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silence-burns · 4 years

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Please Hate Me //part 45

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, banter, smut in this chapter

Loki, despite being raised in a royal family, was at heart a man of simple pleasures. What more could he want from life than what he already had?

The Edge was a place of wonders, that much was indisputable. And even if not all of them were easy to enjoy, there were still moments worth living for.

The stars above felt closer than the last time Loki paid attention to them. Galaxies swirled in their eternal dance, the stars bright and colorful. Here, at the edge of the known universe, one had to wonder what laid beyond it. Here, it didn't feel far at all.

But even though some part of him couldn't stop the curiosity, Loki was tired of adventures. Or at least the ones where he had to risk his life and others'. Years ago, he'd have been surprised any 'others' would choose to stick with him and stay by his side despite it all. It was still a strange, new concept that baffled him whenever he realised how comfortable he’d grown in his new life. How vastly different it was from what he had predicted his future to look like.

But it was okay, Loki concluded. If life wanted to surprise him in that way, he'd allow it.

Loki closed his eyes. The wind gathered the sweet scent of flowers, blowing it through the lush gardens, overflowing with life. It was one of the many wonders of the Edge - how capable it was of change. How easy it was for the muddy creeks to turn into crystal-clear ponds. How the dry patches of grass could turn into fields of greenery and flowers. How the gnarled trees could turn into a forest thrumming with noise and movement.

All of it for a price paid in blood and ash.

Loki's hand brushed his throat, where he had still felt the ghosts of pain.

It was over, Loki had to remind himself again. The mission was over and they were all leaving the Edge soon. There were other, better, things to focus on. He should think about how soft the grass was as he laid on the field. How warm you felt, pushed into his side and wrapped in his cape. How peaceful it was among the trees, with birds singing somewhere in the distance-

"Don't ya fucking LICK that frog, Peter, or I swear on your aunt, I'll-"

"It smells like carrots!"

"It doesn't mean you have to- oh my god… This is the last time I abduct you."

Loki smiled. The birds were no longer singing, or at least not through the deafening ringing in his ear, but he didn't mind. He didn't mind that life at all.

He heard rushed steps to his left moments before the boy reached him. Loki cracked one eye open.

The fattest, most annoyed, orange frog he had ever seen flopped from the boy's hands, all six legs dangling loose.

Peter's smile was brighter than the countless stars overhead. "Look what I found, Mr. Mischief! There were more of them, and in different colors too!"

The frog burped. It indeed smelled of carrots.

Loki closed his eye. "What does it taste like?"

"Like a frog, unfortunately…"

"You should check out the other ones."

"Okay!"

And before he knew it, the boy was gone. The thicket shook. A few faeries rushed away, desperately flapping their translucent wings.

"He's gonna lick all the frogs now," you grumbled from your cocoon. "He's gonna be sick."

"I can heal him."

"How nice of you. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

"What can I say, darling? I'm a generous god."

"So in all your godly wisdom you told the boy to go lick some frogs?"

"Let him have some fun."

You turned your head to face him. Loki was looking at the stars overhead. Dark bruises peeked from under his collar. Magical aftershock, he had called them when he had explained why they didn't disappear despite his healing. They'd stay for a while, he said. A small price to pay.

"I'm glad it's over," you said quietly.

"So am I."

"Do you think…," you licked your lips. "Is it okay for us to just lay here and enjoy this change?"

The Edge took a shape that was so vastly different that it still seemed like a miracle. The balance was indeed a precarious thing there, no flicker of energy ever wasted. The land replenished, bringing to life things that made you admit that magic could be beautiful.

Still, you couldn't forget where all this energy came from. How the Queen had delayed her own fading by killing so many others.

"We did what we could," Loki understood your worry too well. "It is beyond us to change the laws of these lands and their dwellers. Harsh as this might feel to us, this is what life looks like here. All this," he gestured to the shimmering forest around, "is what the Edge was always supposed to be like, if the order of things had been kept."

"Wise words coming from an outsider."

You unfurled from Loki's cape so fast you almost ripped it from beneath him. The Prince was standing at the edge of the clearing the three of you chose to spend your final hours at. He was wearing a robe in distinct shades of silver, the pattern covering the fine fabric meandering within the eye-catching lines. It was the most vivid thing you'd ever seen him wear, the shine of the metal pieces razor-sharp.

The Prince wasn't looking at you. "I have lived for so long I couldn’t remember how my own world was supposed to be. How strange it was to see it wither throughout the centuries despite the Queen's fading supposedly filling out the essence lacking. How strange it was for so many Rifts to form and plague our lands. How peaceful it had become now…"

Loki and you exchanged glances, but kept quiet. The Prince kept his hands clasped behind his back, but you couldn't forget them drenched in blood.

During the silence after the Prince's words, Peter came back from whatever he had occupied himself with and likely annoyed whatever creature he managed to find. He took one look at the visitor and disappeared between the trees again. He was a smart boy, after all.

"We are glad this issue is resolved at last," Loki said carefully.

"So am I."

The Prince nodded to himself. His eyes were cold and distant. You wondered how long one had to live to forget their own past.

And how long it'd take the Prince to vanish, now that the weight of fading had fallen to him.

"The body of your ambassador is being prepared for the transport," he said at last before leaving the clearing. He did not take the path towards the palace, though. Loki and you watched him disappear between the trees, walking slowly among the flowers in full bloom. You couldn't help but wonder if he was reminiscing, or creating fresh memories.

The air tasted like ash in your mouth.

"I think I prefer spiders."

Loki shushed you. "Don't bring bad luck. I want to leave this place in one piece."

"Oh? And where would you rather be?" you asked as you laid back down on the soft grass.

"Somewhere nice and quiet, but I'm open to suggestions," Loki purred into your ear, bringing you close to his chest.

"Then I'm sure my little surprise will be to your liking."

Loki stilled. "A what?"

"You'll have to be patient. We're here, so I'm not sure what's going on on Earth, but I think it should be ready when we're back."

Loki's mind was overflowing with all the possibilities and ideas. He went over your past conversations, trying to piece together whatever hints you might have given him. "Should I guess?"

"I'm not telling you anything. You have to wait."

Loki did not want to wait, but his options were limited.

By the time you were to leave the Edge, he was no closer to finding out what you had planned. The three of you waited patiently on the same balcony you had arrived on all those weeks ago. It hadn't felt that long, probably because of how much had happened since then.

Roses climbed high over the stone walls of the palace, their flowers heavy and blooming. Petals rained down, picked off by the wind and taken away.

The ambassador's body was wrapped in silk and bound tight, ready to be taken to his birthplace at last.

"Do you think he found out what the Queen had been doing?" you asked quietly.

"He might've been suspicious enough to look for all those ancient scrolls in the library and pieced together the facts," Loki said.

"And the Queen didn't let him spill her secret."

Peter frowned. "So… she was the bad guy, right?"

If only things were so easy.

"Often, there's no good or bad," Loki said, looking at the roses. "There are just things that'll hurt you more than the others, and the things that'll hurt others but save you the pain. Everything is a matter of choice. And values."

The three of you watched the Bifrost open and swallow the remains of the ambassador. Only he would be allowed on the grounds of Asgard that day, at least officially. No hint of emotion could be noticed on Loki's face as he watched the flash of light disappear. You took his hand.

Out of the shadows of one of the towers came the Prince, entering the balcony from the side of the river, shimmering far below. He was alone, no guards following his steps. You wondered how many of them were left.

"Looks like this is farewell," he said in a deep voice.

"We are glad we could help," Loki lied smoothly.

There were no words left to exchange. It was clear that whatever would happen now to this place was way beyond either of your control.

No amount of evidence could ever make you trust the Prince, though.

The light surrounded you in a flash of colors, pulling on each and every fiber of your being. Loki tugged you into his side, Peter sticking himself to his other.

The feeling of being ripped to atoms and then roughly put back into shape half a galaxy away was almost familiar by now. Still, it was no more bearable than the previous times and left you with a mild dizziness once your form materialized back on Earth.

You'd never laugh at people clapping after plane landings again.

The sudden change of the surroundings hit you with a cold blast of winter chill and sun, although its light was diluted through the clouds. It was strange not to see the galaxies in the reach of your hand.

What was even stranger was seeing Thor calmly standing at the top of the Stark Tower, where the three of you had been transported to.

"I think I prefer the bag," Peter mumbled, dangerously green on his face.

Thor approached you with a frown that, Loki knew, had never led to anything good. At least not for him. Brotherly love could be rough at times.

"So, you're back," he said, openly eyeing the kid. "How did it go? Are we at war?"

"We're all good, thanks for your concern," you cooed sweetly.

"The Edge was never more beautiful than when we left it," Loki smiled.

Thor took a steadying breath. "...is it in ruin?"

You thought back to the slightly devastated great hall of the palace. And the gardens still dealing with the aftermath of a spider infestation.

"I just told you it's not! Why do you always accuse me of lying, brother? I'm deeply hurt by your lack of trust."

"It's the safer option," Thor said. "As glad as I am to learn that the crisis is apparently solved, I dare ask what is the boy doing with you?"

Peter blanched.

Loki pushed him off the roof. "What boy?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw not-a-boy swinging off into the city as fast as his webs allowed him.

The second steadying breath helped Thor even less than the first one. There was a tiny little vein pulsing at his temple, threatening to burst along with his temper.

Loki patted Thor's arm on his way to the stairs. "Don't worry, brother. We took care of everything."

"That's precisely why I worry."

You sent him a kiss as you followed Loki. It didn't seem to be appreciated enough.

You couldn't believe you were back on Earth. The change that felt huge before, only grew with each step you took down the Tower's familiar corridors. The kitchens, the day rooms, training grounds - it all felt so strangely unreal after the weeks living among the shifting, feral magic of the Edge.

"It's good to be back," you said at precisely the moment Bruce Banner appeared on the other end of the corridor leading through the labs.

Bruce froze, his eyes growing wide. He, apparently, had a dramatically different opinion about your coming back.

He shifted nervously on his feet, but there was no escape. "So, uh… How did it go?"

Loki pretended to think. "Well, don't expect to see the real moon anytime soon."

The look on Bruce's face was worth a pic, but your phone had been left in your room before the mission.

"It really is good to be back," Loki repeated your earlier words sometime later, once the door to your room closed behind your back.

Not much seemed to have changed, which was strangely reassuring. Loki wasn't sure what his feelings were towards the small figurine of his unnerving similarity were, but even its sight was not unwelcome. It still stood on the narrow and slightly dusty windowsill, covered in the snow on the other side of glass.

But there was one thing out of order that immediately caught Loki's attention. As far as he was concerned, the neat stack of business cards on the bedside table was not there last time, as well as the not-so-neat single one, with hand painted spider and a set of what could be horns, if one squinted hard enough.

'thought it would be cool' said the little note scribbled with a gel pen.

"And what is that?" Loki asked, picking it up.

"Part of the surprise."

"'Professional mischief for an affordable price'," Loki read out loud. "Sounds like a catchphrase of some detective agency, like the ones from the shows you showed me."

Loki thought about what he just said. He looked at you with a frown.

"Only if you want it to," you shrugged with a little smile ghosting over your lips.

Loki blinked. "You're actually serious."

"I thought it would be nice if we had something of our own. You know, outside of this mess," you pointed towards the door, currently being banged with a fist from the other side. Two voices demanded to know 'everything about that damn moon'.

Loki looked back at the neat stack of cards. The thick paper was pleasant to the touch.

"You said it was only part of the surprise?"

"How glad I am you asked, love."

Loki watched you pick up your coat and gloves. You opened the large window to the left, letting the alarmingly chill air inside. "Shall we?"

One more voice joined the ones behind the door. Loki could not see into the future, but he had a feeling that door would be the most occupied place in the Tower soon.

"That's a lovely idea," he said and picked you up.

The burst of magic solidified under his feet as the two of you left the Tower and all the people looking for you.

The sun was slowly setting. It was not late, but as always during the winter time, day hours were sparse. You were high enough in the air for the pedestrians not to notice you, but even then, what would they do? Tony had been flying around in his suit on a daily basis, and wouldn't hear anyone having a problem with that.

The wind pushed rogue snowflakes into your faces. It felt refreshing to be back in the city you were so familiar with. Everything seemed new and wondrous, especially from such a perspective. Even plane flights couldn't do it justice, not when you couldn't feel the breeze in your face, and clouds passing by so closely you could almost reach out to them with a hand.

Loki changed course when you directed him to the older part of the city. It was still relatively close to the centre, but no skyscrapers, and certainly no towers could be found in the neighborhood of old brick apartments; only buildings a few floors high, and narrow lawns separating their fronts and the road, both currently covered in snow. No one bothered to take care of it, at least since it last fell.

Loki put you down in front of the one you pointed him to.

"I must admit I'm surprised," Loki said. "I'd never expect to come to a place like this, for whatever reason."

"You don't even know why we're here yet." You led him up the ice-covered stairs to the scarcely lit interior stairwell.

You ignored the apartments on the lowest floor, and instead took him upstairs. With a set of keys you fished out of your jacket, and which Loki dimly remembered you grabbing before leaving the Tower, you opened the door with a number 13 on it.

"You're not superstitious, right?" you laughed quietly.

Feeling you observe him carefully, Loki stepped inside. The short hall led to a room that once upon a time could've been someone's office. But that was a long time and a few crises ago, when the furniture was free of the scratches, and the walls didn't shed old paint every time seasons changed. Still, it had its charm, Loki had to admit as he stepped further in. If cleaned, the large window could allow a lot of light onto the heavy desk in front of it, and to the sitting area with two couches and a coffee table. To the right, Loki noticed another set of stairs, leading upwards.

"The upper part is connected. The previous owner used it as an apartment, with this here being his working area," you explained.

Loki nodded.

"What do you think?" you elbowed him in the side, too nervous to wait patiently.

Loki sat on one of the couches. Oh, he could definitely feel the atmosphere of this place, so similar to the crime shows you had made him binge (and he didn't even whine about too much). He had never thought of himself as a detective, not like the ones on TV, but on the other hand - who on Earth could be better at solving any and all supernatural secrets this planet might still have? There certainly didn't seem to be a lot of competition in that area.

He was still contemplating his future and, of course, possible fame, when you slipped onto his lap and cupped his face.

"What. Do you. Think?," you asked clearly, looking him straight in the eye. "Don't make me wait, asshole."

A lazy, satisfied smile creeped on Loki's face - precisely the one he knew always drove you crazy.

"I'm still unsure, darling," he drawled, leaning further back onto the couch and reveling in the feeling of having you pressed against him. "For some very strange reason, I can't make up my mind just yet…"

The setting sun painted golden patterns on your face. Your hand wandered over Loki's chest, and stopped over his racing heart. However much he tried to stop it, his heart had always been the one to betray his every emotion.

"That's such a shame," you leaned into his neck, pushing his head to the side. "I would do anything to make it easier for you…"

Loki's hands slipped to your thighs, holding you steady against him. His fingers shook when he felt your lips follow the curve of his neck, right over his rapid pulse. He closed his eyes as you slowly worked on undoing his shirt.

"Anything you do will be enough," his words were breathy and quiet.

"Are you sure?"

"I can't think of a single thing I wouldn't let you do to me right now."

You certainly were enjoying yourself just as much, given the smile ghosting over Loki's collarbone, and the trail of kisses going slowly down. Loki's grip tightened over your legs, his breath becoming shorter the further you went. He felt the heat rising deep inside his chest, just as his thoughts turned murkier with each small movement of your hips, brushing unnervingly close to where he had wanted them to, but still not-

A strangled sound escaped his throat. Loki pushed the coat off your shoulders and threw it to the side, not caring where it landed. He had other things on his mind, and one of them included his hands diving under your shirt, and roaming over your back, so wonderfully warm.

Loki shivered when you brushed over his bulge, earning you a breathless moan as you worked on his belt.

"I think I'm starting to warm up to this place," he muttered into your lips. His fingers tugged on your trousers, as impatient as yours.

You drank in the sounds that came from him. You stroked his shaft gently, brushing your thumb over its underside. He shuddered in your grip, tense to the point of near pain. Loki's nails dug into the skin of your back as you rose and then sank onto him, taking him in an unnervingly slow pace.

His heart thundered in his chest as you rode him gently, the sight engraving itself into Loki's memories - those deepest, most secretive ones, which he often came back to to relive and thoroughly enjoy.

The couch kept creaking under the two of you, growing louder as your moves became sloppier and more desperate. Loki couldn't help his hips from grinding into yours every time you rose above him, chasing the pleasure and getting close to it. Loki's thrusts became erratic. His hands gripped your ass when you leaned closer, hitting just the right spot-

He came, shivering under your touch, waves of pleasure shooting through his body.

"Sorry," he muttered, his voice hoarse. He could already feel the redness blooming over his cheeks. He didn't think he'd be done so soon, hadn't planned it…

You shut him up with a kiss, brushing the hair plastered to his forehead to the side. Your hips rolled over his a few more times, riding him into the couch and melting his bones as you extended the feeling.

"It's okay," you said. "We have all the time in the world now."

Loki nodded, words failing him. He brought you closer to his chest, his arms closing around you in a tight embrace as he burrowed his face into the crook of your neck. For a few moments, the only thing he could think about was that home wasn't always a planet, or a building. Sometimes, on those few rare, and incredibly lucky occasions, it could be a person.

And it was more than enough.

"I love this place," Loki admitted quietly.

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #loki marvel #loki mcu #marvel #loki series #loki fanfiction #loki smut #I Love Loki

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yandere-sins · 4 years

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It’s tough to be a god

Summary: “Disturbed, that's what you were. Disturbed by the people acting as if you weren't a living being anymore. No matter their love or devotion, no one wanted to see you for what you were, they just wanted to see the illusion they had of you as their god.”

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Rating: Explicit Characters: Reader (AFAB), Multiple unnamed characters (Villagers) Word-Count: 3615

Warnings: Blood, Non-Con, Yandere, Mistreatment, Mishandling, Gore, Degradation, Mentioning of Starvation

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a/n: Yay, I finished it! Yes, it was inspired by same-named song, though, as this is no happy-go-lucky story, it isn’t as chipper. Please proceed with caution reading this, and I’d love to hear what you thought, so please let me know! ♥ Enjoy!

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Chapter I

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't remember their face. Neither the shape of their nose nor the color of their eyes still remained in your brain. You didn't remember if they had big ears or long fingers, and you couldn't recall the name they had before they became 'It'. After twenty years of them gone, how could you possibly remember someone you maybe never truly looked at in the first place?

If you believed the tales, they had been a beautiful, young man. He didn't come from your village, wasn't born here, and never grew old in the huge walls of the palace the people only build for him. They used the last of their gold to make him a home, last of their silk to make robes for him, and they fed him the last of their corn. All of that, and much more, they sacrificed, just so he'd become what they desperately needed him to be.

A god.

Your people wanted nothing more than a deity that would reign over them. Who would make the harvests great, the rivers clean, and the people healthy. Considering that a couple dozens of those families had nothing to their own before their god arrived, it wasn't a surprise that they'd be seeking divine help to even make it through the day. You hadn't been born back then, but you knew first hand how hard it must have been for them.

This… god, he helped them. He made it rain, and he gave them instructions. In return, they kneeled at his feet every day, praising him, telling him about their sorrow and worries. He listened to them, helped them find a way to restart their lives and to become better than what they were before. The villagers settled on mud and barren land, and your town rose from the ground as if he had snipped his fingers to build it in a little under a night. Never again had your village known hunger or despair. There hadn't been a day that anyone suffered, no illness that managed to spread and destroy their happiness. It was pure bliss, and it was all thanks to their god.

Yes, you didn't remember him. At least, not entirely. Strangely enough, you remembered a time where he held you in his arms. And you knew it was him. You felt safe and sound as he hushed you, rocking you lightly, blessing you with his presence. No other feeling could compare to the one as you laid there, still a baby, just a few days old. You still heard his voice call your name, a sweet ringing sound, and the only other thing you could remember of this god.

But never would you be able to hear the sound again, as he vanished when you were only two years old. He vanished, and no one ever saw him again. And with him, everything that was good and well, disappeared too, leaving your village in ruin and dirt. You were a mere toddler then, you couldn't possibly have known anything about the world yet. But still, his voice haunted you in your sleep, when at two years old, you heard his scared whispers as you laid in bed, your parents thinking you were asleep.

"I need to leave."

"It's not safe."

"We need to go. All of us."

"Don't let them take the child away--"

Your memories got ripped off by the sound of a loud gong, the echo vibrating in your head. It was the usual signal, every day, at the end of every mass, every important event. To say it was making you sick, was an understatement. With always the same sound - and you heard it so much - you couldn't help but want to cry with how loud and obnoxious it was to you by now, years of its nuisance clogging your ears.

Even after all this time wearing them, the chains around your wrists and ankles were still too heavy, cutting into your flesh. The weights on the other ends were solid, placed in little molds on the ground so they wouldn't move. No matter the struggle, nor the strength you managed to bring up would even sway them. If not a strong warrior came, or the high priest with the keys, you wouldn't get out of them. They kept you in place on the throne; kept you seated well. You may have stopped the struggles months ago outwardly, but at the first chance of being free, you would have run, and everyone knew that.

Accompanied by the gushing 'Ah' and 'Oh' of the people kneeling before you, you lifted your gaze. Usually, your head hung low, the crown on top of your hair was of solid gold and as heavy as a stone crushing down into your skull. But you had to resist the urge to curl up even more into yourself, knowing this midday-mass was the only time you would be able to see your mother.

Scanning the area, you felt sick to the stomach as everyone looked at you. If you said only a word, they'd be drooling at your feet, eager for more. You were their everything. The cities most valued thing. All day long, you were on their minds, even if they weren't attending your holy presence. Even then, they would praise you at any given moment while they were living their lives peacefully, away from you. But to mass time, everyone was attending, no exceptions, no matter the age or gender. They hoped you'd bless them with your gaze, that their attention would gain your favor. Yet, you had no favors left to give them.

Finally, you spotted her. Your mother was a beauty, no one could ever come closer to how pretty she was. She had been a priestess to the god way before you were born because of her highly regarded wit and cleverness. And she had been in favor with everyone, because she was so forgiving and beautiful, like a rare, strong flower blooming between all the weeds that the village offered.

Even now, bruised and famished to her bones, to you, she was still the prettiest woman in the village. You were well aware that she wouldn't last much longer, but her attendance and the small smile she'd give back to you as you looked at her, gave you the tiniest sparks of hope. They were the only things worth living for anymore.

Oh, what had you pleaded and kissed the feet of the priests that they'd forgive her for trying to break you out? Take those chains off of you, and run with you? What all had you done to make them soften her sentence? Never in your life would you have endured the embarrassment and pain to be mishandled by these people if it wasn't for her. But, in the end, they never followed through with your wishes.

Wasn't it weird to deny their deity's wishes? It was almost like they wanted her to slowly wither away just so they wouldn't have to deal with a mother that wanted her child to be happy and free from the burden that had been shoved onto it. As if they knew that what they did was wrong, and yet, they didn't care as long as they had a god to worship, and NO ONE would take that away from them. Not even the god's own mother. If only she could have at least lived alongside you, that was your dearest wish.

You had just turned 20 when your life was turned around. Undoubtedly, ever since the god left your village, it had been rough for everyone involved. He had abandoned everyone - you and your mother included. The land turned barren once more, the rivers dried out, sickness spread quickly. It had been 18 long years of barely making it through the day, but living off of carrots and water that you fetched every day from miles away, you two had made it somehow, no matter how hard and endless the days seemed.

That was until you cut yourself in the hand while working on the fields.

And from your blood, which fell to the ground, a flower rose, red like blood and big as your hand. And another, and another, just as long as your blood dripped into the ground. On your twentieth birthday, a long, painful life laid behind you, but no more. You discovered why the god talked about leaving when you were merely two years old, in a matter of hours, which you wished you had never have to experience.

Because not only you discovered your 'power', but everyone in the village did. Someone on the field next to you ran to get the next best priest they could find, and he inspected you right then and there, his robes sullied by the earth he had to cross to get to you. You remembered the look on his face, the hitch in his voice before he fell to his knees, bowed his head to you, and so did everyone else under his shouts of submission.

The priest took you away from your part of the town, without even letting you say goodbye to your mother. You wouldn't see for a long time after that, but you didn't know as you stumbled after him. Never had someone touched you so roughly, his hand on your wrist as tight as the fear of losing you was. You remembered stumbling, falling a few times, your shins cut open by little stones and branches. But where your blood touched, new life sprouted, and a path of fresh green followed you as you were taken to the holiest place your village had to offer.

He took you from the fields to the palace of gold, the old home of the god they worshipped. Never before had you seen so much gleam and glamour, only the priests being allowed to go to this place still after it was abandoned by the most holy. People were cleaning and scrubbing everything before you even arrived. They all looked at you in awe as you finally got dragged through the door, cheering and bowing to you.

They already saw something in you that you had yet to discover. Being cleaned and put in silk, you felt embarrassed by all the people watching you, giggling and merrily touching you up and down. There was no way you could have ignored the dreadful feeling as you were pushed and directed to an ancient stone table in the back of the palace, engravings carved into it in a language you didn't know. But despite your anxiety, you did what the people of your village instructed you to - the same people you were supposed to trust and bond together with.

Now, two years later, all you remember from that day was the pain. The terrible pain as they let you bleed out on top of the stone, collecting your blood and distributing it everywhere. You thought you'd die then and there, but you didn't, even though the altar was stained by your extremities. You couldn't. Gods cannot die.

Since then, you never had taken a bath alone anymore. You had been placed under constant supervision from the moment you woke up after being milked for your blood. There were eyes on you even when you slept, when you ate, when you studied ancient scrolls you couldn't even read. No one would let you slip out for even a second, let you get a breather alone on the balcony. It didn't help that you tried to run in the first few months of being announced god, tried to jump out the window to end this misery only when you realized you couldn't escape from them. It only made them more careful and suspicious of you. But despite their sideglances and whispers, they still crowned and put you in golden shackles. They put you on the throne of your people and called you 'God', and you had no opportunities to object.

Because it was who you were, a child of a god. A god.

Before that, no one had batted an eye at your dirty form, muddled by the filth of the fields, and clothed in ruined clothes. You weren't a candidate for marriage to anyone, and you were called 'stupid' and 'useless' more than thanked for the hard work you did every day. You were no one and nothing, and it had been okay. You and your mom alone had been everything your mind had been thinking about anyhow. It didn't matter if they called you a 'bastard', and it didn't bother you to be the least welcome person to any festivity. Your mother, too, was an outcast, so you two just stuck together as much as it was needed.

If you looked at yourself in the mirrors these days, you didn't see a god. You still saw the same young person that stood on the fields with their hands in the dirt to get the vegetables out of the mud. You saw the person making soup for their sickly mother. You saw yourself. But that wasn't what everyone else saw by now. They saw their god, their deity. The thing they'd have to worship, so their lives were full and splendid - that's what they saw. You had transcended the stage of being called a person, and you had to agree.

It had been forever that you felt alive too.

Some part of you must have died on the altar on that day. You were sure of it. The feeling of their knives cutting open, so you'd give them more of the precious blood that would make the land healthy again, still haunted you when you thought about it. But the next day, your body had been whole again, no bruise, no cut, no scar. And that's when they knew you had the genes of your father. Your father, the god.

You didn't even know why your mother never told you about it. Maybe, she tried to forget. Perhaps she knew what he had gone through - the same you were now. Just maybe, that was why she wanted to keep you from it as long as she could. She must have been glad that by 20, you still hadn't shown any signs, completely forgetting about it. If only she hadn't. If only she would have gone with him back when he pleaded for her to leave together. Then maybe you wouldn't have needed to end up as miserable as you were.

But it wasn't her fault, and neither was it yours.

As much as you wanted to blame your father, after being under the attentive eyes of the priesthood for two years, you couldn't find it in your heart to be angry at him anymore. At first, you had screamed and cursed him, but now you understood. If he felt the same as you did now - miserable, lonely, wishing for your death rather than your life - then you understood him. Even if you wished he had been more insistent on leaving with your mother, or at least taken you with him, who were you to judge him, feeling his sorrow more than anyone ever could?

But you didn't have the strength to ponder. You were tired from not sleeping as you were always surrounded by ten people staring at your uncomfortable form lying in bed. You were in pain from your shackles, your crown, the heavy jewelry around your neck. Jewels, laced into gold that made for nothing but a beautiful sight, even if they felt like the most expensive cut to your throat. You were embarrassed by the lack of privacy, not remembering the last time you had taken a bath anymore without dozens of hands washing you. And you lacked the nutritions, from not eating off their elegant plates full of every fruit, vegetable, and meat that you could have only dreamed of growing up. But you just couldn't bring yourself to eat any of it, knowing it was nothing but the fruit of your own blood.

Disturbed, that's what you were. Disturbed by the people acting as if you weren't a living being anymore. No matter their love or devotion, no one wanted to see you for what you were, they just wanted to see the illusion they had of you as their god. You should have been at the top of the village, but really, you were at the bottom. The producer of fertilizer for their best lives, you had to bear the pain for their sake, without anyone asking if you wanted that even.

The most disgusting thing, though, were the expectations. You were expected to bring the people good. You were expected to put all your life aside just to serve them. You were expected to put up with anything and everything if it meant to be a good god to them. But at what cost? Your life? Your humanity? Your dignity?

There was no other explanation than expectations, as to why it would be necessary for you to be strapped to a bed regularly, people undressing you, themselves, with their eyes shining in the darkness. The sights of naked skin, paired with the feeling of greedy fingers was something that would forever haunt you.

"We are not doing this for fun," they'd say. "It's an honor."

"It's nothing but necessary."

"Sacrifices must be made."

They called themselves the elite. The purest of the pure. The servants to their god.

But they were nothing but pigs. Ugly, disgusting pigs. No god would ever forgive them for the sins against you. You would never forgive them for sweating, moaning, saying your name in delight. The only time they let the formalities fall was to ask you how good you felt as they all towered over you. And suddenly, you were nothing again - no god, just the same, dirty person, as you were back on the streets. No, now you were less. You were a glorified whore, covered in white dirt, instead of the common brown one. There was no such thing as love or affection when they rammed you into the bedsheets mercilessly, despite your screams and tears.

The only joy you had was when one of them clasped their hand over your mouth, unable to stay aroused with someone wailing about wanting to go home to their mother and how much it hurt. You bit off his ring finger, without hesitation. No one knew how you did it, but divine wrath was a pretty excuse to leave you alone for the rest of the day. That priest never got his finger back, and it was your only meaningful achievement since you were theirs. Afterwards, you were treated even worse than cattle, gagged and blindfolded, turned onto your stomach so you couldn't do something like this again.

If there was anything good in your life, any hope for a god still watching over you being mistreated like this, it was never getting pregnant from the amounts of semen the left you with. That was what the priests wanted: For you to produce more god-spawn, secure the bloodline. They never wanted to go back to the dread of being without a god; in the rare case, you did run away or died. But from the first time someone had his way with you, you swore you wouldn't let them have this. You wouldn't let someone else take your place after you. This wouldn't continue with another miserable, innocent life destroyed like they had with your father's and yours.

"You can rot for all I care," you sighed longingly, the mass finally ending. It was what the villagers wanted, right? You, talking to them, letting them hear your divine voice. Collective gasps ran through rows of people, with children starting to cry when they saw their parent's horrified expressions. From your lowered gaze, you couldn't see the red heads of the priests, upset about their deity's words. But they didn't take long to make you feel their wrath. The people's wrath, even.

Everyone got ushered out of the temple as you were dragged over the floor, blood gushing from the cuffs cutting into every limb. The sound of metal filled the halls as your crown plummeted to the marble, as did your head, a terrible crack hitting your ears. They had no restrains on themselves as they carried you away, limbs cracking as the weights held you back. All despite you never resisting their demand to get you back to 'your' chambers. But no one could relieve you of the burden that was your life, no guard rushing to get the weights, not your mom having to watch her child being mishandled and bathed in its own blood, none of your handmaiden that cowered in fear of more divine punishment.

By the time you woke up again from your torture, painfully aware of the reality, the people of your village had collected at your feet once more, everyone bringing presents of food and wine, jewels, and flowers.

Thinking that all that you were going through was going to be solved by worshipping you more. By loving you in an unhealthy way, and by allowing to have their lives bound to one being, innocent of their delusions and things they swept under the rug. They did all this and more if only to gain your favor, and to have your attention on them as if you were something special.

All just for the sake of you loving them back someday as the god they wanted you to be.

#god!reader #yandere!village #yandere #yandere x reader #Yandere Tw #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #yandere x darling #lemon

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drsenkustone · 4 years

Note

Senku x reader who who knows a lot about plants, gardening, and animals? Like the nature things but they’re really friendly and supportive and are determined to make a world where everyone can be at peace

“Ginro!! What are you doing?! Stop!!” You ran up to the blonde in a panic as you saw him uprooting the almost ripe carrots and potatoes you have been growing for the past few weeks now. You kept the soil fresh, always brought cool water to them and they were getting close to harvest at their peak and could feed many people in the team and village at their best flavor...and the young boy just ripped up at least a quarter or more of your hard work.

He looked over his shoulder up to you, his cheeks stuffed with the veggies and large eyes like an innocent chipmunk who didn’t know he stole the nuts. You snatched a pale carrot out of his hand and he whined. “

“Pleash (y/n)-shan, Kohako hash bon sho shcares width foood,” (Please (y/n)-chan, Kohaku has been so scares with food) He barely stated, little tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. You hated when boys gave you soft eyes, it wasn’t a sight much to see in modern days but this village boys had much prettier eyes. Just as you felt your morale weakening, a savior’s voice arrived.

“Ginro! Kohaku’s looking for you! Says you’re in big trouble!~” Senku grinned evilly as he walked up next to you. The blonde immediately got panic in his eyes, so as evil as he is, the genius continued. “She’s pretty mad about you ripping up (y/n)’s garden too early in season, it could have a pretty bad affect on the villagers and our overall production rate. Not to mention, you snuck away from training.” In less than a minute, the blonde ran as fast as the chipmunk he looked like straight back to the training grounds. Everyone knew Kohaku would kick his ass for skipping training, let alone setting back the kingdom’s goals.

“Man, I wouldn’t want to be in that kid’s shoes,” Senku chuckled, watching him disappear down the trail.

“How’d she know? I just found out a moment ago,” you asked the red-eyed crush.

“She doesn’t,” he smiled slyly. You stared at him for a moment, trying to process how he--...

You raised a hand to cover your face while you chuckled, noting how you could hear Senku chuckle a bit as well. “So now he’ll be in trouble for skipping training and call himself out on ruining my garden.” You sighed, a bit pleased though, hopeful he’ll learn. “You’re a bit evil Senku-kun.”

“Not the first time I’ve been told. C’mon, let’s get this fixed up,” the scientist patted you on the arm before kneeling down to start repairing the roots and dirt. You cheeks dusted a light blush before getting down next to him. Senku was a genius as most things, but he never took away your knowledge of gardening, plants or animals. Even in the stone age, he admired how you could come up with ideas to keep the bears and lions from ravaging all the food supplies. Or finding the best herbs to allow Senku to form more medications. He knew everything but you were a specialist in your field, and he was proud of you and proud to know you.

After about an hour, you two had repaired the damage done. What was uprooted by the boy couldn’t be saved to grow bigger, so you two deemed it best to just cook it as soon as possible. You two walked together back to the main hub of the Kingdom of Science. It’s not like the silence was awful or that awkward, you felt strangely comfortable around him, but you sensed something was bothering him.

“Senku-kun?” He didn’t respond, walking and staring straight at the ground. Now you were a bit worried, it wasn’t like Senku to publicly stress. “Senku?” You grabbed his wrist which gained his attention, his eyes glanced down at your hand. It was fairly small compared to his own, but you were a bit shorter than him.

“What’s wrong (y/n)?” He muttered.

“No, that’s what I ask you.”

“Everything’s fine,” he barely forced that out as a chuckle, probably hoping you’d believe his tricks like Ginro did.

“You’re thinking about something intense, you don’t go tone-deaf on me much,” your grip on his wrist tightened slightly. Senku felt it. In your grasp, he turned his wrist and wrapped his hand around your wrist, both of you holding onto each other. Senku’s smile was weak as he closed the distance between you two slightly. You two weren’t that far from camp, maybe he was worried someone might hear him.

“It’s a lot of pressure, that’s all,” he whispered looking into your (e/c) orbs, memorizing you in moments, but your worry, concern, love for him didn’t falter.

“We can do this,” you hummed, closing the distance a little bit. You noticed him lean his head down a bit and you tilted yours back slightly. He rested his forehead to yours, each of you just staring into the others eyes. It felt like he was absorbing your soul, sucking the breath from your lungs and pleading for something...but you weren’t sure what. He had recently come back from that walk with Ruri, you wondered what she showed him that was so important, if it impacted him somehow. But those weren’t your thoughts right now.

“I...I think we can get Tsukasa on our side eventually. The world can never go back to how it was, and it shouldn’t. But we can’t just let everyone in the older generation die.” You swallowed the small lump in your throat. “I...I believe we can do it. I believe in your science. I believe in you Senku...”

He was silent as he stared at you speaking. You weren’t sure when he started, but his thumb rubbed small circles in your skin where he held your wrist. For what felt like an eternity was probably a moment before he smiled.

“Thank you (y/n)-chan,” he spoke just above a whisper. You felt your cheeks flush with the added honorific. Senku has always been incredible in your eyes, and the way he could move your heart was thrilling.

#senku x reader #senku ishigami #senku ishigami x reader #kohaku #ginro #tsukasa #dr stone #dr. stone #oneshot #reader insert

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guqin-and-flute · 4 years

Text

Holding Me Holding You [Ch. 4]

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2] [Chapter 3]

[Ao3 Link]

[This chapter drops sharply deeper into angst, so there are some trigger warnings under the cut. If you’re worried about any of them, the Ao3 link end notes have summaries to check if you wanna read or skip! 👌 Next chapter will still hurt, but won’t be quite as dark as this one and from then on, it gets lighter.]

[TW: PTSD nightmares, mild unreality, anxiety attack, brief mention of child death, nongraphic description of dead body, general canon typical violence and gore (lots of imaginary blood), mild descriptions of violence, brief mention of suicide, canonical self harm, canonical alcohol abuse, burns, non-graphic description of injuries, Xichen’s worsening mental state, mild emetophobia warning]

The stimulant slowly brightens his mind to a sort of sharpness that borders on unreality. It feels as if his neck is strung with little filaments of wire, pinging with a tension that radiates through his jaw, up into his skull and down his shoulders, even to his hips. But words come easier and the lists of duties can be lined up like neat little stones. It’s alright. It’s necessary.

A-Fu is more animated than yesterday--sometimes he swivels about with keen eyes, sometimes he dozes, only occasionally he whines. At one point, he even proclaims, “S’eepy. Nigh’ nigh’,” and, for all intents and purposes, seems to drop directly into sleep. Mostly, he simply watches everything go by and clings any time Xichen unwraps him. People seem to find him funny. One of the liaisons from Caiyi Town they briefly meet with smiles and leans down to ask A-Fu if he is a little leech who won’t let go. A-Fu just chews on his fingers and stares at him.

Throughout the afternoon, Xichen continues to feed him snacks--little carrots, berries, shreds of buns. The boy holds a few back up to Xichen’s mouth expectantly, sharing again. Xichen smiles and accepts, the tang of the berries bursting over his tongue, bright and startling.

There is even a moment between meetings, just one moment where he sets A-fu down and sits on the steps of a forest path to put his head in his hands just so it would stop spinning. And A-Fu, from where he is latched onto Xichen’s sleeve peering up at him, says, “Sad? So sad?”

“No. No, I’m alright. Tired.”

A-Fu only cocks his head. “Aww, so sad?”

At this endearingly imperfect mimicry of sympathy, Xichen raises his head and smiles down at him, ignoring how that simple movement of his neck has sent white hot pain singing down his spine. “I’m fine. Just busy.”

At this, A-Fu pats (smacks) his palm directly to the right of Xichen’s nose repeatedly, narrowly missing his eye. He announces something utterly incomprehensible with great confidence; it almost sounds like a rhyme, but the vowels are so warped by his young age and half the consonants are missing. Whatever he’s saying seems to satisfy him because he segues directly into being distracted by Xichen’s headband, his other hand trying to hook into Xichen’s mouth for leverage. It’s enough that he chuckles, briefly, before gathering him back up to stand again. In any case, it’s nice to have something that he can physically hold and influence in this moment.

Xichen continues in the flow of the day, feeling like a blind cave fish in a current as everything closes over his head. The air is clammy and chill, bringing the scents of the woods and distant storms. He makes sure to keep wiping the little pebbles of mist off of A-Fu’s face and keeps him shielded when he can. He organizes for more medicine to be brought. He speaks with the doctor caring for Wangji and the sick child. He speaks with his Uncle, with those who are injured and dying. He speaks to the recovering elders his brother had fought, lets their betrayal and rage and disbelief wash over him as he bows deeply and apologizes on Wangji’s behalf and nods and nods.

He lets A-Fu wander around the Hanshi’s main room as he responds to urgent missives from Clans Nie, Jiang, Jin, Yao, Ouyang, and more. Da-ge, as Clan Leader, not as his partner. His heart.

The smooth of his hand over the paper feels almost raw against the prickliness Xichen’s skin has become. He yearns for softer things to send his loves, but now is not the time and he doesn’t have room in between thoughts.

It’s not a question when he takes A-Fu back to the Hanshi to sleep again. He hasn’t the strength to wrestle against his obvious stubborn attachment. Xichen’s skin is crawling like something is underneath it and he is simply unwilling to tempt fate. Let the boy have what he wants. Let him be happy. If it was Xichen who made him so...well, at least that’s something. He will deal with it tomorrow. There is always tomorrow.

Now that it’s dark and the stimulant has since worn off, his sleepless nights are crowding in like unwanted visitors and words and intentions are growing somewhat...vague. He doesn’t know exactly what placations are falling from his mouth like wet autumn leaves--distant encouragement, compliments for his good behavior, mindless crooning. At one point, he can feel himself humming but cannot place when he has decided to do so. It’s dimly concerning, but A-Fu doesn’t seem alarmed by him, simply tired. He curls up right in Xichen’s arms and falls asleep almost immediately after they both fall into bed. Xichen is not far behind, sinking, sinking….

The lull in his pocket of the battle allows him to catch his breath, filling his mouth and lungs with the prickling acid of resentful energy and death. It’s burning like meat. He smells it. Tastes it. It’s as sour as his fear. Shouyue is blood slick in his hand. Sticky. A fresh peal of crazed, despairing laughter blooms above the thunder of screams and clashes. Viscera has turned the ground to slippery mud. He is shaking.

He is turning to search out his brother, fear choking. Finds him leaving. He’s leaving him, flying away, blood raining from his back, spattering down onto the upturned faces below and when Xichen takes a step after him, it’s into the middle of a crowd of corpses. They are Lan and Wen, faces twisted to inhumanity--they are clawing at him, swiping, screaming, savaged and broken. His blood is fire, seething in his chest and gut, running over his skin and everything is wet with it and he--

A scream slices the snarls and Xichen is whipping around, bile flooding up because it’s A-Fu, standing, alone, wailing helplessly in the middle of this slaughter.

No. Not alone.

There is a white form in front of him, hunched over and, all at once, Xichen knows that A-Fu is watching his mother die.

The boy--

He can’t.

My boy--

He shouldn’t, shouldn't have to see--

Xichen is fighting, each step bringing him no closer. He is heavier and heavier until the malicious weight of his own bones drags him down to his knees, incandescent with terror. The swords of the corpses slide home. He is pierced. Pinned to the ground. He is a wild thing, struggling and clawing to get to A-Fu, to shield him from this sight--and the figure is looking up and he sees with a shock of spine numbing horror that she is not Lan Liu.

She is Xichen’s mother, blood bubbling in her breath, weeping, hurting, dying, intestines spilling wetly out, pink and red and black, and he can’t get to them, he’s trying, help, oh gods please no, he can’t move, skewered and heavy and useless, and blood is still somehow raining down, every drop burrowing into his skin as A-Fu just screams and screams and screams, reaching out to Xichen, begging, “P’ease! P’ease!”

Wei Wuxian is rising behind the boy like a shadow unfurling, face an unfamiliar white mask, burning eyes black and empty empty empty. His hands are long, blood rusted knives, rising, curling and Lan Xichen is far past dignity, is sobbing and pleading and screaming please no don't please stop please please please don't hurt him please--

Xichen bolts upright in the dark with his thundering heart shuddering him, an alien moan leaking from his lips. The ghosts of screams. He’s soaked in sweat and terror, shaking in the metal of the cold night air. Breath sawing in and out, he twists, searching.

There. A-Fu is beside him, barely visible in the gloom, sprawled face down on the bed, near the wall, still. He must not have thrashed or called out too loudly. Good. Xichen swallows. He can taste the edge of a sword in his mouth and he swallows again.

It’s still there. It’s in his nose.

Xichen tries to calm his heart rate, to pull in breath slower. Puts a shaking hand on the back of A-Fu’s head and--

He’s cold as a stone.

The world falls sideways through him. Every limb turns to water, every nerve ending ice as he rips back the covers and there’s blood, blood everywhere, devouring the bed, squishing and pooling, black in the darkness and he turns the boy over. It’s A-Zhan, grey and slack, eyes glassy, head lolling. “No, no, no--” Xichen clutches his brother’s face, tries to lift him, but everywhere he touches, he leaves palm prints of blood--the walls, his clothes, his stiff flesh, the pillows--

True consciousness jerks him to life on the floor, knelt on throbbing knees, Liebing in his hand. Some broken sound crawls from his lips like a dying animal and he lets the flute clatter to the floor as he gasps. Stomach clenching, head swimming. A-Fu, is he--is he--

Even as he crawls back onto the bed, something in him is thrashing, is pleading, don’t turn him over, check that he’s breathing and that’s all, don’t make it real, don’t touch him and he can’t, he can’t not. He pulls away the blankets (white) and turns him, putting shaking hands on his face (clean, they are clean) and he is damp and warm in his arms, smelling of sleep sweat and soap. He blinks muzzily up at Xichen, making a vague sound of annoyance before yawning.

Alive. He’s alive. He’s fine.

He sits, shuddering, wrapped around the slightly squirming boy as he fights to breathe. His entire head is throbbing. The terror is not leaving. It’s growing. In the deep of the night, silent and oppressive, he has no idea what time it is or how long he slept, but he needs to see Wangji safe, he needs to go now .

Some part of him is aware that this is not in the least bit logical, knows that he should meditate, should calm himself to coherency and let the boy sleep, but Wangji bleeding, his A-Zhan long dead and cold and the screaming is still so present that he’s certain he will see it with every turn of his head. It’s here, it’s now, and he has to make sure that it isn’t.

With hands trembling so hard he can barely shove Liebing into his sash, he throws himself into an over robe and his boots. He bundles A-Fu in a hasty blanket wrap for warmth and staggers out. The cold wet of the night smacks his face, searing into his nose with the edge of imminent rain. Xichen knows he looks a sight, striding quickly across the walkways in the middle of the night, forehead bare and hair loose, panting and clutching a mass of blankets but he can’t bring himself to care. He can see Wangji’s quarters. He’s almost there. A-Fu is struggling free from his fabric bindings, fighting to look around. “Why?” He asks, plaintively. “Why?”

Xichen can’t answer.

There is no moon and no stars, everything on the mountain deep and muted, save the shimmering dots of lanterns here and there. There is one that drips its dim light down the walls and door to Wangji’s house, to pool on the front porch. The door.

The door is open.

Xichen can’t feel his face. In fact, when he bursts in and finds only an empty, blood stained bed and the lone, sick child still sleeping, he can’t feel much of anything at all. There is a distant bell shrilling somewhere far away.

He’s gone. Wangji is gone.

The room smells sharp and astringent. Familiar, but he is too far away to place it.

Is he dead. Has he killed himself. Will he find his broken body--

Xichen thunks to his knees gracelessly, sets A-Fu’s bundle beside the sick boy. Hears himself say, “Stay here. I’m coming back, I’ll be back, I promise I’m coming back.”

A-Fu is panicking. He’s fighting free of the folds of the blanket, eyes white rimmed. He’s reaching for him, but Xichen fumbles out a talisman, locks the door so it cannot be opened from the inside. “I’m coming back. I’m coming back.”

A light floods through his fingers--another talisman, piercing--and the white stone path blooms with small splatters of scarlet in its brilliance. Blood. Wangji.

His sprinting steps make no sound on the stones. Or perhaps he’s not hearing anything, because when cold begins to patter down on his head, to slither down to his scalp with icy fingers, he hears nothing but the ringing of that far away bell. The blood is scattered. Weaving, wandering down, twisting down the path of the mountain.

It’s being washed away by the steady, slick rain.

He desperately searches instead for any thread of energy, of familiar qi he might sense as the world slowly fills to black and silver needles around him. He finds some, distant, sleeping, not who he was looking for--

A crash, muted and close, and everything floods back in--the hiss of the rain, the rasp of his speeding breath, the hush of treetops in the gathering shower. It had come from the storage building across the clearing. He could have flown for how fast he is suddenly there, seeing the swipe of bloody fingerprints against the gaping screen of the door. The razor clarity of this nightmare unreality tilts him and he is now inside the dry quiet of the building, his clammy clothes and hair cling to him, dripping. Shadows sprawl and jag crazily from his swinging hand light, glints of tidy treasures and weapons wink back from the darkness. “Wangji.” The voice is hoarse and shaking.

A clatter, a flash of white.

Around a line of shelves, Xichen finds him.

He’s alive. (Xichen could collapse with relief, locks his knees against it.)

Wangji is knelt in the debris of cast aside bamboo rods, half draped over a box he is rummaging through, face expressionless, eyes burning. He, too, has no headband, his hair unbound, robe nowhere to be seen. The ruddy bandages on his bare torso sag away from his cracked and gaping wounds. Blood is seeping down his back, staining the waist of his white pants crimson, dribbling onto the floor. The rest of his skin is chalky white, save the blood rusted on his hands. And he seems not to feel a thing.

“Wangji, ” Xichen whispers again as he goes to him, abandoning the glowing talisman on the floor behind him.

When he puts a hand to his brother’s shoulder, Wangji’s head swings around to peer at him with a gaze unfocused and bleary. He smells overwhelmingly of blood and alcohol and sways into his touch. The astringent smell from his house.

Drunk. Very drunk.

Xichen’s heart is still thrashing in the cage of his throat and his stomach is roiling with leftover terror and dawning uncertainty, but he pulls Wangji to him, wrapping his arms around his head to spare his back, burying his face in his hair. Awake. Alive.

Wangji struggles in his grip and then shoves him back, sprawling himself against a barrel before going back to the box as Xichen catches himself on a shelf. “Flute,” he mutters, thickly.

“What?”

“Flute. ”

At a loss, Xichen pulls Liebing from his sash and mutely holds it out to him. For a moment, Wangji takes it in one bloodstained hand and stares blankly. Then, he throws it aside, making it bounce off the wall with a hollow ‘tok’. “ No .”

The light from the talisman is crooked and too low, lighting them eerily from beneath, drawing out the hollows of Wangji’s eyes and rendering his gaunt face cadaverous as he turns back to the box yet again. Xichen catches his wrist, holds him fast when he resists. “Wangji, please. Let me help you. What do you need?”

“Flute.”

“What flute?”

“Dizi.” His brother’s tone is not...flat. It’s practically monotone, but slurred. Lost. “The dizi . ”

‘The’....Oh. Xichen gathers a ragged breath, his temples, his sinuses, his tightened spine throbbing in time with his heart and he captures Wangji’s other wrist, gently. How to explain the idea of ‘never’…. “Wangji, Chenqing...is gone. It went over with Wei-gongzi . We looked but we couldn’t find him.”

He freezes at this name, his blink slow as he stares up into Xichen’s face. His eyes are wide and uncomprehending, shining opaquely in the light.

“Wangji...A-Zhan, I’m--”

“Wei Ying,” his brother says, as if clarifying, as if insisting, and Xichen knows that he knows Wei Wuxian is dead, he was there, but….

“Yes. Wei Ying is gone.” His throat is burning, tightening as Wangji falls silent once more, face vacant and sightless, staring into the murk. The only sounds are their uneven breathing, the shush of rain across the roof, and dripping--from Xichen’s soaked clothes and Wangji’s blood.

All at once, Wangji surges to his feet--he almost collapses back down, but Xichen is there, catching him around the chest. Then, his brother sways, staggering down the row of shelves into the darkness with a white knuckled grip on them, not seeming to absorb anything he was seeing. Xichen could only follow him, helplessly. “Let’s go back, A-Zhan. Let’s go home. You’re hurt. I can carry you, you can have my robe--here,” he fumbles the sash to his over robe open with half-numb fingers and slips out of it, holding it out.

Wangji has halted, braced before a shelf with long, black rods, head bowed. Xichen is about to coax him to lift his arms for the robe when his brother’s hand darts out, fast as a snake. Snatches up one of the rods, deftly twists it around and thrusts it against his chest, over his heart. A wordless shout shocks free of Xichen--but it’s too late.

An ember glow. A hiss and sizzling. The stench of burning flesh.

He yanks it from Wangji and throw it, clattering behind him. He clutches his brother’s arms, staring at him in mute disbelief, shaking. Wangji sways, but his face stays lax and desolate, even as tears seep down his cheeks, even as he looks down at the raw, blackened curls of skin he has branded onto himself. The Wen emblem.

Why why why why--

All of Xichen’s skin is crawling, is buzzing, and he feels like he’s shuddering apart. So he wraps his robe around Wangji and crushes him to his chest. Too hard, too low on his shoulders, but he can’t stop and Wangji doesn’t respond, just hangs limply in his arms. His brother. His little brother.

He smells of burnt meat.

Xichen has failed again. And again and again. Keeps failing. Can’t keep him safe. It will never be over. It will never be enough.

Help. I can’t--

Xichen swallows, hard and rasps, “Wangji--”

“A-Yuan.”

Each new turn shoves him down a mountain, tumbling, groundless. He doesn’t understand. Wangji pulls back, head lolling, and Xichen lets him. He peers at him with intent on his bloodless face, hazy eyes still shining with silent tears. “A-Yuan.”

Xichen is still, searching. Then, weakly, “The...boy?”

“Mine,” Wangji insists.

“‘Yours….’”

Wangji’s hands curl into the lapels of Xichen’s under robe. Smearing his own blood there. “For me.” He’s pleading, Xichen realizes. Desperate. “Mine.”

For him. He’s asking Xichen to let him keep the boy. To do it for him. Anything. To keep you here--anything. “Yes.”

Wangji gives him a wordless shake from his grip on his robe.

“Yes.” Xichen repeats, “I promise.”

It seems to be what he wants because one of Wangji’s hands reaches up to touch his own bare forehead, where his headband usually sits, absence normally betrayed by a paler strip of skin. All of him was pale, now, a ghost of white and black in the gloom, a smear of red on his forehead, left by his finger. “A Lan.” Wangji’s tears are still coming, but so is something deeper--Xichen can see it in the press of the lines by his nose, the tightening of his mouth.

“A Lan,” Xichen agrees automatically. Whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. Whatever Xichen can give. He is shivering from the cold, clammy draping of his clothes and the shock of everything. Fear. Helplessness. Anything. The smell of charred skin is astonishingly overpowering. His brother’s.

He wants to throw up.

Wangji hasn’t blinked. “My son.”

That stutters the breath in Xichen’s chest, but he nods. “Yes, A-Zhan.”

Whatever has been coming up through Wangji is here, dredged from whatever depths by his drunken vulnerability because the usually strict edges of him sag, the habitual distance in his expression ravaged. He looks so young. He looks so shattered. He hasn’t looked away. His hands fist themselves back into Xichen’s robes, this time for support, and in a low, cracked whisper, he says, “He’s gone.”

The entire tract of Xichen’s breathing, from nose to lungs to heart is searing and he nods and nods. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“We killed him.”

The ache of missing Mingjue and A-Yao, multiplied by the eternity of death. The knowledge of what he had meant to Wangji, the brightness he had lent him, the cheer and understanding. The first person besides Xichen to approach Wangji and see him as a man instead of a distant and revered Twin Jade of Lan. A friend. The one he had seen Wangji choose just that much too late. Slipping through bloodied fingers. The one he loved.

The one that had killed so many of their Clanspeople. Had tried to kill them. The one Wangji had left Xichen fighting for his life for.

...burning eyes black and empty empty empty….

There was no right road, no clear path. No matter what, it was wrong. To mourn. To resent. To rejoice. It was all wrong.

“I’m…” he chokes.

Again, Wangji shoves him away and they both stagger back into the shelves. A few things skitter and clatter to the floor. Xichen feels hollowed out. All at once so enormously exhausted--too empty for any more fear or anger or sorrow. Blame. Wangji’s breathing is harsh and wet and he is crying as he had as a child. Contained. Silent. Shaking.

Xichen reaches out. Slowly slips beside him. Loops an arm around his shoulder and turns him into his chest. Wangji stays, shuddering. Xichen holds him. “It’s alright, A-Zhan,” he whispers raggedly into his hair. It still smells of smoke and blood and old sweat. Burning. “You’re going to be alright.”

#YAAAY PARALLELS #I'm gonna go make some text post memes to make up for this angst good lord #Someone hug this man BACK #my fic #3zun raises Jingyi au #3zun raise jingyi au content #my stuff

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yikesharringrove · 4 years

Text

Happy Trans Billy Week!

Day 3: Bakery/Chef!au

@transbillyhargrove @blurbwitch

Harringrove

BIlly is ftm, Stevie is mtf

“At least just try her stuff. She’s really good!”

Robin was trying to sell Billy on her friend, again.

He had been working his ass off opening this cafe, had been interviewing professional bakers around the city for it. And Robin wanted him to hire her friend. Who baked for fun.

“And she’ll work in house! You would just have to pay her a salary, not give her a cut of everything sold.” Billy rolled his eyes.

“But then I would have to buy all the shit for her to bake everything.”

“But you’ll make bank on her stuff. She makes these little doughnut things, but they’re double fried and made with like, puff pastry.

“So not a doughnut at all.” She slapped his chest.

“Fuck you. People would pay like, five whole dollars for one ‘a those. At least just try.”

“Fine. Have her bring me some samples of stuff on Monday. I want cookies, coffee cakes, specialty pastries, crossiants, and whatever that not-doughnut thing is.” Robin grinned at him.

Robin came in on Monday trying to awkwardly bring a giant box into the cafe.

“Stevie couldn’t make it. She had a doctor’s appointment or something. But anyway, here’s what you asked for.” She placed it down on a table, pointing at everything.

“So she made chocolate chip cookies, gingersnaps, snickerdoodles, and teas cookies, croissants, coffee cake, carrot cake, chese cake, that doughnutty-thing, actual doughnuts, brownies and lemon bars. I think she didn’t sleep for like, four days.”

Billy was impressed. It was a good spread.

“She also made me bring a loaf of sourdough in case you’re doing like, toast stuff. I said you weren’t, but I think she feels bad for not being here.”

They tried everything.

And unfortunately, is was all fucking delicious.

“Fine. She’s fucking hired.” Billy made a list of everything he wanted to sell, thought maybe the delicious not-doughnuts could be a bit of a speicality, new flavors every week. “I’ll need a comprehensive list of ingredients, and she’ll probably have to check out the set up we got here.”

Billy hadn’t really wanted an in-house baker, but he hadn’t ripped out the ovens, proving drawers, coolers and counters in the back, so he supposed it would work out okay.

“And tell her I want an in person meeting within the next few days.”

Billy was scrubbing out one of the ovens in the back when he heard the bell above the door.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” He called.

“Um, I’m Stevie Harrington? I’m Robin’s baker friend? You said I should come see the space?” Billy got up with a groan, stretching until his back popped.

“You tellin’ me, or askin’.” He pushed open the back door, smirking at the girl standing on the other side of his counter. She was tall, had much fucking dark hair, falling almost to her ass and big round eyes.

“Telling. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here yesterday. That appointment was important. Billy shrugged. “I have a list of ingredients for you. I figured how many of each item per day, and broke it up into waht I would need weekly and monthly, since I don’t know how you’re planning on ordering everything.” Billy nodded at the neat handwriting.

“Your stuff was good. I was thinking for those double fried things, we could do a new flavor every week. Make them a bit of a specialty.” Her cheeks went a little pink.

“Thank you. I’m so glad you liked everything, and decidded to give me this opportunity.” He smiled at her.

“You’re talented. Come see what I got.” She followed him to the back, her eyes going wide as she looked at the industrial ovens. “This place was a bakery, so we’ve got everything you should need.” The old owner had passed away, didn’t have anyone to leave the bakery to.

“Oh, this is perfect. When’s opening?”

“We’re four weeks out. I was planning on ripping all this out, so it has to be cleaned, but everything else is ahead of schedule.” Stevie opened an oven, peerinf inside.

“They’re not too gross. The old owners tool good care of everything.” She took of her jacket, was left just in her pretty dark blue dress. “I’ll help you clean.” She smiled at him as she took the cleaning supplies from him, getting to work scrubbing down the oven.

Billy played some music as they worked, chatting lightly to one another.

“So, how’d you end up in Seattle?” Billy had shot straight up here after graduating hisgh school, didn’t want to leave the west coast, but wanted to go somewhere different. Stevie had mentioned being from a small town in the midwest.

“Just kinda needed a fresh start. Robin and I moved out here together about six years ago, now. She went to University of Washington, and I jsut wanted to live somewhere interesting for once. Plus, it’s just better for me here.” Billy nodded.

“Me too.” She smiled at him. She had put her dark hair into a messy bun to keep it out of her face, and Billy had gotten her an apron to keep her dress neat.

“What made you want to open a cafe?”

“Well, I mean, it’s Seattle.” She laughed. “But I also just liked the idea of running my own business. Building something from the ground up. And I like the vibe of cafes. They’re just in between places. You can come alone and just hang out.” Billy had gotten many comfortable mis-matched chairs and placed them amoungst the tables and chairs. He wasnted it to be cozy. He had bookshelves on one wall, thought he could even have a take-a-book-leave-a-book kinda thing goin’ on.

“I think that’s really nice.”

Stevie started coming over everyday to help him clean out the kitchen. Somteims she would drag Robin, but more often than not, it was just the two of them, scrubbing everything out, listening to music and talking about random things.

But one day Stevie didn’t come in, didn’t call Billy to let him know, didn’t send Robin with a message.

Billy thought he was frustrated that his employee was missing, but really, he was just worried.

She looked tired the next day when she came in, her hair up in a messy ponytail, was wearing baggy jeans and a sweatshirt.

“I’m so sorry. I promise that will not happen again.” She had gotten right to work.

“Look, I don’t mind if you need personal days, just call me. Let me know.” She nodded at him, her eyes were bright. “Are you okay?” Her lip trembled.

“I’m sorry. I just, sometimes I have such bad days, and I can’t stand to look at myself, and I don’t want anyone else to look at me. And you’re always so nice to me, and I, I didn’t want you looking at me with your pretty eyes. I knew I would fucking fall apart.”

She was kneeling on the floor, fucking crying as she scrubbed at the proving drawer. Her make up was beginning to run just a bit.

Billy grabbed a fw paper towels, sitting down next to her.

“You wanna talk about it?” She shook her head.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” She wiped at her esys, smudging the dark makeup underneath. He took the paper towel from her hands, wiping up streaked makeup.

He was staring into her big dark eyes, noticed the soft honey gold in them, the forest green.

“Is it okay if I kissed you?” Her gaze dropped to his lips.

“Yeah,” she breathed.

Billy leaned in, kissing her softly, keeping it slow and chaste.

He pulled back, dabbing at her eyes again.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while. I’m sorry, that probably wasn’t the best timing, I just, I really like you.” Her lip trembled.

“The reason, the reason I was feeling so bad yesterday was, was because everytime I speak to my parents on the phone, they call me their son.” She swallowed hard.

“The last time I spoke to my dad, he called me his ungrateful bitch of a daughter. I get it, Stevie. I really do.” Stevie whimpered, another tear slipping out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t, didn’t know if I could tell you.” He smiled at her, wiping her eyes one last time, kissing her cheek.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to tell anyone anything.” She gave a watery laugh.

“Thank you, for being kind to me.”

“You’re a good person, Stevie. You deserve kindness.” She smiled at him, pulling back to take a deep breath. “And I meant what I said. I really like you. I’d like to take you on a date, if that’s okay.”

She nodded vigorously, ponytail bouncing.

“Oh, yeah! I had the biggest crush on you since I walked in here. I mean, Robin’s been trying to set us up for like, months.” BIlly raised one eyebrow, giving her a lopsided smile.

“Are you serious? Is that why she was so insistent on me trying your stuff?”

“Well, and that fact that I’m a damn good baker.” He laughed. She was grinning as she moved back to scrubbing the drawer. “She’s gonna be so smug. I can already hear her. Stevie, I TOLD you that you would love him. He’s JUST yout type.” Billy grinned iwder.

“And what is your type?”

“Beefy assholes that’re way smarter than me.”

#there's a touch of angst #Trans Billy Week 2020 #yikes writes #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #steve harrington x billy hargrove #billy hargrove x steve harrington #trans billy hargrove #trans!billy #trans steve harrington #trans!steve

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marvelous-writer · 4 years

Text

Phobias & Tight Spaces

Summary: In which Peter gets stuck under another building while he’s on an Avenger’s mission.

Whumptober Day 4: Collapsed Building

Word Count: 2,034

Genre: whump, light angst, fluff

Link to read on AO3

A/N: Part 4 of @whumptober2020

Peter wakes to the sound of water dripping, droplets hitting his forehead and soaking into the fabric of his mask. He slowly blinks his heavy eyes open, meeting darkness. That’s when he realizes he’s pinned to the ground by a giant slab of concrete under a mountain of debris.

There’s a building on top of him.

Panic flows through Peter at the sudden realization as the memories come back to him. It happened so fast. He wasn’t able to get out of the building in time before it collapsed. And judging by the way his head is pounding, something must have hit him on the head and knocked him out. That explains why his thoughts are so foggy.

He tries to take a deep, grounding breath, only to realize that he can’t with the concrete pushing down on his chest, threatening to squash him like the bug he is.

A wave of panic washes over him as the memories of Homecoming night flash through his mind. He hasn’t been good with tight spaces since then, let alone the dark, and now he has to face two of his greatest fears at the same time.

Peter grabs at the concrete and ties to move it, but it’s too heavy for him to lift on his own. His arms shake and burn from the effort, feeling something painfully shift in his chest, probably a broken rib or two.

He lets out a desperate, choked gasp. “H-Help! S-Someone please help me!” He hoarsely screams.

He jumps a bit at the sudden, familiar voice in his ears. “Peter, you appear to be in distress.”

“K-Karen?”

“I’m here, Peter.“

Peter blinks, feeling his tears soak further into his mask as he lets out a sob. “I-I’m stuck. I-I can’t move.”

“You’re going to be alright, Peter. I’ve contacted Mr. Stark and gave him your location. He’s on his way with the team.” Karen says in a calm tone.

Peter sucks in a breath, only to break out in a round of harsh coughs, tasting a thick layer of dust. He tries to take in a breath, only to find that he can’t.

He can’t breathe.

Peter’s eyes widen as a fresh wave of panic comes over him. “I-I can’t breathe,” he gasps out. “K-Karen, I-I c’nt-”

“The team's on the way, Peter. Try to stay calm.”

Peter shakes his head and lets out a choked gasp, starting to weakly push at the concrete weighing down on his chest. He has to get out of here. He needs air, like right now.

“Peter?” A new voice says and Peter instantly recognizes it.

“T-Tony?” He whispers.

“I’m right here, kiddo. You’re gonna be okay.”

“I-I can’t breathe. I-I can’t m-move. T-Tony h-help.” Peter cries, breaking out into a gasping sob.

“You gotta listen to me, bud. You’re gonna be okay. We’re trying to get you out of there, but it’s going to take a bit of time, so you have to try to calm down. Okay? Do you think you can do that for me?”

Peter shakily nods, even though Tony can’t see him. “Y-Yeah.”

“Good. You’re gonna be alright, kiddo. I promise. Okay? And after this, we can go back to the cabin and watch the new season of the Mandalorian and have whatever you want for dinner. How’s that sound?”

“Y-Yeah but t-that doesn’t come out until the end of the month.”

“Well, you know me. I know people in high places and I managed to convince them into giving us an early screening since I have a pretty big Star Wars fan at home.” Tony says and Peter can almost picture the grin on his face.

Peter breathes out a small laugh. “Y-You know me s-so well.”

“You betcha I do,” Tony says fondly.

Peter drops his arms and rests his head against the ground, feeling like he can at least breathe a little easier now that he feels a little more at ease. The fear and panic are still there, but he feels better knowing that Tony and the team were working on getting him out.

…

What feels like an hour passes by and Tony is still on the phone with Peter, filling the time with telling him about the shenanigans Gerald has been getting into around the cabin, like stealing a fresh batch of carrots and turnips Pepper grew in the garden outback. But as the minutes go by, Peter feels more distant and floaty (the lack of clean oxygen probably to blame). His headache has also gotten worse with a persistent throbbing behind his eyes. It doesn’t help that he’s been feeling pretty nauseous now .

Tony lets out a chuckle. “Happy didn’t even see it coming. He was just in there for five minutes and he walked out with half of his shirt gone because Gerald decided to take a bite out of it-”

“T’ny,” Peter mumbles, cutting him off. “I don’ feel so good...”

“What do you mean? Are you in pain anywhere?”

“Mhmm… head hurts. F-Feel sick.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. We’re almost to you, okay? Just try to hang in there for a few more minutes. Think you can do that for me?”

“I’ll try,” Peter says, even though it feels like he’s going to lose the battle against the nausea at any moment with how badly his stomach is churning.

He can hear movement in the debris from somewhere around him, as well as the faint murmuring of voices. It’s been getting closer over the past half hour, which hopefully meant he’d be out of here soon.

Peter closes his eyes and tries to ignore the water droplets falling on his masked face, which is now soaking wet from how long he’s been down here (mixed with his tears too).

Tony goes silent on the other end for a few minutes, and Peter can hear voices in the background but he can’t understand what they’re saying.

They’ve almost hit the two-hour mark when the nausea seems to kick it up a few notches. Peter swallows hard as he shuts his eyes tightly, trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they are for the time being. The last thing he needs is to throw up all over himself.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

“T’ny,” Peter says thickly, stopping to swallow again. “I r’lly don’t f-feel good.”

“I know, bud. We’re almost to you, okay?”

Peter slowly shakes his head as he feels something warm creeping up his throat.

This is going to suck.

Peter’s hand flies up to his mask and he manages to rip it up to his nose just in time before he lets out a harsh gag, bile immediately shooting up his throat. He turns his head to the side, managing to not fully throw up on himself. The feeling of something warm seeping into his suit has him gagging again.

“Peter?” He faintly hears Tony yell worriedly in the background over his retching.

It feels like forever before it stops, leaving Peter coughing and gasping like a fish out of water. His ears fill with static as the pounding in his head intensifies, blocking out all sounds for a few long seconds.

“Peter?” He hears Tony’s concerned voice as his hearing comes back.

Peter groans. “Feel s’ gross.”

“I know, bud. I’m sorry,” Tony says sympathetically as the concrete on top of Peter shifts slightly, causing him to flinch in surprise. “We’ve almost got you, alright? Just… one more… second…”

Dust and pebbles rain down on Peter before he sees a small sliver of light from above. The light grows as the debris above him shift, dust falling around him. He can see someone above him, a dark silhouette against the sun.

It’s Steve.

“I found him! He’s over here!” Steve yells over his shoulder as he starts pulling away more chunks of debris until there’s a decent size hole above Peter.

Steve jumps in and lands gracefully before kneeling at Peter’s side, inspecting the giant slab of concrete on him before his eyes settle on Peter’s. “How’re you holding up, Pete?” He asks, offering a small, sympathetic smile.

“Not s’ good,” Peter says, his words slurring a little. “Threw up.”

Steve places a hand on his arm, gently squeezing. “I’m sorry. We’ll get you out of here in no time.” He says before looking up when someone else is above them.

Peter squints in the harsh sunlight, seeing Iron Man standing there, his helmet rolling away, only to reveal Tony’s wide-eyed, panicked face. A wave of relief flows over Peter at the sight of him, wanting nothing more than to be in his Tony’s arms.

“Oh my God,” Tony exclaims as he carefully crawls down to them, kneeling on the ground on Peter’s other side, carefully cupping the back of Peter’s head in his metal hand. “How about we get you our here, kiddo?”

Peter offers him a tired smile. “S-S’nds good.”

“Thor,” Steve says, looking up when Thor stands at the top of the hole. “We have to get this off of him so let’s carefully lift it and Tony will get him out.”

Thor nods in agreement. “Right.”

Steve reaches over Peter, avoiding the puke all over him, and braces his hands against the concrete. “On three. One… two… three!”

As soon as they move the chunk of concrete, Peter feels it painfully press further down on his chest, cutting off what little air he has left. Peter lets out a choked cry, too weak to lift his arms to try to push it off himself.

“Stop! It’s crushing him!” Tony yells as he reaches forward and grabs the concrete, the nanotech rolling back out to form his helmet once again. “FRIDAY, help me out here!”

Peter misses her answer because his ears are ringing, his lungs screaming for air as black dots dance around in his vision. The last thing he sees is the two eye slits of the Iron Man mask before his ears fill with static and he blacks out.

…

Sounds return to him first, hearing faint beeping around him. Peter slowly opens his heavy eyes, finding that he’s in a dimly lit room on a comfy bed with an oxygen mask over his face. He reaches a shaky hand up to take it off, only for someone to gently grab his hand.

“You need to keep that on, kiddo.” A voice says softly.

Peter rolls his head to the right, his eyes landing on Tony, who’s sitting in a chair beside the bed with a relieved look on his face.

“How’re you feeling?” Tony asks.

Peter takes a second to take stock of himself—his head hurts a little, as well as his chest but he feels okay for the most part.

“Better,” Peter breathes out, sluggishly blinking.

Tony gives him a small smile as he reaches a hand out and brushes a stray curl away from Peter’s forehead. “That’s good. You gave us all a scare.”

“S’rry,” Peter mumbles guiltily.

“It’s alright, kiddo but let’s stop making this a habit, okay? You almost gave Capcicle a heart-attack and you’re going to make me go grey.” Tony says, jokingly.

The memories of being trapped under the debris flood back to Peter. “How’d you get me out?”

Tony’s smile falls at the question. “I had to use a laser to cut away most of the concrete and Steve and Thor managed to lift it off you. I dragged you out... but you were passed out by then.”

“M’ sorry.” Peter murmurs.

Tony shakes his head as he starts to card his fingers through Peter’s curls, just the way Peter likes it. “It’s not your fault, bud. You didn’t know the building was going to come down—none of us did until it was too late. The important thing is that you’re okay, just a little banged up.”

Peter smiles as he blinks slowly, feeling his eyes growing heavy.

Tony seems to notice. “How about you get some more sleep? I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“M’kay…” Peter murmurs, closing his eyes, feeling Tony’s hand run through his hair soothingly, lulling him into a peaceful slumber.

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swaps55 · 4 years

Note

If I'm not too late, can I request "1. Holding their hands when they are shaking", please?

This was also requested by @painterofhorizons and @urrone. Inspiration came from @mallaidhsomo, who wanted to know more about the psychological effects of the war on Kaidan, and @ziegenkind094, whose gorgeous art I haven’t been able to get out of my head.

Just remember this is all y’all’s fault. :)

Trigger warnings ahead for PTSD and panic attacks. Using a readmore for your filtering needs. It ends fluffy, I promise. These are “I love you” prompts, after all!!

Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You”

1. Holding their hands when they are shaking.

Shepard runs a curry comb in circles over Echo’s neck while she picks at the fresh hay in the corner feeder. The extra flake more than makes up for his oh-dark-thirty intrusion into her stall; she stands quiet save for the steady munching and occasional swish of her tail. Dust motes catch in the overhead light as he presses the rubber teeth of the comb deeper into her red coat. She’d taken a dirt bath out in the field that afternoon, and now Shepard’s face is full of it.

“You’re a mess,” he informs her. She crunches a mouthful of hay in reply instead of pointing out the obvious, which is she’s not the one who’s grooming a horse in the middle of the night instead of staying tucked in bed with his arms around the love of his life.

“Your judgement is not appreciated.”

She stomps a foot to shake off a fly.

He sighs, working the comb along her back to her hindquarters. Turns out brushing a horse has been as good for his mind as sitting on one had been for his body. The rhythmic, soothing circles combined with the soft woosh through her hairs creates a kind of white noise that empties his head.

Some nights he at least tries to sleep. Even gets a few hours here and there without dreaming at all. But other nights, he does dream.

Nights like tonight, even closing his eyes makes him feel short of breath. He’d already clawed fresh marks into his neck before calling it quits and getting out of bed.

There are people who can help you with this, Kaidan has said. Countless times. Sometimes right after a night terror, sometimes when Kaidan finds him on the porch swing watching the sun come up.

I get by okay, or some variation, is always the reply. The notion of describing to someone else how well-acquainted he is with what it’s like to suffocate makes his stomach churn. Whether it’s smothering under a pile of rubble or staring out into a void of stars as he asphyxiates, Shepard knows exactly what it feels like to die in his dreams.

Because some part of his brain still remembers what it felt like to die for real.

So he doesn’t sleep. When the anxiety gets the better of him he disentangles himself from Kaidan’s arms, sometimes – like tonight – prying the cloth of his shirt out of clutched fingers, and finds something else to do. Mess around in the barn, take walks through the apple trees. Especially now, when the orchard is in full bloom. Anything to keep from disturbing Kaidan. His constant tossing and turning wears on them both, but Kaidan shot down the idea of sleeping in separate rooms before the words were even out of his mouth.

So tonight, rather than bother Kaidan, he’s bothering Echo.

He drops the comb back into a grooming box. When Echo turns her head and noses at his back pocket, he mutters under his breath.

“Sorry, kiddo. Forgot the carrots. I’ll be right back.”

He withdraws from her stall, taking the grooming box with him, and latches the door before strolling back to the house and up the back porch steps. No sounds tonight save for the crickets and a light breeze rustling the trees. Too many clouds to see the stars.

Sometimes that’s a good thing, though the stars harbor less anxiety when he can gaze at them with his feet planted on earth. After two years he’s gotten used to having windows instead of bulkheads, and the ability to walk out the door without waiting for an airlock cycle.

He keeps his footsteps quiet as he slips into the dark kitchen. When he opens the door to the fridge he blinks into the shock of light that spills out. A sharp intake of breath makes him jump.

Heart hammering, he peers into the living room towards the sound, eyes widening in surprise when he makes out Kaidan’s silhouette on the couch.

“Kaidan?” He shuts the refrigerator door and heads towards him, pausing only to switch on a lamp on the end table.

Kaidan doesn’t move. He sits frozen with a curl in his back, eyes downcast and unfocused, chest rising and falling like he can’t catch his breath. A sheen of sweat stands out on his brow. His elbows rest on his knees, fists clenched, hands shaking.

“Kaidan.” Shepard’s chest constricts as he kneels on the ground beside him and grabs a hand, surrounding it in his to still the tremor. “Kaidan.” He puts a hand to Kaidan’s brow, cups his cheek, turns his chin to meet his eyes.

“Sam,” Kaidan murmurs.

Shepard moves up onto the couch, wrapping Kaidan in his arms and pulling him to his chest. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head. “’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

Kaidan’s entire body feels like a rubber band pulled so hard it’s about to snap. His heart pounds under Shepard’s hand, breath a shallow rattle in his throat.

“‘s ok. Don’t worry. Just…need a minute.”

“I’ll give you a fucking lifetime,” Shepard whispers into his hair. “I’ve got you, ok? Just breathe.”

Kaidan latches onto Shepard’s arm with a viselike grip. Shepard responds by holding him closer, rubbing his arms, shoulder, back, as if trying to keep him warm. “It’s all right,” he murmurs over and over. “I’m here. You’re ok.”

Slowly, Kaidan’s breathing evens out. His muscles relax until he’s limp in Shepard’s arms.

“Let me get you some water,” Shepard says, kissing the top of his head. But Kaidan tightens his grip when he tries to get up.

“Please don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving, just going to the kitchen,” Shepard says, but doesn’t make another attempt to get up.

“I know.”

“Hey.” Shepard shifts him around until they’re face to face, but doesn’t turn loose of him. “Talk to me. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Kaidan says, voice wavering. “I just need a minute. That’s all.”

Shepard strokes Kaidan’s jaw, fighting back his own nerves to keep his voice soft. “Panic attack isn’t nothing.”

“It…happens sometimes. It stops and I’m fine. It’s ok.”

A knot forms in Shepard’s chest. “What do you mean it happens sometimes?” As far as Shepard knows, Kaidan hasn’t had a panic attack in years.

Kaidan squirms a little in his arms. “Nothing. Forget it. I just need a minute.”

“Kaidan.

“It’s fine. I’m ok. I just need a minute and I’ll be fine. Everything’s fine. Please…don’t worry.”

“Why wouldn’t I worry?” Shepard says, trying and failing to mask his disbelief. I worry about you all the time, because you have to put up with me.

“Because I can handle it.

“Handle it? Having a panic attack alone in the dark, that presumably you weren’t going to tell me about, is handling it?”

“Yes,” Kaidan says through clenched teeth, shifting again, though his grip on Shepard tightens.

“You asshole,” Shepard breathes. “If you found out I’d kept something like this from you, you’d throw me out an airlock. You made me swear I wouldn’t keep things from you. That I’d let you help.”

“I—”

“How often does this happen?”

“It doesn’t. Forget it. Sam, I just need a minute and—”

“You’ll be fine? You’re shaking. You’re not fine.”

“Yes, I am,” he argues. “If you would just give me a damn minute.”

“Do you know what triggers it?”

“Please leave it alone.”

“You do, don’t you?” Shepard says, horror growing. “You know, but you don’t want to tell me.”

Kaidan shuts his eyes. “Sam—”

“Why?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal! Kaidan, I love you more than the sun. I don’t care if you don’t think it’s a big deal, it still matters. Why—”

“Because you leave!” The words tear out of him like they’ve ripped a hole in his chest, stunning Shepard into silence.

“You leave without a word,” Kaidan sputters, tightening his grip on Shepard’s arm. “I wake up and you’re…not there. It’s stupid, it’s so stupid because I know better. You’re not gone, you’re just not here, but I wake up and I can’t find you and it feels like I’m going insane. I know it helps you cope, I know you need to just…be somewhere else sometimes. But I used to wake up all the fucking time after Alchera and think it was all a dream only to find out it wasn’t. I’ve gotten you back twice now. What if that’s the dream?”

Kaidan’s chest heaves, eyes so full of grief and anguish and pain Shepard hardly recognizes him.

“Kaidan,” Shepard murmurs, but it comes out hoarse. “No…god. Kaidan.”

“It’s stupid—”

“No. Damnit, no. It’s isn’t.”

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted and I keep losing you. What if this time it’s finally for good?”

Shepard cocoons him with his body, swallowing up every square inch he can reach. It’s been two years since the war ended. He’s been leaving Kaidan alone to wander around at night for two fucking years.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t…please. It helps you,” Kaidan mumbles, fingers running across the welts on Shepard’s neck.

“Not if it hurts you.”

“Sam—”

“Kaidan.”

He can’t think about the guilt. Can’t think about how long Kaidan has been suffering in silence. He’ll feel those things later. What matters is now.

Shepard tips his chin until they’re eye to eye, keeps his voice low and soothing even though he’s the one shaking now. “Forget about what I need. Tell me what you need. I am not more important than you. We do this together. The parts that are good and the parts that are messy. I signed up for all of it. Let me take care of you for once. Please.”

He holds Kaidan’s gaze until something breaks, the fear and dread morphing into something closer to relief.

“Please don’t leave,” Kaidan whispers.

Shepard shakes his head. “No. I won’t. I swear. Not now, not ever again. I’ve got you, ok? We’ll figure it out. I’ll make a call in the morning. Find someone who can help me figure out how to sleep. I’ll talk to anyone. I just—I’m so sorry.”

Kaidan rests his forehead against Shepard’s shoulder. Shepard rubs his back with one hand, finds Kaidan’s fingers with the other. The tremor is still there, so Shepard holds his hand until it’s gone. Eventually Shepard shifts, loops Kaidan’s arms around his neck and scoots him onto his lap.

“What’re…”

“Shh,” Shepard tells him. “Let me take care of you.”

He braces himself and lurches to his feet, a hundred different muscles and joints screaming in protest. His knee pops and he winces.

“Sam—”

“I’m being romantic, let me be fucking romantic,” Shepard says with a smile. Kaidan huffs, but doesn’t try to stop him.

They get halfway to the bedroom before he’s forced to set Kaidan down and let him walk the rest of the way. Used to be Shepard could do that without effort, but that person is long gone. He still makes a point of sweeping Kaidan back up again to put him in bed.

“You’re an idiot,” Kaidan says with an exhausted smile.

“Your idiot,” Shepard says, stripping off his shirt, shucking off his pants and climbing in beside him. Before Kaidan can get too comfy Shepard removes his shirt, too.

“This is a skin kind of night,” Shepard informs him. “Prove that I’m real.”

“Mmm. Like the sound of that.”

Kaidan is usually the one who traps Shepard against him in bed, probably, Shepard realizes with a sinking heart, to make sure he doesn’t get too far away.

Not tonight.

He pulls Kaidan’s back to his chest and holds him tight, running a hand over him until he’s a relaxed ember nestled against him.

“Sam,” Kaidan murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“’m gonna fall asleep.”

“It’s okay,” Shepard says, smoothing back his hair. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

#commandercod #mshenko #kaidan alenko #mass effect #my fic #tw: ptsd #tw: panic attacks #woo this one got intense #don't worry it ends fluffy and hopeful and happy #just had to go through some shit to get there #i swear the rest of these are almost pure fluff #with little to no angst #but had to go there for this one

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slasherkisss · 5 years

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CABIN FEVER - JASON VOORHEES X READER [CHAPTER 6]

Summary In an effort to remove yourself from your previous life in the big city, you move to Crystal Lake. The cabin you had inherited from your father makes the perfect place for a fresh start, however, there is a secret in these woods (and within yourself) that you must come to accept…and to love.

A/N I wrote this whole thing like a week ago but kept for gETTING TO POST IT BUT HERE WE ARE NOW ENJOY-

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Jason had taken to sign language well. Better than you could have thought, considering your teachings were less than impressive.

You were learning right alongside him, if you were being honest. The phrases and hand movements were as foreign to you as they were to him, the shapes of the letters that formed the alphabet difficult to formulate as you repeated spelling your name over and over with your hands, before switching to his so that he could see what it looked like. When he spelled his own name with the shapes of his fingertips you felt pride well in your stomach, praising him with kisses and holding him close in a hug that made him return it with vigour. The praise made him more eager to practice with you, the patience you showed him as the two of you continued blocky, awkward conversations with one another was a breath of fresh air. You imagined Jason as a child sometimes in those situations. With teachers sneering down at him and ridiculing him for not knowing one thing or another in their classes… The thought made your blood boil. It made you see red.

It wasn’t the case now, at least, and you were glad. It was a gratefulness mixed with a determination to communicate with the otherwise muted killer.

All the while your farm grew bit by bit as the springtime passed, new plants sprouting their perfect buds from the loamy soil and proudly sporting their flowers that would soon blossom into fruit. The tentative patch of carrots and onions you had planted were rooted neatly in lines, slowly curling their leafy above ground plants in perfect shapes as they evolved with time. Jason had, at some point, surprised you with chickens as well. He wasted no time in repairing the holes and uneven surfaces in the two chicken coops your land sported, allowing the new members of the family a cozy home for the seasons as they kept their open area neat and free of any pests that might serve as detriment to your precious crops.

You had grown fond of one chicken in particular. The beautiful Rhode Island Red hen had a wit and personality that made you fawn over her. The way she settled in your lap as you worked outside, content with your stroke of hands over her feathers, made your heart swell with pride. Her name, you had decided, was Roda. She approved the title with a ruffle of her feathers and a satisfied cluck, pecking at Jason’s fingers whenever he held them out to her curiously. He was startled at first, but soon grew to see it as a sort of love tap from her. You let him think that, not sure of what it actually was in the end, and not caring so long as she still enjoyed your lap.

She nestled herself comfortably against you even now as you worked in your garden, pulling out pieces of weeds from the bed of your lettuce with a hefty sight of exhaustion against your tongue. The day had grown warmer than the past week had been, signaling the slowly approaching summer that dared itself to be around the corner. You stretched your back, shooing Roda off of your lap and back to her coop as she gave an unsatisfied cluck at your actions.

“Sorry, Ro honey,” You apologized with a meek grin, “But I need to hurry! I have a date after all.”

Date… The word made you giddy. So giddy that you signed it to your chicken without much thinking about it. Bringing your hands together in the shape of ‘d’s to touch at the fingertips, pulling them apart, and then putting them back in small and quick movements. Once the two of you had learned the relationship end of signs, Jason was quick to awkwardly ask you out on a date. A walk through the woods and a small time on the edge of the lake to watch the water as it glittered in the springtime light.

Well, he didn’t sign exactly all of that, but it was what you imagined he had in mind. Regardless, it was romantic and you were all sorts of eager for the trip.

You moved to quickly change out of your farming clothes and into a better outfit for your date, choosing a bright yellow dress with a white bow around the center that accentuated your waist line. The pattern of white polkadots that dabbled the entire fabric made you feel bright as you did a small twirl in the outfit and smiled to yourself, slipping on your hiking boots underneath them in a look of something between cute and functional. Flats would have been nice, but, you wouldn’t want to step on any rocks and twigs in them. Besides, Jason would surely enjoy whatever you wore for him on this date.

Your cheeks flushed red as you imagined his face (mask, you supposed) upon seeing your look. It made you all the more eager to grab your backpack and head out of your house, making sure to close the door properly behind you as you moved.

The forest was beautiful that day, the leaves rustling their whispers into your mind overhead as the wind brushed through them like an old friend. The babbling of brooks dueted with the singing of birds as the world around you came alive, nature devouring itself in an ouroboros of beauty that had your chest swelling and your heart bursting as you admired the way the ground moved and grew so many unique things against itself. From the mushrooms that sprouted near the bases of trees to the grass patches that had been nibbled on by passing herbivores, the world was a beautiful thing and you couldn’t help a quick stop to admire it.

A spider, massive in its body, scaled up a tree you had stopped in front of. It burst itself out amongst the purple and white flowers you had been staring at, their shape bending with each step of the insect's heavy legs. You reached out, allowing it to crawl onto your hand as you sat up to admire the way it moved against your skin, giggling at the soft tickling sensation that pressed on your fingertips as a result. Tilting your head to the side, you moved closer to get a look at the being’s strange eyes and moving mouth, the appendages around its front pushing to taste and explore its new environment as you held it close.

A gunshot echoed through the forest, making you startle and drop the spider to the forest floor.

Your head whipped around, eyes wide as you searched the now deadly quiet forest for the source of the sound, your feet moving without thinking about it. Who was that? Jason didn’t know how to use a gun and he would never, unless it was to bludgeon someone… So that meant someone was here. That meant they fired a gun on his property without permission. That meant they were doing something bad. What if Jason was the one being shot? Would he be okay? Your heart raced faster than your mind as you found yourself pushing yourself faster and faster through the forest, biting your lip as you tried to keep your breathing even against the cold rushes of air that pushed passed you. Your dress caught on twigs, ripping at parts and the underbrush stung your skin as you threw your hands out to catch yourself in a trip.

Your palms met the raw wood of a tree, scraping them in the process and making you curse as you heaved a breath of air. Looking outwards through slightly blurred vision, you saw them.

The group of men were smiling to themselves, some missing teeth as they chewed on what you could only imagine to be tobacco. They had a couple of women at their side, slim little things with heels on and shorts all too small for the mosquito ridden forest of Camp Crystal Lake. You felt your mouth fall into a straight line, your heart beating faster as you gazed at the guns they held, some of the tips still smoking from the previous shot you had heard.

Beneath them a deer lay, her body splayed outwards in an unnatural angle and her mouth hanging wide open as blood pooled from her jaw. Her knees were bent so far back that they had broken under her own weight, her chest giving what looked to be a final spasm before ceasing to move. Your heart ached suddenly, your stomach clenching with rage at these men who shot such a beautiful thing when the property itself was private. Your head reeled with anger, a deep and vocal frustration that growled outwards in a huff through your nose.

Without thinking about it too much, you stepped out of your hiding place.

“Oo, well well!” One of the men whistled and adjusted his hat with a laugh, “Looks like this place has somethin’ even better than venison don’t it! What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out here alone, sweet cheeks?”

You didn’t answer, your breath held for a long moment s your body shook with fear and rage all at once, you swallowed a forming urge to run away and pointed down at the deer in anger.

“You did this?”

“Sure did, impressive huh? One shot too!”

“Get the fuck out of this forest, all of you.”

The group looked taken aback, surprise apparent on their faces and one of the girls cursed a soft ‘what the fuck’ under her breath before she began to giggle, covering her lips to glance sideways at you. The man you had initially spoken with frowned, approaching you so that you could smell the alcohol on his breath as he raised an eyebrow downwards at you. The stubble of his beard was an uneven thing, his intense eyes making you cringe beneath him as you glared back up in frustration.

“What, you own this place or something?”

“It’s private property and I live nearby. I don’t appreciate poachers in a place that isn’t theirs.”

“Look here, missy, we got a license to hunt!”

“Not HERE you don’t!”

You shoved the man, making him stumble back in surprise as he glared at you, his teeth bared in anger as he pushed himself forward. You saw the massive contour of his torso before his hand grabbed you and shoved you back in return, pushing you into the dirt of the ground and making you cry out in surprise, your leg twisting slightly and digging itself into a sharp rock. The material split your shin open, blood dripping from the wound and down your leg. You whined, gripping the cut and holding it close to your body as you bit your cheek and glared upwards.

There was a deathly silence that followed, the man grimacing as he raised his hand up, as if to strike you. You heard the women and his friends beside him snap at him to stop, the echo of their words falling flat on the enraged man above you. You bit your cheek as you waited for the pain of his assault to bare down on you, your body clutching handfuls of dirt and squeezing it into your nails as you refused to shut your eyes. You wanted to make him know that you knew what he was doing. You wanted him to know that you saw him.

But the assault never came.

The man looked beyond you instead, his eyes wide and horrified. No sooner had he gazed up and a single curse word of confusion left his lips did he fall to the floor before you. The axe that now embedded itself neatly in his skull covered you in a spray of blood as an artery divided itself beneath his skin. You felt the wetness of the crimson across your mouth and forehead, leaking down to your collar bone and across your dress as you exhaled a long, deep breath that you didn’t realize that you had been holding. Slowly, ever so slowly, you turned your head around to see what had just happened… Though, honestly? You already knew.

Jason had found you.

The ruckus had drawn him out of his waiting spot to the noise, the instinct alongside his mother’s voice to protect his home driving him more than anything else ever had. When he saw you bleeding in the dirt, the man’s arm raised to strike you, he felt panic rise in his chest. Panic mixed with protective rage to fill his throat with something akin to possession. Bloodlust decorated his insides like a picturesque landscape and the instincts that came with practiced precision filled his movements as he walked forward to pull the axe out of the dead man’s skull, spraying blood across himself as well. His breath heaved, heavy and set as he watched the group before him, standing dumbfounded at the death of their leader.

“You son of a b-bitch!” One man stuttered as he moved forward to try and defend himself against Jason, but he was small. He was weak compared to the behemoth of Camp Crystal Lake before him. Jason’s hand wrapped around his throat with ease. His legs kicked weakly as he was lifted off of the forest floor and, with one easy squeeze of his neck, the sickening crack of the man’s bones echoed through the screams of the others at his side. His body spasmed for a moment before falling limp, Jason tossing his half-hanging off head to the side before focusing on the remaining two women and man who had started to scramble away from Jason out of fear.

One met the same fate as the first, the axe Jason held thrown to lodge itself neatly in her cranium, making her companion scream as she scrambled away. She pushed herself off of the forest floor as the man she accompanied tried to grab his gun, fumbling with the safety in an effort to fend Jason off with it. The few seconds of lost time were his downfall, however, as Jason grabbed the rifle from his hand, only to turn the firing end over and shove it neatly through his throat. The machine came out the other side of his skull with ease, pieces of hair and skin falling like snow against the spring ground.

Every inch of you felt wet. The blood had seeped into your dress, staining the front crimson as the trail of viscera not your own dribbled down your brow and chin, the coppery taste of blood not your own making you gag slightly as you pulled yourself into a ball to watch the events of the world transpire around you. By the time Jason had pulled himself away from his last victim, eyes searching for the final girl whomst he had already let live for far too long, she was nowhere in sight. You could see the heave of his shoulders as rage burned inside of him. You could all but hear his mother’s voice echo with fierce frustration in the back of his head and yours, a shared coinsius that startled you as you bit your lip and watched your boyfriend begin his hefty push forward and after his prey.

Kill her, Jason! She hurt dear, sweet [Y/N]... Kill for her and for mother, Jason!

“J-J-Jason!”

Your voice was a weak ghost on the wind. You spit out trails of blood and skin as you spoke his name against your mouth’s will, teeth chattering and chewing down on brains all at once. Jason’s body froze at your town, though. His entire body rigid as he tried to organize the hefty gasps of his breath against his body.

He turned to you, the splattering of blood across his face mask churning your stomach as you stared into the holes of his eyes with dry lips and shaking breaths.

“I… want to go home Jay…”

Your voice was a pathetic whimper. A plea to nothing as you reached out to him, fingertips shaking as you begged with your form for him to drop it. Your heart ached with panic and your mind had only one reaction to the situation: Go. Get out. Go and be safe. Safe and away from this place filled with gore even though you knew, oh you knew, it would remain on you as it was. Trailing down your face. Splattering across your form. Your entire body shaking as you bit your lip and offered your other hand this time, both outstretched towards Jason in patient hope that he would listen to your plea. To protect you as he always had.

Jason cast one last long glance towards the forest where the woman had run, her bloody footsteps a testament to her movements, but with a sullen lack of expression Jason put the gun he was holding down and returned to you.

You were lifted up in strong arms. You could feel the steady movement of his chest as he breathed to keep himself calm, grip tightening sharp on your body as you were cradled against him. You snuggled into Jason without thinking about it, your nostrils assaulted by the scent of metal and wet, rotting, fleshy blood as you shut your eyes. Your hands felt around his chest, touching the wet texture of his shirt. Squeezing the droplets of blood out of his coat. Your hands found his bare skin and smeared the redness across him, making him shiver as some of the intestines you had against your skirt dribbled onto him.

Your legs shifted despite yourself. The ease with which he had lifted you up, cradling you so carefully even after such a scene making your body betray its fear, turning it into arousal instead as the two of you arrived to your cabin.

Jason put you down on the steps of the front, where you shakily opened up the door and entered on wobbly legs. The two of you together trailed stains of fresh blood across the hardwood floor, footprints of such vastly different sizes ingraining themselves on the oak panels as you all but fell to the floor for a moment to catch our breath, splinters digging into your palms as you scratched at the wood with manic intensity.

Jason fell to your side in return, a hand touching your shoulder with worry if you were okay. A head tilt and a gentle sign with one hand asking that same question. Your voice found no air with which to speak, so you simply began to sign in return:

‘I’m okay. Thank-you for protecting me.’

Jason stared with an almost incredulous look before returning the movements slowly, with shaky and careful gestures of fingertips to body parts as he offered his gesture in return:

‘Of course. I love you.’

This was enough to make tears well in your eyes as you threw yourself at him, shaky limbs falling around his neck and bringing him into a kiss that you swore you could feel through his mask. Jason was startled at the suddenness of it, but fell into the motions with practiced ease. Hands found your sides, smearing the blood on your soaked dress as he pulled you closer, the both of you a tangle of limbs on the floor as he leaned back to allow you more access to him. The gentleman that he was, even in this situation you could feel him giving you space. Offering you room to breathe should you need it and space to run should you crave it. Your hands gripped at his shirt tighter as your mouth pulled away from him. Jason’s eyes through the mask followed your body. Blood had smeared across your lips and down your face. You licked a small drop of it from the corner of your mouth as you held onto him, your bodies pressed together in a slick of arousal and gore.

His eyes snapped forward after a moment and his hands moved despite themselves, sturdy fingers sliding your dress up your form until your lower half was shown to him. Jason pulled himself up to admire the entirety of your shaking form: From your cut leg smeared with dirt and your blood to the stains of red that had patched themselves up your thigh after it had soaked through your dress… You were beautiful. More perfect than anything Jason had ever seen. His blood soaked hands rose to smear the liquid across your thighs some more, painting them darker red as you moaned and whimpered into his touch.

“Jason,” You whispered with breathy hunger, “Touch me, please.”

It was adrenaline. It was fear. It was a sick, twisted beauty that you found upon staring down at the behemoth of a murderer after he had splattered you with the gore of four separate people. It made your body tingle and your mind wander with sensitive, careful arousal that amplified as Jason’s finger pushed itself up into your core, soaking your panties in blood before pulling them aside to play with your slick folds. His breath picked up now, shaking as he felt you from the inside. As he painted your walls with the blood of his victims in a hungry, voracious manner. Two fingers slid into you as he picked up his pace, twisting them as you instructed. Moving them in the way he knew you liked it.

You mewled his name as your hips rocked against his body. You felt the cleft of his dick on your ass and you moaned at the feeling. The blood and your slick made the most sickeningly beautiful sound as he played between your legs, making you clench and gasp as your orgasm began to creep up on you.

You whined when his fingers pulled out, pouting before yelping as his hands grabbed your hips in a white knuckled grip and pulled you up.

“Jason… “ You murmured as you saw the wild in his eyes. The hunger that came with seeing you so beautiful painted red. You shuddered, legs trying to support you as his dick was freed from his pants and you were positioned over it. Despite his animalistic nature that had suddenly opened up so loudly to you, you could feel his hesitation. His unsureness of the situation as you reached out to cup his cheek, smearing more of the blood of the people on him and scooping some on your finger. Without much thinking about it, you licked it off of your hand and sucked down on your index finger, swallowing the coppery blood off of your skin as you looked at him in the eye, the communication of acceptance warm in your body as Jason’s breath grew ragged and he lowered you down onto his cock.

You moaned at the feeling, the stretch impossibly wide and physically difficult to handle as you whimpered and squirmed on him, pushing down and adjusting your hips so that you were able to lower yourself at your own pace. Meanwhile Jason’s body was shaking, the feeling of your tight heat overwhelming him as he threw his head back, splattering still wet blood across your walls as you pushed yourself to take more of him with wet whimpers and tears building in the corners of your eyes, falling soon to stain a trail of clean across your bloody face. Your hands scratched at Jason’s chest, your form falling forward on him for support as you bit out his name in syllables so sweet Jason swore he was in heaven.

Once your body was finally used to the girth of him, you moved your hips testily. No able to take all of him in at once, it was a simple movement to pull out from the tip and then slide yourself back down, the blood an unfortunate but helpful lubricant in your endeavors as the two of you shook and moaned at once. Jason’s large hands held your hips again, his body pushing you further down on his cock in a way that made you scream with both pleasure and pain, your cervix not ready for so much at once. His fingertips dug deeper though, bruising white knuckled grip halting as he waited for you to say okay. To give him instruction on just how you wanted him to move, even though his body wanted to begin on its own.

“It’s… Okay,” You moaned beautifully above him, “You can keep going Jason… Make love to me, darling.”

No sooner had you said it, spit dribbling out your mouth and your body impossibly full, that he began to match your movements. Hips touched hips as he all but pulled you off of him and slammed you back down, your rag-doll form useless against his strength as he held you close. As he fucked you deep and perfect and near. Your floor was smothered in blood now, pools forming beneath the both of you as your leg’s wound left unpatched. As the sweat washed the blood from your body and the scent of sex overwhelmed that of the blood itself.

“Jason! Jason! Ja-ayson oh-” You moaned desperately in his ear as your orgasm built in your stomach, “I’m going to- mmm - Good boy yes-yes-yes-yes-ah-!”

You clenched around his dick as you came, your body releasing the desperate want for him in a flood that made Jason gasp and moan, fucking you faster and with little rhythm to his movements before stilling inside of you. There was nothing to fill you, no sperm to echo in the cavern of your uterus as he shuttered and gasp. Only a strange coolness, like air hitting somewhere in your body, before his dick grew flaccid within you, the softness doing nothing to ruin the thick, beautiful feeling of being full as you rested atop your killer with heavy gasps for air.

Jason’s hand touched your head, looking down at you with concern as he remained inside of you.

You smiled back, exhausted and bloody but okay as you sighed.

“I’m alright, love… We should get cleaned up though, okay? I… I want to go to bed as soon as possible today. It was… a lot.”

Understanding, Jason stood, lifting you with him so that the both of you remained connected. You giggled as you felt his dick twitch within you, still not quite ready to let go of your warm cunt just yet as you were moved to the bathroom at a slow, careful speed. You shut your eyes, holding him close as you hummed in his ear.

Perhaps for a moment you could forget about what happened. As you washed yourself with him… Perhaps it wouldn’t even happen again!

Oh, you wish you weren’t so naive.

#jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #Friday the thirteenth #Friday the 13th #cabin fever series #cabin fever #slasher x reader #slasher imagines

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mimymomo · 5 years

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They May Not Have My Smile, But They Have All My Heart

Okay, I spent so long on this story and it’s finally finished! @hollywoodx4 I hope I did your prompt of Orphydice adopting a kid okay. Thank you flower-anon for beta-reading and helping me edit and for coming up with the title. You are a lifesaver!

Also, the song lyrics are from “I Think of You” by Reeve Carney (I’m obsessed)

“When it's time to say goodbye

And a tear wells in my eye

I can hold my head up high

When I think of You

My flesh is weak, but Your Spirit wills

That my heart and mind ooh, will think of You”

Orpheus trailed off, strumming softly at his guitar that was placed down in his lap. With his eyes shut, he let his thoughts and daydreams drift him away, far away, to the corners of his mind where inspiration would fill his head and soon, the many crumbled pages of his worn notebook.

It was a dreary fall afternoon; the grey sky was beginning to peer out from behind puffy, dirty clouds. The air smelled of freshly poured rain, the browning grass wet from the morning dew. The once colorful leaves that hung bountiful from the trees now littered the muddy ground, stomped and tattered.

Eurydice had left for a midday walk earlier that afternoon. Orpheus could sense something was off with his wife; the poor woman had grown antsier and antsier in the last few weeks. Orpheus had chalked the shifting mood up to the changing weather. The warm and sweet summer had morphed into breezy, frigid fall. And with that change came all the worries and pressures the season provided.

Orpheus had been the one to suggest the walk. It was their first day off in weeks. And due to the weather, the two had been cramped in their tiny cabin. Cabin fever was harshly setting in. Eurydice sat silently perched in their ratty recliner, a near busted thing they found in a junk pile. Bundled under a sheet, she watched the clouds drift away from out the window.

“Love, why don’t you go for a walk?” Orpheus suggested, in a warm, enthused tone.

“Trying to kick me out of the house, Lover?” she shot back with no real bite.

“Oh no, not at all!” Orpheus scrambled, cheeks and ears red and hot like the sun. “I just thought maybe some fresh air would cheer you up a bit and-”

Eurydice let out a single snort and smiled at her stuttering husband- a tiny one where only the corners of her mouth curled the slightest bit up, purely genuine. Orpheus felt the air get caught in his throat. Married for two years and the sight of Eurydice’s smile never failed to send giddy sensations throughout his body, stalling his body into a trance. “Maybe you’re right. A walk could do me some good.”

With a wide toothy grin, Orpheus grabbed her hand. With a slight tug, he pulled his wife from her spot on the chair, the sheet falling slowly to the ground. Eurydice wrapped her arms around Orpheus’ neck, perched herself on the top of her toes, and brought Orpheus down to place a slow, chaste kiss on his lips. It was moments like this that the two loves the most, huddled close together in a warm embrace, completely enamored with one another. They knew each other's strengths and weak spots, and in response, how to soothe and to inspire. Their love knew no bounds, and it showed in times like this.

Eurydice left shortly afterward. In the few hours since Eurydice’s departure, Orpheus spent his free time with not only his lyre but now his guitar he received as a present from the town when he and Eurydice returned. Since coming back from Hadestown, he tried to devote more time to work and Eurydice, never wanting her to feel neglected or lonely again. But in return, it meant fewer hours with his music. Sure, he still performed at Hermes bar quite frequently, but whenever free time was available, he could be found sprawled out on the floor, at the bar counter, music sheets spread to the wind, strumming away.

The sun was beginning to set over the trees; Eurydice would usually be home by now. Just then, Orpheus heard the sound of their creaky door being swung open. A familiar pattern of footsteps: Eurydice’s.

“Oh ‘Rydice, welcome back,” Orpheus called out gleefully, gently placing down his lyre and lifting himself from his spot on the old worn rug. “I think I’ve finally worked out the final verse for that new song and was just about to start dinner. How was your wa-” as Orpheus turned towards the direction of the front door, he couldn’t help but stop mid-sentence. Tucked behind his wife’s small stature was the even smaller frame of a very young boy, no older than six, in a dark, oversized sweatshirt.

The first thing Orpheus noticed was his eyes, a striking teal-ish green that perfectly contrasted with his brown skin. They looked so tired, hard yet sad, hungry; they reminded Orpheus of Eurydice’s when he first met her. Eyes of someone who’s had to deal with more than one person ever should. Leaves and debris protruded from the mop of greasy, ultra-dark hair that curled at the ends to reach the tip of his eyes. The boy’s hoodie was an old thing. Dirt-stained and navy blue. Tattered with rips and holes and the thing completely drowned out his figure. A few cuts and swelling purple-blue bruises covered his arms, cheeks, and neck, instantly making Orpheus’ skin crawl and blood run cold. ‘Did someone hurt this poor boy? He’s so small…’ Orpheus locked eyes with the child who quickly averted his gaze in fear. He violently trembled where he stood, still hiding close behind Eurydice’s legs, little pudgy fingers grasping tight to the woman's ripped black tights. Using all the willpower he could muster, Orpheus held himself back from rushing over and scooping the wee boy up into his arms, wanting nothing more than to sing his pain away. Instead, he chose to address his much calmer wife whose hand was softly brushing through the boy's tangled hair.

“I was just about to start dinner,” Orpheus continued as composed as he could be, not wanting to distress the boy any further. “I was just thinking about making some soup from those beans and other vegetables Lady Persephone gave us.”

Eurydice blew out a relieved sigh, something she nor Orpheus even realized she was holding. The tension in her muscles relaxed, shoulders dropping back down to size, no more bravado needed, “that sounds wonderful, I’m starving. I brought back a few more ingredients from the market that we can use.”

‘That’s not the only thing you brought back…’ Orpheus thought humorously, still stunned by the unknown child in his home.

“Orpheus, hun, would you begin prepping the vegetables? I need to run a quick bath, and then I’ll be out to join you.” Orpheus nodded his head at his wife’s request. Eurydice directed her attention back to the boy, crouching down to his level. She circled her hand back and forth over his head and the side of his face. She looked so...maternal. It was so different from the usually hardened exterior she put on display for others, but not unwelcome. She was quite entrancing when she acted like this.

“Miko, this is my husband Orpheus, remember I told you about him back at the market?”

Miko meekly nodded his head and with a bit more courage, peeked further out from his spot to stare up at Orpheus, hesitance evident. ‘Miko, huh?’ Orpheus took note of the teeny birthmarks near the corners of his eyes. “Hello, Miko. I’m Orpheus,” he smiled, “but I think my wife told you that already.”

The boy didn’t say anything, just continuing to stare. Orpheus frowned, he couldn’t help but wonder if the child didn’t like him. He knew that it was irrational, he just met the child for Gods sake, who was most likely just nervous about being in a new place, but still, Orpheus couldn’t help but be fraught with worry.

“Alright then,” Eurydice chimed in, snapping the two boys out of their reverie, “I’ll go draw a bath for Miko while you, Orpheus, start prepping the vegetables for me. Come, Miko, I’ll get the tub ready for you.” She grabbed the child’s hand and guided him in the direction of the couple's compact bathroom.

Orpheus rushed to the kitchen to start with dinner. He chopped, peeled, and quartered various ingredients- peppers, potatoes, carrots, squash, an onion, some fresh herbs. Most had been a gift from Persephone. He tried to ignore out the sounds of running water and faint chatter of Eurydice. He hoped that by busying himself with his assigned tasks, he could keep his mind from wandering to who and what was happening in his washroom. Soon minutes passed, and Orpheus was so engrossed in his actions, he failed to notice his wife walk out of the bathroom, holding a filthy sweatshirt and pants. She dropped them to the floor and stepped into their kitchen, right next to her husband, who was humming a song she didn’t recognize.

“Looks yummy,” she whispered as she placed her hand on his forearm, causing Orpheus to jump.

“You scared me,” he breathed, turning away from the counter and pulling Eurydice in close.

“‘Rydice-” Orpheus started but was quickly cut off by his wife.

“Oh, before you get too far with cooking, I bought some special ingredients for tonight.” She pulled away from Orpheus and quickly marched back towards the front door to retrieve her satchel. She yanked out a small parcel wrapped in thin, brown paper and tied tightly with white string. She pushed it into Orpheus’ hands. “Open it,” she lightly commanded.

Orpheus undid the string and pulled back the layers of paper: a chain of sausages. Orpheus felt his eyes go wide; actual ground sausages, six of them to be exact. Eurydice smiled, “I also went ahead and bought a loaf of bread. Nothing big or fancy, but it’s freshly baked from this morning instead of days old.” Orpheus was stunned, the two rarely ever purchased meat or fancy bread during their routine trips to the market in the center of town. It was much cheaper to buy freshly grown produce and canned goods or bargain for near stale bread than to buy things like meat and baked goods. And with Eurydice’s anxieties over their expenses, the two figured they would be okay without. They only splurged on such delicacies on the most special of occasions. Tonight must have been bigger than he thought.

“‘Rydice, I’m...what-”

“Do you think you can handle cooking the rest of dinner? I need to get washing Miko’s clothes.” She picked up the pile of laundry from off of the floor, “they’re absolutely disgusting. They probably need to be resown as well…”

“Eurydice.”

Eurydice stopped her rambling and faced her husband. She sees the look in Orpheus’ eyes, he was confused and concerned, and that it was driving him mad. But absent was any sign of resentment or anger. “Eurydice, please, what’s going on with Miko? Who exactly is he?”

Eurydice was silent for a few moments, peering down at the clothes in her hands. “I was finishing up my trip to the market, and on my way back I heard screaming. I ran over to an alleyway, and I saw this older man beating on this little boy. According to the man, the boy stole some food from his stall and started to run away. Which meant, in the man’s words, that he was in the right to beat and berate this poor small child,” Eurydice huffed, her eyes hard and glassy. “I paid for the food he stole, and I asked him where his family was...he said, he said…” Hot, angry tears started to fall from her eyes as she gripped the crumpled clothes still in her hands. “He had no one. Nowhere else to go and he, he reminded me of myself...I just couldn’t-”

Orpheus didn’t need to hear anymore. He pulled Eurydice in his arms as she softly sobbed, memories of her past flooded her mind. “Shh, shh, it’s alright, Eurydice, my love. You’re home. Everything is gonna be okay.” He copied what she did with Miko, running his fingers through her hair as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear, kissing along her forehead and temples.

After a few minutes, Eurydice’s sobs subsided. She roughly wiped at her eyes, “I’m sorry.”

“Never apologize for crying ‘Rydice,” Orpheus cooed, using the pad of his thumb to brush away a stray tear. “We all have to sometimes. It doesn’t make you any less strong.”

She sniffed, giving a quick rub at her nose, “please don’t be mad. I know money and food are tight sometimes, but I couldn’t leave him there! I just couldn’t.” She sounded so desperate.

“Hey, why would I ever be mad?” Orpheus asked. Sure he was beyond surprised when his wife, miss lone survivor, brought back a young child home with her from her walk, but he could never be mad at her.

Eurydice gazed at Orpheus, hesitance wavering in her voice, “so Miko, can stay…?”

“Of course, he can!”

A wide grin broke out over Eurydice’s face as she laughed in Orpheus’ neck. Orpheus smiled again at Eurydice’s excitement; he never thought she was the type who wanted to be a mother. He had always wanted to be a dad. To raise a child and teach them many things like how to play the lyre, to sing them lullabies to sleep, watch them grow, be a better father than his own. The happiness in the air turned sour. What if he was a worse parent than his own? Orpheus’ concerns began to manifest on his face, his soft and almost boyish features furrowing at the thought.

“Orpheus? What’s wrong?”

“What if I’m a terrible father? Miko didn’t exactly enjoy my presence earlier when we met.”

Eurydice chuckled, “oh poor, great Orpheus, fretting over how a child sees him.”

“I’m being serious Eurydice,” Orpheus replied somberly.

“And I am too,” she said, bringing her hands up to cup his face. “Orpheus, I need you to listen to me: you are the kindest, sweetest soul I’ve ever had the chance to meet. Your heart is so full of love, and I know you will be a great dad. You’re nothing like your parents; you’re loyal and brave and so, so caring. And yes, you’re not perfect, but no one is, and I wouldn’t want you any other way. I love you, and I’m sure Miko will learn to love you too.”

Orpheus pressed a passionate kiss to her lips, and Eurydice quickly reciprocated it. “I love you,” he said once he pulled back.

“I love you too. Now, let’s make dinner. I wasn’t joking when I said I was starving.”

The two got to work: Orpheus cooking, Eurydice washing, and hanging Miko’s clothes. Just as they were wrapping up, they heard the bathroom door quietly open.

“Euri?” a quiet voice called out. The two turn around and see Miko all clean and wearing an old white button-up of Eurydice’s. It was too big for him, the fabric reaching past his knees, but it would work for the night.

“Euri?” Orpheus asked with a raised eyebrow.

Eurydice rolled her eyes, “oh, Miko! You’re just in time,” she smiled, pouring hot broth into three different bowls. “Dinner’s just about ready.” Miko gingerly padded over to the kitchen. He stands close Eurydice, rising on his toes, poking his head up to look over the counter. “You wanna hold your bowl, or do you want me to carry it?”

“I can do it, Euri,” Miko said, his demure voice now a bit more determined.

Eurydice handed him the smallest bowl they had, “careful, the bowl’s very hot.”

Miko nodded once more before taking the bowl. With small, cautious steps and a stern face, Miko made his way out the kitchen, past the couples measly make-shift dinner table, then abruptly stopped and sat on an empty spot on the floor.

“Uh, um Miko?” Orpheus said puzzled, “why are you sitting on the floor?”

“I ‘posed to sit here,” he said as if by muscle memory.

“Who said that?” Eurydice pressed.

Miko didn’t speak at first, stirring his spoon in his bowl. The couples waited with bated breath, not wanting the boy to continue if he was uncomfortable. “...the mean man and his wife.”

“Mean man and his wife?” Eurydice repeated.

Miko lowered his head. “Dirty boys don’t get to eat at the table.”

Orpheus swore he could feel hot, burning steam radiating off Eurydice. She was angry, no, furious, pissed off even. She took a deep, shaky breath. Eyes glued to the boy alone on the floor, “Miko, for as long as you stay with us, which will hopefully be a for a long while, we will never, and I mean NEVER, make you eat on the floor.”

Miko raised his head, “you want me to stay?”

Eurydice bopped her up and down, “we’d love for you stay with us.”

“A-and no floor?”

“No floor.”

“...never ever?”

Eurydice smiled, “never ever never.”

Miko grinned, letting out an airy giggle at Eurydice’s words. Both adults felt their chest grow warm, filled to the brim with pure, tender joy. As he grinned, Orpheus noticed a few of Miko’s baby teeth were missing. Eurydice spoke again, “so Miko, do you want to eat up here with us?”

Miko’s smile dropped once again. Maybe it was too soon to expect him to be ready for such a major change. Suddenly, Orpheus thought of a brilliant idea, “Miko, how about instead of you sitting up here, we come and eat with you on the floor? We can sit on the rug near the fireplace. It can be like a picnic!”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Eurydice agreed, blown away at how sweet and quickly her husband had come up with the suggestion. “What do ya say, Miko? Can we join you?”

Miko’s eyes widened, tiny tears popping up in his eyes. In a quiet voice, no louder than a whisper, he said, “yes, please.”

…

After their lively meal on the living room floor: jammed packed with giggles, soup slurping contests, and funny stories, the three now lay spread out, bellies full from bowls of hearty soup. The soft sounds of the crackling fire echoed the home. Miko was cuddled up in Eurydice’s side, his arms wrapped around her middle and one of hers going down his back. Orpheus had just finished washing the dishes and returned to join his wife and the young boy. He reached out to grab his guitar, giving the old instrument a few good strums. Miko’s attention promptly fell on Orpheus, curiosity evident on his face.

“Want to hear Orpheus play?” Eurydice asked Miko, fingers back to playing with his hair. “He’s the best musician in the world.”

Without even looking in a mirror, Orpheus could tell his cheeks were aflame. Beaming from his wife’s praise, he stopped his strumming, “any request you two?”

“How about the new one you’ve been working one?” Eurydice suggested. “You mentioned when we came home that you figured out that part you were stuck on.”

“It’s not finished yet.”

“Don’t matter. I still want to hear it. And I’m sure Miko wouldn’t mind. Right, Miko?” Miko, whose eyes were still locked on the guitar in Orpheus’ lap, gave a quick nod.

Orpheus grinned, “okay, if you insist.”

Then he began. Fingers skillfully plucking strings, a beautiful melody floated through the air. After a short instrumental, he opened his mouth and started to sing:

“When I'm lost, you bring me back

When I cry, you make me glad

When I think I have it bad

I think of You

“When I don't know where to go

And I feel like I'm alone

When I hang my head down low

I think of You

“Each night You wait outside my door

Cause You want to know ohh, I think of You…”

Miko was completely enthralled- eyes open and locked, his body leaning forward as if to be closer to the sound. Eurydice had to check that he was still breathing. She had suspected the young boy would enjoy her husband's music, but to see him, this enthused filled her heart with pride. She wiggled her fingers on Miko’s stomach, causing the boy to giggle loudly. Orpheus smiled at the exchange and continued his song until the end, or well until he got to where he last let off. “So, how was that?”

“As lovely as ever lover boy,” Eurydice swooned. “What did you think, Miko?” Miko nodded his head so fast Eurydice was scared it would come flying right off.

“Thanks,” Orpheus said. He watched Miko stare down the guitar, balancing on his legs. “You wanna touch it?”

“Can I?”

Orpheus pushed the guitar away and patted his lap, “come sit here.” Miko crawled over to Orpheus, who scooped him up and placed the boy in his lap. He put the guitar over their laps, then guided Miko’s fingers over the strings and fretboard. “Okay, put your fingers here, and one right there, and...strum!”

Miko did as instructed, and a slightly off note rang out. Miko was all smiles regardless, “You hear Euri?”

“I did, Miko, good job hun,” Eurydice cheered.

“Orphe, did I do a good job?” Orphe? ‘Well, I guess that’s my new name.’

“That was very good. You wanna try the next one?”

“Yes!”

So they continued, learning one chord to the next. Soon the lesson was forgotten altogether as Orpheus began to play some simple song that he was most definitely making up as he went:

“Miko, oh Miko,

A young boy dressed in blue

Look out here comes a pack of…uhh...”

“Puppies!” Miko giggled loudly. Orpheus glanced at his wife, eyebrows high. Was this cheery boy in their room even the same child from earlier in the evening?

“Puppies! Oh, Gods please let that be true!”

Eurydice watched the two in awe: Miko all smiles and laughs and Orpheus singing aloud, playing music without a care. She could get used to this; early mornings laughs as the sun blared through the windows, midday walks through the forest, cold fingers entwined as the wind blew, late evening songs bundled up near the fire. She and her now, two boys, yeah, she could get used to this.

#hadestown #orphydice #orpheus #eurydice #orpheus x eurydice #hadestown musical

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ducktracy · 5 years

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97. country boy (1935)

release date: february 9th, 1935

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: bernice hansen (peter/rabbits)

when you hear the title, i’m sure you don’t think of peter rabbit, right? this is a typical looney spin on the classic story by beatrix potter. peter ditches school to gorge himself on some vegetables in a nearby garden, and farmer mcgregor isn’t too pleased.

the story begins with a pleasant, calm rendition of “country boy” as the day to day antics of the rabbit family unfold. josephine rabbit (the mother) tidies up her kids before they embark for school, straightening one’s ears, blowing another’s nose. mischievous peter rips a cloth in half as his sister blows into the handkerchief, whistling innocently as if nothing ever happened—very good timing on that gag.

inside “that big elm tree”, two of the brothers are hurriedly putting on their clothes. they tie their suspenders together on accident, running in opposite directions and smacking right back into each other. i think in the book flopsy, mopsy, and cottontail were all girls? i haven’t read peter rabbit in at least 14 or 15 years.

all of the rabbits have been sent on their way, save for peter, who’s out of sight. his mother repeatedly calls his name, searching in the chicken coop. sure enough, peter’s holding a duster behind his back and pretending to be a chicken, oblivious to his mother’s presence. very amusing to watch him swipe the ground and cluck like a chicken after all the chickens had scattered away at the sound of josephine’s yell. it’s only when his mother snags the brush away that he takes notice, and she spanks him a few times with the brush before sending him off. a great start to the day!

clutching his butt, peter gallops away, sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve. the sound effects here suffer from buddy’s day out syndrome—they feel out of place. a violin slide when peter sniffles, and the same sound of the cloth tearing from earlier when he wipes his nose. the scene would’ve been just fine without the sound effects, but it’s just a minor gripe. sullen, he repeatedly kicks a can. the van lands on a twig, immobilized, much to peter’s oblivion. he swings a kick at the can and hurts his foot, hopping up and down in pain.

nevertheless, his pain is quickly forgotten once he spots a lush garden fresh for the picking. he rubs his stomach contentedly as he ogles at carrots, lettuce, you name it. just as he’s about to push the chicken wire up and sneak in, a shrill “WE’RE GONNA TELL! WE’RE GONNA TELL!” interrupts his potential feast.

our first use of the bernice hansen baby voice! bernice hansen had a KNACK for doing high pitched, squeaky baby voices. the best roles are the ones where the baby she’s voicing is a little bastard, disguised in that adorable voice (porky’s naughty nephew and porky’s picnic). it’s peter’s siblings, who launch into “country boy”, only jeering “we know what you’re thinkin’, naughty boy! better stop your slinkin’, naughty boy!” the animation as the bunnies sing is absolutely beautiful, very well done and some of my favorite animation we’ve seen thus far.

peter refutes by threatening to beat them up (“i’ll be sure to beat ya, tattletale!”), and they go back and forth in a very fun call and response fashion. the bunnies warn him to look out for the farmer, peter says he’ll sock him, too. the bunnies threaten once more to tell the teacher—and the school bell cuts off any remaining arguments. peter follows them to the schoolhouse, turning back last minute and ignoring any late bells to sneak into the garden.

now, he’s free to eat whatever he desires. munching on carrots (and leaving the “skeleton” in, a tried and true gag that never fails to amuse me), eating some peas by scooping them out with a knife. it turns out the peas were actually mexican jumping beans, hops around uncontrollably, right into the beet section.

struggling to rip a beet out of the ground, peter ties a nearby rope to it and runs to the source of the rope: a well. he turns the crank and out comes the beet, attached to another, attached to another, so on and so forth. a cow at the end of the line is also preparing to feast on the beets, clutching onto the top with its teeth. it gets dragged through the soil as peter turns the crank with all his might, approaching the well and falling in. oops!

farmer mcgregor overhears the cow’s desperate moos while mowing the lawn. he spots peter and snags a rake, chasing after him. a very nice, hurried, orchestral rendition of “country boy” underscores the chase. peter hops onto the mower (that has been sitting unoccupied while mcgregor chases him) and speeds away, mocking mcgregor. the mower collides with a rock and veers off course, nice animation to watch peter weave in and out of the foreground. seems to be a favorite angle of friz’s, i’ve noticed—used in multiple shorts, even as recent as mr. and mrs. is the name.

peter mows right into the hedges, sparking mcgregor to yell at him incoherently. all is well... until peter realizes he’s still on a shanghaied lawn mower, cutting up cornstalks and rearranging them after the fact in a neat pile. a bump causes peter to hold onto the handle instead of sitting on it, perfect for him to get covered in maple syrup as he barrels (pun intended) through multiple barrels. conveniently, a chicken coop awaits, just for peter. he zips through it, a nice fast, dizzying, sideways pan, and comes out covered in feathers. lovely (and hilarious) animation by chuck jones of peter hopping onto a fence post, slapping his feather filled sides and crowing like a rooster. iris out.

i loved this cartoon! maybe because i loved peter rabbit so much as a child. bernice hansen’s voice acting was spot on, all of the bunnies were very cute, and peter was endearing and charismatic (finally!). “country boy” was a VERY catchy song, and i especially loved the rendition between the feuding bunnies. the pacing is nice, chase scene quick and snappy, especially the syrup and chicken coop section. 1935 looks like a promising year for friz, and we’ll certainly see that in our next review with the introduction of a very obscure, unknown, insignificant stuttering pig.

link!

#lt #country boy #reviews #long post

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the-unknown-storyteller · 5 years

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Lost Family

Warning: Gore, Blood, Self-Harm, Dismemberment, Probably Inaccurate Depictions of Grief, Sleep Deprivation and Dissociation which I apologise for, Fire, Minor Character Deaths

Please don't read this if any of that bothers you. Stay safe.

Sequel to Graceless Friends

"Mirna? What's wrong?" Azule asks, noticing that his friend's stopped in the middle of the road. There's a contemplative look on her face. He takes a few big steps backwards and waits for Mirna to finish her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, it's just… it's Link. No one here has seen him leave his house for days! Grandpa Trov said that there's always light coming from behind one of his windows, night and day!", Mirna explains, looking at the basket full of fruit and vegetables in Azule's arms, then back at Azule himself.

"It just makes me uneasy. Link doesn't seem like the type of person who would hide away in his house. I mean, he's usually away on a journey or outside helping us with our fields and chores. Everyone's just worried, including myself. I'm sorry, Azule. It doesn't even look like he's going out to buy food…"

"No, no, I understand what you're feeling, don't apologise" he reassures her. "I'm worried about him as well. I believe you were right when you said that something was wrong with him a few days ago." A nod.

A market stall not too far away from them sells all kinds of bread and baked goods, the warm smell of the fresh rolls wafts through the air and invites them over. Mirna tilts her head, humming at the idea that's beginning to form at the back of her head.

"You know, he's helped this village so incredibly much, I feel like we owe him at least this," Mirna says, pointing at the loaves of bread, as she slowly walks towards the stall. Azule follows, nodding his head in agreement.

Together, they assemble a basket, filling it with juicy looking tomatoes and bell peppers. A bunch of fresh carrots, apples and a fine salad head with big and luscious leaves are added to the pile. They throw in a few of the biggest mushrooms they could find in the marketplace, before they finish it all off with a big loaf of bread, still warm to the touch.

Satisfied with their gift, they exchange a grin and make their way to Link's house.

For the first few days, Wild doesn't manage to rise from his bed. Grief weighs down on his bones, seemingly pushing down on his entire being. It squeezes his lungs in a way that makes it hard to breathe, hard to get up and do something, anything.

He stays in bed and he ignores the gnawing feeling in his stomach. The pounding and throbbing in his head from the lack of water keeps him awake at night. Which is fine. He even welcomes it because he doesn't want to sleep. Sleeping means being trapped in a nightmare, reliving that one day over and over. Seeing all of them di-

He knows his heart won't be able to handle that. So instead, he stays awake as long as possible, until his body gives out and shuts itself down, forcing him into a hopefully dreamless sleep.

After some time, he can feel himself space out and drift away. His head is suddenly stuffed full with cotton, muffling his thoughts and dulling the piercing ache behind his eyes. He lifts his arm, momentarily unsure if it even belongs to him or if this is actually someone else's body. He lets it fall back down onto the bed. He can't find anything to ground himself with, so he watches as he floats away from his body.

After a couple of days, he feels his body actually get up to drink some desperately needed water and eat at least an apple, the survivalist inside him screaming at and fighting for him to stay alive. The water and food wakes him up from his dream like state, but not enough to pull him entirely back.

He sits at his table, staring down at his second half eaten apple. He slowly turns it in the vanishing light of the setting sun, thinking back to last night's nightmare.

He is standing in front of a house. Groups of flowers are hanging from the balcony in deep purples and gentle blues, splashes of white sprinkled in between them. Vines climb up the right side of the wall, proudly showing off the vibrant red of their blooming buds.

He can hear voices coming from within. The gruff sound of a proud father, the gentle tone of a loving mother, the energetic screams of a little girl… accompanied by the roaring laughter of a boy. Small footsteps rush through the house, followed by even smaller ones. More laughter.

Wild closes his eyes and focuses on those sounds. His chest aches with the vague knowledge that this is something that he's lost in his deep slumber. That he's left behind.

He takes a deep breath.

One moment, the air smells of lavender and the promise of ripe apples, the next it is replaced by the pungent smell of smoke and fire, making his eyes water. With shock, his eyes snap open, only to be met with the sight of red. So much red.

He starts forward, his panicked mind screaming at him to do something. But he finds that he can't move his legs, can't move his hands and reach for his sheika slate or his ice arrows or something.

All he can do is watch.

The roaring fire climbs up the vines at the side of the house, which have shriveled up and died in the span of a view seconds. Wild tries to hold back a sob, as it sets the roof ablaze. It climbs through the windows, trapping the family within the dying house. All of them locked inside the fiery storm. All of them except for their son.

Hands fly up to block out the horrible and terrified screams that follow, but they just ring through. Wild presses his hands to his ears even harder, but the screams sound even more clear that way. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut, but finds that they just fixate on the scene before him instead.

By the time the roof caves in, Wild is screaming names that he can't remember, crying for people that he doesn't know anymore.

The dream, that was very much not a dream, nags at the back of his head and reminds him that he's already lost his first family.

And now I've lost my second one as well, he thinks bitterly, tears burning behind his eyes. The empty feeling in his chest pulsates with a strange ache to it. He taps his finger against his half eaten apple, which is a deep red colour.

With sudden but vicious anger, he takes up a kitchen knife and stabs it into the apple. Again and again, furious about his past and his present and his fate bestowed upon him by the damn goddess. He keeps at it until the apple is reduced to bits and then he throws the knife aside and starts to thrash his home.

He sweeps the plates and bowls off the shelves, throws his chairs against the wall until they break. He smashes one of his few vases against the floor, the water seeps into the wooden floor boards while the silent princess lays broken on the floor.

He stomps over to his weapon collection and starts to rip them from their displays, uncaring of the damage that he does to them. Tridents fall to the ground, small daggers, shields, amor. Consumed by his rage, Wild doesn't take notice of one particular broad sword that's barely staying on the wall.

As he bumps against it, it comes loose with a clang and cuts deep into his right hand, almost severing it off. Wild stares at his arm with horror, blood drips down his now useless hand. He drops to his knees, cradling his severely injured limb.

A wave of nauseating pain rushes through him and he empties the contents of his stomach onto the floor, dry-heaving when his systems has purged everything there is to purge. His whole body shivers, as his chest hacks and coughs and gasps for air.

The sight of his own blood makes him dizzy, the way his hand limply hangs from his forearm makes him sick.

"M-mipha." He calls. Shock prevents him from doing anything, but watch his arm bleed and bleed and bleed. And then, slowly, light blue tendrils rise from his skin and start to stitch everything back together. Strips of flesh rejoice and form new skin on top. Bone mends itself and in the end, his hand is good as new. A last wave of pain rushes through his arm before it stops at last. Wild breathes deeply.

And then he starts to think and to contemplate and the thoughts in his mind turn grey, then darken further into an inky black.

If my families keep dying, then I'll just make one on my own. His fatigued and crazed mind thinks, marvelling at the way his stitched together hand moves. Painstakingly, piece by piece if I have to.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #hero of the wild #lost family #sequel #tw blood #tw dismemberment #tw self harm #tw grief #tw gore #tw sleep deprivation #tw fire #tw dissociation #tw character death #addison writes

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kiraawrites · 5 years

Text

2MSS #6: Reptilian Runaways (Part 2)

Please read Part 1 before this!

Day 6 of the 2 Month Short Stories Challenge w/ @flyingfalconflower12

Word count: 1114

Constructive criticism welcome!

James' feet were caked with dirt. They were sore from stepping on the knobs of tree roots, nearly stumbling on the meek obstacles of nature. The blazing sun was roasting him to a crisp as the sparse trees provided little shade. Chest heaving, he flung himself onto a patch of leaves and started to weep.

His rapier pulsed and said, "You're almost there. Just keep walking straight. Strongest five-year-old on this planet, okay?"

"I don't want to go. Why can't Mama and Papa come with me? I'm hungry already," James bawled, his vision muddled as tears mixed in with the sunlight. "You can't feed me. Only they can."

"Mama and Papa won't understand. I'm taking you to a special place. Away from the creepy adults. They can hurt you very badly. But I'll never do that. Trust me."

He rubbed his nose and dusted his shorts before pushing himself upwards. Reluctant to resume the journey, he was kicking at the rocks before him when a flurry of dust entered his vision. A man strode out and lunged towards James.

"No! Don't touch me—Aaah, go away!"

A second man joined the fray. They were twins. Both had a black shirt slung over their bony backs, untrimmed gnarly nails and cargo pants with rips down the front.

"We're protecting you. If you come with us, you'll be safe. If you go with the snake, you'll get hurt. Understand? Come, we'll give you candy," pleaded one of them, holding his greasy arms out to encircle James.

The rapier was swelling as its scales revealed their pattern of black and gold. Snake eyes bore themselves into the terrified looks of the men as they felt the scales wind round their feet. James burst out of the circle of dread and dashed straight ahead. It felt as if there were wings at his heels and springs on his soles — he was hurtling through the air, his hair swept completely back. I'll be helping you run. Don't worry, I'll be back soon, echoed a voice in his head. Nodding, James continued scrambling past the foliage at breakneck speed. He leapt over logs and then reached a roaring river.

Stones paved the way for him but they gleamed with moisture, threateningly so. James whined as he was turning left and right to search for another path. Just then, he spotted a pair of flat grey eyes studying him. They belonged to a man in a flannel t-shirt, reading a book beneath the shade. That man stepped out of the shadows of the trees on the opposing bank and made his way over to James.

"Little boy, are you lost?"

James shook his head and lifted his arms with an eager smile. After embracing the man, he was carried to the other side. With a pat on his dark hair and a pinch of the cheek, James darted off. A dirt path lay his route out for him as he bounced around with excitement. I'm near! I wish Mama was here. She would be so proud of me for doing this all by myself! The speed boost had worn off and the rapier fell into James' hands in the middle of a short break. A small town was before him now, warm with the presence of people but without the unending noise of a great city.

"Search for a library. You can ask adults, they'll help."

Buildings of uniform heights decorated the streets. Signs hung out of them, elaborately hand-lettered. The lamp posts towered over James as he made his way through the cafes, pubs and family-run fresh produce stores to the sunflower yellow building beside a traffic junction. Luke had scolded him with every urge to run into a bakery to beg for bread.

The library was a modest two storeys. James waddled into it and alas, tangled his dirty feet up in a wire that ran across the floor. His body flung itself onto the ground as he yowled. Harsh, interrogative glances pointed in his direction as he got up. The librarian, exhaling a deep sigh, regarded the boy before her.

"My pet snake told me to come here."

"Where's your pet snake? Pets aren't allowed in the library. Did you tell your parents you'd be here? It's late, dear boy."

"I didn't tell my parents. My pet — Luke — just told me to run. I can show you what he looks like. Here!" he chimed with childish innocence, flashing his rapier before her eyes.

Stepping back with disbelief, the librarian took his hand and lead him to a door beneath the white staircase that wound upwards. Her hands shivered as the door was unlocked, revealing a dusty storeroom filled with scrolls, books and even a shelf of pens.

"You'll have to make it to the other side by yourself," she whispered before shutting the door with a creak.

The ancient-looking scrolls bewitched him with their mystery as he unrolled one from the pyramid of scrolls. Yellowed paper served as a backdrop to rough sketches. A boy fencing with a rapier. The same boy streaking across a field, the python tailing him closely. Another boy with a python in a room full of toys. The last one has black hair. The other boy has it golden. Maybe the last boy's me! Beaming, James rolled up the scroll and kicked open the door. Another room identical to the last. But once he placed a foot inside, all went dark.

Great gates rose before him as he thudded on the ground. Guardsmen in knights' armour stood stiff beside the steady stream of people. Most of them were women with baskets. The tops of green vegetables peeked out of the lids, exposing the apples and carrots beneath. James went up and showed the guardsmen his rapier, asking them for help. They obliged in an instant.

Everyone gives me special attention! I like this. I hope they bring food next. He was brought to a castle, escorted deeper and deeper into its chambers until they reached the king's throne. The throne glowed as the large figure of the king rested on it. Chin placed in his hand, his eyebrows raised as the party of three entered the throne room. Beneath the heavy jewel-studded crown, he scrutinised James and then pointed to his left, barking an order in a foreign language. A trapdoor opened beneath James' feet as he descended into a gigantic metal chamber. Pillows cushioned his landing as he whined in fright. The room was windowless. Doorless.

From a speaker, a robotic voice said, "The greatest warrior in the world. In three seconds, your trial will begin."

"What trial? I'm hungry, let me eat!"

Taglist

@galaxy-charm @rhyseoshaughnessy @icedcoffeewriting

Author’s note

sorry for rushed ending uwu,,, i was so tiRed aAAAA

#writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr #my writing #writers #kiraawrites #prose #2 month short stories #2MSS

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kiruuuuu · 6 years

Text

Dearest @nutbrain, I wish you also a happy birthday and all the best 💗💗 Thank you for sharing and discussing ideas and for your neverending support and kind words. This is partly a birthday gift and partly a retaliation in our kindness war, and I do hope you like it :)

In this, Bandit asks a djinn-like Doc to help win a war. Or: a lot of things are impossible. No explicit ships but you can use your imagination! (Rating G, fantasy AU, ~13k words)

Doc is summoned to oppressive heat.

The ritual, as always, he could’ve done without – his essence is being compressed and forced into an imperfect, almost laughable body incapable of representing his true self, the process far from comfortable. Organs are rearranged, replaced, removed, limbs melt together to form two legs to stand on, two arms; fur regresses and makes place for naked skin and fabric materialises seemingly out of thin air to match his last excursion’s fashion: deep blue adorns him as a vest, puffy grey surrounds his lower half.

It’s disorienting but that’s nothing new: taking on the form of a human usually leaves him light-headed and struggling to compose himself for a few seconds. Their sense of balance is inferior, as is their method of communicating – if he’s honest, he finds most about them distasteful, from their thinking to their deeds and yet they happen to inhabit the sweetest space of all. Breathing clean, fresh air is pure bliss, as is feeling sand and dust between his toes, the gravity just right to allow for actual jumps even in this frail body. How he loves being here and how he despises having to deal with this race of selfish, bloodthirsty predators.

Once his eyes have adapted to the brightness assaulting him (and even this is ultimately better than any alternative, he enjoys the sun), he looks around curiously to face those who decided to call upon him.

He’s confronted with just one man.

Where’s the committee, where are the sacrificial offerings? Doc is used to lavish surroundings, the secluded wing of a cathedral, a peaceful clearing in a forest, next to a gentle stream inside a decorated cave – instead he finds himself in a nondescript landscape, dunes in the distance, no more than shrubs in view which suggests they’re high up North, near the sweltering deserts of death. He’s been summoned behind a tent like a secret lover, not like the deity as which he’s normally revered.

The more he lets his gaze wander, the more indignation rises: the summoning circle below his feet has been scratched into the dry, cracked ground instead of being carefully painted on by calligraphers, there seems to be no food ready for him whatsoever and on top of that, the man looks like a mercenary. A closer look prompts Doc to correct himself, no, not a mercenary, he’s wearing a crest of some kind with pride, though his dirt-coloured clothing is ripped, his sandals stained, his sword dull and his skin marred. It’s clear what he is, becomes even clearer when Doc takes notice of more and evermore tents behind him, catches sight of other men and women clad similarly to the one before him.

“I offer you my greetings”, comes only part of the usual phrases uttered whenever Doc or one of his brethren are dragged into this world, “it is the fifth year of the scorpion, following forty-six years of the snake following one hundred and twenty-six years of the fly. We are near the numeric ocean, two days’ journey east of the capital of Qina, formerly the province of -”

Doc nods and the man stops his history lesson. He now knows when and where they are, though there still is no indication as to why.

“They call me Bandit, it’s an honour.” Instead of a bow or a similarly respectful gesture, he receives nothing. “You may speak.”

“You don’t look Qinean”, Doc states sharply as soon as he feels some of the tingling around him dissipate. For right now, he’s at its mercy, unable to act or leave either way, so he makes his words count.

“That is correct, I’m Rangiin Kamaan. The highest general there is.”

“Why do you require my services?”

A shadow flits over the man’s face but his piercing gaze doesn’t lower. He’s a prideful one, if he dares to summon the likes of Doc without an appropriate welcome – prideful, foolish and arrogant. “We are losing a war”, he replies quietly.

“Isn’t that a shame.” It comes as no surprise. He might not have visited this part of the continent in decades, possibly centuries, and yet humans are the same everywhere, all of them open books with the same kind of boring story on display. Envy, ire, hurt, arrogance – it’s all the same, whether it’s a dispute between neighbours or a widespread conflict involving more than just two nations.

Bandit seems dissatisfied with his lack of compassion but forces an easy grin nonetheless. “I don’t like being on the loser’s side. So I thought I’d ask for help. You’re good with anatomy, isn’t that right? You know how to eviscerate someone? Make them die a slow, painful death? The most efficient kinds of poison?”

“You”, Doc spits back, hardly masking his disdain, “are a warmonger. I know your kind. Do you even know who stands before you?”

“Someone who is glad to be here.” They glare at each other, neither of them backing down. They’ve reached an impasse: Doc cannot exit this world of his own accord, not with the circle intact, and Bandit wants him to cooperate which he will refuse to do. “The knowledge of summoning you has been passed down in my family and with it, your earthly name. You are Doc, one of the ancient ones, able yet often unwilling to assist us.”

“My powers are of restoration”, Doc adds with venom, “not destruction. I refuse to utilise them according to the wishes of a murderer and furthermore, I have always refrained in changing the tide of battle as have most of my kin. If your army is losing, perhaps it would’ve been wise not to go to war in the first place.”

“We had no choice -”

“There is always a choice!” More glaring. Doc silently both commends the human for his bravery and condemns him for his insolence. If he knew exactly who Doc is, he must’ve been overconfident or desperate to call on him regardless – he’s known for upholding the balance others of his kind with inferior standing might upset, known for healing rather than harming. He is no help in a war, neither willing nor capable to lend assistance and therefore surmises this foreign army is on the brink of being eradicated. “Why do you wish to conquer land which isn’t yours? Why do you cause death?”

It’s meant rhetorically, in Doc’s experience there’s only one answer: power. Expansion of territory, pre-emptive strikes, tactical weakening of potential opponents. Whatever it is, wars are never started out of just reasons. Even so, what he expected to see on the man’s face was a sneer maybe, anger too, thought he’d be confronted with a defensive stance or a self-righteous smirk. Instead – there’s nothing. A careful stony façade pulled up to hide emotions, probably practised over the years. “We won’t come to an agreement like this”, he states very correctly. “Yet I can’t let you roam free without making sure you’re not going to join our enemies instead. You’re able to do that, right?”

Doc confirms wordlessly. Enlisting his services requires knowledge of his name and other details, a meticulously drawn summoning circle, strong willpower and constitution and a keen mind. Carrying the burden of being the anchor tying a being as powerful as Doc to this world is far from easy and negotiating terms with him usually demands either for a pure heart and earnest intentions – or hidden cunning. He’s been deceived in the past, involuntarily participated in horrendous acts which have long since been lost to time; in some cases, he helped humanity forget about his unintentional crimes. He has since become considerably more reluctant to act. But yes, compared to his weaker kindred spirits, he can exert his will much more freely, even act against his summoner’s wishes and orders, against their agreement. So Bandit is exercising necessary caution in not entering a verbal contract and therefore setting Doc free.

It’s possible that his family preserved the knowledge of just how much Doc relishes his stays in this world and he’s abusing it by allowing him to taste the sweet air, feel a soft breeze caress his temporary silhouette – dangling a carrot in front of him, in a way, until Doc gives in at least partially. He has a pronounced sense of honour. If he promises to stay and assess the situation, he’ll stay.

“How about this? It’s morning now. If I haven’t convinced you by sunset that we not only require but deserve your help, I will set you free.”

A cocky proposition. Also extremely improbable, given the lacklustre greeting Doc received as well as Bandit’s questionable status and rotten attitude. Nevertheless, he’s giving Doc an out, offering him to set foot into his world properly without tricking him. At least that’s what it looks like. “Those are your terms? As long as you do not expect me to interfere in any way, I am willing to grant you more time.”

Bandit pauses. He doesn’t strike Doc as the anxious type and yet he shifts his weight uneasily, his eyes flitting from object to object for a second. “Let’s say tonight for now.”

“Accepted”, Doc replies and watches as the half-hearted circle by his feet shifts, begins glowing in a rich orange and contracts, dragging the elaborate symbols with it towards the human shape in their midst, crawling up his bare soles, past his ankles and diving under his saroual. Though intangible by itself, the fizzing around him ceases and he can now be sure not to lose a few toes or possibly more if he takes a step forwards. It’s a little like surfacing after having been underwater: he inhales deeply, shakes out his limbs and inspects the cracks lining his skin. They’re vein-like, almost akin to a precious metal shimmering through and of a bright, warm colour; they keep him manifested in this plane of existence. Sometimes, they’re more prominent than his skin, brutish and ugly in their primitiveness, but now they’re thin and look almost elegant. It seems Bandit knows what he’s doing.

“I have something to show you before I answer your questions”, Bandit announces and turns towards the camp.

During the short walk, Doc sates his curiosity about the rest of the continent by allowing his companion to elaborate on the events shaping the past decades. Some empires have gained or lost land, kingdoms have emerged or fallen, but he’s pleased to hear that the people inhabiting the eastern part of the central mountain range cutting the continent in half are flourishing. He helped them gain independence from all surrounding nations by arguing that their rocky terrain has nothing of value to offer and that they’d be willing to trade for goods which they can produce more easily than anyone else due to experience – in the end, they were permitted to establish their own laws and customs based on what their members deemed sensible. Doc enjoyed aiding them, especially since they welcome curious guests, migrants or refugees with open arms and teach them to carry their own weight should they decide to stay.

Much to his surprise, Bandit speaks of them favourably instead of with sarcasm, so he inquires about his own nation. He has never heard of the name Rangiin Kamaan before. Formerly part of the once glorious empire of Qina which used to span almost the entire width of the continent, from one ocean to the other, it’s now independent, became one of Qina’s smaller neighbours. He never paid this region much heed as they generally followed whichever trend allowed them to survive at the time and involvement in any of the Great Wars was minimal. Bandit speaks with reverence of a kind ruler who inspires his people by practising what he preaches yet Doc doesn’t assume he’ll get to speak with him any time soon. Weak Kings like this one tend to either die early in war or avoid fighting altogether.

“I still do not understand”, he interrupts Bandit’s wordy speech. They’ve come to a stop beside a huge tent, the largest one Doc spotted during their trip. The camp itself is well-organised and kept neat, hardly any soldier is simply lounging around or even pausing to stare at him (which in itself is nothing short of a miracle – is this nation so accustomed to the likes of him?), their uniforms seem practical and the men and women determined. Iron discipline is indubitably a requirement yet Doc fails to spot any hint of dissatisfaction with their conditions. It seems they’re all convinced their cause is virtuous. “Qina by far exceeds your troop strength, has more allies and resources and, though not the force it once was, still possesses the strategical knowledge to easily outmanoeuvre you. What do you hope to gain by fighting?”

“See for yourself.” Bandit indicates the entrance next to them. “I won’t be following you but take your time, I’ll wait.”

Doc eyes him suspiciously yet can’t imagine a way how this mere human could trick him simply by entering a tent, so he obliges and steps through the protective flaps keeping some of the heat outside.

It’s a field hospital. This fact alone is hardly noteworthy but the size of it is unproportional to the amount of soldiers he’s seen so far – surely, if this many resources are necessary to patch up wounded troops, they’re better off giving up. Not only that, literally all the improvised beds are occupied with people who at first glance don’t display any injuries, few bandages visible, hardly any limbs missing. And yet they’re tormented by something, trembling and shivering, some of them curled up and moaning quietly, others passed out entirely. Helpers hurry from person to person in bustling activity and still, they seem unable to relieve whichever ailment plagues their brothers and sisters. All they offer is emotional support, some food and water, a soothing hand on heated or clammy skin.

The atmosphere is suffocating. It reeks of sweat and disease and the collective whimpers and groans make for a pitiful cacophony. All the impressions are strengthened by the stale air and assault Doc’s senses. He’s seen worse, walked among the plague-ridden and witnessed open mass graves, and yet the suffering here is sharp, tangible, spreads further in his lungs the longer he resides. An impulse takes hold of him, urges him to leave instead of investigating more closely but he squashes it before it grows irresistible. He knows he’s too kind. He knows he’s guilty of giving humanity the benefit of the doubt entirely too often, despite all.

Looking for answers, he steps up to the nearest helper, a tall, broad-shouldered man tending to a grim-looking muscular young woman whose clenched fists are shaking. “What is going on?”, he addresses both of them softly.

As soon as the man catches sight of him, he interrupts his whispering to bow in respect. “Great One, I offer you my greetings and joyous thanks to be graced with your -”

Doc holds up a hand to silence him. With Bandit readily answering his questions more like an equal than the puny creature he is, the otherwise so pleasant-sounding phrases have become hollow to his ears. He’s always enjoyed the awe he seemed to inspire, enjoyed the way humans cowered before him, asked for permission to speak, praised him and treated whatever he said as sacred. Right now, however, it feels oddly out of place after the light conversation earlier. He wonders whether this is the so-called vanity one of his kin once accused him of. “No more of this.”

“I apologise. In my experience, Bandit struggles a tad with common courtesy, so I thought you might appreciate an official greeting. My name is Monty, it’s an honour.”

The man’s smile is warm and youthful and Doc suddenly understands why he doesn’t mind the frankness and general nonchalance with which his presence is being met as much as he thought: it’s a good sign that he’s getting an authentic insight into these people’s lives instead of being shown a carefully staged play intended to sway him the desired way.

“If circumstances were different, you’d be offered a banquet to rival all you’ve had before but rations are tight enough already.” He turns back to the woman and massages her upper arm, loosening the tension in it a bit. “It’s going to start working soon, relax. You’ll be alright. Sleep will help. Will you allow the Great One to examine you? I assume that’s why you’re here?”

Blue eyes peer at him, similarly unwavering to Bandit’s – yet where the warlord’s gaze had been firm and at times even cold, this man’s is confident and calm. He seems pleasant to be around, much more composed than the other people flitting about the field hospital. Once the woman has affirmed her cooperation, Doc reaches out for her hand, gently uncurls her fingers and takes them between his – wounded, humans strike him as fragile and delicate, like a young animal which overestimated its abilities. He has mercy on the weak and injured, has always shown compassion for the unfortunate even if he likened it to nurturing a snake. By helping humanity, he probably aids it in harming itself further.

The almost golden cracks running over his skin brighten as soon as he heightens his senses but he pays no attention to the familiar sight, instead closing his eyes to see with his mind. A heartbeat overlays his and thumps until both have synchronised, his lungs fill with air at the same time the woman’s do, his sense of gravity flips, the temperature increases even more – and then he barely resists making a noise when they finally melt together.

The pain is blinding.

He’s trying not to upset her, so he keeps quiet and doesn’t cause her throat to produce sound without her approval, yet it gets more difficult with every passing second. He needs to be quick about it. Her organs are weakened, some of them not working as they should, her pulse is quickened, skin sensitive and sore, muscles only just shy of cramping, her head muddled – though this might be the aforementioned medicine – and above all is brilliant, cutting pain. Its origin, however, remains a mystery, no matter how much he searches. He calms her racing heart, removes the exhaustion holding her back, but it’s obvious he’s merely addressing symptoms and not the cause. There are no broken bones, no disease nesting in an unexpected part of her body, nothing he can pinpoint.

Nothing he can cure.

Puzzled, he does whatever he can for her and withdraws once she’s fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. Separating their physical senses is uncomfortable as usual, like leaving a warm bath to throw himself into the icy white desert of the South. He’s sat down on the bed without realising and looks down on the tormented body, watches as a mere minute later, the tension returns.

He’s powerless. Utterly incapable of healing whatever is slowly eroding this human in front of him.

“Would you like something to drink?”

It’s the man again, someone so filled with a sense of duty that he left Doc by his patient’s side to help others in the meantime. Mutely, he nods, accepts the mug handed to him and shudders as he feels the liquid fill his mouth, slide down his throat, arrive in his stomach. Ingesting anything for the first time in this form is usually a joy but as refreshing as the water is, the shock dampens the experience. “What is this?”, he wants to know quietly, gesturing at the entirety of the tent. “How did it come to this?”

Monty deflates visibly and follows his gaze with a defeated sigh. “We call it the divine disease. A second visit at night would reveal why.”

Following his implicit instructions, Doc leans down, blocks out the sunlight with his hands and looks at the woman’s hand in his little bubble of darkness. Her veins are glowing.

The light they give off is faint and barely comparable to the one emanating from Doc yet it’s undoubtedly there, the shimmering turquoise unnatural and unexpected. He’s never seen anything like it before. It’s the same further up on her arm, seems to follow her bloodstream and yet he failed to detect any trace of its source. “This is impossible”, he blurts out before considering his remark – the last thing he needs is to cause a panic.

“Unfortunately, it isn’t.” Monty sounds as if this wasn’t the first time he’s had to convince someone.

“Tell me all you know.”

Another sigh. The woman between them twitches in her sleep, brows drawn together in agony. “It has several stages and begins with inexplicable pain. The initial location varies from person to person but over time, it affects the entire body, causing fatigue and severely inhibiting the afflicted, though the ultimate effects once again vary. One has gone blind, another developed a rash, there have been rotting limbs, muscle atrophy, tremors. The only common ground is the pale blue light, persistent aching and the fact that we don’t know how to cure it.”

Doc shoots up without a reply and approaches a different bed, this time with a whimpering, older man. His eyes widen once he catches sight of the orange markings denoting Doc as a higher being but doesn’t manage to utter a syllable as Doc forcibly fuses their sensations, barely avoiding throwing up in the process due to the suddenness of it. No, his powers are working the way he expects them to – he clearly is aware of all the differences between this body and the last one, instinctively repairs a few things here and there, closes a scratch on the man’s shin, rejuvenates his liver and tries to block out the omnipresent pain which presents a solid foundation to all other sensations. It’s the same as before, he finds nothing wrong except for everything being wrong somehow.

He’s frazzled, pulls back too fast and sways unsteadily until a hand rests on his shoulder. This can’t be. He’s never encountered anything like it. Just to make sure, he invades Monty as well, takes careful note of his regular heartbeat and breathing, apparently not at all perturbed by Doc’s behaviour. He’s in good shape, even better than the two soldiers, and yet Doc finds some things to improve, restores an awkwardly healed rib to its intended state, rids the man of all exhaustion and slight dizziness from spending all day in the stuffy tent, looks for any indication that his own abilities just aren’t the same as they used to be. But there’s nothing. No sign of the illness and therefore his powers are the same as always.

They’re both light-headed when he severs the connection abruptly and his tongue won’t obey him fully yet, causing him to slur his next words: “Is it contagious?”

To his credit, Monty remains by his side, doesn’t subconsciously distance himself from Doc despite the indubitably uncomfortable experience he must’ve just had. Doc shouldn’t be surprised, he’s noticed before that humans who devote their life to helping others tend to be much more agreeable. “Yes”, he responds after a short pause. “Though we don’t know how. Physical contact is necessary but not sufficient – I seem to be largely immune, for example. Some others are, too.”

Doc’s shock is still at the forefront of his mind. There hasn’t been an earthly ailment he wasn’t able to fix, some more easily than others, so this is inconceivable. He turns and marches out of the tent, feeling oddly sullied as if he had contracted the ‘divine disease’, as they called it, himself. A mockery, even an offence to all he stands for.

Bandit is yelling at a few young warriors when bright sunlight greets him again, but dismisses them immediately when he meets Doc’s dismayed gaze, turning towards him with a grim smile.

“Answers”, Doc demands with gritted teeth.

“I have but one to give.” He pauses momentarily and Doc almost grabs his neck to shake it out of him. “You wanted to know why we’re fighting Qina? Well.” Bandit’s expression hardens. “They have the cure.”

~*~

“This is preposterous”, Doc barks at the other man while walking back and forth, making no effort to conceal his indignation. “What you’re claiming is impossible.”

“And yet here we are.” Bandit inexplicably seems bored with their conversation, focusing more on sharpening his sword than on Doc’s words.

“None of us would ever go this far, no matter how much we’d believe to be in the right. You hear me? None. This must be a, I don’t know, a whim! Or an accident. Nature made an unfortunate mistake!”

“Nature has produced a variety of abominations of all kinds, I’ll give you that, but shouldn’t you be able to heal it in that case? You can take pain away, so why not this one?”

He’s fuming over Bandit’s accusations, can barely think straight. If he hadn’t seen, even felt the illness himself, he’d have silenced him on the spot, removed his tongue or his vocal chords, possibly made him die a slow and painful death for his open disrespect. As things stand, he experienced it himself, his curiosity urging him to find answers – but vehemently rejecting the one Bandit offered him. “Maybe my influence on this world has lessened. Maybe the passing of time weakened my powers to the point where I’m unable to adapt to this new malady. It might just be an odd coincidence.”

“It is not and you know it isn’t, I saw that look in your eye when you left the tent, you know it’s -”

“Do not dare to speak it one more time. I will wipe you off the face of this earth if you even imply it once more.”

Bandit drops his sword with a clatter, expression furious. “Threaten me all you want, it’s the most obvious explanation. This fucking disease which has caused so much suffering and death already, this plague which is killing the very people I have vowed to protect, is otherworldly and caused by a so-called ‘Great One’.”

Like a cornered animal, he lashes out without considering the consequences, and, like a rabid animal, he needs to be put down. Doc has come into contact with enough heresy committed by humans to know he’s not going to change his mind, but has never faced it quite as directly and bluntly as this. Blind rage seizes him, propels him forward and convinces him to try and touch Bandit anywhere so he can ravage his organs, eviscerate him from the inside out, find what’s most precious to him and gouge it out. His eyes maybe? His fingers?

The human displays an impressive reaction time, ducking away with a pale face full of terror, jumping aside yet not running away for some reason Doc can’t discern. He holds him in place with the sheer force of his will, feels an oddly triumphant excitement rise in him when Bandit realises he’s trapped standing up, incapable of moving his muscles. Doc approaches him, raises a hand and touches his temple, eager to maim and make this worm bleed, eager to -

“Wait.”

He pauses, unmoving. Bandit still looks terrified, eyelids fluttering and deathly pallid, but his eyes aren’t directed at Doc anymore. “I do not believe anything you have to say could change my mind”, Doc states loudly. Only now he realises that no one else is in sight, no wandering soldiers staring at them, no living creature visible except for Bandit and, behind Doc’s back, Monty. It says a lot about a leader when his own troops abandon him as easily as this.

“Please, show mercy. And let him explain. You’ve witnessed how my kinsmen suffer, and I don’t think you’ll give up on them so soon.”

Doc deliberates his words. He considers himself merciful, that much is true, and he wants to find a solution for this odd disease, though not for either of their sakes. Still, he removes his hold, takes a step back and watches as Bandit sags in relief. Of course he pretends not to have been affected as much as he was, waves Monty’s concerns aside but leans into his casual touch nonetheless when he checks up on him. His small smile is grateful and Doc doesn’t miss the way his gaze lingers when the tall man turns back to Doc.

“Maybe it’ll make you reconsider hearing that you’re not the first one he’s asked for help.”

“I imagine you’ve appealed to doctors all over the continent”, he responds with a shrug but is confused to receive a shake of the head.

“You’re the eighth”, Bandit admits. “I’ve summoned seven others before you.”

“That’s -” Impossible, he almost says once again. Wordlessly, Bandit lifts the hem of his top and reveals several scars on his abdomen which by themselves wouldn’t be remarkable if not for their blackened state; inflamed-looking tendrils crawling away from the wound, the dark colour sickening. Doc knows what kind of being leaves such marks. He knows because he’s inflicted them before.

“We acquired knowledge of eight of your kind, I summoned them to cure the disease or aid us in battle, and all of them refused. One of them left me this present. You’re the last one.”

Leaving aside the fact that Doc was convinced calling upon his kind several times in a row would lethally exhaust humans, this means that Bandit is currently managing to both recover from a wound like this and keep Doc anchored in this world. He must possess a greater strength and willpower than he was aware. Even so, this isn’t the time to marvel at an insignificant human’s abilities. “Why?”, he demands to know.

The two men glance at each other uncertainly. They’re familiar with each other, affectionate enough that Monty would step in and risk his life to possibly save Bandit’s, and Doc wonders whether it really was coincidence that he ended up talking to the taller one in the field hospital or whether it was carefully orchestrated. He does not see a way as to how it could be reliably achieved and therefore decides that Monty is simply someone with whom Bandit works together a lot and well. He certainly seems to cultivate close relations with the soldiers under his command, if his casual remarks to the people around him are anything to go by.

“Why did they refuse?”, he clarifies.

“I don’t know. One pretended to be bored, another claimed it was beneath her, and the most recent one said we weren’t in the right, the scales not tipped in our favour.”

“Is that so?” Doc’s eyes narrow. “Because assuming you speak the truth, there is no reason for either of them to ignore your plight. A small nation which will die a slow death seeking help from a much larger ally, being denied unjustly and then attempting to save itself warrants our meddling. Your continued existence doesn’t upset the status quo while your demise might have far-reaching consequences. None of us would decline.”

Bandit catches on first. “You’re calling us liars.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe my kind knew more than they let on. Explain to me once again why you believe that the Qinean empire possesses the remedy you seek.” Now that his immediate fury has calmed, Doc is determined to uncover the solution to this mystery. Even on the other side, he rarely communicates with his brethren but is steadfastly convinced they act the same way he does and fell sensible decisions when determining the fate of humanity as a whole. If they refrained from aiding Bandit’s people, they must have good reason to doubt his story.

“Publicly, they deny any connection to or even knowledge of the divine disease”, Monty speaks up. “Fact is that it broke out after a Qinean ambassador and his entourage visited our court. Furthermore, a servant witnessed the ambassador himself displaying the sickening glow, yet when he joined the court again a while later, it was gone. He must’ve gotten rid of it somehow.”

“Even the Queen herself paid a visit once the illness had spread and she showed no sign of worry about contracting it herself, nor did anyone with her”, Bandit supplies to a nodding Monty. “The last straw was a plea for help with further research which they denied outright under the excuse of lacking the necessary funds. We conduct regular trade with them, so it’d be in their interest to stop an epidemic – unless they already have the means to do so in their own country.”

Conjecture. Oh, how Doc despises the vagueness which encompasses this world sometimes. There are moments in which he enjoys its ambiguity, its resistance to be labelled one thing or another – almost all beings are at the very least twofold, never purely one thing or another: the sweetest honey can make him sick, and the annoying mosquito still fulfils a role in nature. He appreciates being challenged to fell the right decision, to weigh pros and cons and see which possesses more importance. But at times, he curses the fact that he majorly inhabits other worlds and therefore has to navigate the webs of lies and truths humans spin with their words. Taken at face value, he’s inclined to agree with Bandit’s interpretation of the facts, but how can he be certain of their accuracy?

“Our neighbours have reported similar inflictions. The only ones it doesn’t affect is Qina.” They seem to be sensing his hesitation yet none of what they say can sway him. Ideally, he’d need to talk to either someone unrelated or of relevance in Qina – but he knows that if he showed his face to the empire, stating that Bandit summoned him, it’ll look as if he’s taking their side, thusly prompting Qina to take similar drastic measures. He doesn’t want to provoke a great war so he’ll have to remain here.

“We’re currently on Qinean territory, correct?” They confirm with a nod, still looking unsure. “Is there a city nearby? Any place from where you could kidnap someone who can vouch for the other side of this conflict? I would like to speak with them without making my presence known.”

Oddly enough, Bandit looks to Monty for his opinion on the matter and the two of them converse quietly, gesticulating and decisively shaking their heads now and then. Doc is surprised at how casually they interact and how highly Bandit values his friend’s opinion but waits patiently until they’ve come to a consensus.

“There’s… a Qinean spy in our custody”, Bandit begins, looking slightly sheepish, “but we haven’t been able to extract anything from her. Maybe you can -”

“Take me to her.”

Being feared is normal. He’s always been feared one way or another, caused people to flinch away from him, leaving them tongue-tied, scared of saying the wrong thing. Over time, he got used to it and barely paid attention to whoever cowered before him, but here in this camp, surrounded by what likely are honest, hard-working, wronged people, it’s…

He doesn’t like it. His outburst was necessary and understandable, his self-defence justified. If Bandit’s accusation had been voiced not in private but so that the rest of the continent could’ve heard it, the damage to their reputation could’ve been disastrous. One of Doc’s kind, spreading disease without reason? Making it incurable? People would fear them too much to ever call on them again.

And still – watching these brave soldiers shrink away causes a bad taste in his mouth, which reminds him that he still hasn’t eaten anything yet. Despite their shocking lack of manners, he has to admit he’d feel guilty simply abandoning these people which is something he’ll have to monitor very carefully if he wants to remain unbiased.

Monty seems to be even more popular than Bandit, exchanging quick quips with passer-bys often accompanied by suspicious glances in Doc’s direction. He’s lost a lot of sympathy by attacking their leader and even more by endangering Monty. But he’s not here to develop any kind of attachment, so he ignores it. Eventually they stumble over a boy, hardly old enough to participate in a war, who’s obviously been crying but attempts to hide his tears nonetheless, and Monty promises to catch up with them later before he separates to talk to him.

“He has strange priorities”, Doc comments afterwards and earns a derisive scoff from his remaining companion.

“No, but you do. He puts others first, no matter what. You may have incredible power, but… that’s all which makes you ‘great’.”

Doc stops. There’s defiance showing in Bandit’s features, together with that same misplaced pride again he’s been displaying from the beginning. “You don’t think I’m going to help you. That’s why you feel secure enough in voicing your half-baked opinions.”

“Yeah. None of you have exactly filled me with confidence, you know.”

One of his eyebrows rises in disbelief. Bandit has – according to his own words – spoken with seven others of Doc’s kind so far on the same controversial topic and believes this to be representative of their ethical values. “This has always been the problem with you humans, you tend to think in extremes even if your world is so varied and rich and multi-faceted. You find it impossible to imagine someone might refuse their aid categorically at first but change their mind later, once sufficient information has surfaced. I might have formed a strong opinion on you yet that won’t influence my decision to either declare your cause just or unjust. That is what sets me apart from someone like you.”

“You know what, you’re really starting to piss me off with your fucking righteous attitude.” Bandit’s words are like venom which he spits gladly in Doc’s face. “Some might think you are, but you’re not a God, you’ve never been, so what gives you the right to act like you are? To decide on good people’s fate as if there was an objectively ‘correct’ solution when you’re just as fallible and closed-minded and biased as we are? You might have your own fucking ideals but don’t pretend they’re outright perfect by default.” He must’ve noticed the cold fury Doc is emanating at this point because he adds: “Go ahead, kill me if you want, hurt me, violence is the only argument you still have left.”

His bluntness is … troubling, to put it very mildly. He really does lack any kind of respect which does not help his case, no, it does not at all, and there’s an old, deep-seated voice in Doc whispering to him the same things coursing through his mind earlier. Honestly, the world would be a better place without someone as inconsiderate, as rude and derisive as Bandit, wouldn’t it? But, and this is strangely important, it’d end up proving him right. And that’s the last thing Doc wants to do. “I have half a mind to simply abandon you this instant”, he growls quietly, ignoring the worried glances they’re attracting. They don’t matter – none of these people do, in the grand scheme of things.

“Is that so?” His ugly grimace transforms into a sneer. “Wouldn’t that be the proof that you’re everything but unbiased?”

He -

Doc stares at him, thunderstruck.

He’s right.

Personal dislike must never triumph over his vocation to aid humanity as a whole. If Bandit’s nation really has been wronged, he simply can’t turn them down based on a reason as flimsy as this. But it can’t be, doesn’t Bandit’s arrogance justify his people’s demise? Does he not represent their ethical stance? Then again, who is he to determine the death of thousands, possibly more, just because they lack manners? Shouldn’t he instead show the world that his actions are justifiable regardless of his personal preference?

Frantically, he recalls former decisions, quickly tests them against this theory and tries to objectively judge whether he acted in humanity’s best interest – or out of self-interest. And even if it’s the former, would he recognise it?

“Come on. She’s right over there.”

Bandit’s softened voice snaps him out of his panicked thoughts and redirects his attention to the matter at hand. He can contemplate his words later, for now he has a spy to interrogate.

The woman is chained to a stake driven deep into the ground and looks as if this was all which keeps her from dismantling the entire camp by herself. Her glare is fierce and emphasised by the prominent scar adorning her face, yet her resolve wavers as soon as she notices Doc approaching. For a few seconds, she struggles with herself, probably overcome with contempt towards Bandit, but ends up slightly bowing to Doc nonetheless. A polite Qinean – in Doc’s experience a common sight.

“I greet you”, he addresses her in her mother tongue, causing her to sit up straight in awe.

“It is the greatest honour to be graced with your presence, Great One, and with deep respect I vow to be your servant. With eternal gratitude I trust that you will always act wisely and I plead for you to have mercy on us”, she instinctively replies in the same language, uttering the traditional greeting of her nation.

“Wait”, Bandit chimes in, audibly concerned, “she can speak my language, why don’t you -”

“You are being held against your will on the grounds of espionage on behalf of the Qinean empire. Is this true?”

Her eyes flit back and forth between them, calculating. Not even asking Bandit whether he speaks the notoriously difficult High Qinean is deliberate, he wants her to know that his trust in Bandit is shaky at best. “That is true”, she confirms and seems to enjoy the fact that her increasingly frustrated enemy won’t be able to listen in to their conversation.

“As for the allegations, are they true also? You act in the interest of your Queen? Tried to gather information about these troops?” She hesitates, glances at an upset Bandit once more. “If you are honest with me I will grant you the same favour.”

“Yes”, she states with a nod. So far so good.

“You know who I am and what I stand for.” Another curt nod. “Then you also know that as of yet, I am neither on your enemy’s side nor on yours, instead currently gathering information to decide how to act. It is important that you are as objective as possible as your account may turn the tide of this conflict one way or another.”

He allows for a few seconds so she can parse his words. It’s imperative she understands the gravity of the situation and simultaneously gets a chance to gather her thoughts.

“I remember your people as disciplined, honourable and well-educated but have no recollection of the Rangiin Kamaan. They strike me as very similar, from what I’ve seen.”

The woman’s face darkens. “A convincing show they must’ve put up for you. Compare it to a sinner who vows betterment behind sacred walls and relapses as soon as he’s left. Your imposing presence would inspire thieves and liars to put on their best behaviour.” She spits on the ground directly between Bandit’s feet, making him curse loudly and take a step forward. A single glance from Doc stops him, however, and convinces him to withdraw, grumbling, reconvening with the newly-arrived Monty to undoubtedly complain in hushed voices. Doc pays him no heed. “I’ve been their prisoner for a few days, and I’ve seen their real face. Hit me only where the bruises wouldn’t show, recently, before that they had no such qualms. My entire body must’ve been the colour of a rainbow.”

Concerning. Provided she speaks the truth, it’d subvert all that Doc has come to believe about the Rangiin Kamaan. “I have had similar suspicions”, he tells her calmly, “so it’s good to hear them confirmed. What can you tell me about the conflict between your nation and theirs?”

She shakes her head in regret. “It is messy and full of false accusations. They might’ve claimed it’s only them being affected by this odd illness – you have seen it yourself, correct? In truth, my motherland is ravaged by it as well, far worse than this. These snakes are trying to take advantage of our weakened state and attempt to rally our vassals and enemies alike to destroy what little is left of our empire.”

Once again, a direct contradiction of what he’s heard so far. The erasure of Qina would have unforeseen consequences and as oppressive and authoritarian the nation always has been, it is nonetheless the capital of all knowledge, has amassed countless books, scrolls and relics which, if lost, would set the entire continent back. If she’s speaking the truth, it’s in Doc’s interest to strike down this rebellion as swiftly as possible. “They claim you possess the cure to this disease.”

“They would. If we did, would an army of this size have been able to venture this far into our territory? No, we have just as fruitlessly attempted to heal our people and failed, just like them.”

“What of your ambassador? And your Queen?”

The spy once again sits up straighter at the mention of the Qinean matriarch. “I have heard the lies they spread. Ambassador Abyad has indeed been inflicted and suffers the consequences as we speak, he has not, as they claim, been cured. And our Mother took all the precautions necessary to ensure she wouldn’t suffer the same fate.”

“I see”, Doc responds, touches her temple and synchronises their senses.

Despite it being done without warning, he’d gathered the necessary focus pre-emptively and thus ensures smooth proceedings, a process much too quick for the woman to react. She’s in a state of extreme agitation, her heartbeat pounding and adrenalin coursing through her blood causing an almost painful alertness. Apart from her limbs complaining about too little movement, she’s in no pain and exhibits no sign of physical injury – broken and healed bones lie far in the past and other ailments are similarly unrelated. As soon as she understands what’s happening, she struggles against the intrusion, the first to do so this day. She must realise that her body is giving her away.

He never understood lying. Some people resort to it despite easily being disproved, they do it for sport or to feel a rush of power over being trusted blindly. It’s an ugly habit of humanity but one impossible to eradicate, Doc assumes, as it’s been around since the dawn of time. He hates it when humans lie to him implicitly, but hates it even more when they do so directly in his face.

With Bandit’s and Monty’s eyes in his back, he withdraws from the woman’s body and leaves her gasping for air. His hand travels down her jaw and forms a cup below it. “Give it to me voluntarily and I will have no need to take it with force. If you swallow it, I will make your insides squirm until I hold it in my hand.”

The Qinean glares up at him with an ironically betrayed expression, as if his deception had been in any way worse than hers. He had to pretend a more friendly disposition towards her to show she had indeed the chance to change his mind. No one is to blame for her failure other than herself.

After a few more moments, she procures a small vial from inside her cheek and drops it into Doc’s outstretched hand. With it intact, she can’t have been beaten – at least not in the face, it would’ve shattered. He wipes it off and inspects the liquid curiously, at first not understanding why it baffles him, but then it registers: it’s the same colour as the eerie glow the patients are emitting.

“Are you fucking done?”, Bandit snarls at him and is held back only by a calming hand on his midriff. “What is that?”

“You have to help my people”, the woman makes a desperate last attempt, her voice now pleading where before it’d been carefully even. “Please, I beg you. Help them. You might be the only one who can.”

Yet another reason for lying: despair. Doc is unsure of its source – the prisoner has been treated fairly as far as he can tell, and she must know he would never contribute to Qina’s downfall. Why is she discarding her pride now, after she failed to convince him?

“Let’s talk somewhere else”, he suggests. While they walk away, the prisoner’s sad wailing trails after him almost hauntingly.

“There are two options”, Doc announces once he and his two companions have reached a clearing of tents, the middle point of the camp bustling with activity and yet no one stops to eavesdrop. “Either this is poison which causes the cursed disease or it’s a cure. She might’ve carried it with her to afflict you, Bandit, as the highest in command, hoping you’d be unable to lead your troops into battle – or it was a precaution in case she contracted the illness herself and needed a remedy.” He hands the phial to a stunned-looking Bandit and expects him to pocket it immediately, yet instead he holds on to it, unsure what to do.

“But in either case it won’t harm anyone who’s afflicted?”, Monty clarifies and earns a nod. “So this can possibly cure a single person?”

“Yes. I can’t be absolutely sure but it is the most likely option.”

“What did the bitch tell you? Did she say anything about it?”

It seems Bandit is still hung up on the fact he couldn’t listen in to Doc’s conversation with the spy earlier. As typical as it is petty. “It is none of your concern.”

“Oh, but it damn well is. What if you made an agreement with her? What if you’re going to double-cross or abandon us, just like your other -” A hand on his wrist stops him in his tracks and Doc is once again grateful for Monty’s calming presence.

“Are you going to help us?”, the tall man wants to know and it’s not an accusation, not an ultimatum, merely an inquiry.

“I need time to think”, Doc replies simply. The accounts of no more than three people are insufficient but they grant him a foundation on which he can form his opinion, provide him with a good idea of what he can ask the other soldiers. If there are inconsistencies, asking a variety of people about the same story should unearth them.

“That is good enough for us.” When Bandit opens his mouth to protest, Monty turns to him with a gentle expression and reminds him: “Dom. We cannot expect him to trust us if we don’t show him the same courtesy. Let’s wait. Justice can’t be rushed.”

The warrior deflates visibly, slain by rationality and respect. “Yes. Alright. But here, you take it.” He thrusts the small container towards his companion, much to Doc’s shock. He does not keep it to himself?

Monty is caught just as off-guard as Doc. “What? No, you can hold on to it, I can’t decide what -”

“But your sister -”

“I won’t claim this privilege, don’t make me -”

“You have all the right to -”

“What about Blitz, he’s going to be invaluable in battle tomorrow -”

“Please, just take it.”

Doc perks up at this new information. “You are going to fight tomorrow?”

The two bickering men immediately cease their back and forth and turn to him. “We’re meeting the Queen’s legion tomorrow”, Bandit says quietly. “They’ve been gathering their troops and will meet us halfway to the capital. This is why I was unable to grant you more time than today. We’re all going to die soon.”

Now that he focuses his gaze, seeks out the signs, he realises they’ve been there all this time. The methodical behaviour inherent to all that the soldiers do, a grim determination lining their features, the odd kindness and forbearance accompanying those who have accepted that which they cannot change. These are people already lying in their graves, some of them going through practised motions with a blank expression, others seeking solace in mindless distractions, yet more seem to be set on making their last hours count. Doc stumbles over couples sharing secret, wistful smiles, friends reminiscing or playfully sparring, strangers opening up to each other.

They carry their doom with much more dignity than he would’ve guessed.

None of them blame him though he supposes their anger died down and gave way to resignation after his predecessors toured the camp more standoffishly than he did; it is a miracle that only Bandit carries an otherworldly scar like a battle wound. Their wariness hasn’t fully dissipated yet either, their trust still impeded which, if both Bandit and Monty really are as respected and loved as they seem to be, comes as no surprise. Regardless, they engage in conversations willingly, answer his questions with an open and authentic attitude he likes – and some of them even smuggle food into his pockets. There are dried dates, roasted nuts, even crumbly baked goods, and they’re a feast for his senses, explode into flavour on his tongue and make him curse whoever was responsible for putting this sweet nectar into this world specifically.

Most of them speak favourably of Bandit, hidden behind thinly-veiled insults lies a deep admiration and a loyalty only inspired by likewise devotion. They’re comfortable with him, are allowed to criticise and voice opinions, and even if he usually shoots them down mercilessly, he listens and considers them nonetheless. His style of leading an army is highly unconventional but he can demand discipline and absolute obedience if necessary.

Monty receives even more praise. It turns out he’s not even part of the medical personnel, yet his apparent immunity spurred him on to spend as much time alleviating symptoms as possible, bonding with the patients despite the position he holds – this part is emphasised wherever Doc goes. He supposes he’s Bandit’s second-in-command, a confidant and friend as much as a fellow warrior. It gives him faith.

Not all of it is rosy but with humanity’s past he didn’t expect it to be. Racist undertones, superiority complexes and bitterness leak through some of the more resentful comments and taint the milder ones. Even so, criticism towards their ruler is virtually non-existent and shut down quickly whenever it arises. Doc doesn’t ask any further, it’s obvious their King isn’t gracing him with his presence and so he wastes no thought on him.

The matter at hand remains … elusive. Its solution enigmatic, its cause a mystery. He’s at a loss because admitting Bandit might be right is overstepping a boundary Doc is not prepared to leave behind, especially not without any prior warning, no opportunity to confer with his brethren.

Sunset is fast approaching, the brilliant ball slipping over the horizon, threatening icy nights once the twilight has fully dispersed. Doc is perched on a stool someone gave up willingly, sits at the edge of the camp and gazes towards the source of dwindling warmth, towards where the Queen must be currently commanding her army to walk until their legs are sore.

“Do you get hungry?”

He breaks out of his half-meditation and finds himself facing Monty, holding two bowls and indubitably only just now questioning his own actions, judging by the slightly sheepish smile. “I don’t”, Doc replies evenly. “But this body does. I’m not sure how you humans manage.” Rarely does he share details as private as this, keeps his opinions largely to himself but finds that he lowers his guard around this particular human a little too easily. Under different circumstances, he’d watch his words more closely but either he’s going to aid these people or abandon them to certain death. In either case, they won’t be inclined to speak ill of him.

They eat in silence. Doc vaguely recalls previous meals and supposes the stew falls on the flavour-light side but as he only gets to eat every couple of decades, he relishes it nonetheless. He recognises coriander and savours every bite.

“How is it? Being here – compared to where you’re from?”

Very nearly his mouth releases the same platitudes so familiar to him that they’ve been etched into his tongue by now but something in Monty’s innocent curiosity quells the urge. Somehow, he deserves honesty and maybe it’s the compassion he shows all those around him, maybe his reluctance to accept the possible cure despite having a personal incentive to do so, maybe the fact that he convinced Bandit to trust Doc despite all. Whatever it is, it tips the scales in his favour and Doc knows at this moment that he’s going to assist the Rangiin Kamaan. “You have a name for the place where I usually reside. Hell.”

Monty halts but does not respond, merely waits for Doc to continue.

“This, in comparison, is a paradise. You take fresh air for granted, the force allowing you to walk the ground, all these things without which you never had to manage and thus you can never appreciate them the way we do. This is why we serve humanity. This is why we attempt to be agents of justice so that we may never side with a civilisation which could potentially perish. If we weren’t allowed this outlet, weren’t able to walk the earth now and then, we would cease to be. Our existence is so painful and so horrifying even to us that we desperately cling to the hope of being summoned here. It is our oath: by resolving conflicts we ensure humanity’s and therefore our own survival. It is why the mere thought of one of us sabotaging our collective future is abhorrent.”

Emotion colours his speech and he silently reprimands himself for it. Revealing this much, too, is forbidden, yet he felt the strange need of justifying his actions to this man. His bodily functions tell on him, let him know he’s upset even though he’s had half an eternity to come to terms with this fact. And still he harbours more anger than the soldiers awaiting their fate.

“I’m sorry”, Monty says and, oddly, Doc believes him. He’d like to provide more details because there are aspects he misses while he’s on this plane, but trusts that Monty understands. Nothing is ever black and white, is it?

“I’d like to talk to Bandit. I have reached a conclusion.”

To his credit, Monty doesn’t ask and simply points out the tent in question. “He’s given strict orders not to be bothered after sunset but I’m sure he’ll make an exception for you. Thank you for listening to us.”

Like Bandit, he seems to have accepted the possibility of Doc refusing their plea as fact and he doesn’t feel like correcting him, so he just hands him his empty bowl and gets up.

It’s going to be a tentative agreement, that much Doc has already worked out. For the moment he’ll do reconnaissance, buying time, assessing the situation after having talked with Qinean officials to decide on further proceedings. One step at a time, he’ll unravel this mess into its components with which he’ll deal one by one – it’s a cautious approach but one which will hopefully not end in bloodshed. He needs to decipher Qina’s motivation first and foremost.

Mulling over all the information available to him, he ignores the uneasy glances between the people outside their commander’s tent and enters without hesitation, not at all expecting to be confronted with something which makes him freeze, leaves him petrified, almost forces a noise of shock and dismay out of his throat. A cold sensation settles low in his stomach and spreads out to his limbs, takes hold of his tongue and prevents him from exclaiming, asking, accusing.

Bandit is his own source of light.

Here, in the semi-darkness of his hideout, the blue is crassly visible and almost turns the lithe man into a terrifying creature haunting a world where it has no right to be. It pulses softly in the same rhythm as his heart, covers his naked arms, feet and face in a glowing spiderweb of pure disease, his features faint against the prominent veins. He doesn’t seem human anymore, features contorted in a pitiful grimace as he sits on the floor, pressing palms against temples and breathing deeply, consciously. He is but a shadow of the prideful fool Doc met earlier this day.

As soon as he realises his solitude is interrupted, he jumps up onto trembling legs, eyes wide in shock. “You – you had until sunset”, he blurts out idiotically, as if this detail somehow invalidated the view in front of Doc.

It can’t be, and yet a sickening idea takes hold in his mind. “Why did you hide this from me?”, he wants to know, tone cold.

“No.” Bandit is shaking his head, apparently knows exactly what Doc is considering. “No, that isn’t it – I didn’t -”

“The only reason you’re doing everything you can to cure your people is because you selfishly want to cure yourself. If you weren’t afflicted, you’d act differently. Is all of this a ploy to save your own life? Have you deceived me this entire time?”

“Please. Please, don’t.” Even now with his legs nearly giving in, Bandit refuses to kneel before him. He might be begging for his life but this bit of pride will not die, no matter what. “That is not why. I kept it from you because you’d think exactly this. I didn’t want you to believe I’m only doing it for myself, I’m not, it’s -”

His voice dies in a pitiful croak when Doc grabs his jaw and uses his power to keep the man upright as well as rooted to the ground. This time, he won’t be able to evade him. “And I am supposed to believe this?”

Wide eyes are filled with fear and yet he pleads: “Kill me. Do it, it won’t prove me right, I promise – it’s – I’m a horrible human being and need to be erased from history, you need to kill me. But please, please promise me that you’ll save them. Don’t let this deter you, they deserve it. You know they do.”

Doc examines him, momentarily ignoring the sinking feeling of having been betrayed somehow. Slowly, he loosens his hold on the man until he slumps a little, fragile body shivering and teeth working to probably hold back undignified whimpers. It must’ve cost him immense willpower to suppress his symptoms all day, not let anyone see the condition he’s in, hide all this suffering from Doc and possibly his soldiers too. Even now, Bandit refuses to back away, lightly grabs Doc’s wrist to keep it in its place and stares him down in a mixture of defiance and genuine terror.

Maybe it really wasn’t deceit. Maybe him refusing to take the cure himself wasn’t a display for Doc’s benefit. Maybe he really does care about others more than himself, as showcased by him desperately trying to win one of Doc’s kind over.

And wait.

This is impossible.

This time, it actually is impossible, no human could ever carry the weight of Doc’s materialised form while simultaneously bearing the aftermath of an otherworldly scar as well as suffering from this divine disease – no one possesses the physical and mental strength necessary.

A vicious ache stabs through his head once he’s linked his consciousness to Bandit’s and he’s lost for a moment, disoriented despite being so familiar with human bodies. It’s as if there were several more limbs despite him knowing there aren’t, and yet there’s a phantom sensation of a much more expansive form, like a container which is larger on the inside. It’s bewildering and causes a painful throb under his scalp but it’s simultaneously familiar, strangely enough.

Even now, Bandit doesn’t struggle against him and instead allows him easy access to his body, yet the more Doc finds the more astonished he is. Internal organs show hardly any signs of age and are as invigorated as they would be had Doc rejuvenated them already – the omnipresent pain of the illness is prevalent but not nearly as prominent as in the other subjects Doc examined, instead it’s more an ebb and flow in the background, intensifying now and then but fading in between the spikes. As if something interfered with it.

He presses on: Bandit is distraught and his emotional state is mirrored in his body but parts of it are remarkably calm and merely trying to uphold the minimum; it takes him a moment to realise that resources are being allocated towards a very specific part in his midsection. There’s a tumour here, a growth of not insignificant size spanning the width of his belly on the inside – three, actually, and it doesn’t take Doc long to identify it as following the pattern of the ugly scars Bandit received from one of Doc’s kin. Normally, wounds like this heal extremely slowly, sometimes not even for a lifetime, but they cause no other side effect other than a persistent ache. He’s never felt or witnessed anything like this before.

Poking and prodding it reveals that it’s painless, merely causes discomfort where it presses against other organs. Is it possible that it counteracts the disease? Doc inspects the bloodstream, muscles, bones, anything he can find to either prove or disprove his theory but it seems he’ll have to rely on conjecture yet again. And then he delves into one of the non-existent limbs, body parts which should not be – under no circumstances should they belong to a human body, but they do.

It hits him out of nothing, a sudden realisation which he pushed aside out of pride, out of self-preservation instinct. …no, that is not why, and in this case it’s not righteous thinking which prevented this idea from springing up sooner. This revelation, too, is a sharp pang in his mind.

They’re left reeling once he’s severed their connection, hold on to each other like drunkards and gasp for air, hands clutching fabric, feet seeking balance, eyes unfocused. It takes them a long time to regain their composure and when they do, Bandit takes a step back, confused, embarrassed, hopeful.

“You didn’t kill me”, he states full of wonder.

“There was a human who studied us.” The non-sequitur startles Bandit into speechlessness. “He was as persistent as he was hungry for knowledge – he summoned us, one by one, travelled the continent until he had spoken with us all, even sought the help of minor beings. During his quest, he realised he gave up more and more of himself: every time he allowed one of us to walk the earth, a piece of him crumbled, irretrievable. But it wasn’t lost, instead our essence replaced it and imbued him with our nature. Once he realised what was happening, he couldn’t stop it.”

How could he have forgotten him? It’s the one black sheep, the one who doesn’t fit. Will never fit.

“He became one of us. He followed us down into our realm and felt what we feel, learnt what we know. He didn’t take it well. He attempted to convince all of us to tell the humans of him, to make them summon him to his original home so he could experience peace again, escape our reality – but he was rash, unjust, cruel. If he were allowed to roam free, he would tarnish our name; he was planning to sow discord among humanity so that our services – his services – would be required more often. We declined. We damned him to an eternal existence in our world.”

Bandit absent-mindedly runs his fingertips over glowing veins, brows drawn together. He understands. “So he’s the one who did this.” No gloating even though he’d been right. “Why didn’t you think of him earlier?”

“I believe our memories of him were sealed. You might find this hard to believe but there are beings of greater power than myself. The only possibility I see is that he found a way to escape. It explains the nature of the disease, the unnatural light, the seemingly random symptoms and its spread, and the fact that the cure seems to stem from the same source as the illness. It’s consistent with all that we know and the most likely explanation that he invaded this world and put a plan into motion to cause conflict rather than resolve it in the hopes of making us redundant and himself invaluable.”

The man before him is now pacing back and forth as if he hadn’t been in mortal danger mere minutes ago which only cements Doc’s theory. His resilience is extraordinary and only increasing. “How come the others refused their help then? If he’s a liability to you all, shouldn’t they interfere instead?”

“I can only guess as to their motives. They might’ve felt his presence and decided not to intervene.” As expected, Bandit’s expression darkens, so Doc adds: “We all have different control over the forces holding this world together and access to different layers, so while others of my kind might’ve immediately understood the situation, they’re unable to copy most of my skills. It is not impossible that they knew more than I did. As to your question – a fight between two of our kind can be devastating and cause irreparable damage to this world. They were likely scared of this possibility and thus preferred not to remain here. Additionally, the Qinean empire is worth conserving and more important than your nation in the grand scheme of things, making his transgression not as severe as if he’d tried to destroy them.”

Suddenly, he remembers the spy’s words: You have to help my people. You might be the only one who can. The situation might be more dire than he was aware – he can’t discard the possibility that the Qinean Queen is under the control of this defector, acts on his wishes and thus goes against the interests of her people. The prisoner might’ve realised someone far more powerful than any human is influencing her matriarch and that Doc can be her saviour, too.

“So”, Bandit speaks up abruptly, still fidgeting uncomfortably. He finds no solace in having been right, now that the consequences of this reality have sunken in. “Does this mean you’re going to help us?”

No more accusations, no more implied mistrust. He’s learned. “Yes”, Doc says simply. “I am equipped to negotiate, hopefully without antagonising him. And if it should come to it, I am also prepared to fight.” If it means peace in the future, he will take lives in the interest of both his and Bandit’s kind. He knows he can do it, knows he can walk the battlefield like an omen of death, slaying with a single thought and wiping out entire armies should the need arise. He hopes it won’t come to this – but if it does, he’s ready.

Bandit nods and, once it has fully registered, even graces him with a smile. “Took you long enough. Let’s go then, we need to talk -”

He was on his way out of his tent, past Doc, but is stopped by a hand on his torso. It slowly lifts the hem of his top to reveal almost vibrantly illuminated marks on his skin, three slashes frightening in bright daylight already and only more foreboding in half-darkness. “Do you not want to know what made me remember? What unsealed my hidden memories?”, Doc murmurs. This, he has to do. If he doesn’t, the collective repressed energy might tear Bandit in half eventually.

The man looks down at himself and rejects the thought, Doc can read it on his face. “No”, he says but in his heart, he knows the truth.

“You are going to share his fate. The repeated summoning, the disease born from unnatural sources, the injury caused by a being not from this world – it’s too much for your body to bear, so it’s adapting a new form which can carry this burden. You are going to become like me.”

“No, this isn’t – I didn’t want this. I don’t want this.” Once again, eyelids flutter, a lip quivers. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to be stuck.”

“You won’t. This is where you two are different. You were ready to sacrifice your own life to save those of others. Your actions speak of more honour and compassion than he ever displayed in his life as a human. I will speak on your behalf and you will not be condemned to rot like him. But for that, you need to accept it. Allow it into your mind, into your body, just like you allowed me. It’s waiting.”

He takes Bandit’s hands and calms the staccato of his heart without probing too deep, keeps their link delicate – just enough to even their breaths, relax muscles, reduce faint aching. He wasn’t present when the traitor changed forms but somehow knows that Bandit possesses the strength to begin this journey right now. It might take months, even years to fully take hold but those he’ll spend in comfort. Under his gentle guidance, Bandit lets loose and concentrates, seeks out the source of the disease in him, feels for the remedial influence of the scars. Doc’s own arms are increasing in brightness, the orange cracks lighting up in resonance.

A shockwave emanates from Bandit, no more than a momentary gust of wind yet an exceedingly forceful one, causing loud clattering around them.

When they open their eyes again, the tent is gone – and so are all the others, flattened by the power of Bandit’s awakening, leaving behind an entire army of confused and vaguely frightened soldiers, most of them gathered around what would’ve been directly outside the tent. They must’ve been waiting to hear Doc’s final verdict.

They make for an intimidating picture as a large part of them is emitting an eerie glow, unlike Monty in their midst. He looks as if someone had slapped him.

Next to Doc, Bandit seems no different to the cocky and outwardly disillusioned man who greeted him this morning, but like an utterly different person to the broken one he discovered in the tent a while ago. That Bandit had been desperate, in pain, ashamed. This one is… confident.

“It’s going to be fine”, he assures Monty, sounding very sure of himself. “I promise. We’ll be fine.”

“I will do everything in my power to resolve this matter as peacefully as possible”, Doc adds. “I am at your service.”

It takes a few seconds. Then the cheering begins.

The jubilant atmosphere sparked by his statement is contagious and even Doc feels the corners of his mouth lift up. Monty sags in relief, exchanges a slightly questioning smile with Bandit but seems content with this promise for now. He can’t have known of Bandit’s illness, not with the way his eyes keep straying to his arms, and yet he holds back on reprimanding him for keeping it secret.

Even so, the celebratory mood remains hesitant, as if the men and women believed it too good to be true, but Doc has no doubts it’ll catch on once they’ve made progress. For now, one important matter at hand remains aside from teaching Bandit about what will happen to him, which changes to expect and how to contain his ever-growing power for now.

“I need to discuss strategy”, he announces loudly over the excited chatter and waits until it has died down to a reasonable level. “Take me to your King.”

Strangely enough, people tilt their heads in confusion, exchange glances, frown. Until one young woman slowly raises her arm and points. More follow, and in the end there’s a myriad of fingers all directed at a modestly smiling Monty.

Oh.

“You didn’t know?”, Bandit asks him, surprised.

More puzzle pieces fall into place retroactively. No wonder everyone spoke of him so favourably.

Thinking back to the way Monty so naturally tended to his suffering subjects, addressed their concerns directly despite his status, settles something in Doc. Knowing this, he’s suddenly very sure he will not regret aiding these people, come hell or high water.

#rainbow six siege #doc #bandit #montagne #fanfic #oneshot #there's a whooole lot more I could've shoved in but it was so long already #I hope it turned out okay!#fancy that two of the sweetest people I know share their birthday #with valentine's day no less

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littlemissvincentvega · 6 years

Text

“Do you believe in true love?”

Distracted, you carry on scrutinising the carton of eggs. “Hm?”

You and your colleague had been ordered by Joe Cabot to fetch the week’s grocery shopping - the group of criminals (along with you) are being made to live with each other in a rented apartment to get used to each other, you being the caterer, so to speak.

He takes the eggs off of you and places them in the shopping trolley (cart for you american dudes). You look up at him. “I was checking the date on those!” you protest, pushing the trolley down the aisle. “What did you ask, anyway?”

You stop at the milk section as he trails after you. “I-I said, do you believe in true love?” he says timidly.

“Sure I do, carrot boy,” you smile, grabbing a carton and checking the use by date, “do you?”

He shrugs. “Guess so.” Looking slightly stoned, Orange slinks down the aisle, and you trail after him, still clutching the milk carton.

“Why were you asking?” you say, walking alongside him.

He puts the milk in the trolley for you and smiles shiftily. “I dunno, I was just wondering, Miss Violet. Are we getting cereal yet?”

“Sure,” you giggle, heading to the cereal aisle. “Go crazy, Joe’s the one paying.”

He runs to find the Fruit Brutes like a bull at a gate, and you can’t help but laugh at how excited he seems. The tough-looking guy grabs three boxes, drops them into the trolley and blushes when he realises what you’re finding so amusing. “Yeah, yeah, keep laughin’,” he chuckles.

“No, it’s sweet.”

Orange glances at you and smiles to himself, walking a tad more cockily than usual. “Thanks, m’lady.”

“You got the shopping list?”

He stops and turns to you. “No, I thought you had the list?”

“I thought you had the list!”

He smiles an awkward ‘oops!’ kind of smile. “Guess we’ll just have to wing it then,” he says, swaggering down the aisle and tripping over his own foot - he goes down like a sack of shit. You gasp, bursting into a fit of giggles.

“I’m sorry, oh my god!” you cry, scuttling over to him and offering a hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” he says, cheeks flushed with embarrassment but still smiling.

You help him up, still giggling. “I’m so sorry, I just-- that was so fuckin’ funny,” you titter, doing your best to resist laughing at him any more - judging by the flustered look on his face, he really was very embarrassed. Feeling sorry for him, you attempt to keep a straight face, and give him a sympathetic smile.

“You’re gonna get it one of these days, Violet,” he jokes, pretending to shoot you, trying to laugh it off.

The two of you take turns in pushing the trolley and shop for a good hour and a half - both of you are desperate to stall the trip to spend more time together, though neither of you will admit it to the other.

Orange checks his watch as you both stand at the checkout. “Jesus, it’s nearly four,” he remarks, leaning against the counter. You smile at the cashier, who is scanning your groceries. “Is it really? Christ,” you say, “how long’ve we been here?”

“Nearly two hours.”

You puff and blow. “That’s $84.60 please, sir,” the cashier says, looking at Orange. He smiles at her and pays with Joe’s card, smirking at you as he does so. You reload the shopping trolley and, when he’s finished paying, head out of the store.

Nice Guy Eddie had kindly handed you over the keys to his gorgeous ‘66 Cadillac Coupe DeVille. Orange helps you stuff the shopping in the trunk and the two of you get in the car. “You want me to drive?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“It’s not your job,” you say, smiling at him. “I just wanna sit for a minute, my legs are aching now.” As you pull out a pack of Red Apples, he instinctively whips out a lighter. You pop a cig between your lips and he leans forward with a smile, lighting it for you.

“Is it okay, I mean-- would you mind if I have one of those?”

You pass him the pack in response and watch him light his cigarette. “So,” he says, puffing away, “what do you think of the other guys?”

Contemplating for a second, you smirk. “They’re alright.”

“Just alright?”

“Well I mean, there’s not much to say yet, is there? We only just met.”

“I s’pose so,” he sighs, taking a long drag. He looks at you sheepishly. “What about me?”

You grin at the man-child. “You’re funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yes, Mr. Orange,” you giggle, rolling the window down for some fresh air, “funny. What about you? What d’you think of the guys?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I like ‘em.”

“W-” you begin, interrupted by your phone ringing. You pick up. “Hello? Violet here.”

The familiar, kind voice of Eddie comes through. “Hey honey, I just wanted to check if you’re nearly done shopping? We’re starvin’ and there’s nothin’ to eat.”

“Yeah, sorry Eddie, we just got back in the car a few minutes ago, my legs are aching.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that, darlin’. Take your time, okay?”

“Thank you, Eddie,” you smile, “won’t be long now.”

“Okay, see you soon sweetie.”

“Bye bye!” You hang up and put away the chunky phone.

“Who was it?” asks Orange, still puffing away.

“Eddie. The guys are starving, he said.”

Starting the engine, you put your seat belt on and, holding the cig between two fingers, drive out of the parking lot. Orange turns the radio on as you drive away from the grocery store. He switches it to K-Billy’s ‘Super Sounds of the 70′s’. “Blonde showed a few of us this. It’s uh, pretty cool,” he says, leaning his elbow out of the car window.

You giggle, glancing at him. “Pretty cool, yeah.”

The rest of the car journey was fairly uneventful and quiet, though it was only about ten minutes at most. You pull up in the parking lot of the apartment complex and step out of the car. “Help me carry the bags?” you smile.

“Of course,” he says, running to the trunk and grabbing about 5 bags at once. You giggle at him struggling.

“Orange, you really don’t have to--”

“SHIT!” he hisses, dropping the bag full of cereal on the ground, the contents spilling out everywhere.

“Well done, you’ve ripped the bag,” you say, bending over to pick it up (little to your knowledge he’s having a quick glance at your ass).

“Sorry, Violet,” he says sheepishly, arms full of groceries.

“I’m only messing,” you grin, grabbing the remaining bag from the trunk before yanking it shut and locking the car. “C’mon, they’ll be waiting.”

The two of you hurry inside to the elevator - apartment no. 28, on the second floor. Orange admires you secretly as you stand in comfortable silence, clutching the bulging grocery bags. Shortly, the doors open, and you nearly drop the shopping as Pink is pacing the space in front. “Jesus, Pink, I nearly shit myself then!”

“We’re fuckin’ starvin’ here, gimme that!” he growls, snatching one of the bags from Orange and stamping into the apartment like an angry toddler.

You and Orange share a look of ‘he needs to fucking chill’ before following the irked criminal, kicking the door shut behind you. Placing all of the grocery bags on the counter top, you sigh and begin unpacking them. Eddie, noticing your arrival, walks over to you both. “Pink, take a fuckin’ chill pill, huh?” he smirks, helping you unpack.

“Sorry we took so long, Eddie,” you apologise, throwing a tired smile his way.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart, I just hope you’ve bought somethin’ nice,” he says warmly, “which I can see is very true!” He pulls out a large bottle of vodka, grinning.

“Yeah, I picked that up in case of emergency...” Orange coughs.

“Emergency?” you scoff.

“In case we get bored?”

Eddie stops unpacking and blinks at Orange. “Is that what an emergency is to you?” You stand giggling at them both.

Orange shrugs. “I dunno, my intuition told me to buy some booze, so we did.”

“Christ, Orange, how much did you get?” Eddie huffs, pulling out three more bottles.

“He, uh-- had a tumble in the store, might have something to do with it,” you giggle, feeling slightly guilty as Orange looks daggers at you. “Sorry, tango man.”

“I’d prefer tiger, but okay,” he mutters, shoving some veg in the fridge and sulking.

Blonde senses the bickering and slinks over to the kitchen. He stands in the doorway. “You took your time, didn’t you?” he smirks, studying you all. He spies the alcohol and makes a beeline for it. You roll your eyes and pass him a glass.

“Put some ice in that,” you advise, sliding the whiskey across the table to him.

“Thank you, doll.”

The moment Blonde opens the bottle, Pink storms in. “Nobody told me there was booze!” he splutters.

“No one had the chance,” Orange murmurs, putting the food away quietly.

“Fuck you.” Pink says, scowling. “Pass me a glass, Violet?”

“Magic word, Mr. Pink?”

He rolls his eyes. “Please?”

“That’s a good boy,” you titter, sliding him a glass.

“I’m not a fuckin’ dog, fuck you.”

Eddie steps forward, looking offended. “Jesus, Pink, who shoved a stick up your ass?” he says. “Be kind to our Miss Violet!”

“Christ Eddie, I was kidding, back off, will you?”

Blonde drops a few ice cubes in his and Pink’s glasses before pouring some whiskey in them both - how he managed to look cool as a cucumber doing literally anything was beyond you. He sits down to watch the little show, a vague smirk plastered across his face. “I’m just sayin’ respect the lovely lady!” Eddie threatens, half joking, half serious.

“Yeah, she’s just been out shoppin’ for all of us so shut the fuck up and be grateful,” says Orange, puffing on his cigarette in the corner. He’s leaning against the counter top, frowning at Blonde and Pink.

“Is this respectful ‘nuff for ya, asshole?” Blonde says, taking your hand and kissing the back of it softly. “Thank you, beautiful.”

“It’s okay,” you giggle, blushing and curtsying.

Orange scoffs. “Piss take.”

“Fuck you, I’m goin’ in there, c’mon Pink.”

The two of them saunter into the living room and Orange lets out an annoyed sigh. “Honestly, they behave like fuckin’ children sometimes. Don’t let ‘em get to you,” Eddie says to him, and you nod in agreement.

“Okay.”

“Be right back,” you say, smiling reassuringly at Orange and heading to the living room. “I’m doing bacon and eggs for you guys, is that okay?”

A murmur of yeses fill the room, all eyes glued to the TV - the only one that looks at you is Mr. White, being the gentleman he is. As you’re about to turn around, Mr. Brown’s head pops up from the armchair. “Miss Violet, can you make my bacon crispy, pretty please?” he asks, giving you puppy dog eyes. You giggle and nod. “Of course, Brown. And for being so polite, you’ll get your food first.”

The other guys whip their heads around hearing this, Pink jumping to his feet. “That’s not fuckin’ fair though!”

“I think you’ll find it is, Pink,” White says.

“But--”

“That poor lady has slaved her ass off the past couple’a hours buying food for us so that we can eat, so leave her alone for Chrissake,” he interrupts sternly, winking at you. You smile in response and go back to the kitchen, where Mr. Orange is looking reasonably calmer than before.

“You look happier,” you say, laying as many rashes of bacon as you can fit in the pan and cracking some eggs in the other one.

“Yeah, well, they’ve fucked off now.” He takes off his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of one of the dining chairs. “You want me to help with that?” he asks, gesturing to the eggs.

“No, you’re fine.”

He ignores you and stands beside you, watching the eggs. “It’s just Pink, he needs to learn some fuckin’ manners.”

“It’s fine, I’m sure he was joking. He’s an idiot,” you smile. “Eddie, would you be a dear and get some plates out?”

“Sure thing, honey,” he answers, clattering them about in the cupboard and placing them carefully on the table.

“Thanks,” you say, smiling at him.

“Hey, I’m gonna join the guys, that okay with you?”

You nod. “I’ll bring it in to you, it won’t be long.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” he says, leaving the room.

“How’d you like yours?”

“Hm?”

“How’d you like your bacon?” you chuckle, looking up at Orange.

He smiles. “Oh, uhh-- normal? Crispy, I think?”

“You think?”

“You put me on the spot!” he giggles, his eyes twinkling.

You press down on the bacon with the spatula, the sizzles echoing through the kitchen pleasantly. “I’m doing yours and Brown’s first, then White’s and Eddie’s.”

“What, are we special or somethin’?”

“Just a bit,” you smile, turning the bacon over. You see him from the corner of your eye biting back a grin as he shuffles over to the cutlery drawer and grabs a few knives and forks to take to the living room.

“Hold on, I’m gonna ask who wants toast with me,” he says, heading out of the kitchen. Blushing to yourself, you chuckle as you hear him asking the guys, “Hey assholes, who wants toast?”

He returns a short minute later, slinging bread in the toaster. “Pink, Blonde, Brown, Eddie and me. You want some, Violet?”

“I’m good, thanks. I turned the eggs over for you, they should be ready now.”

He slides them onto two of the plates and cracks another couple into the pan. “We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

“I s’pose so,” you smile, not taking your eyes off of the bacon. He leans on the counter beside you, watching the food intently. As you decide it’s cooked, you scoop it onto the plates (making sure Orange gets a little bit more) and, as the toast pops up from the toaster, he darts over before you can. “I don’t want you to burn yourself,” he says, carefully removing them from the toaster and dropping them onto the plates. He cuts them into triangles and wipes a blob of butter on each slice. “Voila,” he grins, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Impressive,” you giggle, laying more strips of bacon in the pan, “would you be a darling and take Brown’s in with you? My hands are tied.”

“Of course. Thanks, Violet,” Orange says, taking Brown’s dinner to him.

“Thank you, Miss Violet!” Brown yells from the living room, making you chuckle.

“S’okay!” you yell back. As you turn from the bacon, you suddenly remember the orange juice and totter to the fridge to fetch it, along with a few glasses. You head to the living room, hands full, and nearly slam face-first into Mr. Orange’s chest - he’s on his way back to the kitchen. “Oh, sorry Orange - did you forget something?”

“No, I was gonna come back to help.”

“You don’t need to do that!” you protest, but he ignores you and goes to the kitchen anyway. “Here, sweetheart, I forgot to bring you a drink, is OJ okay?” you ask Brown, who’s very happily chewing on some bacon. “Oh, yes please, thank you!” he says, his eyes lit up as he fist bumps you.

You smile, tired, and return to the kitchen to find Orange tending to the food - he’s eating his dinner while cooking everyone else’s, and you can’t help but blush and smile giddily. “Let me do that, it’s really not your job,” you plead, gently taking the spatula off him, your hands grazing.

“I’ll do the toast instead, you shouldn’t be doin’ this all by yourself.”

“You’re a gentleman, carrot boy.”

After about fifteen minutes, the two of you had managed to serve up all of the guys’ dinners, with no complaints (unless you counted Pink accusing Blonde of having more egg than him). When you finally sit down on the couch, it’s bliss - after a long day of being introduced to the group, going grocery shopping for all that time and cooking everyone’s dinner, you were glad to finally be able to relax. Orange squeezes himself beside you (it’s a tight fit, seven guys with two couches and an armchair) and the two of you are the last to finish eating.

You stand up, collecting everyone’s plates, and White helps you carry them to the kitchen. “I’ll clean them later,” you say to him, “I wanna just rest for now.”

“I don’t blame you, honey,” he says kindly, “a well deserved rest.”

Smiling at him, you return to your seat between Orange and Blonde, Blonde’s arm draped over the back of the couch. The curtains are shut and with no lamps on, the glare of the TV is the only source of light. It’s warm but not too warm - to you, right now, the room carries a content energy.

“Quit nudging me, Blondie,” Pink grunts.

And... the moment’s gone. “I ain’t nudgin’ you, Mr. Pussy, shut up,” Blonde growls next to you, shuffling in his seat.

Eddie looks over from the other couch. “Hey, shut up you two, I can’t hear the fuckin’ TV.”

You and Orange share a look again and consequently grin at each other. “Oooooh, what’re you two smiling at?” Brown titters from the armchair - he looks like he’s being swallowed by it. Orange opens his mouth to retort, but before he can, Eddie shushes everyone. You flip Brown off lazily from across the room and continue watching TV, your eyelids drooping.

It doesn’t take long for the sound of the television to become a hazy, distant blur in your ears, and your head drops softly onto Orange’s arm. He flinches, biting back a smile, and carefully snakes his arm around you. Half asleep, you cuddle up to him - the faint smell of musky aftershave and his last cigarette lingers on his shirt.

Unbeknown to you, a couple of hours pass and you’re awakened by a gentle poke on your shoulder. “Hey, sweetie?” you hear Eddie whisper.

“Hm?” you mumble, still half asleep.

You feel Orange fidget and he yawns. “What time’s it?” he asks Eddie.

“Nearly eight, I thought I should wake you both or you won’t sleep tonight.”

“Oh, thank you Eddie,” you smile sleepily, sitting upright. Looking around, you see Mr. Brown, still in his armchair, fast asleep, mouth open and snoring. “How long’s he been gone?” you giggle, pointing at Brown.

“Not long. We wouldn’t let him watch this serial killer documentary that was on, so he sulked and fell asleep.”

“Surprised Pink didn’t wake you, Violet, he went fuckin’ mental,” White says from the other couch. You look across at Mr. Pink, expecting him to argue, but he’s fast asleep, mouth hanging open like Brown. “Yeah, we didn’t think wakin’ ‘em would be the best idea... they were fuckin’ everyone off.”

Smiling, you lift yourself off of the couch. “Yeah, I can’t for the life of me see why,” you wink, shuffling to the door. “Anyone want a drink?”

White is the only one that responds. “Would you bring me a coffee? Lots’a cream, lots’a sugar?”

“No problem,” you smile, going to the kitchen, closely followed by Mr. Orange. Blonde’s leaning against the counters and smoking. He watches the two of you enter, cig hanging between his lips. “Been gettin’ your beauty sleep?” he smirks.

“I hope so,” you say, putting the kettle on. “D’you want anything?”

He chuckles in his gruff voice. “I can name a few things.”

“Behave yourself!”

“Just kiddin’ around, honey. No, I’m good for now.”

“You gonna give me one of those or what?” Orange huffs, putting his hand out for one of Blonde’s cigs.

“Hey, I paid good money for these.” He passes him one anyway.

“What about me?” you smile.

“Since it’s you, sweetness,” Blonde smirks. You let him pop one between your lips and light it for you.

“Thanks.”

Orange lights his own and grabs two mugs out of the cupboard. “I’ll make them, Violet.”

Blonde studies him carefully, reading him. The three of you smoke in silence. As the kettle begins whistling, you cringe and both you and Mr. Blonde watch Orange make the coffees - one for himself, one for White. “You should be a barista, not a dealer,” you giggle and he turns around and smiles sweetly.

“If I was a barista, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

You smile. “I guess not.”

He leaves you and Blonde alone in the kitchen and returns to the living room. “White, your coffee’s here.”

White stands up and takes it off of him. “Thanks, kid. Hey, come outside with me, I need some fresh air.” Orange nods and the two guys make their way onto the balcony. “What’s your deal with Miss Violet then?”

“Huh?”

White sips on his coffee. “You like her.”

“You been talkin’ to Blonde?” Orange scoffs, getting visibly flustered.

“No, kid, calm down. That guy’s a fuckin’ nimrod. I can just tell.”

“I-I don’t like her, I mean I-- I like her, obviously, but I mean I--”

“Christ, Orange, you been snortin’ somethin’? Chill out!”

Orange chuckles nervously. “Sorry.”

“She likes you.”

“Uh...okay? Where’ve you got that from?”

“I. Can. Tell! And you should go for it, kid!”

Orange takes a long sip from his coffee. He screws up his face a little. “No... we’re supposed to be professional, I mean can you imagine what Pink’d say?”

“Oh, don’t worry about him, I’ll sort his ass out. He’s the least fuckin’ professional one here if you ask me,” White chuckles, looking at Pink through the window in the door - he’s ranting at Brown about something on the television, pointing at it and looking irate (but what’s new?). “Anyway, I’m goin’ back in. It’s cold. You comin’?”

“Nah,” Orange says, pulling a pack of Red Apples from his jeans pocket and popping a cig in his mouth. As White smiles at him and returns inside, Orange sighs and lights his cigarette, taking a long, thoughtful drag. Of course he wasn’t going to make a move... that’d be too dangerous... right?

note: i hope this is okay! it was supposed to be short but i don’t stick to anything so it looks like there’ll be a part 2 but idk. i’m pleased with this though, i was worried about writing for freddy!!! ♥

#mr orange x reader #reservoir dogs x reader #reservoir dogs fanfic #freddy newandyke x reader

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