#Will just gnawing on the prison bars as he hears this

[rainbow-femme]

I wonder if Will was ever mad about the fact that there wasn’t really period where people apologized to him for not believing him about Hannibal

It just went from “Will you’re a crazy murderer for even thinking Hannibal could be a serial killer” to “We all now believe Hannibal is a serial killer and have organically and equally come to this conclusion we could not have known at any earlier date”

I mean I feel like I’d be a little mad. I think he should have gotten one free slap on one of them and taken his time deciding who and when. Just mid conversation with everyone on how to catch Hannibal and he just absolutely cracks Chilton across the face then goes back to acting like nothing happened

[limethefirst]

Savior

pairings: Logan Howlett x teen!reader (platonic)

warnings: torture, violence

summary: after a year of being experimented on you’re finally saved and taken to a safe place where it’ll never happen again

a/n: Logan x platonic readers always have me gnawing at the bars of my enclosure so…here’s more!!! Logan is so bbg.. also Void Runner pt3 is in the works🫡

Normality was something people were used to seeing, most people were what the rest of society would consider ‘normal’.

Those who were considered ‘abnormal’ were mutants; humans who underwent a strange mutation that gave them the X-gene. Many viewed them as dangerous, evil even, many kidnapped and would experiment on them.

Unfortunately for you, you were a mutant, and to make it worse, one who was being experimented on and exploited.

Thankfully there were a group of people who were supposed to help and save these mutants, these people were the X-men. Today was your lucky day, today was the day you’d be saved, if only you knew that.

“Transfer 26 back to their cell,” an unknown guard said to your handler. Your eyes were trained to the ground, you knew talking would only cause punishment.

You’d been here for almost a year, your powers had devolved recently and you were quickly taken away.

The power of protection, or so that’s what most of the lab workers said. You had to power to conjure force fields around you as well as others or other objects, but you weren’t able to hold it for long; another perk of the power was you could conjure half shields, something you’d be able to use if you ever needed to protect only the front part of your body.

The walk back to your cell was taking its toll on your body, the constant pain and pressure you were put through finally attacking at you. Your wrists and neck itchy from whatever metal was around it, suppressing your powers.

Finally you tilted your head up, noticing the lack of mutants in the cells as you walked, you believed you were the last one left, the others dying from neglect or refusal to cooperate.

Before being able to be put into your cell, a loud ringing began to blaring over the compound, red lights flashed and everything shut down.

That’s when you saw him, The Fucking Wolverine.

His claws looked as if they were glistening against the contrast of the red, you watched as he began to take down many of the guards, each one down by the second. Your handler grabbed his smaller pistol; hidden within his lab coat for moments like this, but instead of aiming it at the beast in front of him, he grabbed you by your shirt.

He held the gun against your temple, the cold metal making a shiver go down your spine.

“Let the kid go,” You could hear Wolverines voice, it was stern but you could tell he was pissed; his jaw was clenched and his fist got tighter, his claws covered in blood, as was the floor.

It was almost as if luck had decided to visit you for the first time in years, because suddenly, everything shut down, the power was gone. The item suppressing your powers had just fallen down. The metal clinking against the floor.

This was your chance.

Quickly you summoned a shield around yourself, hearing a gun go off by your ear; but instead of a thump of a body hitting the floor, all that was heard was the sound of a bullet hitting the ground.

This was when Wolverine took the chance the strike, killing the man in an instant.

The man turned back to you, his face held not much emotion, maybe a hint of pity.

You weren’t able to say much, before you knew it you had passed out, perhaps the exhaustion from earlier finally caught up to you.

You slowly began to wake up, the room was the bright, it looked like a doctor’s office. You looked down, your white prison like clothes not replaced with a gown.

A taller woman entered the room, she noticed your eyes had opened, she gave you a warm smile and introduced herself as Dr Jean Grey, quickly excusing herself to go get the rest of the faculty.

Each person had said their hellos and such, besides two, the man in the wheel chair and Wolverine. The man in front of you began to talk but his mouth wasn’t moving, it was strange but he let himself explain before carrying on.

“Hello there dear,” the voice echoed in your mind, “I am Charles Xavier, I’m currently speaking to you through your mind if you haven’t noticed,” he looked at you for acknowledgment before continuing, “I’ve been looking for you for quite some time now, you’re currently at my school for gifted children, a place for mutant kids to learn about their abilities away from those who fear them, I’m here to offer you a place to stay.”

Charles looked at you, a warm smile on his face. He hoped you take him up on his offer, “I’d like that a lot,” you replied in your mind, assuming he’d be able to hear you as well. This was confirmed when he nodded at you and slowly left the room, but not before saying something you couldn’t hear to whoever was left in the room.

You looked at the man who’d saved you, his arms were crossed and he stood tall before you, “Listen kid, since you’re staying I’ll be helping you out a bit around here to you get used to it,” he said looking at your bruised arms, “I’m sure Charles told you what this place is and what not,”

But before he could say anything else you cut him off, “You’re name,” was all you could mutter before he finished his sentence.

“What?” He asked, confused by what you meant.

“What’s you’re name”

“Logan, I’ll be your history teacher and combat instructor,”

You blinked, confused before understanding he was probably a teacher here.

“Y/N, I’m Y/N,” you looked at the man, seeing if he’d say anything else, “Where will I stay?” You asked him.

“We have dorms, I’ll show you to yours right now, it’ll give you time to change and explore the place,”

“Hm alright, thank you”

“Don’t mention it kid,”

Logan showed you your room, it was ten times bigger than cage they held you in. Their first thing you did when Logan finally left was shower, once you exited you saw some clothes on the bed, with a note from another teacher here who you knew as Ororo or Storm.

Quickly you changed into the clothes, wanting to see the place.

When you left the room you noticed the hallway with a bunch of other doors, many rooms were empty; there was still lots of room for new mutants to make this their home too.

Slowly you made your way to the main hall, there were many other kids your age, each one with a special ability of some sort, you saw one kid with ice, another going through walls.

You started to make your way outside next, seeing more kids playing. Suddenly you hear someone yell.

“Watch out!” You put out your hands, a shield forming around the front of your figure. The kids who threw what seemed to be a football all cheered, before asking you to throw it back to them, which you hesitantly did.

You turned back around ready to head inside when someone stopped you.

“Didn’t think I’d get to see you use your power again so soon kid,” Logan was now at your side, walking you to the door.

“Would you rather I get a football to the head?” You smiled at him, a playful tug at your lips.

“So what do you think of the place?” He asked you, slightly eyeing your figure, trying to see if you felt comfortable yet.

“It’s big,” he smirked at your words, big was an understatement in his opinion. Then a sigh left you, “I feels like too much for me to take in, I can’t believe this isn’t a dream,”

Logan stopped walking, this causing you to stop too and look at him; he put his hand on your shoulder and looking you into your eyes, “Trust me, it feels like that at first but I promise you’re safe here now, if ever need someone you can always come find one of us, got it bub?”

“I got it Logan,” You gave him a warm smile, and you felt yourself feel somewhat better. The two of you began to walk back inside, you felt safer knowing you had someone in your corner now.

“Do you guys have Oreos here?”

“I can get you some.”

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

FL x reader where FL behaves like a guard dog around reader whenever they’re outside, so during the archon quest when he wakes up being taken to jail he sees the guards are taking reader to get questioned as well because on record it’s obvious that they’re very close, FL just starts hissing at the guard thats taking him away because he’s terrified they’ll do something to his precious beloved :(

i'm not crying you're crying ;-;;;;

oh, especially if you don't know why you're being questioned in the first place, only that some guards showed up to escort you to "somewhere private"- which ended up being a prison fortress. you're terrified at this point, knowing how odd and at times brutal Fontaine's judicial system is, and no one is telling you ANYTHING! they just keep pushing you down the hall and telling you that everything will be fine, they just need to ask you a couple of questions, and you can do nothing but keep walking forward, the cold air making you shiver- until you hear a screech from a few cells over

your eyes widen as your pace quickens, ignoring the guards' shouts for you to stop, and when you reach the cell you find yourself staring into the crystalline gaze of a very familiar Abyssal monster

Foul Legacy warbles when he sees you, whimpering and leaning into your touch as you do your best to wrap your arms around his neck through the bars of the cell, his tears cool and damp against your skin. the bars press into his armor, but he doesn't care, only seeking your voice and your touch to calm him, the corruption gnawing at his mind slipping into peaceful bliss... until the guards run up to you, firmly pulling you away, their hands on your shoulders as they lead you down the hall. you shout at them to let you go, to let you see him again, but it's like they're deaf to your pleas as well as Legacy's desperate wails behind them, and they lead you deeper into the cold, unyielding prison

unfortunately for them, they also don't hear the unmistakable shattering crack of metal breaking under claws and teeth

[todos-los-30]

Someone said to me if I went past seven black gates, I would see the seven gates of hell. I thought it was a myth at first, until I tried it out somehow accidentally but somewhat intentionally. I went past seven black gates around my neighborhood, then when I went to sleep, my dreams were of a furious fire. It stopped, and there was a man, tall and bulky. His eyes were rather squinted, showing his age, and his legs and hands were thin and looked as if they could barely support his weight. He spoke with a scratchy and dying tone, saying, "Emoclew ot eht neves setag fo lleh." Chuckling, he opened the gate. My whole body became numb, and I was unable to fight it as it moved on its own. Struggling did not work. Without any control of myself, I went through the first gate.

Gate 1 - I saw fire, and corpses that were horribly mutilated, desecrated, and burnt. They were sobbing so loudly that I couldn't even hear the crackles of the fire. One came to me, with one eye and bullet holes all over him. He said, "We are the desecrated corpses who did not get a proper burial. We are to stay here till the judgement day." I went past him and to the 2nd gate. It was in a building.

Gate 2 - I was in a dungeon. There were people tied up, screaming in pain. One was being sawed in half very slowly, his body repeatedly healing, ready to be sawed again. One was in an iron maiden, with the door being opened and closed, but never causing any visible harm. A man in an executioner's mask said to me, "We are the torturers tortured by our own devices." I went past him to the exit, towards the 3rd gate.

Gate 3 - This time, I was in a forest. It was silent except for a few yells. There was a man hanging from a noose. Another man fell off a cliff, reappeared, and fell off again. I began running away from a horribly burnt woman chasing after me. I already knew what this one was. These were the people who committed suicide. I ran through the 4th gate, which was in a palace.

Gate 4 - Suddenly, I was in the palace, surrounded by emperors, politicians, and really wealthy people. An emperor was being gnawed on by lions. When the lion ripped a limb off or slashed him, the appendage grew back and the injury healed. A politician was being beaten by what looked like shadows in prisoners' clothes. A man in a suit came to me and said, "We are the corrupted people. The people who used our power to help ourselves, not others." I walked to the next gate, the 5th.

Gate 5 - I was in another room. There was a man tied up on a bed, being lashed by floating spiky leather whips. A woman was being burnt by a lighter, but her screams and cries were muffled by a cloth that was used as a gag. A rather large man came up to me and said, "We are the rapists and the sex offenders, paying for our crimes on earth." I ran to the 6th gate.

Gate 6 - I was in another room. A man and woman were being stabbed, their wounds healing almost immediately just like everyone else. Another person was being buried alive, and someone else was being hit and jabbed with a floating metal bar. I knew who these people were - murderers, being harmed the way they killed their victims. The exit was the 7th gate. "The final one. This nightmare is almost over. It's almost over," I said to myself.

Gate 7 - I was outside. There was a man wearing a shroud over his head coated with explosives. He blew up, regenerated, and blew up again. Another one was being beaten, stabbed by sharp metal objects, and burned by torches, lighters, and matches. They were held by people who looked like shadows. One of them came to me and said, "They are the mass murderers, the terrorists, the suicide bombers. I am a shadow of one of their victims, beating them and taking revenge for killing us on earth." I ran to the exit.

When I woke up in the morning, I became horribly scared. The images of what I saw ran through my head. In fact, that was all I could think about for the whole year. It became Halloween again, and I didn't dare go outside at night. I just went to bed. It took me a while to sleep. When I did, I was in front of the first gate of hell. There was a teenager like me, staring at me. He was shocked to see me. My body became numb, and I could not control myself again. I said to him in a scratchy, dying tone, "Emoclew ot eht neves setag fo lleh." I chuckled and opened the gate for him. After he went inside with an expression that looked like he was fighting something and struggling, I looked at myself in the reflection of a goblet, filled with what looked like blood. I saw the gatekeeper. I became the gatekeeper. In fact, I am the gatekeeper.

[sarcastic-sketches]

Kitsune!Anakin Anecdotes Pt.2

More Kitsune nonsense? More Kitsune nonsense! I haven’t bullied Anakin nearly enough with this even after having him change species. Why you ask? For the fuck of it. Context for this AU here.       

Heightened Senses Anakin is now especially susceptible to flashbang grenades - light sensitivity and his highly sensitive hearing. It actually makes him throw up the first couple of times as the over-stimulation makes his body go haywire. This is a problem when you are on the frontline of a war. Cue Kix trying to wrestle his General into wearing some goddamn ear plugs when on an active battlefield.

Anakin: Doesn’t this just remove the advantage of my extra hearing?! Kix: I’d rather have to yell for you to hear me than have to watch you stand completley stunned and stationary in the middle of a battle again!

Additionally, Anakin and Ahsoka have to travel ahead of their troops in the dark because the light of their helmet torches would blot out their night vision. But if they happen to be lurking in a dark room and a trooper walks in, it scares the shit out of them because of the reflective retinas swivelling to stare back at them.

Cody: Why do you have motion activated lights on everywhere? Just use the switches Rex: Listen, the General and the Commander are damn quiet when they want to be, I like to know what I'm getting into when I enter a room Cody: Oh for god sakes. The Jedi are not that bad. Rex: Alright, Cody. Come back to me when your Jedi's eyes start glowing in the dark.

Familial Group Foxes don’t have packs but do operate as a familial unit. I can see Kitsune following the same trend, keeping close within the same bloodlines and the Kitsune with the greatest number of tails would be the highest in the heirachy of that family tree (usually this would also be the oldest member). The irony being, Anakin would already outrank the majority of the Kitsune population before the war even ended with his five tails.

The adult Kitsune urge to pick up cubs that have wondered off too far would creep up on him sometimes with the younglings in the Temple. Grabbing them with his teeth on the back of their robes and carting them back to their assorted rooms happens more often than Anakin would like to admit. He does it to Ahsoka as a joke. He does it to Obi-Wan as a threat.

Anakin: Go to bed. Obi-Wan: I will go when this is finished Anakin: [hauls him up] You will be going now.

More Transformation Pros and Cons Being able to shift just parts of his anatomy at a time takes a lot of practice but it comes in useful when he needs the extra grip claws grant him when climbing. Bigger ears to vent out extra heat like Fennec Foxes when in desert regions, or changing his limbs to furry, clawed apendages so as to avoid frostbite in the cold. Boots start rubbing the wrong way so Anakin takes them off and transforms just his feet into paws. Immediately steps in the bog without the protection of shoes.

Anakin: Ah. This is worse actually.

Having to deal with sensory hell on a new level when things get inbetween his paw pads. Suffering.

However, trying to hold Anakin prisoner now would be incredibly difficult. This bitch can turn himself into the most fidgety tiny fox known to man. Binders won't hold him because he can just slip straight out of them, any aircent not smaller than a datapad will just become an easy escape route, and manhandling him comes with the risk of having your hand bitten off.

Ventress throws him into a small cage at one point and Anakin doesn't want to risk going back to his normal size in case it damages him more than the cage. He spends the entire time glaring out from between the bars at his captors waiting for someone to try and get him out again. That or trying to gnaw his way through the bars.

Its like looking at an unexploded bomb. A very angry looking unexploded bomb.

Ventress: Nobody wants to unpack this, so let’s just throw the whole thing away.

[writerben01]

It is the hunger that alerts me.

It should have been the lack of laughter in our home. No jokes from Jack cutting through silence. No groans from Rachel to cover for how much she enjoyed his humour. No stories of heroics that got more dramatic by the second. I should have missed the lack of their warmth.

It should have been the cold creeping into my muscles from the hearth that remained unlit. While I was fine either way, Penny’s joints ached from winter’s weather and Tom always made sure she had a warm living room to come back to. Hot chocolate with marshmallows in her special thermos, so that it could remain warm for hours.

But I do not register change as humans do. I enjoy company and warmth, which the league of heroes provided in spades, but I can endure misery just as easily.

But not the hunger. Unwelcome and gnawing, already clouding my mind.

I have not known hunger in fifty years. And it is its presence that makes me realise how alone I am. Makes me realise that it’s not been hours since Jack left his kisses on my lips, but weeks. I no longer smell Rachel’s perfume on my sweater, where she had cuddled up against me on movie night. Penny’s lipstick has faded from my hand. Tom’s socks are still on my feet, even though he made me promise I would give them back as soon as they were back.

I know with the certainty of the ancient magic that had bound us all together that they would not willingly be kept from me.

When I stand up, I can feel the bindings in the house have weakened. Tom’s barriers are as much to keep me in as they are to keep others away. But with our covenant broken, they have no more right to exist. Just like Prometheus’ chains rusted around my limbs, and the prison bars of Omelas turned to dust around me. God nor myth can contain me without my consent. It is the way of things.

I touch shadow and fall through it. And I am no longer in the underground bunker that was made into my home. I am in a random house. I could smell the happiness from far away.

They see me and try to scream around their dinner table. Twenty people, celebrating Christmas from the looks of it. Their terror fills me with anticipation. It has been fifty years, but I am incapable of forgetting. I still know how easy it is to wrap my presence around a soul, like a cat’s claw on a mouse, squeezing until there is no life left to fear me.

I do not like this way of eating. I do not like the guilt. But it is the way of things.

My marriage with the League of Heroes had allowed me to eat without killing, fill my belly with love and kindness. I enjoyed it so much more. But, since time immortal, I could endure misery just as easily.

I move over to the television and try to find the news. It takes hours to hear what I want to know. The world has already forgotten the league. It is only when discussing the villains that they even mention my spouses. In a large battle, they were defeated and captured. Their fate is unknown.

But their location is.

I slip into the shadows and emerge in a base. There is a guard who sounds the alarm. It is the last thing he will ever do, I realise with guilt.

The room is bathed in red. The guard’s blood and the alarm lights. And I am left staring at the body of Penny on a hospital bed. It does not feel right that her body is so cold. I caress her cheek and leave a kiss on the top of her head. I regret never asking her for the recipe of her mulled wine. I do not cook, but I should have learned for her.

“I don’t know who you are, but you’re coming with me!” A man shouts. He is dressed in back, with a long blue cape and a welding mask shielding his face. He reaches out his hand and it stretches towards me. It takes my arm and starts pulling me along.

I let him guide me. Along the way we see more hospital beds. Jack and Rachel and Tom.

Jack, who was the story teller. He wrote poems and recited them. I am not capable of love, but the times I have close were with Jack’s lips moaning words beauty in the tones of ecstasy. It was so easy to pretend with him, that half the time I forgot I was pretending.

Rachel, who made everything into a game. Who taught me to use my strengths and how nice it could feel to win. And who viewed our love as a competition and strived to be my favourite. It made me work hard to be her favourite too.

Tom, who never liked to leave a mess. Everything had to be labled by him and I was the one puzzle he had never figured out. He always pointed out the beauty in the mundane, the details that I missed. I used to think for a being as ancient as me there would be nothing new left to discover. But Tom, despite his order, was always changing. He made me think I could change too.

I can see their faces. Each one is alive, but incapacitated. It scares me.

I am brought into a throne room. Across from me are the villains, as they appeared on the news. Stranglehold, the evil mastermind. Titania, the strongest human on earth. Lillith, the demon magician. Ten more, with equally ridiculous names.

“What is this thing?” Titania asks.

“It was hovering over Blizzard. He’s one of the heroes.”

I have never been called a hero before.

“Trying to rescue them?” Stranglehold laughs. “No plan or anything? And here I was thinking the league was fool headed. But twenty years we fought them, and for twenty years we struggled. But finally we won and they failed! The league that was gathered to stop us, has failed!”

“That was never their purpose.” I say.

“Of course it was. We were their greatest enemies. And we crushed them. As now you shall be crushed! Titania!”

The female villain comes towards me and wraps her hand around my neck. “Nothing personal.”

“Indeed.” I say.

Her soul is slick and slippery from all the murders she has committed. It slides down my throat easily.

When Titania falls, Lilith immediately responds by erecting a barrier around me.

“Ha! Some kind of poison. I didn’t know you hero types had it in you.” Stranglehold says. “But it ends now.” He points a gun at me.

Like that will do anything.

“You fool. Are you not scared of us?”

“I am scared.” I say, sadly. “Because now there’s nobody strong enough to stop me.”

He pulls the trigger. And I can feel the radiation. It tickles.

I can also feel the hunger. And for once, I do not feel guilt as I eat.

I feast on them and with each nourishment, I forget a little more how much I dislike this. I can feel the nature of myself resurfacing. I was never meant to know human love. That is not the way of things.

The room now emptied from food, I walk back to them.

Jack.

Rachel.

Penny.

Tom.

I stand and stare at them. I know if I wait too long, the hunger will return and then I will eat them. It is the way of things. Part of me wants to leave before I will hurt them. Part of me wants to see them as long as I can. Part of me cares nothing about them, and does not mind if they are dead.

I know that if I leave, I will eat other people. And these four are heroes. They would rather give their own lives than know I have taken others. And they are not like their parents, who knew what I was when they sealed me. These heroes have never seen what I can do. They have only heard the stories.

What will they say when they see me? Will they ever feel the same about me as they did?

I don’t know what to do.

But I know I long for the home us five made together. It is strange. I do not usually register change as humans do.

I give each of them a kiss on their heads, before retreating into shadow, away from them. I will move as my hunger takes me. And I will be without my heroes. Give them time to recover without the danger of me hanging over them. As tempted as I will be to see them, I cannot risk it. It will be misery and I will endure it easily.

But for once I don’t want to endure.

Because my heroes taught me how to hope for more.

Please, heroes. When you can, bring me home again with you.

The villains finally managed to defeat the league of heroes. But unbeknownst to them the league did not exist, primarily, to fight them, but to keep an even bigger threat in check: you. And you are about to demonstrate to the villains what happens when there is no one around to stop you.

[littlemisslol-fic]

The Silent Opera

Chapter Sixteen:  Crescendo

Summary: In a world populated by Soulmates— people drawn together by wordless music connecting them to their destined other half— Varian is an anomaly. He is Songless, someone without a Soulmate of his own. He makes due with the cards dealt to him, used to being the castle oddity by now, but when an interesting blond takes up residence in the castle, he can’t help but be drawn to him.

Hugo, on the other hand, is horrified to find that not only is his Soulmate a palace brat, but that Varian doesn’t hear him back— meaning Hugo is trapped in a one-sided bond. When presented with a horrible choice between completing the theft Donella had sent him to do, or taking a frightening step into vulnerability, Hugo finds himself at an impasse he just might not be able to charm his way out of.

And then politics get involved.

Notes: Here we go! Here's part one of the TWO PART FINALE The finale chapter will be up directly after this one.

The sun is weak and sickly the morning of the Day of Hearts. Hugo’s awake to see it; he hadn’t slept a wink all night, pacing the cell’s length like a wild animal. Moonlight had struggled to cut through the clouds at all—the cell had been plunged into darkness for a majority of the night, a constant, looming darkness.

Hugo stalks across the worn stones. Back and forth, always staring at the doorway Varian had disappeared through. The one Landis had pushed him through—shoved him like a prisoner, rough and rude and ruthless—without a thought. Hugo has half a suspicion that Landis is going to come back and murder him. It’s what Hugo would do, wait for Varian to fall asleep and the guards to switch before sneaking in and cleaning up loose ends.

But it seems that Landis is a man of his word. He doesn’t reappear, not for the rest of the night. He’s safe for another ten hours. So Hugo keeps his head, though for how long he wouldn’t be able to say. But he can’t seem to make everything stop spinning, no matter how much he tries; everything’s spiraling and the only solace is the way Varian’s Song curls around him. He’s still awake, wherever he is. Has been all night. The only reason Hugo hasn’t started chewing through the bars is because of Varian.

But still the morning comes. Lazy and slow, like molasses without the sweet taste. No one comes during the morning—save for one guard that drops a sad little breakfast roll and leaves—nor in the afternoon. Hugo can hear the hustle and bustle of the castle preparations outside. Light flickers past the bars as people and horses pass by, hundreds crowding into the courtyard to begin the Day of Hearts. He wants to grab at someone’s ankle, draw them close and scream at them to stop this right fucking now. Not that it would work, but a guy can dream.

The wedding will be starting soon. There’s trumpets and other fanfare in the distance. Hugo wants to gnaw his own arm off—but he has to focus. Instead he waits.

And eventually he gets his chance.

Around midday there’s a creaking groan that echoes through the cell block. Thank the Maker, he thinks as he sees a familiar, lumbering form enter the room.

“Cyrus!” Hugo coos as the man draws close. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“Shut it,” the man grunts. “Your boyfriend paid me to bail you out.”

That gives Hugo pause. “Bail me out?” he asks, only to cut himself off with a second, more random thought. “With what?”

The man only smiles and pats at a bag on his side. “All he said was to get you and get gone.” Cyrus then produces a set of keys. Where the fuck he got those, Hugo would rather not know. He’s seen what happens when a guard’s skull meets wall. It’s not pretty.

“C’mon kid,” Cyrus grunts. “We have a pretty small window to get the fuck out before someone comes looking.” He begins leafing through keys.

As if. “Has the wedding happened yet?” Hugo winces at how desperate his voice sounds. “It hasn’t, right?” Cyrus only hms, sending Hugo even more into a panic. “Cyrus!”

The man stops and looks up at the snap. “It hasn’t,” he says. “People were saying there’s about an hour left before it starts, meaning we have to go.”

“I can’t leave without him.” Hugo’s not asking. It’s a statement of fact. “I won’t.”

Cyrus lets out a long, beleaguered sigh. “You don’t really get a choice,” he says, “since we’re leaving. I don’t see him around, do you?”

The Song takes a slight dip. Fuck. He’s running out of time. Cyrus finally finds the right key and slips it in; the cell door creaks open without much fanfare. Hugo bursts from it like a summer's storm. Cyrus doesn’t even react, not even when Hugo nearly trips over his own feet. Hugo only just manages to right himself and puffs up his chest.

“I’m finding him,” he says, “go back to Donnie because I’m not leaving. Not without Varian.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not!”

Cyrus looks about thirty seconds from grabbing Hugo and tossing him over his shoulder. “He’s my Soulmate!” Hugo finally snaps. “I’ve spent long enough listening to him without knowing who he is and I’m not giving up on him again!” Not when he needs me.”

That gives the man pause. “Are you sure?” is what he asks. “You have a clean out, kid. It’s not something people usually get. You’re sure you want to throw it away on a chance?”

Hugo doesn’t say a thing. His hands clench to hide how they shake. But the look on his face must be enough; Cyrus sighs again and rubs at his face.

“Maker save me from fucking teenagers,” he grumbles. “Fine, fuck it. I’m taking the bag and going for the border. I’ll wait there for three days in case something goes wrong. The boss knows we might be bringing an extra kid home—if you two have to get out, get out, clear?”

Relief pulses through Hugo like a wave. “Thank you,” he says. Cyrus drops the keys on the floor and adjusts the bag across his shoulder.

“Don’t thank me,” he says, “you’re the one running headfirst into a death trap.”

Hugo can’t help but awkwardly laugh. “Yeah, I know. They’re not great odds.”

“They’re shit odds.” Cyrus turns away from him then. He stops at the doorframe,           laying a massive hand on the old wood. “And I’m not sticking around to watch your execution. Good luck, kid.”

And then he’s gone. It’s for the best, really. At least someone will be able to tell Donnie what happened if it goes tits up. But Hugo can’t, won’t, leave Varian behind. Not this time. Not after he’d spent so long waiting for Hugo to get his shit together. His Soulmate had been more than patient.

Now it’s Hugo’s turn to do some heavy lifting.

—————  ♪  —————

Varian hadn’t slept a wink all night. He’d listened to Hugo for the whole time, the two of them trading feelings of fear and love, constantly dancing between comfort and chaos. It had felt almost nice—like Hugo was there beside him, holding his hand and telling him it would be alright—but still made a panging pain rise up in the space under his heart. Landis had dragged him back to his room and shoved him in, thankfully leaving directly after. If the man had tried to get intimate again Varian might have honestly jumped out a window. But Landis hadn’t and had at least granted Varian one last night to himself. Not that it had helped.

So, he hadn’t slept a wink. And he looks like shit because of it. Varian doesn’t even notice the time slipping away until a flurry of maids kick his door in before the sun has fully risen and drag him to the castle’s spa facilities—next thing he knows he’s effectively being shoved ass-first into a bathing pool filled to the brim with warm water and scented oils.

They make his nose burn, causing him to sneeze up a storm while the maids scrub at his hair. It isn’t pleasant, not like when Rapunzel played with it on quiet afternoons in the library. Instead their hands are harsh and clinical, yanking on the strands to make sure all the dirt is chased away. Varian winces and bites at his tongue, made even worse when the drag him back to a nearby dressing room and force him behind a screen with a handful of cloth.

It takes him longer than you’d hope for him to realize that they’re clothes. Layers and layers of them, all in shades of white and cream. He’s so fucking lost looking at all of them, there’s a jacket (?) and something that might be a sash… though it could be something else?

Eventually one of the Socrian maids who’d arrived with Landis’s father takes pity on him. He must look pathetic, wearing nothing but a pair of white pants and shivering after the warmth of the bath. She smiles calmly, her eyes crinkling at the edges as her well-practiced hands pick up one of the items.

“This first,” she says softly. Her white hair almost matches the shade of the robes. “Socria is so much colder than Corona; we have traditions for our layers.”

Things go much faster with her help. First a thin undershirt, then a thicker, almost corset like brace for his back. Varian gasps when it’s tightly tied, forcing his posture upright. Then he’s forced into a fancier shirt, one embroidered with stars, and a jacket with horizontal, golden stripes across the front. A thick sash gets ties around his middle, right on top of the brace. Then, finally, a large cloak with billowing sleeves, the cape part fanning out behind him in a long train. It's a hell of a gauntlet to just get dressed.

By the end of it Varian feels ready to fall over; the weight of all the fabric was nearly as unbearable as the heat. Suddenly the brace makes sense—if he were left to his own strength, surely Varian would have collapsed under the weight. Agonizing.

After that he’s shoved in a chair facing a mirror. He hadn’t thought he’d looked that bad, until he comes face to face with a bedraggled, drowsy copy of himself. His eyebags have bags for fuck’s sake. Sun help him, he looks like shit.

A new woman, one he’s seen following Rapunzel and Eugene around during their special appearances, clicks her tongue at the sight of him. What was her name…?

Her sour expression gets worse. “Absolute disaster,” she murmurs to herself as she picks at his hair. Which, hey. “Boy, when was the last time you saw a comb?”

Varian only shrugs. The woman—Margaret, that was it—huffs another noise and grabs a nearby brush. “I’ve dealt with worse,” she says, more to herself than to him.

He watches, almost dazed, as she begins to carefully brush out his hair into fluffy strands. Her hands, despite her attitude, are gentle; it’s soothing enough to lull him into a daze. He’s grateful for it—if he was more aware, surely the anxiety would be eating him alive.

Because it’s his wedding day. It might as well be his fucking funeral.

On the one hand: this is good. Everything is going to plan. The wedding will go forward without any problems, news of the treaty will surely hit Equis’s border before the end of the day—meaning Trevor will certainly think twice about thinking about playing games with Corona’s land. Hugo will be long gone by now, out of Corona and back to his mother. It’s exactly what Varian had wanted… on paper.

Because on the other hand: this is bad. This is very, very fucking bad. For Varian specifically. Because he’s about to be married off to a literal murderer and expected to just be fine with that. Which he’s not, thank you. But he still has to swallow down the disgust, the absolute bile, that wells up from deep in his gut at the thought of spending the rest of his life with Landis—let alone having to go through and play happy couple. The night Hugo had confessed had proved the merit of the man Varian is about to call husband. It’s not good. It’s not even fine.

He stares into the dead eyes of his mirror image. The boy in the reflection looks like a shadow of who he knows himself to be. Hollow. Nothing but a living corpse.

The Song rattles through his mind, constant and stressed in a staccato rhythm. Hugo’s losing his mind, wherever he is; but the Song is no longer afraid. Hugo must have one of his crackpot schemes in mind; the fear is finally gone. It helps more than Varian thought it would. At least one of them gets to walk away from this.

He sucks in a shallow breath when Margaret tugs at his hair and starts to pull it back. She deftly pulls his hair into a series of braids, similar to ones that Rapunzel had worn for her wedding. Shining clips pin it back, the ornate style everything Varian hates about weddings and parties and all that stupid shit. So much pomp and circumstance.

Margaret seems content with her work. She hums to herself a bit more before she tweaks a few more little strands.

“There we go,” she says. “Much better.”

Varian blinks slowly. “Much,” he echoes. “Thank you.”

The woman offers him a thin-lipped smile. “You’re welcome.” She takes one last second to fluff up one of the braids before she too leaves; the dressing room seems so large with just Varian in it. For a second there’s blissful silence. Something he’s been missing since the start of the day. It doesn’t last, people filtering in and out as Varian stares his dead reflection in the eye.

Time slows and speeds up all at once. Everything blurs into a soupy mess of light and colour and dread and resignation. Varian doesn’t notice the time slipping into a haze. He doesn’t want to, if he stays just where he is then maybe everything will just freeze. That would be agreeable, he thinks.

And then. A hand on his back.

Varian’s stupor breaks: he shifts on the seat, looking away from his reflection and meeting a pair of eyes he’s grown to hate.

“Varian,” Landis says. He seems almost awkward. “You look… nice.”

“Isn’t it bad luck for you to be here?” Varian’s voice is ice cold. Landis only shrugs. The hand on Varian’s back doesn’t move away, hot and big and sickening.

“I wanted to see you. Talk to you.”

“I can’t say the same.” Couldn’t Landis just give him his last hour of peace?

The grand duke lets out a long sigh. “Varian, I—” he cuts himself off with a groan and rubs at his eyes. He takes the other half of the bench Varian’s sitting on; it groans under the weight. They sit so that they face opposite directions; Landis faces into the room, Varian toward the mirror. Anything else would feel too intimate. Landis’s foot bounces, an oddly personal reaction.

“I’m sorry.” His voice grates against Varian’s thoughts. “I know you think you loved him. But this is what’s best for everyone.”

“I do love him.” Varian’s knuckles are a white grip on the padded seat. “And it’s what’s best for you. Don’t try and twist it, Landis.”

He looks back to the mirror. He won’t meet his fiancé’s eye. Varian couldn’t bring himself to. Landis huffs, frustrated.

“You—what, you want to go run to a guy like that? A thief?”

“I was a thief once.” Varian’s voice is ice cold. “And a traitor. A terrorist. Do you have a problem with that?”

“I need you to be on board with this.” Landis faces away from him, staring into the room.

“I am. You made sure of that.” The wedding is his distraction, after all. So that Hugo can get as far away from the castle as possible. But still, he sighs. “Landis, I’m not about to pretend to be happy with this. I can’t.”

“I want us to be happy.” It’s an oddly intimate statement, especially from the man next to him. “Varian, we’ll be married soon. And contrary to how I… how things have turned out, I really do think we can be good together. I want us to be good together. Why be miserable for the rest of our lives?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s because you found out I was in love with someone else and you threatened to have him executed?”

Landis’s lip curls. “Keep your voice down. You’re convinced that the Song is right, but Soulmates are just distractions. You know this as well as I do. You only fell in love because the Song told you—it’s not real, Varian.”

Hugo’s voice drifts through his thoughts. A sudden memory of a conversation they’d had months ago springs up, one that he can’t help but smile at.

“It’s not a matchmaker; it doesn’t choose for us.” Varian speaks Hugo’s words. They taste so sweet, now that he understands them. “It just… gives us a push.” He meets Landis’s eye then, steely cold. “I agreed to marry you,” he says, “but I didn’t agree to anything else. You’ve soundly ruined that for yourself. This is for business, and so that you don’t try and murder my Soulmate. Nothing more. I hear the Song. Hugo will always be my first choice.”

The silence between them speaks volumes. If Landis is hurt, he doesn’t show it; a firm mask stretches across his face, carefully blank. “I see. That’s unfortunate.”

Varian doesn’t even look at him when he stands. Landis adjusts his cufflinks with a snooty sniff. “I can see you’re still feeling… volatile, so I’ll leave you be.” He reaches over then, grabbing Varian’s hand before he can jerk it away. The grand duke brings it to his lips, kissing the ring on his finger. “I’ll see you at the ceremony. There will be plenty of time for you to outgrow this after we get home.”

Landis drops Varian’s hand and takes his leave. There’s a groan from the bench as he does. The alchemist doesn’t say a word, carefully still. Landis taps his fingers against his own thighs; the rhythm grates against the Song in Varian’s ear.

“I’ll have to make sure that rat’s still in his place.” the grand duke says. Varian jolts with fear—he can’t possibly mean—he whirls around to stare at his fiancé, mouth agape. Fuck, if Hugo’s gone from the cell already and Landis sees—

“We had a deal!”

“We still do. I’m not going to touch him. Just make sure he won’t… interfere.” Landis smiles then, but there’s no warmth to it. There never is. He offers a little wave, leaving the room. Varian has half a mind to throw a vase after him, just to give him some insight into how unwanted he is. The door slips shut, the unsubtle click of the lock ringing out through the quiet of the room. It’s as much of an insult as a slap would have been. I don’t trust you, the noise says, I don’t trust that you won’t try and run away. So I will keep you in your place.

Infuriating.

Somewhere, Hugo’s Song goes bright with surprise and familiarity. Something tells Varian that Cyrus has arrived. This isn’t good, not at all—if Landis notices Hugo’s gone he’ll raise hell immediately and surely the two thieves wouldn’t be able to escape. They probably haven’t even left the castle grounds yet. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

He takes another look at the dead boy in the mirror. The childish part of him wants to scream and cry, to throw something through the stained-glass windows and watch them shatter. To break it all, tear the hand-hemmed curtains from the walls, dash all the delicate items off the vanity and watch them crumble. To see it all be torn apart by his hand; never to be whole again.

The Song is twisting in agitation. Hugo must have been told what the plan is. Varian sucks in a breath and braces himself for the betrayal, the anger. There’s no way that Hugo will be happy about leaving Varian behind, but he has to. The wedding is the only distraction Varian can offer. It’s the last act of love he’ll be able to afford.

He needs to do something. Hugo’s surely about to get caught by Landis, and there’s no fucking way they’ll be able to escape from the belly of the castle if the alarm goes out. He needs to—to warn them? How? The door’s locked…

But he still finds himself standing, wobbling under the weight of his robes, and walking to the door. It’s heavy, like all the castle doors are—he’s not shouldering it open, not unless he gets a late growth spurt. However, he’s picked up a thing or two from his sneaky bastard Soulmate.

He reaches up and tugs a bobby pin from his hair. The mass of hairspray in it keeps the braids solid as a rock—Margaret does good work, what can he say—but Varian quickly snaps the thing in half and feeds it into the lock regardless.

You just have to listen for the clicks, and you’ll get it open.

Hugo’s voice echoes through his mind. He toys with the lock a bit more, just a tweak—

Varian can’t help but smile when he hears a click. The door swings open into the hallway, the blessed sun shining weakly through the clouds. What a horrible day for a wedding—but what a wonderful day for a criminal to escape. Varian huffs a thick gasp when he stands. The Socrian robes must weigh as much as he does, it’s ridiculous. He manages to wobble up to his feet at last and sets off into the hallway; he does his best to sneak, but the cloak trails behind him. On one heart-stopping occasion it catches a podium and nearly sends a vase toppling to the ground. He only just manages to save it with frantic hands.

Eventually Varian makes it to just outside the dungeons already preparing himself to face Hugo again. Gods, what is he even going to say? He bounces on his feet from the nerves alone—ones so unorganizable they feel like they’re turning his stomach inside out. He’s so distracted that when he rounds a corner, he runs smack into someone.

Varian almost topples from the stupid robes—but a strong hand grabs him by the arm. “Varian!” a voice gasps. He looks up with shock to see Rapunzel, her own eyes wide. “What are you doing out here?”

“Princess?” His voice is weaker than he thought it would be. “What—I was, uh—”

She blinks again, realization suddenly sparking. “Were you trying to get to Hugo?” It’s not accusatory. More conspiratorial. Varian sucks in a small breath and nods.

“Landis was saying he was going to check on him—Rapunzel, I need to know he’s okay, I just need to see him…”

Her head is already bobbing with a nod. Brown hair spreads in a flurry, fluttering around her ears. Her tiara threatens to fall from her head. “I might have been looking around to see if he needed to… go for a walk.” Her tone deepens playfully. “You know, he doesn’t like to sit still for very long.”

Varian sighs out a laugh. Rapunzel doesn’t break character and leads him to the door to the cellblock—the very one Landis had borderline thrown Varian out of before. The memory is bitter in his mind, but the memory of I love you on purpose chases away the worst of it.

That still doesn’t stop him from groaning at the sight of an empty cell.

“Fuck,” he hisses. Rapunzel pinches his arm at the curse. “I don’t know where he is—I have to find him before Landis does.”

The princess bites at her lip as the city bells start to ring. They’ll be expecting Varian any minute now to get the ceremony started. Dread builds up in the back of his throat—he’s out of time, there’s nothing left for him to do other than suffer—and he nearly jumps out of his skin when Rapunzel puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Go distract everyone,” she says firmly. “I’ll find Eugene. He’ll help me get Hugo and keep him safe, okay? Just stall them for as long as you can.”

Varian’s never been more grateful for her. “Okay,” he gasps through the fear. “Okay.”

Rapunzel doesn’t look convinced. She’s quick to leave the cellblock and try and come up with another plan, seeing as both of theirs are now shot. Landis isn’t anywhere to be seen—Varian’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, really. Either Varian beat him here, or the grand duke is skulking around somewhere.

The princess takes a deep breath, patting his shoulder once before leaving him. She’s quick on her feet, not quite running but obviously in a hurrt. He watches her retreating back and a childish part of him wants to grab at her skirts and demand she hide him; Varian’s close to begging her on his knees to stop this.

He knows he can’t, knows that he needs to go through with the wedding to give Hugo ample time to escape. The thought doesn’t make the thought any easier to swallow. The bells ring again. Varian’s out of time.

And he’s about twenty seconds from puking all over his dress shoes.

He opts to start walking to the central amphitheater. At least there he can be useful as a distraction if nothing else.

He just needs to stall. He can do that.

Right?

—————  ♪  —————

Stalling is going to be more complicated than one would think.

When Varian reaches the hallways near the great hall he’s instantly bombarded by guests and friends alike. It’s very nearly too much to handle, overwhelming in the worst kind of way.

Congratulations, the horrible masses coo, what a happy day for you, a good husband, and a wonderful match.

If only they knew.

Varian weaves his way through handshakes and empty pleasantries. It’s hell. Nothing but dull smiles and duller eyes, swatches of silks and silvers and stupid fucking people—

He needs to find Frederic. Or Nigel. Anyone who can hit pause on this whole sordid affair if Varian pretends to die in front of them. Whatever works.

But as he dances through the crowds, something makes him pause. A slip of emerald green disappears into a door, one that leads to the back room of the great hall—one that he knows is basically storing furniture right now. No one should be in there.

Before he can think better of it, Varian follows through the door.

It’s dark as hell back there. Usually, this part of the great hall is open, allowing for sunlight; today however it’s been covered up with drawn curtains. The rigging keeping them closed is haphazard at best, spiderwebbing across the ceiling and all connecting to a large lever. If anyone had asked their engineer, Varian would have been able to suggest a hundred different ways to rig it better.

Ah, well.

A few lamps still burn, lighting up the figures of stored furniture and other bits from around the castle. Things that had needed a place to go when the wedding had started. Shoved away into the dark. A series of suits of armor crowd the walls, obviously moved from the hallways to make more room for roaming guests. Their crossbows and swords glint in the lantern light.

But in the middle of it all, a familiar figure creeps through the mess.

“Varian?” Hugo whispers loudly. “Varian, are you in here?”

His feet are moving before he can even think about it. Varian’s borderline sprinting, running forward before Hugo can vanish on him again—

The Song swells when he gets close. Hugo turns in recognition, his arms already opening wide to catch Varian as they collide. They spin from the force of Varian’s weight. His robes fan around them in a wave of white and cream. Hugo doesn’t even flinch at the hit, instead hugging him tightly as they spin.

“Varian,” his voice cracks. Varian doesn’t even bother replying, pressing a series of frantic kisses across the planes of Hugo’s face.

“Oh, thank the Sun,” he murmurs between kisses, “I couldn’t find you—”

“I got out, Cyrus helped me, said that you told him—”

They stumble over the colliding words for a second more before stopping, looking at each other and laughing quietly.

“I missed you,” Varian admits, “so much. Are you okay?”   

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” Hugo’s voice is so quiet.

Varian’s eyes burn as the Song swells with a rush of affection, of love, of simple little joys that come when they’re together. Everything spins together into a beautiful cacophony of warmth and soft, tender adoration.

Hugo’s eyes are misty, but his smile is so, so bright—Varian reels him in by the shoulders into a proper kiss, unable to help but want.

It’s everything he’s been missing, everything he’s been craving; Hugo tastes like passion and love and joy and everything Varian had thought he’d lost.

He wants this moment to last forever. For it to stretch into infinity and stay exactly as it is. To just get lost in the green in front of him and never look away. Hugo smiles in that lopsided way Varian loves so much and leans in, stealing another kiss.

When they split, he murmurs something against Varian’s lips. The alchemist makes a questioning noise, and Hugo repeats himself.

“I love you on purpose,” he whispers. Varian’s heart swells with devotion. The Song twitters in his ear.

“And I love you,” Varian replies. He tries to push everything he’s feeling into it, his relief, his affection, his joy—and when Hugo smiles, his Soul shines. He wants to ignore everything, to stay like this forever… but he knows that their time is growing short.

Hugo pulls back a bit and looks down, his eyebrows screw together.

“What are you wearing?” he asks.

Varian feels heat rising in his cheeks, suddenly self-conscious. “I didn’t pick it,” he mutters. Hugo only laughs, picking at a sleeve.

“You look like a marshmallow.”

“It weighs so much,” Varian lets himself grumble. To be fair, he probably does look like a droopy, stretched out marshmallow. If he looks half as ridiculous as he feels he’ll probably be laughed out of Corona. Hugo giggles. Varian wants to join him, but he still has questions. Serious ones. 

“Are you okay?” he asks Hugo. “What are you still doing here? You’re supposed to be gone.”

“I wasn’t leaving,” Hugo shakes his head. The hand on Varian’s hip tightens. “Not without you.”

“Hugo—”

“No, Varian, listen. I’m not going. You’ll have to drag me out in a body bag.”

Varian’s mouth opens to retort but clicks shut at the sound of a third voice.

“I’d gladly arrange that.”

Ah. Fuck.

Varian’s spinning on his heel, quickly putting himself between Hugo and Landis. The grand duke leans against the doorway, light spilling behind him—oh hell, how did he find them?

Landis lets the door slam shut behind him. Varian flinches at the noise. Hugo doesn’t move a muscle, frozen like a rabbit in a trap. Landis stalks forward, all business; Varian’s hopeless to keep himself between them by virtue of just being too fucking short.

Hugo’s hands tighten in the back of Varian’s robes. He only has time to register it before Hugo’s shoving him away with a strong push. He yelps, nearly falling to the floor; Varian only manages to spin around in time to watch Landis rear back and punch Hugo square in the jaw.

Varian flinches in solidarity. The hit looks like it hurt, made all the worse with how Hugo drops like a fucking stone. He barely makes a noise beyond a startled grunt as he hits the floorboards. For a second Varian’s frozen—glued to the ground of sheer shock of watching Hugo get fucking obliterated—but startles to life when Landis drops down next to Hugo and rears back for another punch.

It hits just as hard as the first. Hugo’s glasses shatter, cracking cleanly in half. The blond lets out a grunt when he’s hit again. The Song shrieks in pain, spurring Varian out of his shock.

“Woah!” he shouts. He’s launching forward before he can think better. “Woah, woah, woah! Stop it!”

His hands wrap around Landis’s wrist. The man barely pauses; his arm strains against Varian’s grip.

“Stop!” Varian’s voice cracks. “Holy shit, Landis, stop!”

Landis doesn’t look like he wants to stop. He looks fucking insane to put it mildly, eyes wild and filled with blood lust. Absolutely terrifying. Varian nearly flinches back when his fiancé turns the crazy eyes on him, but a groan from Hugo stays his hand. It’s a good thing too; when Hugo makes a noise, Landis’s attention goes back to the blond and he makes to punch Hugo again.

Varian tugs on the wrist. He doesn’t have a hope to move Landis by himself—but thankfully the grand duke’s willing to listen; he lets himself be pulled off Hugo without protest, instead turning to meet Varian’s eye. Its uncomfortable having the man’s attention on him, but it’s better than Landis trying to beat the shit out of Hugo again.

His dry mouth makes his voice crack. “P—please stop,” Varian repeats, “just calm down, okay? We can talk this out—”

Hugo splutters from his place on the ground. Blood, fresh and ruby red, leaks from his very definitely broken nose. He probably has a concussion from a hit like that. A wave of nausea washes over Varian at the sight of crimson—fuck, focus. He turns back to Landis, partially to distract from the blood, and the rest to try and convince the man to calm down.

“I am sick of talking,” Landis snaps. “I’m sick of all of this! No more fucking games, Varian!”

He yanks his hand out of Varian’s grip. It whips up to point in Varian’s face aggressively. It takes everything in Varian to keep himself from flinching. Everything’s narrowed down to the frantic beating of his heart and the dulled Song in his ear. He needs to get Landis away from Hugo—and quickly.

“Okay,” Varian soothes. “No more games. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

Hugo makes a weird gurgle. Landis doesn’t seem to register it, instead looking at Varian with an unconvinced expression.  

“You were right,” Varian presses. “I—it wasn’t meant to be. Soulmates aren’t worth it.”

Landis scoffs. “And why the change of heart?” He looms closer. Varian finds himself backing away slightly, toward one of the walls.

“I. Uh. Our talk, you made a lot of sense.” Think asshole, think! “I took some time to reflect.” Varian’s voice cracks a bit when Landis steps even closer. Behind him, Hugo starts to shift, waking up. Varian’s eyes flick back to his fiancé. Bile rises in his throat. He needs a distraction so that Hugo can escape; Landis’s gaze is focused on Varian’s face, but the alchemist can see how they shift down to look at his lips. Ah. Ew. But it’s something he can work with—so he swallows back the ill feeling and puts on his most demure smile.

“We can do great things together,” he says. His tone twists into a coo, nothing like he sounds like with Hugo, but convincing enough that Landis takes another step closer, transfixed. “Isn’t that what you want?”

The Song shifts again. Poor Hugo’s still half awake, dazed from the hits. It’s a marvel he’s conscious at all. Landis’s attention has completely diverted, focused on Varian entirely. The alchemist jumps when he feels the wall against his back—he doesn’t let his gaze break, drawing Landis in. Leave Hugo alone, his thoughts plead, just leave him alone.

He feels a massive hand come up to cup his chin. It takes everything in Varian not to bite it. Instead, he half-lids his eyes and leans into it, pressing into the touch in a way he hopes is convincing. Landis looks like he’s contemplating something—but he still shifts closer.

“No more games?” he asks.

Varian sucks in a sickened breath. “No more games,” he agrees. Landis smiles then, one filled to the brim with smugness and pride—but then he starts leaning closer and oh sweet Sun no—

It takes everything in Varian not to pull away at the feeling of lips on his. He wants to cringe back, to tear himself out of his fiancé’s grip and run for the nearest thing to vomit into. Disgusting, horrible, nasty, revolting—

And thankfully chaste. Landis pulls back quick enough, that grin still on his face. Varian schools his expression, trying not to let his revulsion show. Hugo makes another mumble; this time Landis almost turns back. Varian stills him with a hand on his cheek.

“You can leave him alone, right?” Varian asks. He settles his tone, pushing down the fear. “For me? As a wedding present? He’s not worth it, right?”

His back presses against the ornate moldings in the wall. Landis is scarily close, closer than he would ever need to be. It’s terrible. Varian clenches his fists in the fabric of his robes to keep them from shaking, never breaking eye contact with his fiancé. For a second it looks like he’s actually considering it; like he’s really considering leaving Hugo alone as a groaning, bloody lump on the floor.

But then.

Then Varian hears the shick of a blade being drawn, and a terrible thump. His sleeve goes taut. Blue eyes go wide in horror when he sees that his sleeve—one of the worst parts about the robe, one of the flowing ones that got in the way all the time—has been pinned to the wall by a knife embedded deep into the wood. He hadn’t even seen Landis move.

“No,” he breathes, “no, no, no, no!”

Landis smiles. It’s sharp, like a cat who’s caught his mouse. “No loose ends,” he says. “You understand, right?”

“No!” Varian’s voice cracks. “No, no, you can’t!”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Landis’s voice is sickly in its attempt at comforting. “I learned to live without my Soulmate… so will you. It will make you stronger. You’ll see.” His face is a condescending smile; this motherfucker!

He steps back from Varian, out of reach of his flailing hands, and shrugs in faux innocence. His boots get scarily close to Hugo’s prone form—Varian’s whole world narrows down to where the man is getting too fucking close to his Soulmate!

Hugo makes a choking whine when Landis grabs him by the throat. Something in Varian, something feral and scared and animal, shrieks through his throat at the sight. The grand duke only grins, hoisting Hugo up by the neck and holding him high enough that Hugo’s boots barely skim the floorboards. The Song stutters, horrifically shuddering as Hugo’s life is choked out of him.

Varian yowls wordlessly, completely lost at the sight of his Soulmate losing consciousness. He yanks at his arm like an animal. The sleeve doesn’t give; the thick fabric refuses to so much as tear. He’s going to end up ripping his arm from the socket at this rate. The pain doesn’t even register, everything narrowing down to the way Hugo’s hands grip at Landis’s fingers. He’s going to be forced to watch his Soulmate be suffocated in front of him, and there’s nothing Varian can do.

He yanks again at the sleeve. The knife doesn’t even wiggle. Varian’s well and truly stuck, trapped and forced to watch as Hugo’s kicking feet start to slow. Dread builds deep in his gut and starts to climb. He pulls again, putting his whole body weight against the sleeve—but it doesn’t work. Varian’s eyes frantically dart around—think, he needs to fucking think, Hugo’s going to die if he doesn’t think!—and eventually his eyes fall on the lever controlling the curtains. The wedding—the audience—

Hugo makes a strangled gurgle. His scrambling hands start to slow. The Song goes terrifyingly dim. Varian’s heart jumps into his throat as he borderline throws himself forward, shuffling as close to the lever as he can get. He throws his hand out, only just skimming it—the tips of his fingers glance past the wooden handle but he can’t get any closer. The alchemist yanks on the sleeve again, but no dice.

There’s a gross sounding burst of air mixed with blood. A gasping breath through the wave of crimson that threatens to drown Varian’s Soulmate in his own blood. Hugo’s running out of time. Varian swings himself around, curling into a ball before kicking his foot out toward the lever.

And then, blessedly, it makes contact.

His foot meets the lever with a solid thunk. It starts to wiggle, giving way. Hope, desperate and feral, begins to build. He slams his dress shoe into it again; the spider-webbing of ropes connected to the lever all shudder at the impact and the curtains begin to shift. So close—almost there!

Landis is saying something. Surely it’s something insulting, something infuriating, but Varian only hears the clunk of the lever moving, shifting so that the entire web begins to unravel. Rope starts to unwind, the careful knots and interlaced cabling all falling apart without their linchpin. The curtains fall open, sending blinding light through the storage room. Varian blinks in the light, covering his eyes with his free hand.

A chorus of gasps ring out, followed by the murmuring of over a hundred shocked patrons. Varian huffs out a relieved breath when his hand drops, eyes adjusting to the bright light and scanning the horrified crowd. Landis’s eyes go wide with dawning realization. His hand goes lax, dropping Hugo at long last.

The blond hits the floorboards with a harsh thump, but all Varian can focus on is how he gasps for air. Hugo coughs roughly, flipping onto his front and meeting Varian’s eye. He looks dazed, totally out of it, but thank the Sun he’s still breathing.

Landis hasn’t looked away from the crowd. He stands, frozen, as everyone starts to stand from their seats.

“Son?” a familiar voice calls. It’s Landis’s father, front and center. “The hell are you doing?”

Varian sees the twitch in Landis��s fingers before anyone else. He starts to tug harder on his sleeve, finally hearing tearing fabric—the shoulder stitching, finally giving way. But they’re not safe. Not yet. Hugo’s still feebly shuffling away from the man who just tried to murder him. Landis shifts, a hand snapping out and grabbing at a nearby armor set’s decorative sword.

It glitters in the sunlight. Varian’s heart jumps in his fucking throat.

“I’m doing what I should have done months ago!” Landis snaps. He turns his gaze on Hugo, eyes red with rage. The sword in his hand shifts. People are shouting—someone’s calling for guards, nobles are yelling—but all Varian can focus on is the sight of a fucking demon looming over his Soulmate. He yanks at the sleeve again, popping more stitches. He’s almost free, almost—

Another pop. Varian’s screaming something—he can’t even comprehend his own voice—and his arm flies out like he can somehow stop how Landis raises the sword high. He nearly face-plants as the sleeve finally gives. Varian’s bare arm slips from the heavy fabric, free at last. He’s not close enough to stop Landis—but he is close enough to a nearby set of armor to grab at the crossbow in its hands. He scrambles for it and grabs the weapon in sheer, animal fear.

It’s loaded. His hands shake, but there’s no time to think. Not when the glint of silver in the sunlight is so stark. So Varian turns. Landis’s head shifts to look at him with the movement, pausing from where he’d held his sword high over Hugo’s prone form. His sneer drops into a shocked oh, obviously taken aback.

For just a second, they’re at a stalemate.

In a perfect world Varian would keep them that way. In a perfect world, Landis would drop his sword and admit defeat, caught trying to murder a man in cold blood in front of hundreds of witnesses. In a perfect world, this would be the end of it. But instead, Landis raises his sword higher, a feral scream of rage rattling through the ballroom. He gets ready to bring his weapon down.

And Varian fires.

There’s a whizz of an arrow through the air. Time slows for a single, horrible second—down to a crawl, like watching a series of images instead of real life. Landis seems to know what’s coming for him; in the small seconds between pulling the trigger and what comes next his expression sinks from disbelief to fear.

The arrow flies fast, hits true. Varian’s aim has always been impeccable. Landis grunts when it embeds into his shoulder—just where Varian had aimed, just as planned. The sword clatters to the ground, only a mere foot away from Hugo’s prone form.

Landis stumbles from the impact. A bloom of blood bursts through the white of the robes, a poppy springing up in a sea of lilies. The grand duke’s hand raises up to gently prod at the arrow embedded into his shoulder; his face is lax with shock.

Time stands still for only a moment more. Landis stares at Varian in a daze, eyes wide. Varian only glares back, all steel.

And then a guard tackles Landis to the ground.

Varian drops the empty crossbow like it’s burned him. His hands are shaking—his hands need to stop shaking, he needs to focus.

The Song flutters in awareness, like it’s waking up. Hugo!

Everything fades away. Before Varian can register everything else that’s happening—the shouting guards, the angry yelling, Landis screaming about thieves—he’s running toward his Soulmate. He drops to his knees right next to Hugo; the pain doesn’t even register, lost in the tide of please be okay, please be okay, please.

“Hugo?” he gasps. Shaking hands gently cup Hugo’s head, tilting it this way and that. Varian’s eyes burn at the sight of bruises and blood; it takes everything in him to keep his hands steady. A ring of horrifying bruises has started to spring up around his throat. Hugo coughs roughly—blood leaks from his horribly broken nose, and from a split lip. Bruises decorate his face, painting it purple and red. He looks terrible.

“Hey,” Hugo manages to mumble. “How’s… howzit?”

Varian sucks in a small breath, a small smile breaking across his face. “I’m good,” he says. His thumb traces the unbruised side of Hugo’s cheek. Hugo’s breaths are still wheezing; it’s not good, even though he’s still breathing, Landis could have damaged something. “Try not to talk too much, okay? It’s alright.” Hugo tries to sit up, but Varian gently pushes him back. “Everything’s okay. Don’t worry. We’re fine.”

Hugo’s big, green eyes blink up at him. The blond’s absolutely out of it, half awake. He looks so different without the glasses. Varian smiles and presses a soft kiss to Hugo’s cheek. A sudden shout draws his attention regretfully away; Landis snarls something as his hands are jerked behind his back by a Coronian guard.

“It’s that fucking prick!” he yowls. His polished dress boots skid along the floor as he’s dragged toward the door. “He’s not what he seems! He’s a thief!”

Varian’s mouth snaps open to defend his Soulmate, but oddly enough Rapunzel gets there first. “On what grounds?” she demands. “What’s he done that warranted you demanding his arrest?”

“He’s conspiring to steal from your vault!” Landis strains against the handcuffs. His eyes land on Varian and Hugo, narrowing. “He’s going to steal—”

“A crown?”

Varian’s heart jumps back into his throat. He’d told her he was up to something, but how did she know his target? Everyone freezes as Rapunzel’s voice hardens. Landis looks at a loss for words, caught by surprise. “We’re aware of it,” the princess continues, “however the crown was discovered missing last night.”

Varian reels—fuck he’d thought he’d covered his tracks—but Rapunzel isn’t done it seems. Instead she marches up next to where Hugo lays and gestures to him. “Hugo was in his cell.” She faces the crowd and silently dares them to argue. “All last night. I saw him with my own eyes. He could not have stolen it—but I have to wonder, your grace.” Her head snaps to Landis, who actually shrinks. “How did you know we were going to be robbed if the supposed perpetrator was safely locked away? How, in turn, would he manage to steal from our royal vault and get back to his cell before the guard change?”

Landis stutters. He looks around, but no one dares to say a word. Rapunzel crosses her arms, and nods once.

“Escort his lordship back to his room,” she says. “I’m afraid he’s done Corona a grave insult.” Landis tries to interject, but Rapunzel holds up a calm hand. “Not only have you implemented yourself in a crime against our court. You, in turn, have obviously conspired to put the blame on one of our esteemed guests. Hugo has been nothing but a model employee for his stay here, hasn’t he, Varian?”

Varian startles at the sound of his name. Hope, bright and pure, starts to grow in his chest. “Y—yes,” he stutters, “he’s been great.”

Landis’s face has gone bright red: if it’s with rage or with embarrassment, Varian can’t tell. “You’re joking!” he snaps. Ah, rage then. “You can’t possibly—”

“I can.” Rapunzel’s voice is firm. “And I shall. I’m afraid you have soured the relationship between our kingdoms, your grace.” She turns then, meeting the crowd’s shocked faces without an iota of weakness. The perfect picture of poise. “I would ask that you all return to your festivities elsewhere—save for you, Sevim.”

Landis’s father scowls at his son but straightens his spine at being addressed. “It would be my pleasure, your highness.” His expression sours even further when Landis lets out another deranged noise. “I’m sure we can come to a new agreement.”

Rapunzel smiles like a shark. Varian’s never seen her so… so conniving. He’s not sure if it’s amazing or terrifying. But then she turns to him, and that smile softens. “I think another arrangement is best,” she says. “It seems that Varian and Landis might not be the fit we were hoping for.”

That hope springs higher in Varian’s chest, especially when no one argues with her. Not even Frederick, who looks ready to burst a blood vessel; Rapunzel’s smile is serene even through the chaos.

“Wonderful,” she says.

Something starts to finally unravel in Varian’s stomach. It’s been so long since it’s started to clench that he forgot what it felt like: the feeling of freedom, of not having to worry about the future, it’s almost foreign. But it’s also wonderful.

Hugo makes a small groan. Varian looks down just in time to see his eyes roll back and him to flop, unable to stay awake anymore. For a second there’s panic—horror and terror and fear all cascading over each other—until the Song coos with the feeling of a happy dream. Just sleeping, then. But still in need of a nurse.

A hand stills on his back. Varian looks up into the eye of one Eugene Fitzherbert. The man’s face is carefully calm, obviously trying to stay strong for Varian. It’s just as well; after all this, he’s not sure he trusts many with Hugo. Not after everything. He needs to make sure his Soulmate is safe… and if that means only letting his family near then that’s what Varian will fucking do.

“We should get him to the infirmary,” the man says. Varian nods, biting his lip and allowing Eugene to scoop up Hugo.

He knows he should stay. Should help clean up the clusterfuck that this is going to be. Should back up Rapunzel, who just pulled the trump card of the fucking century.

But then.

Then the Song flutters. Hugo’s eyes crack open just a sliver in Eugene’s arms, and a weak hand reaches out for Varian.

Don’t leave me, his actions say, not like everyone else.

And Varian can’t ignore that. He doesn’t want to. Couldn’t bear it.

So he doesn’t.

Instead he leaves it all—all the shouting, the chaos, the slamming door as Landis is escorted out—and quietly follows as Hugo’s taken to the infirmary.

He lets himself be selfish.

And it feels amazing.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Vampire Chris Whump prompt: A starved vampire Chris is put into a locked room with Jake. A Jake who has a small fresh cut, that may or may not stink of blood.

CW: Implied character death, vampire whump, vampire whumpee, blood drinking, starvation

1927, New York City

"Pl-please, I don't want to, please, I, I-... don't, don't make me please, Tooley, please-"

Tooley, on the other side of the heavy locked door, sighs loud enough that the vampire boy can still hear him, even over the muffled sound of weeping coming from the corner of the room, in the shadows. "It's the best way to really get a sense for how the light will hit, the color," He explains, as he's explained before. "I need the most realistic visual I can find, and what could be better than the real thing itself? You don't have to bump her, but I'm not opening that door 'til you've put me together a model for my painting."

His voice says his patience is running out.

The vampire boy whimpers, his mouth watering pink-tinged saliva, his pupils huge in the darkness, reflecting what dim light there is with a glow like a cat's at midnight. His hands clutch at his sides, trying to ignore the gnawing ache inside him, the demand pulsing in his dead blood.

Feed. Eat. Drink. Now.

In the corner, the woman's weeping intensifies, mumbled pleas against the gag tied around her head, twisted cloth forced between her teeth. Her hands are bound in front of her. She's wearing the loose, up-and-down dress the women wore now, so different from when the vampire boy had been alive, and young.

Tooley had ripped the hem until her thigh showed in a line almost to her hip, as if that might entice the vampire boy, who is unmoved. He had never cared about things quite like that. She's beautiful, and he wants her to live.

Her lips are painted a dark rouge that looks black in the darkness, the only light the hints of sunset shining through the slightest little cracks in the wood nailed over the window.

What Tooley had done last, though, was to cut a line down that thigh right through her skin along the outside. The blood runs and runs and drips onto the floorboards, wasted life and energy.

His hands twitch.

His venom drips onto his own tongue, his fangs demanding soft living skin to bury in.

He shudders and turns away from her, closing his eyes as tightly as he can. "Tooley, please, don't-... don't, don't, don't make me hurt her."

The woman's weeping turns to a slurred, hard-to-understand prayer. He doesn't know how to tell her that there is no prayer against vampires that works. He found out himself, when he was handed to them and turned. He'd said the prayer he'd learned in church over and over and he'd died anyway.

"I'll know when you feed," Tooley says, hard-voiced now. "So do it. I want to finish that painting by the end of the month and you're wasting my time."

There are stomping steps, the sound of the front door slamming shut. Tooley is gone, down to the underground bar he drinks in, the place where he has brought the vampire boy on a chain and muzzle to show off to his artist friends. You have to have a password to get in.

If the buttons knew we had booze and fangs down here, we'd all go to prison.

Tooley hasn't fed him in a week, and the boy had wondered why, but he knows now. Because he had planned this. And the boy's stomach twists in painful hunger, the scent of the woman's blood spinning his dizzy thoughts in circles around how much she is losing, and how much he could take from her.

She prays, and weeps.

He moves closer, and tells himself it is only to prove that he won't give in.

But he does.

When Tooley opens the door the next day, disheveled and with red-rimmed eyes from his hangover, it's to find the vampire boy curled up in the corner himself, weeping bloody tears, but with a flush of new life to the color of his skin.

The woman lays on her back now, legs akimbo, but the torn hem is laying just so and her blood pools around her, what the vampire did not take himself.

Her eyes are open, staring without sight towards the door Tooley enters through.

The artist looks over the scene, his smile bright with delighted intensity, and immediately uses his hands to form a rectangle with fingers and thumbs, taking in the scene. He moves over to the window, ripping off one of the boards to allow a beam of light to enter the room, shining on the woman.

It illuminates her death, and casts the vampire boy in even darker shadow.

"Perfect," Tooley breathes. "Oh, better even than I imagined. The remorseful monster-... oh, this'll be the absolute best. The weeping killer, the guilty sinner forced in hell to face his sins... Don't move a muscle, not a single twitch." He turns and runs from the room, and the vampire watches him go through a haze of red.

It's easy for the vampire boy not to move - he's dead.

Then again, so is the woman, now.

Because he wasn't strong enough to stay hungry.

When Tooley comes back, he forces the vampire boy to lift his face from where he has buried it against his arms so he can capture the way the hints of dawn illuminate the vampire's miserable tears.

-

@insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @newandfiguringitout @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

[drabbles-mc]

Vetoed

Kozik x F!Reader

Request by @adela-topaz-caelon​: Was thinking a relationship build, where fem/reader goes to comfort him after another 'no' vote from Tig, and there's a mostly fluffy confession, which may escalate to being vaguely steamy

Warnings: language, very light angst, slight steam

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: I feel like this didn’t turn out quite as fluffy as I had imagined it going into it, but I still think it came out pretty well. Love a little comfort for our fave blondie

SOA Taglist: @garbinge​ @masterlistforimagines​ @mijop​ @chibsytelford​ @xladymacbethx​ @i-just-read-stuff​ @kkim120​ @everyhowlmarksthedead​ @toni9​ @unicornucopia-fuckers​ @shadow-of-wonder​ @punkgoddess-98​ @paintballkid711​ @black-repunzel99​ @lexondeck​ @jitterbugs927​ @mrsstevenbuchananstark​ (If you wanna be added to the list let me know!)

You were seated at the bar, chatting with a few of the women who were always hanging around the clubhouse. There had been a lot of commotion leading up to everyone heading into chapel. Things had been crazy the past few weeks, and you knew that going forward it was going to get worse before it got better. No one gave you all the details, but you knew enough to know to stay on your toes. You tried hard not to seem too interested, because you knew that it wasn’t really any of your business, but you still tried to stay on the pulse of it all.

You were taking a swig of your beer when the chapel doors swung open, all of the men walking out looking disappointed. Clay was shaking his head, blowing past everyone to leave. It seemed like they had enough on their plates already but whatever happened inside the church walls certainly didn’t help at all.

The guys spread out as they left chapel. Some of them stuck around in the clubhouse, a few went back to their dorms. There was going to be a lot of movement in the next few days, especially with so many of them going inside, so you knew that most of them probably just wanted to soak up whatever time they could at home.

The last one to leave the room was Kozik. You could usually get a pretty good read on him, but this time you couldn’t. You didn’t know exactly what was said behind those doors, but judging by the look on his face, it wasn’t what he had wanted to hear. You waited for him to look over at you, acknowledge you in some way like he usually did, but he didn’t. He made his way to the clubhouse door a little quicker than usual, eyes glued to the floor beneath his feet.

Finishing off your beer, you tossed the bottle onto the bar. You said a quick goodbye to the girl behind the bar before making your way out the door after Kozik. He was just getting to his bike when you called out after him.

“Hey, Kozik!” you picked up your pace a little bit to catch up to him quicker, “Wait a second!”

He looked back at you, exhaustion and frustration written all over his face. Despite the look in his eyes, he didn’t take his current emotions out on you, “What’s up?”

“What happened back there?” you nodded towards the clubhouse, “Everyone looked pissed.”

He shook his head, “Old bullshit that’s never gonna get resolved.”

“Wanna be any less vague about it?” you tried to keep your tone light enough to not bog him down more.

“I’m out,” he sighed, running his fingers back through his hair.

Your eyes grew wide, “Wh-what?”

“I’m done. Got vetoed by Tig again. Despite the fact that they need me to stay whole. After all the shit I’ve—” he stopped himself short, shaking his head, “I can’t stick around here just to keep getting shit on.”

You hated how much the thought of him leaving broke your heart, “So…so what are you gonna do?”

He shrugged, “Head back to Tacoma.”

“No,” your tone was a little more emotional than you had intended it to be. You took a breath, trying to keep yourself in check, “There’s…there’s gotta be something else you can do.”

He shook his head, “It is what it is. I’d rather be here in Charming but it’s just not in the cards right now.”

“Isn’t Tig going to prison?” you asked, hoping to come up with anything to make him stay, “Can’t they vote you in while he’s inside?”

He shook his head, “I’m not gonna do that.”

“But you could?”

“But I won’t,” he paused, tilting his head slightly as he saw all the emotions creeping onto your face, “Why is this so important to you all of a sudden?”

You gnawed at the inside of your lip for a moment, “It’s not all of a sudden. Don’t act like you don’t know that,” it was hard to meet his gaze, “I just…I’ve loved having you back around. I don’t want you to leave again.”

“Maybe I’m just not supposed to be in Charming,” he sighed, leaning back against his bike, “Probably should’ve taken the hint after the first no.”

You shook your head, “You can’t just leave now. You said it yourself—they need you to stay whole. You gotta…you gotta talk to Clay. Or Jax maybe.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, the smallest hint of a smile on his face despite the disappointment coursing through him, “You really gonna miss me that much?”

You rolled your eyes, “Don’t be a dick about it.”

“I’m not,” he chuckled, “If you’re that bent outta shape about it, you could just ride back to Tacoma with me.”

Managing a smile, you shook your head, “You staying in Charming makes way more sense,” you forced yourself to meet his eyes, “Fuck it, I’ll talk to the guys.”

It got him to laugh, “No, you won’t.”

You raised an eyebrow, “You think that I won’t?”

“It wasn’t a dare,” he smiled and shook his head at you. There were a couple beats of silence before he spoke up again, “Had no idea that me being here really mattered all that much to anybody, let alone you.”

“Of course it matters to me,” you were genuinely offended by the statement, “I hated it when you left before. It fucking sucked. And I…I don’t wanna go through that again. I want you to stay.”

He wanted nothing more than to just give you anything and everything that you were asking for, but it wasn’t up to him.  As much as he wished he could drop everything and just stay in Charming, he knew that it wasn’t realistic.

“It’s not up to me. I can’t just…I can’t stay here if they don’t let me transfer. I have a fuckin’ office patch for Tacoma, you know. I’ve been here as a favor because SAMCRO is low on guys, but I’m done. I’m gonna go pack my shit and—”

“Please,” you cut him off, “Kozik, you gotta stay,” you stepped in closer to him, your emotions making you a little braver than usual as you rested your hands on his shoulders, “I know shit is hectic right now, and I know Tig is…Tig. But the club wants you here. I want you here,” you gave his shoulders a light squeeze, “I know it hasn’t been easy but I can’t watch you leave again. Charming feels a lot more like home when you’re here.”

His eyes searched yours, and he knew that he should tell you no. The logical part of his brain knew that heading back to Tacoma was the logical thing to do after getting vetoed a second time. But he felt the way your hands gripped his shoulders and he saw the tears that were starting to gather at the edges of your eyes, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to leave you again.

Taking a deep breath, he rested his hands on your sides, “I’ll try…I’ll try to buy some more time. Figure out a way to stay.”

“Yea?” you couldn’t hide the relief on your face.

He nodded, “Yea. Just, you know, don’t look at me all sad like that anymore,” he laughed quietly.

You smiled, “Sounds like a fair trade,” you reached up and cupped one side of his face in your hand, “Thank you.”

He rested his hand over yours, “How am I supposed to say no to you?”

You chuckled, shaking your head, “Please don’t ever figure it out.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” he smiled, one hand sliding up until it rested on the back of your neck, “C’mere,” he gently pulled you closer, pressing his lips to yours.

A quiet laugh vibrated in your chest as you let him pull you in. You loosely draped your arms over his shoulders, your hands interlocking behind his neck. He wrapped his other arm around your waist, pulling your body as close to his as he could. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest as his lips continued to move against yours, too many unspoken words and feelings pouring out as your body melted into his. Your fingers made their way up the back of his head, tangling in his hair as you felt his tongue slide along your bottom lip. His hand crept underneath your shirt, his calloused palm and fingers running across the smooth, soft skin of your back.

When you pulled away to catch your breath, you rested your forehead against his, a smile on both your faces. You lightly grazed your fingernails up and down the back of his neck, “Now you definitely can’t leave.”

He chuckled, wrapping both arms around your waist, “Oh really?”

“You can’t kiss me like that and then leave,” you laughed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he gave you a light squeeze.

“Promise?” you smiled.

“Yea,” he kissed you lightly on the lips, “Promise.”

[thebrainrotsreal]

NO ITS ALL GOODIE!! It was getting super duper long. AND PLEASE TAG ME ABOUT ANYTHING IN THIS AU I FUCKING LOVE IT AND LOVE DISCUSSING AND DEVELOPING IT FURTHER. I am so sorry I am going to make this long because I am a prof yapper and forever incredibly excited.

so basically they'll stay the same size for about 500 years. this is what nolan meant when he said mark would suffer…

IM CRYING SJDDKSJDSK they will this make the other’s problem or die trying. Yelling at each other to shrink. Threatening to collapse the other’s spine.

ALSO WASP KNOWING SO MANY TINY DETAILS ABOUT MARK BECAUSE HIS HATER GAME IS THAT STRONG IS KILLING ME SJDKSDK. They’re so unbelievably petty. Plus the image of Mark having to handle any/all reports because Wasp would rather bite a bitch than talk to inferior beings? Yes. Wasp simply isn't allowed.

also the petty hovering and instant competition... im crying.

WASP DOES NOT GIVE A FLYING FUCK (pun intended), he WILL NOT touch the ground. Mark considers putting weights in his shoes just to be annoying so he won't HOVER in school. Wasp takes them out of his shoes and throws them at Mark’s head. He is trapped in this dimension and no one can make this mf stay on the ground. Gnawing at the bars of this dimensional prison.

He KNOWS Mark won’t hover while Civilian Form but if he gets Mark to do it, he “wins” in making Mark embrace his more Viltramite half. Mark socks him in the throat instead.

they do not expect invincible to just fucking bite him after 8 of those comments

SDJSKDJKS EXACTLY. I think at a certain point Mark’s brain shuts off from having to deal with Wasp for more than 5 minutes at Max before he just goes back to their language of violence. He forgets the cameras and just CHOMPS.

The way public perception of Mark is changing BECAUSE of Wasp b/c Mark is cocky with villains with taunts, but IS helpful, and on the rare moments he CAN talk to civilians, he’s got a slightly nervous smile (or let's be real exhausted), but let Wasp enter the picture and again, twin terrors of heroism. Fucking Confirmed Biter. Mark hasn’t even bitten any VILLAINS (yet), it’s JUST WASP.

Also Mark saving some kid’s life from getting slaughtered because he keeps asking Wasp questions?? DJKJKFD. Mark is trying to be polite but he just ends up yelling "RUN" while Wasp goes fucking feral.

it goes from throwing cars, to throwing real life dinosaurs (mark doesn't want to talk about it) (wasp absolutely does)

Wasp just whispering, “stegosaurus” and Mark looks instantly furious. Wasp wears a Dino shirt, grinning wickedly. Mark won’t elaborate or explain why he looks like someone just pissed in his cereal. Every time Wasp tries he gets thrown out the window. Rudy is practically shaking with curiosity, and Rex drags him away for his own safety. "But-" "NO." "BUT-" "I am not explaining to your little girlfriend you died because you're just THAT nosy-"

and wasp. cries (compliment him saving somebody)

AJSKJDKS. Literally one of the best ways to get at Wasp is this. Mf looks ready to CRY on the SPOT. Haunted. Heavily considers risking the painful noise just to kill someone and even the odds. Get his hands bloody and to “wash” away that hideous sense of Doing Right Thing.

Mark fucking grins so awfully wide when he hears about Wasp saving someone too. He’s not letting this go for YEARS. Wasp tries to strangle him right than there, Mark laughs is hard he almost consciousness.

or uh. they try. sometimes they'll start fighting each other too so it's less of a 1 v 2 fight and more of a… 1v1 V another 1 fight lol

Okay but that’s also so fucking funny, the Wasp will kick Mark to the moon for TRYING to battle the bad guy Wasp already called dibs on and it makes the bad guy SWEAT because,,, “wasn’t that,, your hero friend??” And Wasp just turns back with Murder on his eyes before getting slammed into the ocean by Mark. Some bad guys just try to flee at this point because if they do that to EACHH OTHER what are they going to do to YOU? Anyways it’s a 30/70 chance for good cooperation that slowly increases as they bond.

Wasp still does the whole grabbing the bad guy by the ankle and refuses to give it to the day he dies. Menace until the grave.

unless it's to like. bring the other to their side

Mark “I NEED you have a chance to improve because that means I do, that if I ever went that far I could claw my way back, that I can STAY kind”, VS Wasp “I NEED you to submit to the need for violence, the hunger for battle, the parts you neglect and shame because I CAN’T be you, you disgust me, you weaken yourself for inferiors, you CARE, I WORKED to be this, and I DESPISE I can unravel into YOU” . Mark and Wasp "This is me at my WEAKEST." Mark and Wasp hating each other because they hate what they could be, my beloved. Mark and Wasp loathing themselves. Looking away from the mirror because the glimpse is burning, a wretched horrid thing to endure.

it's easy to start viewing them as two separate beings, but they're really. not. they're evenly matched in everything. this is why wasp likes fighting mark. this is why mark doesn't like fighting wasp

Okay I know what I’m drawing damn the imagery is fantastic, wasp's “I knew you had it in you” DAMNNNN.

But Mark? Bro is operating on hard mode, he holds back, he tries to make sure people are safe, he doesn’t have training, he has to be careful, bo is exhausted always and WANTS a fight to just fucking END. Wasp will drag a good fight out for YEARS if he could.

Also thinking about the twisted sense of nostalgia Wasp gets when he actually gets injuried in battles, when he can lose himself in the fear/excitement/adrenaline, he got good enough injuries got less and less likely back in his dimension. Now it's just scaring the people who are as tough as paper.

not all the memories from it can be bad, right?

Wasp keeping the good memories close to his chest and only dishing them out to mock mark or win an argument, because it's what he cherishes at the end of the day. It's still his. And there'ss still this version of himself who FEARS and REJECTS IT.

Wasp thinking about his Dad when he had his first kill. Nolan who soothed all his worries and his guilt. Who told him how proud he is and getting ice cream after. Nolan teaching him out to fight. How to kill. How to win. How to bury the guilt. Wasp “how could you ever make me want to hate him?” Vs Mark “How could you do anything but?" (Lies, Mark still misses Nolan. They both do.)

But if Mark ever looks at Wasp with pity (ESPECIALLY if he ever shared these memories), Wasp will try to fucking kill him right then and there. Genuinely end his life.

"your handwriting sucks, don't hold the pencil like that" etc etc etc

What makes it even better is THEYRE THE SAME PERSON. THEY DO IT THE EXACT SAME WAY SDJKF

alternate version: gasoline gets them drunk

Im crying. The image of Debbie coming home to fucking Wasp and Mark SOBBING and smelling like gasoline and just like "???" She asks if they’re okay and they just burst into tears again. They’re punching each other while they do it, but it’s with like 0 strength.

It would fucking all me if they’re both sad drunks so it’s just two sad self hating idiots that can cry over literally anything in sight.

“I hate you” “I know… I hate you too” “I know” they kick each other and fall off the couch. They forget they can fly and lay there for half an hour until one of them shoves each other again and they float against the ceiling like a balloon.

"I love flying" "you're copying me." "i am you." "no. only me. you're like some.. stupid copy." "no YOU'RE the copy. fucking evil." "fucking pussy." this goes on for hours in loops.

also WIPS VIA UR LOVELY IDEASSSSSSSS.

@thebrainrotsreal HEY SORRY FOR TAGGING(? PINGING(? U, ITS ABOUT THE AU. I DIDN'T WANT TO MAKE THE OTHER POST THAT LONG LMAO

FLYING BEING NATURAL TO VILTRUMITES MY BELOVED

ASJDAJSD MARK TRYING TO GET AWAY W SLIGHTLY HOVERING(? IN A WAY THAT IS BARELY NOTICEABLE TO ANYONE BUT HE CAN'T DO IT WHILE HE WALKS BC HE JUST, DEFAULTS TO ACTUAL FLYING

mark and wasp are the same height, and they hate it almost as much as they hate each other. even if wasp is older than mark (read somewhere he could be 20, not sure tho), he'd still look 17 bc of the weird viltrumite aging thing

so basically they'll stay the same size for about 500 years. this is what nolan meant when he said mark would suffer...

ANYWAY. That thing abt them wanting to be taller than the other made me laugh and reminded me of a shadowpeach hc i posted on 2022(? LMAO

gonna use the same hc w them too

so. they're out as invincible (they still haven't decided on a name yet. wasp says he's stronger and therefore should be called invincible, but mark points out that he's the one in charge and also that this dimension is his. mark gets to keep it. they're still arguing about what to name wasp) ("why don't you just go by "vincible"?" "no.")

mark is talking to some gda agent or a cop or smth, when he notices that wasp (who is looking at the sky w the most bored expression he can muster, bc he genuinely doesn't understand why they have to talk to such inferior beings) seems to be just, a few milimeters taller than him (he may be shit at schoolwork, but if you hate someone enough you can notice the smallest details about them)

he, w/o stopping the conversation, answers to this by floating just a little higher, barely noticeable to the human eye

ofc, i said "human" eye

wasp notices. he flies higher

mark flies higher too

eventually he's screaming instead of talking bc of how far down the cop is

wasp laughs. now mark is screaming at him

they fight

ALSO WASP REFUSING TO STOP FLOATING AS A CIVILLAIN IS SO FUNNY AJDSHFASJ, IMAGINE THE AMOUNT OF TROUBLE HE'LL GET MARK INTO

PLS. THEM TRYING TO GNAW THEIR ARMS OFF BC THEY HATE BEING NEAR EACH OTHER SM ASJFHADJFH

most normal ppl r used to mark working alone as invincible. so since wasp really doesn't do interviews and he's usually too fast to see when he fights, no one really knows what his name even is

and everyone is used to invincible being. well. invincible. sure, the news say that when he's around this guy he gets a little meaner, but it can't be that bad!

it is that bad

wasp says smth mean n sarcastic. everyone expects invincible to answer w something equally sarcastic, but not as mean (maybe making fun of how his suit looks). they do not expect invincible to just fucking bite him after 8 of those comments

wasp keeps trying to kill This One Kid, who is either super brave or super stupid and won't stop asking him questions (they go from "what's your name?" to "what underwear do you have? do you even need underwear?" in a matter of seconds) for his weird school diary thingy

he can't get close, bc mark starts pulling the other way. besides, they're stuck together, and killing people would seem awfully annoying if it's with this guy

they can't punch each other, so wasp bites him. they bite each other a lot bc of the "no punching (or kicking)" thing

"Wasp throws a car at Mark which Mark instinctively swats away and then goes flying after it to prevent it from slamming into a building. Wasp cackles so hard it gets hit by a laser beam to the throat by some other bad guy." ASJDSAJDHDSJFAH YES THAT'S SO FUNNY

they mess w each other sm

it's funny bc they do the same things to annoy each other (wasp throwing a car at mark, mark hitting him with a tree, etc) , but lose their shit when the other does it to them

they're basically this:

mark, sleep deprived, flies straight into a lamp post

wasp laughs at him. he actually laughs so hard he runs into the same lamp post

there are a lot of compilations on youtube that is just them laughing at each other mid fight and running into things or being hit w stuff the other throws at them

they grow more wild every time

it goes from throwing cars, to throwing real life dinosaurs (mark doesn't want to talk about it) (wasp absolutely does)

"Cecil remarks Mark handled something well and he looks like Cecil just told him his entire family got slaughtered."

THISSS

"you did well today. hella efficient, quick and straight to the point. who taught you that?"

mark: D:

and also,

"oh, wow. you saved an entire family and their cat from a villain that wanted to turn them into zombies while mark was off fighting the bad guys? that's great!"

and wasp. cries

"oh no, no, you think I'm gonna help you?" THIS TISHTISHTSIHIST

this really feels like smth he'd say in canon. he'd say it w a smile, half-shocked half just pretending out of amusement

he'd laugh too

it's the same type of cocky tone of voice sinister mark/wasp used when teasing angstrom

"I gotta imagine if they tackle things separately, they are also allowing each other to do they want and like to do?" YEAH!!

it's hard 'cause wasp always wants to take the bad guys on alone, but mark also likes to fight (just not w the same brutality) and he doesn't want to be just a lifeguard

it takes wasp a while (a LONG while) to stop tackling mark when he's about to attack to get to the enemy himself, or to kick mark into the next country, etc etc etc

but eventually they settle on mark getting everyone to safety while wasp stalls the bad guy. then, after he's sure no one's here anymore, they both fight the villain together

or uh. they try. sometimes they'll start fighting each other too so it's less of a 1 v 2 fight and more of a... 1v1 V another 1 fight lol

"Mark's own reaction that truly confirms it to be true"

he gets the episode 8 levels of anger and anguish

HE'S JUST SO MAD

wasp is talking shit on tv and he just loses it

he immediatly flies off and tackles wasp into fucking space

i mean, they do say that actions say more than words, right?

mark is usually making the typical superhero noises when he's fighting, but now? he's just focusing all of his anger into This One Motherfucker

wasp loves it

it's a "see? i knew you had it in you!" type of moment

he's been longing for a real fight for a WHILE

they don't kill each other but it comes close

see, the things is. they are the same person. it's easy to start viewing them as two separate beings, but they're really. not

they're evenly matched in everything

this is why wasp likes fighting mark

this is why mark doesn't like fighting wasp (never ending battles are boring to him) ( he likes to win more than to fight. i mean it's not like he enjoys getting beat up)

we could dive deeper and start talking about the self-destructive tendency these two have to getting beat up. i mean, wasp's idea of a real, actually enjoyable fight is when the other is either able to beat him, or when he can kill ppl. and mark spends sm time out as invincible, neglecting his social life and mental health to the point he quits college, and he gets beat up a lot while doing it. so yeah--

self-destructive tendencies

"-having to confront he sees the exact thing in Wasp to a slightly different degree" i will ALWAYS love making them deal with the constant reminders that they're the same person

they deal w stuff in similar ways but to different degrees and realizing that gives them psychic damage like that magic squirrel in mca so they just preted they don't exist

unless it's to like. bring the other to their side

"you like fighting too. violence is in you, it's part of you. you're always covered in blood. all that's left, would be your hands" VS "you're me, and i'm you. we have similar thoughts, and that means i- y'know. but it means you are, too. you have a chance. and get that blood off you-- you need a shower"

COMICS!! AND!! WASP!!

yeah

HIM HAVING TO CONFRONT THE FACT THAT THE DESTROYING OF HIS WORLD HURT HIM TOO

because it is, in a way, his world too

he grew up in it. raised differently, yes, but still on earth

he was always different from the rest, getting his powers at an early age and all, but it's still the place he grew up in

not all the memories from it can be bad, right?

ANDDDDD... wasp reminding ppl of how strong he is regularly

"i could pull out your spine in a second." he says that out of nowhere, in a conversation that would've seemed normal to literally anyone else. he says it like it's nothing much. "i could kill you." you know he could, but you still wonder

would he? with how he is, with his inability to escape --- would he?

also he has fun when he watches the color drain from their faces

"Rudy has psychological profiles on all his friends he regularly updates like a diary, and he has one for himself too." NO BUT THIS IS SO IN CHARACTER FOR HIM

wasp talks shit about mark to anyone avaliable and rudy is no exception. even tho he finds him deeply annoying

honestly wasp is capable of doing p much anything to mess with mark

HE JST WOULD

the self-hatred is strong with this one too master!!! (sw ref again lol)

ASDJASJDSJAD THE BETTING POOL

wasp saying mark breathes annoyingly is such a sibling thing tho. "why are you chewing like that" "stop biting your stupid fork" "the way you cut your food is so weird" "your handwriting sucks, don't hold the pencil like that" etc etc etc

ANDD "he knew what wasp was going to say" DUDE YES??

he's talking and he gets. a feeling. and he turns to wasp, who is opening his mouth, and says "don't you fucking dare"

same w wasp. mark is annoying little shit too sometimes, he's also a teenager. so he infuriates wasp too

mark calls him a hypocrite

THE TWIN TERRORS OF HEROISM I CAN'T

imagine if ppl actually start calling them that tho

one day wasp calls mark to their? his? room and is like, "holy shit look at this" and shows him their? his computer

mark doesn't understand, until he sees the title and image of the video

"the twin terrors of heroism, terrorizing the terrorists once again" and its a picture of them kicking ass

"twin terrors of-- oh, come on, really?" "yes" "they couldnt have at least called us the invincibles or something?" "that'd be even worse" "...alright, i'll give you that" "..." "...." "they think we're like the fucking mauler twins" "oh you have got to be--"

ALSO this is so funny, them being like "mark/wasp" when they show up hurt or smth. everyone just learning to accept it. i mean what are they going to do. fight against two gods??

ha

AND YES YES YES DO TAG ME IN IT!!!! if i make anything about this au (posts, fics, drawings, u name it) i will tag u too

alcohol doesn't really affect viltrumites i think, but there has got to be something that gets them drunk

nolan could've taught wasp how to make it. if the ingredients are on earth, then he would maybe try to prepare it on mark's earth. mark shows up and sees that he's drunk. he goes "nope" and gets drunk too, maybe on accident maybe not. debbie shows up and sees her two superpowered sons sobbing over a bowl of popcorn

alternate version: gasoline gets them drunk

[autumnleaves1991-blog]

109 w santi? please omg i love your work 🥺

A/N: Thank you Anon! I’m really happy you love my writing! It makes me feel really damn good. Thank you for reading, reblogging, commenting, and liking.

Pairing: Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x F! Reader

Warning: 18 + ONLY NSFW (Explicit AF, oral F! Receiving, p in v sex, rough sex, blowjob, light choking, spanking, language, mentions of groping/unwanted advances)

My Masterlist

Pull Over 

Santiago was fuming. His hands clenched and unclenched around the leather of the steering wheel. His lip caught between his teeth as he gnawed on it, muttering curses under his breath. You were pissed too, running your hands up and down your jeans, looking at your boyfriend slowly lose his composure as the city lights reflected in his deep brown eyes. 

“Santiago,” you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp look, and you feel yourself retreat. His foot slams on the breaks at a red light, and he looks over at you. 

“What?” he tosses his hands in the air, “What the fuck could you possibly have to say to me right now?” His tone is stern, and you can feel the tension thick and suffocating in the cab of the truck, his eyes burning holes in you. 

“He was fucking asking for it, Santiago!” you shout, and the light turns green, but he just sits there stewing until the car behind you starts honking. It doesn’t phase him, and he continues to stare at you—the car behind coming around and flipping you both the bird. 

“I fucking know that! But did you have to break his goddamn nose?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and you scoff. 

“He groped me at the bar!” 

“HE DID WHAT?!” Santiago roars, and you tremble to lean further back against the door. He slams down on the gas and whips the truck around back in the direction of the bar. “I’m going to fucking kill him!” 

“Baby,” you beg, “I’m pissed too, but if you go back there and kill him, you’ll go to prison, and you are way too pretty for prison.” The joke does nothing to lessen the tension, and he speeds down the road, blowing through stop signs and one red light. “Santiago,” you whimper, and he slows down his breathing erratic. “Santi, baby, please. Let’s just go home.” 

“I’ll drop you off,” he mumbles, and you let out a sharp no. “Querida, if I go home with you, I won’t be gentle. I need to go somewhere and calm the fuck down.” 

“Pull over,” his foot hits the break at the next red light, and you go flying forward, bracing your hands on the dashboard. 

“If I pull over, you won’t be able to walk for the next week,” his words aren’t a threat but a promise, and you feel the warmth between your thighs begin to bloom. 

“Pull the fuck over, Santiago.” He looks at you and nods before pulling off the main road and heading towards the woods. He drives for another fifteen minutes till the city’s lights begin to fade, and there is nothing but the coo of birds and the leaves rustling in the trees. 

The truck comes to a stop, and he gets out of the truck and stalks off into the trees, leaving you to scramble after him. He stops walking about twenty feet in and begins to pace before you hear him let out a loud curse and reach for you. You go to him instantly, and he slams your back against the nearest tree. His mouth going down to suck hard purple bruises into the flesh of your neck, you let out a whimper when you feel his teeth bite down hard, his hands kneading your ass and pushing you into his hard cock. 

“Motherfucker, tried to touch my woman,” he mumbles, and you gasp as he rips the front of your dress open and feasts upon your breasts. His teeth are grazing each of your erect nipples in his mouth, tugging them into the hot warmth of his mouth. Your hands entangle in his hair, and your head hits the back of the tree, panting. “I need to fuck you, can I fuck you?” You nod, eyes closed, and he freezes. His hand is coming to your chin and dragging you to look at him. “I need verbal consent, I’m pissed, Querida, but I’m not an animal.” 

“Yes, I want you to fuck me, Santiago. Erase any trace of that fucker on me, mark me up, I’m yours.” He growls and takes a handful of your panties before the fabric rips, and he tosses them over his shoulder. 

“Turn around,” he orders, and you listen facing the tree. His hands come over the swell of your ass and slap it a few times, the echo loud in the quiet forest. “Spread those thighs for me, let me see how wet this sweet cunt is for me.” You feel another gush of warmth between your legs, and you let out a scream as he impales you with three fingers, filing you so full of him it only takes a moment before your cumming. He continues pumping you through it, his teeth leaving bite marks all along your shoulders, marking you. 

When you feel the pleasure begin to fade, he slips out and sucks on his fingers; you turn and watch as he licks each one like a child trying to get all the chocolate off the spoon. “You taste so fucking good.” Both his hands come down on the sides of your ass, and he slaps them before kneading it roughly. You hear the sound of his belt coming apart and zipper lowering. The head of his cock pressing against your fluttering entrance. He runs it through your slick, and then you hear him lean down and spit into your cunt. 

“I’m not going to be gentle, Querida. If you want me to stop, you have to tell me now.” He wraps his hand around your hair and pulls your head back to look at him. 

“Wreck me, Santiago, fucking destroy me.” You moan as he shoves inside you to the hilt, his hand moving down to your neck and keeping you looking back at him. His cock is so thick and fills you better than any toy. His pace is punishing, and you feel his fingers dig into your hip so hard you are sure to be littered in bruises. The orgasm builds inside you again, and you struggle against the hand on your throat, his eyes black with lust. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you pant, and he smirks down at you. 

“I didn’t tell you, you could.” He brings his hand off your hip to furiously rub your clit, and you feel your eyes roll back into your head. “Are you going to cum on my cock Querida?” You mumble incoherently, and he lets out a dark chuckle. “Cum, now.” You scream into the night and clench around him tightly, but he never slows down. Your eyes brim with tears, and he releases your neck, and you fall forward, bracing yourself on the tree. The bark sharp against your palms. He uses both hands now and slams into you over and over again, your breasts bouncing in the chilly night air at how hard he is pounding into you. 

He wraps your hair around his hand and pulls you up against his chest, biting down hard on your shoulder and licking over it. He fucks up into you and comes down to rub your clit. Going between English and Spanish, he whispers the filthiest things to you, and you feel another orgasm building. “I can feel you tighten around me again. Are you going to cum Querida?” 

You nod, and he chuckles, “Beg me, beg me to let you cum and soak my cock.” 

“Please,” you whimper, “please let me soak your cock sir, I promise I’ll be a good girl.” 

“Fuck right; you’re my good little girl, cum Querida, soak me.” You scream out again as the waves of pleasure crash over you, and the white dots blind your vision. You clench around him, and he lets out a loud moan, never straying his fingers from your throbbing clit.

“On your knees,” he pulls out, and you drop instantly. “Open your mouth.” 

You open your mouth and present your tongue to him. He shoves his cock into your mouth and tightens his hands in your hair again. He devastates your mouth with the force of his thrusts, and you take everything he gives you without complaint. His hand comes to your nose and plugs it. He shoves his cock so far down your throat it hits the back. You gag, and the tears brim your eyes before he pulls out, and you gasp. Only giving you a second before he is fucking into you again. 

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and you reach between your legs and circle your clit in time with his thrusts. The crescendo of pleasure crashes into you and almost knocks you over. His hands come to your throat, and he cums with a groan down your throat. Cum, hot and thick, trailing down your throat, and you swallow every last drop. “Open your mouth, show me.” You do as he says, and he smiles down at you, “good girl.” 

Your knees buckle from the force of your orgasms, your cum pooling beneath you and sliding down your thighs. “Lay back,” he helps you fall gently to the forest floor, your torn dress acting as a barrier between your bare skin and the crunch of fallen leaves. He tucks his cock back into his jeans and drops between your legs spreading them. “Santi,” you groan, reaching for him, and he drops to his forearms in front of your displayed pussy. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m reminding you who owns this pussy.” His tongue licks a broad stroke through your folds, and he devours you like an alcoholic, and you’re top-shelf whiskey. He makes you cum two more times on his tongue until you are a shaking mess on the forest floor. Too tired to even stand, he closes your dress the best he can and lifts you into his arms. Your head is coming to lie in the crook of his neck as he walks you back to the truck. 

When he reaches your home, he scoops you up from the seat and chuckles at the mess you left on the leather interior, and carries you into the house. He opens the shower and turns on the water getting it warm. He strips you out of your clothes and his and lifts you into the shower. You whimper when the washcloth slides over your oversensitive folds, and he places a gentle kiss on your lips. “I’m sorry, love,” he whispers, and you shake off his apology. When done, he wraps you in a fluffy towel and carries you to bed; sliding under the cool sheets naked, he crawls in next to you, pulling you into his chest. 

“Are you outraged I broke Tom’s nose?” you whisper, and he holds you tighter. 

“No, fucker deserved it. I’m sorry I shouted at you. Why didn’t you tell me he touched you like that? I would have killed him.” 

You shake your head, “Because I don’t need you to fight all my battles for me. But I do need you to trust me, trust my judgment.” 

“I promise. I will never doubt you again.” You sigh and snuggle closer. 

“You better not. But if it leads to hot forest sex, I may be able to forgive you.” He laughs and kisses the top of your head. 

“Go to sleep Querida; I love you.” 

“Oh, Santi,” you yawn, “I love you more.” 

Taglist: @oldstuffnewstuff @yespolkadotkitty @heythere-mel @justanotherblonde23 @artsymaddie @anetteaneta @lunarthoughts @aellynera @lucifer- @houseofthirst @chicken-ona-stick @agirllovespancakes @amberembers @santiagogarcia @jedi-mando @spider-starry @idreamofboobear @aerolanya @josepedropascal @revolution-starter

[sonoftatooine]

Whumptober 2021

DAY 6: ‘TOUCH AND GO’ - TOUCH STARVED / HUNGER

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Sheev Palpatine

Warnings: Abuse, starvation, solitary confinement

Summary: Prequel to my raised as a Sith Anakin AU where Anakin saves Padmé from execution by the Separatists, here, here and here. A young Vader defies his master, and he pays the price.

***

Curled up in the pitch darkness of the cell that his master had thrown him into three days past, Darth Vader, second apprentice to the Sith Lord Darth Sidious, wrestled down the urge to moan in pain as he wrapped his arms tight around his midriff in a futile attempt to soothe the gnawing ache deep in his stomach. It had been three days since he had been given even so much as half an old ration bar to eat. Three days since he had seen the slightest sliver of light or spoken to another being, organic or droid. Three days that he was only able to count because of the small ration of water he was given through a hatch in the wall what he presumed was each morning—enough to keep him alive but nowhere near what was needed to relieve the the dryness in his mouth, nor the unrelenting headache that was pounding behind his eyes and wrapping around his skull like a vice. He felt sick and dizzy, and he had to fight the instinct to cry. It would do him no good—it would only waste water.

Another groan threatened to escape him as a particularly severe pang of hunger laced through his abdomen. The familiar tang of blood filled his mouth as he bit down hard on his lip to suppress it. His master could well be monitoring him, and any display of weakness would do little to convince him to put an end to his punishment. He wondered how long the man intended to keep him here this time, without food, with barely any water. Surely...surely it wouldn't be much longer. It wouldn't— It couldn't— But his transgression—

Oh Force, his transgression had been really bad this time.

He hadn't meant to disobey. He hadn't. He hadn't defied his master in years—not after the first few times he had balked at being brought...fodder to feed his growing power in the Dark Side, as Lord Sidious liked to call it. But those had been criminals and scum and slavers, people whom nobody would miss and could best serve the Galaxy by perishing on his blade. The trembling padawan that had been dumped at his feet, barely able to hold the lightsaber she had been thrown straight as his master prowled around them, hissing at him to prove his mettle against the Jedi and strike her down—well, that had been...different. He had fought her, of course, and won easily, but when it came to strike the final blow, something had stayed his hand. The look in her eyes, perhaps, wide and terrified and full of tears. Or the fact that she must have been much the same age as he was—fifteen or sixteen, he thought? Whatever it was, it had frozen him stock still above her, his saber pointed towards her throat, and no amount of cajoling, taunting or threats from his master could make him draw back and deal the blow.

It had done her no good in the end. Lord Sidious had killed her in his place, and his rage afterwards had been terrible.

It had only been after he'd taken out the worst of his fury on his wayward apprentice that he had grabbed him by the hair, aching, hardly able to stand, and dragged him down to the small prison cell that he had first kept him in after he'd been stolen from Qui-Gon Jinn's custody on Naboo. The pain was tolerable—he had become accustomed to his master's cold but violent temper by now—but the cell... The cell always wore him down.

It was not necessarily the hunger and the thirst. Hunger and thirst were common even amongst the masters on Tatooine (with the notable exception of the Hutts), and amongst the planet's slaves even more so. Such things were well known to him, deep in his bones. But then, it had always been tempered by the loving embrace of his mother and the warm presence of his friends. Now, he had nothing like that. Only Tyranus, who loathed and resented him as an unnecessary waste of time and effort, and Sidious, whose touches brought pain more than comfort, and only offered him scraps of kindness as a reward for good behaviour. Here, in the dark, he only had misery and isolation and an ache in his gut that paled in comparison to the ache in his chest that was the absence of Shmi Skywalker. Like a hole that had been punched right through his heart.

Vader swallowed dryly as he tried, without success, to ease the soreness of his throat. He could feel a sudden surge of resentment growing within him, familiar and dangerous. It wasn't fair. Lord Sidious was as much Tyranus' master as he was his, but he never treated him this way. He didn't lock him up and starve him of both sustenance and sentient company. He let him see and speak to other people, didn't punish him for not bowing down like a slave to his owner in every aspect of his life. Yes, he was a lot younger than Tyranus—not yet even a man, the snobbish Count had a habit of sneering within his earshot—but both of them had become Sidious' apprentices at much the same time. He had been a Sith just as long as Dooku, and their shared master didn't even want the man as a permanent apprentice. So why was it him who was treated like—

His anger was well on the way to turning into a raging inferno by the time he managed to stamp it back down again. He mustn't think of such things. If he ever wanted to get out of this cell, he mustn't think of such things.

He had no way of knowing how much time passed before he heard the pneumatic hiss of his cell door being activated—it could have been minutes, hours. The sound was almost deafening after so long of silence, and the light which flooded into the cell from the other side of the door fairly blinded him. He blinked, dazed, stretching out his senses to identify who it was that was entering the cell. His mind brushed up against a horribly familiar presence, vast and cold and empty like a dark chasm in the Force. His master.

Still barely able to see, he scrambled to his knees, head bowed and properly subservient as he fought to keep himself from shaking. He could hear the hiss of soft robes dragging against the floor—the only warning he had before his chin was caught in a punishing grip, and his head was wrenched upwards to meet his master's gaze. Blinking away the spots in his vision, he stared up into what little he could see of Lord Sidious' face, shrouded in shadows, expression hard and cold with displeasure.

"Well, my apprentice," he croaked, his eyes gleaming like a hungry anooba's under the shadow of his hood. "Have you learnt your lesson yet?"

"Master..." Vader's throat was so parched that his voice was almost as dry and cracked as Lord Sidious'. He trembled under the man's gaze, trying to shrink in on himself and hating how pathetic he felt. "Master, please—"

Sidious' lips twisted into a wicked smile, teeth flashing dangerously.

"'Please'?," he taunted. "'Please' what, Vader? Do you believe you have paid sufficient penance for your transgression?"

Vader shut his eyes tight, forcing down the tears that were threatening to well up beneath his lids. He mustn't show weakness in front of his master. It would only make him angry.

Of course, disobedience made him angry too, and Vader had already shown him defiance beyond the limited patience with him the man possessed.

"I will accept your judgement, master" he said, because what else could he say when anything but complete subservience would mean further punishment? He wished his master would let go of his chin, so he could bow his head and hide from those piercing eyed behind a curtain of hair. But Sidious did not let him go, held firm and forced him to stare up into his twisted face, without reprieve. His gaze seemed to burrow into his skull like a laser, and Vader was sure that, without even bothering to call upon the Force, he could see past the lie he had so clumsily pasted over the truth of his feelings, even as he tried to bury them so deep down that no one—not even himself— would sense them. The man's smile turned grim and cold.

"Will you now?," he sneered. "How generous of you. And if I choose to keep you here until I deem you adequately punished? Will you accept it then?"

Vader trembled. He would do it, he knew. Lord Sidious was not in the habit of making idle threats.

"Master...," he whimpered hoarsely. "Master, please. Please forgive me. I-I'll obey. I've learnt my lesson. Please—”

Sidious smirked.

"Forgive you?"

The hand that had been holding his chin in a vice-like grip moved to slide up to his cheek in a gesture that, if not for his cruel words and the hard gleam in his yellow eyes, might have felt gentle, almost affectionate. Even as a worm of disgust—at himself as much as Sidious—twisted violently in his gut, Vader couldn't help but lean into the touch, desperate for even the tiniest scraps after so long in isolation. He wanted to shut his eyes—anything to pretend that he were somewhere else, with someone else—but he didn't dare. Not when one wrong move could turn the man back to icy fury at any moment.

"Perhaps I will forgive you." Sidious' fingers trailed down his cheek one last time before he drew back and suddenly, with only the slightest of warnings in the Force, struck him such a hard blow across the face that he toppled hard onto the floor. Vader let out a soft, startled little cry as pain jarred through his shoulder, his mechno hand shooting up to clutch at his burning cheek. "Once I believe you are properly contrite."

There was a whisper of robes above him and then something dropped down to the ground in front of his face. He blinked, dazed, at first not quite taking in what he was seeing. A ration bar. Oh Force, a ration bar. He scrambled to grab it, to snatch it up before his master took it away and—

But Sidious was already out in the corridor, and the door was closing behind him.

"Master!," Vader cried. His voice came out as a thin scream as he dashed to the already sealing door. He collided with it hard as he was caged once again in darkness. "Master—!"

For a moment, fear and anger and frustration welled up inside him to the point of explosion, and he let out a broken yell, slamming his metal hand into the durasteel of the door over and over. But it was not long before the exhaustion and sickness from his hunger overcame him and he sank down to the ground in a heap of dark robes and trembling misery. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair—

But... But at least he had food now, he thought as he clutched the ration bar possessively to his chest. His master had given him food. Did that mean he was on his way towards forgiving him? Would he let him out soon? How soon? At least...at least, even if it was a few more days, he would have something to stave off the hunger. He could make it last. He could make it last until his master decided to let him out. Yes.

All he needed to do was obey—truly obey—and then Lord Sidious would show him mercy.

[dailydaydreamings]

Best in the Worst Way, Part 11

I have way too much experience with this kind of trauma. One thing I know, the experience isn’t always linear. How you feel jumps from one moment to the next. Maybe this is my way of coping, but for some reason I need to get this all down. Lots of swearing —K

The Reader has been having a love affair with two Avengers and gets caught in a sticky situation. She’s suddenly faced with life decisions she’s not prepared for, including who to love, what she wants, and is this all worth it?

There’s something totally surreal about trauma.

There’s nothing like the feeling of getting a late night call to get to the hospital and fast. It is pure stomach dropping terror.

Realists would know what it means, rushing to the hospital to see their loved ones, potentially for the last time.

Driving to the compound, gnawing on your thumb, you start to wonder how many traumas there are. How many people a year get a call to hurry to the hospital to see their loved ones. Maybe for the last time.

Out of the those cases, how many people are too late? How many show up and their loved ones still die?

Fuck, how bad was it. You ran your hand through your hair as you sat at a stop light, tears streaming down your face.

How much of a liar was Tony? Would he lie and tell you that they were alive if they weren’t, just so you wouldn’t kill yourself driving over?

You wouldn’t have to rush if this light would fucking turn green.

There was no one around, it was nearly midnight...why wait?

You tapped your fingers on the wheel, maybe you weren’t on the sensor and the light would never turn green and Bucky and Steve would die waiting for you...what’s the harm?

Your foot shifted to the gas, cautiously accelerating.

A horn blares and you slam on the gas, barely avoiding an oncoming car.

You think you might have screamed, either way, you wer suddenly pulling your off the road and scrambling out.

You reached for your keys, your hand missing twice.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you finally got hold of your keys and practically fell out of your car. From your knees, you reached for the door handle and pulled yourself up.

Your head swam as you leaned against the car and made your way to the passenger side. As soon as you were off the road, you tossed your keys into the field of grass in front of you.

And immediately regretted it.

“Oh, shit,” you leaned against the hood and stared out at the dark field.

You remembered a rule of dealing with trauma. Take a breath and get control of yourself.

Fact, you shouldn’t have been driving. You cradled your belly, where your children were kicking furiously. You weren’t thinking straight. You were thinking about your boys, not the babies inside of you.

And there was no way you were finding your keys tonight.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket and dialed Natasha, she answered on the first ring, “Where are you?! Is everything okay, you should be here by now!”

You closed your eyes, trying to take deep, calming breaths, “Can you please come get me? I’m fifteen minutes out from the compound, sitting on the side of the road. I just about crashed my car.”

Twenty minutes later, Natasha’s car pulled up behind yours and both Natasha and Clint hoped out. At this point, you were spiraling, your breath coming in short pants.

“Fucking Tony!” Natasha slammed her door. “I said, don’t let her drive. You can’t let her drive after telling her something like that!”

“Yelling at Tony isn’t going to solve anything!” Clint snapped at her. He came to stand in front of you, both hands grasping your shoulders. “Everything is going to be fine. Now, where are your keys?”

You pursed your lips, looking over his shoulder at the field. “I kinda...tossed them...”

Clint raised an eyebrow, his head jerking to look out at the long glass. “Oh. Okay. We’re all just gonna get in Natasha’s car. Then I’m gonna go get a metal detector and find your keys!”

You nodded, pushing off your car and stumbled, your head swimming.

“Alright, kiddo,” Clint wrapped an arm around your waste. “Let’s get you in the car.”

“What if they’re dead and Tony’s a liar?” You asked, stumbling as Clint guided you towards Natasha.

“Oh, no,” Natasha open the car door. “We talked to the field team. They’re stable, just a bit of a mess.”

You slid into the passenger seat, stroking your belly, trying to soothe yourself. Clint got into the backseat and Natasha got into the drivers seat.

“I keep thinking about all those silly medical shoes I watched in university, where there’s a trauma and they go from fine to dying in a minute and then the family doesn’t get there on time,” you murmur.

You weren’t sure either of them heard you until Natasha quietly answered, “I’ve seen that happen, in the field. It can happen, but right now, all signs point to them being stable and we will getting to the compound at the same time as they are.”

The light pollution started getting worse the closer you got the compound. For some reason, all you wanted to was run away.

“The babies kicked today for the first time,” you said numbly. “They’re gonna be here soon. I n-need to get a crib, and, um, a diaper bad. Other stuff too. I need to book, uh, birthing classes. Maternity clothes...”

Natasha exchanged a quick glance with Clint, “We can worry about all of that later. We’ll make a list!”

You frown and murmur, “I don’t know how to change a diaper.”

Clint squeezed your shoulder, “You’ll learn, it’s okay!”

You laugh dryly, “Buck was learning. Every spare minute. He was so excited to change diapers.”

“Okay, she’s gonna need something to calm her down,” You hear Clint mumbled to Natasha. You ignore him, choosing to curl up towards the window, watching a helicopter fly towards the compound. Your boys were up there.

———

Panic was surging through your veins, but you shook your head as you strode towards the medical wing.

“How bad is it,” you shout at Tony, trying your best to keep a level head.

He looked up at you from his phone, his hair a mess. “I don’t know,” he called back. “I just know they’re stable and we have two ORs prepped just in case.”

Your eyes focused on the door behind Tony, the boys would come through those door at any second. You came to stop beside him, fiddling with the dainty necklace you always wore.

“I fucking told you she shouldn’t drive,” Natasha hissed at Tony behind you.

You were vaguely aware of Tony throwing his hands in the air. “I just said—”

You turned at spat, “Not fucking helping.”

They exchanged a look, both turning to sit in the waiting chairs and you started to pace.

“I’m gonna kill them,” You say calmly, stroking your belly, your eyes constantly checking the elevator.

Natasha leaned over and whispered to Tony, “She’s gonna need a sedative.”

The elevator dinged and a gurney rolled out. You almost puked.

“What. The. Fuck!” You glared at Tony, who was already scrambling to his feet.

“No one said it was this bad!” He said.

You swallowed, hard, looking down at Steve. He was sedated, his face was bruised and battered, and he had a massive branch through his abdomen.

“It didn’t hit anything serious,” the nurse behind the gurney said. “We’re gonna go straight to the OR and get this taken care of right now.”

You couldn’t helps yourself as you looked down at his face, leaning forward and giving him a quick peck on his lips. “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry, Steve.”

“Ma’am,” she said.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you said to him.

“Ma’am,” she insisted. “We have to go now.”

You stepped back, making a point of raising your hands in the air defensively.

You watched them until they turned down the next hallway.

Natasha came up and put her hand on your shoulder, “Are you okay? Do you need to cry?”

You looked up at the ceiling, counting the lights as you let out a long breath, “Not yet.” Not until you saw Bucky. Pregnant or not, hormonal or not, he was not going to see you cry.

The elevator dinged again and chaos erupted.

It happened so fast, Natasha grabbed you and pulled you away from the door. Tony was yelling. So was Bucky.

He was thrashing wildly, despite the restraints.

“Head trauma,” the nurse wheeling the gurney already had a bruise forming on his cheek.

“Buck!” You shouted. He roared in anger and you flattened yourself against the wall.

And he was gone, down the hall.

Natasha looked down at you as you slowly started sliding down the wall.

They weren’t okay. No matter what Tony had said, that wasn’t okay. Steve had a fucking tree through his stomach and Bucky, poor Bucky was stuck in his own head. His most feared prison. This wasn’t going to be like taking the home tomorrow and putting a bandaid over a scratch, this was far, far worse.

“What do you need?” She asked, kneeling in front of you.

“A change of clothes,” you said numbly.

She rubbed your thigh, “Okay, I’ll call Clint to stop by your place, okay?”

You nodded, “Can you ask him to grab my black bag on the stool by the breakfast bar? It has, it has my meds.”

“Of course.”

“And t-there’s this god awful, ugly b-brown blanket on the bed. It’s Bucky’s.” Your voice started to waiver, tears welling in your eyes. “It totally ruins the aesthetic of the room.”

She grasped your hand and you wiped your tears. “I’m sure it does.”

“And, there’s one blue pillow on the bed. The pillow case is blue. Steve sleeps with it every night.”

And the flood gates opened and you started to cry.

———

“The surgery went better than expected,” the surgeon told you.

You wiped a stray tear from your face. “It-it did?” You hiccuped.

“Absolutely it did,” she gave you a warm smile. “And with his DNA, he’s gonna be just fine and walking around in no time.”

You nodded, “Thank you.” Your voice broke and she gave your shoulder a squeeze. “I’m not normally a m-mess. I’m just pregnant.”

She laughed, “It’s okay, I can tell. He’s gonna need some support, but remember to take care of yourself, okay?”

You nodded, “Can I see him?”

“Of course, this way,” she directed you to walk down the hallway.

Your heart almost stopped when you saw him. He looked massive in that bed. He didn’t really fit, it didn’t look right to see Captain America in a hospital bed. Monitors beeped steadily at his side, the only real proof to you he was alive.

You hugged his lumpy pillow to you left chest. It still smelled like him.

You stared at the monitor, counting the insistent beeping, making sure he was still breathing...

“Is that for him,” a nurse said, rubbing hand sanitizer on her hands as she came in. You were still standing in the door way, starring, twenty minutes later.

“Um, yeah,” you answered, shaking your head to get out of whatever spell the monitor had put you under. “Can you...”

She smiled at you warmly, “Of course, hon.” She gently took the pillow from you, breaking the spell.

You stumbled forward, sitting down in the chair beside his bed.

“You can hold his hand,” she said, readjusting his pillows.

“We haven’t been in a good place,” you admitted, “for months. He wanted me to get an abortion and then he didn’t and I just, I pushed him away. I don’t know if he’d want me here but I-I can’t not be here.”

The nurse paused, coming to sit down in the chair opposite to you. “He’s going to want you to be here when you wake up. No matter what happened, he’s going to want you by his side.”

You looked down at your hands, playing with your fingers. “I don’t know what to say to him. Because I’m still mad, honestly. I want to kick his ass.”

She laughed and so did you, wiping a tear from your face.

The nurse cleared her throat, “It isn’t my place, but you don’t have to forgive him. But you’re going to end up throwing everything away if you’re not here when he wakes up.”

You nodded your thanks, reaching over and taking Steve’s hand.

———

“Y/n?” Steve voice woke you from your sleep on the cot beside his bed, you scrambled for the light before reaching for his hand.

His deep blue eyes looked up at you with so much pain and confusion.

“What do you need?” You asked, cupping his face. “Are you in pain?”

He shook his head, trying hard to swallow. You reached for a cup of water, knowing his throat probably felt like sandpaper after intubation.

“Where’s Bucky?” He asked.

You looked up at his monitors to avoid his eye, “They won’t let me see him. The meds aren’t working, he’s in a fury. They said that they’re giving him medication to calm him down, sedating him, and they’re going to try to wake him up soon.”

Steve’s grip on your hand tightened. “You should be with him.”

You leaned down and kissed his forehead, “This fight between us is no where close to over but you are still a big part of my life and I love you. I need to be here for both my boys and he will need me soon.”

There were tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry, for everything. Bucky and I had a fight about it and, I’m not ready for everyone to know about the three of us.”

You nodded, understanding his fear.

“But,” he continued, “I don’t want to be the uncle. I want to be the dad. So, I’m here and I want to be here, for both of you.”

A tear dripped down your face, you leaned forward and brought your lips to his.

“Mrs y/l/n,” a man cleared his throat at the door. You turned to see some poor intern wringing his hands at the sight of Captain America.

“Yes?” You asked.

He broke his stare with Steve and said, “I’ve been asked to inform you they’re waking up Mr Barnes and you said you wanted to be there.”

You exchanged a look with Steve. He squeezed your hand and you walked to your bag in the corner, pulling out Bucky’s blanket.

Steve asked quietly, “Will you see if Bucky can be transferred into the same room soon? That way she doesn’t need to go in between our rooms.”

You raised an eyebrow in surprise, but the intern nodded and scurried off.

You gave Steve’s hand one more squeeze, “I’ll be back soon.”

You walked down the hall until you found the room where they were administering some medication to wake Bucky up. Your mouth went dry, he was still restrained.

“Can we get some of these restraints off,” you asked coolly, striding into the room and sitting beside the bed, the blanket in your lap. “He’s not an animal.”

“Mr Barnes is prone to violence following sedation,” the doctor tells you. You grit your teeth at that but let it go. “This could take some time, someone will be just outside if he acts out.”

You didn’t bother to point out that they had him chained down and he couldn’t right now.

Instead, you played with a frayed edge of the blanket. Steve adoringly called it Bucky’s baby blanket. It obviously wasn’t, but it was the blanket he’d slept with since living in Bucharest, it was with him in Wakanda, and he slept with it every night since.

At this point, it was more patch ups than blanket though. When the boys had moved in, the only thing Bucky brought was this ugly blanket full of holes. Trying, in vain, to make it look better to preserve the feel of your room, you learned to patch it up. It was now an assortment of browns and fabrics, but it didn’t seem to change the spirit of the blanket.

“Hey,” Bucky said. You looked up to find him looking at you, a frown on his face. “Did I hurt anyone?” He asked.

“No,” you lie. “You were just a little, um, enraged. You had some head trauma.”

He nodded, “Can I get out of these things?” He moved the restraints for emphasis.

You nodded, calling out to the nurse outside the room. He came in, and after assessing Bucky, removed the restraints.

“How’s Steve?” Bucky asked.

“He’s okay,” you answer. “He had tree go through his stomach but he’ll be fine.”

Bucky nodded, not bothering to sit up. But he ran his hand through his hair. He turned his head to look at you, his eyes focusing on the blanket.

“Is that my blanket?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

You nodded, “I thought you might want something to give you some comfort. Do you want it?”

His eyes crinkled from a small smile. “Yes, thank you.”

You stood, unfolding the blanket and spreading it over him. You looked up at him to see if he was satisfied, but Bucky was staring at your belly.

“Buck?” You asked.

“You’ve gotten...bigger,” he murmured.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, stroking a hand down your belly. “Yeah, and they’ve been kicking up a storm, would you believe it?”

He frowned, “I didn’t realize you were sleeping with anyone.”

Your blood ran cold.

Tags

@booktease21 @sexyvixen7 @just-the-hiddles @fading-mentality-bouquet @a--1--1--3 @broco8 @yougottalovefandoms @hailqueenconquer @tazzi-baby @imaginebeinlovedbyme @amiets2 @prettyblueskylark

[cassiecasyl]

nibble, nibble, little spider

By @cassiecasyl for @an-odd-idea 

Rating: Teen and Up  Relationships: Peter & Morgan, Peter & Tony  Characters: Peter Parker, Morgan Stark, Tony Stark, a witch  Summary: Peter and Morgan are lost in a forest, alone and hungry when they stumble upon a house made of bread and candy. It couldn’t harm to take a bite, could it? Well, yes, it very much could. 

Hunger weaved through the trees, riding on the wind directly into Peter’s lungs, causing the boy to cough. It was a screaming and scratching complaint of displacement. His stomach rumbled in answer to its sneaking sibling. Peter stumbled from the effects of their argument, catching himself against a trunk. The bark tickled his senses, the rough surface scratching at his skin. He recoiled from the sensation. The quick motion made him sway, and he fell back against the very thing he tried to avoid. He didn’t know what was wrong. He just felt so—

“Peter?” Morgan asked, watching him with big, brown eyes. They were the perfect mix of Tony’s eye color and Pepper’s concerned expression stabbing right into him. He could see the same pain reflected back at him. Peter closed his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he assured her. 

She moved closer and leaned against his leg, tucking at his shirt. His spidey senses barely objected, uselessly hiding behind a headache. Peter looked down at his adoptive sister. Her intensive gaze looked right through his lies in the same way her father always did. They were heartbreakingly similar. 

“Can you try your phone again?” she asked, searching for hope. Peter fumbled it out of his pocket with shaking fingers and blinked against the artificial light. His heart sank into the void the lack of bars at the top of the screen signaled. He sighed. “Still no signal.” Morgan deflated slightly. 

Peter tried to swipe over to the GPS settings, to maybe get some information this way, but right as he did the screen froze. He grunted in frustration, shaking the device lightly. His head pounded as if obnoxiously cheering the phone on. Peter remembered the time he had landed near a stadium during one of his sensitive episodes, leading him right into a sensory overload then and there. -20/10, would not recommend. He’d needed two days in the soundproof tower to recover from that before even trying to go into louder environments again. 

Peter winced as the screen suddenly flashed bright with an app loading screen before turning completely black. Great. Any buttons proved useless. “Looks like it’s dead,” he confessed to Morgan. She nodded bravely, clearly holding back tears, little erosions in Peter’s heart.  

Peter slid down the trunk, shuddering at the sensation, until he was on eye level with her. He stretched out his arm, nudging Morgan closer and into his embrace. She buried her face in the nook of his neck as she cried. “It’s gonna be alright,” Peter promised, rocking her gently, “Tony will find us, you’ll see.” 

“Dad can fix everything,” she mumbled into the hug and Peter chuckled. 

“That’s right! So don’t give up hope, Mo.” 

They stayed in the relative silence the forest provided for a while. Peter stared up into the leaf-obstructed sky, the gears in his head scraping by just barely. The leaves whisper-sung false promises, inviting him to climb up towards the first stars visible in the darkening sky. He entertained the thought of climbing up to see where the damn woods ended, but the bark’s texture made him want to crawl out of his own skin. His stomach acted up again, not a fan of possible altitude, and his headache became nauseating in a warning. He hated it when his body conspired against him. But, he also couldn’t just leave Morgan alone on the ground. Especially not with night approaching. 

“I’m hungry,” whispered Morgan. 

“I know, Mo,” Peter answered and rubbed her back soothingly. There was nothing he could do. If only he knew enough about flora to know what was safe to eat. Though they didn’t have the option to wash whatever they found, adding further danger. “I’m too.” 

The nagging feeling only grew as they sat there, calling and pulling them away, as it caught them with an invisible string. It was a weird by-taste of hunger, one Peter had never experienced before. If they were at home - where he knew where to find food - the pull would make sense, but here, in the middle of nowhere, it puzzled him. He couldn’t even remember how they got here. All there was, was the forest and hunger, slowly taking over them. His spider sense buzzed loudly, sounding slightly like a radio without a proper signal. He wondered dully whether ghosts could speak through it. 

Suddenly, Morgan sat up, tearing Peter from his dazed thoughts. “I know what we have to do!” she exclaimed, standing up. “We can only follow the path we know,” she said and took off. Peter scrambled to his feet. 

“Wait, Mo,” he called out, “What do you mean?” The girl didn’t answer. 

The hunger’s call became louder as they walked. Peter could almost hear it now, the ringing in his ears resembling more and more a feast. He meant to smell chocolate and his stomach grumbled as if to ask how much longer? Huh, he realized, Morgan must feel it too. 

Old leaves crackled underneath their feet, a crystal clear signal of where they were. A deer looked up a few trees over, mustering them before fleeing, its flock following. But Morgan paid it no mind as she walked towards her goal with Peter on her heels. 

The boy couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It felt like a trap almost, leaving them no choice but to fall for it to survive. His dizzy mind screamed for food, growing more excited the more signs of it hit Peter’s senses. 

They came to a brook and Peter signaled for Mo to stop. He leaned down to drink, hoping the water would quill some of the overwhelming hunger he felt. It was better than nothing. Underneath the pull, his stomach ached, begging, as if what had been there before was only a phantom, an illusion rather than the real thing. Peter blinked. 

A bird landed on the other side of the stream, picking at something on the ground. The spider looked up, meeting the animal’s eyes just for a moment, before it rustled its feathers and took off, carrying a big breadcrumb in its beak. Something was definitely wrong. 

Something about this all rang a bell, but he couldn’t find it. It rang and rang, a warning of impending nightfall, so annoying Peter wished he could just turn the sound off. It didn’t help in the slightest with remembering. An old story, he mused. A fairy tale, maybe?  

“Morgan?” he called, but she didn’t answer. He spun around, almost hitting a tree as he swayed in response. He felt sick and weak, and the moss on the ground looked so invitingly soft. He briefly closed his eyes in an attempt to regain focus. Morgan. Where was Morgan? She couldn’t be gone. Mr. Stark would kill him. His mind conjured up her image, covered in blood, gnaw marks on breaking her tender skin, half-rotten. His stomach grumbled, sending everything it had upwards, a meek army marching to attack his mind. Not one soldier passed the cavity of his mouth. 

“Morgan?” he called again after swallowing, panic inviting nausea to dance. 

“Peter, look!” the girl's voice finally sounded to the right of him. Peter breathed and steadied himself with the aid of a tree. Nodding a short thanks to his involuntary crutch, he stepped into the bushes to find his little sister. 

Now that he was back on the path, his muscles didn’t protest as much anymore. A strange peace joined the hunger-inducing air, washing over him and taking his care. Like gravity, he was pulled towards a place in the middle of the woods, and tired as Peter was, he let himself fall right into it. 

The woods smelled like freshly baked bread, like those obnoxiously sweet candies Morgan loved, like the brownies Happy baked one time, the best goddamn brownies he had ever eaten, like the hot chocolate he would drink with May on late nights when they would just talk and catch up with each other or simply enjoy each other’s company. 

Peter was positively drooling, sludging out into the little opening. A house stood there, idyllic in the middle of the forest, glowing with magic, promising every meal Peter had ever had and more. Its walls were covered with a little flour like a bread’s crust, and Peter could see the softness inside from where something had bitten into it. The windows were adorned with sugar, whipped cream, and colorfully sprinkled candies. The roof was the color of Minecraft’s dark oak, sturdy and soft. Peter reached up and broke off a piece before he could think. Morgan grinned at him, stuffing her mouth with candy. He tiredly smiled at her, taking in her happiness, gleaming louder than the sun. It was all washed away as the brownie roof touched his tongue. It was just the right temperature and consistency, and it filled his mouth with the taste of chocolate without being overly sticky. It was heavenly, it was every peaceful late night conversation and every birthday party combined. This was what ambrosia must taste like. 

His mind stopped screaming, and he was wholly content in his body with only one bite. The overwhelming hunger was suddenly satisfied, yet his stomach still rumbled. He didn’t feel it. Peter looked at the piece of heaven in his hand, smiling brightly in childish wonder. He wanted more. So, he devoured it and took another piece from the house. 

Dully, shushed by peace, a noise drummed on in the back of his head. It was hidden behind a labyrinth, closed off by heavy prison doors. It didn’t matter. Yet, why was it loud enough to bug him? Why couldn’t it just shut up? He rolled his eyes and reached out towards the soft bread wall. 

But, before his fingers touched the food, he stopped. This was wrong. He was stealing, wasn’t he? The buzzing grew louder. A warning. It was his spider senses, Peter then realized. They were in danger. He turned towards Morgan, panic slowly overriding the happiness, weaseling past every magic firewall. He opened his mouth to call out to her. They needed to go, to get away from here. 

“Knusper, Knusper, Knäuschen, wer knuspert an meinem Häuschen?” a high, scratchy voice sang behind them. Peter froze in horror. “Or should I say ‘nibble, nibble, little mouse, who’s nibbling at my house’? Such a peculiar translation…” 

~~~

A warning was drumming on his head, shaking him until he blinked his eyes open against the stabbing light. It roasted him and hung him up to cool down. Peter groaned. A stagger of noise opened his skull, and he flinched. Only after a moment did he recognize words, let alone the voice. 

“Let him out!” Morgan demanded with as much rage as the five-year-old could muster. Which was a lot, Peter knew from experience. She was an angry embodiment of human wrath, her narrow eyes staring down the witch towering above her. Morgan did not back down. 

“I can’t do that, Sweety. It’s for your own good,” the witch talked down to her with a voice like sugary wood. A shudder ran through Peter as he remembered the rough bark under his hands outside. He clenched his teeth, waiting for an onslaught of pain from somewhere as he slowly sat up. 

“He’s my brother,” Morgan argued, “let him out!” Her eyes turned the sunlight into weapons. The witch, a shadow, did not yet realize the danger she was subjected herself to, as self-assured as she was. 

“He is corrupted,” the witch judged, “You, on the other hand, are still young, little lady.” 

Morgan blinked up at her. “Do you know who my dad is? He’s Iron Man. He’s a hero. And he’s gonna come and rescue us,” she threatened. 

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Her smile sent little spiders crawling down Peter’s back. They examed the walls of his cage for any way of escape, the tiniest crack, but ultimately, they gave up and settled in the farthest corner. She mustered Peter with predatory eyes, pressing her lips together in disappointment. “It’s really a shame you’re all muscle and bone. It’ll take longer to get you tender enough for the grand meal.” 

Peter’s wide eyes met Morgan’s deer-ey ones as they processed the words. “You don’t wanna fight Iron Man,” the girl threatened again. 

The witch sighed. “This is gonna be harder than I expected. He’s really grown his vines around you, didn’t he?” 

“What’s your plan here?” Peter asked. “Kidnapping children, provoking Iron Man while you’re at it, and now what? Waiting for your trial?” 

The witch laughed. “Stark’s a warmonger, but I am not afraid of him.” She quenched any protest from the kids with her next words: “He’s only made himself believe that he’s better now, that he somehow redeemed himself. It’s a mask. We’ll see how good the great Tony Stark really is soon enough.” 

She turned to her sugar windows as a crow landed on the windowsill, picking up some bread crumbs that had fallen from the damaged wall. Her yellow teeth showed in her evil smile, and Peter suddenly felt very self-conscious about the fact that he hadn’t brushed his teeth since the day before. Granted he hadn’t lost more time unconscious in a crazy fairytale witch’s cage. 

“Frolick, my children, he is on his way,” she cheered, spinning around in a dance towards the stove in the corner. “We will have a grant meal to greet the powerful.” Peter strained his ears in hopes of hearing the familiar sound of repulsors. He wanted to scream out, get out himself so Tony wouldn’t have to walk into this weird trap. He wasn’t even sure what the witch’s plan really was. 

The witch grabbed Morgan’s hand and pulled her with her. The girl struggled, hitting and scratching, grounding her feet into the ground as much as she could. She looked back at Peter in pure fear, mouthing a word. Peter frowned at her. 

“A wild one, are we?” The witch addressed Morgan, leaning down to her level. The girl spat at her. “Now, this is really not a way for a lady to behave,” the witch chastised, sighing. “Maybe you’re further gone than I thought. I really had faith… Maybe, we will have you for dessert.” 

Finally, Morgan tore her hand free. She stepped back, suppressing a shiver. “You’re joking like a pirate,” she said, emphasizing the last word and waving one hand at Peter behind her back. Peter frowned, and then observed the cell door he was sitting in front of. Half pin barrel hinges. With the right kind of leverage, he could open them no problem. They had recently watched the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, much to Happy’s dismay, but Peter couldn’t be prouder of Morgan at that moment. 

He examined his cell as inconspicuously as he could. There was a blank in the corner, probably meant as a sort of bed, with stains Peter rather wouldn’t know about. He grabbed and pulled at it, and, with a crank, it broke free. Unfortunately, it also brought attention to him. 

“What are you doing?” With two big steps, she stood next to him behind the bars. Peter kept still, ignoring her to the best of his abilities. Morgan followed her and then clung to her hand demandingly. It did nothing but annoy the hag more. “I asked you a question, boy. What are you doing?” She spat out every word, spelling it out for him. 

Peter shrugged and finally looked up at her. “I just thought, if you plan on keeping me here, I might as well redecorate.” Morgan snorted and quickly ducked to avoid the veiny hand flying her way. 

“Do you think this is funny? Tony Stark waged war and I’m going to give him what he’s earned and you think this is all a joke?” Peter shook his head, slightly retreating. “And you, little lady, are truly your father’s daughter, aren’t you? I thought there was hope for you, other than for the boy who got drawn into the family that he doesn’t share blood with, but it seems it’s already too late.” 

She grabbed Morgan in retaliation, holding her even tighter than before. The girl screamed out in surprise and pain before going back to fighting. Suddenly, a rope snaked into the air and approached them curiously. It gently wrapped around Morgan, keeping her in place. The tears on his sister’s face might as well have been acid poured over Peter’s head. 

The witch sighed. “I should’ve done this earlier.” She turned to Peter then. “And now to you…” 

“Let her go,” Peter demanded. “You can do whatever you want with me, just, please, let her go.” 

“The time of bargaining has long passed, boy.” She looked back at the giant pot on the stove. “It’s time to get to work.” The door creaked as it opened, as ominously warning and high-pitched as his spidey sense. He stumbled backward, more crawling than walking, until the wall stopped him. It was giving into his touch, and it took all in Peter to not recoil from the touch that felt a little too much like mold. 

The rope peered over the witch’s shoulder, mustering its prey. Just as she reached out to grab his hand, Peter opened his mouth in protest and let the first words that came to his mind tumble out. “Do you know the Muffin Man?” 

The witch stopped mid-motion. “The Muffin Man?” she asked with raised eyebrows, entirely bamboozled. 

“Yeah, the Muffin Man,” Peter repeated, allowing himself to breathe a little, “You know, the one who lives on Drury Lane?” The hag’s eyes narrowed at those words and Peter suppressed a flinch. Fuck. 

“This is another of your jokes, isn’t it?” Before he could answer, the rope shot forward, rolling tightly around him, leaving no place for air. Soon enough, he joined Morgan on the floor, just as Peter’s ears picked up a familiar, wheezing sound. 

“I’m sorry,” Morgan whispered. 

Peter shrugged to the best of his abilities. “It was worth a try.” 

~~~

A knock on the door disrupted the sharp, unruly tension in the room. Peter tried to breathe, hoping, knowing it to be Tony. He heard the telltale sound of the repulsor de-powering and the suit landing. Yet, fear still continued its marathon through his veins. 

The witch sighed. “It’s a real shame,” she mumbled, “I will have to cook you with magic. Things always taste better if you let them cook naturally, but he’s not giving me much of a choice, is he?”  A shudder ran through the siblings’ bodies. 

“You could also just not cook us. Just a suggestion, you know,” Peter spoke up, earning a slap. Heavy air climbed onto his tongue, rolling up and falling asleep like a cat. He opened his mouth again, but nothing came out except for a quiet grunt. The witch was clearly amused by his attempts to speak. Without another word, she turned around and opened the door just wide enough to slip out. 

“Hello, Forest Lady,” Tony greeted the witch, “I’m searching for two kids. Have you seen—” 

“Well, if it isn’t the great Tony Stark.” Peter could hear the malicious grin in her voice. “The fabled merchant of death.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony dismissed her, “Listen, there are two kids missing, it’d be a great help if you could just tell me— Wait a minute, what did you just call me?” 

“You are who they call the merchant of death, are you not?” 

Tony was stunned into silence. Peter strained to hear his quickening heartbeat, wanting to cry out, Tony, we’re here, don’t listen to her!, but the airy cat on his tongue wouldn’t budge. Everybody knows that one doesn’t wake a cat, even if they trap you, and the spell took it to another level. It didn’t stop him from trying, however. The rope hit his thigh, annoyed by his constant movement. 

“That’s what they used to say, yeah,” Tony now admitted, “now they call me ‘Earth’s best defender.’” His cocky voice could not hide the anxiety in his veins, not to Peter. 

“Still, you’re wrapped in armor and weapons,” the witch pointed out. 

“Look, it’s not my job to justify myself to random women I encountered in the woods, which is not something that happens a lot, I must say. Actually, I think this is the first time. I’ve got better things to do at the moment. I’m looking for two kids, a girl of five years and a boy of 16. Have you seen them?” 

“Tony Stark, always so ready to fight,” the witch said, completely disregarding his recent words, “Take off that armor and I might tell you.” 

“So you know where they are,” he stated. Peter closed his eyes, letting the familiar clank of the Iron Man suit lull him in, but instead, it just cut into his skin. They were so close. So close to being found, so close to being rescued. 

“I was just preparing dinner. Why don’t you just sit down and stay? It’ll only take a few minutes.” The witch’s steps were silent on the grass. Tony’s vibrated through the ground, which meant he was still in his suit. 

“Now wait just a moment here, lady. You know where my kids are. Why don’t you tell me?” 

“You’re a warmonger, Tony Stark. Why would you ever think I’d leave kids in your care?” Peter laughed out loud in irony, but it was muffled by winding fur catching in his fur. Coughing made it only worse, so he took a deep and slow breath to take back control. 

Tony sighed. Iron Man opened his suit, and it cracked and screeched slightly, and Peter was reminded of the joint he had been meant to oil. His heart sank. “There, I’m out of the suit. Now, will you tell me where my kids are?” 

After a moment of silence, the witch asked: “Did you ever count?” 

“Count what?” 

“How many children were killed with your weapons.” Peter sucked in a breath in shock. 

“Roughly 2.47 million people were killed by Stark missiles. Approximately 9.4% were kids. Probably more. It’s hard to tell. Plus, about 50 billion dollars damage to property—”

“Money,” the witch spat out, “Of course you care about the money more.” 

“It’s just easier to estimate that number,” Tony tried to defend himself, but the witch wouldn’t hear it. 

“All that money will never buy back your soul,” she judged. With that, she walked back to the door, leaving Tony to stand outside. Peter stared at her through tears as she came inside. He almost missed the slight hand wave she pointed at the door, presumably to prevent Tony from following her. 

He changed, you know, he wanted to tell her, but still found his tongue pinned down. He’s a better man now. He’s not responsible for his father’s sins and being dragged into that business. 

The witch glared at him. “Don’t fool yourself, boy. Stark has blood on his hands. People like that don’t change.” Peter blinked up at her in surprise. 

You can hear me. 

The witch groaned and rolled her eyes. “You’re too loud,” she decided and grabbed him by the living rope enwrapping him. Peter tried to kick her, but it was more a battle with the snake of a rope than with the witch. She laid him down next to the stove. The steam from the pot wandered down to caress his cheeks, whispering false welcomes into his over-heating ears. He was sweating, staring into the fire that burned high in the fireplace opposite the kitchen. The taunting flames danced, showing off their relation to hell. 

“Stark Tower is falling down, falling down, falling down. Stark Tower is falling down, my fair lady,” the witch sang quietly as she prepared the last few things. Peter couldn’t tell whether the shiver he felt was from the sweat cooling his skin or from fear. 

Finally, the rope loosened. He stretched his limbs while moving as little as he could. Then, just as the witch came to pick him up, Peter sprang up. The hag waved her hands at him while she mustered him with raised eyebrows. As if he wasn’t intimidating her one bit. Peter channeled his hate into his stare and shot forwards, grabbing her hands to prevent her from casting her magic. All the while, he tried to keep Morgan out of the witch’s view. 

The witch pulled him back, making Peter stumble. He caught himself and kicked at her feet. His feet connected with something soft and he inwardly cheered. Though, somehow, the witch fell forward right towards him. Peter panicked. He did not want an old witch on top of him, not ever. He could already imagine the jokes Tony would make and ew. Stepping back, he evaded her falling body barely. 

Only then did he realize that he had let go. Shit, he thought, somehow dodging a spell. It whirled in the air next to him, wooing before splatting against the wall. The cat on his tongue moved a little and Peter almost hoped it had woken up. 

He launched at her again, struggling to grab her hands. Something hard bumped into his back, sending pain up his spine. Peter tried to push forward with the stove as his leverage, but the witch was heavier than expected. She didn’t budge, instead continued to struggle against the hold he had on her hands. 

Somehow, in the whirl of their fight, Peter’s elbow connected with something hot. He wailed and jumped as it burned him, pressing it protectively against his body. But the witch didn’t follow him. Peter watched as she stumbled back with burns everywhere on her body. In a disoriented attempt to get away from the pot of steaming water Peter had knocked over, she staggered and bumped against the fireplace. 

The witch fell into the flames with an ear-piercing scream and was never heard of again. Peter was shaking, staring at her, heavily breathing even as the air cat left him. Morgan came up next to him, hugging his legs. 

Peter barely registered as the door opened. In a frown, he remembered  the knocks and blasts he had heard during the battle but had ignored. He was there, frozen, forever entranced in the flames’ deadly dance. 

“Daddy!” Morgan screamed and left his side. Peter flinched at the noise. 

Despite the warmth, Peter knew that hell was freezing. It was frightening and un-moving and icy and he had just killed a person. He had ended someone’s life. Watched as they burned without any attempt to help them. I’m a terrible person, he thought. His pledge or morality to never kill was broken forever. 

Warm arms wrapped around him, trying to melt the ice that had claimed him, and Peter broke. “I—I killed her. Oh my god, I killed her. I killed someone. I didn’t mean to. Tony, you have to believe me, I didn’t mean to.” He sobbed into a shoulder he didn’t deserve to.

“Shh,” Tony soothed, gently rocking them and moving his hand in circles over his back. “It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not okay. I killed someone, Tony. I’m a murderer.” Peter couldn’t tell whether he was snapping for air or snapping in self-directed anger and disgust. Yet, as much as he wanted to recoil, to flee, and just run, he couldn’t move. He was trapped here in comfort that he didn’t deserve. 

“You did it in self-defense. She was gonna— God, I don’t even wanna think about what she was going to do to you.” Tony held him even closer if that was possible. Though, his right hand left him briefly to invite Morgan into the hug. 

“You saved us,” Morgan said as if that was all that was needed to be said about the situation. 

“Let’s go home,” Tony decided, and Peter melted into the touch as all the tension suddenly left his body and he was drowned in exhaustion. Home sounded like heaven, it sounded exactly like the place he wanted to be right now, and the place he may didn’t deserve to reside in anymore after what he’s done. But Tony pulled him along, guiding his kids home, never once faltering to assure himself that they were safe and that Peter was welcome. 

[geminiamethyst]

Kingdoms. Chapter 32: The Truth

Chapter 1: click HERE

Chapter 31: click HERE

Chapter 33: click HERE

Warning: you might need tissues. This chapter might be a tear jerker.

Kaito paced the prison cell in pure frustration. That's all he had been doing so far. It had been over a week now since he and Maki were arrested. They were brought into the cells at least two days ago. Kaito had nothing to do other than pacing. He had been trying to plan, but everything he came up with had him stumped. No matter what he thought up with, it came to dead ends. He paced the 8 by 11ft cell more, slowly starting to get dizzy. He was starting to get a little tired too. He hadn't been given much to eat, just a loaf of bread and a small cup of water. None of which were appetising nor filling.

Kaito looked at the four walls surrounding him. This was his fault. There was no two ways about it. He was so concerned about his family and what Maki might know instead of focusing on the border. He didn't notice Maki stopping to fight back. If he had, maybe they would have gotten away. How could he have been so selfish and stupid?! This happened all because of him. And he was going to regret this if he doesn't get Maki out of here.

Kaito looked up at the barred window of the cell adjoining his. It was a few metres above his head. Wanting to see the person next door, he took a big jump, grabbing the bars instantly. He pulled himself up, ignoring the almost instant burn in his arms. Maki made no move to acknowledge him. She sat with her back against the wall, knees to her chest. She was more focused on a piece of straw that she was fiddling with. She looked so depressed and angry with herself. Kaito could tell that she was blaming herself as well. She shouldn't do that. This was his fault and his alone.

"Maki Roll, please tell me that you've thought of a way out." He said, causing Maki to look at the door to her cell.

"Kaito, there's nothing we can do." She said so quietly that Kaito almost missed it.

"We can't just give up!" Kaito argued shaking the bars a little. This wasn't like her. Maki wasn't one to give up. Even when she was trapped in that basement, she didn't seem to give up.

"Wake up! We're stuck here! There's no way out!" Maki shouted, glaring right at Kaito. However, upon seeing his face, she turned away, her glare fading. "It's over..." Kaito's heart broke a little when he heard that. Maki sounded so small and broken then. She really has given up. Kaito hoped that this was a ploy that she was playing. However, a gnawing feeling feeling in his stomach told him that it wasn't an act.

"Maki, why did you panic that morning?" Kaito finally asked. He wanted to ask that again ever since they were arrested. He just needed to know what was going on before someone else does. He needs to hear it from Maki first. She had to know something. "This has something to do with my pendent, doesn't it?"

"Kaito, I don't know everything. Just pieces of what other had told me." Maki said, finally looking up at him. So she did know something. Why wasn't she telling him? If there was a time to tell him, now would be a great time. If he was to be executed, he didn't want to die without knowing what was going on.

"Then piece together what you do know." Kaito begged. Maki looked down at the ground, fiddling with the straw in her hands again. "Maki, if you know something-anything-I have a right to know. Especially if it's about my family. Please." Maki kept silent. Kaito sighed hopelessly. It didn't look like she was going to tell him anything after all. He felt angry, he wanted to shout at her until his throat went raw. But what good will that do? Nothing. Kaito braced himself, ready to jump down from the window.

"Before Junko, there was a king. He was wise and kind. No matter how rich or poor you were, he would treat you as his equal." Maki suddenly spoke, catching Kaito's attention. Still clutching onto the bars, he looked at her as she looked up with a lost look on her face. "There was a servant in the castle. Despite her status, the king was awed by her beauty and kindness. They grew close and it turned into your typical love story. Despite the council's rejections and the fear of what the people would think, they got married. Nothing had changed. Their kindness and compassion towards others made the kingdom prosper. However, there was one person that loathed this."

"Junko." Kaito sneered, his fists clenching around the bars tighter than ever. Now he knows why the elders and his grandparents looked so sad every time he asked about the previous rulers. They were good people that made everyone happy.

"She raised an army, using magic to make Monokumas and manipulated some of the people." Maki continued, looking a little angry herself. She may not have known the previous rulers, but it was clear that she was angered by what had happened to them. "She wanted to attack at the right time, so she waited. At that time, the Queen announced that she was pregnant. Everyone was excited, happy to hear that the love that they shared would continue for so much longer. They had hope for a brighter future. However, the night that the baby was born was when Junko attacked. A spy Junko had told her when the time had come to strike. The Queen was too weak to run after birthing her child, and the King didn't want to leave her behind. He gave his child to his parents, begging them to hide the child so that one day they will take back the throne.

The King and Queen died that night, but the baby survived. The King's parents raised the baby to have a normal life. I imagine that it was hard adjusting to that lifestyle, but they raised the child as an ordinary person. No crown, no ties to royalty and no history as to what had happened to his family." There was this bad feeling in the air around Kaito as soon as she stopped talking. He didn't know what it was at first, but he had a horrible feeling now.

"Maki, what does this have to do with my pendent?" He hesitantly asked after biting his lip. He had an awful feeling that he knew the answer, but he wanted to confirm it. The look that Maki gave him said it all. She looked so depressed, close to crying.

"Kaito, the symbol on your pendent is that of the old royal family crest." She said, just barely getting the words out. Kaito felt like he had been stabbed at that moment. He finally let go of the bars, just barely able to land on his feet. His legs buckled under him. He rested his back against the wall and entangled his fingers in his hair, holding his head in his hands. He ignored everything around him, even Maki trying to convey her apologies to him. This had to be a lie! It can't be real! However, Kaito knew that it was all true. So much made sense to him now. His grandparents always looked depressed whenever he mentioned his parents and asked about them. Not to mention, when they thought that he didn't notice, Kaito could always see how sad they were on his birthday. His parents died when he was an infant. How they died wasn't a full lie. On the day he was born, they were slaughtered by a plague. A plague named Junko. Why didn't his grandparents tell him?! He was old enough at the time his grandfather died. He would've understood why they had him hidden away. He would've understood why they were always so sad at the mentioning of his parents or the previous rulers. Now everything he had was shattered around him. He was angry. Angry at his grandparents for not telling him. Angry at Maki for not telling him that day. Angry at Junko for murdering his parents. And angry at himself. His whole life was a lie! His identity, his home, everything he had was a lie! Why did this have to happen?! Kaito couldn't hold back his despair any longer. He cried as silently as he could, with nothing but this empty void around him to comfort him.

[xjoonchildx]

airplane, pt. 2 | jjk x reader chapter four: los angeles

pairing: jungkook/reader

word count: 2.2K rating: 18+

genre: smut | silly smut | nonsensical smut

warnings:  criminal!jungkook, koreanamerican!jungkook, reality has left the chat, plausibility has left the chat

A/N: i’m not a huge blog and don’t have a lot of readers -- but i’m so, so, so grateful to every single one of you who’s reached out to me on AP2. hearing what you think about this story makes my day every time. from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much. hope you enjoy this chapter. the story wraps up in the next one!

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

artwork by the shmexy @ppersonna​ who’s smut is even better than her art

***********************

“You see, as messes go -- there are levels.” 

Seokjin takes a big sip of his draft beer then sets it down to free his hands.

“On the bottom are your run-of-the-mill problems,” he says, putting one hand out flat.  

His other hand comes out to hover over the first.

“Then your regular-level shitshows, then your high-level shitshows and then there’s disasters,” he says, stacking his hands in the air to demonstrate the escalation.  

You smother the urge to roll your eyes.  Like most lawyers, Seokjin loves to hear himself talk.

He’s also an old friend, someone you trust and someone who’s help you desperately need -- so you’re going to have to suck it up and let him have some fun at your expense. 

It’s only fair.

“Then somewhere way up here -- ” he stretches his upper body for effect, “ -- way past disasters is the shit you just told me.  Somewhere way off the charts. Are you with me?”

You nod, taking a sip of your own beer.

“Yup.”

“So what the fuck?” 

You laugh.  You know it’s bad form to call up a buddy you haven’t seen in months, tell him you want to buy him a beer and then dump the world’s most complicated case at his feet.  

It’s just that you haven’t been able to come up with another solution.

You’ve turned this problem over in your mind hundreds of times by this point -- envisioned dozens of ways this could end.  No other scenario makes sense in the long run.  This is the only way to put a stop to this madness without Jungkook behind bars for the rest of his natural life.  

Or worse.

That’s why you’re prepared to pull out all the stops with Seokjin.  You’re not going to let him get away with letting you down easy. 

He hasn’t laughed you out of this bar yet so you’re taking that as a good sign.

“Jin, there isn’t anyone else who could pull this off,” you say, meaning every word.  “I know you can fix this.”

He snorts.

“This guy gave agents the slip in two different countries and ghosted from a federal courthouse,” he takes another sip of his beer.  There’s limits to what even I can do. Not that I don’t appreciate the ego stroke though, you know I do.”

You gnaw at the corner of one fingernail, thinking.

“So who is he?” 

“I already told you, he --”

“Cut the bullshit,” Jin interrupts. “You know what I’m asking.  Who is he to you?”

Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question?

“It’s complicated,” you sigh, and even that is somehow oversimplifying this entire fucked-up situation. “Not sure I know how to explain that.”

“Oh, I’m willing to bet there is quite a story there,” he smirks.  “Some day you’re going to have to fill me in on all the dirty details.”

You glance away for a moment to avoid his knowing look.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” you say. “I’ve seen guys way worse than this get deals that kept them out of prison entirely.”

“Well you of all people know how this works, so don’t act brand new,” Jin retorts. “You want the government to play ball with this guy then he’s got to give them something they want.  If they don’t have any use for him, they have no reason to show mercy.”

“I know that,” you admit.  “Still trying to figure that part out.”

“So figure it out,” Jin pushes back. “‘Cause I’m an attorney, not a genie. I’m not in the wish-granting business.  Bring me something I can use and we’ll go from there.”

We’ll go from there. A careful hope stirs in your chest when Seokjin says that.

You promise yourself you’re going to bring him an angle that works.  

Now you’ve just got to find it.

*****************************

“Who is this guy to you?”

Jin’s question echoes in your head the entire way home.

It’s so much easier to focus on the what -- Jungkook on the run and all the problems that come with it -- than it is to focus on the why.  

The why scares you too much to confront head-on. It’s not like you love this man, right? 

He could be a terrible person. He could be as rotten in real life as he is on paper. 

He could be playing you.  It’s certainly not the first time the thought has crossed your mind.

But every time you start to entertain the doubts, something pulls you back. You can’t shake the feeling that Jungkook is none of those things.  You can’t forget the way he looked at you in Puerto Rico.  His face that night is forever burned into your mind.

So he’s either completely real or the world’s most convincing fake.

You pour a glass of water and unlock the burner phone.   The message you’d tried to send back to the number he contacted you from bounced back.  There hasn’t been a single new message since then.  

You take a drink and consider what step to take next.  

There is no way you’re going to push Jin to fight on Jungkook’s behalf until you know without a doubt this is something Jungkook wants for himself.  For all you know, he’s happy with riding this out until the end.  He could be totally at peace with the idea of never being at peace.

You stare at the screen for a moment before making up your mind to dial the number you’d found online.

The voice on the other end answers in Korean.

“Yoongi?” you ask.

The line is completely silent for a few seconds.

“I distinctly remember you promising me I’d never hear from you again,” comes the curt reply. You smile to yourself imagining the scowl he’s probably wearing right now.

“I did,” you admit.  “Thing is --” you pause and choose your next words carefully, “ -- circumstances have changed. So I’m asking for your help one more time.”

Yoongi makes an aggravated noise, something between a growl and a grunt.

“Fine.  What do you want?”

“I might have a way to help him.  Nothing is ironed out and there are no guarantees, but it’s something.  It’s just that -- I haven’t been able to reach him.”

“Yeah well, neither have I.”

Shit.  You hope the situation hasn’t gone completely upside-down in Nicaragua already. Getting him there was supposed to buy you some time.

“Okay, “ you exhale, pacing your kitchen floor.  You tell yourself there could be a million reasons why he hasn't reached out to anyone.  You tell yourself not to panic. You certainly don’t want to panic Yoongi, either.

“I need you to take down this number.  If you reach Jungkook, you need to give it to him.  Tell him if he wants to end this it’s the only way.”

Yoongi blows out a heavy breath.

“Yeah, alright.  Go ahead.”

*****************************

 God, you are really starting to hate this place.

The voice in your head that’s been telling you how deeply unsatisfied you are in this job has slowly gotten louder over these past few months.  Now it’s all you can think about every morning as you swipe your badge and walk into the polished lobby.

This isn’t some labor of love for you.  

It’s something you trained to do, started doing, kept on doing and you’re still doing now.  

On and on and on in an endless string of days.

You’d started this job with the kind of starry-eyed enthusiasm that always annoyed the veterans around here.  Now you can understand why.  It doesn’t take long in this line of work to realize that justice is a concept that’s bought and sold.  He who has the most cash makes the rules.

You grab a cup of coffee and log onto your computer to start in on the mountain of paperwork that awaits.  It’s laborious and annoying and total bullshit but at least it’s a distraction.  At least it keeps you from obsessing over the Jungkook situation non-stop.

So you throw yourself into the work just to make the hours tick by.

Your boss stops by before lunch, asks if you want to join him and some of the others at a local deli.  You cry off, complaining about paperwork and deadlines and he smiles sympathetically as they head out.  It’s a relief when their laughing voices fade away and this part of the office falls silent.

You are half-way through customizing your burrito order online when a shiver of realization walks up your spine.

***********************

“Seokjin Kim.”

He sounds so formal, answering his phone for a number he doesn’t recognize.  

“Hey, it’s me,” you say, tossing your keys onto your kitchen counter.  

“Oh, I didn’t realize -- wait, wait, wait.  Are you calling me from a burner?” Jin asks incredulously.  “Wow, it’s like we’re on The Wire or some shit.”

“Shut up,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “I’m calling because I think I might have come up with the angle.”

Jin whistles.

“Hope it’s a good one.”

“Yeah me too,” you mutter under your breath.  “I just -- I can’t be involved in any way.  I’m not even going to be able to talk to you until this plays out. No texts, no calls to my cell.  I’m already way out on a limb here.”

“Yeah, I get it,” he says.  “But hey, just for the record? A favor is something like, ‘Hey Jin, can you drop me at the airport on Tuesday? Hey Jin, would you mind picking up my dry cleaning?’ You know, for future reference.”

You laugh. Points were made.

*************************

You tell yourself -- this is long overdue.

That with or without Jungkook -- with or without the madness on that flight or the night in San Juan -- this was going to happen anyway.  

And for the first time in weeks, you actually smile at the security guards who check bags at the entrance.  You smile at the barista who talks too much at the Starbucks in the lobby.  You smile at the creep from Cybercrimes on the elevator, even though he’s standing too close. He always stands too close.

You feel lighter than you have in ages and that’s fucking bizarre, because this could all still blow up in your face at any moment.  Despite all you’ve done, Jungkook could be arrested at any time -- hauled away, locked away in prison for life.  Hell, you could be joining him at some point, disgraced and discredited and detained.  

But you woke up this morning and had a moment of clarity that knocked the wind out of you.  Today, you’re going to walk out of this building on your own terms.  

Every decision you’ve made along the way -- good or bad -- has been yours.  

If they show up at your door with a warrant, then you’ll handle it.  If they haul you off, then you’ll handle it.  If Jungkook decides he wants Jin’s help and the agency never sniffs out a thing, then you’ll handle it.  

You’ve done everything you can -- so either this works, or it doesn’t.  But there’s a big fucking difference between being cautious and being scared. 

You’ve decided you’re not going to be scared.

You read over the letter you’d typed, printed and signed before walking into your boss’s office. 

His mouth gapes in surprise when you hand him your resignation.

Effective immediately.

************************

It’s been three weeks without a word from anyone.  

Yes, you did specifically tell Jin not to reach out, you remind yourself.

The last time you two had spoken, you’d explained that you didn’t give a shit about losing the job, but that you were certain were entirely too prissy to make it in prison, and he’d agreed and you’d both shared a laugh about that.  

But now it’s been over three weeks and he still hasn’t reached out.  

You’ve had no word from him, no word from Jungkook and now you have no job.  

The silence is deafening.

If there’s an upside at this point, at least your house is immaculate.  You’ve gotten your daily run up to three miles.

Tonight the air is unnaturally cool for this time of year, more than welcome when you lace up your running shoes.  You set a good pace, make good time, and drown out the outside world with your earbuds.  

But at the end of your run -- just as you’re getting closer to home -- you notice something odd. 

Your porch light is out.  

Which is weird because you definitely remember replacing that bulb not too long ago.  You cut the music and walk quietly up to your door. 

Your entire body is on high alert as you approach slowly, keys in hand on the off chance you’re going to have to wield them like a weapon. 

But when you step up to the porch you find -- nothing. 

No creep waiting to jump out of the shadows to ambush you.  You shake your head at your own overactive imagination, take a deep breath and tell yourself to relax.

You slide your key in the lock.

The sunlight that had waned at the start of your run is entirely gone at this point, and you open the door into darkness.  You flip on the light, toss your keys on the small table you keep in the entryway.

“Don’t freak out, okay?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the voice that comes from your living room.  From your couch.  

From inside your goddamned home.

Oh my god.

**************************