#I started shipping them while watching Buck claw at the earth

[littlefreya]

Velvet Chains

Summary: For a generous fee, August Walker is yours. A man devout to pleasure, who will worship you for an entire night and make sure your first time is more than memorable. 

Promot:  

 A thought - August as a gigolo who specializes in deflowering. 👌

Pairing: Soft! August Walker x Virgin Reader.  

Word count: 1.6K

Warnings: 18+. August Walker as a sex-worker, sexual intercourse, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, a depiction of bodily fluids, soft!August themes, a tinge of angst and August’s monster c... 

A/N: When I received this prompt, I didn’t think I can actually do it justice, but it was 3am and I started dabbling around. Then in the morning, I took another look at it, and this little drabble turned into a one-shot. I hope you’ll like it, I hope I did well. Many thanks to @agniavateira​ my muse who beta’d my story. 

Please give feedback and reblog if you enjoyed reading. 🖤 DM if you want to be added to my tag squad. 

Title: Velvet Chains

They were all little flowers to him, fresh peonies and flushed roses. Young or mature, it never mattered as long as they were still oh so pure. Undefiled, succulent flesh. Kissed by dew and wrapped by the last remaining petals of their innocence.

All for him to willfully pluck.

Sprayed with notes of tobacco, and boozy fragrance of rum - August Walker was the top-tier kind of service, a man to die for with his three-piece suits and shiny leather shoes. At one point he didn’t even need to self-promote; they came to him, all doe-eyed and coy, willing to pay as much as it takes to have him breach through the sealed gates of their garden.   

The rules were quite simple: Cash in advance and always wear protection; other than that anything goes. August liked to see himself as a procurer of fantasies rather than a male prostitute. For a generous fee of $1500, his girls earned themselves a night they never forgot. Whether it began with a dinner at the most outrageous restaurant, a masked ball at a billionaire’s mansion, or an intimate evening with his homemade cooking at a cosy sublet. 

It was up to him to choose the experience for the ladies after thoroughly assessing and profiling each client. He was never wrong; after all, it was his job to study women, both mentally and physically. 

“I know what you need,” he would murmur as he kissed down their navel and swept between their shaky thighs. And in his grip they indeed laughed, cried, and came undone so many times over, reaching out to grasp heaven around his unapologetically huge cock.  

Until you changed everything. 

August couldn’t quite crack you; while he enjoyed, savoured, and conquered every woman he had, it was you who seemed to have more power over him than he did over you. The quiet abyss in your eyes reeled him in like an unfortunate, foolish fish teetering on a hook. Whatever mysteries that mind of yours held, he wanted to pry it open with his fingers and brush them through the parchments of your soul. 

He desired you more than just the flesh; he wanted to be deeper in you than he ever was in any other woman. 

‘Who are you?’

Shivering in his presence, it was crystal clear that you weren’t immune to his spells; yet you didn’t seem impressed by the theatrics or his suave appearance. As if you saw right through him, and knew it was all but a spectacle.  

Wanting everyone to witness your ‘claiming’, he took you to the dimly-lit roof of his private apartment and laid you on a blanket beneath the beaming stars. When his lips touched yours while slowly ridding himself of his clothes, August felt like he could tell you his most kept secrets though he didn’t want to. 

This is not how it worked. Not for him. 

Sorrounded by the fairy tea-lights that adorned the intimate rooftope, you flinched as he began undressing you, and trembled so vehemently once completely bare that all he wanted was to embrace you in his big arms. And he did so, collecting you against the dark fur of his chest, the heat of his body provided shelter from the cold October breeze.

“Beautiful,” he whispered sincerely and allowed his hands to roam the tender map of your body. Likely, he would never see you again, so he wanted to remember every curve, dimple, and scar; he needed your moans imprinted in the museum of his mind. 

The same desperate, breathless pleas only a virgin would make, purer than pure.

Breathing in shudders, you laid down beneath him with your legs spread out. Your little untouched slit displayed to his hungering gaze, asking to be reshaped by his intrustment. August was never one to lose control, but your entire existence has made him question every decision and in a moment of frivolousity, he lost himself completely and broke the most forbidden rule: 

He entered you bare. 

Painfully large and hot as flaming iron, his rigid cock tore through your maidenhood and delved into your velvety pit, desperately searching for the engulfing shelter that was your womb. Weeps of pain rained down your lips; he was too big, and he didn’t slow down. He unwrapped you, tearing your rose petals one by one, sinking in until you could have sworn he was infused between your lungs. 

Overwhelmed by the raw sensation of your wet flesh engulfing him, August raked his arm around the small of your back and held your body against his, forcing you to spread wider, to grant him the infinite access he demanded.

“Look at me kitten,” he murmured in a half-breathless, half-soothing voice and showered hasty butterfly kisses across your forehead, “I’m inside you. It’s done, now let me please you.”

He seared your body, your sensitive entrance pulsating with a twinge of grieving anger around his veiny cock, your walls squeezing, fighting off his lewd intrusion. While you anticipated the pain, the initial shock was too much to bear. 

“I don’t think I can take you,” you retorted and swallowed hard, trying not to cry as he swelled and flinched inside you further more.

August reached a hand to your jaw and caged it between his strong fingers. Not saying a word, he stared intensely into your eyes. Smoke and broken mirrors shadowed his glare. In your daze, you swore you could see his reveries and hear him whisper without moving his lips. 

The barriers of your guarded castle were in ruins, and so was your self-preservation. Fully submitting, you allowed him to take you beneath the shimmering, black silks of midnight. 

August was both gentle and rough as he rode between your thighs, his heavy body surrounding you completely. His entity seeped through your lungs and pores, his bewhiskered mouth left sloppy, ticklish kisses and chanted a hymn of pleasure against your neck. 

For a slight moment, you wondered if he was this passionate with all of his customers. But all thoughts died at the moment his crown slammed into the wall of your womb, and the entirety of your existence was flooded with both the tremors of sudden pleasure and satisfying pain. 

You wanted more, you wanted to be complete. To be completely his.

“Oh god, yes!” You cried for him, clawing your nails at the taut muscles of his back.

Grunting, he plunged into you, harder with every pull and deeper with every thrust. He sought for heaven between your legs and as inexperienced and naive as you were, you followed your instincts and complied to his arousal. Bucking your hips, you yielded to meet the jerk of his hips - your rhythm a savage mess, your demeanour that of a virgin-whore. 

“Good girl, my good girl,” August praised, thrilled of the shift in you, and by the helpless, glossy gaze and gaping mouth as you moaned and begged. Your freshly open cunt clung to his invasion with its growing tightness. Holding onto him the way the moon is bound to earth.

Control was gradually lost over your own bodies, enslaved to something stronger than your wills and wits. It was as if you became vessels to haunting spirits that made you slam into one another, lost in a sweaty, carnal trance until a flush of sudden rapture broke between your legs the way raging waves break upon a ship lost at sea, consuming it completely.

Like a dauntless sailor, August followed you into the depths of euphoria. Jumping to his knees, he hauled you by the waist and slammed you against him, needing to be balls-deep within you. With a loud shout, he came undone, astonished by the raw, unbridled sensation of releasing himself inside another person.

You both shuddered in shock as his thick cum bathed your womb in three, warm gushes. 

‘Oh, August, what have you done?’

Spent, he nearly collapsed on top of you, holding his hands flat to the side of your head. He took a deep breath before pulling out from your hurting hole and moving to lie by your side. The pink mixture of your essence trickled between your simmering lips just the way it coated his still-swollen cock. Glancing down upon it he felt an odd notion of triumph, more than the usual complacent feeling usually evoked with his clientele. 

“Don’t worry, I am clean.” He promised. 

In a way, you were his first as well.

Pulling you against him, he nuzzled your neck and hummed lowly, “I don’t imagine you could give me anything.”

Still trying to land back on solid ground, you said nothing. Words didn’t make it, not through your chest nor your head. You basked within the moment, trying to memorise every vibration that flowed through your veins as the glow became dimmer with every passing minute.

Limbs entangled, he decorated your shoulder-blade with honey-sweet kisses while your spine attached to his hairy chest. He watched you quietly, admiring you completely until the two of you fell into a dreamless sleep under the guarding sky. 

Come morning, August was awakened by the sounds of the raging street below. The scent of toxic vapours hung heavy in the air and his face curled at the sounds of the beeping horns. For a moment, he forgot where he was but then you were the first thing on his mind. Even though he knew the deal was for one night only, something in him itched for a generous ‘on-the-house’ lazy morning sex.

As he rolled to lie on top of you, his chest felt abruptly empty. He was met with nothing but the defiled blanket.

You were gone.   

Though the scent of your body, your sweat, and viscous fluids were still stuck to his skin, your memory a sheer piece of silk carried away by the cruel wind. The weight of a thousand stones dropped in August’s gut and he flipped onto his back once more and stared at the cloudy sky. 

It resonated in him that this was all that it was, and he would never find a girl like you again.     

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

*I don’t own August Walker or the Mission: Impossible Franchise

[plush-rabbit]

SFW Alphabet - Prince Lear

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Lear isn’t very affectionate. Growing up in a strict household and shipped off to a boarding school has made his cold and unable to properly show emotions. The way he does show affection is tense. Once he does ease up, his affection is more apparent. He’ll inch his hand over to you and grab yours, eyes looking the other direction; it’s hugs that are too tight and hands that linger on your back, and soft fingertips that trace your face. Farther into the relationship, he’s a lot needier for affection. He’ll be draped on you, legs on top of his or ours. He’s touch starved and seeking out your warmth.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Friendship would start with either fashion or quippy remarks. He can appreciate someone who has a good taste in fashion and/or someone who is able to snap at him and keep him levelheaded.

He’s the type of best friend were he talks smack about others and is just a little shit, a devious grin and hand covering mouth as he criticizes others. He’s very adamant about keeping you as a friend so it’s a lot of shopping and gifts.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

After the touch rejection phase phases out, he’s very much a cuddler. He wants to be wrapped up in your arms and hear about your day. He wants to bask in your warmth and feel your hands stroke his hair. He’s very often the little spoon. He likes to be held and nuzzle into you.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

He wouldn’t mind to settle down. It isn’t constantly in his mind but if he were ever to become a father, he would spoil the heck out of that child. He would like to get married one day, wake up next to someone and just gaze at them in bed and fiddle with a ring whenever he’s anxious.

He is an excellent cook and cleaner. He knows how to work his way around a kitchen and prefers to prepare his own meals. He doesn’t like a dirty environment so his things are neat and tidy, everything where it belongs and papers in a neat stack.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

He’s not good at saying goodbye. It leaves him with a sick feeling and tears that sear his skin. Breakups aren’t done face to face, through a message is how he works. It’s a simple message that just says that he’s breaking up with you and he spends the next month shopping and tossing things into the bin.

F = Fiancé(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Commitment makes him anxious. It shakes him to his very core and leaves a sour taste on his tongue. He knows that it all stems from his relationship with his family and that it’s one of the reasons why commitment deters him away and he can’t really dwell on it for too long or else he’ll spiral.  That being said, he will ask for your hand in marriage but it’s going to be a long wait.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He’s fragile and will treat you as such. He’ll fret over you, he tries to be soft with his touches, only squeezing back when you do, cooing and pecking soft kisses to you. He doesn’t push too hard and only will when he knows you have to let out steam.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He isn’t used to hugs so when you start to throw them his way, he’s stiff and unsure of what to with his arms. Afterwards, his hugs and tight and lingering, holding onto you like you’re a security blanket. He doesn’t want to let go and the way his hands grip your shirt says it all.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

It takes a long time for his guard to lower and actually say that word. He’s thrown it out before but it’s always been to inanimate objects. The first time he ever said it was when he thought you asleep and the moonlight was casting a soft glow around you.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

He has a low sense of self-worth and because of that he gets easily jealous, thinking that you’ll leave him to be with someone more down to earth. When he wants to make himself known that you two are together, he’ll grip your hand and just start talking to you, completely cutting off the other person and dragging you away.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Kisses with Prince Lear are soft and hesitant, lips too nervous to touch your skin, that brush over yours for a second too long before they finally kiss you. He enjoys kissing you on the outline of your jaw and he enjoys to be kissed on his temple and the palm of his hand.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He’s oddly really good around children. They like seeing his flashy clothes and his loud personality makes kids just go buck wild in his presence, wanting to scream to match his personality. He likes being around kids because they’re just so excitable and in awe of everything- it’s a real good ego boost.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

It’s lazy mornings where you both lay in bed twenty minutes after you’ve woken up, where you stretch and whine as your bones pop and feeling comes back to your legs. Mornings where he doesn’t want to let go.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

It’s late nights where you watch him do his skincare routine and often join him. Late nights where you both recount your day and bask in the silence.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

He won’t reveal information about himself until you’re deep into the relationship. Sometimes he says things by accident, mentioning it offhandedly as you’re eating cereal. Other times it’s late at night where he’s whispering to you his story, his voice full of emotions and hands clenched tight to prevent shaking.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He has a very thin patience but he can hide his anger well. He tries to be patient, biting on his tongue and looking the other way but his blood will boil and red crescent marks will decorate his palm.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He has an excellent memory. He remembers everything that you like, everything that you dislike, completely random facts that you forgot that you even mentioned.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

His favorite moment in the relationship is your late night talks when the darkness overtakes the room and you can only feel him. The dark makes him feel more secured. You can’t see the tears that roll down his cheeks when he talks about his mother and father and that makes him feel safer, more in control.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He’s very protective. He believes that you can protect yourself, but he won’t be the one to stand down, he’ll spit words of venom and take you away from the scene. He won’t ever admit it, but he likes being protected. He likes knowing that someone loves him enough to defend him.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

He tries so much with every special holiday. He gives it his all and always tries to one-up himself every year. It all feels like it’s too much and it’s a bit suffocating but it feels nice to know that you’re wanted.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He can mask his feelings well enough that you won’t know what he’s feeling until it’s too late. He doesn’t want you to see him in a vulnerable state, he doesn’t want you to see him as weak so he’ll scowl and act like emotionless until he’s throwing a tantrum.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He is extremely vain. He watches what he eats, has an entire skincare routine that he follows religiously. He needs to appear as if he is in control- that he is above others. He has to look the part of a prince.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He would feel incomplete without you. He’s gotten attached and if you were to ever leave him, there would be a hole in his chest that he would desperately try to fill even if said task were impossible. He cares for you so much that the thought of you leaving him fills him with pain.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

He’s oddly fascinated with true crime. It chills him to the bone and he’ll stay up at night thinking about the crime and then he can’t sleep but he really likes them. It’s fascinating hearing people talk about stuff like that and do the amount of research to get all the facts correct.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

In general and in a relationship, he doesn’t like a person without manners. He doesn’t mind if you show your claws every once in a while but he does like a bit of class. He comes from a high society where he was surrounded by silver and gold, where elbows where allowed on the table and eating with your hands was frowned upon. He tries not to let it bother him as much as it used to, but he will turn up his nose at lack of manners.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

His bed is covered with blankets and pillows both for you and him since he hogs everything soft in his vicinity. He also has a habit to jerk in his sleep, little kicks that brush against your calf. Mumbling in his sleep where the little words are spoken that only the night hears.

[senlinyu]

If you're still taking prompts: Dramione, "Tabula rasa"

Warning: sad.

Tabula rasa. Those are the terms.

Get out of Azkaban, work at her insipid house-elf charity for a year, and pretend they’ve never met before.

It’s weird but anything is better than sitting in Azkaban for a second year.

It’s like a fresh start.

The concept is tantalising.

He refrains from rolling his eyes as he agrees to the terms. “I’d love to act like I’ve never seen her before.”

“The terms will be magically binding. Violate them and you will return to fill the additional year of your sentence,” the weevil-faced lawyer says.

Draco glances at his mother who sits eagerly beside him and is nodding encouragingly.

“Fine. I’m legally bound act like I don’t know her. Sounds ideal. Where do I sign?”

He doesn’t know why the clause even exists in the agreement. Three weeks on the job and he hasn’t even laid eyes on her.

The day he arrived, he’s shuffled off into a cramped office in the basement and, after they try giving him a variety of different tasks, he ends up being assigned to write thank you letters.

It’s his entire job.

Excellent penmanship is apparently the only usable skill that he possesses.

He assumes at first that it will be easy. He’ll come in late, leave early, and spend a matter of minutes charming a couple dozen notes tops.

“Dear Bootlicker, Thank you terribly much for your generous donation if 500 galleons. I’m thrilled there was literally nothing else you could conceive of to do with your money. It will assuredly be used by yours truly to improve the lives of the sentient abominations called house-elves. Sincerely, love and kisses, the Wizarding world’s favourite buck-toothed harridan, Hermione Granger.”

No. It’s not easy. Granger has elaborate requirements for all the thank you letters that she doesn’t even bother to personally write.

He has to go through the society papers and Granger’s detailed personal calendar to make references to the donor’s last meeting with her. He’s expected to ask about children and grandchildren by name, and discuss the inner-workings of the charity as well as to relate anecdotes about all the sad little elves the donor’s money saves.

Within a few weeks he’s maintaining a full-fledged correspondence between the most bizarre assortment of Wizarding folk, a centaur, two vampires, and an alleged forest troll. A correspondence that he is maintaining as Granger, whom he hasn’t laid eyes on in years.

Supposedly she looks over all his letters before signing them and sending them off, but Draco doubts it. After weeks there, he still hasn’t so much as caught sight of her bushy head.

He torn between a sense of outrage and admiration over what a slick ship she runs. He doesn’t think she even shows up in her office most days. If she does, she never slips so much as a toe past the fourth floor, certainly not to any floors Draco’s allowed on.

Granger has a matronly personal assistant the size of a mountain named Charlotte. The woman is like the female version of Crabbe and Goyle simultaneously. Draco is convinced she must be at least a quarter troll. She glares at Draco whenever “passing on messages” and makes clear to Draco that she’d gladly snap his spine if Granger ever gave her the go-ahead.

Draco accepts his “job” with his head down. He just has to endure it a year and then he’s free. Maybe once he’s not at risk of returning to Azkaban, he can expose what a fraud Granger is.

He finally sees her after two months.

She’s walking by with her assistant when he’s standing in the hallway, taking a break from his cramped office’s inadequate air flow.

Granger catches sight of him all the way down the hallway and without hesitating, bolts up to him.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. You’ve been here for over a month and I haven’t said hi.” She’s beaming at him as she takes hold of his hand and shakes enthusiastically. Her assistant comes thundering down the hall after her. “I’ve been admiring your penmanship for weeks. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stared at her blankly while she pumps his hand up and down.

Tabula rasa.

Everyone at the charity knows who he is, even though they make a show of not. There are loud comments about the kinds of people who would become Death Eaters. The receptionist pretends to be unable to recall his name or that he has a job there. Draco is obliged to go through the full sign-in process every morning as though he’s a visitor.

However, Granger has no idea who he is. It’s not an act. There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she grins up at him.

He’s imagined their fake “meeting” a dozen different ways but this iteration isn’t one that occurred to him.

“Granger,” he says as she continues wringing his hand. Charlotte is ten feet away, her footsteps shaking the hall, and her eyes are threatening a slow and painful death. “It’s been a—pleasure.”

“Miss Granger, you have a meeting with Gibbling to review charity finances in five minutes,” Charlotte says as she reaches Granger, trying to tear her away from Draco.

“I do?” Granger’s hand slips out of Draco’s and she looks chastened, as though she’s been slapped. “I didn’t remember—“

“I apologise, ma’am,” the assistant says smoothly, inserting herself between Granger and Draco. “It slipped my mind, I only just remembered he sent a note this morning. I’m sure it will only take a few minutes.”

Granger is craning her neck to look back at Draco as she’s being herded away. She side-steps her assistant and cuts back.

“It was nice meeting you, Draco. I’m having a little party at my flat this Saturday with some of my friends. Would you want to come by? It’s the least I can do after being so rude.”

“I…” Draco glances back and forth between Granger’s hopeful face and the venomous expression of Charlotte behind her, who is shaking her head warningly. “—don’t think I can make it.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

Draco watches Granger trot off with her assistant in tow feeling incredibly confused about what’s going on.

He feels like if anyone were going to tell him, they would have already done so. He’s legally bound to play along with whatever this ridiculous farce is.

His mother has to know, but her lips are apparently sealed on the matter.

“You’re out of Azkaban, darling. Focus on that and never mind anyone else.”

He wants to, but he can’t help but try to figure it out. Why doesn’t Granger remember him? It feels like he’s been personally and exclusively excised from her life and he hasn’t the foggiest idea why he was the only one singled out.

Granger clearly knows his mother. She’s an active participant post-war rebuilding and gives speeches from time to time about things like the Battle of Hogwarts.

Granger isn’t the type to fuck with her memory based on anything and everything Draco knows about her. If she were, he doesn’t know why she’d choose to forget him. And if she did choose to forget him, he doesn’t know why her weird melange of employees and friends would let her hire him.

It feels personal and he can’t bring himself to leave it alone. Is there anything else she doesn’t remember?

When he isn’t ghost-writing her correspondence, he starts going through the newspapers and her old calendars trying to pinpoint exactly when Granger may have forgotten his existence.

He thinks it happened about six months after he was imprisoned in Azkaban following the war. Granger’s exhaustively detailed calendars start immediately after that and her public appearances were sporadic and odd up until then.

He starts hanging around in hallways when he thinks he might run into her. Her assistant is always a few steps behind her, glaring at Draco as though she knows why he’s there and inventing meetings and events in order to get Granger away from him.

He’s been there four months and has barely spoken to her for more than ten minutes in the entire time.

He’s in the middle of writing a sarcastically cordial letter to Romanian vampire when his office door cracks open and Granger sneaks into his office.

He looks at her as she drops into the chair across from his desk and lets out a heavy sigh of relief.

Draco eyes the door, waiting for Charlotte to burst in like a raging erumpant.

Granger notices where his gaze is directed. “Don’t worry. I sent Lotte on an errand. We have at least fifteen minutes before she comes looking for me.”

Draco looks back to Granger. He doesn’t know what to make of her.

This version of Granger is weirdly cheerful, like all her prickly defensiveness has been smoothed away. She still looks frightful, as though she suffers a phobia of hair potion, she’s still bizarre and obsessed with things like saving house-elves and everything else in the world. But he feels like she’s an entirely different person around him.

Maybe he’d just never known her without her claws out.

Granger shifts and looks slightly uncomfortable. “She’s very protective of me. I—I lose track of things sometimes.”

Draco just nods, not really sure how anyone who keeps records of their daily activities as exhaustively as Granger does could possibly be accused to losing track of things.

She glances around his office. “Why on earth did they put you in here? This room looks like a storage closet.”

Draco refrains from telling her that it literally is a storage closet and the absolute farthest room from her office. He measured one day, just to confirm it to himself.

“I’m not picky,” he lies. “It’s more comfortable than Azkaban.”

Her mouth purses. “That’s hardly a commendation. I’ll have you moved upstairs. I’m sure we still have a few extra offices. Somewhere with a window and plants! My friend, Neville, is a genius with plants, once we’ve moved you, I can get a few.”

She pokes around in his office for a few more minutes, interrogating him about how he likes his job and how his “co-workers” are treating him. Draco lies his way through her questioning until she stands up looking at him thoughtfully.

The next day, Charlotte appears looking enraged while he’s at the front desk filling out the visitor sheet for the hundredth time.

“Miss Granger wants your office moved to the fourth floor,” she says, looking as though someone has force-fed her a lemon.

Draco’s new office is two doors down from Granger’s. He has an entire wall of windows.

Granger pops in relentlessly, bringing him plants and a knitted tea-cosy, and “Lotte” looks more and more as though she wants to throttle him.

Granger takes to sneaking into his office whenever Lotte is out running errands. Which seems to occur suspiciously often.

Draco is certain that Granger’s aware that there is something odd going on. Her eyes are sly and calculating. She knows she’s being “handled” and that it involves endless attempts by all her employees to keep her as far away from Draco as possible, which makes her obstinately seek him out all the more.

At first Draco tries to ignore her, but she is his boss. He feels obligated to talk to her whenever she shows up.

Eventually they talk about all the letters he’s writing on her behalf. She looks down at her lap and spends several seconds straightening her skirt.

“You must think it’s odd that I don’t keep up with the donors personally,” she says looking up at him.

“Not at all,” he lies. “I’m sure it’s common for charities of this size. I’m happy my handwriting can be of some use.”

“I used to—“ she says, her voice somewhat halting. “But—“ her head jerks slightly, “my—my memory can be rather—that’s why I keep so many notes in my calendars, to keep track.”

Her expression is visibly strained, her beaming effusiveness gone.

“You’re a very busy person,” he says, eyeing her carefully.

She gives a stiff little nod and her eyebrows furrow. “I think—I used to remember things better. Now, if I don’t have someone to remind me about things”—her head jerks—“I forget details.”

“It’s probably just stress.”

“Maybe,” she sounds unconvinced.

She has all the traditional symptoms of someone who’s been extensively and powerfully obliviated. Absent-mindedness. She’s chronically forgetful, Draco realises over time.

Charlotte does invent excuses to get Granger away from Draco, but many reminders are for real events that Hermione forgets she’s headed to. On several occasions Draco finds her standing alone in the hallway, trying to remember which door is her office.

She’s still smart. Still blisteringly smart, but it’s like watching a bird with its pinions clipped. It’s clear she’s intended to be airborne, but someone has hobbled her.

It’s painful to witness, and it’s made worse by the fact that she’s clearly aware of it.

The memory loss somehow seems to centre around Draco, which he cannot understand. If someone malicious were to go and wipe something from her memory, her best friend’s school rival is not the person Draco would pick.

Obliviation is self-protective. The mind will not consider the idea of tampering or let her realise her memories are incomplete. Whenever a conversation strays anywhere near their shared past, her attention abruptly, almost violently pivots to a different topic.

However, despite how obstinately her memory keeps her from suspecting any past acquaintance with Draco, she can’t seem to stay away from him. As though she can instinctively tell he’s a missing piece.

One day she tells him about a potion idea she has, and it’s almost brilliant except she’s clearly forgotten a brewing idiosyncrasy of a key ingredient. She realises she’s missed something and just comes to a rambling halt in the middle of her explanation, a drawn, embarrassed expression sweeping across her face.

“Never mind. I think—I should...maybe it will work out if I write it down—“ she looks down and her cheeks are stained scarlet.

“Sting slime needs to simmer for six hours uncovered,” he says. “Unless you want the potion to result in weightlessness.”

She stares at him for a moment and then her face breaks into a beaming smile. “Yes! Six hours of simmering. That’s when you leave it under the full moon and gather fresh asphodel.” She sighs with relief and presses a hand against her head. “That’s what I was missing. I thought—thank you, Draco. I thought—I thought maybe I’d gotten it all wrong again.”

Her exuberance causes Draco’s entire body to grow warm and a weird bubbling sensation in his stomach.

He avoids her eyes. “I haven’t brewed much since leaving prison, but everything else sounded correct. If you want to send it on to a potions journal, I can look it over if you ever write it all out.”

Her eyes are shining and she grins at him. “That would be so helpful. My friends didn’t really care much for potions class. I’m so glad I found you.”

She skips slightly as she leaves his office, which causes his entire face to twitch repeatedly as he witnesses it.

Granger spends increasing amounts of time in his office and Draco doesn’t—well, he doesn’t exactly mind.

She’s infinitely better company than dementors, he tells himself.

She incredibly interested in him, in a way that he has no idea how to handle. She wants to know what he’ll do once his contract with the charity is over, and he finds himself trying to come up with ideas to share with her that don’t don’t merely involve him indolently frittering away his time on his family’s properties.

It isn’t as though he’s not allowed to be friends with her. The terms of his contract simply require him to give no indication of any prior acquaintance with her.

They can be friends, he tells himself when she invites herself into his office to have lunch with him.

Good friends even, he reasons, when she invites him to her flat for dinner one evening.

Or more than friends...

Hermione is perched on the arm of his desk chair.

Their faces are getting slowly closer and closer until he can feel her nervous breathing. She has the most beautiful eyes. Her hair falls forward as his nose brushes against hers.

His hand ventures up until his fingertips trace along her cheek.

She smiles. Her smiles always start in her eyes and the corner of her mouth curves faintly up as she dips her head lower.

Their lips are almost touching when the door bursts open and Charlotte storms across the room.

“Miss Granger is supposed to be at a board meeting,” she says as she rushes Hermione away.

Draco has barely gotten his heart rate back down to a steady pace when Charlotte returns in a state of seething rage. She grips him by the robes and physically drags him from the building.

“You’re contagiously ill. Bed-ridden. I don’t want to see you set foot in this building for a month,” she says, glowering at him. “Stay away from her, you Death Eater bastard.”

Draco goes home sulkily. His mother is in France visiting a cousin and he has nothing to do but lie about indolently drinking.

The attempted separation goes as well as Draco expects. Charlotte may be obsessively loyal to Hermione, but she clearly didn’t think through what sending Draco home sick would result in.

Hermione shows up at Malfoy Manor through the floo after three days. Draco has to bolt through the manor and dives into bed mere seconds before she comes trotting into his bedroom, carrying a basket packed with soup and potions.

She fusses over him for several minutes while he lies and pretends to be languishing. Finally she sits down, looking endearingly awkward and starts updating him on the various going ons at the charity.

As the minutes tick by, Draco can’t help but develop a sense of unease. There’s something off about her.

Her eyes begin darting around. She speaks faster and faster. Her hand rises up and touches her throat before twitching up to her temple. Her head jerks.

It finally dawns on Draco why she doesn’t remember him.

She breaks off mid-sentence, her eyes darting around wildly.

“Draco—have I—have I—been here before?”

Draco sits up instantly and reaches for her, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hermione. Hermione, look at me. Focus on me. You were telling me about the elves that came to you yesterday. Don’t look around. Focus on the elves. Let's get you back to the office. I’m feeling better. Let’s get out of here.”

She doesn’t seem to hear him.

She glances up and catches sight of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A whimpering gasp escapes her and she falls backwards off her chair.

Draco lunges but she stumbles to her feet and skitters away from him.

Her head starts jerking violently.

“We didn’t! We didn’t—“

Her voice breaks off with a sob.

Her face is turning white and her eyes lock on his. Her voice drops into a ragged, pleading whisper that pulls up memories that Draco has tried to bury in depths of his mind. “Please… Malfoy... Malfoy…please—”

Her head jerks. “We didn’t! We found it—”

She starts screaming at the top of her lungs.

It’s one endless scream that vibrates and tears the air apart. Draco doesn’t know what to do. Hermione keeps screaming until her whole body starts shaking violently.

Her voice abruptly cuts off and she drops to the ground.

Draco has to leap to catch her.

He’s shaking with panic and seething with rage as he carries her downstairs and through the floo to St Mungo’s.

He nearly decks Potter when he and Weasley come bolting down the hallway into the Janus Thickey Ward.

Draco wants to murder them both. “You couldn’t have bothered to explain that the reason she doesn’t remember me is because you obliviated her entire memory of Malfoy Manor?”

They just shove him out of the way as they rush into her room and leave him waiting outside.

Potter is the first one to re-emerge, more than an hour later. He stands staring at Draco for a minute. “She’ll—she should be fine,” he says in a dull voice. “The mind-healers will just have to reseal the memories.”

Draco glares at him. He’s still shaking. He doesn’t think he’s stopped shaking the entire time. “Why didn’t anyone just tell me why she didn’t remember me? And why the fuck did you obliviate her at all? Do know what you’ve done to her mind?”

Potter’s expression turns deadly. “Do I know what I’ve done to her? Why do you think it happened, Malfoy? Did it never cross your mind that there might be long term consequences for telling your insane aunt that Hermione was Muggle-Born.”

Potter’s face starts turning white with rage. “If you want to know whose fault this is—try looking in a fucking mirror.”

Draco stares at Potter in blank horror.

“Did you think people just get over torture? Since the war, St Mungo’s has discovered there’s an entire spectrum of brain damage that the cruciatus can cause, prior to reaching the point of insanity. Your aunt didn’t torture Hermione to insanity, but just—barely. We thought she was fine. The first couple months afterward—she seemed fine. She started having neurological issues a few months after the war. When she got them checked here at St Mungo’s, they found out the cruciatus had fried parts of her brain. That’s—apparently that’s how it works.”

Potter pulls off his glasses and wipes them. He refuses to look at Draco. “The only way they could contain it was by walling off the damage with magic, by using targeted obliviation. So—that’s what we did. It was just coincidental that she forgot entirely about you. I guess, for her, you were just as much a part of it as your Aunt.”

Draco stares at Potter and doesn’t know what emotions he’s experiencing. A lot. An entire maelstrom. More emotions than he knew he had. More than he ever wanted to feel.

“Why—Why did you let her hire me?” he finally forces himself to ask.

Potter’s face hardens. “That—was your mom’s meddling. Your release was conditional on your ability to secure a job. To the surprise of no one, nobody wanted to hire you.” He scoffs and looks down, his voice becomes mocking. “She’ll do anything to protect her son. She’d heard Hermione didn’t remember you, so she went to her with a whole sob story about her poor son who’d been forced to take the Dark Mark before he was an adult and now he was rotting in Azkaban because no one would give him a chance.”

Potter stares bitterly at him. “Hermione can never say no to a lost cause.” He gives an empty laugh. “We couldn’t explain to her why she shouldn’t without endangering her. We thought if you and your mother were both magically gagged, and Hermione was kept away from you, that it would be doable. But of course she noticed how lonely you were, and decided to take you under her wing.”

Potter exhales slowly and swallows. “Stay away from her, Malfoy.” His voice wobbles slightly. “The healers say you and your house are her main triggers. If you hang around her, she will inevitably relapse again. Every time they have to re-obliviate her it’s going to carve away a little more of her mind and memories. If there’s even a shred of anything decent about you, stay away from her.”

Draco manages to nod once before turning and walking unsteadily away.

When he’s home, he floo-calls his mother and yells at her until his throat gives out.

He packs a bag and gets a cheap room in Diagon Alley. It smells and there’s noise from the bar below, but it’s not screaming. There are no chandeliers.

He returns to “work” after a month and is informed that his office has been moved back into the basement. He doesn’t even blink at the news.

He resumes corresponding with Hermione’s growing donor list.

He doesn’t see her again.

Charlotte no longer bothers with passing on messages personally in order to communicate her utter loathing of him. She doesn’t ever leave Hermione’s side.

Draco only has to work at the charity for two more months. He puts up a calendar and X’s off each day.

He’s walking back from his lunch break two weeks later when he catches sight of Hermione’s bushy hair all the way down the hall. He ducks quickly into a nearby closet and waits until he’s certain she’s gone.

He nearly crashes into her as he steps back out.

Her eyes are bright and she’s slightly breathless from running. Charlotte is thundering down the hall after her.

Hermione beams up at him as she sticks out her hand. “Hi! Hi, I’m so so sorry. You’ve been here for months and I haven’t even said hello. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stares down at her.

There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she smiles up at him.

His throat’s so tight it’s as though he’s being strangled to death as he stands looking down at her.

A second year in Azkaban would have been infinitely less painful than this.

He sneers down at the proffered hand. “If you don’t mind, I just washed my hands. I don’t want filth like you sliming them up.”

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

Overgrown Metal

Chapter 1: A Distant Roar

Summary of Fic:

Almost two decades ago, the fae rose up from beyond the value with technology far surpassing the human race, quickly taking over after lating waste to nearly everything in their wake. Virgil and Roman, Society escapees and hunters run into an uncertain future while fleeing from their pasts. Remy and Remus stare their only chance straight in the face as they teeter on the edge of reluctant adventure. Emile is left his cousins engineering palace and is given the tools to change the world. Logan, a lone researcher and outcast is found by an old friend who offers him a chance of the century. Hyden (deciet), can shift into anything he so chooses, but staying true to his form as his heritage slaps him sideways proves harder than he thought. Patton mourns the loss of his son as he slowly uncovers secrets he wishes aren't related.

Or less wordy:

Eight idiots with trust issues fumble around each other and try to save the world from killer mechanical beasts and fairies that will snap your neck without taking their hands from their wine glasses.

Warnings: Violence, fight scenes, dark fantasy, apocalypse setting, some gore, blood

TW for this chapter: None? Though if you see any let me know

Ships: Remy (sleep) x Remus. Brotherly Roman and Virgil. Platonic Logan and Hyden (Deciet)

-----------

"Long ago, humans existed as a thriving race, full of hope and promise. Their faith was strong, the resulting bond stronger and technology was accelerating towards a prosperous future.

It was a time when the tales of fae were still passed down as children's stories, and warnings were scoffed off as superstitions. Humans as a race believed the shadows of the night hid nothing and when dawn painted the sky whatever evil that may have lurked in the darkness was wiped away as cleanly as the shores by the waves of the ocean.

With that mindset adopted, when the calamity fell we thought only that the autonomous monstrosities were an advanced technology from an enemy country, meant to start another world war to wipe out whatever they could. When reports poured in from around the world, tin hats began screaming of aliens, and the churches filled with the cries of righteous damnation. No matter which reason you picked, it was almost a guarantee you would be wiped off the map given enough time. The creatures were gleaming gold and silver, blinding those who dared look too closely, deafening those who listened too carefully. Heavy as they seemed in their armor of metal they stayed light on their feet, crawling their way up from the earth, bounding through cities from the deep forest growth and swooping down from the unassuming sky.

It was over in mere days, cities laid to waste by the metallic creatures of an unknown origin, plains made unsafe from their territorial prowl; even the sky offered no escape as planes were clawed from the sky and set reeling into the maws of the swiftly growing forests. Trees unnaturally twisted to form barriers of wooden steel, the ruined cities overtaken by growth that should have grown in centuries rather than weeks, wide expanses of fields left unwalkable by twisting vines meant to trap and muffle. And over all of that the protective beasts walked their territories urged on my a master unnamed; following the bidding of a race none knew existed until the foolish humans decided it was safe to venture out again.

The fae, fairies, demons, creatures of another realm; this race went by many names bug the fact remained they were here to take back what was theirs. Too long, their leader said, have we cowered in the cover of your industrial hell. No more shall we hide in fear of your smoke smeared air that kills the very people who make it. We have been here long before your kind, and so shall we remain long after. Group your people however you like. Send any weapon of your choice to try and turn the tides to your favor. We will reign over the ashes you crumble to.

What this race of unnatural being didnt count on was a Hero of Ages to rise in a cliche of a fairytale epic. He stood tall over the bones they crushed his brethren too, sword dripping with vengeance and arms splattered with the fruits of his bloodlust. The day had come, for he, Remus, Harkened Duke of the Unseelie War, had clawed his ways from the depths of hell to face-"

"Babes. I love you...so very much. But you've been monologuing for twenty minutes now and I'd hate to waste my coffee by dumping it on your head."

Shoulders dropping in a pout, Remus turned towards his husband, leaning against the counter as he watched Remy reach for his still-hot-somehow coffee while nudging a can over into a growing pile, the plastic recyclables already having been sorted and bagged some time ago. His dark hair hung low over his tired eyes but Remus could still see the spark of amusement in them even as an annoyed huff left his lips. Smiling, he walked over to sit beside Remy, stretching out his legs and sweeping an entire pile of cans to the bigger pile scattering the displaed aluminum across the floor in the process. Ignoring another annoyed sigh he simply leaned his head on the others shoulder and smiled sadly.

"You never wish for something more than this?" He gestured vaguely around their small apartment they were quite lucky to have as Remy say back on his heels carefully so as not to knock his head of his shoulder.

"We're safe here." Punctuating safe with a flick to the back of the other mans head he continued. "Something more...that would mean going outside. And theres no Original Remus' Specialty coffee brew outside now is there?"

"It wouldn't take much to take the French press with us."

"It's starting to worry me how much you're bringing this up lately. I'm pretty useless," he waved his left hand around as emphasis, metal plating refracting the rooms dip lighting. "And you...are very loud. So very loud babes. We'd last a day, maybe two."

"If we had more people-"

"Which we don't. Unless we get a hunter or two stumbling in here wanting to drag a couple of inexperienced fighters along with them I don't see it happening." Putting the empty coffee mug in the sink, he turned back around to find Remus standing just behind him.

"I could fight for us."

"Very brave, but imaginary blades does not a dead beast make."

Remus swiped at the finger attempting to boop his nose, smirking lightly. "I have real blades!"

"Surgical scalpels don't count hun." Remy ducked under the strong arms attempting to pull him closer and bounded back over to his carefully sorted piles. "Now, either help me these or-"

A faint roar cut his words off suddenly, leaving him trembling from more than just the vibrations running through the floor. Remus was quick to be by his side, pulling him down and looping a protective arm around his shoulders. Squeezing his eyes shut behind the dark shades he wore even though he hadn't seen unfiltered sunlight in months he ducked his head down and moved closer into the protective embrace, tensing as another tremor reverberated through his bones. Minutes passed like hours as the couple stayed tense and alert on the floor, the beast eventually quieting, seeming to move off much to their intense relief. Dragging in a deep breath, Remy sagged against Remus, subconsciously rubbing at his left wrist and sinking further into the comfortable lap.

Gasping as he was lifted quickly, a deep blush colored his cheeks as he found himself being scooped up bridal style and twirled around before being carried through the short hall to the bedroom.

"My responsibility!" He cried out in mock desperation as he reached towards his sorted plastics and aluminum, ready to be traded later that week.

"Your plastic castles can wait until morning. It's late and we need sleep." So saying, Remus dumped his load unceremoniously onto the creaky bed and swiftly hopped in after, rolling to trap the barely struggling man under his body with a laugh.

Remy pushed at his shoulder playfully. "Who died and made you the responsible one?"

The mood sobered slightly, a look of pain flashing in the others eyes before quickly being replaced by mirth once more. Before he could offer an apology it was being swallowed effortlessly with a kiss that left him without a breath to spare one.

"Either sleep or I'm experimenting with bean strength again and make you taste test espressos until you faze into next week."

Laughing lightly, he bucked his hips just hard enough to push the other to the side so he could curl into Remus' arms for the night. "I'd rather not repeat that experiment again. I stay for your coffe, not for my stomach issues."

Remus smiled and threw his leg over his husband's hip to pull him even closer, pulling off his shades before resting his chin on the soft brown locks in contentment, swirling thoughts winding down to a rare dull roar as their breaths matched and evened out for the night.

The mechanical beast roared in anger as its tail lashed out to the side, hoping to catch the annoying pest that had lured it out into the feild. As beats went it was fairly small, resembling a feline with its lithe frame and small sharp teeth, only coming up to about 10 feet at its shoulder. Crouching down and twisting its head around it caught fleeting movement from the corner of its eye and whipped around to face it, only for the past to dart out of its sight again somewhere below it field of vision. Roaring in frustration it leaped straight into the air, turning and flexing its impressive claws hoping to smash down on whatever it was that eluded its attacks. Landing heavily, the beast took a second to recover from the rocky landing, flexing its spring loaded joints as it started to straighten.

A second was all the past needed to run up the length of its tail, impressive gait taking them to the beasts neck in no time at all to bring their weapon down and through the mechanical monstrosities neck, severing vital components and falling it before it got half of it last roar to rise from its throat.

The pest leaped from the beast as it fell to the side, stilling in the grassy plain with nary a twitch to make a passerby believe it was ever alive in the first place. Straightening from where they had landed, the pest sheathed the spear properly on their back and walked calmly over to the enemy, taking out a faded gray notebook as they did so.

Pushing a thick pair of glasses back up his nose, Logan looked over the creature with a passive interest before sighing and putting the notebook back in his pack. There was no use taking down data of a creature identical to one he had already slain a month prior. He knew he needed to start traveling more if he wanted more diverse data but he was loathe to leave his impromptu lab that lay hidden within woods no one dared enter. Looking around and seeing nothing more in the immediate vicinity he sighed again before adjusting the pack on his back and turning to walk back home.

There was always tomorrow.

This is also available on AO3 if you're interested. I can't promise regular updates but I really like this story so I'll be picking at it for a while.

I'm not really sure how to do fanfic layouts on tumblr so if this can be improved please let me know how. Please do not repost, reblogs however, are appreciated.

[sserpente]

A/N: I’m back! Did you miss me? *Loki voice* I’ve had this prompt in mind for a while now… and given that “Avengers: Endgame” is coming out this bloody year… but don’t worry, Loki is alive in this one. Enjoy!

Words: 1408 Warnings: violence, blackmailing, blood

You gulped as you looked up, tearing your gaze away from the deadly weapon in your hand. It was a dagger, small and beautifully crafted—murderous and intimidating—and it represented everything you were not.

But you were not the only one Thanos had taken and compromised, had been not the only one to face cruel threats, be inflicted pain on in case of disobedience and promised death upon failure. The Black Order had taken a dozen other humans who he now had in his grasp, free to do with as he pleased. There were civilians, policemen who had been involved in the alien invasion in the first place, brave volunteers and even a child, no older than fifteen.

The fear that clung to their bodies was tangible, numbing even—knowing that resistance would bring them certain death. Only few of them realised their fate was sealed either way when Thanos revealed to you all his strategy. You were brainless lackeys, a mere distraction; and while the Avengers and their “brutes” were busy killing you all, the Black Order would retrieve the one Infinity Stone which had been stolen from them.

Here you were now, meeting your tormentor’s cold eyes. He moved on quickly. Defiance and the mad urge to challenge him had long ceased, you were of no interest to him. Thanos had broken you, as he had all of you. If the Grim Reaper was to greet you soon, you would welcome him with your arms open, bathing in the anxiety that came with the inevitable menace of pain.

You had expected Earth to be different when you returned at long last, breathing in fresh oxygen and swallowing thickly when you spotted the massive trees around you, stretching out their branches like claws, ready to disembowel you. Nothing had changed. Nothing but the debris, the dust, the blood… the destruction and the corpses drowning your home planet into a miserable pile of what was once considered the centre of the universe—how wrong you had all been.

Clutching your weapon tightly, you breathed in audibly to chase away your nausea from travelling by Tesseract, anything but ready to follow the Black Order’s commands and plunge yourself into a battle you knew you would lose.

If staying with Thanos against your will had taught you one thing, however, … it was that it was not your decision to make, not your choice to elect what would end your life. You only knew this—today, you were going to die either way.

Before your capture, you had admired the Avengers for their strength, their bravery and fierceness to fight evil beings but now you were terrified, knowing they would bring about your own demise. Neither Thanos nor the Black Order had properly trained you, the expendable distraction. Your heart was in your mouth when you spotted them drawing their weapons, ready for a bloody fight—and it was then something inside you snapped. Panic overwhelmed your mind and body as you turned on your heel and fled, following your instincts. Cruel enough, you did not realise until something sliced your calf open that escaping was futile.

Crying out in pain, you fell to the dirty ground to your feet. There was hardly enough time for you to turn around to face your attacker, helplessly raising the dagger in your hand. Your attacker, crude, vicious and merciless, knocked the weapon from your grasp and straddled you so effortlessly you gasped for air, suppressing a heart-breaking sob. He hadn’t even tried. When you glanced up in fear… you looked straight into a pair of stunning blue eyes. Loki’s.

You had believed him dead. Now, with his nostrils flaring, the ice cold expression on his face and the determination to kill glistening in his gaze, you squeezed your own eyes shut the moment he raised his dagger—the very weapon he must have used to stop you from fleeing—and aimed directly at your heart, having you turn your head to the side in the process desperately.

You did not want to witness this. Perhaps Loki would be kind enough to grant you a quick end without making you suffer, perhaps he would be merciful and let you perish without forcing you to watch yourself bleed to death…

But then, when several heartbeats later, you had still not felt the painful blow of a sharp blade invading your skin and stabbing your heart, your eyes flattered open again, terror washing over you. Almost confused, you peeked up at him only to be met with a thoughtful frown.

He was hesitating.

“Do it. Do it, please. Just do it. If y-you won’t, then he will.” You pleaded out of breath, not daring to look the God of Mischief in the eye. And yet, Loki narrowed his eyes at you and eventually… lowered his dagger again. When you finally brought yourself to look at him, he appeared like he was dwelling in the past—and at the very same time, sparing your life.

Your injured calf was throbbing, the adrenaline cursing through your body doing little to soothe your pain. You had no idea how much time had passed—not until the faint battle cries and the sounds of metal and bones crushing against one another stopped gradually, replaced by Proxima Midnight’s cold and relentless voice.

Your eyes widened in pure horror, hips bucking in a desperate attempt to escape yet again but Loki would not move an inch. Alarmed, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the ground, leaving you wailing defencelessly.

“L-Loki… let me go, please. Please let me go, let me go, please!” Hysterically, you suddenly began thrashing around in his iron grip, trying anything to escape as hot tears streamed down your cheeks. You were trembling like leaves in the wind, unable to grasp a single rational thought.

You had missed your chance of a quick death… and you now dreaded just how many body parts of yours Proxima was going to shatter and pierce before she would finally grant you eternal sleep. You knew that if you had not died already to distract the Avengers long enough for them to strike, you would be maimed now.

The God of Mischief understood immediately. Tilting his head mutely, he suddenly wrapped his arms around your weak body, mere moments later you could feel the numbing sensation of his magic flowing through your veins, causing you to close your eyes, devastated. Was he killing you? Were you dying already?

But the quiet bleeping in the background did not at all sound like heaven, nor did the roaring and vibrating of strong engines underneath your feet. Still shaking uncontrollably, you swallowed courageously and looked around you.

You were on a ship, no… a massive quinjet. Had Loki… teleported you?

There was only one other person aboard. You recognised her as Black Widow, the master assassin with the gorgeous black suit complimenting every single curve of her body.

“Who is she?” Natasha Romanoff exclaimed suspiciously, leaning forward in the co-pilot’s seat to take a proper look at your dishevelled form. You were still bleeding, not realising you were holding onto Loki for dear life so you would not drop to the ground pathetically.

“Call the others back at once. She was a captive of Thanos’, forced to attack us just like the rest my brother and your companions have already slaughtered so we would be occupied for a while. We have to go after the Black Order right now.”

Glancing up at him with your lips parted, you admired your saviour. You had not uttered a single word and still, Loki had figured out part of their ruthless strategy within a mere matter of seconds. Natasha nodded absentmindedly, quickly mumbling something into her earpiece. In the meantime, Loki sat you down carefully on one of the cushioned seats. You shivered when his fingers glided over your bare arms.

“You will have to hold on for me, dear. As soon as I return, I shall heal your calf.”

Loki had saved your life. It hit you like a painful blow in the face, eternal gratefulness spreading in your guts. You nodded mutely in response, unable to speak yourself despite the newfound energy charging your entire being from head to toe with a start. It was the God of Mischief who had, smirking down at you promisingly and unknowingly, now breathed new life into you.

A/N: Guys, if you liked this story, I would appreciate so much if you could support me on KoFi! YOU can help me publish my first novel! It’s easy, it’s anonymous, you can do it from all over the world and it’s just 3€! Your help counts too, I’d appreciate it so much if you helped me fulfil my dream! ♥ ko-fi.com/sserpente

[ellieaelious]

Coin trick

A/N: Do I even roleplay anymore?

A few were still gathered 'round to watch as this small woman chugged another bottle of wine effortlessly. What started as a game to see how many she could drink before it'd be easier to take her out back, turned into a competition on who could outdrink her. So far, no one.

In the dimly lit corner of the bar, Erron watched the spectacle unfold. Eye barely visible as it peeked out from under the brim of his hat. It was hard to tell if he wore a snear or smirk across his lips. Bringing his whiskey to them, he finished the glass and set it down before pushing himself up and away from the table.

The bar seemed to grow quiet as his spurs jingle jangled over the live music. Those sober enough stepped to the side, while the dunker ones crawled. He came upon her slowly, stopping at the bow vacant seat next to her. He brought his hand up to his hat, lifting and moving it slightly to adjust and tip it towards her.

"Awfully unbecoming of a priest, ain't it?" There was a twinge of venom in his tone. He hadn't forgotten her comments towards him from earlier that day.

Ellie spun around on her stool, hips first and body following. Her eyelids were a little heavier and her lips were parted, puckered just a bit in her intoxicated state. Her eyes focused on him, the muffled sound of his voice growing louder and clearer as the music died down.

"I am allowed the nectar of flowers and berries." She grinned with closed eyes, scooping up an empty wine bottle and hugging it close to her.

"Think that's enough."

He reached forward, his hand barely grazing her arm as he reached for the full bottle still sitting on the bar. That was enough to cause a rather violent chain reaction from the drunken healer priest. Her foot pushed against the barstool beside him, into his gut and making him stagger back a good foot. Her eyes held a drunken, yet threatening gaze as she tilted back, somehow balancing on two legs of her own stool.

"The hell with this." He thought to himself, tossing the stool to the side and marching towards her with purpose.

The healer took the full bottle and turned it up, gulping down the dark purple liquid. He paused as he watchrd her, eyes drawn to her throat. It was all one gulp, not even a pause for air. He was brought back by the sound of her slamming the bottle on the bar and giving a holler of excitement. The music started back up, and a crowd formed around her once more.

---

He was calling it an early night. Cards didn't seem that fun when he could hear the drunken giggles and laughter not even a full twenty paces from him. One last hand won and he began collecting his winnings. One coin in particular seemed to catch his eye.

Silver through and through. Odd markings and an even odder weight and size to it. He tossed it into the air a few times before rolling it back and forth across his knuckles a few times.

Dark and drunken eyes cought the glint of the coin out of their corners, causing Ellie's whole head to move towards that direction. Her whole upper body seemed to sway with the coin, hypnotized by it almost. This wasn't lost on the cowboy, as he noticed around the third go round. He paused watching her pause with it, then began flicking it into the air with his thumb. She almost fell out her seat as she followed it.

Wasn't sure how he was sitting at the bar next to her, but there he was, rolling the coin right in front of her and watching the amusement in her eyes. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, head resting in the palm of his free hand. He almost forgot what a complete bitch she was sober.

Ellie tried to reach for the coin, ending up leaning too far forward and almost falling into his lap. She could feel one hand on her side and another on the side of her neck, sliding to the back of her head while the other snaked its way around to her back, hand cupping the area where to buttcheek met her thigh. With a grunt she was hoisted into Erron's lap, rather onto his thigh, face firmly pressed against his neck.

"That hell ya'll lookin' at?" His tone was dark as the small group left in the bar went about their business.

For the first time in many years, he had a hard time keeping his hand steady. His immediate response to where one hand was placed woulda normally been to grip that area hard enough to make his partner's hips buck into him. His other hand couldn't help but grip the back of her head as he felt her skin move against his, body squirming to find a balance on his thigh. If anyone noticed the display, they sure as hell weren't going to comment on it.

With a heavy breath he slid her back into her own seat, adjusting his position in his own as well. He kept one hand gripping her collar to keep her steady, the other taking the half empty bottle one wine to his lips for a swig. The man needed to steady his nerves. There seemed to be a change in his demeanor when he set the bottle down, his eyes burning a hole into the green glass.

"Let's let you outta here before ya end up in someone else's lap."

He knelt down, shoulder pressing against her stomach and arm wrapped around her. His other hand found that little groove between her thigh and cheek, this time gripping it as he hoisted her onto his shoulder. Adjusting his hat, he strode out of the bar with her and towards home. There wasn't much fuss from the drunken priest.

---

With a grunt he let her slide off his shoulder snd onto his bed. He wasn't sure why he brought her here and not the palace or her ship. Maybe to save her some dignity of being hauled in, maybe it was the desire burning inside his stomach. It'd been there for a while, at least a few months. Ever since she did her magic touch to his wrists. He let out a shuddered breath as he walked over to the side of the bed and reached down towards her.

He made sure her head was on a pillow, and the blanket was pulled up over her. He wasn't some fiend who would take advantage of someone sexually, not like the person who did this to her.

---

There was a mighty strong whiskey mixed in with her wine, probably gradually so she wouldn't notice. The drink he took tasted like it was nearly all whiskey. No wonder she went from rattlesnake to baby bunny.

"Ya'll are a sorry buncha stalkers. Even sorrier buncha woulf be rapists."

His voice called into the night. The footsteps of a small group, the one that had been crowding her all night, sounded as they stepped from the shadows. They each carried a weapon of sorts, meanin' to do the cowboy harm if he didn't hand over Ellie no doubt.

"I don't reckon he would agree with ya'll's intent, bein'a priest 'n what not." He reasoned, hands not yet near his pistols.

"Hand the priest over." One snarled like an animal, taking a step forward.

Only took him five shots to take down all of 'em. Their bodies hit the ground and blood began to pool out. With a single spin he holstered his revolver and went on his way. He had one more bullet left for one more person.

It'd been a hot minute since he'd given a beating like this one. The bartender sputtered pleads of forgiveness through bloody gums and heavy sobs. Erron was seeing nothin' but red though, and nothin' on earth or in heaven coulda stopped him. His boot connected with the bartender's jaw, making sure he wouldn't have anything else to say.

"I seen your wife and kids come outta that ship for treatment. Patched 'em up without ever askin' a thing in return, and here you are spikin' his drinks all night."

The sole of bis boot pressed down on the bartenders head, squeezing as he put more of his weight into it. The sobbing grew louder and louder and Erron sneared in displeasure.

"Least ya could do is die like a man."

His gun was drawn, fired, and back in his holster in no time. A snort and scoff before he spit on the body and made his way out of the bar, flipping a coin on his way out that landed in a filled shot glass.

---

Walking into his home with a sigh, it looked like he wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight. He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked into his room to check on El--oh.

She musta gotten hot, because her pants were around her ankles and vest wide open, revealing that she was indeed female. He felt his face heat up as he stared for a moment, shocked. All this time, with the way her uniform fit he'd thought for sure that she was actually a he. If not a bit on the feminine side. That explained why there was such a crowd around her all the time.

This revelation didn't change much in how Erron saw her, other than the fact he was seeing quite a lot of her now. With a slight shake of his head he walked over and helped to remove her boots and pants, laying them at the foot of the bed for her. His eyes trailed up her legs, smirking as they fell on the little silk bow on her boyshorts underwear. The urge to trace it and the skin along the edge of her underwear was strong, yet he resisted despite his hand hovering for a moment.

"Mmmm."

He paused as his hand hovered over her stomach, thinking she was waking up and he'd have to explain himself. Luckily she was only shifting. He sighed, eyes going back to her skin. As her stomach heaved, it felt like cool breath falling over his hand. He let it linger for a moment before reaching down and pulling her vest closed. Had she shifted anymore he'd have another eye full of her.

He slumped into a chair in the corner, sighing and giving her one last look. It was hard not to join her, letting his rough hands tear and claw at what appeared to be smooth skin. Teeth sink into her collar bone while other parts of him would sink deep into her other parts. But he was a better man, at lesst in this respect, than the ones he'd just killed. He wouldn't even allow himself self pleasure so long as she was there. He did have self control.

Adjusting his hat over his eyes, he leaned back and began drifting off. It felt a little calmer having her only ten feet away, although no doubt the morning would be filled with a tussle.

[quiet-onset]

Know Your Worth

Day 7: Freestyle

A/N: This is based on a pretty famous post about Bucky being about to lift Thor’s hammer, Mjolnir.

Word Count: 2,729

The first time was unintentional.

Bucky had just joined the Avengers. He thought the rest of the team was welcoming enough. Even Tony seemed to be warming up to Bucky. However, Bucky knew that he still had many things to atone for (if he still could). He spent most of his time doing one of three things: talking to Steve, going on missions, or simply avoiding the team.

It wasn’t until Thor and Dr. Banner arrived back on Earth that Bucky started to feel better.

They were in the middle of a mission when a ship similar to the quinjet landed in a nearby clearing. Thor leaped into the middle of the fight, taking on a slew of Hydra agents with his trusted hammer in hand. The team barely had time to greet him as they went for the information they were there for.

Bucky watched as Thor threw his hammer at a Hydra agent, sending him flying. While Thor continued fighting, Bucky did the same and used his metal arm to block the bullets being fired at him. Bucky watched the man fight and quickly realized that he was on their side. It wasn’t until Bucky saw a large group of agents headed towards Thor that he even thought of the hammer again.

Bucky dashed for the hammer, wrapping his flesh hand around the handle. He lifted it with ease and reared back before throwing it at Thor’s adversaries. “Watch out!” Bucky called.

Thor’s head snapped to the side when he saw his hammer fly past his line of vision. “What the..?”

When he looked back at Bucky, it was as if Bucky didn’t even understand the magnitude of his actions. Thor barely had time to register that someone else had, not only picked up Mjolnir but thrown it across such a distance. Thor made a mental note to speak to this man, whoever he was.

After that successful mission, Steve had told him that they were having a little party night; that attendance was mandatory. He knew the only way to get Bucky to come was to make it non-negotiable. He felt bad as Bucky’s shoulders slumped, so he added a caveat, “Hey if you’re not into it, like, an hour, you can go. I just think it’d be good for you, Buck.”

Bucky gave him the smallest of smiles, “Alright.”

When the time finally came, Bucky slipped on a pair of gray joggers and a sweatshirt. As he walked down the hall to meet the two men, he tugged on the sleeve of his shirt, trying desperately to hide as much of his metal arm as he could. Part of him knew it was inevitable that they’d see it, but he didn’t want to freak them out.

When Bucky entered the room, he found Tony hugging a tall, muscly man, his short brown hair seeming to be the main focus of the conversation. “I have to say, though, you’re rocking it, big guy.” Tony chuckled as he patted his bicep warmheartedly.

“I’m glad you think so, little man.” The man grinned.

Steve wrapped a friendly arm around the shorter man whose hair seemed to be going gray. Bucky took a deep breath and approached them, trying his hardest to seem friendly. Steve smiled and placed his free hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky, this is Bruce Banner.”

“You probably know me as the Hulk.” Bruce quipped as he offered his hand.

“Right.” Bucky breathed nervously as he shook his hand. “The big green guy.”

The taller man sauntered over to the three with a kind grin as he laughed, “Of whom I’ve seen too much.”

“I’m so glad I don’t remember that,” Bruce mumbled.

“You must be Steve’s friend. Bucky Barnes, yes?”

Bucky nodded quietly, shaking his hand. “And you must be Thor.”

“The one and only.”

The rest of that night, Bucky was fairly quiet. He sat and ate his pizza while observing the rest of the Avengers joke with and tease each other. He noticed the small and shy glances Natasha shared with Bruce. He watched Tony’s eyes light up with amusement as Thor avidly told the story of his fight with the Hulk. Every once in a while, Sam would make a quiet playful jab at Bucky, but Bucky only snorted and kicked his shin.

Bucky wondered what it was like to really be a part of the team. Sure, he was officially a part of the team, but it wasn’t the same. It seemed to him that the team was like a family. Families had their fights, but at the end of the day, they’d still be there for each other. It wasn’t like that for Bucky. Sure, he played an integral part in missions, but he didn’t feel like he was home.

Bucky shook his head and reminded himself that this was supposed to help. He tried to push back his self-loathing thoughts as he tuned back into the conversation. “What happened to your hammer anyway?” Rhodey asked.

“Yeah, you usually carry that thing around like a baby.” Clint snorted.

“Oh, I still have it. It’s in my quarters, hold on.”

Bucky watched as Thor raised his hand above his head and waited. Suddenly, he could hear the wind whooshing through the hallway. Something crashed to the floor and shattered, causing Tony to groan, “Really?”

“Sorry.” Thor smiled.

Not a moment later, a hammer came flying into Thor’s hand, and he tossed it in the air with a proud grin. “My sister, Hela, took it from me, but I managed to get it back before she was destroyed during Ragnarok.”

“So, what did you do without it?” Wanda asked. “Is it not the source of your power?”

“It is not. I thought it was, too, but it turns out it is simply a way to harness my power.” Thor answered. He demonstrated with a snap of his fingers, the team watching in awe as lighting bolts danced around his fingertips.

“What’s so special about it?”

The team turned to Bucky with wide eyes. They were taken aback. Bucky didn’t speak much in general, so they were shocked to hear his voice. Bucky felt his chest closing up a bit as the nerves started to gather in the pit of his stomach. “I mean, I know it’s powerful and all, but I just mean besides that.”

Thor realized that Bucky did not, in fact, understand that what he did was a feat to be proud of. He smiled widely,  “My hammer, Mjolnir, it is a judge of sorts. I am the only one who can lift it, supposedly. But the tales have always said that anyone who is worthy of ruling Asgard will be able to wield it.”

“We’ve all tried,” Steve told Bucky. “I was close.”

“You were not.” Thor retorted.

“I lifted it.” Vision said. “But then again, I am a being created to be as close to morally perfect as possible.”

“That, I will admit.” Thor started with a chuckle. He placed Mjolnir on the coffee table and gestured to it. “Would you like to try?”

As Bucky slowly started to register what he had done only hours ago, he felt a warm feeling in his stomach. However, being put on the spot like that made him nervous. Bucky quickly shook his head and raised his hands, “No, I was just wondering. I don’t want to, ya know, rule Asgard or anything.”

Thor didn’t respond as his gaze was stuck on Bucky’s left hand. He hadn’t noticed during the fight, but the sight of his metal hand caught Thor by surprise. To be truthful, Thor thought it was pretty amazing. However, Bucky noticed his gaze and quickly hid his hand.

Bucky stood up and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He quietly said a goodnight before rushing off to his bedroom. The warm feeling he felt moments before had quickly disappeared and was replaced with the beginnings of a panic attack in the center of his chest. Steve glanced at the team before standing as well, “I should go make sure he’s okay.”

When Steve left, Thor looked to the others, concern in his eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Bucky is very sensitive about his metal arm,” Nat told him. “Reminds him of his past with Hydra. He just needs some time.”

“And some therapy; Hydra messed him up,” Tony admitted.

Sam joined in, his genuine care for the Winter Soldier kicking in, “He’s been refusing to see a professional since he got here.”

Thor nodded as he took in all the new information, but still felt bad for Bucky. That night, when Thor laid in his bed, he smiled to himself as he came up with a plan. He waited for hours before slipping out of his room with Mjolnir in hand. He didn’t know for sure that it would work, but he would be disappointed with himself if he didn’t try.

The second time was out of curiosity.

It was six in the morning when Bucky got up to work out. He found that was when the gym was empty. He didn’t like working out with people around; he didn’t want any attention drawn to his arm. So, he took his water bottle and cloth and practically tiptoed all the way to the gym.

He let out a sigh of relief when he saw the empty room, something he did every morning.

When he entered, he was immediately met with a reflection of himself. He looked at it intently, the small voice in the back of his head whispering to him in Russian. He took a deep breath as he reached towards his shoulder, where the metal met his flesh. He thought back to the day woke up as he ran his fingertips over the scars, remembering how he tried to claw off the new prosthetic arm. Finally, he ripped his gaze away when he noticed something else in the distance.

Mjolnir.

He turned and stared at the hammer as he wondering it got there. He was about to call for Thor before he remembered how early it was. The man just got back to Earth, Bucky thought, Let him sleep.

He remembered how he picked up the hammer easily during the fight. He hadn’t even known it was supposed to be impossible. He just saw a man who needed help and helped him. He took slow, long steps toward the hammer, eyeing like it would disappear if he took his eyes off of it.

When he stood in front of it, his head started to fill with doubts. Maybe it was a one-time thing. Maybe Thor had called for the hammer, and Bucky just hadn’t seen. Maybe the hammer will realize who Bucky really is this time and won’t budge.

Bucky sank his teeth into his bottom lip as he wrapped his flesh hand around the handle once more, still too afraid to touch it with his metal hand. He closed his eyes and tensed his arm. Taking a deep breath, he pulled upward.

Lo and behold, the hammer came up, too.

Bucky let out a shallow breath, allowing a small, genuine smile to grace his lips. He still wasn’t sure that Mjolnir was right, but it had to mean something that he was able to pick it up again. That warm feeling from the night before spread through his stomach again as his smile grew just a bit wider, tossing the hammer in the air and catching it swiftly.

The sound of heavy footsteps broke Bucky’s trance, his eyes widening as he placed Mjolnir back on the floor. He hurried over to his water bottle at the bench press. He sat and drank his water, hoping whoever was coming would believe he’d been sitting there the whole time.

Thor peeked his head into the gym, “Hello, Bucky. I was just wondering, have you seen — there you are.” He saw Mjolnir sitting on the floor, just where he left it. Thor bit back a smile as he turned back to Bucky. “Last night, you left before I could bring out the Asgardian mead. I’m not quite sure how Mjolnir got here. It was a crazy night.”

Bucky chuckled quietly, “Maybe I’ll join next time.”

“You should.” Thor pointed at him with the hammer. He smiled, “I trust you’re having a good workout?”

“Yeah, actually. I am.” Bucky nodded slowly.

“I’m glad. I will see you around, Mr. Barnes.”

Thor grinned as he left the gym with Mjolnir in hand, knowing Bucky had a small smile on his face.

The third and fourth times were quick, each time being as gratifying as the last. Once in the living room and once in the Quinjet. The hammer seemed to find it’s way back into Bucky’s flesh hand, a grin forming on his lips each time he lifted it.

Meanwhile, Bucky was getting better as time went on, and Steve could see that. He finally agreed to start seeing a psychiatrist, started to join in more conversations, and actually started hanging out with the team. Steve started to notice Bucky smiling more. Whenever Bucky felt a panic attack starting, he did the breathing exercises his psychiatrist recommended. He was truly starting to get to a better place. What Steve didn’t know was that Mjolnir had a huge part in that.

It isn’t until the fifth time that everyone started to notice that Thor was just leaving Mjolnir everywhere.

Especially in places that were super inconvenient for everyone else.

When Bucky walked into the kitchen, he saw the hammer sitting on top of the stove, alone and unattended. He stepped closer and looked around to make sure no one was around. He felt the familiar fear that he would suddenly not be able to lift it anymore. He pushed it aside, like he always did, and, for the first time, wrapped his metal hand around the handle.

And once again, Mjolnir rested in his head, a huge grin on Bucky’s face.

He wasn’t sure why, but this time it was different. His metal hand, the hand he loathed for so long, was worthy enough to lift the hammer of a god. He wasn’t sure what about him made him worthy, but if he could lift Mjolnir, there had to be something good in him. It was that revelation that kept Bucky hopeful every day.

Bucky heard footsteps coming towards the kitchen and quickly placed the hammer back on the stove. He made himself busy, digging in the fridge as Tony and Thor trudged into the kitchen. Thor immediately reached for the cabinet to retrieve his pop tarts. Tony opened his mouth to ask for the eggs, but Bucky was quicker and placed the carton in his hand. Tony chuckled, his voice thick from slumber, “I’m glad you know.”

Thor smiled as he looked back and forth from Bucky to Mjolnir, knowing that he must’ve picked it up again from the way it rested on its side. Bucky asked Thor if he needed milk, and Thor grinned widely, “Please.”

Bucky stood across from Thor with a bottle of water and the carton of milk. Thor grabbed the milk, noting that Bucky was still a bit hesitant about using his metal hand. Thor poured the milk into a glass while speaking nonchalantly, “You know, your metal arm is pretty cool.”

Bucky snorted, “Sure.”

“It is. I wish my sister had given me a metal arm rather than take my eye. Now I have terrible depth perception.” Thor joked.

Bucky laughed quietly. “Well, I’m glad you think so.”

“I apologize, by the way. I left Mjolnir on the stove and—“

“It’s no problem.” Bucky smiled. “I didn’t need to use the stove anyway. Just grabbing this water before I go workout.”

Bucky left the room with a grin on his lips groaned loudly, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Thor, you can’t just leave this thing everywhere. You used to carry this thing around like it was your offspring. Why do you leave it everywhere?”

Thor simply smiled and shrugged. “Because it helps where I cannot.”

Tony’s brow drew together in confusion, “You gotta stop talking in riddles, man.”

No one else would ever understand what he meant. It would be the God of Thunder’s and the Winter Soldier’s little secret.

[ecotone99]

[HR] My final voyage took me through Hell.

For years I have lived under the shadow of that fateful storm. I have been plagued with nightmares so relentlessly that not even medication can keep them silent. My days are no more pleasant as I constantly see in the shadows, what shouldn't exist. This will be my last time writing, my health is failing and I grow weak, I do not believe I shall last the night.

It all started as any normal voyage does. The sounds of men shouting commands, the creaking of ropes and timber, the smell of the sea, and the song of gulls. Our job was to deliver a shipment of sugar and grain to the New England colonies. Once the cargo was secured we gathered and prayed for a calm sea. We then boarded the Gifted Goose, unfurled the sails, and pulled out of the docks.

The first few days provided the calm seas and brightly lit nights. Our spirits were high as we rejoiced in the freedom of the open sea. We sang songs while we worked and feasted on fish we pulled from the water. Our Captain even mentioned a bonus for every man on our return to New York.

About two days before we were set to arrive in New England the wind completely stopped. We sat drifting in glass-smooth waters. The older sailors said prayers to ward off the bad omens and warned of potential storms. We passed the time by scrubbing and inspecting the ship. At one point we all turned our heads as we heard the sails snap taunt with a breeze but it lasted no more than a minute. That night I sat out on the deck, smoking my pipe and gazing out at the dark ocean. The night was so clear that the stars reflected beautifully on the calm water. The horizon blended so perfectly that I couldn't tell where the sky ended and the Earth began. It was a breathtaking moment of wonder for me. I was so captivated by the sight that I never heard the quartermaster walk up behind me. He told me to finish my pipe and catch some sleep.

I laid in my hammock still contemplating the beauty of it all. Around me, the other men snored or whispered various conversations. I slowly drifted off to sleep, willing myself to dream of a star filled night. My dreams were not pleasant though. My dreams were filled with blood-red seas and decapitated heads screaming in agony as they bobbed up and down with the waves. I awoke soaked in sweat and breathing hard, my heart pounding. Starlight illuminated the sleeping quarters. I heard a gurgling noise and looked to see a man holding his torn throat, staring at me with panicked eyes. I moved to help him but he expired as soon as I grabbed him. I quickly grabbed my knife and glanced around frantically, fearing his murderer would set upon me next. I heard shouting from the deck and the sounds of several men moving around with purpose. I could feel the ship rocking in the waves as I moved slowly towards the stairs, my knife held defensively. I climbed the stairs and stepped foot into a new Hell.

My eyes gazed upon the bodies of three men, hanging from the mainmast with ravaged bodies. I then saw the Captain, I yelled to him about the murdered man below deck. he responded by telling me that he was aware of a killer on the ship and that we had a massive storm that was about to descend upon us. Men moved quickly to lower the bodies and prepare for the storm. I jumped right in and assisted in lashing things down and securing the ropes. Off to the west, the star-filled sky ended in rolling darkness. Thunder rolled across the distance like the sound of cannons firing. The ship started rocking harder as the wind picked up. The order was given for all hands to be on deck and to watch out for the evil bastard who was killing us off. We were going to try and outrun the storm while trying to survive the sick bastard.

The sails strained with the force of the wind as we started moving abnormally fast with the wind. The storm chased after us with tremendous roars of thunder and flashes of lightning. At first, I thought we had a chance of outrunning the dangerous sea but that was short-lived. The wind suddenly changed direction and began blowing towards the storm. Men gasped in disbelief at the impossibility of it, the wind was sending us into the approaching storm. Wind and rain began to lash at us almost immediately, brilliant flashes of light tore at the sky and the ship shook with the powerful roars of the beast that was setting on us. I held onto a rope for dear life, doing my best to remain aware of the men around myself knowing that one of them was likely to kill me. The Gifted Goose bucked and swayed. The hull groaned and one of the smaller sails tore free and flew into the night. Men hurried to roll its opposite up in an attempt to balance the winds pull of the vessel. A flash of light allowed to briefly see the carves figurehead spearing into a large wave, the dark water crashing onto the deck and knocking a man overboard.

No one attempted to rescue the lost sailor, it was already too late for him. I held on for dear life as more waves crashed onto the deck. The assault came from all directions, a wave from starboard and another from port. I could no longer tell if we were even moving as the ship battled the sea. Lightning clawed at the clouds and I glimpsed the Captain screaming orders into the wind and holding the wheel with all of his strength. Blood ran from cuts on his arms and a body lay slumped against the railing, the Captain's sword stuck through his back. The Captain's eyes were wide in fear and his face was deathly pale. I heard a faint rumbling and turn to look ahead. Lightning exposed the massive wave towering above us. I screamed as it slammed into us and broke the ship. Lightning danced around us endlessly as the masts came together above me and we sank into the depths.

The first thing I felt was cold agony as the ship bobbed up and down in the absolute darkness. My face was pressed against something slick and hard. Slowly I began to regain awareness of my limbs bobbing in water, my mouth as full of saltwater. Spitting the water out I inhaled the fresh air and opened my eyes. I was on a rocky outcrop but I knew not where, I painfully climbed up the jagged beach, willing the numbness from my hands. I could see pieces of wood and cargo washed ashore. A light slowly rotated above me from a dark lighthouse. Lightning flashed from the retreating storm, the light shining through the building's windows. I stumbled as quickly as my shaky legs would allow me to move. As soon as I made it to the door I started pounding and yelling. I received no response from my attempt to wake the keeper. I found the door to be unlocked and took the liberty of allowing myself in.

To my utter horror, I found the keeper hanging from a rope in the lighthouse stairway. A puddle of piss was splattered on the floor below him and his face was etched with terror. I closed the lighthouse door and left him alone. I found a bedroom and helped myself to dry clothes and a coat. I grabbed a lantern and went out to look for other survivors, I found none. I returned to the house and started a fire in the wood burner. I basked in the warmth and made myself a quick meal out of some canned meat and bread I found in the kitchen. I searched for a backpack and oil for the lantern. As I searched for useful provisions I passed by the stairway door, it was open. Lightning flashed and I could see the noose with nobody hanging from it. A cold fear gripped my stomach and I started to cautiously make my way out of the house. I found him in the kitchen sitting at the table. His head laid at a wrong angle and my Captain's sword was stuck in his chest, a fresh puddle of piss sat steaming between his feet. I screamed and ran past the dead lighthouse keeper and into the night.

I continued to run along the path, I could see the lights of a village ahead on the other side of some woods. I could see the storm receding in the distance, maintaining its hellish lightning show. The evil light show aided me as I entered the dark wood. I thought I heard whispers among the creaking of tree limbs in the wind. I saw movement all around me as the timber flashed with the light. I didn't slow down as I continued through the trees, I was in full panic. Finally, I found myself delivered from the dark forest and looking at the edge of a village. The chapel stood strong and white on a hill above the town proper. What looked to be a tavern promised warmth and safety.

The tavern was empty. Lanterns burned away the darkness and cooling food sat out on several tables. I backed out slowly, fear threatening to take control once against as my heart faced. I cautiously made my way down the street and noticed that everyone seemed to be up at the church, certainly praying for the Lord's protection from the evil. I slowly followed the path up the hill and to the church.

Through the windows, I could see a large congregation sitting in the pews. A priest stood behind a podium waving his hands with urgency. I carefully entered the church, fresh thunder shook the windows as I crossed the threshold. The priest looked at me without slowing down his speech. I slowly moved further into the large room until I stood even with the last row of pews. The nearest villager to both my left and right turned in unison to look at me. My blood turned to ice in my veins when I saw that their eyes were cut out. They both smiled at me and I screamed hard enough I could taste blood on my lips. Hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me backward. As I fell I saw every person in that room stand and make their way toward me. At some point, I blacked out.

I woke up to the gentle rocking of a train. I was laying in a bed in a private cabin. A strange pain spread across my chest as I moved to sit up. Undoing my shirt I found an awful and ancient-looking symbol carved into my flesh. At that point, I cried.

The train finally made its way back to New York and I finally made it home. I walked into the comfort of my small home and stopped dead in my tracks. My heart filled with dread as I stared at my Captain's sword stuck into my kitchen table, dripping with fresh blood.

submitted by /u/Brokenwrench7 [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/35ZyFFU