#CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR HEAVING AIR IN AND OUT MANUALLY

[meat-wentz]

i have a million favorites i have at least a favorite in every song but one that’s really been getting to me lately is at the last “we’re gonna leave this town” in the (shipped) gold standard DRIVES ME INSANEEEEE IN THE MEMBRANEEEE

LITERALLY PUNCHING ME HITTING ME KICKING ME OOOUGGHHHHHOUGGHHHHHHHH

[scorpiongrassfield]

Keep looking

Start | Prev

You’re hit with a sense of deja vu as you search the house, but you brush it off. 

The first floor is empty except for Concrete. It doesn’t answer when you ask if it’s seen the shadow, just sits curled up in its chair dozing. 

You give it a gentle pet and it ‘mrrp’s and rubs its cheek against your hand. 

That makes you feel a little bit better. 

Checking the second room doesn’t turn up much more. Ametrine is still up there in her painting. You shut the door without a second thought. 

If Ametrine is there then the shadow must not be, it being a ghost and all. 

Once again, there’s only one place left to check. 

The studio. 

The door hits you before you’ve cleared it as you head down the stairs. 

You are so, so sick of this. 

The lights are off, so you make your way down the stairs carefully. 

It takes a little longer, but you’re banged up enough already. You don’t need to add a fall down the stairs. 

Once the lights are on, your shoulders slump.

The studio is empty. 

Well. The paintings are there. But there’s no people. 

Though. There is a covered canvas set on the stool where you’d found Theo earlier. 

That’s probably something new. 

You gingerly pull the cloth away from the canvas, standing as far as you can while still reaching it. Just in case it explodes, or bites you, or something.

It doesn’t. 

It’s another tarot painting. 

Eight swords stand upright where they’re stuck in the ground. In the background is a burning cabin. A creek runs in between a gap in the swords. Standing in the gap is the shadow. He appears to be bound in chains of flowers, scorpion grass. 

This… doesn’t look like a very positive card. It’s one less than your nine of swords, does it mean something similar? 

You take the card out of the deck to look at it. There are a few differences, the most notable being that the woman on the card is blindfolded, while the shadow is not. Interesting. 

You put the card back into the deck. You’ll look up what it means later. For now, you have questions to ask your friend. 

“Shadow, do you think you could come out of there? I have some more questions. I know you said you don’t want to answer any, but I do really need some answers here,” you say. 

The painting doesn’t respond. 

“Are you stuck in there? It’ll be alright. There’s a gap in the swords right in front of you, you just have to step forward,” you say. 

Nothing. 

Hm… 

If this card is about being trapped, maybe if you reverse it… 

You pick up the painting and turn it upside down. 

You sink to the ground as you suddenly have an armful of shadow, which does weigh as much as a person. 

“Hello again,” you say with a smile. 

The shadow shakes its head a little. You get the impression it’s disoriented. 

“Oh. Hello,” it says. 

It realizes the position it’s in and scrambles to get off of your lap. 

You stand up as well. 

“Glad I found you. Are you alright?” you ask. 

The shadow looks down at the ground, sullen. 

You frown. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” the shadow says under its breath. 

“Huh?” you say. You don’t quite follow. 

The shadow looks back up at you. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Sylv,” it says again, louder this time. Voice wobbling like it might start crying. 

You’re not sure what to say to that. 

You reach out to touch the shadow’s arm, try to offer comfort. 

It snatches its arm away. “No! Don’t. I saw what happened last time you…” The shadow takes a deep breath, its shoulders rising with the heave. “Please don’t touch me anymore. I don’t think I could handle that,” it says. 

“Okay. I’m sorry,” you say. You take your hand back from where you were holding it in the air. You don’t want to hurt the shadow. 

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” it says. 

You don't think that’s true. You shake your head. 

“No, no. I’m the one messing this up. I just. You just. You have to understand that I don’t know what the rules are. There’s no instruction manual for this. It’s possible it’s the first time it’s ever happened and I have to be the one to figure it out. I can’t ask Pat for help. At least I don’t think I can? I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen if I interact with them to much,” the shadow rambles. It sounds like it’s working itself into a panic. 

“That’s not true. You’re doing great,” you reassure. You still aren’t sure exactly what it’s talking about. But you’re not about to say that. 

“No, you don’t get it. You don’t know because you can’t. I didn’t even know at first. She tried to erase both of us. I thought. I didn’t remember. And now I remember and it hurt so much that she managed to get control away from me again and she keeps hurting you and that’s my fault. I’m supposed to protect you,” it says, and starts sobbing. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” you attempt to soothe. “I’m okay. Nothing Ametrine’s done to me has been permanent so far. We can find a way out of this together, can’t we?” 

“No. We can’t. Because you have no idea what’s going on and I cannot tell you, because I don’t know what the consequences are. This is a four way balancing act and one of the parties is actively trying to kill half of the rest. And if this whole thing comes crashing down, everyone still living might not stay that way,” he says. 

Well. That does sound bad. 

“You keep talking about ‘collapse’ and ‘crashing down’. Can you at least tell me what that means? Is it this place? Like is my soul going to collapse if I know too much?” you ask. 

The shadow shakes its head. 

“No?” you ask. 

The shadow goes still except for its breathing for a while. You wonder why ghosts still breathe, then push the thought away. Now’s not the time. 

“I… I will try to answer some of your questions. On one condition. I need you to do me a favor,” the shadow finally says. 

“Of course,” you agree instantly. Whatever it is, you’ll do it. The shadow wouldn’t try to hurt you, would it?

“I need you to convince Pat to stop trying to help… to help Theo. Convince them to focus on solving the mystery of the missing sun. I think. I’m not sure, but I think it will get us out of this mess. If they realize what’s going on. I hope,” the shadow says. 

Oh. 

That’s… 

Not an ideal thing to have been requested of you, actually. 

Sure it won’t hurt you. But what about Theo? Can he move on without Pat’s help? And it would go against Pat’s oath to leave Theo in the lurch like that. But. The shadow is making it sound pretty important. And you do need answers. 

What will you do?

Next

[b000mbayah]

Yandere mina guilt tripping reader because reader doesn't want to go out with her

Here, it's not long at all, 600 words (more or less) but I do hope it's alright :I

Yandere!Mina guilt tripping you

\\֎\\♡\\֎\\♡\\֎\\ ᴳᵘᶦˡᵗʸ \\֎\\♡\\֎\\♡\\֎\\

"Y/n, I need help" Mina heaves, walking up to you and immediately curling up in your arms in front of everyone here, the most crowded hallway in the building.

"What? What's wrong Mina?" You asked, panicked at your friends current time of melancholy, the emotion surging through your heart like a vampire and a stake. It's not often you see Mina in such an emotional state, so when you do, it affects you just as much.

"My father-" she pauses to gulp down a pocket of polluted air "He got in an accident earlier-" she stops herself in order to sob, pulling herself even closer to your chest, staining your pearl shirt with her salted lake tears.

"Oh Mina" you sigh, holding the shaky girl in your arms as she can only pour her heart out. This is the fifth unfortunate incident this week, you couldn't help but feel bad for the girl. "Shhh" you mutter out, resting your chin upon her shoulder as you sway her slowly, as if you both were slow dancing at your all so desired wedding by the girl clung to you. Your hand resting on her back rubbed in circles, a comforting mechanism you weren't quite sure worked.

She said nothing, the hallway was dead silent too, you could hear a pindrop if necessary, everyone just stood in respect of the dangerous woman. "What happened to your dad?" You whispered, trying to not draw anymore attention to you two than there already was.

"He got hurt at work y/n, the roof collapsed on him when he was working on the lower floors of the new apartment complex being built down town" You almost forgot her father worked manual labour, bricklaying for a living. This seemed all too familiar though, this was similar to a story she used a few months back, but you kept hushed about it, also wanting to respect her and her father.

And although you didn't necessarily count the amount of horrid events Mina has told you she's been through, you knew it was more than you could count on your own two hands.

"Oh dear, Mina- I-" she pulled back for a brief moment catching you off guard completely, knocking you clean out of your senses as you finally see the slipstream stains down her blushed cheeks. "Y/n, please, promise me one thing."

You nod without hesitation, your brain not corresponding correctly with the situation as you speak "Anything" you could've sworn you saw the corner of her lip tilt up in a smirk only ever seen on the devil himself.

"Please, don't make me cry- ever"

"of course"

"In that case… will you go out with me?" She sniffles quietly.

"But Mina..."

"Please Y/n, you promised! Or am I just that unloved by every soul? Oh why does no one like me?!" She suddenly pulls 'that' playing card, forcing you into something you don't want.. or at least, something you're not able to comprehend that you want yet.

"F-fine.."

[quirkisms]

OFF YOUR CHEST - M. TOGATA (i)

pairing: mirio togata x fem!reader

summary: Mirio tears himself apart, and you're there to heal the pieces.

word count: 2k

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, strangers(ish) to lovers, AU where UA is college, not highschool (i dont want 2 write about minors), mirio is quirkless and is Dealing With It, slow burn, trauma and anxiety coping 

ao3

He splits another knuckle open.

It’s no different than any other exercise or training, but he’s different. He’s stronger now, and smarter but he’s still less. He punches the wall again, willing it to go through. For a second, he thinks he can feel the soft tendrils of the void past the surface beckoning him, urging him forth. It’s asking him where he’s been, that it missed him and that he’s back. For that second, it’s real. His hand is sinking through and he’s back.

But the rough texture of the wall sinks into the cuts he’s ripped into his skin and he’s pulling back, sucking in air through his teeth and withholding curses.

He cradles his right hand with his left, blood trailing down the grooves of the taught tendons on both battered hands.

Mirio’s chest is heaving, his breaths varying from deep to shallow, his heart rate erratic. The buzz in his pocket disrupts his stare at the red stains his punches had left.

TAMAKI

where r u

It hurts to curl his hand around the device, but he does anyway. He wipes the other hand on his pants before responding.

Training! What’s up?

TAMAKI

patrolling tn. just wanted to lyk

Okay - Stay safe! 😀

Mirio pockets his phone. He wants to manually rub the grime out of the cuts or even just leave them the way they are. The sting is a juxtaposition from how his life was before. No longer can he float in the nothingness, phase through infinity until he needs to come up for air.

He feels everything now.

He makes his way towards UA’s medical clinic. It’s late, past dinner at least, which means it’ll be empty save for one person. Recovery Girl doesn’t work the hours like she used to, not since you came in. The clinic after hours feels safe, secretive and his. You’re always there late, as far as Mirio knows. Since the first time he injured himself by pushing himself past his newfound limits (which were significantly less than what they used to be) you’d always been there when he’d sneak in.

Tonight, you were hunched over textbooks, highlighter dangling out of your mouth. If he could’ve, he would’ve lingered in the doorway to watch you. Instead, the few droplets of blood spilling from his hands alerted you of his presence. You peek over your shoulder at him before capping the marker and nodding for him to sit on one of the empty exam beds. It was routine.

“You outdid yourself this time,” You said as you cleaned the open wounds. He’d beaten the flesh raw, almost exposing bone and you wanted to scold him but you knew it was useless. He’d just brush you off with a shrug, a smile and tell you it’s not that big of a deal. Pain is part of getting stronger.

Mirio doesn’t respond. Instead, he chooses to let his eyes flick around the room. Recovery Girl’s absence is notable - no more jar of candy, and you’ve taken over her desk and littered it with your own knicknacks. Your textbooks, an All Might water bottle, a Kamui Woods pez dispenser. It’s cute, he thinks.

“Did you have a punching match with one of those hardening quirks?” You’re frowning as you pop a piece of jerky in your mouth. “Maybe Cementoss?”

“Cementoss,” he confirms, only because that would be the only way he’d have so much...particulate within the splits. Cementoss was made of rock, and Mirio would rather die than admit to you he was relentlessly punching a wall.

You snort, shaking your head as you chew. You both know he’s full of it, but you drop it. You always do.

A soft, blue glow escapes from underneath your hand. His hand feels fuzzy, like it's fallen asleep before it dissipates and you remove your hand, motioning for him to lift his other so you can begin the same process.

As you clean the other hand, Mirio watches you work. You ignore the weight of his gaze the best you can, focusing on repairing the skin and not how strong and smooth his fingers are. His hand is heavy in yours, and the glow of your quirk flickers as you lose focus imaging what his grip would feel like on you.

“Done,” you said, flicking your used gloves into the wastebasket by your feet. Mirio flexes his fingers. Healed. “Y’know, after all these visits,” You raise an eyebrow, “I think you owe me.”

Mirio looks up from his hands to tilt his head at you.

“Tell me how you really get these injuries,” you grab one of his hands loosely and run your thumb over the freshly regenerated skin.

He wasn’t expecting that.

Mirio gapes at you like a fish out of water, like you’re Thirteen and you’ve sucked all of the air out of the room. He pulls himself from your grip to rest his hands in his lap. He’s uncomfortable, uneasy now. He’s liked this place, liked you because questions weren’t asked that he had to give real answers to. It’s not betrayal that Mirio feels, it’s more like loss. It’s the loss that comes with the realization that you can’t outrun everything you want forever. With all the training, all the work Mirio had put in, he thought he could.

“They’re self-inflicted. The bruising, the wound placements. It’s like you’re training yourself to death.”

“It’s not like that - I’m fine, I promise!” Mirio throws his hands up in a defensive motion. He’s summoning the sunlight, the optimism and charm that swooned UA and motivated him to keep working, keep training, to save a million people. He can feel it churning in his chest, but it’s been pressed so deep he’s grasping at the edges and they don’t want to meet his fingertips.

Mirio knew you never believed his excuses - you knew he knew that and you’d been pulled thin between wanting to show concern and ask what was up and respecting his privacy. But at the previous state of his knuckles, you couldn’t drag your feet any longer.

You watch him, face soft and stoic. You’re not coddling, but you’re not cold either. He realizes that you’re just simply waiting.

“I just train too hard,” he gives in, just a little. You raise your eyebrows a fraction and he continues. “I have a lot to make up for, so I tend to overdo it!” He laughs it off - the injuries are a joke, truly. They’re funny to him.

“You get more banged up than Midoriya,” you look at him over the clear frame of the glasses you seem to only wear at the clinic. “How does your training get you more banged up than the other heroes?”

“I’m not a hero,” he’s quick to say, and it stings more than it should. He was, should’ve been, should be.

Your face is soft again, and it’s an art you’ve mastered over time. You’re good at composing your features to appear passive and static. In your many hero encounters, pity is the quickest way to lose trust. So you watch Mirio, with his soft smile and now long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He’s analyzing you just as you are him, and you keep your eyes from flicking to his knuckles when you respond with, “Okay.”

His stomach is churning, still sour with his words but he rubs his hands on his thighs. Why are they so sweaty?

In his distracted state, Mirio doesn’t notice you scribbling down something on a notecard shaped like an anatomical heart. You hand it to him, knocking him out of his trance.

Seven digits, followed by the letters 3G, and four more digits.

“What’s this?” he asks. Obviously the first line is your number, but you lost him with the rest.

“My number,” you aren’t looking at him. Instead you choose to refold the sleeves of your white coat as you continue, “and the passcode to get into my dorm building.”

Mirio does white. The passcode? Why would he need that?”

“I can’t be staying here late every night in case you show up.” You hated trudging back to your dorm on the nights he didn’t show, both eyelids and textbooks weighing you down. “Just stop by my dorm if it’s late like this.”

Mirio opens his mouth but you cut him off.

“Floor 5F, my name is on the door.”

He closes his mouth and smiles, nodding and bowing in thanks. He doesn’t trust his voice, not right now. You’re packing up your textbooks as he exits the clinic.

It doesn’t hit him until he gets back to the 3A dorms that he doesn’t know your name.

He beats himself up about it the whole night. He wishes he could go into Tamaki’s room to distract himself, to ask him about the person who’s basically taken over Recovery Girl’s mantle. Tamaki frequented the clinic as well - used it as an excuse to get out of the heroics lessons and sleep. He’d definitely know your name, unlike his golden counterpart who visited her frequently and never thought to ask.

Mirio tried to comfort himself by thinking that maybe you didn’t know his name either. You’d never asked. But then again, Mirio is (was?) part of UA’s Big Three. The aftermath of the Shie Hassaikai was all anyone talked about for weeks. You’d definitely have to know who he was. Mirio Togata, the kid who lost his quirk. Le Million, the hero who gave and lost everything. You went to UA yourself - there was no way.

He didn’t want to be that sob story to you. But he was constantly coming to you with injuries - split knuckles, a dislocated shoulder, a torn achilles. Maybe he wasn’t exactly that sob story, but he knew you pitied him regardless. Maybe that’s why you always stayed so late - you felt bad for him.

The thoughts makes Mirio uncomfortable.

And so much so that to make himself feel better, he adds your number to his phone. Typing in the numbers, he thinks about how he likes that your handwriting was shitty. Another little thing you let him see, let him learn about you. In lieu of a name, he makes your contact name the stethoscope emoji. He laughs to himself when he saves the contact and types out a message:

How late is too late?

He hesitates, but hits send. It delivers, and after fifteen minutes, Mirio is worried he confused one of your twos for a seven or vice versa. Or, maybe he should’ve introduced himself instead of just sending you a basic question that revealed his identity in no way whatsoever. In the eighteenth minute, you buzz back a response.

🩺

Why?

Might break a bone tomorrow.

It only takes eleven minutes for you to respond this time, and Mirio hates that he’s counting.

🩺

I’ll be sure to eat breakfast then.

No later than midnight, tho.

Okay!

Seven minutes this time. He wasn’t expecting a response.

🩺

You don’t need an injury to stop by, you know.

Mirio grins. A real one.

If you insist. Still might have a scratch or two, though. 😀

Two minutes. Mirio is oblivious to the fact that you are cringing hard at his emoji usage.

🩺

don’t be taking advantage of my quirk :(

You’re right… promise you will be compensated for your time. 👍

It’s immediate.

If it’s not edible, I don’t want it.

Mirio decides he might take it a little easy when he trains tomorrow.

[alternatewarning]

All The King’s Horses Chapter 3 - Whumptober 2020 Fic

Entry number 22 and 25 for Whumptober 2020: Poisoned and Disoriented

Title: All The King’s Horses Chapter 3 Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Pairing: Noctis/Ignis, Gladio/Prompto Rating: M Trigger Warnings: Major character death, coughing up blood, vomit Summary: Now bereft of two of his closest friends, Noctis falls into a somber depression. Ignis does his best to support the prince until Noctis's enemies set their sights on his last pillar of support: his advisor.

Cross posted on Ao3

Noctis’s apartment had never felt more lonely, more empty. The room was just too quiet, too sparse. The prince sat on his couch, alone, the television on but serving as nothing more than a flickering background to intrusive thoughts. He was curled up with his feet on the couch, his head hiding behind his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. Ignis was reminded of the little boy who had needed someone to cling to all those years ago.

But now there was nothing to ease his heart. He couldn’t wrap the prince up in blankets and read him stories of the kings from long ago to soothe his aching soul. His Shield and his best friend had been taken from him so brutally and so quickly, there was no patching the wound they left behind.

Ignis brought over a fresh cup of tea, setting it down on the end table next to Noctis’s arm. He reached out to touch the prince’s shoulder but the other pulled away in silence and so the retainer just offered a small nod. He reached back and grabbed a blanket off the couch, laying it over his prince. Right now Noctis didn’t want someone beside him, he wanted to mourn alone. And he had every right to want that. No one should have to suffer two losses back to back like that, nonetheless a boy who felt things so deeply. The advisor moved back to the kitchen, collecting half-full plates from the kitchen table to wash. It was going to be a very long night.

With a quiet sigh, he picked up the can of coffee he had set aside before trying to cook dinner. Noctis had barely eaten a bite, as expected. The prince had a broken heart and Ignis wasn’t sure how to even start picking up the pieces. For now, his own feelings had been boxed up and set aside, at least until he could sort out his charge. Since it was going to be another long night of handling duties enough for three people (ever since the ‘accident’ he had volunteered to take on Gladio's duties in regards to the Crownsguard to give the man’s father time to grieve) he downed the coffee quickly. There was a slightly bitter taste, almost metallic; he eyed the can’s manufacture date but set it down to recycle it later.

As Ignis started the dishes, the quietness of the apartment hit him like a truck, nothing but the sound of running water and the quiet drone of a television show no one was watching. There was no Gladio to yell at Noctis, to try and manually pull him out of his grief. There was no Prompto to try and cheer him up with jokes or distractions. There was just a broken prince and an advisor trying to find all the pieces.

Once the plates were clean Ignis set them aside in the drying rack, turning his attention next to the pots that he had used to cook. Before he could move on to his task, though, he leaned over the sink, resting his hands on the edge of the metal. It felt like a sudden headache was starting to pound at the back of his mind. Probably too many sleepless nights. With it, though, came an uncomfortable burn in his lungs. He brought up a hand to cover his mouth, barely muffling a wet cough that shook his body with more force than he would have expected of such a sudden onset.

“Specs?” The cocoon of sadness and blankets moved just enough for the black hair to peek out over the island that separated the living room from the kitchen.

“Just feeling a little under the weather, nothing to fuss over.” Ignis did his best to assure the now-worried boy as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He waited until the royal bundle of blankets slowly returned to his original position before turning back to the dishes. He felt like the headache was pressing at his eyes and everything was starting to spin. The advisor worried that if he let go of the sink he would topple over, now no longer entirely sure how steady he was on his feet.

Something was wrong; this wasn’t just some sudden cold or a migraine from pushing himself too hard. Every time he tried to swallow his throat felt sticky and scratchy, slowly building the need to cough. His body won out over his mind and he huddled over the sink, his body wracked with wet coughs that seemed to rattle through his empty chest. It wasn’t just a single cough this time, either, but a full fit that ended with him doubled over, clinging to the counter for purchase.

“Ignis!” “I am fine. It’s just...it’s just, I am a little…” His words faded as the world seemed to spin and he crashed to the floor, bringing the tray of drying plates with him. The ceramic smashed to the ground, shattering to pieces across the kitchen tile. Nocits appeared in a warp of panicked blue, grabbing his friend by his shoulders and hoisting him into a seated position. His wide eyes said everything that was frozen in his chest. He couldn't lose Ignis too.

“Iggy what’s going on, what do I do?!” The boy who was so morose he couldn’t speak only a moment ago was now only a pitch away from shrieking as he wrapped his arms around his only friend left in the world. Before the older man could speak he started to cough, Noctis holding him tightly as if that could prevent him from falling apart from the force. Once the fit finally started to ease, his advisor was heaving for breath, his hands and lips wet with blood.

“Call...can’t...breathe.” The retainer forced out words between deep, worthless gasps of air. The prince could tell that his advisor was forcing himself to stay calm even as his insides were tearing themselves apart. Noctis felt the other’s chest rise and fall in a frantic attempt at getting just a little more oxygen as if he’d run ten marathons one after another. And yet the man in his arms seemed to be fading.

He needed to get someone here, Ignis needed help. They needed help. Noctis reached back into his pocket only to realize he didn’t have his phone. It had gotten smashed to bits back at the building and he hadn’t had the fortitude to go out and get a new one just yet. Fuck. Fine, he had a phone in the apartment. Slowly he set down Ignis on his side, afraid that the man would shatter just like the broken plates. Another coughing fit started and this one was fewer coughs and more gasps between mouthfuls of blood and spit. Noctis hated to leave his side even for a moment but without help, Ignis was going to die. He warped over to the phone and snatched it off the counter fast enough for his own body to feel the whiplash. There was no sound on the other end. A dead line?

“Fuck!” In an instant he was back at his friend’s side, rubbing his back as his mind reeled from the scene in front of him. Ignis had managed to roll over onto his elbows and knees but he was still spitting up blood, his entire body trembling from the effort. His face was starting to look paler and blue and the coughs were sounding more and more like gags.

“Iggy where’s your phone. I need your phone!” He could barely make it out between the heaves and what sounded like dry sobs, but Ignis was shaking his head. Why?! They needed help now!

“Fine, I’m going to get help!” The prince stood up and almost warped out of the room but stopped, his heart twisting out of his chest. He heard a quiet, choked sound, unsteady and weak.

“Don’t go.” Noctis let himself fall to his knees, wrapping his arms around Ignis’s chest and burying his head against the back of the dying man’s neck. The coughing slowed, the heaves faded into quiet rasping. Slowly he turned over his friend in his arms, swallowing back his own tears. Ignis was pale and his lips were faintly blue. He had lost his glasses somewhere along the way and there was blood all down his mouth and neck.

“Noct…” Slowly Ignis reached up, his hand tracing up Noctis’s face before tangling in the black above him. His hand was streaking blood in the prince’s hair but the prince didn’t care. Instead, he leaned in close, watching the green eyes on him, fuzzy and unfocused. Ignis’s voice was so quiet like he was forcing out words with the only air left in his lungs.

“I must...beg for your forgiveness...”

“Iggy, don’t talk, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” His own blue eyes were starting to cloud with tears as he leaned down until their foreheads were touching. Ignis’s skin was almost cold to the touch.

“I wanted to be...by your side until the end. Noct I...” The body in his arms suddenly slumped, his hand ghosting touches against the prince’s cheek before it landed limply between them.

“Iggy? Specs? Ignis! Ignis!” Even as he screamed his retainer made no movement, now just a pale specter of what he had been mere moments ago. In only a few minutes his last lifeline had been completely severed. For the first time, he could remember he felt completely and utterly alone. Since before he could remember Ignis had always been there. By his side, sometimes mothering him, sometimes being a friend, and sometimes just being a silent shadow, a reminder that no matter what he was never alone. But now he was.

Noctis let his own body go slack, shock setting into his bones. Someone had taken his entire life from him. Someone had taken his friends, his brothers, and he was not going to let them get away with it. Slowly he shifted so that he could pull Ignis’s body into his lap, leaning the dead weight against his shoulder. There wasn’t anyone to tell him that it was going to be okay because it wasn’t. Not anymore. Someone had taken his Shield, they had made him feel vulnerable. Someone had taken his sunshine, they made him feel fear. Now they had taken his heart and they were going to feel his wrath.

But for now, his wrath would have to wait. He pushed it aside, letting it feed on his emotions, growing quietly in the back of his mind. He was just going to sit here, stretch out the last moment he could with his closest friend, with someone who meant more to him than any words could ever express. Even as Ignis’s body went cold he refused to let go, resting his cheek against the brunette hair. It wasn’t until the king showed up, worried about his son, that he was separated from the bloodied body in his arms. When Regis tried to comfort his son he realized that the boy was no longer there, only the shell built up of rage and pain remained.

No one knew what to do, how to try and fill the hole left in the boy’s heart. He’d lost his mother long ago and now all of his friends lay dead. Noctis turned all of his energy, his focus, into finding out who it was, why everything had been taken from him. It didn’t take long for the prince to find them, fueled by his single-minded focus. There was a group, small but connected. They had been building, growing for years. They apparently united under one focus, one purpose: for the prince to become stronger. They worried he was too sensitive, too weak, that he relied too much on those around him. If he was going to be their next king he needed to be strong.

By the age of twenty-five, Noctis had taken over the throne for his ailing father. The rumors and dissent around him being too weak to be a king quickly quieted once he held the crown. No longer the sensitive chosen son, he ruled with an iron fist, single-minded in his quest for peace. After the murder of his retainers, he took more, another Shield, another advisor, but they were attendants in name only. He refused to let any heart close to his own. He married to continue his line, to keep the peace he forged with fear and power, but there was no love. When it was his time to be entombed he was given the full ceremony of a king of Lucis, his sword buried at his grave. And upon it an inscription: Noctis: The Broken.

[jaydcstories]

SAM by John Dee Cooper © 2020

Chapter 13

It wasn’t too bad to begin with. They were just rubbing stuff into his skin, making it shiny and smooth and giving it a light healthy sheen.

All the same Sam didn’t find it easy standing astride with his arms spread out like some great marble statue, while the toad’s clammy little fingers rubbed ointment into his broad back and buttocks, and the little barefoot boy massaged his thighs, and Master Jack smoothed oil into his torso.  It didn’t feel natural — especially as it stirred undesirable and dangerous urges in him. He blushed with shame when a rush of heat to his groin forced his cock to edge outwards and rub up against Master Jack’s leg.

Jack didn’t seem to mind. He was delighted with the result of the body rub. It rendered the slave’s flesh smooth and tactile and added extra bulk to his impressive array of muscles.

They fitted steel bands to his upper arms to emphasise the roundness of his biceps and tried a similar thing with his calf muscles — but that didn’t look half so good so they took them off. Instead they fitted permanent steel cuffs to his wrists and ankles. They were small, neat and heavy, with clips built into them so that they could quickly and easily be connected to rope or chains or whatever was to hand.

Jack was a little more hesitant when they came to discuss body attachments. He wanted to preserve the slave’s naturally rugged physique and didn’t want to spoil it with too many ornaments, but the rep showed him how a few carefully positioned and scarcely visible studs could be inserted into the slave’s flesh enabling rings, chains and other attachments to be added whenever desired.  

“The most popular locations are the ears, nose, tongue, nipples and penis,” he explained “ and I have an interesting gagging device that allows the tongue to be pinned to the floor of the mouth. And of course we must discuss what we’re going to do with the genitalia — ball stretchers, maybe? Or even a chastity cage if that’s what you have in mind.”

Sam tried to pretend they were talking about someone else but the toad’s fat fingers were all over him prodding and squeezing.

“We need to get cracking, if you want the slave ready for this evening” he said, once Jack had made his selection from the catalogue. “We’ll use needles because they cause less damage to the surrounding flesh and healing is quicker, but we need to keep them red hot to avoid infection — we don’t use sanitary or numbing agents on slaves, so we need to hold him steady or it could turn messy.”  

There were three eager volunteers on the sofa who were only too willing to grab hold of the slave while a small flame burner was lit and the needles heated up.

The earlobes came first. They were easy and though the needle stung as it burrowed its way through the soft flesh, it was quite bearable and Sam reckoned he could probably cope if it was all going to be at this level of discomfort, even though he wasn’t sure he really wanted his body messed about with in this way.

He even managed to contain himself when the needle was jabbed through his nasal cartilage, although it made his eyes water and he had to fight back a sneeze which he thought was going to split his nose wide open.

It was when they got to his tongue that the trouble started. The initial piercing was quick and easy enough — though it stung like hell and he had to hold his tongue out so far it choked. But the clever device for screwing his tongue to the inside of his mouth meant his jaw had to be forced open and held in position with a  metal clamp. It was clear to everyone this was going to hurt — especially Sam who flew into a panic. The three volunteers tightened their grip, but Sam had had enough. He’d decided he didn’t want his body ripped apart like this, even if it was just to please his Master.

With one mighty heave of his powerful arms he flung the three startled volunteers across the room, grabbed the toad by the wrists and tried to wrench the instruments of torture out of his hand — and would have succeeded if the little barefoot boy, who’d been trained to deal with just such an event, hadn’t jabbed him in the small of the back with an electric slave prod.

Sam went rigid, dropped to his knees and toppled forward onto the rubber sheet.

It was a simple matter now to pull his wrists and ankles back and bind the shiny new cuffs together with rope.

Securely hogtied and still stunned  from the shockwave, he was lifted onto his knees, his head pushed back and his mouth forced open. There was a sickening taste of metal and blood as the toad worked on him and although Sam couldn’t move he could feel the needle scraping about inside his mouth and fingers squeezing down on his tongue.

By the time it was over,  Sam’s faculties had returned, but he still couldn’t move. Somebody had got an arm round his neck. His jaw ached and he couldn’t loosen his tongue. He wondered for a moment if his tongue hadn’t been cut out altogether but then it began to throb and he realised it was pinned to the bottom of his mouth. He panicked again and nearly choked when he tried to swallow. The clamp was still holding his jaw open and saliva was dribbling down his chin and onto his chest.  No wonder he hardly noticed the toad drilling needles into his nipples and his cock and God knows where else.

Jack suggested they take a break  while they discussed what to do next, so he and the Kerkermann rep retired to one of the sofas where they talked about things to do to Sam’s genitalia while  the house boy served them tea. They’d pushed Sam over onto his side, facing away from them, still bound hand and foot. A mountain of heaving muscle, Jack thought, mute and obedient, a prize catch for him to mould and exploit for his own personal pleasure and fulfilment. He was enjoying this.

Sam on the other hand was fighting off the pain, his body torn and bruised, wild images of disfigurement and contortion infiltrating  his imagination. It felt as if his whole body had been pierced through with needles and studs, all itching and tugging at his flesh — he wasn’t even sure how many or where they all were. They’d taken the jack out of his mouth, but his jaw ached and he couldn’t move his tongue. He moaned and took deep breaths. What were they turning him into? Some kind of monster? The reflection he’d seen in the shower room mirror — he’d looked so proud and magnificent then — it had been too good to be true.

The conference on the sofa over, it was time to get Sam back on to his feet, but when they untied him he simply lay there, curled up like a foetus, too ashamed and fearful to reveal himself. They had to kick him a few times to get him to move, and as he gradually rose, first onto his hands and knees then slowly one foot at a time, his strength and his courage returned.  

Not daring to look down at his body convinced it was all bloody and covered in scars (which it clearly wasn’t judging by the calm look of approval on Master Jack’s face), he stretched to his full height, flexed a few muscles and taking a deep breath drew all the soreness and discomfort out from wherever he could sense it and relaxed wholesome and complete and feeling strangely aware of his own heightened physical presence — an awareness that manifested itself most visibly in the massive erection that was now the focus of everyone’s attention — an erection that was driven and sustained by the weight of a shiny steel ring jutting out of the tip of his bulging cock head. The sight of it alarmed him at first — how did he not feel them do that? But with a few more deep breaths he had that under his control as well — even though Master Jack was dragging his fingers lightly up and down the length of his shaft triggering spasms of such intensity that Sam was fearful his cock was going to explode.

“Now let’s get to work on those gonads,” said the toad, “while they’re still loose and pliable.”

Sam’s legs were kicked apart and he was bent forward, with his hands on his ankles and his arse in the air. The little bare foot boy crawled underneath and grabbed hold of his testicles, pulling them down while the toad clipped a heavy steel collar round the root of his scrotum. When the boy let go, Sam’s balls hung low and heavy under the weight of the steel collar and the little barefoot boy tested them by flicking them several times with his knuckles making them swing from side to side.

“And now while we have him in this position, we can fit this useful little gadget,” said the toad, proudly presenting an oddly shaped rubber plug with a series of tiny buttons worked into its base. “It’s our number one internal control device with adjustable dimensions so that it can fit comfortably inside any slave without fear of slipping out or being removed without the owner’s knowledge or consent. And it’s operated by this neat little owner’s remote device  with switches for stimulation as well as for control. It’s state of the art!”  

Jack was intrigued and told the rep to go ahead and fit it.

Still bending forwards, Sam was told to reach round with his hands and spread his cheeks. He could feel the toad’s fat fingers probing and poking.

“I can tell this arse has been put to good use,” he heard the toad say. “It should slide in quite easily.”

Sam braced himself. He’d grown accustomed to being fucked by cocks of all sizes while he was in the ruined cottage but this was something quite different. It was solid, heavy and lifeless. The toad had to give his buttocks a few hard slaps to get him to open up enough to let it in. It seemed to fill his whole gut and once it was in it just hung there aching to be pushed out again. Then suddenly he felt it shift and tighten inside him as the toad showed Master Jack how to use the remote control to adjust its size.

“You must remember to give the slave a good flush out before fitting it for any length of time,” warned the toad, referring Jack to the device’s manual, “and to keep him off solid food while it’s in there, otherwise,” he whispered, “ there could be unfortunate consequences when you pull it out.”

Sam was told to stand up straight and that’s when the full impact of the intrusive plug took effect, forcing him to grip his arse muscles and tighten his buttocks causing the solid rubber to press against his prostrate, making his cock jut out as stiff as a rod.

“Very impressive,” said Jack approvingly, inviting the lads on the sofa to come and have a feel of it.

“If you like,” said the toad with an obsequious  grin, “we can prolong that magnificent erection with the help of this little angel.”

He held up a phial of green liquid and mischievously waved a hypodermic needle in the space around Sam’s cock.

“It’s extremely effective and can last up to four hours with the correct dosage. It’s been fully tested and is quite harmless.”

He read out from the leaflet before demonstrating how to make the injection, then handed the hypodermic needle to Jack, who was keen to give it a try.

Sam held his breath as Master Jack loaded the needle and plunged it deep into the fleshy root of his penis.  For a moment there was nothing , then Sam felt a dull ache where the needle had bruised him and his stomach began to quiver and his groin to tingle and burn and his rock hard cock to dance about clutching wildly at the air as his balls bulged and shifted and bolts of lightening shot through his thighs making his whole body tremble and his cock head to twitch. He sucked in air, clenched his muscles and tried to control the force that was surging through his veins, setting his nerve ends on fire.

“Magnificent,” murmured Jack with a thrill of satisfaction as he stroked and petted the hard edgy hunk of slave muscle that stood nervously at attention in front of him.

The Kerkermann rep sorted out a few remaining items, including a lotion to rub into the slave’s ball sac to keep it smooth and hairless, lubricants for the butt plug and an assortment of ornaments, clips, chains and trinkets with which to adorn the slave’s body. He gave Jack a payment form to sign and handed over a receipt and that was it. He shook hands while the little barefoot boy rolled up the rubber mat and put it back in the suitcase, and the pair of them left the room..

“We’ve  just got time to test this thing,” said Jack, picking up the remote control, “and then we really must get ready for dinner. The Brigadier won’t appreciate us being late.”

He and the three occupants of the sofa watched with interest as the slave’s body twisted and squirmed while Jack tried each of the controls in turn. He discovered how to induce a gentle vibration that instantly set the slave moaning and his already rampant cock twitching, a short sharp shock that made him straighten up, alert and ready for command and, best of all, a crippling blow at full power that had him on his knees clutching his arse and howling as best as he could with his tongue pinned to the bottom of his mouth.

The three fellows on the sofa were delighted with this and they all wanted to have a go, so they played around with it for about half an hour, until at last Jack said it really was time to get ready for dinner and led the newly adorned slave out by a lead he’d attached to a ring in his nose.

JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVE STORIES OBEDIENT SERVICE GOOGLE GROUP

[mhaccunoval]

Though it was something that could not be proven by either of their fields, Hermann could only equate his thought to step into the K-Science lab as… well, instinct. 

A majority of that instinct was rationally knowing he needed to quadruple check some equations before handing them over to the marshal, but undoubtedly there was something else brewing as well. Nausea often came with the fatigue caused by his condition but this wave curling in his gut was unprecedented and left him to his usual stim drumming his fingers on the head of his cane as he ran through an entire internal debate in under a minute.

His ultimate decision was to go to the lab, for better or for worse, and though it took his momentarily stiff muscles a second to catch up with the order sent by his brain, his gait was as brisk as he could manage without entirely inflaming his joints. At least three people nearly bumped into him, one being successful, as he sauntered through hallways to reach his destination but it was nothing compared to the pain of all of the air being knocked from his lungs as he stood in the doorway. There was a pile of junk haphazardly pieced together among the clutter of Newt’s half of the lab and, most importantly, Newt himself was half sitting, half laying on the floor below the table that held his makeshift machine.

For as fast as his heart was already racing seeing the sight, Hermann lingered a moment longer in the doorway to make sure Newt was truly seizing and it wasn’t his eyes deceiving him. With his affirmation in place, he ambled as fast as he could across their yellow tape and virtually fell with how abruptly he knelt by Newt’s side to release the PONS. His body did not appreciate the sudden movements at all, dizziness rippling through his head and pain flaring behind his eyes, but it was unimportant given the current task before him. The force that he expelled upon the manual release button of the PONS must have been enough to hit Newt’s head as well, he imagined, and most likely didn’t help his half-conscious state.

Newton’s nose was already bleeding fairly vigorously and his eyes, one ringed with blood, were rolled back in his head, prompting Hermann to recite the Lord’s prayer in Hebrew under his breath as he pushed the headset off and began grasping to pull Newt more upright to his chest. It seemed as though Newt had come back to briefly as he grasped the blazer fabric around Hermann’s shoulder and elbow, interrupting Hermann’s fourth recitation, and gasping for air. All Hermann could do was heave as well and back-track his plan about fifteen steps to accommodate this unexpected moment until Newt’s eyes closed and he went limp again.

Hermann left out a sigh of half relief and dug through his pockets for his handkerchief, dabbing the sweat collected on Newt’s forehead and neck before tending to his nose. His knees were at their limit, his shoes were almost all the way off, and yet he remained kneeling and hauling Newt into his arms so he was sat up and had the greater capacity at which to breathe. The breaths in his blackout state were small, concerning, so rubbing circles on his back was the best chance of getting him to snap back and actually get the amount of air he needed. It took a few minutes of rubbing and holding but eventually Hermann felt Newt’s robust coughing course through his body and his subsequent tremor.

He thanked a god he wasn’t sure he wholly believed in and cradled Newt’s head against his jaw, reminding him to breathe despite all of the shaking. Newt whimpered through some of his breaths but the side kisses into his hair and the arms around him toned down his shuddering slightly and loosened his death grip on the back of Hermann’s coat. Once his vision came back, more or less (it was still spotty and his ears were ringing viciously), he sat back and took a good look at Hermann, noting the ragged exhales that mirrored his own. Just by staring into his clouded eyes, Hermann could see the chaos bouncing around Newt’s skull and knew, for as reckless and foolish his experiment had been, there was vital information he had picked up on and needed to alert the marshal about immediately.

With a hefty groan, he grasped for his cane and endeavored to not wrinkle his nose at the pain and tingling coursing through his body as he got to his feet. He mentally logged the necessity to wash his handkerchief later and shifted his weight to his more stable leg, the knee of his weaker leg shaking as he did, turning his cane around in his hand to drag Newt’s desk chair into his general vicinity for when he could endure pulling himself off the floor to sit in it. Newt watched him with blank yet suspicious eyes until he had the brain power to make the connection and could read what Hermann’s grimace was telling him. Hermann glared at him a tick longer before scampering to the LOCCENT where Pentecost had a ninety-eight point seven percent chance of being, not having the strength to gaze back at Newt’s terrified face.

☽☼☾

There was a strange feeling that wormed its way into their celebratory hugs. The first was brief, broken by both letting go and clapping a hand on Choi’s shoulder, yet there was something about briskly meeting face to face in an embrace that jabbed both of them. The second was prompted by Newt’s insistence on wrapping his arm around Hermann’s shoulder, despite the awkward height difference, that was in fact prompted by Hermann’s cheeky side grin and insistence on stepping closer. As Newt’s arm lingered, the feeling caught onto them; it was warm like the skin of an inflamed limb and most likely had a logical explanation that they weren’t seeing so clearly in their continued daze.

The moment he felt Newt’s arm around him, Hermann instinctively gripped his cane in a fluster, feeling too many hormones rushing all at once, but his smile remained as serotonin was the biggest flood of them all. Newt was less flustered and more heart-warmed that Hermann was allowing him the change to show some public affection, in spite of all his rules, rants, and otherwise. As they watched the gallery erupt in further grasp and squeezes, Newt’s arm stayed where it was, not having the audacity to move, and his cheek squished against Hermann’s other bony shoulder.

In the same moment as Hermann watched Newt’s eyes close and his brows furrow from a sudden wave of dizziness, by post-drift effects or sheer coincidence, his hip flared in pain, both buckling against each other as support. With the vaguest drift connection idling, they knew the other would refuse to go to medical and equally huffed at each other for it. As much as Newt would have loved a drink (or ten), one black out was enough for him and wanted to preemptively save himself a next day scolding, instead opting to move his arm from Hermann’s shoulder to into his elbow and allowed Hermann to lean on him. The help was begrudgingly taken, more out of distaste for asking for it than a distaste for the helper.

Their quarters were adjacent to each other, much to their frequent dismay, but Newt, being ever the gentleman for once in his damned life, openly protested the idea of letting Hermann go into his alone, which was secretly flattering. He was able to operate the lock with once hand, trying to keep a blush from creeping onto his face as Newt pressed his cheek into his shoulder again and (lovingly) observed. The inside was as neat as ever, a mix of Hermann’s attempt at professionalism and his impulse cleaning that kept urges at bay, and the path towards the bed was clear, unlike in the organized chaos of Newt’s own quarters. Newt’s grip on his arm tightened as he felt Hermann begin to wobble, desperately needing to put him to bed or risk the relapse that was waiting to happen.

Hermann hunkered onto his soft duvet heavily and painfully groaned as he did, Newt scuttling to the bathroom for his relapse-reducing medicine and non-prescription painkillers for himself. There was a spare cup on the edge of the sink that he filled with sink water after taking all of the pills in hand, swallowing his aspirin first before walking out and handing Hermann his. He flopped down beside him, barely leaving any room between their knees, and made sure Hermann actually took the meds, in spite of being the one who always forgot his own. Hermann peered at him in his peripheral but surprisingly didn’t oppose the observation.

After he finished, he placed the empty glass on his night-table, careful not to over-stretch, and turned back to Newt, who was wide-eyed and examining his features. He began to wrinkle his nose in confusion over the inspection but Newt was already leaning in, starting to place a hand on Hermann’s thigh to brace himself, and gingerly crashed their lips together, as if to not startle him. Once Hermann realized what he was doing, he playfully sighed, the exhale hot on Newt’s cheek, and pulled his weight, cupping one side of Newt’s face. However when their brains registered what was going on, stray neurons replayed what they saw in the drift space, but with less electricity zapping through their skulls from the PONS headsets.

It felt like they were entrapped in the kiss for hours but it had only been a few minutes when Hermann felt something warm and wet on his cupid’s bow and was not Newt getting too eager. He reluctantly pulled back and wiped the dampness with the thumb of his free hand, only to find that his nose had started to bleed again. To make matters worse, some of the blood on his lip wasn’t his own, as Newt’s nose was gushing again and his brain was too foggy to notice. Digging out his handkerchief once again, he generously wiped his own nose before tilting Newt’s head back and pinching the bridge of his nose for him with one hand, the other holding the cloth under his nostrils. Newt was gritting his teeth over it but in his heart of hearts, he was thankful for all of Hermann’s care.

Once their bleeding stopped, they made direct eye contact and knew what the other was thinking without an exchange of words. Although bickering and insulting each other took up most of their relationship, it could be something more, just like when they wrote letters to each other. The spark was still there but it seemed the universe wanted them to be patient, or at least find another way of expression before diving head on into such affection. Newt’s eyes were turning blue with his brief despair and Hermann could only think to lace their hands together in his lap, his own heart stinging as well. They say patience is a virtue, so they would just have to be virtuous and take their time.

☽☼☾

[inspo: gif & post]

[shadydreamerdonut]

Sweeney Todd Drabble

"I want him to see the flowers in my eyes and hear the songs in my hands."

Mrs. Lovett sat up with a yawn, wiping the drool from her chin with the back of wrist. She swallowed, reaching for the glass of water beside her bed as her mouth tasted dry. Pausing briefly as she recognized the familiar dull ache between her legs. The absent space beside her made the bed feel colder than ever as she pulled the covers up, holding them tight to her body. 

 Her body hurt to the touch to be honest but not from last night. Instead the drag and haul of each day, they made her limbs feel like lead, sinking into the mattress like deadweight, Mrs. Lovett was tempted to lay back down. Her head was heavy but she knew that she would fall back asleep in seconds if she did. She longed to succumb back into that gentle blackness where there was no pain. The despair was tight in her chest made it difficult to breathe. But when she was asleep, her lungs inflated with as much air as she needed, fatigue fading off. Soon she was as light as a cloud, floating in the sky. Carefree. 

Shaking out those ridiculous ideals like cobwebs, she stood and picked up the dress from the floor. Pushing herself up by her hands and throwing herself into another day. With a strength and determination that could not be paralleled. Doing her best to forget that she’d waken up alone. Having been what caused her to shrink back like a frightened child in the first place.  

Grunting, the petite baker climbed up to the parlor, her knees protesting each creaking step. Bringing the barber his breakfast on a long slate. She got the door open by pushing with her shoulder and sighing as it swung shut behind her. Placing the meal down carefully on the antique mahogany chest. Wiping her hands on her apron before looking up toward him as he faced the window. Staring outside. She waited with baited breath for any kind of response. There was none even after she’d stood there for minutes. Finally turning on her heel, letting the door slam shut behind her harder than necessary.

Every minute that followed felt like an hour, the whole day feeling like a month that Mrs. Lovett had spent on her feet. Wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm. That stung enough to make her gasp. Against the little bruises and cuts from utensils and manual labor that littered her skin. But she grew not to mind, the pain reminded her that she was alive. For a fleeting moment, air would fill her lungs and so she could exhale a shaking breath. If only to be brought back under into the endless drowning waters of despair. That suffocated her, she couldn’t breathe, always on the verge of falling to her knees and crying. In giving up. It was all becoming too much. Constantly sweating through the fabric of her dresses, her face sore from smiling all the time at impatient customers. Feet throbbing from hurrying up and down the hell soaked stairs. Digging her meat cleaver into the hard bones of strangers. Hauling the remains of their corpse over her shoulder to be burned in the devil’s maw.  

The crimson-haired demoness was exhausted. 

That night she collapsed into her bed, falling face first into the pillows. Not even bothering to change out of her dress as she fisted her hands in the sheet. Sleep washed over her, an enormous wave, drowning into the blue depths and arriving in a safe haven. She could almost taste the salty air on her tongue. 

Jumping when she was jostled awake by a shake of her shoulder. Lurching herself upright, blinking away the blackness. Eyes adjusting to the dim lighting and meeting a dark obsidian stare. Void of emotion. Burning holes into her forehead. She frowned and swatted him away like a mosquito. Ignoring the longing that melted inside her like candlewax.

“I’m not in the mood.”

He paused, not moving away from her bedside. But didn’t try to touch her again either.

“Are you ailing?”

Mrs. Lovett snorted, of course, a woman would have to be suffering from the plague to not want sex.

“No. Just don’t feel like it.”

He didn’t push the issue further. Turning on his heel, leaving without another word. With a click of her bedroom door closing. Mrs. Lovett let out a breath that she didn’t realizing she had been holding in. Rolling over onto her side and finding it frustratingly difficult to fall back asleep. She reached out her hand toward the empty side of her bed and felt a single tear roll down her cheek.

It was just another morning, the sky gray as usual. The air was cold against her cheeks as she brought him his breakfast the next day as if nothing had happened the night before. Which also fell neatly into the routine as they never spoke about what took place when the sun went down and all was silent around them.

“Good morning, Mistah T. Did you sleep well?” She tried to sound unaffected. She waited only to just to be greeted by the birds chipping outside. Adverting her eyes to stare absently at the breakfast that now sat on his chest and would probably still be untouched when she came for it in the afternoon. She balled her tiny hands into fists. He’d moved to sit in his chair, his hands folded neatly in front of him as he fixed his attention solely to the wall opposite him.

She, Mrs. Lovett picked the tray back up with everything still on it. The freshly brewed tea, steam clouding from it. The piece of toast with a spread of marmalade and half of a sliced apple. Furiously raging toward the indifferent barber. Originally she was going to force it into his lap but seeing that even still standing right fucking next to him, he ignored her. She raised the slate above him. Then smashed it over his head with a thunderous clang. The sound echoed in for miles, the room shook as if there had been an earthquake. Everything was sent flying. The hot tea scalded his leg and the glass shattered. The slate split in half with the force of impact. The food haphazardly decorated the immaculate floor.

“FUCKING ANSWER WHEN SOMEBODY TALKS TO YOU!”

Sweeney was breathless with pain and shock. Silence was deafening.  It was one, two, thirty seconds before he was standing and turning to Mrs. Lovett, shoving her to the floor without hardly having to use any force. Falling back onto her hands and feet. Eyes wide. The petite redhead looked up at him. Hissing when she felt the hot liquid burn her through the fabric of her skirts.

Growling, he pulled her back up by the front of her dress and corralled her into the wall. Her knees were weak so that if he wasn’t holding her, the grief-stricken widow would still be a puddle of mush on the floor. He brought his razor to her throat, so that she could feel the cold silver against her warm skin. The sharp edge barely digging into her skin.. Struggling to catch her breath already. Both of her gloved hands flat against the wall. She stared at him with doe eyes. Her rage having deflated from her like a popped balloon. She could feel her heart ache again, feel it throbbing loud between her ears only for him.

“If you were not so indispensable to my revenge, I would kill you where you stand, Mrs. Lovett.” He hissed every syllable of her name.

His breath hot against her cheek as the longest moment of her life passed. Soon as he was there, he wasn’t. Pacing back to the window, standing astute. Brushing off the mess of the confrontation like dust from his sleeves. Meanwhile, Mrs. Lovett couldn’t move. Everything hurt, she clutched her chest and dry-heaved several times, nearly lurching forward. Tears fell from her eyes and she brought her knees up and began to sob into her lap. Letting out loud, heart-wrenching wails that were barely muffled from her curled up position.

Uncomfortable, Sweeney barked. “Leave me. And I expect you to come back to clean up this mess.” Truthfully, lacking the threatening tone he had intended. He rocked on the heels of his feet. Hoping she didn’t notice the slight hesitation.

Mrs. Lovett didn’t notice, instead she moved to stand up. Beginning to crawl like an injured animal. Soon using the wall to hoist herself onto her feet, head still bowed. Limping down the stairs like she had been beaten within an inch of her life. She did her best to wipe away her tearstained face with her sleeve before stepping back inside her home, the warmth surrounding her instantly. 

When Toby peaked his head from the kitchen and asked what had happened, she shrugged. Then he asked about preparing for the dinner rush, Mrs. Lovett rasped with a weak smile. “I’m sorry, son. We’re not opening tonight. Nothing to fret over, just do whatever you’d fancy instead.” Toby wanted to protest but gave a respectful nod. Not bothering his Mother any further.

Stepping into her bedroom, Mrs. Lovett winced at the light that poured in from her window. Drawing the curtains shut and sitting onto her bed. Still trembling like mad, as she did her best to calm herself. Reaching for the cold mug of tea beside her but found her hands shook too much to take hold of it. Sitting unmoving for how long, the heartbroken baker didn’t know. But when she finally came to she was filled with grief. And found her spirit had shattered like glass, just the same as the glass against the floor above her. Moving from the edge of her bed, she went to her cupboard and pulled from it a bottle of painkillers. From when Albert had gout in his leg. They were probably out of date now but that didn’t matter for her purposes.  

Moving to sit back on her bed she popped off the cap and poured the remaining capsules out onto her open hand. Every beat of her heart hurt and soon she realized that more tears had begun to fall, tasting the salt on her lips. Before she could change her mind brought the handful of pills to her mouth and swallowed them all down with a large gulp of tea. Gasping. Then taking another drink of the tangy beverage to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the pills. Laying down onto her bed, the sheets were cool against her skin. The petite baker ignored that her skirt was still damp and she smelled heavy of sweat. Instead she was lulled to sleep, peacefully by the heavy weight of the pills. Quickly metabolized by the sheer heat of her being.

There were eight seashells on the table beside Mrs. Lovett’s hospital bed. One for every day that she had been asleep. One for every morning that Sweeney had visited. He would only ever buy one at a time, hoping that he wouldn’t need to come back for another. Sometimes, he’d stay from breakfast until visiting hours were over. Other times, he was forced to return to his parlor so that he could continue to have an income. He wanted to make sure that they were still comfortable financially when she woke up so that she wouldn’t feel the need to push too hard, she would either way. That was just her nature, he thought with a frown. He hadn’t ever noticed, he hadn’t paid mind to anything about her. Even though she was what made it possible not only for him to complete his revenge, but to have a place to stay and meals to eat and live a somewhat functioning life. He owed her his life. And he had threatened to kill her.

He deserved the pain that her death would cause him. For all the grief he’d brought upon her. It would only be fitting that the last part of his former life be so cruelly torn away from him. Then, he really would have nothing left. And the judge wouldn’t be to blame this time. He held her cold hand in his own and rubbed little circles in the inside of her wrist.

Now he knew what it was like to have loved someone and be met with silence. Surprised she didn’t smash a slate over his head sooner, he thought with a sad smirk. He even started to notice little things. Her long lashes, the curve of her cheekbone, full lips and red hair that shined like fire under the sunlight. How small she was in comparison to him, which made him wince internally for every time that he was rough with her. When she woke up, he would treat her more carefully. With tenderness and gentle touches. He would make things right when she woke up. If she ever did.

[damn-daemon]

We Were Gods (Pacific Rim)

(Reboot preview for @marvelousthronewars)

Remember K-Day.

Those posters had been plastered on every building, every bulletin board, every flat surface that people could stick them to. Songs were written, documentaries were made, and rumor had it there was a Hollywood production in the works. The Kaiju was on display in some museum, tens of thousands of lives were lost, and the crippling effects to the United States military would last for years.

Remember K-Day? There would be no forgetting it.

Especially for those of us who survived.

Prologue Carolina

August 15th, 2013 Oakland, California

Mommy, when are you coming home?

Someone is screaming. It isn’t until I need to take a breath that I realize it’s me.

Even then, it’s hard to stop.

My leg is pounding and my back is on fire. There is blood on my hands, but I don’t have the presence of mind to investigate where it came from. I can’t even comprehend which direction is up, much less give myself a medical evaluation.

I’m lying on the floor of the helicopter, which is actually the left side door. The Black Hawk had landed on its side at the end of the crash. My leg is suspended above me, caught in the radio cables, while the rest of my body awkwardly straddles the door gun.

For a moment, I stare at my foot, as it swings above me, then past it where the right door has been busted open. The sky above is bright and cheery. I can almost pretend the ash is falling snow.

“Williams!” my voice croaks as sense begins to reestablish itself. “Williams, talk to me!”

Pinned in my helmet, I can’t turn my head to look for my fellow crew chief, but it doesn’t take long for me to realize that I don’t have to. It was the reason we crashed. That giant…thing destroying the city took a swipe at the helicopter, taking the door, and Williams, with it.

“Fuck!”

I take a breath, assessing my situation. My hand gingerly reaches out to my foot, hoping to untangle it from the cords, but something in my back strains, and my hand flops uselessly back to the ground. I’m unable to reach it. So, I shift my hips, attempting to lift my leg free. Everything is on fire again, my nerves, my muscles, my bones. The only thing that keeps me going is another scream.

When my leg is finally free, it hits the floor, hard, and the pain makes me pass out.

It’s darker when I wake up. Something is rumbling in the distance. Thunder maybe.

Or it.

I reach up and pull my helmet off, head crying in relief as my hair spills around my face. Tucking the strands away, my hand rubs against something painful and sticky. There is a gash on my forehead. Explains the blood.

Taking deep breaths, I brace myself for the pain to come, silently hoping I’m not in for another nap. Idyllically, I shouldn’t move. My back is damaged in ways I can only make worse, but I can’t fool myself. No one is coming for me in this chaos. To them, I’m already dead.

I roll, slowly, onto all fours, gingerly testing each limb for any breaks. My right leg pulses slightly, but it’s a green light otherwise. I should be grateful my hip didn’t pop out of its socket.

Carefully, I crawl over the wreckage to the cockpit, but I don’t hold out much hope for survivors. Pilots always took one hell of a hit when these things crashed. If either had survived, their legs would be all but useless to them, and I am hardly in a position to do them much good. A bandage and a prayer won’t go far out here.

A bloody mess is all that greets me. I don’t even recognize either man anymore.

I lean back, facing the sky again.

How the hell did I survive?

Another rumble catches my attention, followed by two F-16 fighter jets flying dangerously low.

Definitely not a storm then.

Climbing out of the helicopter is a struggle. I fall several times, finding a new pain with each attempt. Somehow, I claw my way to the surface, rolling onto the remains of the door where I lay on my back for some time, catching my breath and waiting for the pulsing to leave the edges of my vision.

We landed dead center in the street, some shopping district by the looks of it. Parked cars are crushed under rubble, windows are blown out of storefronts, bags and purses and bits of groceries lie abandoned on the ground. There isn’t a soul in sight.

In the distance, a building collapses.

I watch the debris as it blasts through the street, quickly covering my face as it washes over me. A muffled sort of silence falls over the area, as though I am underwater. There is sound, and yet I can’t hear anything, only my breath against my gloves.

There is nothing but gray when I dare to uncover my face. Unless a good wind comes through, the dust won’t settle, lingering in the humid summer air for some time. I lift my shirt over my mouth and nose, cursing myself for leaving my helmet behind. My goggles are on it.

I continue to watch the area, making out what few silhouettes I can; I need to make a plan, figure out where I am and get the hell out.

Sudden movement in the distance catches my attention.

I flip over onto my stomach, adrenaline canceling out whatever pain I might have felt.

Only then do I feel the ground shaking.

Trespasser is larger than the surrounding buildings. It moves slowly, but each step is hundreds of feet. In the darkness of the debris cloud, I can see its eyes glowing blue.

And they are looking at me.

It screams.

For a creature so large, the sound is painfully shrill. I cover my ears in pain, rolling off the helicopter onto the street below.

I curl up into a ball, my hands still on my ears, waiting for it to stop, screaming all the while.

Just stop.

Please.

Stop.

“Gregory! Gregory, listen to me!”

Someone is standing over me. Why isn’t he covering his ears too?

“This isn’t real!” he shouts. He has an accent.

Not real? Of course it’s real. People died. People are still dying. We are going to die.

“Think about your daughter!”

Casey? How does he know about Casey? My beautiful little girl who is so far from here, but safe. She’s safe. I wish I was safe with her. She just turned seven last month and…

No, that isn’t right. Her birthday is in February, not July. And she’s five. How can she be seven?

Unless…

“That’s it, Gregory,” the man says, offering a hand. I release my ears, finding it suddenly silent again, and stand with his help. His face, that outfit, not a uniform but something…familiar.

“Stacker?” I mumble, the name not entirely foreign on my tongue. My eyes look around the area with newfound clarity. Everything seems to have stopped moving, Trespasser included.

“That’s right,” he answers. “You know where we are?”

I take a breath, looking at my hands. My combat uniform is gone, replaced by the same suit Stacker is wearing. A Drivesuit.

“We’re not here.”

. . .

March 18th, 2015 Kodiak Island, Alaska PPDC Proving Grounds

I gasp, clawing at my helmet. One hands throws it off while the other toggles the manual release. Once the clamps are removed from my suit, I fall on my hands and knees, taking deep breaths, heaving.

“What the hell did you do to her?!”

“Is that going to happen to us?!”

“I did not sign up for this shit!”

People are shouting; people I know. The candidates for the program. Soldiers, sailors, pilots. There’s an Australian, and Stacker, and me. I’m one of them.

I’m one of them because of what I did, because I was there on K-Day. But wasn’t I just there? I felt it and heard it, everything was exactly the same. I was there.

But it wasn’t real, like Stacker said. But it felt real.

“Pentecost and Gregory are only the second pair of candidates to have initiated a neural bridge,” a woman quickly explained. Caitlyn Lightcap, the famed creator of this bullshit. “Being connected to another person’s mind, there are multiple factors that we could never anticipate.”

“It’s never happened to us,” said a man. Lieutenant Sergio D’onofrio.

“But we aren’t you.”

Someone is touching my shoulders, moving me into a sitting position. I don’t even know who. My eyes won’t move. I have to focus. If they close for even one second, I’ll be right back there.

“What happened in there?” asks the man holding me. I know the accent. It’s the Australian, Hercules Hansen. Just like me, he’s only here because of something he did when the Kaiju attacked, things we would both rather forget, but the world won’t let us.

Stacker answers him. “She was reliving a memory, or something very much like it.”

“No!” I shout, suddenly regaining control of my body, though only momentarily. I sway on my feet, and Herc has to catch me. “That was not a memory. You don’t feel your body breaking in a memory; you don’t smell the bodies.”

I’m crying, and it’s embarrassing, because of course the woman would get emotional. Stacker just stands there, clearly made of stone, but he was never there. He’s never been so close to a Kaiju that he could touch it if he had the ambition; he’s never seen an entire city reduced to ash because there were no options left.

But I have, and they made me see it again.

The walls are starting to close in. I can’t breathe.

“I can’t-”

It’s all I manage to mumble before I duck out of Herc’s grasp, running for the exit.

“Let her go,” Stacker orders, clearing the path for me as I barge through the other candidates.

I used to have this building memorized, could probably walk through it blindfolded if given the chance. I’d been here for months with little else to do, but right now, my memories are a jumbled mess. I can’t make sense of any of it, so I stumble around, lost and confused.

Workers are staring at me, attracted by the outrageous look that is Drivesuit fashion and the sound of its heavy boots on the concrete floor. I barely notice them, desperately searching for a simple exit sign.

When I finally spot one, I slam through the door so hard, I nearly fall over again.

It’s the dead of winter still this far north, but the cold air is a godsend, jolting my mind back to a clearer place.

When someone bothers to come find me, I’m sitting against the building, watching snow drift across the hills in the distance. My body isn’t even cold. These Drivesuits are oddly well insulated.

Stacker Pentecost isn’t in his Drivesuit anymore. He’s back in a regular suit and tie. He doesn’t put on anything less than formal if he doesn’t have to. The guys and I bet that he’d box with us in one if they let him.

There is something calming about his stoic presence. As angry as I had been earlier, I’m grateful that Stacker is the way he is. He is the solid rock that the rest of us lean on, like a good First Sergeant that a commander and his unit can always rely on. I’ve known a few over the years. They always seemed larger than life to me, and now I’m supposed to be Drifting with one.

“You had some shit memories too, Stacker,” I mumble, watching a tern glide on the breeze.

“Why are you here?”

I chuckle. “Because the higher ups think my face would look nice on a poster.”

“That explains them, but why are you here, Gregory?”

Trespasser flashes in my mind. Six days of fighting, six days of helplessness, all culminating in the hollowest victory anyone has ever faced. Sometimes I still jump when a light turns on suddenly. More terrifying than that Kaiju was the bomb that took it out.

“Because killing ourselves in order to survive isn’t the way,” I reply, looking up at Stacker. “I’m not quitting, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“It’s not. You’re a good soldier, Gregory. I know that drive. You’ll see this through to the end. Both of us will. Just hang on to the why and you’ll be able to get through this.”

I stand up again, watching as the sun breaks through the clouds for the first time in days. In the distance, I can make out Brawler Yukon’s enormous form.

“You think it’ll work?”

Stacker is quiet for a while, as if debating. But I’ve come to know him well here in Alaska. He’s a man who doesn’t say anything lightly, and has no issues taking the time to do it. There is a sharp focus in his eyes as he stares at the distant Jaeger, as if he’s picturing what it’s going to do in the future.

“We’ll make it work.”

[omg-foreverfilledwithweird-posts]

S.O.S (Tony Stark X Reader)

Summary: After being taken as a hostage of H.Y.D.R.A in order to learn more about S.H.I.E.L.D and your teammates, being Tony Stark’s soft spot for you, he decides to save you himself.

Author’s Note: I have been watching the Iron Man movies these last few days and realized how much I love the sassy Tony Stark, in this story Pepper doesn’t work for Tony, I love pepperoni but for the sake of the story, she gone. So I decided to write this and give myself a toothache at how fluffy it is. Enjoy this short and sweet story.

Word Count: 

Warnings: fluff, mild swearing, some violence, and more fluff

The sound of combat boots slapping on the floor advances into the lab, hitting the marble, linoleum floor and the tapping of sharp, impatient nails against a clipboard. Natasha arrives in the stale room full of machines whirring and Tony tinkering away on his suit, developing new gadgets and sketching out new ideas as usual, barely looking up at her even when she’s just a step away from him, looming over his drawing table.

He flips a page of a random manual nonchalantly, speaking calmly, “What brings you to my humble abode, Romanoff?”

She looks around the room, clipboard tucked under her arm as she surveys the millions of dollars worth of toys, “I wouldn’t say humble...” 

“I was attempting at being modest,” Tony says with a forced smile, eyes still glued to his work as the graphite pencil between his hand, flips idly between his fingers. “What can I do for you, Nat?”

“Was that another attempt at being modest?” she asks.

“More like polite, but whatever floats you’re boat, I guess,” he shrugs his shoulders.

She rolls her feline, emerald eyes, letting out an annoyed sigh, and sets the clipboard down on the table, “One of my best S.H.I.E.L.D coworkers was just taken hostage by H.Y.D.R.A operatives and they’re torturing her for information-”

“And how does that concern me?” he says, blowing the eraser shavings off of his sketchpad and putting the pencil to the paper.

“You didn’t let me finish,” she puts both hands on the desk now, auburn hair falling down her leather clad shoulders.

“You don’t have to,” he says, propping his cheek up with his elbow on the table, mind clearly elsewhere. “This sounds like a problem for S.H.I.E.L.D, you know... the people that employed her in the first place.”

She rolls her neck, looking at him with a bored expression, tapping the table, “Tony-”

“I don’t know what you want me to do here,” he shrugs once again, drawing away while she continues to get his attention.

She sighs again, “Tony-”

“I’m not going on some wild goose chase to get some terrorists that may or may not get me and this employee killed,” he groans in frustration and crumbles up the sheet of paper, throwing it behind him in his trash bin, flipping to a new page and pulling up ideas on his hologram computer.

“I’ve done that already once before,” he frowns. “If they’ve had her for long, then she’s already gone. I’m so-”

“Tony,” she says, raising her voice with him as if she’s a mother scolding an insolent child. “The employee is (y/n).”

He stops drawing and the pencil between his fingers snaps in half, clattering on the table when he finally looks up at Natasha at the mention of your name.

“I-I know a lot of (y/n)’s, Natasha,” he says, trying to play it off when he grabs another pencil from his drawers. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“(Y/L/N)... (y/n), (y/l/n),” she clarifies, once again, taking her clipboard back in her arms. 

He snaps another pencil in two, “Shit,” he mutters, pushing out his seat and walking over to where his suit is, stepping onto the platform that dresses him in the Iron Man ensemble for him. “Why the hell didn’t you say that in the first place?”

Nat smirks, folding her arms over her chest, “I didn’t know it would make a difference,” she lies. Yes, she did.

He turns back to her, holding his arms out on either side of him as all that’s left to put on is the helmet, slowly dropping from the ceiling, “It-it... it doesn’t, she’s just... a valuable member to the team, as you’ve already said.”

Natasha hums in response, nodding while her red lips curl smugly more and more. She steps up to him just as the helmet slides on his head.

“Do I need to go get the team?” Nat raises her eyebrows. “You know... the ones that employed her...” she mocks.

He bites back a snarky response, which physically pains him to so, “No...” he says, the front of the helmet closing.

“I’ll do it myself.”

~~~

He holds his arms at his sides, hand boosters providing his landing as his iron boots swiftly hit the ground, grabbing the attention of H.Y.D.R.A burly security guards, turning to hi, with their guns on the ready.

“Tweedledum,” Tony nods to the guard on the left before turning to the guard on the left, tilting his head, the helmet hiding his smirk. “Tweedledee. I’m here to pick up Alice.”

They share a look between each other, before looking at him with confused expressions, “Who?” one says in a thick, Russian accent, too dazed to pull the trigger on the mystery man in a metal suit.

Tony clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, stepping towards them, “Wha- Wait, I can do better than that, hold on, give me a second-”

They aim the guns at him, “Don’t get any closer.”

Tony stops, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t do that if I were-”

The man on the left fires the machine gun and hits the suit square in the chest before ricocheting back to him and nailing the man in the head, falling limp to the ground.

“...You,” he finishes with a loud sigh, holding up his arm and powering up the rocket launcher above his hand, the small but dangerous missile aiming straight ahead at the heavily locked door. “Okay, so the first guy was an idiot, I’m hoping you’re a bit smarter than that. I’ll give you a ten second head-start for you to run in the other direc-”

The man ignores his warnings and pays no second thought as he’s running straight on towards Tony, right in front of his aimed missile, ready for a fight. Tony rolls his eyes, having lost interest, and fires the rocket, the man’s eyes widening as he leaps out of view, the door bursting open with a cloud a smoke and a dramatic entrance from Stark.

“I overestimated you, Tweedle-Dee,” he turns around to say to him, lying unconscious on the ground. “But I can’t say I’m surprised-”

“Stop right there and put your hands in the air, Mr. Stark,” a H.Y.D.R.A operative says, machine gun on his shoulder and he points it at Tony.

“Hey,” Tony chuckles, looking around the room. “That rhymed!”

The men’s faces around are deadpan, paying him no mind as all of their guns are pointing towards him, awaiting orders to kill.

“Nothing? Really?” Tony asks. “Wow, tough crowd.”

The man disregards his joke and hovers his finger over the trigger, “Don’t move any further or I will shoot.”

Tony groans, “Jesus, are all of you guys shit-for-brains... or am I just lucky?” he quips, turning to all of the soldiers, lifting a dark eyebrow. 

He throws his head back with a soft laugh, “I’m going to be feeling this in the morning,” he whispers to himself before charging ahead, toppling over the soldiers and running down the hall as bullets fly around like a deadly rainstorm. 

He gets to a steel door, hoping to whatever higher power there is in the universe that you’re in this one, barreling through the door with his shoulder, sending it flying off the hinges. 

Tony searches the room before finding you in a rather compromising situation, leather, bodysuit similar to Natasha’s unzipped all the way down your torso, revealing a thin, gray tank beneath it and a deep, blue sports bra, dirt smeared on your sweat stained cheeks, hair a mess down your shoulders in ruffled waves, and your legs wrapped around a man’s neck in a choke-hold.

Tony’s eyes are wide and he taps his helmet, showing his face, “(Y/N)?”

You look up at the sound of the familiar voice and raise your eyebrows, “Tony? What the hell are you-”

The soldier underneath you takes your moment of hesitance to punch up your jaw, causing you to fall onto the hard, stone floor.

Tony’s eyes almost bulge out of his head, fear evident in his voice, “(Y/N)!”

You spit out blood and rub where he hit you, a dull, throbbing pain along your cheek, a bruise slowly blossoming, “Shit,” you mutter before sweeping his legs out from under him from where you’re laying on the floor, climbing on top of him and straddling his hips, returning the favor when your fist collides with his nose, knocking him out.

You swing your legs off of him and stand up, the other soldiers you previously fought, all lying unconscious on the ground. 

You face Tony and your chest heaves, “What are you doing here? I had it handled.”

“Clearly...” Tony says, still in disbelief as his eyes fall over the men you sent flying just moments before. “I forgot how badass you are.”

You tilt your head, shaking your head with a small laugh, “You still haven’t answered my question, Tony.”

“Well, I was told one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s finest was taken hostage by H.Y.D.R.A and took the matter into my own hands,” he says, walking towards you.

You look him over, old memories flooding back and you gulp, biting back a smile, “Really?” you ask, finding a hard time believing what he’s saying, it doesn’t sound like the Tony you know at all.

“Without a second thought,” he says, sincerely, catching you off guard with the look.

“I’m flattered, Stark,” you chuckle and Tony curses himself for letting it go straight to his heart, hitting him harder than when he hit that door.

“You, uh...” he nods, lost in thought from looking at you. “You... should be. I’m a very busy man and I had to cancel lots of things to fit this in.”

“I’ve missed you, old man,” you smirk.

He cracks a half-smile despite himself, “I missed you, too, kid.”

You turn away before he can see the flush in your cheeks, thanking the universe for the dirt on your face that covers the redness. “We should go, before they find out you’ve helped me escape.”

“So you admit I helped you?” his lips quirk. 

“Can we not do this right now?” you sigh.

“Do what?” he smirks, amused by how flustered you’re getting by his blatant teasing. You tell yourself you hate it, but the blush on your face says otherwise. “You’re the one coming onto me.”

Your eyes widen and you scoff, “Coming onto yo-” you stop yourself and let out a deep breath. “You know what, we’ll discuss this later when I kick your as-”

Soldiers storm into the room and Tony wraps his arm around you, shutting his helmet, the eyes lighting up when he looks down at you.

“Hold on,” he says, pulling you to his chest, your hands resting against the metal.

You frown, “Tony-” you start, unable to finish when you’re being flown off the ground, straight through the ceiling and roof, Tony’s arm shielding you from the debris while his other is still holding you securely.

He flies close to the clouds, wind ruffling your hair as you clench your eyes shut, wrapping your arms around his neck when you begin to slip from his grasp, breath catching when you catch sight of the city below you.

You shut your eyes, whispering, “Shit, shit, shit, shit-”

Tony chuckles, the sound vibrating through him, “Calm down, (y/n), I got you.”

You laugh wryly, still afraid you’ll fall when his grip on you tightens, “Calm down? I’m flying hundreds of feet in the air with the birds, being held only by Tony Stark in a fucking, metal suit and you want me to calm down?”

He loosens his hold on you and you squeal, wrapping your arms tighter around him and your legs around his waist. He laughs at you, smiling through the iron mask.

“Maybe you should hold me a little closer, there’s still some room you left between us,” he smirks.

“Fuck you, Stark,” you roll your eyes, tightening your hold on him when he begins to descend towards the Avengers tower, drawing closer to the balcony.

“Maybe later, sweetheart,” he winks through the mask, but you hear the smirk in his low voice by your ear as his feet hit the balcony, letting you go and stepping on the platform that takes off his suit.

You walk alongside him as the robot arms pull away the metal from his body, his eyes following your suddenly timid movements.

“Why so shy now, (y/n)?” he raises an eyebrow, stepping inside with you walking beside him, crossing your arms over your chest while you take in his lab. It’s been awhile since you’ve been here.

“Not shy, just...” you run your hands up and down your arms. “Just thinking.”

He sees you shiver and takes his leather jacket from his chair, stepping up behind you and hanging it over your shoulders, warming you up.

You turn your head to throw a smile at him from over your shoulder, “Thanks.”

He looks at you for a moment and clears his throat nervously, “No, uh... no problem. You got hit pretty hard back there,” he says, pulling his hands away and walking over to his fridge to grab an ice pack.

“Yeah...” you say, instinctively reaching up to touch the bruise that’s now adorned your cheek, coloring your skin in purple. “I’ve never seen you that concerned for someone before,” you say, running your hand along his shelves on your way to his desk.

He smirks, “You’re not just anyone.”

You look down and smile, tucking hair behind your ear while you sit on the edge of his desk, crossing your legs as he walks back over to you looking over his sketches.

“These are amazing,” you say, looking at him when he stands in front of you, ice pack in hand.

He looks at you and the soft smile that graces his lips is the one that’s only meant for you when a light pink dusts over his cheeks, “Oh, well... they’re not much, just future ideas, but... thank you.”

You grin, “Are you being modest?”

He rolls his brown eyes, lips edging into a smile when you continue to look at him for an answer, “Why does everyone think I can’t be modest? I can be modest.”

“Modest people don’t call themselves modest, Tony,” you let out a giggle that’s unlike you, but one that always seem to leave you when your around him. It’s like the child in him ends up bringing out the child in you as well.

He bites his tongue and gently presses the ice pack to your jaw, wiping the smile off your face, a pained wince leaving your lips when the cold comes in contact with your hot skin. 

“Tell me if I’m being too rough, alright?” he says, getting a little closer to hold it better for you, feeling guilty that if it weren’t for him distracting you from your mission, you wouldn’t have been hit.

“Do we need a safe word too?” you tease him with a small smile, enjoying how flustered he gets when you do so.

He darts his tongue out across his bottom lip and half-smirks, “You’re a lot more trouble than your worth, kid.”

You look at him while he stares intently at the ice pack in his hands instead of in your eyes, “You’re not that much older than me, Stark.”

“I’ve got an old soul,” he meets your eyes and you roll yours. “It makes me older than everyone.”

“You’re a child,” you chuckle.

“A child that saved your life,” he corrects you, fingers accidentally brushing against your jaw when his hand slips, calloused touch sending your head into over-drive. “A thank you would be nice.”

You want to argue but you see the fear in his dark eyes, the same from back in the interrogation room, that if something were to happen to you, so you cut your losses and look at him, “Fine... Thank you, Tony.”

“I... I didn’t quite hear you,” he says, cupping a hand over his ear. “Come again?”

“That’s because you aren’t wearing your hearing aids like you’re supposed to, old man,” you laugh loudly, making him smile. 

“You’re lucky I like you, (y/n),” he says as more a warning than a compliment. “If it was anyone else in there, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Yes,” you say, quieter this time when he gets closer. “Lucky me.”

Your noses brush and you realize you’re only a breath away from each other, the smell of scotch and whiskey on his breath from a day of work and your familiar aroma of rose and mint, even under the musk of sweat.

“What’d they do to you in there?” he asks.

“Just another day on the job,” you say, trying to laugh to lighten the mood but it comes out weak. “But I’m fine, really, they didn’t get anything out of me and were too preoccupied getting their asses kicked to interrogate me.”

“By you or me?” he smirks.

“Let’s just say it was a collaborative effort and leave it at that,” you offer and he agrees with a smile, one of the few genuine ones you get from him these days.

“Does this make us a... team now?”

“Oh, God, no,” you giggle and he grins. “Could you imagine, we’d butt heads constantly.”

“If I had to butt heads with anyone,” he looks up at you, faking seriousness. “I’m glad it’s with you.”

You throw your head back with laughter, wincing when your head pounds because of it, but you smile through it, letting him press the ice a bit harder, “How sweet.”

He half-smiles, “I missed your laugh. I haven’t missed your teasing, though.”

“You adore my teasing,” you smile coyly when the smirk on his face confirms your suspicions. 

Then you bite your lip and he catches the action, licking his own lips when his mouth runs dry, wanting to walk away before he does something stupid. But before his mind can fully function, your lips are brushing.

“(Y/N)...” he rasps, gulping audibly and the ice pack drops to the floor, neither of you paying any mind to it.

You’re cheeks are scarlet, lip caught between your teeth, and suddenly you’re a teenage with a crush all over again.

“We can’t...” you whisper and meet his eyes.

“I know,” he frowns thoughtfully, his heart beating loud enough for you to hear.

Natasha walks into the room, the sound alone enough to send you away from each other, Tony stepping backwards like your skin’s on fire.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh, “What now, Romanoff?”

Nat feigns innocence with a hand over her chest in mock hurt, then she turns to you, “You got (y/n) back. And taking good care of her, too, I see...”

You roll your eyes fondly at your life-long best friend and walk over to wrap your arms around her, the comfortable scent of her shampoo enough to make it feel like home. 

“I would have gone after you myself but he insisted,” she whispers in your ear, but loud enough for him to hear as well, and you laugh quietly at the thought. 

“Insisted?” you turn around and look at him, smugness in your tone. 

Tony sends a deadly look to Nat for telling who only responds with a smirk and a pleased lift of her eyebrow when he says, “I didn’t insist, Natasha, I only... wanted to see if she was okay.”

You look at Tony and smile softly, an expression warm enough to relax him into looking back at you.

Nat points to the corner of her curling ruby lips, “You have some drool... right here, big guy.”

Tony flips her the bird on his way back over to his desk, ruffling through the scattered mess of his papers, and taking a sip of his left open scotch.

“So, (y/n)...” Nat turns back to you. “I have good news.”

“That’s a first,” you snort.

She laughs lightly, “Congratulations, (y/n)...” she hands you her clipboard. “You’re an Avenger.”

Your eyes widen and you grin widely, “Are y-you... are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” she smiles. “And you’ll have a mentor to show you a ropes, someone to help you around, and give you a feel for the team.”

You take the clipboard in your hands and you’re too shocked to speak, one of the few moments where you’re completely speechless, only one word finding you when you ask, “Who?”

It’s Nat’s turn to grin when she nods behind you, “Tony Stark, of course.”

Tony chokes on his drink.

[royal-writer]

“I’m not leaving you”

steeples my fingers- this is how It Should Have Gone

She looked up, and was surprised to see how much had changed. The previous chaos surrounding the ship was now filled with a bleak, fearful outlook. Some people were babbling. Others soberly going back to their work. Glances were cast their way. Scared. Angry. Confused. Activity once more was taking over the deck as people tried to piece together the puzzle to the bizarre attack and find the missing culprit behind it.

Essätha ran her fingers slowly over the side of Amon’s face delicately; trailing along his sideburns.

Her only interest; her only concern at the moment, rested on his well-being.

Lifting her free hand where it lay against the sodden clothing on his breast, she gestured to Sulhadur as his wandering eye captured her. Nothing about his vacant, haunted expression registered to her. He was too far to study, and the fibers of her worn heart were strung too thin. The condition of anyone else on this vessel wasn’t in immediate life-threatening danger right now, except for the violently shivering nobleman in her lap.

“Sssulhadur!” Her sharp cry cracked from a dry throat.

The Dragonborn roused from their inert form. The glass-eyed complexion turned towards her. His armor clanked and rattled quietly as he trod across the ship’s deck to approach her.

“What is it? Is there anything you need?” His voice was strained. He nervously licked his chops.

A shape moved behind him. All the muscles in the Yuan-Ti woman’s body grew tense as she reached for the hilt of one of her daggers. Subconsciously, she lulled Amon’s head closer to her chest in a protective manner.

Not again. Not again, you dirty bastard.

As they stepped to the paladin’s side, she realized their stout form was not a crouching figure, but rather, a dwarf. Their gaze was sympathetic. The mist blowing up the side of the boat as it rocked had left the wisps of their auburn hair not tucked tight enough in their braid kinked and frizzy. Their face was gentle and creased with years of laugh lines.

Her heart settled, gradually. Her eyes looked on at the offering in their callused hands. Mounds of blankets. They were dry, and in varying degrees from itchy well-used wool to newer, neatly folded linens. All plain colors.

She squinted. She mused. How probable was it that simple cloth could be lined with hexes and dangers?

She risked it, a bit unsure. Taking one to start, she began to wind it around the Illiad heir in a swaddle. It kept the breeze from further drawing him chill, but it wouldn’t be enough.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Sul, could you please help carry Amon below deck for me?” she breathed. “I haven’t the upper-body strength, and he needs to get out of this weather and in some dry clothing. His soaked garments are going to catch him chill.” Her eyes drifted towards the stranger. Tension rippled down her spine. Curtly, she spoke to him directly, although her eyes moved towards the figure of the ship’s captain: “Sir, would you happen to know a safe place for us to lay our friend to lay?”

“Aye, she’s right,” the dwarf nodded solemnly. “He needs to get of those clothes. Come with me, lass, I’ll show you a place he can rest.”

Rest. Rest, she wanted to spit. He wasn’t resting, he was out cold. He wasn’t going to wake up and feel well-rested. He was going wake exhausted, aching, and in pain.

She swallowed her bad attitude back before it caused any trouble. Before she snapped. Before the serpent inside rose its head to strike; fangs out. Perhaps literally.

This wasn’t the dwarf’s fault. This was that- god impersonator's fault.

As Sulhadur lifted Amon up from the slick wood decking, Essätha studied the placement of his arms. She gave a soft murmur, concern lining all the features of her face. With care too innocent and genuine for either the dragonborn or dwarf to stare, she lifted the nobleman’s head to tuck the soaked bunched-up form of her cape beneath him to rest and keep him elevated. She was ginger in how she leaned his head; not wanting to move him too much or too far and obstruct his breathing on an already sure-to-be raw throat. Her fingers brushed over his colorless sheet-white features tenderly. Beneath the hollow areas beneath his eyes, her fingertips brushed, before checking her wrist over the ragged air escaping his mouth and nose.

Clearing his throat, the dwarf lead them down the stairs and to the second level of the ship. As they took to the steps, she hovered at the Illiad’s side in the passage. There wasn’t really enough room for her to remain at the paladin’s side to keep a watchful hawk-eye on him, but she compacted herself to the far side so not to trip him up. In her hand, across the distance, she held one of Amon’s in her grasp. It was alarmingly lifeless; the only sign of vitality being his unsteady pulse.

They moved around the hanging hammocks and supplies laying about; mostly the sailor’s small personal trinkets on this level, and slipped towards the bow of the vessel. The dwarf indicated through a narrow door into a kitchen, and from there to a room hardly big enough for them all to squeeze into connected.

A cot lay pushed against the wall, slightly off-color in places from age and what Essie presumed to be dried blood they’d tried cleaning out of it long ago. Sulhadur crouched down beside her along the bedding, and gradually leaned over to lay Amon as slowly as he could into the sunken shape. He was lay prone, and sprawled out.

She pushed right between them, to a disgruntled sound from the paladin. Her eyes swept from Amon, over to the dwarf, and around to Sul.

“Could the pair of you fetch me some towels, some clean water, and something soft for him to eat when he wakes? Preferably something like bananas,” she mused thoughtfully. “And Sul, if you wouldn’t mind looking for Amon’s trunk and seeing about getting him some fresh garments, I would appreciate it.”

The dwarf nodded. “I can do that,” they crooned gently, before pushing through the doorway and disappearing.

Her eyes landed on Sulhadur. He hadn’t moved.

“… Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he rasped. “Maybe we could wait, and ask someone else to do it. I don’t like the idea of leaving the both of you alone, unprotected.”

A thin laughed escaped her. Her? Unprotected? That was laughable.

“I can protect him,” she stated. Her tone was confident, and a bit arrogant. For a moment, iridescent colors moved over her face. Where they moved, an emergence of scales followed. “If anyone enters without my consent, they’ll be in for a surprise,” she reminded him. There was a promise of danger hidden in her tone.

Doubt still lingered in the golden spheres of the dragonborn’s regard. The formation of extra scales preceded rapidly beneath his staring. He didn’t push it however, merely replying, “I’ll be right back.”

The door opened. She’d already turned away by the time it shut, her gaze darting over Amon’s trembling frame beneath the wet blanket. Blue veins were standing out beneath his skin as though it was made from paper. His breathing was no longer as labored, but wheezed uncomfortably nonetheless.

Methodically as though she was running on auto-pilot, Essätha stripped away the blanket. It was drenched all the way through, and made a wet flop onto the floor as she tossed it in the direction where Amon’s cloak lay rumpled. Much as she hated to fold him around like a ragdoll, her fingers dug into the material of the jerkin, and heaved. He rolled enough like a spineless jellyfish; limbs flopping. His breath hitched as though the action had been painful.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t react from her apology. She didn’t really expect him to, but meant every bit of it.

Wiggling his jerkin off proved as complicated as she expected. The wet garment was heavy and suctioned to the clothes he wore beneath them. It took a bit to weasel one arm out from the sleeve before she could unbutton his shirt below and slide off that sleeve too.

Grunting as she wished she’d spent more time actually performing some manual labor in her life, Essie rolled him over to his other side, and repeated the process. His jacket joined the pile of growing soaked material, and then a button-up. It was followed by a plain undershirt that she had to fumble over his head.

The shivering increased. His teeth chattered in his comatose state.

“I’m sorry,” Essätha whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her heart clenched, and seized. The dread was clawing up from her stomach, and into her tight throat. Fear hazed her shaky vision as she curled aside the equally wet blanket around his lower half, and began to wiggle around his belt off his person. She only made it part way before realizing how much of a pain in the ass it was, and that his slacks were loosened enough to now shimmy down his legs.

Tearing off the boots, they sloshed with water inside. She pitched them both aside, then his socks, then the remainder of his trousers that were bunched around his ankles.

Indifferent to the fact the man was only in his small clothes (she’d seen more of men before), the scaly woman moved to sit by his side at the edge of the cot. Her eyes drifted over his torso mutely.

Thin, faded lines of white marked his chest. They nearly blended in to the discolored paleness of his complexion.

Scars, she realized stupidly after a numbing moment.

On a thoughtless impulse, she reached out to run her finger along one that seemed to follow the outline of a rib. He jolted in his unconscious state, shuddering.

How many of these from battles barely won, and how many from losses too great a burden to show?

She swallowed the dark worrying thought down to the squirming pit of her stomach. In some ways, she’d seen enough conflict to know the price of victory rarely came without sacrifice, and the worst shame for some of them more often lay beneath the skin.

Before she could reach for one of the damper blankets to use as a temporary cover, a knock on the door, and it opened. Once more, her hand shot to the hilt of her dagger as she whirled her attention towards it.

Only the dwarf. A polite smile, unafraid. In his arms, rows of folded towels.

Her legs she tried to bid strength to stand into. Though the strength she did have, her mind was troubled at the very idea of leaving Amon alone again. She’d been so focused on the swaying of the damn boat, and if the tiefling-

She drowned that thought away, opening her arms up gratefully as the dwarf approached her instead.

“We aren’t in any bananas, ma’am,” they informed her. “However, if’n you’re looking for something soft, I’ve got some vegetable soup. We got some apple sauce too on hand I could warm for your friend there.”

The towels were pushed carefully into her arms. She nodded. Her head felt disconnected from her body.

“Both would be nice, thank you.”

The dwarf nodded calmly, and slipped out the door.

Taking in a deep breath, Essätha let it out faintly. She turned her waist back towards Amon. Flickers of magic danced along her fingertips, as a mild breeze whisked over him.

His brow creased and nose fidgeted with discontent.

Cursing softly, Essie held her hand closer towards his hair, and repeated the action. Droplets of water came flecking out on the cot and over her arm. She dropped the towels at the edge of the make-shift crude bed, removing only one for now, and began to soothingly circle it over his hair. It tufted up areas like a crudely shaped spiked mop.

“I know you’re cold,” she lamented; her voice growing soothing as she murmured, “I’ll have you warmed up soon, I promise. You’re going to be okay, Amon. You’re going to be okay.”

The nobleman panted in his unaware state, twitching.

She hurled the saturated towel aside to grab another, and start patting him carefully. His breathing was steady, even if weak, as water dripped beneath the wet cot. A similar sound of water sloshed against the exterior of the ship. It rocked firmly as, unknowingly far above, the vessel was being directed to turn around.

Another knock at the door. Her hand ghosted in the direction of the blade, but didn’t come close to grasping it. With the sound of rattling metal armor, she knew who to expect as the door swung open.

“I’ve got his luggage, and the cook kindly informed me where I could find more blankets down in cargo,” Sulhadur informed her, hauling both in the cramped space of a room.

She nodded, extending her arms out to accept them.

“I’m staying with him.”

“I’ll stay with you both.”

Essätha observed his features this time. “Do you not think of me as ‘capable’ or ‘independent’ enough to look after myself, and Lord Amon?”

A hard stare met her own. Sternly, Sul responded: “I didn’t say that. There’s someone on board that just slit this man’s throat. We don’t know where they are, or who their next intended target is. The suspect could be anywhere.”

“I appreciate your knightly code, Sul, I do, but everyone’s now aware that there’s a murderer on board, and after they rounded everyone up on deck to an interrogation process, I’m fairly certain we can rule out everyone accounted for,” she stated. “The crew is going to be keeping a watchful eye out, and they know we have our guard up now, so if anyone else has any hostile intent, they’re going to lay low a while. We’ll be safe, I promise. I can, and will, be plenty loud if anyone comes in here.”

“Go and help the others search,” she finished in an urgent tone. “Go rest. Lord Amon only needs one person here to watch him, and I know a few things about medical care. I can take care of him, and myself. We’ll be fine. I assure you.”

There was something about the Bahamut follower’s appearance that she realized seemed more than just troubled or uneasy. His foot had a jittery shake to it where he stood, placing most of his weight into one favorable leg. He gave a barely-there sigh, nodding with understanding.

“Right.” With a stiff bow, he turned for the door. She tried to find the words to say to acknowledge his unease, but her mind drew a blank.

He’d be fine. He probably just needed a little time to shake off the sudden, violent, unpredictable scenario of the entire event. It surely had shaken most of them up a bit.

Lobbing another balled-up sopped cloth aside, Essätha rhythmically circled and dabbed Amon’s chest and down to his legs. Her other hand she continued to spiral magic off of; simple words and gestures to common the faintest breeze. It was beginning to at least ruffle his hair a bit, which meant it was drying somewhat.

When the last towel came away barely damp, she leaned over his trunk to select what she hoped wasn’t any expensive articles of clothing. They appeared plain enough, anyway. She slid one leg and then the other into the slacks and awkwardly tugged them up his thighs and over his wet undergarments; the only thing she was unwilling to mess with and risk humiliation or steal his dignity by removing.

She laid a rolled shirt at the edge of the cot. Inhale, exhale.

Wrapping her arms beneath his, she hugged Amon to her chest and leaned back. Her spine strained; her lungs collapsed. With a wheeze; her face against his shoulder and strands of her black hair sticking to the wet spots here and there on his skin, Essie held his limp body against her to force him to sit up. He mostly sagged against her, but it was enough. With an arm wound around him to keep him from toppling in any direction, she slipped the garment over his head, and pushed his arms into the sleeves.

Gods, he was a lot of man. She could only imagine trying to do this to Abernathy or Sulhadur, and immediately cringed. Rest in piece her vertebrates. The thought alone made them ache with misery.

He breathed against the nape of her neck slowly, tickling her. It was such a strange sensation when her mind was still wrapped up in worry about his health. Part resisting the need to laugh, part too scared to after what just occurred. Yet at the same time, she felt comfortable and at ease enough by his presence that if this situation were different she wouldn’t feel the urge to hide it. Just the other day, they were joking and throwing playful jabs at each other in the city, and it had felt normal. The sun was out, their lives didn’t feel endangered, and she’d felt more vivacious and carefree than she had in what felt like a lifetime.

He made it easy to feel normal.

Bit by bit, her arms trembling, Essätha lowered him back into the bunk. She practically sank over top of him, her limbs wanting to give out from the task. She twisted around, a shaky arm grabbing a blanket from over the top of the pile, and flicked it out over him to smooth into place. Her hands began tucking, wrapping him up like a warm burrito of comfort.

With each pass of her hands over the blankets as she smoothed away the lines and folds, another wave of magic seeped into the cloth. It warmed beneath her touch in small sections. She continued to repeat the process while adding more and more layers from head to toe, tucking him in as thoroughly as she could so that only his head was visible.

She carded her fingers through his locks again. Another small whisk of air through, pushing the hair away from his face some more.

“You are a strong, brave man,” she whispered softly. “You’re going to get through this.”

Naturally, the unconscious man didn’t reply. Only breathing slowly now, as his shakes began to lessen.

She swung her legs on to the side of the cot that clearly didn’t have enough space for two to lean over him. The warming magic rays of Prestidigitation rippled out in a fog of deep plum purple, whisking over the material.

“I’ll keep you safe.” The words were a hush. A promise he wouldn’t remember, but she would.

Gradually, her body sank down to lay down beside him. There wasn’t enough space for her, leaving her to teeter on the very edge of the material. It was enough; her eyes scanning over him, her hand moving over the blankets. She pressed as close as she could in hopes of sharing her body heat with him, with her arm draped over his torso to continue the ritual spell and the other wound up to rest her fingers laced through his hair.

His breathing patterns followed his. The sound of his heart began to follow her own intimately.

The world was passive, and indifferent. The lull of their synchronized breathing alone filled the room.

“It hasn’t been easy, has it.” Her voice was barely a breath, nestled against his shoulder. “But look at how far you’ve made it through. See what your calm diligence and fight has given to you. See how your strength has pushed you through, this far.”

“You’re going to be just fine, because of that power inside of you. You’re an unyielding force with a steely resolve. You’re a man of dignity and grace, with a good and caring heart. You’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.”

Taking her hand out of his hair, she reached beneath the blanket and found his hand. She gave it a supportive squeeze, and held it loosely in her palm.

“I believe in you. I’ll be right by your side through this. You’re not alone, Amon. You’re not alone anymore,” she whispered, her words falling on deaf ears. Her voice teetered; falling into a quiet rasp: “Just come back, m’lord. Hold on to the world, because it still needs you here. Don’t let go.”

Her hand squeezed his once more, and this time, didn’t lax.

“Please. Don’t let go. I’m right here. I’m right here, with you. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’ll always be safe with me. I’m not leaving you.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

His head throbbed. He stirred with a weary groan. The world was muffled as though he had gotten stuffed in his ears. Everything ached. He was chilled, but surprisingly not as frozen as he thought he should be. He remembered the icy plunge, just barely. Darkness. Cold. Suffocating. So much pain, and so much cold.

His throat itched and ached. He tried to clear it, to no avail. It felt sticky and dry.

Between the ringing in his head and the disconnect between his brain and body, a soft voice spoke. The words didn’t make sense, but the tone was enchanting.

Amon cracked his eyes. In a dense fog, in a ill-lit room, he could barely make out the shape of a face looming over him. Their eyes were made of amber fire; glowing with light.

He groaned once more. An angel? If he was dead, he would see no such divine beauty. Heaven would not accept something like him.

But if this was not heaven, and hell did not have such ethereal beings…

Trying to focus his attention on the movement of her lips, and the faded static of words in his ears, he struggled to understand what she was speaking.

“… You just rest now, m’lord. Don’t move, don’t try to get up. If you need anything, tell me.”

Need anything…? A new body, he thought darkly. Every joint, every bone, every muscle felt stiff and leaden with the cold aches.

His vision began to clear, only enough to recognize the shape of the face as he struggled to see the outline of those full lips to read.

Essätha.

The Illiad wasn’t surprised. The previous delirium thought of her enchanting appearance was already far gone; erased from his memory, but she was a strangely calming and reassuring sight all the same. She had a way of hovering, but she was always there when he felt the helpless rebound of his misdeeds surge up to swallow him like the lake had tried to.

She had a way with being there, no matter what he said or did.

It still befuddled as much as it made her endearing. She just didn’t quit on broken things, did she.

A hand squeezed his. He barely recognized it beneath the blankets, and tried to return the favor. She deserved a little solace, for all her hard work trying to keep his battered broken ass alive.

Her smile lit up the room, even being small with relief, it still touched her butterscotch eyes.

“Get some rest, m’lord,” she stated; his mind processing her lip-reading and trying to process the distant sound of her voice. “I’ll be right here. I’m right here, by your side. I’m not leaving you. I’m staying right here with you. I promise.”

Not leaving him.

Not leaving him.

Not leaving… him…

His eyes slow-blinked in their half-mast state. They sealed shut, closing off the world. He was too tired. He hurt too much.

What an odd, utterly bizarre, strange woman.

He drifted, dragging back down to the depths of unconsciousness. His body convulsed and shuddered, still fighting off the cold and trying to drag the warm air in. Despite hardly being able to feel, a seedling spread of warmth seemed to appear and dissipate randomly on his chest. It was nice.

Not leaving him.

In the back of Amon’s mind, he saw the vision of yesterday. The growth of her smile, and then the fall of it in wide-eyed terror. The way the breeze over the lake looked before they’d boarded, spiraling the loose sections of hair framing her face and the distant look in her expression as she stared vacantly off. So much of it left him with questions. He wanted to respect her privacy, but there was something just beneath the surface he couldn’t quite grasp about her and he could swear by the look in her eyes, sometimes it looked like she wanted to explode and say it herself.

What secrets was she hiding?

Not leaving him.

Not leaving him.

Her exhales were fanning across his neck. It was warm. Comforting. Enjoyable, even.

He let go. He slipped away, and allowed himself to rest. He held to her hand before slumping back into the dark, and put his faith and trust in her words, and careful hands.

[toosicktoocare]

Prompt:  “ Hey, I have grad on Tuesday. If you don't mind, could you maybe write something where Peter is looking forward to final graduating from high school, but gets badly hurt the day before? Throw whatever else you want in there, dump some Ironstrange or Stucky in there, toss in some Ned or Loki or whoever I really don't care. You don't have to do it of course, but I would love it if you did! No matter what you decide, keep up the good work, I love your stuff!💙❤️”

Congrats on graduating!! 

There’s a fine line between confident and cocky, and Peter toes that line a lot, especially when he’s on patrol. Usually he has no one to impress, with the city being rather quiet and not in need of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, so he’ll often try his hand at things that he knows Tony would scold him for—like this back-flip off the top of an abandoned apartment building to a guardrail on a worn-down balcony a few floors below him.

He misses the guardrail by about two inches, and when he frantically reaches for it, it breaks against his weight, something he should have factored in considering the age and state of the building. But, he got a little too cocky; he can’t help it—he’s graduating tomorrow, and he’s a little too stoked for it. And now he’s plummeting to the ground.

There’s nothing close enough to web to, and he’s forced to turn mid-fall to his side to avoid the guardrail hitting him. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he hits the ground, the pain is instant, leaving him gasping on impact.

His shoulder takes the brunt of the fall, but his head still knocks against the ground hard enough to leave his ears ringing and to rattle his brain a little, jumbling his thoughts slightly. The pain burns from his shoulder to his leg, and he suddenly can’t breathe around the fabric of his mask. He’s afraid to move, but staying on his right side that currently feels as if it’s on fire doesn’t sound like the best option, so he takes a risk and rolls onto his back, pushing his mask up over his mouth at the same time.

His lungs are pumping in overdrive, and his chest is heaving, bringing with it a cracking pain from the right side of his ribs. The ringing in his ears is starting to die down, though, just enough for Karen to crackle into his ears.

“Peter, are you okay?”

“Amazing,” Peter manages out around gasping breaths. “Just a… flesh wound.”

“My scans show a shoulder dislocation, two fractured ribs, and bruising already forming all down your right side. You’re also exhibiting a few signs of a minor concussion.”

“That’s it?” Peter spits out, trying to keep his voice steady despite how badly it wants to shake with pain. “That’s not so bad.”

“Peter, you should consider seeking medical attention to speed up your healing properties. I can contact Mr. Sta—”

“No!” Peter shoots upright at this, and for a moment, his vision wavers while a tight knot forms in his stomach. Sweat beads at his temples, sticking uncomfortably to his mask, but he sucks in a shaking breath despite the fire coating his side. “I mean, no,” he adds, a little more coolly. “I’m okay, Karen.”

“Peter, respectfully, your definition of ‘okay’ negates the actual meaning of the word.”

“Have you always been a smart-ass and I just didn’t catch on?” Peter asks as he very carefully gets to his feet. Again, his vision swims and grays around the edges, and he has to swallow thickly around a lump of nausea clawing up his throat. He’s shaking, and he has to blink rapidly to keep himself of moving with the swaying ground below him.

“Peter. I’m going to call Mr. Stark. He programmed me to contact him if anything ever happens to you.”

“Yes, and I spent two nights manually overriding that program,” Peter fights back. His shoulder hurts really freaking bad, as does his side. Everything really. He feels really bad. “So,” he starts again as he takes a test step. His right knee buckles, but he’s able to support his weight. “No contacting Mr. Stark. He’ll take my suit away again.”

Karen takes a long time to reply, and Peter spends the silence huffing quietly through the pain as he makes his way back to where he stashed his backpack. Walking feels like he’s dragging his side against a pulsing wall of fire, but he forces his muscles to move against it.

“Okay, but you should go straight home. You need rest, and you told May you would be back from the pretend party at midnight.”

Peter mutters a breathy ‘okay’ and continues limping to his backpack.

*****

Everything’s always worse the day after, even if you have reality-defying factors that enhance your ability to deal with injuries. Peter feels positively terrible. His entire right side aches, he can’t breathe deeply without his side burning tightly, and he can barely move his right arm. He knows his healing factor kicked in sometime during the night, but it wasn’t enough time to mute the pain.

Still, he got up before May, left a note saying he was eating breakfast with Ned, then left the house. And now, he’s contemplating asking his principal if he can skip walking because he’s not even sure he can walk across the stage while Ned watches him with narrowed eyes.

“I still don’t understand how you fell, Peter. I mean, you’re the Spider-Man.”

Peter had filled Ned in on what happened during breakfast at a McDonalds close to the school, and since then, Ned’s been audibly attempting to wrap his mind around how Peter somehow managed to fail so badly at being a superhero.

“Shut up, Ned,” he hisses, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone who’s lined up nearby heard. “It just happened; now, can you stop asking already? You’re giving me a headache.”

“Am I?” Ned asks, tilting his head. “Or is that the concussion—”

“I’m not concussed,” Peter sighs. He rubs his left hand up and down his face, thankful that the guidance counselor assisting with lineup announces that they can begin processing.

Ned quickly moves back to his spot a few places before Peter, both in the front row for highest honors, and once everyone is actually where they are supposed to be, piano music starts playing, and they start filing down the football field one by one.

Peter’s got his left hand pressed to his right side as he walks, pushing pressure as if to mend the pain with force alone. His right leg is burning, his thigh littered with black and purple bruises, and he’s sweating under the beating rays of the sun overhead. Walking is difficult, but he hears a shout of his name, and he plasters a smile to his face and looks over to see May waving at him with…

His pupils dilate when he spots Tony standing beside May. Tony offers a nod, and Peter can only wave one shaking hand back because Tony never said he was coming. Peter had invited him, but Tony brushed it off without really giving a clear answer. Yet, he’s here in one of his pressed suits with sunglasses that do absolutely nothing to disguise who he really is.

Peter must have stopped without realizing because he’s suddenly being nudged by the person behind him, and he staggers forward, pulling his gaze back ahead as he quickens his pace to the best of his ability to catch up to the person in front of him.

When they’re all seated and the principal starts some too long speech about how they are moving onto the next chapter of their lives, Peter hunches forward a little with his left arm wrapped tightly around his abdomen. He’s curling into the pain, hoping to ease it some, but it’s not working, and he loses his focus as his mind pulls to every aching muscle, every bruise, every burning joint until his row is suddenly standing and he’s walking to the stage.

He has to shake the principal’s hand with his right hand and grab his diploma with his left. Considering how he can barely move his arm, he’s not sure how he’s going to pull this off with every eye on him, but he’s not given much time to dwell on it because next thing he knows, he’s walking onto the stage to his name being called followed by May’s loud cheers.

When he lifts his right hand to shake the principal’s hand, his eyes sting with tears. The pain is unbearable, and he grits his teeth as he plasters on a fake smile while shaking the principal’s hand. When he lets go, his hand falls to his side, and when he starts walking past with his diploma in hand, the principal decides to pat him on the shoulder, the right shoulder.

A gasp slips past his lips, masked only by the cheers for the following person, and he grows pale. His vision blurs a little, but he makes it off the stage and avoids looking to May and Tony as he shuffles back to his seat.

After that, he zones out, his mind once again too wrapped up in the pain, still trying to recover from the clap to his shoulder. He can almost feel Ned’s gaze on him, but he remains hunched over in his seat until everyone’s suddenly standing and tossing their caps into the air.

He doesn’t toss his; he’s too tired, in too much pain. He only gets from his seat and swallows back the small bit of nausea as he starts toward May and Tony. It doesn’t take him long since May’s practically shoving people out of the way, and when she spots him, she rushes him. 

After that, everything goes black, with his last memory being May’s smiling face and open arms.

He wakes up on his back, his head pillowed uncomfortably by a purse, and he’s looking up at the bright sky with narrow, sensitive eyes.

“Peter? Oh, thank god!”

May’s suddenly hovering over him, blocking the sun, and she looks so worried that Peter mentally curses himself for causing even the slightest amount of concern. He makes a move to push up on his left elbow, and May helps him with an impossibly gentle hand to his back.

“Ned said you fell while climbing the rope in gym class?” May says, and Peter spares a quick glance to see Ned offering a small shrug as if to say, ‘what else was I supposed to say?’

“Y-yeah,” Peter lies as May carefully guides him to his feet. “I fell on my side—I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Good work with that,” Tony says, suddenly stepping forward. “Not.” He nods to Peter’s shoulder. “Ted said it’s dislocated and that you have some fractured ribs?”

“Ned,” Peter corrects on habit. “I’m—”

“Kid, if you say you’re fine, I’m going to dislocate your other shoulder.”

Peter narrows his eyes at this, offering a slight glare to Tony, but May interjects before either can say anything.

“Peter, Tony was nice enough to offer his medical facility free of charge. He said he has some of the best doctors to help you, and he can take you right now.”

“But our dinner plans—”

“Can wait,” May says softly, a small smile playing at her lips. “We have all the time in the world, Peter.” She leans in and brushes a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Congratulations,” she whispers, and Peter’s heart swells with a comforting warmth.

“Thank you.” He means it, every single letter of the word, and May pulls back with a wider smile.

“Go on with Tony now. I’ll meet you both at the tower in a little while.”

Nodding, Peter and Tony start moving away from the crowds of people and to the parking lot. Tony’s quiet for a while, and Peter’s thankful because he’s exhausted and in far too much pain to be chatty. But, Tony finally cuts through the silence.

“Fell during rope climbing, huh? Do schools still do that?”

Just by Tony’s voice, Peter knows he knows it was a lie, so he only sighs and shakes his head. “I fell during patrol.”

“Doing what?”

“I just lost my footing.”

“Try again,” Tony says, and Peter grumbles a little under his breath.

“I was trying to do a back-flip off a building.”

Tony sighs deeply at this as the two approach the car, but when Peter slips into the passenger seat after Tony uncharacteristically opened the door for him, Tony leans over and taps Peter’s diploma.

“I don’t know how you can be so smart yet so stupid. Top of your class yet you attempt a back-flip off a building alone?”

Tony’s voice is mixed with more than one emotion, and Peter’s not sure how to approach a reply. He ends up with a small “I’m sorry?” and a slight tilt of the head.

“You always are,” Tony spits out as he straightens his back, one hand resting on the top of the open door. “Congrats by the way.”  

Peter looks up to him, and they share a communicative smile, one that speaks louder than any word possibly could.

[robnjaxn]

Someone reblogged this old picture I posted that I didn’t do anything with, but I fell back in love with the idea, so I wrote an extremely self-indulgent ficlet about it.

The original post description:

“love the idea of yuuri having random anxiety problems and he knows he’s being irrational so he just tries to ride it out, and victor not really knowing how he can help and it feels like everything he says makes it worse so he just has to sit there and helplessly watch :/”

It’s post-canon, and about 2000 words.

This deals with anxiety. It’s not sad, per se, but its not happy either.

“Have you seen Yuuri?”

Mari, towels in arm, looked up at Victor. Her expression didn’t change, but she didn’t immediately answer either. Hasetsu patrons idled nearby, silent strangers uninterested in the drama of the owner’s family.

“No, I haven’t.” She finally said, looking down at the towels in her arms, adjusting them casually. “Maybe he went to the rink.” She offered. “Or to the studio.”

Victor didn’t think so.

“Where else could he be?” She asked. It wasn’t a pointed question; it wasn’t exactly rhetorical either.

Victor had been wondering the same thing — He’d been wondering it too often over the past couple of weeks with growing frequency. He’d just… lose track of Yuuri, who seemed to fade from the edge of the room while Victor wasn’t paying attention. disappear for a few hours at a time. Then Victor would find him in the halls, or back in their room, like he hadn’t left.

“Where were you?” Victor would ask upon randomly discovering him.

“Hm? Oh, no where. I got distracted.”

Yuuri was bad at lying, but Victor was worse at calling him out on it.

“If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him,” Victor said to Mari.

“Will do,” Mari muttered, turning, walking away. Her steps were worried.

—

Victor found himself meandering the narrow halls, unequipped to be searching because he was liable to get mildly lost. The architecture was still foreign to him. Most of the time he was traversing the halls, he was following Yuuri. And when he was following Yuuri, he wasn’t exactly taking inventory of the layout of the building.

Victor was now staring down a hall which he was pretty sure lead to bedrooms he wasn’t desirous to disturb. At the other end of the hall, the building opened to a slanting porch, drifting into the sloping hill, the snaking pathway. The day was overcast, drearily wet, the green of the foliage intense against the gray sky. He listened intently, then shuffled forward on bare hesitant feet. The old wood creaked delicately; Victor had grown sentimental of Hasetsu’s serious, tired character, had become resolutely unwilling to disturb its frame. Shuttered, featureless shoji doors passed on either side of him until he was standing at the lintel to the outside.

The smooth rumble of the cavernous atmosphere spilled in around him, the rustle of harried trees, of shaking grass; the faint drizzle of the falling sky was caught by the pulsing wind, thin moisture blew into the doorway, caught on Victor’s skin, beaded in his hair.

If Yuuri was taking a walk, it wasn’t quite the right weather to do it. Victor crossed his arms against the chilly breeze, took a step out onto the porch and looked on either side of him. The building looked pale, slick; criss-crossing beams and thin partitions. The wind picked up, tossing nearby windchimes, rattling the trees. Victor scurried back into the house before he got too wet.

The hall was quiet; the wind waited at the door, too polite to sneak past the threshold.

Victor took a step down the hall, away from the exterior, then he heard a snuffle.

He paused mid-step, turning his head towards where he thought the noise originated. A charged beat passed, long enough for Victor to start blaming the weather. Then there was another sound, like a breath that couldn’t be caught; someone breathing in twice, forgetting to breathe out. Victor was sure it was coming from the door to the right of him, which he was pretty sure was a broom closet.

Victor ghosted towards that door, silent despite the wood’s best efforts. For once, Victor was pleased that the thin walls concealed little noise; the sighing was clearly recognizable.

Victor slid the door open, shedding light into a small grimy room.

“Yuuri-” Victor started normally, then stopped. Yuuri was standing, hunched, in the middle of the closet, hands on his face, staring at Victor with red, wet eyes. His face was flushed, teary. “What- what’s-”

“Close the door,” Yuuri said, voice low but thick. “Please.”

Victor entered the small closet and closed the door behind him, casting them both in foggy shadow. Yuuri wiped at his face agitatedly, stepping away from Victor, turning towards the corner. The room looked like it hadn’t been touched in years; the broom leaned against the wall looked antique, the mop on the floor against the back wall was rotted stiff, the bucket next to it was dry and full of cobwebs and the air was thick and musty.

“Yuuri, what’s wrong-” Victor reached out to pull Yuuri into his arms; Yuuri shrunk away, pressing his fists to his eyes.

“Stop-” He choked. Victor retracted, went cold, took a step back. Yuuri was shaking, shoulders tense. He tried to breathe out, but kept hiccupping, ribs heaving under his shirt. With each failed breath, he seemed more flustered, more frenzied.“Shit-”

Then, abruptly, Yuuri got down onto the ground, curling on his side, crowding the floor around Victor’s feet and disturbing the carefully-placed broom; Victor caught it before it could fall and hit Yuuri.

“Yuuri, don’t; the floor is filthy,” Victor said, distressed, gingerly leaning the broom back against the wall. Yuuri rolled over onto his back, hands pressed over his face. The gold band flickered on his finger. Dust and grime was already clinging to his t-shirt and sweatpants, turned his dark hair ashy. Victor looked down at him, extremely uneasy at the sight. “What happened?”

Yuuri shushed him assertively, shaking his head, hands still clasped against his eyes. Victor hesitated; then ignored the state of the floor and maneuvered his way into a sitting position, legs crossed because of the scarcity of room, careful not to touch Yuuri, stinging at the needed distance between them. He sat like that for a quiet moment, wanting something to do, something to say, and finding nothing meaningful.

“Yuuri-” Victor said, searchingly.

“Be quiet.” Yuuri’s voice, though still quiet, was harsh, stern.

Victor had never seen this before. Not even in the height of pressure during the last season did Yuuri act like this. This… this was nonsense; Victor couldn’t think of anything that would cause this kind of clear meltdown. It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon, nothing scheduled for days, no clear source of discomfort.

Yuuri was breathing manually, measuredly. Another minute passed in silence with nothing happening. Victor felt like Yuuri was only tolerating him being there.

“Do you want me to leave?” Victor whispered. Yuuri didn’t respond, didn’t move from his position on the floor, didn’t hesitate in his deliberate inhale, deliberate exhale.

Victor started to get up, leaning back on his hands, trying to figure out the best way to get to his feet.

“Wait,” Yuuri gasped, fingers curling against his face. “Don’t- Don’t leave me-” Victor eased back into his seated position. Yuuri breathed out. “Just- stay with me. Quietly. Please.”

“Okay.” Victor rested his hands in his lap, fighting the urge to comfort the way that came naturally to him, through touch, physical reassurance.

“Sorry- I’m a mess-” Yuuri’s voice broke; Victor couldn’t tell if it was a sob or a laugh. Maybe it was both.

“It’s okay,” Victor reassured, cooing; afraid to say more. Yuuri rolled back onto his side, curling towards Victor, but still not touching him. He dragged his hands off his face and tucked them under the side of his head, eyes adamantly closed. His cheeks were newly wet. Victor stayed warily where he was.

Slowly, Yuuri nuzzled forward, pressing his forehead to Victor’s knee. Victor assessed Yuuri’s profile; his nose was rosy, running slightly, the skin below his eyes was an irritated, blotchy red, his eyelashes fluttered on his cheekbones, breath passed through parted lips. Victor took a risk and brushed his fingers across Yuuri’s jawline. Yuuri didn’t seem to mind it.

“Sorry…” Yuuri repeated quietly, distractedly. Victor brushed his jawline again, then timidly smoothed his hair.

“It’s okay,” Victor repeated back, continuing his light touching. Yuuri’s hand rested on Victor’s leg, fingers idly scratching at Victor’s Adidas joggers. Then he was shaking again, like he’d resurfaced from a lulling obscurity, pressing his forehead harder against Victor’s knee.

“I didn’t want you to know about this,” Yuuri breathed, hand gripping Victor’s ankle. Victor stared at the ring on Yuuri’s finger, shook his head.

“I- I’m sorry I didn’t know,” Victor whispered. “So sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize.” Yuuri sighed. He lifted his upper body into Victor’s lap, wrapping his arms around Victor’s waist. Victor cradled Yuuri, hand caressing between Yuuri’s shoulder blades, the other brushing the hair off his forehead. Dirt fell off Yuuri’s clothes, dusted off his hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Victor wanted to pick him up, hold him close against his chest, and run, far and fast. He knew it couldn’t be as simple as leaving this dusty chasm, but the walls were tilting inward, the ceiling was lifting upward, and it felt like they were in danger of being trapped in a topless vacuum. He wiped the tears off Yuuri’s cheeks, realized his own hands had become unsteady. He exhaled, steeled himself against that, scolding himself for his own momentary breach of composure.

Yuuri opened his eyes, looked up at Victor with a sullen expression. He shifted upward so he was sitting on Victor’s lap, putting his arms over Victor’s shoulders. Victor held him, hands now firmly on Yuuri’s waist.

“Please... don’t- tell anyone,” Yuuri said, sobered.

“What do you mean,” Victor asked lightly. Yuuri hid his face in Victor’s shoulder.

“Don’t tell my family.”

“They don’t know?” Victor ran his thumb across Yuuri’s temple, wanting to see his expression, but unable to. Yuuri sighed, hands gripping the fabric on Victor’s back.

“They… know. But- not- the more recent… I just don’t want them to worry about it, you know.” Yuuri was trying to sound controlled, voice even; he was mostly succeeding. “Everyone’s happy right now, I don’t want to ruin it. I can deal with this on my own.”

“Yuuri, I don’t think-”

“Please.” Yuuri was still hiding his face. “Promise you won’t tell them.”

Victor combed his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, thoughts scattered as he tried to make sense of the turn of events. He didn’t want Yuuri to deal with this on his own. He didn’t think that was an acceptable solution. He was also unsure whether he could totally help Yuuri on his own; for one, this didn’t seem like something that could be fixed with sheer determination and spunk. And two, he already felt like he’d failed. He felt like it wasn’t his place to be making demands of Yuuri. 

Right now he wanted to stabilize this shaking person in his arms, to get him out of this dark, dirty room and into some clean clothes.

Victor cradled the back of Yuuri’s head, pressed soft lips to Yuuri’s temple. For a moment, he just clung to him, eyes closed, breathing deep. Then he gently guided Yuuri so he could see him, taking Yuuri’s arms from around his shoulder and taking Yuuri’s hands in his.

“Hey,” Victor murmured low. Yuuri was looking down, avoiding Victor’s eye. “Hey, look at me.” Yuuri looked up, unsure. “I won’t tell them. I promise.” Victor lifted Yuuri’s hand to his lips, kissed his ring, keeping eye contact the entire time. Yuuri gripped Victor’s hands harder. “But we’ve got to get out of this room and get cleaned up, okay?”

Yuuri hesitated, eyes darkening, visibly taking inventory of himself. His face was still mottled red, clothes a wrinkly, dirty mess, hair in something of a dusty tangle. Yuuri sagged a little, sleepy eyes blinking hard. Victor stopped his train of thought before it could crash.

“We just have to get back to our room and change our clothes,” Victor said. “And then we can lie in bed for the rest of the day, if you want. Maybe take a nap.”

Yuuri took a breath and nodded, a quick, subtle duck of his head, but didn’t move otherwise.

“Okay,” Victor continued. “I’ll get up when you do.”

Yuuri nodded again, but then curled forward into Victor’s chest, pressing his forehead against his clavicle. Victor wrapped his arms around him, suppressing a sigh.

“Sorry,” Yuuri said again, listless.

“It’s okay.”

[spaceprimcessleia]

Still Worth Saving 4

yay, chapter 4. find all others here http://spaceprimcessleia.tumblr.com/tagged/shoelace+fandom . if you want. or don’t. 

There’s a new paramedic. Bright eyed and eager with the entire manual memorised verbatim. Iain moans that she threw away his kebab and Sam all but throws the DNR at her when they finally find it hidden in an old biscuit tin.

But later she wonders if it might be better that the lonely old lady who called them out just to have someone to talk to didn’t have to die on her own.

It’s enough to extend the invitation to buy them all drinks that she got on her first day (her first first). Ruby starts to protest that it’s a work night and the body takes, on average, an hour to break down one unit of alcohol, but Sam just stares at her until she blushes, drops her gaze and mumbles something that she takes as a yes.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15832485/chapters/38861597

“Dylan, we can’t keep this up forever.”

“We? He’s my responsibility, Sam and it’s my decision.”

“So you’re just going to hide him away in here for the rest of his life?”

“Well, no. Obviously not.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

“I have a friend from the army-”

“If you’re about to say the words ‘immigration officer’.”

“Social worker, actually. Who specialises in refugee children.”

“No.”

“Sanosi has a good case for staying. He’s a child. He has no family, no one to go back to.”

“So when they do ship him off, he’ll end up in some orphanage that can’t afford walls.”

“Those really don’t exist outside of cartoons.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It’s just a meeting. A hypothetical one. We’ll ask all the questions. No one has to be involved but the three of us.”

“Since when did it become anything to do with you?”

“Like it or not, Dylan, I’m involved now.”

“You don’t have to be. You’re my ex-wife, Samantha. Please look it up in a dictionary.”

~*~

There are burning hot needles prickling beneath her skin, the world is rushing around her all at once- too much to watch. Her back slams into the walls, but she doesn’t notice the spark of pain.

“Sam?” Ruby’s voice, sharp and panicked.

Please don’t touch me. She doesn’t think she says it out loud.

“There’s a chair right here, okay? Just sit down and I’ll be right back.” She hears the door open then close again and sinks into the chair. She buries her head in her hands and waits to be able to breathe again.

A mask lands in her lap. She picks it up and holds it to her mouth, gulping in air- hardly caring that it means someone else is there, watching this. Finally, when she can feel something other than the burning needles, she notices the tears on her face. She keeps her head in her hands, drained enough to sink right to the floor and curl up there.

Ruby dithers in front of her. “Do you want me to get anyone?”

Sam thinks of Dylan, then shakes her head. “I’m okay,” she lies.

~*~

They tell her what she thought they would; they won’t throw out a child with nowhere else to go. Whoever smuggled him in can’t be promised the same immunity, but they’ve been friends long enough so he doesn’t ask any more questions. He warns, though, that he can’t guarantee anything. She knows how it is- she’s fought a war based on terrible decisions and humanity’s lack of their own title trait.

~*~

Iain slams the ambulance door but doesn’t start it. “You gonna tell me about these panic attacks?”

She watches another ambulance back into the bay. “I can add big mouth to Ruby’s growing list of attributes.”

“She was worried about you. So am I. Come on, Sam, it’s me.”

He means the time he found her hunched in the corner of the privy with a growing stain on her trousers, lying flat and still side by side as bullets ripped through the air around them, dragging the bodies of their friends over the corpses of strangers so their families would have something to bury. He means nights spent under the dim glow of a single bulb, curled around each other.

But somehow, she can’t tell him this. “We have an emergency to attend.”

“You’ve gotta talk to someone, Sam.”

She tells him to drive.

~*~

She downs a glass of whiskey before she takes a Thai to Dylan’s boat. He’ll smell it on her breath, even if she sucks an entire packet of polos, because there’s no hiding drinking from an alcoholic. It doesn’t stop her taking another gulp.

He looks at her for a second longer before he lets her inside. She just nods when he offers her tea and stands very still- a habit she’s always had when she’s nervous.

Dylan pushes a mug into her hands. “What’s the matter?”

It earns him a stare. He’s always preferred to ignore the dinosaur in the room. Or miss it altogether. “You’ve been different ever since you came back. Even I’ve noticed.”

She wants to be more drunk for this. “I didn’t cheat on Tom.” It’s not what she means to blurt out and it gets the reaction from Dylan it deserves.

“Wonderful. It was just me you couldn’t remain faithful to.”

It’s not too late to walk out, but Sanosi is with David and if she doesn’t do it now she’ll never find the courage again.

So she tells him about her phone. That he would go through it in front of her, even added a GPS app so he could track where she was when she wasn't with him. She tells him that he would accuse her of sleeping with almost any man she glanced at, but it was worse when he didn't say anything at all because then she knew his jealousy was simmering to become something bigger. She tells him about the car, how she thought he was going to smash it into a wall, or another car; how he pulled it to a stop in the middle of a road with not street lights and left her there without the keys until dawn.

Even as she’s speaking she wishes she wasn’t. It all sounds so pathetic.

Dylan doesn’t say anything, but she knows he’s thinking: Why did you let him?

(Because he made me fall in love with him first. Then he crushed the life out of me so slowly that my the time I noticed there was nothing left inside me to fight with).

But he’s still saying nothing and she won’t stand and listen to the silence.

His voice stops her when she starts to walk away. “Did he ever hurt you?”

He hurt her in so many ways she can’t even begin to find the pieces of herself again, but she knows that’s not what he’s asking. “He never hit me.” That, technically, is the truth.

“Where is he now?”

She shrugs. “Last time I saw him was almost a year ago when I told him I was leaving.”

“Which was?”

“Why?” She keeps her head bowed towards the floor.

“I want to send him a fruit basket. Why do you think?”

She turns to look at him at last. “I don’t need you to beat up the scary man for me, Dylan.”

“He deserves a lot worse than that.”

And she hasn’t even told him the worst of it. Despite everything she feels a warm tinge in her chest. He’s always been protective of her- not that she ever needed it. It was one of the things she missed most when they fell apart. Someone who cared. Now, though, she needs him to stop. She doesn’t deserve his defence.

She also doesn’t stop him when he takes her hand and tugs him towards her, wrapping her in a tight hug. He's always been her safe harbour.

~*~

Bea corners her as she’s finished handing over a patient and asks her out. With Ruby and Alicia too. She goes red as she says it though, as if Sam might have thought it was something else. Immediately, she goes to say no. Then thinks about the other offer she has (sitting alone in her empty flat with a measure of scotch to keep Tom’s voice out of her head). She accepts. A smile breaks over Bea’s face, like it matters. Like she really wants her there.

~*~

The bar is crowded- filled with men, women and everyone in between. She can almost feel the pressure around her shoulders, his arm claiming her. She’s not wearing enough- let Alicia talk her into barely there clothes and now she wants to wrap her arms around her body.

A brunette smiles at her from across the bar and she wishes more than ever she hadn’t come. Tom never knew about this part of her. It would have given him even more reason to search her things.

But the others are fast disappearing into the crowd and she wants to be alone even less.

Her new colleague looks as uncomfortable as her, nursing the same drink she’s had for almost an hour, the pads of her fingers tapping against the glass. Sam looks for Bea and Alicia, but they’re lost somewhere in the heave of bodies. “It’s hot in here. Wanna go outside for a minute?” She has to tell over the music.

It takes Ruby a moment to realise what she’s said, but the relief is obvious. She abandons her drink and Sam takes her hand as they fight through the crowd.

~*~

Ruby’s still there in the morning. Sam had been too hazy with exhaustion and vodka to figure out a polite way to kick her out. And she hadn’t moaned about the light. It had been easy to fall asleep beside her. Easy again to make coffee around her, saying not more than “milk?” and handing her the sugar.

Even if Ruby almost drops the bowl when their hands touch. Obviously she’s not used to this. Sam’s not either- not anymore. She’s forgotten the lines, doesn’t know how to get rid of her. They have work soon anyway, might as well just drive in together. Iain won’t ask questions. They’re both women.

When Ruby stammers that she doesn’t have any clothes, Sam rolls her eyes and tosses her some jeans and a t-shirt. Even lets her use the shower. It would almost be domestic if she didn’t keep a six foot distance between them.

~*~

Dylan finds her as she’s heading off for a lunch break. “I saw the social worker last night.” He says it in the same way he says everything.

“And?” she prompts.

“He said it’s extremely likely Sanosi will be able to stay here.” But there’s an edge to his voice, a tense muscle in his jaw. She opens her mouth to ask about it, but he’s already waking away.

~*~

Alicia slides between her and Ruby when they’re chewing down sandwiches before the next emergency, muttering about Eddie and what an arrogant shit he is. Sam tells her he’s a man, he can’t help it. Iain, passing by, shoots her puppy eyes and clutches his heart.

“He wants to go out tonight. Just to the pub.” But she scuffs the ground with her shoe.

Sam swallows the last of her sandwich. “Let’s all go,” she says.

Alarm flickers across Ruby’s face. Sam rolls her eyes, but looks away so Ruby doesn’t see. Maybe it’s best if she finds someone else to go home with tonight.

[sambukasam]

J is for Jacking Off

Summary: This is literally just Dean getting himself off and I have no regrets

Request: Anon: Omg, I just read like all of your ABC Challenge thing and it was so good! May I request jacking off with deanxreader? Thanks so much, I love your writing!

Pairing: Dean

Warnings: masturbation (male)

Word Count: 1004

A/N: i hope this is okay !! i did solo!dean because i dont want it to be too similar to the mutual masturbation one

ABC’s of Sex Masterlist ↔︎ Normal Masterlist

Dean could have kissed Jody when she managed to convince Sam he needed a break. She took him out to get some coffee, and Dean made her promise that she’d make sure Sam ate some lunch with her while he stayed at the bunker and tried to catch a case.

She nodded, taking on the nurturing mom role that she somehow always slipped into when she was the boys. And then she was gone, Sam’s heavy steps trudging after her until he heard the bunker door close.

Now was Dean Time. He and Sam had stayed in the bunker for the past few weeks straight, leaving him no opportunity to leave and find someone to take home, and no time to go whack off. Now was perfect, Jody ate a bite every twenty minutes - she called it savouring the food. Dean called it sad. She’d keep Sam out with her for at least an hour and a half, giving Dean more than enough time to empty his balls at a leisurely pace.

He downed the rest of the beer that was left in the bottle in front of him until it was empty, then he was quickly walking to his room while simultaneously unbuttoning his flannel. The door was open wide and inviting, and he didn’t even bother to close it after him. He threw the plaid onto the hamper and tugged his t-shirt that he was wearing under it over his head. He threw that in the general direction of it, not bothering to see if it landed with the rest of his dirty clothes.

He stood on the heels of his boots to get them off without having to bend down and did the same with his socks. He was working manually, smooth motions like a well-oiled machine. His pants and boxers were in a pile on the floor before he even realized he was taking them off.

He grinned at the sight of his bed, covers pulled up and pillows fluffy and comforting. Memory foam, no rock hard motel mattress covered in mysterious stains that he didn’t want answers to.

He lay down on his back, head propped up under one arm while the other was reaching down the side and under the frame to where he kept his bottle of lube handy.

He weighed it in his hand before opening it, making a mental note to buy another bottle soon, before he popped the cap open and drizzled a decent sized glob onto his hand. He liked it wet, messy and sticky, in all departments of the bedroom. It was his forte, and he perfected it like it was an art.

His cock was half hard by then, and it twitched with interest as he wrapped his hand around it and slowly moved it up and down it, spreading the lube.

Each time his hand got to the tip, he twisted it and added just a little bit more pressure. He hissed between his teeth at the sensitivity he had under the head of his cock, and he was more than rock hard now.

He took the arm that was cushioning his head and lowered it to his balls. His fingers slowly massaged his sack, rubbing and rolling, going from gentle caresses to decent squeezes. He was playing his body like it was an instrument, wound up and needing release but not wanting it to just end.

He finished playing with his balls with one final rub and brought his fingers to his nipples He circled one before pinching it harshly, grunting while his cock twitched.

He stopped stroking his cock and brought his fingertips to the sensitive head. He ran his index finger under the ridge of the tip, tracing gentle lines and jumping at the sensitivity. Precome oozed out of the tip at the sensitivity and started pooling on his stomach.

When he decided he had done enough teasing he stopped playing with his nipples and head, bringing one hand back to his balls while he tightened the hand on his cock into a fist. He eagerly began bucking up and into it, squeezing his cock nice and tight and picturing a nice ass or pussy being the thing to slowly clench around it and not just his hand.

His stomach was tensing under his ministrations, and even more precome seeped out. He planted his feet on the bed, bending his knees so that he would have a better angle for thrusting. The hand on his balls let go and opted to grab the sheets, hands fisting them tightly while his eyes squeezed shut tightly.

He was letting out loud moans, finding it liberating how he didn’t have to care about his volume.

He could feel the blood pounding through his entire body - more specifically, blood pumping towards his angry red and throbbing dick.

His toes were curling and his arm was flexing and he was right there, just needing that one little push.

He let go of the sheets and brought his hand up to his mouth. He dipped one finger in and sucked on it lightly. Then his hand was drifting down to his ass. It didn’t take much then, with his hand pumping his cock as fast as it was. He dragged his fingertip down to his perineum and added a bit of pressure and then he was gone.

He came with a shout, coming so hard that a spurt of it hit his chin. His chest was painted white and his lungs were heaving for air. It had been way too long. He smiled as he lay back and shut his eyes, perfectly content with just staying like that, naked and on the bed, not even caring about the cum that was slowly drying on his skin.

He only started to move when he heard the bunker door open. He jumped up and grabbed his robe, tying it around his body to cover him up while he practically ran to the shower.

[feverhalo]

Anon prompt! I did Voltron:Legendary Defender for this.

Contains vomiting, minor anxiety descriptions, and cheesiness. Its set in the start of the Garrison time when Lance, Hunk, and Pidge all meet up. Using he/him for Pidge because thats what was used for them at the time in series. Im putting the readmore before the fic starts this time because it goes into the content pretty quickly. Its just shy of 1500 words (or just over after some editing)

“Thats it. If you throw up one more time we’re going to the hospital” Any pairing/person you can think of is all good with me, thank you so much in advance!

Hunk coughed harshly and spat into the sink. The lingering taste of sick was turning his stomach still, but he had promised himself he would be quick. Nobody needed to have their schedule thrown off because of him. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, it had been a rough week. Garrison training really ramped up this semester.

He cupped a handful of cold water to rinse his mouth with before washing his face with haste. When he turned to leave, his newly assigned teammate was standing behind him, staring- or glaring? Whatever he was doing it was making Hunk’s palms sweat with anxiety.

“You okay?” That was it. Hunk waited a second, staring blankly. No berating came, no scoffing, no ‘if-you-can’t-take-the-training-leave’ spiel like he got from some of the others when he threw up during the pacer test.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” His voice stung and was thin and cracking from the abuse of being so violently sick just a few minutes ago. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Cool. Um, I’m Lance. It- we didn’t really get properly introduced.” He smiled at Hunk, a thousand kilowatt smile that made Hunk’s own face crack into a grin even though he still felt shaky.

“I’m Hunk.”

————-

“Simulation complete.” The pneumatic door locks hissed as they disengaged and Hunk pushed his way through as fast as he could manage. Today was even worse than the day before. They finished a hard obstacle course with him barely keeping his stomach in line- even a few of the other students had tapped out or thrown up on the sidelines from the strain of it. Then they ran simulations. Then more simulations. This was their introduction. No sit down, here is the manual these are your controls. Blindly being thrown into three different cockpit styles with different layouts and jostled around inside. Every mistake being berated by Commander Iverson, even though they all had never set foot in a cockpit before.

“At least he knows to hide his face after such a disgraceful display!” Hunk could hear the lecture on the peripheral of his attention. He was going to be sick, and right there in front of everyone if he wasn’t fast. That thought sent a jolt of panic through him, making the nausea spike. He left his new team there to take the flack all by themselves. Oh, god what kind of team member was he? He gagged into his hand. Times up. He pushed the lid off of one of the bins just around the corner- recycling or garbage who cared in a bin was better than on the floor.

The distant shouting faded out of his awareness entirely, his head was swimming and he felt like his skin was buzzing. A heady wave of heat rolled down his shoulders and ice cold sweat dripped down his face. He felt his shoulders roll forward before he was aware he was gagging into the bin. It was rather quiet, save for the harsh cough at the end that tore his throat. His stomach bubbled and he felt choked, he couldn’t breathe. Saliva pooled in his mouth and he choked on it trying to hold back. He tried to swallow again but it caught and he coughed harshly again, bringing up a bitter taste.

Somewhere off there was an explosion of sound, and he wanted to look but his eyes were stinging, his face ached with pressure from the unwilling exertion his body was taking. Loud, slapping footsteps crossed behind him and his face burned with humiliation. He couldn’t help it. He retched again, the spit and a small spurt of vomit mixing together and splattering on the cans below him. His body tingled with another wave of nausea crashing over him like an icy bucket of water.

He coughed up a huge wave of half digested breakfast and it didn’t seem to stop. He tried to breathe, really, he did. It hitched after he tried to inhale and he curled further forward as his stomach clenched so harshly it made his muscles scream. And again, barely a breath and he was sent forward with another gush of sickness. Something patted at his back, knocking the air back into him. He gasped, greedily sucking in as much as his lungs could hold before coughing. He swiped his wrist under his eyes carefully. They were streaming, his nose was running like a sieve and he could feel the tacky strings of mucus and vomit trailing from his mouth and nose.

“That’s it,” the smacks to his back turned into someone rubbing smooth circles as he shuddered in breath after breath, “You got it, now.”

His face burned, someone was there. This was not him wishing one of his moms was there, this was most definitely a real person. He tried to spit, but ended up coughing again and bringing up another string of sick. He could breathe, though, that’s what mattered. He finally spat, and blew through his nose to try and dislodge the, no doubt charming, mess dripping from his face.

“You okay now, uh Hunk, was it?” Lance’s face was in his peripheral vision, hand still on his back. Hunk nodded, but stayed hovering over the, yep that was the recycling bin. He was scared to respond, his throat felt thick and burned so badly.

“Good. Here.” He handed over a wad of napkins from the Garrison cafeteria. He pulled another fresh wad out of his other pocket too, as Hunk started swiping them under his nose.

“Thank-“ Hunk tried, but it caught in his throat and he coughed until he gagged again. He threw up. Again. He heaved a shaky sigh after it was over and went back to wiping his face in silence.

“That’s it. If you throw up one more time we’re going to the hospital.”

“It’s the Garrison, there’s no hospital for miles.” Hunk croaked. “It’ll be fine.”

“Then I’ll take you to whatever passes for a medical centre here. You’ve thrown up, like, every day this week.” Hunk straightened up a little and looked down at his shoes, best to avoid looking at the mess. He could feel his face going red again. “Come on, Iverson told me to take off for the day anyway.”

“What?” Hunk blinked up at him.

“I kind of told him to stuff it and walked off. He was getting way too much enjoyment out of us suffering, and I mean…” Lance took his hand off Hunk’s back, content the taller boy was going to be able to hold his own for a moment. He shrugged. “We’re a team now or whatever, so, you’re more important than an ego driven tirade.”

“Aww geeze,” Hunk ran his hand through his damp hair, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you guys in trouble.”

“Its fine, seriously, you okay?”

“Its embarrassing,” Hunk looked up and down the hall. It was surprisingly, and thankfully, empty. “I’m okay, for real. I just get sick to my stomach really easily. I got kicked off the bus coming up here because I kept throwing up, actually.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Motion sickness, and stuff.”

“That’s all? Thank God,” Lance held his hand to his chest as he sighed, “We can work with that, man. Come on, you look trashed. How are you even standing? If you get sick like that every time, you have to have some serious strength.”

“Hey, can I stop running interference now? I swear one of these older guys is gonna deck me!” A new voice grumbled from behind Hunk. His other new team mate- small kid with glasses, what was his name?

“Thanks, Pidge. Sorry about that,” Lance shot the smaller boy a smile past Hunk’s arm. “You’re a real cool kid, you know that?”

“Shut up,” Pidge rolled his eyes, “You okay there, guy?” Hunk nodded, he shifted from side to side under their attention. It felt so weird, they were already willing to get in trouble on his behalf, after only, what? A day and a half maybe?

“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks.” He cleared his throat again, his voice was so wrecked, “Didn’t catch your name, sorry.”

“Its Pidge. Come on, you look like crap. Lance, don’t stand there and talk to him all day, we had a plan.”

“What?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Lance gently pulled on Hunk’s arm. “C’mon. We’re kidnapping you to get some rest and some ice cream- if you’re feeling up to it. Vanilla ice cream does wonders for a sore throat, and isn’t so bad on an upset stomach either.”

“Not to be rude, but it was kind of obvious you’ve been sick. You’ve been looking pretty wrung out for a couple days now.” Hunk smiled sheepishly. He knew that, everyone was looking rough. He kept that to himself, even though the small boy in front of him looked pretty haggard and had dark circles on his own pale face.

“Aw, geeze. Thanks guys.” Hunk smiled, he could feel his eyes prickling. Okay, maybe they weren’t totally like his moms, but this was really bringing back some memories. If he could get his throat to feel a bit better, and sound a little less awful, maybe he could call home and tell them about this. They’d be so proud to know their son was lucky enough to be teamed up with some pretty alright guys.