#; did you hear that? the sound of torn muscles broken bones and shattered limbs. how romantic! (music)

[beenclowned]

tag dump!

[the-last-kenobi]

bad things happen bingo -- passing out from pain with Obi-Wan? ps, good luck moving!! I know you can do it!! <3

Yes!! I got this request almost at the same time as @willowworkswithwords similar one, so I decided to do them both! 🤍 (and thank you for the well wishes!!)

(Note for anyone who is interested in making a request: I already have prompts for: Setting a Broken Bone, Tampering with Food/Drink, and Public Execution/Torture. All of the other squares are fair game!)

—

Obi-Wan lifted his head from the filthy stone floor.

There were footsteps rapidly approaching, three or four sets of them, urgent and hurried.

A weary smile tugged at his lips, straining the still-fresh wounds that bled across his face, seeping the taste of copper onto his tongue. It seemed his captors were finally in a hurry, which meant that rescue must be close at hand.

He wouldn’t lie here helplessly. The General clenched his teeth around a groan as he dragged himself to sit upright, his legs bound at the ankles and his hands cuffed painfully behind his back as they had been for days without relief. The room swam before his eyes. A bad sign.

Obi-Wan lifted his chin defiantly as the door to his cramped cell was flung open, and over the threshold poured four familiar figures, unfriendly acquaintances from his past two weeks in captivity. “Gentlemen,” he said derisively. A cut in his bottom lip split and began to bleed profusely.

One of the men remained in the doorway, peering anxiously up the hallways. The other three converged on the Jedi.

The leader, a middle-aged and heavily scarred Arconan, struck him directly across the face.

For all their repetition in holo-dramas, Obi-Wan reflected dimly, a well-aimed slap across the face was nothing to be shaken off in a second. His vision blacked out for a few moments and it felt as if his head and limbs were all being pulled in separate directions; his stomach, already weak from hunger, rolled nauseatingly.

When he regained his senses, he found that the other two were handling him roughly, forcing him to lay on his back, pinning him in place as he began to struggle.

The Arconan loomed over him, a disgusted sneer on his face. “I promised I would break you, Jedi,” he spat.

“Well, you know what they say, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Obi-Wan replied, still fighting the other two as they reached behind his back and broke the cuffs, yanking his arms out and pinning them to the floor. His limbs screamed in protest at the sudden change.

“I can keep it,” his captor hissed. “Sadly I won’t be around to witness it, but knowing it’s happening will be almost as good.” He raised his hand, and something gleamed silver in the dim light.

“No,” Obi-Wan said, and he thrashed helplessly, his muscles sore and unwilling, his head spinning, his arms and legs still pinned in place. “I won’t break!” he shouted, determined not to cave in to fear. “You cannot break me!” The Arconan knelt and in a single movement had placed the needle into the Jedi’s flesh and injected it.

“Are you a betting man, Jedi?” the Arconan asked.

For a single, suspended second, everything was fine. Obi-Wan was still trapped, still struggling, but everything was fine.

And then fire erupted through his veins.

-

A level above their heads, Cody’s soul seemed to lurch out of his body as an inhuman scream of pain reverberated through the halls.

-

Obi-Wan felt pain in every possible portion of his body.

Nothing so simple as an aching head or a broken limb, or even a whole-body feeling of weakness and discomfort that drugs usually caused.

No, this — this —

He felt as if he could suddenly feel each individual atom that made up his physical body.

And each atom was in unimaginable pain, shrieking, tearing, burning anguish, as if he were being torn apart slowly.

He felt, vaguely, that perhaps he was still lying on that cold stone floor, and that perhaps he saw the four Separatists fleeing out the door.

But nothing, nothing,

nothing compared

to the pain.

Obi-Wan’s next scream stretched his jaw so wide that he felt something snap. The anguish did not increase.

It could not.

There was no room for it to grow.

There was only this. Unceasing. Unendurable.

Pain.

And a face. Perhaps a hallucination. Cody, leaning over him, mouthing words Obi-Wan could not hear beyond his own deafening screams, the pain that drowned out all his senses.

He thought he saw Cody’s face crumple.

He thought he saw Cody cry.

And then the pain ate away at his eyesight and Obi-Wan thought of nothing and saw nothing.

-

Time moved so strangely.

He was awake, sometimes.

Other times, he was not.

It was not sleep. It might have been unconsciousness. Or maybe his senses simply stretched themselves too far and then resorted to empty, black numbness before they reset and all the pain came rushing back in. Like a void between true consciousness.

When he was in that void there was very little thought. But he knew that the void was never long enough, never enough relief.

But when he returned to himself, everything was so different.

One time he woke and found himself on a stretcher, watching the sky go by as he was rushed away, away, and he was screaming and thrashing and he fell from the stretcher.

The next time he was conscious, he was strapped to a med-bunk, and two medics were leaning over him, talking and talking and talking.

The time after that, he was lying facedown on the floor, which seemed odd, but there was no room to ponder it as he tore his throat out screaming again, and by then he was so used to the sound that it took him several seconds to hear it.

The next time he awoke, he caught a glimpse of Anakin’s horrified expression, felt faintly the strength of familiar arms lifting him up in a bridal carry he would have found embarrassing back when he still had a mind to think with. Obi-Wan’s eyes slid away from Anakin’s and he began, once more, to scream.

“—right here, Obi-Wan, listen to my voice—”

“Master Obi-Wan? Can you see me? I’ve brought you one of your potted plants. There, see? Brightens up the room.”

A hand caressing his forehead.

“Obi-Wan. Focus. Calm your mind. Your friends are with you.”

A machine frantically beeping. Someone yelling.

Glass shattering.

“Strong you are, Master Kenobi.”

“Please pull through. Please.”

A yellow sunburst.

“General? General, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please, please, you have to survive.”

In and out.

Of consciousness. Of breath.

In and out.

Obi-Wan’s eyes fluttered open.

For a very long while, he was only confused. Somehow he was not surprised to find himself lying in a bed in the Halls of Healing, but he could not remember why he was not surprised. His limbs felt strange. Weak, and tingly. His head throbbed. Even his eyelids felt heavy.

It occurred to him that he was surprised that he could feel his limbs.

Why was that?

Memory.

His capture. The holding cell, two weeks of torture.

A drug that had torn him apart.

Endless pain.

Except, it had ended. It was over. He felt weak enough to simply fade into the bedsheets, as if all it would take was a slight nudge and he would just… cease to be. But the pain, the almighty god that had taken hold of him so completely…

It was gone.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to breathe properly and found that tears were sliding down his cheeks. One slipped between his lips and he tasted salt.

A machine nearby beeped insistently, and a moment or an eternity later, Healer Che and Anakin both rushed into the room.

Anakin’s eyes flew wide. For a moment he reeled on the spot, mouthing silently, and then the young Jedi tore across the room and fell to his knees next to the bed, one of his hands scrambling for one of Obi-Wan’s and taking hold of it fiercely. Anakin tried to speak, but only managed a wavering “Thank the Force,” before he began to cry as well. He pressed his forehead to Obi-Wan’s hand and wept.

Healer Che, for the first time in Obi-Wan’s memory, also had tears in her eyes, although she did not go so far as to allow them to fall. She smiled at him from the doorway, some of the lines in her tired face melting away. “Welcome back, Master Kenobi,” she greeted him. “How do you feel?”

Obi-Wan considered this for a moment.

“I feel,” he said at last, his voice thin and hoarse, “like I’ve just won a very unfortunate bet with a very rude Arconan.”

[98prilla]

Deathworlder Down

Next

Previous 

AO3

based on @delimeful wibar

Warning for some disturbing imagery/body horror this chapter. Virgil’s having nightmares.

...

Fear.

 Pounding, aching fear.

 Shadowy figures surrounded him, discussing him in words he could almost hear, hushed voices he could almost understand, and it grated at him, it hurt his ears. He tried to cover them, but found he couldn’t move, not a muscle, his eyes were open but he couldn’t even blink, his fingers wouldn’t even twitch, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, but despite his panic his breathing remained steady and even. The shadows moved closer, their whispers growing louder, echoing in his head, screaming tempests against his ear drums, and he wanted it to stop, he needed it to stop, but it just grew louder, and louder, and then it was the suited beings again, holding a scalpel, and he screamed, as his chest was sliced open, the flesh peeled away to reveal the organs beneath, his heart visible through the blood leaking from him, and he realized though he was screaming in his mind, he wasn’t making any sound, his vocal chords as paralyzed as the rest of him, and he couldn’t look away, as they started ripping out his insides, tearing him apart, the pain splintering through his being, blacking out his vision, and he tried, he tried desperately to writhe and claw and fight his way free, but couldn’t even lift his head, and he was aware of them adding new parts, shoving metal and wires and circuit boards into him, the pop and crackle of electricity against his skin shocking him, sending him into spasms that somehow defied whatever drug they’d given him, back arching at the intense, radiating heat flowing up his spine, and he finally did break free, break out of whatever drug they’d used, a keening, desperate wail shoving past his lips as he shoved himself off the table, as he snarled and clawed and bit and slashed, anything, everything, to get free, until he’d fought off the beings, his breathing ragged and uneven as he looked at the monster they’d made him, all mechanical parts and twisted limbs, broken bones and spasming muscle.

 “Virgil?” Suddenly a shadow Logan was there, looking down at him, head tilted and eyes empty, hands strangely still, assessing him like the specimen he was and he shuddered, twitching uncontrollably.

 “No. That isn’t Virgil.” Patton, voice hollow, and he screamed again, because his feathers were torn from his body, bent and broken nibs trickling blood down his wings, though he didn’t seem to care. “Virgil wouldn’t do this to me. And he did.” He shook his head, trying to deny it, but memories rushed back, his hands, moving against his will, the metal twisting around his bones, jerking him around like a marionette, Patton, begging, pleading, but he couldn’t stop, the single thought in his mind echoing destroy, destroy, destroy. His hands, ripping handfuls of feathers, feathers flying around the room, getting stuck in his grinning teeth, his manic laugh, his twisted soul.

“No… nonononono…” He curled tight on the ground, ignoring the fire racing through him, the intense, burning, heat, trying to make sense of this, of anything, noticing for the first time his hands were stained red, seeing Patton’s agonized face in his head, his hands on his throat, pressing down, down down-

 “Virgil!” Roman’s voice rocked his world, and suddenly his eyes snapped open, hissing at the sudden brightness, too confused to understand anything, vision blurry, from tears, he realized, his breathing stuttering in and out, barely enough to keep from passing out, his throat tight, barely a pinhole of space for air to wheeze in and out of, his chest felt so tight, so constricted, and there wasn’t enough air, and he was hot, why was he so hot, the wires, the wires twisting through his veins, no, he had to get them out, they would make him hurt them, hurt Patton, he couldn’t hurt Patton!

 He started scratching at himself, clawing at himself frantically, uncaring of the wetness slipping down his face, he had to stop it, he couldn’t-

 Bloody feathers, crushed neck, broken wings, shattered body, he couldn’t-

 Hands. Hands on him. He hissed, growled, tried to shove them away, but he was weak, so weak, he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t get away, and they were stopping him, and he was going to hurt everyone, he had to let go, he had to stop himself, he was just a monster, just a toy, just a broken sack of bits and pieces that didn’t even fit together right anymore, why couldn’t they just let him stop?

 “please. Please, I can’t, I can’t, I won’t, i… i…” He doubled over, curled into a ball, shaking so hard his teeth were chattering, feeling as if he was shattering into a thousand pieces, broken and stomped on and wrecked.

 “kiddo. I need you to breath.” He flinched back, away from Patton, eyes wide with fear, shaking his head frantically, as he scooted away, the grip on his hands letting him go.

 “n-no… no! I’ll h-hurt y-y-you they’ll m-make me h-h-hurt-“ he broke off, running out of air, all of it dedicated to keeping the spots in his vision from growing larger, from taking over and plunging him into black.

 “virgil. You have never, never ever, hurt me. And they can’t hurt us, anymore. Do you remember that? We’re safe now, remember? You broke us out of there, and kept us safe. You’re safe, Virgil. We’re safe. We’re ok. We’re ok.” Patton repeated softly, using the gentle chirp of his native tongue, ruffling encouragingly when Virgil finally looked up at him, struggling for a few moments, before tentatively chirping it back.

 “We’re… we’re… ok.” He echoed slowly, tongue thick in his mouth, head pounding, it hurt to think, it hurt to do anything, but he forced his mind to remember, to remember what he was missing, flashes of a slim, multi armed figure, of a bulky, scaled one, of a… a ship, and he managed a slightly larger, shaky breath.

 “M-Mindscape?” He managed, and Patton nodded, eyes soft with worry.

 “That’s right, kiddo. You got sick, do you remember that?” He remembered feeling not great, but that was normal. He remembered being dizzy, but that was all. He shook his head, feeling confused again, feeling slow and tired and hazy.

 “That’s ok, Virgil. I just wanna help, ok? Will you let me do that?” Patton asked, taking a small step closer. “Will you let me help?” His gaze flicked to the others in the room, pulling at a dull memory, at familiarity, he knew them, knew them and they didn’t spark… fear. Not quite. But the scaled one’s gaze was sharp and angry, and the crystal one’s gaze was sharp and piercing, and both sent unease tingling down his spine. But Patton was asking, and he trusted Patton, and if Patton trusted them, then they couldn’t be bad.

 “O-o-Ok.” He managed, letting out a soft sigh when Patton closed the distance between them, resting a hand on his leg, and instantly, the fight and stress drained out of him, eyes fluttering shut.

 “You’re gonna be ok, kiddo. I promise.” Then nothing.

…

“He's hotter, Lo.” Patton said, voice shaking, as he felt Virgil's forehead. Sweat coated his skin, and he was panting for breath, shaking, obviously in pain, not just from the lines of red up and down his arms, where he'd started clawing at himself, before Roman stopped him. “he’s getting worse."

 “We need to get him to drink. He’s severely dehydrated. I… hate to suggest this, but IVs may be the best option here. I know, it will cause added emotional strain, but his body does not have the strength or resources right now to fight off this illness. And I’d rather have him be upset or afraid than… than dead.” His words caused Patton to draw in his feathers, shrinking to nearly half his normal size, and he buried his face against Virgil’s side. Roman’s scales shifted, scraping against each other as they flattened, conflicting emotions racing through him.

 He didn’t like Virgil. Didn’t trust him, wouldn’t have him here, if it had been up to him, but the thought of him… dying, still sent a spike of unease through him, one he could pretend was just for Patton, who was so attached to Virgil.

 “ok. If it’s the only way, ok.”

 He disinfected and bandaged Virgil’s arms first, before letting Roman shift him back onto the couch, fetching the medical supplies and hooking up the bags. Finally, he was standing over Virgil with the IV line in hand. All he had to do was insert it. He found himself incredibly resistant, now, to the idea, now that he actually was doing this, mind flashing to the moments he’d seen in the vidi, the pain and agony that had accompanied nearly every experience with a needle, but this was different. This was to help.

 So he swiftly located the vein on the human’s wrist, slipping the needle in and securing it with gauze and tape, relieved when Virgil did no more than moan slightly, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball. He doubted the reaction would be so placid when he actually woke up to find a needle in his arm, but that was a future worry.

 “Alright. That should help hydrate him, as well as give him some of the basic nutrients he is sorely lacking in, as well as some very moderate medicines. I doubt anything we have would do him any harm, but I don’t want to take chances and accidentally make things worse. Patton… you need to sleep.” He added, looking at the disheveled ampen, who shook his head.

 “No, no, no! I have to stay! What if he wakes up?”

 “He won’t for a few hours, at the very least, which is long enough for you to get some sleep. You haven’t slept since we found him.”

 “Well neither have you! You’ve been pacing yourself silly!” He sighed, shoulders slumping.

 “Alright. You’re right. If Roman stays on watch and promises to get us if anything changes, will you come rest with me?” he asked, knowing Patton wouldn’t turn down that offer, not with how rarely he was willing to offer tactile comfort, but they could both use some, right now.

 “Ro? I know you don’t like him, but-"

 “I’ll take care of him. I promise, Patton.” Roman swore, kneeling down so Patton could hug him, smiling as he butted against the underside of his chin, before stepping back, chirping an ampen thanks, hesitantly following Logan down the hall and into his room, Roman hearing the door slide shut.

 He let out a low breath, scales flattening as he tried to calm himself, staring down at Virgil’s unconscious form.

 “I don’t know what to make of you. I will never say this out loud again, but you terrify me. And I will not lose another family, to humans. But… every time you panic or lose control or lash out, it’s always at yourself. It’s always to protect Patton. You always choose to harm yourself over any of us, but you’re still a human, a death worlder, a dangerous, violent, creature.” He said, though it sounded much less convincing now, that it usually did in his arguments with Logan or his silent fuming.

 Virgil moved slightly, his breath hitching, and his face creased, as if sensing Roman’s displeasure.

 “no… please… m-mom…” Virgil mumbled, trying to reach out to something that wasn’t there, something only in his mind, and after a moment, Roman realized Virgil was crying, curling tighter.

 He’d known Virgil had been stolen off his planet, but he’d never thought about the implications of it. He hadn’t considered that Virgil had clan, would have a mother or a father, that he’d lost everything, to aliens, without even having a chance to fight to keep it.

 Roman knew how it felt, to lose everything, in the blink of an eye.  

 “and then you go and say something like that.” He sighed, shifting into the chair left beside the couch, hesitantly reaching out to brush back the human’s hair, mimicking the motion he’d seen Patton do countless times, to soothe or relax the human, surprised as Virgil instantly settled, a shaky breath escaping him before his body seemed to go lax once more, leaning into his touch.

 “this doesn’t mean I like you. It’s only because I promised Patton.” He grumbled, not moving away, despite himself.

[pilot-boi]

Five Injuries Hidden: Chapter Six

Rough Sailing

He was a paper boat in a thunderstorm lost at sea. One wave, just slightly too big, would be all it would take to swallow him up whole

AO3 LINK

Jaune moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Was the world supposed to spin that fast?

He could’ve sworn it had been cold when he went to sleep, so why did it feel like he was melting? But that wasn't the worst part, not by far. The icy cold that stole his breath away always came rushing back after he had melted, freezing him. His skin, his bones, his blood, all of it, making his body react with bone-rattling shivers that seemed to make everything worse.

But all of this waned in the face of the sheer ball of agony his leg had become.

It made him want to die. Seriously, just put him out of his misery already. He had to fight to keep the two meager bites of fish he had managed to choke down last night from making a reappearance.

He wasn't fine. He couldn't even try to fool himself into thinking that when he couldn't even move, save for half curling painfully into a ball on the ground before he had to stop lest he passed out.

The only thing he hoped was that Nora or Ruby didn't find him first. Gods they were going to kill him.

Jaune knew his fever was getting worse, but at this point, it was only a distant thought.

What was that blob?

No, stop shaking me.

Why are you being so loud?

Shuuuussssshhhhhh.

Your hands are cold, lemme alone.

Suddenly pain. Blinding, unbearable pain that made tears come unbidden to his eyes as the blob… Blobs? Were there more than one? He couldn't tell anymore. As the blobs brushed against the broken bolt of steel sticking out of his leg.

What was that sound? Who was screaming? Oh wait... That was him. It kinda sounded like it was far away.

Underwater.

Muffled.

Mmmuuufffffffllleeeddd… Muffled was a funny word...

Oh, wait. He was moving. Hrrk. Nope. Abort. Abort.

Jaune could feel the horrible feeling of stomach acid burning his throat as he heaved wherever his head was pointing. Uggghhhhhhhhh.

He was in pain, sick, confused and really wanted to die. Why has no one putting him out of his misery?!

Jaune could hear a bubbling stream of voices, but just like the water of a stream, it slipped through his fingers. Nothing made sense anymore. Why were there so many different colored blobs? It made his already pounding head hurt even worse. He closed his eyes, the darkness instantly soothing the added thorns to his headache.

Then, he felt a super-cooled hand pat his cheek. But all his strength was sapped out of his limbs, his mind, and he barely even flinched. Please, please leave him alone. Let him sink into the nice, comforting darkness. 

His lack of reaction caused a flurry of action, sounds, maybe voices, and just the barely perceived sense of pure panic. Why? What was wrong? Jaune struggled to blink open his heavy, sticky eyelids. He could only manage to open them to about half-way, but it was enough. 

Slowly blinking, and that was a true challenge, because his eyes did not wanna stay open, everything slowly came into focus.

He... was in the house? Hm, they must have found them. Good. That... that was good.

The next thing that came into focus was Ruby’s determined, tear-stained face. Why was Ruby crying? Did someone hurt her?! He had to help, had to get up and stop whoever it was from hurting her-

All thoughts fled his mind as the pain in his leg increased a thousand fold. Next thing he knew, he was screaming. 

His world blotted out, and all he could feel was the tormenting feel of mind numbing agony. His leg was on fire. It hurt, oh did it hurt. Stop. Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it stop it stopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopit-

Unable to bear the pain any longer, the world went dark.

--------

Ruby sighed as she wrung out the cold, wet cloth before she placed it back onto her best friend's sweltering forehead. How had it come to this? How could they have missed such a grievous injury that friend had?

This was all her fault. If she'd only been more attentive, and not wallowing in her own doubts and self-pity about the mission. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Ruby flinched as Jaune whimpered softly, no doubt his fever spiking. She softly took his scalding hand in her own, gently rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. They'd found Jaune delirious with fever when they had gone to see why he wasn't up yet, the hard ground underneath him stained red with his own blood.

She'd never forget the sheer lifelessness as they tried to awaken the knight. 

That was when they found the horrendous injury in the form of a steel bolt lodged deeply into his leg. The steel bolt went deep, and the muscle around it was torn and irritated. It must have gotten worse with all the running around and fighting he had done. Not to mention the raging infection that must have set in sometime during the night.

Her friend's screams as they'd removed the bolt would haunt her nightmares.

She'd known that it wasn't going to be painless, as they didn't have the necessary equipment to put him under, they were too far from the nearest hospital, and the only person who could’ve numbed the pain was the one injured. It had been their only option that would ensure that Jaune would survive until they could get to proper medical help... But it didn't mean that she had to like it.

Yang, unnaturally subdued, quietly made her way into the room, closing the door behind her before she made her way over. The brawler gently rubbed Ruby's shoulder, his eyes never leaving the haggard, pale-skinned form in the bed. 

"We'll be at the hospital in a few minutes." She murmured softly. Sucking in what was supposed to be a steadying breath, Ruby nodded, briefly scrubbing at her eyes. 

Yang wisely said nothing and instead started helping her ready Jaune for transportation. Pulling off his armor was a struggle, as it made him wince in pain even unconscious. His shirt was sticking to his chest with sweat, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. She couldn't help her full bodied shiver as she watched his lungs struggle for each breath.

It... it just wasn't right seeing their dorky, passionate friend like this.

Not at all.

--------

Nora breathed.

In.

And out.

In.

And out.

Crunch.

She growled, frustrated, and was this close to throwing this flimsy chair that insisted on its armrests breaking every time she laid a finger on it.

It totally wasn't because she was too upset to properly control his strength. Nope. Completely the chair's fault.

She was about to throw it across the room when Oscar despondently trudged his way in looking for all the world he was carrying the world's burdens. Shoulders slumped, he didn't even look up as he bonelessly collapsed into the chair next to her. Nora could relate.

Getting Jaune into emergency care had been a nightmare. Not because of the staff, but because the knight had stopped breathing as they loaded him onto a gurney. Ruby had frozen, her eyes wide in terror and helplessness. Yang had taken her home, and Weiss and Blake had gone with her. Ren was still stuck at the Bounty, and his absence was making her antsy

And now she and Oscar were stuck waiting.

Nora could tell that Oscar was trying his hardest to keep it together, to be the strong future immortal wizard guy that he thought that he needed to be 24/7 no matter what anyone else said. 

She got it, she really did, but it didn't make it any less upsetting. Shaking her head, she wrapped an arm around her little brother and tugged him closer to her side. Oscar stiffened, but soon relaxed, burying his face into her shoulder. 

Nora clenched her jaw and closed her eyes at the sheer helplessness to stop the tremors shaking the boy's shoulders as he struggled to quiet his hiccuping sobs.

She could feel Oscar mumble something into her now soaked jacket and rubbed his shoulder while glancing down at the mop of shaggy brown hair, "You're going to have to speak up buddy, I didn't catch that."

Oscar revealed his tear-soaked face and heart shattering, shiny-with-tears, big hazel eyes that just destroyed Nora's soul just looking at. Something howling inside her to fix, or destroy, depending on the situation, whatever was hurting him.

And she... couldn't.

It physically hurt her not being able to fix this kind of hurt.

She knew there was only one thing, one person who could... And he was in the emergency room struggling to survive.

"It's just not fair." Oscar whimpered, half-hiding his face back into her jacket, snapping her out of her thoughts. 

That took Nora aback, blinking down at him. Oscar never complained about things being fair. Ever. Even though he had more than enough reason to, what with the whole Ozpin thing. It was sad, but true. And they had never heard him once say anything about it.

But... this wasn't about Oscar.

This time, it was for Jaune's sake.

If her heart hadn't been hurting before for Oscar, by the gods was it now. She wrapped both arms around her friend, offering every ounce of comfort that she was able, gently shushing him.

"I know. I know it's unfair, and I know you know that's the way life is," she added on, knowing what tended to run through her own head and hoping it would apply to this, "But Jaune's the strongest person I know, and if anyone can pull through, he can."

With a final sniff, resolve hardened in Oscar's eyes as he nodded, wiping away the tears still rolling down his cheeks, "You're right. Jaune can do this. We just... We just gotta put our faith in him."

Nora gave him a tired half-smile and tousled his hair, "That's right."

"That's exactly right."

--------

Ren was pacing.

That in itself was worrying.

But he really didn't care at this moment in time.

There was still no word, after hours of waiting.

After Yang and Ruby had returned, one grim and the other still in shock, he had taken to pacing around the ship and hadn't stopped once for eight hours.

Eight hours of worrying. More like nine, since he hadn't stopped worrying since they found Jaune this morning.

Eight hours of "what if?"s.

Eight hours of not knowing whether Jaune was going to pull through.

It was enough to wear a track into the poor floor. Ren just hoped that news, any kind of news, would be given to them soon.

He wasn't sure how much more they could take…

--------

It had been twelve hours since Jaune had been admitted, and only just now was he being settled into his hospital room in the ICU so that he could be watched over for any complications.

The news had been grim. Jaune'd flat-lined five times. Five. And had, on the last one, been legally dead for an entire forty-eight seconds.

Forty-eight seconds, the world had been without it's lovable, dorky noodle boy.

That was forty-eight seconds too long in Yang’s books.

But, that wasn't all. Ohhh, no.

The nurses had revealed that their friend’s body was littered with scars of all sizes. From paper-cut worthy, to how-the-heck-are-you-even-still-alive?! sizes. They had all been gobsmacked, and then unbelievably angry, when they'd found out. 

Why hadn't he told them? Just how often had he been injured without their notice?! Many of them from this past year alone!

Needless to say, they all wanted some answers.

Sadly, they might not be getting any.

Jaune had a raging infection trying to tear him apart from the inside-out, and with his blood-loss, there was a very high chance of him never waking up at all.

As she said. Bad.

Really, the only reason Yang wasn't falling apart right now in a panicking mess, was because Ruby needed her. So she stayed strong, toughing it out in silence as she watched her slowly fall apart with each near mechanical breath.

Machines. She was good with machines. If they broke, you could fix them. If they died, you could revive them.

But Jaune wasn't a machine.

He was broken in ways that she couldn't fix.

And if he died... she couldn't revive him.

There were no do-overs. No magic reset button.

Nothing she could do.

Yang decided she hated that.

---------

Jaune wasn't aware of anything, really... Just that it was soft. Warm. Painless.

...Painless?

That seemed wrong to him somehow. But... he couldn't remember why...

He sunk into a haze.

Drifting aimlessly, he could vaguely tell that time had passed. 'How long?' He distantly wondered.

The question faded.

Thoughts continued to trickle through his hands, touching the surface of them, but never being able to grasp onto them for long.

He continued to drift.

Something was missing, he realized later. That realization came with a certain, clear clarity that allowed him to grab onto it with both hands in a vice-like grip. The haze lifted a little. He was suddenly aware of a sore ache that he could feel deep down into every bone.

He'd forgotten he'd even had bones...

The feeling of something missing and the general sense of something is wrong grew. Where was he? How did he get here?

A sudden thought slammed into him like a rampaging Boarbatusk.

Where were his friends?

Desperation burned out the rest of the hazy darkness he had settled into for who knows how long, his injuries that he'd forgotten about up till now made themselves known with a vengeance. And his memories became crystal clear along with them.

Oh.

Perfect.

They were going to murder him for this...

But first, he had to wake up.

After all, he couldn't be dead because he doubted that he would be this aching and sore in the after-life.

Waking up proved to be more difficult than he had expected.

But, never the one to be deterred, he finally pushed though.

And found himself staring at a ceiling in a dark hospital room.

--------

Good news. Finally.

After a week of no relatively no improvement from the knight, the doctors had informed them of increased brain activity and that his Aura was finally replenishing properly. His chances of waking up, of surviving this, went up a little more each day.

They were up to two weeks, two horribly long weeks, the doctors saying that Jaune could be waking up at any time now.

Anytime.

Any time at all.

The clock read midnight. The witching hour.

Oscar never understood that saying. And really, he was too tired to even try. He was pretty sure that his heavy eyes were blood-shot, red from crying.

Red. Red was the color of fire. The color of power. The color of warmth.

But it was also the color of war. Of danger. Of blood.

Jaune's blood.

Every time he blinked, the images seared into his eyelids, he could see Jaune laying pale and still, oh, so still, and in a puddle of mostly dried blood. He could see and time the exact moment he stopped breathing, stopped fighting.

But, then, Jaune never did stop fighting, did he?

No, he fought tooth and nail, even while deeply unconscious, and his heart continued to stubbornly hold onto life even if it faltered at times. 

Even with a raging infection that the doctors had only just been able to battle back, calling it a close thing and that if Jaune hadn’t had such abnormally high Aura reserves, that they probably wouldn’t have been able to save him. 

Same with his leg. The doctors had been amazed that Jaune had evaded having it amputated, though by a narrow margin. Yet they doubted that he would ever be able to walk without assistance of a cane from now on.

But Semblances and stubbornness were powerful things. Especially where Jaune was concerned.

They gave it about a month or two before Jaune was walking around like nothing had ever happened.

Oscar smiled at the thought, before a soft groan shattered the silence as if it was spun glass. It immediately held every ounce of his attention as he scrambled to his feet and closer to Jaune's side, daring to feel hope as it blossomed in his chest.

Jaune's face was scrunched, and then...

He blinked open his eyes.

[linkspooky]

he flies he lies  hawks realizes that he has been telling the truth to the villains and lying to the heroes / For @villainmonth /edit by @inumaqi fic by @linkspooky

“Listen I want you to trust what I’m about to say.” “Those are some pretty serious words you’re saying…” 

♘

If you have wings, you should fly. That is what Hawks always believed. Feathers were designed by god to catch the air, they did not fall, they floated down. He could pluck one of his feathers, throw it into the sky and watch it dance. 

That was what freedom looked like. But looks were deceiving. His quirk manifested at four years old. He still remembered, terrified of the bulges that had formed on his back, but they could not afford a doctor. Trash that littered the floor, and parents that did not look his way because they considered himself like the garbage that piled up, something that needed to be thrown out. Hawks remembered thinking several times as he looked up at the sky, if he could escape to the sea or the sky, he would have flown away from here in an instant. His pain was prolonged for an entire month as something budded from his back. It felt like vines were growing out from him, and he felt every single thorn as they snaked out in the layers between his skin, and wrapped around his spine. He was cut, again and again, inside and out. Then one day, the skin on his back broke. He woke up with two long rivulets of blood streaming down from both sides of his back, an injury that made him look like an angel who had both wings ripped away from his flesh. Then at his upper backs, two large bones had emerged covered in feathers. 

On that first day he pulled those feathers old with a pair of rusty gardening shears out of fear because he did not know what was happening. A mess of blood, and feathers, and two wings plucked raw, but they grew back. It was when he spread his wings for the first time, that he realized he could not leave the ground. There was nowhere for him to fly. Nowhere he could escape to. 

♘

Hawks always had a feeling that he was lighter than air. That there was not enough of himself to fill up his own body. Birds needed to be that way in order to fly, their bones were hollow, and their lungs took up most of their body mass filling them with air. He had the same feeling, nothing inside of him, deep down to his bones. 

Wherever he walked his feet didn’t touch the ground. He was not flying so much as floating, transparent, hollow, he simply hovered there like a ghost with no substance. It was easy for him to smile, because there was no feeling behind the gesture to him. 

When he was younger he never smiled, he found no reason to, and one day he noticed the adults around him were a bit softer on him if he forced the muscles in his face to pull back his lips. Whatever was inside of him, he was sure it was not a hero. Not like All Might, never like him. He was hair, feathers, talons, scars, and bones. He was all of that, and he was still nothing. He was the blood in his body, but maybe only air flowed through his veins. There were holes in his bones. No, there were holes in Hawks. The air simply passed right through him. He was someone who was simply there. He was there and yet not there. But Hawks used this quality of his. Useless children were like trash piling up in the Takami Household, they were knocked down to the floor, and then they were eventually thrown away. He could smile when he did not feel like smiling. He could always continue to smile, even when there was no reason. He just needed to keep flying. Fly up, up, and up. And forget about crashing down back to earth. 

He just had to keep smiling, even now. That was what he told himself, as Jeanist turned his head back to look at him. “It’s rare for you to come visit me like this.” “How are you feeling?” Hawks, dressed like a model, his hair combed back and feathered, his wings stretching to relax. He took nothing seriously, he never had so much as a heavy thought cross his mind. Burdened by nothing, carefree, that was the “Hawks” that he showed to Jeanist. “Much better than before!” “Didn’t you ask that old lady over at UA for help?” “Unfortunately, she can’t recover something that has already been lost.” 

Hawks knew that already. For example if you sever a limb, an arm, a leg, or maybe your own heart. It’s impossible to recover, the only thing left is the phantom pain from something that is no longer there, and a feeling of missing something. 

Nothing held any weight for him. Not even a human life held that much in his hands. What he was about to do did not show on his face at all, not even a twitch of regret and Hawks wondered for a moment if he could do this and feel nothing if he was someone really worthy of being called a hero. 

Heroes saved other people. Hawks could not save anyone, not even himself. 

“Even with a missing lung, we humans can continue to live. I’ll probably go public with this soon. There are many awaiting my reformation.” “I see!” 

Liar. Humans could not continue to live. They were so fragile. They died so easily. That always weighed on his mind. The more weight he had, the harder it was to fly. When he saw butterflies, all he thought of was their fragility. He could let a butterfly land on his hands, and at any moment, tear both of his wings from his body and rip them to pieces, then scatter them like a flower. The faint beating of a butterfly’s wings. The paper thing wings, the fragile line between life and death, so easily torn up and full of holes. It moved in time with the quiet murmur of his heart. His wings flexed and spread behind his back. 

He always wondered when his feathers grew, why they turned from white to red. His feathers were bleeding, red with streaming blood. His feathers were burning, red as the flames. 

Like a white flower. Spilled blood would dye it red. It would glow red with flames. 

“That’s quite unfortunate.” Hawks wore, a predatory smile, a bird about to devour carrion. He held his sharpened feather in his hand cutting his fingers on the edges. He was killing someone already as good as dead. He felt nothing, but also he felt -fragile.

More scared than the butterfly. His bones were hollow and soon they would shatter like glass. 

He was not flying, not at all. His feet did not touch the ground because he was hanging in suspension. The rope tightened around his neck, but he took a step forward off the chair to fall. The wind whipped him back and forth. All he could do was sway, and hope when this was all over someone would take his body down. He died by slow suffocation. He was free, surrounded entirely by air, and he could not breathe.

Hawks knew, killing Jeanist would be as good as killing himself. In that moment he would die. But, he would not be allowed to die either. Even after sacrificing his life there was more he could sacrifice, more the hero commission could take from him. Hawks thought it was funny, he never thought he had much to begin with, no connection to his name, no nest to roost in, and nothing inside of him but hollow bones and yet somehow the hero commission always took more. Being a hero was all he had. He brought the feather up, and slashed it behind Jeanist’s back, killing him like a coward. But, he could not call himself a hero anymore.

♘

The only piece that matters on the board is the king, the rest are all considered disposable. In shogi a player could still win as long as their king remained. Hawks was a useful knight, even a general, but he was someone who could never become king. A king had worth, and he was damaged goods, recycled and put to use by the hero commission after his parents threw him away. He flew through the air, trying to forget the body he had stuffed in a bag. If Jeanist was still here, if he could hear him, Hawks could only say that whatever happened to him in the end would be far worse. 

He saw this image in his dreams so many times. His feathers burning up in front of him, he watched them combust. They fell away from him like glittering stars. Sparkling, sparkling, sparkling. His wings melted and he realized he could no longer fly. Without wings he would just be a broken thing, a damaged kid. When would it be his turn to fall apart? When would it be his turn to crash back down to earth? It was as inevitable as gravity. 

Then, there was no flying. There was only falling. Maybe he never once flew. Maybe he was just falling slowly. Dabi’s skin is torn up and sewn together from pieces,  and he smiles even though it rips his lip. Hawks wonders if it’s painful for that man to smile too, his eyes linger on the lips as he tihnks of his own. His every smile was a lie. To live here, he needed to breathe lies. “I’m curious why this guy? You could have picked someone lower on the list.” 

Hawks just needs to tell another lie. The Hawks in front of Dabi right now, is someone who sympathizes with the cause of the villains, an unwitting pawn, but also too valuable a piece to throw away. 

He smiles and realizes nothing. He knows nothing. He does not know who his real enemies are. 

“Because he was useless.” 

That was his own voice. “Useless heroes get thrown out.” He heard the sound of his own voice. Why was he... “They’re only worth the results they can produce for the commision.Despite everything he’s done for them, the second he became a burden they would have let him take the fall anyway.” 

Why was he telling the truth? Lie to the villains, deceive the villains, report back to the heroes. The mission was so simple, except for this one complicating factor. A knot in the rope he tied around his neck. Dabi will laugh at him. Just like in front of Endeavor, just like with the hero he killed, he will play it all like one big joke. Dabi is just a murderer. To kill people he must have felt nothing at all.

Just like me.

Hawks feels himself grinding his own teeth when he did not mean to. His mask is cracked, and Dabi was going to see him for what he really was. He was going to die now, burned up in Dabi’s sun. He saw Dabi reach his hand forward and closed his eyes in anticipation. A hand. On his shoulder. Someone holding him, touching him. He was touched and he did not break, even though he was fragile. Heavy, far too heavy. “We don’t do that here.” Dabi said, his fingers clasping, tightening around him. His hands are, so unbelievably warm and birds are cold blooded animals. “Don’t worry so much, you look like the kind of useless guy that’s always worrying.” “No way, you’ve got to have brains to have the headspace to be worrying. I’mlike a chicken with his head cutoff.” “Yeah, whatever.” Dabi said, not believing him. “You’re such a shitty liar.”

♘

He was a bad liar. Those words remained in his head, even after he left Deika city. Back on his home turf, he took up roost in a high place. Whenever Dabi asked him to meet he always picked somewhere up high if he got the choice. So idiots prefer high places, huh? Dabi would mock him. His head was empty now. He wanted to cut his head off and throw it into the sky. Maybe then he would finally become a bird. He was thinking of that, and he was thinking that they sky in front of his eyes seemed endless. But there was nothing to see. He jumped down and wondered what would happen if he did not spread his wings. He would fall, obviously. And then he would splat. But after that he would be free. He just needed to let go and fall. He had been waiting his whole life for the rope to snap.

He was born with wings. He had no idea why. There was nothing in the sky. 

He spread his wings out to catch himself at the last minute, and the people around him clapped and cheered. As he landed on a stop sign, a child asked him. “Hawks-san, what’s it like to be a hero?” “You save other people.” “I bet you can save anyone! I’ve always wanted to be a hero, is it fun? Are you happy?”  His hands. Bright red. Jeanist’s blood. He shoved them in his pockets. “Mm, being a hero is all I ever really wanted -” His mouth moved. He was the one talking. And somebody else’s voice came out. He could not hear his own voice anymore. A lie.  “I’m really happy like this.” You’re such a shitty liar. 

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.iii

[First | Prev | Contents | Next]

[Caution: gore.]

Loiral whines as he feels the chains on his ankles shift, stammers another useless “no no no please-!” as his legs are lifted, then screams as his body comes off the floor, forcing the broken limbs to bear his weight. He loses all other awareness as he swings from his ankles. Each break is alight with agony, stretched to the point of rupture. The already-torn-and-swollen tissues cannot bear the strain, he is almost certain that his legs are going to come off. The agony makes him jerk and writhe helplessly, and the motion redoubles the agony in turn. His throat is already raw but he screams and screams, panicked and shameless with desperation.

Suddenly fresh pain slams into his side from hip to armpit, stinging and bruising at the same time. The force knocks him sideways, jolting the strained breaks yet further. The cuffs on his wrists jerk him back, stopping him from swinging freely, yanking hard on the breaks in his arms.

Again, and this time the swathe of pain falls across his back. Again the impact slams him sideways, pulling his body taut between his ankles and wrists. Again, across the belly. Loiral’s arms are chained to the floor with little slack and he cannot lift his arms to defend his exposed body. His hands twitch and spasm frantically, catching at the chain and tangling in the links. He’s oblivious to the force of the metal on his fragile fingers, utterly consumed by the greater agony in his limbs.

The blows keep falling. Loiral can’t even tell what kind of injury is being done to his skin. Each time it’s a broad tract of stinging heat across his body, littered with sharper stabs of pain. It pales at first beside the effects of the sheer force, each impact translated by the chains into a blindingly hard tug on each and every break. He can’t think, can’t breathe past his own screaming. In scattered, fragmented thoughts he longs to black out. But it goes on and on and on without respite.

The fire across his skin gets worse with every impact. Lacerations layer across lacerations, leaving him raw and burning. There is no warning as to where the blows will fall next. Back, chest, back again. Sides, thighs, shoulders, arms. Blood drips across his skin and forms rivulets down his arms. Sometimes the agony stabs hard into particularly sensitive points and rivals even the breaks. Occasionally his face is struck and the weapon leaves deep burning gashes across cheek, chin, scalp. He twists and struggles helplessly, driven by raw instinct.

His voice gives out long before the punishment ends. His thrashing grows weaker. He is all agony. All awful, over-extended breaks and shredded, searing skin. There’s no thought left, no hope, no reason, no understanding, no sense of self. There is only pain layered over pain, and the torment gets worse and worse and worse without end.

---

Marcus loves the way his prisoner’s strength fails. He loves the helpless tremor, and the way the back-arching tension gives way into feeble limpness. He loves the wet sound of the scourge against bloodied flesh, and the near-silent straining gasps. The drow’s mouth is stretched wide, lips peeled back from the teeth as he tries to scream, but his voice has cracked and splintered and faded and now there is only the quiet whistle of air forced through his tight throat.

Marcus loves the opportunity to let loose, to abandon careful restraint and break his fragile little toy.  He works the whip up and down across that narrow, frail-boned body until the skin hangs in ragged scraps and strips from the lacerated flesh and the drow is coated evenly in crimson, seeping blood from his knees down to the tips of his fingers where they just barely brush the floor. There was more than a handspan of clearance when Marcus started. The breaks in the long bones of the drow’s legs are horribly elongated, the soft tissues stretched grotesquely by his body weight and the constant jolt of the whip.

Eventually Marcus stands back to simply watch Loiral tremble. There’s no visible reaction to the respite from the whipping. Only the frantic, irregular pace of his breath gives away that he is still conscious, though Marcus knows that he will be. It is difficult to pass out while suspended head-down. 

Unhurriedly he kneels down in front of his victim. He traces his fingers along the edge of the blindfold to the back of the head, and unpicks the knots with gentle, precise care. The cloth is sodden with blood as it peels away from the skin.The drow’s pupils constrict to pin-pricks at the sudden onslaught of light. But the eyes remain wide and glazed, unseeing. Loiral is lost in the agony, rendered all but insensible. Just the way Marcus wants him. 

He pauses to stroke the drow’s cheek, unable to resist pressing firmly enough to pull wide the gash left there by a stray hook. Blood flows freely over and around his fingers. Loiral reacts not at all. Marcus did not mean to tear up his face, but all in all he is quite pleased with how few strikes landed off target. The new scourge is not yet familiar, and placing all nine tails precisely is not trivial.

Still smiling to himself, he stands and unlatches the chain that suspends his prisoner from the ceiling. He lowers Loiral to the floor slowly, relishing every feeble twitch and agonised gasp. The drow’s chest heaves, sucking in air. Marcus can see the broken ribs shifting beneath the patchwork of shredded skin and exposed muscle. It is beautiful. He could just watch his prisoner shudder and struggle to breathe for hours.

But he only waits until the frantic gasping slows a little. He cannot be sure how conscious Loiral is, and he doesn’t want to leave him too long to recover. “How are you feeling, drow?” he asks, smirking fractionally at his own humour. “Are you still in there, or have I driven you out of your mind altogether?” There is no answer – not unexpected – so he puts a little more edge into his tone. “Do you hear me, drow? I asked you a question, I expect an answer.” Loiral’s mouth twitches, but no sound emerges. His eyes slide sideways, searching, but fail to settle and focus. Marcus crouches beside him and gently turns his face to help him make eye contact. His gaze wavers, eyes still dull. “Do you hear me, drow?” Marcus repeats patiently. “—hhhh—” whistles Loiral’s breath as his abused voicebox fails to engage. “Words, drow. The answer you are looking for is ‘yes, master’.” “—ss—” he manages faintly “—ss — mmhh—sr—” “Good,” Marcus purrs, amused. “Have you learned your lesson yet?” Another near-silent whistle of a whimper. “—mmhh — plhhh — sss — plea—hsss—” Marcus chuckles.

But amusing as the incoherent attempts at pleading are, there is little evidence of understanding. Marcus wants to speak to his prisoner. He anticipated this. After all, he deliberately took Loiral past the point of reason, it is no surprise that he is not recovering fast. So Marcus incants a spell-prayer. Just a small thing, a little expenditure of power. He touches his fingers to Loiral’s forehead. To his irritation, the magic fizzles out against the drow’s skin. Marcus frowns. He casts again, and this time delivers the spellcharge into the exposed muscle at the base of the neck. The enchantment will find the mind regardless, it does not need to be delivered directly to the cranium. A minor nuisance.

As the magic takes effect, Loiral’s eyes clear and find focus. He does not look happy to be forced into lucidity. His mouth works uselessly. The utter terror written across his face is gratifying. He will learn from this experience. Now he just needs reminding what lesson it is that he is meant to be learning. “Are you hearing me now, drow?” “… yes, master…” Loiral whispers. A shudder ripples through his flesh and makes his eyes roll back for a moment despite the magical aid. “Good. Do you remember why you are suffering like this?” “… yes, mmh– master.” Marcus waits, wondering idly if his silence will be cue enough, or if the drow will need more explicit prompting. “… tried … to run …” comes the confession at last, “ss-- I’m-- I’m sorry, master… so sorry, please, ple-ease…” Satisfaction is warm in Marcus’ chest. He has picked his victim well, this time. Loiral breaks so beautifully into shards of panic and servility.

“I do so enjoy your submission, drow,” he tells him fondly. “Show me more of this in future and less defiance, and I will not have to keep breaking you so.” Silent sobs break Loiral’s breath up into shuddering gasps. “…please,” he mouths, “please, please…” “Make no mistake, though. Your screams bring me just as much pleasure. Do you think that you are at the limits of your endurance? You know nothing of the limits of pain, not yet.”

“Listen very closely.” Loiral’s breath is very fast again, shallow and irregular with terror. But his eyes are still focused. “If this were solely for joy,” Marcus tells him, speaking slowly, clearly and with unconcealed relish, “I would next finish breaking your limbs. Six or seven breaks for each of the long bones. Or perhaps I would take a hammer and reduce them to shards, as I did your feet. “Once shattered like that, a prisoner can be restrained by weaving the limbs through cage bars or the spokes of a wheel. Can you imagine how that would feel? I doubt your imagination captures the full intensity. “I might crack your teeth next, or finish the flaying that I have started with the whip. Or perhaps I would just leave you alone with your pain for a few hours. I wonder if you would beg for death, in the end? I would grant it to you eventually, of course. I have a busy schedule, after all, and my goddess loves sacrifice just as yours does.” It is a shame that his prisoner has no voice left. Marcus considers healing his throat so as to hear his whimpers. He is a perfect picture of terror and suffering.

Tragically, though, it is time to lift him back out of despair and offer him some mercy to cling to. Loiral is not merely a sacrifice, despite his recent transgression. “But,” and he touches the drow’s face gently again as he lets his tone warm. “This is not an exercise in self-indulgence, and I do not mean to kill you. This is a lesson for you. And if you learn it well, this will be the end of it. What do you think of that, hmm?” “—please—!” Loiral begs urgently, “please, please—!” Marcus laughs softly. “Very good. I want you to remember this, drow. I want you to remember this point that we have reached. How bad it is, and how it can still get worse. Will you remember?” “—yes,” he sobs, “yes, master, yes—!” “Good. Remember this also: if I must bring you to this point again, I will show a little less restraint. I will take you a little further down the path of agony. You will learn new depths of misery and desperation. Do you understand?” “—yes, master, yes, I— I understand—” “Very good.”

Marcus smiles as he invokes his divine patron again, channeling her healing power. He wants his prisoner witless a little longer, so he crafts a variant spell-prayer that will deliver the required energy over perhaps an hour. The pain will be less intense than a single burst, but it should be more than enough to keep the exhausted drow insensate, especially once the artificial clarity wears off. This time he remembers to deliver the magic to the exposed flesh, bypassing the properties of drow skin.

Loiral convulses as the reddish energy envelops him. His strength is already spent and he can barely lift his back from the floor, but the tortured motions still convey the depth of his agony beautifully. “—mercy—!” he gasps voicelessly, hopelessly “—please please — I’ve learned — please—!” Marcus watches impassively until the attempts at speech stop and the light vanishes from his eyes again. 

Then he kneels down to set the broken bones back into place and to lay the limbs out straight. Without proper care, injuries like this are at risk of leaving debilitating scars, even with magical healing. The slow delivery will reduce the risk. Still, he’ll have one of the initiates come and tend to Loiral as he heals. 

It will be interesting to see how he takes that, as he starts to return to lucidity.

[banesapothecary]

remember me as I was (not as I am) - 3x11 coda

read on ao3

I don’t know who I am anymore.

Magnus wants to scream it, wants to feel the words tear through the quiet of the loft and shatter the white noise of the city into millions of irreparable pieces. The thought has been a constant fear, a steady slice, tormenting him since he returned from Edom without his magic.

He thought it would hurt, when his father took his magic. He thought it would feel like a limb being torn from his body, or blood pouring from wounds inflicted in battle, or being skinned alive until he was nothing but muscle and blood and bone.

He never expected to feel nothing at all.

That’s what I am now, he thinks bitterly. Nothing.

No thrum of magic just beneath his skin, comforting and reassuring as an old friend. No insistent buzz waiting to be let loose in a show of power. No red, angry sparks ready to attack his enemies and protect those he loves.

Magnus has survived centuries, has led countless lives, but none have ever been like this. Never has Magnus felt so utterly lost and useless.

“I can’t protect Madzie, let alone give her a nightlight,” he mutters angrily to himself. He’s been sitting on the floor in the apothecary for who knows how long, hiding away as soon as Catarina had collected Madzie and taken her to the High Warlock of Estonia’s protection.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Magnus jumps at the voice, though really he should’ve expected Alec to come looking for him sooner or later. He’s standing in the doorway, brow furrowed in a way that would be adorable if the underlying concern there didn’t make Magnus’s heart ache.

“Sorry,” Alec frowns. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. If you want to be alone, I’ll—”

“No, it’s alright, Alexander,” Magnus says, tapping the floor next to him lightly in invitation. Alec takes it immediately, resting his hand on the ground next to Magnus’s, palm up. Magnus stares at it for a minute before curling his own around Alec’s, their fingers weaving together.

They sit in silence, the weight of the evening and everything left unsaid settling over them both.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Alec says, his voice low and quiet and steady. “None of this is.”

“I couldn’t protect her, Alexander,” Magnus says, and he winces when the words come out sharper than he meant them. Alec doesn’t flinch, though. Instead, his thumb ghosts up and down Magnus’s, the motion grounding. Magnus breathes for a moment, closing his eyes. “I tried to stop Iris, but I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t stop her.” The words are defeated and Magnus wants to laugh. If only Asmodeus could see him now:  the great Magnus Bane, former High Warlock of Brooklyn, the defiant son he so desperately wanted to control, defeated.

He supposes that was his father’s point in all this, in claiming the one thing that’s always been a part of him. The one thing he’s learned to trust more than he’s trusted people, in most cases.

“You did, though,” Alec says after another moment has passed. “Maybe it wasn’t with magic, but you did stop her. You distracted her, and Madzie got to you. That was enough.”

“Tonight, perhaps,” Magnus mutters, the words bitter on his tongue. “But distraction isn’t enough. I’m not enough. Not anymore.”

“That isn’t true,” Alec says immediately, his voice fierce and sure.

Magnus wishes he could believe him, wishes his magic was still strumming through his veins, wishes he was still strong enough to protect the people he loves. I’m not the man you fell in love with anymore, he wants to yell. Gone is Magnus, the all-powerful High Warlock of Brooklyn capable of taking on princes of hell. Now he’s just broken and lost and weak.

“Losing your magic doesn’t make you weak, you know,” Alec continues as if reading his mind, and Magnus turns to him in shock. “You’re still the strongest person I know.”

Magnus shakes his head, partly in disagreement and partly dumbfounded by the unadulterated way in which Alec Lightwood loves him. “It sure doesn’t feel like it,” he whispers.

Alec leans closer, bumping their shoulders together. “That’s because you aren’t used to this, yet, but I know you. You once told me I’d blow up the very ground to make things right, and maybe that’s true, but I think it’s more true for you.”

Magnus makes a noise of protest, not trusting his own voice when his throat feels tight and raw.

“You’ll figure this out, and I’ll be right there with you.” Alec’s hand tightens around his and it’s the safest Magnus has felt since he returned from Edom, but he can’t bring himself to squeeze back. Instead, he lets himself lean closer, his head dropping on Alec’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who I am anymore.” The confession is quiet and he feels Alec tense slightly before he presses a kiss into Magnus’s hair.

“Everyone gets lost sometimes. It doesn’t make you weak,” Alec says softly.

“What does it make me then?” Again, his words have come out harsher than he intended, a snap that Alec doesn’t deserve. Again, Alec doesn’t flinch. He slides his hand from Magnus’s and winds it around his back instead, his hand warm against Magnus’s tense muscles.

“Human,” he answers simply. “You always have been, you just aren’t used to relying on that part of you.”

Magnus knows it’s true, knows on some level this should make him feel better, knows that somehow, someday, he’ll be used to it and mostly okay. But right now, he doesn’t know what to feel. “I don’t know how to be anything other than who I was, Alexander.” The words are a choked whisper. He swallows, tastes salt as a teardrop reaches his lips. Oh, he thinks, as he wipes a hand roughly across his cheek and feels the tear tracks there.

Alec laughs, but the sound is humorless. Pained, almost. The knife already embedded in Magnus’s heart twists. “You’re still that person. You’re still you.”

“But—”

“Your magic is gone, but you are still Magnus Bane.” Alec’s voice is hard, but not angry, like he’s trying to block out any doubt in Magnus’s mind, any argument.

“I don’t know who that is without magic,” Magnus whispers anyways because he needs Alec to understand, needs to understand himself.

Alec shifts away from him, turning Magnus’s gaze towards him with a hand cupped to his cheek. “I know him. He’s brave and self-sacrificing if it means he can protect the people he loves, regardless of the consequences.” His thumb brushes along Magnus’s cheek, and Magnus feels a streak of wet following in its wake. “He’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s lived through centuries of love and heartbreak, pain and betrayal, and yet he still opened his heart up—to a Shadowhunter, of all people, even though he had every reason not to trust me with his heart.”

“Alexander—” Magnus starts, his throat tight and choking. He swallows.

“He’s caring and thoughtful and so full of love—for me, for Madzie, for every single one of your friends.” Alec leans closer, presses a kiss to Magnus’s tearstained cheek. “And he’s smart, so incredibly smart and I could listen to him talk about absolutely anything for the rest of my life. He’s—”

“Alexander, please,” Magnus interrupts. He’s not sure he quite believes Alec’s words, but his heart wants to, so badly. Between the tightness in his throat and chest, Magnus doesn’t know how he’s still breathing. No, that’s not true, he thinks. Breathing always comes just a bit easier when he’s looking at Alexander. “Thank you, but I…” he trails off. The rest of the sentence echoes in his mind, like it’s bouncing off the walls in his head:  I want to believe you, but I can’t, not yet.

Alec seems to hear them, too. He shrugs, a small, teasing smile on his lips, but his eyes still serious. “Don’t take my word for it,” he says softly. “You’ll find out for yourself.”

His sureness is a balm, even if Magnus can’t share it himself. It’s almost religious, Alec’s belief in him. Magnus has never been one for prayer, but without thinking he’s sending a silent prayer to the gods above that he might even be an ounce of the man Alec believes him to be, that he might be worthy of Alec’s love.

“How?” Magnus asks.

Alec’s eyes light up, just a bit. Magnus recognizes the gleam:  the one he gets when faced with a challenge. “We have a rogue warlock to catch,” he says. “And you know more about Iris and where she might go than any of the rest of us.” Alec stands, stretching a hand down to Magnus. “Come on.”

Magnus stares up at him, his eyes wide and still full of tears, but drying. I can still do this, he thinks. He hopes.

He takes Alec’s hand.

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, lj-todd

June 27-Peter Parker/Eddie Brock, something that is angsty but a happy ending with “Let me keep that promise.” for @lj-todd

Written by @celiaequus

Peter knew he was dying.  He tried to raise his arm to ensure his mask was in place, but he couldn’t move.  The pain was completely debilitating.  If he puked, he wouldn’t even be able to turn his head.  Imagine the headlines: Spider-Man Chokes to Death on Vomit.

At least it happened because of a battle, and not some underage drinking spree.

He could hear the others shouting into his earpiece, asking him to make contact, but he didn’t have the energy to respond.  Everything was becoming grey at the edges.  Then black, and all he could think of was that he hoped someone would take care of Aunt May.

He felt something slithering over his body.  Is this what it was like to die?  Feeling like you’re being encased in jelly?  Or was this a secret function of his suit, trying to cryogenically freeze him until he could be transported to Wakanda?

Well, it sure felt warm, instead of cool, but it was numbing the pain.

Peter’s eyes shot open as his whole body seemed to become someone else’s.  It was like another brain was squished in beside his, like his skin wasn’t his own, and the pain… of broken limbs straightening, bones knitting together, skin and muscles stitching back into place.

Oh God, that’s weird, he thought.

I am not God, a voice said.  In his brain.  It was gruff and growly.  I am Venom.

Oh shit.  There’d been reports about Venom on the news for months.  He went after the bad guys, they said, but he still killed them, and Peter was against killing.  And now… was Venom killing him?  Did he think Spider-Man was one of the bad guys?

You think too much.  I am healing you.

Oh, Peter thought.  Thanks.

He did feel better.  When his mind felt lonely again, he blinked and looked around.  Everything was in colour again, and his team-mates were still yelling at him, saying they were on their way.

“It’s okay, guys,” he said.  “Just got some… assist.  I’m good now.”  He looked down at his badly torn uniform and lack of injuries.  Mr. Stark would be pissed about the repairs, but relieved.

“Hey, you alright?  Kind of a nasty fall you took there.”

“I was thrown, actually, but thanks for asking,” Peter said, looking up at a scruffy man… with Venom attached to his shoulder.  What?  Double what?  “Wait.  You said my soul words.”

“Shit,” the man muttered.  “Right.  Uh, I’m Eddie Brock.  Venom shares my body.  We saw you were hurt and figured we should help out.  He healed you.”

You were nearing death, Venom said, voice still otherworldly, even spoken out loud.

“I’m, um… can I tell you my name?  Can I trust you?” Peter asked, standing up.  “Even if you’re my soulmate, I have to be careful.  If the press got to hear about it, my… my family and friends would be in danger.”

“I’m press, but I wouldn’t betray your trust,” Eddie said.  “You can just tell me your first name, if that makes you feel better.”

Peter pulled off his mask and ruffled his hair out of place.

“I’m Peter,” he said, as Eddie’s eyes bulged.

“How old are you?” he squawked.

“...Nearly eighteen.  In this universe.”

“Oh my God,” Eddie said, covering his face.

Was is the matter? Venom asked.

“He’s underage.  He’s a freaking teenager!”

“I’m a superhero,” Peter said.  Sure, usually he’d be creeped out by an adult being interested in him.  But this was his soulmate, who was clearly not turned on by Peter being, to quote Clint, ‘a genius twink in spandex’.  It was both reassuring and disappointing.

“I… I’m not a good person,” Eddie said.  “We’re not, Venom and I.  We know a lot about you, Spider-Man, including the fact that you never kill.  You don’t condone it.”

“No, I don’t, but I know not everyone feels the same way,” Peter said.  “I usually only take on small-time bad guys - or girls - so killing isn’t necessary.  But I don’t like it.”

“I didn’t like it when I was young, either.”

“You’re not old,” Peter said.  “Look, I realise you’re not interested right now, and I’m trying to focus on my education while I can.”

But you belong to us, Venom hissed, stretching towards him.  Peter nervously stepped back.

“I’ll turn eighteen in a few months,” he said.  “If you’re a good enough journalist, or whatever you are, you’ll track me down.  Come find me when you think I’m old enough, and we can get to know each other then.  I’m not gonna push you.  I’d hate it if someone did that to me.”

“The age difference isn’t gonna change, kid,” Eddie said, trying to pull Venom’s head back.

“No,” Peter agreed.  “But maybe your perspective will change.  Promise you’ll at least send me a birthday card or something?”

We can bring you the head of your worst enemy, Venom offered.  The head is the best part.

“W-what?”

“We’re not beheading anyone for our soulmate,” Eddie said firmly.  “Look, Peter, I’ll see what I can do, but please don’t hold out any hope.  We’re not good for anyone, least of all you.”

He disappeared back into the shadows.  Peter tried to follow, but the last he saw was a man speeding away on a motorbike, and it wasn’t bulky enough to be Captain America.

So… Peter’s soulmate was the vessel for an alien symbiote that ate humans.

Not promising, as partners went, but he sure was intrigued.

The months went by.  Peter would’ve felt slighted if it wasn’t for the arrival of someone named Carnage.  He was laid up with a broken leg at the time, and Barnes was babysitting him to make sure he didn’t try to join in the battle.

Then again, his birthday had been weeks ago, so unless Venom and Eddie had known about Carnage way in advance and had been fighting him all that time, they definitely could’ve at least gotten a message to Peter to wish him a happy birthday.

So he still felt slighted when, yet more months after Carnage was defeated, his soulmate/s still hadn’t visited.

He sat up with a yelp when something was lobbed through his window with a crash and rolled to his feet.  It… it was a head.  Some guy with longish red hair.  There was a clear moisture all over it.

Peter wanted to heave.  If it wasn’t for the voices outside his window, he would have.

“Look, you brought him that stupid gift, now let me keep my own damn promise and leave!”

How will you leave without me, Eddie?  You do not like heights.

Peter gingerly picked up the head by the hair, cringing at the slimy substance coating it, and went to the broken window.  He peeked out and saw Eddie and Venom almost fused together, but not quite.

“If the police find this here, I’ll be arrested,” he said.  “Thanks for the thought, though.”

Venom quickly slurped the head down.  Peter winced.

“Uh… happy birthday,” Eddie said sheepishly.  “For a while ago.  We’ve been kinda busy.”

“No kidding,” Peter said.  “Do you… wanna come inside?”

“You’re still too young,” Eddie said, even as Venom forced him to crawl up the wall.  “It feels weird to me.”

“Oh, so I’m the weird one,” Peter said.

“Um… no?  No, you’re not, of course not.”

“I wasn’t inviting you in for anything, except maybe a talk.  I don’t know you… either of you.  If we’re soulmates, we need to change that.  But please.”  He grimaced as he looked down at his saliva-covered hand and the shattered window glass on the floor.  “Don’t give me any more body parts for my birthday.  Or Christmas, or Easter, or any other time.”

More for me, Venom said, sounding happy.

“I think that’s a promise that we can both keep,” Eddie said.  “Hi.  I’m Eddie.  It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hi.  I’m Peter Parker, and it’s nice to meet you too.”

They smiled at one another while Venom hid away, and Peter felt hope stirring inside him.

This could be okay.  This could even be good.

[emordnilap-fr]

Running

He ran.

The wind brushing his body, the ground firmly beneath his claws, his packmates running all around him in what felt like a constantly improvised dance, he ran. This was life, day in and day out. The ideal life for any packborn mirror.

By the time the sun began to set and the pack slowed to make camp for the night, Spiegel’s breath was rasping and quick, the cold air clouding around him. They’d been running for days, only stopping to hunt and eat before taking off once more. Now, however, many of the pack’s members were growing tired, so they would stop and rest for a few days until they could head further west.

Spiegel came to a halt near a spindly pine, leaning against it to catch his breath as he looked among his gathering packmates. Some splintered off into small family groups, while others wandered into the brambles to hunt. Yet others gathered together to talk, and more started collecting materials to build quick makeshift shelters. He arched his back in a long stretch, relishing the feeling of his cracking joints and relaxing muscles. His mouth opened in a wide yawn, and he sat for a minute, enjoying a moment’s rest.

Soon enough, he stood back up and joined the dragons who’d gone to gather building materials. His packmates disappeared behind him, though he could still faintly make out their heat signatures, even from this distance. The thick, shadowy fog hardly obscured his vision, and he quickly managed to grab a large amount of branches, tucking them under his wings.

He began to make his way back to the pack, when a faint whispering reached his ear. Twisting his head around, he looked for the source of the sound, but the indecipherable whispers seemed to echo from all around. Until, a few metres away, a small blue light lit up. Shaped much like the flame of a candle, it danced between a pair of trees, more little blue shapes appearing in a path behind it, winding deeper into the brambles.

Spiegel frowned, a slight sneer on his face as he spat, “Ah, just you lot. Fuck off, I’m not falling for your tricks again.” He’d learned not to trust the voices and wisps of Imp’s Hollow long ago.

Shaking off the feeling of unease brought about by the Hollow’s tricks, he trotted back to the pack’s campsite, choosing a small cluster of rail-thin pines as the base for his shelter. Tossing down his assortment of twigs and branches, he got to work, quickly weaving the branches together into a thick, sturdy den. He threw his body against it, nodding when it didn’t budge, then crawled inside.

He peered out of his den, head on his paws. Most of the other mirrors had built their own dens as well, their small family units huddled inside against the cold. Unlike his packmates, he was alone. Always had been. But he didn’t mind.

He let his eyes relax, beginning to fall asleep. All that stayed on his mind was a quick consideration of what he’d eat come morning, before he slipped into unconsciousness.

“Wendigo! Everyone up! Wendigo!”

Spiegel jolted awake to the alarm call and roars echoing throughout the hollow. One sounded distinctly non-dragon, and massive. He could hear wood splinter and crack as something crashed through them, panicked yelps and roars and snarls sounding everywhere from his packmates. Instantly alert, he scrambled to his feet and fled his den just as a huge clawed paw crashed down on it, sending splinters everywhere.

He turned to see what stood behind him, and stopped in shock and fear. A wendigo, larger than any he’d glimpsed before, stood over the remains of his den. It seemed even larger than those in old myths, at least half the length of an imperial, its gnarled antlers reaching into the trees. It opened its mouth to roar at Spiegel, snapping him out of his shock and sending him running just in time to dodge the wendigo’s claws coming down where he’d stood.

Everything was chaos. What was usually dance-like running was now terrified, panicked scrambling. The pack’s leaders tried to give orders over the din, but the screeches and yells of the rest of the pack drowned out their voices. Those that could hear them obeyed, doing what they could to get their packmates’ attention without falling to the wendigo’s attacks. Spiegel could hear the leaders, constantly moving around the wendigo as the pack gradually reformed, working together to confuse the beast and push it into a more open area.

The wendigo lashed out, nearly managing to catch some dragons, missing by only a fae’s clawlength. The pack managed to herd it into a small clearing where they rushed in, clawed at its side, and ducked away before it could attack. It grew angrier by the minute, its attacks growing erratic and more dangerous. Spiegel tried to keep his distance, only attempting to attack from behind. He was doing well, having dug his claws deep into its hide, staining his paws a deep red that smeared on the frost-covered ground.

Suddenly, the wendigo turned towards him unexpectedly. He scrabbled against the grass in an attempt to stop and turn, wings spread, but the frost kept him from getting a good grip as the wendigo brought its claws onto him. He shrieked in pain as it tore and cracked through his left wing, raking into his shoulder, arm, and side, and crushing his hind leg before flinging him away like a hatchling’s ragdoll.

A sickening crack sounded as his head hit the ground, and the world turned black.

It was dark.

The first thing Spiegel became aware of was the cold. The numbness of his toes, the stinging of each frosty breath.

Then came the pain.

It started off dull, a weak pain in his head and jaw. Then it began to grow, a sharp, stabbing pain running down his side and taking hold of his left wing and hind left leg. His left arm twitched, more pain emanating from his forearm and fin. Every breath shot a jolt of pain into him, forcing his breath into shallow rapidity. He let out a weak whine, grinding his teeth against the massive amount of pain.

He lifted his head, almost crying out as he did so, and tried his best to look around. In his attempt, he first realised he couldn’t see from his front left eye, only seeing half a heat signature. The next thing he realised, was that it was now night.

And that he was alone.

His pack had left him behind, likely assuming he was dead. Blood was sprayed all over the ground and trees, and across the clearing, Spiegel could see two more bodies. He shut his functioning eyes at the sight, then turned to look at himself.

It was... rather terrible, to say the least. His jaw felt broken, and he could feel a large gash going from the top of his head, across his face, and down over his jaw. His left wing was crumpled and twisted awkwardly over his back, dislocated. The forearm part of it was crooked, and several of the fingers were cracked. The membrane was destroyed, completely torn through from the arm to its edge in multiple places. The fin of his left arm was mostly torn off, only the part closest to his paw remaining. A deep gash in his shoulder throbbed, still leaking blood. More wounds crossed his ribs, side, and flank, jagged and swollen. It felt like at least a few ribs were cracked. His hind leg was utterly broken, all the way from the hip down. The hip bone was obviously broken, misshapen above the leg. Each joint looked off, and the bones were all shattered, bending in places they shouldn’t and poking out from his skin. Even his foot was ruined, three claws ripped out and the bones broken.

Below him, the grass was stained crimson. Frost had begun to build on his blood, both that on the ground and on his skin. It had kept his wounds from bleeding out, though he still felt extremely weak from the blood he had lost. He gathered a small amount of strength and blew faint Shadow magic over his wounds, the fog coagulating the exposed wounds. Hopefully, they would scab over and heal easier now... If there was one thing he knew, it was that open wounds could, and would, kill a lone mirror.

He also knew that staying out in the open, wounded and bloody and among other dead dragons, he would be an easy target for any predator. He needed to move, and soon. The thought made him cringe more than his current state. I couldn’t have just died, eh? This is going to be hell...

Gritting his teeth in an attempt to prepare for even more pain, he slowly began to tense the muscles in his uninjured limbs. Just that small movement caused pain to shoot through him, and he paused. His breath shuddered, and he pushed himself upwards. A strangled cry came from him as the bones in his mangled leg shifted and ground together, as his ruined wing flipped over to hang by his side, smacking the harsh gashes all along his flank. Bile rose in his throat and he retched, both from the pain and what must have been a concussion, the spasms and coughs of his vomiting jolting his injuries ever more. He felt some of the wounds reopen, a thin trickle of blood rolling down his side.

It was nigh unbearable, the pain nearly forcing him back to the ground. He wasn’t built for this. He was built to run, for small-scale hunting, to build and calculate and think. He wasn’t meant to fight, wasn’t meant to be able to take such grievous injuries like his Plague-born packmates.

He stayed crouched for a good while, slowly feeling the throbbing pain ebb into a more tolerable state. Soon enough, he reached his head around to his injured wing, popping the limb back into place with a pitiful whine. At least now he could hold it slightly away from his larger wounds… Deep purple fog poured from his mouth, resealing his worse injuries.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly began to walk, his ruined leg dragging behind him. It was slow moving, and he retched until nothing left would come and then some, but he kept going forward. He knew he was lucky to have survived, and he knew he needed to keep surviving. And if staying alive meant pushing through the pain of his wounds, then by the Shadowbinder, he was going to do it.

How long had he been walking?

He didn’t know.

It had been days, weeks perhaps. Long enough for some of his bones to begin to heal, before infection had set in. His weak Shadow magic wasn’t enough to stave off infection, and he could only watch as his wounds grew red and angry, pus oozing out of them. Each morning he would wake to the same pain, to frost encroaching on his injuries, to an increasing numbness to the cold and his dire situation.

Now, he continued to walk, but he was weak. His pace was slower than ever, each step shakier than a newborn pup’s. He shivered against the cold, his hot, sick breath clouding the air in front of him. The ground was covered in a thickening layer of snow, more flakes carried by the howling wind. Each one stung as it hit his body, chilling him to the bone. He was tired. So, so tired...

Eventually, near a thick pine tree, he stopped.

I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t…

He collapsed beside the tree, ice building on his body, not even bothering to growl at the intense pain caused by the action. His primal instincts screamed at him to keep going, to survive. That’s what a mirror does, survive. But he just couldn’t. The pain, the sickness, the cold, the tiredness of it all… He’d survived this long, and for what? To die anyway. So why, he thought, should he bother?

He closed his eyes, shaking, and let the darkness of sleep come, waiting for death to claim him.

Blurriness. The feeling of being lifted pervaded everything, though he was too bleary-minded to process it. The pain had gone, and he felt… warm…

Spiegel’s eyes fluttered just open enough for his eyes to somewhat focus on what was in front of him. A large, worried face. A guardian, female, the color of the snow.

He heard her mumble something - or was the sound just muffled? he didn’t know - before slipping back into unconsciousness.

His eyes blinked open. Everything was blurry, before slowly coming into focus. He was no longer cold, out in the snow, but warm, and somewhere he’d never seen before. Black pine-log walls surrounded him, dim yellow candles lighting the cozy den. A burst of panic filled him, not knowing just where he was, but something told him he’d be safe.

He shifted slightly, warily, surprised to find that his body didn’t hurt as much as before. He felt… stronger. Was… was the sickness gone? What had happened?

As he started to shift a bit more, trying to prop himself up so he could see the rest of the den, Spiegel felt a gentle touch on his uninjured neck, and he quickly twisted his head around to look for the source of the touch. It was the guardian from before, but he could see her clearly now. She smiled at him, and used her large paw to softly prod him back into a laying position. Once Spiegel was back down, relaxed, she said, “Ahh, you’re finally awake. You’ve been out of it for a few days, you’re lucky I found you out there.”

The guardian sat down beside him, seemingly checking on his injuries. “So, you have a name?”

Spiegel opened his mouth to answer, but coughed instead, his throat not used to talking. He flinched as he racked his healing wounds, but was relieved when the pain was nowhere near the level he’d last felt. He tried again. “Mm. Spiegel. You?”

“Synnefoula, feel free to call me Sinna though.” She sat back, assured that Spiegel’s wounds were healing. “You’re healing up well. What even happened to you, get in a fight with an imperial?”

He shook his head. “Wendigo attack.”

Sinna grimaced, and Spiegel regarded her with a tilt of his head. “Sorry, I’ve never seen the… results of a wendigo attack. Shade, I don’t think I’ve even seen more than one wendigo in my life.”

He nodded, leaving Sinna half-smiling awkwardly at him. She seemed to realise something, eyes widening suddenly, and she stood up quickly. “Oh! Are you hungry? We have some- oh who am I kidding of course you are, you’re a mirror who hasn’t eaten in days at the least, I’ll just grab you something real quick, you stay there and don’t try to move okay? Okay, okay I’ll be back in a minute!” Spiegel had hardly opened his mouth to answer her first question before she’d rushed out of the den, leaving him alone with the flickering blue candles.

He sighed, and laid his head down on his paws. That guardian sure did talk a lot, but he didn’t quite mind. She’d saved his life after all, better than what his own pack had done. His eyes slowly blinked closed as he waited for her to return with a meal.

[inter-se-solus-blog]

Drabble for @o-tabescere [ mainly a little scene for a possible happening ]

     ◆ There was a chilling quiet, a softened sonance of a white rushing noise, drowning out any pain, melting it into a multitude of jarred and torn sensations by the time mind mingles and turns, slowly - slowly - far too slowly, in its endless strive to come back towards reality { while all in itself, this was nothing he even wanted to endeavour, let him rest. just let him rest }. With endless back and forth and the deeply settled, burning ache, coating and licking at his skin, muscle and tendons - still, there was the tingling sensation of a healing aspiring to soothe whatever biting bits of torment would veil his otherwise so still and unmoving physique. It's quite funny just - that this was such a peaceful feeling. Buried and hidden in the faint crashing intonation of shifting rubble, still re-adjusting, re-aligning, falling back in place for impact had been quite so severe to shift and change the outcome of what formerly was a building standing proud.

    ◆ And he laughs about it { why doesn't it stop? } in that faint, near breakable feeble chirr of trembling voice. As soon as it came, it was gone again.

    ◆ Like nothing else but a shy wind meandering further and further, reaching for him in its caressing try to find an essence of will, a desire to survive. Who would have thought? That loneliness was such a crushing, crippling burden to carry? Who would have thought, that a man like himself, was despairing with these thoughtless emotions? Just as much shifting and wandering about in his mind, like the sudden unexplainable noise-filled eruption after everything had laid so terrifyingly, so hauntingly beautiful and quiet. Not enough for his eyes to open - even thought like it was, Uta was stark aware, that he was not by himself anymore.

    ◆ [ Hey---! ] Single noise, drowned out yet once again. A fluttering breath to fill his lungs. [ Uta! Damn--- ] Something broke? Did he hear it? [ List--- I am here--- hey! ] Was it not enough? Was it not what he would want to hear? How ludicrous to see him quite like this, to watch a man of unexplainable and unimaginable powers broken and torn and like a porcelain doll unable to mend the cracks and seal the gaps. Whoever would lay eyes upon him - whoever would so truly know about what all the mask maker had hidden in the past it would explain itself as a charade of his own self. When his body had been aching and groaning, trapped still and unmoving in limp and far too still form. Healing oneself would have been such an easy task to fulfil - and healing was all blood and flesh and bones, broken and mangled, would do in deliberately setting themselves back into place.

    ◆ [ You are not alone, you know it! You were never alone! ]

    ◆ And he all but breathes when this set of words rushes through numbing mind tauntingly quaking in the back of his head { so truly dreamlike in how it wanted to mess with what little recognition of the moment had been there }. Ah, yes. Burning, the electrical surge of pain that tore him from the finely crafted body of a kakuja. Maybe he wanted it?

    ◆ ' Damnit! Wake up already. ' While sleep does elude him wholly.

    ◆ And everything that followed would come back as all but a recollection uttered by beloved lips a few hours later { fighting, fighting, they could rest up soon enough }. All had become a blur in these moments, all that had been said, desperate outcries, explanations, those hands that would wander his torn and near destroyed form { no pain at all, nothing that really would make him twitch or turn, too unbeknownst to the surrounding to try and hide from arms that - soon enough - had cradled him in strong grasp }. How delirious indeed, he could remember, when just told, that Renji tried to move them. Move them out and somewhere else, for the creatures created from a childish greed had found what was the host of far too much power and made to attack them. Wasn't it quite such a fantastical spectacle?

    ◆ That those who had been so powerful, would be unable to budge and move? And desperation, distress, pondering upon the what and the how { like a tragedy to unfurl? yes, yes just like this. the unexplainable desire to protect what he could have ripped away from life and destroyed in anger }. But never wanted to.

    ◆ And everything that happened in these few seconds---

    ◆ ---had been all but a blur.

    ◆ ' Please. ' A mind-numbing experience of a game they were not meant to play. ' Come on, I won't leave you behind. ' Louder, ever louder. A waning sensation of delight, destroying and lowering any defences his mind had built up swiftly and deliberately, now with the fine and simple cracks twisting themselves until it burst. ' Don't leave me. I love you. '

   ◆ Attackers dispersed into absolute nothingness. 

   ◆ The calm around them settling in near haunting past breaths deeply taken that Uta was able to make out. Shaking, trembling of that strong physique that finds itself so closely pressed against him. It had only taken a mere few seconds for that devastating counter-attack to fill the space and then empty it out in as if there had been nothing at all to plague their minds. So Uta guesses - and assumes - that there is still something - someone - worth living for { as much as his mind would scream at him for it to be a lie }. But was it just? When his eyes took off the brilliant shine of burning red, falling pliant and softened like the breath he took that heaved lungs and made it appear like that picture-perfect shattered puppet was all the more alive and strings severed, being left to freely walk anew.

    ◆ "Let go, Ren."

    ◆ And it is barely even palpable, spoken into the nothingness right before him when eyes focus anew and adjust with these first words ever spoken since desperate pleas had reached near deaf ears and he means it - yet tingling sensations shivering thoughts did not want it quite at all. This hold was merely a necessity, for the grip around his otherwise limb form had tightened, leaving an ache the Mask Maker decides to be quite so - pleasant.

    ◆ Laughter that follows was filled with mirth, subtle and soft and like a breeze that would travel through the opened cavity of that 'room' they had found themselves trapped inside. And even though, that he had ushered words of obvious request, arms around him wouldn't loosen from their despairing tumult felt with the shake of strained muscle felt beneath his searching fingertips. That very hand that had lifted from its unsuspicious placement onto the ground. A hidden sort of power used in leading kagune to travel through cracks and holes and pierce and destroy from below what he would not permit to lay a single touch upon him. "Ren." Once again a little softer, with his lips to travel along smooth skin of neck exposed and chasing the pulse racing and heart to beat like a drum. Heavier, harder.

    ◆ While himself was still so pliant and calm within grasp. ' ... What? Ah. ' But there was no moment to let him go anymore, all that ache and pain be damned, the sore feeling of a slow piece by piece to be placed back together - it's such a deliberate masterpiece of tranquil destruction { who would have thought? that a set of three words was all that had been needed to re-enkindle will to live? }. Alas, such a heavy outcome to a personal war. Disrupted personalities, in need to be put back into place, like small little dolls, meant to stand right next to one another { and he could have smiled about it all, and did when widened eyes do find him with questioning gaze }. ' You... I'm sorry, I... '

    ◆ Higher and higher. That touch ceasing along arms that limber themselves around his form, still cradled so close and kept in that ever-lingering warmth that could reach all but his mind and soul. ' Are you in pain... I'm... ' Stumbling words.

    ◆ "Ren."

    ◆ And so he touches that delicate and chiselled shape of face feeling near too fragile and torn from its strength and grandeur, drawling with fingertips along the fine cut of jaw in soothing a lamenting, tormented soul. Meant to turn him, to tilt that beloved one that slightest bit closer to himself in the calming and quietening motions of a lullaby. Breathing in. Breathing out { again and again and again }, and his own heartbeat such a stark difference to the one that needed to find its own setting once again. Pain, yes. How he ached with different feelings. With throbbing desires. That tender moment of nothingness all but shared between one another.

    ◆ Let the world be damned for a few seconds just.

    ◆ Let the war between their fractions rage on for a few more gusts of wind.

    ◆ He could have laughed about it again, but all he did was smile when palm does rest alongside elegant cheek and tilt him and turn him to simply kiss his parted mouth. And how that taste had been all he ever wanted. Formerly adjusted, brushed away as if never existing anymore at all. All just desired, fingertips of that beloved soul to be felt in pressing deeply into his skin.

    ◆ An open-mouthed kiss. A breath shared between one another and wanting to have more and more. But not now. Not in that unfortunate set of events that had unfurled outside, in need of eradication of a greater disaster right at this time. And he smiled still about that shocked response received to words of comfort, of worrisome feelings settling deep in his chest. Moving himself to kiss lips yet once anew, sweet and light and benign to be had. "I'm fine, Ren." Fine.

    ◆ Fine. Truly calmed. Truly here in this moments' haunting quiet. And as if nothing had graced him ever once before, not a single laceration was there anymore to still litter comfortably held form. "Thank you." And oh how it aches - that silent sound, whispered breath of "I love you too."

[queensofthekastle]

Guess who felt the need to write the elevator scene?

We did. 

I.

Three to five.

Three to five inches of shrapnel are currently protruding from Frank Castle’s right bicep; three being the low estimate of a not-too-deep laceration-- five being the more probable one where two or more jagged inches have torn through flesh and muscle to lodge into bone.

He’s already moving-- piecing together the next part of their plan, busting out the ceiling panel and tensing his muscles as he looks up at the climb.

“Frank,” she says, out of stunned horror, when she sees the piece of metal gnawing at his flesh. The second time she says it, it’s helpless.

“Frank…”

Oh, Frank …

She draws his attention to it, black eyes darting down before locking with hers again. It’s as if it’s a papercut, or the kind of bruise you get from stubbing your toe against a doorframe. Nothing. Background noise.

She wonders if he even feels it; if he’s even aware of the rivulets of blood striping his arm. For a man who’s lived the last years of his life knowing nothing but pain -- white hot pain that scrapes and saws at him from the inside -- outward pain seems to be only a distraction

Karen can’t find it in herself to peel her eyes off of the gore of his arm. Intrusive thoughts plague her of how long he has until that foreign object sends him into septic shock, or how damaged the muscle will be from scar tissue when (and if) he finally finds time to heal. They’re distracted thoughts -- thoughts that don’t really have any relevance to her in that moment. Thoughts of things she’s helpless to do anything about.

When she looks back at him, he’s looking down. His dark eyelashes, she notices, are clumped and wet against his face.

Look at me , she wills him silently.

Look at me .

When his eyes are on hers again, she isn’t looking at the Punisher. She’s looking at a man whose heart is bare and bloodied and unprotected and sitting in her hands.

He’s so lost …

Frank .

Frank Castle looks at her like the end of the world. Frank Castle looks at her like she’s the first and last thing he’ll ever see. Frank Castle looks at her like he wants to stay.

Stay …

He can’t .

Her head’s still buzzing from the explosion and she can’t get the image of Lewis Wilson splattered on every surface of that walk-in freezer out of her head. Her knees are knocking from the adrenaline of having a bomb pressed against her back. She could feel every inch of it through her blouse. These things that she’s feeling are visceral and loud. Her body’s telling her to scream. There’s been a scream building in her chest for twenty minutes now.

But all she feels under Frank’s gaze is quiet. She doesn’t hear her heart thumping violently against her ribcage like it’s trying to self destruct. She doesn’t hear the elevator alarm echoing off the corrugated metal. All she hears is Frank’s breathing -- in, out, in -- and quiet .

He scans her face, eyes blown wide and searching, like he’s trying to memorize her. A dying man trying to memorize the sunset. Like at any moment, she could evaporate into mist and he’d be left with nothing but a memory. It isn’t far off. She realized as soon as the elevator doors closed how uncertain the future was. How this might be the last time she’d ever see him. He knows it too, and the truth hangs in the air between them, unsaid but heavy as sin.

Make it count, Karen , she tells herself as she looks back, almost defiantly. Defiant not to him but to the universe for bringing him back to her, more alive than ever, only to wrench him away again.

She won’t break. Not in front of him.

If he memorizes her now, she realizes, she wants him to remember Karen Page as a woman who can take care of herself. A woman who he doesn’t need to protect. The shrapnel, the blood, the pain -- it’s all because Frank Castle decided she was a worthy enough cause to die for. And she wants him to stay. God , she wants him to stay. But she refuses to be his weakness.

She wants him to know that she’s not afraid, even though she is. She’s not afraid, even though her heart is breaking and she’s sick of loss and grief.

Be brave , she tells herself.

Her eyes are on his lips, then. They’re the one part of him that isn’t covered in blood. She can feel his breath on her chin, his pulse from where her hand rests on his arm, and every cell in her body draws her to him like it’s nature. The fusion of two atoms out in space. The tide closing into the shore.

She doesn’t realize she’s tilted her head to kiss him until he stops it, instead pressing his forehead into hers and holding it there. It’s better. It’s quieter. They’re alone .

She’s overwhelmed by him all around her. He smells like smoke and iron-bitter blood. She can taste blood in her mouth, probably either from the impact of Frank’s body slamming into hers, or the tile smashing against her jaw after the explosion threw them there. The thumping ache in her head somehow feels like it’s a side-effect of him too.

Don’t leave me , she wants to whisper despite herself.

She doesn’t.

You said you can’t lose me. What about how I can’t lose you ?, she wants to say.

She doesn’t.

Those ghosts swimming around in his eyes? It’s not her place to banish them. As much as she longs to flood out his demons with light, she can’t. It’s not her place in his complicated, dark world.

When he pulls back, she feels a part of herself breaking off and staying with him. She doesn’t know if the next time she sees him will be on tv, or in a bodybag. She doesn’t know the next time she’ll have him in front of her. Breathing. Bleeding. Alive.

If she ever will.

Their time is running dry. The walls are closing in. She has to let him go.

“Go. Go on.”

He steps back obediently, toward the open panel above, and looks at her for answers. For clarity. For reassurance. He looks at her like he wants her to tell him to stay.

Stay.

No .

She sets her shoulders and looks him square in the eye.

It’ll be okay , she wills at him without speaking. I will be okay . Go .

Go .

“Take care,” he says, before he’s gone.

She keeps her composure until the invisible thread between them is broken and he can’t see her anymore. Then she lets her world crumble.

Just a bit. Just enough to let it hurt, enough to put on her brave face again to protect him. Enough so she can get it out of her system and go back to pretending that she doesn’t love Frank Castle enough to know that he’s not a monster.

She’ll go back to pretending she doesn’t love him enough to let him go.

II.

Three to five: three to five minutes to get up twelve floors, up the escape ladder, pry open the door somehow, some way, crawl out and make for the stairs. Room 4022. But Karen, she’s saying his name, calling him off, calling him back, with her voice breaking.

“Frank.

“Frank,” she whispers, approaching with gentleness, even in her steps, to place her fingertips against his bicep.

She looks with wretched concern at the limb, covered in blood from the score on his temple and the chunk of shrapnel--glass, metal, whatever it is--sticking out of him. It looks worse than it is; the shoulder ripped from its socket is the real kicker. That shit, that hurts almost as much as the look on her face, the tears reddening the corners of her eyes, the cuts, the gashes, the blood and dust and sweat, smelling like fear, in her hair. She looks from the gore to his eyes with her face twisted in bitter, sweet sadness.

Oh, Frank, she’s telling him with that look, so much pain in her unspoken tone. He breaks her heart every goddamn time she sees him, he knows it. He knows he does. And he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, but--

But It was Karen. He couldn’t have left her. Dying wouldn’t have been excuse enough not to make it to her. You were in danger. I had to.

She knows. He can tell. Her shattered heart is bleeding all over her face. He’d do so much worse than kill to put it back together for her.

He leans in to try and tell her that, with his eyes. He can’t speak right now. He’s past words. They’re both past words. They’re on now to feelings and gestures, and the gesture to come, her eyes on his, on his lips, his on hers, so close . . .

That’s where this is going.

He’s been in love enough times to know how a kiss goes. He’s felt it enough to know that you don’t walk away once you’ve committed, that you can’t stop once you start, that it’s complicated, that it asks something of the other person he has no right to ask. That he can’t, he can’t--

He meets her forehead first instead, the shape of their skulls fitted together like light and shadow.

And he feels it. He feels it in the depths of his chest, a weight bleeding out of him like a fountain, leaving first a chill and then a rush of warmth that radiates outward from her skin, from her hand receding from his arm just to come to rest again, holding onto him, moving him, following the sway of their pulses.

Her face, he could live forever in her closed eyes, the calm she’s trying to gift to him, the solace. He could sleep here. Die here. It’s quiet. It’s so quiet. The alarms, the screaming in his head, the memories and the horror and the death, the injustice, it’s like they’re all floating out past the sound barrier of a bomb blast, only his ears aren’t ringing over the top of all of it.  

When she pulls away, when all that noise comes back, it’s like the blast is inside of his skull.

When her breath isn’t right there on his skin making living real, it’s like waking up a corpse. And his only answer to her going, his only thought is what he knows must be the pitiful gaze of a wounded animal. But Karen.

She’s going to cry, she’s halfway there already, she can hear him loud and clear and her eyes are saying I know, I’m sorry . She backs all the way up to the wall.

He gets it. If she stays, he won’t be able to go. She won’t be able to let him. And she knows--

He’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to go. But he stands rooted to the spot.

When will I see you? She’d asked him. Now he’s asking her, and her face says she doesn’t know. She can’t know. The answer to that hinges on whether he lives through what has to come next. Not through today, through this building, but after that after Rawlins after Homeland after Bill --

They’re all gonna die. They’re all gonna die, and Frank might just go to. But Karen . . . She’s the one thing he’d hate to leave.

Promise me you’ll live if I don’t.

No answer, not really. She’s telling him to go out loud, now. Gentle urging beneath a steely-soft expression.

You live, Karen. Whatever you do, you live. Promise me. He says it again and again with only his eyes because he doesn’t know how the hell to just say goodbye. If it is goodbye. Says it, screaming in silence, until she finally ducks her chin in a shadow of a nod and he knows that she understands, that she will make herself survive if she has to claw through every monster, every shitbag in this city. Only then can he let himself move.

“Take care.”

It hurts like a bitch, climbing out of there. And he can hear her, as he goes, trying not to cry, but they both know he’s running out of time.

[gotclowned]

tag dump!

[pejifukurou]

His boots slammed against the concrete beneath him as he ran into an alleyway, tucked away out of sight. His lungs burned for oxygen and his muscles had begun to ache. He ducked into a doorway, a shadow of darkness enveloping him. He fumbled around, hands finding a worn table covered in a layer of dust. He hit the floor, pulling himself under it.

He did his best to control his breathing, his chest burning underneath his jacket. From where he was curled up, he could see the doorway and out into the alley. If anyone came by, he would see them first. Sure enough, approaching footsteps reached his ears. He tensed up, holding his breath, not wanting the respirator of his gas mask to give him away. The footsteps got louder and a figure came into view.

Their outfit was all too familiar—it resembled a S.W.A.T. uniform, down to the large boots and the thick vest strapped to their chest. The patch on their shoulder didn’t say “S.W.A.T.”, however. It was an “S” centered in a variety of geometric shapes, along with laurels cradling it at the bottom.

Soldirs.

They stopped at the doorway, surveying the alley. They turned to look inside the building, Levi’s blood running cold. Their face was hidden away by an intricate mask detailing some sort of demonic face. It grinned sadistically at him, the corners of its smile seeming to be torn up to where their ears would be. The detail in the smooth material made it seem that it was real carnage that glistened in the low light of the city night. The eyes were two black holes, and that was it. Nothing could be seen inside them, but Levi swore they were staring right at him. That was impossible, though. How could they see him through the pitch black?

Then again, Blacklight was the most “talented” of the agents, as they liked to put it.

Still, it had to be impossible.

They turned away and ran off. Levi listened to their footsteps disappear into the distance, each moment made Levi relax a bit more. Levi pulled himself out from under the table, shakily rising to his feet. He had lost them, and now he just had to get back home. He shuffled back to the doorway, pausing to make sure the coast was clear. It wouldn’t be much of problem, since he had gotten the agent off his tail.

He stepped out, too late to properly react to the violet lightning that raced towards him. It shot him right in the arm, the shock traveling throughout his body and sending him flying. For a moment, his entire being was numb and his limbs twitched and seized. He cursed, willing himself to his feet and struggling to stay standing. At the end of the alleyway was the Soldirs Agent, the dark eyes of their mask staring back at him.

Levi raised his arm, a wall of flame sealing off the alleyway and separating the two. With a swipe of his hand the wall launched forward, slamming right into the agent. The agent didn’t flinch, an aura of violet surrounding them and easily parting the flames, letting them through without fail. By the time they were through, however, Levi has already ran.

The feeling in his limbs had mostly returned, enough for him to sprint down the street. He was once again at square one and had to lose the agent one more time. Except this time, Levi was tired, and his body was still reacting from the shock. He could hear them running after him, the sound of their boots slamming into the concrete. It was too fast, too precise. They would be catching up in a matter of moments. Levi stopped in his tracks, turning to face pursuer. He raised his arms defensively and his forearms became ablaze with flames, swirling around them and curling up to his fists. The other had their fists raised as well, violet lightning sparking out in all directions.

They collided, the lighting striking out at Levi and the flames licking and engulfing the other’s fist. The impact sent them both flying back. Levi skidded across the pavement for a couple meters, somehow keeping his balance as his boots slid across the ground. He had only a moment to readjust himself before Blacklight was coming at him again, their hands cupped together in a way that a ball of spastic energy had former between their palms. Levi raised up a small shield of flame, barely enough to divert the burst of energy. A kick came, and then a punch. They came so fast that all Levi could do was block, there was no opening to retaliate. With each hit the lighting tore into him, and Levi’s attempts to deflect them with flames became less and less effective.

A quick jab from Blacklight kept Levi occupied long enough for the agent to land a solid hook. The energy blasted through Levi’s gas mask and into his head along with sending him flying once more. He was little more than a rag doll, rolling and skidding across the floor, coming to a stop on his stomach. He feel nothing, and in his mind there was nothing but white noise. His breathing stopped, and he swore his heart had as well. For a moment, it was rather blissful, feeling nothing. Pain set in after that, pins and needles searing into him and his lungs crying out as he forced himself to breathe, fighting through the paralysis brought on by the shock wave. Each heart beat sent another wave a pain through out him, and his head felt as if it were going to burst. He tasted iron in his mouth, mixing with his saliva.

He tried to sit up, but a boot came down on his head, pinning back down to the pavement. Levi turned his head just enough to look up at Blacklight. They were practically unscathed, while Levi was bruised, broken, and electrocuted. He watched as they pulled the mask back from their face, staring down at him. Their eyes were dark, just like their mask, but the mask had more life in its eyes then they had. They were cold and unfeeling, staring down at him, a pest they wished to crush under the heel of his boot. Levi felt bile began to rise up in his throat. He had seen eyes like that one before. Whether it was this revelation or his body still reacting to the intense electrocution, was unknown to him.

“Hellfire.”

Even their voice was devoid of any emotion besides disgust. Levi swallowed dryly, trying to keep his nausea under control.

“My name is Dominik Rykov. I’ve been looking for you.”

Levi forced out a growl, trying to show he hadn’t given up yet. It came out more like a pitiful cough.

“I know someone who’s been dying to see you. I’m sure he’d be happy to hear I’ve finally gotten the elusive Hellfire.”

They leaning forward, adding pressure to Levi’s head. Levi let out a whimper, swearing that his skull was creaking under the other’s boot. The pain was mind-numbing and he could feel tears began to well in his eyes. He could only watch as Dominik leaned down and grabbed hold of his gas mask. He shifted his boot over and pulled the mask off, revealing Levi’s face. Strands of copper stuck to his freckled cheeks where blood had already started to dry, and a black eye was forming around his scared eye, swelling it shut. Not that it matter, he couldn’t see out of that one either way.

Levi let out another growl, glaring up at the agent. They only smirked at him, clearly enjoying the position they had him in.

“Hm, what should I be calling you? Hellfire isn’t your real name, of course. I know you’ve been going by Levi. Oh, how about the one your old friend knows you by. What do you think, James?”

Levi felt the bile rise up again and his heart sink. His eyes went wide and he could see the amusement on Dominik’s face. The cold stare, the disregard for everything, the lighting-like energy, his various abilities.

Of course.

He had thought of the possibility before, but he simply refused to believe.

It was easier if he had simply forgotten.

And now it was going to drag him back to what he had tried so desperately to leave behind.

“I’m sure he’s just as excited to see you as you are to see him.” Dominik gave him a sadistic grin. He removed his boot from Levi’s head, finally giving him some relief. “Let’s go see him, yes?”

Dominik raised his boot, slamming it into Levi’s nose. He could feel bone crunch and blood spurt out. Hellfire was out like a light, his head lolling to the side as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Blood streamed down from his now shattered nose. It was messy, but it was the quickest way.

The smile quickly fell from Dominik’s face, replaces by his cold stare as he looked down at his new captive. It was so easy, why hadn’t Lukas done it himself? Was he afraid? There was nothing to fear. He saw the look on the Stray’s face—this James guy was absolutely terrified of Lukas. He could feel it, like static in the air. With that strong of a reaction from simply alluding to the other man, it made Dominik wonder why Lukas hadn’t done this himself.

It also made him wonder, just exactly why he was so afraid? Sure, Lukas was not someone you wished to cross, but the fear still lingered in the air. It was as if James would rather face death a hundred times over then to be before Lukas.

Why?

Dominik scoffed, kneeling down and grabbing James by the arm. He was in no place to wonder such trivial things. With one quick motion, he had the Stray draped across his shoulders. He was lighter than he had expected—much, much lighter. James was tall, yes, easily half a foot over Dominik, but he was rather slender. Perhaps, a bit too slender. Still, not that Dominik cared or wished to care.

He had to get this present delivered as soon as possible.