and a sense of dread began to settle deep in her gut. “I’m here to deliver justice for what you did a year ago.” His words hit her like knives in the chest.

Discreetly, Rowan began slipping his phone out of his pocket and sent her a pleading glare, a silent urge for her to stall for time.

“What- Are you serious?!” She snapped. “This is all because of Gregori and Ben?” How he was so furious over their deaths still eluded her. He knew as good as anyone how dangerous being in a drug cartel was, and yet….he still blamed her. And, hell, it wasn’t as if Gregori and Ben were even good workers, because they were mediocre at best.

Arobynn pulled off onto an onramp that led deep into the Oakwald forest. That dread in her gut only worsened as she realized where he was taking them, to that horrid place she had nearly died with Chaol, and where she was all but certain he had killed Sam. “Yes, and no.” He mused. “While I didn’t necessarily care for those two, when you failed to save them, it was the final straw. You failed me one time to many.” Again, he pulled off the onramp onto a hidden side road, leading to nowhere. That terror threatened to resurface, violently thrashing against the miniscule control she had. “I told you that night; when they were first brought into the triage center. I told you that they were to survive, no matter what.”

“And I told you that I couldn’t guarantee that! They had each been shot multiple times-”

“That doesn’t matter!” He roared, the car swerving wildly back and forth as they hurtled down the dirt road. “I gave you an order, and you disobeyed.” Those grey eyes met hers, just as cold and vicious as she remembered.

She sighed, gathering her courage and trying to buy Rowan time. “I tried my best. Really, I did everything I could, but...they were essentially dead on arrival-”

“I don’t care. I had given you an order.” Suddenly, the car screeched to a stop, and their captor whirled around, pointing that gun at Rowan. And Aelin had never known such fear as when he was staring straight down that barrel into all but certain death. It felt as if her life had flashed before her eyes, because she knew damn well that if she lost Rowan, she may as well be dead, because he was her life. He made her want to live, to fight that darkness which was always just a whisper away.

“No, no please! Don’t! I’ll do whatever you want, I swear!” She pleaded, feeling so nauseous it was painful. “Just please, please don’t hurt him.” 

Arobynn ignored her completely, flicking the safety off with one finger. It was then that true fear began to seep into Rowan’s eyes, because there was no hesitation in those grey eyes. “Give me the phone.” He demanded. Rowan only stared him down, defiance raging in his eyes. Again, Arobynn snarled, “Give me your phone. Now.” And again, Rowan didn’t. 

And so he turned that gun on her, and pulled the trigger.

“NO!” Rowan shouted, terror draining his face to a ghostly pale shade, as if he had never once seen the sun.

Aelin screamed, throwing herself away from the smoking bullet hole just a few inches away from her head, as her ears rang loudly. She couldn’t hear the exchange that followed, but the fury on Rowan’s face as he handed Arobynn his phone was palpable. If she hadn’t known him, loved him, she would have been more afraid of the world ending fury raging across his every feature than Arobynn. The red-haired man then barked another order at him, and Rowan gave her a short glance, full of love yet still angry, and exited the car, moving to the front seat. Arobynn said something else, and gestured from Rowan to her.

He then turned on her, and held out his hand.

Reluctantly, she placed her phone in his hand.

Then, he gave them both a long, warning look, and slipped from the car. Immediately, Rowan turned in his seat and leaned over the console, reaching for her. Distantly, she could hear him saying, “Aelin? Aelin are you okay? Can you hear me?” And as the ringing subsided, she nodded.

They watched as Arobynn set their phones onto the dirt which made up this sorry excuse for a road, and shot them each. Rowan let out a sharp curse, and their captor was back. 

“Here’s how this is going to work.” He held each of their gazes for several long moments. “You,” He said, holding Aelin in place with a glare, “are going to do exactly what I say, or else I am going to put a bullet in your boyfriend. If he survives that, I’ll shoot him again. And if he survives that, I’ll kill him the same way I killed Sam. Only worse.”

She let out a whimper, even as she was filled with world-ending fury and hatred, the awful memories of what had happened coming flooding back.

“You do remember what happened to Sam, right?” He mused, feigning sweet, innocent ignorance, even as she nodded. “Well, allow me to refresh your memory. The first thing we did was pull out every single one of his nails, and then his teeth. Then, we hung him by his wrists for a week.”

She let out a wracking sob, pain unlike anything she had ever known crushing down against her, ripping the air from her lungs, and it felt like that night all over again.

“Then, we began burning him. And by god,” Arobyn chuckled coldly, “how that boy screamed. I’d never heard anything like it. Haven’t since. And I can’t blame him. The pain must’ve been unbearable. I mean, to feel your skin slowly cooking and blistering and melting-”

“Stop it!” She begged, hot tears streaking down her face. “You’ve made your point. I’ll do whatever you want, just…just don’t touch him.”

Seemingly satisfied, He nodded. “And you,” He turned, staring down Rowan. “Put these on.” Arobynn snapped, tossing a pair of handcuffs at him, all the while keeping that gun trained on him. Rowan glared furiously, but slipped the metal around his wrists. Arobynn huffed, reaching over and tightening them until he was grunting, and the skin around the cuffs were red and irritated. “And don’t think for one moment that I would hesitate to put a bullet in her head if I thought it would benefit me.”

Rowan couldn’t hide his shock and disgust. “You raised her.”

“And?”

“And you’re willing to kill her for what? For revenge?!”

Arobynn held his gaze for a long moment. “I’ve done more for less.” Rowan shook his head, disgust radiating from him. “What’s up your ass? Don’t act like you wouldn’t kill her if you were offered enough.”

“I wouldn’t. You’re a madman.”

“Then you’re lying to yourself. And they called Einstein a madman.”

“You’re no Einstein. You’re just a killer who’ll eventually cross the wrong person and rot in an early grave, and be forgotten by the world as soon as you leave it.” Rowan’s words were cold, the coldest she had ever heard. “No one will remember you, nor will anyone miss you. Your days are running out.”

Despite everything Arobynn had done, seen, he still had the good sense to look mildly disturbed. He kept one eye on the man in the passenger’s seat for a good while, until he decided that Rowan couldn’t possibly be hiding any sort of weapons on his person.

Once he was satisfied that neither of them were going to try anything, he kept the gun trained on Rowan, and began driving. 

They wound through the woods, taking turn after turn until they were deep within the forest, and the area around them was pitch black. It had been a long while since they had seen any other people or cars. The terror that she had previously suppressed began to creep back up until Aelin was trembling in the back seat with her knees drawn up to her chest, near sobbing at any movement or sound. She was still reeling from the reminder of what had happened to Sam, and the pain he had endured...

Distantly, she heard the sound of running water, and her blood turned to ice within her veins, a sickening feeling settling deep in her gut. And as they grew closer to the water, she saw Rowan tense. He met and held her gaze in the mirror, then he moved.

He was little more than a shadow in the wind, and it was so sudden that Arobynn scarcely had time to react as Rowan lunged across the center console and grabbed the wheel, jerking it sharply. 

The gun went off, and Aelin screamed, expecting to see Rowan covered in blood, gasping and bleeding and dying, but the bullet had gone clean through the roof of the car, missing him entirely. Rowan cursed violently nonetheless, and ripped the gun away from Arobynn, tossing it into the back seat.

And Aelin peered fearfully out of the passenger windows, their surroundings illuminated by the headlights, and saw that they were hurtling down a dock towards a large lake. Instantly she began trying to open her windows, pulling at the child safety locks, knowing the inevitable outcome. But the mechanism had jammed, and so she was stuck trying to find the malfunctioning piece and praying it was something she could fix. When that fell through, she began pounding at the windows with her fists and elbows, but it failed.

Then Arobynn shouted in fury, and Rowan told her to brace herself. So she curled into as small of a ball as her seatbelt would allow, and tried to cover her neck and head. Rowan had thrown his top half over the console to cover her body and protect her from the impact.

And then they flew off the end of the dock, seeming to hover weightlessly in the air for several moments before plummeting into the icy abyss with a roaring crunch.

For the first several seconds, everything was deafeningly silent as they sunk down, down, down, and Rowan only held her tighter, promising that she would be okay. Then they hit the lake bottom, and everything went black.

When she came too, frigid water was flooding in from everywhere, her teeth were chattering horribly, and Rowan was beating against his window as she had been only a minute before, Arobynn having been knocked out by the airbag upon impact. 

“Aelin!” Rowan shouted, pushing himself towards her upon realizing her condition, blood gushing from a nasty cut on his cheek bone. “Are you hurt? Have you broken any bones?”

“I’m fine, you?” She called, fingers raking her now sopping hair away from her face.

“My head’s a little sore, but I’m fine.”

“Okay, that’s good. Probably just a concussion.” Aelin whirled around, scanning for anything she could use to help with Rowan’s cut, when she heard a soft crack, then a whoosh. Water gushed in from where Rowan’s window had been, and was now filling up the car at triple the speed.

“Aelin, we’ve gotta get out of here, okay? I’ll go first and clear the way, but I want you to be right behind me.” She jerked her chin in understanding, but he gripped her shoulder. “I’m serious; I want you right behind me. We’ve got to get the hell out of here and back to the road, understand?”

She nodded seriosly, and watched as he slid through that small opening. He swam a few feet out and turned to wait for her. As soon as his feet had cleared that window, Aelin was making to slide through and swim to the surface, when a strong pair of hands gripped her calves and threw her into the back seat.

She slammed into the seat, gasping upon impact and inhaling a mouthful of seawater, as Arobynn appeared over her, those grey eyes simmering with fury and the promise of death. And when he made to wrap his hands around her neck, she fought like hell, scratching and kicking and fighting and pouring every single ounce of fury and anger and hatred for Sam, her parents and herself into her onslaught.

But it wasn’t enough, because in the end, she was still a petite woman, and he overpowered her after a short struggle, wrapping those hands around her neck and squeezing, forcing her head down into the seat, even as the car became completely filled with water.

Distantly, she could hear Rowan pounding at her window and pulling at the door, but to no avail. 

Even so, she kept fighting, determined that even if she was to die here, so would he. And she became the fire breathing bitch her friends jokingly called her. She kicked, she thrashed. She became a liquid flame, slashing and burning and roaring and maining, even as she thought her lungs would burst, and raked her nails down Arobynn’s face, making to kick him just as her door at last popped open.

In less than a second, Rowan had pulled her from the wreckage and slammed the door on their captor, and they were hauling ass for the surface nearly twenty feet above.

They breached the surface with heavy, sputtering, gasping heaves and coughing wildly. Aelin’s lungs felt as if they were bursting, even as she gulped air down, slapping at the water to stay afloat. Rowan wrapped an arm around her waist, pausing to draw her against him. 

“Are you hurt?” He asked, waves lapping gently against them both as moonlight glittered like diamonds across the surface. He treaded water in place effortlessly, keeping them both afloat, moving towards that sandy shore.

She coughed up more water, her throat and eyes aching. “Yeah, yeah I think so. You?” Her feet hit the sand, and it felt as if the weight of the world crashed upon her.

Rowan tightened that arm around her, taking more of her weight. “I’m fine, here,” He quickly wrapped his now most certainly ruined suit jacket around her, and rubbed her arms to warm her up.

Her teeth chattered violently, her throat tightening again, as if those hands were still wrapped in a horrible grip around her neck. Adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, making her movements short and jerking.

Once they were both sprawled across the sandy bank, she allowed herself a small moment to rest, her eyes slipping closed as her breaths evened slightly.

After an eternity, and not nearly enough time, Rowan let out a stiff groan, and sat up beside her. “I hate myself for saying this, but we have to get going.”

Aelin clenched her eyes tighter. “What? Where?”

He stood gingerly, holding out a hand to her. “Back to where he ditched our phones. I managed to get a call through to the police.”

Eyes widening, she took his hand and allowed him to lift her to her feet. “Wow.” She muttered, giving him an approving smile as they began walking. “And you’re probably right. We have to get going or else we’ll freeze.”

Just through a small copse of trees, they saw flashing red and blue lights.

Comment, reblog or send an ask if you want to be added to my tag list!

A/N: I’m going to write a short fic about a ship in quarantine if that makes sense, and I want you guys to comment ships that you want to to be about.

tag list: @sailorsassley @whiskeybusiness1776 @mad-scientist-pyromaniac @la7sorcellerie @dayanna-hatter@mis-lil-red@aelinfeyreisa @bamchickawowow @togswiftie @teresa-1121@hizqueen4life @aelinchocolatelover @smexyminion@rowaelin-cressworth @illyrianbeauty @angelofmusic81 @rosesandglass@blackjacks-donuts @highlordrhysie @ame223 @sleeping-and-books @seducemewithyourbookcolection @high-lady-rhys @clumsybookworm18  @westofmoon @giorgia-the-trashpanda @burritowithfeels @happily-emma-after @awkward-avocado-s@fanfic-masterpost-site @tonypetersteve @msalazar3 @bookish-beans​​ @terrasen-assassin​ @tntwme​ @lovemollywho​ @sayfic​ @writingyourownfate​

[bluejayblueskies]

marionette

Part 5 of Whumptober 2020

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Basira Hussain, Annabelle Cane, Georgie Barker, Melanie King Tags: Whump, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Gun Violence, Manipulation, Spiders

Read on Ao3

“For the record, I hate this plan.”

“Yeah, well, if you can think of anything better, I’m all ears.”

Martin waits. When Basira doesn’t respond, he sighs and says, “Yeah. This is it, then. So, are we good? Because I really don’t want to wait any longer.” Something twists, deep in his stomach. “I… I’m afraid we might already be too late.”

Basira’s hand travels, briefly, to the gun strapped to her hip. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.”

Martin feels a bit nauseous. “Good.” He steels himself, then turns to face the house that had once been Hilltop Road. “Then let’s go.”

.

Jon thinks he sees an opportunity, when Annabelle Cane leaves the house. “Be back in a flash,” she says with a Cheshire cat smile, and then she’s gone.

The webs are sticky and tightly wound around Jon’s wrists and ankles, pinning him neatly in place against the wall like a mounted butterfly. But he twists, and struggles, and screams, and manages to rip an arm free. Then a leg. And then he’s collapsing onto the floor, his muscles screaming from disuse, his chest heaving in equal parts exhaustion and agony.

It takes him too long to get to his feet and stagger toward the door. That was his mistake, he thinks distantly, as he’s woven back into place in the webs that crisscross the house. He was too slow. He’d only been able to take a single, euphoric step over the threshold, a single breath of tantalizingly fresh air, before a pair of spindly black legs wrapped around him quick as lighting and pulled him back, his scream cut off by the slam of the door. The Spider was quick, and he should have been quicker.

He’s caught, a fly in a web, and it won’t be long before he’s consumed.

.

The door won’t open.

“Banner start, Martin,” Basira whispers. “It’s not like we go in through the front door was ever a good plan to begin with.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the Web—trying to outsmart it is kind of off the table,” Martin hisses, pulling his attention away from the door for a moment.

When he looks back, the door is ajar.

They stare at it for a few seconds. “Great,” Basira says finally. “Because that’s not suspicious as hell. Martin, don’t—”

Martin pushes the door open and steps through.

“Welcome,” Annabelle says, and the plastic smile on her face reminds Martin unsettlingly of a ventriloquist’s doll. “We’ve been expecting you.”

There’s a moment of unsettling silence. Then, quietly, Basira says, “We?”

.

There are spiders in his throat.

There are spiders in his veins.

There are spiders in his eyes.

All of his eyes.

But Jon can still see. He can see segmented legs, and hairy abdomens, and fangs that puncture skin and sclera. He can see the threads that wrap in and around him, knitting themselves in line with his muscles and pulling him taught. He can see the web, knotted around him in a pattern far too intricate to be anything other than the product of years of subtle stiches.

He can see the Spider, and the Spider can see him.

The Spider lays its final thread, and pulls it tight.

.

It’s Jon, but it’s not. Martin tells himself that, as a hundred threads pull and twist and walk Jon’s body across the floor in a series of not-quite-human motions, too angular in their design to be natural. The not is apparent in the way that Martin sobs at the sight, or in the way that Basira instinctively draws her gun, snapping a quick, “What the hell are you playing at?” at Annabelle where she smiles benignly from the corner of the kitchen. It’s apparent in the way that the thing that’s not Jon sits at the table and says, in a voice so horribly familiar yet so gratingly wrong, “Why don’t you sit, Martin? We have much to discuss.” It’s apparent in the way that Martin unthinkingly takes a seat at the table, without willing his body to move.

The Jon is apparent in the desperate, pleading look Martin can see when he looks into Jon’s eyes. And that’s all Martin needs to have hope.

“Fine, then,” Martin says tightly. He won’t look at Annabelle, but he can feel her eyes like weights on the back of his neck. “I’ll listen. But not until you give Jon back.”

Annabelle laughs lightly, and Jon mirrors the motion perfectly. “I’m afraid that’s not my decision to make. But you will listen, Martin Blackwood. Of that, I am certain.”

And Jon begins to speak. And Martin begins to listen.

.

Jon’s screaming, but no one can hear him. He’s crying, but no tears spill down his cheeks. He wants to wrap his arms around Martin, and hold him tight, and press kisses to his forehead and nose and lips, but instead he sits at a table and smiles and tells Martin that everything’s going to be okay. That the Mother of Puppets has a plan, and it’s ultimately to the benefit of the world, so Martin need not worry about the Spider as he does the Eye. That once the Spider is done with Jon, it will give him back.

At this, he wants to laugh, to scream, to cry, because the lie is hot and sticky on his tongue, and it tastes of poison. But instead, he places a hand on Martin’s cheek and says, so sweetly, “I do keep my promises, don’t I, Martin?”

The threads that wrap around Martin’s body guide him into a nod, and Jon wants nothing more than to be able to cut them. But his are thicker, more consuming, and much, much older, so much so that he thinks that, were they removed, he may cease to exist entirely.

“Lovely,” Jon says with a smile. “I trust you know where the door is.”

.

“Fuck this,” Basira says, and pulls the trigger.

.

Moment One:

Annabelle Cane smiles, unharmed. “You forget,” she says, glassy-eyed, calm, “that this place does not answer to you.”

Moment Two:

Blood begins to blossom, scarlet and thick, against a dark coat.

Moment Three:

“Oh,” Jon says, in a voice all his own.

Moment Four:

“Oh,” Annabelle Cane says, in a voice that has perhaps never been her own.

Moment Five:

The strings are cut, and Jon collapses.

.

dark; cold; blind.

“—Christ, what were you thinking, Basira? God, look at him, he—Jon? Jon! Jon, can you hear—?”

dark; cold; blind

“—think we’re losing him. Jon, you have to wake up.”

“Why isn’t he healing? He- he should be healing. Why isn’t he—?”

dark; cold; blind

Silence, but for the sound of quiet, shaking sobs.

Jon tries, desperately, to hold on.

.

Jon wakes up to a splitting pain in his chest, an even more splitting pain in his head, and a cat sitting on his feet.

The groan Jon lets out when he tries to sit up must have been loud enough to hear from the other room, because it’s less than five seconds before the door’s flung open and Martin rushes in, startling the Admiral so badly that he leaps off the bed and runs through the door into the other room.

“You scared the Admiral,” Jon croaks, and god, his throat hurts. What had he been—?

Oh.

Jon remembers the legs, scurrying along the sides of his bones, and is immediately sick, managing to lean over the side of the bed before regurgitating the meagre contents of his stomach. In less than a second, there’s a warm hand on his back and a voice saying, “Jon! Are- are you okay? God, no, of course not, you were shot, but I meant- Christ, you know what I meant.”

Jon coughs and immediately regrets it as it sends a fresh wave of pain throughout his abdomen. It’s a moment before he has enough breath to say, shakily, “Oh, god. The- the house, Annabelle, I- what happened?”

Martin helps Jon lean back in bed, and he continues to rub soothing circles into Jon’s shoulder as he says, “I don’t know about Hilltop Road, or- or Annabelle. We- um, Basira, she- I don’t know how much you remember, but she, uh, shot you, and that seemed to break through whatever the Web was doing to you. But only because, um. You died for a bit? Which I, hah, didn’t think could happen anymore, but then you stopped breathing, and I- I just kept seeing you lying in that hospital bed.”

Jon reaches, despite the pain, and lays a careful hand on Martin’s cheek. It’s wet with tears. “Oh, Martin. I’m sorry.”

Martin smiles and reaches up to cup Jon’s hand with his own. “It- it’s fine. You’re back. I suppose it- it was like back then, in a way.”

Quietly, Jon says, “They Eye didn’t want to let me go.”

“Yeah, well, for once I agree with it on something.”

Jon smiles softly. “You know there’s really no it to agree with, Martin. The Eye is—”

“Yes, yes, it’s unfathomable, closer to a thought than a person or an object, like a color comprised of fear, I know. But it’s also staring at us right now from the sky, so I think I’m entitled to refer to it as an it.”

“I… I suppose.”

“Back from the dead again, then?” Georgie says, coming in through the door and leaning against the wall. Melanie and Basira are close behind; Melanie has the Admiral cradled in her arms, and her fingers are slowly carding through his fur.

Jon gives her a weak, tentative smile. “It appears so.”

Melanie sighs. “Well, that’s one ‘will-this-fix-the-world?’ option taken off the list, I guess. What’s that, number 20 out of, uh, infinity?”

“We’ll get there,” Basira says curtly. “For now, we should regroup—figure out our next move. We’re not safe here, but it’s better than where we were before, so we have some time, but not much.”

Jon shifts, and he can’t quite suppress a wince. “Enough time for a nap?” he says with a wry smile. “I still feel a bit like I’ve been- well, like I’ve been shot.”

“Technically, I saved your life,” Basira says, but she pushes off the wall and heads toward the door. “Like I said, we don’t have much time. Just… just come out when you’re ready.”

Georgie and Melanie follow her out, and then it’s just Jon and Martin again. They’d shifted after Georgie had come in to slot their hands together, fingers interlocking, and now, Martin rubs small circles with his thumb on the back of Jon’s hand.

“Do you think it’s still possible?” Martin asks quietly, staring at the door like it’ll somehow give him all the answers. “To fix the world? The Web, Annabelle, Hilltop Road… that had been our biggest lead, after the Panopticon, and it almost got you killed.”

Jon squeezes Martin’s hand gently. “I don’t know.” It’s true, and it feels good to have genuine ignorance. “But what else is there to hope for?”

“Yeah.” Martin lifts Jon’s hand, presses a soft kiss to the back of it. “Yeah.”

In the corner, a spider scuttles through a crack in the wall, disappearing from sight.

[spideyxchelle]

the odds are never in our favor

or, the hunger games headcanon that has been rattling around in my brain 

her name is in the reaping bowl 47 times

that is nearly seven times more than the average eighteen year old. the odds are certainly not in her favor. but they never could be for an outskirter kid from seven. her family is not one of the merchant class. she has had to beg, borrow and sometimes steal to feed her family. there is too little to go around and too many mouths to feed. still. she perseveres. she has no other choice. 

if today is the day she is reaped, she will go to her death knowing she did all she could for her family. 

besides, she tells herself as she shakily walks to the town square for reaping day, she could win. it isn’t common, but people from seven do win the games. while they do not have the training of the careers or the brilliance of people from three, people from seven have brute force. and sometimes a little brute force can make all the difference. 

hell, four years ago, a kid from seven won. at sixteen, too. he had outsmarted all of the contestants, hiding in trees and swinging from them to get around the arena, like a spider would from its webs. he had been fast. and a quick talker, too. he had a good humor about him. people in the capitol said he was charming. but Michelle didn’t think so.

even though he was two years older than her, MJ had known Peter Parker in school. he had been quiet. he had one friend, maybe two. when he had been reaped and this other persona, another identity, came flashing out on screen, it had been the antithesis of the boy he knew back home. it was as if he had put on a mask to bare the atrocities of the games. 

with his mask on, no one could see him flinch. 

it was brilliant. the capitol ate it up. they loved him. he was their golden boy. 

people from seven could win. and if she was reaped, MJ could win, too.

it wouldn’t come to that, she reminds herself. she is in the reaping bowl 47 times. but she cannot be the only one. there are other half-starving kids from all over seven. she could go home to her family after this entire affair. and just like that the last seven years of horror, the sleepless nights where she woke up screaming that she had been picked, would cease to exist. she would finally have aged out. 

one more day.

she can make it one more day.

the preening drone from the capitol welcomes everyone in the square, grinning from ear to ear about the games and the capitol and all of the good and glory the yearly spectacle brings to their great nation. it makes michelle sick. there is nothing noble about killing children. 

her fury travels down to her clenched fists that clasp at the worn lace of her reaping day dress. she hates the capitol. she hates every last one of those smiling dolls that paint their faces like murder is funny. 

her eyes search the dead eyes of the victors from seven that sit silently on the stage, awaiting the reaping. they will do nothing, just like she will in the crowd. and the cycle will continue. every year. forever and ever. 

children will be reaped and slaughtered for sport, and nothing good will ever be safe in this world of nightmares. 

“ladies first”, the disjointed voice of the capitol puppet chirps. michelle glances across the square to count off the top of her sisters’ heads. all four of her younger sisters stand rigid as stone. terrified. she wants to call out to them, to tell them it will be okay, that she will protect them. she will always protect them. 

“MICHELLE JONES”, the capitol official says gleefully. 

and michelle ceases to breathe. or think. or feel. it all goes away. like she had never been a person to begin with. everything that made her human eroded away in one horrible, endless moment. 

her eyes snap up to the stage and the traitorous friends and neighbors she had known all of her life make room for her to march up to the stage. no one says anything. no one tries to stop the injustice. she hates them all. she doesn’t blame them. 

the world is cruel.

something, maybe muscle memory or perhaps it is a peacekeeper, thrusts her forward and she begins to take the long walk up to the stage. someone in the distance is crying muffled sobs. she wonders if it is her mother. it could be. she does not turn around to check. her eyes are too focused on the stage and the stairs she will be expected to climb without fainting. 

suddenly she remembers the year twelve year old Cissy Cartright had been reaped. she had collapsed when her name had been called. the peacekeepers had dragged her through the square and dropped her heavy heap of a body on the stage. it had been horrible to watch. 

she will not be remembered that way. no. michelle finds some strength beneath her numbness and climbs the stairs. she stands silently beside her capitol executioner who pulls the male name from the reaping bowl. 

she does not hear who will join her in hell. she is frozen. unfeeling. and has the faintest sense that someone is watching her intensely, too intensely, from the stage. some peacekeeper amused at her shaking knees, no doubt. 

when her and the boy are escorted from the stage. she is taken straight to the train. she does not get to say goodbye. she is silently glad. she does not know what she would say to her family. maybe she would ask them to bury her under her favorite tree just at the edge of the forest. or maybe she would do something stupid. like cry. 

no, it is better that she is taken right from her sentencing to her death. there will be no time to reflect on what she has lost. she is completely lost in her thoughts. someone is talking to her on the fast moving train. she can hear the warped version of speaking distantly, but it is as if the radio is out of frequency. she sits, motionlessly.

until someone touches her knee. she jumps out of her skin and snatches the fork on the table in front of her, posing it as a weapon. 

the entire train car goes quiet. when her eyes focus, she realizes she has a fork at the jugular of Peter Parker. he is wide-eyed and intently watching her. she notices he is not afraid. he looks surprised, maybe even daring but not scared.

“you’re quick,” he observes. she nods, dumbly. “put that fork down, MJ.” on autopilot, she corrects, “only my friends call me MJ.” he quirks a grin. “I think, based on the circumstances, I can call you MJ.” she almost asks why. and then it hits her. 

she has been reaped for the hunger games. she is going to die in that stupid arena, fighting for her life. she is going to be forced to become someone that she is not. when it comes down to it, she will fight and lose whatever last glimmer of humanity she has been keeping from the capitol all of these years. 

she will become a shadow of who she once was. people will remember her as a killer. or the killed. or both. 

she drops the fork. she begins to shake. there is another commotion. but she pays it no mind. she is having a breakdown. she cannot breathe. why can’t she breathe? there is no oxygen on this train. it isn’t like the forest, her forest, with all of her trees that stretch to the high heavens. this metal box is going to kill her. it is racing toward her death. 

someone hauls her up into their arms, the embrace is strong and certain. and when she finally passes out from the stress of the day, she hears a quiet voice reassure her, “I won’t let you die, MJ. I promise.” 

when she wakes, the train is dark. she is pillowed in the softest bed she has ever slept in and someone has taken the time to tuck her in. she rubs at her weary eyes. no one has tucked her in since she was a child, and even then she had been so fiercely independent her mother had given up by the time she was four. 

“you’re awake,” someone from the shadowy corner of her room says. she sits up, like a shot, looking for something to use as a weapon. the lamp on the bedside table seems to work just fine. the voice chuckles, roughly, “relax, MJ. I’m not going to hurt you.” she cautiously turns the lamp in her hand on. her not-attacker is Peter Parker. victor of the hunger games. he is sitting quietly in her room. it is strange, bizarre even. the kind of thing that happens to other people and not her. after all, he is a superstar who became famous because he was unfortunate enough to be chosen to murder children in a sadistic game. 

it is bizarre because she knows his face better than she knows her own. he is on every screen in seven. all the time. he is not someone that should be sitting quietly in her room. but she tries to breathe. he does not seem like an immediate threat. 

after a moment of hesitation, she puts her lamp on the bedside table. the room is still hazily illuminated. his face gives nothing away. the mask again, she thinks. 

“what are you doing here?” she asks. “you passed out,” he answers. “earlier. when we were trying to talk with you and Eugene about the games. strategy. the doctor thinks you’re having some kind of stress induced breakdown.” he smiles. it is rueful. “I said I couldn’t understand why.” michelle blinks. she tries to piece together the conversation that is happening to her and notes, “you’re teasing me.”

“no,” he says, seriously. “I would never do that.” and MJ does something stupid. she believes him. “I’m sorry this happened to you,” he continues. “its an honor to fight for my district.” peter looks disappointed and says, “of course. well. I wanted to wait until you woke up to see if you were okay. I guess I’ll...go.” 

she nods. he hauls himself out of his chair. and before he goes, he lingers at the door and looks at her over his shoulder. “I am sorry, MJ.” 

she sleeps fitfully that night. she keeps hearing the resounding boom of the canon fire. she sees her face flash in the sky of the arena. she does not want to die. she tries to feel something. it is impossible. the capitol took it all when they called her name. 

she has a brief moment of clarity, sometime around three in the morning, when she realizes that THAT is why the hunger games exist. they make the tributes less than human so the rest of the districts know, without a shadow of a doubt, that they are less than. barely human. a means to an end. better to feel nothing. do nothing. 

never revolt. 

she will, she thinks. I will, she pledges to herself. 

and when she wakes the next morning, padding into the food car of the train, she sits opposite of Peter, who is locked in conversation with an older victor from a games twelve years ago, and says, “tell me how to win.” 

something in his eyes shifts. she cannot read it. mask mask mask, she thinks. but she waits for him to speak. patient and furious at her fate. he sees resolve in her now, she knows he does, and with the smallest smile, he says, “let’s begin.” 

[alarawriting]

Inktober 2020 #1: Fish

To say I wasn’t expecting an attack would be an understatement.

I was in my van, driving my oldest daughter to soccer practice.  (Why yes, I am a soccer mom.  I’m big enough to admit it.)  Natalie was supposed to be putting on her shin guards, but instead she was playing the Nintendo 3DS Arista had brought, on the grounds that technically it was her 3DS.  I believe Arista’s was out of battery, although it was the kind of detail I try not to pay too much attention to.  Arista, of course, had whined about this for ten minutes straight.  “It’s not fair!  I brought that 3DS!  You said you’d let me play!  Mommm, Natalie won’t let me play!”  And so on. This was partially, though not fully, drowned out by the sound of Theo singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” loudly, enthusiastically, off-key and with half the words made up, for what may well have been the tenth time in a row.

“Mom!  Make Theo be quiet.  I can’t concentrate!”

“Just give me back the 3DS! You aren’t even supposed to be playing it!”

“—itsy bitsy spider, gob up the stop again, itsy bitsy spider went on the bo bo bot, so wong go the dwain and it quash the spider out—“

“That isn’t even how it goes, Theo.  It goes ‘Itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout—'“

“If you’re just gonna sing to Theo you can give me back the game.  Mommm, she isn’t even playing it and she won’t give it back!”

“I’m sing it, Natwee!  I’m sing it my way!”

“Yeah, well your way is wrong, cause you’re a baby.”

“ITSY BITSY NATWEE, CAN’T SING THE SPIDER SONG, CAUSE THEO IS SING IT LA DA DOO DOO LA LA—“

“Come on! Let me play!”

With all this going on, I had no hope of getting back enough of my own concentration to change lanes, so I had been stuck behind a car carrier lugging SUVs for the past ten minutes.  I hated being behind large trucks; they block my view of the rest of the road.  And here I was with nothing in the CD player but Gary’s smooth jazz, when plainly I needed death metal to drown this out.  I’d have given my pinky finger to be able to put on the radio, but radio and I did not get along.

As if to underscore this, a sudden burst of static cut through the horn solo.  I frowned, wondering if I’d gotten mixed up and this was the radio after all.

“Hey, cool!” Arista said, having apparently found something worthy of distracting her from her quest to recover the 3DS.  “My mood ring is red.  Mom, what’s it mean when your mood ring goes red?”

I went cold, and glanced at my own left hand on the steering wheel.  The stone in my ring, normally opal, had turned obsidian black.

I glanced back up to see the top SUV on the car carrier starting to slide.

“Aspída!” I shouted, having no time to do anything more complex than that.  Then I spun the wheel and swerved wildly onto the right shoulder, scraping the jersey wall, as the SUV slid off the carrier’s ramp and came careening down at us.

Distantly I was aware of my kids screaming, but all my attention was on surviving this. The SUV slammed into the shield I had just cast and bounced into traffic, making the car shudder. The small truck that had been behind me struck the SUV, sending it spinning across the road. Meanwhile I’d slammed hard on my brakes, coming to a full stop about twenty feet away from where the SUV ending up crashing into the jersey wall ahead of me. The small truck pulled over, in front of the SUV. The car carrier continued blithely on into the distance.

At least they hadn’t all fallen. That would have been a lot harder to deal with. I could have done it, but I would not have liked to explain it to the kids.

“Mom! Mom! What was that? What happened?” Natalie screamed.  Theo was crying hysterically, and Arista was gasping, hyperventilating.

I turned around in my seat. “Arista! Inhaler, now! Natalie, help her grab it!” I wanted to unbuckle, to go take Theo into my arms and calm him, to grab Arista’s inhaler and give it to her, but I didn’t dare. My ring was still black; Arista and Natalie’s rings were still both red.

The guy who’d been driving the small truck was coming toward me, walking along the shoulder, and he looked furious. Of course, from any reasonable human being’s perspective, I’d had nothing to do with the SUV that had fallen off the car carrier and smashed into his car, but with my ring black I didn’t dare assume he was a reasonable human being. I’d read enough about road rage incidents in the paper; I had to assume he had a gun.

I threw the car into reverse and drove backward as quickly as I dared, which was a lot slower than the cars zipping past me on the highway were going, but a lot faster than one dude walking on the shoulder. He began running toward me. “Katev̱odó̱no̱,” I whispered, shoved the gearshift into drive, and pulled out onto the highway, lurching from 0 to 60 in three seconds and slamming myself and my children back against our seats. The car behind me laid on the horn – I’d cut it off. “Sorry,” I said, more to myself than to the driver who obviously couldn’t hear me, but now I was back up to full highway speed, weaving in and out of traffic so that neither the guy I’d just cut off nor the driver of the small truck could catch up with me.

I pulled off the highway at the first exit that came up, watching as my ring dulled to a grayish opalescent color. We weren’t safe, but we weren’t in deadly danger either.

Arista’s breathing was normal again. Theo was still crying. “Mom, where are we going?” Natalie asked. “Don’t I have to get to practice?”

“You’re skipping practice today, Nally.” She used to call herself that. She couldn’t get the middle syllable of her own name, so she was Nally. Nowadays she usually rolls her eyes when I call her that, but this time, she didn’t. I could see her face in my rear view mirror; she was pale and shaken.

“Because we just had an accident?”

“We didn’t have an accident,” Arista said. “We almost had an accident.”

“Right,” I said. “We’re going home, and we’re going to eat ice cream and we’re going to relax.”

“Ice cream?” Theo asked, his sobs becoming weaker and less pronounced.

“Yep! Who wants an ice cream soda, who wants a milkshake and who wants a sundae?”

Kids are sometimes very easy to bribe. Though I suspected that Natalie was letting herself be bribed rather than challenging me. She knew something weird had just happened, but she didn’t want to ask me what, or perhaps didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Another old terror raised its head. What if she was like me? What if all of them were? What if they could use magic?

I shook my head to banish the thought. No one had found us. No one had sent either of them an invitation to school. Natalie was 12, Arista was 10… they were old enough that they could have gotten invitations by now. I’d gotten mine when I was 9, though my parents hadn’t been persuaded to send me to a boarding school until I was 13.

I’d wanted to go. I’d begged for it. I’d wanted to learn magic so, so badly.

I couldn’t even remember how that had felt, now.

 ***

When we got home, I put the girls in charge of getting the ice cream, the Coke, the sundae fixings, the milk and the blender out, and Theo in charge of washing his hands, going to the bathroom, changing his clothes and washing up. He’d been potty trained for nearly a year, but I’d nearly peed myself during the almost-accident; I could hardly hold it against a little boy that he’d wet his pants. Theo was obviously very embarrassed by it, though, so I didn’t acknowledge that he’d done so, just gave him the opportunity to wash himself up and change to save face.

I went straight downstairs to my fish tanks in the basement.

The filters didn’t hum. The tank lights weren’t on. The room smelled like ozone and smoke. At least one of the surge suppressors that ran my tank filters and lights was blackened. And every single fish in all four of my tanks was floating on top of their water, dead.

The opal on my ring was still dark grey.

In Homeric Greek – the language I cast spells in, though this wasn’t a spell – I said softly, “Brave heroes, I commend your souls to the Elysian Fields. The gods will honor you.” I didn’t actually think the ancient Greeks had believed fish would go to the Elysian Fields, but then, I also didn’t actually believe in the Elysian Fields, or the later Christian version, Heaven. If humans had souls – and they might, I’d seen Jason so many times I found it hard to believe that all of him could literally be gone, forever – then fish could as well, maybe. These fish hadn’t exactly volunteered to die to save my family, but they’d been feeder goldfish, destined for the belly of a pet predator or an agonizing, choking death due to high ammonia levels and lack of oxygen from the overcrowding in the feeder tanks. I’d given them a better, longer life than they could otherwise have hoped for.

Whatever had killed them, I hoped it had been fast. It looked like some kind of electrical short, maybe. A month ago one of those had taken out all the fish in tank four; I’d replaced the filter, and the surge protector, and the GFCI outlet the surge protector was plugged into, but when magic is targeting you, all of the sane and reasonable precautions you can take may end up coming to nothing. The fish had died because I’d bound them to my family and enchanted them to take on our bad luck. Most of the time, that meant fish died one by one over a period of months, as all of the normal bad luck that might occur to a family just failed to happen – my kids never got scraped knees, our cars never broke down, Gary made it through every round of layoffs at his company, none of us ever got sick.

When the fish started dying fairly rapidly last month, starting with the electrical short, the stone in my ring had been purple – not white opal, not the gray it was right now, not the black it had turned on the highway. I’d put more fish into service and it had faded to white. The fish had been doing reasonably well; I’d thought the danger was over.

But today all of them were dead. And I didn’t dare go out and get more; whatever malevolent spell had targeted me and my family would work a lot more effectively outside the shields I had around the house. Petco would ship me fancy fish, but not feeders. Which meant firstly that it would cost a lot more money to put more fish into service, secondly that I wouldn’t be able to leave the house again until tomorrow when the fish arrived (and what would I do about the girls going to school? They couldn’t leave either, and I couldn’t explain to them or to Gary why not.) And thirdly, that the girls, and Gary, would see the change, think I was taking Gary’s advice about getting nicer fish who could actually serve as pets, and they’d be horribly disappointed when the fish died.

Maybe I could have two layers of fish, I thought. Pet fish upstairs and feeders down here. Order neon tetras and a tank for overnight delivery, set them up, go out and buy more feeders as soon as I had the neons in service.

The thought flickered through my mind that I could buy feeder mice instead. Mammals are stronger and have more life force, and more resistance to malevolent magic. Feeder mice were in the same position as feeder goldfish – they were destined to die. I’d just be giving them a good life before it happened.

But my children would get attached to the mice. Would give them names. Would cry when they died.

I closed my eyes. I needed more power to protect the family than I had at the moment. I’d given up so much of it for my anonymity and my family’s safety, back before I’d even met Gary, when the only family I’d had to protect were my parents.

To get it back, to protect them now, I’d have to break some old compacts. But those old compacts weren’t working well enough anyway, obviously, if someone was targeting me.

“Moommm! We’re ready!” Arista yelled down the stairs.

“I’m coming,” I said, and headed up. I’d deal with the magic later. Right now, I’d promised my kids ice cream, to distract them from near-death and any weirdness they’d observed, and as both a magus and a mother, I’d learned to keep my promises.

***

This is a piece from a WIP “Not Even Past”, about a former child mage student who had to save the world with her group of friends, all of whom died except her. She left the world of magic behind and became a soccer mom. But now the world of magic is coming back for her.