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

[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.”

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.