#also he doesn't cut off your finger just sticks blood under it

[pinootgu]

i have a lot of incoherent game of thrones thoughts but most center around the importance of mad kings in the story.

we start begin the story with the death of a mad king, hearing about his reign of terror as opposed to seeing it. targaryen madness is mainly characterized as a product of their incestuous line, a burden/curse of their limited "blood" so thus their line is inbred to hell and gives them all sorts of issues.

however, what i find interesting are mad kings constructed outside of this targaryen line. in a way, stannis is his own mad king. he is a cultish, religious zealot that views his reign of terror as a means to an end. a normally nonreligious man, stannis' belief is gained through proof--no matter misidentified or attributed. to me, this characterizes his illness through the perspective of the mad. there is a perception of a disconnect from reality and psychosis as something without reason and cannot be explained---madness is disorder and disfunction made human. however, in the perspective of the mad, the experience of psychosis or disconnect from "rationality" is with personal logic. you believe what you believe for a reason. it doesn't need to be truthful or right or rational but you see this irrationality as rational. others see it as illogical but it is because they do not see your perspective; they are often times right but that is something you won't be able to reckon with in ur delusional state bc that's the whole thing. while the other mad kings are characterized as mad without reason, the perspective of stannis' story forces us to at least empathize and understand the steps he is making. we are holding his hand as he falls into "madness." of the 5 kings, stannis is thus the "mad king" of the lot.

we are left hanging with his madness. is it targaryen madness, his blood claim to the throne not visually apparent (he doesnt look targ) but characterized through his actions and beliefs ? is it simply that the concept of kings is madness ? all that power but also the burden of responsibility too much to consciously be given ?

or is it more simple ? more personal ? more individual ?

maybe it was a natural disposition---an outlier that kept diverging. the less favored middle child, in the dark shadow of his brothers. pressured too young and put in a terrible situation he bore no responsibility for getting into, simply was bound by familial ties. starved to the point of near cannibalism and then cast aside. barely second fiddle, more a forgotten double bass---keeping the rhythm but unsung and barely noticed. unhappy in his lot but also doomed by it. unliked to such a degree, maybe at times justifiably, bc of how he is. he pulls every short stick given.

"stannis is pure iron, black and hard and strong, yes, but brittle, the way iron gets. he'll break before he bends."

this observation sits with me. is this breaking something we witness throughout his arc ? he chips and cracks as things happen, as things go wrong. will he break when he has gone too far; unreachable in a deep-end; unforgeable and unrepairable? is it triggered by killing renly, does that drive him mad ? is it killing shireen that is the last straw ? or instead did he break before the events of the main story---best understood as mentally unwell from the beginning ? we are seeing him broken under the pressure of everything; even shards can be weapons and breaking isnt the end, he doesn't have to end by breaking, he can instead become something different.

maybe his actions simply symptoms but not the cause; these deaths just make his decline worse but the ball is already in motion.

tl;dr: something something modern aus stannis' character NEEDS to cut off davos' fingers to be stannis in the same way he NEEDS to kill (or try to kill) renly to truly be himself as well.

[mingtinys]

Stained Glass

pairing : choi san x gn!reader

mafia!au , soulmate!au , angst , hurt/no comfort

warnings : language (like a lot) , depictions of blood and open wounds , mentions of guns (not fired) and general violence

word count : 4.4 k

requested ? no

a/n : this was a fic i originally wrote for an entirely different person back when i was in my star wars phase and just never published. but i liked the general plot and changed up a few things to ateezify it . brownie points if u can guess what character it was originally for 

[ part 2 ]

"You know, glaring at the clock isn't gonna make him get back any faster."

"Fuck off, Mingi." You mumble half-heartedly, eyes still glued to the analog clock mounted on the wall above Mingi, taunting you from across the room. Each second that ticks by twists knot after uncomfortable knot in your stomach, the feeling climbing up into your throat and nearly making you choke. It's been too long.

"Someone's snippy today."

You cut your eyes at the boy in one last warning, "I don't like being sidelined."

Mingi, long immune to your threats and sour attitude, stares back with an amused expression. "And I don't like babysitting, yet here we are– ah!" He shrieks as the blunt toe of your boot connects with his shin under the pristine mahogany table. The resounding groan followed by Mingi cradling his shin spreads a satisfied smirk across your lips.

"Why would you do that?"

"You know why."

"I'm never helping you and San out on another mission again." It's his pout that finally makes you feel a smidge guilty about kicking him. It wasn't his — or his poor shin for that matter's — fault you were in a bad mood. He was just the one unfortunate enough to be left with you and your anxiety-driven frustration.

"Sorry, Min." He seems decently pleased with your half-assed apology, a soft and empathetic expression returning to his otherwise sharp features. "I'm just worried, he should have been back by now."

"He's fine, Y/N." Mingi's eyes meet yours, genuine and comforting. "You guys have been partners for what? Two years now. You know he's more than capable of handling himself.

He's right and you hate it. Logically, it made more sense for only San to go while you and Mingi stayed back at the safe house and infiltrated their security to make sure he went undetected. Logically, San was the best choice between the two of you, he's been to this specific enemy base before and knows the layout like the back of his hand. Logically, the plan was sound and easy. "I'll be in and out in thirty, no sweat." He'd said when you tried to argue your case for tagging along.

But despite the mission being "so easy even a golden retriever could do it," — San's words — an uneasy feeling still settled into your gut the second he drove off. You don't like being too far from your partner, unable to provide backup or know his status. When you've been by his side every second of every mission for so long, it feels foreign being separated. Hongjoong had also drilled into everyone's heads the golden rule of always sticking in pairs, no matter how useless it may seem. It's a rule you and San have always followed; if not for the sake of saving yourselves from one of Hongjoong's lengthy, and terrifying, lectures, then because the two of you genuinely work well together.

You trust him to get it done, you really do. But his thirty-minute mission has long since turned into well over an hour with minimal communication and you can't help the gnawing feeling in your stomach. You shouldn't have let him go alone, this whole thing was stupid.

You huff, arms folded tightly across your chest and foot rapidly tapping the floor. "He's got twenty minutes before I go there and find out what's taking so long myself."  Mingi, who you expected to immediately shut down that idea and call you dramatic, doesn't respond, much less acknowledge the fact you spoke at all. You glance up, only to find he's gone from nursing his shin to smiling down at his phone, fingers happily tapping away at the screen.

A frown spreads to your lips, you weren't quite done complaining about the situation at hand. "Mingi," you deadpan. "Stop texting your stupid soulmate, we're in the middle of a mission."

He rolls his eyes and releases an exaggerated groan, but does as you ask regardless, setting his phone face down on the table. "No. You're in the middle of complaining about the mission. There's nothing for us to do anyways until San gets back." He takes a beat, dragging his hands down his face then jabs a finger in your direction. "And soulmates aren't stupid, you're just chronically miserable and hate love."

"I don't hate love," you defend. "I just don't see how you can justify bringing someone into this kind of life, much less have time for them."

Mingi stares blankly back at you as if he's calling your bluff. "Not everyone is as cynical as you. Now, Yeosang? He comes close, but you definitely take the fuckin' cake."

Cynical. You much prefer the term realistic. Because in your line of work, the chances of loved ones getting caught in the crossfire are near certain. You've witnessed it first-hand multiple times; soulmates used as leverage and bargaining chips between rivals, lovers left lifeless and brutalized in the name of revenge, their partners soaked in blood and begging for them to just wake up. The thought haunts you more than you'd like it to. Realistically, it's irresponsible and selfish to expect someone to just be okay with that risk. Even if the universe itself begged to differ.

Of course, you'd be lying if you said you'd never at least entertained the idea of a soulmate. In fact, when you were little, it was all you thought about. Constantly fantasizing about the moment you first touched them, skin to skin. Your black-and-white toned vision exploding into a beautiful array of vibrant colors. Everything about it just seemed so magical back then. But now, meeting your cosmically selected partner fills your entire being with nothing but dread.

You've gone through indescribable lengths to ensure you never trigger the whirlwind of colors waiting to be released, avidly avoiding skin-to-skin contact with everyone possible. You refused to even shake San's hand when Hongjoong first introduced the two of you as partners. The way you saw it, if you never knew who your soulmate was, they could never get hurt because of you. You would never have to lose anything dear to yourself ever again.

"Still," you finally respond to Mingi. "It just doesn't feel right to put someone through that. Make them deal with our shit lives, constantly in danger. I can't do it, especially not after what happened to Seonghwa's poor soulmate—"

"Stop." Mingi abruptly cuts you off, eyes wide as if Seonghwa himself would somehow hear your words from miles away. "You know not to talk about that." You sink further in your seat at his scolding, like a child who knows they're in the wrong but is too stubborn to admit it.

Mingi draws in a deep breath and releases it in a long and worn-out sigh. "You seriously never wanna find your soulmate? Like ever?" There's a certain undertone of pity in his voice that you've grown to resent whenever he brings up the topic of soulmates. Like he can't possibly fathom how one could be so content without one when his entire life revolves around his. Like you're some sad charity case he needs to heal so you can finally be "happy."

You refuse to meet his eyes as you speak. "Why would I want something else to lose?"

Mingi shrugs, "I don't know. To give our shitty lives even the tiniest bit of meaning? To have something worth coming home to. I can't really explain it, life just feels ... complete now."

"Sounds overrated."

"There's a bright, colorful, loving world out there, Y/N. You deserve to see it with someone by your side, even if you don't think so."

"I much prefer the grey tones. Thanks." With that, Mingi finally relents, allowing you the silence to descend back into your worrisome thoughts.

You don't get to dwell on them for long. No more than a few moments pass when a loud series of crashes and thuds startle you and Mingi alert. You lunge for the spare gun holstered on the underside of the table, knuckles white as your fingers wrap around the grip. Mingi has his own in hand and you signal for him to follow behind, he nods without protest

"Y/N!" A voice yells out. It's strained, yet unmistakably San's. Your heart stops, but only for a split second, then begins to slam aggressively against your chest, like it's catching up with your racing mind. It takes less than a second for you to discard your pistol and bolt for the living room, Mingi hot on your heels.

The room is a mess compared to just a few minutes ago. Picture frames shattered and face down on the floor, furniture recklessly shoved out of the way, and a shelf's contents spilled about. At the center of it all is San, stumbling around and grasping at anything and everything to keep his balance as he treks through the room. He's clutching at his left side with his other hand, small dark droplets of an unknown liquid on the floor outline his path. The same liquid coats his paled hand and the all too familiar scent of iron stings your nostrils.

You allow yourself half a second. Only half a second to reign in your frantic thoughts, shove your emotions to the furthest corner of your mind, and put on a calm and collected face, just as you've been trained to do. Just as everyone in Hongjoong’s organization has been trained to do.

"Help him to that chair." Mingi follows your command instantly, ducking under San's arm to let him lean all his weight on Mingi's shoulders.

"I need a med kit," San instructs, teeth gritted in pain but surprisingly calm.

You nod to Mingi, allowing him to handle getting san into the nearest armchair so you can retrieve the med kit from below the kitchen sink. When you return, San is slumped in the chair, head thrown back against the headrest and sucking in deep breaths.

You kneel beside him, on his left side where he's still clutching at the space between his hip and where his ribs end. You talk as you open the med kit and sift through the supplies. "Mingi, take the car and get Yunho, he can do a better job fixing whatever this is than I can. Fast."

Mingi doesn't nod or even acknowledge you spoke. He just grabs the keys from the kitchen counter and bolts for the front door.

San groans and attempts to reposition himself in the chair to grant you better access to his wound. "There's a piece of shrapnel in my side, you need to get it out. We can't wait for Yunho."

"I'm sorry, what?" You ask, whipping your head to look at him with wild eyes and a bewildered look of confusion. "Why the hell is there shrapnel in you?"

"Because something blew up," he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Good to know he hasn't bled out enough to dull his charming attitude. "Now get it out."

"Because something blew—? Shit, San." It's ticking you off just how nonchalant he is about the whole ordeal. As if he didn't just come crashing into the safe house, dripping blood all over the freshly varnished hardwood. As if he's not in the worst pain imaginable while trying his hardest to act unfazed.

You pick up a pair of long tweezers and a miniature flashlight from the now ransacked med kit. Shooing San's hand away from his wound, you click the light on and start inspecting the jagged wound in his side. More blood oozes from the wound at the loss of pressure, staining the light-colored chair. Hongjoong isn't going to be too happy about it, but the aesthetics of the safehouse aren't exactly a top priority at the moment.

"It's an easy mission, oh I can just go alone. In and out in thirty," you mock. San shoots you a glare.

"Okay, okay I get it. You wanna get this thing the fuck out of me? Feels like it's ripping my insides apart."

"Just stay still and don't bitch out on me." Rather ungracefully, you slot the tweezers into his wound and start digging around. The method isn't the most effective, but then again you weren't exactly as talented as Yunho when it came to treating injuries. Sure, you've roughly fixed up a couple of wounds when out on a mission, but nothing anywhere near this bad.

"Ow . . . ow . . . OW!" San writhes in his seat, making his displeasure with your technique known loud and clear. " You wanna be a little more gentle with that?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Does me digging around in your fucking shrapnel wound hurt?" You snip at him. You really were trying to make this as painless as possible, but your hands are shaking and his incessant complaining isn't exactly a morality boost. "I'm not a medic, San, I don't know what I'm doing."  

"Literally anything else! Please!" His voice cracks, an indication of how unbearable the pain must be. You sympathize with him, you really do. But there isn't exactly a better option, so you continue digging, just a little less rushed this time, and San tries everything he can to stifle his groans. After a few more hopeless minutes of searching, you still can't find the shard.

"I can't see it. This flashlight isn't doing any good and I can't feel it with the tweezers." It's just one big dark mess in your vision. Perhaps Yunho or Mingi would be able to see some distinction in the colors with their soulmate-induced retinas, but this whole feat is growing useless with your lack of experience and poor vision.

"Then try again. You need to get it out before it goes any deeper." San's voice is slightly calmer this time, tone less abrasive and snarky, even bordering on comforting.

"I'm sorry but everything is kind of the same fucking color. It just looks like a dark mess."

"Then stick your fingers in there and try to feel where it is." He says it with such blunt confidence that the phrase catches you so off guard. You pause your actions and stare at San's face, eyebrows raised and waiting for him to say something like "just kidding." But he doesn't. He just stares back at you like you're stupid for not jumping into action without question.

"What?" You hadn't even chanced getting his blood on your fingers while using the tweezers, and now he wants you to just shove your hand in there?

"Do it."

"I'm not fucking–"

"Y/N, please!" There's an urgency in his voice and it strikes a cord in your heart. Against everything he's tried to convey from the moment he stumbled in — the brave face, the tough, arrogant act — he sounds scared. Underneath everything, Choi San is scared and that scares you.

"Okay, okay" you whisper, more so to yourself. "You can do this."

You grab the bottle of alcohol from the med kit and douse your hands in it, rubbing the cool liquid in. You should really be doing this with gloves, but they're conveniently m.i.a., so you do the best you can. With the flashlight gripped tightly in your non-dominant hand, you flex your fingers on the other, mentally preparing yourself. Just do it. Suck it up and do it. As every nerve in your fingers screams and begs for you to stop, you take a deep breath and—

In the split second between when your finger hovers just over his wound to when it just barely touches his skin, a chill shoots up your spine. The world goes from black and white to bursting with hundreds— no thousands, of vivid colors. Horrifyingly enough, the main color your brain registers is red. Dark, glistening red. You recoil, yanking your hand away like San's skin is made of hot embers.

So many different emotions and thoughts rush through your brain at once. It's overwhelming, and all you can do is match San's unbelieving expression. You've spent years avoiding this exact moment, and now it's happening at the worst time imaginable.

This can't be happening. This can't be possible. Choi San cannot be your soulmate.

San is the first to speak.

"Y/N— ah, fuck." He doubles over, hand flying back to hold his side, and squeezes his eyes shut. It snaps you back to reality like a bucket of ice water over your head. San's still injured. He's your soulmate but he's injured and oh God everything is so fucked right now. There are more pressing matters than sorting through your complicated feelings. So you compartmentalize the part of you that wants to run far, far away. The part that's filled with fear and panic.

The part of you that's always, in the deepest confines of yourself, seen San as a little bit more than just a partner. You bury all of it for the time being so you can revisit it once San is out of immediate danger.

"Come on," you coax, helping him to sit back up. "Don't forget this was your idea."

"Y/N—" He tries again.

"I know, San. Let's not worry about that right now, okay?"

He weakly nods. "Just get it over with."

You try not to think about it too much this time. Hesitation hasn't gotten you anywhere and you're not sure how much longer San can last.

San screams as you plunge your finger deep into his wound. It's warm and squishy as you fish around, the feeling so nauseating and vile you have to suppress a gag. Strings of curses and meaningless threats fall from San's lips as he squirms. Though you ignore them completely, too focused on keeping your lunch down as the urge to throw up surfaces for the fourth time.

What is likely just a few seconds of searching feels like hours. But your finger eventually comes into contact with something sharp and hard, it budges slightly when you knock against it. San jerks upward with a gasp, and you have to drop your flashlight so you can use your free hand to press against his chest and pin him down to the chair. On any other occasion, San could easily overpower you if he wanted. But the blood loss has made him weaker and there isn't much energy left in him to fight back.

"It's almost over, I promise. Hold on just a little bit longer."

Much to San's displeasure, you have to dig around again to relocate the piece of shrapnel. While your knowledge of the human blood vessel system is limited, you don't think it's deep enough to have cut an artery. The flow of blood is much more consistent with a knicked vein. Not fatal, but definitely painful and concerning with the sheer amount of blood leaking from his body.

"Okay, now stay very still." You instruct once you've found the shard again. Very carefully you take your hand off San's broad chest and reach back for the tweezers. You slip them back into the wound with surgical-like care and use your finger to guide them to the piece of shrapnel. It's easier this time to grasp the metal shard and once you have a hold of it you're able to slip your finger out. The resounding sucking noise is pure nightmare fuel when combined with the whimpers coming from San.

"Okay, I got it. Are you ready? This is gonna hurt a lot."

San nods, "I can handle it." It's very unconvincing.

You wipe the blood from your hand on your pants and extend it towards San. You aren't sure if he'll take it, and you're even more unsure of why you felt the need to offer it. Because he'll need something to hold on to while you rip a piece of metal from his side? Because he's your partner and you've never enjoyed seeing him in pain? Because he's your soulmate and it's the least you could do to comfort him? Whatever the reason, he takes it without hesitation, and you're happy for it.

"On three."

San takes a deep breath.

"One—"

Something halfway between a gasp and a curse breaks past San's lips as you swiftly, and not so gently, pull the shrapnel from his side. The sudden extraction has him crushing your hand in his grasp, though you don't have much time to process the pain as you drop the offending object and grab a wad of gauze to press against the profusely bleeding cut.

"What happened to two and three!?" He barks between short and heavy breaths.

"Would you have stayed relaxed by the time I got there?"

"Fuck you," he groans, words meaningless. You slip your hand from San's iron-like grasp and guide him down to the gauze you've placed. Another gasp involuntarily escapes him the more he presses down on the wound to slow the bleeding.

An awkward silence hangs in the air and casts a heavy blanket across the room. It's suffocating in and of itself, but the way San's eyes burn a hole into your skull is so much worse. You can't even bring yourself to lift your gaze from the bloody shrapnel on the floor to face him. The offending object doesn't feel so threatening now as it lays jagged and tinted red on the hardwood. It reminds you of how stained glass looks when shattered into pieces. Dull, delicate, haunting. A small distraction from the man you refuse to face, the man who is most definitely expecting something from you, but you aren't sure you can give him the answer he wants right now. But his heavy and labored breathing is making him hard to ignore.

"Um . . . Yunho should be here soon, I'm sure he can patch—"

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" You feign innocence.

"Change the subject."

You rise from your kneeling position but keep your eyes trained on your shoes and arms wrapped protectively around your waist. Every neuron in your brain is screaming and pleading for him to just drop it. You're not sure any time will ever be a good time to have a conversation on the obvious, but they still sound a hell of a lot better than right now while he's still not completely out of danger.

"Now isn't a good time, San. We can talk about it once you're healed and—"

"No." He's firm in his stance. "Look, I understand if you need time to process everything, but this isn't something you can just ignore and make go away. We're gonna have to talk about it sooner or later."

You feel horrible. Because for every time you've made it known you have absolutely no intention of ever being involved with your soulmate, San has been right there on the opposing side. He's confided in you and Wooyoung countless times about just how much he desires to meet his soulmate. How he adores the idea of finding that perfect person to share a life with. It's truly unfortunate that person had to be you.

You're pretty sure you love San, that you've always loved San. But you just can't. The thought of him getting even closer along with the danger he puts himself in every day? You'd never truly be able to find peace or comfort in that type of relationship. So you take in a deep breath, hold back a flurry of tears, and prepare yourself for what will possibly be the cruelest thing to ever come from your lips. You prepare to absolutely and utterly crush San's heart and dreams into a billion pieces. You try to convince yourself it's for the best, but the guilt outweighs that feeling.

"There's nothing to talk about. I don't–" there's really no kind way to say this. "I don't want you as a soulmate. I don't feel that way toward you–"

"Liar." His voice is shaky, and the image of stray tears streaming down his face invades your mind. You've never seen him cry before, and you definitely don't want to now.

"What, did you think you'd be some sort of exception? Just because we're partners? You know my opinion on soulmates. I can't– I won't. . . I'm sorry it had to be me, you deserve better."

The universe must take some form of pity on you because before San can articulate his next thought Yunho and Mingi burst through the safe house door. "What happened?" Yunho commands, already dropping his duffle bag of medical supplies to the floor and kneeling beside San.

"He got hit by shrapnel, I dug it out and did the best I could but you'll probably need to disinfect and stitch it up." You rattle off everything you did almost robotically before making a beeline for the front door, and though Yunho is too zeroed into treating San, Mingi picks up almost instantly on the quake in your voice and tension that suffocates the entire house.

His hand shoots out to grab your arm. "Woah, what's wron—"

"Not now, Mingi." You bite at him, ripping your arms from his grasp before he even really had a hold of it. Shouts from San and Yunho arguing with each other fill the living room, trying to use it as a distraction, you attempt your escape again.

"San, stop being difficult."

"Don't fucking touch me! So you're just gonna leave—?" His words stop you dead in your tracks, frozen in place with your fingers ghosting the doorknob. "—You're not even gonna fucking look at me?" The room goes silent once more. Your skin itches from the number of eyes staring you down.

"You're a coward if you run now."

His words sting, though you're sure it's nothing compared to what you've done to him. Ripping a piece of metal from his side only to moment later rip his heart from his chest. You truly deserve every insult he throws your way.

"I'm sorry," You repeat. "It's for the best."

Your body feels numb like it's operating on autopilot as you hastily slip into the cool fall air and let the wooden door slam shut with a blunt bang.

It's for the best. He'll understand it one day.

[ part 2 ]

[roughentumble]

I Didn't Kiss You Right Before, Can I Try Again?

Tags: Fix-It, Time Travel, Blood and Gore, Body Horror(mild)

Words: 6,752

Description: Geralt is sent back in time to make different choices during key moments, unaware of how it happaned or what's going on. All he has to go on is the strange urge to keep moving, and the dizzying feeling this has all happened before.

Also on AO3

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Geralt wakes up in a daze.

There's something on the tip of his tongue-- like when you don't remember a dream, but you remember the shape of it. He fights to recall it, because it seems so big, so important, as the last strands slip through his fingers. His body wills him to stand up, and so he does, as if he could chase the fragments that way, but moving only seems to dislodge them further. He doesnt even recall falling asleep. He sees-- Jaskier, a few feet away with his back to him, far enough he'd have to call out to be heard, and everything is hazy as he stumbles over, some sort of need he cant name thrumming under his skin. He could get angry about it, or-- or...

He places a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, and Jaskier whips around in surprise, blinking owlishly at him. Jaskier starts to say something, brow furrowed with concern and sympathy, but Geralt cuts him off with a squeeze of his shoulder. "I think you were right. We should go to the coast."

Concern gives way to joy, like the sun breaking through the clouds, lighting up his entire face. "You-- really? Actually, you'd want that? What caused the change of heart, did you whack your head or something?" He waves his hand in dismissal, keeps speaking before Geralt can interject. "Doesn't matter, really, what matters is that you did. I'll pack my things right away, and we can load up dear old Roach, and I can compose a stunning ballad out of this whole mess because I am a miracle worker, and-- oh you'll just love the coast I'm certain of it! Fine wine and pearls and the salty sea stretching out forever over the horizon, and the sunsets, oh! To die for, truly!"

Perhaps he did hit his head. There's dirt in his hair, more than usual, and he doesnt think he woke up in a bedroll... but he can't find it in himself to care. It all came out so easy, and something about it had felt right. He reaches out to take Jaskier's hand in his own, and Jaskier only trips over his words for a moment, glancing down at them in confusion, then smiling even brighter, if that was even possible. That feels right, too. In the same way he cant put his finger on. He'll examine it later, when he's a little more awake. For now he just pulls Jaskier gently by the hand towards camp, so he can do that packing he was talking about.

They leave the mountain, and the cursed dragon hunt, behind, without much fanfare or a word to the others.

 

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He doesnt like the coast much, as it turns out. Sand isnt great for poor Roach's hooves, salt sticks in his long hair making it unmanagable, and the large swath of ocean in front of him makes him edgy in a way he doesnt want to put a name to, because Geralt of Rivia does not do being afraid. It's all logic, is what it is, giant sea monsters lurk in those depths, and surely no witcher is equipped to deal with their likes. A certain healthy cautiousness makes sense, he reasons.

He likes Jaskier at the coast, though.

Happy and free, laughing, backlit by the sun, sand on his cheek and pants rolled up to the knee. Fancy shoes dangling from his fingers.

Foolish bard, he thinks, stepping closer, brushing away the sand, foolish, silly little bard, never brings the proper footwear anywhere we go. Out loud he says "I'm in love with you."

He watches closely the play of emotions across Jaskier's face, the joy morphing into shock, disbelief, mouth gawping open like a fish. In the next moment he's dropped those fancy shoes to grab Geralt's head, yanking him down into a kiss that's equal parts frenzy and passion and finally coming home. They kiss until the water laps up to their ankles, arms tangled around each other.

The incoming waves claim just one of Jaskier's fancy, impractical shoes, and he curses the sea, running into the water as if he could fish the thing out, or else batter the sea into compliance. Geralt laughs, and laughs, and pulls Jaskier from the salty sea to kiss him again, and again, and again, even as he complains about his lost shoe. "You'll be compensating me for that, witcher," he warns, shaking his finger.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Geralt responds, breathless with joy, and Jaskier sinks into his grip.

 

========

 

"I want you to come with me. To Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier stares at him with open-mouth. It isnt an offer given lightly. Even in all their years of on-again off-again, Geralt never extended this particular invitation to Yennefer. Maybe he was too scared of being known, or too scared of being trapped in one place-- if things went sour when they couldnt just leave, would it go away for ever? She's gone away forever anyway, for all his clinging and carefully calculated space. She said no, and he found-- he found--

Years he's spent, dragging his feet. Years, and with Jaskier it's so old and yet so new, and he's decided that he is sick of the waiting, of the right pace. He wants Jaskier with him, now and always. "This winter, the two of us. Up in the Blue Mountains."

Jaskier is nodding before Geralt can finish speaking, tears welling in his eyes. "I want that too, love. Gods, you know I'd follow you anywhere." And then he laughs, free and joyful and it's the best sound Geralt's ever heard in his life. Jaskier reaches out, touches his cheek, like he's confirming this is real, and Geralt leans into his space to press their foreheads together. Inhales the scent of his tears mingled with pure joy, and it smells like the ocean.

 

===========

 

They keep heading south, because it isnt time to head north yet, and because Geralt's got a feeling he'd really like to disprove. Can't explain where it comes from, exactly, just that he feels a tug, senses a rumbling in the earth, hears whispers on the streets. He climbs the rocky outcropping while Jaskier waits by Roach, idle and bored. He wants to be wrong. Wants it so badly he hasnt even shared his theory with Jaskier. He looks out over the path below.

He is not wrong.

A sea of black and gold. Cintra is the gateway to the rest of the north, and it's about to fall.

 

===========

 

He tells Jaskier to wait in the Cintran marketplace. If this works, Geralt will be able to meet him there without injury, or at least be able to send someone to fetch him. If it doesnt, he'll need to resort to drastic measures, which should put him in Jaskier's path too. He's grateful for this decision when he ends up surrounded on all sides by Calanthe's men-- he has no doubt Jaskier would be able to extract himself from the danger as he always does, but he still doesnt like seeing it. He holds a knife to the throat of an old friend, and wonders why it feels familiar. Wishes that it didn't.

When they fall through the portal, dodging Calanthe's trap, Jaskier is far enough away from their stall that he doesn't hear the commotion-- presumably, anyway. Geralt wishes he could see him, just to confirm he was safe, confirm he actually made it, but he's too preoccupied to linger on the thought.

He's led through bullshit and lies, attempts to buck fate, but he can feel the tightening noose of destiny and knows its all pointless. He'll walk away with his child surprise, it's just a matter of whether that leaves him with a target on his back.

Calanthe orders him gone, and Eist escorts him.

"I remember when you honored the Law of Surprise. What changed?" Geralt asks, needs to provoke something real out of one of them, desperately hopes for a chink in someone's armor.

"I had a granddaughter," Eist throws at him blithely.

"So protect her," Geralt says through gritted teeth. The conversation feels like one he's had a million times. "What if Calanthe's wrong? What if they come and Ciri is trapped?" He presses.

"I fight side by side with my Queen," Eist replies, unmoved.

"You put too much faith in that woman."

"Well, you weren't there. After Pavetta died, Calanthe would wake up howling in the night. The Lioness, nearly broken." Eist shakes his head, looking off in the distance as he relives the memory. Geralt's temples throb, lips ghosting over the words along with him, wondering why the hell it's so familiar. "Someone who's able to pull themselves out of that, they'll have my confidence 'till my final day."

Geralt wants to scream. It's not enough. It isnt enough. Why do their minds never change?

"I need your promise you won't come back." Eist says, and Geralt pauses in the entryway, weighs his options.

It's so godsdamned familiar. And yet, he can't say anything but the truth. "If I hear Ciri's in danger, you know I can't do that."

"I know."

The bars fall.

Jaskier was browsing nearby. He hears the clatter, and comes running. It's so like them-- somehow they always find each other.

He calls for Geralt, running up to place his palms on the bars, face screwed up in fear and outrage.

Guards close in, shouting at Jaskier to step away from the prisoner, and Geralt whips around to face Eist. "Don't hurt him." Geralt pleads.

"He's your companion. A weasly little thing, there when you claimed the law of surprise in the first place. How do I know he won't try to break you out? Or take the child surprise for you?" Eist asks, and Geralt's stomach plummets.

"You're a reasonable man, Eist. I understand your commitment to Calanthe, but Jaskier hasnt done anything. He isn't bound to Ciri by destiny, he has no claim to her. Nilfgaard is nearly at the border, don't doom him by locking him in the dungeons when he's harmless." He grips the bars tighter, knuckles turning white from the strength of his grip.

Eist looks considering, so Geralt presses on. "Please. As one old friend to another, he's just a bard. Don't punish him for my folly."

"We were never old friends," Eist disputes. "...but I don't see the harm one bard could cause." Relief hits Geralt like a tidal wave, and he lets out his breath in one big exhale. "I don't think I've ever seen you scared before." Eist cuts a look at him, and his eyes seem to pierce through Geralt. He steps closer to speak in a low tone. "Nearly at the border, you say?"

Geralt nods, trying to project just how seriously he means it. "I wouldn't lie about this."

Eist thinks for another moment, then says "I'll get him a guest room in the castle."

Geralt's knees nearly buckle with relief. A guest room he can move freely in, and the castle will be the most well-fortified place during the inevitable seige. Jaskier has a chance of survival. "No!" he hears for behind him, and he turns his head to stare at jaskier.

"No, Geralt, I won't leave you! They can't imprison you, you havent done anything!" He presses, tears of fury welling in his eyes. He knows what's coming as well as Geralt does, and he stinks of fear. Geralt walks to the other side of the small cell to grasp Jaskier's hands through the bars.

"Jaskier, it's alright. I'll be right where I need to be. It's destiny, remember? I just need to know you'll be safe while I do it." Jaskier looks unconviced, but Geralt squeezes his hands tighter. "Promise me you'll stay in your room. Promise you'll wait for me. Promise."

Jaskier blinks back tears. "I promise," he says, and Geralt lets out another sigh of relief. He leans forward as Jaskier does, foreheads as close to touching as the bars will let them.

"Alright. Let's go." Eist says, and a guard finally steps forward to place a hand on Jaskier's elbow. He looks Geralt in the eye, shoulders squared, a silent promise that they'll see each other again.

Geralt meets his gaze. And then he's taken away.

 

===========

+++++++++++

 

"This is Cirilla. Ciri, this is--"

"Ah-ah, let me do my own introductions, I get to say it so rarely, after all," he says, cutting Geralt off and turning to Ciri. His shoulders roll back, posture straightening, carrying himself with a sudden air of gravitas. "My name is Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Graduate of Oxenfurt, master of the seven liberal arts, and esteemed poet and minstrel, better known throughout the kingdoms as the famed bard Jaskier. At your service." He bows deeply, a fluid, graceful movement, and when he comes back up he looks rather pleased with himself.

There's a beat of silence. "...my partner." Geralt finishes his earlier statement, eyebrow raised and thoroughly unimpressed. Ciri mostly just seems surprised. "Don't worry, you get used to the chatter."

Jaskier splutters, cheeks turning red in offense. "You! that was a perfectly lovely introduction, you great big oaf, I don't know why I put up with you!"

Ciri giggles nervously, then claps a hand over her mouth, a much needed moment of levity for the young girl. It can't last forever, though. Geralt says "We need to go to Sodden Hill."

"Why?" Ciri asks, dread filling her stomach at the thought of all that destruction, and Geralt places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"I think Yen is there and I need to find her," he explains, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Always chasing the old witch," he says, with maybe an undercurrent of jealousy, insecurity. It's something Geralt will need to address, but not now. Not like this.

"Come on, bard," he says as he mounts roach and pulls Ciri up with him.

"Oh, left to walk as always while she gets the royal treatment? Just a simple, gruff 'come bard', like I'm some dog who'll heel for you, I see how it is. So much for partner," he says with a sniff, and Ciri giggles again, still a little uncertain. Geralt bites back a smile.

"You can walk the other way, if you please," he replies, and Jaskier sputters once more.

They quiet as they reach the battlefield, empty but for destruction and corpses. Jaskier holds his nose for the stench.

Geralt steps away from them to speak to the first person he sees, a woman in obvious shell-shock, looking around as if she's lost everything. Perhaps she has. She looks at and yet through Geralt as he speaks to her, seeing him without seeing him. Then she speaks, and all of Jaskier's disdain falls away with a gasp, hand flying to his chest.

"Yennefer is dead."

It hangs in the air, dampening sound, stilling the trees. Yennefer is dead. She is no more.

Geralt's heart pounds in his ears, and he has so much and so little that he wants to say. He opens his mouth, and then stops. Feels so faint, blinks away the fog in his mind, as certainty overcomes him.

"No, she isnt," he says, and Tissaia looks at him with such pity, like he's in shock. And he doesnt know why he said it, except that it feels true. He feels almost lightheaded, shaky on his feet, anchored only by his knowledge that Yen is alive.

"We are bound by fate. I would feel it if she were dead," he says, and he doesn't know if that's true, but he knows the certainty, and has no other explanation for it. It makes something like hope flicker across Tissaia's face, warring with the absolute desolation.

"It can't be," she says, unwilling to trust the words of a strange man she's never met, one who couldnt know.

"I'll find her," he says. "We'll meet again."

 

===========

 

"I'm sorry." Jaskier says, his voice so quiet. Ciri is uneasily asleep, and Jaskier and Geralt sit around a fire.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. We'll find her again." Geralt says, because it has to be true. It feels true. It must... it must...

Jaskier lays a hand on Geralt's arm, his voice soft and sympathetic. "Then I'm sorry she's missing," he says, even though he clearly doesnt believe it.

The jealousy and insecurity have bled away now that she's gone. Now that he thinks she's gone, anyway. "All our old fighting... it was all so petty. even up till the last--" he stops himself, changes tracks. "...it was all so pointless. I know I pulled you between two people you cared about very much. And I'm sorry for it."

"I never minded. Not really, not the little stuff. You and Yen wouldn't be yourselves if you didn't bicker." Geralt says, and Jaskier shoots him a wane smile. He leans in to kiss Geralt's cheek.

"Then I promise I'll find something to be catty about when we find her again," he says, tucking Geralt's hair behind his ear. "Just-- I know this insecurity is gauche, considering the circumstances of her... disappearance. But if we do see her again, you'll still pick me, right?"

"Yennefer means very much to me. But now that I have you, you're it for me, Jaskier. I promise." He leans in to kiss Jaskier on the mouth, short and quick and still so emotional. "She's my destiny, but you're my choice."

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath, and pulls geralt in for another kiss.

 

===========

 

"Tell me, friend, who changed you."

Geralt smiles to himself as he considers his answer. "Yennefer. Ciri." He pauses, looking over at his companion, currently fiddling with a tchotchke on a shelf. "...Jaskier." Said man turns around when he hears his name, then freezes as if caught, item still in hand. When he meets Geralt's eyes, though, he smiles, and Geralt smiles back.

"Well, you've the girl and the bard. But where is this lovely lady Yennefer?" He asks, and Geralt's smile falls.

"...She's gone," he says, and Jaskier's mouth twists.

"Last we heard, she was dead." Jaskier says gently, and Geralt flinches. He still refuses to believe it.

"She isn't," Geralt insists, "but... wherever she is, she's still lost to me. Who knows where she's gone to lick her wounds."

There's silence for a moment, pity etched into Nivellen's eyes. "...I am sorry," he says, and Geralt nods. Let him think what he likes. Geralt knows better.

 

===========

+++++++++++

 

Eskel says that if he had a princess surprise he would fuck her, and Geralt feels blind rage rising in his chest, overpowering his mind as he thinks to Ciri, little Ciri, broken Ciri, his Ciri. A child.

Eskel would never say that, Geralt thinks to himself, the absolute wrongness of it all settling over him like a cloak. Something in his chest urges him forward. He wants to take Eskel aside and slap sense into him, wants to know what happened to his most trusted brother, his most beloved, his other half, but he feels that same faintness in his head. He's starting to notice it, but it doesnt want to be noticed, it leaves him foggy and confused.

A vague impression seats itself in his mind. it almost sounds like 'I should have...' but it's gone just as quickly. He moves as if in a dream, filling a tankard with white gull, dosing it with sedative hidden away from when they were boys, when they needed to subdue witchers for medical treatment in a full keep.

Eskel takes the mug and drinks it so fast, drinks like he's trying to outrun something, drinks like there's horror nipping at his heels. He falls asleep at the table, and Geralt volunteers to bring him back to his room. Vesemir offers to help, and he has no excuse to turn him down when carrying a full grown witcher's weight is such an ordeal, though he sweats under the collar when Eskel cant even drunkenly stumble between them, fully dead to the world. Vesemir must know something is wrong. He must.

They get him to his room with a lot of grumbling but no real issues, throw him down on the bed. "He drank himself into quite the stupor," Vesemir says with shrewd eyes, brow furrowed.

Geralt doesnt know what to say. "What's going on here, Geralt?" He asks, and Geralt's stomach plummets.

"I have to-- I can't explain, I just have to--" he starts, struggling for the words. "Something is wrong. He's hurt." Vesemir sends him a look that screams 'duh'.

"So you drug him to work on him in secret? This isnt like you." Vesemir says, and Geralt gets the crazy urge to laugh, because it isn't like him, he doesnt know what the fuck he's doing, except that he must.

Witchers are allowed to lick their wounds in private, they're allowed to come home angry and changed. Geralt pushed them all away after Blaviken, and none of them held him down, forced him, none of them acted like the mages that made them. He feels sick.

"We have to. Vesemir, we--" he starts, grabbing Eskel's shirt and lifting it to look at the damage. Vesemir holds out a hand to stop him, and then they both fall still with a gasp. There, in his chest, right above his heart, is a piece of embedded wood.

It's big, not like a splinter, maybe the size of a fist, with spindly roots that anchor it, spreading out like veins under the surrounding skin. It pulses, just a bit, and embedded within the center of it is something else, a chunk of rock that almost looks like obsidian. Rock gives way to wood gives way to flesh.

"We have to get it out of him," Geralt says suddenly, going for the knife at his hip.

"We don't even know what it is," Vesemir says, though the disgust is plain on his face. "What if removing it kills him? It could be in too deep."

"And what, just let it grow? It's right above his heart, it'll kill him soon anyway. And it's moving." Geralt says, and Vesemir looks pained.

"...I'll keep him out using somne," Vesemir says, "we need to get it out fast but careful. Don't leave a single branch behind."

They nod to each other, and Geralt heats up the knife using igni, lets the flames lick the blade, then he gets to work.

Eskel screams in his sleep, fighting against the drugs, against Vesemir's hold, the first touch of heated metal enough to make his whole body tense. The wood contracts, roots tightening visibly beneath his skin, and Geralt grits his teeth. One by one he pries them out of his guildsman's flesh, the wood sizzling and popping when touched by the hot blade. Blood streams down Eskel's chest, and he screams again, whole body arching.

The roots convulse in the open air, trying to return to the safe haven of his veins, only to be cut off and thrown to the floor. A new root tries to grow in the old one's place and Geralt cauterizes the stump, pressing the flat of the knife to it to produce even louder sizzling. If the thing could scream it would be, and Eskel convulses once just like the thing in his chest.

Suddenly, footsteps. The others had heard his screams. Lambert bursts in, shouts "What the fuck's going on?!" and Geralt shakes his head, knowing what a strange scene they make, how threatening he looks holding a red knife.

"There's no time!" He says.

"Go get every healing potion in the keep, now!" Vesemir shouts, struggling not to break his own concentration. There's stillness, and then some of the gathered witchers run to do as told, while the rest watch in silent horror.

Geralt gets his nails under the edges of the thing and begins to lift, Eskel once more arching up to follow him. It moves agonizingly slow, tearing Eskel's flesh as the bark is dragged past his delicate muscle tissue. It seems to go on and on as Geralt pulls, and to his own horror, he realizes something. It isnt just growing out, it's growing down. Down into him, down towards his heart.

Sweat drips down Vesemir's forehead from holding the sign so firmly and so long. The root on the bottom extends down into Eskel's chest, down towards his heart. Geralt has to act fast and careful all at once.

His knife wasnt made for cutting wood, but he pushes it between the lump and Eskel's body anyway, carving away at the spot where the root connects to the whole. There's so much fucking blood, he can barely see, and he has to drag the knife back and forth to get even the tiniest bit of progress, utterly devoid of leverage or the proper teeth to dig into the plant's flesh. Then, finally, with a twist of his wrist, he snaps the wood chunk free from the root, cauterizes it, and throws it to the floor. Only one last step.

He pushes flesh aside and sees the root go down, wrapped firmly around a rib, and then...

His heart. Beating. Right out there in the open, skin and muscle shoved aside to make way for that thing. The root is wrapped around the heart, squeezing, causing his convusions, and geralt feels sick, but there's no time to stop or wait. Vesemir's control is slipping. Blood is flowing faster now.

His fingers slip through blood and fat and viscera and things meant to be kept inside as he tries to untwist the root from the shock-white of Eskel's rib bone. It snaps, apparently brittle now that it's disconnected from the whole, and Geralt throws another piece at his feet. His hands aren't clean, aren't washed, but there's no godsdamn time, so he slides a finger down beside his other half's very heart and hooks the back of the root. Pulls so slow, so careful.

It pops free with a spray of blood, and all falls still.

"G'r'lt?" comes slurred from the bed. "Did th't come outta' me?" Eskel asks, and then immediately falls unconcious once more.

Vesemir slumps against the wall. "Gwain, Coen," he says, panting just a bit, "the pig we were keeping for meat? Slaughter it. We need a skin graft, clean and quick. Everard, Merek, sutures and everything else we need to clean and bandage."

Only Lambert remains, pale and silent, staring at the floor where the pieces of now inert wood rest. Time seems less linear, suddenly, and nobody has much clue how much time passes. All they know is that Lambert cleans up the pieces of foreign blood-soaked thing into a jar for safekeeping, and the supplies filter in. Eskel gets healing daughts poured down his throat, and Geralt keeps working to stitch his chest together with pig skin, wont let anyone else touch him. They both breathe easier once the final stitch is in place, and Geralt steps back with shaking hands as the other witchers wipe down his skin, slather it in healing poultices, and cover him in bandages. Geralt falls asleep on the floor, trembling, without the sense in his head to clean away his brother's blood.

When Eskel wakes up, he thanks them. Tells them his head felt wrong, something whispering in it, ever since that leshen got one lucky shot. Says the leshen didnt look right, didnt act right, that he couldnt remember how to kill it once it embedded in his chest. "It's like it went to seed in him," Vesemir says in horror, and everyone shakes their heads, and they dont know what to do. But Eskel is there. He is weak, and he is bedridden, and he is there.

Finally, Kaer Morhen can rest.

===========

Vesemir doesn't think these flowers are the answer. He doesn't recognize them-- though if he knew every part of the formula, it wouldnt be lost to him as well. Still, though, it doesn't sound right to his ear, even if he doesn't know as much about flora as one might if they'd dedicated their life to the study of it. He can imagine, though, being desperate enough to believe it. He thinks back to Eskel, and how they'd almost lost him to such a stupid error. He feels the loss of their way of life, their traditions, weighing on his shoulders in a way he never thought he'd face in his lifetime.

The little scrap of paper in her hand is so innocuous. And even if it's wrong, or merely an approximation of what once was, he feels the need to keep it, to catalogue it, preserve it as he has everything else in the keep... even the unsavory ones. The metal rack so many boys died on, that countless others were changed in, chained in, sitting in the basement like it's a coffee table. Like it's nothing. Like it isnt horrific.

But it's all he has. And it's what they needed.

His fingers curl around the paper. "How many other people know of this blossom? Would be likely to put two and two together?" He asks.

"Not many at all, I would imagine. Even fewer would know how to apply the knowledge, or enough inner workings of witchers to make the leap. And it's only a theory, anyway, I can't confirm it as of yet," she replies, watching him closely.

Their numbers, so weakened, so devastated. The continent is running out of monsters, but it hasn't run dry just yet-- witchers are still needed, and they're dwindling. And yet...

He flicks his fingers, and the page goes up in flames. A little cast of igni, and suddenly the secret is unknown once more. "Can't let anyone know how we're made; sorcerers have been after the information for as long as there have been witcher schools. No telling what havoc they'd wreak across the continent if they had the recipe. And... there will be no more boys."

He looks at the ashes in his hand, and he aches in ways he doesnt have words for, for the life he had and the men he lost and all those boys. "I thank you for your diligence, and your offer," he says diplomatically, "but I urge you to forget what you've discovered, and tell no one. And if you do decide to divulge our secrets, then I can only pray your approximations were wrong."

She had looks surprised when the fire burst to life, but understanding settles across her features.

There will be no more potions. No more blood spilt for these old stones. And there will be no more boys. He never even mentions their clandestine conversation to Ciri. She deserves her choices, but she's a traumatized child, and he's an adult. He doesnt need to burden her with this.

 

===========

+++++++++++

"Yennefer of Vengerberg." Jaskier says in awe. Can't believe Geralt was right. Can't believe she's alive. "Should've known you wouldnt stay dead, rotting necrophage that you are," he says, catty and mean and a little breathless because she's alive. But then her arms are around him, and she's hugging him so tight he can barely breathe, and he lets out a shocked grunt. "Uh? Hugging? You're hugging me, you do know you're hugging me, right?" He asks, mouth running faster in his confusion.

"Oh Jaskier," she says, "it's so good to see you."

"Good. To see me. Did you hit your head at Sodden? Is that where you've been all this time, wandering the countryside mindlessly?" He asks, and she snorts. Snorts! Like he's funny! Which he is, but she's never admitted it before.

"Oh how I miss when my problems were as small as a single sing-songy twit." She says fondly, taking him by the shoulders and leaning back to take a look at him.

"Now I'll never admit to having said this, I'll deny it if you ever try to tell... but I am very glad you're not dead, Yennefer." It comes out so damn soft, and for all their bickering it's hard not to be soft about someone you've known at least ten years. He cradles her arms in his palms, so they're both holding each other but at arm's length. "But I really must ask, where the hell have you been? We've been looking for you."

"It's a long story," she says evasively, and he narrows his eyes.

"Ah, well, if it's long then you certainly wouldnt want to tell it twice," he says, and leads her down the corridor, towards a closed door. "Here," he says gently as he pushes it open, "I figure if you're here, you'd like to see Geralt, too."

The room goes so still. "I knew," Geralt says. "I knew we'd find each other." And Yennefer runs into his open arms for a hug, stress melting away as she tucks her face into his neck. For the first time in a long time, she feels safe.

Jaskier watches them fondly, shoulder resting against the doorway. They'll have time for questions and answers. For now they can just be happy the world has a touch less death in it.

 

===========

 

"Yen," he says gently. "I'm sorry for what I said. You would make an excellent mother."

Yen's face does something complicated. "Geralt--"

"Ciri will need one," He says, and Yen recoils in shock, to hear him offer it so plainly.

"So-- what, you want you and I to play house with your little orphan?" She asks, and it comes out harsh, but she doesnt take it back. Geralt shakes his head.

"It wouldnt be like that. I'm... I'm with Jaskier now." Geralt replies, and that makes Yen's eyebrows fly up in shock. "We wouldnt be... together like that. But we would be friends. Partners. Equals. I think it might be good for us, to take the heartache out of the equation. And Ciri needs a teacher, someone like you. I think you'd be good for each other." He pauses, and when Yen has nothing to say to that, he says "Think about it."

She steps through a portal with Ciri anyway. She sees him beg them not to leave, and she walks away anyway. But his offer rings in her head as loud as Voleth Meir's promises, and halfway to their destination Yennefer brings them to a stop. Ciri is so bright. So bright and beautiful, and with such great power, hair like Geralt's and a heart like Geralt's, so hurt and yet longing so deeply for love, and she looks at Yennefer with such trust. So much trust, and she's leading this doe-eyed girl astray, what could be hers, what should be hers, and Yennefer is tired of sacrificing and sacrificing and sacrificing. She loves hard and she loves vicious and she loves selfishly, and when Ciri demonstrates her powers Yen thinks My daughter did that. My. Mine.

She thinks You cannot have her, she thinks You will not take this from me, she thinks, I will no longer have no choice. I have a choice. I am making it.

And she turns on her heel and leads Ciri in an entirely different direction. She leads Ciri away from doom that Ciri never even knew was hanging over her head. Voleth Meir screams, and she walks away anyway, down a road where she knows an equally angry Geralt will find her. She only hopes she can talk him out of his rage before he sends her away.

 

===========

 

"I want to know where Yennefer of Vengerberg is going." Geralt says to Codringher and Fenn. They look at each other, and then back at him.

"And you think we know this? We don't keep track of every person on the continent, Geralt." Fenn replies

"I don't have time for games. I just need something, anything. Where was she recently. She has--... someone very dear to me. And I must find them." Geralt says, hands balled into fists.

They exchange a look. "We truly can't tell you her whereabouts. She hasnt been seen in quite a while. All that's known is that she was mumbling to herself last she was seen, before she vanished."

"What was she saying?" He presses, and Codringher looks thoughtful.

"Something like 'turn back to the forest, turn back to your mother'?" He says, scratching his chin.

"Turn your back to the forest, hut hut. turn your front to me, hut hut." Geralt says, understanding dawning on him.

"Could be. Our ears on the ground didn't hear it any clearer." Fenn says, seemingly annoyed that there's information she doesn't know.

"I know where she's going," he says, throws a bag on coins on the table, and leaves as quick as he came.

 

===========

 

Geralt has his sword drawn before they even see him, terror lancing through him at the idea of Ciri being taken, being given to that demon. Ciri shouts with joy when she spots him, then with fear as he presses his sword to Yen's throat. She lets him, no fight in her.

"I couldn't do it. I turned back. Back to you," she swears, and Geralt glances between the two of them, trying to assess if Ciri is alright.

"Geralt, what are you doing," she begs, looking so young and so frightened.

"What did she promise you? Money? Power?" Geralt asks, betrayal running deep, burning him up inside, because he'd trusted Yen, and first chance she got she ran off with his child. His. to sacrifice her to something old and foul.

Yen looks decimated. "...I can't be Ciri's teacher. My magic... it's gone." Yen says, answering his original offer and his most recent question all at once and geralt startles at that. Then she whispers, soft and broken and desperate, "Geralt, she's in my head."

Suddenly Geralt sees her for what she is. Someone very hurt, and very alone, who fought through the promises and manipulations of a demon to bring his daughter back to him. He slowly lowers his sword and pulls Yennefer into an embrace. "We'll fix it." Geralt promises.

 

===========

It doesnt get any easier to ignore Voleth Meir, but she looks around and sees Kaer Morhen, and the family that she's been welcomed into, and remembers that she's allowed to stay. That she has fought tooth and nail for every inch of her life until now, and she can keep fighting. That Ciri is hers.

She teaches magic anyway, without demonstrations. It's hard for Ciri, and it's hard for Yen, but she isn't as worthless as she feared she'd be powerless. Ciri looks up to her. Ciri hugs her. Ciri asks her hair be plaited for dinner. Ciri is her choice, and she makes it every morning.

Until one morning, it changes.

It starts small, just a creep, just a tickle. But she snaps her fingers, and a book by her bedside begins to float.

She'd burned herself out, ran her magic dry, scorched the channels it flowed through, but it healed. It came back with time. It was always going to come back with time.

She collapses to her knees and sobs, sobs like a child, for what has been returned to her.

And without her magic to tempt her, Voleth Meir loses her foothold in Yennefer's mind. The whispers quiet and fade until theyre nothing but a memory.

And finally, Yennefer is free.

 

===========

When Geralt lays down that night, he dreams.

"I've found a djinn," Dream Yen says,

and Geralt sees himself ask "Another one?"

"Except I won't try to tame this one," Yen says, insists that it could be the answer to their problems. "We could keep Ciri safe, teach her how to use her powers, if we phrase them just right the wishes could be the thing that saves us."

The scene changes. Once more, he has a seal in his hand. "I wish I had the hindsight not to get into these problems anymore," he says, because he never makes the right choice.

The dream falls away with the sunlight streaming in, bright on his face. He looks down around him, at the little family he's created; Jaskier by his side, Ciri's head in his lap and feet near his face, Yennefer asleep on a cot with her hand on Ciri's. And he decides that this time he did make the right choice. He decides that he's happy.

[undressmewithyoureyes]

Let There Be Light - Chapter Three

               "Harley. What the fuck happened back there?!" Sparks keeps asking you over and over and you can't reply. You just have this blank stare. You're jaded and still can't process what just happened. Sparks and the other two guys walk you over to your cot. You hear 305 say that he was going to get the med kit. As Sparks helps you sit down on the cot, you lose it. You bawl your eyes out.

Immediately, Sparks grabs ahold of you and holds you tight. He doesn't say anything. Nothing needed to be said. You scream and just let out all the aggression and pent-up anger. You needed this release. 305 comes over to you with the med kit. Sparks lets you go so 305 can examines your cuts.

"I think you can get away without stitches. If it doesn't heal properly, I may have to put a few on your right side" he says. "Now this is going to sting, but I have to put alcohol on them".

You nod your head and hiss whenever the wet gauze hits your skin.

"Harley, eventually you are going to have to tell us what happened" Sparks kept on.

You held your hand up to stop him from speaking anymore. "Sparks, I know; but right now, is not the time. I will speak about it, but I will do it when I feel like it".

Sparks nods his head and tells you he understands. After 305 gets done with what feels like burning your neck off, he applies a thick amount of triple antibiotic ointment and bandages your cuts.

"You going to be okay boss?" 305 asks.

You give a chuckle, "Yeah. I have my moments, but I'll be okay."

"You're the toughest bitch I know" 287 chimes in. You chuckle at that comment, but he isn't wrong. You have been through hell and here you are still standing. You look back towards the hallway and remember that you still have Ghost back there. You stand up and make your way towards the metal door.

"Harley, I don't thin-"

Sparks tries to speak, but you hold your hand up to silence him. You look back at him and give a reassuring look of you got this. The walk down the hallway seemed like it was longer than normal. Probably because you were dreading going back into this room. The mind can be a bitch.

You open the door and immediately see Spig's body still lying there. You look at Ghost and still see him sitting in the chair. In the same position. You close the door behind you and just stand there for a moment. Taking in a deep breath. You finally muster up the courage to walk over to Spig's body to pick up the knife that had fallen out of his hand when you shot him. You bend down only to realize that the knife is gone. Your breathing stopped and all blood drained from your face, but you didn't move. You held your breath to listen for any movement from Ghost. You tried not to make it too obvious, so you stood back up and acted like everything is okay.

Once you stood up, you turned and headed towards the metal door. You knew you weren't safe here. As you reached for the handle, you heard the chair Ghost was sitting in slide back and before your hand could touch the handle, he had you pinned against the wall. Your breathing hitched and your fight or flight kicked in. You tried to break away his hand from around your throat, but he was too strong. You were in a weakened state, and he knew it. He was smart.

"The infamous Harley" he says in that low Brit accent. "We can do this the easy way, or" he holds the knife up and twirls it between his finger, "we can do it my way". You knew under the mask he was enjoying this far too much. There was no way that you could outmatch Ghost Riley. Ghost was a strong, muscular, tall man and here you were this fit petite blonde woman. You knew how to fight, but you also knew when you couldn't match your opponent. This was one of those times.

You don't respond to him. "It sucks when you're one the other side of the fucking stick, doesn't it?" He asks mocking you.

You roll your eyes and immediately regret it. He squeezes your neck harder cutting off your airway. Your head is starting to feel tight, and your vision is getting blurry. Just when you think you are about to pass out from lack of oxygen, all senses come back to you when he plunges the knife into your thigh. He releases your neck and before you can scream, he covers your mouth with his gloved hand, muffling your screams. He forces your head back into the wall while he leaves the knife in your thigh.

"What did you want with me?" he asks in a stern tone. Tears streamed down your face and before you could answer, he flicked the butt end of the knife causing it to move back and forth, still in your leg. He holds your mouth tighter still muffling your screams. Your hand tries to go for the knife, but he uses his other hand to pin it above your head. You had to admit it, he was good.

"Don't make me ask you again" he threatened.

He stares into your soul, and you stare back with tear filled eyes. You knew what his look meant. Cooperate or else. He slowly removes his hand from your mouth, but his other hand still held your arm above your head. It took you a minute and right when you were about to speak, he takes the knife and twists it. His hand immediately went right back to cover your mouth. Your other hand grabbed onto his arm and squeezed. He was strong and you were playing with fire.

You kept a tight grip on what seemed like his iron arm and once he felt you release, he removed his hand from your mouth.

"I- A fe-" you try to muster out. "Can you please take this fucking knife out of me?!" You demand.

He grabs ahold of your throat again and leans in close, "Talk to me like that again and I will cut your whole fucking leg off with that knife. And trust me love, I will take my time".

You knew he meant it. Ghost may be a lot of things, but showing mercy and bluffing was not one of them. "A few years ago, your unit came to my home and killed my family. You slaughtered them in front of me and left me alive" you tell him. Tears continued to come down your face. Mostly from the pain in your thigh from the fucking knife, but it still hurts to think about the tragedy you went through.

"Who were your parents?" he asks.

You snort, "What you don't recognize me?" you ask sarcastically.

He reaches down towards the knife. "No! No! Im sorry!" you plead out. He drops your arm and covers your mouth again. He twists the knife again and this time he pulls it out. Your thigh making a squishing sound as the blade leaves you. As you scream, Ghost puts the knife in the back pocket of his cargo pants. He takes his thumb and places it at the cut on your thigh. You shake your head back and forth and your eyes grow wide knowing what was about to come.

"Traywick" you say over and over muffled by his gloved hand. Ghost removed his hand from your thigh and slowly removed it from your mouth.

"Traywick? As in Traywick database?" he asks as he narrows his eyes at you.

You nod your head. You couldn't speak. This man just broke you and nobody has ever been able to do that. Nobody.

"Harley, that wasn't unit 141."

You look up at him confused.

"We dealt with Traywick and they were very reliable to us, but we didn't execute your family. Trinity was behind that."

[aparticularbandit]

can you please tell me your favorite headcanons about wagatha?

I can try!

I headcanon Agatha with really horrendous back scars. They cause her a great deal of pain regularly - or would, if she didn't use the little sorcery she knows to take the pain away (similar to how Strange could use his to make his fingers the way they once were instead of using it to help people, etc.). I tend to headcanon that when Wanda finds out about them, she eventually permanently heals them. She will leave thin white lines like tattoos, if Agatha wants them, but she smooths them out and removes the pain. Every time.

Agatha has run into a younger Wanda in Sokovia at one point or another. She might not have known it was her (or she might have and never suggested to Wanda that she realized it), but given that Kathryn Hahn likes to think Agatha just hid out in Eastern Europe under a tree somewhere for three hundred years and Wanda's over in Eastern Europe, I like putting them there together.

Also, as a result of the above, Agatha knows and can play on a lot of the cultural folklore and fairytales Wanda was raised with, not just the television shows. And can talk to her in Sokovian!

Agatha has a tendency to rant and ramble and go off on long convoluted discussions of often magic but also a lot of her other interests, and sometimes Wanda cuts her off with a kiss and tells her she's cute. Agatha thanks her, honest, doll, she loves you, too, and then continues on her rambling. Most of the time, this just endears her more to Wanda. (Sometimes, when Wanda wants to get a word in edgewise, she just gets annoyed.)

Wanda loves how different Agatha is from Vision in that - 1) Wanda runs cold, Vision runs colder, but Agatha runs hot, so she can warm Wanda up whenever Wanda clings to her; 2) Vision is metallic, which makes him harder and taste of metal; Agatha is flesh and blood and soft and sweet; 3) Vision is impenetrable and doesn't bleed; he sparks and shocks; Wanda can mark Agatha, and Agatha doesn't mind, and Wanda loves leaving marks behind.

Agatha is amazing with massages, so after a rough day, she will rub Wanda down until the younger witch is soothed and exhausted and just curls up against her and passes out, content.

Agatha wakes up with the dawn, and Wanda has trouble sleeping, so sometimes they curl up with hot cocoa or tea and just sit quiet in each other's presence.

Wanda hates learning the theory of magic, but she loves hearing Agatha talk about it. Sometimes she pretends to not understand what Agatha is saying just so the other witch will explain it all again.

Agatha never really gets over Agnes, the same way that Wanda never gets over Billy and Tommy. They learn not to bring them up, but when they fight, those names always find their way into the argument. They apologize for it later, but it never seems to stick.

Wanda is Jewish. Agatha is extremely non-religious. But Agatha will always respect Wanda's beliefs and, if asked, will tentatively join her. There are things she does not know and has to learn, but she finds that she wants to learn whatever Wanda will teach her. Wanda is surprised but comforted, and even as Agnes, Agatha always remembers.

[sealer-of-wenkamui]

I think a lot of people miss the fact that Varré does NOT have red eyes? And it’s not just that his unmasked appearance is showing him before any eye alterations, in-game as well, they are pale eyes, not the deep red you get after he does the bloody finger procedure.

So I guess the accursed blood he was given was something different from what he did to the Tarnished? The implication seems to be that it was Mohg’s blood, unclear if it was also injected under the nail or given to him by some other means. There’s also the line that he was the only one of the surgeons able to “tame” it. We seem fine though and there are other bloody fingers, so that also seems like its something different. We do see other White Masks though, and the description specifically mentions the war surgeons being given the accursed blood, so those are probably some of the others? So they didn’t die? Did they go insane then??

[supernovafeather]

Hi love your fics:) I had an idea for a fix where Poe Dameron is injured badly (like idk broken legs) in a x wing crash and the reader has to comfort him and keep him calm until help arrives😊 idk very angsty and fluffy.

Here is the fic, hope you'll like it ! Not as angsty as you may have expected but hope you'll like it !

Never Changing

Poe Dameron x F!Reader

Content: Injury (broken leg), boyfriend/girlfriend deeply in love ,fluff, angst.

Poe's scream pierces the relative quietness of the rain forest surrounding you like a coffin and silences the rare animals that had just found their voices after the loud crash landing of your X-Wing.

It's not only ambiant wetness and warmth that causes that sticky and thick perspiration to cover his skin, it is also due to the horrendous pain he is in.

Certainly a broken leg you think as you lay him on the ground of the cave you managed to pull him in. Swollen but not open.

"I don't want to look I don't wanna I don't wanna no no no."

"Your bone hasn't popped out don't worry." You say calmly.

Determined to keep his eyes tightly closed and his face directed to the rocky ceiling, he ignores your attempt to calm him down. You can witness his pain pretty easily and know from experience how painful that is, but you don't need him to panic like that, especially not now.

"Poe. Poe listen to me I know how to take care of it the time we get some help. I need you to stay calm, breathe and don't move."

"Please don't cut it off please don't." He whines before opening his eyes big at the suffering of the slightest movement of his ankle.

"Stop it Poe it's not the moment to joke." You growl as you take two pieces of metal that landed up there.

"No please no..."

This is when you understand that Poe, in his refusal to see what actually happened to him, is convinced that he is about to lose his leg. There is no trial with humor to lighten up your mood. He is genuinely afraid.

"Poe, Poe look at me." You say as you kneel by his side and cross his anxious gaze. "We are going to save your leg. It must have broken. Your bone is still inside, no open wound. The area is just swollen. I am going to keep it as still as possible. For now I don't see any infection or..."

"Ok ok ok do what you have to." He hisses between his clenched teeth as he rests his sweaty head against the ground.

"Don't move. I need to find something to hold everything."

Soon enough you replace the two metal pieces with two wooden sticks much straighter than them, and find a few rests of belts that are going to maintain them. At least you hope so.

"I'm back." You say as you kneel next to his shaky form. "Calm down, breathe in and breathe out. It's important I need you to calm down. It's going to make everything easier for us."

"Am I getting on your nerves ? Am I can you tell me please if I do please Maker it hurts like really."

"I'm going to put the sticks on each side of your leg then use the belts to maintain them so it keeps your leg in place."

"Oh no not that..." he whines again.

"We have no choice, still better than removing everything."

He hisses as he lets you do what you intended to, your jacket soon both in his mouth and all over his face to make him stop screaming as you readjust your primitive gear as good as you can. Between the adrenaline leaving your veins, his pain you are causing and the uncertainty of the time of your rescue, you are starting to feel overwhelmed.

"Here it is." You whisper loudly before removing your jacket from his pale and offended face. "Here it is. That's the best I could do."

It looks pathetic but it's actually pretty decent. You check a few times if it doesn't obstruct the blood circulation, then wipes the sweat off his forehead as his chest rises and falls deeply, his fists grabbing stones and dirt under the brief surge of pain.

"I can't believe we got so unlucky." He groans as you run your fingers though his dark curls to remove them from his face. "We got cursed by some forgotten Gods on that planet I can't believe it. It's absurd."

"It happens. It happens don't worry, once back at the base you are going to be alright."

"Hold my hand please." He sighs.

You do as requested and scoff as he grabs your fingers in a firm fist almost crushing them as he stops breathing.

"It's your beauty that's breathtaking absolutely not that kriffing leg that feels like in fusion." He excuses himself.

"Oh well I see you're still strong enough to be sarcastic."

"Uh ? No no no honey no I didn't want to imply you're ugly or anythiiiiiing." He hisses again as you scratche his head to divert his attention the best you can. "You're wonderful, future pin-up for our Squadron."

"Am I a vulgar pin-up for our propaganda now ?" You raise an amused eyebrow.

"Not like any other, you're a warrior pin-up with a huge ship with huge cannons. My girl has huge cannons and I'm proud of her for that."

"You know that maybe having a broken leg is saving you from a much darker fate ?"

"That's a threat and I'll send Leia after you if you keep threatening your beloved Commander. And what is it that causes such resentment towards pin-ups, I thought you were the nicest woman alive." He pouts.

"I don't have big cannons though."

"Oh don't be so sure." He grins before moving his hips a little to limit his pain. "But please give me painkillers or make me pass out."

"I can't." You admit sadly as you scratch his scalp again. "I'd like to make you shut your mouth sometimes but at least it proves me you are not in a desperate condition right now."

"Even when I want to say I love you ?"

He knows what he is doing and despite the disgusting and loud noise coming from his mouth as he keeps shifting his leg you smile in disbelief.

"Poe, please stop moving it won't help. It can even make things much worse. You don't want it to go through your leg, right ?"

Panic takes over his eyes and finally, he stops. His silence lets you more at peace with your thoughts and you check regularly the information sent by the rescue team. They are getting closer and closer, but you will have to wait for at least an hour. You manage to find some dry fabrics to wipe his forehead off, singing a song your heard a long time ago, so long ago that it is a pale imitation of the chorus repeated dozens of times in a row. At least it makes him more relaxed.

"If I could I'd fall asleep and ask to marry you in the morning." He comments.

"Don't be silly Poe," you chuckle, "you deserve more than a song."

"I do think I deserve a little song because I've been pretty much brave until now. But do I deserve my girl ?"

You can't look away from his sweet gaze. His lower eyelid may get agitated by spasms from time to time but it doesn't demonize the raw emotion in his pupils.

"You do deserve me Poe, and I hope I deserve you."

"You deserve me. So what about this marriage ?"

"Wait... were you actually serious ?"

Flabbergasted, you watch his nod. This simple movement is much more impactful for you than the noise of reactors from afar, growling louder by each second.

"Well not right now but... later ? I really want to things properly. Why not while you kick their Supreme Leader's buttocks with your amazing skills ?"

"You're talking about a marriage with the most awesome man of the galaxy and you joke at the same time ?" You start to sob.

"Don't cry sweetie no no no, please no don't cry !" He laughed before wincing at the pain. "And come on I'm stressed to ask this to the most awesome woman of the galaxy, you should see how sweaty I am from that proposal and not from that kriffing leg."

Why is he so casual about all this ? The both of you could have died and he's there joking ?

"Wait was that the actual proposal and you're waiting for an answer ?"

"Uh no, but why not ?"

"I love you idiot. Of course I want to marry you !"

"Oh ok. It honeymoon for after I heal ok ?"

"That's how I know you're seriously injured." You sigh as you wipe off your own forehead with the back of your sweaty hand. "Oh Maker you can't make things easier can you ?"

"Never." He grins before inhaling brutally. "But I'll make up for all that delay."

The moment the rescue team circles high above the cave you get out of it, gesturing them exactly where you were. Maybe you look all too happy by bouncing on the rocks and screaming orders to them when you could just gesture things to them, but you need to do something to express your excitement. After all becoming Mrs.Dameron is going to be an interesting adventure.

- - - -

Thank you for reading, please comment and reblog if you liked it ! 😊

@salome-c @stevenngrant @lavenderluna10 @one-hell-of-a-disappointment @dailyreverie @thecursivej @lady-targaryen @general-latino @harrys-tittie @laura-naruto-fan1998 @later-gators12

[ontheblock]

FUCK you write Patrick so well. Fr I got a really interesting idea for a fic. How about a fic where Patrick meets his MOTHER FUCKEN match? So you know like perhaps Patrick trys to get under her skin one day, but she is just as nasty and he is totally fucking put off by this. Like a reader who is you know also kinda... sadistic, manipulative and.... a little bit psychopathic. So anyway Patty boy stalks her, is super like fucking obsessed, tries to get her attention and fails and its driving him fucking insane cause he doesn't know if he wants to kill or like... u know fuck her. So so so, Patrick confronts her, like isolates her whatever tries to kill her but idk ill let ur imagination take the wheel. And maybe like some smut or something ensues?

stan this anon, this request really pulled me out of the cycle of starting a story but not finishing it. this was lowkey a challenge to write only because i couldn‘t decide what approach to make but holy shit- it was fun. i hope i didn‘t stray too far from your request with making the reader the silent mindfuck kind of psycho that fucked with pat‘s solipsism and really makes him desperate instead of the violent nasty type that would probably make him feral- if some nasty fucker really wants me to attempt a different approach i will probably write it. i‘m that much of a slut for him. mind the tags— i didn‘t beta this, it took me a good 3 days to write just the smut so i just wanted this pOSTED.

steps ahead

•warning: violence/gore, mentions of death, smut, just patrick hockstetter once again, f-slur like once, dubcon/noncon

steps ahead pt ii

The first time he saw her was in a dream. He stood in a pool of dead rats, their fur matted with blood and each other’s filth. There were birds and cats scattered across the mass of rats. Funny how they were each other’s natural enemies- prey for one another but Patrick came out on top. Not as a human who stood at the top of the food chain but as an omnipotence. He stood on top, always.

So why were his feet sinking under the mass of not quiet solid anymore but not yet liquified carcasses? The bones pierced into the soles of his feet - way too sharp, way too hard to be of a decaying rat. He would know, wouldn‘t he? The meat was raw, squishy. It was filthy and the smell was almost real - painfully pungent and nothing one could ever forget. His first was roadkill, the next was his kill. It was special. But this felt off. The rats weren‘t just killed in curious Patrick-fashion. They were cut open with their spine sticking out and their heart‘s missing from their chest. Patrick‘s stomach was hot and cold with a strange sensation, his fingers seeking purchase in the sticky fur that was about to swallow him up to the knee already until he paused when a shadow loomed over him, tall enough to overshadow him and that was the part that made this dream a nightmare through and through. Patrick blinked once, twice, three times. His vision was getting blurry and it felt like last summer all over again when he hotboxed Huggin‘s car with the cheapest weed he could get his hands on that day. It took him a week to air the car out and for Patrick‘s nose to not bleed at the slightest touch.

When Patrick looked up he was met with a tall smudge of shapeless nothing, like a body that hasn‘t taken its shape yet, an unrendered character in a video game. The blur became solid so slowly that Patrick was ready to gauge out his own eyes to wake the fuck up from whatever kind of substance induced fever dream this was. Ironically enough, he went to bed sober that night. The body took shape, tall but blurry around the edges, no real mass as if it was just mist he could glide his hand through. The only thing Patrick could take for real was the face protruding out the head-like mass above him. His breath almost caught in his throat at the face of a girl no older than him staring down at him. An unknown light source showed her features clear as day but while her eyes were bright and only set on him, they felt like placeholders with nothing behind them - like marbles that caught the light brilliantly, able to reflect the prettiest shades of the rainbow but they were still cold balls of glass. Those eyes showed the same emotional depth that he saw in the mirror - none at all - and it was the first time he wanted them out his own skull, or maybe it would be nicer to dig his thumbs into hers and for a moment Patrick thought she could read his mind. A cold stretch of fingers pressed into the pulse point on his neck, delicate thumbs digging into his trachea. She was so close but Patrick couldn‘t remember when the fuck she moved at all. Patrick‘s whole world zeroed in - not on the hands attempting to collapse his windpipe - but on the smile on her face and Patrick realized that the light source glowing into only her face wasn‘t a light source at all. She was the light.

Patrick sat up with a start, delirious from whatever woke him up in the earliest god damn hours of the morning. The room was still dark, just a single strip of mellow moon light crept through the halfway closed curtains, just shy of dipping his bed in its light. Patrick‘s hand formed a loose collar around his neck, gulping down fits of air and searching his bed for the crushed pack of Camel, coming up with nothing but Bower‘s empty pack of Lucky Strikes he stole and his lighter. His eyes were still bleary with sleep, an agitated puff of air rose and sunk in his chest as he pushed it out through his nose. The dream was slowly coming back to him as he rubbed the residue out of his eyes and realization overcame him. He didn’t dream often so it should‘ve unsettled him that the face towering over him stayed in his mind so clearly - should’ve, but it didn’t. He didn’t recognize her, or at least he couldn’t put a name or experience on her. He was shit with remembering faces of women. He stopped going by faces and names long ago and instead went for how eager he was to get them alone. If they squealed or slapped him once he got them cornered their face was stuck in Patrick‘s head - if they cried out and started pleading the moment Patrick grabbed his crotch too close to them their name might come to mind. But thinking about that face? Nothing came up as far as his groggy memory could go other than that she was pretty.

He just wanted to go back to sleep but his heart was still beating in his ears and cold sweat was practically pushing out of ever pore and sticking his shirt to his chest. Patrick‘s head lulled back with a low groan as one hand pushed the blanket off his thighs. He was hard. He wanted to strangle that girl.

“So, you’re telling me about this why?“ Henry Bowers turned in his seat to scowl at Patrick sitting in the backseat. He just shrugged at him, earning a scoff before Henry turned back around to turn the music up. “Thought you‘d know her, stud.“ The comment made Huggins bite back a grin and Vic snorted in his seat next to Patrick. He didn‘t expect Henry to react, getting the silent treatment and a middle finger thrown over the shoulder. Judging from the barely healing cut on Bower‘s chin he was in one of his moods after a run in with Officer Bowers before his duty began. Patrick didn‘t bother holding in his leer as they pulled up by the school entrance.

Patrick was quick to climb through the window, effortlessly ignoring Huggins‘ yelling after him to use the fucking door, you faggot and checking his pockets to make sure he had didn‘t leave anything in the car while Henry finished his cigarette and snuck one from Vic for later. Patrick made a full body stop, one hand in his pocket and the other holding his Camel pack, when he saw a face that looked vaguely like someone he should remember and once he saw those eyes again the blur from last night overcame him like a dip in the Kenduskeag.

“Pat? You coming?“ Vic stood next to him, smacking his palm against his back to get his attention. Patrick just groaned in affirmation before turning to the boys. “See her?“ All six eyes followed the jerk of Patrick‘s thumb. Huggins was the first to ogle whatever girl he saw. “Yeah, nice tits. What about her?“ Henry - usually overeager with lecherously agreeing - just crushed his burned down cigarette under his boot. “Ain‘t that l/n? The bitch is crazy for all I know.“ Huggins pulled a face that screamed back paddling. He just wasn‘t made for psycho chicks - his own words. Vic sized her up with an indifferent shrug but Patrick stared her down in an one sided battle. She hasn‘t looked at them once. “That so?“ Patrick glanced at Henry. The last name definitely sparked something in the back of his mind, even if he couldn‘t grasp what it sparked. So that was you. “‘S bullshit, if you ask me. Look at her, rich bimbo. Gotta be a rumor.“

And - oh - he was looking. Henry wasn‘t wrong. You looked like another Greta with tits for brains, a pretty smile and hair that caught the sunlight like a halo. Your face wasn‘t that special but his interest was piqued.

“Rumors about?“

“Who knows? Pops was shitfaced but said something about a case of bones in their backyard, like a lot of fuckin‘ bones.“

That seemed a lot less odd - people buried their dead animals out back all the time. He shook his head at himself as he followed Henry. He was acting like a spaz over a dream that showed any generic girl he probably hooked up with out of town and forgot about. This was nothing. He just needed to pick a fight with Bowers to screw on his head right.

Or maybe he didn‘t because on his way from attending-half-of-literature to skipping-chem-behind-the-school he walked right into you. Literally walked right into you standing by the locker around the corner as he speed walked away from the creepy janitor huffing and nagging about kids like him littering soda cans and cigarette buds around school grounds. Patrick never liked him and wanted to kiss the ass of the drunk driver that flattened his late wife, letting the old sleaze stay home for a month.

Patrick‘s hands shot out, grabbing onto the next best thing to keep his balance - ultimately clutching at your shoulders and sending you tumbling with your back into his chest. He mentally kicked himself in his own balls for his single thought to be that you used some bullshit floral shampoo from the corner shop until you shoved his hands off your velour jacket and gracefully ripped him back to reality. His eyebrows flew up on his forehead at your frown once you turned around, irritation written in every part of your body language. The initial anger in your features sent a shock up and down his spine, flaring out towards the very tips of his fingers in anticipation. “Hockstetter? What the fuck?“ You shouldered your backpack, the frown on your face making way for a more confused pinch of the brows. “Don‘t you have kids to bully or something?“ A grin spread across his face while he leaned next to your ajar locker, shrugging. “It‘s Thursday, means I bully pretty girls today.“ He would‘ve welcomed any reaction from recoiling to cussing or even cringing in disgust but not you rolling your eyes at him and pushing past him. His palms itched uncomfortably and he dug his bitten nails into the ball of his hand. It was like you peered down at him even now, leering with indifference in your eyes while he stood waist deep in a grave of death. The picture of an empty crib flashed his mind, then a closed casket the size of an infant while his mother wept. It‘s been so long since he felt that itch and now he had to scratch it.

Patrick huffed, peeking into the gap in the locker and realizing that the idiot didn‘t close it. He pushed out a laugh, prying it open and right away there were two crumbled pieces of paper tumbling to the ground. It was a fucking mess if he‘s ever seen one. Among school books and stray pens there were torn and balled up pages upon pages from books and what looked like ripped letters. The inside of the locker door had pictures stuck to it of you and your shallow bimbo friends. Your smile was bright and innocent enough but it left a bitter taste in his mouth as he pulled one picture off to study it. You would definitely notice something like this missing but Patrick wasn‘t one to care about stealing property before and he wasn‘t going to start now. Maybe it was the lack of sleep he got that night, maybe it was the fact that he was short on nicotine this morning but he could‘ve sworn that the flickering hallway lights above illuminated your face as if you soaked up everything around you. The picture looked recent enough - probably from last summer, based on the Kenduskeag behind you and your friend and most importantly, on your dripping hair and soaked shirt clinging to your chest. Your lips were tinted red by the awful cherry slurpee the only decent ice cream parlor in Derry offered. The back had a handwriting on it, most likely yours. ‘y/n + carrie ‘88‘ Patrick folded the photo in half to shove it into his back pocket. It was going to make a great addition to his spank bank in the future.

He shoved the mass of paper back into the locker, exposing about five tubes of squeezable lipglosses from clear to pink to a translucent red and all of them were at a different stage of empty and all of them were fruit scented. Who were you trying to impress? Patrick snorted, picking up a half empty 8 ounce body spray bottle with its cap missing and tossing it back inside after giving it the sniff test. It smelled like his mother used to smell on date night with his father - roses and ginger. He never understood why women bothered. Instead, he fished a pen out from under your mess - he never looked into a girl‘s locker but in movies they were definitely cleaner - and scribbled onto a blank page, sticking it to the spot where the stolen picture hung. It never failed to freak out little girls like you that played tough.

‘i know where you live <3‘

“Hockstetter, where the fuck were you?“ Henry crushed his empty can of soda and tossed it out the passenger window. Vic handed Patrick the last hit of his cigarette before he opened the backseat door to climb in. It‘s been a week since Patrick put that note in your locker and it peeved the fuck out of him that you had the same valley girl smile on your face every time he saw you in the halls. Whenever your eyes met and you applied your cherry lipgloss it was like getting a mean chinese wrist burn but on his whole spine.

“Taking a piss.“ He finished the last inch of the cigarette and came in next to Vic who was scooting over to sit behind Huggins. Henry narrowed his eyes, following his movements in the car mirror. “Whatever. Can we fucking go now?“ Henry’s leg bounced impatiently and Patrick just felt trigger happy today. “I don’t know.“ He gave a little shrug and nodded towards the driver seat. “Can I drive?“ Huggins didn’t even skip a beat as he threw him the most scandalized look anyone has ever seen on him, acting like he just called his mother a whore. “Hell no.“ Patrick just grinned as he looked out the window and twirled his metal lighter in this hand. Huggins finally started the car engine to pull out of Hockstetter‘s driveway for a weekend cruise outside Derry. Mr Huggins just filled the tank yesterday before he told Belch to polish the car and he wouldn‘t stop talking about how the car purred like a horny cat even though it looked exactly the same to Patrick but a free ride was a free ride and a good opportunity to pick up someone while Huggins took his gas station piss break that was inevitable at this point.

They were about thirty minutes past the rusty sign that boldly announced the end of Derry, Maine and on an empty road going way over the speed limit while Huggins tapped his thumb on the steering wheel to his favorite part in Master of Puppets. The music was turned up so loud it vibrated under his feet and pleasantly traveled up his legs but Henry had no problem speaking over it, going on about a girl.

“Speaking of girls.“ Patrick dangled one arm out the window, feeling the side eye of Vic on him because when Patrick started talking girls it had to be something interesting - which was code for insanely hot or insanely disgusting but interesting all the same. “That y/n girl. Think she‘s a queer? Never seen her with a guy before.“ Henry gave him a look over his shoulder before he shrugged the question off. “I heard she had a boyfriend before the fucker went missing. Why the fuck do you care?“ Patrick stared out the window with little engagement. “I don‘t.“ Henry looked him over one last time before he turned back around. “Man, you go for the most psycho chicks out there.“ It made Huggins snort as if he had any room to talk with his three months dry streak. “How crazy can she be? She‘s a girl - all bark, no bite. Let her reject him and he‘ll stop being so pussy-whipped over her.“ Patrick kicked at the drivers seat. “Fuck off. I‘m not pussy-whipped, you fat fuck.“ Henry ended their fight prematurely by telling both of them to shut the fuck up and they drove for another ten minutes.

Patrick bounced his leg to the violent rhythm of the music blasting in his ear - tuning out Vic‘s complains while he was at it - when he sat up straight like a mean wasp stung him right in the neck. He vaguely heard Henry‘s irritated “what the fuck is it now?“ as he slapped at Huggins‘ arm. “Stop the car.“ Huggins wavered, blinking in confusion as if Patrick just asked him the square root of pi. “What?“ He kept his eyes on the road but his attention wasn‘t all there, almost steering them straight into a road sign. “Pull the fuck over. Today, you fuck!“ Belch had just enough time to pull over before Patrick swung the door open wide and stumbling out the car, his aerosol can clattering on the cracked pavement below. His mind was reeling.

“What the fuck was that?!“ Henry slammed the car door behind himself, shoving against Patrick‘s chest hard enough to make him stumble into the closed backseat door. Patrick shot him an angry glower. “I saw it!“ Henry had no problem matching the glare, stepping back into Patrick‘s personal space. “What? We haven‘t passed a fucking car in like fifteen fucking minutes!“ Patrick‘s fingers twitched with the jolting feeling of wanting to punch Bowers‘ yellowing teeth in. “You‘re fucking insane, Hockstetter. What the fuck is wrong with you?“ Henry shoved his finger into Patrick‘s sternum and reality washed over him like the first swim in ice cold water at the start of summer break and a somber voice in the back of his skull reminded him that it was pretty much impossible that you were standing by the road, waiting for him in serene fucking stillness but his spine felt stiff as if someone fixated it with a metal pipe. This was fucked. Whatever part of his mind created you was completely fucked because there was absolutely no way that you were real. This felt nothing like the time with Avery who was just an inconvenience, something that defied his logic and had to be fixed - out of sight out of mind kind of thing. You were like a plague and his own mind was turning on him by making you up. Not even his sleep was his own anymore. Whenever the rare scenario of a dream came up it was just you standing above him and he would wake up at the ass crack of dawn with his dick straining in his boxers. Some dreams left him confused for a minute or two wether or not he was awake yet, wether or not it was a chair with dirty clothes piled on it across the room or you standing in the corner because he was sure he heard someone breathing down his neck a second ago.

Patrick ran a hand down his face before he pulled open the door to slump back in the seat. He closed the door hard enough to startle Vic who was pointedly avoided the whole thing because if there was one person he didn’t want to fight that day it was Patrick in a bad mood.

Patrick wasn‘t the kid to enter the public library - he preferred to loiter around the dingy video store, sneaking behind the beaded curtain to the forbidden adult section. But the manager caught him one time too often and made a point to not leave him unattended during his late shift. So here he was. The teenage part timer behind the counter definitely recognized him, shrinking into himself the moment he walked inside. He recognized your color block sneakers easily since it was weekend and the library wasn‘t the first place kids your age liked to spent time in.

He roamed the aisles until he spotted you in front of another tall bookcase, stretching on the very tips of your toes to reach a book above you, the little shirt you wore riding up your belly. You were just making it too easy for him.

He was behind you before you knew it and his left hand ghosted over the exposed skin. Patrick knew that his hands were cold, the contrast to your warm flesh sent a shiver up his arm and his fingers pressed into the soft part of your stomach. You jumped under the touch, whipped your head around. “What—? You dick!“ Patrick chuckled but his hand didn’t move away. His right hand pulled the book from the shelf, holding it just out of your reach to read the cover. “What? You read about biology for fun?“ He snorted, lowering the book enough to let you snatch it from him. “It‘s a study about cadavers and carcasses. Maybe you should pick up a book once in a while.“

He didn‘t care about the badly delivered insult. He stroked his thumb one last time over your hip before pulling away and gestured to your chest in interest. Your eyes followed until you looked down at the necklace around your neck - a small claw that looked awfully realistic tied to a leather string. “It was my cat‘s claw. I wanted to keep it.“ You shrugged a little, brushing your finger over the edge to the piece of keratin. At that moment Patrick really wanted to slam your head into the bookcase and fuck you raw in front of the elderly customers coming in and out the library. He followed you to the front desk to the bundle of nerves behind the counter who really tried not to look at Patrick. “So you cut up your cat, huh?“ His question hung in the air and you just chuckled like it was a really good joke. Little bitch. You bagged the book and strolled over to the door, Patrick hot on your tail and you left the store as if there wasn‘t a man following you that was trying to decide wether he should violate you before of after bleeding you dry. Hell, maybe you would like that but he wasn‘t sure if he should like that. He wanted to scare you. He wanted solid proof that you were like everyone else around because you just couldn‘t be real. His hand still tingled from before. The sensation was like his hand belonged on your naked skin.

Patrick looked around to see you disappear into a car. “Fuck.“

Patrick stood against the locker across from yours, staring holes in your back as you opened it and slowly - painfully slow - unfolded the piece of paper.

‘4233 West Broadway‘

Excitement mingled with the blood rushing through his veins because it would happen any minute. You would recognize your own address, nervously look around you and meet his gaze. Your eyes would go wide, threatening to fall out as the watery shine of fear glazed them over and- You crumbled the paper in your hand and threw it in the overflowing trash at the end of the hallway. “Fucking- What?“ A junior kid ducked his head at his hushed voice alone as he passed him. Patrick made a mental note to get the ginger fuck later but now he crossed the hall without even looking at any other student that just came short of bumping into him because <i>this wasn‘t how he planned this to go</i> like at all. He was the only bona fucking fides and you were the manifestation of a sick joke he played on himself. How could you of all people play him like a damn fiddle - edge him to the very end of his seat with heat shooting out into his limbs only to run an ice cube over the vein of thrill that pulsed under his skin - unless—

Patrick swallowed nothing, his mouth void of moisture, as his heavy boots sent the trashcan rolling over the ground - trash and old cafeteria food sliding across the hall and before any teachers could ride his ass for it, he already rounded the corner you disappeared behind. It wasn‘t difficult to spot you and it would be just as easy to gain on you - Patrick was a fit boy and you, well, you were unsuspecting as you clutched your little literature book to your chest and twisted the earring stud in your earlobe which he picked up on as a habit of yours when you were bored. You didn‘t even have the right to be fucking bored, not when you stirred Patrick‘s mind like a damn sunday‘s soup. He just kept your pace three and a half feet behind you and with the student body practically parting like the red fucking sea it wasn‘t hard to not lose sight of you. He had to prove himself you weren‘t another anomaly like Avery. Ad nauseam, or whatever.

It was 7pm when Patrick came home. The lights in the kitchen were on and he heard the clattering of metal on porcelain, idle chatter between his parents and his mother‘s obnoxious giggle. He thought that he would be spared as he eased the front door shut and made his way over to the staircase, avoiding the creaking floorboards.

“Patrick? Honey, are you home?“ The distinct sound of his mother‘s voice made him groan, his hand just hovering over the hardwood railing when his body came to a stop to throw his head back.

“Yeah.“ Loud footfalls disturbed the family atmosphere like a bull in a china shop. Patrick loomed in the kitchen doorway. His mother put out a plate for him as always and he could feel the disapproval in his father‘s rubbernecking.

“Come, sit. Patty, you haven‘t told me your little secret.“ Despite her cushy tone, Patrick‘s muscles seized up uncomfortably because she had no idea how that little sentence danced around his skull for a whole minute. It would mean anything from skipping school to beating the puberty out of children to murdering and keeping the carcasses as a trophy in a rotting fridge down at the landfill. His father‘s click of the tongue was like a wake up call and Patrick played it cool by not only bypassing his mother but straight up reversing to avoid whatever she was digging for. “Ma, I have an essay to write.“ He really did, though he didn‘t know what class it was supposed to even be for and his father gave him a look Patrick wanted to punch off his face while his mother ushered him to sit in front of her - he didn‘t take the invitation. “Patty, you don‘t have to be embarrassed. She seems like a proper one.“ And for the first time Patrick was at a loss for words, feeling like a fully grown scolopendridae was writhing underneath his skin and its venom was currently feasting on his nerves. He was annoyed, so annoyed that he wasn‘t at least two steps ahead.

“What?“

“Oh, you know, honey. Y/n. She stopped by to return a study sheet. Patty, mommy‘s really happy that you met such a sweet girl but you‘re still under the eyes of God an—“

Patrick tuned the rest of her fruitless no-sex-before-marriage-talk out as his feet already carried him upstairs, practically bodychecking his door open like a SWAT raid on a kiddie fiddler‘s apartment. Nothing looked out of place. Candy wrappers and crushed up soda cans littering the carpet, Playboy and Hustler magazines hidden underneath his mattress and stacks of papers and baggies he scored scattered across his carved up desk. Even the contents of the wooden tallboy and closet was untouched and Patrick huffed as he kicked at a hairspray can he scratched the label off. A band tee he grew out of undeniably smelt like the ghost of roses as it laid crinkled on a chair. The band posters thumbtacked onto his wall stared back at him, a familiar note stuck to a Mötley Crüe poster by his bed. He recognized that sloppy longhand alright.

‘i know where you live <3‘

A more legible handwriting stood out in pink gel pen underneath. He ripped off the note that obscured frontman Vince Neil‘s visage as a twitch traveled beneath his waistband.

‘me too.‘

“The fuck was that?“ The bell just rang out as Patrick slammed his hand flat against your locker door, closing it with a metallic groan and the cool steel of his silver rings scratched the surface unpleasantly. You frowned - fucking pouted even - with one hand in your school bag. “What‘s what?“ Your tone was casual, audaciously questioning. “Well, fuck. I don‘t know! This maybe?“ He fumbled for the piece of paper in his jean pocket to dangle it in front of you like some kind of legendary reveal. He watched your eyes scan the page, brows furrowing as you looked back into his face. “You started it, Hockstetter.“ You plucked the paper from his lose grip to fold it back up. “Your mother is really nice.“ Patrick stepped back, huffing, unimpressed by the little jab about meeting Mrs Hockstetter.

“Honestly though, I‘m disappointed you didn‘t come visit me through my window with the whole address-thing. I don‘t lock it at night.“

“That‘s what you‘re into?“

“You don‘t know half of it, Patty.“ You patted his cheek before catching up with your friends in the hall.

Patrick couldn‘t for the fucking life of him catch you alone. It began in the morning when your dad dropped you off at school on his way to his generic ass job in his generic ass red car. You two didn‘t share classes. You didn‘t wander the halls by yourself. He would know - he skipped algebra multiple times to maybe catch you going to the girls restroom. On your way home you went the same route as a group of students you laughed with before waving goodbye at your door and well, your mother was always home by that time like a good little housewife.

After the third time he - fully sober - saw you in places you couldn‘t even be it was time for less stalking and more of a head on approach. Your interactions were fleeting at school, none at all in your downtime. It had to look like Patrick chasing a little skirt but if he was honest, he wasn‘t sure if it was that anymore. The lines between lechery and sanguinary bled together with each dream that woke him up like a hot iron to the ass cheek. But you just had to be a bitch even when left in the dark.

It was way past official curfew when he stood in front of your window with the curtains wide open. Your dad’s car was parked in the driveway and the house was dark. It took little effort to slide the unlocked window open and climb inside, smearing fresh mud on your beige cut pile carpet.

Patrick couldn‘t make out a lot of details with your room this devoid of light. There was a shirt and a pair of shorts left by the foot of your bed and a pair of jeans draped over a swivel chair. The vanity table was a mess, products scattered across the wooden surface and tubes left in the open with their lids thrown next to it. But most importantly, your bed was untouched and fucking empty - a last fuck you on your part while you fucked up another plan of his. He strolled over to where you were supposed to be asleep right now. The blanket was thrown over the mattress sloppily and a worse for wear Monchhichi with its face rubbed off laid out on your pillow. He wondered if you would be embarrassed. No doubt, you wouldn‘t want Patrick of all people to see you little childhood stuffed animal. But you probably didn‘t want Patrick breaking into your house either - shouldn‘t have provoked him in the first place.

Patrick heard floorboards creaking and groaning under soft footfalls and his heart pounded into his throat. He adjusted himself in his pants, anticipation skyrocketing. It was now that he reminded himself that he didn‘t make any solid plans other than finally getting you, getting under your skin in one way or the other. He stayed silent, eyes fixed on your bedroom door when the handle jiggled and opened a crack before creaking. You cursed softly before easing the door open all the way and walking inside barefoot. In the dark, Patrick heard your breath hitching before you froze, hand squeezing the doorknob and the other hovering near the light switch. He saw it in the twitch of you shoulders, the slow shuffle of your feet - you were about to run or scream and he just couldn‘t have that. He was fast from the adrenaline already pushing through him in waves. It took three long strides to clamp his cold, clammy hand over your mouth while the other pulled you further into the room so his boot could guide the door shut. The weight of his knife in his jacket pocket was the only thing keeping him grounded right now and holy shit he hasn‘t been this aroused in ages. He shushed your muffled yelling like he was holding a child throwing a toddler tantrum but he couldn‘t keep the grin out of his face when your eyes almost rolled out your skull with how wide open they were. “C‘mon, let‘s not wake mommy and daddy up, hm? We don‘t want you to end like your cat.“ Patrick‘s eyes darted to your harshly rising and falling chest, the shadows of your necklace heaving with your breaths.

You bit into his palm, hard. Patrick grunted through gritted teeth and his grip on your face doubled to throw you onto your bed, the springs protested loudly. “You stupid cunt.“ His voice was level because if your parents came in now it would ruin everything. Your soft breaths were still fast and loud in his ears. “I came here to make you suck my dick. Mark you up a little.“ His fingers slowly laced themselves into your hair, the fresh bite oozed blood and the contact made his palm sting. Your hands scrambled mindlessly to grab onto his wrist when he took hold of a fistful of lose strands in an iron grip. The pain in his hand helped him hold onto what little self control he still had around you. “But you‘ve really done it now, princess.“ He angled your head back until you met his eyes. He could make out the barest features in the dark with the moon illuminating you from behind but he didn‘t doubt for a second that you couldn‘t see the glinting hunger in his eyes with the soft light hitting his face.

His free hand yanked your sweater up to your chin and you gasped out his name. The little sounds you made went right to his half chub as he unclasped the front of your bra. You really made it easy for him now. His imagination had nothing on the real thing, the warmth, when his thumb traced the goose bumps forming on your breasts from the cold air in your room - the way you cried out when he seized the meat of your breast hard enough to bruise, his rings digging cruel marks into your skin. “Patrick—“, his eyes darted up from your tits, “you can‘t-“

“But I can. Don‘t act all shy, girlie. Y‘riled me up for weeks now.“ Your hands tightened around his hand that still held your hair too tight to be comfortable. “It hurts.“ His grip faltered for a split second at the come-hither tone while you looked at him with those wide eyes. His jaw flexed and he harshly tugged his hair back because what if this was another mind fuck and you weren’t inviting him into your panties and how dare you fuck with him still.

“It hurts, yeah?“ His other hand left your chest, trailed lower and leaving even more goose bumps underneath the ghost of his fingertips. He roughly yanked the button of your jeans open, not even bothering with the zipper. Your hands shot out, letting go of the one in your hands to push at his chest and arm as he inched his fingers into your panties. It was uncomfortable with the stiff fabric of your pants in the way but he made it work for himself as he brushed over your public mound and further down down down— until he tuned out your pathetic shoves and stupid whining and ran a finger through your folds. “This makes you wet, hm? Fuck, just knew you‘d be a little whore.“ He sounded breathless in his own ears or maybe it was all the blood leaving his brain to collect in the hardest erection he ever sported because while he saw your annoying little mouth move, your voice was just noise to him now as he worked your pants down your thighs.

You kicked at him, movements slowed and restricted by your jeans around your knees and he caught your ankle in a mean hold that had you suck in a breath. Before you could catch yourself, your head hit the mattress as the brutal grip on your hair disappeared. Patrick sunk onto his knees, your thighs automatically tried to close once he was eyelevel with your pussy only to press against his head and for him to pry them back open by pinching the skin on the inside of your thigh. He propped your legs on his shoulders, one hand staying high up on your thigh. “Be good. Because if you‘re not, well—“ He didn‘t finish the threat, his mind spinning with ways to go from making this mildly uncomfortable for you to mutilating and ruining you for any man after him - and if he wasn‘t rock hard before, now he was. He heard you breathing harder and when he ran his middle finger through your folds again, he searched your eyes. Your whole body was pulled taut as a bowstring but you were staring down at him, face screwing up as he prodded at the entrance. He wasn‘t sure if he wanted it to be out of anticipation or fear for what he was going to do to you.

Patrick pushed his middle finger in and he loved the drawn out gasp that left you, the way you clenched around him once he was knuckle deep. His eyes flickered to where you swallowed his finger up, to your face, and back down again. Your head fell back into the soft mattress beneath you once he pulled out halfway, almost gentle enough to make you think this wasn‘t Patrick Hockstetter finger-deep inside your pussy, before he thrust his finger back in at an angle that made your hips buck up the mattress. He repeated it once, twice - each time pulling out slower, further to thrust back in when your feet kicked against his back.

He pulled out and for a second, Patrick saw his butterfly knife held tightly in his hand. He didn‘t remember taking it out of his jacket and it felt weightless no matter how hard he squeezed it. His breaths became labored and the air was too thin and he didn‘t bother to search for your eyes again, gaze trained on the very tip of the knife that caught the moonlight on the polished blade. He didn‘t hesitate as he eased the knife into your clenching pussy, blood flowing like a river and his head was filled with screaming and his vision was obscured by the amount of blood gushing out of you, soaking through your blanket and mattress, dripping from the blade once he drew it out again. He looked up again, watching your chest rising and falling, and you picked up your head to look at him with parted lips and heavy eyelids. Patrick blinked in rapid succession, looked back to his empty hand. The only fluid clinging to his finger was your slick - the same slick that made your naked flesh glisten and he licked it off his hand before he gathered more by roughly dragging the pads of his fingers across your pussy.

He got off his knees, fixing your thighs around his waist, and his dry hand smacked against your cheek to get your attention. “You‘re so fucking wet. Open up. Taste yourself, baby.“ His thumb pressed against your lower lip, smearing your lipgloss. He didn‘t wait for you to comply - prying your jaw open and sliding his wet fingers in when he was met with little resistance. Your complains were muffled buy the three-finger intrusion and Patrick only had so much patience left. He pushed deeper, passing your tongue and stroking the edge of your throat until it naturally confused and you gagged. “I said. Lick. It. Off.“ He pressed his fingers into your throat with each menacing word, until he was sure you would throw up if he made you take more but soon enough he felt your tongue lapping at him and he eased up on your throat - going for his belt with his other instead. The metal clink made you pause and you tried to lift your head off the bed which proofed to be difficult with a set of fingers in your mouth that practically deepthroated you if you moved. He would shove your head back down anyway.

Patrick shoved his pants down just enough to pull his cock out, a soft groan creeping out his chest in relief and shock of being exposed to the chilly air of your room, the open window blowing the nights cold breath inside. Finally - mercifully - Patrick pulled his fingers from your spit slicked lips to seize your hips on both hands and you could pick up your head, eyes glazed over with something Patrick couldn‘t read and it pissed him off. “Ngh- Patrick, wait—“ He didn‘t. Nothing you said would make him wait anyway so he cut you off by gripping his cock with his wet hand and grinding the leaking head against your clit. The breath you were pushing out turned into an airy moan and your nails clawed at the blanket your own slick was currently ruining underneath you. He gave an experimental prod - your eyes screwed up tight - and then a grind that caught on the edge of your hole, just shy of sliding in but only dragging against your folds again - your mouth fell slack as your body was wound up like a Jolly Chimp at the suggestion of his dick actually sliding home.

“Yeah, you‘re just begging for it - fucking drooling on my dick.“

“‘M not.“ The protest was weak once your hips chased after him until his hand planted itself on your belly to keep you down.

“Well, you‘re gonna take it like a good slut- Fuck, I‘ve waited so fucking long.“ His fingers tightly held onto the base of his length to actually line his swollen head up. He liked to deny himself release until his balls ached and his dick was red and angry but he would be lying if he said he could resist feeling you the way he tried to make his hand feel for weeks now. Maybe Huggins wasn‘t wrong for once in his life - Patrick was pussy-whipped and he liked getting what he wanted. And when Patrick wanted, Patrick took. His hips pressed forward until he met resistance and your legs jerked to close them only to be blocked by his body, so he pressed harder. A wordless whine heightened into a keen of his name when his head breached you and he groaned low in his throat, one-inch-deep and sinking deeper and deeper deeper deeper in your chest, blood spraying onto his chest when he yanked the knife from between your ribs and out of your beating heart. He slid two fingers into the wound, feeling your everything draining out around his digits and how would it feel to put his cock inside—

“Fu-uck—“ Patrick wasn’t sure if the pleasure sparking in his brain came from the snug feeling around his cock or the vivid images of you becoming his best kill yet. His hips were flush against yours and the stretch from a single finger to the biggest erection he ever had over a girl, had to feel like he wanted to split you in two and maybe he did want that. He wondered if it hurt you. He wished it did. Your babbling might be in prostest or encouragement, to him it was all the same anyway. You were clenching around him like a vice but your body was more honest, drooling more lubrication until his cock was glistening when he pulled out a few inches. “You‘re so tight,“ - he collected your wrists into one hand, pinning them to your chest once your manicured nails came dangerously close to scratching his face - “Don’t do that. You‘re such a good hole for me - fuck - don‘t stop now.“ Patrick set a fast pace once he made himself comfortably familiar with the ridges and pulses inside you, fucking into you with purpose now.

Your mouth dropped open with a strangled moan, the way he snapped his hips into yours knocking the air out of you but you still drew in enough air to mewl “Patrick“‘s and whine “ah, please-“ while twisting in his one handed grip around your wrists. The thought of letting you scratch him bloody never seemed better once your unfocused eyes twitched between his face and your ceiling, your hips meeting his punishing thrusts. So he let go, watching the circulation flushing your hands again, watching the beginning of a bruise blooming your wrists. He only slowed down to fumble for his lighter but you didn‘t seem to mind - taking whatever he gave you like you were made for it, like you were his for the taking, like you were real. He wanted to snuff every ghost of a thought like this. He came here to proof that you weren‘t real but the moment he felt your muscles convulsing around him - the moment he was sheathed inside you - he never felt more alive and he hated you for it. He wanted to ruin you.

“I wish you would—“ Patrick cut himself off with a grunt as he hit the right spot inside you and your nails dug through the fabric covering his shoulders. He didn‘t care to explore the rest of his thought process, opting for drinking in the dull pain your nails left in his shoulders.

The metallic clang of flicking open his lighter seemed to snap you out of your mindless orgasmic chase, picking up your head until the thumb on his other hand drew tight circles against your clit. “Gonna- ‘M gonna—“ A mean grin stretched across his face at the little twitches your hips gave. He spun the flint wheel until a flame ignited. “Yeah?“ His thumb eased it‘s pressure to make you last. The hand with his lighter twirled in lazy circles, allowing the metal case of his zippo lighter to heat up while trying not to scorch himself with his rapid pace.

“You wanna cum?“ You only managed a high whine of “yes yes yes“ as you dangled dangerously close off the edge, your legs wrapping around Patrick‘s back. “Cum for me, you whore. C‘mon, cum on my cock.“ His voice was tight with holding in his own release as he felt your walls spasm like you wanted to pinch his dick off. He grabbed your shaking thigh and pressed the hot metal lighter into your soft skin, hearing the sizzle your sweat soaked skin made as he burned his mark into you was enough to make his balls pull tight painfully hard. The searing pain ripped right through the waves of your orgasm, waves of pleasure ebbing away to make way for the ugly throbbing in your thigh but you <i>moaned</i> like Patrick just made you ride higher than ever before and it made Patrick grind into your overstimulated pussy to reach his own peak.

Patrick dropped the lighter on your bed, cooled off enough to not burn anymore, and slowly pulled out of you. You only had half the mind to feel his cum leaking from your abused hole but he had his fun watching your clench around nothing as you recovered from the aftershock of what was sex with Patrick Hockstetter of all people. He didn‘t usually get a thrill out of possibly knocking a girl up but it wasn‘t like it really mattered now.

Patrick reached into his jacket pocket to pull his knife before you would even notice and finish the job. It was empty and he caught the grin on your face before the metallic shine in your hand.

He wondered how far ahead of him you were all this time.

[milazka]

not the greatest feeling ever | 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝.

the less i know the better masterlist

main masterlist

summary: fuck it, i’m not doing a summary, i’m so bad at it. oh! there’s smut btw.

warnings: smut, cursing, mentions of blood, underrage drinking

last thought: i’m proud of this one, took me a lot of time to write, but i think it was worth it! enjoy your reading! love, milz.

─── ° • ❀ ───

The gentle breeze twirls her golden locks in all directions. She hums the lyrics of You never can tell, having watched Pulp Fiction for the hundredth time last night. Her irises are fixed to the slightly damp roadside covered with fresh fallen leaves from this morning rainstorm. The last rays of sunlight caress her baby-like skin as they disappear into the horizon, painting the sky in a mixture of orange and rose. 

“C’mon grandpa, you’re slow as hell!” she teases Marcus, turning her head back to stick her tongue out at him. Standing on his skateboard, he sends her the finger, scraping the pavement with his over-used black vans to gain speed and eventually catch up with her. 

“That’s how the turtle won the race, dumbass,” he gently nudges her shoulder with his hand as he rides his board besides her. She gives a sharp turn of the handlebars to move her tires out of the sand and back on the pavement, giving him a death glare. 

“I almost fell in the ditch, shithead!” he simply laughs, his head falling backward. His dark colored hairs, normally slicked back, are ruffled by the warm September wind, giving him a laid back look that fits him perfectly. She adores hearing his laugh; it's one of the purest and most delightful sounds. It was only recently that she heard him laugh again, having not heard it for months after the day they lost the third musketeer of their trio. It was one of the hardest moments of their lives, but sharing this kind of experience brought them closer than ever. Charlie was there for him when he hit rock bottom, stroking his back while he cried on the shower floor, freezing water running down their damped bodies. She was also by his side the first time he went to therapy, soothingly squeezing his hand before he entered the office.

“If someone had to fall in a ditch, it would be me.”

“You know that Max and I made bet on how long it would take you to fall in a ditch?” she replies, checking his reaction at the corner of her cerulean eyes. He grins. 

“How much did you bet?” he curiously asks, one eyebrow arched. 

“Fifty bucks,” his eyes almost snap out of their sockets. He stops, stepping off his board.

“Fifty bucks?! That’s insulting, thought I was worth more than that,” he shouts as she makes a u-turn, retracing her steps, stopping in front of him.

“I’ll give you half of it if you wait ‘till June,” Charlie sarcastically says to him, elbows leaning on the handlebars of her bicycle. He caught a glimpse of light in her gaze; a twinkle of amusement he always finds in the corners of her softly crinkled eyes when she smiles truthfully.

“Deal,” he winks at her, drawing a small laugh from her slightly parted lips. He picks up Charlie's polaroid from the basket at the front of her bike, signaling for her to ride so he can immortalize the moment for her. Marcus knows she keeps those famous polaroids in an old converse box as a source of happiness; they're memories of moments she doesn't want to forget. 

He takes the little camera to his eyes, snapping a picture when Charlie turns her head to the side to look at him, smiling like there is no tomorrow. As the picture is slowly developing, he hears a squeal of tires and a squeal of surprise from the distance. 

“Fuck Charlie!” he shouts, running towards her as she sits, holding firmly her right forearm. His heart tightens at the sight of her painful face, her traits are torn by pain and he can see tears gathering at the corner of her squinted blue eyes. Marcus hates to see her in pain; he knows she's not the type to complain about anything so when he sees her azure eyes filling with water, he knows it's serious. 

“You got a few scratches,” he whispers, running his eyes over her legs and arms. “We’ll go to your house and clean you up, okay?” she nods, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. Marcus tucks his skateboard under his arm, grabbing the handlebars and seat of Charlie's bike simultaneously.

─── ° • ❀ ───

“Hold still,” his hazel eyes are focused on the mid-depth cut on her forearm. His bushy eyebrows furrowed, giving him a severe, almost cold sober look. She takes a big gulp of the rich whiskey she borrowed from her father's secret stash. 

“Oh fucking hell!” she swears between her clenched teeth when the rubbing alcohol makes contact with the exposed flesh of her forearm. “That’s not the greatest feeling ever,” she whimpers, her forehead resting on his shoulder covered by his green olive shirt. 

“I know, angel, I know,” he runs his hand through her blonde hair, gently stroking her scalp in a soothing way. She keeps her head resting against his shoulder, holding back the tears that threaten to run down her flushed cheeks.

“I’m usually the one taking care of you,” he knows it refers as much to all the times he fell off his skateboard as it does to when he hit rock bottom when their friend passed away. Charlie isn't used to being taken care of; she has always been able to look after herself without anyone's help.

Crying is for the weak.

She swallows her tears, putting her mask back on with a slight smile.

“Your new neighbor saw me fall,” she changes the subject, pausing to take another gulp directly from the whisky bottle. “Great way to make a first impression,” a light laugh escapes from her lips, but she halts when she notices his gaze turning away almost discreetly. “What’s wrong?” 

Over the years, she has learned to read him like the palm of her hand; she knows he looks away to the left when he is hiding something from her and that he scrapes the back of his neck when he is embarrassed.

“I-I had sex with her,” he blurts out, avoiding her gaze while he still applies pressure on the bandage covering the wound on her forearm. 

“Holy shit,” her eyes widened, not expecting this kind of disclosure. “Wait, what about Padma?” 

“You know she is not my girlfriend, Charlz,” he sighs, finally sustaining her non-judgmental azure irises. It' s one of the things he likes about her; she never judges him and even if she did, he wouldn't know since she hides it so well. 

“Was it good?” she does not insist about Padma, knowing perfectly well that she is the first one to know. He doesn't answer, looking thoughtful as if a million thoughts are running through his head. He steals the bottle of alcohol from her, gulping down a few ounces of the throat-burning liquid.

“What aren’t you telling me, Marcus?” 

He shuts his eyes, exhaling loudly.

“I don’t know if I was good… God, I don’t even know if she came!” her heart tightens; he looks distraught and she knows that this is a big deal to him, after all, he just lost his virginity. He breathes heavily, his jaw as tightly clenched as his fists.

“Show me.” 

“What?!” he opens one eye, eyebrows furrowed as if he was questioning if she was being serious.

“Show me what you did, I’ll tell you if it’s good,” 

“You’re drunk, Charlz…I don-” he stops as soon as her silver rings coated hands grip the hem of his olive shirt, grazing the soft skin of his lower abdomen with her fingertips. Sitting on her knees, she brings her head up to his neck, pressing her lips against the skin. The feeling of her wet lips on his burning skin sends a shiver running through his spine. 

“I’m sober enough to remember everything and give you my consent,” she whispers to his ear and he almost moans when she slightly nibbles his lobe. Her hands slips to the back of his neck, forcing him to hover over her as she lies on her back.

Both his hands are lingering on the buckle of her belt, struggling to undo it. She clutches his chin with one hand, plunging her reassuring gaze into his. He looks nervous, his hands trembling slightly when he takes off her jeans. She presses her lips to his Adam's apple, feeling him tense up at first, but relax as she sensuously slides her tongue up to his sculpted jaw.

“A-are you good with two figers?” he nervously asks, his right hand resting on the edge of her panties. 

“Yes,” he hesitantly slips his hand into her panties, parting her legs with his other hand before sliding his index and middle fingers up and down her folds.  She can see him blush when an almost quiet moan escapes her lips at the feeling of his fingers inside her core. He pumps them in and out slowly, as if he was afraid to hurt her.

“Try to curl them in a ‘come here’ movement,” she demonstrates with her own fingers. He nods and mimics her actions, making her whimper under him. 

“That feels good,” she encourages him. “What did you do next?” she softly asks, rubbing her thumb against his cheek to sooth him. 

“Hum, well, we-um, you know, did it,” he says, blushing like a little child who just got his first kiss with the popular girl. 

“You didn’t go down on her?” she asks, looking quite shocked. He seemed clueless. “I mean, you didn’t use your mouth?” 

“Uh no, should I have?” 

“You boys really know nothing about female pleasure,” she sights. “Try watching lesbian porn next time, you will learn A LOT more,” He almost chokes, not expecting to hear this come out of his best friend's lips while his fingers are still inside her. They've always been comfortable with each other, but not to the point of talking about the kind of porn they listen to. The idea of her best friend watching porn and getting herself off almost made him cum in his pants.

“You do know what a cunniligus is, right?” 

“God, Charlz, I’m not five years old! Yes, I know what it is!” he exclaims, his ego lightly bruised by her question. 

“Well, show me then, playboy,” she challenges him, a cocky smile slipping on her lips. the alcohol going slightly to her head.

He pulls her to the edge of the mattress, kneeling at the foot of the bed between her legs. His lips kiss the skin on the inside of her thighs, sucking it until he sees a dark red mark appear. He gets rid of her underwear in the blink of an eye  before placing her legs over his shoulders. He darts his tongue out of his mouth, licking a long strip between her folds without giving her the chance to acknowledge what was going on. He stops once his tongue rests on the bundle of nerves, licking around it in a circular motion.

“Fuck,” she moans. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You really think I've never watched lesbian porn?” he teases her, biting the inside of her thigh, making her body jolt. He dives back his head to her core, sucking her clit into his mouth.

At leats he know where the clit is.

"Oh my god Marcus," she moans, squirming against his grip. He places his arm over her lower abdomen, pinning her body against the mattress. She can feel his two fingers sliding back into her core, the sudden feeling causing her hips to buck up against his face.  

“Are you gonna be a good girl and cum for me, hun?” he praises her, fingers curling inside her just like she taught him. She could barely feel herself, letting out a series of high-pitched moans as Marcus tongue was working on her bundle of nerves. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” she whimpers, her head pressed down against the matress. Her fingers tangle in his dark hair, tucking at the roots as she let out a cry, the euphoric feeling taking over her body for a moment. Marcus looks up to see her eyes shut tightly, her legs shaking on his shoulders. He can feel her core pulsating around his fingers as she comes down from her high.

He took a mental picture of her, engraving this moment in his memory forever.

─── ° • ❀ ───

taglist; @cognacdelights @ellegotohell @janedartist

[itsthestutterforme]

Becoming Mine (Vincenzo)

Summary: Y/N is working with Vincenzo and a loyal ally from Italy. Han seok captures her and tortures her for information. She holds out longer than he hoped and wants her loyalty for himself.//SMUT WARNING, MINORS DNI

--

Jang Hanseok sent Ms. Choi to get her hands dirty and oversee the torture of Y/N for information. Y/N and Vincenzo grew up in the Mafia together. They taught each other everything.

He has asked Y/N for help with taking down Babel and she said yes without any questions asked. And now she has to suffer the consequences of loyalty.

First they started with electrocution. They tied her to a metal chair and put spark plugs on the back side of the chair. They would send a jolt, each longer than the last. "Go to hell!" She yells at Ms. Choi after the jolt that lasted 20 seconds.

Then they moved on to cutting with the thinnest daggers. Death by a thousand cuts, she always thought it was a cliche thing to use. But hey, to each their own torture method.

Her hair sticks to her forehead and the sides of her neck as he digs his knife across her collar bone. "Fuck!"

Ms. Choi walks into Hanseok's office with a grimace. "What's wrong?" "She's not breaking. She's a lot stronger than I thought." Ms. Choi says, linking her hands behind her back. Hanseok stands from his chair and rounds the desk.

"What tactics have you used?" He asks. "Electrocution, cutting, waterboarding, fire and even bludgeoning and she still tells me to go to hell." Choi rambles.

"I could use someone of her loyalty," Hanseok states. "I want to meet her," he adds. "With all due respect, sir, she'll never agree to that. She's endure days of torture for Vincenzo, she isn't going to give him up or betray him. She's willing to risk her life for him." "Will you risk your life for me?" He asks, searching her face for a response.

"I'll kill anyone you tell me to, sir," "That didn't answer my question. I still want to see her." He says. Ms. Choi drives him to the warehouse where they keep Y/N. She was currently unconscious from the pain she has endured. Hanseok's face grimaced and he says, "You took get your hands dirty a little too literally."

Y/N gasped as she regain consciousness and she groaned softly. She looked up to see Jang Hanseok and he smiles. "Who the hell are you?" She asked before spitting out some blood in her mouth. "Hopefully, I'll be your new boss." He says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "In your dreams, tough guy." She snarks.

A man punches her across the face and she looked at him with pure annihilation and vexation. That look gave Hanseok butterflies in his stomach. The feeling was beyond the norm and he had no idea what the origin was. She opened her mouth to say something else but Hanseok intercepted.

"Touch her again, and I'll have you thrown off a building." He threatens. Hanseok watched as the man stepped away from her. "You, cut her loose," He adds, pointing to another man.

"Sir, are you sure about this?" Choi asked and he didn't answer. She was cut free and the first thing Y/N grabs is the man's throat before breaking it.

Another man came at her and she ducked under the punch before punching him twice in his armpit before punching his throat. She limps over to the table where her weapons were and grabbed her smaller knives.

She tossed them in the air and within seconds, three men dropped dead with the knives in their skulls. Which only left Ms. Choi and Jang Hanseok.

She grabs a gun from one of the corpses and aimed it at them. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you both," "Do that and my men sets that entire plaza on fire with everyone inside."

"I'm calling your bluff lady, you're just trying to save your ass because you know that I'll put bullet in your head without blinking," she says as she cocks the gun and applies steady pressure on trigger.

"Wa-" she pulls the trigger and sends a bullet straight through Ms. Choi's head. Hanseok chuckles wryly before saying, "Now I'm in need of a new lawyer and strategist," he says, his hands still stuffed in his pockets.

"Who are you?" "The CEO of Babel," he answers nonchalantly. "So you're the one who started all this,"

"Well I can't take all the credit. She had her fair share," he says, referencing to Ms. Choi. Red dots appear on Y/N chest and she notices. "I have this place surrounded. One move to shoot me and you'll get shot to pieces. Just take the easy way and work for me. It'll be a lot of fun." "Right, like killing innocent people is fun,"

"It seems like you enjoy killing people." "Only those who deserve it," she snaps. "Regardless of your intentions, my guys wills drop you before you can fire. Question is, do you want to live and be treated like a queen?"

She doesn't respond and he adds, "Or I can kill both you and your mother. She loves to visit a little shop in.. Siena, right? What's it's called again?"

Her grip tightens on the gun before tossing it across the room. "Kill her and I promise to kill you and every single one of your sponsors," "Looks like you and I have more in common than we thought. Come on, let's get you cleaned up." He walks out of the warehouse and she hesitantly follows.

Y/N's POV

You sigh softly as you stepping into the cold, crisp in contrast of the warm, misty air in bathroom. You had pulled your hair into a loose ponytail before you put on Hanseok's shorts and t-shirt. You hate to say it, but his clothes were extremely comfortable. He promised to take me out shopping tomorrow for clothes.

"I didn't know what you liked so I bought everything," he says, referencing to the various plates of food on the kitchen counter. Your eyes settle on kimchi jiagae and you make your way over to the table.

You a grab a few bowls to try some of the kimchi jiagae, bulgogi, dakdoritgang, dakgangjeong and mixed rice. You set them on the tray sit on the pillow he prepared for you.

"You like spicy food, huh?" He says and you nod. "Yeah, my brother likes spicy food too." You wait until he comes back with his tray of food to dig in. You hum lowly as you eat your bulgogi and you feel a hand touch my chin. You pull away and look at him with confused.

"What the hell are you doing?" "I'm sorry, I just.. you look.. you're beautiful," "If you think that you can someone convince me into sleeping with you, you have another thing coming,"

"What? I can't appreciate your beauty without something in return?" He asks innocently. "Hell no," you sneer. He chuckles before saying, "I'm going to have some fun with you."

Over the next few weeks, he has bought you a whole new wardrobe, shoes and jewelry. He's even made sure my hair and nails are done with complementary spa days.

He's been pampering you ever since you were a part of his life. You've been enjoying it but you've developed a sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It also raises questions. Why did he choose you? How long will this pampering thing last? Is your mom still held hostage? What is he planning on doing with Vincenzo?

"Hey, kitten." You roll your eyes at his new pet name for you. You have no idea where he got it from because you are nothing like a kitten. You were playful or adventurous, but you were high maintenance.

"How many times do I have to tell.." you trail off as you see him in a light blue three piece suit with white leather shoes. His hair was combed to the side with gel and you could smell his cologne from where you sat.

"Why are you dressed like that?" "Do you like it?" He say, nearing you slowly. "No," you lie and he smiles at you. "You sure about that?" He leans his hands on either side of you and ducked his head to be at your eye level. "I bought you a matching dress. Get dressed, we leave in an hour."

He nudges his nose against yours before leaving the room and leaving you hot and bothered. Ever since you walked in on him lifting weights without his shirt, your mind came up with various, filthy scenarios that made your panties soaked.

You stand up from the chair and walked into the bedroom to see a goregous silk, light blue dress with diamond seam around the midrange of the stomach.

You take a shower and apply your favorite lotion and perfume before you slide on the dress. You latch on the sparkly, light blue heels. You put on your robe and sit down to apply some foundation, highlight and mascara on to your face.

You were just about to clip your hair up and leave a few curls out but you hear Hanseok say, "Leave your hair down." You look at him through the mirror to see him leaning his arm on the door frame, pulling his dress shirt taught around his solid biceps. He eyes you with a soft smile on his face. "You look beautiful," he says as he nears you once again.

"I know." You stand up and meet him half way across the room. "Shall we?" He says , offering you his arm. "Let's just get this night over with,"

**

You two return at one in the morning and you were infuriated. He spent the whole night flirting with random women at the gala. "You make no sense to me, Jang Hanseok." You say, taking off your earring and tossing them on the dresser.

"What makes you say that?" He asks, sitting on the bed to take off his shoes. "You pamper me with all these gifts, clothes, jewelry to convince me to stay in your life and then you spend the entire night flirting with every one you could lay your eyes on." You snap.

He takes off his vest with a sigh and loosens his tie. "I wanted to see if you cared. Cared about me and my attention." "Well, do you?" He adds. "If I didn't care, do you think I would have said anything?" You snap.

He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you inches away from his face. He tightens his grip and says through gritted teeth, "I've had enough of your attitude, just answer the question."

"I just did." His fingers dig into you neck enough to cause discomfort but not enough to break skin. "Do you care about me?" He asks. "Unfortunately, yes." "Why unfortunately?" "It only makes it harder to-" "

"To betray me?" You push his hand away and say, "What the hell makes you think of something like that? I was going to say it makes it harder to say no but you always think everyone is out to get you. It should be me asking the qu-"

He stops your rant by slamming his lips on yours. One hand rests on the back of your head and the other smooths over the dip of your back.

Your fingers work on unbuttoning his shirt as you walk him onto the bed. He sits on the edge and pulls you into his lap. You pull his shirt off his shoulder and leave kisses up his chest in it's wake.

He moans softly and you could feel his hard on press against your inner thigh. You tug the rest of his shirt off and push his back on the bed. You buck your hips against him and a soft whine leaves his lips.

You quiet him by tenderly biting down on his bottom lip. His lips latched onto yours and presses your core harder against him.

He pulls your hair gently to evade your attention from his lips. He rolls you on you stomach and stands. "Han seok, what are you-" he rips the dress open from the back, making you yell out in surprise.

"Damn it, I liked that dress." "There's plenty more where that came from kitten," he smooths his hands up the back of your legs and squeezes your ass.

You pull off the rest of your mangled dress, leaving you in your white lace set. "And don't you dare rip-" he rips the lace underwear in two and pulls you so your knees are on the edge of the bed. "I'm going to kill you, Han seok."

"I've been wanting to get a taste of you since I set my eyes on you." You let out a squeak when you feel his hot breath agaisnt your core.

You've never been in the position before so you have no idea what the expect. He licks up the stripe with slow, deep licks, each lick lasting longer on your clit. "Oh God," you grip the sheets with a white knuckle grip when he curls his tongue along the upper wall and caresses a g-spot. Your legs started to shake and loud moans leave your lips when he slips in two fingers and curled them hard.

You tried crawling away from him, feeling overwhelmed of the pleasure but he holds you back by your thighs. With a few more licks, you release yourself on his tongue and he hums with satisfaction.

"You taste a lot better than I thought, baby." Your body already started to twitch and you could tell that this was going to be a long night.

You roll onto your back and chills roll down your spine when you see him licking your juices off of his fingers. Pushing yourself backwards, he pulls you closer to him by your ankles. "Han seok, please. It's too much."

"You're doing great, kitten. Just relax and let it wash over you." He says softly, pecking your lips before settling himself between your legs once again.

He spreads your legs wide before he sucks on your clit harder and faster than the first time, sending shock waves through your body. "Fuck! Oh my God!"

Looking down at him, he locks eyes with you and he completely devours your bundle of folds. He alternate between licking side to side and up and down with a curl of his tongue.

Your back arches and stars cloud your vision as you come down from your second high. He pulls away from you with his lower face covered in your juices. "Come here," he lifts your trembling body and dropping it into his lap. He smooths his hands over your ass before unbuckling his dress pants.

He pulls down his boxers and his erection stands up tall, making your whimper. He's going to destroy you. "I'll be gentle," he whispers, lifting your chin to meet his gaze.

You nod your head in agreement and lines himself up at your entrance. Throwing your head back as your walls expand and contract around him. You wrap your arms around him and bury your face into his neck and he bounces you in his lap.

Time slows a few seconds when you meet his gaze. "Oh God," you chant as the knot intensified in your stomach. "I'm close, Han seok."

His lips locked with yours and your boys jolts forward when his thumb rubs hard circles on your clit. Your entire body spasms as he cums inside of you but he continued to rub circles until you came.

He stayed buried inside of you while you sat in his lap as you both catches your breaths. Resting his forehead against yours, he says, "I love you. You believe me what I say that, right?"

You nod and holds the sides of your face. "Say it," "I love you," "Good girl," he pulls out of you and slides you both under the covers.

You lay directly ontop of him with a thin sheet covering the both of you, sighing as he draws circles on your back.

[babylooneytoonz]

The Vessel [Pt. 3]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem! Reader

Summary: While you are trying to figure out why the Witcher is so abhorrent towards you, he finally gives you a hint as to why he doesn't like you. Also, you realize something— Yennefer and her spells can never go wrong.

Warnings: Geralt being a dick is what.

[My Masterlist] [My Witcher Masterlist - Read the other parts here!]

It had been weeks since you slept with Geralt of Rivia, but you hadn't been feeling any different. If it were up to you to say, you would say that Yennefer's plan didn't work— although you couldn't muster the courage to ask her directly if it did.

What made you so sure that the plan hadn't worked was the fact that Geralt and Yennefer had been fighting about something since a few nights and you could feel the strain in their relationship starting to show up. This hunch that you had only strengthened when one day, you unknowingly stumbled upon an argument between the Witcher and the Mage.

It was almost a week after that night on the Great Mount. Geralt had been indifferent towards you since then— not even bothering to spare a glance in your direction when the four of you were in the same proximity.

You were now back at Redania— your home, but so were Yennefer , Geralt and Jaskier— staying at your place like unwanted guests who were exceeding their stay.

Jaskier held two heavy logs in either of his arms, while your own hands were stuffed with the eggs from your coop, that you were intending to cook up for dinner tonight, when you heard shouting from one of the rooms upstairs.

"It was you that said that the plan would work. It didn't work, clearly."

You could recognize Geralt's voice from afar; broody, low and devoid of any emotion.

"Aren't you going to go check in on them?" You turned towards Jaskier and frowned, your eyes shooting upwards, fixing on the topmost stair before you withdrew it and fixed it on him again.

"Me? Stuck between a broody Witcher and a scary Witch? God save my poor soul then." Jaskier commented back as he placed the logs by the fireplace and began to light it.

"Jaskier—" You couldn't help but smile at him, as you placed the eggs on the table and blinked, turning towards him, "Yennefer isn't a witch, she is a mage. Besides—"

Before you could complete your sentence, Yennefer's shaky voice reached the both of you, and you couldn't help but wonder what was actually going on between the two of them.

"I don't understand what's gotten into you, Geralt. These things take time. Why won't you let the spell take it's due course?"

"Yen, your spell failed. It's high time you realize that."

You shook your head to yourself as you busied yourself with trying to prepare the stew for dinner, but your ears were fixed on them.

"You don't question my spells, Witcher. I know what I'm doing. Besides— now to come to think of it, did you even fuck her right?"

Jaskier couldn't help but snort, but when he looked at how red you suddenly were, he immediately masked his expressions as he propped himself next to you.

"Did he, [Y/N]?"

"Jaskier, I'm not having this conversation with you," You shook your head at him, exasperated that he was still bugging you with this question, "Now can you please help me out? I need help with the stew, Jas'." Jaskier stood up, whistling to himself as he fixed himself next to the pot, stirring it while you began working on getting the bread ready when the door above slammed shut and heavy footsteps began descending down the stairs. Both you and Jaskier turned to see a very annoyed Yennefer walk towards the front door, without her Witcher in tow, just like he already was.

"I've got some business to attend to in Novigrad, Jaskier." She pointedly ignored you, and you couldn't help but bite back the words threatening to spill out of your mouth. Living under your roof, she was behaving like you were an outsider. Secretly, you were thrilled that she was leaving , even though it was for a short while.

You watched, through the window as a portal suddenly emerged just outside of your barn, and she disappeared through it, leaving you and Jaskier gawking at each other, Jaskier finally speaking, "I say, trouble in paradise?"

"It's none of your concern, Jaskier. You really need to stop meddling with other people's businesses. Now would you be kind enough and go ask your friend to come down? Dinner's almost read—"

"Jaskier, come on now. We're leaving." Geralt cut you off as he finally appeared, all dressed in his tunic and breeches, his sword peeking out from behind him. You parted your lips, ready to ask him where he was off to but it was like he had already anticipated that this was going to come, so finally he looked at you, but with the same indifference with which he had treated you so far.

"It's time we move on. Keep the coin. Seems like Yennefer's plan failed after all—"

The sheer coldness in his voice stung you like a thorn but you didn't let him realize that. Slowly, you lifted the cloth, wiping your hands with it, trying to act just as indifferent towards him— even though you felt like you had been betrayed, which you mentally cursed yourself for.

This was going to happen one day or the other— and wasn't it better that they were finally going to be out of your life now? And not later when they would mercilessly pull your babe away from a mother's breast and call it their own?

"Where are we going, Geralt? We can atleast stay for dinner, a man needs to eat—"

"We will roast a deer on our way, Jaskier." Geralt's irritation was evident from his tone, so the bard turned towards you, choosing now to ignore the Witcher with a sulk on his face.

"Oh Jaskier," you whispered, softly, "Don't you worry. I'll quickly pack some food for you, for the way."

"Oh hush, woman, don't go so soft on me, I would want to switch the roles with that broody gentleman over there."

Your cheeks suddenly felt like they were on fire; and you were sure you had turned a tomato red. You instinctively looked away, quickly finding yourself a distraction at the table as you began packing some bread and ham in a cloth satchel for him to take along with him— fighting back the smile that craved to break out.

"Jaskier, you are free to stay here for as long as you want, the minute I get on Roach, I leave," grumbling, the White Wolf slammed the front door shut as he walked off, your eyes suddenly widening, as the smile was quickly replaced by a lingering hurt upon listening to his words. Why did he hate you so much? Was it because you couldn't give him— them— the child they so desperately wanted?

"Okay thank you for the dinner, and don't, like DO NOT mind him, he has always been a grumpy ham."

Jaskier took the satchel, flinging it over his shoulder, whilst at the same time grabbed his lute and immediately darted out, and by that time, the Witcher was already trotting towards the main path. You fixed yourself by the front door, watching the poor bard struggle to catch up with him and once the two of them were out of sight, you went back inside.

If there was anything that turned a bright way for you after the three of them stepped out of your life for good was the fact that you had enough coin on you now to last for atleast a year. You bought three new goats so you could milk them and sell the milk in the village, along with the eggs.

But the void remained—

The night's were the most difficult, because there were nights when you woke up to a dream where a certain white haired, amber eyed man was laying in bed with you, his thick palm resting on your waist, your back pressed against him as he spooned you.

Maybe it was because you couldn't sleep that night too, that you did not miss the strangled groan that you heard from outside your window. You forced yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes as you leaned over the window to look out but you couldn't see anything. Just then, someone began pounding on your front door, startling you.

It didn't take you long to run down the stairs, still dressed in your chemise, your arms wrapped around your arms as the knocking became frantic and urgent. When you opened the door, you felt like someone had kneed you in the gut—

"Jaskier?" The bard looked a mess, his clothes were bloody and dirty, his hair slick and sticking to his face.

"I didn't know who else to go to nearby. Geralt needs—" Jaskier began, and the two of you turned towards Roach. Geralt was although perched atop, he was now arching forward, his body almost limp, his head resting against the saddle.

"What happened, Jaskier?" You ran out towards Roach, who whinnied at you, perhaps having sensed that something was wrong with her owner. You placed your palm on Geralt's shoulder, but the minute your palm came in contact with him, he grunted and looked up, and you saw how weak and pale he looked, "I told J-Jaskier — I'm f-fine.. Jaskier.. Jaskier..fuck.. Novigrad.. I asked you to take us to ... Novigrad."

Geralt of Rivia was injured, the flesh on his side had almost been ripped apart by what looked like claws, and yet he was being a stubborn pig. You grabbed him by the fabric of his tunic, balling the fabric as you began literally dragging him off the horse, paying no heed to his annoying murmurs.

"Jaskier, can you help? I alone cannot get him off, you know?"

Helping Geralt walk into your home was a difficult task but somehow, you and Jaskier convinced Geralt to do it. You sat the very injured Geralt by the fire and knelt down in between the space of his legs, using gentle fingers as you rolled up the torn fabric of the tunic. He hissed when your fingers came in contact with his clawed flesh and that's when you saw how massive the claw marks were.

"Who did that to him, Jaskier?" You let go off the big man as you stood up, your hands now caked in Geralt's blood. You ran up to one of the wooden racks that stood by the fireplace with a dozen glass bottles on it. You grabbed the mortar and pestle, placing it on the table in front of you, as Jaskier lowered himself on a chair, now wiping the blood off his face with a washcloth.

"I swear you should have seen it, it was the tallest harpy I have ever seen— well technically, it's the first harpy I've ever seen," he mumbled, and you couldn't help but give him a weak smile as you began to look for the ingredients to make a paste for Geralt's wounds.

"What are you looking for?" Jaskier asked, intrigued, as he watched you fiddle with the glass containers.

"Turmeric, Jaskier. It will stop his bleeding, although had he been human, that injury would have killed him— instantly," you pointedly stared at Jaskier, and he gulped nervously when your words finally registered into the back of his mind. You quickly turned away, resuming your search for the other ingredients. You pulled out two containers; one with lotus petals and the other one containing chamomile, placing it on the table, next to the mortar and pestle.

"Jaskier, while I prepare the paste, can you get Geralt to lie down by the fire? And take off his—" You pointed towards his tunic that was already ripped apart, hanging loosely by his side. Jaskier immediately nodded, getting to work.

You knelt down next to Geralt. His eyes were open, but his face was sweaty and his breathing was uneven; his lips tightly pressed together as he stared at the fire. Your fingers delicately moved over the gashes on his side, and he didn't flinch as much now.

"Can you sit up, Geralt? I need to bandage your waist."

That's when he turned towards you, regarding you briefly as he grunted, pushing himself up slightly and you quickly bandaged his wound with a cloth, securely tying it around his waist before he fell back against the makeshift bedding you had created for him by the fireplace.

You were finally done tending to the man's wounds so you stood up, moving to wash your hands by the sink, when Geralt's voice reached you, startling you.

"I told Jaskier not to bother you. Yennefer could have fixed this."

Your head sharply turned towards him, and you parted your lips, but it was as if your words were lodged to your throat, refusing to come out.

"You can't put all the blame on Jaskier. He could have left you to rot, stolen your mare and left, but he stuck around to ensure you were brought back to safety. You need to learn to swallow that thick ego of yours and give the bard some credit," you intentionally chose not to talk of Yennefer.

He grunted in response, shifting slightly so he could get comfortable, his body tilted at an angle towards the fire that you could see more of his back— full of old scars— this one will be adding to it soon.

"Are you a healer?"

His question pulled you off track.

You shook your head, wiping your hands with a clean cloth, reaching out for one of the blankets that you had stored for yourself as a winter supply, placing it over Geralt's legs— with half a mind that you will have to fight him for this act too— but much to your surprise, Geralt of Rivia accepted the blanket, pulling it over his chest.

"No, not a healer, just a woman with a passion to know things. You see, living alone you need to know certain things as you never know what life is going to throw your way."

"Hm," he fell quiet, and all the two of you could now listen to were the embers erupting from the fire.

The next few minutes, Geralt was quiet, so assuming that he had fallen asleep, just like the bard had; already snoring away to glory, you pulled your chair closer to the fireplace, lowering yourself against it as you began working on another blanket for Jaskier.

"You should have said no."

Startled to hear the low broody voice again, you looked up but this time found Geralt sitting on the makeshift bedding, the pads of his feet resting against the floor, his back turned towards the fire but his face turned towards you.

"Geralt, you should lie down—"

"You should have said no to Yennefer, but you agreed although you knew what she wanted to make you do."

"Says the man who makes a living slaying monsters. Would you say no to a good bounty if that meant being paid enough to last you a year?" You snapped at him, not meeting his gaze.

"You needed coin, there were thousand other ways to do it."

"Like what, Geralt? Don't you think I tried all these ways you are talking about?" The half done blanket now lay forgotten at your feet, and you were standing, towering over Geralt, your lips trembling with rage. How dare he?

"There are many brothels in Redania that I know of that would have gladly taken you in."

"You know what, Witcher?" You spat, "I'm NOT having this conversation with you. I don't like you anymore than you like me, so there's no point in even speaking. Once you are well enough, I would gladly have you out of my home."

You turned away from him, and then blinked, for you couldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry, as a thick chunk of a tear rolled down your cheek. Swallowing bitterly, you began climbing up the stairs, rather loudly, when Geralt mumbled, "You won't see us when you wake up tomorrow, don't worry."

Ignoring him, you reached the topmost stair, but when Jaskier began speaking to Geralt in a low voice, you couldn't help but pause, inching your ear towards them so you could listen to what they were saying.

"Why do you insist on being like that with her, Geralt?"

Jaskier's words were followed by what sounded like a bitter laugh, and a cough.

"I knew you were awake. I wondered why you didn't jump in to defend her like you always do, Jaskier."

"That is not the point, Ger—"

"If you must know why I can't stop being the way I am around her is because every single time I see her, I'm reminded of the false hope that Yennefer gave me, Witchers are sterile, and that's how it is, I should have known than to fall into Yennefer's words."

He was hating for you something you hadn't even done. You gave him hope, or Yennefer did?

You would have stood there and continued listening to what more he had to say, but you couldn't help it— your face turning sour, when sudden nausea hit you. Your palm instinctively flew up to your lip; making you almost double over and your eyes lifted up, scanning the area for anything you could use to relieve yourself. Grabbing an empty basket that lay close by, you fell down on your knees, your knees scraping against the wood of your flooring and you began wretching out the contents of your stomach, sweat trickling down your forehead as dread filled you up. You were scared that Yennefer's spell had worked. Your palm flew to your flat belly and you pursed your lips together, blinking away the tears and wiping the corner of your lips.

Now that you had wished for the spell to fail, it had perhaps, worked. Maybe things weren't destined to go about the way you wanted them to— all you wanted was to watch Geralt of Rivia leave you alone for good and never come back [Wishful thinking]. But if, the spell had worked, it meant that you were probably carrying his Witcher baby, and that meant, you will have to see more of the white haired man with amber eyes, whether you liked it, or not.

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[sirthisisa-wendys]

The Enforcers Part 8 (Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader)

wc: 1.7k

tw: dark content (self-harm)

masterlist

a/n: By no means do I condone self-harm or want to glorify it in the light of this chapter. As a person who struggled with physical self-harm in her early teens, I know the destructive nature of this type of activity. However, as my characters are not perfect and complicated, I see this particular mode of action as something she would try to do in order to alleviate her pain and confusion. If you have questions or concerns, my inbox is always open to having a discussion about it.

If you so wish, you may skip this chapter altogether. There will be a recap on the next one if you choose to skip for your mental health. Take care of yourselves and see you soon. (ALSO, I know I promised smut but I gotta give y'all a raincheck this go-round. SORRY PLS DON'T KILL ME)

You're on your forty-seventh file of scandals, coverups, and secret dossiers that you finally feel it. The fabric of your identity begins to unravel right before your eyes.

Everything you've known is a lie.

The CSB has covered up so many things. So many lives lost. So many people forced to flee. So many families ripped apart--

An email makes its way over to the server, and you open it, the words across the screen coming from Suguru.

I know it's late, but send over Yu Haibara's files when you can.

You hit the reply button and begin to type out: "You mean the boy you killed?" but you stop yourself, deleting the words rapidly. Instead, you attach the files and send them over, not even bothering to look at them. You can't do it. Not another file could be stored away in the annals of your brain.

Nothing is as it seems anymore. The lies... they pile up in your mind, flooding the spaces where you used to hold what you thought was true, what you thought was real. Now, they're overflowing out of your brain and into your heart and soul, plaguing you like the nightmares that face you down night after night, more like demons that lurk in the corners of your mind than full file cabinets.

You always wake up in a tangle of sheets and sweat, one of your various enemies' faces hovering over you right before you stare down the barrel of a gun and --

You stumble out of the chair, eyes wet with tears, and go to the sink in the bathroom to wash your face. After you splash water on your skin, you look up at your reflection, anger rolling through you at the way you look. Weak.

You're fucking weak.

The voice in your head that usually told you that you were doing okay, that you had it all under control, is now turning on you, spitting nasty words that stick in between the synapses of your brain a muddy your rational thoughts.

The voices rise to a fever pitch, and you suddenly see red, the entirety of the world descending into blood-colored madness. The shattering of the glass mirror only becomes a reality when you're standing above the sink, chest heaving as your thoughts silence one by one, like shutting off lights in a house.

But only one stays behind as a shard of the mirror clinks into the sink.

Escape.

The light at the end of the tunnel.

You could get rid of the feelings here. You could get rid of the thoughts. You could escape. Why hadn't you thought about this before?

"Do it."

Your fingers grip the jagged shard of glass carefully, and before you can stop yourself, you drag it across the inside of your wrist, end to end, leaving behind a red line of blood that immediately blooms. Crimson dots drop into the sink, and you stare at the color, mesmerized by the way the blood runs down your arm and into the porcelain bowl. But there's no relief.

No sense of freedom.

Maybe you didn't do it hard enough?

Maybe you didn't--

The door to your room slams open, and you turn your head just as Suguru comes rushing into the bathroom. The shard of glass is still in your hand, as well as the blood running down your arm, and Suguru catches this immediately.

"Fuck," he breathes, and you turn to him, shard extended.

"Don't come any closer."

"Y/n," he calmly whispers. "You don't look so good."

"I wonder why that is," you reply, and Suguru stares back at you, hands raised in surrender.

"What're you doing?"

"What does it look like, Suguru?" you state in a trance. Your bullet wound begins to throb dully, but you ignore it, just like you're ignoring the blood dripping onto the tile flooring.

"Y/n, let's think about this."

"I don't want to think anymore!" The shrill scream is loud enough to make Suguru flinch, and you softly repeat, "I don't want to think anymore," over and over again as tears run down your face.

"I know," Suguru whispers. "I know. Will you let me help you?" You hiccup and drop the piece of glass to the floor, dissolving in a heap of tears and moans. You feel hands pulling you up from the floor and into strong arms, your head being cradled against a broad chest you've felt before. "Go ahead," Suguru encourages you. "Cry it out."

He carries you to another room in the building in silence, laying you on a firm bed and disappearing as you heave painful sobs into the sheets.

"Everything... hurts..." you gasp, and when Suguru reappears with a white bundle of cloth, a bandage roll, and some water, he nods.

"We're going to make it better, don't worry." He takes your injured arm and carefully wipes away the blood, examing the cut slowly. "Doesn't need stitches, thankfully." He turns to open the water bottle and hands it to you, silently telling you to drink while he bandages your wrist.

You drink the water greedily then lean back on the headboard, eyes closing down as Suguru works diligently on your wound. And then you remember the first time he did this for you and the mistake you made in your pridefulness.

"Thank you," you murmur, and Suguru looks up at your face, finally seeing some form of clarity cross your tear-streaked cheeks.

"You're welcome," he replies tenderly. "I have to keep you safe, remember? I promised you that I would." You don't answer him, but he finishes at that exact moment anyways, standing and placing the remnants of the bandage roll on the nightstand. The wound is now covered up completely, with no sign of blood seeping through the cotton and staining the white cloth dark red.

You watch as Suguru crawls into the bed beside you, sighing deeply as he runs his fingers through his locks. "Should I stay awake with you or do you want to try to sleep?"

"Sleep," you answer - albeit not confidently - and the black-eyed man obliges, pulling the thin sheet over you.

"I'll be right here," he affirms, but you reach out your uninjured arm and touch his hand. He instantly turns his palm up to let you grab his fingers, and you pull him closer to you in the king-sized bed.

"Hold me." A second passes with no movement, and Suguru whispers,

"Are you sure?" You nod, and he wordlessly scoots closer, wrapping an arm around you as you nestle into his side with your bandaged hand resting on his chest. His fingers rub a soft pattern up and down your skin, soothing you to the brink of sleep. "I've got you. We'll deal with everything else in the morning," Suguru murmurs as you slip off into a dreamless - and nightmare-less - sleep.

_____________________________________________________________

Morning comes and goes.

Midday arrives, and you awaken from your terrorless sleep still encased in Suguru's grasp. Your eyes flick up to his face, which is peaceful in the midday light streaming in from the windows. The Leader of the Fallen Sun District is asleep and dead to the world around him, but the sound of his breathing lets you know he's on the brink of waking up.

Part of you doesn't want him to. You want to lay there without any responsibilities to him, without any concern, or further harm to either one of you. Maybe if you continued to sleep, all of this would become a distant memory. All of this would go away, and you could go back to living in ignorance.

But Suguru's stirring makes you stiffen, and you feel his arms tighten around you before sliding away.

"You're awake."

"Yeah," you whisper, and he sits up, pulling his knees to his chest.

"We need to talk about last night." You sit up as well, staring at the edge of the bed blankly. "Why didn't you tell someone about your declining mental health?"

"I didn't realize it until it was too late," you admit, looking at the bandage on your wrist. "But I won't be doing that again."

"Doesn't matter," Suguru interjects, looking over at you. You choose to avoid his gaze and stare at your feet, inhaling deeply. "I have to have someone watch you now. I want you to be safe, and now I'm not sure if I can ensure that without some oversight on my part."

"No," you exhale quickly, looking over at him in fear. "I'm better now, I promise."

"I'll have someone move a few of your things over here. That way I can keep an eye on you, just in case." Suguru continues, standing from his position on the bed. "I won't bother you. But I made a promise to you, and I'm going to keep it at all costs." He turns back to you, stating, "Today we'll take a day off and go into the town. I've been wanting to show you around for a while anyway."

You conclude the argument is over when he places a kiss on your temple, then walks into his bathroom, shutting the door and leaving you on the bed alone.

_____________________________________________________________

A car picks both of you up from the building, and when you slide into the backseat, Suguru points to the expanse in the distance.

"Take us to the marketplace." The driver nods, scars running up and down his pale face and his blue eyes looking up at you in the rearview mirror. Does this man even know that he's sitting next to the leader of the Fallen Sun district? Or is Kenjaku a faceless man, hiding behind walls of ones and zeroes?

The scenes that pass by you look identical to those of the city you know and love. There are children playing on the sidewalks, people carrying groceries, life carrying on as if the majority of their names aren't on some rejected list of people who defected from their previous society. Suguru notices your awe at the way things are, and looks over at you, smiling brightly.

"You'd be surprised what you can build from ashes, y/n."

_____________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @missbonekitty @wack0-genius @thankuary @jsqeeut @r-i-m-f-009 @sunfloweroranges @leanne-tamashi @girlruby23 @rein-icu @brownskinnedgirll @chanelmalandro @savantsoulfinder @jibe-gajima @chilledlucifer @amnxsia @kontentious @fuyuko26 @everybodylovescayrayray @flare-on @sammytamaki @meena-in-a-nutshell @falling-through-pages @naoyasdarling

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - May 2

I know I say every week that I read a lot this week but I have been indulging in my favorite coping technique and so this list is ridiculously long. Twitter encouraged me. Blame them. 

**Indicates my recent favs 

~*~ 

On the inherent homoeroticism of cake decoration by welcoming_disaster (616/8K)

“She’s matchmaking, Barton,” Carol sighed.

“We,” Thor corrected, thumping himself hard in the chest, “art matchmaking.”

“Who, Cap n’ Tony?” Clint asked, his mouth full.

“Cap and Tony,” Janet confirmed, cutting herself a thin slice of egg and gently depositing it on her whole grain avocado toast, “it’s getting ridiculous.”

“Wait, I thought they were—“ Clint frowned, glancing around the room as though to confirm. Nothing but confused faces met his questioning gaze. “Huh. I really thought they were fucking.”

“And there is the crux of the issue,” Jess licked a bit of spaghetti sauce off her lip.

“Aye,” agreed Thor, “there’s rub.”

-----------

The team tries to set up Steve and Tony. Things don't go as planned.

Baby lovers like you and me (never say die) by FestiveFerret (Old Guard AU/7.5K)

The Avengers. They'd found him frozen in the ice, told him he was immortal, of all things. And with the way he'd lived through seventy years deep in the Atlantic, he found himself inclined to believe them. They'd also been very… convincing.

Without question, they integrated him into their unit - The Avengers, a secret team of unkillables seeking wrongs around the world and making them right, supported and housed by an enigmatic billionaire named Tony Stark. Their immortality, it seemed, was a secret to everyone but him.

Ready, set, bake by ChocolateCapCookie (Great British Bake Off/11k) 

The Avengers are on a nationally televised baking competition, but nobody seems to have warned the producers that the Avengers, while they save the world everyday and put their loves at risk doing so, are a) insanely competitive, and b) absolutely terrible bakers. Steve Rogers, especially, has a competitive streak a mile wide, and he's determined to win this competition, but it's not easy when his only real opponent is also the man he's been in love with for years.

***To make flowers grow (in this barren heart) by SoldiersShield, KakushiMiko (Hanahaki AU/16K) 

“You hide yourself away in your technology, but you are just as human as the rest of them. Your heart betrays your desire to possess.” Her gaze falls to the arc reactor, and Tony's blood runs cold in his veins.

“The Earth will reclaim what we have lost,” she says, dragging a hand over the chestplate of the armor. “It is you, and your kind-- your greed that pulls life from the soil as if it were nothing. You will reap what you have sown, Stark. The avarice in your heart will strangle the very life out of you.” Arna meets his eyes once more, a serene smile on her face as she leans forward.

“I hope he is worth dying for,” she murmurs, before digging her hand into his ribcage.

(Tony Stark falls in love with Steve Rogers. A rogue enchantress ensures he pays for it.)

Shelter from the storm by silkspectred (KidFic/5k) 

Tony adopts a baby. Guess who's Majorly Fucked Up™ about it.

Keep on beating by itsallAvengers (Domestic Fluff/6K) 

There were an awful lot of things Steve loved about Tony. But one thing in particular Steve could never get enough of was his heartbeat.

The good or bad thing by petreparkour (Multiverse/10k) 

 “It’s the metal suit,” Thor informed Steve, his normally-booming voice tinny over the SHIELD comms. “What did Stark call it—Iron Man?”

“But he’s down here,” Steve protested as the Hulk roared in Stark’s face, startling him into waking with a shout. “How could—”

“It’s damaged,” Thor reported. “But it looks different. More advanced. And he—ah. He’s carrying you, Captain.”

“Please tell me nobody kissed me,” Stark breathed out, and then Stark’s voice suddenly came over the comms, but the man lying next to him hadn’t moved.

“Guys, come on, you’re killing me here. What is it, 2012? God, I hate time travel. First, I'm fighting Thanos. Now, I have to deal with my past self and Thor's bad haircut? Oh my God, Cap, yes I hacked their comms, they’re my comms.”

Steve nearly opened his mouth to protest that he hadn’t said anything when he realized that this replica of Tony Stark wasn’t speaking to him.

***The tipping point by nightwalker (Domestic Fluff/7K) 

Tony has a few quirks. Steve's still trying to figure them all out.

We two, how long we were fool’d by glassessay (Soulmate AU/9K) 

Steve Rogers comes into the world as unblemished as his mother. When Anthony Stark is born, his soulmark is an obvious pattern of ink across his tiny chest.

It only takes a century, two names, and a shared love of Walt Whitman for them to find each other.

The tape in the cave by betheflame (Canon Divergent/5K) 

Steve had no idea what was happening.

“You think I didn’t know that?”

Tony was staring Zemo down as though the Sokovian was actual vermin - which, Steve reflected, he kind of was.

“You think that I,” Tony continued, not hiding the sneer in his voice, “Anthony Stark, who has more powerful technology in my literal fingers than most nations have, that I wouldn’t know everything possible about how my parents died? That I wouldn’t know it wasn’t an accident, that your silly little HYDRA Nazi knock-off pals are the ones who murdered them? Please, you are pathetic.”

Happy ending by Robin_tCJ (No-Powers AU/28K) 

 Steve is a mobile massage therapist, and Tony is a stressed billionaire. What could go wrong?

With a decent happiness by torigates (Teacher AU/16K) 

Tony Stark is Iron Man. Steve Rogers isn't, and never was Captain America.

Or, the one where everything is the same except Steve is a kindergarten teacher.

Nothing left but scars by SailorChibi (MCU/6.7K) - Reread

Steve wakes up to the fact that no one ever compliments or even says thank you to Tony, and that he has fallen into the same trap of painting Tony with a specific paintbrush.

This is how he showers a very confused Tony with praise to make up for it.

Our hearts should remember and follow by frostfall (MCU/5K) 

Steve hums. “I didn’t know you could play. Or sing. Don’t think I’ve heard anyone mention it before.”

Tony shrugs. “It’s one of the few things, skills, I don’t flaunt. Not something people are interested in, anyway. Not gonna sway any board members by playing fucking Für Elise for them. Sides’, there’s a high chance I wouldn’t even play. Well, maybe if you get me drunk enough and near an instrument. Then, I might reconsider.”

(After a dream leaves Tony rattled, he turns to the piano as a way to distract himself.)

Finally, you and me by pensversusswords (Multiverse/10K) 

Because in every layer of time, in every conceivable dimension, he was always meant to love Steve.

By some miracle, Steve was meant to love him back.

***Full disclosure not required (but appreciated) by Potrix (Identity Porn/16k) 

The one where Steve knows more than he lets on, Tony knows less than he pretends, Clint has a big mouth, Bucky is a little shit, and everyone learns why keeping secrets never ends well.

Almost never, anyway.

Heartlines by nanasekei (MCU/7.9K) 

“Let me,” Tony repeats. He regrets it deeply, so much, he wants to stick the words back into his mouth again, and it must show, in the way his voice wavers. He feels exposed, all of a sudden, as if he’s asking something bigger than what he can actually say. Let me touch you, let me take care of you. “Just… Let me do it.”

i found a way to let you in, but i never really had a doubt (marriage series) by quidhitch (Marriage Series/16k) 

Tony Stark doesn’t believe in marriage. It’s nobody’s fault. —Well, it’s Howard's fault, probably, but Tony doesn’t like to think about that for too long, finds that it dredges up all sorts of issues he’d rather keep buried under a mountain of strategically employed sarcasm, humorous self-deprecation, and the occasionally effective substance abuse.

***Hide your love away by sineala (Soulmate/33K) - Reread

Tony has suspected for a long time that the soulmark on his chest matches Steve's -- but he's never told Steve about it. And then it's too late to tell Steve anything at all ever again. In the wake of Steve's death, the Skrull invasion, and Norman Osborn's rise to power, the identity of his soulmate is just one of the many things Tony cuts out of his memory forever.

When Tony returns to consciousness, he's forced to deal with the aftermath of a war he no longer remembers fighting, not to mention a Steve Rogers who can barely stand to be in the same room with him. Surely the last thing Tony could ever need in his life is more amnesia. But that's what he gets. And Tony's new missing memory just might be the key to finding out the truth of his soulmark... as well as his chance to make things right once and for all.

Break the chain (can’t live in circles again) by orphan_account (FWB/19K) 

There had been seven amazing weeks of dating Steve Rogers before Tony realised that they weren’t dating at all. And then it was a scramble to adjust to the situation as it had always been: being Steve’s friend-with-benefits.

And if Steve seemed a little confused and bewildered by the way Tony was acting, well. Tony was probably just misreading that, too.

Five times steve and tony (tried to) bail each other out of jail by Teyke (MCU/6k) 

Twice before Civil War, twice after, and once during. For very loose definitions of both 'bail' and 'jail'.

Cracked hearts under iron ribs by XtaticPearl (Established Relationship/14k)

Rhodey is away for almost six months now and comes to meet Tony after the mission. He doesn't understand the domesticity of the whole Tower and unknowingly sets off a whole truck of insecurities which make Tony crawl back into being a Stark instead of just Tony. The team is not at all happy and Rhodey joins them in trying to figure out a way to help their resident genius feel better in his skin.

The single biggest problem with communication by BlossomsintheMist (616/108K)

In the wake of Steve's return from the dead and the end of Norman Osborn's reign of terror, the superhero community is recovering--Steve has taken on a new role and Tony is trying to put his life back together. Things are still awkward between them, but they're determined to put things to rights. But when a discussion about their feelings leads to further misunderstandings, they discover that might be more difficult than either of them realized. Set in the early Heroic Age after the end of Dark Reign, this is a get-together story about crossed wires--and second chances.

What are friends for? by bobertsmallismydad (MCU /2.8K) 

In which Steve is targeted by a virus. Will the Avengers be able to save him in time?

Starving by festiveferret (Vampire AU/2K) 

Steve woke up starving.

***Everybody wonders (What it would be like to love you) by SoldiersShield (MCU/3K) 

“...Is that what this is about?” He asks slowly. Steve blanches.

“Oh my god. It is.” Tony has no right looking as giddy as he does. “Steven Grant Rogers, are you jealous?”

--

Or: Steve and Tony have been dancing around each other for a while now, and Steve's rather content with it. Attending a gala together just might change that.

Re(A)d all over by brandnewfashion, MusicalLuna (Drunk Flirting/3k) 

Contrary to popular belief, Tony Stark can blush.

It just takes Steve getting drunk on some magical Asgardian mead for it to finally happen.

***The Do-over Proposal by nightwalker (Established Relationship/1.2k) 

Steve wants to go on a journey, Tony doesn't think it's a good time, and Bucky needs to beat some sense into both these idiots.

A Winter’s Ball by alliejowrites (Victorian AU/3.8K) 

Steve moves to London in search of a patron, so that he can finally devote himself to painting. He is not expecting everything he finds upon meeting Lord Stark. A fluffy little Victorian AU. One-shot.

What’s a fanfic by starksnack (AvAc/1K) 

Kamala introduces Tony and Steve to the world of fanfiction. There is a surprising amount of content about them being gay.

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ I'M GONNA PROTECT YOU ❜

with Angel Reyes, and reader as Che ‘Taza’ Romero' daughter.

Request: Oooh Could it be where you are a younger sibling to one of the guys or a daughter to either the older three? And you and Angel are somewhat good friends? Well one day you are alone at your house and you hear a noise outside and it freaks you out so you grab your gun and call your brother/dad and they are busy at the moment but they send Angel to check it out and he comes and turns out it's someone trying to break in. Anyway the guy runs away and it ends in some Smut? Then your relative comes!

BY @firebenderwolf

Warnings: brief violence described, I think.

Word count: about 1.8k

Aurora says: I wrote it listening a cover of ‘La Llorona’, by Natalia Doco, so I recommend you to listen this song while you read it. This writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: @angels-reyes

Masterlist.

You can subscribe to my broadcast list, to be notified whenever I post a writing!

The barks coming from the open field, next to the barns, suddenly wakes you up. Your dogs never barks in the middle of the night. You don't give them much importance, lying back on bed again, until they start to howl. Getting up and sticking your head closer to the window, you find some big figures cutting part of the wire fence with a pair of shears. Grabbing your phone, you call your father while leading your feet to his room, to grab the gun under his pillow. A nine millimeters semi automatic, enough to chase them away. Taking off the safety and raising your arms to the high of your eyes, you hang up the call. Probably, Taza will be at Vicki's house getting drunk with Bishop and Tranq, so you type Angel's number by heart. Going downstairs, your eyes looking straight forward, trying to make the least noise possible while you hear the howls and barks getting louder.

“Angel, there's two guys trying to come into my house, and my dad doesn't answer”.

“I'm going, mami. Hide and don' fuckin' move”.

The adrenaline was running through your body, and until you listened to his voice, you didn't notice that you were actually terrified. Gulping, you just hope that they don't hurt your animals. Keeping your phone muttered in a pocket, you hold the gun with both hands. The logic act would be calling the cops, but that is not an option for someone like you, nor your father. Crossing the huge and open living room, you decide to hide yourself into a wardrobe behind a folding screen that your great-grandfather made with his own hands.

Your heart races jumping inside your chest when you are able to hear their voices. Mexicans with a terrible american accent. Sticking your left ear to the door, you try to glimpse if you know them. And it is possible. Biting your bottom lip really nervous, you begin to text your father telling him what's happening, until your body shakes violently when a lot of small glasses fall to the floor after a heavy racket. The thieves are now entering into your house. And actually, they're not going to find anything. Your father is too intelligent to keep his money and valuables belongings inside there. But you're actually terrified because, yes, you know how to fire a gun; but you have never done it to defend yourself. And the only thing you can do right now is to wait. Your father is also coming with the older part of the crew after reading your text messages.

The barks outside don't cease, but your dogs are locked taking care of the animals, and you prefer it. You don't want them to get hurt. And the different noises of more glasses crashing, and different pieces of furniture falling to the floor are turning you anxious. The tears filling up your eyes and your shaky breathing don't help to stay calmed. Resting your back against the wall, with the gun raised to the door, you think that you are ready to fire it as soon as someone opens it.

Gulping a bunch of saliva, when you stop to hear them whispering curses in spanish after some minutes, the heavy steps upstairs call your attention; as the continues buzz of an engine getting closer to the ranch, speeding up in the moment it crosses the main fence. In complete silence, you step out from the wardrobe, with your trembling fingers securing the weapon between them. Checking that there's no one around you, your feet run to the main door to open it. Angel is already there. Without taking off the helmet, the man passes you away with his own gun lifted up in front of his dark eyes. Following him to the stairs, each other take up a side of the wall, waiting for them to go downstairs. The first one appears asking the other to leave, after not finding anything, but before he can warn his sidekick, Angel is already pointing at him, making him a sign to stay silent.

“Mario, where are you?” You hear from the top.

Taking off the gun from the thief's hands, you leave it over the table. But making a false move, the mexican manages to punch Angel, starting to wrestle with him.

“RUN, ANTONIO! MAYA—MAYANS ARE HERE!”

Your mind goes blank by the shock of seeing him fighting, and the weapon sliding itself over the floor, in the meantime the other man runs away jumping through a window and using the bindweeds around the house as stairs. Watching how the other tries to beat the oldest Reyes, you point at them with trembling hands.

“Leave him, pend—”.

Because of the nerves running through your veins, your forefinger presses the trigger shooting the thief by his back. A painful grunt floods the living room. Angel pushes him away, while the mexican writhes between tears and growls. Grabbing the gun from your hands, to not fire anyone else, your friend places an arm over your shoulders to turn you, giving your back to the thief. At the moment he tries to fight again, almost standing up, Angel shoots him again. Twice. Straight to the chest. Clinged to his body, you can't help but break into cries, hiding your face in his neck.

“Look at me… Look at me. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He mumbles, leaving away the weapon, so he can cup your cheek in his hands.

You just nod swallowing, feeling his lips pressed on your forehead, before stretching an arm to the wall to turn on the lights.

“Com'ere, baby”. He says, urging you to slightly jump into him, wrapping your legs around his waist.

Your tears wet the franel shirt he's wearing inconsolably, leading his steps to the kitchen, away from the dead body staining the floor with the blood gushing out of it. Helping you to sit over the island in the middle of the place, Angel hurries up to bring you a glass of water, not knowing how to calm you down more than with leaving some caresses in your hair. You try to swallow but your throat is hermetically closed, coughing some times, while the salty tears keep flowing onto your lips.

“Did I… Did I ki—killed him?”

“No, no, no”. He says, putting the ringed fingers by both sides of your face, affected deeply by the look of horror in your orbs. “I did it, okay? You hear me? I did it”.

You know him from seven years ago, having a special connection from the beginning. You have been through a lot of shit together, but you never expected something like that happening. Putting the glass away from your trembling fingers, Angel holds you against his body, tightly hugging you, trying to make you feel somewhat better while the crew come to the ranch.

“Please… Stop crying… It's okay”. He mutters with a broken voice, not used to feel you so terrified. “I'm here, baby… I'm gonna protect you”.

“I'm sor—sorry, Angel”.

“Don' be silly. You don' have to be sorry 'bout nothing”. He chuckles softly, leaving a kiss on your right cheek. “Am your superhero, remember?”

The Reyes finally breathes when he hears you laughing with a low, low tone.

“I would never let anyone hurt you”. Sticking his forehead on yours, he closes his eyes for a second, feeling how your fingers get intertwined in his shirt.

You just nod, trying to catch back your breath, almost drinking his. The strokes by his thumbs over your skin helps to maintain a calmed pulse, beating your heart with a low pace; only focused on his touches. Your mind plays a dirt trick on you, making you lean forward some inches until his lips are being pressed by yours. But Angel isn't surprised, and doesn't have any intention to pull himself away, strengthening his fingers on your neck. Your mouths look like two pieces from a puzzle, destined to fit perfectly. Settling himself between your legs to be closer, your hands travel to the back of his head, as your lips start to move softly, tasting every single inch of his. Sliding his tongue inside your mouth to find yours, you can't help but feel a mix of feelings about it. Now you are confused about the fact that you don't know if you're doing it because of the horror lived, or because you really wanted to do it since long ago.

Running out of air, Angel continues kissing your cheek up to your temple with short and gentle gestures, clinging his arms around your body. You have never felt so serene, even if there's a dead body in the middle of your living room and the buzz of some engines are getting louder. He is warm, and seems like he smells better than never, resting your face on his chest with closed eyes. Angel's heart beat is like a hypnotic melody that could make you fall asleep just like that, as if you two were completely alone and you haven't been about to kill a man, for the first time, some minutes ago.

“BAB—HOLY SHIT! BABY! BABY, WHERE ARE YOU?”

As soon as Angel pulls away himself from you, your legs jump down to the floor, running to the place where your father's voice comes from. Your body collides with his surrounding him, breaking in crying again when you feel him finally holding you. Bishop, Tranq and Riz are also there, examining the man lying on the floor with no breath of life in him.

“¿Estás bien? ¿Estás herida, mi amor?” (Are you okay? Are you hurt?) Taza is desperate, looking at you with reddened eyes as you nod in silence. “What happened?”

“There were two men. This… son of a bitch's name is Mario. The other ran away by a window. Antonio, I think he said”. Angel explains under the gaze from his brothers. “Man… they knew where they were getting into”.

“Why?” Bishop asks.

“They knew we are Mayans”. Angel shakes his head slightly, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. “And they were mexicans”.

“I think I know him”. Tranq is squatted close to the dead body, narrowing his eyes as he studies his face. “Vatos or Coyotes, I am not sure, Bishop”.

“Figure it out and put in on the table”. Taza demands with the rage consuming him, hugging you tightly under his arms.

“Let's go”. Bishop moves his head to the main door, making the others know that they must go. “Angel, calls the guys. Take care of the trash”.

“Come here, mi vida”. Your father whispers carrying you into his arms upstairs, not wanting you to continue there. “We're going to take some clothes and leave to the club, okay?”

✨ Tag list:

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[overlyimmersed]

Nightmares and Daydreams

A Gravity Falls AU.

Hi @verysorrytobother​ Stanticore anon, revealing my true identity to share this with you! I wasn’t sure how a post this long would go over as an ask, so I decided to do it this way. I hope this is ok.

I’ve been working on this for a while and I hope it goes over well enough. The artwork took me the most time.

As a car crash victim is slowly dying, her mental self panics in the mindscape. She's offered a deal to save her life. Let the game begin.

(Content warnings: Blood. Descriptions of serious injuries.)

"What..." she whispered to herself, staring at the other in disbelief.

"Yep!" he confirms, in a high-pitched, grating, inappropriately upbeat tone, "Dead as a doornail, kid!- Well technically you still have a few more seconds till you brain totally ceases to function. Better make up your mind while you still have one!"

She's still staring dumbly at him. How can he be this nonchalant about it?! A half second ago she was sitting in the front seat of the family truck, a totally routine trip to the store- she never liked trucks but her dad's a carpenter so they need the hauling space. At least it's a pretty shade of blue- and the next she's here, laying face down in a black void with this prick this- this...All Seeing Eye? He's like the Illuminati symbol, but with arms and legs and a top hat. Caution sign yellow and talking to her- or at her. Bill. Freaking. Cipher. Every time he 'speaks' he flashes with light- no mouth so does it really count as speaking? More like his voice is being projected right into her mind- ... And he's telling her that she freakin died! Can't he see how messed up this is?! Can't he sympathize at all!? Then again, it's Bill. She ought to know better.

She ought to know better. She's seen this show a hundred times, she knows nothing good comes from dealing with Cipher. But she doesn't have time to be careful, she doesn't have the luxury of weighing options.

"Tick-tock, Car Wreck!" The obnoxious voice insists again, forcing her out of her stupor, his outstretched hand now alight with blue fire.

Her face scrunches up in a loud cringe, eyes screwed shut and teeth bared, and she swings her hand till it lands solidly in his. Crazed cackling resounds as the deal is struck, but it falls to simple soundtrack as her senses try to sort out what's going on.

She'd expected the blue fire to burn, or at least feel like something, but it didn't. Instead her entire being is flung into a...whirl? Free fall? Something that makes her stomach jump into her throat, and gives her vertigo.

The sensation stops suddenly, only to be replaced by a cacophony of new perceptions. She isn't sure which strikes her first, the sounds or the smell. Shrieks of agony and terror make up the next track of this bizarre playlist, punctuated by the reek of burnt hair. When her eyes fly open to try and make sense of it all, they have no luck. The sight that meets her is a sky of surreal, swirling, bastardized ribbons of every hue, like being inside a filthy bubble. Floating strewn about the space are pockmarked asteroids, and little else.

"So what'd ya think?" The grating voice rejoins the discord, drawing her shell-shocked gaze. "Home-sweet-home, huh? Well don't worry, you won't be here for very long. A deal's a deal, Car Wreck." With that que, and a snap of his fingers, she's falling again. This time untethered and unaccompanied. It takes her a moment to realize the scream ripping though the void is coming from her own throat. Once it hits her, so does something else, and the world goes black.

She wakes some time later, maybe moments maybe days. She has no way of knowing. She pushes herself onto her hands and knees, groggy and disoriented. It takes her a moment to notice the texture under her hands and focus her vision on it. It's grass. She sits up and looks around. "oh..." she says to herself, taking in the scenery. It's lovely, a grassy, sun soaked field. The sky made of churning colors like the last place she'd been, but they're pastel and much prettier. A warm breeze brushes past her face and she takes a deep breath of it, it smells sweet and warm, heavy with the scent of growing things, and for the first time since this started she finds some peace. Peace which is quickly shattered by a familiar, grating voice.

She jumps and whirls around so quick she falls onto her butt. There, floating just inches from where her head had been, is Bill. Laughing at her of course.

"Whoops! Didn't mean to scare you there, Car Wreck!" he claims, moving through the air to look around, then turning back around to look at her. "So how do you like the new digs?"

There's a beat of silence where she just stares at him again, but quickly she shakes off the shock and tries to respond. "Uh...It's nice." She lets her eyes roam around for a second, before returning to Bill, "Where are we?"

"This is the Realm of Daydreams! Your new HQ!" he answers, floating around behind her and making a grand gesture with his arms.

She turns her head to follow him, "Daydreams? HQ?"

"Yep! This is where you'll hang out when you're not puppeting your little pawns." He turns around to look at the scenery more himself. "Kinda dull if you ask me. Maybe you can do something about that!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh you know, some pillars of anguish, an alter of unholy fire, maybe a blood fountain or a couple of-" he gestures with each suggestion, like a landscaper creating a vision, until she cuts him off.

"No I mean," she finally pushes herself to a stand, teetering a little till she finds her balance. "Pawns?"

He turns back to her, "Oh yeah, which ones do you want anyway?" he waits a beat for an answer, but she just stares back at him, clearly not following. "Ugh, our deal?"

He hadn't really told her what the deal was, just mentioned a game and a second chance. "Uhh, I don't think you-"

"Oh right, you flesh bags need everything explained to you." he groans, rolling his eye, "Alright, here's the deal. We're gonna play a little game," he holds out his hand and a little hologram like projection appears showing an aerial view of a town. "and the people of this hick town are gonna be the pieces." ten little blue stick figures appear in the center of town, each with a little symbol above it's head. "If you win, you rejoin the land of the living!" a little magenta stick figure pops into existence next to the others and they all do a little happy dance. "If I win..." suddenly the whole projection goes up in flames, and she jerks her head back instinctively, "You burn with rest of those worthless mortals!" He bursts into a fit of maniacal laughter, which actually gives her some times to recover.

After a second of shocked staring, she blinks a few times then puts on as neutral an expression as she can. "Ok. So what are the rules?"

"Simple!" he answers, cutting off his laughter "We can't directly manipulate each other's pawns, and we can't interfere with the other's powers."

"That's it?"

"Yep. Everything else is fair game"

"Ok...What are my powers?"

"Same as mine! Except you don't have to wait till someone falls asleep to get in their head."

"I see..." her eyes wander to the ground as she contemplates the information, and her hand reaches for the longest of her three necklaces to idly play with the spiked pendant. "So you can talk to them in dreams, and I can talk to them in daydreams."

"Bingo!"

She scrunches her nose a little, thinking of a few ways that could end up being annoying. "Alright, anything else I need to know?"

"Hmm, nope! That just about covers it. All that's left is to pick our pawns, I'll even let you go first!" And with that ten, glowing, blue symbols appear between them. She looks them over carefully, she knows who each symbol corresponds to- supposing the cartoon from her world is accurate. She considers the six-fingered hand, if she takes him out of Bill's control from the start that derails his whole plan as she knows it. But, then she'll have no clue what's up to at all, at least by letting Bill have the pawns she's familiar with she has a chance at guessing his moves. She reaches forward and touches the shooting star, it turns magenta and floats to hover closer to her.

"Interesting." Bill comments, though his tone doesn't sound very interested, as he makes a simple motion with his eye and the six-fingered hand settles beside him. She chooses the fish looking symbol next, and Bill's second choice in the pine tree. They go back and forth till they have five symbols each, Bill having the the six-fingered hand, the pine tree, the llama, the stitched heart, and the pentagram. While she has the shooting star, the fish, the bag of ice, the spectacles, and the question mark.

"Welp, that settles that. Nice picks you made there, lets hope they work out for ya, Car Wreck"

"Could you not call me that?" though it hardly sounds like a request.

"And what else should I call you?" Bill asks, collecting his symbols into one hand and placing the other on his...hip?

"How about my name? It's Maranwe."

"But Car Wreck fits you so much better! Just take a look!" he quips, snapping a full-length mirror into existence. Maranwe turns to look and gasps in horror. Bill breaks out into more cackling, "Well my work here is done! I'll let you get cleaned up, see ya around Car Wreck!" And with that he fades from existence.

Maranwe just stares, even as Bill disappears from 'her' realm, she can only stare at her destroyed refection. Her hair is messy- and she almost laughs that that's what her brain zeros in on first-, It's also dirty, some of the mess is actual dirt but several spots are matted with half-dry blood. Her face is in a similar condition, smeared with dirt and blood but she can see the wounds there. Scrapes and still oozing cuts, bruises forming on one cheek bone and under her eyes. Her nose isn't quite right...broken probably. Her vision skims over her whole body for a second, making note of similar injuries where tears in her clothes reveal them. It's not as bad as she would expect a car crash victim to look- "except for that" Her mind screams suddenly while all her mouth can do is gasp, as her attention lands dizzyingly on her neck. It's...purple, but also red? There's no spilled blood but it still looks ugly, and the worst part is the...bump. It's not hard to figure out that it's a misaligned bone. Without the pain to tell her she never would have noticed, her neck is broken. Very broken. How is she holding her head up right... Probably because this isn't actually a physical body. She wonders if this is what killed her, or if there's something inside, something she can't see, that did the trick.

Whatever it is, she can't be seen like this. And she really really doesn't want to look like this for her own sake. Bill said she could 'clean herself up'? How exactly... She thinks about how Bill's powers tend to work and tries to concentrate on a cleaner, less beat up mental image of herself. She lifts her hand to her cheek and grazes her finger tips across it, a trail of sparkles follow the touch and the skin underneath returns to normal. She relaxes a little, watching the disaster wipe off her face like cheap make-up. She keeps the image in her mind and closes her eyes, cupping her hands in front of herself and imagining the sparkles pooling in them. Then she splashes the sparkles over he face, like a girl in a face wash commercial, and imagines the glittering dust washing over her entire body, cleaning away the mess and injuries. And when she opens her eyes, that's exactly what's happened. Her reflection shows her whole and unwounded, even her clothes are fixed.

The next thing she does is smooth her hair down, mostly an instinct since it's still messy, and the sparkles trail after her hands, tidying the strands as if she'd just brushed them. She watches her reflection's mouth quirk up a little in a small smirk. So she can just change what she looks like by imagining it? That figures, this is a place of daydreams that's kind of how they work. She knows exactly what to do with this, she's known since she was a kid what she's change if she could. She places the backs of her hands next to her ears and flicks up, sparkles spray up with the motion and her normal human ears, turn to wolf ears the fur the same chocolate brown as her hair. Her smirk blooms into a full blown smile, and she tilts her head to get a better look at them, watching them move as she tests them. It's like they're real! Next is the tail of course, it's mostly brown, with some silver down the top and a black tip. Then she looks down, and taps the toe of each of her shoes against the ground in turn, as she does they become the compressed paws of her own design.

"That's insane..." she laughs to herself. She's actually turning herself into something else, her own made up alien species. And she just can! With the big changes out of the way she works out the details; pupil shape, fang length, and straightens out a few asymmetries and insecurities she's always had about her body- after all why not? When she's done, she can't help admiring herself a little, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, her perfect image of herself. Well- almost perfect. She snaps her fingers and in the same dusting of glitter, her shirt changes. What was before a loose grey t-shirt with the word "nope" written across it in cursive, as been replaced by a cropped sweater, banded in 3 colors; white at the top, then light blue, then dark blue. She lifts it to look at the crop top under neither, it's just plain white. She decides she doesn't like it that way, so it changes to a cropped version of the t-shirt she'd had before. With that taken care of she lifts her arm so the over-sized sleeve falls down and she can see her forearm, which is covered by a light blue arm warmer with white lace around the edges. Perfect. At least for now. She can change later if she decides she doesn't like the arm warmers.

She giggles to herself, invigorated by the makeover and the sense of control she has now. She turns from the mirror and skips a few feet across the grass, the symbols she'd chosen follow her, floating loosely like beads suspended in gel. She laughs a little as she watches them, and idly reaches for her necklace again, but this time her hand just meets the soft knit of her sweater. She'd forgotten to add them into this new look, so she just wills them into place; three different necklaces of three different lengths. Her hand finds the middle length first, the pendant is designed to spin so she plays with it while her mind starts to wander. She starts thinking of plans for winning this game, what she might say to each other 'pawns' and who to use where and how, even letter her thoughts wonder about the new life she'll have. Cipher's hologram suggested she'll stay in Gravity Falls, which would be cool but what about-

The sound of screeching tires and twisting metal cuts her thoughts off clean and she whips around to find the source of the noise, but her fear turns to confusion when she sees...nothing. She stands stock still, her mind running over only vague impressions of thoughts relating to what she just heard, until another loud sound whips her back around. This time she actually sees something, like a huge firework in the pastel oil-slick sky, accompanied by Bill's obnoxious voice echoing through the space.

"Let the game begin!"

[jinmukangwrites]

Nightwing BTHB: Slowly Running Out Of Air

Star / Done // Moon / Requested // Eye / Next

Ao3

Summary: Dick wakes up chained to the bottom of a pit. Then, it starts filling up.

Warnings: Kidnapping, Hopeless Situations, Permanent Injury, Amputation, Blood, Drowning

---

To nobody's surprise, waking up is absolutely a bitch. 

He groans and shifts, trying to find his bearings, and the first thing he notices is that there's a rattling of clinking metal as his foot moves. Morbidly curious, Dick peeks his eyes open; all he sees is his own hand and a metal wall. 

Dick's head pounds like one of the seven dwarfs got stuck in his skull and is trying to mine themself out through his eye sockets. Dick wouldn't be surprised if that dwarf was named Grumpy. 

One thing this is helpful for is that he can immediately tell that he's Nightwing. There's no other time in his daily life he would wear black gloves with blue stripes going down his middle fingers. 

His causon immediately rises with this new information. Nightwing waking up somewhere like this—with a headache, on the ground, with the sound of what's most likely chains, is never good. 

He risks shifting again, making it seem like he's groggily beginning to wake up from whatever drug he's been hit with just in case someone is watching. There's definitely chains clinking down by his feet, specifically his left ankle. 

He peeks his eyes open to better survey his location, however all that he discovers is more rusted metal walls and floor of the same material. The wall is rounded and about a foot and a half from his face. When he stretches his leg that's not connected to the chains, he hits the wall behind him. He glances up, and sure enough the walls around him expand upwards what must be a little less than fifteen feet. There's a grate laying over the mouth of the walls, showing more ceiling higher up and shrouded in shadows. 

He's chained to the bottom of a metal pit. 

This doesn't sound good at all. 

He closes his eyes and stills, trying to figure out where he is and what he was doing to end up here. He was obviously doing something on patrol… perhaps a mission? He's not sure, the drugs in his system, while milder than most he's woken up with before, is making it really hard to recall much of anything. Honestly, the last thing he remembers is getting a phone call from Jason. 

He slows his breathing, stilling so that he looks asleep to anyone watching. 

Come on Dick. Just retrace your steps. You got a phone call from Jason... You answered… there was a hole in your sock. He wanted… what did Jason want…

"Big bird?" A voice calls, the tones becoming distorted as it echoes down the metal pit. "You up?"

"… Hood?" Dick tries, opening his eyes and looking up. Jason doesn't sound hurt or particularly startled, but Dick can't see anything above him other than the grating and the ceiling. 

"I've been up for the past half hour," Jason's explains, "m'not hurt. But no one's come yet."

Dick nods to himself. So they've been captured together, but their captors might not be watching. "You in a pit too?" Dick asks, slowly working himself up so he's sitting. 

He grabs onto the wall for balance when he gets to his feet. There's a heavy shackle definitely around his ankle, one that's not coming off without the key or very specific tools. It's tight too, he can feel it squeezing awkwardly against his tendons and bone. The chain connecting the shackle to an eye-hook in the floor looks several feet long, wound up in a neat pile on the floor to his side.

"No, tied to a chair up here," Jason answers as Dick begins to take stock of himself. He's been close to completely disarmed of anything useful. The only things he can find stock of is a few wingdings, some smoke pallets, his escrima sticks…

The things that are missing include his stash of small explosives, his rebreather, and his lockpicking set. Three things he's usually good at remembering to pack. 

"Do you know what happened?" Dick asks as he bends down to inspect the chains and the eye-hook. The chains are almost a half inch in diameter and expertly wielded. The chains have bits of rust here and there, but none that would suggest breakage any time soon. The eye-hook is probably his best bet, as it's thick and heavy-duty, but clearly just screwed into the floor. 

"You don't remember?" Jason scoffs, amusement in his tone. Dick grins, Jason either doesn't know or he, himself, needed some time to recall. "We were going through the Narrows before we got sniped by tranqes."

Dick brings his hand up to the bit of skin that's exposed to his neck where he immediately feels a sharp pinch of pain from what's definitely irritated skin thanks to a barbed dart being yanked out from it's target. 

That's right. They were sniped. It was just a simple patrol together, just for the heck of it, and next thing Dick knew he was collapsing to the ground with his body feeling floaty and far away. 

He huffs. "Why can't Gotham criminals ever be normal?" 

Jason snorts in response. 

Dick kneels down by the eye-hook and wraps his hands around it, looking for the best grasp despite the awkward shape and angle. Once he feels like he has an okay enough grasp, he begins to turn. 

It doesn't budge. 

"How stuck are you?" Dick calls before trying again at the hook. 

It still doesn't move as Jason answers—it must be glued in somehow. "Pretty stuck. Chair's bolted to the ground, used way too much duct-tape, took everything useful."

Dick opens his mouth to ask how likely Jason thinks he'd be able to escape on his own, but then something groans within the walls of the pit. 

"The hell?" Jason murmurs. 

"Uh, Hood?" Dick calls anxiously, walking over to where the noise came from. He places his hands on the wall and frowns at the distant rumblings under his fingertips.

Jason answers with a frustrated and cautious voice. "There's a TV on the wall in front of me, it just turned on."

Dick hums and looks down at the seam where the wall meets the floor. He frowns when he notices small sections of grating; thin but strong graphs of wire cover small little holes in the wall, barely three inches in diameter. 

However, when he turns around, he counts about 8 of these holes. 

"The quality is really bad," Jason continues, "but I think it's of you."

"What's going on?" Dick looks up and sure enough, what looks to be a small and cheap looking knockoff of a GoPro sits taped to the grating above him. 

Before either he or Jason can say anything more, the almost mechanical groaning in the walls becomes louder and then Dick finds out what those little holes near his feet are for. 

Water pours through each hole, immediately sloshing around his shoes. Panic and understanding shoots adrenalin through his veins, he kneels down in the water that's already around his ankles and forces one of his wingdings into the middle of the eye-hook, using it as a handle for him to better turn. 

At least the water isn't cold. 

"Wing?" Jason calls, and Dick grunts as the hook stays stubbornly in place. "What's going on? I can't see anything."

One of Dick's hands slips in the water and he curses, bringing his hand up to see the fabric of his gloves cut through. "They're filling it with water."

"You for real?!" 

Instead of answering, Dick tries again to break the eye-hook. Nothing works, all he does is cut the skin of his palms. 

He swears colorfully as he stands back up, glaring down through the water that's now to the middle of his shins and contemplates kicking the hook, however he has a feeling that all he's going to accomplish is gaining an aching foot. He looks up at the grating. 

"Let's say, hypothetically, that I managed to throw a wingding at you, would you have any chances of catching it and getting out?" 

Jason's silent for a beat. "Maybe. If you throw it right at me. Also I hate that you call those that."

Dick rolls his eyes and adjusts his footing, looking at the chain and trying to calculate how heavy it's going to be. He should be fine. He just needs to rise with the water to a point where he can reach the grating. Once Jason's free, he should be able to help get Dick out of this literal death trap.

He explains his plan to Jason, and while it doesn't sound as thought out as it should be, it's still all that they've got. 

That water slips over his knees, up his hips, to his chest, and eventually above his shoulders. 

Once it became impossible to stand any longer, Dick forced himself to begin a steady tread despite the chain around his ankle. He knows the higher the water rises, the more heavy the chain will become...

But he's strong. He's good at swimming. With the amount of times he's been tossed into various harbors, he has to be. 

"Wing?" Jason calls around when Dick has risen with the water to about the halfway point. Dick's left leg already burns from the strain of the chain, but he's been doing alright so far. 

"Just focus on escaping, little wing," Dick calls, kicking his unshackled leg furiously as the weight on the other drags him under for just a moment. 

The water continues to rise, and soon it becomes almost unbearable to continue swimming like this. But he has to. If he doesn't, he'll sink and drown. 

Eventually, just as his legs are beginning to go numb with strain, he manages to hook the tips of his fingers around the grating above him. With a shot of adrenalin, he realizes that this is it. This is his last shot. It all amounts to these last moments whether he'll manage to escape, or if this is where he dies. 

It's moments like these where he never feels more alive. 

He forces his hands to get a better grasp as he already holds one of his meager stash of wingdings in his grasp. He works to lift himself up into the small few feet of air above the water, but he only goes up a couple inches before he's violently stopped by a tugging on his left leg. 

Dick's stomach sinks. 

"Uh, Hood?" He calls, forcing the coming panic out of his voice as the water steadily rises higher. The ripples tickle his Adam's apple.  "I can't- I can't get higher. You're going to have to help me aim."

"Alright," Jason says, his voice calm, which must mean Dick's unsuccessfully managed to keep his cool. "Follow my voice, I think I'm to your left."

Dick nods slightly to himself, but not too much because his chin would dip in the water that way. Working the grate like it's a set of monkey bars, Dick turns step by step until Jason tells him to stop. He keeps one hand white knuckled on the bars and then brings his other hand up as far as it can go, the wingding resting in his dripping fingers. 

The shackle digs into his ankle as he tries to tug himself more upwards. 

"Okay, a little to your right," Jason instructs, and Dick does as he's told. "Kay, aim up, alright?"

"Yeah," Dick gasps, his chin slapping the water. "Right."

He throws the wingding to the best of his limited abilities. He knows he misses when Jason makes a small growling noise. 

"Put more power into it."

Dick can't help it. He lets out a burst of hysterical laughter. Power? He can barely move as it is, the only power that he's going to get with his hand just over the bars of the grate is going to come from his wrist. 

Regardless, Dick brings his hand down and grabs another one of his weapons. He counts in a blink of an eye that he only has five. 

He tries again, following Jason's instructions, and this time he gets closer to his younger brother, but it curves to the left and lands itself, apparently, into the screen of the TV. Breaking it.

"You're fine, big bird," Jason says, "you're gonna be fine. Let's just try again."

Dick can't respond. The water is brushing against his upper lip. If he could respond, he's sure he might laugh again at how hopeless this all is. 

He tries again, and all he can hear is Jason saying it slid under his chair before the water completely rises above his ears. Dick's just managing to strain and keep his nose above the surface, but already if he breathes too loudly droplets will try to suck into his lungs. 

He has two wingdings left. He can barely properly aim, and he can't even hear Jason all too well either. 

He sucks in a breath and holds it just as the water rises over his nose. 

He tries. He really tries to keep his calm and aim at Jason once again with muscle memory. He's been in deathtraps before. 

Yet, the second he lifts his second to last wingding, the water stops rising right near his elbows. Just above his head. 

And how cruel is that? 

He doesn't know if he can risk this. If he aims and fires his last two wingdings completely blind like this and misses, then it's over. 

He can hold his breath longer than most. But it doesn't matter how long he can hold his breath if he's chained down just below the surface. 

Dick looks down at the shackle around his ankle, then feels the sharp wingding in his hand. 

He needs to buy time. For himself… for Jason. He needs the shackle off so he can rise above the water and aim. 

Before he can let fear talk him out of it, he lets go of the grating above him and allows himself to sink further into the water with the weight of the chain. 

His ears are ringing and he can practically feel his pulse trying to burst from his neck, but he keeps his breath locked in his lungs and he keeps his eyes trained on his ankle. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he lets the adrenaline drive him as he plunges his own weapon into his ankle, right below the shackle. 

Blood bursts from his leg like a cloud. Agony hits like a truck. But he keeps cutting, he keeps cutting because he has to. The adrenaline helps numb it a little. But it's all he can do to keep from screaming and sucking in the blood stained water as he hits the bone. 

It takes a good few tugs and a few more desperate slices for him to finally feel the weight of the shackle and chain drop. Before he can allow what just happened—what he's just done—to hit him, he kicks up and forces himself to swim until he reaches the surface. 

When he reaches air, he's not sure if he's coughing, sobbing, or screaming. 

It hurts. It hurts. And soon enough, the water will drain him out of every single drop of his blood.

With shaking hands, he lifts himself so he's as close to the grating as possible. He has just a second to process how scared Jason looks on that chair, like he's trying to understand or process what just happened. Dick wonders if he knows what it means for Dick to be above the water. Dick wonders if Jason thought he drowned. Dick wonders if Jason saw the whole thing on the screen of a shattered TV.

Dick allows himself just a moment to mentally apologize to Jason before he gets his whole arm out of the grating and aims with perfect precision straight into the tape holding Jason's arm to the chair. 

Right then, it feels like all the strength seeps out of him. He almost falls back into the water, wheezing, but he keeps his grasp strong and closes his eyes. 

He's okay. He's okay. He's-

Water laps into his mouth and he can taste blood.

Now he knows it's sobs escaping through his teeth. 

He holds on and forces himself to ignore the blood tasting water, ignore how weak and nauseated he's becoming. He holds on until there's a sound of a gun firing on the padlock keeping the grate down. He shifts to grab the lip of the pit as Jason lifts the grate. For a second, he slips and almost falls back into the water, but then strong hands grasp under his arms and heft him out.

Next thing he knows he's on his back in a puddle of water and blood and just trying to catch his breath. 

"Holy shit, fucking- Wing? Can you hear me?" 

Jason's panicking. Dick's coughing water. He's screaming water when Jason begins to wrap a torn piece of cloth from his leather jacket around his leg. 

A tourniquet. 

Dick writes as the agony in his left leg becomes blinding with each twist Jason makes in the cloth. 

"Jason- Jason I couldn't-" Dick tries to explain, but his brain is woozy and his chest really hurts. "I didn't-"

I couldn't breathe. I didn't think. I couldn't get out. I didn't want to die. 

"My leg- my leg, Jay- I can't-"

I can't breathe. 

"Just hold on, you're going into shock-" Jason says, his voice so much weaker than what it normally is. "All of our stuff is in here- I already pinged B."

No. No, not B. Dick doesn't need Bruce. Dick doesn't need Alfred. Or the Batcave. Or the medbay. A few pills of advil. A pat on a shoulder. 

He needs- 

"Hospital," he gasps through clenched teeth as Jason bundles up his jacket and puts it under Dick's feet to elevate them. 

Foot. Foot and mangled remains of his left leg. 

"Jay-" 

"Okay," Jason agrees, standing up and running to the other side of the room where—sure enough—all of their missing items lay. 

Dick stares up at the ceiling while Jason calls for an ambulance. He listens to the shakiness to his tone and how he seems to stumble over answers he must be being asked. If Jason's this startled… it must be really bad. 

Dick wants to look, but at the same time he knows he'll throw up the second he sees. 

He takes a deep breath and tries to fight the armada of problems trying to assault him. The drowsiness. The confusion. The nausea. The pain. The shock. 

But eventually, Jason's voice becomes a drone, and soon Dick's eyes are slipping closed.

He hears his name shouted before he falls unconscious.

When the black settles, the pain doesn't go away. 

-o-o-o-o-

When Dick wakes up the first time, it's chaos. Shouting voices, a mask pressing against his face. He tries to open his eyes and figure out what's going on, but then something nudges his leg and he sees stars. He tries to crawl back to himself, but it's like he's pinned with sharp needles through butterfly wings. Before he can even try to open his eyes again through the tears, something pinches the inside of his elbow, and Dick loses himself again.

-o-o-o-o-

The second time he wakes, it's quiet. He feels like he's eaten so much honey that it has replaced his blood. His arms are heavy as he brings them to his face to rub at his blurry eyes. 

As he rubs at them, he can feel the tugging of tubes running up his nose. The pull of a needle within the crook of his elbow. As he looks around, slowly realizing where he is—slowly remembering why he's here—the heart monitor picks up speed. 

Of course, that's when a body he didn't notice until now shoots up like they have been trying and failing to catch some shut eye. 

"Bruce," Dick calls weakly as Bruce zeros in on him. Dick's throat hurts. Everything hurts. He can't feel anything below his knee.

Thankfully, as he weakly holds his arms out, Bruce gets the message. Before Dick knows it, he's being gathered into Bruce's arms so he's sitting up and clutching to Bruce like his wrinkled suit jacket is his lifeline. 

"How bad is it?" Dick asks with wobbling lips and a wobbling voice. 

Bruce stills, then his arms tighten around Dick, and that's when Dick knows it's bad. A sob tears through his throat and he closes his eyes, pressing against Bruce. He wants to crawl away and not exist. He wants Bruce to make everything okay again. 

He doesn't want to open his eyes to look. So he keeps them closed and allows his tears to stain Bruce's tie. 

"They…" Bruce starts, sounding terribly unsure, "you were in bad shape. Shock. Infection already setting in. You lost a lot of blood... They couldn't save anything below the knee."

Dick wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He knows he was panicking back there, but he also purposely cut at his ankle to… to save his leg. 

He lost it anyway. He wants to laugh. Instead he sobs harder. 

Bruce tries to reassure him with the hopes the doctors have for a prosthetic, tries to explain he already has Lucius Fox on making one fit for Nightwing, but Dick can only cry and weep and mourn until eventually, he's practically boneless. He can barely keep his eyes open as Bruce lays him back down and tells him to get some more rest. 

"Sleep, Chum, everything will get better."

Dick can't find it in himself to believe him. He sleeps anyway, if not to just pretend his entire life isn't over.